summary: navigating a complicated relationship with cook isnât so easy.
word count: 8.3k (im sorry)
a/n: iâve been writing this on and off for a little while now; i really wanted to make a fic where i write cook like he is in the actual show!! itâs based off of how i interpret one of my favourite elliott smith songs and i wanted to do it justice! i hope you guys enjoy and definitely listen to the it if you havenât before :)
Situations get fucked up and turned around sooner or later / I'm in love with the world through the eyes of a girl, who's still around the morning after.
The first time you see him, itâs not romantic. Not even close.
Youâre wedged into a kitchen that smells like spilled beer and smoke, your back pressed against a sticky counter. The party is already winding down, though youâre not sure it ever really wound up. A couple of people dance lazily in the living room, bodies slumping against the bassline of whatever song someone half-bothered to put on. Youâd been dragged here by a friend whoâs since disappeared, probably upstairs with someone else, leaving you stranded in a sea of strangers.
Thatâs when you notice him.
James Cook. Everyone calls him Cook, and from the way his name carries across the room, you can tell heâs the kind of person who fills it without even trying. His laugh cuts through the haze, sharp and reckless. Heâs on the table, shoes on the wood, nearly knocking over an ashtray as he swings a bottle above his head like itâs a trophy. His grin is wolfish, wide, the kind of grin that dares you not to look.
You donât mean to stare. But you do.
âOi,â he says, pointing the neck of the bottle at you like heâs been waiting for this. âYou. Yeah, you with the face.â
Your face. You blink, startled like a deer in headlights, and someone nudges him, telling him to shut the fuck up. But he doesnât. His attention is fixed on you now, heavy as smoke, and it makes your pulse kick up even though you hate yourself for it.
He jumps down from the table, landing in a messy thud. Thereâs a moment where you think heâs going to veer off, latch onto someone else, but no he comes straight towards you, weaving through bodies with that same reckless grin.
Up close, he smells like cigarettes and cheap cologne. His eyes are blue, bloodshot at the edges, and yet they pin you in place like heâs sober enough to mean it.
âYou been starinâ?â he asks, leaning down too close, voice pitched in that Bristol drawl that sounds like a challenge.
You should say no, shake your head maybe. You should roll your eyes, brush past him, find your friend and leave but instead, your mouth betrays you.
âMaybe.â is all you simply say to him voice coming out soft, quiet.
His grin sharpens. âKnew it.â
Cookâs not beautiful, not in the polished way some boys are. Heâs messy, raw edges everywhere â bruised knuckles, a healing cut across his jaw, a singular stud in his ear catching light when he moves. Heâs the kind of boy your mother warned you about, a stereotype; in fact heâs the very stereotype of a bad boy that everyone would describe and still, when he leans closer, when his voice drops low like heâs letting you in on a secret, you canât pull back.
âYou donât belong here, do ya?â he murmurs. âLook at you. All serious. All⊠proper.â
You bristle. âAnd you do?â
That earns a laugh thatâs loud, full, the kind that draws eyes across the room. He doesnât care. Maybe he likes it that way.
Before you can think, he plucks the cup from your hand, downs whatâs left in one swallow, and slams it back onto the counter. Then, with a casual shrug, he says, âStick with me tonight. Promise Iâll make it worth it princess.â
You almost laugh in his face. Almost. But something in his expression stops you â a flicker beneath the bravado, quick and fragile. Like heâs daring you to see through it.
Against your better judgment, you let him lead you outside. The night air is sharp against your skin, cleaner than the heat inside. Cook lights a cigarette, offers you one. You shake your head, and he smirks like he expected that answer.
For a while, you just stand there, him smoking, you watching the way the glow of the ember carves his features in half-light.
He talks. A lot. About nothing. About everything. About how shit college is, how wild he was last week, how lifeâs just one big shitshow. You donât know why you let him keep going, except that thereâs something magnetic in the way he fills silence, like heâs terrified of it swallowing him whole.
And when he finally asks for your name, you give it. He repeats it, testing it on his tongue, then grins. âFits you, pretty name.â
You should walk away. You know you should. But when he looks at you like that, like maybe, just maybe, youâre not just another face in the crowd, you donât.
Later, when the partyâs splintered into nothing and dawn is starting to bleed into the sky, you find yourself walking home with him. Neither of you say much as you walk side by side, shoulders brushing against each other. He hums a tune under his breath thatâs off-key, but familiar. Very familiar. You recognize it after a moment: Say Yes by Elliott Smith.
Something about that sticks with you.
Cook isnât who you thought he was. Or maybe he is, and thatâs the problem.
Either way, itâs the start.
Cook isnât a constant in your life. Heâs a storm, rolling in loud and sudden, breaking everything in his path, and then gone again before you can catch your breath. But somehow, he keeps finding you. Or maybe you keep letting him.
Tonightâs no different.
The house is already heaving by the time you get there, bass rattling the windows, lights strobing, bodies packed so tight you can barely breathe. The air reeks of sweat, smoke, and cheap vodka, and thereâs a sickly-sweet stickiness to the floor that clings to your shoes. Youâd told yourself youâd only stay an hour. Long enough to not seem boring. Long enough to maybe forget the restless ache youâve been carrying since the last time Cook left you standing alone.
You donât have to look for him. He finds you.
âOi, look who it is,â he drawls, slipping an arm around your shoulders like heâs been waiting for you all night. His breath is warm against your ear, sharp with alcohol. âKnew youâd turn up princess. Couldnât stay away, could ya?â
You roll your eyes, but he doesnât let you shrug him off. His grip is firm, heavy, like heâs staking a claim. It would be easier if he werenât smiling at you like that â that smile that says youâre the only one in the room who matters, even if you know better.
For a while, you let him drag you through the chaos. He dances, if you can call it that, spinning you clumsily until you nearly trip over someoneâs legs. He howls with laughter when you shove him, clutching his chest like youâve wounded him. Everyoneâs watching, and maybe thatâs the point. Cook doesnât just live in the spotlight; he demands it.
But it shifts. It always shifts.
By the time youâre nursing your second drink, you can see it happening â the slur in his words, the way his jokes grow sharper, the restless energy under his skin turning mean. Heâs agitated, prowling, eyes darting around like heâs spoiling for something to snap at.
Some guy, taller and broader, bumps into him near the kitchen doorway, sending Cookâs drink sloshing onto his shirt. Itâs nothing, barely worth a mutter of an apology, but Cook latches onto it like itâs a declaration of war.
âThe fuck you playinâ at, mate?â His voice cuts through the music, sharp enough that people nearby freeze.
The guy holds up his hands. âRelax, man. It was an accident.â
But Cook doesnât relax. His jaw sets, eyes blazing, and before you can step in, he shoves the guy hard in the chest. The crowd reacts instantly; a ripple of noise, phones flashing up, someone yelling for them to take it outside.
âCook!â Youâre there in front of him, pressing your hands against his chest, trying to hold him back. Heâs all tension, coiled tight, fists ready. You can feel his heart pounding under your palms.
âLet it go,â you beg, voice low, desperate. âPlease, just let it go.â
For a second, his eyes meet yours. And you think â maybe. Maybe heâll stop. Maybe youâre enough to pull him back.
But then someone behind you laughs. Itâs not even about him, youâre sure of it, but Cook hears it, and itâs over.
He lunges, shouting, fists swinging. It takes three people to haul him back, his voice tearing through the air: curses, threats, raw fury. The guyâs shouting back, but itâs all noise, all violence that doesnât touch the hollow pit in your stomach.
You get shoved in the scuffle, your drink spilling down your front. No one notices. Theyâre too busy holding Cook as he thrashes, his knuckles splitting open when he catches someoneâs shoulder by accident.
Finally, someone shoves him out the door. The music starts up again, louder than before, like the house is trying to swallow the memory of it. But you canât. Not when you can still hear him outside, pacing, shouting into the night.
You find him slumped against the curb, chest heaving, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and rain. His fists are raw, one eye already swelling. He spits onto the pavement and laughs, hollow and jagged.
âFuckinâ wankers,â he mutters to himself. Then he sees you. âWhat? You here to have a go at me too sweetheart?â
You fold your arms across your chest, trying to ignore the sting in your eyes. âWhat the hell was that, Cook?â
He shrugs, all bravado, like he didnât just nearly tear the house apart. âNothinâ. Just having a laugh.â
âAre you serious?â Your voice cracks sharper than you expect. âYou couldâve gotten arrested. Again. You couldâve gotten hurt!â
âYeah?â He staggers to his feet, swaying slightly, but his eyes are locked on yours. âAnd why dâyou care so much, eh? Whyâs it always you pullinâ me out the fire? Why are you always lookinâ out for me like Iâm worth the trouble?â
The words hit harder than they should. Because you donât have an answer. Not one youâre ready to say out loud. You want to say because no one else will. You want to say because, for reasons you donât even understand, he matters to you. But the words wonât come. Theyâre too big, too dangerous.
So instead, you shake your head, turning away, your voice barely above a whisper, âMaybe I shouldnât.â
And for once, his mask slips. The grin falters, the bravado cracks. For just a heartbeat, he looks like a boy whoâs never heard such painful words in his life. You donât expect the flicker of hurt that crosses his face. You donât expect him to reach for your wrist, gentle this time, his voice dropping low.
Itâs not a command. Itâs a plea. Quiet, broken, so unlike him that it makes your throat ache. Itâs the first time youâve heard him sound small.
And it terrifies you more than his shouting ever did.
You turn away, leaving him standing in the rain with his fists bleeding and his eyes hollow. And even as you walk, the sound of his voice follows you, echoing in the dark.
And you realize â you donât want to.
Not in some dramatic way. Not slamming doors or throwing words you canât take back but in the small, quiet decisions that build a wall brick by brick. You stop answering his calls. You let his texts pile up, one-sentence messages like: u coming out?, u up?, need u princess, until the screen burns with them. When you see him at college, you look past him, pretend youâre too caught up in your books, your friends, anything else.
It hurts. Of course it does. But being around him hurts worse.
Because Cook isnât safe. Not for you, not for himself. Heâs a fire that doesnât care what it consumes, and youâre so, so tired of being the one who has to drag him out of the ashes.
Still⊠you canât help it. You notice him. Of course you do.
The way his laugh is quieter in the hallways now, like he knows youâre not looking his way. The way he still smokes outside during break, shoulders hunched against the wind, always glancing at the door like maybe youâll walk through it. The way his hands are still raw, knuckles split and healing in scabs, but thereâs no story to them this time â no glory fight, no crowd cheering him on. Just silence.
You tell yourself itâs not your problem.
Until the rain; always the rain.
Itâs a bleak Wednesday afternoon, sky bruised and heavy, when you spot him outside the corner shop. Heâs standing there without a hood, hair plastered to his forehead, the soaked fabric of his hoodie clinging to him. He looks smaller this way, the sharpness of him softened by the rain.
When he sees you, his face lights up like the sunâs broken through the storm.
You should keep walking. Pretend you didnât hear him. But your feet betray you, stopping just as he strides up, shoes splashing through puddles. He smells like cigarettes and damp fabric, but underneath it is something familiar, something that twists your stomach in knots.
âWhat do you want, Cook?â
He shrugs, hands buried deep in his pockets, grin lopsided. âNothinâ. Just⊠missed you, yeah?â
You donât answer. You canât. Because if you admit that youâve missed him too â missed the chaos, missed the way he makes the world brighter even as he burns it down â then whatâs the point of all this distance youâve forced between you?
He falls into step beside you anyway, like itâs the most natural thing in the world. You walk in silence at first, only the sound of rain smacking against the pavement. Then he starts talking, filling the air the way he always does. About how the shopkeeper nearly threw him out for loitering, about some fight he didnât get into (a miracle, apparently), about nothing at all.
You try not to listen. But you do. You always do.
Then, softer, almost drowned out by the rain:
âBeen thinkinâ about you princess. Loads.â
Your chest tightens. You keep your gaze fixed ahead. âDonât.â
âCanât help it.â He laughs under his breath, but itâs thin, shaky. âSâlikeâfuck, I dunno. Youâre in my head. Even when I donât want you there.â
Something in your stomach twists because you know exactly what he means. Youâve tried to cut him out, but every night when the house is quiet, you hear his voice in your head. âDonât say that.â
You stop walking. He almost bumps into you, blinking in surprise.
âThis canât keep happening,â you say, the words tumbling out fast, sharp, before you can swallow them back. âI canât keep⊠cleaning up after you. Watching you wreck yourself. Waiting for you to turn up on my doorstep bleeding or drunk or both.â
For a moment, Cook doesnât move. The rain drums against his shoulders, his hoodie clinging to his frame, and he looks like a boy caught in a storm much bigger than this one.
Finally, he says, voice low: âIâm tryinâ, you know.â
You almost laugh, but thereâs nothing funny about it. âYouâre not. You donât know how.â
Thatâs when he snaps, though itâs not loud, not like before. His voice breaks instead.
âMaybe not, yeah? Maybe I donât fuckinâ know how. But youââ His jaw works, eyes wet but not from the rain. âYouâre the only thing that makes me wanna try.â
The words slam into you, sharp and tender all at once.
You shake your head, because itâs too much. Because itâs not enough. âThatâs not fair, Cook. You know itâs not.â
âLifeâs not fuckinâ fair.â His grin comes back, but itâs weak, brittle. He rakes a hand through his soaked hair, looking at you like youâre the only thing keeping him upright. âBut Iâm here, ainât I? Not in some cell, not startinâ some fight. Iâm here, talkinâ to you. Doesnât that count for somethinâ?â
You donât answer. You canât. Because if you give him that sliver of hope, you know youâll fall right back into the fire.
So you do the only thing you can â you walk away.
This time, he doesnât follow.
But when you glance back once, just once, you see him standing there in the rain, still watching you go, his shoulders slumped like maybe he already knows youâre the one fight he doesnât know how to win.
And God help you, your heart aches anyway.
You thought pulling away would make it easier. That if you starved the connection, it would fade, the way bruises fade, first sharp and purple, then dull, then gone. But instead, it festers. Itâs in everything.
In the halls at college, throwing his head back in laughter that doesnât quite reach his eyes. On the steps outside, cigarette dangling from his lips as he trades jabs with Freddie or JJ. At parties, surrounded by girls who touch his arm, his shoulder, his chest and the way he lets them, grinning wide, though you can tell itâs hollow.
You hate that you notice. You hate that every time your phone buzzes, you still hope itâs him, even though youâve stopped answering. You hate that he still gets under your skin, even when youâve done everything you can to scrape him out.
The calls come less often, sure. But when they do, theyâre raw and vulnerable. Voicemails slurred with his accent, words spilling like heâs half-drunk and half-bleeding.
âOi, itâs me. Just⊠yeah. Just call me back, yeah? Please.â
Or: âYou donât get it princess. Iâm not alright without you. Iâm fuckinâ not.â
You delete them, but the sound of his voice stays, gnawing at you.
Then, one night, he shows up.
Itâs nearly 2 a.m. when the knock rattles your window. At first you think youâre dreaming, but then you hear it again, urgent, insistent. You drag yourself out of bed, heart hammering, and when you pull back the curtain, there he is.
Heâs standing in the rain again, jacket pulled tight around him, shoulders hunched. His hair drips into his eyes, and when he sees you, his mouth twists into something thatâs not quite a smile.
You hesitate. Every bone in your body screams to shut the curtain, crawl back into bed, forget this. But you slide the window open anyway. He clambers in clumsily, nearly knocking over your lamp, bringing the smell of rain and smoke with him.
For a moment, neither of you speak. Heâs dripping water onto your floor, his breath uneven, his fists clenched like heâs holding himself together by force.
Finally, you whisper, âWhat are you doing here?â
He looks at you, and for once, thereâs no grin, no bravado. Just tired blue eyes, rimmed red.
âDidnât know where else to go.â
The words cut straight through you.
You want to reach for him. God, you do. But instead you wrap your arms around yourself, like distance can save you. âCookâŠâ
âIâm fuckinâ losinâ it, alright?â His voice cracks, low and ragged. âI go out, I drink, I fight, I fuck random girls, and none of itânone of it fills it. None of it feels like⊠you.â
The silence between you is unbearable.
Finally, you shake your head. âYou canât just come here when youâre empty and expect me to fix it. Thatâs not love, Cook. Thatâsââ
âMaybe not,â he snaps, throwing your own words back at you. But thereâs no heat in it, only desperation. âBut itâs the closest Iâve ever come.â
The look in his eyes makes it hard to breathe. Heâs not just asking you to let him in your room. Heâs asking you to save him. To say heâs worth saving.
And you canât. Not yet.
So you turn away, your voice a whisper. âYou should go.â
For a moment, he doesnât move. Then you hear him curse under his breath, sharp and broken, before climbing back out into the rain.
You donât sleep that night. You just sit there in the dark, staring at the wet footprints he left on your carpet, wishing you didnât care as much as you do.
The distance doesnât break all at once. It splinters. Little fractures, small cracks that keep widening until you donât even realize how deep they go.
At first, you think maybe heâs listening. Cook doesnât bang on your window again, doesnât show up at 2 am. He still looks at you in the halls, but he doesnât call out. He still smokes outside, but he doesnât try to wave you over.
And that should make it easier. Shouldnât it?
But instead it feels worse.
Because Cook isnât built for silence. And when he starts keeping it, itâs like watching him fade. His laugh gets quieter, stretched thin around the edges. He goes out, sure and you hear about him at parties, see photos pop up on friendsâ feeds but even there, he looks dimmer. Smiling wide with girls pressed into him, but the grin doesnât reach his eyes.
You tell yourself youâre not going to care. That youâre done. That the ache in your chest every time you see his name on someone elseâs page is just muscle memory.
But then, one night, it boils over.
Itâs another party, one you hadnât planned to go to, but your friend dragged you along, promising âIt wonât be Cookâs scene.â But of course, it is. Heâs impossible to avoid.
You spot him the moment you walk in: Cook in the middle of the living room, dancing on a table again, vodka bottle raised high, grin painted on like armor. Everyoneâs cheering. Everyoneâs laughing. And it feels like deja vu â the same chaos, the same storm youâve tried to walk away from.
You tell yourself to leave. You make it as far as the door. But then his eyes catch yours.
In two seconds, heâs off the table, shoving through the crowd, weaving past grasping hands and laughter until heâs in front of you. Breathless.
You fold your arms. âI didnât come for you.â
He smirks, but itâs fragile. âStill, youâre here.â
âNot for long.â You move to push past him, but he blocks the door, hand flat against the frame.
âDonât do that,â he says, softer now. âDonât look at me like Iâm nothinâ.â
Your chest tightens, anger and sorrow tangling. âWhat do you want from me, Cook?â
He laughs but itâs loud, jagged, wrong. âWhat dâyou think? I want you. Iâve always wanted you princess.â
âYeah? You want me until the next fight, the next bottle, the next girl in your bed?â The words are sharper than you mean them to be, but you canât stop. The hurt pours out, years of watching him burn himself alive. âI canât be the one who keeps pulling you out of the fire. Youâll drag me down with you.â
Something in his face cracks. He steps closer, so close you can smell the alcohol clinging to him, the smoke in his hair.
âThen let me fuckinâ burn,â he says, voice raw, shaking. âJust⊠donât walk away.â
The silence after is unbearable.
His eyes are wide, desperate, and for the first time, you realize heâs terrified. Not of fights, not of the police, not of consequences but of you leaving.
Because you want to believe him. You want to believe youâre enough to change him, to save him. But youâre so tired of bleeding for him, too.
You push past, your voice breaking. âI canât, Cook. Not like this.â
When you glance back once, heâs still standing by the door, fists trembling at his sides, his face a storm of hurt and fury. For a second, you think he might scream, or laugh, or smash a bottle just to fill the silence.
He just stands there, watching you go.
And you finally realise that this is the fracture. The place where something has to give, or itâll all collapse for good.
Thatâs the thing about Cook â when he falls, everyone sees it. Everyoneâs got a story, a snapshot, a blurry video on their phone. You donât want to listen, donât want to look, but the whispers find you anyway.
âCook got in it with some bloke outside the club.â
âHe was off his head, like properly gone.â
âDid you hear he nicked a car? Crashed it into someoneâs garden.â
You donât know whatâs true, whatâs exaggerated. But every story has the same thread: Cook, reckless. Cook, untouchable. Cook, burning himself down like heâs daring the world to stop him.
And every time you hear his name, your stomach twists.
You tell yourself youâre not going to get involved. Not again. Not after the last time, not after the way he looked at you in that doorway, begging. You made your choice. You walked away.
But then, one night, you see it with your own eyes.
You hadnât planned to go out but your friend drags you along to a pub, promising a quiet night. Itâs not quiet. It never is. And as soon as you step inside, you feel it â the static in the air, the way peopleâs eyes keep darting toward the corner.
Heâs slumped in a booth, a half-empty pint glass in front of him, cigarette smoldering dangerously close to the wood. Heâs laughing too loud at something someone said, head thrown back, but the sound is jagged, cracked. His lip is split again, fresh bruises blooming across his knuckles.
And when his eyes land on you across the room, the laugh dies in his throat.
For a long, heavy second, neither of you move.
Then heâs on his feet, stumbling toward you, nearly knocking over a chair. His grin is crooked, desperate, but thereâs no joy in it. Just rawness.
âKnew youâd turn up,â he slurs, voice thick with drink. âKnew you couldnât stay gone.â
You freeze. âCookââ
âDonât.â He sways closer, eyes glassy but fixed on you like youâre the only thing anchoring him. âDonât tell me you donât fuckinâ care. âCause youâre here. Youâre always here.â
Your throat tightens. The whole pub is watching now, the weight of it pressing on your skin. Heâs unraveling in front of everyone, and itâs unbearable.
You grab his arm, hauling him outside before he can make more of a scene. The cold night air hits you like a slap. He shivers, pulling his jacket tighter around him, eyes darting over your face like heâs searching for something.
âWhat are you doing to yourself?â you demand, your voice breaking despite yourself. âYouâre going to get yourself killed, Cook.â
He laughs again, hollow. âSo what? Maybe thatâs what I fuckinâ deserve.â
Your chest caves in at the words. âDonât say that.â
âWhy not?â His voice rises, raw, shaking. âWhy shouldnât I? World donât give a toss, does it? Freddieâs gone, Effyâs gone, my familyâs fuckedââ His voice cracks. He looks at you, eyes burning, and itâs like heâs stripped bare. âYouâre the only one left who ever bloody saw me. And you still walked away.â
The silence after is unbearable.
Because heâs right. You did walk away. And yet, looking at him now â trembling, broken, clinging to you like youâre the last thing keeping him from shattering â you feel the walls inside you start to crumble.
You want to tell him heâs wrong, that you do care, that you never stopped. But the words stick in your throat.
Instead, you whisper, âI canât save you, Cook.â
For a moment, he just stares. Then his grin slips completely, and all thatâs left is the hollow boy underneath.
âMaybe not,â he says, voice barely audible. âBut youâre the only one I want tryinâ.â
And it leaves you standing in the dark, torn wide open, knowing something has to give. Because if you donât, if you let him spiral like this, he wonât survive it.
The night smells of damp brick and cigarette ash. The streets are slick from earlier rain, puddles reflecting dim streetlights. Youâre walking fast, head down, trying to shake off the evening â the pub, the whispers, the sight of Cook unraveling in front of everyone. Youâre not sure where youâre going, only that you need air.
Footsteps echo behind you.
You donât have to look to know itâs him. His steps are uneven, a stumble wrapped in swagger. He calls your name once, twice, each time softer, like heâs afraid youâll bolt.
âDonât,â you say without turning. âDonât follow me.â
But he does. Of course he does.
You spin around at the mouth of an alley, heart hammering. Heâs there â jacket wrapped tightly around him, hair damp, eyes ringed in bruised shadows. He looks nothing like the boy who once grinned at you the first time you met him. He looks wrecked, completely utterly wrecked.
âWhat do you want from me, Cook?â Your voice cracks despite yourself. âI canât do this anymore.â
Something in him snaps. The grin he tries to wear flickers out, leaving only rawness.
âDonât you fuckinâ say that.â His voice is low at first, but itâs shaking. âDonât you dare.â
You cross your arms, trying to keep steady. âIâve been watching you tear yourself apart. You think I can just stand here andââ
âYou think I donât know?â he cuts in, louder now, fists clenching at his sides. âYou think I donât see it? The way you look at me, like Iâm a bloody train wreck? Like Iâm already done?â
He takes a step closer. The anger is there, but underneath it is something desperate.
âI know, alright?â His voice cracks. âI know I ruin everythinâ I touch. I know Iâm a fuck-up. But I canâtââ He stumbles over the words, then pounds a fist against his own chest as if to dig them out. âI canât lose you too!â
The sound echoes off the walls. Heâs trembling now, whole body taut like a live wire.
âYouâre it for me,â he says, the words torn out of him. âYou always were. And if you walk away now, I swear to God, Iâll neverââ
He stops, breath heaving, like heâs on the edge of something he canât even name.
You stand there, rain dripping from your wet hair, every part of you aching. Youâve seen Cook angry, drunk, reckless. But youâve never seen him like this: stripped to the bone, terrified, begging without even realizing it.
âCookâŠâ you murmur.
He looks at you, eyes burning. âPlease donât go.â
And suddenly all the walls youâve built start to crack. Because underneath everything â the fights, the chaos, the nights you told yourself you were done â you still see the boy who pressed his forehead to yours in a crowded club and made you feel like you werenât alone in the world.
You step closer now, slowly. His shoulders tense, but he doesnât move.
âIâm not walking away,â you say, your own voice raw now.
His breath stutters. His hands twitch like heâs not sure whether to reach for you or keep them at his sides.
âSay it again,â he whispers.
âIâm not walking away.â
And when you say it, you mean it.
The words seem to break him open completely. He lets out a shaky laugh thatâs half a sob, then covers his face with his hands like heâs ashamed of himself. When he drops them, thereâs no swagger left, no mask â just a boy who wants to be better, even if he doesnât know how.
You reach out, fingers brushing his knuckles. He flinches, then lets you hold his hand. His skin is cold, scraped raw at the edges, but he holds on like youâre the only thing keeping him upright.
âI donât know how to do this right,â he murmurs, eyes on the ground. âIâll probably mess it up again.â
âWeâll figure it out,â you say softly. âBut you have to try.â
He nods, swallowing hard. âI will. I swear.â
And for the first time, you almost believe him.
The rain starts again, soft at first, then heavier, but neither of you moves. Cookâs head drops against your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck, and for a moment, a fragile, impossible moment, you feel like the world has stopped spinning.
Like maybe thereâs still a way forward.
The morning after feels strange.
You wake up to silence, and for once, itâs not the heavy, suffocating kind. Itâs just⊠still. Cookâs asleep on the edge of your bed, curled up like heâs afraid to take up space. His shirt is still damp from last night, his shoes kicked carelessly by the door. He looks younger in sleep, softer, like the weight of the world slipped off his shoulders for a few hours.
For a moment, you just watch him breathe.
Then his eyes flicker open, bloodshot but clear. He groans, scrubs a hand over his face, and squints at you. âGâmorning, princess.â His voice is hoarse, rough from sleep, smoke and shouting.
You almost smile, but you donât. âMorning.â
He sits up slowly, looking around your room like he doesnât quite know how he got there. When his gaze lands back on you, thereâs no smirk this time. Just uncertainty.
âYou meant it?â he asks suddenly. His voice is quiet, almost boyish. âLast night. That you werenât walkinâ away.â
You swallow. âYeah. I meant it.â
Relief flashes across his face, raw and unfiltered, and it guts you.
But you add, carefully: âThat doesnât mean itâs going to be easy. You canât just⊠say things and keep doing the same shit. If I stay, something has to change.â
Cook nods, fast, like heâs afraid youâll take it back if he hesitates. âYeah. Yeah, I know. Iâllââ He breaks off, frowning, like heâs not sure how to finish. âIâll try. For you, Iâll try.â
Itâs not a promise of perfection, but itâs something.
The days that follow are uneasy, but different.
Cook still lights up a cigarette the moment heâs outside, still mouths off to teachers, still laughs too loud in places he shouldnât. But there are cracks in the chaos now, small moments where you can see him holding back, making a choice instead of letting the spiral take him.
He doesnât storm your window drunk anymore. He calls first.
He doesnât pick fights just to feel alive. He walks away from one, his jaw tight, fists trembling, but he does it.
He still messes up, of course. One night he stumbles in with glassy eyes and slurred words, and you almost tell him youâre done. But then he looks at you, shame carved deep into his face, and whispers, âDidnât mean to. Just⊠slipped. Donât give up on me.â
And against your better judgment, you donât. Holding him close as you lay in bed together.
One evening, the two of you sit on the roof, legs dangling over the edge, sharing a packet of crisps between you. The night is quiet, peaceful even, the streetlights blinking through the dark.
Cook leans back on his hands, staring up at the stars you can barely see. âYâknow,â he says, voice soft, âI keep waitinâ for you to wake up one day and realize Iâm not worth it. That you could do better.â
You glance at him, the curve of his jaw sharp in the dim light. âI already know I could do better,â you say honestly.
He winces, but youâre not done.
âBut I donât want better. I want you. Just⊠not the version of you thatâs trying to self-destruct. Youâre it for me, always have been.â
His throat bobs as he swallows. For a long time, he doesnât answer. Then he mutters, almost to himself, âGuess Iâll just have to stick around then, yeah?â
Itâs quiet after that, but itâs the kind of quiet that feels less like a void and more like a beginning.
For the first time in a long time, you think maybe, just maybe you could build something that lasts.
Rebuilding doesnât happen in a blaze of glory. It happens in fragments.
Small, ordinary moments that feel like nothing, until you realize theyâre everything.
Cook shows up on time. Thatâs the first shift you notice. He doesnât make you wait for hours, doesnât leave you sitting on a bench checking your phone over and over. Heâs late by five minutes, sure, but he comes running down the street, breathless, holding two cheap takeaway coffees.
âGot us the fancy stuff,â he says, handing one over. You open it to find the lid splattered, coffee half-spilled. He grins sheepishly. âAlright, maybe not fancy. But itâs warm.â
And somehow, that matters more.
At college, he sits beside you instead of at the back, even though you know heâd rather be anywhere else. He fidgets throughout the whole lesson, tapping his pen against the desk, whispering dumb jokes under his breath, but he stays. When the teacher calls on him, he shrugs and says something half-coherent that makes the whole class laugh but he doesnât storm out, he doesnât make it worse.
You catch him glancing sideways at you after, like heâs waiting for approval. You donât say anything, but when you nudge his leg under the desk, his grin comes fast and wide.
But itâs not all progress.
Some nights, he paces your room like a caged animal, restless energy buzzing off him. âI feel like Iâm gonna crawl outta my skin,â he mutters, tugging at his hoodie strings. He wants the noise, the parties, the chaos â you can see it in the way his hands shake.
You sit with him anyway. Sometimes talking helps. Sometimes it doesnât. Sometimes all you can do is watch as he burns through another cigarette at your window, smoke curling in the moonlight, his eyes hollow but trying.
Itâs fragile. Always fragile.
One evening, you find him sprawled on your floor, sketching on the back of an old worksheet with a biro. Youâve never seen him sit still long enough to draw before.
âWhatâs that?â you ask, leaning over.
He flushes, quick to cover the page with his hand. âNothinâ. Just⊠doodlinâ.â
You pry it out of his grasp anyway, and he groans. On the paper is a shaky, crooked version of your face thatâs more cartoon than portrait, but unmistakably you.
âItâs awful,â you tease, holding it up though thereâs a small smile on your face.
âOi!â He snatches for it, laughing. âSpent a whole bloody five minutes on that.â
You laugh too, and for a moment, it feels easy. Like maybe this is what it could be, if you both let it.
But the fragility never goes away.
The next night, you find him sitting on your bed with his head in his hands, knuckles red and raw again. You donât even ask because you already know he slipped and probably picked another fight somewhere he shouldnât have.
When he looks up, his eyes are full of shame. âDonât⊠donât chuck me out, yeah?â he says, voice breaking. âI tried. I really fuckinâ tried.â
And it hurts, God, it hurts, because part of you wants to scream, to tell him you canât keep stitching him back together. But another part of you sees the crack in his voice, the way heâs bracing for you to leave, but you donât, you canât.
So you sit down beside him, pressing your hand over his trembling one. âIâm not going anywhere baby,â you whisper.
He leans into you, shaking, and you realize this is what rebuilding really is â not grand gestures, but fragile choices made again and again.
Staying. Holding on. Trying.
The days blur, stitched together by the same fragile rhythm: school, cigarettes, stolen moments on rooftops. Some days Cook feels steady, his grin sharp and bright like the boy you first fell into. Other days, heâs frayed at the edges, jittery and restless, like he might split apart if you blink too long.
You never know which version youâll get. But you stay.
One afternoon, you walk through the park together. The sky is low and gray, the grass damp beneath your shoes. Cook keeps kicking at stones, shoulders hunched against the chill.
âYou ever think about the future?â you ask, more to break the silence than anything.
He snorts. âFuture? Iâm Cook. I donât even think past tomorrow.â
You give him a look. He grins, but it falters when he sees youâre not laughing.
âI dunno,â he mutters. âDonât think the worldâs got much in store for me.â
The words are flippant, but his tone isnât. It hits you in the chest; the quiet resignation, the way he says it like itâs fact.
âYou donât get to decide that yet,â you say firmly.
Cook glances at you, like he wants to argue, but instead he just shoves his hands in his pockets. âMaybe not. Maybe youâre the only one who believes that.â
And you realize: maybe you are.
Later that week, you find him in your room again, half-asleep on your pillow, the telly buzzing faintly in the background. He stirs when you sit beside him, blinking groggily.
âYou ever get sick of me?â he asks suddenly, voice muffled.
Your breath catches. âWhat?â
He shifts, eyes barely open, and repeats it: âDo you ever get sick of me?â
The question is raw, unguarded, and it undoes you. You think of all the nights you almost walked away, the fights, the exhaustion â and yet, here you are.
âSometimes,â you admit, honest because he deserves it. âBut I never stop wanting you anyway.â
His lips twitch like he wants to smile, but instead he hides his face against your shoulder. âThatâs fucked up,â he mumbles.
âYeah,â you whisper, pressing your cheek to his hair. âIt is.â
And maybe thatâs the truth of it: the two of you are messy, broken, stitched together by something that shouldnât work but somehow does.
That night, as he drifts off, you catch yourself tracing the bruises on his knuckles with your thumb. He stirs, murmurs your name, and squeezes your hand weakly in his sleep.
For the first time in a long while, you donât feel like youâre holding him back from the edge. You feel like maybe, just maybe youâre pulling him toward something else.
Not safe. Not easy. But real.
And in the long quiet, that feels like enough.
It happens on a night when you least expect it.
Another party, another house full of bass rattling the walls, laughter spilling out onto the street. You hadnât wanted to come, youâve seen enough of Cook drunk, wild, destructive but your friends dragged you along.
And, of course, heâs there.
At first, it feels like deja vu: Cook in the centre of it all, drink in hand, voice loud, grin reckless. You feel your stomach sink because maybe nothingâs changed after all. Maybe the past couple of months' quiet promises were merely just words in the dark.
Some bloke twice his size shoulders him, muttering something sharp under his breath. You see Cookâs jaw tense, fists curling, that familiar spark of violence in his eyes. This is the moment you dread, the moment youâve seen too many times before: the swing, the blood, the chaos that always follows.
But then, for the first time, Cook doesnât take the bait.
He exhales through his nose, fists trembling, every muscle tight with restraint. His eyes flick across the room and land on you.
And instead of throwing a punch, he steps back.
The bloke laughs, shoves past him, mutters something else. Cook just shakes his head, lets it slide, even though you can tell every part of him is screaming to explode.
And then heâs crossing the room, pushing through the crowd until heâs in front of you. His hands are shaking, his grin shaky too, but thereâs pride in it, defiance.
âSee that?â he pants, breathless like heâs just run a marathon. âDidnât do it. Didnât fuck it all up.â
You blink, stunned. âYou⊠didnât hit him.â
âCourse I didnât.â Heâs grinning wider now, wild and nervous all at once. ââCause you were watchinâ. And I wantâfuck, I want you to see me try.â
The words knock the air out of you.
Before you can answer, he grabs your hand, not rough, not careless, but desperate and he tugs you out the door. The noise of the party fades behind you as he pulls you into the cool night, still buzzing with adrenaline.
âIâm doinâ it, yeah?â His voice cracks. âIâm tryinâ. For you. For us.â
Your throat tightens. Heâs not perfect, not even close. But standing there, flushed and shaking and proud of himself for walking away from a fight, you realize this is his version of a grand gesture. Not flowers. Not speeches. Just choosing you over the chaos.
And somehow, itâs worth more than anything else could be.
You squeeze his hand, hard. âYeah, baby. Youâre doing it.â
And for the first time, you see him believe it too.
The morning after the party, you wake to find him already awake beside you.
Cook never wakes up first. Usually, heâs the one sprawled across the sheets, dead to the world until noon. But now heâs propped up on his elbow, watching you with this soft, almost shy look, like heâs memorising the shape of you in the light.
âWhat?â you mumble, voice thick with sleep.
âNothinâ,â he says, and it almost sounds believable except he doesnât look away.
Itâs disarming, the way he looks at you. Like youâre not just another girl, not just another night. Like youâre something heâs terrified to lose.
You reach for his hand, and he lets you take it, fingers slotting into yours like theyâve been waiting. For once, thereâs no rush, no storm. Just the quiet thrum of morning and the warmth of his skin against yours.
The days that follow feel different.
He still fucks up sometimes. He swears too much at teachers, gets too loud when heâs had a pint, pushes boundaries just to see if theyâll bend. But he always comes back to you. Always finds your eyes in the chaos, like theyâre his anchor.
And you notice the small things: how he leaves the fights earlier than he used to, how he calls instead of showing up wasted at your window, how he listens, really listens, when you tell him what scares you.
Itâs not perfect. But itâs real.
One night, youâre sitting together on that same rooftop where everything once felt like it was falling apart. The night stretches out before you, street lamps flickering against the dark. Cook passes you a cigarette, but you shake your head, and he just shrugs, taking a drag himself.
After a long silence, he says, âI used to think⊠I dunno. That I werenât built for this. For someone stickinâ around. For someone lovinâ me proper.â
Your chest aches at the honesty in his voice.
âAnd now?â you ask softly.
He turns to you, grins that familiar reckless grin but thereâs something steadier behind it now, something you hadnât seen before. âNow I think maybe I got one good thing in me. And itâs you.â
The words land heavy, raw, and you feel your throat tighten. Heâs not good at this, not at all, but heâs trying, and itâs everything.
You lean in, press your forehead against his, and whisper the only answer that matters.
His breath stutters out, and then heâs kissing you, deep and desperate, but gentle too, like heâs finally figured out youâre not something to burn through â youâre something to keep.
And for the first time, you believe it: Cook might actually be enough.
It doesnât happen overnight.
The fights donât disappear, the chaos doesnât vanish. Cook still runs hot, still tests the world like it owes him something, still slips into old habits more often than either of you would like. And you still snap at him, still doubt sometimes, still wonder if itâs all just going to crumble again.
But the difference now is simple: he comes back.
Every single time, he comes back.
Months later, youâre sitting in the back garden of his mumâs place. The grass is overgrown, the paint on the fence peeling, and Cook is flat on his back in the middle of it, cigarette dangling from his lips as he stares at the clouds.
âLooks like a dragon,â he says, pointing up.
You squint. âThat looks nothing like a dragon.â
âCourse it does. Big fuck-off wings. Breathinâ fire. Proper dragon innit.â
You roll your eyes, but you lie down beside him anyway. The sky is pale and wide, and when his hand finds yours in the grass, it feels easy. Natural.
âYou ever think,â he says after a long stretch of silence, âthat maybe we didnât ruin it? That maybe weâre just⊠gettinâ it right this time?â
Your throat goes tight, because the truth is â you do.
âI think,â you whisper, âthat maybe we said yes when it mattered.â
Cook turns his head, grinning at you sideways, eyes warm in a way you never thought youâd see. He squeezes your hand, hard, like he believes it too.
And for once, the world feels like it might actually let the two of you have this.
Not perfect. Not clean. But yours.
Light leaks through the cracks, and you let it.
woah okay hi im back, iâve been super busy lately (i got to see ptv this week) but iâm off for a couple of days. iâve been wanting to write something based off of âsay yesâ for ages! i got a little carried away but i hope you guys like it!! comments, likes and reblogs are always appreciated, thank you so much for taking the time to read all of this! more fanfics soon thanks to my friends giving me motivation heh <3
