#anxious!reader

You had a tendency to make a lot of dumb jokes and laugh when you were nervous, blurting out whatever came to mind before you could decide against it, which was ironic since overthinking was a second nature to you. You were shy and got nervous a lot, especially around Rafe. He was your first boyfriend and the hottest guy you'd ever laid your eyes on, neither of which helping your nerves.

Rafe's hands slipped under your shirt to touch your bare skin, holding you firmly on his lap. "Wouldn't you like to know," his smirk was teasing as he pulled back from the kiss to peer up at you.

"Uh, yeah, that's kind of the whole point of asking," you also pulled back, sitting up as you smiled down at him. You liked it when Rafe went along with your stupid jokes, bantering with you to put you at ease. He never made you feel weird or awkward for using humor to cope with your anxiety.

"Well, if you must know, I'm packing heat," Rafe quipped with a mischievous grin, his grip on your hips tightening.

You gasped exageratedly, feigning shock. "You have a gun?" You knew very well what he meant, but when did that ever stop you from saying something stupid?

He snorted, his blue eyes shining with amusement. "Yeah, I have a gun in my pants because that makes so much sense," he replied sarcastically, finding your nervous humor endearing.

"Okay, Mr. Sassypants," you rolled your eyes playfully, your palms resting on his chest as a smile pulled at your lips.

"Mr. Sassypants?" Rafe repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You know, that's not a very nice thing to call your loving, patient, and amazingly sexy boyfriend."

"Well, I can't help that my loving, patient, and amazingly sexy boyfriend is such a diva," you grinned, feeling his chest rise and fall, his heart beating steadily under your fingertips.

"Diva?" He gasped in mock offense, his hands sliding up your sides. "I'll show you a diva." In one swift motion, he flipped your positions, pinning you beneath him.

You laughed, looking up at him with a smile despite the anxiety gnawing at you. He had a way of putting your mind at ease with just one look, and the soothing circles he was rubbing on your skin were definitely helping. He stared back at you, his gaze softening. He loved your smile and the way your eyes sparkled when you laughed. Truthfully, he loved everything about you, even your innate ability to make everything a tad bit awkward.

His eyes searched yours intently, searching for any signs that you wanted him to stop. Noticing his serious turn of demeanor and his intense gaze, you felt your cheeks heat up. "Oh, cmon, don't get all serious on me now," you rolled your eyes, trying to lighten the mood.

"Well, I take my role as your boyfriend very seriously," he grinned, leaning down to kiss your neck. "And, it wouldn't be very boyfriendly of me to let you go on without knowing the wonders of sex."

"Oh, right, of course, it would be for my benefit," you giggled, your heart racing at the idea of being intimate with him. You weren't exactly against the idea, but you were still a virgin, and the idea of being with someone like that was undoubtedly nerve-racking.

You could feel Rafe smile against your skin, his hands sliding farther up your sides. "Uh huh, always thinking of what's best for my girl."

"Wow, who knew you were so selfless?" You giggled, biting your lip as he nipped as your skin. Your fingers slotted into his hair as he continued to kiss and suck at your neck, his hot breath fanning against your heated skin.

"I'm a saint, what can I say?" He mumbled, his tone teasing. He was being careful, trying to reassure you without actually saying anything because he knew you'd prefer to keep things as lighthearted as possible to make you forget about how serious the moment actually was. He could tell you were nervous, and he was determined to make you as comfortable as possible.

"Uh huh, a saint," you smiled as he slowly, tentatively pushed your shirt up your body. He was giving you time to tell him to stop, maybe even slap him if you wanted to, but you didn't. As much as you felt like you were going to die on the spot at the idea of him seeing you naked, you trusted him, and you wanted this.

"I am but a humble servant of my sexy girlfriend," he pulled back from your neck to search your eyes again, pausing for a moment before your shirt revealed your bra. You gave him a small nod, and he smiled, tugging the shirt over your head as you leaned up a little and lifted your arms to help him. He threw the shirt aside, eyes roaming your skin, as if memorizing every detail. "God, you're beautiful," he breathed out.

"Shut up," you said bashfully, your heart beating faster under his intense gaze. There was a voice in the back of your head telling you that you weren't pretty enough for him, that he would hate how you looked, and that was why you preferred to fill the silence with easy jokes and stupid quips. It made it easier to silence that nagging part of you that thought you weren't good enough for him.

"No, I mean it," he insisted, his fingers slowly tracing the lace edging of your bra. "You're like, way too pretty to be real. I mean, look at you." There was a sincerity to his words that he couldn't fake, an edge of awe and pure unbridled devotion that made your head spin.

The way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered, the way he touched you like he worshipped every inch of you—it was all overwhelming in the best possible way. It had you scrambling in your mind to say something, anything, even if that something was a dumb dick joke.

"I bet you're thinking about saying something stupid, aren't you?" he asked, a knowing smirk on his face as he leaned down to pepper kisses over your collarbones and down the swell of your cleavage.

"I never say anything stupid," you breathed out, as he kissed the skin that wasn't hidden behind your bra. It made your heart flutter that he knew you so well, but it also made you realize how awfully predictable you were.

"Uh huh and I'm the Queen of England," he retorted sarcastically, reaching up to slide one of your bra straps down your shoulder, kissing the bare sliver of skin that was revealed.

"Oh my God, you are?" You gasped, his remark loading you with the perfect ammunition to say something stupid. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, your highness."

"Mmm, flattery will get you everywhere," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin as he continued to kiss and touch you, slipping your other strap off. He slowly unhooked your bra, his eyes meeting yours as he paused, asking for silent permission. You bit the inside of your cheek nervously before nodding.

He pulled your bra off almost instantly, his gaze sweeping over your bare chest. You felt so vulnerable beneath his gaze, resisting the urge to cover yourself. "Okay, your turn, pretty boy," you swiftly said, trying to ease your nerves and figuring you might be a little more comfortable if you weren't the only half-naked one.

"Yes, ma'am," He smirked, leaning back to pull his own shirt off, revealing his muscular chest. You couldn't help but stare, eyes roaming over his abs and the way his muscles flexed as he tossed his shirt aside. He settled back over you, his hands sliding up your sides. "Better?"

"You are annoyingly hot," you huffed, finding it completely unfair that someone as perfect as him could even exist, let alone be on top of you right now.

"Aw, you're just saying that because you want in my pants," he teased, his hands sliding up your sides to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. "But I can't blame you, I am pretty irresistible." He leaned down, swallowing the small gasp you let out at his touch as he captured your mouth in a deep, heated kiss.

"That's slander," you mumbled into his mouth, wrapping your arms around his neck and curling your fingers into his hair as you pulled him closer.

"Mmm, then sue me," he murmured against your lips before trailing kisses along your jaw and down your neck, slowly making his way to your chest.

Your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling of his soft lips on your skin. He was ridiculously skilled with his mouth, knowing exactly how and where to kiss you to drive you crazy. "Yknow what, maybe I will," you retorted breathlessly, your chest rising and falling a little faster.

"I think we can come to some sort of settlement out of court," He paused, his hot breath washing over your skin before he slowly, deliberately wrapped his lips around one of your peaks, swirling his tongue around it. "What do you think?"

Your lips parted at the feeling, intaking a sharp breath of air. "Uh, yeah, yknow that could work maybe," you grinned, your fingers gently tugging at his hair as he ravished your tits with attention.

"Mmm, I thought it might," he hummed with a cocky grin, switching to give equal attention to your other breast, your back arching ever so slightly, urging him closer. He smirked against your skin, making his way lower and leaving a trail of wet kisses in his wake. His hands slid down your sides to your hips, fingers curling around the waistband of your pants.

"Hey, wait, I don't want to be naked first," you protested, only half joking. You would rather die than be fully naked in front of him while he sits there with his clothes on.

"Oh, trust me, I have no intention of leaving my pants on any longer than necessary," He assured you with a mischievous grin, slowly unbuttoning your jeans, his knuckles brushing against your skin.

"Yeah, 'cause you're a freak," you grinned, moving on to the making fun of your boyfriend portion of the program in an attempt to soothe the pit of nausea in your stomach. You were kind of scared, not that you wanted to be lame and admit that.

"Hey, I resent that," He protested, but his tone conveyed the opposite message as he tugged your jeans and underwear down your legs in one smooth, expert motion, his gaze never leaving yours. "I'm just enthusiastic, that's all."

"Enthusiastically a whore," you snorted, letting your head fall back, staring at the ceiling. You'd really rather not see yourself naked right now, not with the amount of anxiety already coursing through your veins. You did not need a reminder of what Rafe was seeing.

"Whore?" He teased, his fingers dancing along your inner thighs. "I think you mean an amazing boyfriend who loves you and wants to make you feel good."

You hummed thoughtfully. "Uh, no, I'm pretty sure I mean whore," you grinned, reluctantly looking down at him despite yourself.

"Well, this whore is about to rock your world," He smirked, slowly trailing kisses up your inner thigh, gripping your hips. "Just relax and let me do all the work." His voice was low and seductive, his intentions clear.

"You're such an idiot," you laughed at his cheesy choice of words, a little nervous that the witty banter would have to be put on hold. He can't exactly respond to your sarcastic remarks with his mouth occupied.

He hummed, his breath hot against your core. Your breathing picked up, and you were unsure whether it was anticipation or if you were on the verge of a panic attack.

He slowly dragged his tongue along your slit, groaning at your taste on his tongue and the subsequent gasp that fell from your lips, making his painfully hard cock twitch in his jeans. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them further apart and opening you up to him. He had dreamed of this moment, imagined this exact scenario about a half a dozen times as he got himself off, and now that it was actually happening, he was going to relish every moment.

He began to eat you out like a man starved, his tongue delving deep inside your tight heat, familiarizing himself with every inch of you. His nose nudged at your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through you that pulled a low whine from your throat. Your fingers threaded into his hair, moaning at the unfamiliar pleasure.

His fingers replaced his tongue, his mouth moving up to the sensitive bundle of nerves and sucking it into his mouth, determined to send you over the edge. He pushed his fingers deep inside and curled them, finding that spot that made your back arch and your hips buck against his mouth.

"Rafe," his name left your lips a breathy whimper as your head fell back against his pillows. Rafe was no stranger to having women under him, writhing and moaning his name, but something about it being you made him crazy. It took all his self-control not to blow his load in his pants right there and then.

He redoubled his efforts, eager to make you cum, rubbing that sweet spot inside you with ruthless precision and sucking on your clit, his tongue swirling around your sensitive nub. Another moan fell from your lips, your grip on his hair bordering on painful as you felt your orgasm wash over you, your legs practically shaking at the intense pleasure.

He groaned as he felt you spasm around his fingers, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you tried to catch your breath. He slowly pulled away, grinning as he took in your dazed expression. He carefully slipped his fingers from your quivering hole, bringing them to his mouth. He couldn't help the moan that rumbled low in his throat as he tasted you on his tongue. God, you were perfect.

His eyes flicked up to yours as his tongue darted out to lick his lips clean. "Good, huh?" He asked, his tone smug. He knew it had been good, but he wanted to hear you say it.

"I'm gonna slap that stupid look off your face," you playfully rolled your eyes, your skin practically burning up with embarrassment.

"I think that would take our case from a civil lawsuit to a criminal assault charge," he grinned, calling back to your previous joke about taking him to court. He positioned himself over you again to press his lips against yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

"It's my first offense and a misdemeanor," you mumbled into the kiss, cupping his face. "Worst I'll get is a fine, so... totally worth it."

"Okay, smartass," he pulled away, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, gazing down at you lovingly.

"Just saying," you smiled softly up at him, his hair falling into his face and his blue eyes sparkling. He really loved you, and it was evident just from the way he looked at you. He'd never felt anything like it before. He loved you so much it terrified him.

But, of course, you had to ruin the moment of peace because shutting up was not something you were wired to do, especially not in the face of such charged silence. "Your little friend is poking me again," you blurted out the words before you could stop yourself. Little friend? You really couldn't have come up with anything else?

Rafe couldn't help the chuckle that escaped his lips as he rocked his hips against you, making you gasp softly. "He's just happy to see you." His eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned down at you, his fingers absently tracing along your side.

"Okay, well, can you tell him I don't really know him like that, so maybe he should calm down a little bit," you couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, but you loved it, and you loved him. He understood you in a way you never thought you'd be understood by anyone.

"He says he's not planning on staying a stranger for much longer," he smirked, his hips rolling against yours.

"This is actually so stupid," you giggled, your hand covering your mouth as you laughed beneath him.

"Oh, now it's stupid?" He rolled his eyes, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. "You're the one who started it."

"Shut up," you smiled, leaning up to kiss him. "Okay, okay, you can... start now, I guess," you said awkwardly. There was only so long that you could stall with stupid dick jokes. Besides, you felt a little bad that he had been so patient and undoubtedly, extremely hard.

"About time," he murmured with faux annoyance, his voice low as he fiddled with his belt buckle and pulled it through the loops, tossing it aside before popping the button on his jeans and slowly unzipping them.

You sucked in a breath, trying to calm your nerves as the sound of him pulling his jeans off seemed to echo through the room. You wanted this. You knew you did, but you couldn't help the pit of fear in your stomach.

He paused, feeling your body tense beneath him as you took a deep breath, a sign he knew all too well. "Hey, look at me," he coaxed softly, cupping your face and stroking your cheek with his thumb. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do. We can wait if you're not ready. Just tell me to stop, and I will, no questions asked, no hard feelings. We can just forget all about it," he reassured you.

Your heart fluttered as you heard your boyfriend's words, meeting his gaze and seeing the sincerity behind his eyes. "No, I- I want to. I'm just... scared, yknow," you bit your lip nervously, mentally kicking yourself. You always seemed to be scared. There probably wasn't a single thing in the world that you weren't scared of.

"Hey, hey, hey, it's okay," he soothed, pressing gentle kisses to your face, your neck, your collarbone—anywhere he could reach. "There's nothing wrong with being scared. It's your first time. If you weren't scared, that would be a little concerning."

You laughed softly at his words. "You just make sure you wrap it up. I don't know where you've been," you joked. "Safe sex is great sex as the Lil Wayne once wisely said."

He chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. "Lil Wayne, huh? I didn't know he moonlighted as a sex ed teacher." He reached into his bedside table, pulling out a foil packet and waving it in front of your face. "But don't worry, I'm always prepared."

"Jesus, that's a lot of condoms," you said, peering into his drawer and seeing way more condoms than you realistically thought one person would need. "You are a whore of massive proportions. Like, literally a menace to the female population."

"Oh, hush," he grinned, tearing open the packet and rolling the latex down over his length. "I bought them in bulk. You know, for... emergencies," He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, leaning back down to press kisses to your skin once more.

"Eugh," you giggled, your face scrunching up in disgust. "I genuinely do not want to know what a sex emergency is."

"Hey, a guy's gotta be prepared, okay?" He murmured against your neck, his breath warm. "Now, are you going to keep talking, or are you going to let me kiss you and calm you the hell down?"

"Yo, I am literally so calm," you rolled your eyes, lying through your teeth in the name of comedy and also not sounding like the total little loser virgin you were. "So calm and so chill. Literally have never been calmer or chiller in my life."

"Uh-huh," he hummed, clearly unconvinced as he pressed a soft kiss to your jaw, his fingers slowly trailing down your side, his touch gentle. "Because nothing says 'calm and chill' like sex jokes and rambling like you're on speed."

"Well, I can't help that I'm the funniest person alive," you argued, the realization dawning on you that you were naked, and he was naked, which meant there was only so many more sex jokes you could make before the sex actually commenced.

"You're not even in the top five funniest people I know," he teased, his fingers reaching your hip as he slowly pulled you closer, the heat of his body pressing against yours.

"Oh, you got jokes, huh?" You grinned, nervously giggling when you felt his tip nudge at your entrance. "You better take that back if you wanna get laid tonight."

"I think I'll stick with my original statement," he said, his voice low and husky as he pressed forward, the head of his dick pushing into you slowly as he rubbed soothing circles on your hip. "You're just not funny enough to make the cut, sweetheart."

You sucked in a sharp breath through your teeth, wincing at the painful sensation. You grabbed his bicep for support, digging your nails into his arm. "Liar," you joked weakly, your chest heaving as you breathed through the intrusion.

"Shh, just breathe," he whispered against your neck, his voice low and soothing as he paused, letting you adjust to the foreign feeling. "You're doing so good, baby. You're taking it like a champ."

"Okay, don't call me champ while you're inside me," you grimaced, trying to keep the conversation lighthearted as you slowly adjusted to having him inside you.

"You okay, baby?" He asked softly, pushing the slightest bit further into you as he examined your reaction closely.

"Oh, yeah, just peachy," you said sarcastically. The pain was gradually starting to fade, making the whole thing more enjoyable by the second. Though, the pressure between your thighs was intense.

"Mhm, you're a real ray of sunshine," he chuckled softly, pushing the rest of the way into you, his body shuddering as he bottomed out. He was as deep as he could go, his hips flush against yours.

You gasped as he pressed all the way into you, your grip on his bicep tightening. "You're gonna look like you got mauled by a lion after this," you panted out, apologetic for the involuntary response.

"I'd wear that badge of honor proudly," he said, his voice thick with amusement as he slowly began to move, his hips rolling against yours in a gentle, soothing rhythm. "Now, shut up and let me make love to you."

"Don't say 'make love' either. That's so gross," you giggled softly, a breathy moan falling from your lips as he set a slow, pleasurable pace.

"Then what would you prefer I call it?" He murmured, his lips brushing against your ear as he continued his steady movements, the friction building between your bodies. "'Coitus'? 'Intercourse'? 'Fucking'?" He punctuated each word with a sharp thrust of his hips.

You moaned, your head falling back against the pillows and brows pinching in pleasure. Okay, you were definitely starting to see what all the fuss was about. "Let's just not refer to what's happening right now as anything at all."

"Mhm, I can work with that," he hummed, his pace picking up slightly as he felt you start to relax more, your body welcoming his thrusts. "Just focus on how good it feels, baby. Let me take care of you."

He leaned down, pressing his lips to yours and kissing you deeply as he continued to fuck you with a pace that demonstrated his love and devotion to you. He never thought he would be one for slow, romantic sex, but he didn't think he was into a lot of things before he met you. You had a way of making him discover things about himself he was completely clueless to.

As he kissed you, he slowly shifted his hips, changing the angle of his thrusts to hit that particularly sensitive spot inside you. He felt you tense up, a sharp gasp escaping your lips into the kiss, and he smiled against your mouth. "You like that, huh?"

"You're such an ass," you grinned, your fingers curling into his hair, back arching into him as his tip continued to hit that spongy spot inside you, the pressure low in your abdomen building.

"Maybe so, but you love it," he smirked against your mouth, his hands gripping your hips as he increased his pace, his hips snapping forward in a steady rhythm. "And you're gonna come for me again, baby. Aren't you?"

Your mouth fell open in pleasure, your breath hot against his lips. "uh huh," you nodded, your eyes fluttering shut. He was a cocky motherfucker, but he was hot and he put up with your shit, so it was only fair you put up with his in return.

"That's my girl," he purred, one hand sliding down to rub tight circles on your clit as he continued his relentless pace. "Come on, baby. Let me feel you. I want to watch you fall apart for me."

You gasped sharply at the added stimulation, his name leaving your lips in a whine as you tensed around him, sent over the edge for the second time.

He groaned as he felt your walls clench around him, the sensation of you practically choking his dick sending him into his own release. "Fuck, you feel so good," he panted, his hips stuttering as he spilled himself into the condom with a low moan of your name.

Your walls pulsed around him as you slowly came down from your high, relaxing into the mattress. Your chest heaved as you caught your breath, your whole body on fire and coated in a thin sheen of sweat.

He collapsed on top of you with a satisfied hum, peppering gentle kisses along your neck and collarbone as he softened inside you. "I love you, you know that?"

"Good 'cause otherwise this would be pretty awkward," you laughed breathlessly, gently raking your nails over his scalp soothingly. "But, seriously, I love you too," you added quietly after a beat of silence.

tags .ᐟ   @starkeysprincess / @cometmultiverse / @iheartjjmaybnk / @all4l0vee / @kissesfrmriri / @xoxohoneymoongirl / @bradshawed /

[Dean]: We should wrap this hunt tomorrow, tops. You in bed yet? [You]: Yeah, can't sleep. [You]: I kinda wish it was tomorrow already… [Dean]: Me too, sweetheart. How you holding up? [You]: Meh. Brain's being a dick. [Dean]: Code? [You]: 🐻 [Dean]: ...is typing 💬 [You]: Wait - Shit, sorry, didn’t mean to freak you out! [You]: I'm fine. [You]: I swear. [Dean]: Deep breaths, baby. I'm on my way.

The bunker is dark and cold when Dean's steps echo down the stairway, steering towards the only source of life. It's been three hours since you texted. For Dean, that drive was a piece of cake. For you, though, every minute must've felt like torture.

His gait speeds up, drawn towards the light spilling into the hallway like a beacon in the night. It's a sign that you're in bed. In bed, but despite the ungodly hour, not asleep.

He cracks the bedroom door open, carefully steps inside, shuts out the rest of the world, and tunes in to you. The warm, dim light of the bedside lamp paints the curves of your figure under the blanket, face hidden, shadows pooling below where your stomach would be.

Dean does a double take at the extra large bump under the blanket, wondering whether he'd knocked you up with some kind of high speed sperm that punched nine months in seventy-two hours.

Unlikely, but the thought brings a hint of a smirk to his exhausted face. (After all, he's seen Amazons pull that off in less than twenty-four.)

Dean slips off his shoes, shrugs out of his suit jacket and tosses it on the chair in the corner, almost knocking over an old, empty beer bottle of his. He pads across the cool floor to the bed. When he speaks, his voice is soft, careful not to spook you.

"Hey, sweetheart. 'm home."

Home. His tongue almost stumbles over the unfamiliar word. He would've simply said I'm back, but you'd insisted on the specific name for what you two had built here.

He leans down, tries to coax you into his safety net by brushing a gentle hand over the additional bump of your tummy. It is soft and squishy. He pauses, frowning. Then realization hits him: Only half of the figure is actually you. The other half being your weighted, stuffed animal.

The sight is endearing, until a twinge in his chest reminds him of the plushie's purpose.

"Dean?" You turn your head, mumble his name. It sounds so small, so vulnerable. It makes him want to scoop you up into his lap and hold you there for the rest of eternity.

For now, the rest of the night will have to do.

"Hey there, sweetheart," his eyes soften, his voice husky from the lack of sleep. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare ya."

Dean still wears his fake FBI suit and tie when he slips into bed next to you, one leg hanging off the edge, suit pants creasing around his knees. The mattress dips. The wooden frame groans when he leans back.

You shift, instinctively pressing into his side. His familiar smell drawing you in. Your arms are still locked tightly around the brown bear's large body, like you might fall apart without it. It squeezes his heart, seeing you like this - it always does.

With a gentle touch, he smooths the hair away from your face. Next, a protective arm slips under your head, his wrist twisted for his thumb to stroke your cheek - it's still damp. Your revealed eyes red, puffy.

Dean pauses, his features tightening.

"Talk to me," he prompts, rough with worry.

He watches you shake your head no. Your face hiding from his. You feel guilty.

Dean won't have any of it.

His attention shifts away from you, instead focusing on your bear, Balu, that is squished in your arms, facing the both of you. With his free hand, he adjusts the tie of his fake FBI suite.

He clears his throat. Leans down.

"What'd you say, buddy?" Dean frowns at the cute beady eyes like he must have misheard him.

Your head perks up.

"Ah", he then drawls, turning halfway to face your confused expression like he is still mid-convo, "You seen a guy come through here? Real handsome-" he stops, glances back at Balu, then corrects himself, "- devastatingly handsome bastard. Drives too fast, listens to classic rock, 'bout yay big?" he pats the air next to his head.

Your lips curve with a small chortle.

"That a yes, ma'am?" Dean tries to look firm, as if he was interrogating you with an imaginary notepad in his hands - a sloppy imitation of Sam's gestures. The corner of his pursed lips twitch though. "Guy's a wanted man, y'know. Girl he belongs to hasn't seen'm all day."

"Silly," you giggle, break your iron grip to lightly smack his chest with the back of your hand.

"Uff- Hey, I'm serious," Dean grabs the plushie by the scruff, sits him upright in your lap and continues. "Looks like our buddy bear here witnessed it all," -his eyes dart back to the fuzzy face- "Ain't that right?"

Fingers at the back of its neck makes its head bob yes. Dean's brows arch and his free hand gestures at Balu with a 'see? told ya' look.

More cute sounds spill from your lips, mixing with Dean's chuckle. After a moment, the giggle shifts into a small sigh.

"I missed you," you admit, index finger hooking around his like a silent request for grounding.

Dean's expression sobers up instantly. His gruff voice melts into a murmur when he curls his finger around yours like a lock around its key. "I know, baby, I know."

He then sets Balu aside. Not too far, but on top of his own pillow next to yours. Even adjusts its squished nose and gives it a quick tap to the head before his hand searches your cheek, cupping it gently.

You lean into his touch. And another soft sigh leaves your lips right before he dives down to seal them with his own. The kiss tastes like salt and whiskey. His mouth moves against yours, tender, forming the words "I missed you too". Soon his body follows his head, moving over yours, pulling you under until his knees bracket your thighs and his arms envelop your sides. He drapes himself down with only the tie left sandwiched between your chests and a strand of hair between your foreheads.

"Dean, you're crushing me," you grunt beneath him. Followed by another one of your sweet, shy laughs which always manages to let sunflowers bloom under those scorched ribs of his.

"Yeah? You sayin' you prefer Pooh Bear over me?" He nips your nose and you squeak. The smirk of his grows along the flowers. "I see how it is."

In one swift motion, he rolls you both over, for you to cover him. You squeal his name - Dean chuckles next to your ear.

"Maybe I missed my lil' koala." He grins. Hopes he can tickle more happiness out of you.

His hands slide under your top to feel the skin under his warm palms, slowly rubbing them along the slope of your back. Each stroke smoothing the winter goosebumps like summer sunlight.

He pauses. Looks up at you, your noses almost touching.

You smile – yet he can see in your eyes how the worry still clings to your mind. Circling endlessly. How, even though you had thrown a cover over it, beneath it, that bird is still wildly fluttering inside your rib cage.

The low, orange light catches in his forest glades, his eyes searching yours from below his long lashes.

"I'm here," he says, and it sounds like he knows that even though it's obvious, you need to hear it.

Your eyes squeeze when he places a chaste kiss to your forehead, while his fingers move to card through your locks.

"I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart…" he continues to murmur against the wariness that still lingers behind that thick skull of yours, "You're okay... We're okay… yeah?" It's not a question, just a way to check in on you. To be sure whether his words really reached you or he needs to do some more soul patching.

When you don't answer right away, he swivels his chin to litter your face with more tiny affections.

Your temple.

Your cheeks.

Your nose.

The corner of your lips – until your anxiety finally gives way to another snicker.

Dean hums a coaxing "hmm?" against your now damp skin from all of his smooches. His head angled to meet your eyes.

You nod. Burrow your head next to his. It's snugly there, tingling with some strands of his hair brushing against the shell of your ear. Your fingers tangle in his shirt.

Dean's chest rises and falls against yours, calm and steady, his heartbeat thumping with your own.

When did your heart stop racing? Or did it?

It's like his strong arms keep it tucked inside your ribs no matter what pace it goes, keeps it safe and protected in this small, sheltered world he has created for you. You feel the tension ease from your muscles. The staples holding your spine rigid finally fall off. Arms are draped over his shoulders, knees glued to his hips, while your body practically melts into his.

The silence that felt deafening before, is now filled with the peaceful ba-dump of Dean's pulse against yours, his breath warm in your hair, his palms drawing slow circles.

Dean's presence wraps around you.

Safe.

Guarding.

Perfect.

Like no stuffed animal can ever imitate, no matter how much you try.

After a moment of quiet, you feel Dean's cheeky fingers inch further down until both of his large palms settle on your ass.

"Huh? What the hell-" he starts to mumble.

Then squeezes your globes - you squirm - he gasps next to you.

"Holy shit – my bear's got an ass."

You snort right into his ear. His shoulders shake beneath you. Laughter fills the bedsheets; No more words needed for the peaceful silence that follows.

Dean shifts a bit beneath you, grunts like that old man you hope he'll grow into someday, until you're both comfortable - his sternum no longer pinching your ribs, and you no longer crushing any of his sensitive parts. He nudges you further into his embrace with his hand still on your ass. His arm is slung around your waist, his palm sneaking beneath your waistband to rest on the small of your back like it belongs there, while his other hand finds the back of your neck - his familiar way of promising, "I've got you. You're safe".

Once you've settled, he guides your cheek back to his shoulder, where you sense Dean's warm breath, followed by his mouth on the shell of your ear.

"Want me to get Balu?" he murmurs, his chin tipped vaguely towards it.

Your head rolls into the crook of his neck where you shake it.

"I'm good," you smile softly. Eyes closed, nose nestled somewhere behind his ear where you can smell his shampoo. It's a faint vanilla, mixed with oak and rum. Dean's neck vibrates against yours with his low hum of appreciation.

"All right." He brushes some of your hair aside to allow more air in that burrow of yours, then he presses his lips to your crown, where they stay for the rest of the night.

"I've got ya," he murmurs into your hair, "Balu's off duty tonight. You've got me."

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES This was partially inspired by my weighted anxiety polar bear. 🐻‍❄️ I love that guy, he covers my entire torso and keeps me warm on the days I'm alone in bed. Can highly recommend it for anyone with anxiety! You are not alone, stay strong lovelies 💕

Dean Tag List (1):

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @zepskies @maddie0101 @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @voodoochildthings @aylacavebear @supernotnatural2005 @my-stories-vault

@waynes-multiverse @jc-winchester @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @livya99 @youdontknowe @123passwort @lillied31 @amethyst-bunny

@alixxhere @royaler1999 @writtenbyhollywood @ralilda @mostlymarvelgirl @deansimpalababy @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @spnaquakindgdom @hobby27

@boobsbeesbongos @bowahdean @icreatemyownharem-blog @uniqueeamber @ralilda @biancalinkas @westendgirlsworld @foxyjwls007 @soullessambs @deanspinsterwitch

@fuckingdamnitdean @star-yawnznn @s0uz4s @champagnepoets @salemslostwitch @chevroletdean @multiversefanfics @toxicfataldestiny @sunnys-struggles @kimxwinchester

It had been with you the entire night. No way someone would’ve had time to slip something in there, you had been watching it, you’d been careful, hadn’t you?

“You okay?” he asks, the date, your date, and you can’t remember his name. You nod but the movement is slow, and try to smile.

“I’m a little hot.”

He stands up, offering you a hand. “Let’s get some air.”

He’s practically yelling with how loud it is in the bar, and you have to muster all your strength to stand on your heels. His hand slips are around your waist, holding you too tight but you don’t have the energy to fight him. You study your feet, the movements of them, and suddenly cool air hits your face. You inhale, hoping sobriety will find you as you both lean against the brick wall of the club.

“You okay?” He asks, and are you supposed to trust him? Did he do this?

“Yeah I, think that drink was a little strong,” your words are slurred but you plow on. “I should get home.”

He frowns, his thick brows creasing. “Already? It’s not even one.”

You’re fumbling for your keys and your purse and where is your goddamn phone? You had it, you know it.

Nails dig into your forearm, and he drags you close, forehead bumping the side of your head. “Come back with me.”

“I’m okay, I don’t ah, do that on the first date.”

You try to wiggle from his grasp, try to get some space but your strength is oddly absent. He holds you tightly, and his other hand waves for a taxi. Your tongue feels thick.

“Where’s my phone?” You half mumble half ask. He ignores you, a taxi pulling to the curb. “I don’t, I don’t…let me go.”

“Don’t be a bitch and make this more difficult,” he snaps in a low tone as he opens the door. “You said yes to this date. What did you think was gonna happen?”

Your dread is like a weight in your chest, and you pull away, your heel clipping on the cement. “Stop!” You aren’t sure how loud you’re screaming but you hope it’s demeaning. “Let me go!”

The taxi door swings open, the cab’s dim light cutting through the dark street. The driver—older, tired eyes—glances back at you.

Your scream is weak compared to the bass still thumping from inside the club. No one turns their head.

He shoves you toward the car, and your shoulder hits cold leather. Your phone isn’t in your purse, it’s gone. You don’t remember dropping it or him taking it.

“Get in,” he growls, nudging hard on your back as a passenger behind him leans over to close your side door with a soft click.

Locked.

The divider rolls up automatically between front and back seats—the kind that blocks sound for privacy hires late at night or discreet things like this one happening right now: something not quite right but too easy for anyone outside to question unless they saw bloodshed firsthand.

Tears blur what little focus remains; fear sharpens every breath into jagged pieces of air stuck between ribs too tight from panic alone. You press yourself against glass trying to see if someone notices anything off about this situation.

He moves to step inside, and then he’s gone. You blink, hard. He had just been there, right?

There’s a thudding and a crack and a yell, and you inch forward to the open door, trying to peer outside. Your date is sprawled on his back, his jaw open and eyes blinking as another man with short cropped hair leans over him, a sneer on his face. Your eyes widen as you register the blood on his knuckles, and you pitch forward, vomiting to the sidewalk.

The new man—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark hoodie and jeans—doesn’t even flinch at the sound of you vomiting. His sneer deepens as he watches your date struggle to sit up, blood trickling from his nose.

“Dex,” your date on the ground spits out weakly. “You psycho-“

“She said no,” The other man, Dex, snaps. “You should listen.” He turns to look at you, one brow cocked. “Did you want to go home with him?”

With all your effort, you shake your head no. It makes you dizzy, and you lean forward out the car just in case.

Dex studies you for a second, your pale face, the sweat on your brow, the way your hands tremble even as they grip the door frame.

He doesn’t say anything. Just nods once.

Then he reaches in and pulls you out of the cab with surprising gentleness—one strong arm under yours to steady you as your knees wobble. The driver watches silently, expression blank like this is just another night in his city.

Your date groans behind you both but Dex ignores him completely now that his focus is on you.

“Can you walk?” You nod but then you’re falling, and he catches you under the arms.

“Doesn’t look like you can.” He murmurs and if you could, you’d laugh.

“Sorry.” You try to say, but it’s garbled and you’re crying, salty wet tears sliding down your cheeks. You aren’t sure why you’re crying. Objectively, you’re fine. It could have been bad…could have been terrible. But it wasn’t and now you’re just embarrassed, drugged and sobbing against a stranger.

Dex doesn’t scold you. Doesn’t tell you to pull yourself together.

He just adjusts his grip, one arm sliding behind your back while the other braces under your knees, and in one smooth motion, lifts you like it’s nothing. You’re heavy with panic and chemicals and exhaustion, but he carries you easily, like someone who lifts weights for fun or fights people twice a day (maybe both).

Your tears soak into his hoodie as he starts walking down the sidewalk. The city blurs around him: streetlights smearing into streaks of yellow-white light; muffled car horns; distant music from another club two blocks over. Your date stays on the pavement clutching his jaw, no pursuit initiated yet because Dex is already moving too fast toward safety.

“Where?” You ask, and panic floods you again and you sway at him.

“It’s okay, it’s alright, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

You pause, and think you might be sick again. You shut your eyes, head tilting and leaning into his shoulder. The world is spinning and you feel sticky, needing a shower and definitely a bed and the whole night is something you hope you don’t remember.

Dex feels the weight of you going limp against him, your breath warm and uneven through his hoodie. He adjusts slightly—tucking you more securely into the crook of his arm like a father carrying a sleeping child.

“Almost there,” he mutters, not to reassure you so much as to confirm it for himself.

The hospital isn’t far, maybe eight minutes on foot if he picks up speed. The night air is cool, helping with your feverish flush from whatever was in that drink.

He crosses streets without hesitation, ignoring red lights when no cars are coming. A couple stares as they pass by but Dex doesn’t slow down or acknowledge them; all focus is on keeping *you* steady and awake enough that doctors can assess what’s been done to you before it gets worse.

Considering its distance is close to the strip of bars and clubs, the hospital lobby is incredibly busy. There’s a cluster of women sitting in the cheap, moss green chairs, all of them drunkly arguing while one of them throws up in a trash can. A man with a handle bar mustache holds an ice pack to his neck while another man sits beside him, yelling into a phone.

It’s chaotic and bright and not at all what you want.

“Let’s go home,” you murmur, and when Dex glances at you, your lashes flutter with unfocused eyes. “I wanna…home..”

Dex’s jaw tightens. He isn’t sure where home is, and he can’t take a drugged-up woman to his place either.

“You’re not going home like this,” he says firmly, voice low but cutting through the lobby noise as he approaches the triage desk.

A harried nurse looks up at him and then down at your slumped form in his arms. Her expression shifts from annoyance to immediate concern, the kind nurses reserve for cases they know are bad before paperwork even starts.

“She was spiked,” Dex tells her flatly. “Needs blood work and tox screen.”

The nurse yells to the back of the room and Dex moves to the swinging doors. You groan, shifting in his arms and your heels kick his hip. He ignores it, watching as the nurses roll out a bed and he dips, laying you down. At the movement, your brows knot and you feel sick all over again. He moves to straighten, to step away and let the right people handle this but in the absence of his body heat your eyes shoot open. They’re unfocused and large but you reach out, grasping his wrist.

“Please don’t go.” You beg, and your mascara is smudged beneath your eye.

“You are?” One of the nurses asks and Dex opens his mouth, unsure of what to say.

“Please,” you whisper and you’re crying again. A nurse gently grabs your arms but you thrash, clawing at him. “No he stays!”

Dex hesitates.

He’s not the staying type. Not ever. He shows up, does what needs to be done, like punching a guy for you or hauling you across town, and then leaves before things get messy. But the way your fingers cling to his wrist, desperate and weak, the tears streaking your smudged makeup, it stops him cold.

“I’m her boyfriend,” he says finally, voice quieter than before as he looks at the nurse who asked.

The nurse nods and scribbles something on her clipboard while another checks your pulse and pupils with a penlight, professional but efficient in their movements.

Dex pries your hand from his wrist before lacing his fingers with yours. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, walking side by side with your rolling bed. “You just had a little too much to drink.”

You blink at him, your savior, and if you weren’t so nauseous you’d be nervous by his features. Head lulling back on the pillows, you close your eyes and squeeze his hand. Dex keeps pace as the nurses wheel you down the hallway, his grip firm around your hand.

He doesn’t let go, not when they check your vitals, not when a doctor peeks in briefly to ask about symptoms which Dex answers for you with quiet precision, and definitely not when they draw blood.

The beeping of machines fills the small exam room: heart rate monitor, IV pole waiting to be hooked up soon. The antiseptic smell makes your nose wrinkle even through half-consciousness. Eventually you fall asleep, and Dex quietly pulls his hand from yours. He digs through your purse, and once he finds your phone, he searches through your contacts.

There’s no boyfriend or bff or brother listed, but there is a neighbor, cataloged as ‘Miss Hadley aka Cat Neighbor’, and he hesitantly dials the number. It rings twice, and then a thick voice answers. Dex explains he’s your ‘friend’, finding your name by quickly peaking at your Instagram. It’s filled with pictures of books and sand and a brown cat that makes him wonder if you’re new to New York.

Miss Hadley, after a few pointless rambles, says she still has your spare key from when you went on vacation, and that she’ll unlock the door when Dex brings you home.

“Um, no, maam I-” he swallows. “I’m not actually familiar with her apartment?”

“Sounds ‘bout right,” Miss Hadley chuckles. “She never brings anyone over, much less boys. I’ll text it to you.”

Dex panics but before he can decline, Miss Hadley hangs up, and he’s in the quiet with you asleep on the hospital bed. He swears, throwing the phone down but not hard enough to wake you.

He’s not good with this kind of thing. Emotional messes, crying women, neighbors who know too much, he avoids it all like bad luck.

But here he is: sitting in a plastic chair beside your bed, waiting for discharge papers that won’t come fast enough because now he has to take you home.

The phone buzzes once. A text from Miss Hadley:

Apt 4B on Westwood Ave - Left some food out for her.

Westwood Ave isn't far from where you’re at right now; probably less than ten minutes by cab if traffic's light

Dex stares at the message before shoving your phone back into his pocket and leaning forward again to watch you sleep, quietly debating whether waking you up would be worse than just carrying you out when it's time.

A doctor comes in and checks your vitals, a frown on her face. “You’re the boyfriend ?”

“Yes ma’am.” Dex replies automatically, his skin pricking as she eyes him.

“Well, you should do better job of watching your girlfriend next time,” the doctor grunts, scribbling on the clipboard. “ she’s lucky you were there though. She’s got Temazepam in her system. It will where off in a few hours but if she had still been with the guy that gave it to her, he just would’ve done it again. It’s a build up drug, needs multiple rounds. Seems like he wanted her to fight back just a little.”

Dex’s stomach turns.

Temazepam. He knows the name, not from personal use, but from police reports and news articles about date-rape drugs. The kind that makes you compliant, drowsy, too weak to resist anything but still awake.

His hands clench into fists on his knees. That bastard hadn’t just slipped something in your drink, he’d been planning it. Waiting for a chance when you were distracted or tired enough to not notice the swap.

The doctor doesn't say anything else; she just finishes writing and hands Dex discharge papers along with instructions: rest, hydration, no alcohol for 24 hours (obviously), monitor for worsening symptoms like vomiting or passing out again.

She leaves, and Dex has half a mind to hunt down the bastard even though he only knows your first name.

Fishing out your phone, he decides to look at your socials again.

He scrolls aimlessly, going through your Instagram and Facebook, looking at your likes and your saves. You really like the beach, specifically the ones in South Carolina. Maybe you’re from there?

You have a brown cat named Dawn, odd, and you have a sister, at least according to your online life. There aren’t many pictures of friends, a girl with bright red hair shows up in a few pictures, but not many, and you look younger in them. There’s only three posts from New York, starting from five months ago, and have you really been alone since your move? Had this date been you trying to branch out, hoping to try new things? The idea angers him instantly, and he swipes off of Instagram and moves to your dating app.

You only have one, Bumble, and as he’s going through your messages, it dawned on him that the asshole had known his name.

Dex scrolls, observing the faces of the men you had talked to, pausing when he sees one that peaks resemblance. Alex Buyers.

He grits his teeth. He works with Alex. Or did, before Alex eventually quit to go onto a law firm. Frustration grows up Dex’s spine and he closes your phone, pressing his knuckles into his eyes and practices taking a deep breath.

Alex had been friendly enough, asking about Dex’s knife-throwing hobby, which was weirdly specific for small talk, before announcing he was leaving for a corporate law gig.

Dex hadn’t thought much of it at the time. But now? Now it clicked, how Alex had recognized him outside the club when things went south. How easily he’d said Dex's name like they were old friends.

And worse: you trusted him. You swiped right on his profile because you liked what you saw, a guy who looked professional and safe, not some sleazy bar creep off Tinder trying to pick up women with cheap drinks.

But no. He'd played nice first, then drugged you anyway when given half a chance.

You groan, and Dex is up in a minute, leaning over your frame with raised brows.

“Alex..?” You mutter, your eyes bleary and you move to your side, away from him.

His stomach drops. Did he flirt with you? Take you out for coffee first? Pretend to be a decent guy while planning something worse?

“Yeah,” Dex says carefully, voice low as he studies your face, the discomfort there, the tension in your shoulders even through sedation. “Alex Buyers. He drugged you.”

Your nose scrunches slightly at the name, and that’s all the confirmation Dex needs: you liked him once.

You blink, and shake your head slowly. “He…wouldn’t.”

Dex watches the denial play out on your face, the confusion, the no way disbelief that someone you’d swiped right on could be capable of this.

He doesn’t blame you. Alex was probably charming as hell in those Bumble messages. Funny, polite, maybe even sent a thoughtful first date idea like dinner or drinks somewhere classy.

But Dex had seen his type before: smooth-talking predators who knew how to groom trust just enough to exploit it later.

“He did,” Dex says gently but firmly—not accusing you, just stating a fact. “The doctor said temazepam. That’s not an accident.”

Your lips part slightly, maybe wanting to argue, but then your stomach lurches violently and you turn away from him again, gagging into a nearby trash can placed by the nurses for exactly this reason.

Your arms feel shaky as you lean over, bile burning the back of your throat. With a sigh you push yourself back, gasping for air as you stare at the ceiling.

“W-what did he give me?” You ask, blinking slowly, trying to regain your faculties.

Dex grabs a paper cup from the bedside table, fills it with water from the pitcher, and holds it out to you.

“Temazepam,” he says again, quieter this time. “It’s a sedative—makes you drowsy and confused. That’s why your head feels like that.”

He watches as you take slow sips of water, the hospital taste bitter but necessary.

“The doctor said he probably wanted to build up doses over time if…if things had gone differently.” The words stick in his throat slightly because differently means worse scenarios: unconsciousness, vulnerability where no one could find or help you.

Your face pales at the implication; even drugged-out-of-your-mind right now, that reality hits hard.

“Why would he do that,” you whisper as you take the cup, not looking at Dex. “Why would he…I knew him. Well sort of. It was our third date.”

Third date. That means you’d already had dinner with him, gone on walks, maybe held hands, trusted him enough to let your guard down.

And that was when he decided to slip something in your drink? Not the first or second outing—no. When things felt safe. When you probably thought: This guy could be the one.

“Some people,” Dex starts carefully, choosing his words because this isn't a topic he knows how to soften without sounding callous, “they don’t want romance. They want control.”

He doesn't elaborate further but the unspoken part is obvious: Alex saw a sweet girl who trusted easily and exploited that weakness like it was nothing. Your third date should've been romantic; instead it almost ended horribly.

Pursing your lips, you nod, and nausea rolls over you again. “When can I go home?” It dawns on you then, that the man beside you is essentially a stranger. With wide eyes you look at him, the paper cup still between your fingers. “Who’re you?”

Dex meets your gaze, unfazed by the sudden wariness in your eyes.

He’s used to being sized up—people either assume he's a bodyguard, a bouncer, or some kind of thug because of his build and quiet demeanor. Or they mistake him for dangerous after seeing what he can do with knives.

“I’m Dex,” he says simply. “I punched Alex outside the club when I saw him dragging you into a cab.” A beat passes where you process that, and then he adds: “i called your neighbor, and she’s unlocked your apartment for you.”

“Dex,” you murmur, turning the name over in your mouth. “I- he knew you, right? He said your name.”

Dex nods.

“Yeah. We worked together for a few months at the same office, corporate security gig.” His tone is flat, like he’s reciting a fact rather than brag about it. “He quit to go into law like… two months ago.”

“Oh,” you murmur, and then your eyes harden. “He wants to be a lawyer? After he-?” You pause, and your chest is rising rapidly as you shake your head. “Maybe it was a mistake.”

Dex watches the anger flash in your eyes—the kind that comes when betrayal sinks deep because it was someone who presented themselves as respectable, professional.

A lawyer? That makes it worse somehow, like Alex thought he could get away with this exact scenario and still build a polished life afterward.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” Dex says firmly, cutting through your spiraling doubt. “He drugged you on purpose. Doesn’t matter if he wants to be a damn senator, what he did is illegal as hell.”

His voice isn't loud, but there's steel behind it, the same tone that probably made Alex freeze outside the club.

Your chin wobbles as you shake your head again. “He wouldn’t- there’s gotta be an explanation, right? I mean you knew him. He wouldn’t do this. Maybe I took someone else’s drink?”

Dex doesn't flinch at your denial. He gets it—your brain is scrambling for any explanation that makes Alex the decent guy you thought he was, not a predator. The alternative—that someone you trusted and maybe even liked did this on purpose—is too brutal to process while still drugged.

But Dex isn’t going to lie to soften the blow.

“You were holding your drink the whole night,” he says calmly. “I saw you two walk in. And then I saw you walk out and you could barely stand.”

The hospital room feels smaller suddenly, air thicker with tension as reality settles over you: there's no misunderstanding here.

“I want to go home,” you say after a few moments. Your head is pounding and you miss Dawn. “I need- where’s my phone?”

Dex grabs your phone from the bedside table and hands it to you. Your lock screen is a photo of Dawn, curled up on a sunlit windowsill, looking unbearably soft and innocent. Just seeing her makes your chest ache with the need to be there, home, safe in pajamas with cat hair on everything.

“I already texted your neighbor,” Dex adds as you fumble, your fingers still clumsy. “She’s got food ready for you.”

He stands then, stretching slightly, he's been sitting stiffly in that plastic chair too long.

“Where are you going?” You ask quickly when he stands. He raises a brow at you and you swallow. “I just- I mean-”

Dex pauses, studying your face, the panic creeping back in at the thought of him leaving you alone right now.

He doesn’t mind. If anything, it makes sense: you’re drugged, scared, in your rumpled clothing with little memory of how you got there except him showing up.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he clarifies quietly. “Just getting the discharge papers taken care of so we can leave.” He steps toward the door and peeks into the hallway, no nurse yet, but then turns back to reassure you again without being asked: “I’m taking you home.”

You nod slowly. “Okay.”

You settle back in the hospital bed. It’s lumpy and smells stale but you’re too tired to truly care. Eyes closing, you press your cheek to the pillow, wishing this whole night could be over with.

Dex watches you drift—your breathing evening out, tension seeping from your shoulders as exhaustion finally wins.

The nurse comes in a minute later to collect the discharge papers. Dex signs where it says emergency contact without hesitation, even though technically he isn’t one. But no one argues; they’re just glad you’re not worse off.

He pays the co-pay fee, small for tox screen, and folds the papers into his pocket before gently nudging your shoulder.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Time to go.”

You stir slightly but don't fully wake yet, still half-lost in that hazy space between drugged sleep and reality.

He says your name, the first time he’s said it all night, and you open your eyes, blinking a few times. “We’re leaving?”

“Yes,” he replies and you sigh. “Can you stand?”

You sit up, forehead wrinkled at the nausea, and swing your legs over the side. Dex holds out a hand but you ignore it, gritting your teeth as you stand up on your heels. He keeps his hand hovering—not pushing, just ready in case your legs buckle.

They do wobble the second you're upright, and he's quick to place a light grip on your elbow. Your purse is still on the table where he left it earlier; everything’s accounted for now except getting out of this place.

Outside the hospital, you wrap your arms around yourself as Dex orders an uber. You don’t touch as you stand, staring at the heels that you had once thought cute but were now cutting into your toes.

When the uber arrives, Dex opens the door and steps back. You stare at him, and he blinks. “Um…after you.”

“Oh,” you flush and step inside. “Thanks.”

The Uber smells faintly of pine air freshener—cleaner than the hospital, at least.

Dex gets in after you, shutting the door softly. The driver—a middle-aged woman with silver streaks in her hair—gives a polite “Hey” before checking the address on her phone.

Westwood Ave.

You stare out your window as New York blurs past: streetlights, graffiti-tagged walls, a 24-hour bodega flashing neon signs. Your toes throb inside those heels; they were definitely not made for walking or panic episodes.

Dex glances at you sideways but doesn’t say anything.

When the Uber stops, Dex climbs out and waits on the sidewalk. You crawl after him, glaring up at your building as if it had insulted you.

“It’s…this way.” You murmur, climbing up the stairs.

The apartment building is old but well-kept—brick exterior, a small courtyard with a few potted plants.

Dex follows half a step behind you as you navigate the stairs, his eyes scanning for any signs of trouble (habit). The third floor has only two doors: 4A and 4B - your place.

Miss Hadley’s light is on under her door. You can hear faint TV sounds from inside.

You dig through your purse for keys, but then Dex reaches around you, and tugs the knob, swinging the door open. You glance at him as he pulls his arm back, catching a quick scent of mint.

“Miss Hadley,” you whisper, swallowing. “right.”

You move into your apartment and Dex follows quietly. The purse falls from your grasp as you kick off your heels and slump into a chair at your dining room table. You’re so disoriented that it takes several minutes for you to realize Dex is just standing in your hallway, staring at you.

“Sorry, right,” you half laugh half whisper. “Come in?”

Dex steps fully inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Your apartment is cozy, small but lived-in. A shelf of books, a couch piled with throw blankets, and Dawn’s litter box tucked neatly in a corner, already cleaned. The cat isn't visible yet—probably hiding after hearing strangers.

Miss Hadley had left the promised food: takeout containers of stir-fry and rice on your counter beside an open bottle of water.

Dex lingers awkwardly for half a second before asking: “You want something? Water? Food?” He sounds out-of-practice at caretaking, not cold, just unsure how to help without overstepping.

“Um, the food , yeah. I can do it.” you stand up but Dex is already moving, already opening your microwave and placing the stirfry inside. You slump back down.

Hesitantly, Dex sits across from you, and folds his hands on the table. You both stare at each other, and then you swallow. “I just- um. Thank you.”

Dex nods once, simple, quiet gratitude. He doesn’t do small talk well; never has. But the microwave beeping breaks the silence, and he gets up to retrieve the food, grabbing chopsticks from a drawer. He assumes where they are; most people keep them there.

The stir-fry smells good, garlic and ginger, and Dex slides it across the table toward you before sitting back down.

Dawn finally emerges then: a plump brown cat padding into the kitchen with her tail high. She sniffs Dex’s shoe suspiciously but otherwise ignores him for now, trotting straight to your legs like nothing’s wrong in her world at all.

“He didn’t-” you swallow, and poke at the food. “Maybe he didn’t….mean it.”

It’s so ludicrous that you almost laugh at yourself.

Dex doesn’t laugh.

He just watches you mess with the food, the way your hands shake slightly, how you're trying to convince yourself that maybe Alex didn't *really* mean to drug you. Maybe it was a mistake? A misunderstanding?

“He meant it.” Dex says simply. No hesitation.

And then Dawn jumps onto the table between you two, curling her tail around her paws like she’s judging this entire conversation from a higher plane of wisdom than either of you possess.

“I don’t understand,” you murmur after a moment. You take a bite, and even though it probably tastes good you still feel whoozy. “I don’t- he could’ve just said it. That he wanted to fuck. Hell maybe I would have wanted to!”

Dex’s jaw tightens at that.

That he wanted to fuck.

Like it was some simple transaction. Like you’d have said yes if Alex had just asked instead of drugging you into submission. It makes his stomach turn, because yes, some guys do that. They don’t want rejection, so they cheat the system with chemicals and force compliance when the person can't fight back or even remember clearly what happened later.

“He didn’t want consent,” Dex says quietly, voice low but firm. “He wanted control.”

You’re chewing slows and when you swallow, it feels like sand in your throat. Inhaling through your nose, you look up at him, and your eyes swim, because you know he’s right. And it makes a little hope in you die.

Bowing your head, a broken sob escapes your lips. You drop the fork, and your fingers fist by the bowl. “This is exactly why people don’t date, why I don’t date.”

Dex doesn’t reach out.

He just watches as you cry, the kind of quiet, shattered sobs that come from realizing something awful is true. The hope you had for romance, for connection with Alex, gone. Dawn immediately abandons her spot and jumps onto your lap, purring loudly as if to drown out the sadness with cat vibrations.

“I don’t understand,” you cry, and wipe at your eyes. “What is so wrong with me, huh? What about me attracted a person like that? Why do I have to be lonely, and an asshole like him can just keep on going?”

Dex finally moves. He pushes his chair back and kneels beside yours, careful not to crowd you but close enough that his presence is solid.

There’s no pity in his expression, just a hard kind of understanding. The world is full of creeps who target good people because they’re easier to manipulate. It has nothing to do with you being flawed.

“It’s not you,” he says firmly. “It's him.” A beat passes where Dawn keeps purring like a tiny engine between you two. Then Dex adds: “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Do you know you’re the first person to see my apartment?” You ask, raising your brows. “No one else has stepped foot in here, well except Miss Hadley, but she doesn’t count. You’re the first man to ever be in my apartment. And I don’t even… I don’t even know you.”

Dex blinks. That… hadn’t occurred to him.

He’d been so focused on getting you safe, making sure Alex didn’t follow, that he hadn't realized the weight of this moment, the first guy ever in your space. And it was him, a stranger who punched your date and hauled you to a hospital.

The air shifts slightly, awkward now, charged and tight.

“I mean,” Dex starts after a pause, rubbing the back of his neck. “I get why that’s weird.”

He doesn't apologize for being here. You needed him; that's all that mattered at the time. But it's awkward as hell when you think about it logically.

“It’s Okay,” you say quickly, because you can see the regret already forming in his eyes. “I- thank you. For helping me. Really. I’m not upset about that I just- the whole thing is a mess.” Dex nods, but he looks unsure and you chastise yourself. With your right hand you touch his bicep, and he looks at you from his knelt position. “Really. I mean that. Thank you for saving me.”

Dex goes very still when your hand touches his arm.

It’s a light, fleeting brush of gratitude, not romantic, not anything more than a thank you, but it makes something in his chest tighten anyway.

He isn’t used to people thanking him like this. Most times he helps someone and they avoid eye contact after or act weird around him because of the whole knife-throwing bodyguard vibe.

But you? You’re looking right at him with red-rimmed eyes and saying thank you like it means something real.

“…Yeah,” is all he manages to say at first. Then, softer: “You’re welcome.”

You give him a watery smile and retract your hand, looking at your food.

It’s then that Dex feels it.

The twisting, ugly claw of possession. The same one that had him protecting, no, stalking Julie. It snakes out of his chest, and is directed right at you.

“Do you know where my key is?” You sniff as Dex stands. “And my wallet…fuck I must’ve lost it outside the club.”

“I can look,” he offers, and clears his throat. “I can..swing by the club. Your wallets still in your purse but your keys…”

“Oh no,” you say immediately, because you’re kind. You don’t want him to be inconvenienced. “It’s alright.”

Dex is already mentally mapping the club’s location, knowing exactly which alley it was, which bouncer was on duty. Your main key had probably got taken by security or a cop if they were called.

But he doesn’t argue with you about going back.

Instead, he scans the kitchen counter where your purse had fallen earlier. Then spots a small dish by the door, key holder. The key is there: silver fob with a tiny seashell charm (South Carolina?).

He grabs it and holds it up for you to see.

“Found this.” His voice is calmer now; that weird possessive twist still simmers under his skin but at least something of yours wasn't lost tonight.

“That’s my spare,” you reply and give a little shrug. “It’s okay, I’ll make a copy.”

Dex nods, setting the key down. “Well I should…uh, let you rest.”

You look back at him, and give a slow nod. “Yeah…I guess so.”

Dex mimics your nod, his hands slipping into his pockets. You clear your throat and stand up, bracing yourself. “Do you…um. Could I maybe..get your number? In case I file a police report. They’ll wanna talk to the man that ended up saving me.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

Dex pulls out his phone, unlocks it, and hands it to you across the table. His wallpaper is a black screen with no photo.

He waits as you type in your number, then takes the phone back and saves your contact before texting himself from his other line so yours lights up.

A second later: It’s Dex

“Dex.” You hum as you read his text, and he adores the way his name sounds from your mouth. You look up and for the first time that evening, you smile. “Great. Thanks.”

“Yeah. No problem.”

Dex pockets his phone, hesitating for half a second like he wants to say something else. But it's late, you're exhausted, and this is already more social interaction than he usually has in a week.

He nods toward the door instead of lingering. “I'll...go.” At the threshold, he pauses one last time. “Call me if you need anything at all.”

You nod after several blinks. “Okay. Um…thank you. Thank you again.”

Dex gives you a thin smile and then he’s gone, your door shutting softly behind him.

He should go home. He knows it. But the habit, that gnawing habit, is eating at him. You had almost been seriously hurt, you, precious you. He’d only been there by chance. This was a good thing he was doing.

At least that’s what he tells himself when he goes back to the club.

He speaks with the bouncer, asking about the altercation and lost keys and he’s directed inside. A manager with spikey hair frowns as Dex describes Alex, and he nods towards the bar.

“Yep, he’s still here,” he mutters and Dex follows his line of sight. “Guys a real prick. But we did see the keys, some lipstick too, got turned in.”

Dex feigns relief. “Oh good. My girlfriend will be so relieved.”

“That was your girlfriend? God,” the manager shakes his head. “I wouldn’t blame you if you gave that Alex a piece of your mind.”

Dex smiles. “I appreciate the concern.”

The manager retrieves your items, strawberry lipgloss, eye contact holder and the shiny, golden key. He gives his thanks, and pockets the items before slowly making his way through the crowd towards the bar.

Dex spots Alex sitting at the bar, nursing a drink. The guy looks pissed but unharmed.

He approaches casually, hands in his pockets and sits a few spots away, and orders a Diet Coke.

Dex doesn’t have any plans. He has all the time in the world.

-

It’s another hour before Alex leaves, failing to chat up a bored looking blonde and closes his tab with an annoyed flourish. He’s drunk, but not extremely, so Dex keeps his distance, walking several paces behind as Alex moves down the street. Dex nearly rolls his eyes at the simplicity of it all as he tugs up his black face mask.

Alex doesn’t even hear him coming.

Dex punches him in the back of the skull, hard. Alex pitches forward, landing nearly face first on the hard asphalt. Knife in hand, Dex launches one into the back of his knee. Alex howls, screaming as he reaches back, his hands flailing in pain.

“What the fuck?!” Alex screams, and Dex bends, coming eye level with him.

“That hurt?” he asks, like it’s a question. “Make you a little afraid?”

Alex is panting and scrambling back but Dex just sighs. He stands, flipping a knife between his fingers before launching it straight into Alex’s hand.

He leans closer as Alex whimpers on the pavement.

“You drugged her.” Not a question but an accusation loaded with disgust.

Another knife flicks into Dex’s other hand.

“Why?” Dex asks. “What exactly did you have in mind when you did that?”

When Alex doesn’t answer Dex slammed the blade into Alex’s uninjured hand. He howls and thrashes, blood spewing from the wounds.

“Because you don't get to do that and walk away like it's nothing,” Dex says coldly, twisting the knife slightly. Alex sobs, begging for mercy now, but Dex just stares down at him with icy focus. “You think you deserve that?”

“I’m sorry! I-I-” Alex is blubbering and Dex is about to send a knife straight through his eye when a text buzzes from his pocket. He pauses, his hand slipping it free as he glances down.

hi. Sorry if this is weird but I Just wanted to check that you made it home safe

He blinks at your text, a slow smile tugging at his mouth because you texted him. He had been worried about how he’d start a conversation and yet here you were, doing it for him.

Hey Dex texts back, wiping his bloody hands on his jeans first.

Yeah, I'm home. You okay?

He stares at the screen for a second before adding another text. Wanted to make sure you got your stuff from the club.

omg you found my stuff?

lipgloss and contact lens?

It’s a small lie but, he needs the key. To keep you safe, to have an entry if needed.

that’s mine yeah. Thank you so much you really didn’t have to.

Alex is still blubbering and Dex feels annoyance growing in his chest. He flips the knife in his hand and then launches it. He’s typing out a response before Alex’s head lulls to his chest.

of course. I’ll bring them by tomorrow

x

Softlys Locket ML

Dex Poindexter ML

You’ve always wondered if you would've fit in better in another house. Ravenclaw always seemed appealing. Or Hufflepuff maybe. But for reasons you don't understand, the sorting hat put you here. With the daring, self-assured, unreserved students that you couldn't be anymore like. But, you never really minded. As different as they are, at least they're nice.

For the most part.

"Hey, baby," one of your housemates drawls, emerging from the lively crowd and invading your corner. You can't say you remember his name as he cozies up next to you, unceremoniously situating himself against the wall. His shoulder crashes against it roughly as he says, "You look lonely over here."

His warm, beer-scented breath invades your senses and you scrunch your nose in discomfort, veering away from him as you reply, "I'm fine."

"Want some company?" he presses, surging forward to make up for the space you created and then some.

"No, thank you." It's almost annoying that your instinct is to be polite as this guy invades your personal space.

"Cos I could make for some real nice company," he adds, a sinister smirk working its way onto his face as you cringe away from him.

You're wracking your brain for a way out of this situation, when a familiar voice sounds from behind you, saving you the trouble.

"Hey, ready to head out?" James Potter says, and you have no idea what he's talking about, but at least it makes the other guy back away from you slightly.

"James," you blurt, rather dumbly, surprised at his sudden closeness.

Truthfully, you have been eyeing him from your corner; admiring the boy from afar as you have for years. Most of Gryffindor fancies him, and you're no exception. But who wouldn't have a thing for Gryffindor's valiant captain and ever confident head boy? Especially when that boy looks the way James does: standing over six feet tall with a chiseled, muscular physique (thank you, Quidditch). He seems to know it too, the way he carries himself with confidence.

His most captivating feature, though, is his bright, infectious smile. It's always been your favorite thing about him, even when it was still the shy, hesitant grin of a boy who wasn’t yet confident in himself.

"It's about time for us to get out of here, don't you think?" James smiles, baring all of his pearly whites, and he looks like something out of a dream. His eyes flick from you to the boy to your left. "Oh, hey Callaghan, didn't see you there."

"Potter," Callaghan nods in greeting. "You, uh, you know..." he trails off, gesturing aimlessly to you. You're not surprised that he doesn't know your name.

"Y/N? Course I do," James says, stepping closer to you.

But that. That's a surprise.

James towers over both of you, making Callaghan take another step back in intimidation. You're too busy being surprised to feel relieved over the space. James knows your name?

Callaghan gestures between the two of you, trying the gauge your relationship. "And you two are...?"

"Leaving," James says, offering you his hand, “Right?”

You stare at his hand, momentarily dumbfounded, before you take it, “Right.”

You feel kind of hazy as you let James lead you away from Callaghan, away from the lively party, and out into the corridor. The situation is so surreal that you wouldn't be surprised if you suddenly woke up to find it was all a dream. When was the last time you even spoke to James Potter?

"You alright?" James' voice cuts through the silence of Hogwarts' halls. Your eyes meet his concerned ones as he leans against the stone wall, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

"Yeah, I'm alright," you say, still a little muddled. You snap out of it with a shake of your head, remembering your manners, "Thank you, by the way."

"Psh," he waves his hand through the air, brushing it off, "You don't need to thank me. Any person with eyes could see Callaghan was being... off putting." James scrunches his nose in judgement, pausing as if to bite his tongue, like has more to say about Callaghan but better not. "Any decent person would've stepped in. No thank you necessary."

"Well I'm thankful anyway," you say quietly, the corner of your mouth tugging upward into a small smile.

James' eyes dart to your lips, your gesture conjuring a wide smile on James' own lips. You're momentarily distracted as his tongue runs across his teeth, barely hearing him as he says, "Well, I may be reluctant to accept your gratitude because I may have had some selfish reasons behind my method."

Your lips part, twitching into the shape of various words that never leave your lips. You feel very warm all of a sudden.

James does a rubbish job of hiding the amusement in his eyes, but he is kind enough to put you out of your misery with an explanation, "I need a walking buddy. Was hoping you'd like to join me?"

You're not any less dumfounded but you manage to get the words out this time. "You want me to go on a walk with you?"

"Yeah," James says, like it's not strange at all.

"Why didn't you ask one of your friends to go?"

"You are my friend," James insists, and you cock and eyebrow.

"I was surprised that you even knew my name."

"Of course I know you! We're friends," he emphasizes.

You look at him skeptically, not sure what you did to make a friend out of him. Not that you wouldn't like to be his friend, but friends usually talk to each other. The last time James spoke to you was last year to ask if you had an extra roll of parchment. And he was more so asking the entire class, you just so happened to be the one with the parchment.

"Do you not want to be my friend?" He asks in a teasing tone, having let you stare in silent skepticism for long enough.

He's not being serious, but you panic anyway. "What!? No! I mean no I don't not want to be friends!"

He chuckles as he pushes himself up from wall. "Then walk with me, would'ya?" He nods his head off in the same direction he starts walking, expecting that you'll follow.

You do, your feet moving faster than your brain can overthink your way into a no. But as you walk next to him your thoughts catch up with you.

What are you supposed to talk about? What do you know about him? Quidditch. What do you know about Quidditch? You know lots about Quidditch. Quick, say something about Quidditch before this silence gets awkward. Why do you suddenly not know anything about Quidditch?

The effects of your racing mind are written across face, your features contorted in worry and a lasting skepticism as you glance up at James every so often.

James is glancing at you too, finding every little crease and contour from your worried look endearing as silent laughter bubbles in his chest.

"Alright, what's that face?" James finally asks, his tone as gentle as possible as not to make you uncomfortable.

Your expression softens into sheepishness. James looks at you with such kindness that you find yourself voicing your concerns.

"We're friends?" you ask in a small, hesitant voice.

James is quick to defend his claim, "I've known you since we were kids!"

"We haven't spoken since we were kids," you say.

He seems to deflate at your words, faltering as he experiences a moment of speechlessness.

"Besides," you go on, a hint of smugness creeping up on you, "we've known everyone at this school since we were kids. Does that make us friends with everyone?"

James is quick to shake his head. "Not everyone was as kind as you back then."

Any trace of smugness has been quickly expunged and replaced by a fluttering in your stomach as his eyes fill with what you would call admiration if you didn't know any better.

"And you were exceptionally kind," he adds on, not helping ease the butterflies in your stomach. "Though you're right. I should've talked to you. I don't know why I didn't talk to you more."

"It's okay," you say in a small voice, prompting you to clear your throat before you continue, "We're talking now."

James smiles that radiant, charming smile that makes you swoon. Before silence can settle over you James' face lights up as an idea pops into his head.

"Have you ever been on the Quidditch Pitch at night? I mean, when there's no game going on?"

You shake your head, your eyebrows creasing as you find his question rather random. Before you've fully grasped what he's implying, he's grabbing your hand and dragging you out of the castle.

A gasp escapes your lips as he tugs you along, his enthusiasm and long strides causing him to race ahead without realizing how fast he’s moving. It's only when you're outside that you find your voice again.

"James!"

He slows his pace and drops your hand. For a moment, he looks almost embarrassed, shrugging his shoulders as he lacks an excuse for his sudden burst of energy.

You shake your head with a smile. “Some things never change. Do you ever take a deep breath and just mellow out?” you ask, noticing with amusement that he’s just as hyperactive now as he was when you were kids.

James makes a big show of taking a long, deep breath as he falls into step with you at a much more leisurely pace than before.

You shake your head again, chuckling.

"Some things do change, by the way. For example, you were taller than me back then," he says, resting his elbow on the top of your head to emphasize the difference.

You jerk your head away, playfully retorting, "Everyone was taller than you."

"Shut up!" he laughs, letting his arm fall to his side. He's close enough that his arm brushes against yours as you walk. You feel the shake of his laughs against your skin and you can't help but giggle along.

It doesn't take long to walk to the quidditch pitch. The walk felt shorter than it does on game days, but maybe that's because you didn't have James to walk with.

You follow James out to the very center of the field, where he wastes no time to plop down into the grass. "Lie with me," he says, crossing his arms behind his head. "You can see all the stars from out here," he says to convince you.

"You come out here a lot?" you ask as you sink down beside him. The grass tickles your skin as you lay down.

"I've been coming out here since I was a first year," James reveals. "I used to lie in the grass, just like this, and imagine what I would look like flying above dodging bludgers and scoring winning goals."

"Yeah?"

James hums affirmatively. "I've always loved Quidditch. Wanted to play for as long as I can remember. And then I came to Hogwarts, and Merlin, I thought the Quidditch players were so cool. Wanted to be like them so bad."

"What does it feel like?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you’re the one first years are looking up to now."

"No, they're not," James scoffs in complete disbelief.

"James," you deadpan, thinking he can't be serious. "You're the Gryffindor captain and rightfully so. One of the best chasers Hogwarts has probably ever seen. I mean, the way you escaped that bludger last weekend?” you muse. “Not to mention the Chudley Chop Down you pulled off. You looked just like the professionals, it was incredible!"

James is caught at a loss for words again, a rare occurrence for him, but you've managed to make it happen twice now.

You clear your throat, realizing how you've just raved on about him to his face. You excuse yourself with, "I, um, I really like Quidditch."

James blinks away the awestricken glint in his eyes, responding, "Figured as much. Don't think I've ever played a game I haven't seen you in the crowd of. But enough about me," he continues. "What about you and your achievements, eh?”

“What are you talking about?”

"Don't be coy. You have to be the brightest witch at Hogwarts."

"No, that's–"

"C'mon I've seen the marks you get. And no one gets Gryffindor more house points in class than you do. All the professors love you; Slughorn always seats you to his right at Slug Club meetings. And I thought Minnie had a soft spot for me but then I saw how she talks to you."

"Maybe if you called her Professor McGonagall once in a while," you tease, trying to distract him from showering you with anymore compliments to spare your heart from racing any longer.

"Wouldn't matter. She likes you because you're smart. Driven too. She knows you’ll do great things after school. Everyone knows you'll be one of the most successful in our class."

"I hardly think anyone notices me,” you say, nervously ripping up blades of grass from the ground.

"I have," he says, looking at you with so much fondness it takes your breath away.

Your eyes widen, sparkling with warm astonishment at all his kind words. James notices the way your parted lips curve into a small, shy smile. Slowly, it grows into a grin.

He nudges you, "Now what's that look for?"

"This is just... unexpected."

"Unexpected?"

"I mean I didn't realize you remembered by name, let alone knew anything about me."

James' expression is tinted with disbelief. He removes his arms from behind his head as he angles his body slightly toward you, gearing towards something serious. "Of course I did. When I said you were kind to me back then, you were really the only one who was. How could I forget you?"

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise as James sighs deeply.

"Merlin, I really should have talked to you more," he says, shaking his head.

"It's okay–"

"No," he insists, "I should have talked to you more. I don't know why I didn't– I mean I do know why I just..."

You swallow hard, giving yourself time to find your voice. "There's a reason?" you ask.

James turns his head, shifting back against the grass as his gaze finding the stars above him. You can see the moon reflecting in his eyes as he bathes in its light. He looks ethereal like this.

"You make me nervous," he's able to admit in the comfort of not having to see your reaction, pretending it’s just him and the moon out here.

Your jaw goes slack. You'd sooner think you're being pranked or he's under some kind of spell than to believe his words.

"What?" you finally utter. Your hand freezes with a chunk of freshly ripped up grass held hostage between your fingertips.

James chuckles, "You were so nice to me. And I always thought you were so pretty I– every time you said something kind to me I would get so red in the face."

You're silent, at a loss for words as you try to wrap your mind around his admission. If the tips of his ears hadn't turned red, you'd think he's lying.

"I mean everything made me nervous back then," he continues. "Thank Merlin I grew out of that, but you..."

James finally looks at you again, his eyes darting across your face as he absorbs your reaction. Carefully, he takes hold of your wrist, placing your palm flat on his chest, over his heart.

"You still make my heart race," he says quietly, and you can feel the proof under your fingertips.

Words make their way past your lips almost instinctively, driven by a desire to reassure him. "I... I was too nervous to talk to you too."

The fondness in his eyes grows even warmer, and he begins tracing gentle lines on the back of your wrist with the pad of his thumb. "It's alright," he says. His tone is genuine and hopeful as he continues, "We're talking now," he repeats your words from earlier with newfound affection. "And I'd really like it if we could keep talking."

"Yeah," you say. A wave of courage washes over you, and you adjust your hand to intertwine your fingers with his. "Me too."

After that, you find yourself out here a lot more often, staring at the stars with James, your fingers intertwined. You're both much more comfortable around each other now, but from time to time, you still make each other's heart race.

When he's home, he becomes your anchor during those spirals.

When your mind starts racing with worst-case scenarios, Hotch sits with you, one hand on your back or holding yours depending on what you need most in that specific situation.

Because his job is so unpredictable and high-stakes at times, he makes a deliberate effort to give you as much predictability as possible in your relationship.

Which ends up making him incredibly consistent, and that becomes one of the most grounding things about him.

If he says he’ll call, he calls.

If he says he’ll be there at 18:00, he’s there at 17:58.

There’s no guessing, no unpredictability, no emotional whiplash.

That reliability starts to quiet some of the constant “what if” loops in your head.

Because with Hotch, things don’t suddenly shift without warning... unless it's an absolute emergency that he shouldn't (workwise) warning you about. (Think season 4 episode 24 (Amplification) the one with the anthrax attack where JJ wants to call and warn about the attack to protect Henry, but Hotch tells her not to because it wouldn't be fair to all the other innocent people)

Hotch is protective without being overbearing.

He’ll check in before big events, meetings or situations that you’ve mentioned make you nervous.

But he also encourages you when he knows you’re capable, because he believes in your strength even on the days you don’t.

At home, he’s softe with you: more touches, more smiles, and that dry hotch humor that's so bad you can't help but laugh.

He loves when you curl up against him on the couch.

He’ll wrap an arm around you and let you rest your head on his chest

His heartbeat steady and reassuring when your mind is racing.

He’s patient with your overthinking.

If you spiral about whether you said something wrong or if he’s upset with you, he'll listen, then responds with something along the lines of: “I’m not mad.” And then go on to explain the things you're overthinking about.

When your anxiety keeps you up at night, Hotch doesn’t mind staying awake with you.

He might read case files quietly beside you (if he has to) or make you tea, or simply hold you until you drift off in his arms.

He’s used to functioning on little sleep, so if it means helping you calm down it's no bother at all.

On really bad anxiety days, he cancels whatever plans he can and prioritize you.

Deep down, your anxiety makes him even more determined to come home safely every time.

Harry looks at you like he’s reading you, fingers curling around yours to hold your palm in his. Your fingers twitch in his, and gently run over his palm, feeling his skin. 

“What’s on your mind, my little wanderer?”, he asks, and you take another breath, shaking your head. “A lot..just nervous, I guess.”

You probably sounded crazy saying that, as you both were on your way to celebrate one of your common friend’s birthday. Just a birthday party at a club. This party you were actually excited to attend too, many of your friends would be there, lots of great food and drinks. You also loved dressing up and just taking a pause from your hectic life sometimes. 

You can’t remember when the anxiety started coming up, and it doesn’t make sense because you have been to parties before, you looked forward to this and it shouldn’t be triggering at all. 

“Is it about Kristen? We’ll stay clear of her, babe, and I got you if she comes anywhere near you to start her nonsense.”, Harry says, thinking you might be nervous about encountering your once friend turned enemy. But it wasn’t about her, Kristen was barely on your mind. You didn’t care about her anymore.

From your lack of response, Harry’s other hand comes off the wheel as he stops at the signal and cups your chin, turning your face to him. “Is it something else?”, he asks, thumb stroking the side of your jaw as you slowly meet his gaze. 

You felt like your heart was racing, a whole tornado of thoughts in your head that you were trying to control so hard. Harry’s touch, his soft eyes as he looked at you, you wanted to bury yourself in his arms and disappear. 

“I…can you just talk to me about something? Anything?”, you ask, you needed him to distract you. Thinking about it was making it worse.

Harry leans towards you in his seat, hand cupping your cheek. “Darling, you were jumping and telling me to hurry up back home. What’s the matter, hm?”

Tears threaten to spill, and you remind yourself to take slower breaths. Harry has to turn back to the road as the signal turns green, but one hand still stays on your thigh now, gently rubbing up and down. 

“I don’t know why this has to happen now. Fuck.” You turn your eyes back to the window. 

“Hey, you’re alright, love, it’s okay, yeah?”, Harry knows by now that it’s your anxiety. Something you’ve always had, but sometimes it feels like it’s never there, and other times, you feel like you need someone around you or you’ll go insane.

“Just distract me Harry, please?”

Harry nods, squeezing your thigh gently. “Need me to pullover? We can relax for a bit, take a few deep breaths and then continue.”

“W-We’ll be late..”, you whisper.

“Doesn’t matter.”, Harry murmurs as he pulls over.

He unbuckles his seatbelt and yours, turning to you. “I’m sorry, it’s not that bad..I’m just frustrated and ugh..”

“Mhm. Did something happen at work today?”, Harry asks, reaching back for a water bottle.

“No..it was all good until I got in the car.”, you murmur, whispering a thanks as Harry holds the uncapped water bottle to your lips. He presses a kiss to your temple when you’re done, keeping the bottle away before giving you a side hug, and you lean into him, fingers feeling the material of his shirt, the texture, something to distract you.

“You know, Mitch tried to prank me at work today. But I didn’t fall for it.”, Harry starts talking, his hand rubbing your arm. You listen to Mitch’s failed attempt at pranking Harry, he usually falls for everything, so it was pretty surprising. And the way Harry narrated the incident made you laugh by the end.

“There’s that laugh.”, Harry presses a kiss to your forehead and you smile softly, lifting your face to look at him. “Did I mention you look absolutely gorgeous tonight?” 

You giggle softly as he presses a kiss to your lips, without smudging your lipstick too much. “You did, a couple times.”

“Well I should a couple times more, it still won’t be enough.” 

You take in the silence, focusing just on Harry. He’s solid, he’s the one that’s with you. Not your thoughts that are just in your head, messing with you. You listen to the sound of other cars driving by, the light from the street lamp making Harry’s face glow, enhancing his features.

 He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Do you wanna go home?”

“No..I wanna go, I want to have fun. And going home would be giving up. I can’t let this take over things I want to do.”

Harry’s arm around you pulls you a bit closer, lips brushing your earlobe. “It isn’t always giving up. You can always take a pause if you need.”

“I’ll feel better when I’m with everyone, this’ll be good.”, you tell him, and convince yourself at the same time. 

“You sure, bug? You’re feeling better now?”, Harry asks, and you nod, kissing his cheek. “Thank you.”

“I got you.”, he smiles, reaching over to put on your seatbelt just like he took it off, and giving you another kiss. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You brush your hand against his cheek, appreciating how wonderful of a man he is. “Let’s change the radio. Connect your phone love, playlist time.”

“You’re gonna suffer through it until we get there?”, you ask, finding your playlist, that could help you relax. 

“Sure, if it helps you. I can even sing along.”, Harry says, making you chuckle.

He sang along to some of the songs he doesn’t even like but knows by heart because of how often you listen to them. He also kept talking to you, making sure you don’t zone out again. The feeling wasn’t gone though. You could feel it, waiting for another quiet vulnerable moment to pounce.

As you pulled up near the entrance of the club and Harry rolled his window down to talk to the security, and about the valet parking, it all hit you again.

No, don’t get out of the car. You’re going to feel sick if you do. It’s not safe. There’s going to be a lot of people.

You shut your eyes, breathing in for four, holding it in for four, and letting it out for four, inhaling sharply after that, even though you tried to exhale for longer. Long exhales activate the parasympathetic system, that lets your body know that there’s no need to panic.

It’s your close friend’s birthday. You’re going to have fun. You just need to hold on until you get to your group. 

“Come on, beautiful.” Harry had got the door for you already, holding his hand out.

You take it, slowly getting out of the car, and the familiar wooziness hits you. 

Stop. You imagine a red stop sign, telling your brain to shut it off. That worked sometimes.

“You okay, love?”, Harry checks again, concerned now. 

“Uh huh, let’s go in.” You hold his arm, pulling him along as you walk in. Sometimes you felt like staying still would make it worse. You had to keep moving.

“Hey!! There they are, my favorite couple. Bring it in, guys.”, the birthday boy finds you soon, hugging you both. “Sorry we got the party started already.”

“Looking sharp, mate, doesn’t seem like you’re getting old at all! Happy birthday.”, Harry says, and you put on a smile and wish him as well. 

“y/n, babe! Finally!”, your friend calls out to you, coming to you with a big grin and two drinks. The flashy lights, the music, the familiar faces, you let it all take over. Your friend pulled you off to where the other girls were, handing you one of the drinks.

You don’t drink it yet, as it would only make your anxiety worse. You know from experience. You were looking forward to let lose but now you’re having to watch your breathing to make sure you don’t hyperventilate.

You talk with everyone, smiling, sharing jokes, putting on that mask that you so well know to put on. But you were not having fun inside. The minute the conversation died, or there was a switch up music, you felt the cold, uncomfortable feeling. You made sure you were in a corner, where there was a seat in case you needed it. 

“Come on, let’s dance. Gotta show of that pretty dress.”, your friend says, and you go with her, thinking just throwing your arms around and moving to the beat would help, but there was just too many people on the dance floor. You’re not claustrophobic but anxiety makes you feel all kinds of things. 

You’re going to feel breathless if you go in there. Back up!

You can hear your heart thudding like it’s beating right next to your ear. Your legs start to feel weak, and the wooziness returns, with a flutter in your stomach. You need to do something before it takes over completely. You try to focus on five things you can see, four things you can touch, but you can’t in this club setting. 

And then before you know it, came the panic. The fear. Everything that you fear about flashes through your mind. The worst being the fear of failure. 

What if this makes me faint? Everyone’s gonna see. What would I tell all of them? 

Although you never fainted from anxiety attacks before, it has made you feel very dizzy, and like you will fall at any minute. So you’re always worried about fainting if it gets too out of control. It shouldn’t make sense medically, as the attacks tend to raise the blood pressure and the opposite of that makes people faint. Maybe it was just mind tricking you again, making sure the horror movie running through your mind is scary enough.

You take a step back, and look around, Harry’s eyes meeting yours. He was with a couple friends, talking, but also keeping an eye on you. He’s coming over when he sees your face.

“I-I can’t..”, you whisper to him, and he barely hears it, but he does, and quickly wraps his arm around you. He leads you out through the back door, and you gasp, relieved feeling the fresh air, but you’re breathing too fast to take it all in, and your vision was starting to blur as Harry steered you outside.

“Do you need to sit?”, Harry asks, holding on to you like he’s afraid you would collapse if he didn’t, and you nod. He looks around but there was no chair or bench, so he quickly shrugs off his jacket and lays it on the grass, and makes you sit on it, he sits on the grass right beside you.

You breathe deeply, leaning to his chest as he wraps his arms around you. “That’s it, deep breaths, baby. I’m here.”, he says, fingers running through your hair. “I’m here with you, just me and you.”

You were feeling better already, the blurriness going away and you no longer felt that extreme dread or danger. It’s always like this. Like it’s there just to keep you from doing something you want.

Your anxiety attacks always looked like this. Nothing dramatic from the outside, but inside, your system was reacting like you were walking into a trap. If anyone saw you now, they would probably think it’s just a couple having a picnic on the grass.

“Baby, talk to me? It’s getting better, right? You need me to help you with anything?”, Harry asks, and you hate making him worry so much, you could hear it in his voice.

“Yeah..i-it’s better.”, you reply, and he takes one of your hands, and you realize they’re trembling slightly when he presses a kiss to it. “You’re doing so good. Let’s stay here for another minute, yeah? Keep doing your breathing exercises like you practiced.”

You did, and after a few minutes, you were feeling like a weight lifted off of you. The familiar feeling you get when the worst that can happen that day has already happened. Now you were just left with sadness. You had once again ruined something that you looked forward too, and your boyfriend having to face it too because of you. It was supposed to be his night of fun too.

“Hey, it’s okay, you’re okay now..”, Harry whispers, thumbing away a small tear from your cheek, even before you start to apologize. 

“I-I’m sorry-”, you croak, blinking back tears, and Harry shakes his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “No, don’t apologize for this, baby. You did good, you controlled it all by yourself, I just held you.”

“But I ruined everything, Harry..I-I don’t know if I can go back there.”, you admit, arms that were in your lap going around his torso. 

“Then we don’t. You didn’t ruin anything, my love. You’re just having a bad night, okay? And that’s fine. You didn’t choose for the anxiety to turn up today of all days, it’s unexpected. You don’t have time to prepare for it. So it’s not your fault, alright?” You smile softly, and he cups your cheek, kissing you. “And the nights that I spend with you are my favorite ones. Let’s go home baby.”

“Okay.” You begin to stand, but before you can, he scoops you up, along with his jacket, carrying you. 

“Don’t we have to tell him? We shouldn’t leave like this..”, you say.

“I’ll make up something later, love, I’ll call him, don’t worry.”

You hide your face in his chest, pulling his jacket around you closer, not wanting anyone to see you.

When the valet has got your car, Harry gets you in and then gets in himself. “Comfortable?”, he asks, stroking your cheek. You nod, putting your arms through the sleeves of his jacket and he pats your knee. “We’ll be home soon, darling. Just relax.”

“Can we roll down the windows, please?”, you ask, and he presses the button that does it. “Of course.”

You continued listening to the softer songs on your playlist, Harry’s hand never leaving your body, and although he tried not to show it, you could see his concerned glances at you every now and then.

You feel all the anxiety almost leave your body as you pull up to your house. You walk in with Harry’s hand on your lower back, and he bends down to take your heels off even before you can do it. 

You sigh, hands on Harry’s arms as he comes up and he smiles as you put your arms around his neck and kiss his cheek in thanks. “You look better already, some color coming back to your cheeks.”, he says, putting his arms around your waist.

“I still feel bad about leaving though.”, you mumble, head resting on his shoulder. He starts swaying you on the spot.

“Don’t, it came out of nowhere. And you really tried. Don’t beat yourself about it, love. “

You nod slowly, going along with Harry’s slow pace as he swayed.. “You’re too good to me.”

He chuckles, brushing his nose against yours. “You deserve the best.” 

You kiss him, and he kisses you back slowly, passionately, but full of love like he wants you to feel how loved you are, and that you’re not alone. You close your eyes, letting yourself get lost in him. 

You’re breathless when he pulls away and he grins, stroking your bottom lip with his thumb. “You have me, always, okay?”

“Okay.”, you whisper, smiling softly.

“I’m starving, you hungry?”, he asks, pulling away with a kiss on your cheek and going to the kitchen. 

“My appetite’s not here anymore..”, you tell him, sitting on the couch. 

“You always feel like that but after the first bite, you want to continue eating. Let’s order takeout. Here.”

He comes back with a bottle of cold water for you. He sits beside you, and you slip your arm around his, resting against him as he orders takeout on his phone. He also sends a text to your friends who were wondering why you both disappeared suddenly. You remain quiet, thinking of how everything escalated quickly, how helpless you were.

“Alright, that’s done. How you feeling now, love?”, Harry puts his phone away and asks you.

“Alright.”, you nod. 

“Just alright? Let’s go change into comfy clothes and settle in. I’m on a mission to get you feeling better.”

You can’t help but smile as he pulls you towards the bedroom. You hold up your hair, turning around and he helps you with the zipper of your dress. 

Harry changes too, and you get under the covers of your bed after washing all your makeup off, watching as Harry hangs up his jacket and folds his pants. 

“You want me to make you some tea, love?”, he asks, walking up to you, finger gently poking your nose to make you smile.

“Mm no, just lay down with me?”, you grasp his wrist. 

“Aw, does my baby just want cuddles?”, he coos, and you groan softly as he laughs and gets under the covers too, raising his arm as he lets you snuggle into his chest, and lay your head there. He pulls up the covers before his arms come to wrap around you, chin resting on your head. You close your eyes and relax completely. You finally felt safe. 

“I-I hate it when I feel like this..”, you whisper to him, his thumb drawing patterns over your arm. “I get so scared, babe.”

“I know, bug, I hate it too. It feels too real, even if it’s not. All the endless possibilities of things that could go wrong laid out like a Sunday brunch buffet.”

You chuckle even through a little sob. “You never have to be scared though. I’ll be there to help you if you need. I won’t let you go through it alone, y/n.”

“W-What if this happens during a conference or something? You won’t be there, Harry. I’ll ruin things at work and get fired, or demoted, and be a failure-”

His finger comes up to your lips to silence your rant. “Shh, you’re no failure. You’ve already accomplished many huge things and I’m so proud of you for that. You chose a field that demands everything out of you, and you push your boundaries and comfort zones every day, despite your anxiety. You’re so brave for that!” 

He kisses your temple. “And I don’t need to be there always. You’re my strong girl, you got this. You may think you’re weak, but you’re not. You’re amazing.”

You smile, looking up at him through your tears, cupping his cheeks. “And I know you didn’t want this, but maybe you could give meds a try? It’s nothing to be ashamed of, love. It would only help you.”

“Okay.”, you whisper, stroking some of his hair back from his forehead. “I love you. Thank you for being..you.”

“Don’t thank me. I love you and I mean it, so I’m not going to let you deal with it all alone and run away when it gets hard. I love every single part of you y/n, even this anxious little baby.”

“Yeah?”, you laugh, kissing him, admiring the man that he is. You really were lucky for being the one he loves.

“Yeah.”, he grins, touching his forehead to yours. The door bell rings. “There’s our food!”

You usually don’t eat in bed, but you didn’t feel like getting up so Harry brought it to you. The food looked great, but that fluttery feeling in your stomach hadn’t gone away completely.

“Just a little bit.”, Harry says, putting a fork in and swirling the noodles around it. You sit up as he brings it to your mouth, and he feeds it to you.

“Good right?”, he smiles, watching you eat.

It was. Just like he had said earlier, you wanted some more now. “Good.”, you agree, taking the box from him and he smiles, opening his own and settling back next to you. “If I’d listened to you when you said you weren’t hungry, you’d wake up with a rumbling stomach in the middle of the night.”

You smile as you eat, nudging his ribs playfully. “You know it all, Styles.”

“Not all. I know my girl though.”, he says as he ruffles your hair with his free hand.

You couldn’t argue with that. It wasn’t a great night but here you are, with your boyfriend, eating, finally smiling, feeling safe and loved. The world wouldn’t pause, you knew that, things like this would happen again. But as long as you didn’t give up, nothing could take you down.

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