#reade insert

“And hear me out,” he said, leaning forward slightly, eyes brightening, voice picking up speed like the longer he talked, the more alive he became. “Not just kids though. Little… little Harrington and Y/N nuggets. Chaos incarnate, always laughing, maybe a little loud, but perfect. I want a house with a white picket fence, a yard where the kids can run and play, a garden maybe, trees to climb. A home. Our home. And we’d fill it up, you know? Make it ours.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out of you, soft and low, nearly lost in the evening wind. “You’re talking about a house with a yard… with six kids? You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”

“Yeah!” he said, practically bouncing on the grass, eyes shining. “We can sit on the porch in the morning with coffee. Kids running around, toys everywhere, muddy shoes by the door, bikes stacked in the garage. I can see it. Big kitchen, messy living room, a place where we can actually grow old together.”

“And what about names?” you asked, smirking. “You already have a list of baby names ready?”

“Oh, you know I’ve thought about names,” he said, a bit defensive, grinning like a kid caught stealing cookies. “I’ve got classics, trendy picks, even names I think are hilarious but secretly love. Cody, Maddie, Jack, maybe even a little girl named Stevie Jr. or something.”

You burst out laughing, leaning back against the bumper. “Stevie Jr? Really?”

“Absolutely,” he said, puffing his chest a little. “You want a family full of joy and chaos, you gotta embrace it all. Little Nuggets, that’s what we’re calling them. We’ll have a team: soccer, tag, hide-and-seek championships every weekend. Absolute legends.” He looked at you, eyebrows raised, like he couldn’t believe you weren’t already on board.

You shook your head, still laughing, heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with the adrenaline of fighting monsters. “…I think I’d survive that chaos,” you said. “I mean, if it’s with you, Steve, I think I’d survive anything.”

Steve’s grin softened, turning into that warm, genuine smile reserved for only the most intimate moments. “Yeah. Backyard chaos, mismatched socks everywhere, maybe even a couple of pets — dog that get into everything, a cat that’s smarter than all of us combined. Family vacations that are total disasters, but perfect disasters. And… you.”

You blinked, heart catching in your throat. “…Me?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I always kinda figured you’d be right there with me, laughing at my bad jokes, causing chaos, keeping me sane. Probably telling me to calm down half the time.” He chuckled, a soft nervous laugh that faded into something tender, real, unguarded.

You felt your chest tighten, the soft wind carrying your hair across your face, and the world felt impossibly quiet except for his voice and your heartbeat. “…I’m stunned,” you admitted, letting out a small laugh that didn’t quite hide the lump in your throat. “But in a good way. Like maybe this is exactly what I didn’t know I needed.”

Steve’s grin widened, the kind that made you want to freeze him in your memory forever. “Good,” he said, bumping your shoulder with his own. “Cause there is no one else I want to live that life with but you.”

You shook your head, laughing softly, watching as the last remnants of the sun dipped below the horizon and stars began to prick the night sky, timid and shy at first, then bold. “I think… I like that very much,” you said, and it wasn’t just the adrenaline of surviving the day making your chest pound. It was him, his ridiculous dream, the way he saw the future, and the fact that somehow, you were already part of it.

Steve nudged your shoulder again, grinning, and the stars above shimmered over the RV like tiny promises. “We’re gonna need a really big yard if we’re doing this,” he muttered, half to himself, half to you.

“And a bigger kitchen,” you added, grinning. “I’m not letting our children starve. Snacks are non-negotiable.”

“Exactly!” he said, laughing again. “And music. We’ll need music. Karaoke nights with the kids singing terribly, but still winning in spirit.”

You laughed, resting your head lightly on his shoulder, the weight of the world, the Upside Down, the chaos, fading just for this one perfect moment. “Then we’ll find it. Our house. Our yard. And we’ll make it ours. Little nuggets and all.”

Steve’s laugh rumbled into the night, the kind that made your chest ache in the most wonderful way. “Yeah, little nuggets,” he said again, quiet this time, more like a promise than a joke. Steve rolled onto his side and gestured with a grin. “Come lie down with me. Stars are way better from here.”

You grinned, letting yourself flop onto the soft, dew-damp grass beside him. His hand found yours almost instantly, fingers curling together, and for a long, comfortable moment, you just lay there, side by side, letting the night swallow the world around you. The wind whispered through the nearby trees, carrying the faint scent of dirt and wildflowers, and above you, the stars were starting to prick the sky, timid at first, then bold.

Steve rolled onto his back, your hand still in his, and you followed suit, letting your head rest lightly on the grass. Occasionally, your hands tightened together instinctively, and sometimes you’d glance at him, catching the glow of the stars reflected in his eyes. He caught your gaze and gave that small, soft smile that made your chest do that stupid, helpless flip.

“You think… they would look more like me or you?” he asked suddenly, voice soft, teasing, but curious.

You laughed, nudging his shoulder gently. “You mean, all chaos, all hair?”

He chuckled, reaching up to ruffle his own messy locks. “Yeah, exactly. And maybe your stubbornness, too. They’d be unstoppable little chaos machines.”

You turned your head slightly to look at him, your cheek brushing the grass. “I think they’d have your hair, your smile, your… everything that makes people fall in love with you. And maybe my eyes, so they’d see the world the way we do.”

Steve shifted a little closer, letting his shoulder brush yours. “Yeah… yeah, I can see that. Little Harringtons and Y/N's with wide eyes, loud laughter, sticky fingers from snacks… and big hearts. Definitely big hearts.”

You let out a small laugh, squeezing his hand. “And probably a lot of trouble too. Running around, climbing trees, drawing on walls…”

“Absolutely,” he said, grinning, turning his head to look at you properly. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way. They’d be perfect little disasters, just like their parents.”

You caught yourself staring at him again, the soft starlight brushing across his face, highlighting every curve, every line, every expression that had somehow become home to you.

For a while, you didn’t speak, just lying there side by side, holding hands, letting the stars above and the cool grass beneath make the world fall away. Sometimes your fingers would intertwine tighter, sometimes you’d turn to glance at each other, laughing quietly at the thought of what might be. And sometimes, you just stared at the stars, imagining their future, imagining tiny hands in yours, imagining a house full of love and noise and little nuggets running through the yard.

Then Steve shifted slightly, letting go of your hand just long enough to lift it to his face. His fingers cupped your cheek, thumb brushing softly across your skin, and his gaze locked onto yours with a tenderness that made your stomach drop.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice low and full of certainty, “listen to me. I’m promising you… not maybe, not someday, but when… when we survive this, we’re gonna do it. I’m gonna marry you. We are going to find that house with the white picket fence, the big tree in the garden, the big kitchen to feed our children, the whole thing. I promise."

You felt your heart lurch, eyes misting just a little at the raw sincerity in his voice. The monsters, the danger, the apocalypse, faded even further. There was only him, only this moment, only the impossible, beautiful vision he was painting for the two of you.

“I'll hold you to that promise, Harrington." you breathed, laughing softly through your shock, tilting your head so your forehead rested lightly against his.

Steve smiled, thumb still brushing over your cheek, fingers warm and steady. “Good,” he said, voice soft but sure. “Because I don’t want anyone else. You’re it. You’re my home, even before we’ve got the house.”

You pressed your hand against his, intertwining fingers again, squeezing just enough to tell him you were already in. “Then I guess… I’m in. Little nuggets and all.”

He laughed quietly, leaning his forehead against yours for a brief, perfect moment. “Yeah… little nuggets. And snacks. Don’t forget snacks.”

That was it. In and out. Something warm between your hands before retreating somewhere quiet, maybe your bunk, maybe the corner of the rec room where the lights were dimmer and the noise less sharp. Instead, you rounded the corner too quickly and nearly walked straight into a broad, solid chest.

John Price stopped just as fast as you did.

For a moment, the world seemed to pause. You were suddenly very aware of how close he was, of the familiar weight of his presence, the steady calm he carried even in the middle of chaos. His hand lifted instinctively, not touching you but ready to steady you if you stumbled. You looked up at him, mouth already opening with an apology that never quite made it out.

For a second, neither of you noticed anything else.

Then his gaze shifted upward.

You followed it, brow furrowing in confusion until you saw it too.

Mistletoe.

Someone had tied it to the exposed beam above your heads with a length of green string that looked like it had been stolen from a supply crate. The leaves drooped slightly to one side, uneven and imperfect, the white berries almost garishly bright against the dull grey concrete and chipped paint of the barracks ceiling.

Your stomach flipped.

Heat crept into your cheeks before you could stop it, a warmth that spread fast and betrayed you completely. You felt suddenly very aware of yourself, of how close you were standing to him, of how the air between you seemed to thicken.

John’s brows lifted in brief surprise, the expression fleeting before discipline smoothed it away. He cleared his throat quietly, shoulders shifting as that familiar stiffness settled in, like armour sliding into place. Still, when he looked down at you, his eyes gave him away. The blue was softer than his voice ever let on, warmer, thoughtful.

“Well,” he said, low and rough, amusement threading through the gravel. “Looks like we’ve been ambushed.”

You let out a small huff of a laugh, more breath than sound, already shaking your head. “Yeah, about that.” You took a half step back, lifting your hands slightly in a placating gesture, palms open. “You do not have to do anything, John. I know the whole thing is supposed to be festive or whatever, but I do not want you feeling pressured. Really.”

You meant it. Completely.

His expression changed immediately.

The tension eased from his jaw, the tight line of his mouth softening. Something quieter settled over his features, something warm and unguarded. He studied you for a long moment, eyes searching your face like he was making sure you were telling the truth, like he always did when it came to things that mattered.

“You think I would ever feel forced with you?” he asked gently.

The softness of his voice caught you off guard.

You shrugged, suddenly shy under his attention, gaze flicking away for just a second. “You never know. Traditions. Expectations. People watching.” You glanced down the hall, where laughter erupted again. “I just wanted to say it.”

John let out a slow breath, something close to a quiet laugh. He stepped closer, deliberately, closing the small gap you had created. Close enough that you could smell him, clean soap, gun oil, and something distinctly his that you had never been able to name. His warmth seeped into you, grounding.

One hand came up, unhurried, stopping just short of your waist. He waited there, giving you space, giving you the choice. His thumb hovered like he was testing the air between you.

“You’re good to me,” he murmured. “Always thinking about everyone else first.”

His thumb brushed your side, a light, tentative touch that sent a shiver up your spine. When you did not move away, when you stayed exactly where you were, his hand settled properly at your waist, warm and solid and sure.

“I do not kiss you because I have to,” he continued quietly. “I kiss you because I want to.”

Your heart stumbled in your chest, beating a little harder, a little faster. You looked up at him then, really looked at him, at the lines etched by years of responsibility, by choices and losses and survival. And still, here he was, choosing softness with you.

John dipped his head slowly, giving you time, never rushing. The kiss was gentle, lingering, unshowy. Just him. Just you. His lips pressed to yours with a familiarity that felt like safety, like home, like something steady in a world that rarely allowed such things. The noise around you faded, the laughter and music dissolving into nothing.

No cheers erupted. No one noticed.

Somehow, that made it better.

When he pulled back, it was only enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath warm against your skin. His hand remained at your waist, grounding, protective.

“Merry Christmas, lass,” he said softly.

You smiled, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, holding him there like you never wanted to let go. “Merry Christmas, John.”

𝚂𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚗 "𝙶𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝" 𝚁𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚢

The common room was louder than usual, the kind of noise that settled into the walls and refused to leave. It was not the sharp, tactical noise Ghost was used to. This was messier. Laughter overlapping with music, boots scraping against the floor, voices raised just enough to feel reckless.

Holiday lights had been strung up with military efficiency and absolutely no taste, blinking in mismatched colors along the walls and draped across exposed beams. Someone had taped silver tinsel to a weapons locker, the reflective strands fluttering every time the heating kicked on. Another genius had balanced a paper Santa on top of a filing cabinet, its red hat permanently crooked. A cheap speaker sat on a table near the back, crackling through tinny Christmas music just quiet enough not to earn a reprimand from command, though it came close every time the bass rattled.

Ghost tolerated it the same way he tolerated everything else that did not serve a mission. By pretending it did not exist.

He stood near the doorway, arms folded, weight evenly distributed, posture relaxed only to the untrained eye. Anyone who really knew him would see the readiness in his stance, the way his head tilted just slightly as he tracked movement. His skull mask was as unreadable as ever, blank and hollow-eyed, but his attention was fixed on you.

It always was.

He watched the way you laughed, full and unguarded, shoulders shaking when Soap leaned in too close and said something stupid. He clocked the way you shifted your weight when you listened, the way your hands moved when you talked, expressive and warm. You carried a kind of light into the room without even trying, something Ghost noticed long before he admitted it to himself.

Soap was mid story, hands moving dramatically as he reenacted something that had clearly grown more ridiculous with each retelling. You were laughing again, head tipped back slightly, when he suddenly stopped and grinned.

“Oi,” Soap said, voice sharp with mischief. “Don’t move.”

You turned, confusion crossing your face, just as Ghost took a step toward you without thinking. Muscle memory, instinct, something pulling him closer before his brain had time to catch up and ask why.

The room went quiet for half a second.

Then someone whistled.

Right above you, taped crookedly to the ceiling with far too much enthusiasm, hung a sprig of mistletoe. The green leaves drooped unevenly, berries wobbling slightly every time the air shifted.

Ghost froze.

His entire body went rigid, like he had just walked straight into enemy fire. Heat crept up under his mask, awareness sharpening painfully as he registered the eyes on him, the sudden lack of cover, the vulnerability of standing that close to you with no plan and no escape route. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing in, the way the room seemed to lean forward expectantly.

“Kiss! Kiss!” someone called from across the room, followed by laughter and a few approving cheers.

Ghost’s jaw clenched beneath the mask. He hated being watched. Hated being put on display. Hated the pressure of expectation that came with situations like this. More than that, he hated the idea that you might think he was cornering you, that you might feel obligated just because tradition said so.

You looked up at the mistletoe, lips parting slightly, then back at him. Your smile shifted instantly, softening when you saw how tense he was, how his shoulders had locked and his breathing had gone slow and controlled, the way it did when he was managing something internal.

“Hey.” you said gently. “It’s okay.”

The noise around you dulled as you stepped just a little closer, enough that the rest of the room faded into background static. Your voice dropped, calm and steady, grounding in a way Ghost had come to rely on more than he liked to admit.

“You don’t have to,” you said quietly. “I know you don’t like this stuff. You’re not obligated to kiss me just because we’re standing under a plant.”

The chanting faltered. Someone coughed awkwardly. A few people looked away, suddenly finding their drinks very interesting. The pressure in the room eased, attention drifting as the moment lost its spectacle.

Ghost stayed still.

You were giving him an out. No teasing. No disappointment. No unspoken expectation. Just choice. Just trust.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, the breath fogging faintly inside the mask. Tension bled out of him one controlled breath at a time. His gloved hand lifted, paused midair for a heartbeat, then settled firmly at your waist. This time the touch was not tentative. It was sure, grounding, unmistakably intentional.

His voice came low and rough through the mask. “Not forced,” he said. “Just want to.”

Your breath caught, barely noticeable to anyone else, but Ghost felt it all the same. He felt the way your body leaned into his touch, the subtle shift that told him everything he needed to know.

Before anyone could start again, before the moment could be stolen or turned into something performative, Ghost moved.

He spun you smoothly, one arm wrapping around you as he turned his body with yours, pulling you close and angling himself so his broad back blocked the room completely. The movement was fluid, practiced, protective. In the same motion, he lifted his mask just enough, just a fraction, hidden entirely by your closeness and the way he shielded you from view.

No one saw his face.

Only you felt the warmth of his breath against your skin, the soft brush of fabric shifting, the way his forehead dipped toward yours as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

He kissed you then.

It was soft and unhurried, a kiss that carried intention rather than urgency. Not for the room. Not for tradition. Just for you. His hand tightened slightly at your waist, anchoring you there, thumb pressing in as if to remind himself that this was real, that you were here.

For a moment, the world beyond the two of you did not exist.

When he pulled back, the mask was already back in place, seamless, his posture settling as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The room erupted anyway, cheers and laughter breaking out with renewed enthusiasm.

Ghost did not care.

His thumb brushed your side in a slow, familiar motion, private and grounding, a touch meant only for you.

“Happy?” you murmured, eyes bright as you leaned closer to him, voice carrying a smile.

Ghost let out a quiet huff, the closest thing to a laugh he ever gave in public. His grip stayed steady, protective.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low and certain. “With you.”

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚗𝚢 "𝚂𝚘𝚊𝚙" 𝙼𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚑

The mistletoe was the first thing Soap noticed.

It hung there like an afterthought. Green leaves dusted with white berries, tied crookedly to a pipe above the common room doorway with what looked like spare cord. Someone had clearly done it in a hurry, probably laughing while they did. Soap would have put money on Ghost, if only because Ghost would pretend he had not. Or maybe Gaz, grinning to himself as he walked away.

It swayed gently as the heating kicked on, catching the warm yellow light and turning something small and harmless into a very deliberate trap.

You stepped beneath it without looking, arms tucked close to your body, tugging your sleeves down against the chill that never quite left the base no matter how many heaters they ran. You were talking about something trivial, maybe complaining about the coffee again, maybe teasing him about how long he took in the showers. Soap followed a second later, already smiling, already relaxed in a way that only happened around you.

Then he froze.

Not stiff. Not alarmed. Just still.

His eyes flicked upward, then back down to you, blue bright with sudden awareness. A slow grin spread across his face, something fond and dangerous all at once, like he had just been handed an excuse he absolutely did not need.

“Oh,” he said softly, voice warm. “Would you look at that.”

You followed his gaze, head tilting back until you spotted it. The mistletoe. Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it, light and a little breathless, echoing faintly off the concrete walls.

“Oh my god,” you said. “Of course.”

You rolled your eyes, then lifted your hands immediately, palms up in mock surrender, already shaking your head. “Hey. Just so you know, you do not have to do anything. I do not believe in plant based coercion.”

Soap chuckled, the sound low in his chest. His shoulders loosened, posture easing like he had been holding tension without realising it. “That so?”

“I am very serious,” you said, smiling despite yourself. “No pressure. No awkward Christmas traditions. We can just walk away and pretend we saw nothing.”

You took a half step back, deliberately giving him space, watching his expression carefully. You knew him well enough to read the humor there, the affection, the way his eyes softened when they stayed on you too long.

He did not use the space.

Soap reached out, fingers warm as they curled around your wrist. His grip was gentle but certain, grounding. He stepped closer, heat radiating off him, his presence familiar and steady.

“Love,” he murmured, voice dropping, “you really think I’d walk away without kissing you?”

Your reply never made it out.

He leaned down and kissed you, slow and sure, like it was the most natural thing in the world. There was no rush to it, no performance. Just warmth, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin as if anchoring himself there. The base noise faded into a low hum, boots down the hall, distant laughter, all of it falling away until it was only him and you.

It was easy. Familiar. The kind of kiss that carried comfort with it, as much reassurance as affection.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath mingling with yours in the small space between you. His hand did not let go.

You squinted up at him, eyes bright with amusement and something softer underneath. “I hope you did not just kiss me because of the plant.”

Soap laughed quietly, nose brushing yours as he smiled. “If that were the case,” he said, “I’d be lurking under every bit of greenery I could find.”

You huffed a laugh, fingers tightening around his sleeve. “That is deeply concerning.”

He kissed you again, shorter this time, softer, like punctuation. “Mistletoe or no mistletoe,” he added, voice low and sincere, “I’ll always choose you.”

Before you could respond, a loud, exaggerated gag echoed from down the hall.

“Oh, for the love of God,” someone muttered. Gaz, probably. Or maybe Price, pretending not to look.

Soap did not even glance in their direction. He just smiled at you, unapologetic, hand still warm around yours, and gently guided you back beneath the mistletoe like it belonged there.

And maybe it did.

𝙺ö𝚗𝚒𝚐

They were meant to be clearing the house.

Room by room. Quiet. Efficient. All business.

The structure itself was old, the kind of place that creaked even when it tried to stay silent. Plaster flaked from the walls, and the smell of dust and cold wood lingered in the air. Somewhere deeper inside, a shutter rattled softly against the wind. König lifted a gloved fist, signaling you to slow, then stepped forward first, as he always did.

He moved like a shadow despite his size, tall frame folding low as he slipped through the doorway, rifle steady, controlled, lethal. The fabric of his hood brushed the doorframe, the skull-patterned mask hiding everything but his eyes. You followed close behind, your shoulder nearly brushing his back, matching his pace instinctively. After so many missions together, you did not need words. His movements spoke for him, and you trusted them with your life.

Dust drifted lazily in the beam of your flashlight, disturbed only by careful boots and the faint creak of old floorboards beneath your weight. Every breath was measured. Every step deliberate.

Then he stopped.

Not the sharp, sudden stop that screamed danger. Not the one that meant contact, targets, or incoming fire.

Just still.

So still that you nearly walked straight into him.

You caught yourself at the last second, heart jumping before discipline dragged it back under control. Your weapon came up automatically as you scanned the corners he had not cleared yet.

“What is it?” you whispered, barely moving your lips.

König did not answer.

Instead, his head tilted upward, slow and hesitant, as if he was unsure whether what he was seeing was real. The movement was subtle, but you knew him well enough to recognize uncertainty when it crept into his posture.

You followed his gaze.

Mistletoe.

A small bundle of green leaves and pale berries, tied together with faded red thread, hung crookedly from the top of the doorway. It looked almost absurd in the ruined house, like a piece of another world that had wandered into the wrong place and stayed too long. Dust dulled the leaves, but the berries were still stubbornly bright, catching the light like tiny drops of color in the grey gloom.

You blinked once.

Then, quietly, you let out a soft breath of laughter before you could stop yourself.

“Oh,” you murmured. “That’s… festive.”

König froze harder.

You could see it instantly. His shoulders stiffened, the muscles in his arms tightening as his grip on the rifle shifted. It was almost funny how rigid he became, like a man bracing for impact rather than standing under a harmless decoration. Only his eyes gave him away. The pale blue flicked from the mistletoe back to you and then away again, flustered, uncertain.

You knew that look. You had seen it in moments far quieter than firefights. Any hint of closeness still caught him off guard, even now, even after everything you shared.

Especially with you.

He shifted his weight, boots scraping faintly against the floor, clearly unsure whether to step forward or retreat. For a second, it looked like he was considering ducking beneath the doorway entirely, mistletoe be damned.

“I… we should keep moving,” he muttered, voice low and rough. Too quick. Too careful. Like he was trying to outrun the moment itself.

You smiled, though the mask meant he could only hear it in your voice.

“Hey,” you whispered gently.

You reached out and tapped his arm lightly, fingers brushing the heavy fabric of his sleeve. It was a grounding touch, one you had learned he responded to. He stilled at it, eyes flicking back to you again.

“It’s just mistletoe,” you said softly.

Silence followed.

Then, quieter still, almost reluctant, he spoke again. “There is a… tradition.”

You nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

Another pause stretched between you, heavy with unspoken expectation. His head dipped slightly, eyes lowering, as if he were bracing himself for something he thought he owed you. Like he believed this was a test he was already failing.

Your chest tightened at the thought.

You took a small step back, giving him space, hands lifting a little in a clear, open gesture.

“König,” you said, sincere and steady. “You don’t have to. Really. We’re on a mission, and even if we weren’t, you never have to feel forced to kiss me. Ever.”

That made him look at you.

Really look at you.

His eyes softened, the tension in them easing as if you had loosened a knot he carried everywhere. His shoulders lowered a fraction. The tightness in his stance melted, just a little. He exhaled slowly, the sound faint behind the mask.

“You are not disappointed?” he asked quietly.

The question was raw in its simplicity.

You shook your head without hesitation. “Not even a little.”

For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. No radio chatter crackled in your ears. No distant gunfire echoed through the streets. Just the quiet house, the dust in the air, and the two of you standing beneath something absurdly gentle.

Then König took one slow step closer.

“Good,” he said, voice steadier now, warmer. “Because I want it to be my choice.”

He lowered his rifle carefully and reached up, his gloved hand hesitating before brushing your chin. The touch was surprisingly gentle, almost reverent, for hands that had known only violence for so long. His eyes searched yours, silently asking permission. He paused long enough that you could have pulled away if you wanted.

You did not.

He bent down, mindful of his height, mindful of you, and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. It was brief but meaningful, unhurried and sincere. The fabric of his mask brushed your cheek, and his breath warmed the cold air between you. It was not about the tradition or the mistletoe. It was about trust.

When he pulled back, he lingered close, his forehead resting lightly against yours for a heartbeat. His eyes closed, just for a second.

“Now,” he murmured, almost shy. “We can keep moving.”

You grinned up at him. “Roger that.”

The mistletoe swayed gently above as you slipped past it together, weapons raised once more, mission resumed. But something had shifted between you, subtle and steady, like a quiet promise carried forward into the dark.

𝙰𝚕𝚎𝚓𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚘 𝚅𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚜

The base was quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that only settled in during rare pauses between operations. It was softened by strings of cheap, mismatched lights taped along the concrete walls, some flickering faintly as if even they were tired. The faint smell of pine clung to the air, artificial but comforting, coming from a lopsided plastic tree someone had dragged into the common room and decorated with ration wrappers, spare ammo casings, and a single crooked star made from cardboard.

Alejandro still did not know who had decided that a forward operating base needed holiday decorations. He suspected Soap, or maybe Price egged on by boredom. Either way, the result was strangely charming, even if he would never admit that out loud.

You were walking beside him through the corridor, shoulders nearly brushing. Your fingers skimmed his glove every so often, not quite holding hands, but close enough to feel connected. You talked about nothing important, the kind of easy conversation that only happened when you felt safe. Soap restocks, how Soap himself had nearly knocked the tree over earlier and then tried to blame it on a draft, how someone had hung tinsel over a tactical map and forgotten to take it down.

Alejandro listened, eyes soft, mouth curved into a smile he did not even realize he was wearing. He loved these moments with you, the ordinary ones that felt rare in a life built around danger and urgency. He was about to respond when you both stepped through a doorway at the same time.

He stopped.

It was subtle, but you felt it immediately. The shift in his pace, the sudden stillness beside you. You turned back, brow lifting in question, and saw his gaze angled upward. His eyebrows drew together slightly, confusion written plainly across his face.

You followed his line of sight.

Mistletoe.

It was taped to the doorframe with what looked like medical tape, slightly crooked, one sprig drooping lower than the other. You blinked, then let out a soft laugh before you could stop yourself. It felt absurd and sweet all at once.

Alejandro exhaled, a low sound that was half a huff and half a quiet chuckle. He shook his head, one hand settling on his hip.

“Of course,” he muttered. “This place survives mortar fire, but someone still finds mistletoe.”

You smiled at him, warmth spreading through your chest. He looked back down at you then, and the humor faded into something gentler. His expression was affectionate, but uncertain too, like he was weighing the moment carefully, trying to understand what it meant and what you wanted from it.

You knew that look well. Alejandro never assumed. Never took. He always chose care first, even with you, even after everything you had shared.

Before he could speak, you squeezed his hand, grounding him.

“Hey,” you said softly. “You do not have to. I know the rules are silly. I do not want you to feel forced.”

For a split second, he simply stared at you. Then his eyes softened, dark and warm, like the tension he carried eased all at once. His thumb brushed slowly over your knuckles, the touch deliberate and reassuring.

“Cariña,” he said quietly. His voice was low, steady, intimate. “I never feel forced with you.”

Still, he did not rush. He leaned in just enough that your foreheads almost touched, his presence close and familiar. You could feel the warmth of him, smell the faint scent of gun oil and soap clinging to his uniform.

“But thank you for saying it,” he added, sincerity threading every word.

Your chest tightened in the best way. Moments like this reminded you why you trusted him so deeply. Why loving him felt safe, even in a world that rarely was. You smiled up at him, eyes bright.

“So,” you teased gently, tilting your head. “What do you want to do, Alejandro Vargas?”

That did it.

The hesitation melted from his face, replaced by that familiar grin that always felt like coming home. The one that made his eyes crinkle just slightly at the corners. He laughed under his breath, shaking his head again, but this time with fondness.

“I want,” he said, voice warm, “to kiss my girlfriend.”

He bent down slowly, giving you time, giving you choice. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with reverent care. When his lips met yours, the kiss was unhurried and gentle. No urgency. No performance. Just warmth and intention and him.

The world around you seemed to fade, the lights, the base, the distant hum of generators. There was only the softness of his mouth, the steady presence of him grounding you.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, noses brushing. His eyes stayed closed for a moment, as if he was savoring it.

“Merry Christmas,” he murmured.

You smiled, heart full, fingers curling lightly into the front of his jacket.

Price sat at the dining table that doubled as a workspace, sleeves rolled up, forearms scarred and steady as he cleaned his rifle. The routine was familiar to him, comforting even. Each piece placed carefully on a cloth, movements precise, unhurried. No rush. No one breathing down his neck for once.

The faint smell of gun oil mixed with coffee that had gone lukewarm hours ago.

You were on the couch, curled into the corner with a blanket draped over your legs. Your phone rested forgotten beside you as you flipped through your notebook, jotting down thoughts that came and went without urgency. Sometimes you wrote. Sometimes you just stared at the page. Sometimes you watched him.

Neither of you spoke.

The quiet stretched, but it never pressed in. It wrapped around you instead, soft and familiar.

You watched the way his brow creased when he concentrated, the cigar tucked behind his ear more out of habit than intent. The scar near his eye caught the light when he shifted, a reminder of a life that never really let him forget. Still, here, in this room, he looked calmer. More grounded. Like this domestic stillness anchored him in a way nothing else quite managed.

You did not plan to say anything. The words just slipped out, carried by comfort.

“I really love this.”

Price’s head lifted instantly, eyes sharp on instinct before softening when he saw you. He paused, cloth still in his hand.

“This?” he asked, voice low, a trace of curiosity and something warmer beneath it.

You nodded, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, the room, the quiet. “This. Being here. Spending time with you. Even when we’re doing our own things. You cleaning your gear, me doing whatever I’m doing. I just… I really like it.”

He set the rifle down with care, slower than before, like the moment deserved his full attention. He leaned back slightly in the chair, studying you, not with suspicion, but with that thoughtful intensity he reserved for things that mattered.

“You do, yeah?” he murmured.

You shrugged, suddenly aware of how open you sounded. “Yeah. It makes me feel calm. Safe. Like I don’t have to fill the silence or prove anything.”

For a moment, he said nothing. The rain filled the space instead.

Then he let out a quiet breath, one you did not even realise he had been holding.

“I’ve spent most of my life thinking silence meant something was wrong,” he said finally, voice softer now. “Meant people were bored. Or waiting for me to leave. Or for the next thing to go to hell.”

He stood and crossed the room, boots quiet against the floor you both had learned to navigate in the dark. You watched him approach, heart slowing instead of racing, because this was him, because this was home.

He sat beside you, close enough that your knees brushed, and gently took your hand. His thumb traced slow circles over your knuckles, grounding, familiar.

“With you,” he continued, eyes on your joined hands before lifting to meet yours, “it feels like permission. To rest. To just exist without always being on guard.”

Your chest tightened, emotion catching unexpectedly in your throat.

You squeezed his hand. “I like knowing you’re here. Even when we’re not talking. Especially then.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth, softer than the ones he wore around the team. He leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to your temple, lingering there like he had nowhere else he needed to be.

“Means more to me than you probably realise,” he said quietly.

You smiled, resting your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. “Good. Because I plan on doing this a lot.”

That earned a low chuckle from him. He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer, solid and warm.

“Wouldn’t trade it for the world,” Price said, voice barely above the rain, as the two of you settled back into the quiet that no longer felt empty at all.

𝚂𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚗 "𝙶𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝" 𝚁𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚢

The safehouse is unusually quiet.

Not the brittle, watchful silence that settles in before an ambush, but something softer. Domestic, almost. No comms crackling with half-heard orders. No boots thudding down concrete corridors. Just the low, steady hum of the generator buried somewhere beneath the building, and the rain, gentle but relentless, tapping against the windows like it’s trying to be let in.

Simon sits at the small kitchen table under the dim overhead light, shoulders broad even in stillness. His tactical vest is off, folded neatly on the chair beside him, gloves laid out with military precision. The skull mask is tugged down, hanging loose around his neck, fabric creased where it’s been worn too long today. Sleeves rolled up, forearms bare, he works in silence.

He’s checking his gear.

Knife laid flat. Comms unit open, battery replaced. He adjusts straps, tightens buckles, smooths fabric where it’s frayed—slow, methodical movements that speak of habit more than necessity. He’s not rushing. Doesn’t need to. For once, there’s nowhere to be.

You’re sprawled on the couch a few feet away, knees tucked under you, socked feet pressed into the cushions. A battered paperback rests in your hands, spine cracked, pages soft with age. You found it abandoned on the shelf weeks ago and claimed it without ceremony. It smells faintly of dust and old paper, comfortingly mundane in a place meant only for survival.

You haven’t spoken in a while.

Minutes stretch. Maybe longer.

And yet, the silence feels… full.

You glance up from the page, eyes drifting to Simon without conscious thought. The way his shoulders ease when he’s focused. The quiet efficiency of his hands. The way he pauses occasionally, like he’s double-checking something he already knows by heart. There’s a faint sound, almost a hum, barely audible, low in his chest. You’re not sure he even realizes he’s doing it.

You’ve come to love these moments.

The ones without adrenaline. Without orders or expectations. Where neither of you has to perform, impress, or protect. Where just being here is enough.

“Simon,” you say softly, your voice barely cutting through the hum of the room.

He looks up immediately.

Always does.

Those sharp eyes soften the second they land on you, intensity melting into something warmer, something only you ever get to see. “Yeah, love?”

Your fingers worry at the corner of the page, folding it slightly before you stop yourself. “Can I say something stupid?”

One corner of his mouth lifts, not quite a smile, but close. “Those are usually my favourite.”

That earns a quiet huff of laughter from you. You take a breath, steadying yourself.

“I… I really like this,” you say, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, the room, the quiet. “Being here with you. Even when we’re not talking. Even when we’re doing our own things.”

His hands still.

The strap he’d been adjusting slips loose between his fingers. He doesn’t look down to fix it. Doesn’t look away from you either.

You keep going before your nerves can talk you out of it.

“I love spending time with you like this. Just… existing in the same space. It feels—” You search for the right word. “Safe. Comfortable. Like I don’t have to be anything but me.”

For a long moment, Simon doesn’t say anything.

The rain fills the space where his voice should be.

You feel that familiar twist of doubt in your chest. Wonder if you’ve said too much. If you’ve reached into something he keeps locked away and named it out loud when it was safer left unspoken.

Then, carefully, deliberately, he sets everything down.

Knife placed back into its sheath. Comms unit closed. Straps aligned just so. Like the moment deserves his full attention, and he refuses to treat it casually.

He stands, chair scraping softly against the floor, and crosses the room in a few slow strides. You tilt your head up to look at him, heart beginning to pound despite yourself.

“Y’know,” he says quietly, voice rough, gravelled in that way that always seems to go straight under your skin, “most people think silence is awkward.”

He reaches out, thumb brushing along your cheek, knuckle warm against your skin. Grounding. Real. “They panic in it. Feel like they’ve got to fill it with noise so they don’t have to think.”

Your chest tightens.

“But with you?” he continues. “It’s… peaceful.”

The word sounds strange coming from him. Fragile. Honest.

“I don’t feel like I’ve got to watch myself. Or brace for somethin’,” he says, voice lower now. “Don’t feel judged. Or expected to be anything else.” He exhales, slow and heavy, like something long-held is finally being let go. “I can just—be.”

He swallows. “That doesn’t happen for me. Not ever.”

You set the book aside, forgotten, and reach for him without thinking. Your fingers curl into his shirt, gripping him like an anchor. “I love you,” you say softly. “For all of it. Even the quiet.”

His hand slides to the back of your head, firm but gentle, pulling you closer until his forehead rests against yours. You feel his breath, warm and steady, ghosting over your lips.

“I love you too,” Simon murmurs. “More than I’m good at saying.”

He presses a kiss into your hair, lingering like he’s memorizing the feel of you. Then another, softer, to your temple. His thumb traces a slow, absent line along your jaw.

When he finally pulls back, he nudges you lightly with his knee, the faintest hint of teasing in his eyes.

“Now scoot,” he says, voice fond. “You’re nickin’ my side of the couch.”

You laugh, shifting just enough to make room as he drops beside you, solid and warm. One arm drapes around your shoulders automatically, like it’s always belonged there.

You pick your book back up. He leans back, gaze drifting to the window, listening to the rain.

Different things.

Same space.

Exactly where you both want to be.

𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚗𝚢 "𝚂𝚘𝚊𝚙" 𝙼𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚑

The safehouse was quiet in that rare, fragile way that only happened between missions. No radios crackling with clipped orders, no boots pounding down hallways, no distant thrum of rotors overhead. Just the low hum of electricity in the walls and the faint rattle of rain tapping against the windows like it was trying not to intrude.

It was the kind of silence that felt earned.

Johnny sat on the floor with his back against the couch, long legs stretched out in front of him, boots discarded somewhere near the door. A half taken apart wristwatch rested in his hands, its face open and delicate, tiny screws carefully lined up on a folded cloth beside him. He worked slowly, methodically, like he was afraid of rushing something fragile. His brows were drawn together in concentration, tongue caught between his teeth the way it always was when he focused. A small habit you had memorized without meaning to, filed away in the quiet corners of your mind with a hundred other little things about him.

Every so often, he adjusted his grip, large hands surprisingly gentle as he turned the watch just so, the soft clink of metal barely audible in the stillness.

You were curled up on the couch above him, knees tucked to your chest, bare feet pressed into the cushion. A tablet was balanced against your legs as you flipped through a report you had already read twice. You knew the contents well enough to recite them if needed, but your eyes kept drifting, unfocusing, your attention pulled elsewhere.

Mostly, you were just existing in the same space as him.

The room smelled faintly of old coffee, clean fabric, and the rain soaked air sneaking in through the cracked window. A blanket was draped over the back of the couch, half forgotten, and the lamp in the corner cast everything in a warm, low glow. It felt like home in a way that surprised you every single time. Not a place, but a moment. A feeling.

Johnny glanced up, eyes flicking to you for just a second before dropping back to the watch. He did that a lot. Small, unconscious checks. Making sure you were still there, still close. You caught it every time.

“You starin’ at me again, hen?” he said, a faint grin tugging at his mouth, voice low and teasing.

You smiled to yourself, not even bothering to deny it. “Maybe.”

He huffed a quiet laugh through his nose and went back to his careful work, shoulders relaxing just a little, like your presence alone was enough to ease something tight in his chest. The silence settled again, thick but comfortable, wrapping around the two of you like a shared secret.

Minutes passed. Maybe more. Time felt different like this.

After a moment, you spoke, the words slipping out before you could overthink them. Your voice was soft, almost casual, like you were commenting on the weather or the rain.

“I really like this.”

Johnny paused, fingers stilling around the tiny screwdriver. The watch did not move, suspended between moments. “Like what?”

You hesitated, eyes dropping to your hands, searching for the right words. Feelings were harder to disassemble than watches. “This. Us. Being together even when we are not… doing anything together.”

That got his attention.

He tilted his head back to look at you properly now, blue eyes sharp but gentle, curiosity mixing with something deeper. “What d’you mean?”

You shifted, setting the tablet aside on the arm of the couch, forgotten. “I mean… I love spending time with you even when we are just doing our own things. You fixing that. Me reading. Not talking. Not touching. Just… being.”

The words hung in the air between you, vulnerable and honest.

For a second, Johnny did not say anything. His gaze softened in a way that made your chest ache, like you had just handed him something fragile and precious and he did not quite trust himself to hold it yet. His jaw worked subtly, emotion flickering across his face before he looked down again.

Then he let out a breathy laugh, quiet and a little disbelieving.

“Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You have no idea what you just did to me.”

You frowned slightly, worry creeping in. “Is that a bad thing?”

He carefully set the watch aside, lining the pieces up with deliberate care, then pushed himself to his feet. Before you could react, he was standing between your knees, hands braced on either side of you on the couch, effectively boxing you in without ever making it feel threatening.

“No,” he said firmly, eyes locked on yours. “Not bad. Not even close.”

Johnny leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. You could feel the warmth of him, steady and grounding, his breath warm against your skin. The world felt smaller like this, narrowed down to just the two of you and the quiet space you shared.

“D’you know how rare that is?” he continued quietly. “For someone to be comfortable in the silence? To not need anything from me?”

You swallowed, throat tight. “I always need you.”

His lips twitched, a soft, almost sad smile. “Aye. But not like that. You do not make me perform. Or prove myself. You just… let me exist.”

His thumb brushed over your knee absentmindedly, a small, intimate touch that sent a familiar warmth through you. “Growing up, it was always noise. Chaos. Then the military. Always something happening. Always waiting for the next thing to go wrong.” His voice softened, losing its edge. “Being with you like this feels like breathing after holding it in for years.”

Your heart swelled, emotions pressing against your ribs, threatening to spill over.

“I feel safe with you,” you admitted. “Even when we are not talking. Especially then.”

Johnny’s jaw tightened for a moment, emotion flickering across his face like he was fighting something he did not want to show. He straightened slightly, then cupped your cheeks in his hands, rough palms warm and steady, thumbs brushing your skin like he was grounding himself as much as you.

“You’ve got no idea how much that means to me,” he said softly. “I’m not exactly… easy to be around.”

You laughed quietly, leaning into his touch. “You are when you are being you.”

He studied your face like he was committing every detail to memory, every freckle, every expression. Then he smiled, slow and real, the kind of smile he rarely let anyone see.

“Come here,” he murmured.

You leaned into him, arms sliding around his neck as he pulled you closer. He did not kiss you right away. Instead, he rested his forehead against yours again, eyes closed, breathing you in like he was anchoring himself.

“I love that you love the quiet,” he said. “Because it means you see me. Not the rank. Not the callsign. Just… Johnny.”

You kissed him then, slow and tender, all warmth and familiarity. When you pulled back, he rested his nose against yours, eyes half lidded, content.

“Next time the lads take the piss for us being boring,” he added, voice lighter now, “I’m blaming you.”

You smiled. “Deal.”

Johnny dropped back down onto the floor, this time sitting sideways so his shoulder rested against your legs. He reached back blindly, fingers searching until they found yours, lacing together without even looking.

You squeezed his hand. He squeezed back, solid and reassuring.

The rain continued to fall outside. The safehouse stayed quiet.

No words were needed after that.

Just the quiet. And the comfort of knowing you were choosing each other, even in the stillness.

𝙺ö𝚗𝚒𝚐

König sits still for you.

That alone says everything.

For a man built like a weapon, all long limbs, coiled tension, instincts sharpened by years of survival, stillness does not come easily. Not unless he trusts the hands in front of him. Not unless he feels safe.

He’s stripped of his gear, armor stacked neatly against the wall, weapons within reach but ignored for now. The only thing he keeps is the mask. His ever-present shield. Even that rests loose against his jaw, straps slackened enough to give you access as you work.

The safehouse hums quietly around you. Old wiring buzzes faintly in the walls, and somewhere outside the wind presses against the windows, rattling the glass like it’s trying to get in. The air smells faintly of oil, metal, and dust, familiar, utilitarian. Yet the moment feels anything but.

You sit cross-legged on the floor in front of him, a small sewing kit open in your lap. It’s mismatched and well-used, clearly scavenged rather than issued. Thread spools roll against each other when you shift. Your fingers are careful, deliberate as you pinch the torn seam near the cheek of his mask, inspecting the damage with quiet concentration.

König watches you through the eyeholes.

You can feel it, his attention, steady and heavy, tracking every movement. Not predatory. Not guarded. Just… present. As if committing this moment to memory.

“You don’t have to do that,” he mutters eventually, voice low and thick with his accent. There’s uncertainty there, barely concealed.

“I know,” you say gently, not even looking up. “But I want to.”

That answer alone makes his breath hitch.

You tug the fabric taut, testing the strength of the material before threading the needle. König shifts instinctively when your knuckles brush his jaw, muscle memory kicking in, but he freezes immediately after, forcing himself to stay still. You notice the effort it takes. The way his shoulders tense before slowly settling again.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“You’re fine,” you reply softly. “I’ve got you.”

Minutes pass in silence.

Not the awkward kind. Not the heavy, expectant kind either. Just quiet companionship.

You hum under your breath without realizing it, something tuneless, familiar. The sound fills the small space between you. König listens like it’s something precious. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders loosen. The tension he carries like a second spine eases, just a fraction.

He’s aware of everything.

Your closeness. Your warmth. The way your knee occasionally bumps his boot, unbothered. The way you exist near him without asking anything of him, no conversation, no performance, no explanation.

It’s unfamiliar.

And deeply comforting.

“I like this,” you say suddenly, breaking the silence.

He stiffens, heart lurching. “The mask?” he asks, unsure.

You snort softly, shaking your head. “No. This.” You glance up at him then, meeting his gaze through the eyeholes. “Being with you. Even when we’re just… doing our own things. You don’t have to talk. Or entertain me. Or be anything.” You shrug lightly, returning your focus to the stitch. “I love spending time with you like this.”

The needle pauses midair.

The room goes very still.

König doesn’t speak.

You can see it in the way his breath catches, shallow and uneven. In the way his hands curl slowly into fists at his sides, not in anger, not in defense. Something far more fragile. Something unguarded.

“You…” His voice cracks, barely audible. He swallows hard and clears his throat, trying again. “You don’t find it… boring?”

You blink up at him, surprised. “What? No.”

“You are quiet,” he says carefully, as if choosing each word could determine whether this moment survives. “And I am—” He gestures vaguely at himself. His size. The mask. His presence. “Not exactly pleasant company.”

Your chest tightens.

You reach out without thinking, resting your palm against his knee. The contact is small. Intentional. König startles like he’s been struck by lightning, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch. Just freezes again, breath held.

“König,” you say softly, firmly. “You don’t have to fill the silence for me. I don’t need you to be ‘pleasant.’” Your thumb brushes lightly against the fabric of his trousers. “I just like being near you. That’s it.”

The silence stretches.

But now it’s warm. Heavy with something tender and dangerous in its vulnerability.

When he finally moves, it’s slow. Careful. Like he’s afraid one wrong motion might shatter everything. He lifts one gloved hand and gently covers yours, his thumb brushing your skin with reverence—as though he’s afraid you might disappear if he presses too hard.

“…No one has ever said that to me,” he admits quietly.

There’s no self-pity in his voice. Just truth.

Your throat tightens.

You offer him a small smile and return to your work, fingers steadier now, heart pounding. The needle moves again, stitching the mask closed with patience and care. Each stitch feels like a promise.

“Well,” you murmur, “get used to it.”

A soft sound escapes him, something halfway between a breath and a laugh. It’s unfamiliar. Real.

König stays perfectly still after that.

Not because you ask him to.

But because he wants this moment to last. Because for once, the noise in his head has gone quiet. Because for once, he isn’t alone with it.

When you finish, you adjust the mask carefully back into place, smoothing the fabric with tenderness meant only for him. Your hands linger for just a second longer than necessary.

König leans down, closing the distance until his forehead rests gently against yours. The mask presses cool against your skin. His breath is warm. Steady.

He doesn’t say thank you.

He doesn’t need to.

The silence between you says everything.

𝙰𝚕𝚎𝚓𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚘 𝚅𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚜

The office sits at the back of the apartment, tucked away from the rest of the space like a secret the two of you keep just for yourselves. It’s narrow, a little cramped, but lived-in, real. A single window is cracked open just enough to let in the cool evening air, carrying with it the muted sounds of the city: distant traffic, a siren far enough away to be harmless, voices echoing somewhere below. The kind of noise that reminds you the world is still turning, even when you’ve stopped running for a moment.

A lamp on the desk casts a warm, amber glow against the walls, softening the edges of the room. It illuminates mismatched shelves crowded with folders, dog-eared field manuals, binders stuffed too full to close properly. Old photographs are wedged between books—faces frozen in moments neither of you ever talk about. Some are faded, some creased, all of them silent. A jacket is draped over the back of a chair, Alejandro’s, discarded without thought the moment he sat down, like he knows it’ll still be there when he needs it. Your boots are kicked off under the desk, toes brushing his, tucked carelessly beside his own worn pair.

The battered table between you has seen better days. Coffee rings stain the surface, overlapping in places, memories of long nights and early mornings. Corners are chipped, the wood worn smooth where hands have rested again and again. It isn’t pretty. But it’s solid. Reliable. It doesn’t move, doesn’t creak under pressure.

Like the two of you.

Alejandro sits across from you, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with faint ink smudges and old scars, some pale and healed enough to blend into his skin, others still rough reminders of close calls that never quite fade. His posture is relaxed but alert, habit ingrained too deep to shake. He’s focused, brow furrowed as he signs off on yet another report, his handwriting sharp and disciplined, every letter deliberate, precise. This isn’t rushed work. It matters to him. Every so often he pauses, glances at a document, mutters something in Spanish under his breath, half curse, half commentary, before continuing like nothing interrupted him.

You’re doing your own paperwork, legs tucked up on the chair, spine curved comfortably as you flip through mission logs and debriefs that start to blur together after a while. Names, dates, coordinates. Outcomes measured in clean language that never quite captures the reality of what happened. It’s boring. Tedious. The kind of work nobody talks about when they tell stories about heroes and operators. No glory here. No adrenaline. Just accountability. Just making sure nothing gets missed, nothing gets forgotten.

And yet, you don’t mind it.

There’s something grounding about the normalcy of it. About the fact that this room smells faintly of coffee and paper instead of smoke and gunpowder. About the quiet not being tense, not waiting to break. About knowing that when you look up, he’ll still be there, exactly where he is now.

You do look up.

Alejandro’s jaw tightens as he concentrates, teeth worrying his lower lip for half a second before he smooths the habit away. His pen scratches steadily across the page, rhythmic, almost soothing. When he shifts in his chair, the movement is subtle, barely noticeable—but his boot nudges your foot under the table, absentminded and familiar. He doesn’t even look at you when he does it. Doesn’t have to. Like it’s instinct now. Like you belong in his space in a way that doesn’t require acknowledgment.

“You know,” you say casually, eyes still on your page, voice soft enough not to disturb the room, “I really like this.”

Alejandro hums in response, the sound low in his chest, distracted. “You like paperwork?” He finally looks up, one brow lifting as amusement flickers across his face, a corner of his mouth tugging upward. “You are more dangerous than I thought.”

You snort softly, shaking your head. “No, idiot. I like… this.” You gesture vaguely between the two of you, the room, the table, the quiet, the unspoken understanding. “Us. Sitting here. Doing our own things.”

That gets his attention.

He sets his pen down slowly, deliberately, like he doesn’t want to rush whatever this moment is becoming. His chair creaks as he leans back, arms folding loosely, eyes never leaving you. The teasing fades, replaced by something gentler, more attentive.

“Explain,” he says, softer now, curiosity edging out the humour.

You hesitate, fingers tapping against the edge of the paper. You’ve faced down enemies without flinching, stared death in the face and kept moving—but this feels different. Exposed. You shrug, suddenly shy despite everything you’ve survived together.

“I just—” You pause, searching for words that don’t feel too small. “I like being with you even when we’re not talking. Or fighting. Or saving the world.” A small smile curves at your lips, almost self-conscious. “Just… existing in the same room.”

Alejandro watches you like he does a map before an operation, careful, thoughtful, memorising every detail. His gaze doesn’t rush, doesn’t miss anything. His expression shifts, something warm and almost disbelieving flickering across his face, like this realization caught him off guard. Like he hadn’t realised this was something he was allowed to want, let alone have.

“You’re saying you enjoy my company,” he says lightly, trying for casual, but his eyes give him away.

“I’m saying I love spending time with you,” you correct gently. “Even like this.”

For a moment, the room feels even quieter. No pen scratching. No page turning. The hum of the light seems louder now, the steady rhythm of his breathing grounding you both in the same space, the same moment.

Then Alejandro exhales through his nose, a quiet laugh that isn’t teasing or sharp, just real. Unguarded. The kind he doesn’t offer many people.

“You know,” he says, standing and walking around the table, “people usually want noise. Distraction. Constant movement.” His boots sound soft against the floor as he stops behind you, resting his hands on the back of your chair. His presence is warm, solid, anchoring. “Stillness makes them uncomfortable.”

You tilt your head back to look at him, meeting his eyes without hesitation. “Not me.”

His thumbs brush your shoulders, slow and familiar, easing tension you didn’t even realise you were carrying. The touch is gentle, reverent. “Me neither,” he admits quietly. “Not anymore.”

He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. It lingers, unhurried, unguarded, like he has nowhere else he needs to be. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath warm, steady, shared.

“This?” he murmurs. “This is peace, Cariño.”

You smile, reaching up to squeeze his wrist, grounding him the same way he grounds you. “Yeah.”

He squeezes your shoulders once before moving back to his seat, picking up his pen again like the moment hasn’t changed anything, and like it’s changed everything. Now his foot taps against yours deliberately under the table, a quiet reassurance, a silent promise, steady and warm.

Paperwork resumes. Pages turn. Pens scratch.

The city hums faintly beyond the window, distant and unimportant. Inside the office—inside your shared space—everything feels settled, balanced, safe.

The fire’s crackle was the only sound besides the occasional rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze. You felt Astarion’s gaze flicker to you, sharp and searching, but there was something different in his expression tonight—something softer, more vulnerable. You shifted slightly, turning to meet his eyes.

“You know…” His voice was low, almost hesitant, barely louder than a whisper. “Sometimes, I wonder if I’m just a monster wearing a charming face.”

You blinked, taken aback. The quick-witted, cocky facade he usually wore had never betrayed such uncertainty before. “What do you mean?”

He glanced down at the fire, jaw clenched as if wrestling with his thoughts. “Not just what I am—being a vampire, a predator—but who I am. Underneath all this… this mask I put on for survival, for control.” His pale fingers traced idle shapes in the dirt by the fire’s edge. “I wonder if the real me is… broken beyond repair. Or worse, unworthy.”

You swallowed, the weight of his words settling in your chest. You’d always known there was darkness in Astarion’s past, but hearing him admit his own doubts so openly was new. You reached out, hesitating just a moment before brushing a stray lock of silver hair back from his forehead. The gesture was gentle, a silent offering of comfort.

“I get that,” you said softly. “More than you know. I’ve always carried this fear… that I’m not enough. That no matter what I do, I’m just waiting to disappoint someone. Or worse, myself.”

His eyes lifted to meet yours, and you saw the usual sharpness and guarded arrogance replaced by something raw and real. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How much weight we carry inside us. Secrets and scars we bury deep. We don’t always show them, because maybe we’re afraid—afraid that if anyone really sees them, they’ll run. Or worse, laugh.”

You nodded, a lump forming in your throat. “Yeah. I’ve hidden a lot behind smiles and jokes. But sharing it like this… it makes it feel less heavy. Like maybe, for once, I don’t have to carry it alone.”

Astarion’s lips curled into a small, genuine smile, the kind that reached his eyes and warmed his whole expression. “Thank you, my dear. For listening. For not running away when I get… tangled up in my own darkness.”

“Always,” you whispered. “You’re not alone.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty or awkward—it was comfortable, filled with the unspoken understanding that maybe, just maybe, you were both learning how to trust again. The fire’s glow softened your features, and for a moment, you felt like you could see past the masks and scars to the person beneath.

Slowly, almost instinctively, Astarion leaned closer. His breath was warm against your skin, carrying the faint scent of the night and something uniquely his own—earthy, wild, and strangely comforting. His gaze never left yours.

“I think…” His voice was thick with something unspoken, almost fragile. “I like this. Us. Like this. Not just as comrades… but something more.”

Your heart fluttered like a bird trapped in your chest. You swallowed hard and met his gaze, your own voice barely above a whisper. “Me too.”

He smiled again, softer this time, before closing the small distance between you. His lips brushed yours — a kiss gentle and sure, hesitant at first but filled with a promise. It spoke of trust, of hope, and of two damaged souls beginning to heal through each other.

When you pulled apart, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the cool air. The fire crackled steadily behind you, a steady heartbeat in the dark.

“I’ve never done this before,” he murmured, voice low but steady.

“Neither have I,” you admitted, warmth flooding your cheeks.

Astarion’s fingers curled around your hand, squeezing it gently. “But maybe that’s why it’s… important.”

You squeezed back, feeling a sense of peace you hadn’t known in a long time. The night felt less dark, the future less uncertain. Together, you had taken a small but profound step — closer, connected, and ready to face whatever came next.

KARLACH

The bustling sounds of Baldur’s Gate surrounded you both, but somehow, the two of you carved out a quiet space between the noise — the chatter of merchants haggling, the clatter of horses’ hooves on uneven cobblestones, the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer, and the occasional shout from a street vendor fading into a gentle murmur behind you.

Karlach walked beside you, her usual fierce energy softened by the warm glow of twilight and the calm steadiness of your presence. The city’s fading light caught the copper tones in her wild hair, and for once, her fierce gaze seemed less like a challenge and more like a question. You noticed the way she occasionally stole glances at you, her usual bold confidence replaced by a flicker of hesitation that tugged at your heart.

After a few quiet steps, you both came to a stop near a small stone fountain tucked away in a narrow side alley. Water spilled gently over the moss-covered edges, catching the last rays of sunlight and sparkling like scattered stars. The soothing sound of the flowing water seemed to soften the air itself, offering a calm refuge from the city’s restless pulse.

“Hey,” Karlach said quietly, her voice lower than usual, rough and raw beneath the surface. She reached up awkwardly, fiddling with the worn strap of her leather armor as if it were a shield against the words she was about to say. “There’s… something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” Her gaze dropped to the rippling water, and when she met your eyes again, there was a vulnerability there you hadn’t seen before. “Sometimes I wonder if people see me as… just the big, scary barbarian. Like, they don’t really see me. Just the rage and strength. It makes me feel… kinda lonely. Even around friends.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the confession. Karlach — the warrior who faced down demons and armies without flinching — revealing a crack in her armor. It made your heart ache in a new way.

You stepped closer, reaching out to lightly brush your fingers over her arm, grounding her and yourself. “I don’t think you’re alone,” you said softly, your voice steady but gentle. “I see the real you — the one beyond the armour and the scars. You’re so much more than just rage and strength.”

She gave you a small, almost shy smile, one you didn’t see often. “Maybe. But that’s what everyone knows, isn’t it? The fury, the fight. It’s like there’s no room for anything softer. Like that part of me doesn’t exist.”

“That’s not true,” you said firmly, your hand lingering for a moment before you gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “You’re fierce, yeah, but you’re also loyal, caring, and you fight to protect. That’s not just rage — it’s love. And I see that, every day.”

Karlach’s gaze softened, and she studied your face as if trying to memorize every detail. Then, as if the words had unlocked a door, you felt the air grow heavier with unspoken thoughts. Your voice dropped, barely a whisper. “I sometimes worry I’m not strong enough.” You hesitated, glancing away for a moment, vulnerable. “Not strong enough to keep up with you, or to protect the people I care about. It’s silly, but it’s there.”

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully, then she shook her head, stepping closer until your shoulders almost touched. The usual fire in her gaze was tempered with warmth. “No. That’s nonsense. You’re tougher than you realize. You don’t give yourself enough credit. I’d follow you into any fight. Don’t ever think you’re not enough.”

You looked back up, meeting her steady, unwavering gaze, and a rush of gratitude and something deeper bloomed in your chest.

“But…” you said softly, “you say that to me. So why don’t you put that same logic into yourself? You’re the one who says you’re just a scary barbarian.”

Karlach’s smile faltered, her eyes flickering away as she bit her lip, the familiar bravado cracking. “Because it’s different for me. I’ve seen what I’m capable of. Sometimes I worry that’s all I am.”

You reached out again, cupping her cheek gently, your thumb brushing the soft curve beneath her ear. “No,” you said, voice steady and sure. “You’re so much more. I see it — every side of you. And you deserve to believe that too.”

Her eyes glistened with unspilled tears in the fading light. She drew a shaky breath, her armor feeling suddenly heavier as if she was shedding a burden by simply admitting it aloud. “Thanks,” she whispered. “For listening. And for being here.”

You smiled, warmth radiating through your whole body. “Always.”

For a long moment, the city around you seemed to melt away. The distant noises faded until it was just the two of you — two souls leaning on each other, closer somehow than ever before.

Slowly, Karlach leaned in, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your forehead. Then, without hesitation, she pulled you into a warm, protective hug, arms wrapping around you like a shield. Her voice dropped to a whisper as she rested her head against yours. “We’ve got each other.”

You melted into her embrace, grateful beyond words. The night sky stretched overhead, stars beginning to prick through the dusk. And in that quiet moment, the weight of the world felt a little lighter, the future a little less daunting — because you faced it together.

HALSIN

The soft rustle of leaves overhead and the gentle ripple of water lapping against the shore filled the quiet clearing by the lake. It was a rare pocket of calm in the midst of their turbulent journey—a sanctuary untouched by the weight of the outside world. Halsin didn’t hesitate, his cloak sliding from his shoulders and falling with a soft thud to the grass. Without a second thought, he peeled off his shirt and trousers, revealing the well-worn strength beneath his skin. With a serene smile, he stepped barefoot into the cool, clear water, sending small waves spreading outward.

Y/N lingered on the shore, fingers nervously tracing the hem of their own shirt. Their gaze was fixed on Halsin’s ease, the way he moved with unguarded grace and a quiet confidence that seemed to belong to the very forest itself. Yet inside, a knot tightened around their chest, heavier than the weight of any armor. Their clothes suddenly felt like chains, a shield they weren’t quite ready to cast aside. The thought of baring themselves so openly—physically and emotionally—made their heart race.

Halsin glanced back, catching the hesitation in their eyes. His voice was gentle, warm like the sun filtering through the canopy. “Come on. The water’s good. It’ll clear your mind.”

Y/N swallowed hard, cheeks flushing—not just from the morning chill—but from something deeper, more tangled. “I… I don’t know,” they murmured, taking a tentative step forward, then stopping short at the water’s edge.

Without a word, Halsin stepped out of the water, droplets cascading from his hair and shoulders like liquid silver. He reached out a steady, reassuring hand. “No rush. We have time. You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

Y/N’s breath hitched as they looked down, their fingers fiddling with a loose thread on their sleeve. The quiet stretched between them, carrying the weight of unsaid words. Finally, voice soft and a little shaky, they began. “I guess... I’ve been holding back more than I realized. Not just from the others—sometimes even from you. Sometimes, I feel like I’m not enough… or maybe I’m too much. Not what you expected. It’s hard… hard to just be myself, especially with someone like you.”

Halsin’s expression softened, his deep eyes full of warmth and patience. He said nothing, only listened, giving space to those fragile confessions.

“I’m scared,” Y/N admitted, voice barely above a whisper, “that I’ll mess things up, or that you’ll see all my flaws and... walk away.”

A long pause followed. Then Halsin stepped closer, his hand gently reaching up to brush a damp strand of hair away from Y/N’s face. His touch was careful, tender—like he was handling something precious.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for trusting me with this. I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to hide—especially not from me. Not now, not ever.”

Y/N’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, relief and gratitude washing over them like the cool water. The tight knot inside their chest loosened, replaced by something new and fragile—closeness, understanding, a promise they were beginning to feel but hadn’t yet named.

Without thinking, Halsin leaned in, brushing a gentle kiss to Y/N’s forehead—a soft, grounding touch that said everything words could not. Then, gathering them into a warm embrace, he held them close as if silently promising safety, acceptance, and a future they could build together—flaws and all.

The lake’s gentle lap against the shore was the only witness to their quiet, unspoken vow, the world around them momentarily held at peace.

GALE

The fire crackled softly between you, its amber glow painting gentle flickers across Gale’s face. The camp was hushed—everyone else had long since retired to their tents, leaving the night to stretch quietly around the two of you. You sat on a fallen log beneath the wide canopy of stars, the forest alive with the soft rustle of leaves and the distant calls of night creatures weaving a natural lullaby.

Gale shifted beside you, his fingers nervously twisting the edge of his cloak. You watched him carefully, heart quietly tightening at the subtle tension in his posture. He usually wore that calm, assured mask—the confident arcanist, the man who seemed to command magic and fate alike. But tonight, something felt different—fragile, almost hesitant, like a candle flickering against the wind.

The silence between you stretched longer than comfortable, filled only by the soft crackle of flames. Finally, Gale’s voice broke through the stillness, low and tentative.

“I… don’t often speak of this,” he began, his eyes flickering upward to meet yours, seeking some unspoken permission. “But since you’re here…” He inhaled deeply, steadying himself against the weight of his own thoughts. “There’s always this fear, lurking in the back of my mind—that the magic inside me isn’t a gift, but a curse. That I’m… dangerous. That someday it might consume me completely.” He gave a small, wry smile, but the shadow beneath it was unmistakable—an edge of bitterness, of self-doubt. “Sometimes I wonder if anyone could truly accept me, with all that baggage.”

You said nothing, letting his words settle in the space between you, like fragile glass on the verge of breaking. Carefully, you reached out, your hand finding his. Your fingers intertwined softly with his, warm and steady, a quiet promise that you were here to stay.

Gale’s eyes softened at the gesture. Without a word, he shifted closer, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. Slowly, as if seeking refuge, he lowered his head until it rested gently in your lap. The warmth of him grounded you both—the vulnerability raw and unguarded in this simple act of trust. His breathing slowed, matching the steady rhythm of your own heartbeat.

You let your fingers trail through his dark hair, soothing and slow, as if trying to smooth out the worries tangled there. The sensation was calming, like weaving quiet magic without spells, and you could feel the tightness in him loosening—inch by inch, breath by breath.

“Thank you,” Gale whispered, voice thick with something fragile—gratitude, relief, perhaps even a hint of hope. “For listening. It’s… rare, to find someone who doesn’t recoil or run when I’m honest about my fears.” He swallowed hard, the vulnerability in his voice like a fragile thread. “I think… I’m glad it’s you.”

Your heart tightened at his confession, a tender ache blossoming in your chest. You looked down at him, so open and real, and felt something stir deep inside. “I’m glad it’s me, too,” you said softly, your voice a quiet anchor.

His breath warmed your skin as he lifted his gaze to meet yours again. Slowly, he raised his head, and you leaned down, closing the space between you. Your lips met in a kiss that was soft and tentative at first, like stepping lightly on new ground. Then, as if the world around you had faded to silence, it deepened—a quiet exchange filled with all the unspoken hopes and promises you hadn’t yet found words for.

When you finally pulled back, Gale’s eyes shimmered in the firelight, vulnerable and full of something new—something fragile and beautiful.

“We’re closer now, aren’t we?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, your fingers lingering in his hair a moment longer, reluctant to break the connection. “Closer,” you agreed, your heart full.

A quiet laugh slipped from him, genuine and light, and then Gale slid an arm around your waist, pulling you gently into a hug. The world outside the campfire’s glow faded away, leaving just the two of you wrapped in the warmth of the night—and the growing connection that neither of you had expected, but both quietly cherished.

The stars above bore silent witness as the fire died low, but between you and Gale, something sparked bright enough to light even the darkest paths ahead.

LAE'ZEL

The tavern buzzed with life—laughter spilling from every corner, the sharp clink of mugs raised in toasts, and the low hum of boisterous conversation. The rest of the party, weary from the day’s long march and skirmishes, had settled into their usual revelry, voices growing louder as the night wore on. Somewhere, a bard strummed a lively tune, encouraging another round.

But in the quieter corner, shielded by the flickering shadows of the hearth and a tangle of well-worn tables, Lae’zel and Y/N sat side by side. Their shoulders brushed lightly, a small comfort neither had yet spoken of aloud. There was a gentle tension, a fragile thread of something new weaving silently between them—still unspoken, still unclaimed.

Lae’zel’s sharp eyes flicked toward Y/N, her gaze lingering longer than usual. The harshness that often marked her features softened in the warm glow of the firelight, revealing something more vulnerable beneath the surface. Lately, they had spent more time together—moments stolen from the chaos—and with each, the weight of their unspoken feelings pressed a little lighter.

Y/N met her eyes and offered a soft smile. “You seem quieter tonight.”

Lae’zel’s fingers clenched lightly around the rim of her mug, knuckles whitening. For a moment, she said nothing. Then, in a voice that was almost a whisper, she confessed, “I have… thoughts I do not often share. It is strange to speak them aloud.”

There was no judgment in Y/N’s eyes, only curiosity and warmth blooming quietly inside their chest. “You can tell me.”

A breath. A pause. Lae’zel’s sharp gaze fell to the scarred wood beneath her hands, shadows flickering across her face. “I worry I am… too harsh. Too proud. I fear I push away those who might care for me.” Her voice grew softer, almost fragile. “In my life, I have been expected to be strong at all times. To never show weakness. But sometimes… I feel small. Alone. Invisible.”

Y/N’s heart clenched at the rare admission. Slowly, they reached out, their hand brushing against Lae’zel’s with gentle reassurance. “That’s not weakness, Lae’zel. It shows you have humanity.” Their thumb traced slow circles on the back of her hand. “And you’re not alone. I feel that way too sometimes—like I have to hide parts of myself just to be accepted. Sometimes, I wonder if people would like me less if they knew the real me.”

Lae’zel’s eyes lifted, shimmering faintly with unspoken emotion. The usual fierceness softened into something raw and real. “You listen.” Her voice broke slightly, the strength behind her words tempered by gratitude. “I… I am thankful.”

Y/N’s smile deepened, the warmth spreading between them like a slow-burning fire. “I’m thankful too. For you. For this—whatever it is that we’re building here.” Their fingers tightened slightly, holding her hand with quiet certainty.

Around them, the tavern’s noise seemed to dim, the rowdy laughter and music fading into a distant hum as they leaned closer. The moment hung suspended—delicate, electric. Lae’zel’s lips met Y/N’s in a soft, tentative kiss—brief but full of promise. It was a kiss that spoke of trust, of understanding, of a growing bond neither dared name but both felt deeply.

When they parted, Lae’zel’s hand rose, resting gently against Y/N’s cheek, her thumb brushing over skin flushed by the firelight and the closeness. “We have grown closer this night.”

Y/N’s breath caught, their heart full and aching in the best way. “Yeah.” Their voice was barely more than a whisper. “Closer than I thought possible.”

The two leaned into a warm, quiet embrace, holding onto the fragile newness of what they shared. Outside their little sanctuary of calm, the tavern thrummed with life—the world spinning wildly on. But here, in this corner, time slowed. They were just two souls, stronger and braver together.

And for the first time, neither felt quite so alone.

SHADOWHEART

The sun hung low over the village rooftops, casting long, lazy shadows across the uneven cobblestones. Warm amber light spilled from windows and flickered on the walls, blending with the scent of baked bread and the faint smoke of hearthfires. Around them, the village was settling in for the evening—laughter drifted softly from a tavern, children’s voices faded into the distance, and the steady shuffle of feet on stone marked the slow retreat of day.

Shadowheart and Y/N walked side by side, their footsteps falling into an easy rhythm. The silence between them wasn’t empty but comfortable—like the quiet that exists between two people who are still learning to fit together. Shadowheart’s usual sharpness softened in the fading light, her eyes glancing sideways toward Y/N with something unspoken, something tender.

For a while, neither spoke. Y/N’s fingers brushed occasionally against the fabric of their cloak, a nervous habit Shadowheart noticed but didn’t comment on. The peaceful village noises seemed to cocoon them, creating a little pocket of calm where time moved slower.

Finally, breaking the silence, Y/N’s voice came low and hesitant. “Hey... can I tell you something?”

Shadowheart tilted her head, curiosity flickering behind her guarded gaze. She didn’t speak, but her steady presence was an invitation to continue.

Y/N took a slow, steadying breath, their chest rising and falling with quiet determination. “Sometimes... I worry. About not being enough,” they said, voice barely above a whisper. “That maybe... I’m too much. That if people really saw who I am, the parts I try to hide... they wouldn’t stick around.”

Shadowheart stopped walking, and Y/N mirrored her, the bustling village noises falling away to a gentle hush. Shadowheart’s gaze was unwavering, her eyes dark pools of quiet understanding.

“I’m not saying this to ask for sympathy,” Y/N went on, voice trembling slightly now, “but it’s a weight. One I don’t always know how to set down. Carrying it alone feels... heavy.”

The silence stretched between them, tender and fragile. Shadowheart’s fingers moved, almost of their own accord, reaching out to find Y/N’s hand. Her touch was soft but sure, fingers curling gently around theirs as if anchoring them in place.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” Shadowheart said, her voice low and steady, like a promise made just for them. “Not with me.”

A flicker of something raw and vulnerable broke through Y/N’s carefully guarded calm. A small, grateful smile cracked their lips, eyes shimmering with the shimmer of unshed tears. “Thank you,” they whispered, voice thick with emotion. “For listening. For... just being here.”

Shadowheart gave a subtle nod, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She stepped closer, closing the space between them until the world around them seemed to shrink. With gentle certainty, she pulled Y/N into a warm, lingering hug. The faint scent of herbs and earth clung to her, grounding Y/N in a way words never could.

The embrace felt like a shield—quiet, safe, and real.

When they slowly parted, their eyes met again, searching and soft. Shadowheart’s lips brushed gently against Y/N’s in a tentative kiss—a fragile promise of trust, of something quietly growing between them. It was tender, hesitant, but full of a hope that neither had dared to voice until now.

Fingers still entwined, they resumed their slow stroll through the village, the amber light wrapping around them like a shared secret. Each step felt lighter than before, as if the weight of unspoken fears had lessened, replaced by something rare—a connection forged in quiet courage and gentle understanding.

𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚊𝚎𝚕 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚊

ᴄᴏᴜʀᴛʀᴏᴏᴍ ᴄʜᴇᴍɪꜱᴛʀʏ ☆

𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚒

𝙰𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚁𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚜

𝙽𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝙰𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚘

𝙳𝚎𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝙼𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚑𝚢

𝙼𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝙳𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚜

𝚃𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝙱𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚘

But right now, as you and the rest of the team climbed the skeletal lattice of the WSQK radio tower in the Upside Down, that future felt impossibly distant. The top platform rose above you like a ghostly scaffold suspended in a world gone wrong, rusted metal and grated flooring hundreds of feet above an alien, nightmarish landscape. Every heartbeat sent tremors through you, every groan of twisted steel underfoot reminded you that this was no ordinary climb. It was the final push against something far darker than anything Hawkins had seen before.

The Abyss, the scorched world beyond the Upside Down, was collapsing toward you, its fleshy, blackened ceiling moving forward, scraping against the tip of the tower. That misalignment was what made this so much more dangerous, it meant the very platform you were standing on could be crushed, twisted, or torn away at any second.

You gulped down a breath as dust and goo dripped from above. Each step higher felt heavier than the last, and when you finally reached the top platform, your legs shook so hard you feared they’d betray you.

Steve was already there. His shirt clung to him with sweat and his eyes stay locked on the approaching Abyss. His presence, even now, made your heart hammer, that perfect, maddening mix of courage and reckless devotion you’d fallen for long ago. Even here, hundreds of feet up, surrounded by cosmic horror, he believed. It was that belief that once lit your own flickering hope.

“Almost… there!” Dustin shouted, his voice tight with fear and determination.

Steve turned to you, giving a small nod. “Stay close,” he yelled over the wind and distant rumbling, voice firm but thin. “We’ve got this.”

You tightened your grip on the railings, your breaths coming in short bursts. A massive tremor shuddered through the tower. The metal groaned and the grated platform vibrating violently as the Abyss groaned and scraped, itself against the spindly structure. Rocks pounded down like hail, each hit giving a brutal reminder of how thin the line between life and death had become.

Then someone screamed, “Move!”

Before you could react, Steve’s firm voice cut through the chaos.

“GET DOWN!”

His hands pushed you and Dustin aside without hesitation, reflexes fuelled by protective instinct. His voice was sharp and unthinking.

Always the hero, always throwing himself into danger time and time again to save others.

You crashed onto the platform, heart in your throat and eyes wide with terror. Dustin lays beside you, breath ragged, but anything seemed less terrifying than what you saw next.

Steve had stumbled backward. The railing already broken and he fell off the side, his fingers gripping onto the platform. He struggles to lift himself up.

“Steve!!!” you screamed, a raw, guttural cry, torn from somewhere deep in your soul.

Before you knew it, Robin had wrapped her arms around your waist from behind, holding you tight. Her voice cracked with panic.

“No! it’s not safe! We can’t!” she shouted, her own voice cracking with panic.

You struggled against her hold, but your eyes never left him. Steve’s gaze the found yours.

Even through the terror, the chaos, the collapsing tower, he looked at you with that same warmth you’d seen a thousand times before, that unwavering love that had been your anchor through every nightmare. That memory, of him under the stars, whispering future dreams of weddings, laughter, children running through a sunny yard behind a white picket fence, surged through you with fresh, unbearable longing.

The future had been alive and bright. It was real once. And now, in this impossible moment, it felt achingly fragile.

Another tremor ran through the tower, metal groaning like it might tear itself apart. And then, in a heartbeat, a massive chunk of debris, jagged, cruel, unforgiving, hurtled toward him.

For a long, frozen instant, time stretched and warped. The wind roared, the tower shuddered beneath him, and all you could hear was your own heart trying to tear itself out of your chest.

In those final seconds, it was said that a person sees their life flash before their eyes. And Steve, suspended over the void, did exactly that.

The last five minutes of his life weren’t spent fearing the Abyss or the collapse of the world, no.

He lived a thousand lifetimes in that heartbeat.

He saw you laughing at him under the stars, heard the chaos of your future children, running through a yard drenched in golden sunlight. He pictured that white picket fence, the kitchen full of laughter and burnt pancakes.

He felt the warmth of your hand in his, the life he had promised himself and you, all the moments that would now remain forever just beyond his reach.

And then he looked up at you.

Even dangling in that impossible position, his eyes found yours. They were full of love, fear, and the same reckless hope that had carried you both through everything. You saw it all in them, every dream you had shared, every promise he had made under the stars, and every life he was never going to get to live.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice breaking but resolute, carrying through the chaos like a fragile beacon. It wasn’t just the words. It was everything behind them, the life he imagined, the children, the chaos, the ordinary, beautiful moments that were now slipping from his grasp.

For a heartbeat, it was like he was promising the stars themselves.

And then gravity won.

He slipped.

Your scream tore through the tumultuous night. “STEVE!!!”

Robin’s arms wrapped around you, holding you tight as your hands clawed at her, at the air, at the world itself. Dustin was frozen, pale, wide-eyed, helpless. You couldn’t stop looking, couldn’t stop seeing him, the man who had promised you everything, whose last thoughts had been of a life he would never get to live.

Even as the platform groaned, even as the Abyss clawed and twisted, even as your chest broke in a thousand ways, you clung to that one impossible thing: the promise he had made.

He had said when, not if.

And in your heart, beneath the terror, the chaos, and the despair, that vow lived on. The life he had seen, the family he had dreamed of, the white picket fence and the laughter of children, all of it, was yours to carry, his love immortal in memory, in hope, and in the life you would continue to fight for.

You shot up in bed, heart hammering, trembling, tears still streaking your cheeks. The early morning light seeped weakly through the blinds, casting long, pale stripes across your room. The world outside was gray and quiet, still steeped in the fragile haze of dawn, but nothing outside mattered. Nothing could reach the storm roaring in your chest. Your breaths came fast and shallow, memories of the tower, of Steve, of the impossible fall, flashing behind your eyelids like a reel you couldn’t pause.

For a long moment, you just sat there, letting the quiet settle around you like a fragile cocoon. Then, finally, you swung your legs over the side of the bed, toes brushing against the cold floor. Each step toward the kitchen felt impossibly heavy, the memory of him, that last look, that final promise, pressing against your chest with all the weight of a lifetime.

You flicked the light on. The harsh glare cut through the lingering darkness and dust motes danced in the air, catching just enough light to sparkle faintly. You poured a tall glass of water, hands still trembling, and took a long, grounding sip. The cold liquid slid down your throat and, for a moment, you let it carry you back to the present. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and,

There he was.

Dustin. Sitting at the dining room table like it was the most normal thing in the world, plate of pancakes, bacon, and scrambled eggs before him. A fork in hand, syrup smudged slightly at the corner of his mouth. Somehow, completely normal, impossibly mundane, and yet completely impossible in this moment of raw, lingering panic.

You blinked, your throat tight, and just stared. Not startled. Not afraid. Just… confused.

“Dustin?” you said finally, voice low and rough from waking, still shaking slightly. “Why are you sitting in my house at this hour?”

He looked up at you, eyes wide, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “Uh… hey! Just thought I’d come by early and help you get everything ready for the day. Looks like you're going to be busy for the whole day.”

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head, and then, hands on your hips, adopted a playfully stern tone. “But shouldn’t you be at college right now? You better not be going AWOL on me, mister.”

Dustin shook his head vigorously, almost bouncing in place. “Nope! Totally responsible. I took some time off, and came down to surprise you.”

You rolled your eyes, a soft laugh escaping despite yourself, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction. “I thought once you went off to college, I wouldn’t have to babysit you anymore,” you teased, the corner of your mouth tugging into a fond smile.

Dustin grinned, shrugging dramatically. “Yeah, well… some habits die hard,” he said, leaning back in his chair with that mischievous glint in his eyes.

You shook your head, exhaling a laugh, letting yourself relax a little as you turned back to the kitchen, the familiar rhythm of morning starting to ease the lingering weight of the nightmare.

Dustin took another bite, humming happily, clearly enjoying the stolen calm. You turned toward the stove, slipping into the flow of breakfast preparation. Eggs cracked, bacon sizzling, coffee brewing, the smell filled the kitchen, wrapping around you like a comforting blanket.

Dustin lingered for a moment longer at the table, spooning a pancake bite into his mouth, then stood with a stretch. “I'll be right back” he said casually.

“Mm-hmm,” you muttered over your shoulder, rolling your eyes playfully. You know exactly where he is going off to.

He laughed and disappeared into the backyard, leaving you alone with the comforting sounds of cooking. You hummed softly, letting yourself relax as you stirred the eggs. The nightmare still hovered at the edges of your mind, but the mundane rhythm of the morning was grounding.

Then,

A loud noise of surprise cut through the kitchen. You just roll your eyes, as you hear footsteps approaching the kitchen again. Dustin came walking in still laughing, and right behind him…

Steve.

Dustin was doubled over, clutching his stomach, laughter spilling out of him in loud, uncontrollable bursts. “Man! You should have seen his face, Y/N! He nearly—no, I’m serious—he almost crapped his pants!”

Steve, still half-asleep and dishevelled from just waking, shook his head, glaring at Dustin with mock annoyance. “Yeah, well… when you expect to wake up next to your wife,” he said, voice thick with sleep, “only to see your creepy little face staring at you like that? It tends to be… a little startling.” He rubbed at his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief at Dustin’s antics.

Dustin’s laughter continued, muffled by his hands as he wiped at tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “C’mon, Steve! Admit it! That was priceless! I thought you were going to launch yourself off the bed!”

Steve narrowed his eyes at him, though the edge of a smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah, yeah. Hilarious. Laugh it up, Henderson. Just remember who’s getting the first slice of cake later.” he said, voice mock-threatening.

“Quiet down, you two,” you said, waving a hand in mock sternness, still giggling despite the lingering adrenaline and sleep in your chest. “Or you’re going to wake the others.”

Steve’s grin faltered for the briefest moment at your tone, like he was momentarily caught off guard by your sudden authority. Then it softened, shifting into that familiar, warm, utterly disarming smile that he only ever gave you, the one that made your chest tighten and your heart skip despite everything else in the world.

Dustin, sitting at the table, laughed behind him, sliding into a chair like nothing catastrophic had ever happened. Then, with impeccable comedic timing, he let out a long, exaggerated “Prrrfffft-uhhh!” — a pretend gag noise, his hands flying to his mouth as though Steve’s presence alone was physically overwhelming. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up.

Steve, oblivious to Dustin’s theatrics for the moment, tilted his head toward you, eyes soft, tracing the curve of your face like he couldn’t believe you were really there, really safe, really here after all the chaos. For a second, it was like nothing else existed: the tower, the Abyss, the nightmares, all of it melted away, leaving only the quiet intimacy of your kitchen, early morning light spilling over both of you.

Then he took a deliberate step toward you, slow enough to savour the moment, but fast enough that your pulse began to hammer in anticipation. His hand reached for yours instinctively, fingers intertwining with yours, grounding both of you in reality and relief. You could feel the warmth radiating off him, the familiar smell of his shampoo, sweat, and just… Steve.

Before you could even process it, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a hug so tight you could feel every beat of his chest against yours. Your arms came up naturally, looping around his neck as you buried your face in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the smell of him, letting the tension of months, nightmares, and the last impossible year finally release.

Then he tipped his head down and kissed you, a big, soft, utterly consuming kiss that pressed every ounce of relief, love, and gratitude into you. His lips lingered, gentle but insistent, and you felt your knees go weak, but Steve held you steady, grounding you completely.

Behind him, Dustin groaned loudly, mock-retching into his hands, throwing his head back in exaggerated horror. “Ohhhhhh, gross! Too much love in one morning!” he shouted, laughter undercutting every fake gag. “I can’t even—ugh! You two! I’m gonna—!”

You pulled back slightly from Steve, still in his arms, laughing breathlessly. “Dustin! Quit it, or I swear—”

Steve chuckled into your hair, pressing his forehead lightly against yours. “Ignore him,” he murmured, voice low and warm, “he can’t handle love this strong.”

You shook your head, smirking, letting your hands stay pressed against his chest. “Love this strong? You’re the one who makes me feel like a complete idiot every single day.”

He grinned, leaning down to pepper your cheeks with little kisses, each one soft and teasing, making you laugh despite yourself. Dustin, meanwhile, continued his dramatic gagging noises from the table, hands waving, pretending to crawl under the chair for safety.

“Seriously!” Dustin shouted between fake retches. “I’m traumatized! Too much PDA before 8 a.m.! Someone call the CDC!”

You snorted, shaking your head, and finally stepped back enough to meet Steve’s eyes, his hands still holding yours. “You’re ridiculous,” you said softly, letting your fingers intertwine tightly with his.

“And you love it,” he replied, voice playful but tinged with that serious undertone that made your heart catch.

Dustin groaned again, flopping over dramatically onto the table. “Ugh… I’m gonna need therapy for this. Both of you.”

You laughed, finally letting yourself breathe fully, letting the warmth of Steve’s arms and the ridiculousness of the morning wash over you.

Steve finally pulled back slightly from your embrace, still holding your hands, and shot a pointed glance at Dustin. “Okay, seriously,” he said, voice half-teasing, half-concerned. “Why are you actually here? You weren’t supposed to get time off, and last I checked, college doesn’t just let you skip classes for… pancakes.”

Dustin shrugged, leaning casually against the table, trying to look nonchalant while a small, guilty smile tugged at his lips. “Well… there was no way I was going to miss-"

Before he could even finish the sentence, a sudden burst of energy thundered down the stairs. Footsteps pounded, quick and impatient, the kind only a very determined child could produce. Then a high-pitched, thrilled voice rang out, cutting him off completely.

“Uncle Dusty!”

And before either of you could react, the 3 year old girl leapt into his arms, arms wrapping tightly around his neck, legs kicking excitedly in the air. Dustin’s face immediately lit up, eyes wide and laughing, lifting her effortlessly even as he stumbled slightly from the sudden weight.

“Woah, there's the birthday girl! Katie. Oh my God, hey, hey, hey! Careful!” Dustin exclaimed, laughing, holding her securely. “Whoa, someone’s excited!”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up, and he glanced at you, shaking his head slightly in disbelief. You, meanwhile, leaned against the counter, letting out a soft laugh, the tension in your chest loosening just a little. Even with the recent nightmare lingering in the edges of your mind, seeing this, the pure, uncontainable joy on Dustin’s face and the gleeful energy of his niece, was grounding.

“Uncle Dusty!” Katie squealed again, hugging him as tightly as she could, her little face buried in his shoulder. “I missed you so much!”

Dustin grinned, pretending to stagger under her enthusiasm, letting out a dramatic, playful groan. “Missed me, huh? Well, of course you did! I am your favorite uncle, after all.” He spun slightly, exaggerating the motion as if the sheer weight of her affection might tip him over.

Steve leaned casually against the counter, arms folded, smirking with that trademark Harrington edge of amused judgment. “So what, you came early just to help set up for her birthday?” he asked, voice teasing. “Man, you’re really trying to cement ‘favourite uncle’ in her head, huh? Playing dirty to make sure I don’t even stand a chance, even though I'm her dad.”

Dustin looked up, mock-offended, one eyebrow raising. “Hey! You’re not in the running, Harrington. Not even close.” He gave the girl in his arms a wink. “See? Uncle Dusty always wins. It’s science.”

She giggled, wrapping her arms around him even tighter. “Uncle Dusty always wins!”

Steve shook his head, a grin tugging at his lips despite himself. “Alright, alright, I see how it is. You’ve got the magic touch, huh?” He glanced over at you, catching your eye, that warm, soft smile meant just for you. The kind of smile that made your heart flutter and your chest ache in the most familiar, comforting way.

Katie giggled, hugging Dustin tighter. “I missed breakfast too! Can we eat now?”

Dustin laughed, bouncing her gently. “Yeah, yeah, let’s eat. But you’ve got to promise not to shove your pancakes all over your Uncle Dusty, alright?”

You set down three plates on the dining room table: one in front of Katie, another on the empty chair across from her, and a third next to it. The sweet aroma of sizzling pancakes and crispy bacon filled the air, mingling with the faint morning sunlight spilling through the window.

“Here we go,” you said, sliding Katie’s plate toward her. “Don’t start shoving them into anyone yet.” You smirked, giving her a gentle warning glance.

Dustin bounced her slightly in his arms, making her giggle. “No promises,” he said, waggling his eyebrows playfully. “But I’ll try.”

Steve had disappeared briefly, presumably to check on something upstairs. When he returned, he wasn’t alone. Behind him trailed two little figures, both around 5 years old, identical in every mischievous detail: a mop of dark brown hair, wide, curious eyes, and the same stubborn, charming grin that their father always wore. Your sons, twins, came barrelling into the kitchen, their energy filling the room like a small storm.

“Hi, Uncle Dustin!” they chorused, practically bouncing onto the chairs you had set for them.

Dustin’s eyes went wide, a huge grin spreading across his face. “Whoa! Look at you two! Double trouble, huh?” He held out his arms for a high-five, which Eddie and Robbie returned enthusiastically before immediately digging into the pancakes on their plates without a second thought. “Man, you two have gotten so big… and both looking just like your dad.” He turned to you with an exaggerated, mock-frown. “I’m so sorry.”

Steve, standing nearby, crossed his arms and shot Dustin a slow, deliberate look of mock hurt, lips pressing together in dramatic indignation. “Oh, really, Henderson? Really?” he said, shaking his head like Dustin had personally wounded his very soul. “Comparing my boys to… me? And you’re sorry?”

Dustin raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning even wider. “Hey! I’m just saying it like it is! Handsome little Harringtons all around!”

You chuckled, shaking your head at the two of them, while Eddie and Robbie were already enthusiastically diving back into their pancakes, oblivious to the playful adult theatrics happening beside them.

“Like father, like sons,” you said, sliding into your chair next to Katie. “Go easy on the syrup, okay? Don’t flood the table before breakfast’s even started.”

Dustin glanced from the boys to Katie, eyes twinkling. “Don’t worry, I’m ready. I’ve handled worse chaos before.” He picked up his fork with exaggerated caution, pretending like he was bracing for impact.

Eddie and Robbie jabbed at their pancakes with unrestrained enthusiasm, syrup soon dripping onto the edges of their plates and a little onto the table. Katie squealed in delight, copying their actions with glee, while Dustin shook his head, pretending to gag. “Oh no! Pancake apocalypse! Someone save me!”

You laughed, reaching over to wipe a small smear of syrup from Eddie’s cheek. “This is going to be a long morning,” you said, glancing fondly at Steve and Dustin, who were already teasing the kids back and forth, each trying to outdo the other in playful antics.

=

By the time the kids had demolished most of their pancakes, Dustin had fully assumed his role as chaos coordinator, herding Eddie, Robbie, and Katie toward the backyard.

The morning sun poured over the white picket fence surrounding your home, brushing the big, green lawn with a soft golden glow. The grass was freshly mowed, though speckled with a few dandelions that the kids immediately decided were “important obstacles” in the game Dustin had invented on the spot.

A sturdy old oak tree stood in the corner of the yard, a single black tire hanging from a thick branch, swaying gently in the breeze. It had been a favourite play spot for Eddie and Robbie since they were toddlers, and even now they scrambled up and down with a combination of daring and giggles.

“Catch it, Eddie! No, Robbie! Watch out for Katie!” Dustin called, spinning the frisbee like a tiny professional sports announcer as the kids squealed, weaving through the lawn. Katie shrieked in delight as she lunged for the frisbee, only for Dustin to scoop her up in a playful tackle. “Whoa, careful!” he shouted, laughing so hard he nearly tripped over Eddie, who had taken off running with the frisbee now.

=

Meanwhile, inside the house, the smell of cinnamon rolls mingled with freshly brewed coffee and the faint scent of fruit from the colourful platters you had arranged. The kitchen was a whirlwind of organized chaos, napkins stacked neatly beside plates, sandwiches lined up with precision, and little decorations tucked into corners to add a festive feel. Sunlight streamed through the large bay windows, casting warm, dappled patterns on the polished hardwood floors. The living room looked like it had been touched by magic: balloons in bright primary colours bobbed near the ceiling, streamers fluttered slightly from the ceiling fans, and the kids’ toys were scattered with the perfect kind of mess that only made a house feel lived in.

Steve leaned against the counter, wiping down the last of the berry-stained plates. His shirt was already a little stained, but his smile never faltered, flicking toward you with that look that always made your chest tighten. “You think I should set the juice over there?” he asked, nodding toward the dining table.

“Yeah, and don’t forget the ice,” you replied, rifling through your notebook.

Today had been meticulously planned, guest arrival times, games for the kids, who would help with what, even little details like which sandwiches would be kid-friendly and which drinks went to adults.

“Robin should be here at eleven, Jonathan and Nancy together around eleven thirty. Lucas and Max maybe at eleven forty-five, and then Mike, El, and Will will probably come as a group shortly after noon. Hopper and Joyce should be here a little later, around twelve, maybe. Think I have everything covered?”

Steve smirked, leaning closer. “Balloons now. The kids are running wild out there, and if we wait, you’ll be wrestling the streamers off the kids’ heads by the time everyone gets here.”

You laughed, shaking your head and jotting a note on the list. “You’re probably right. I’ll tackle the balloons now, and you finish the drinks and plates.”

From the backyard, the sounds of chaos and joy were a constant backdrop. Dustin’s voice rose above the excited shrieks of the children. “Team! Keep your eyes on the frisbee! Uncle Dusty believes in you!” Eddie and Robbie sprinted in opposite directions, giggling uncontrollably, while Katie chased them, arms flailing in sheer delight. A gentle breeze ruffled the leaves of the oak tree, making the tire swing lazily, a perfect impromptu target for the kids to jump toward. Dustin dove theatrically onto the grass, letting out exaggerated groans whenever he “almost” got tackled by one of the kids, who squealed in triumph every time.

=

A moment later, your front door opened, and the first guest arrived. Robin stepped in, carrying a bag in one hand, and a small box in the other. She paused at the doorway, taking in the chaos of syrup-sticky hands, streamers fluttering from the ceiling, and the organized mess that somehow made everything feel alive.

“Wow,” she said, laughing softly. “You really went all out.”

“Robin!” you called back with a grin, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Perfect timing, breakfast is done, but chaos is still on the menu. And you brought presents!”

Robin laughed, stepping inside and setting the bouquet and gift carefully on the counter. “And the cake,” she added, revealing a small, perfectly frosted creation tucked securely under a dome. “I figured it would be better to arrive now rather than risk anyone drooling on it.”

The kids, already bouncing with energy from pancakes and morning excitement, squealed at the sight of Robin. Katie, spotting her immediately, ran forward with little arms outstretched.

Robin was already at the kitchen table, having carefully set down Katie’s birthday present on the dining room table and the cake on the kitchen counter. She dropped to her knees, opening her arms wide, and Katie barreled into her, wrapping herself around Robin in a tight, squealing hug.

“Oh, my favourite and only niece” Robin laughed, hugging her back just as tightly, her curls tumbling over Katie’s shoulders. “Happy birthday, baby girl! I missed you so much!

Katie giggled, burying her face against Robin’s shoulder. “I missed you too!” she squealed, kicking her tiny legs in delight.

=

A few minutes later, Jonathan and Nancy arrived together, stepping through the front door with careful grace. Jonathan carried a tray of pastries, flaky croissants, chocolate twists, and tiny cinnamon buns, while Nancy balanced a small stack of brightly wrapped presents for Katie. The soft morning light spilled across the hallway, catching the little sparkles on the gift wrap.

Jonathan gave a shy, slightly nervous smile, adjusting his grip on the tray as he carefully navigated around a dangling streamer that swayed gently from the ceiling. “Don’t want to mess up the decorations,” he murmured quietly, glancing toward the living room where the kids’ laughter echoed.

Nancy, ever playful, made a little dramatic duck under one of the low-hanging balloons, then laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Happy birthday, Katie!” she said warmly, holding out a gift wrapped in bright paper patterned with little stars. Her eyes softened as she looked down at the little girl who ran toward her, curls bouncing and eyes shining with excitement.

The twins, Eddie and Robbie, who had been engrossed in their frisbee antics a moment ago, paused mid-spin to peek curiously at the newcomers. Their attention wavered between the tray of pastries and the small pile of presents now waiting for Katie. A mischievous grin spread across Robbie’s face, while Eddie gave a quiet, impressed whistle.

Katie squealed with delight, her tiny hands reaching eagerly for the packages. Jonathan knelt slightly to be closer to her level, careful not to spill the pastries, while Nancy crouched beside him, smiling broadly as Katie hugged the gift to her chest. The warm, chaotic energy of the morning, laughter, squeals, the smell of breakfast and pastries mingling with the scent of fresh grass from the open windows, made the house feel alive in a way that made your chest swell with quiet happiness.

=

Shortly after, Lucas and Max pulled up in Lucas’ car, tires crunching over the gravel driveway. The twins pressed their faces against the backseat windows, waving so vigorously that you could hear their excited shouts before the car even came to a stop. “Hey! Over here!” Eddie and Robbie yelled in unison, fists pumping the air.

Max was the first to tumble out of the car, laughing as she grabbed Eddie in a playful headlock. “You can’t escape the chaos now!” she shouted, spinning him around gently as he squealed with laughter. Robbie tried to sneak past her, but Max caught him too, and soon the three of them were in a pile of giggles on the grass, Max teasingly ruffling their hair.

Lucas followed behind, grinning as he carried several colourful gift bags decorated with balloons and birthday patterns. “We brought presents too!” he said, setting them carefully on the kitchen table. “Can’t let your special day go underdressed.” He winked at you, clearly pleased with the arrangement.

The twins scrambled back inside after a few more spins and tickles, eyes darting to the pile of gifts and treats now accumulating on the tables. Katie, still clutching her package from Nancy, squealed with delight and ran to see what Max and Lucas had brought.

Max crouched to Katie’s level, giving her a quick, playful hug. “Ready for the ultimate birthday chaos?” she asked, and Katie nodded emphatically, bouncing on her little feet.

The kitchen and living room were now alive with movement, laughter, and the smell of breakfast mingling with the sweetness of pastries and decorations. Outside, the yard glowed under the morning sun, waiting for more little feet to scatter across the grass.

=

By noon, the final group trickled in. Mike, Eleven, and Will arrived together, the crisp sunlight spilling through the front door behind them. Eleven carried a neatly wrapped gift bag with a bright bow, carefully setting it down on the growing pile of presents without letting Katie notice too early. Her eyes flicked toward the little birthday girl, soft and warm, already catching Katie’s attention.

“Happy birthday, Katie!” Will said shyly, his voice gentle but full of affection. His eyes sparkled as they scanned the room, taking in the chaos of flying streamers, syrup-smeared pancakes on the dining table, and the twins already tussling over whose turn it was with the toy frisbee.

Mike, sensing Will’s quiet hesitation, nudged him playfully with an elbow. “Hey, no hiding back there,” he said, grinning. “This is a birthday.” Will laughed, ducking his head, and Mike threw an arm around his shoulder as they moved further into the kitchen.

Eleven, meanwhile, crouched slightly to make herself smaller in Katie’s line of sight. “Look, Katie,” she said softly, lifting her gift just enough to peek inside the ribbon, “I brought something special for you.” Katie squealed in delight, bouncing in place as the other kids noticed the new arrivals, their curiosity momentarily pausing the pancake chaos.

The moment was interrupted by the cheerful jingle of the doorbell again. You exchanged a quick glance with Steve, raising your eyebrows as the cupcakes balanced in your hands threatened to tip. You hurried to the door and opened it to find Hopper and Joyce grinning at the threshold, carrying an assortment of juice boxes, small snack trays, and a few extra plates.

“Backup’s arrived!” Joyce announced, stepping in and setting down her haul on the counter with an exaggerated flourish. She winked at you, already aware that her timing was perfect to join the chaos.

Hopper shuffled in behind her, muttering in his gruff, familiar voice. “I’m ready handle rogue kid if needs be." he said, glancing at the floor where syrup was still glistening in patches from the earlier breakfast.

=

The house was alive with movement and sound. Streamers hung crookedly from the ceiling, some brushing against the swinging ceiling fans, and balloons bobbed gently in corners, bouncing when children ran past. Laughter echoed from the living room to the kitchen, overlapping with the occasional squeals of delight and mock protests as the kids chased one another around tables and across the hardwood floors.

Out back, the white picket fence framed a backyard alive with colour and activity. The tire swing on the old oak tree creaked as it swung gently in the breeze, sometimes nudged by an excited little foot or hand. Dustin darting after Eddie, Robbie, and Katie, tossing a frisbee here, catching a runaway ball there, and laughing so hard that it sounded like it might split his chest.

The twins shrieked with joy as they zipped around the yard, dodging one another and Katie, who squealed gleefully as she ran with reckless abandon.

Inside, the adults were scattered throughout the house, each corner buzzing with conversation. Jonathan and Nancy were leaning near the kitchen counter, animatedly discussing something while keeping an eye on the kids. Lucas and Max were crouched on the floor by the living room rug, setting up a game for the kids, and having a playful argument on how it works. Mike and Eleven hovered near the kitchen doorway, smiling softly as they watched Will attempt to quietly eat a cupcake without getting frosting on his shirt, which, of course, failed. Hopper and Joyce had claimed a spot by the kitchen table, arranging drinks and snacks while joking with each other about the inevitability of pancake- and syrup-related disasters.

From the kitchen, you and Steve moved closer to the sliding glass doors, drawn by the joyous chaos outside. Steve’s arm slid around your shoulders as you both leaned against the frame, watching the backyard scene with a shared smile. “Look at them,” he murmured softly, his eyes following Eddie and Robbie as they darted around the yard, Katie trailing a few steps behind but laughing just as hard. “Look at all this… our little mess, our little chaos.”

You rested your head lightly against his chest, letting his warmth ground you amidst the sensory overload of birthday madness. “I think they’re having fun,” you said, voice soft, a mixture of awe and relief. “And everyone else seems to be… well, surviving it.”

Steve chuckled, his cheek brushing the top of your head. “Surviving and loving it,” he corrected, eyes twinkling. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening slightly around you. “I couldn’t imagine doing any of this with anyone else. None of this, Y/N… you, me, all of it. You make it perfect, even when it’s absolute chaos.”

You smiled, heart swelling with love, contentment… and a little secret you’d been carrying close, one that made your chest flutter in a way only he could. You tilted your head up to meet his gaze, fingers brushing lightly over his hand resting on your shoulder. “Steve…” you murmured, voice soft but tinged with excitement, “there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”

Steve’s brow lifted, curiosity and warmth mixing in his expression. “Oh? What’s that?” he asked, still holding you close, the chaos of the backyard glowing in the morning light behind him.

You took a slow breath, letting the words roll gently across your lips, almost like testing them in the air first. “I think… there is going to be a little more chaos,” you said, letting a small, nervous smile tug at your mouth. “Looks like our little nugget number four is on the way.”

For a heartbeat, Steve froze, eyes widening slightly as the words registered. Then a slow, stunned grin spread across his face, and he cupped your face in his hands, tilting his forehead against yours. “Wait… really?” he whispered, voice cracking with awe and joy. “Another one?”

You nodded, laughing softly at the expression on his face, the mixture of disbelief and pure happiness. “Really,” you said, resting your hands against his chest. “Another little chaos machine joining the crew.”

Steve laughed, a full, unrestrained laugh, before leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes again, eyes shining. “Y/N… we’ve really done it, huh? We’ve built a little world, and now it’s growing even more.”

You leaned into him, the warmth of his arms around you grounding you amidst the noise and laughter outside. “Exactly,” you said, smiling against his chest. “A little more chaos, a little more love… a little more us.”

He brushed a strand of hair from your face, pressing another gentle kiss to your forehead. “I love this,” he murmured. “All of it… and all of you.”

Outside, the kids and Dustin continued their mayhem, oblivious to the quiet, perfect moment you shared. And in that instant, standing together in the sunlit backyard, hand in hand, heart to heart, the past and the chaos of the world felt impossibly far away, replaced entirely by this, by family, love, and the bright promise of what was still to come.

You leaned against him, letting the noise, laughter, and sunshine wash over you, feeling the life growing inside you and the chaos of your family surrounding you. And for the first time in a long time, the past, the nightmares, the towers, the darkness, felt impossibly far away. Here, in this sticky, messy, beautiful day, everything was exactly as it was meant to be.

Katie shrieked in triumph as she tumbled into a pile of leaves with the twins and Dustin, who mock-gasped dramatically at being “crushed by a giant.” Max and Lucas joined in with laughter, and the house erupted into full, glorious chaos once mor, and you and Steve, hand in hand, watched it all, hearts impossibly full.

ɢᴇᴛ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴍɪᴛʏ ɢᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ, ᴍᴡᴜᴀʜᴀʜᴀʜᴀ.