eli

The old record player hummed softly in the corner of the cramped Brooklyn apartment, its needle crackling like warm static before Glenn Miller’s orchestra swelled into “Moonlight Serenade.” Golden lamplight bathed the room in a honeyed glow, catching on the chipped paint of the walls and the faded floral curtains that fluttered whenever the November wind pressed against the windowpanes. The air smelled of fresh coffee, Bucky’s cologne, and the faint hint of Steve’s charcoal pencils.

You were curled against Bucky on the sagging couch, your head tucked beneath his chin, his left arm wrapped loosely around your shoulders. His fingers traced slow, absent patterns along your sleeve, warm even through the fabric. Across from you, Steve sat hunched in the worn armchair, sketchbook resting on one knee, the scratch of charcoal soft beneath the music.

“Pass me another one of those cookies, would ya?” Bucky asked, voice low and lazy. You felt the words rumble through his chest as he reached for the plate on the coffee table without waiting. “Ma sent ‘em over this morning. Said if I didn’t share with you two, she’d box my ears.”

You laughed quietly and tilted your head to watch him. “You’ve already eaten half the plate, Buck.”

“Exactly. Gotta make sure they’re good before I let you have any, darlin’.” He broke off a piece and held it to your lips with a playful glint in his stormy blue eyes. When you took it, he grinned, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “See? Perfect.”

Steve snorted without looking up from his drawing. “You two are sickening. I’m trying to sketch over here and you’re feeding each other like it’s the pictures.”

“Jealous, punk?” Bucky shot back, smirking. He shifted slightly so you could settle more comfortably against him, his hand sliding down to rest at your waist. “Not my fault I’ve got the prettiest girl in all of Brooklyn. You should try smiling at girls once in a while instead of hiding behind that sketchbook.”

Steve’s ears turned pink, but he smiled. “Some of us are busy drawing the future, not charming every dame from here to Coney Island.”

You smiled, reaching over to steal a sip of Bucky’s coffee. It was sweet, just how he liked it. The music wrapped around the three of you like a soft blanket—brass and strings gliding through the room while the radiator clanked gently in the corner. Snow had started falling outside, tiny white flakes drifting past the streetlamp visible through the gap in the curtains. Inside, everything felt safe. Warm. Yours.

Bucky chuckled, the sound rumbling pleasantly under your cheek. The three of you had spent so many nights like this—music playing, snow falling outside, the radiator clanking steadily in the corner. It felt like the whole world shrank down to this warm, lamplit room.

After a comfortable lull, Bucky tilted his head, looking at you with open fondness. “You know, sometimes I still can’t believe it. I’m dating a half-Asgardian who’s probably older than my grandparents, and you still let me hold you like this.” His fingers slipped into your hair, gently playing with the strands. “You could be off in some golden palace right now instead of stuck in this tiny apartment with two broke knuckleheads from Brooklyn.”

You laughed softly and tilted your face up to meet his gaze. “Golden halls get old after the first few centuries, Buckaroo. I like it here. Midgard feels more real. More alive.” Your hand found his, fingers intertwining. “Besides, you and Steve are the best part of this realm. I chose this life a long time ago. I’d choose it again.”

Steve glanced up from his sketch with a small, warm smile. “Still kinda wild to think about sometimes. Gods walking around down here. But you’re one of us now.”

“Damn right she is,” Bucky said, voice dropping softer as he looked at you. His stormy blue eyes held that quiet intensity that always made your chest ache in the best way. He leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple. “Best decision you ever made, sweetheart. Staying here with me.”

The music swelled gently around you—brass and strings gliding through the warm air. Snow continued to fall outside, silent and peaceful, while inside everything felt golden. Bucky’s heartbeat was steady under your ear, his arm secure around your waist, and Steve’s quiet scratching resumed. The scent of coffee and cookies lingered. For tonight, the war felt impossibly far away.

You closed your eyes, letting the music and Bucky’s warmth wrap around you like a promise.

You would never choose another life.

This was home.

And you never wanted to leave.

The apartment felt smaller the next evening, as if the walls themselves were closing in. Billie Holiday’s voice drifted from the record player—low, velvet, and aching—singing about things that slip through your fingers no matter how tightly you hold on. A single warm lamp glowed in the corner, but it did little to chase away the quiet heaviness that had settled over everything.

You sat on the edge of Bucky’s bed, hands folded tightly in your lap, eyes fixed on the draft letter lying open on the table. The official stamp and typed words looked too harsh under the light. Snow fell steadily outside the window, muffling the city sounds, while the radiator gave its usual tired clanks.

Bucky stood near the dresser for a long moment, then slowly crossed the room. He didn’t say anything at first. He simply reached for your hands and drew you up into his arms, wrapping them around you with a care that felt almost fragile. You pressed your face into his chest, breathing him in, memorizing the steady thump of his heart and the way his shirt smelled of soap and home.

“I got the notice yesterday,” he said quietly, voice barely above Billie’s crooning. His hand rubbed slow, soothing strokes along your back. “They want me in three weeks.”

You felt the words sink into your bones. For a moment you couldn’t speak. You’d watched mortals live and die for centuries, but the thought of this man—your Bucky—being taken away made something ancient and deep inside you tremble.

“I wish we had more time,” you whispered against him, your voice cracking just slightly. Your arms tightened around his waist. “Just… a little more time, Buck.”

He let out a shaky breath and rested his cheek on top of your head. “I know, sweetheart. God, I know.” His hold on you grew a fraction tighter, careful, like he was afraid you might disappear if he squeezed too hard. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you since yesterday. Didn’t want to ruin last night, not when everything felt so perfect.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His stormy blue eyes were softer than usual, filled with a sadness he was trying hard to gentle for your sake. He brushed a strand of hair from your face with trembling fingers.

“I don’t want you worrying yourself sick while I’m gone,” he murmured. “But I— I’m scared too, darlin’. Not of fighting, exactly. Just of leaving you here alone.” He swallowed hard. “You’ve already lived so long. You could have anyone, anything. Yet you chose me. A regular guy from Brooklyn.”

Your eyes stung. You reached up and cupped his face, thumbs tracing his cheekbones as if you could commit every detail to memory.

“I’d choose you in every lifetime, James,” you said softly. “Asgard, Midgard, it doesn’t matter. This is the only life I want. The one with you in it.”

Bucky’s breath hitched. He leaned down and kissed you—slow, deep, and heartbreakingly tender. There was no hunger in it, only love and quiet desperation, like he was pouring every unsaid word into the press of his lips. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

“I’ll come back to you,” he whispered, voice rough. “I promise I’ll try with everything I’ve got. And when I do… we’ll go to the Hollywood Palladium like you’ve always wanted. We’ll dance until our feet hurt. No more waiting.” His voice grew even quieter. “Just… wait for me, honey. Please.”

You nodded, tears slipping free now. “I’ll wait. As long as it takes. Just come home to me, Buck. That’s all I ask.”

He held you close again, swaying slightly with you to Billie Holiday’s mournful melody. The snow kept falling outside, soft and indifferent, while inside the two of you clung to each other like the world might try to tear you apart.

You would never choose another life.

But right now, this one hurt more than you knew how to say.

The rooftop of your Brooklyn apartment building had become your quiet refuge in the weeks since Bucky left. Tonight, the city below felt distant and muffled under a fresh blanket of snow. You had dragged the old metal chair up here again, along with two thick wool blankets—one beneath you, one wrapped tightly around your shoulders. The cold December air nipped at your exposed skin, but you barely noticed. Half-Asgardian blood ran warmer than most. What hurt more than the winter chill was the empty space beside you.

You sat with your knees drawn up, Bucky’s latest letter clutched carefully in your gloved hands. The paper was already worn soft at the creases from how often you’d read it. A single lantern you’d brought up cast a weak golden circle of light, just enough to make out his handwriting. Above you, the stars stretched endlessly across the clear night sky—sharp, glittering pinpricks of light that felt both beautiful and cruel in their permanence.

With a slow breath, you unfolded the letter again.

“My dearest sweetheart,

God, I miss you. The nights here are longer than I thought they could be. Everything’s loud and chaotic during the day, but when it gets quiet… that’s when it hits me hardest. I keep thinking about our Fridays in the apartment. Glenn Miller playing, Steve pretending not to watch us, you laughing at my terrible jokes. I’d give anything to be back there right now, holding you on that old couch.”

A sad, soft laugh slipped from your lips. You could almost hear his voice—warm, teasing, that unmistakable Brooklyn accent. Your thumb brushed gently over the ink as you kept reading.

“Steve’s doing okay. Still too stubborn for his own good. Yesterday he tried to stand up to some bigmouth twice his size. I had to pull him back before he got himself flattened. Reminded me of you telling me I worry too much. Funny how roles change, huh?”

You smiled, the kind of smile that trembled at the edges. A quiet, heartbroken little laugh followed as you pictured the scene—Bucky grabbing Steve by the collar, exasperated but fond. Your eyes stung.

The letter continued:

“I keep my promise close, honey. When I come home, I’m taking you to the Hollywood Palladium. No excuses. You’ll wear that red dress that makes my knees weak, and I’ll spin you around the dance floor until they have to kick us out at sunrise. I’ll try real hard not to step on your toes… but no guarantees. You know how I am when I’ve got my best girl in my arms. Wait for me, darlin’. I’m fighting like hell to get back to you. You’re the reason I’m coming home.”

You pressed the letter to your chest, eyes fluttering shut as another soft, aching laugh escaped you. It wasn’t happy—it was the sad kind that came when joy and pain twisted together so tightly you couldn’t tell them apart. Tears slipped down your cheeks, warm against the cold night air.

“I miss you so much, Buck,” you whispered up at the stars. “The apartment feels too big without you. Too quiet. I keep putting on our records and turning them off halfway through because it hurts too much.”

Memories flooded in unbidden. Lazy nights on the couch with his arm around you. The way he’d spin you around the tiny kitchen while music played. How he’d call you “sweetheart” and “honey” and “darlin’” like they were your actual names. You could still feel the ghost of his lips on your temple, the steady beat of his heart under your ear.

You opened your eyes and gazed back up at the stars, the vast darkness stretching endlessly above. You had watched these same stars for centuries. From Asgard’s golden balconies to quiet Midgard rooftops. They never changed. But Bucky… he was mortal. Bright and warm and fleeting like a shooting star.

“I’m trying to adjust to you not being here,” you said softly, voice barely louder than the gentle wind. “But it feels impossible. Every corner of this city reminds me of you. Every song. Every snowfall.”

You reread the Palladium promise one more time, tracing the words with a gloved finger. The paper smelled faintly like him—or maybe you were imagining it.

“You better keep that promise, James Buchanan Barnes,” you murmured, a watery smile on your lips. “I’ll wear the red dress. I’ll dance with you until dawn. Just… come home. Please come home to me.”

The stars twinkled on, ancient and indifferent. You folded the letter with reverent care and held it against your heart, letting the quiet night wrap around you. The ache in your chest felt endless, but so did your love.

You would never choose another life.

Even if this one meant learning how to live with the empty space he left behind.

The apartment felt like a tomb.

Late afternoon light filtered weakly through the lace curtains, casting long, pale shadows across the wooden floorboards that creaked under even the smallest movement. Dust motes danced lazily in the slanted beams, swirling like tiny ghosts. The air was cold and still. You hadn’t bothered to light the radiator properly today, and the chill had crept in, settling deep into the corners of the room where warmth used to live.

You moved slowly, almost mechanically, carrying a fresh pot of coffee to the small kitchen table. The porcelain mug felt heavy in your hands. Everything felt heavier lately. You sat down in the wooden chair Bucky used to occupy, the one that still had his favorite blue cushion. The fabric still carried the faintest trace of his cologne if you pressed your face into it long enough—though that scent was fading faster every day.

With a quiet sigh, you unfolded the newspaper Steve had brought by earlier. The front page was dominated by bold black headlines about the war, victory overseas, and the latest updates from the European theater. Your eyes skimmed the columns out of habit more than interest, searching for anything that might mention the 107th Infantry Regiment. You always looked for his name. Even when there was nothing, you looked.

Then your gaze caught on a smaller article near the bottom of the second page.

“Sergeant James B. Barnes, 107th Infantry, Presumed Dead After Mission in the Alps.”

The words blurred.

You stared at them, unblinking, as the coffee in your mug grew cold. The printed letters seemed to throb on the yellowed paper. Presumed Dead. The room around you grew unnaturally quiet—even the distant sounds of Brooklyn traffic seemed to fade away, as if the entire world had taken a breath and forgotten to release it.

“No,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

Your fingers tightened on the edges of the newspaper until the paper crinkled sharply. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Bucky—your Bucky—with his easy laugh, his warm hands, his ridiculous promises about the Hollywood Palladium… he couldn’t just be gone. Not like this. Not when you still had his last letter folded carefully in the drawer beside your bed. Not when the red dress you’d bought specifically for your reunion still hung in the closet, unworn.

You read the article again. And then a third time. Each word felt like a blade sliding between your ribs.

“…fell from the train during a mission to capture Hydra operatives… body unrecovered due to treacherous terrain and extreme weather conditions… Sergeant Barnes displayed extraordinary valor…”

Your chest constricted painfully. A strange, hollow ringing started in your ears. You were half-Asgardian. You had watched stars burn out and empires crumble. You had lived through centuries of human grief. But this—this sharp, vicious pain ripping through your ancient heart—felt entirely new.

“He’s not dead,” you said aloud to the empty apartment, voice cracking. The words echoed off the silent walls. “He can’t be. They didn’t find a body. He’s… he’s probably just missing. He’ll turn up. He always turns up.”

A weak, disbelieving laugh escaped your lips—the same sad, broken sound you’d made on the rooftop while reading his letters. You pressed a hand to your mouth, trying to hold it back, but it spilled out anyway, turning into something closer to a sob.

The love of your life could not die on some frozen mountain in Europe while you sat here drinking cold coffee in a quiet Brooklyn apartment. It was impossible. The universe wouldn’t be that cruel.

You stood up so suddenly the chair scraped loudly against the floor. The newspaper slipped from your fingers and fluttered to the ground like a dying bird. You walked to the window on unsteady legs and pressed your forehead against the cool glass, staring out at the snow-covered street where Bucky used to walk you home.

“Come on, Buck,” you whispered, breath fogging the pane. “You promised me. You promised the Palladium. You promised me a lifetime.”

Tears slipped silently down your cheeks, hot and relentless. Outside, the winter sky was turning a bruised shade of purple as evening settled in. The city moved on, indifferent.

But inside your small apartment, time had stopped completely.

You refused to believe it.

You couldn’t believe it.

Not yet.

Not yet.

The denial burned through you like fire in your veins. You couldn’t sit here any longer, surrounded by these four walls that still carried echoes of his laughter. You needed air. You needed Steve. He would know what to do. He had been there. He would tell you this was all a mistake.

Your hands moved frantically as you grabbed your heavy winter coat from the hook by the door, fingers fumbling with the buttons. The red scarf Bucky had given you two Christmases ago was still hanging there—you wrapped it around your neck without thinking, breathing in the faint trace of him that still clung to the wool. Your boots were pulled on in a blur. The apartment door slammed shut behind you harder than you meant it to, the sound cracking through the quiet hallway like a gunshot.

You raced down the narrow wooden stairs, nearly slipping on the last step, and burst out into the freezing Brooklyn evening. The cold hit you like a slap, sharp and unforgiving. Snow was falling again in thick, heavy flakes, swirling through the golden cones of light beneath the streetlamps. The streets were slick with ice and slush, but you didn’t slow down. Your breath came out in desperate white clouds as you ran, coat flapping open behind you.

The city blurred around you—the familiar row houses with their flickering windows, the corner deli where Bucky used to buy you warm pretzels, the alley where he’d first kissed you under the glow of a flickering neon sign. Everything reminded you of him. Every corner, every shadow, every sound of distant laughter felt like a knife twisting deeper.

“Come on, come on,” you whispered under your breath, boots pounding against the snowy sidewalk. Your heart hammered wildly in your chest, ancient Asgardian strength pushing you faster than any human could run. Snowflakes caught in your lashes and melted against your tear-streaked cheeks. The wind howled between the buildings, whipping your hair across your face, but you barely felt it.

Steve’s apartment building came into view at the end of the block—the old brick building with the crooked fire escape he always complained about. You took the front steps two at a time, nearly colliding with an older neighbor who muttered something in surprise. You didn’t stop to apologize.

Your fist pounded desperately on Steve’s door, the sound echoing down the empty hallway.

“Steve!” Your voice cracked, raw and broken. “Steve, please—open the door!”

You kept knocking, harder this time, until your knuckles ached. The newspaper article burned in your mind like a brand. Presumed Dead. The words repeated over and over, louder than the roaring in your ears.

The door finally swung open.

Steve stood there in a worn sweater, eyes already red-rimmed and exhausted. The moment he saw your face—wild, tear-stained, desperate—his expression crumpled.

He knew.

You didn’t even wait for him to speak. You stepped forward and collapsed into his arms, a sob tearing free from your throat as the weight of the news finally crashed over you completely.

Steve caught you without hesitation, his arms banding around you like iron despite how frail he still looked. He pulled you inside, kicking the door shut behind you with his foot. The small apartment swallowed you both in its dim, mournful quiet. Weak gray light struggled through the frost-laced windows, casting long, melancholy shadows across the wooden floors. The air smelled of stale coffee, charcoal dust, and the faint metallic tang of winter seeping in through the cracks. The radiator hissed weakly in the corner, fighting a losing battle against the cold.

A broken sound ripped out of you—raw, ancient, and devastating—as your legs gave out. Steve lowered both of you to the threadbare couch, never once letting go. You clung to him desperately, fingers twisting into the fabric of his sweater as violent sobs wracked your entire body. Each cry felt like it was being torn from somewhere deep inside your centuries-old soul.

“I can’t— Steve, I can’t breathe,” you gasped, voice shattered. “They said he’s dead. Bucky… he’s gone.”

Steve’s breath hitched violently. His thin frame trembled against yours as he buried his face in your hair, his own tears falling hot and fast onto your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, the words thick with guilt and grief. “I’m so goddamn sorry. I was right there. I should have saved him.”

The two of you held each other through the storm, bodies shaking with the force of your shared mourning. Outside, the wind howled between the brick buildings like a grieving widow, rattling the windowpanes. Snow fell in thick, relentless sheets, blanketing the world in cold silence while inside, your pain filled every corner of the room.

Steve’s voice cracked as the memories poured out of him. “It was chaos on that mountain. The wind was screaming, snow blinding us. We were trying to stop Hydra’s train. Bucky was fighting like hell—protecting me, like always.” His grip on you tightened, fingers digging into your coat. “I saw him hanging from the side of the train. I reached for him. Our hands were inches apart. I screamed his name until my throat was raw… but the snow, the speed, my fucking weak body— I couldn’t reach him. He fell. Into nothing but white and rock and ice.”

A fresh wave of agony tore through you. You pulled back just enough to see Steve’s face—his eyes swollen and bloodshot, cheeks wet with tears, expression haunted by a guilt that looked like it was carving him hollow from the inside.

“It should have been me,” Steve whispered brokenly. “He had you waiting for him. He had a future. All I had was the war. If I had been stronger, faster… if I hadn’t needed him to keep saving me—” His voice dissolved into harsh, gut-wrenching sobs. “He’s my brother. And I let him fall.”

“No,” you cried, cupping his tear-stained face with trembling hands. “Don’t you dare. He loved you, Steve. He would’ve followed you into hell a thousand times. This isn’t your fault.” Your own tears wouldn’t stop, sliding down your cheeks in endless rivers. “But God… it hurts so much. The apartment is so empty. His side of the bed is still made. His records are still on the shelf. I keep expecting him to walk through the door, call me ‘sweetheart,’ and pull me into his arms like he always did.”

Steve let out a pained sound and pulled you back against his chest, rocking you gently as you both cried. The sound of your grief filled the small space—ugly, honest, and unrelenting. You mourned the man who had made your immortal life feel finite and precious. Steve mourned the best friend who had stood by him through every sickness, every bully, every hopeless dream.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. The sky outside darkened to deep indigo as night claimed Brooklyn. The snow kept falling, burying the streets in white, erasing footprints the way death had tried to erase Bucky.

Eventually, your sobs quieted into exhausted, trembling breaths. Steve’s hand stroked through your hair, slow and soothing, the same way Bucky used to do.

“I miss him,” you whispered into the wet fabric of his sweater. “I miss him so much it feels like I’m dying too.”

“I know,” Steve breathed. “Me too.”

Just a few moments ago, you would’ve never chosen another life.

But right now, you wished you could live another. One where he was still alive, hugging you both right now, laughing that bright, beautiful laugh that could light up the darkest winter night.

The apartment was a ghost of what it used to be.

You stood in the doorway for a long moment, snow still clinging to your coat from the walk home, staring at the space that once felt like the warmest place on Midgard. Months had passed since that terrible day—since the newspaper article, since Steve’s broken sobs, since the world had the audacity to keep turning without Bucky in it. And still, nothing felt real.

The golden lamplight you used to love now looked sickly and dim. It barely reached the corners of the room, leaving deep pools of shadow where laughter used to live. The faded floral curtains hung limp and still, no longer fluttering from Bucky’s energetic movements or the way he’d throw the window open on warm evenings. The air was cold and stale, carrying only the faint scent of dust and old wood. The radiator clanked occasionally, but its heat felt weak and useless, like it too had given up.

There was no music.

That was what hurt the most.

No Glenn Miller spinning on the record player. No Billie Holiday’s smoky voice wrapping around the walls. No Bucky humming off-key while he cooked or danced you around the tiny kitchen with his hands on your waist. The silence was deafening—a heavy, suffocating quiet that pressed down on your chest until every breath felt like an effort.

The old record player sat silent in the corner, covered by a thin layer of dust. You hadn’t touched it in months. The thought of filling the room with those swinging brass melodies without Bucky’s arms around you, without his laughter rumbling against your ear, felt unbearable. Despite being deafening, the silence was easier. At least it didn’t lie to you.

Your eyes drifted to the old armchair in the corner. Bucky’s favorite brown leather jacket was still thrown carelessly over the back of it, exactly where he’d left it the last time he stayed over before shipping out. The sleeve hung down like it was reaching for something. You hadn’t been able to move it. Not once. Sometimes you caught yourself walking past it just to brush your fingers over the worn leather, imagining it still carried his warmth.

You slowly shrugged off your coat and let it fall onto the couch. The sound it made was too loud in the emptiness. Crossing the room, you sank down into the chair opposite his jacket, staring at it like it might suddenly come to life and smile at you with that crooked, heart-stopping grin.

“Why can’t I stop missing you?” you whispered into the quiet.

Months. It had been months. You had lived through centuries of human history—wars, plagues, the rise and fall of kingdoms—yet the absence of one Brooklyn boy was unraveling you in ways nothing else ever had. Every morning you woke up reaching for him. Every night you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying his voice calling you “sweetheart,” “darlin’,” “honey.” The red dress still hung in the closet, untouched. His spare razor sat on the bathroom sink. His records remained stacked neatly in the corner, untouched since the day the music died with him.

You leaned forward and buried your face in your hands, shoulders shaking with silent tears.

The apartment used to be so alive. Warm golden light, the smell of fresh coffee and his mother’s cookies, Bucky’s loud laughter mixing with Steve’s quieter chuckles, music always playing in the background like a heartbeat. Now it was just walls and floors and painful emptiness. A shrine to someone who was never coming back.

You lifted your head and looked at his jacket again, vision blurred.

“I wish I could live another life,” you said softly, voice cracking. “One where you’re still here. Where you walk through that door right now, complaining about the cold, pulling me into your arms and spinning me around until I’m laughing. A life where we make it to the Hollywood Palladium. Where you keep every promise you made me.”

The silence answered you.

No warm chuckle. No “C’mere, darlin’.” Just the hollow tick of the old clock on the wall and the distant, muffled sounds of the city moving on without him.

You curled up tighter in the chair, pulling your knees to your chest, eyes fixed on that empty leather jacket hanging like a ghost in the dim light.

God, you missed him.

You missed him so much it felt like your ancient heart was learning how to break all over again, every single day.

And no amount of time—not months, not years, not centuries—seemed strong enough to dull the pain.

A few decades had passed, yet winter still felt the same.

The year was 1975, and New York was buried under another merciless blanket of snow. You walked slowly through a quiet path in Prospect Park, your boots crunching softly with every step. The trees stood like silent sentinels, their bare branches heavy with fresh powder that sparkled under the pale glow of the streetlamps. Your breath rose in soft white clouds, mingling with the falling snowflakes that drifted lazily from the dark sky.

It was winter again. Always winter when the grief felt sharpest.

Your long coat brushed against your calves as you moved, hands buried deep in your pockets. The red scarf—the one Bucky had given you all those years ago—was still wrapped around your neck, faded now but impossibly precious. You came here often when the loneliness grew too loud to bear inside the apartment. The city had changed around you: taller buildings, louder cars, new music spilling out of radios. But the ache in your chest remained exactly the same.

You spoke softly into the cold night, your voice barely louder than the wind whispering through the trees.

“I wish you could see this, Buck,” you murmured, a sad smile tugging at your lips. “The park looks like something out of a dream tonight. Snow’s so thick it’s covering everything, just like that night we spent on the rooftop before you left.”

You paused beneath an old oak tree, gloved fingers brushing lightly over its rough bark as if it could somehow anchor you.

“It’s so hard, you know?” Your voice cracked, the words tumbling out like they’d been waiting for years. “Not having you. And not having Steve either. That makes it feel impossible some days.”

You kept walking, slower now, boots leaving deep footprints in the untouched snow. The path stretched ahead, empty and glowing faintly under the moonlight. Just like your life had felt for so long.

“He’s gone too, Buck. Steve. They never found the plane. He was still inside it when it crashed in the ice somewhere in the Arctic. They say he might still be alive, but they can’t reach him. Not yet.” A quiet, broken laugh escaped you, the sad kind that had become so familiar. “Can you imagine? My two boys—one lost to a mountain, the other to ice. Both of you stolen by winter.”

Tears stung your eyes, warmer than the freezing air against your cheeks. You wiped them away with the back of your glove, but more came anyway.

“I talk to him sometimes too, you know. Steve. But mostly… mostly I talk to you.” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “I tell you about the new records I hear on the radio. How they don’t sound as good as Glenn Miller. I tell you when the Dodgers win or lose. I tell you about the lonely nights when the apartment gets so quiet I can’t stand it. I still haven’t played our songs. Not once. The record player just sits there collecting dust.”

You stopped near the frozen edge of the lake, staring out at the sheet of ice that gleamed under the moonlight. The world was so still. So empty.

“God, Buck… I miss both of you so much it physically hurts. You took half my heart when you fell. And when Steve went into the ice… it felt like the other half went with him.” Your breath hitched. “I’m still here. Still walking this realm after all these years. Half-Asgardian. Half-human. Entirely alone now. I keep wondering what the point is of living so long if I have to do it without the two people who made it worth anything.”

Snowflakes caught in your lashes as you closed your eyes, imagining for a moment that Bucky was walking beside you—his arm around your shoulders, warm and solid, calling you “sweetheart” and “darlin’” like he used to.

“I still wear the red dress sometimes,” you whispered. “The one you promised to take me dancing in. It doesn’t fit the same anymore. Nothing does.”

The wind picked up gently, swirling snow around your feet like a ghostly embrace. You hugged your arms around yourself, pulling Bucky’s old scarf tighter.

“I hope wherever you are, you’re not cold,” you said, voice trembling. “And I hope Steve isn’t either. Just… wait for me, okay? Both of you. One day I’ll find my way back to you. Even if it takes another hundred years.”

You stood there for a long time, letting the snow fall around you, talking to the man who wasn’t there. The love of your very long life.

The winter night listened in silence.

The snow fell in thick, relentless sheets over the forgotten industrial district on the outskirts of a decaying Eastern European city—somewhere near the Romanian border, you thought, though borders meant little after so many decades. It was 2003, and the world had moved on without you in any way that mattered. You had come here chasing whispers of Asgardian relics slipping into the black market: a fragmented seidr crystal, pulsing with faint otherworldly energy, rumored to be auctioned off to the highest bidder with more guns than sense. Midgardians never learned. You had slipped through the shadows of abandoned factories and half-collapsed warehouses for two cold nights, your half-Asgardian senses humming with the crystal’s distant signature, until the trail led you here.

The gunfire started without warning.

You pressed your back against a rusted shipping container, heart lurching as the sharp cracks of suppressed shots echoed through the frozen yard. Shouts in Russian, then silence. Boots crunching on snow. Another body hitting the ground with a wet thud. You had no intention of getting involved—retrieve the artifact, return it to its proper resting place before some warlord tried to weaponize it, and vanish again like you always did. But curiosity, or perhaps the old soldier’s instinct that still lingered in your long-lived bones, pulled you forward along the perimeter.

Peering around the corner, you froze.

A ghost moved through the killing field.

He was a shadow carved from winter itself: tall, broad-shouldered, clad in tactical black that blended with the night. His left arm gleamed dully under the sporadic floodlights—metal, intricate, deadly, plates shifting with mechanical precision as he raised a pistol and put two rounds into a fleeing man’s back. The victim crumpled without a sound. Blood stained the snow in dark, spreading roses. The masked figure didn’t hesitate, didn’t speak. He simply moved on to the next, a knife flashing in his right hand for the close work. Efficient. Merciless. A machine built for death.

Your breath caught in your throat, fogging the air. Something about the way he carried himself—the lethal grace, the set of those shoulders—twisted like a knife in an old wound. But it couldn’t be. Sergeant Barnes had died in 1945. You had mourned him for decades. You still mourned him every winter.

More shots. More bodies. The last of the targets—a dealer you vaguely recognized from your leads—begged in broken English before the ghost silenced him forever. Then the masked man turned, scanning the area for witnesses.

His eyes locked onto you.

Time slowed. The snow seemed to hang suspended in the air between you. He was close now, maybe twenty feet, the floodlight behind him casting long shadows that made him look even larger, more inhuman. The black mask covered the lower half of his face, but those eyes—stormy blue-gray, cold as the grave—burned into yours with mechanical intensity. A long, dark hair fell across his forehead, damp with melted snow. The metal arm whirred faintly as he raised the pistol in one fluid motion, the barrel leveling straight at your chest.

You didn’t run. You didn’t scream. After centuries of watching mortals flicker in and out of existence like candle flames, death had lost its terror. Especially now.

He looks so much like Sergeant Barnes.

The thought hit you with devastating clarity. The jawline beneath the mask, the way his stance planted firmly against the recoil, even the faint crease between his brows as he sighted down the barrel—it was all wrong, twisted by violence and time, but the echo was there. Your Sergeant. Your Bucky. The man who had danced with you in your tiny Brooklyn apartment while Glenn Miller played on the radio, Steve laughing from the couch. The man who had promised you the Hollywood Palladium after the war.

At least I’ll be dying in the hands of a man who has the face of the love of my life. Isn’t the worst way to go.

Your gloved fingers twitched at your sides, but you made no move for the dagger hidden in your coat. The crystal’s faint magical pulse in your pocket felt distant, irrelevant. Snowflakes caught in your lashes, blurring the edges of the world until all that existed was him and the gun and the unbearable familiarity of those eyes. Your chest ached with a sorrow so old it had calcified into something almost beautiful. You wondered, distantly, if he would make it quick. If some fragment of the man you loved still lingered somewhere behind that mask, granting you that small mercy.

The Winter Soldier’s finger rested on the trigger. His breathing was steady, visible in faint puffs of white. For a long, agonizing second, nothing happened. The wind howled between the warehouses, carrying the metallic scent of blood and gunpowder. His gaze bored into you, unblinking. Something flickered there—something fractured and uncertain beneath the ice. His metal arm trembled, almost imperceptibly. The plates shifted with a soft mechanical click.

You held his stare, willing him to see you. Really see you. The woman who had once traced constellations on his bare back in your shared bed. The one who had cried into the silence of an empty apartment when the War Department’s letter arrived. The immortal fool who had never stopped loving a dead man.

His jaw tightened beneath the mask. The gun remained trained on your heart.

Then—slowly, deliberately—he lowered it.

Not a word. Not a sound. Just the soft crunch of his boots in the snow as he turned away from you, shoulders rigid, and disappeared into the swirling white like a phantom returning to whatever hell had spawned him. The floodlights buzzed overhead. A loose chain on a nearby fence rattled in the wind. You stood there, untouched, heart hammering against your ribs as if it wanted to claw its way out and chase after him.

The snow continued to fall, covering the bodies, covering the blood, covering the footprints he left behind. You exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to your chest where the bullet should have been. The Asgardian crystal in your pocket hummed faintly, a reminder of your purpose here, but it felt hollow now.

You had come for an artifact.

Instead, you had found a ghost wearing the face of your heart. And for the first time in decades, the winter felt colder than it ever had.

The fluorescent lights in the underground bunker hummed like dying insects, casting a sickly pallor over the concrete walls slick with condensation. Somewhere deep beneath the frozen Carpathian foothills, the Hydra facility breathed with mechanical life—vents hissing cold air, distant generators thrumming, the occasional metallic clang of a door sealing shut. The year was still 2003, but time meant nothing down here. Time was whatever they told him it was.

The Winter Soldier sat motionless on the edge of a steel bench in the debriefing cell, his tactical suit still damp with melted snow and splattered with other men’s blood. The mask had been removed, but the weight of it lingered on his face like a brand. His metal arm rested heavily on his thigh, plates occasionally shifting with faint whirs as if the limb itself was restless. A handler had already stripped him of his weapons. Another had checked him for injuries. Now they left him alone—for the moment—while they decided how to punish the anomaly.

Your face.

It wouldn’t leave him.

He closed his eyes, but the image only sharpened. Wide eyes staring straight down the barrel of his pistol. Snow catching in dark lashes. The set of your mouth—not fear, not quite resignation. Something deeper. Older. Like you had been waiting for that bullet for a very long time. He had seen thousands of faces through the scope. None of them had ever made his finger freeze on the trigger.

The Soldier pressed the heel of his flesh hand against his temple, grinding hard enough that pain flared white behind his eyes. Memory was a forbidden country. They had burned the bridges, salted the earth. What remained were fragments—flashes that surfaced only to be drowned again in ice and electricity. But this one refused to sink.

Where?

A Brooklyn street at dusk, streetlights flickering on. Laughter. The scent of cheap perfume and cigarette smoke. Warm fingers tracing the line of his jaw. A voice calling him—

No.

He stood abruptly, pacing the narrow cell. His boots left damp prints on the floor that dried too quickly in the recycled air. The mission parameters had been clear: eliminate the arms dealer and every witness. You had been a witness. You should be dead. He had never failed to pull the trigger before. Not when the orders were given. Not when the programming sang in his veins like venom.

Yet the moment he had looked at you, something inside his chest had twisted violently, like a rusted gear trying to turn in the wrong direction. His arm—the metal one they gave him—had trembled. For half a second, the Soldier had felt like a passenger in his own body, watching a stranger lower the gun.

Why?

He slammed his metal fist into the wall. Concrete cracked. Dust drifted down. Pain was good. Pain was familiar. It reminded him who he was: the fist of Hydra. The ghost. The asset. Not whoever that woman thought she saw when she looked at him.

But your eyes… they had known him.

The thought sent a spike of white-hot static through his mind. He growled low in his throat, shaking his head hard as if he could dislodge the image. Flashes came anyway—uninvited, unwanted.

A tiny apartment. A record spinning. A blond man laughing on a worn couch while a slow song played. Warm lips against his, tasting like stolen whiskey and promises. Stars overhead on a cold clear night. His own voice, younger, softer: “After the war, sweetheart…”

The Soldier dropped to his knees, metal fingers digging into his scalp. A handler would be here soon. They would see the deviation. They would strap him to the chair. The machine would scream into his skull until the fragments burned away again. He almost welcomed it.

Almost.

Because beneath the static and the conditioning and the howling void they had carved into him, a single quiet certainty remained:

He had known you.

Not just seen you. Known you. The kind of knowing that lived in muscle memory and bone, deeper than any wipe could reach. The kind that made a killer hesitate when every protocol demanded death.

His breathing grew ragged. The lights above flickered once, twice. He stared at his reflection in the polished steel panel across the room—hollow eyes, long dark hair matted with snowmelt, the ghost of a man long dead staring back.

“Who the hell are you?” he whispered to the empty cell. The words scraped out raw, unused. His handlers hadn’t permitted questions in years.

Your face swam behind his eyes again. Not afraid. Almost… tender. Like you had forgiven him before he even pulled the trigger.

The Soldier pressed his forehead against the cold floor, metal arm curled protectively over his head as if shielding himself from the coming storm of electricity and ice.

He didn’t understand why he couldn’t kill you.

But he was terrified that, somewhere beneath the programming, maybe he did.

The bar smelled like cigarette smoke, aged whiskey, and faded nostalgia. It was one of those hidden speakeasy-style places that had opened in the early 2000s, tucked away in a narrow side street of a half-forgotten European city still licking its wounds from old wars. Dim amber lighting glowed from art-deco wall sconces. A live band played on a small stage draped in deep red velvet, the musicians dressed in vintage suits and fedoras. The year was still 2003, but inside these walls, it was forever 1944.

You sat alone at a small table near the back, nursing a glass of gin you hadn’t touched in twenty minutes. The ice had long since melted. Your coat was draped over the chair beside you, and the faint thrum of the Asgardian crystal hidden in your inner pocket was the only thing keeping you grounded. You had come here on a whim after the warehouse incident—chasing silence, maybe, or the ghost of better times. The 40s theme had felt like a cruel joke from the universe the moment you walked in.

The band struck up a new song. Slow, aching brass. A saxophone weeping over gentle piano chords. “I’ll never smile again…” The lyrics drifted through the hazy air like smoke, wrapping around your chest and squeezing. You closed your eyes, letting the melody drag you back to a tiny Brooklyn apartment, to Bucky’s arms around your waist, Steve humming off-key from the couch while Glenn Miller spun on the record player. Your Sergeant had always loved this one.

A shadow fell across your table.

You felt him before you saw him—that same lethal presence from the snow-covered yard. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. When you opened your eyes, he was there.

The Winter Soldier stood just a few feet away, half-hidden in the low light between two columns. His long dark hair was tucked beneath a black cap, the tactical gear swapped for civilian clothes that still somehow looked like armor: dark coat, gloves, boots made for silent killing. His face was partially obscured by the cap’s brim, but you caught the sharp line of his jaw, the storm-gray eyes locked onto you with predatory focus. One gloved hand rested inside his coat, fingers curled around the hilt of a blade you couldn’t yet see—but you knew it was there.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. He had come to finish the job.

He moved closer, boots silent on the worn wooden floor. The song swelled. The singer’s voice cracked with old heartbreak. “Until I saw you again…”

The Winter Soldier’s steps faltered for half a second. His metal arm—concealed beneath the sleeve of his coat—whirred faintly. You watched his throat work as he swallowed. Something in those eyes fractured. Recognition? Pain? He kept coming anyway, a predator circling wounded prey, but his movements had lost their perfect mechanical precision. The grip on the hidden dagger loosened, then tightened again as if he were fighting his own hand.

He stopped directly in front of your table.

You looked up at him slowly, taking in every devastating detail. The way the amber light caught the strands of hair escaping his cap. The faint scar near his left eye. The tension in his shoulders like a man carrying centuries of ghosts. He looked so much like your Bucky it hurt to breathe.

“Y’know,” you said softly, voice barely carrying over the music, “you look just like someone I used to love.”

He hesitated. The band played on. The dagger shifted inside his coat—you saw the subtle movement of fabric. For a long moment, the only sound between you was the saxophone crying.

“Who?” The word scraped out of him, low and rough, like it had been dragged through gravel and forgotten memories.

You met his eyes without flinching. “Sergeant Barnes.” Your voice cracked on the name you hadn’t spoken aloud in decades. “My Sergeant Barnes.”

The effect was immediate and devastating.

His entire body jolted like he’d been electrocuted. The metal arm spasmed visibly beneath his sleeve. His eyes—those beautiful, haunted storm-gray eyes—widened, and for one shattering second, the Winter Soldier was gone. In his place stood Bucky Barnes, twenty-eight years old, staring at you with the same sad, loving expression he’d worn the night you found out he was being drafted. The one where his mouth softened at the corners even as his brows pulled together in quiet heartbreak. The one that said he would rather die than leave you, but he had to go anyway.

Memories flooded him. You could see it happening—the way his lips parted, the sharp inhale, the tremble in his flesh hand as it clenched at his side. Brooklyn nights. Your laughter in his ear. Steve’s bad jokes. The promise under the stars. Your hands on his face the morning he shipped out. The way you tasted. The way you said his name like a prayer.

“It’s you,” you whispered, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. “It’s really you.”

The shift back was violent.

Bucky’s face hardened into something feral and broken. He lunged forward with inhuman speed, one hand slamming onto the table beside you while the other yanked the dagger free. The blade—sleek, wickedly curved, still carrying the chill of the Carpathians—pressed against the soft skin of your throat before you could draw another breath. The edge bit just enough to sting. A single drop of blood welled and slid down your neck, warm against your suddenly freezing skin.

The bar noise faded. The song played on, but all you could hear was the thunder of your own pulse and the ragged sound of his breathing.

“You still owe me that trip, y’know,” you said, voice steady despite the knife at your throat. A tear slipped down your cheek. “I thought we’d be going to the Hollywood Palladium together.”

For a heartbeat, his expression wavered again—raw, desperate, loving.

Then the mask slammed back into place.

“I owe you nothing,” he growled, voice low and vicious, every word carved from ice. “I made no promise to you.”

The dagger flashed.

A sharp, burning line seared across the side of your throat—not deep enough to kill, not even enough to seriously wound an Asgardian like you, but enough to hurt. Enough to scar. Enough to warn. Blood trickled warm and steady down your collarbone, soaking into the fabric of your blouse. You gasped softly at the sting, but you didn’t flinch away from him. You held his gaze instead, letting him see everything you felt.

He stared at the cut he’d made, at the blood on his blade, at the tear tracks on your face. Something in his eyes shattered all over again.

Then he was gone.

The Winter Soldier turned on his heel and walked away without another word, shoulders rigid, dagger disappearing back into his coat. The crowd parted unconsciously around him, sensing the danger radiating from every line of his body. He didn’t look back. Not once.

You sat there, hand pressed to your bleeding throat, watching the ghost of your heart disappear through the smoky haze of the 40s bar. The band kept playing. The singer crooned about lost love and broken promises. Your gin sat untouched, the ice long gone, just like the man who had once danced with you to this very song.

Outside, the real world waited—cold, modern, and merciless. Inside, you bled in the amber glow, surrounded by ghosts and melodies from a life that no longer existed.

And somewhere in the night, Bucky Barnes was running from the only truth he couldn’t erase.

The apartment door clicked shut behind you with a sound far too final for such a small noise.

You leaned against it for a long moment, eyes closed, letting the silence wrap around you like an old, threadbare coat. The cut on your throat burned steadily, a thin line of fire that refused to let you forget. Slowly, you crossed the living room and sank into the worn armchair beneath the window. The same chair you’d had since the 70s. Some things, at least, you kept.

With careful fingers, you peeled away the blood-soaked collar of your blouse and pressed a clean cloth to the wound. The sting sharpened, but you welcomed it. Pain was honest. Pain didn’t pretend to be someone it wasn’t.

A few tears slipped free anyway, silent and warm, tracing slow paths down your cheeks. You didn’t bother wiping them away.

Your gaze drifted across the room to the far corner, where a small wooden crate sat half-hidden behind a potted plant you rarely remembered to water. Inside were the CDs — dozens of them, meticulously burned and labeled in your own careful handwriting years ago. Glenn Miller. Tommy Dorsey. Benny Goodman. Artie Shaw. The songs you used to play on repeat in your old Brooklyn apartment while Bucky spun you around the tiny living room, laughing into your hair, calling you “sweetheart” and “darlin’” like those words belonged only to you.

You never played them anymore.

You stood on unsteady legs, walked over, and crouched in front of the crate. Your fingers brushed the dusty lids. For a second, you could almost hear the faint scratch of a needle, the brass section swelling, Bucky’s low voice humming against your ear.

But that man was gone.

The one who had pressed a blade to your throat tonight wore his face, spoke with a ghost of his voice, but he wasn’t yours. He wasn’t even his.

You never really meet the same person twice, even in the same person.

The thought settled heavy in your chest, aching worse than the cut on your neck. You lifted the crate with both hands, carried it to the narrow hall closet, and pushed it deep into the back shelf, behind old coats and forgotten boxes. Out of sight.

Then you closed the door.

The apartment fell quiet again. No music. No laughter. Just the soft drip of blood you hadn’t fully stopped, and the hollow rhythm of your too-long heart still beating after all these years.

You returned to the armchair, pressed the cloth tighter to your throat, and let the tears fall freely now, silent and unending, as the city lights flickered beyond the frost-laced window.

Somewhere out there, a ghost was still running from you both.

The harsh overhead lights buzzed above the holding chamber like angry hornets. Deep beneath the frozen earth, the Hydra facility smelled of antiseptic, ozone, and old blood. The Winter Soldier—no, what was left of Bucky Barnes—slumped against the reinforced metal wall, legs sprawled out across the cold concrete floor.

Every inch of his body screamed.

His ribs were bruised purple and black from the batons. His back was a map of fresh welts and shallow lacerations where they had whipped him for failure. The metal arm hung limp and unresponsive at his side, servos damaged during the punishment beating. Blood crusted at the corner of his mouth and dripped slowly from a split lip. One eye was nearly swollen shut. They had been thorough this time. Disappointing Hydra always came with a price.

He had only a few minutes. The technicians were already preparing the cryosleep chamber down the hall—the frost, the straps, the oblivion.

Bucky’s head lolled back against the wall. His lips moved soundlessly at first, then the words scraped out in a broken whisper.

“I owe her nothing.”

The cut on your throat flashed behind his eyes. The way your blood had looked sliding down her skin under those warm bar lights. The tear that had fallen when you spoke about the Hollywood Palladium.

“I made no such promise.”

His voice cracked. He repeated it again, harsher this time, like a soldier reciting orders.

“I owe her nothing. I made no such promise.”

But the memories kept clawing their way up anyway.

Soft hands cupping his face in a tiny Brooklyn apartment. Glenn Miller playing low on the record player. Her laughter when he spun her too fast. Steve’s fond groan from the couch. Stars above them on a clear winter night, his voice full of young, stupid hope: “After the war, darlin’… I’ll take you anywhere you want. Even that fancy Hollywood Palladium you keep talkin’ about.”

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, breath coming in short, pained gasps.

“I owe her nothing.”

A handler’s boots echoed faintly in the corridor outside. They were coming soon.

“I made no such promise.”

He could still feel the warmth of your skin when the dagger had pressed against your throat. The way you hadn’t flinched. The way you had looked at him like he was still worth saving. Like he was still yours.

Bucky’s metal fingers twitched violently. A low, animal sound tore from his throat as he slammed the back of his head against the wall once, twice, trying to drive the images out. Blood trickled down the nape of his neck.

She’s not yours. You’re not his. You’re the asset. The ghost. The fist.

“I owe her nothing,” he growled again, voice hoarse and desperate. “I made no such promise. I made no—"

The lie tasted like ash.

In the deepest, most buried part of him—somewhere the wipes and the electricity and the ice could never quite reach—he knew the truth. He had made that promise. He had meant every word. He had loved you with everything a broke, charming sergeant from Brooklyn had to give.

But that man was dead.

He was never coming back.

Bucky curled forward, battered arms wrapping around his knees as best he could, ignoring the screaming pain in his ribs. His long hair fell like a curtain over his face. A single tear mixed with the blood on his cheek before he angrily wiped it away with a bruised knuckle.

“Not coming back,” he whispered to the empty cell. “That’s final.”

Hundreds of kilometers away, in a quiet apartment filled with silence and old ghosts, you sat staring out at the city lights with fresh bandages around your throat. The cut still burned, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache in your chest.

You had waited decades for him once. You couldn’t do it again.

All that remained now was a fragile, whispered thought you held onto like a dying flame:

In another life.

Maybe in another life, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes would have kept his promise. Maybe you would have danced together under the bright lights of the Hollywood Palladium, laughing like the world could never touch you. Maybe the war would have ended differently. Maybe Hydra would never have stolen him.

But not in this one.

The technicians entered the chamber. Rough hands hauled Bucky to his feet. He didn’t fight them. His body was broken, but his eyes—those storm-gray eyes that had once looked at you with so much love—were empty again.

As they dragged him toward the cryosleep chamber, he repeated the words one last time under his breath, a broken mantra against the truth trying to surface.

“I owe her nothing… I made no such promise…”

The ice waited.

And somewhere far away, you finally let the last of your hope slip quietly into the dark.

You stirred slowly beneath the heavy silk sheets, the faint scent of leather, ozone, and something indefinently Loki lingering in the air like a spell that refused to fade. The first thing you noticed was the cool slide of fabric against your bare skin as you shifted—an exquisite green-and-gold robe draped artfully over the foot of the bed, clearly placed there for you to find.

A soft smile tugged at your lips. Of course he’d already been here.

You sat up, letting the sheet pool around your waist, and reached for the robe. The moment your fingers touched it, the silk seemed to warm and move on its own, gliding over your shoulders like a lover’s hands. It fit perfectly, of course. Everything Loki gave you always did.

On the nightstand sat a small velvet box. Inside was a delicate gold chain with an emerald pendant that pulsed gently against your skin the second you clasped it around your neck. A pleasant heat bloomed across your collarbones, spreading downward in lazy waves that made your thighs press together instinctively.

And then there was the note.

Written in that impossibly elegant, flowing script you’d recognize anywhere:

My darling little mortal,

Another year older. Another year more dangerously tempting. Today is yours. I am yours… or so I’ll let you believe. Be ready for me.

— L

You were still tracing the words with your fingertip when the air in the room shifted.

A swirl of emerald and gold shimmered near the window, coalescing into the tall, devastating figure of Loki Laufeyson. He leaned against the wall with that signature smirk, arms crossed, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit that hugged every lean line of his body. His dark hair was swept back, a few rebellious strands falling across his forehead, and his eyes—those sharp, mischievous green eyes—raked over you like he was already undressing you with his mind.

“Happy birthday, my love,” he purred, voice velvet and sin.

Before you could even respond, he was across the room in two strides. His long fingers tilted your chin up and his mouth claimed yours in a deep, hungry kiss that stole the breath from your lungs. He tasted like mischief and magic, like champagne and dark promises. When he finally pulled back, you were dizzy, lips tingling.

“Look at you,” he murmured against your mouth, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Another year more tempting. How dare you grow even more irresistible? It’s terribly unfair to the rest of the universe.”

You laughed softly, reaching up to tug at the lapels of his jacket. “You’re laying it on thick this morning.”

“Merely warming up,” he replied, eyes glittering. He leaned in again, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I have plans for you today. All day. And I won’t be telling you a single detail until we’re in the thick of it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Cryptic as always.”

Loki’s grin widened, sharp and playful. He nipped at your earlobe, voice dropping into that low, filthy register you knew too well. “Let’s just say… there will be moments where I have you pressed against glass overlooking the city. Moments where my fingers are under your dress while no one around us has the faintest idea. And moments where you’ll be begging so prettily I might almost consider giving you what you want.”

Your breath hitched. The enchanted necklace grew warmer against your skin, almost pulsing in time with the growing heat between your legs.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, clearly delighted by your reaction. “But not yet. First, I’m taking you out. Properly. Like the goddess you deserve to feel like on your birthday.”

You tried to tug him back down for another kiss, but he caught your wrists gently, pressing them to the bed with a wicked smile.

“Ah-ah. Patience, darling. You’ll have your fun later. Though I must warn you…” His voice turned teasing, almost mocking in that way that made your stomach flip. “I’m feeling particularly talkative today. I do hope you’ll be able to handle all my commentary while I spoil you rotten.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, a spark of challenge flaring in your chest. It was your birthday, after all.

“We’ll see about that,” you murmured.

Loki’s grin turned positively feral.

“Oh, I do hope you try to shut me up, pet. I’m very curious to see how you’ll manage it.”

The morning blurred into a whirlwind of Loki’s particular brand of indulgence. By the time the sun was high, he had whisked you away to a hidden restaurant tucked between two unassuming buildings in Manhattan—an Asgardian sanctuary invisible to mortal eyes unless invited. The interior shimmered with floating golden lanterns and deep emerald drapery, the air scented with spiced wine and roasted meats.

You sat across from him at a private table near the window, overlooking the glittering illusion of a fjord that definitely wasn’t in New York. Loki looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“Try this,” he murmured, leaning across the table with a forkful of rich chocolate and berry dessert. Instead of handing it to you, he brought it to your lips himself, eyes locked on yours. “Open.”

You obeyed, and the moment the decadent flavor hit your tongue, his voice dropped to that sinful velvet whisper.

“Delicious, isn’t it? Almost as sweet as you’ll taste when I have you spread open on our bed later. I plan to take my time… licking every inch of you until you’re shaking and dripping down my chin.”

Your thighs clenched under the table. Loki’s smirk deepened as his hand slid beneath the heavy tablecloth, resting high on your thigh. His fingers traced slow, lazy circles, inching higher with every pass but never quite reaching where you wanted him.

“Problem, darling?” he asked innocently, tilting his head. “You look a little flushed. Is the wine too strong? Or is it the thought of my tongue buried inside you while you moan my name?”

You shot him a warning look, but he only chuckled, low and rich.

“I do love when you try to glare at me like that. It makes me want to bend you over this table and remind you exactly who owns this pretty body.” His fingers pressed firmer into your inner thigh. “Though today I’m being generous. I’m letting you think you’re in charge.”

Lunch continued like that—Loki feeding you bites between increasingly filthy promises, his hand never leaving your thigh, his voice a constant teasing murmur against your ear whenever he leaned in. By the time you left the restaurant, you were aching, wet, and thoroughly annoyed with how smug he looked about it.

Next came a quiet, magically concealed garden terrace high above the city. Ancient Asgardian trees bloomed around you, their flowers glowing softly in the afternoon light. It felt private enough that you thought you might get a moment of peace.

You were wrong.

Loki walked beside you with his arm looped possessively around your waist, pulling you close as you strolled.

“You’re breathtaking when you’re flustered, you know,” he purred, lips brushing your temple. “That pretty blush on your cheeks… the way your breath catches. It makes me want to ruin you right here against this tree.”

A shiver ran down your spine. Then you felt it—phantom fingers, created by his seidr, ghosting down the back of your neck, tracing your spine, then slipping lower to brush teasingly between your legs. You gasped sharply.

Loki’s face remained perfectly innocent as he admired a glowing flower. “Something wrong, my love?”

“You’re impossible,” you hissed, cheeks burning.

He laughed softly, the sound dark and delighted. “And yet you’re soaked for me already, aren’t you? Poor thing. All this tension and I haven’t even properly touched you yet.”

Another illusionary caress slid along your inner thigh, higher this time, pressing firmly against your aching core for just a second before vanishing. You grabbed his arm tighter, knees nearly buckling.

“Loki…”

“Yes, darling?” He turned to you with mock concern, green eyes sparkling with mischief. “Use your words. Tell me what you need. Or better yet… save all that fire for later when you try to put me in my place.” His voice dropped even lower. “I’m very much looking forward to watching you attempt to shut me up.”

The tension was unbearable now—your body thrumming with need, irritation, and raw desire. Every teasing word, every phantom touch, every wicked promise made you more determined to turn the tables the second you got him alone.

Loki seemed to sense it. He pulled you closer, lips brushing your ear one last time.

“Careful, love. If you keep looking at me with that murderous, needy little glare… I might not make it home before I start begging you to ruin me.”

By the time you returned to your quarters, the air between you was thick enough to choke on. The door had barely clicked shut before you turned to him.

Loki barely had time to open his mouth with another smug remark before you shoved him hard in the chest. He let you do it—because of course he did, this was your birthday and he was playing along—but the wicked grin on his face said he was enjoying every second of it.

The back of his knees hit the edge of the bed and he fell gracefully onto the mattress, sprawling like a king on his throne. His dark hair fanned out against the silk sheets as he looked up at you with gleaming eyes.

“Well, well,” he drawled, voice dripping with amusement. “Someone’s feeling bold tonight. Are you finally going to—mmph.”

You cut him off by climbing onto the bed and kissing him fiercely, your fingers tangling in his hair. The kiss was messy, demanding, and you bit his bottom lip hard enough to make him hiss. When you pulled back, his pupils were already blown wide.

“Quiet,” you whispered against his mouth.

Loki chuckled, low and filthy. “Oh darling, you’ll have to do better than that if you want to shut me up. I have so many plans to tell you about. For instance, I was thinking I’d lay you down and—”

You silenced him again, this time by dragging your mouth down the sharp line of his jaw to his neck. You sucked hard on his pulse point, then bit down. His words dissolved into a surprised groan.

Your hands moved with purpose, pushing his expensive jacket off his shoulders. He helped just enough for you to strip it away, but his mouth kept running.

“Eager little thing, aren’t you? Taking charge on your birthday… How adorable. Though if you ask me—”

You yanked his shirt open, buttons scattering. The moment his pale, toned chest was exposed, you leaned down and bit his collarbone, hard. Loki arched slightly beneath you, a breathy laugh turning into a low moan.

“Fuck— you’re vicious today. I like it. But you know I could just flip us over and—”

Another bite, lower this time, right above his nipple. You followed it with a slow, wet lick. His words faltered again as his hand came up to grip your thigh.

You worked slowly, deliberately, savoring every inch of him. His shirt was tossed aside. You dragged your nails lightly down his chest, over the lean muscle of his abdomen, watching the way his stomach tensed under your touch. When you reached his belt, you took your time unbuckling it, letting your knuckles brush teasingly against the growing hardness beneath his trousers.

Loki’s breath hitched, but he still tried to speak.

“You’re trembling, pet. So wet for me already, I can practically smell it. When I finally get my hands on you, I’m going to—”

You shut him up properly this time—leaning down and kissing him deep and filthy while your hand palmed him through his pants. The moan he let out into your mouth was deeply satisfying. You squeezed gently, stroking him until his hips twitched.

When you pulled back, his lips were kiss-swollen and his usual smug mask was cracking just a little.

“You talk too much,” you murmured, hooking your fingers into his waistband and slowly dragging his trousers and underwear down his long legs.

Loki’s cock sprang free, hard and flushed, curving proudly against his stomach. He opened his mouth again, probably to make some arrogant comment, but you immediately wrapped your fingers around his length and gave him one firm, slow stroke.

His head fell back against the pillows with a broken groan.

“Much better,” you murmured, leaning down to drag your tongue along the underside of his length. You took your time, licking and teasing, savoring the way his thighs tensed under your hands.

You worked him with your mouth and hand in tandem—long, slow strokes followed by swirling your tongue around the sensitive head. Every time he tried to reach for you, to touch your hair or pull you closer, you caught his wrists and pinned them down to the mattress above his head.

“Darling—ah—I merely wanted to—” he started again, voice strained.

You sucked him deeper into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks, and his back arched clean off the bed with a broken moan. When you pulled off with a wet pop, you gave him a warning look.

“Hands stay up there,” you ordered.

Loki’s eyes flashed with wicked delight, even as he obeyed. “So demanding on your birthday. I must say, I— nngh—”

You cut him off again by taking him back into your mouth, bobbing your head while your hand stroked what you couldn’t fit. You edged him mercilessly—bringing him right to the brink with tight, fast strokes, only to slow down or pull off completely when his hips started thrusting up desperately.

Each time you denied him, his teasing grew more fractured.

“You wicked little— mmh— you’re going to regret teasing a god like this… or perhaps I’ll— fuck, right there—”

You discovered something delicious in the process.

When you released his cock for a moment and moved higher up his body, you dragged your teeth along his collarbone and sucked hard on the side of his neck. Loki’s entire body shuddered violently beneath you. A deep, needy sound escaped his throat—nothing like his usual controlled purr.

His neck and chest were incredibly sensitive.

You smiled against his skin and lavished attention there—kissing, licking, and biting along his sharp collarbones, then lower to his chest. When your tongue flicked over one of his nipples, Loki actually whimpered, hips jerking up into nothing.

“Oh? You like that?” you whispered, delighted by your discovery. You pinned his wrists harder with one hand while your mouth closed around his nipple, sucking and grazing it with your teeth.

“Darling— shit— you’re going to kill me,” he gasped, voice cracking beautifully. The usual smugness was rapidly dissolving into raw, breathy desperation. “If you keep that up I won’t be able to— ah— fuck, please—”

You switched to the other side of his chest, giving it the same treatment while your free hand returned to his cock, stroking him torturously slow. You kept him right on the edge, never letting him tip over, while your mouth continued its assault on his neck and chest until his skin was covered in marks and his usual silver tongue was reduced to broken moans and half-formed teases.

By the time you pulled back slightly to admire your work, Loki was a gorgeous wreck beneath you—chest heaving, hair wild, lips parted, and eyes glassy with frustrated need.

He still tried one last taunt, voice hoarse:

“You think this is enough to shut me up? I can still— I can still tell you exactly how tight and wet you—”

You squeezed his cock firmly and leaned down to bite his neck again.

Loki’s words dissolved into a loud, shameless moan.

You couldn’t wait any longer.

Loki was still trying to run his mouth, even while panting and flushed beneath you, his cock twitching desperately in your hand.

“Still think you can— mmh— keep this up, darling? I give you ten minutes before you’re the one begging m—”

You shut him up the best way possible.

Rising up on your knees, you lined him up and sank down onto his cock in one smooth, relentless motion. The stretch was perfect, filling you completely, and the broken groan that tore from Loki’s throat was deeply satisfying.

“F-fuck—!” His head slammed back against the pillows, eyes squeezing shut as you bottomed out.

You didn’t give him time to recover.

You set a punishing pace immediately, rolling your hips hard and fast, riding him with every ounce of built-up frustration from his endless teasing. The wet sound of skin meeting skin filled the room as you ground down on him, taking him deep with every roll.

Loki’s silver tongue finally began to fracture.

“Gods— you’re so— ah— tight— fuck, darling, slow down or I’ll—” His words dissolved into a choked moan as you clenched around him deliberately.

You tangled one hand in his messy black hair and yanked his head back, exposing the long column of his throat. Your other hand wrapped lightly around it, applying just enough pressure to make his pupils blow even wider.

“Look at you,” you whispered, voice low and sweet as you rode him harder, grinding your clit against his pelvis with every thrust. “So pretty when you fall apart. All that teasing and now you can’t even form a full sentence.”

Loki’s hands flew to your hips, gripping hard enough that you knew you’d have bruises tomorrow. His fingers dug in, but he didn’t try to take control. He let you use him exactly as you wanted, hips jerking up desperately to meet your punishing rhythm.

“V-velsk— nngh— you wicked little mortal,” he gasped, slipping into Asgardian curses as you clenched around him again. “I’m going to— fuck— you feel too good— shit—”

You leaned down, lips brushing his ear while still riding him relentlessly.

“You’re only allowed to come when I say so,” you murmured, tightening your grip in his hair. “I want to hear you beg first. My beautiful, talkative god… look how wrecked you are for me.”

Loki let out a broken whimper, his usual elegance completely shattered. His chest was heaving, skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat, and every time you sank down hard he made the most delicious sounds — raw, desperate moans mixed with fractured curses in his native tongue.

“Járn— ah— please— you’re going to ruin me—” he gasped, voice cracking beautifully as you rolled your hips in a slow, devastating circle before slamming back down.

His neck and chest were flushed red from your earlier marks, and every time your hand flexed lightly around his throat, his cock throbbed hard inside you.

You kept riding him mercilessly, controlling every movement, every angle, watching with dark satisfaction as the God of Mischief came completely undone beneath you.

You could feel him trembling beneath you, his cock throbbing deep inside your soaked cunt with every brutal roll of your hips. Loki’s grip on your waist was bruising, but he still obeyed — letting you stay in complete control even as he unraveled.

You slowed your pace just enough to torture him, grinding down deep and slow, clenching around him on every downstroke.

“Beg,” you whispered against his lips, tightening your hand around his throat. “You’ve been running that pretty mouth all day. Now I want to hear you beg for it.”

Loki’s eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide with desperation. His silver tongue had almost completely deserted him, but he still tried to resist one last time.

“I— I don’t beg, pet— ah, fuck—” His words cut off in a choked moan as you slammed down hard and rolled your hips in tight, filthy circles.

You tugged his hair harder and leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

“Beg, Loki. Or I’ll stop right now and leave you like this.”

A broken whimper escaped him. His pride finally shattered.

“Please—” he gasped, voice hoarse and wrecked. “Please, darling— let me come. I need it— I need you— fuck, please let me fill you up. I’ll be good— I swear, just please—”

The sound of the God of Mischief begging beneath you was pure ecstasy.

You rewarded him by riding him harder than ever, fast and relentless, using his cock exactly how you wanted. One hand stayed wrapped around his throat, the other fisted tight in his hair as you fucked him into the mattress.

Loki’s head suddenly threw back against the pillows, mouth falling open in a loud, broken cry.

“Fuck—! I’m— I’m going to—”

His orgasm hit him like a storm.

He came hard with a shattered moan that echoed through the room, hips jerking up violently as he spilled deep inside you. Thick, hot pulses of his release filled you while emerald magic exploded around the room — green and gold sparks flickering wildly across the walls and ceiling. Illusions of stars and blooming flowers shimmered in and out of existence around the bed as his control completely collapsed. His body shook beneath you, chest heaving, neck arched beautifully as he rode out every wave.

The sight and feeling of him falling apart so completely pushed you over the edge right after him.

You ground down hard, clit rubbing against his pelvis as you used his twitching, oversensitive cock to chase your own pleasure. Your orgasm crashed over you in powerful waves, cunt clenching rhythmically around him as you moaned his name. Pleasure flooded every nerve as you rode him through both your climaxes, drawing out every last drop until you were both trembling and spent.

You both stayed locked together for a long moment, breathing ragged and bodies trembling. Loki’s cock was still buried deep inside you, twitching with the aftershocks as you slowly came down from your high.

Eventually, his arms wrapped around you with surprising gentleness. He pulled you down flush against his chest, holding you there as if he never wanted to let go. His heart was pounding wildly beneath your ear.

For once, the God of Mischief was nearly speechless.

He pressed slow, lazy kisses to the top of your head, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth—each one softer than the last. His long fingers traced soothing patterns along your spine, gentle and reverent.

“You…” he finally murmured, voice rough and low, “were magnificent.”

You smiled against his sweaty skin, pressing a kiss to his collarbone where you’d left a particularly dark mark earlier. Loki shivered at the contact but didn’t pull away.

“You’ll pay for that tomorrow, darling,” he whispered, a hint of his usual mischief threading through the exhaustion. “I promise you’ll scream my name until your voice gives out… but tonight was… exquisite.”

He tilted your chin up gently so he could look at you. His green eyes were still hazy, lashes heavy, a rare look of pure bliss softening his sharp features.

“I must admit,” he continued quietly, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “I rather enjoyed letting you take the lead. Seeing you so fierce, so determined to shut me up…” A soft, breathless chuckle escaped him. “I didn’t think I’d like surrendering quite so much. You were perfect.”

You rested your forehead against his, basking in the warmth of his body and the rare vulnerability in his voice.

“I loved it too,” he added, almost shyly. “Being yours completely tonight. You may have ruined me for a little while, love.”

His arms tightened around you, one hand slowly stroking your hair as the other caressed your waist. The room was quiet now, the last flickers of his magic long faded, leaving only the two of you tangled together in the sheets.

You nestled deeper into the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him—ozone, leather, and warm skin. Pressing one last, lingering kiss just beneath his jaw, you whispered softly:

“Happy birthday to me.”

The days that followed felt like walking through glass—sharp, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.

You stuck to your word. Completely.

In Charms, you arrived early and took a seat near the front beside Lily and Marlene. Sirius’s usual spot beside you remained empty. When he walked in late on Wednesday, his eyes immediately found you. You felt the burn of his stare on the side of your face the entire lesson. You never once looked back.

At meals, you sat at the far end of the Gryffindor table with a group of girls from your Arithmancy class. The first time you did it, Sirius froze in the entrance of the Great Hall, plate in hand, staring at the space beside his usual seat like it personally betrayed him. James had to physically tug him toward their normal spot.

He looked like shit.

His hair was more chaotic than usual, dark circles under his eyes. The easy, arrogant smirk he wore like armor had cracked. In its place was a constant scowl, jaw tight, shoulders rigid.

By Thursday, the Marauders had noticed.

You overheard Remus quietly asking him in the corridor, “Padfoot, what the hell is going on with you?” Sirius only snapped, “Nothing. Leave it,” before storming off.

He started getting reckless.

On Friday, he got into a screaming match with a group of Slytherins in the courtyard after Transfiguration. It escalated so fast that James and Remus had to pull him off Mulciber before he did something that would get him suspended. His knuckles were split open, blood dripping onto the stone as he laughed bitterly, eyes wild.

That same afternoon, you were in the library with a few friends when Elias, the Ravenclaw from the party, approached your table. He was polite, funny, and safe. You let yourself smile at him. Let yourself laugh when he made a joke about Flitwick’s singing. You even touched his arm lightly when he offered to help you with a difficult charm.

You felt him before you saw him.

Sirius was standing between two bookshelves across the room, staring. His grey eyes were murderous, locked on Elias’s hand near your arm like he wanted to set the entire library on fire. When your eyes accidentally met his, the raw pain and fury in his expression almost made you falter.

Almost.

You looked away first and kept talking to Elias.

That night, rumors spread that Sirius had blown up an entire shelf of practice dummies in the Room of Requirement. James apparently had to drag him out.

Saturday was worse.

The Great Hall was packed for breakfast. You sat with your back to the Marauders’ usual spot, refusing to give him even a glance. But you could hear everything.

Sirius was loud. Too loud. Laughing at nothing, voice sharp and mean. When a fifth-year Hufflepuff girl tried to flirt with him (the same one from the corridor), he let her sit on the arm of his chair, but his laugh was hollow. Forced. His eyes kept flicking toward your end of the table.

When one of the Beauxbatons exchange students—a tall, confident boy with dark hair and an accent—came over to your group and asked if you wanted to partner with him for the upcoming Potions project, you said yes. You even smiled at him.

The goblet in Sirius’s hand shattered.

Butterbeer and glass sprayed across the table. James cursed. Remus said something low and concerned. Sirius didn’t even clean it up. He just stood up abruptly, chair scraping loudly against the floor, and stormed out of the Great Hall without a word.

By Monday, the tension in the castle was unbearable.

You kept your head high. You laughed with your friends. You focused on your studies. You ignored the way your chest felt hollow every night when you lay in bed remembering how his body felt against yours. You were done.

But Sirius was unraveling.

He skipped more classes. Got another detention for hexing a Slytherin who looked at him wrong. During Quidditch practice, he flew like he had a death wish—diving dangerously, taking bludgers head-on. James had to bench him for the last twenty minutes.

The Marauders were openly worried now. You overheard Remus and James talking near the common room fireplace one evening:

“He won’t talk about it,” James said, running a hand through his hair. “But it’s bad, Moony. I’ve never seen him like this.”

Remus sighed. “It’s her. Has to be. They’ve been weird since that party… and now she won’t even look at him.”

You slipped away before they could see you.

On Tuesday evening, almost a full week since the fight, you were walking back from the Owlery when you felt him.

Sirius stepped out from behind a pillar, blocking your path. He looked terrible—eyes bloodshot, hair a mess, robes wrinkled like he’d slept in them. The usual effortless charm was gone. All that remained was raw, desperate exhaustion.

“You can’t keep doing this,” he said, voice hoarse. “Ignoring me. Acting like I don’t exist.”

You stopped a few feet away, arms crossed. Your voice was calm but firm.

“I can. And I will.”

He took a step closer, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach for you but knew better. The fading sunset light poured through the corridor windows, turning his grey eyes into liquid steel.

“I’m losing my fucking mind,” he admitted, the words sounding like they were ripped out of him. “I can’t sleep. I can’t think. Every time I see you laughing with someone else I want to—” He cut himself off, breathing hard.

You held his gaze without flinching.

“Good,” you said quietly. “Now you know how it felt.”

Sirius looked like you’d slapped him. For a moment, the fight drained out of him. He just stood there, broken and beautiful in the golden light, watching the girl he refused to claim walk away from him for the hundredth time.

You stepped around him and kept walking.

Behind you, his voice cracked as he called your name.

But you didn’t stop.

By the end of the week, something in Sirius finally cracked.

He stopped pretending he was fine. The reckless anger, the loud laughter, the fake flirting—all of it disappeared almost overnight. In its place was something quieter. Rawer. Almost… pathetic in how openly desperate he’d become.

It started small.

On Wednesday morning, he showed up to Charms on time for the first time in weeks. No dramatic entrance. No smirking at the girls who usually flocked to him. He sat in the back, alone, actually taking notes. When Professor Flitwick praised his perfect Silencing Charm, Sirius barely reacted. His eyes kept drifting to you at the front of the class.

During lunch, he didn’t sit with the Marauders at their usual spot. Instead, he walked straight to the far end of the Gryffindor table where you were sitting with your friends. He stopped a respectful distance away, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he didn’t trust them.

“Can I talk to you?” he asked quietly. No pet names. No cocky grin. Just raw, tired honesty.

You didn’t even look up from your plate. “No.”

He lingered anyway, shifting his weight. “Please.”

The single word—please—coming from Sirius Black felt foreign. Several heads turned. You stood up, gathered your things, and walked out without another word. You heard him exhale shakily behind you.

But he kept trying.

Thursday after Transfiguration, he waited outside the classroom like a lost dog. When you exited with Lily, he stepped forward, looking painfully out of place without his usual swagger.

“I stopped talking to her,” he said quickly, voice low. “The Hufflepuff girl. I told her nothing’s ever going to happen. I haven’t looked at anyone else since… since you walked away.”

You finally met his eyes. He looked exhausted—heavy bags under his stormy grey eyes, curls unkempt, shoulders slightly hunched like the weight of the last two years was finally crushing him.

“I don’t care who you talk to anymore, Sirius.”

“You do,” he whispered, almost like he was trying to convince himself more than you. “Because I’m losing my mind pretending I can survive without you. And the only thing keeping me going is believing you still do.” 

His voice cracked on the last part. He stepped closer but didn’t touch you. For once, he didn’t try to kiss you or pull you into a corner. He just stood there, vulnerable and exposed in the middle of the bustling corridor.

“I’ve been a coward,” he continued, swallowing hard. “I wanted you so badly but I was terrified of what it meant. What loving you would mean. So I kept you close enough to keep you, but far enough that I could lie to myself.”

Your chest tightened painfully, but you kept your face neutral.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words sounding like they burned on the way out. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You walked past him.

By Friday, he was unraveling in the most open way possible.

He sat two rows behind you in Potions, actually paying attention instead of doodling or passing notes with James. During lunch, he left a small note on your seat before you arrived. Just three words in his messy handwriting:

I miss you.

No signature. Just the truth.

That evening in the common room, he didn’t sit with the Marauders by the fire. He sat alone in the corner, watching you quietly from across the room. When a girl tried to approach him, he gently shook his head and looked away. The rejection was so un-Sirius-like that even James looked concerned.

Later, when most people had gone to bed, he found you again.

You were reading by the window, curled up in a large armchair. He approached slowly, stopping a few feet away like he was afraid you’d bolt.

“I know you said you’re done,” he started, voice hoarse. “And I get it. I deserve it. But I’m trying, love— darling.” He corrected himself quickly, wincing. “I’m trying to be better. I stopped all the flirting. I’m going to classes. I even told McGonagall I’d redo my last essay properly.”

He let out a shaky, self-deprecating laugh and ran a hand through his hair.

“Look at me. I’m fucking pathetic. Begging in the middle of the common room like a lovesick idiot. But I don’t care anymore.” His voice dropped, cracking with raw vulnerability. “I can’t sleep without you. I can’t breathe properly. Every time I close my eyes I see you walking away from me in that corridor. And it’s killing me.”

He took one careful step closer, eyes glassy in the firelight.

“I was scared,” he admitted, barely above a whisper. “Scared that if I called you mine, you’d leave like everyone else does. My family… they ruin everything they touch. I thought if I didn’t label it, I couldn’t break it. But I broke it anyway.”

Sirius looked completely shattered—shoulders slumped, eyes desperate, the arrogant prince of Gryffindor reduced to someone quietly begging the only person who ever made him feel safe.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered. “But I want to learn. For you.”

The common room was nearly empty. The fire crackled softly behind him, casting warm flickering light across his pained expression. He looked like he hadn’t slept properly in days.

He didn’t try to touch you. Didn’t try to kiss you.

He just waited.

Hoping.

At first, it was barely anything.

One evening in the common room, you were reaching for a book on a high shelf when Sirius appeared beside you silently. He levitated it down and handed it to you without a word. Your fingers brushed his for a split second. You didn’t thank him. You simply took the book and returned to your seat. But you also didn’t immediately move to another part of the room.

Days later, during a group Herbology project, Professor Sprout paired everyone randomly. Somehow, you ended up working beside him. The silence between you was heavy at first, thick enough to choke on. But when you struggled with a particularly stubborn Venomous Tentacula, Sirius spoke—voice low and careful.

“Here… tilt the shears like this. Otherwise it’ll spray you.”

You let him show you. No sarcastic comment. No lingering touch. Just quiet help. When you muttered a soft “Thanks,” his shoulders visibly relaxed, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

Another week passed, and the conversations grew slightly longer.

In the corridor after Defense Against the Dark Arts, he fell into step beside you. Not too close. Not touching. Just… there.

“I got full marks on the essay,” he said quietly, almost shy. “The one I rewrote. McGonagall looked shocked.”

You glanced at him sideways. His hands were shoved in his pockets, curls falling into his eyes as he stared at the floor. He looked nervous—actually nervous.

“Good for you,” you replied. Flat, but not cruel.

It was the longest sentence you’d spoken to him in nearly three weeks. Sirius’s head snapped up, a fragile spark of hope flashing across his face before he quickly hid it. He didn’t push. He just nodded and kept walking beside you until your paths split.

The change continued in small, careful pieces.

One rainy afternoon in the library, he sat at the table across from yours. Not beside you — across. Far enough to give you space, close enough that you couldn’t ignore him. When you dropped your quill, he picked it up and slid it back to you without a word. Later, when you were struggling with a complicated Arithmancy problem, he slid a piece of parchment toward you with the correct formula written in his messy handwriting.

You didn’t smile. But you used it.

And when you finished the problem correctly, you looked up and said, “You remembered how much I hate this chapter.”

Sirius’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. “I remember everything about you.”

The words hung between you, heavy and honest. You didn’t respond, but you didn’t leave either. You stayed at your table, and he stayed at his. Two people orbiting each other, slowly moving closer.

A few weeks passed, and the conversations grew slightly longer.

You were sitting by the Black Lake after dinner, the water rippling gently under a pale pink and orange sunset. The air was cool, carrying the distant sound of Quidditch practice. You had your knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, when Sirius appeared.

He didn’t sit too close. He left a respectable gap on the grass between you, folding his long legs beneath him. For several minutes, you both just watched the lake.

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” he said finally. His voice was rough, like he’d been rehearsing this. “About how I treated you. How I kept you in this… in-between because I was scared shitless of losing you. It was selfish. Really fucking selfish.”

You stayed quiet, but you didn’t get up and leave.

Sirius continued, picking at the grass beside him. “I know sorry isn’t enough. Not after two years. But I’m here. Every day. Trying. Even if you never forgive me… I’m still going to be better. For me. And for you.”

You turned your head slightly. The sunset painted his face in warm tones, highlighting the exhaustion in his eyes and the raw sincerity in the set of his mouth.

“I’m still angry,” you said quietly.

“I know.”

“I’m still hurt.”

“I know that too.” His voice cracked. He looked down at his hands. “I just… I miss hearing your voice. Even if it’s only a few words. Even if they’re angry ones.”

You didn’t respond. But when you eventually stood up to leave, you didn’t walk away immediately. You paused for a second, looking down at him.

“Goodnight, Sirius.”

It was small. Barely anything.

But his head snapped up like you’d handed him the moon. His eyes shone with something painfully hopeful.

“Goodnight,” he whispered back, voice thick.

A few days later, the common room was nearly empty. 

Most people had gone to bed. The fire was low, crackling softly and casting dancing shadows across the crimson carpets. You were curled up in your usual armchair by the window when Sirius approached slowly.

He stopped in front of you, hands in his pockets.

“Can I sit?” he asked.

You hesitated… then gave a small nod.

He sat on the chair across from you, not beside you. Close enough to talk. Far enough to not crowd you. The firelight flickered over his face as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“I’ve been a mess without you,” he admitted, voice barely above the crackling fire. “Not just because I want you back. But because I hate who I was to you. I hate that I made you feel like you were something I could keep in the dark.”

You studied him carefully. The vulnerability looked strange on him — almost uncomfortable, like ill-fitting clothes. But it was real.

“I’m not saying I forgive you,” you said slowly. “Not yet. Maybe not ever. But… I see you trying.”

Sirius let out a shaky breath, like he’d been holding it for days. His eyes glistened in the firelight.

“That’s more than I deserve,” he whispered. “Thank you. For even… talking to me.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. It was still heavy with everything unsaid. But it wasn’t hostile anymore.

For the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel the urge to run the second he appeared.

You were still guarded.

Still hurt.

But bit by bit… the ice was starting to crack.

The Gryffindor common room was nearly empty again, the fire burned down to glowing embers that painted the walls in soft, flickering reds. Most students had retreated to their dorms, weighed down by N.E.W.T. revision and the heavy exhaustion of seventh year. Only the occasional crack of a dying log broke the quiet.

You sat curled in your usual armchair by the window, a forgotten Charms textbook open on your lap. Sirius had asked if he could sit earlier, and you’d nodded. He’d chosen the couch closest to you instead of the one across the room—close enough that you could smell the faint trace of his woody cologne, but far enough that neither of you had to acknowledge the careful distance.

He looked different these days. Still devastatingly handsome, but quieter. The sharp edges of his usual arrogance had been sanded down by weeks of regret. His dark curls were messier than usual, like he’d been running his hands through them too often, and his grey eyes kept flicking toward you with a kind of nervous reverence he’d never shown before.

“You don’t have to stay up just because I am,” you said softly, not quite looking at him.

“I want to,” he answered immediately. His voice was low, rough around the edges. “If you’ll let me.”

The silence that followed wasn’t quite comfortable, but it wasn’t hostile anymore. It felt… fragile. Like something new and uncertain was trying to grow between you, and both of you were terrified of crushing it.

Sirius shifted on the couch, leaning forward slightly with his elbows on his knees. He was watching the fire, but you could feel his attention on you like a physical touch. Old habits. Even now, when he was trying so hard to be better, his body still gravitated toward yours.

“You were right, you know,” he said after a long pause. “About all of it. I kept you like a secret because I was scared. And I convinced myself that was enough for you. That it was enough for me.” He let out a shaky breath. “It wasn’t. I see that now.”

You swallowed, fingers tightening around the edge of your textbook. Hearing him say it so plainly still twisted something deep in your chest. “It hurt, Sirius. Every time you’d touch me like I was yours and then act like I was nothing in front of everyone else.”

He nodded slowly, jaw tight. “I know. I hate myself for it.”

Another stretch of silence. The fire popped softly.

You glanced over at him. He was already looking at you—those stormy grey eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. There was no smirk. No deflection. Just raw, aching honesty.

Without thinking, Sirius reached for you.

His hand moved instinctively across the small space between the couch and your chair, heading straight for your fingers where they rested on the armrest. The movement was so natural, so familiar—like he’d done it a thousand times before. Because he had. In private, his hands had always found yours, your thigh, your waist. Touch had been his language. His safety net.

Halfway there, he froze.

His fingers hovered just inches above yours, trembling slightly. You could see the exact moment realization hit him—this wasn’t automatic anymore. He wasn’t sure he was allowed. The confidence that used to let him pull you into his lap without asking was gone, replaced by something careful and pained.

He didn’t pull back right away. His hand just… stayed there. Suspended. Hesitating.

Your breath caught.

That small hesitation hurt worse than any of the cruel things he’d said in the corridor that day. It was proof. Real, tangible proof that he finally understood what he’d done. The old Sirius would have taken your hand without thinking, used the touch to smooth over any tension. This Sirius was learning how to sit in the discomfort instead. Learning how to want you without assuming he could have you.

His eyes lifted to yours, wide and vulnerable. “I… sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to—just habit. I won’t—”

He started to withdraw his hand.

You didn’t move. You just watched him, heart aching with a messy tangle of tenderness and old pain.

Sirius swallowed hard, curling his fingers into a loose fist before letting his hand drop back to his own knee. The space between you felt heavier now. Charged with everything he wasn’t letting himself take.

“I’m trying,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “I don’t want to touch you just because it feels good anymore. I want… I want to earn it. If you ever let me again.”

The firelight flickered across his face, highlighting the faint flush on his cheekbones and the way his throat worked as he fought to keep himself still.

You didn’t reach for him. Not yet.

But for the first time in weeks, the idea of it didn’t feel impossible.

The Gryffindor common room was more crowded than usual for a Thursday evening. Groups of students were scattered across the couches and armchairs, some revising, others playing Exploding Snap or simply enjoying the rare lull before exams swallowed them whole. The fire burned steadily, casting a warm, golden glow over everything.

You were sitting near the window again, sharing a low table with Lily and Marlene, half-listening to them debate the best way to brew a Pepperup Potion. Your eyes kept drifting across the room.

Sirius sat on the long couch by the fireplace with James and Remus. He wasn’t sprawled like he used to—legs stretched out, taking up space like the world owed him comfort. Instead, he sat more upright, quieter, one elbow resting on his knee as he stared into the flames. He looked tired but present. The sharp, restless energy that once defined him had dulled into something heavier.

A fifth-year Gryffindor girl—pretty, with curly auburn hair and a confident smile—had been hovering near their group for the last few minutes. She finally gathered her courage and approached, perching on the arm of the couch right beside Sirius.

“Hi, Sirius,” she said brightly, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “I was hoping you’d be here. You were brilliant at last Saturday’s practice. The way you dodged that Bludger? Everyone’s still talking about it.”

Her voice carried just enough to reach your table. You kept your expression neutral, but your quill paused over your parchment.

Old Sirius would have leaned into it immediately. A lazy smirk, a flirtatious drawl, maybe even tugged her down onto the couch beside him just to see how you’d react. He used to thrive on that kind of attention—using it like armor.

But this Sirius barely moved.

He lifted his head, grey eyes flicking up to her face for a moment. There was no spark. No crooked grin. No effortless charm turned on like a switch.

“Thanks,” he said. His voice was polite, but flat. Almost distant. “Appreciate it.”

The girl leaned in a little closer, clearly expecting more. “A few of us are heading to the Astronomy Tower later if you wanted to come? It’s supposed to be a clear night. Could be fun…”

She let the invitation hang, hopeful.

Sirius shifted slightly on the couch. For a second his eyes instinctively drifted toward you across the room. When they met yours, something raw and uncertain passed through them. Then he looked back at the girl.

“Not interested,” he said quietly. No smirk. No teasing lilt to soften the rejection. Just simple, honest truth. “Sorry.”

The girl blinked, clearly surprised. A flush crept up her cheeks. “Oh… right. Um, no worries.” She gave an awkward little laugh and quickly retreated back toward her friends.

A few heads turned. Whispers rippled through the nearby groups. Sirius Black turning down a girl so directly—and without any flair—was unusual enough to notice.

James raised an eyebrow from beside him, but didn’t say anything yet. Remus just watched quietly, a small, knowing look on his face.

You felt your chest tighten. Not with jealousy this time, but with something more complicated. Tenderness. Pain. Hope. Because that rejection hadn’t been for show. He hadn’t glanced at you first to make sure you were watching. He’d just… done it. Naturally. Like flirting with other girls no longer even crossed his mind as an option.

Sirius’s shoulders were tense. He ran a hand through his curls, exhaling slowly, then leaned back against the couch. His gaze found you again across the room—longer this time. There was no triumph in it. Just quiet vulnerability. Like he was silently asking: Did you see that? Is this enough?

You didn’t smile. But you held his gaze for several heartbeats before looking back down at your notes, your fingers trembling slightly around your quill.

The common room noise continued around them—laughter, flipping pages, and the occasional snap of cards—but the space between Sirius and his friends felt suddenly smaller.

James waited until the fifth-year girl had fully retreated before he scooted closer on the couch. He moved casually, like he was just shifting for comfort, but Remus caught the deliberate shift and subtly turned his attention elsewhere, giving them a sliver of privacy.

James leaned in, voice low enough that only Sirius could hear.

“Alright, mate,” he said quietly, eyes flicking briefly toward you across the room before returning to his best friend. “What the hell is going on with you?”

Sirius didn’t look at him right away. He kept his gaze fixed on the fire, jaw tight. “Nothing.”

“Bollocks.” James’s voice was gentle but firm. He leaned in even closer, elbows on his knees. “You just turned down a girl who was practically throwing herself at you. No smirk. No clever line. You didn’t even look at her properly. That’s not you, Padfoot.”

Sirius let out a slow breath, running a hand through his messy curls. His shoulders were tense, like the weight of the last few weeks was pressing down on him all at once.

James watched him carefully for a long moment. Then, even quieter, almost hesitant, he asked:

“Do you love her?”

The question landed heavily between them.

Sirius froze. For several long seconds, the only sound was the crackling fire and the distant murmur of students. His hands clenched into fists on his knees. The old Sirius would’ve laughed it off. Cracked a joke. Changed the subject with a wink. Anything to avoid saying it out loud.

But he didn’t.

He swallowed hard, throat working visibly. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, low, and stripped of every defense he used to hide behind.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I do.”

James’s eyebrows rose slightly, but he stayed quiet, letting the words breathe.

Sirius kept going, the confession spilling out like it had been trapped inside him for years. “I love her. Been in love with her for a long time. I was just too fucking scared to say it. To make it real.” His voice cracked on the last word. “I thought if I didn’t call it anything, I couldn’t ruin it. But I ruined it anyway.”

He finally turned his head to look at James. There was no smirk. No mask. Just raw, exhausted honesty in those grey eyes.

“I hurt her, Prongs. Badly. For two years I kept her close when it suited me and pushed her away when it got too real. And now…” He glanced across the room toward you again, something tender and aching flickering across his face. “Now I’m trying to fix it. But I don’t even know if she’ll let me. And I deserve that.”

James was quiet for a beat, studying his best friend like he was seeing a new side of him.

“Merlin,” James said softly, almost to himself. “You really mean it.”

Sirius gave a small, broken nod. “Yeah. I do.”

The two of them sat in silence after that. James reached over and clapped a hand on Sirius’s shoulder—brief, grounding, brotherly—before pulling back. No big speeches. No teasing. Just quiet understanding.

Across the room, you couldn’t hear what was said. But you saw the way James leaned in. You saw the tension in Sirius’s shoulders. You saw the way he looked at you afterward—longer, heavier, more vulnerable than ever.

And for the first time, you wondered if maybe… just maybe… he was finally ready to say the things he’d spent years avoiding.

The rain was relentless that Friday night, drumming hard against the tower windows and turning the world outside into a blur of grey and silver. Most students had already disappeared into their dorms, but you and Sirius had ended up in the small alcove off the boys’ staircase—a tucked-away window seat hidden behind a heavy tapestry that smelled of dust and old magic. It had become one of the few places where the careful distance between you sometimes felt a little smaller.

You sat with your back against the stone wall, legs stretched across the cushioned bench. Sirius sat opposite you, one knee drawn up, his long fingers tracing idle patterns on the fabric between you. The storm outside made the space feel smaller. Intimate. Dangerous.

You’d been talking for nearly an hour—real talking. Not the shallow, safe conversations you’d been having for the past few weeks. He’d asked about your Arithmancy exam. You’d asked him why he’d started skipping Quidditch practice. Slowly, carefully, the words had deepened.

“I keep thinking about that day in the corridor,” you admitted quietly, eyes on the rain-streaked window. “When I walked away. Part of me still expects you to disappear again the second things get real.”

Sirius was quiet for a long moment. The firelight from a nearby wall sconce flickered across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the shadows under his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t been sleeping much.

“I deserve that fear,” he said eventually. His voice was low, rough. “I earned it.”

You glanced at him. He was watching you with that new, unguarded intensity—the one that still made your stomach flutter even after everything. His hand had inched closer across the cushion, not quite touching yours, but close enough that you could feel the warmth.

The silence stretched. Vulnerable. Heavy.

Then Sirius shifted. You saw the exact moment the old instinct kicked in—the panic behind his eyes, the need to lighten the weight before it crushed him.

He let out a short, forced chuckle and rubbed the back of his neck. “Merlin, listen to us. We sound like we’re in some tragic romance novel. Next thing you know I’ll be writing you bad poetry and reciting it dramatically in the Great Hall.”

It was a stupid joke. Classic Sirius deflection. Light. Easy. Safe.

Your stomach dropped.

Here we go again.

The familiar chill settled in your chest. You pulled your legs back slightly, creating more space between you without meaning to. Your expression shuttered. You’d heard jokes like that for two years—right before he’d kiss you senseless and then tell James you were “just mates” the next morning.

You looked away toward the rain. “Yeah,” you said, voice quieter. “Hilarious.”

Sirius froze.

The silence that followed was brutal. He could see it on your face—the way you’d braced yourself, the way your shoulders had tensed like you were preparing for him to run.

His hand, which had been hovering near yours, curled into a fist on the cushion.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

You didn’t look at him. “It’s fine. You don’t have to—”

“No.” The word came out sharp. He caught himself immediately, softening his tone. “No, it’s not fine.”

He shifted closer, but still didn’t touch you. His knee brushed the side of your leg, but he kept his hands to himself. You could see the battle happening behind his eyes—the old Sirius screaming to make a joke, change the subject, pull you into a kiss so he wouldn’t have to feel this exposed. The fear was there, raw and obvious.

But he didn’t run.

Instead, he swallowed hard and forced himself to stay right there. His voice came out strained, like every word hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was… that was me being scared. Again.” He let out a shaky breath and ran a hand through his curls, gripping them for a second like it grounded him. “I felt it getting heavy and I tried to dodge it. Old habit. Two years of training myself to run the second things felt real.”

He looked at you then—really looked. Grey eyes stormy with fear and determination.

“I don’t want to do that anymore,” he continued, voice cracking slightly. “I don’t want to make you wait for me to be brave. So I’m staying. Even if I feel like I’m going to throw up from how terrifying this is.”

The honesty hit you hard. You searched his face, waiting for the smirk, the retreat, the mask.

It didn’t come.

Sirius stayed exactly where he was. Shoulders tense, hands clenched like he was physically holding himself in place, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t joke again. He just sat in the discomfort with you.

“I’m still shit at this,” he admitted after a long pause, voice barely above the sound of the rain. “I’m going to mess up again. Probably soon. But I’m trying to catch it now instead of letting it win.” His eyes softened, almost pleading. “Tell me when I do it. Please. Don’t just… shut down and walk away like I deserve. Yell at me if you have to. Just don’t let me get away with it anymore.”

Your throat felt tight. The relapse had been small—just a stupid joke—but it had triggered every insecurity you still carried. Yet watching him fight against two years of instinct, watching him choose to stay… it cracked something in you.

You didn’t reach for his hand.

But you also didn’t move away.

“I hate how easy it still is for you to do that,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said immediately. No defense. No excuse. Just quiet acceptance. “Me too.”

The rain continued to pour outside. Inside the little alcove, the air felt thick with everything still broken between you—and everything that might, someday, be repaired.

Sirius didn’t try to touch you. He didn’t try to kiss the moment better.

He simply stayed.

And for the two of you, that was everything.

The Great Hall was loud with the usual morning chaos. Sunlight streamed through the enchanted ceiling, showing a bright, cloudless sky. Owl post fluttered down between tables, students laughed and argued over plates piled high with toast, eggs, bacon, and steaming porridge. It felt almost normal.

Except nothing between you and Sirius had felt normal in a long time.

He’d found you outside the portrait hole that morning. No grand gesture. Just a quiet “Can I walk with you?” and a careful half-step of distance as you made your way down. Now, as you entered the hall together, he didn’t head toward his usual spot with the Marauders. Instead, he followed you to the far end of the Gryffindor table where you’d been sitting with your friends for weeks.

When you slid onto the bench, Sirius sat down right beside you. Close. No space left for interpretation. His thigh pressed warmly against yours, and this time he didn’t hide it under the table.

You tensed for half a second—old instinct—but he didn’t pull away. His hand came to rest lightly on the bench between you, his pinky finger brushing against the side of your hand. Open. Visible. Deliberate.

James, Remus, and Peter were already seated a little further down. James did a double-take when he saw where Sirius had chosen to sit, but he quickly hid his surprise behind a grin and a mouthful of toast.

You reached for some scrambled eggs, hyper-aware of every point of contact. Sirius’s shoulder brushed yours as he leaned forward to grab the pumpkin juice. He poured some into your goblet first without asking, then his own. Small things. But they felt enormous in the bright morning light of the Great Hall.

A few seats away, Marlene raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Dorcas just smirked into her tea.

The minutes passed in a strange, humming tension. Sirius didn’t try to fill the silence with jokes or flirtatious comments. He simply existed beside you—solid, quiet, and openly there.

Then it happened.

One of the sixth-year girls who used to flirt with him—the same one from weeks ago—walked past the table with a group of friends. She slowed when she saw the two of you sitting so closely. Her eyes flicked down to where Sirius’s hand now rested near yours in plain view.

She let out a surprised little laugh. “Wait… you two together now, then?”

The question landed casually, like it was nothing. But the entire section of the table seemed to pause. James stopped chewing. Remus looked up from his book. Even Peter’s fork hovered mid-air.

Everyone knew the script. They’d heard Sirius say “We’re just mates” a hundred times. They expected the deflection. The easy smirk. The casual denial.

Sirius went still.

For a moment, you felt that familiar twist in your stomach—the fear that the old pattern would win again. That he’d crack a joke, pull his hand away, protect himself like he always had.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he turned his head and looked at you first.

Really looked. His stormy grey eyes were soft and uncertain, but steady. The noise of the Great Hall seemed to fade as he searched your face, giving you the chance to stop him if you wanted. His pinky finger curled gently around yours on the bench—the smallest, bravest touch.

Then he turned back to the girl and answered, voice calm and clear:

“Yeah.”

The single word dropped like a stone into still water.

He didn’t stop there.

“If she’ll still have me,” he added quietly, the vulnerability in his voice unmistakable. No smirk. No charm. Just raw honesty in front of half the Gryffindor table.

The girl blinked, caught off guard. A few whispers rippled down the table. James broke into a wide, proud grin. Remus gave a small, approving nod.

You felt your heart stutter.

Sirius’s hand shifted. He slowly slid his fingers over yours properly this time—no hiding, no secrecy. His grip was warm and a little unsteady, like he was still terrified you might pull away.

He didn’t look at anyone else. Just you.

“I’m done pretending,” he said, low enough that only you could hear, though the whole table was watching. “I should’ve said this a long time ago.”

Your throat tightened. The old wound—the one that had bled for nearly two years every time he called you “just mates”—ached sharply… and then began to ease.

You didn’t answer with words. Not yet.

But you turned your hand over and laced your fingers through his. Right there on the Gryffindor table in the middle of breakfast. Open. Honest. Claimed.

Sirius let out a shaky breath, his shoulders finally relaxing as he squeezed your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him.

For the first time, the entire Great Hall saw what had always been true.

You weren’t just mates.

You never had been.

Later that evening, the Gryffindor common room had emptied out again. Only the low crackle of the dying fire remained, casting long, gentle shadows across the crimson carpets. You and Sirius had claimed the same window seat alcove where the relapse had happened days ago. This time, the space between you felt smaller. Safer. But still fragile.

Sirius sat with his back against the stone wall, one leg stretched out along the bench. You were curled up beside him, your shoulder brushing his arm. His hand rested openly on your knee—no hesitation, no hiding. He’d been like this since breakfast: quietly attentive, like he was afraid the moment might slip away if he wasn’t careful.

The silence had stretched for several minutes, comfortable but heavy with everything still unsaid.

You stared at the rain-streaked window, watching droplets race each other down the glass. Your throat felt tight. The public claim earlier had cracked something open inside you, and now it was all spilling out whether you wanted it to or not.

“I need to say something,” you whispered.

Sirius turned his head toward you immediately. “I’m listening.”

You took a shaky breath. Your fingers traced the seam of your skirt, avoiding his eyes.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened between us. Not just what you did… but what I did too.” Your voice wavered. “I enabled it, Sirius. For two years, I let you keep me in the dark. I accepted every crumb you gave me—the secret touches, the late-night whispers, the way you’d fuck me like I was everything and then call me ‘just mates’ the next morning. And I stayed. Even when it was killing me.”

Sirius’s hand tightened slightly on your knee, but he stayed quiet. Letting you speak.

“I told myself it was enough,” you continued, the words burning on the way out. “That having you in private was better than not having you at all. I got so used to being loved privately that I stopped believing I deserved to be loved properly.”

Your voice cracked on the last word. You finally looked at him, eyes glassy.

“I was scared too. Scared that if I pushed you, you’d leave. So I stayed silent. I played the game with you. I used jealousy as a weapon—flirting with Elias, letting those boys dance with me at the party—because it was the only way I knew how to hurt you back. I let the cycle keep going because admitting I deserved more felt more terrifying than staying in the pain I knew.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. You wiped it away angrily.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “For letting you treat me like a secret. For treating myself like one too.”

Sirius was quiet for a long moment. His grey eyes were wide and raw, glistening in the firelight. You could see how deeply your words hit him—not with defensiveness, but with understanding.

He slowly lifted his hand from your knee and gently cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing away another tear. His touch was tender. Careful. Like he was handling something precious he’d almost broken beyond repair.

“Merlin,” he breathed, voice rough. “I never wanted you to feel like that. But I know I made you feel it.” He swallowed hard. “Thank you for saying it. For being brave enough to admit your part when I’ve been owning mine.”

He leaned his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

“We both fucked this up,” he murmured. “I ran from loving you out loud. You stayed when it hurt because you thought it was all you’d get. But you deserve everything, darling. Not crumbs. Not secrets. Not late-night versions of me. You deserve the version of me that sits next to you in the Great Hall and tells the whole bloody world you’re mine.”

You let out a watery laugh, your hands coming up to clutch his shirt.

“I’m still scared,” you admitted softly.

“I know. Me too.” He pulled back just enough to look at you properly. “But I’m not going anywhere. And I’m never hiding you again. We do this properly this time. Messy. Slow. Honest. Even when it’s terrifying.”

The fire popped softly behind you. Outside, the rain continued falling, but inside the alcove it felt like the first real breath either of you had taken in years.

Sirius pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then lingered against your cheek—not demanding, not possessive. Just… there.

“I love you,” he whispered against your skin. The words came easier now. “Out loud. In public. Wherever you’ll let me say it.”

You closed your eyes, letting the truth of it settle deep in your chest.

“I love you too,” you whispered back.

For the first time, it didn’t feel like settling.

It felt like beginning.

A month had passed.

The Gryffindor common room was quiet again, wrapped in the soft hush of late night. Most students had long since gone to bed. Only the low, steady crackle of the fire remained, casting a warm amber glow across the crimson furniture and worn rugs. Outside the tall windows, snow fell gently, blanketing the grounds in silence.

You sat curled in the corner of the large couch, legs stretched along the cushions. Sirius lay with his head in your lap, eyes closed, his dark curls spilling over your thighs like ink. One of his arms was draped loosely across your legs, fingers resting lightly against your knee. There was no tension in his body tonight. No guarded edges. Just the steady rise and fall of his breathing and the quiet contentment of someone who had finally stopped running.

Your fingers moved slowly through his hair, untangling the knots with the same gentle rhythm you used months ago, but everything felt different now. Softer. Safer.

Sirius hummed lowly, a sound of pure contentment, and turned his face slightly toward your stomach. His nose brushed against the fabric of your sweater as he nuzzled closer.

“Keep doing that and I might fall asleep right here,” he murmured, voice rough with tiredness and warmth. The same words he’d said once before, but this time there was no fear beneath them.

You smiled, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

He cracked one eye open, grey eyes soft in the firelight as he looked up at you. No mask. No deflection. Just open, steady affection.

The portrait hole swung open with a quiet creak. Marlene and Dorcas stumbled in, cheeks flushed from a late-night walk around the castle. They paused when they saw the two of you, Marlene’s mouth curving into a familiar teasing grin.

“Oi, lovebirds,” she called softly, not wanting to wake anyone. “Get a room, yeah?”

Sirius didn’t tense. He didn’t pull away or make a sarcastic remark to downplay it. Instead, a small, lazy smirk tugged at his lips as he nestled deeper into your lap.

“Already have one,” he replied, voice low and easy. His hand slid a little higher on your thigh, not possessive, just affectionate. “Right here.”

Marlene laughed quietly, rolling her eyes as she and Dorcas headed toward the girls’ staircase. “Disgusting. I’m happy for you two, though.”

The portrait hole clicked shut behind them, leaving the common room in peaceful quiet once more.

Sirius shifted slightly, turning so he could look up at you properly. For a long moment, he just studied your face, his expression tender and unguarded. Then he reached up, fingers gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I love you,” he whispered. Simple. Honest. No performance.

You leaned down and kissed him softly. No heat. No desperation. Just a slow, gentle press of lips that tasted like peace and belonging. When you pulled back, he smiled against your mouth.

This time, you didn’t feel hidden.

You didn’t wonder what tomorrow would bring or whether he’d pretend again in the morning. There was only the warmth of his head in your lap, the steady weight of his arm across your legs, and the quiet certainty that he was yours — openly, completely, gently.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, fingers resuming their slow path through his hair.

Sirius let out a contented sigh and closed his eyes again, trusting you completely in the firelight.

Outside, the snow kept falling.

Inside, everything finally felt like home.

Peter stumbles in, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair a complete disaster from the wind (or maybe from swinging between buildings—you’ve learned not to ask too many questions). His flannel shirt is buttoned wrong, one side hanging lower than the other, and there’s a faint smudge of grease on his cheek from whatever he was tinkering with in the lab today.

“Hey,” he says, voice a little too bright, like he’s trying to sound casual but his cheeks are already dusting pink. “You’re cooking? Again? I thought we agreed I’d handle dinner tonight so you wouldn’t have to—”

“You handled dinner last night,” you remind him with a grin, glancing over your shoulder. “I’m still recovering from the Great Ramen Incident of 2025.”

He winces, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, fair. But I’ve been practicing. I even watched a YouTube tutorial this time. With… subtitles.”

You laugh, and the sound makes his shoulders relax a fraction. He drops his bag by the door and pads over in socked feet, hovering just behind you like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to get closer. The kitchen is tiny; his chest nearly brushes your back when he reaches up to grab plates from the cabinet above your head. You catch the scent of him—faint laundry detergent, a little bit of ozone like he’s been out in the rain, and something warmer, sweeter, that’s just Peter.

“Need help?” he asks, voice softer now. His fingers accidentally graze yours when he hands you the plates. He yanks his hand back like he’s been burned, then immediately pretends to be very interested in the wooden spoon you’re holding.

You let him stir the sauce while you set the table. The two of you move around each other in that comfortable, slightly clumsy way roommates do when they’ve started syncing up without meaning to. He keeps stealing glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking—watching the way you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, the way the sunlight catches on your collarbone when you lean over the counter.

Dinner ends up on the tiny couch because the dining table is currently covered in Peter’s half-finished web-shooter prototype (he swore he’d clear it by tonight, but “time got away from me”). You sit cross-legged with your plate balanced on your knee. Peter folds himself into the opposite corner, knees drawn up, trying to take up as little space as possible even though his long limbs make it impossible.

The conversation flows easy at first—your terrible coworker story, his latest rant about how Dr. Connors keeps assigning impossible deadlines. But somewhere between the second helping of pasta and the third time he laughs at one of your jokes, he gets quieter. His eyes keep drifting to your mouth when you talk, then flicking away guiltily. When you reach over to steal a piece of garlic bread from his plate, his ears turn bright red.

“You’ve got sauce on your cheek,” he blurts suddenly.

You swipe at it and miss. Peter leans forward without thinking, thumb gently brushing the corner of your mouth. The touch is feather-light, barely there, but he freezes the second he realizes what he’s doing. His hazel eyes widen behind his glasses, and for a second the whole room feels smaller, warmer, like the air itself is holding its breath.

“S-sorry,” he stammers, pulling back so fast he nearly knocks his water glass over. “I just—there was—y’know. Sauce. Red sauce. On your face. And I—uh.”

He gestures vaguely at your cheek, then at his own, then gives up and stares very intently at his pasta like it holds the secrets of the universe.

You bite your lip to keep from smiling too obviously. “Thanks, Pete.”

“Yeah. No problem. Totally normal roommate thing. Helping with… facial sauce.” He clears his throat, voice cracking just a little on the last word.

The rest of the evening passes in that same sweet, slightly charged haze. You end up watching an old sitcom rerun because neither of you can agree on a movie. Peter keeps adjusting the blanket he draped over both your laps, making sure you’re covered even though he’s clearly getting cold himself. Every time you shift and your knee brushes his thigh, he tenses, then forces himself to relax again like he’s trying not to be obvious.

When the episode ends and you start yawning, he walks you to your bedroom door (it’s literally five steps down the hall, but he does it anyway). He lingers there, one hand braced on the doorframe, the other fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

“Night,” he says, too softly. His eyes flick down to your lips for half a second before snapping back up. “I, um… I really like coming home to this. To you. I mean—to the apartment. With you in it. Not that I don’t like the apartment by itself, but it’s better when you’re—”

He cuts himself off with a quiet, embarrassed groan and presses his forehead against the doorframe for a second. “I’m gonna stop talking now.”

You lean against your door, heart doing something dangerously fluttery. “Goodnight, Peter.”

He gives you the shyest, sweetest smile you’ve ever seen—like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar but doesn’t entirely regret it.

“Night,” he whispers again, then forces himself to turn and shuffle toward his own room, ears still flaming red.

The door clicks shut behind him, but you can hear the faint thud of him leaning back against it on the other side, followed by a very quiet, very heartfelt “Oh my god, Parker, get it together.”

You smile into the dark of your room, cheeks warm, already wondering what tomorrow morning’s awkward coffee ritual is going to look like now that his crush is no longer even a little bit subtle.

[marvel masterlist]⋆.🐟︎

The Gryffindor common room is almost empty, the fire crackling low in the hearth like it’s whispering secrets to the shadows. Most people have already disappeared to their dorms, chasing sleep before another brutal week of N.E.W.T. revision. But not you. And definitely not him.

Sirius is sprawled across the worn crimson couch like he owns it, his dark curls fanned out over your lap. His head rests heavy and warm against your thighs, one arm lazily draped across your legs as if anchoring you there. The common room’s golden light flickers over his sharp cheekbones and the faint scar near his jaw, making him look dangerously soft in a way only you ever get to see.

Your fingers card slowly through his hair, tugging gently at the knots the way he likes. A low, contented hum vibrates from his chest. His free hand traces lazy circles on the inside of your knee, slipping just beneath the hem of your skirt. The touch is absentminded, familiar, possessive.

“Keep doing that and I might fall asleep right here,” he murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion and that signature lazy drawl. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing. Waking up with you like this…”

You smile despite yourself, but there’s that familiar twist in your chest. The same one that’s been there since fifth year. Because this—his head in your lap, his fingers on your skin, the way he says things like that—is everything a boyfriend would do.

Except he isn’t.

You’re not his girlfriend. He’s not your boyfriend. You’ve never been anything with a label. Just… this. Whatever this is. A complicated, addictive, messy tangle that neither of you has the guts to name.

A log pops in the fireplace. Sirius shifts slightly, turning his face toward your stomach. His breath is warm through the fabric of your shirt.

“Long day?” you ask quietly, nails scratching lightly against his scalp.

“Fucking McGonagall breathing down my neck about Transfiguration theory. As if I don’t already know it better than half the class.” He smirks, eyes still closed. “Then Evans lectured me for ten minutes about ‘responsibility’ because I hexed that Slytherin git in the corridor. Worth it, though.”

You let out a soft laugh. Your hand drifts down to the side of his neck, thumb brushing over the pulse point there. He tilts his head just enough to press a slow, open-mouthed kiss against your thigh. The casual intimacy of it makes your stomach flip.

No one else gets this version of him. The lazy, almost vulnerable Sirius who lets you touch him like this. Who seeks you out after every bad day. Who looks at you like you’re the only steady thing in his chaotic world.

But the second someone else walks into the room, the mask slides back on.

As if summoned by your thoughts, the portrait hole swings open. Marlene McKinnon stumbles in, giggling, with Dorcas Meadowes right behind her. They both freeze when they see the two of you.

Sirius doesn’t move. His hand stays high on your thigh, fingers still tracing patterns like he couldn’t care less who sees. But you feel the tiniest shift in his body—the way his shoulders tense just slightly.

“Oi, lovebirds,” Marlene teases, grinning as she heads toward the girls’ staircase. “Get a room, yeah?”

Dorcas snorts. “Pretty sure they already have several.”

Sirius cracks one eye open, flashing that devastating, crooked grin. “Jealous, McKinnon?”

Marlene rolls her eyes and disappears up the stairs with a laugh. The portrait hole swings shut again, leaving the common room quiet once more.

You wait.

The silence stretches.

Finally, you speak, voice low. “You know… they all think we’re together.”

Sirius opens both eyes this time. He stares up at you, grey eyes unreadable in the firelight. For a second, something flickers across his face—something almost like panic—but it’s gone so fast you might’ve imagined it.

He shrugs one shoulder. “People think a lot of things.”

His hand squeezes your thigh, a silent reminder. A claim without words.

You bite the inside of your cheek. The familiar sting rises in your throat, but you swallow it down. This is how it always goes. He gives you everything except the one thing you keep waiting for.

Sirius sits up slowly, the loss of his weight in your lap leaving you colder than it should. He turns to face you fully, one knee braced on the couch between your legs. The fire paints warm shadows across his face as he leans in close.

His fingers catch your chin, tilting your face up to his.

“Don’t do that,” he says softly. There’s a warning edge beneath the gentleness.

“Do what?”

“Get that look. Like you’re thinking too much again.” His thumb brushes your lower lip. “We’re good, aren’t we? You and me. Like this.”

Like this.

The words hang between you. Heavy. Insufficient.

You meet his gaze, searching those stormy grey eyes. “Yeah,” you whisper, even though it feels like a lie. “We’re good.”

A slow, satisfied smirk curves his mouth. He closes the distance and kisses you—slow at first, almost sweet. Then deeper. Hungrier. His hand slides into your hair, gripping just tight enough to make you gasp against his lips. The kiss tastes like firewhisky from earlier and the familiar comfort of too many late nights.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. His breathing is uneven.

“Stay with me tonight,” he murmurs. “My bed. The others are all out cold by now.”

You laugh quietly, a little breathless. “You’re so demanding.”

“Only with you, darling.”

There it is again. Darling. The pet name that makes your heart ache and race at the same time.

You should ask him. Right now. What are we, Sirius? The words are on the tip of your tongue, the same ones that have been choking you for nearly two years.

But you already know what he’ll say.

Why ruin it? We don’t need labels. You know you’re the only one I want.

And you’ll accept it. Because as messy and frustrating and toxic as this is—him acting like you’re his entire world in private while refusing to claim you in public—you’re addicted to it. To him.

Just like he’s addicted to you.

Sirius kisses you again, softer this time, like he can taste the uncertainty on your lips and wants to kiss it away. His hand slips further up your thigh, possessive and warm.

“Come on,” he whispers against your mouth. “Let’s go upstairs before I decide I can’t wait and take you right here on this couch.”

You let him pull you up, fingers intertwined. As you follow him toward the boys’ staircase, his arm slides around your waist, holding you close like he’s afraid you might slip away.

For tonight, at least, he’s yours.

Even if tomorrow he’ll smirk and tell James “Nah, we’re just mates” again.

And you’ll let him.

Because that’s what you two do.

The morning light filters weakly through the heavy crimson curtains of the boys’ dormitory, casting a soft, golden haze over everything. Sirius’s four-poster bed is an absolute wreck—sheets tangled and twisted around your bodies, half the pillows tossed onto the floor, your skirt and his shirt lying in a careless heap near the edge. The air still hangs heavy with the evidence of last night: the musky scent of sweat, the faint trace of firewhisky on his breath, and that warm, woody cologne he always wears that now clings to your own skin.

You wake slowly, every muscle deliciously sore in the best possible way. Flashes of the night before keep flickering through your mind—Sirius’s hands gripping your hips as he pulled you down onto him, the low, wrecked sounds he made against your throat when you moved just right, the way he’d kissed you like he was trying to devour every moan. How he’d held you tight afterward, chest heaving, refusing to let even an inch of space come between you until sleep finally claimed you both.

His bare chest is pressed flush against your back now, warm and solid. One strong arm is slung possessively over your waist, fingers splayed wide across your stomach like he’s claiming every inch even in his sleep. His breath fans steadily against the nape of your neck, lips brushing your skin with every exhale. The faint scratch of his stubble sends tiny sparks down your spine.

You shift just a little, testing the ache between your thighs, and Sirius stirs immediately behind you. His arm tightens, pulling you back against him with a low, sleepy groan.

“Morning, darling,” he rasps, voice rough and intimate against your ear. He presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your bare shoulder, then drags his teeth over the same spot, making you shiver. “Mmm… still here. Good. I like waking up to you like this.”

His hand slides lower, fingertips tracing lazy circles over your hip before slipping down to squeeze your thigh. There’s a smirk in his tone even though his eyes are barely open. “Did I wear you out last night? You were making such pretty sounds for me.”

You turn in his arms to face him properly. His grey eyes are soft and dark in the dim morning light, his dark curls wildly tousled from your fingers running through them hours earlier. A few faint love bites mark his neck—marks you left on him. He looks devastatingly beautiful like this: unguarded, rumpled, and completely focused on you. In these stolen moments behind closed curtains, he’s entirely yours.

You reach up and brush your fingers through his messy hair, tugging gently at the roots the way he likes. “You’re impossible in the mornings.”

Sirius chuckles lowly, the sound vibrating through his chest. He leans in and kisses you—slow, deep, and unhurried. His hand roams down your side, squeezing your waist, then your thigh again, like he’s considering pulling you on top of him for another round. The kiss deepens, his tongue brushing yours, tasting like sleep and leftover desire. For a few perfect minutes, nothing else exists.

But reality always creeps back in.

You eventually pull away, breathless. “We should go down. Breakfast will end soon, and we’ve already been missing too many meals lately.”

He groans dramatically, burying his face in the crook of your neck and nipping at your skin. “Skip with me. I’d much rather stay here and have you instead. Slowly this time.”

The words send heat rushing through you, but you force yourself to slip out of his warm embrace. You feel his eyes on you the entire time as you move around the bed—watching intently while you tug your shirt back on, smooth down your rumpled skirt, and try to fix your hair in the small mirror by his bedside. His gaze is dark and hungry, lingering on the faint marks he left on your collarbone that you’ll have to hide later.

By the time you both sneak down the spiral staircase and push through the portrait hole into the Great Hall, the hall is already alive with noise. Sunlight streams brightly through the enchanted ceiling, showing a clear blue sky. The long Gryffindor table is packed with students chatting loudly, clinking cutlery, and passing around platters of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, buttered toast, and jugs of pumpkin juice.

Sirius walks in first, shoulders relaxed, that signature arrogant swagger firmly in place. The second he steps into the crowded hall, the shift happens so naturally it almost hurts to watch. The soft, possessive Sirius from the dorm vanishes. The mask slides on.

“Morning!” he calls out cheerfully, dropping into his usual seat with easy confidence. He immediately reaches for the nearest platter and starts loading his plate high, acting like any other seventh-year with nothing heavier on his mind than N.E.W.T.s and Quidditch.

You slide into the seat right beside him—the spot everyone has quietly accepted as yours. Your leg brushes against his under the table, and he presses back for a brief second, warm and deliberate. A secret little I’m right here.

James looks up with a wide, knowing grin. “Late start again? You two are becoming predictable.”

Sirius shrugs casually, stealing a strip of bacon straight from your plate without even asking. “Couldn’t sleep properly. Too much on my mind these days.”

Remus glances between you both, his observant eyes narrowing just slightly. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel him reading the room.

“Just coincidence,” Sirius adds smoothly, flashing that devastating crooked grin. He leans back in his chair and drapes one arm casually along the back of yours. Close enough to feel intimate. Loose enough to look completely platonic. “We’re just mates. Right?”

The words settle over you like cold water.

You force a small, easy smile and reach for your goblet of pumpkin juice. “Yeah,” you reply lightly, keeping your voice perfectly normal. “Just mates.”

Under the table, Sirius’s hand finds your thigh again. His fingers squeeze once, firm and warm, almost like a silent apology or a reminder. His thumb strokes slowly against your skin, hidden from everyone.

A group of sixth-year girls walks past the Gryffindor table, laughing and whispering. One of them—the tall, pretty one with long dark hair and bright eyes—slows her steps noticeably. She smiles at Sirius, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

“Morning, Sirius,” she says sweetly, voice carrying just enough to catch his attention. “You were incredible during last weekend’s match. Really brilliant on that broom.”

Sirius turns his head and gives her the full Black treatment: lazy smile, slight tilt of the head, sparkling grey eyes full of effortless charm. “Thanks, love. Glad someone was paying attention.”

He doesn’t brush her off. Doesn’t mention you. Doesn’t do anything except return that flirtatious little grin like it’s nothing.

Your fork presses harder into your eggs. A sharp, quiet burn of jealousy twists low in your stomach. You stay silent, chewing slowly, pretending to be focused on your food. But inside, the familiar ache builds—the same one that’s been growing since fifth year. His hand is still high on your thigh under the table, possessive and secret, while he smiles at her like you’re not even there.

The Great Hall feels louder than usual this morning, filled with the clatter of plates, bursts of laughter, and the occasional owl swooping in through the high windows to deliver post. You keep your eyes mostly on your plate, pushing the eggs around while the burn in your chest refuses to fade. Sirius’s hand is still resting high on your thigh under the table, his fingers occasionally flexing against your skin like he can sense the tension radiating from you. It’s a silent claim, a hidden reminder of how he’d had you writhing beneath him just hours ago, yet it only makes the contrast sharper.

James is in the middle of some animated story about a prank he’s planning on the Slytherins, waving his fork around for emphasis. Peter laughs too loudly, and Remus just shakes his head with a small, amused smile. Sirius laughs along at the right moments, his voice carrying that easy, confident charm. His arm stays draped along the back of your chair, fingers occasionally brushing the fabric of your robe near your shoulder in what looks like a casual, friendly touch to anyone watching.

To everyone else, you two are just close friends. Really good mates who sit together, share food, and banter. Nothing more.

But you can still feel the faint ache between your legs from the way he’d fucked you last night—deep, slow, and then desperate, like he couldn’t get enough. The small marks he left on your inner thighs are hidden beneath your skirt, but they throb every time you shift in your seat.

Another wave of students passes by. The dark-haired girl from earlier circles back with her friends, this time stopping a little closer to the table. She leans slightly toward Sirius, her smile bright and hopeful.

“By the way, Sirius,” she says, voice sweet and a touch flirtatious, “a few of us are having a little gathering in the common room this Friday after the match. You should come. It’ll be fun.”

Sirius tilts his head, giving her that trademark half-smirk that makes your stomach twist. “Yeah? Might stop by. Sounds like a good time.”

He doesn’t say “we” might stop by. Doesn’t glance at you. Doesn’t do anything to suggest his nights are already very much occupied.

Your jaw tightens. You reach for another piece of toast and spread butter on it with more force than necessary, the knife scraping loudly against the plate. Under the table, Sirius’s hand squeezes your thigh harder in response—almost a warning, or maybe a silent stop. His thumb strokes soothing circles against your skin, but it only fuels the messy mix of frustration and want swirling inside you.

Because this is the game you’ve been playing for nearly two years. He’ll flirt just enough to keep his reputation as the unattainable Sirius Black, then later he’ll pull you into an empty classroom, push you against the wall, and kiss you like he’s starving. Like you’re the only thing that matters.

James nudges Sirius with his elbow. “You gonna bring anyone, Padfoot?”

Sirius shrugs, popping a piece of stolen bacon into his mouth. “Dunno. We’ll see. I’m not really tied down or anything.” He says it so casually, so lightly, like the words don’t carry weight. Like they don’t stab.

You swallow hard and take a long sip of pumpkin juice, keeping your expression neutral. The hand on your thigh stays put, warm and heavy, a complete contradiction. His fingers drift a little higher, brushing the hem of your skirt, pressing just enough to remind you exactly who you spent the night with.

Remus is watching the two of you again. His eyes flick from Sirius’s relaxed face to the way your shoulders are slightly tense. He doesn’t comment, but you catch the subtle raise of his eyebrow before he looks away.

The girl finally walks off with a little wave and a hopeful “See you around, Sirius!”

You let out a slow breath. Sirius turns back to the table fully, laughing at something James says about Quidditch strategy. His arm shifts slightly behind you, almost like he wants to pull you closer but stops himself. Instead, he leans in just enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

“Pass the marmalade, yeah?” he asks, voice low and familiar, like nothing happened.

You hand it to him without looking up. His fingers deliberately graze yours as he takes the jar, lingering for a second longer than necessary. When you finally glance at him, his grey eyes meet yours—stormy, intense, and full of that unspoken heat. For a brief moment the mask cracks. There’s possession there. Want. Maybe even a flicker of guilt.

But then he looks away, spreading marmalade on his toast like everything’s perfectly fine.

Breakfast drags on like that—easy conversation flowing around you while the tension between you and Sirius simmers underneath. His hand never leaves your thigh. He keeps stealing food from your plate. He keeps that arm draped behind your chair like it belongs there.

Yet when another girl waves at him from across the hall, he waves back with that same charming smile.

By the time people start getting up to head to classes, your chest feels tight. You stand, smoothing down your skirt, and Sirius rises with you. As the group starts walking out of the Great Hall together, he falls into step beside you, close enough that your arms brush.

In the crowded corridor, away from the direct eyes of the whole table but still in public, he leans down slightly, voice quiet near your ear.

“Library later?” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. “Or maybe that empty classroom on the third floor. You know the one.”

The suggestion is laced with promise—the same promise that always follows these mornings. He’ll kiss you breathless. He’ll touch you like you’re his. He’ll make you forget the jealousy for a while.

You nod, not trusting your voice.

Sirius’s hand brushes the small of your back for just a second before he pulls away, slipping back into that effortless “just mates” stride as James claps him on the shoulder.

The mask is back on.

And you’re still right here, caught in the middle of it all.

The week had dragged on in that familiar haze of N.E.W.T. revision, stolen kisses in empty corridors, and the usual push-and-pull between you and Sirius. He’d mentioned the party exactly once—casually, over lunch on Wednesday—while laughing with James about how “the sixth years are finally doing something worth showing up for.” He never actually asked you to go with him. Never said “Come with me” or “Save me a dance, darling.” Just tossed the information out like it was public news.

So you decided you wouldn’t ask either.

You spent extra time getting ready that evening, standing in front of the dormitory mirror while your friends chattered around you. You chose a slightly shorter skirt than usual, one that hugged your hips, paired with a fitted black top that showed just enough collarbone to highlight the faint mark Sirius had left there earlier in the week. Your hair fell in loose waves, and you added a touch more makeup than normal. Not for him. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

You don’t have to care this much, you thought, staring at your reflection. He doesn’t want labels. Fine. Then you don’t have to act like his girlfriend when he won’t even call you one.

The Gryffindor common room had been transformed. Furniture pushed to the sides, fairy lights strung across the ceiling charmed to shimmer in deep reds and golds, music pulsing from an enchanted record player. Someone had smuggled in bottles of firewhisky and butterbeer, and the room was already packed with seventh and sixth years laughing, dancing, and spilling drinks. The fire roared high in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across everyone’s faces.

You arrived with a group of friends, deliberately not looking for Sirius right away. But you felt him the second you stepped through the portrait hole—his eyes on you from across the room like a physical touch.

He was leaning against the stone wall near the fireplace, surrounded by the usual crowd: James, a few teammates, and a couple of girls hanging on his every word. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up, hair artfully messy. The moment his grey eyes locked on you, something dark flickered across his face—appreciation, followed quickly by that possessive glint he always tried to hide in public.

But he didn’t come over. He just raised his glass in your direction with a slow, crooked smirk, like you were another pretty face at the party instead of the girl whose name he’d groaned against your neck two nights ago.

Fine.

You grabbed a cup of firewhisky, letting the burn slide down your throat as you moved deeper into the crowd. The music thrummed through your bones. You laughed louder than necessary with your friends, swaying your hips to the beat. And when a Ravenclaw boy named Elias—tall, friendly, with an easy smile—approached you, you didn’t brush him off.

“Hey,” he said, raising his voice over the music. “You look great tonight. Haven’t seen you at one of these in a while.”

You smiled up at him, letting your gaze linger. “Been busy. But I figured it was time to have some fun.”

The two of you fell into conversation easily. He was charming in a safe, uncomplicated way—complimenting your laugh, asking about your classes, standing just close enough that your arms brushed when you both moved to the music. You let yourself lean in when he said something funny, touching his forearm lightly as you laughed.

You could feel Sirius watching. The weight of his stare prickled across your skin like a warning.

A few minutes later, another boy joined— a Hufflepuff seventh year you’d shared Herbology with. Soon you were in a small group, dancing loosely, smiling, letting them pull you toward the center of the room where bodies moved freely. One of them spun you playfully under his arm. You let it happen, the firewhisky making everything feel warmer, bolder.

This is what he does all the time, you told yourself. Smiling at girls. Letting them touch his arm. Acting like he’s free.

So why should you sit on the sidelines waiting for scraps of his attention?

Across the room, Sirius had detached from his group. He was moving now, weaving through people with that predatory grace, but still not coming straight to you. Instead, he stopped near a cluster of girls, laughing at something one of them said, flashing that devastating Black smile. The same one he gave you when he was buried inside you and calling you “darling.”

Your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to keep smiling at Elias as he handed you another drink.

That’s when Sirius finally appeared at your side.

His hand slid around your waist from behind—possessive, warm, and sudden. He pulled you back against his chest just enough to make a point, his breath brushing your ear.

“Having fun, love?” His voice was low, deceptively casual, but you heard the edge beneath it.

You turned your head slightly, meeting his stormy eyes. “Yeah. It’s a good party. You?”

His jaw ticked. His fingers pressed harder into your hip, hidden by the crowd. “Didn’t realize you were bringing friends.”

The way he said friends dripped with something ugly.

Elias glanced between the two of you, sensing the shift. “I’ll catch you later,” he said politely before slipping away.

The second he was gone, Sirius turned you to face him fully. His hands stayed on your waist, holding you close while bodies moved around you. To anyone else, it probably looked like two mates dancing. But you felt the tension vibrating off him—the same barely-contained jealousy he always denied.

“You really gonna flirt with every tosser who looks your way tonight?” he muttered, voice dark. His forehead nearly touched yours, grey eyes burning. “Thought we had an understanding.”

You tilted your chin up, heart hammering. “Understanding? We’re just mates, remember? That’s what you always say.”

His grip tightened, pulling you flush against him as the music slowed. You could feel the heat of his body, the way his chest rose and fell faster than normal. One of his hands slid lower, dangerously close to the curve of your ass, claiming you in the middle of the crowded room while still refusing to name what this was.

“You know it’s not like that,” he growled softly, lips brushing your temple. “You’re mine, and you fucking know it.”

The words sent a thrill through you, but they also stung. Because he’d never say them louder than this. Never say them where people could hear.

You danced with him then—bodies pressed close, his hands roaming with that familiar hunger—but the air between you crackled with everything unsaid. Every time you glanced away, you caught him glaring toward where Elias had disappeared. Every time a girl tried to catch his eye, his hold on you grew tighter.

This was the game.

Both of you playing it.

Both of you losing.

And the night was still young.

The music had shifted into something slower, heavier, the bass vibrating low in your chest as bodies pressed closer on the makeshift dance floor. Sirius hadn’t let you go. His hands stayed firm on your waist, fingers digging in just enough to leave faint imprints through your skirt. You danced with him like that—chests brushing, his breath warm against your temple—but the air between you was anything but soft.

Every sway of your hips felt like a challenge. Every time his grip tightened, it felt like punishment.

You could still see Elias across the room, chatting with friends but occasionally glancing your way. Sirius noticed too. His jaw was locked, grey eyes dark with barely contained irritation.

“You’re really pushing it tonight,” he muttered, lips brushing your ear as he pulled you even closer. His body was hot against yours, the scent of firewhisky and his cologne wrapping around you. “Flirting with Ravenclaws like I wasn’t even here.”

You tilted your head back to look at him, your hands resting on his chest. His heart was beating fast under your palm. “I thought we were just mates, Sirius. Isn’t that what you told James this morning? What you tell everyone?”

His eyes flashed. For a second, the mask slipped completely. The possessive, stormy Sirius you only ever saw in private was staring down at you in the middle of a crowded room.

“Don’t,” he warned, voice low and rough. One hand slid lower, resting dangerously close to the curve of your ass as he moved you both slowly to the music. To outsiders, it probably looked like heated flirting. Only you could feel the anger and want radiating off him.

A new song started, and another boy—this time a Gryffindor sixth year you barely knew—walked up with a cocky grin, clearly tipsy.

“Hey, mind if I cut in?”

The words barely left his mouth before Sirius’s arm tightened around you like a vice.

“Fuck off,” Sirius said flatly, not even bothering to look at him. His tone was ice-cold, the kind that made most people back off instantly.

The boy raised his hands and retreated with a nervous laugh. Sirius didn’t relax. If anything, he grew more tense, spinning you around so your back was pressed to his front. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you flush against him as he swayed with you. His lips found the side of your neck, not quite kissing—just hovering, breathing you in.

“You’re mine,” he whispered harshly against your skin, so quiet only you could hear. “Stop acting like you’re not.”

Your heart stuttered. The words sent heat rushing through you, but they also made that familiar ache bloom in your chest. He could say it here, in the dark, surrounded by noise and shadows. But never in the light. Never where it mattered.

You turned in his arms again, facing him. Your bodies were pressed together, barely moving now despite the music. “Then maybe act like it,” you shot back, voice just as quiet. “Or are we still ‘just having fun’?”

Sirius’s eyes darkened dangerously. For a moment you thought he might kiss you right there in front of everyone. Instead, he grabbed your hand and started pulling you through the crowd without another word.

He led you toward the edge of the common room, weaving past laughing groups and discarded cups until he pushed open the door to one of the smaller side rooms used for storage. The second the door closed behind you, the noise of the party dulled to a distant thump.

Sirius backed you against the wall instantly, hands on either side of your head. His face was inches from yours, breathing hard.

“What the fuck was that out there?” he demanded. “Letting those idiots touch you. Laughing with them. You knew I was watching.”

You lifted your chin, refusing to shrink back even though your pulse was racing. “And what about you? Smiling at every girl who looks your way? Telling people you’re not tied down? I’m just supposed to sit there and take it?”

His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip roughly. “You know it’s different.”

“Why?” you pressed, heart hammering. “Because you fuck me every night? Because you sneak into my bed and call me darling when no one’s looking?”

Sirius made a frustrated sound and crashed his lips against yours.

The kiss was messy, angry, and desperate. All teeth and tongue and pent-up frustration. His body pinned you harder against the wall as his hands roamed down your sides, gripping your hips, then sliding under your skirt to squeeze your thighs—the same thighs he’d had wrapped around him two nights ago.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers tangling in his dark curls and tugging hard. He groaned into your mouth, pressing one thigh between your legs.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he growled against your lips, biting your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue. “Seeing you with them… I wanted to hex both of them across the room.”

“Then maybe stop pretending we’re nothing,” you breathed, even as your hips rolled against his.

Sirius pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were wild, hair even messier from your hands. For a second, something vulnerable flickered across his face—fear, maybe. But it was gone too fast.

He kissed you again, slower this time but no less intense. His hand slipped higher under your skirt, fingers teasing the edge of your underwear as he pressed closer.

“Stay with me tonight,” he murmured, voice rough. “My bed. I don’t want anyone else near you.”

You laughed bitterly against his mouth, even as you arched into his touch. “Until tomorrow, when you tell everyone we’re just mates again?”

Sirius didn’t answer with words. Instead he kissed you harder, like he could silence the truth with his mouth. His fingers pushed your underwear aside, stroking you with practiced ease until your legs trembled.

The party continued raging outside the door, but in here it was just the two of you—messy, toxic, addicted, and unable to let go.

Neither of you were willing to name it.

But both of you were terrified of losing it.

A week had slipped by since the party, wrapped in a fragile, suffocating silence. Neither of you had spoken about what happened in that cramped storage room—the angry kisses, the biting words, the way his fingers had dug into your skin like he was terrified you’d slip away. You both simply pretended. It was easier that way. Safer.

You went back to stolen glances across the Great Hall, his hand creeping up your thigh under the table during meals, and nights where he’d pull you into his bed like a man drowning, fucking you with a desperate intensity that left bruises and unspoken feelings in its wake. In the daylight, though, he was still just Sirius Black—charming, untouchable, quick with a “we’re just mates” whenever anyone raised an eyebrow.

It was supposed to be a normal Tuesday afternoon.

Charms class felt endless under the soft afternoon light filtering through the tall arched windows. Golden dust motes danced lazily in the sunbeams as Professor Flitwick’s squeaky voice droned on about complex silencing charms and their applications in dueling. Your quill moved mechanically across the parchment, but the ink kept smudging from how tightly you were gripping it.

The seat beside you was empty.

Sirius’s usual spot—the one he’d claimed since fifth year with a dramatic flop and a wink that always made your stomach flip—sat glaringly vacant. His absence felt louder than any spell. He rarely skipped without some kind of sign. A crumpled note in your bag. A whispered promise in the corridor. A smirk across the room that said meet me later, darling.

Today? Nothing.

You tried to focus on Flitwick’s demonstration, but your mind kept drifting. The castle outside the windows looked deceptively peaceful—the Black Lake shimmering darkly in the distance, the Whomping Willow swaying gently in the breeze. Everything felt too still. Too wrong.

By the time class ended, the worry had coiled tight in your chest like a living thing. You lingered as students packed up, chatting and laughing around you. James and Remus were near the door, heads bent together over some Marauder map.

“Have you seen Sirius?” you asked, trying to keep your voice casual.

James shrugged, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Not since lunch. He was in a weird mood. Probably off causing trouble somewhere. You know Padfoot.”

But you did know him. And that was exactly why the unease wouldn’t settle.

You left the classroom with your bag slung over your shoulder, the stone corridors stretching long and echoing around you. The afternoon light had started to shift, casting longer shadows across the ancient floors. Suits of armor stood silent and watchful as you passed, their empty visors seeming to follow your hurried steps. You checked all the usual places first.

The empty classroom on the third floor—the one with the creaky desks where he’d pressed you against the wall more times than you could count—was deserted. Only dust and faint chalk marks remained.

You moved on to the alcove behind the tapestry near the library. The heavy fabric smelled of old wool and history as you pushed it aside. Empty. Just a forgotten book lying open on the stone bench.

Your heart beat faster as you climbed another staircase, the marble steps cold beneath your shoes. Why did it matter so much? You weren’t together. He’d reminded you of that a thousand times. He could skip class without you. He could do whatever—whoever—he wanted.

Still, your feet kept moving. Past the Gryffindor Tower. Down toward the Quidditch pitch where the grass swayed under a greyish sky. No sign of his tall frame or messy black hair. The worry twisted sharper now, mixing with something uglier—a quiet fear you hated admitting to yourself.

What if he was pulling away? What if the fight at the party had finally cracked the fragile thing between you? What if he was done pretending in his own messy way?

You turned down a quieter corridor on the fourth floor, near the Hufflepuff common room entrance. This hallway was rarely used—dimmer, dustier, lined with faded tapestries depicting old forest scenes that seemed to shift when you weren’t looking directly at them. The air felt cooler here, carrying the faint scent of damp stone and wildflowers from somewhere below.

Your steps slowed as you approached the end of the hall.

Soft sounds drifted toward you.

A girl’s laughter—light, breathy, flirtatious. Then a lower murmur. Deep. Familiar. The kind of voice that had whispered filthy praises against your neck countless nights.

Your stomach dropped.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just students messing around. But your pulse roared in your ears as you moved closer, staying hidden behind a large, cracked suit of armor. The shadows clung to you like a second skin.

And then you saw them.

Your breath caught in your throat as you peered around the edge of the old suit of armor.

There he was.

Sirius Black, leaning against the stone wall in the shadowed alcove, looking every bit like the reckless, beautiful disaster he was. His dark curls were messy, falling into his eyes, and his Gryffindor tie was loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone. But what made your stomach twist violently was the girl pressed up against him.

A Hufflepuff seventh year—you recognized her vaguely. Soft blonde hair, warm brown eyes, and a sweet face that was currently flushed with pleasure. She was giggling softly, one hand resting on his chest while his head was buried in the crook of her neck. His lips moved lazily against her skin, not quite kissing, more like breathing her in, teasing the sensitive spot just below her ear.

The same way he did with you.

One of his hands was braced on the wall beside her head, the other resting low on her waist, fingers playing with the hem of her yellow-trimmed robe like he had all the time in the world. The scene was intimate. Too intimate. The kind of casual closeness he usually reserved for stolen moments with you.

For a second, the world narrowed to just this—the faint sound of her breathy laugh, the low murmur of his voice saying something you couldn’t quite hear, the way her fingers curled into his shirt. The dusty afternoon light filtering through a high window painted them in soft gold and shadow, making the moment look almost romantic. Like something out of a dream.

Except it was your nightmare.

Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard it hurt. A hot, ugly wave of jealousy crashed over you, followed immediately by nausea. Your bag slipped slightly from your shoulder, but you caught it before it hit the floor. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. Your feet felt rooted to the cold stone.

This is what he does when you’re not around?

Memories flashed through your mind—his hands on your waist last night, the way he’d groaned your name like a prayer, the way he’d held you afterward like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. And now here he was, skipping class, nuzzling into some Hufflepuff girl’s neck like it was nothing.

Like you were nothing.

Sirius shifted slightly, lifting his head just enough that you caught the lazy smirk on his face. He said something else—low and teasing—and the girl laughed again, tilting her head to give him better access. His lips brushed her neck once more, slower this time.

That was the breaking point.

A sharp, bitter sound escaped your throat before you could stop it—half a scoff, half a broken breath. Not loud, but enough.

Sirius’s head snapped up instantly. His grey eyes locked onto yours across the dimly lit corridor, widening for a split second in genuine surprise. The easy, flirtatious expression on his face shattered completely.

For one long, agonizing heartbeat, neither of you moved.

The Hufflepuff girl turned her head, confused, following his gaze. When she saw you standing there, her cheeks went bright red and she stepped back quickly, smoothing down her robes.

“Oh—I didn’t… we were just—” she stammered, clearly embarrassed.

But you weren’t looking at her.

You were staring at him.

Sirius straightened up, running a hand through his messy hair. The mask was already trying to slide back into place, but you could see the flicker of guilt, the flash of panic in those stormy eyes. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. The distant sounds of students moving through other corridors felt miles away. All you could hear was the roaring in your ears and the rapid thud of your own heart.

You felt sick. Exposed. Stupid for even caring this much when he’d spent years telling you there was nothing to care about.

Finally, you found your voice. It came out quieter than you wanted, but edged with something sharp and trembling.

“…Really, Sirius?”

Your voice came out quieter than you expected, but it sliced through the dusty corridor like a hex. The words hung there, raw and trembling with everything you’d been swallowing for years.

The Hufflepuff girl looked mortified. Her eyes darted between you and Sirius, clearly sensing she’d walked into something much bigger than a casual flirtation. She muttered a quick, awkward “I should go…” and hurried past you, her yellow-trimmed robes swishing as she disappeared around the corner. Her footsteps faded quickly, leaving only the heavy silence and the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air.

Sirius straightened up slowly, his back still pressed against the cold stone wall. His grey eyes—usually stormy, now blazing like thunderclouds ready to split open—locked onto yours. His shirt was rumpled, tie hanging loose like a noose, dark curls wild from the girl’s fingers. The faint scent of her perfume still clung to him, sweet and cloying, mixing with his familiar woody cologne in a way that made your stomach churn.

You stood tall, shoulders squared, the dim afternoon light slicing through a high arched window and painting harsh golden lines across the ancient stone floor between you.

“This is what you do the second I’m not around?” Your voice came out low, steady, and razor-sharp.

He pushed off the wall, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle ticking. “Don’t start. You don’t own me. We’ve never been exclusive—”

“Exclusive?” You let out a bitter, cutting laugh that echoed off the faded tapestries. “You’ve had your mouth between my legs more times than I can count. You growl that I’m yours when you’re inside me. You threaten to hex any guy who looks at me too long. But the second you get bored, you’re nuzzling some Hufflepuff’s neck like a fucking dog in heat?”

Sirius’s eyes flashed dangerously. He stalked toward you, tall and predatory, the shadows clinging to his broad shoulders. “You’re being ridiculous. It was nothing. She came onto me. I wasn’t even going to do anything.”

“Nothing?” Your voice rose, cracking with pure fury. The dusty air felt thicker, harder to breathe. “Your face was buried in her neck, Sirius. I saw your hand on her waist. The same hands that were on me last night.”

He reached for you suddenly, fingers wrapping tight around your upper arm, yanking you closer. His breath was hot against your face, eyes wild with frustration and something darker.

“We are not together!” he snarled, voice low and venomous. “I told you that from the fucking beginning. I don’t do labels. I don’t do cages. If you can’t handle that, then maybe you should’ve stopped spreading your legs for me years ago.”

The words hit like a slap.

You ripped your arm free, chest heaving. “And maybe you should’ve stopped crawling into my bed every night like a pathetic, scared little boy who wants a girlfriend but is too much of a coward to call her one.”

Sirius’s face twisted in anger. He moved fast—grabbing your waist with both hands and crashing his mouth against yours in a bruising, furious kiss. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t loving. It was desperate, teeth clashing, tongue demanding, like he could force you back into submission the way he always had before.

For half a second, the familiar heat tried to pull you under.

Then you shoved him back hard, both hands on his chest.

“No.” Your voice was steel. “I’m done.”

He stumbled back a step, breathing ragged, lips swollen and eyes blazing with disbelief and rage. “You’re not fucking done. Don’t you dare walk away from me.”

“I’m done, Sirius.” You stared him dead in the eyes, unflinching. “I’m done being your dirty little secret. I’m done pretending that the way you fuck me at night makes up for the way you humiliate me during the day. I’m done waiting for you to grow up and claim what you clearly don’t want enough to fight for.”

The corridor felt alive with tension—dust swirling in the slanted beams of light, the old tapestries seeming to hold their breath, the stone walls closing in like they were witnessing something ugly and inevitable.

Sirius looked wrecked. His chest rose and fell rapidly, fists clenched at his sides. “You think you’re so much better than me? You’ve been playing this game just as long as I have. Jealous. Needy. Acting like you don’t care until someone else touches you. You’re just as fucked up as I am.”

“Maybe,” you said coldly, lifting your chin. “But at least I’m finally choosing myself. I deserve more than being your emotional whore whenever you feel like it.”

He lunged forward again, trying to pull you into another kiss, fingers digging into your hips almost painfully. “Stop saying that shit. You know I want you. You know it.”

You turned your face away sharply, refusing his lips.

“I said I’m done.”

The finality in your voice seemed to hit him harder than any spell. Sirius froze, hands still gripping you, eyes searching your face like he was waiting for you to crack.

But you didn’t.

You pried his hands off your waist, stepped back, and held his gaze one last time—cold, exhausted, and completely finished.

“You can keep playing your little games with every girl in this castle. I’m not playing anymore.”

Then you turned and walked away down the long, shadowed corridor. Your footsteps echoed like gunshots. Behind you, you heard the sharp crack of his fist slamming into the stone wall, followed by a furious, broken curse.

You didn’t look back.

Not even once.

The platform was a whirlwind of noise and steam, but you spotted James the second you stepped through the barrier. You always did. Even in a sea of black robes and excited first-years, he stood out—tall for his age, messy dark hair already defying gravity, and that easy, lopsided grin reserved mostly for you.

“Oi! There’s my favorite neighbor!” he called, pushing through the crowd without a care for the people he bumped into. Before you could even adjust your grip on your trunk, he was there, pulling you into a quick, tight hug that smelled like broom polish and the cinnamon sweets his mum always packed. “Took you long enough. Thought I’d have to send Sirius after you.”

“You say that like I’m the one who’s late,” you laughed, nudging his shoulder. “You’re the one who probably woke up at the last possible second again.”

James only winked, grabbing the handle of your trunk with one hand and your wrist with the other. “Come on. Best compartment’s waiting.”

He’d been doing this since you were six—dragging you along like the two of you were attached by an invisible string. Your families’ estates sat side by side in the countryside, so playdates had been inevitable at first. Then they became the highlight of every summer. Every holiday. Every lazy afternoon spent catching frogs by the pond or racing brooms (badly) across the fields. James Potter had been your person for as long as you could remember.

This year felt different, though. He was starting his second year, and you were finally joining Hogwarts. You’d spent the whole train ride from home wondering what it would be like to finally share this world with him instead of just hearing his owls about it.

James slid open the door to a compartment halfway down the train and practically shoved you inside first.

“Gentlemen,” he announced grandly, “meet the best witch you’ll ever know. This is my best friend. We’ve been stuck with each other since we were tiny.”

Three boys looked up.

The one with the dark, shoulder-length hair and a dangerously charming smirk immediately straightened. “Well, hello. James has only mentioned you about a hundred times. I’m Sirius Black. Pleasure’s all yours.”

You couldn’t help laughing. “Only a hundred? I’m offended. I thought it’d be more.”

Sirius barked a laugh, clearly delighted. “I like her already, Prongs.”

The boy beside him—tall, with light brown hair and a scarred face—offered a quiet, kind smile. “Remus Lupin. Nice to finally meet you. James talks about you nonstop.”

“And I’m Peter Pettigrew,” the last boy said, waving a little awkwardly but warmly. He had a round face and a bag of sweets already open on his lap. “Want a Chocolate Frog? They’re good this year.”

You slid into the seat James had clearly been guarding—the one right next to him by the window—and accepted the Frog from Peter with a grateful smile. James dropped down beside you without hesitation, his knee bumping yours comfortably. He didn’t even seem to notice he’d done it. He never did.

The train whistle blew, and with a lurch, you were off.

Conversation flowed easily. Sirius launched into a dramatic retelling of their misadventures from last year—charming suits of armor to dance in the corridors, turning the Slytherin common room’s tap water bright pink for a week. Nothing cruel, just the same clever, chaotic fun that James had written about in his letters when talking about their newest pranks. Remus rolled his eyes fondly and corrected the details when Sirius exaggerated, while Peter chimed in with enthusiastic “yeah!”s and the occasional snack offering.

You fit right in, teasing Sirius back when he tried to flirt, asking Remus about the books he was already reading this term, and laughing when Peter accidentally turned his own eyebrows orange with an experimental Sweet he’d bought.

All the while, James was quieter than usual—not in a bad way, just… softer. He kept glancing at you like he wanted to make sure you were comfortable, that you were laughing, that you were happy. Every so often his arm would rest along the back of the seat behind you, not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the warmth.

There was that familiar warm feeling in your chest again. Being in his presence brought that feeling, for you felt safest near him. After all, you really loved your best friend more than anything.

“—and then McGonagall nearly hexed us on the spot,” Sirius finished, grinning. “But enough about our glory. Tell us about you. What house do you think you’ll be in? James swears you’re Gryffindor through and through.”

You shrugged, smiling. “I don’t know. Mum thinks Ravenclaw, Dad says Hufflepuff just to wind her up. James has been trying to convince me Gryffindor since I was nine.”

“Obviously,” James said, bumping your shoulder with his. His voice was lighter than it had been with the others all summer. “Where else would you go? We’d miss you too much otherwise.” The words settled warmly between you. You didn’t catch the way Sirius raised an eyebrow at Remus, or the small, knowing glance the two shared.

The countryside blurred past the window as the four boys slowly pulled you into their orbit. And through it all, James stayed right beside you—exactly where he’d always been.

The years at Hogwarts blurred together like the pages of a well-loved photo album—full of laughter, late nights, and the kind of easy rhythm that only came from knowing someone your whole life. 

By your third year, the pattern was already set in stone.

After every Quidditch match, no matter if Gryffindor won or lost, James would touch down on the pitch and scan the stands until he found you. His hair would be windswept and damp with sweat, his grin wide even when his team had taken a beating. He’d ignore the crowds, ignore his teammates, and make a beeline straight for you.

“You came,” he’d always say, a little breathless, like there had ever been a chance you wouldn’t.

“Of course I did, you idiot.” You’d laugh and hand him a water bottle or a towel, and he’d take it with that soft, particular smile he only ever used on you.

In the Great Hall, it was the same story. James would steal chips off your plate without asking, or swipe the last bite of your treacle tart, all while complaining loudly that the house-elves gave you better portions than him. You’d swat his hand away, but never really mind. He’d just grin and lean closer, shoulder pressed to yours like it belonged there.

“James, eat your own food,” you’d scold half-heartedly.

“But yours tastes better,” he’d reply every single time.

You fixed his tie almost every morning. He’d show up to breakfast with it crooked or loose, and without thinking you’d reach up, straighten it, and smooth down his collar. The first time Sirius saw it happen he nearly choked on his pumpkin juice.

“Merlin, you two are disgusting,” he’d tease, but there was always a fond glint in his eye.

The professors weren’t any better. Professor Flitwick once paused mid-lesson to ask, “Potter, dear, would you and your girlfriend like to demonstrate the Levitation Charm together?” The entire class had turned to look. You and James had answered at the exact same time:

“We’re just friends!”

Flitwick had only smiled knowingly and moved on.

Sirius, of course, made it his personal mission to never let anyone forget. He started the fake wedding announcements in your fourth year.

“Daily Prophet, special edition!” he’d shout across the common room one evening, holding up a piece of parchment dramatically. “James Potter, Chaser extraordinaire, to wed childhood sweetheart in a lavish spring ceremony! Guests include one very handsome best man named Sirius Orion Black—”

“Padfoot, I swear on Merlin’s grave—” James groaned, ears turning pink.

You just rolled your eyes and laughed. “We’re just friends, Sirius. How many times?”

“Best friends who are clearly soulmates,” Remus would add quietly from behind his book, smirking.

Peter usually just nodded along, mouth full of sweets. “Yeah… you do sit together everywhere.”

Even when you studied late in the library, the dynamic never changed. James would sprawl across the table with his head propped on one hand, watching you instead of his notes half the time. You’d slide his essay closer and point out mistakes, and he’d thank you by sliding over a bar of Honeydukes chocolate he’d saved just for you.

There was always that warm feeling in your chest during those quiet moments. The fire crackling, quills scratching, James’s knee brushing yours under the table. You really loved your best friend more than anything in the world. That was all it was. A deep, steady, comfortable kind of love.

James, though… you never quite noticed how his gaze would linger. How he’d open his mouth sometimes like he wanted to say something else, then close it again with a small, almost pained smile. How after you’d say goodnight and head back to your dorm, he’d stay behind in the common room, staring into the fire while Sirius clapped him on the back and muttered, “Mate, you’ve got it bad.”

But you didn’t see that part.

To you, it was simply James. Your James. The boy who had held your hand during thunderstorms when you were seven, who had flown you around on his broom during summers, who made every day at Hogwarts feel like an adventure you got to share.

And everyone else could think what they wanted.

You were just friends.

It was a perfectly ordinary Tuesday evening in the Gryffindor common room.

The fire was crackling low, most people had already gone up to bed, and the Marauders had claimed their usual corner. Sirius was dramatically reenacting his latest prank on the Slytherins, complete with sound effects. Remus was half-listening while marking essays, and Peter was dozing off with a half-eaten Chocolate Frog in his hand.

You were curled up on the couch beside James, wearing his spare Quidditch jumper because the common room had gotten chilly and you’d forgotten your own cardigan upstairs. The jumper was far too big on you—sleeves falling past your wrists, the scarlet and gold swallowing your frame—but it was warm and smelled faintly like him (broom polish, grass, and that cinnamon scent that always clung to James).

Sirius pointed at you mid-story. “Look at her! She’s practically drowning in Potter branding. You two may as well just get it over with and elope already.”

“Shut up, Padfoot,” James said lightly, but his voice lacked its usual bite.

You laughed, the sound bright and easy as you tugged the too-long sleeves up your arms. “It’s comfortable, alright? And it’s not my fault James is built like a beanpole who keeps growing.”

James turned his head to look at you.

You didn’t notice at first. You were still smiling, still half-watching Sirius’s chaotic gestures, still absentmindedly fiddling with the hem of his jumper. But something in the air shifted.

James had gone quiet.

His usual restless energy—the constant bouncing knee, the drumming fingers, the endless movement—had stilled completely. He was just… staring. Not at the fire. Not at Sirius. At you. At the way his jumper hung off your shoulder, at the way your laughter lit up your whole face, at the way you looked so perfectly at home right beside him.

You glanced over when he stayed silent.

“James?” you asked, tilting your head. “You okay? You look a bit lost.”

He blinked, and for a split second something raw and unguarded flickered across his face—wide hazel eyes, slightly parted lips, like he’d just been hit with a Bludger he never saw coming.

Then he smiled. That soft, crooked, only-for-you smile.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m alright.”

But he wasn’t.

Because in that tiny, unremarkable moment—your sleepy laughter, his oversized jumper on your frame, the casual way you leaned a little closer to him without thinking—James Potter finally understood.

Oh.

The word echoed in his head like a whispered confession.

This wasn’t just missing you over summer. This wasn’t just the comfortable warmth of having his best friend beside him. This was something deeper. Something terrifying. Something that made his chest ache in the best and worst possible ways.

He was in love with you.

And it was bad. Really, properly bad.

Because you were you. His favorite person in the entire world. The girl who had known him since he was a scrawny six-year-old who cried when he scraped his knee. The one who fixed his tie, stole his glasses to tease him, and never once looked at him like he was arrogant or loud or too much. If he told you and it went wrong… he could lose this. Lose you. And that was something James wasn’t willing to risk. Not ever.

So he swallowed it down, the way he’d swallowed it a hundred times before without realizing what “it” even was. He forced his expression to stay light even as his heart hammered against his ribs. He reached over and gently tugged one of the long sleeves you kept fighting with.

“Looks better on you anyway,” he said, voice steady even though his heart was racing.

Sirius made another wedding joke. Remus shot James a knowing look over the top of his parchment. You just rolled your eyes fondly and nudged James’s shoulder with yours, that warm, familiar feeling blooming in your chest again.

James laughed along with Sirius’s next joke, but the decision had already cemented itself in his mind.

He would never tell you.

He couldn’t risk it. Not when this—having you this close, this comfortable, this his in every way that mattered—was already more than he thought he deserved.

So he’d keep it locked away. For the sake of your friendship. For the sake of you.

Even if it killed him a little every single day.

The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with low energy after dinner. Most students had drifted off to finish homework, but your little corner by the fireplace was alive with conspiracy.

“Alright,” Sirius whispered, leaning over the Marauders’ Map like it was a battle plan. “We hit the Slytherin dungeons right after Potions tomorrow. One charm on the showers and every time they turn the taps, they’ll sing ‘God Save the Queen’ at full volume.”

You snorted, legs tucked under you on the couch. “That’s evil. I love it. But you’ll need an alibi. Professor Slughorn’s having that Slug Club thing tomorrow night—James and I are already invited. We can say you lot were with us the whole time.”

James, sitting right beside you, lit up like the sun had come out just for him. “See? This is why we keep her around. Best alibi in Hogwarts.”

“Oi!” Sirius clutched his chest in mock betrayal. “She’s my partner in crime tonight. Back off, Prongs.”

You grinned and immediately leaned into the chaos. “Sorry, James. Sirius and I are the masterminds now. You’re just the pretty distraction.”

James clutched his heart dramatically. “Betrayed. By my own best friend.” But his grin was huge—wide, easy, and brighter than it ever was when it was just the four boys. Around you, James seemed lighter. Happier. Like everything clicked into place the second you joined their plans.

Remus watched the whole thing from his armchair, one eyebrow raised, while Peter fidgeted with a pile of fireworks they were planning to use as backup on one hand and chocolate on the other.

The planning session quickly devolved. Sirius kept trying to one-up your ideas, and you kept shooting them down with logic and better suggestions. At one point the two of you ganged up on James when he suggested something overly flashy.

“No, no, no,” you laughed, poking James’s cheek. “If we do it your way, McGonagall will know it’s you in two seconds. Tone it down, Potter.”

“Yeah, Prongs,” Sirius piled on, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Listen to your wife. She’s clearly the brains.”

James turned pink but couldn’t stop smiling. He swatted Sirius’s arm away from you, but there was no real heat in it. “She’s not my wife, you prat.”

“Yet,” Peter mumbled absentmindedly, licking chocolate off his fingers.

You blinked. “What?”

Peter finally looked up, chocolate still on his lips. “Uh… I mean… everyone says it anyway?”

James groaned and dropped his face into his hands, but his shoulders were shaking with laughter. You reached over and ruffled his already-messy hair, which only made him peek at you through his fingers with that soft, heart-melting look again.

Later that night, after an intense Quidditch practice, James came storming into the common room still in his scarlet robes, muttering under his breath about a bad call by the captain. His hair was even wilder than usual, frustration rolling off him in waves. The boys knew better than to poke the bear when he got like this.

You didn’t.

You stood up, walked straight over, and tugged gently on his tie until he stopped pacing.

“Hey,” you said softly. “Breathe. It was one practice. You’re still the best Chaser in the school.”

James exhaled, long and slow. The tension melted from his shoulders the second your fingers brushed his chest. He let you straighten his tie even though it didn’t need fixing, eyes locked on your face like you were the only calm thing in his world.

“Thanks,” he murmured, voice quieter now. Only for you.

Remus noticed everything, of course. Especially the way James stared at you when you turned around to grab him a butterbeer from the table—lingering, fond, a little bit aching.

Much later, when you finally headed upstairs with a cheerful “Night, boys!” and a special wink at James, the common room grew quieter.

Remus waited until the portrait hole closed before speaking.

“Are you ever going to tell her?”

James was sprawled on the couch, staring at the spot where you’d been sitting. He didn’t even pretend not to understand.

“No.”

Remus closed his book. “Why?”

James was quiet for a long moment, hazel eyes distant and soft.

“Because I’d rather have her like this than not at all.”

The snow fell thick and soft over Potter Manor, blanketing the grounds in perfect, untouched white. Inside, the old stone house glowed with warmth—fireplaces crackling in nearly every room, fairy lights strung along the banisters, and the faint crackle of an old vinyl record spinning in the sitting room.

You had been coming here for Christmas since you were little, but this year felt different. The whole Marauders crew had been invited, and the manor felt more alive than ever.

Euphemia Potter spotted you the second you stepped through the front door with James. She swept you into a tight hug that smelled of cinnamon and vanilla, her hands cupping your face like you were one of her own.

“There’s my girl,” she said warmly, brushing snowflakes from your hair. “Honestly, James, why don’t you just propose already so I can call her my daughter properly?”

“Mum!” James groaned, ears instantly red. But he couldn’t hide the pleased little smile tugging at his lips as he watched the two of you.

Sirius, already acting like he’d lived at Potter Manor his entire life, sauntered past with his trunk floating behind him. “Don’t worry, Effie. I’m working on it. I make an excellent wedding planner.”

Fleamont chuckled from his armchair while Remus shook his head fondly and Peter happily accepted a plate of fresh mince pies from a house-elf.

The days leading up to Christmas were pure magic.

Mornings were spent in the snow—James dragging you outside for snowball fights where he “accidentally” protected you more than he attacked. Afternoons melted into chaotic card games around the massive oak table. Sirius and James were ruthless competitors, but you and Remus kept teaming up to destroy them. Every time you won a round, James would lean over and dramatically drape himself across your shoulders.

“You’re cheating,” he’d whisper in your ear, breath warm against your skin. “I don’t know how, but you’re definitely cheating.”

“I’m just better than you,” you’d tease back, and that warm, familiar feeling would bloom in your chest again. You really loved your best friend more than anything.

Evenings were your favorite.

The record player stayed on late—Frank Sinatra, Celestina Warbeck, and some old wizarding jazz standards. Hot chocolate flowed endlessly, topped with mountains of whipped cream and tiny floating marshmallows. One night, after everyone else had gone to bed, you and James stayed curled up on the big sofa in the sitting room, the fire casting golden light across the walls.

Your legs were tucked under you, his Quidditch jumper on again (he’d thrown it at you the second you complained about being cold). James had one arm stretched along the back of the sofa, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder. The record had switched to something slow and gentle.

“You know,” he said softly, staring into the fire, “I think these are my favorite holidays. When everyone’s here. Especially you.”

You smiled, bumping your shoulder against his. “You say that like I’d ever miss it. Your mum would drag me here by the ears if I tried.”

James laughed quietly, but his gaze lingered on your face a second longer than usual. The firelight made his hazel eyes look almost golden. For a moment, the air felt thicker—like the space between you had shrunk without either of you moving.

You didn’t notice the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach out. You only felt that same steady warmth in your chest. Friendly love. Deep, unbreakable, best-friend love.

James swallowed and looked back at the fire.

“Stay up with me a bit longer?” he asked, voice quieter than normal.

“Always,” you answered easily.

The record kept spinning. Snow kept falling outside the tall windows. And the two of you stayed there, talking about nothing and everything—old summers by the pond, ridiculous pranks gone wrong, dreams for after Hogwarts—until the logs had burned low and your eyelids grew heavy.

James watched you fight sleep with the softest expression on his face, the one no one else ever got to see.

And if anyone had walked in at that exact moment—seeing you in his jumper, legs tangled together on the sofa, Sinatra crooning softly in the background—they would have assumed you had been dating for years.

But James only smiled sadly to himself, tucked the blanket a little tighter around you, and kept loving you quietly.

The rest of the house had mysteriously vanished after dinner.

Sirius had dragged Remus and Peter off with some weak excuse about “helping Effie with the puddings,” shooting James a not-so-subtle wink on his way out. You and James were left alone in the grand sitting room, surrounded by open boxes of ornaments, tangled tinsel, and the tall fir tree standing in front of the tall windows overlooking the snowy grounds.

Golden lamplight mixed with the glow from the fireplace, casting everything in a warm, cinematic haze. Frank Sinatra played softly on the old record player, his voice filling the comfortable quiet between you.

You worked side by side, the kind of easy rhythm you’d had since you were children. James lifted you by the waist so you could reach the higher branches, your hands brushing as you passed him baubles and strings of lights. Every touch felt a little warmer tonight.

“Remember the first Christmas we decorated together?” you asked, handing him a delicate glass snowflake. “We were six. Your mum let us use real magic and we turned half the ornaments into frogs.”

James laughed, the sound low and fond. “They kept jumping off the tree. Dad was furious but Mum thought it was the funniest thing she’d ever seen.” He hung the snowflake and glanced down at you. “You cried when one hopped into the fire.”

“I did not,” you protested, nudging his side.

“You absolutely did. I had to promise to catch you a new frog in the summer to make it better.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. The teasing flowed naturally as you kept decorating—recalling snowball wars, the time James tried (and failed) to enchant the star to spin, the summer you both got in trouble for flying brooms too close to the neighbor’s garden.

At one point, James’s glasses slipped down his nose while he reached for a high branch. You stepped in without thinking and gently pushed them back up for him, your fingers brushing his temple.

“You’ve always taken care of me,” you said softly, still smiling. “Even when we were tiny and ridiculous.”

James lowered his arms and turned to look at you.

Really looked.

You stood there in the golden light, wearing his old jumper, tinsel caught in your hair, cheeks slightly flushed from the fire and laughter. The teasing smile on your face was the same one he’d known for over a decade — and suddenly it hit him harder than ever.

“God, I love you.”

The words slipped out, quiet and unguarded.

Silence.

James’s eyes widened in horror as he realized what he’d said. “Shit— I didn’t— I mean— obviously I love you, you’re my best friend, but that’s not— wait, no, it is— bloody hell, I’m messing this up—”

He spun away, face burning, nearly dropping the entire box of ornaments. His hands fumbled as he tried to recover. “You know what I mean, right? Or maybe you don’t— I shouldn’t have— fuck—”

“James,” you cut in, a soft laugh escaping you. “Shut up.”

He stopped rambling, turning back to you with wide, stunned eyes.

You gave him a small, amused smile. “I like you too, okay? Don’t worry about it.”

James just stared, completely flustered. His mouth opened, then closed. No clever comeback. No smooth reply. Just pure surprise and disbelief written all over his face.

Before he could find his voice, you picked up a soft, padded Christmas ornament and lightly tossed it at his head.

“We still have a tree to decorate, y’know,” you said, grinning.

The ornament bounced off him harmlessly. James blinked, then let out a startled laugh.

“Hey!” he shouted, grabbing another lightweight bauble and tossing it gently back at you. It sailed past your shoulder as you dodged, laughing.

The two of you stood there for a moment, ornaments in hand, the record still playing, the tension breaking into something lighter and warmer. James’s ears were still red, but the grin spreading across his face was real — relieved and happy in a way you’d rarely seen.

He rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Good,” you replied, turning back to the tree with a smirk. “Now pass me the star. We’re finishing this before your mum comes looking for us.”

James exhaled a shaky laugh and stepped closer again, the air between you buzzing with something new — but still undeniably you and James.

Hours later, long after the tree stood proudly decorated and the rest of the house had fallen asleep, the sitting room was wrapped in quiet magic.

Only the fireplace glowed now, its flames low and flickering, casting dancing shadows across the walls. The Christmas tree lights twinkled softly like captured stars, reflecting off tinsel and glass ornaments. Outside, snow continued to fall in thick, silent flakes past the tall windows. Sinatra’s record had come back around, playing the same slow, velvet song that had witnessed everything earlier that evening.

You and James were the only ones still awake.

He had taken your hand without a word, pulling you gently into the middle of the room. One dance, he’d murmured. Now your arms were wrapped around his neck, his hands resting at your waist as you swayed together in unhurried circles. Your bodies moved in perfect sync, barely more than a slow shift of weight. Your cheek rested against his chest, listening to the steady, slightly faster beat of his heart beneath his shirt. James held you like you were something precious — one hand splayed across your lower back, the other gently threaded with yours.

The song wrapped around you both. Every breath, every small shift brought you closer. You could feel the warmth of him through his jumper, smell the faint scent of cinnamon and firewood that always clung to him during the holidays. James’s thumb traced slow, absent circles on your back, and you felt him release a shaky exhale against your hair.

Slowly, you lifted your head.

James was already looking down at you. His hazel eyes caught the firelight, turning gold and warm. The usual mischief was gone — replaced by something deeper, vulnerable, and aching. His gaze dropped to your lips for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes, asking without words.

The air between you felt thick, charged. The rest of the world faded until it was only the two of you, the soft music, and years of almosts finally catching up.

James swallowed. His hand came up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing tenderly across your cheek. You leaned into the touch. He leaned down.

The kiss was everything.

It started impossibly soft — just a gentle press of lips, warm and hesitant, like he was still afraid you might vanish. Then it deepened, slow and reverent. His lips moved against yours with quiet longing, pouring in every unsaid “I love you” from the past few years. You tasted the faint sweetness of hot chocolate on him. Felt the slight tremble in his hands as they held your face like you were made of starlight. Your fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, and James sighed softly into the kiss, melting against you.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was warm, full of love, and so achingly tender it made your chest ache. When you finally parted, barely an inch, both of you were breathing a little heavier. James rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed, a small, wonderstruck smile playing on his lips

Only one thought occupied his mind:

Maybe saying something stupid was the smartest thing I’ve ever done.

Then—

“OH MY GOD GUYS THEY’RE TOGETHER NOW!”

Peter stumbled into the room in rumpled pajamas, hair wild, eyes wide with sleepy shock. He pointed dramatically between the two of you, mouth hanging open.

“I knew it! I knew it! Wait till Sirius hears—”

“Pete!” James groaned, half-laughing as he kept one arm securely around your waist, cheeks flushed. You buried your face in James’s chest, laughter bubbling up against his shirt while footsteps and sleepy voices started echoing from upstairs.

James just pressed another quick, smiling kiss to the top of your head and held you tighter.

For years he had loved you in silence. Now, James swore he’d love you loudly for the rest of his life.

The flickering light of your lamp was almost as blinding as the glow from your laptop—you’d been staring at it for… your eyes darted to the bottom corner of the screen. 2:41 AM.

Fuck. It was already past midnight?

You’d been studying for seven hours straight, only looking away to scan your scattered notes or pour another cup of coffee. You buried your face in your hands at the realization, stress pressing behind your eyes. With finals coming up, you couldn’t afford to stop—but, God, your head was pounding.

Maybe a few hours of sleep wouldn’t hurt. Just a few.

You pushed away from your desk, forcing yourself to stand. Too fast—you stumble back a step, hand gripping the edge of the table to steady yourself.

You really needed sleep.

The laptop shut with a soft click, the harsh glow finally gone. You gathered your scattered notes into a loose pile and dropped them somewhere on the desk—you’d deal with it tomorrow.

Your bed hit like gravity.

Four minutes later, you were gone.

The morning would be worse. It always was. Finals at MIT didn’t care how much you studied or how little you slept—they just kept coming. And tomorrow wasn’t just any exam.

You had to outperform everyone.

Especially Tony Stark.

The alarm dragged you back to consciousness at exactly 6:00 AM.

Three hours. That’s all you got.

Your head throbbed as you fumbled for your phone, silencing it with more force than necessary. There was barely any time—just enough to cram, just enough to get ready, just enough to drag yourself to an 8 AM that felt more like a punishment than a class.

Hell on earth, indeed.

A few minutes pass. You don’t really remember getting out of bed.

One second you’re staring blankly at the ceiling, the faint hum of your fan buzzing overhead, the weight of your own body pressing you into the mattress, and the next you’re standing in front of the sink. The bathroom light is too bright—sharp and unforgiving—forcing your eyes to squint as your toothbrush hangs loosely from your mouth, your reflection staring back at you like it has something to say.

You look like shit.

Your eyes are dull, rimmed red, dark circles carved deep enough to look permanent. Your hair sticks out in uneven directions, flattened awkwardly on one side, and your hoodie hangs off you like you never really took it off—which you didn’t. It still smells faintly like stale coffee and sleep you barely even felt.

“Great,” you mumble around the toothpaste, voice rough and dry. “Perfect condition to defeat a genius billionaire.”

The words feel stupid the second you say them—but not wrong.

Tony Stark.

Even thinking his name this early makes your head ache, a dull throb settling right behind your eyes. You spit, rinse, then splash cold water onto your face. It drips down your jaw, seeps into your sleeves, but you barely react, just stare at yourself again like maybe this time you’ll look more put together.

You don’t.

Whatever. Good enough.

The air outside is a vicious little bastard—sharp enough to sting your lungs with every inhale, cold and damp like it’s trying to crawl under your skin and wake you up by force. Not the crisp, invigorating kind of cold. Just miserable. Your breath fogs in front of you in pathetic little clouds as you trudge forward, the strap of your bag carving a trench into your shoulder. Every step feels heavier than the last, notes and textbooks dragging you down like anchors. Your head throbs in time with your heartbeat. 

Finals week has turned the entire campus into a zombie parade.

Everyone looks half-dead. Shoulders curled in, eyes bloodshot, mouths moving silently over flashcards like they’re praying to the god of passing grades. The smell of burnt coffee clings to everything, thick and bitter. Someone nearly bumps into you without even glancing up. No apology. You don’t expect one.

Everyone looks like they’re one Red Bull away from collapse.

Except him.

Tony Stark leans against the wall like he owns the hallway, like the pressure crushing everyone else is just a light breeze he can’t be bothered to notice. Designer jacket, effortless posture, one ankle casually crossed over the other. No notes. No bloodshot eyes. No visible soul-crushing exhaustion. Just that permanent, infuriating half-smirk playing on his lips as he chews gum like it’s an art form.

You hate him. God, you hate him.

Your steps falter for half a second before you force them steady again. Of course he’s chewing gum. Slow, deliberate rolls of his jaw, the faint, rhythmic click when he presses it between his teeth. It shouldn’t pull your attention. It’s just gum. But your gaze snags on it anyway—the subtle shift, the way his lips part and close, the faint sheen of saliva catching the light. Disgusting. Distracting. Annoying as hell.

You tear your eyes away, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

A group of admirers clusters around him, laughing too hard at whatever bullshit he’s saying. You try to slip past without engaging, bag strap digging deeper into your shoulder, focus locked straight ahead on the scuffed tiles.

You almost make it.

His gaze snaps to you like he felt you looking.

The hallway noise dulls. Your stomach twists—tight, hot irritation flooding your chest. He pushes off the wall with that lazy confidence that makes you want to throw something at his perfect face.

“Well,” Tony drawls, voice smooth and far too awake for this time of morning, “if it isn’t my favorite little rival. You look like shit.”

Your head snaps toward him. Heat flares up your neck—anger, pure and sharp.

“Fuck off, Stark,” you bite back, voice low and venomous. “Don’t you have a circle of desperate freshmen to impress? Go entertain your fan club and leave the rest of us to actually study.”

He chuckles, low and unbothered, and takes another slow chew of that damn gum. The soft click echoes in your ears louder than it should. Your eyes flick to his mouth before you can stop yourself. The way his tongue shifts it, the faint pop of pressure between his teeth. It’s infuriating. Why the hell are you even noticing?

He steps closer. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you to catch the faint mix of coffee and expensive cologne that clings to him. Close enough to make the air feel thicker.

“Rough night?” he asks, eyes dragging over your wrinkled hoodie and the dark circles you know are carved under your eyes. “Or just the usual—staying up late trying to catch up to me?”

Your fingers curl tighter around your bag strap until your knuckles ache. The hatred burns hot in your chest, drowning everything else. He’s such a smug prick. You want to wipe that look off his face with your fist.

“Keep dreaming,” you snap, stepping forward to meet him instead of backing down. “The only thing I’ll be catching up to is the sound of you choking on your own ego during the exam. Wouldn’t that be poetic?”

Tony’s grin sharpens, eyes glinting with something mean and delighted. He blows a small, tight bubble—slow, deliberate—letting it stretch just enough to catch the overhead light before it pops with a soft, wet snap.

Your gaze locks on it. Heat crawls up your spine. Disgust. Pure disgust. He’s such an arrogant asshole.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice dropping as he leans in just a fraction. “All that fire might burn you out before the first question. I’d hate to win by default. Almost takes the fun out of it.”

You laugh—short, bitter, and mean.

“Hate to break it to you, but you’ve never been any fun. Just loud. And irritating.” Your eyes flick to his mouth again as he works the gum, jaw shifting. That stupid, rhythmic motion. It makes your skin prickle with irritation. “Though I guess the gum helps. Gives your mouth something to do besides spew bullshit.”

For a split second, something flickers across his face—amusement, maybe challenge. Then the smirk returns, sharper.

He steps past you, shoulder nearly brushing yours, and murmurs just loud enough for you to hear:

“Try not to think about me too much during the exam, sweetheart. Wouldn’t want you distracted.”

You don’t turn around. Your nails dig into your palms as you force yourself to keep walking, the strap of your bag biting into your shoulder like a reminder.

You hate him. You despise everything about him—that cocky attitude, that effortless superiority, that stupid gum he chews like he’s trying to crawl under your skin.

The hatred sits heavy and comforting in your chest, burning away everything else.

You’re going to beat him.

And when you do, you’re going to enjoy watching that smug face finally crack.

The classroom feels warmer than the hallway, but not in any comforting way. It’s the kind of warmth that clings—thick with the smell of paper, ink, and too many bodies running on too little sleep. Coffee hangs in the air in sharp, bitter waves, mixing with the faint metallic tang of old dust and overheated electronics. The fluorescent lights hum above you, steady and unkind, flattening everything into pale colorless clarity.

You sit down. The plastic chair is cool through your hoodie at first, then slowly warms against your back. Your bag drops beside you with a dull thud that feels louder than it should be. Around you, pens click, pages rustle, someone exhales shakily like they’ve been holding their breath for hours already.

The professor walks in.

The room shifts instantly—subtle, collective. Chairs stop moving. Breathing changes. The door clicks shut, final and quiet. They speak—instructions, you assume—but only fragments reach you. The rest drifts past like it’s underwater, distant and muffled, as if you’re hearing it from somewhere you’re not fully in. You’re too distracted, and yet your mind feels unnaturally clear at the same time.

“....Begin.”

Paper lands in front of you with a soft, unmistakable weight.

And then the room breaks into sound again—pens scratching, paper turning, the uneven rhythm of panic and focus blending together. Ink hits paper. Yours joins in.

At first, it’s just you and the exam. Clean focus. Controlled breathing. The faint drag of pen tip against paper, your fingers steady despite the dull pressure behind your eyes.

Then you feel it. That subtle pull at the edge of your awareness, like something just outside your focus trying to drag you back. 

You look up.

Tony Stark is already looking at you.

It’s not obvious—just a pause in his pen, a stillness in the angle of his posture. His gaze doesn’t linger long enough for anyone else to notice, but it catches you like it was meant only for you to see. Measuring. Calm. Sharp in a way that doesn’t belong in a room like this.

Then—he looks away.

Back to his paper like nothing happened.

Your grip tightens around your pen until your fingers ache.

Focus.

The room stretches strange after that. Time doesn’t move evenly anymore—it stutters between scratches of ink, shifting chairs, the soft cough of someone two rows behind you. The air grows warmer, heavier, like it’s been used too many times already.

Your hand starts to hurt. A dull, spreading ache in your knuckles, the side of your palm faintly stained with ink that won’t fully dry. You shift once in your seat, fabric sticking slightly to your skin.

Still—you don’t stop.

Not until a sound echoes through the room—

The scraping of a chair.

Clean. Certain.

Your head lifts before you can stop it.

Tony stands.

Of course he does.

He moves like time is irrelevant to him—papers gathered in a calm stack, no hesitation in the way he straightens them. The faint scent of mint gum trails with him as he walks, cutting through the stale air in quick, sharp flickers.

He hands in his exam, says something to the professor you can’t hear, then turns.

And for a second—

His eyes find yours.

A second passes, and then—

Then he’s gone.

The door opens, releasing a brief rush of cooler air that brushes your face like a breath from another world. It shuts again behind him with a soft click.

You force your attention back down.

Keep writing.

The question in front of you swims for half a second, the words blurring at the edges before snapping back into focus. You blink once, forcing your breathing to even out, forcing your thoughts to line up in something that resembles coherence. The dull throb in your head is still there, persistent, pressing, but it fades just enough when you concentrate. 

You know this. You know this. 

Your pen lowers to the page, the tip hovering for the briefest moment before it touches down. Ink bleeds into the paper in smooth, controlled strokes, your handwriting just a little tighter than usual, a little more deliberate. Every number, every symbol, every line of reasoning is placed carefully, like if you rush it now, it’ll fall apart. 

Keep writing.

Until there’s nothing left to write.

Until your pen stops.

The silence after is strange. Not empty—but stretched. Your fingers stay on the paper a moment longer, feeling the slight texture beneath your skin, the faint heat of where your hand had been moving nonstop.

Then you gather your exam.

Paper slides against paper with a soft, final sound. Real. Certain.

You stand.

The chair scrapes behind you—louder than it should be. A few heads flicker up briefly, then return to their work.

The walk forward feels longer than it should. Every step faint against the floor, your body slightly out of sync with itself, like your mind finished before the rest of you caught up.

The air near the front of the room is cooler. Less dense. It smells faintly like chalk and printer ink.

You place your paper down.

It lands softly.

Your fingers don’t move for a second.

Then they do.

You turn.

The door feels farther than it should.

Your heartbeat is louder now—not fast, just present. Heavy in your chest, in your ears, in the quiet space between breaths.

You push the door open.

Cold air hits your face immediately. Fresh. Thin. Real.

It carries the faint smell of outdoors—grass, concrete warmed by sun, distant movement of people existing outside this room.

You step out.

The door clicks shut behind you.

And suddenly—

Everything is too quiet.

Your breath comes out slightly uneven as your body finally registers what just happened. The weight of it. The finality.

You’re done.

Finally. 

But the tension doesn’t leave. Because somewhere in the back of your mind, sharp and unrelenting— 

Was it enough? 

Enough to beat him? 

The hallway is louder than usual—in the way every sound feels sharper, tighter, like it’s all stretched thin over something waiting to snap. Shoes scuff against the floor, bags brush past shoulders, voices overlap in hushed bursts that never quite settle. There’s a kind of nervous energy clinging to the air, thick and restless, smelling faintly of coffee, paper, and something metallic from the rows of lockers lining the walls.

Everyone’s gathered in one place.

You don’t even need to see it yet to know where the list is posted—the crowd gives it away. A tight cluster of students pressed toward the bulletin board, shifting, craning their necks, trying to catch a glimpse over each other’s shoulders. Someone laughs too quickly. Someone else exhales like they’ve been holding it for hours.

Your stomach tightens.

You adjust your grip on your bag and move forward, slipping between people with quiet determination, brushing past fabric and warm bodies, catching fragments of conversation as you go.

“…I swear if I failed—” “…no way that was fair—” “…he finished early, did you see that?”

You ignore it.

Focus.

The closer you get, the louder your heartbeat becomes—steady at first, then faster, pressing against your ribs, climbing into your throat. Your fingers curl slightly against your side, grounding yourself in something solid as you finally reach the front.

The paper is pinned neatly to the board.

Too neat.

Too final.

Your eyes scan it immediately, skipping over names too fast to register, searching for one thing, one number, one answer—

There.

Rank 1: Tony Stark - 98.42% Rank 2: You - 98.12%

Your breath catches.

You were right there.

Your eyes linger on the numbers for a second longer than they should, tracing the space between first and second like it might change if you look hard enough. The difference isn’t even big. 

You were right there. 

You swallow, the taste in your mouth suddenly dry, metallic.

Of course.

Of course he was higher than you again. 

A shift beside you.

You don’t need to look to know.

“Second place,” a familiar voice says smoothly, close enough that you feel it more than hear it at first. “Consistent. I respect that.”

You turn.

Tony Stark stands just a step away, hands tucked loosely into his pockets, posture relaxed like this is just another normal day. Like he didn’t just beat you. Like this doesn’t matter.

He’s chewing gum yet again. 

The faint, rhythmic movement of his jaw is slower this time, almost thoughtful, the soft click barely audible under the noise of the hallway—but you hear it anyway.

You always do.

Your jaw tightens.

“First place,” you shoot back, voice steady despite the tightness in your chest. “Must be exhausting, carrying that ego around all the time.”

One corner of his mouth lifts.

Not offended.

Amused.

“Not really,” he says lightly. “You get used to it when it’s accurate.”

You scoff, crossing your arms loosely, shifting your weight just slightly. The hallway presses in around you, people still talking, moving, reacting—but it all feels distant now, blurred at the edges.

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’ve been told,” he replies easily.

Another slow chew.

Your eyes flick to it for half a second before snapping back up.

God.

You hate that.

His gaze sharpens just slightly, like he caught that movement. Like he notices more than he lets on.

“So,” he continues, tilting his head just a bit, studying you now instead of the board. “You almost had it.”

Almost.

The word lands heavier than it should.

You shrug, forcing something casual into your posture, even as your fingers curl tighter against your arms.

“Yeah,” you say. “Almost.”

There’s a beat.

Something shifts.

It’s subtle—but it’s there.

His expression doesn’t change much, but the way he looks at you does. Sharper. More focused. Like he’s thinking about something he hasn’t decided how to say yet.

Then—

“Well,” Tony says, voice still light, still easy—too easy—“I guess second place is kind of your thing now.”

What? 

Your chest tightens, something sharp catching just under your ribs. The noise around you seems to rush back all at once—voices, footsteps, laughter—but it all feels distant, muffled, like it’s happening somewhere else.

You stare at him for a second.

Waiting.

For the follow-up. The joke. The anything that makes it less—

It doesn’t come.

He keeps going.

“You’re good,” he adds, almost casually. “Just… not enough.”

There it is.

Something in your chest drops, leaving a hollow space behind. Your throat tightens, too, your grip on your arms loosening slightly as you let them fall to your sides. You hate that your first instinct isn’t to snap back—but to feel it.

Because it’s not entirely wrong.

But, God, does that make it hurt more. 

You inhale slowly, steadying yourself, forcing your expression back into something controlled, something unaffected.

“Wow,” you say, voice quieter now—but sharper. “You’re an asshole.”

A flicker of something crosses his face—quick, almost unnoticeable.

But you catch it.

Good.

You don’t wait for him to respond.

You turn, stepping away from the board, from him, from the weight of that stupid list and the way your chest feels too tight for comfort. The hallway blurs slightly at the edges as you move, your vision not quite steady, your heartbeat too loud in your ears.

You’re not crying.

You’re not.

But your eyes burn anyway, that uncomfortable pressure building no matter how hard you try to ignore it.

You push forward, past people, past voices, past everything—

“Hey—”

His voice cuts through the noise behind you.

Closer than it should be.

You don’t stop.

“Wait—”

Faster footsteps now.

Then—

A hand catches your wrist.

Warm.

Firm.

You freeze.

Your breath stutters slightly as you look down at where he’s holding you, then back up at him, your expression tightening again, walls snapping back into place.

“What?” you snap, sharper than before.

Tony looks… off.

For the first time, there’s something uncertain in his expression, something unsteady just beneath the surface. His jaw shifts again, the gum movement quicker now, less controlled.

“I didn’t—” he starts, then stops, like the words don’t line up right.

You pull your wrist back.

He lets go immediately.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he tries again, more rushed this time, like he’s catching up to something too late. “I just— that came out wrong.”

You let out a short, humorless breath.

“Yeah,” you say. “It did.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he insists, frowning slightly now, like he’s frustrated—not at you, but at himself. “You’re— I wouldn’t—”

He stops again.

The words don’t come.

Of course they don’t.

You shake your head, stepping back.

“Save it,” you say quietly. “You said what you said.”

“That’s not—” he starts again, then exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You think I’d be paying attention to you this much if you weren’t—”

He cuts himself off.

Too late.

Your chest tightens again—but this time, you shut it down faster.

“Wow,” you mutter. “That supposed to make it better?”

His expression falters.

You don’t give him time to fix it.

“Next time,” you add, voice colder now, steadier, “just stick to being insufferable. You’re better at that.”

And then you turn.

This time, you don’t stop.

You don’t slow down until you’re far enough away that the noise fades, replaced by something quieter, emptier.

His voice doesn’t follow you again. 

Your chest rises and falls a little too fast, your heartbeat still pounding hard enough to make it hard to think clearly. Your vision blurs for a second before you blink it away, pressing your lips together tightly.

You’re fine.

You’re fine.

You just need to—

Fix it.

Do better.

Be better.

So next time—

There won’t be a gap.

Not even a small one.

Your dorm room doesn’t feel like a room anymore.

It feels like something you’ve been trapped in too long.

The air is stale, unmoving, carrying the layered scent of cold coffee, paper, and something faintly sour from food that’s been left too long without being touched. The window is cracked open just enough to let in a thin stream of outside air, but it doesn’t help much—it just drags in the distant noise of campus life you’re no longer part of. Voices, laughter, footsteps. All of it muffled, like it’s happening somewhere far away.

You haven’t stepped outside in… you’re not sure.

The curtains hang unevenly, one side pulled more than the other, letting in strips of dull daylight that stretch across the floor and die before they reach your desk. Dust drifts slowly through the light, settling over everything that hasn’t been moved in hours.

Days.

Your desk is a disaster.

Not chaotic in a careless way—but in an obsessive one.

Stacks of notes tower unevenly, some neatly aligned, others collapsing into scattered piles that spill across the surface and onto the floor. Papers overlap, corners bent, edges soft from being handled too many times. Ink bleeds through some pages where you pressed too hard, equations rewritten over and over again until they blur into themselves.

There’s no empty space left.

Every inch is taken.

Filled.

Used.

Your laptop hums softly, the fan working harder than it should, heat pooling beneath it. The screen casts a harsh glow over everything, washing the room in a dull, artificial light that makes it hard to tell what time it is anymore. Tabs line the top—too many to count—slides, research papers, practice exams, forums, videos paused mid-explanation.

You’ve already gone through them.

All of them.

You’re going through them again.

Just in case.

Your pen drags across the page, the scratch constant, uneven. Your handwriting is tighter now, less controlled, letters pressing harder into the paper like you’re trying to carve the information into something permanent.

Your hand aches.

You don’t stop.

Your stomach twists faintly, hollow and tight, but the feeling passes as quickly as it comes. There’s food sitting on your desk—containers, bags, things you don’t remember accepting but know didn’t come from you.

They’re unopened.

One of them has your name written on it in someone else’s handwriting.

You don’t touch it.

Your mouth tastes dry, bitter, like old coffee and something metallic at the back of your tongue. You swallow, but it doesn’t go away.

It doesn’t matter.

None of it does.

You flip another page.

Rewrite the same problem.

Break it down differently.

Solve it again.

Because if you just—

If you just get it right enough—

“You’re good. Just… not enough.”

Your pen presses harder.

The tip catches slightly on the paper, leaving a darker line, almost tearing through the page.

Not enough.

Your jaw tightens.

Fine.

Then you’ll be more.

You’ll fix it.

You’ll fix everything.

Your phone buzzes.

The sound is sudden, sharp in the quiet room, vibrating against the desk and rattling lightly against a stack of notes. You don’t look at it at first. You keep writing, forcing your focus to stay on the page, like if you ignore it, it’ll stop.

It doesn’t.

It buzzes again.

And again.

Persistent.

Annoying.

You exhale sharply, setting your pen down harder than necessary before reaching for it. The screen lights up too bright against your eyes, making you squint slightly as you unlock it.

A message.

Not from a saved contact.

Just a number.

“You should eat.”

Your stomach twists again.

You stare at the message for a second longer than you should.

Then you lock your phone without replying and toss it back onto the desk, letting it slide against a pile of notes.

You reach for your pen again.

Keep going.

There’s a knock on your door later.

Soft.

Careful.

You ignore it.

A pause.

Then the door opens just slightly, your friend Natasha peeking in, eyes scanning the room before landing on you.

“Oh my God,” she breathes, stepping inside. “You look—have you slept?”

“I’m fine,” you say immediately, not looking up from your notes.

You hear her move closer, stepping over papers, shifting things out of the way.

“You don’t look fine,” she says, quieter now. “You haven’t been out in like four days. They gave us two weeks off, and you're spending it holed up in here—”

“I said I’m fine.”

There’s a brief silence.

Then the sound of something being set down.

Food.

You don’t need to look to know.

“Just… eat something, okay?” she says gently. “You can’t keep doing this.”

You nod.

You don’t mean it.

She lingers for a second longer, like she wants to say something else, then sighs softly and heads back toward the door.

“Oh—and,” she adds, pausing. “He asked if you were okay.”

Your pen stills for half a second.

Just a second.

Then—

“I’m fine,” you repeat.

She doesn't argue this time.

The door closes.

You’re alone again.

You don’t look at the food.

You don’t check your phone.

You don’t think about who sent it.

You just pick up your pen again.

And keep going.

Because if you just work harder—

If you just push a little more—

Next time—

You won’t be second.

You won’t be almost.

You won’t be—

Not enough.

Time stops behaving like time.

It stretches, folds in on itself, disappears in places you can’t quite track. The thin strip of daylight at your window fades into gray, then into dark, then back again, but you don’t register when it changes—only that it does. The only constant is the glow of your laptop, harsh and unwavering, casting everything in that same artificial wash that makes it impossible to tell if it’s morning or night unless you really try.

You don’t try.

Your desk has spread.

It’s no longer contained to the surface—it’s taken over the floor, creeping outward in uneven layers of paper and notebooks, loose sheets overlapping like scales. You step over them without looking, sometimes onto them, sometimes crumpling the edges under your weight without noticing. There are equations you recognize and ones you don’t, half-finished diagrams, annotations written over older annotations until the ink bleeds into something almost illegible.

You’re rewriting things you already know.

You know you are.

You do it anyway.

Your pen moves constantly, the scratch louder now in the quiet room, sharper, more uneven. Your grip is tighter, fingers stiff, knuckles faintly sore where the pressure doesn’t let up. Ink stains the side of your hand, smudged in streaks where you’ve dragged it across the page without thinking.

Your head hurts.

Not sharply—just constantly. A dull, heavy pressure that sits behind your eyes and makes everything feel slightly off, like you’re half a second behind yourself.

It doesn’t stop you.

Nothing does.

Your phone buzzes again.

It’s become a pattern.

You don’t check it immediately anymore—you’ve learned the rhythm. A message. Then another if you ignore it long enough. Then silence.

You let it buzz once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then, finally, you reach for it, more out of irritation than anything else. The screen lights up too bright again, forcing your eyes to squint as you unlock it.

Same number.

“You still haven’t eaten.”

A second message comes in before you can even lower the phone.

“I asked your friend. Don’t lie.”

Your jaw tightens.

You stare at the words, something flickering briefly in your chest—annoyance, maybe. Something sharper underneath.

You lock the phone.

Set it down harder than necessary.

You don’t respond.

There’s a knock again later. You ignore it. The door still opens anyway.

Natasha steps in slowly this time, like she’s careful not to disturb something already too fragile. The air in your room feels heavier when she enters—stale with paper, cold coffee, and the faint metallic edge of exhaustion that doesn’t really smell like anything until you’ve been living in it too long.

“Hey,” she says softly.

You don’t look up.

The desk is a mess of overlapping papers, ink-dark equations bleeding into each other, pages curled at the edges from too many restless hands. The lamp hums faintly beside it, casting a tired yellow glow over everything.

“Did you eat what I brought earlier?”

“Yes,” you answer automatically.

Flat.

Too quick.

A lie that doesn’t even try to hide.

A pause.

“…You didn’t.”

You don’t respond.

Natasha exhales quietly through her nose, the sound controlled but tired, like she’s already guessed this answer too many times. She shifts something on your desk—papers sliding softly against each other, a pen rolling a few centimeters before stopping. Making space where there isn’t any.

“I brought something else,” she says. “It’s warm.”

You don’t look.

But the smell reaches you anyway—rich, savory, real. It cuts through the stale air sharply, making your stomach tighten in a way you immediately ignore.

“…He paid for it,” she adds after a beat.

Your pen stills.

Just for a second.

Then it moves again, ink pressing darker into the page.

“That doesn’t change anything,” you say quieter now.

“I didn’t say it did.”

Silence settles between you, thick with the hum of the lamp and the soft rustle of paper when she shifts her weight.

“He’s trying,” she says gently.

Your grip tightens around the pen until your fingers ache. “I didn’t ask him to.”

“I know.”

A longer pause this time. The food stays untouched on your desk, warmth slowly fading into the room.

“Just don’t burn yourself out over this,” she says finally, softer. “It’s one exam.”

Your pen presses harder against the paper, the ink slightly smudging at the edge.

“It’s not,” you mutter.

Natasha doesn’t argue again.

She just watches you for a second longer—quiet, understanding in a way you don’t want to meet—and then she leaves.

The door clicks shut behind her.

And the room feels even smaller than before.

Hours pass.

Or maybe minutes.

You don’t know.

Your handwriting gets worse.

Messier.

Less precise.

Your thoughts start overlapping, doubling back on themselves, repeating things you already solved, already understood.

You catch yourself making a mistake you shouldn’t make.

Your pen freezes.

You stare at it.

At the line.

At the wrong answer.

Your chest tightens.

No.

No, that’s—

You know this.

You know this.

You flip back pages, scanning, searching for where you went wrong, where you slipped, where you—

Your vision blurs slightly.

You blink hard.

Once.

Twice.

It doesn’t fully clear.

Your hand trembles faintly when you try to write again.

The pen scratches unevenly across the page.

Your breath comes in a little sharper now.

A little quicker.

Your stomach twists again—harder this time.

You ignore it.

You push through it.

You keep going.

Because stopping—

Stopping means thinking.

And thinking means remembering.

“Just… not enough.”

Your jaw clenches.

You press harder.

Write faster.

Messier.

Like if you just keep moving, you won’t feel it.

Your phone lights up again. It’s been buzzing non-stop, and you’ve been ignoring it the whole time.

The screen dims on its own after a few seconds, the message unread.

Outside your door, footsteps pass.

Voices drift.

Life continues.

Inside—

You don’t stop.

And somewhere just out of reach, Tony Stark keeps trying.

Messages sit unread. Food comes back untouched. Questions are asked through other people instead of you, always careful, always indirect.

He keeps his distance on purpose—because if he pushes too far, he knows you’ll shut him out completely.

So he doesn’t.

He waits. Watches. Tries in every way that doesn’t force you to face him.

It still doesn’t work.

Your pen slips.

A line goes wrong again.

You stare at it, your chest tightening, your breath catching halfway through.

You know this.

You know this.

So why—

Your fingers curl tighter around the pen.

Your head dips slightly, the room tilting just a fraction—

You blink again.

Harder this time.

The edges of your vision don’t fully settle.

Your breathing is uneven now.

Too fast.

Too shallow.

But still—

Still, you don’t stop.

Because you can’t.

Not when you’re this close.

Not when you’re still—

Not enough.

There’s a knock again, but it doesn’t fully register at first. It blends into everything else—the low hum of your laptop, the scratch of your pen, the faint ringing in your ears that never really leaves anymore. Just another sound in a room already too full of them.

Then it comes again. Sharper. Intentional.

Your hand stills.

“…Open the door.”

Your stomach drops.

That voice.

You don’t move. Don’t answer. Your eyes drop back to the page like it might save you from this moment if you just ignore it hard enough.

“I know you’re in there.”

Closer now. Right outside.

You exhale through your nose, tight. “Go away,” you mutter.

A pause.

Then the handle shifts.

Locked.

Good.

“Seriously?” Tony’s voice cuts through, muffled but edged. “You’re not even gonna—”

You press your pen down harder.

Ignore him.

Ignore—

“Fine.”

A beat.

“Then I’m not leaving.”

Silence settles heavy again. Thick. Pressing.

A dull thud hits the door—not loud, just enough to feel it in your chest.

He’s still there.

Of course he is.

“…You haven’t answered anything I sent,” he says after a moment. “Food’s still untouched. Your friend says you look like you haven’t slept.”

Your grip tightens.

“Not your problem,” you snap.

“It is when you look like you’re about to collapse over paper.”

“I’m fine.”

A pause. Longer this time.

Then, quieter—“Yeah. You keep saying that.”

Something in you snaps.

The chair scrapes back harshly as you stand. Too fast. Too loud. Everything feels too loud suddenly—the room, your heartbeat, the paper under your hands, even your breath.

You cross the space in uneven steps and yank the door open.

Cold air hits your face.

Tony is right there.

Too close.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then his eyes move over you—your face, the mess behind you, the exhaustion you can’t hide anymore.

“You look like hell,” he says flatly.

“Great,” you snap. “You came all the way here for that?”

“I came because you’re not answering,” he fires back. “Which, in case you forgot, usually means something’s wrong.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“I got that part,” he says, stepping in slightly anyway. “Doesn’t mean I’m leaving it alone.”

“You don’t get to—” your voice rises, breaks slightly. “Act like you care after what you said.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You said I wasn’t enough.”

Silence.

It lands heavier this time.

“That’s not what this is.” 

“Then what is it?” you shoot back. 

Silence. 

He looks at you. Really looks at you. And for once— He doesn’t have an easy answer. 

“I—” he starts, then stops, jaw clenching slightly. “I don’t know how to say it in a way you’re not gonna twist into something else.” 

Your chest tightens. Anger flares again, sharp and defensive. “Then don’t say it at all.” 

“See, that’s exactly what I—” 

“Just stop,” you snap, stepping back, shaking your head. “You don’t get to show up here and act like you suddenly care about me when you’re the one who—” 

“Because I do care about you!” 

Everything stills.

Even the room behind you feels quieter.

The words hit the air harder than anything else he’s said. 

You don’t think.

You move.

You step forward before your mind can catch up to your body.

Not because it’s romantic. Not because it’s thought out. Not even because it feels like anything you can name cleanly.

Because he’s still talking—still looking at you like he sees too much, like he’s about to say something that will pry open everything you’ve been holding shut with your teeth—and you can’t stand another second of it.

So you grab him—you tell yourself it was just to shut him up, to stop him from saying anything else that might make this worse, to wipe that frustrating, infuriating, almost concerned look off his face—that you kiss him.

His shirt folds harshly under your fist, fabric bunching tight as you yank him down into your space like you’re trying to erase the distance, like proximity alone can drown out the noise in your head. There’s no elegance to it. No hesitation left room to breathe. Just a collision you don’t let yourself think about.

It’s immediate—too fast to soften, too sharp to be careful.

His breath stutters against your lips like the impact surprises even him, like his thoughts are still half a step behind what’s happening. Yours are worse. Yours are gone entirely, swallowed by the heat of it, by the way everything you’ve been holding in for hours—or days, or longer—snaps at once.

It’s all teeth and heat and pent-up fury. Your lips smash against his with zero grace, raw and desperate, born from exhaustion and frustration that’s been boiling for days. The world narrows to the violent thud of your heartbeat in your ears, the sharp sting where your teeth clip his lip, the chaotic mess of breath and anger colliding.

His mouth is warm, but it doesn’t feel gentle. Not at first.

There’s resistance—not from him pulling away, but from the sheer fact that neither of you are coordinated enough for this to be anything but messy. Teeth almost catching. Breath breaking mid-inhale. Mint explodes across your tongue—sharp and artificial, like something too clean for what this is supposed to mean. It floods your senses like a slap, cutting through the haze of your racing thoughts.

Gum.

He still has that fucking gum in his mouth.

That detail alone almost makes you laugh—almost—but it twists instead, tightens something in your chest because it’s so him, so infuriatingly unchanged while everything between you is shifting too fast to track.

Your grip tightens, knuckles pressing harder into fabric like you’re trying to anchor yourself, like if you let go even slightly you might float out of your own body. His breath catches again—closer now, louder—and it feeds into the chaos instead of calming it.

There’s heat behind it that doesn’t know where to land. Anger, maybe. Or adrenaline. Or the unbearable relief of finally not having to listen to him speak over the storm in your head.

Then—just as abruptly as it started—you pull back.

It breaks like something snapping under tension.

Air rushes in cold where warmth had been, and suddenly everything is too loud again: your breathing, his, the distant hum of the room you forgot existed. Your fingers loosen from his shirt like they’ve forgotten how to hold on.

The taste still lingers—mint cutting through everything, bright and wrong against the way your pulse is still hammering too fast.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Tony just looks at you.

Not shocked anymore. Not quite. More like recalibrating. Like something in him has gone very still, very deliberate, as if he’s trying to understand the shape of what just happened without naming it too quickly.

You can’t stand that look.

“That didn’t—” you start, too fast, voice catching on its own urgency. “That didn’t mean anything.”

It comes out defensive. Automatic. A reflex before feeling can attach itself to it.

A lie wearing your voice.

His mouth opens slightly, then closes again. The gum slows. Stops. Like even that small, habitual motion has been forgotten.

“…Right,” he says after a beat.

But it doesn’t sound like agreement.

It sounds like he’s filing it away somewhere you don’t get access to.

Silence spreads between you, thick and uncomfortable, filling every gap the kiss left behind. You step back without thinking, as if distance can undo impact, as if space can rewind something that already changed shape.

“Just—forget it,” you add quickly, too quickly. “Get out.”

You expect movement. A door opening. The end of it.

Instead—

“No.”

The word lands differently. Not sharp, no.

Certain.

You look up too fast.

Tony hasn’t moved away. If anything, he’s closer now without having stepped forward, like the air itself has shortened the gap between you.

“I’m not leaving you here,” he says.

And there it is again—that thing in his voice you can’t categorize. Not teasing. Not dismissive. Something steadier than both.

You shake your head immediately, because if you let that land, if you let it settle, you won’t be able to keep pretending this is simple.

“That doesn’t—”

Before you can protest, he moves. One step closes the distance like a storm rolling in. His hand cups your jaw—firm, warm, calloused fingertips grounding you even as your pulse spikes. He doesn’t crash into you like you did him.

He chooses you.

His kiss is devastatingly soft.

It’s softer before you even understand why. Slower. Intentional in a way that makes your chest tighten because it feels like he’s actually here for it, not just caught in it.

There’s no collision. No scrambling to catch up.

Just contact.

His lips meet yours with a tenderness that almost breaks you. Warm. Deliberate. Like every second of restraint he’s been holding back is pouring out now in the gentle press of his mouth. The mint is still there, but softer now, muted by heat and the faint sweetness of his breath. It lingers instead of attacking—warm spice and something unmistakably Tony that sinks deep into your chest.

Warmth settles where chaos was a moment ago, like something finally remembering how to be still.

His thumb strokes slowly along your cheekbone, reverent, like he’s memorizing the feel of your skin while he still can. The kiss deepens by degrees, unhurried, patient in a way that screams everything he’s never said out loud. I’ve got you. You’re not alone in this mess. Let me carry some of it. Every careful tilt of his head, every brush of his lips, every quiet exhale against your mouth is a confession he doesn’t have the words for.

The mint is still there, but it’s no longer sharp. It blends now with something warmer underneath it—something that doesn’t cut through you, but wraps around the edges instead.

Your fingers curl weakly into his shirt again, not pulling this time—just holding on as the world tilts. The chaos in your head quiets. The frantic drum of your heart steadies under the warmth of his touch. His other hand slides to your waist, anchoring you, solid and real amid the storm still raging inside your ribs.

The room fades at the edges—not disappearing, just losing its sharpness. The noise in your head doesn’t vanish, but it dulls, like someone turned the volume down instead of cutting the wire.

He pauses for a breath—close enough that you feel it—and gives you the space.

The choice.

You don’t move away.

So he doesn’t either.

Instead, he deepens it—barely. Not enough to overwhelm. Just enough to make it real.

Like he’s saying everything he didn’t say out loud. Everything too clumsy for words, too vulnerable to risk being misunderstood.

I’m here.

I’m not leaving.

I see you.

And for the first time in a while, your body doesn’t feel like it’s bracing against something.

It just… settles.

The bulletin board is less crowded this time.

Not empty—but quieter.

Like the building itself is holding its breath.

Late afternoon light spills through the high windows of the corridor, soft and gold-tinted, stretching long shadows across the floor. The usual chaos of finals week has dulled into something calmer now—students lingering instead of rushing, voices lower, movements slower. Paper rustles. A chair scrapes faintly somewhere down the hall. Someone laughs, then quickly stops like they forgot it wasn’t the right kind of day for it.

You stand a little behind the line forming in front of the board.

Not because you’re nervous.

Because you are.

But it’s different now.

Beside you, Tony shifts his weight like he’s got nowhere better to be. Like he’s not pretending he’s calm so hard it loops back into actual calm. His hands are in his pockets again, shoulders loose, head tilted slightly as if he’s already read the list and is just waiting for you to catch up.

You don’t look at him yet.

You look at the paper.

Pinned neatly. Same format. Same unforgiving structure.

Your eyes scan automatically.

Names. Scores. Ranks.

Your heartbeat doesn’t spike this time—it just tightens, controlled, like it already knows what it’s looking for.

Then you see it.

Rank 1: You - 99.02℅ Rank 2: Tony Stark - 98.93%

For a second, nothing happens—like your brain refuses to process it immediately, as if it’s checking twice, maybe three times, just to be sure it isn’t making things up again.

Then it settles.

Real.

Your name.

First.

Your breath comes out slower than expected.

“…Huh,” you murmur quietly, almost like you’re surprised your voice works.

Tony leans in slightly, reading over your shoulder even though he definitely doesn’t need to.

A beat passes.

Then—

“Well,” he says lightly, “look at that.”

There’s something in his tone that isn’t quite teasing anymore.

Not quite anything sharp.

Just… there.

You finally glance at him.

“Second place looks good on you,” you say automatically.

It comes out softer than you intend.

He huffs a quiet laugh.

“Yeah? I think I preferred when it was just competitive humiliation.”

You hum faintly, eyes drifting back to the list.

“Character development.”

“That what you’re calling it now?”

“Mm-hm.”

A pause.

It should feel like the old version of this—the banter, the edges, the bite.

But it doesn’t.

It’s lighter now.

Like neither of you is trying to win anything with words anymore.

Just… talking.

Tony shifts slightly, his shoulder brushing yours just barely as someone passes behind him. He doesn’t move away immediately.

Neither do you.

The contact lingers a second longer than it needs to.

Your eyes flick down without thinking.

His hand is near yours.

Close enough that if either of you moved wrong, they’d touch.

You notice it at the same time he does.

There’s a brief pause—so small it almost doesn’t exist.

Then his fingers shift.

And yours move slightly too, almost instinctively, closing the gap without either of you fully deciding to.

Your hands brush.

Just the lightest contact—knuckles grazing, warmth against warmth, fleeting enough that someone else would miss it entirely.

But neither of you move away.

Tony’s voice comes a second later, quieter now.

“Guess I’m gonna have to let you enjoy that.”

You glance at him again.

“What, first place?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Don’t get used to it.”

A faint smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it.