#rt imagine

"A-Anniversary..." he said softly, but it wasn't a question – he already knew he messed up, "Baby girl, I-"

"It's okay," you shook your head as you got up, not even bothering to clean up the leftover food on the table, "Work is a lot right now; I shouldn't have tried to surprise you." You went to walk past him, but he grabbed your hand and turned you back to him.

"Y/N, don't-" he started, but you cut him off.

"Trevor, please," your voice cracked. He could see how close you were to tears, causing him to release you before you actually started crying in front of him – he knew he wouldn't have been able to handle it.

So he let you go; He let you hurry to your bedroom, the sound of the door closing behind you echoing in his ears.

But no matter how hard he tried, he knew he wouldn't be able to get the image of you crying out of his head for at least a few hours.

~

3 hours later

It was now well after midnight and you found yourself sitting on the counter in the bathroom while Trevor was sat on the toilet seat. You didn't know exactly how you ended up in the same room – all you knew was that it had been silent for a solid 5 minutes now. That is, until you heard Trevor take a deep breath and break it.

"Do you remember when we were dancing at our wedding and you said you'd never slow danced before that night?" your husband asked softly, "And I asked if you went to prom, and you said yes but that no one wanted to dance with you during the slow songs?"

"No..." you trailed off.

"Well, I do," he promised you, "I remember your favorite cereal and your favorite donut and how you like your coffee and I can tell you exactly what you were wearing when you told me you love me for the first time. I remember what you get at McDonald's and what scent of bubble bath is your favorite. I remember looking at you when our bags got lost on our honeymoon and I was so worried you'd think it'd ruined our trip, but you just brushed it off and said 'life happens'. I know I don't always remember the important stuff like what year you were born and where you grew up before you moved to Austin and apparently, I don't remember the best day of my life-" He was getting choked up, so he cleared his throat. "-but I know that seeing you walk down that aisle and that smile on your face... I know that you looked beautiful in that dress and you look beautiful in sweatpants and my shirts on lazy Sundays and you look beautiful in every outfit in between... You're far more than I've ever deserved and I don't know how I got lucky enough to be chosen to be the one you spend the rest of your life with, but I wake up thankful every day when you're still asleep next to me and your hair is all over the place and you have drool on the side of your mouth and I look down and see the ring you let me put on your finger... 'Cause you may have to remind me of a lot of things, but I'll never forget how much I love you and how marrying you was the best decision I've ever made..."

When his rant was finished, the room was deafeningly quiet. You weren't speaking at all and that made Trevor beyond nervous. He was always pretty good at sensing what you were feeling, but he couldn't read this silence at all.

And it didn't help when he heard your feet hit the floor as you jumped down from the counter.

He expected to hear the door open and close next, signaling that you'd left the room, but it didn't. Instead, once your feet landed, they got closer to him. He saw them in his peripheral vision first, but his head didn't snap up to look at you until you planted yourself on his lap.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, your face immediately finding the skin that covered it. His own arms wound around your waist as he released a shaky breath, keeping you firmly against him as if to keep you from both sliding off and from leaving him anytime soon.

"I would rather you remember all that than some stupid anniversary any day," you whispered into his skin, feeling him squeeze you in return.

"Our anniversary isn't stupid," he reminded you, "The only stupid thing about it is me forgetting it."

"You know, for an aerospace engineer, you can be kinda dumb sometimes," you said lightheartedly, barely smiling when it made him laugh.

"I know," he acknowledged, "But you know what else is dumb? Agreeing to marry me." Your own giggle was muffled by his neck.

"Best dumb decision I've ever made," you told him, feeling him smile as well and kiss your shoulder.

❀・・・❀・・・❀・・・❀・・・❀・・・❀・・・❀

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You weren’t sure what you had done, but for some reason, Michael had taken a sudden and acute stance change from “friendly” to “completely ignoring you.” 

As a fire nymph, you figured that the demon, whose original domain is bathed in fire and brimstone, would be the easiest person to become friends with. And at first, you thought that was true. Michael was charming, if a little hot-headed, and seemed to give you tiny, secret smiles when the others weren’t looking. It made your heart flutter in time with your wings. It wasn’t long after you started when he started saving you a muffin at breakfast when he knew that it was your favorite or sitting in the chair you had decided was your “favorite” chair for briefing meetings until you arrived so that it was saved for you. 

It was cute. Michael was cute. The two of you got along well. And it wasn’t more than a few months into your employment with AH that you realized you were starting to like him, in a schoolgirl crush/romantic sort of way. At first, you were too scared to admit it to yourself, however eventually (with a lot of needling from Jeremy, who had accidentally discovered your crush), you decided to stick out an olive branch and see where it led. 

But, as soon as you sent him a tiny, secret smile back one night after a particularly rough run-in with some Unseelie fae that had been causing a ruckus, the next morning - poof! - it was like you didn’t exist. 

And, frankly, after a week, it was starting to piss you off. 

The first thing you did after you realized that no, this was not just a “Michael-being-moody” thing and was, in fact a “Michael-pointedly-ignoring-you” thing, was go to Ryan. The vampire had been in charge of your little group outing, so he was the most logical person to ask if you had done something that would warrant Michael ignoring you.

When you had finally found the elusive Elder Vampire, holed up in his office (even though you had checked there thrice earlier and he had not been there before), he had just responded with a shrug and a wave of his hand. 

“It’s Michael,” he stated with a frown as he fiddled with a gadget that looked to be at least a century older than you were, “I try not to figure him out anymore. Gives me too many headaches.” 

“You say that about everyone.” You retorted shortly, hands on your hips.

Ryan blew hair out of his face, finally looking up at you, “Exactly. And you’re about to be added to that list of “everyone.” Ask Gavin or something, I don’t know.” 

—

Heeding Ryan’s advice, you waited a day or two to see if Michael got over his whatever, and when he hadn’t, you set out in search of Gavin.

The siren, turns out, much easier to find. 

“Hmm…” He pulled at his beard, looking off into the distance as you told him your tale. Something flashed across his unnaturally blue eyes - a glint of recognition, maybe? - but it was gone before you could have the time to pinpoint what you saw. 

“Well?” You huffed, tapping your foot.

“I dunno. He’s my Michael-boi, but he hasn’t said much to me about it.” Gavin finally said with a shrug that looked suspiciously like Ryan’s had, dancing away before you had the chance to probe him for further information.

—

It seemed, however, that while your brief chat with Gavin brought you to a dead end, it had also amped up Michael’s avoidance of you. Instead of just pretending you didn’t exist, he had escalated to making every excuse to leave the room as soon as you entered, swapping out with others on scouts and missions, and so on.

You endured this for three more days before you couldn’t take it anymore. Michael was in the kitchen, his back to you, and before you could realize what you were doing, you were striding towards him, cornering him in the kitchen.

“Michael, we need to talk -” You stated, putting your brave face on as you lightly grabbed his shoulder with your hand. 

He spun around with faster reflexes than you knew he had and glared at you. His eyes seemed forever dark, an inky black had spread into his irises from his pupils. You took a split-second to decide whether or not pissing off the demon was worth it.

You decided it was. 

“No, we fucking don’t. Remove the hand before I remove it for you.” Michael spat, trying to step away from you, but you were faster, reaching out and floating forward in time with his movements to latch onto his wrist, this time.”

“Yes, we do! I’m not leaving, Michael, not until I understand why you’re ignoring me.” You pushed, trying to portray your hurt and despair over his actions with your voice. If only he would understand.

“I said, get off!” Michael practically roared, wrenching out of your grip and you watched as his body began to smoke, inky black, and the smell of ash and fire burned your nostrils. 

You knew it was supposed to be a threat, a warning. But Michael was forgetting that you were also made from fire. You let your own aura glow, your fiery wings revealing themselves, and you felt the flames licking at the tips of your fingers.

“I just want to understand, Michael! Why are you ignoring me?” Despite your own show of power, you pleaded, unsure of how to get through to the hot-headed demon. 

The darkness that surrounded Michael vanished as quickly as it came, and he sagged back against the countertop, “I just…I like you, okay? I can’t risk you getting hurt. I can’t risk it happening, not again.” He sighed and brushed past you, and you, too in shock at his confession, let him go. 

It took you a moment to bring yourself back together, but once you did, you went back to searching for Michael. No matter what he thought, the conversation wasn’t over.

Without a word, you all but dragged him further into the house and to the living room where you urged him to lay down on the couch with you. You knew that he had to be physically and mentally exhausted not just from the trip home but the insane schedule that he had while over in Australia. So, you laid back on the couch and allowed him to stretch out along with you. His erratic hair tickling the underside of your chin.

You reached out for the remote and found something to put on the television, mostly as background noise, as all you really wanted to do was look at him. It had been a long week without him home and while the pictures and videos posted online were nice, having here in person was so much better.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” he mumbled, lifting his head.

Trevor’s dark brown eyes opened and closed slowly, the light of the television reflecting within them and I sort of smiled. He stared at you in confusion, blinking, his eyelashes brushing against your cheek.

“Nothing."

Crates are jammed in every free corner, staircase blocked with a barrage of suitcases while furniture is left littered with packages and the promise of a nap. Even the room you’ve claimed as your own, the largest in all respects and the one you rightfully deserve after picking up the keys and moving across the country early and alone; has only the bed made. And, if someone were to clamber over the mountain of belongings at the foot of the stairs and traipse through the hallway lined with linen, they’d see a wardrobe harbouring piles of clothes and a carpet fashioned into a maze of mismatched books and boxes.

But you’re too involved in the moment to worry about everything you need to do, enraptured in the peace of a promising beginning. A fresh start is just what you need. A new place in a new town where no one knows your name. Where memories can be buried in the snowfall, and a future career can be forged in tree trunks. Here, you’re Y/N, no more and no less. Y/N, a woman who really needs to get on with the rest of the evening.

A gentle sigh escapes into your mug, a soft hum that’s swallowed with the remains of your tea. Aching feet pad against the rich wooden panels lining the floor, slowly easing you into an evening free from the bustle of a choking city. Void of the demands of people, or the hollowness of a house you’d come to refuse as home. Another comfortable breath comes as a jumper is pulled over your head, fabric softly tugging against your skin like caressing fingers. Even your laces cause little trouble, boots done up in no time before you’re out the door, nose buried in the cream fluff of a scarf.

The crunch of fresh snow starts off your journey into the town centre of Motbury; leading you down the damp wooden steps and onto the small stone path tracing through your new garden, property lined with thick pine trunks and shivering greenery. Late afternoon sun rays drift lazily through the branches, dusting the world with a pleasant yellow glow you can’t help smiling into. A quick glance backwards says goodbye to the lodge and its characteristic grooves, to its tattered log exterior and triangular peaks, sharp supports and clusters of windows. To the stone columns you swear you’ll coat in fairy lights and markings, the wagon wheels you’re certain you’ll never get around to moving, and the mound of firewood stacked haphazardly against the side of your new home.

---

The first store you enter welcomes you with open arms and a comfortable heat, gentle jingles of the bell above the door seeing the man behind the cash register’s head lifting. He smiles through a dark beard flecked with greys, hair a mess with the numerous passes his tattooed fingers make across it. Still, the expression sees a face creased with age brighten, bearing the same cutting lines that accompany his front door. He greets you with a casual hello before returning his attention to the two figures in faded uniform on the opposite side of the checkout, nodding along to their stories.

From the back you can’t make out much besides their thick, fur trimmed coats and working boots - but the guns holstered to their sides tells you enough. The shorter of the two, of who is at least a head below the man on the right, runs a hand through brightly coloured hair, diffusing icy blues and mousey brown roots. The tension marrying between his broad shoulders explains the concern twitching restlessly in his fingers, nerves conducting the gentle incessant taps of his toes. Such apprehension is mirrored in the flash you catch of the other man’s expression; muted red curls trimmed neat, freckles splotching pale skin.

The pair hears your entrance, turning too late as you disappear into the aisles with a small cart, eyes intent on the slip of paper decorating your palm. Murmurs still snake across the floor, your back growing warm as their voices brush against it. Snippets of conversation follow; questions about family and comments about the upcoming forecast. A conversation that refuses to linger on the missing posters plastered to the windows, and a warning about getting the store secured before the raging weather hits. Boisterous laughter finally defrosts the room that’s slowly been icing over with their worries, and it joins the selection of bread you sift through, loaves and rolls scattered with seeds accompanying the vegetables you’ve collected on the journey through the store.

None of the other bodies in the cosy space seem to mind the presence of the police, all wearing gentle expressions and comfortable shoulders. It puts you at ease, the usual nagging concern that bounces in your chest at the sight of law enforcement ebbing away. From the corner of your eye the quirk of a tall man’s lips sees the pressure stringing down your neck thaw, close enough for you to hear him chuckling at the conversation overtaking the front of the store, his amusement tumbling into the butcher’s display. His head shakes within the palm his chin rests against, smile turning into a grin. Then a large, callous hand pushes back loose strands of sweeping sandy blonde, impatiently forcing red plaid sleeves back up to the crook of his elbows.

And then you see it, something that makes your heart leap and pulse race, breath catching with a stifled gasp - there’s a special on steak. You beeline for it, now close enough to feeling the man’s warm laughter caress your side. Gathering a few packages and dumping them into your cart, you return to the sausages, of which the blonde seems to be struggling with. He holds two varieties in his hands, glancing from one to the other, utterly perplexed. You can see the difficulty, considering the options before making a decision.

“Pork and sage are always a good choice,” you offer helpfully, reaching in front and collecting an identical pack to the one he’s debating.

“You couldn’t be more right,” he replies after a moment, turning his incredibly blue eyes to you. The twitch of his lips widens into a smile, discarding the losing flavour and placing the winner in his basket. “You’ve just made dinner a hell of a lot easier.”  

“Just doing my duty.”

“Your country thanks you,” he chuckles, and your stomach leaps.

Intending to respond with a witty remark you’re almost certain won’t be nearly as clever as you hope, the words die in your throat with the crash fracturing the air; as sudden as the tumble of cusses emanating from the front of the store. You both whip your attention to the shattering of glass and the fuming voice of the shopkeeper, frustration buried in another person’s giggles. “Oh c’mon, Jeremy! That’s the 2nd jar this week!”

“Shit,” responds the man you assume to be Jeremy with a groan, “I’m so sorry Geoff.”

“I should have you bloody arrested for this.”

“I could do it, Geoff,” interjects the taller man eagerly, giggles eventually subsiding. “Just say the words. Please. Ask me to arrest him. God damn it Geoff. This is all I’ve ever wanted. Please have me arrest Jeremy.” 

You can’t hold back the sniggers, joy dripping through the fingers you hide your lips behind. The stranger beside you joins in, shaking his grinning face yet again. Far taller than you, he stands on his tiptoes, peering over the shorter shelves. “There go the complimentary chocolates.” He rocks back on the balls of his feet, wincing. “Damn it. Geoff always has the one with little hazelnuts inside.”

“What a waste,” you gasp, hand clutching your scarf in an action he mirrors. “Does this happen often?”

He glances at you, surprised. It takes him a moment to realise that he doesn’t actually recognise you, having accepted your conversation and comfortability as a form of familiarity. “All the time. That pair make a mess everywhere they go. I’m sorry, I’m being rude. You’re new here?”

“Just moved in,” you reply, brushing away his disappointment in his manners, “I bought the lodge up the road.” You shake the hand he offers, dwarfed in his firm grasp. “I’m Y/N. Figured I’d collect some supplies before my roommates arrive.”

“Ryan.” He smiles, a lopsided, carefree expression that leaves him looking younger. “I’d tell you that you’d get used to them, but you really don’t. 2 years and the short one’s still a pain in my ass.” He laughs, warm and rich. “I don’t let him in the shop anymore, he’s always breaking stuff. But I won’t take up any more of your time.” He gives your trolley a pointed glance, assessing it’s contents and then your stature. “It looks like you’ve got a lot of hungry mouths to feed.”

You offer him a shrug, rather enjoying his company. “Not for a few more days. I moved in early to sort out some paperwork, pick up the keys and make sure everything’s set up. I’ll probably end up shopping again in a few more days. They’re animals.”

“The lodge, you said?” He’s quiet for a moment, thoughtful and tracing the paths he knows so well in his head. “The one on the outskirts, went extremely cheap?”

“Suspiciously cheap,” you correct.

“By the tree line?”

“That’s the one.”

He dives into his pocket while you’re speaking, sawdust trembling from the patches plastered against his pants. Rummaging around, he discards a number of crumbled receipts into his basket before pulling out a business card. “Here,” he insists, pressing the laminated piece into your expectant palm. “I run the local carpentry store; ‘Hay Woodworks’. A place like yours is gonna require some fixing up. We try to keep on top of the scratches around the doors and window frames - nah, don’t look so scared, it’s just animals trying to find shelter in the storms - but it’s always best to be safe. One good gust and the whole thing can cave, even with the newer buildings. I’d be happy to help out, even if it’s just to check the property out before the storms hit. I’ll sort you out with anything.”

Your eyebrow quirks, testing the waters with a timid snatch at opportunity. “What about a job?”

He considers this thoroughly, picking up one of your hands and studying it, folding it over in his own. Finally, he lets it drop, lips pursing to the side. “What’ve you worked with?”

“Mainly statement pieces and decorations,” you reply fondly, thumb tracing one of the many callouses that’d stained your hands years ago, skin tattered with scars. “But I’m good on a ladder. I used to work in my Granddad’s shop when I was younger and we’d go out and fix up houses. I haven’t carved in a while, but I’m all about new beginnings right now.”

He’s lips tug into a broad grin, welcoming and infectious. “I think I could find something for you to do. It’d be hard work, but swing by the shop tomorrow and we’ll see what you can do. I’ve got a couple of fix up jobs lined up for the coming few weeks, I could do with a hand once I know what you’re capable of.”

You’re beaming as you thank him, potential rushing through your mind with the excited shake of your hands. Eventually you pry yourself away with his insistence of having taken up too much of your time. Venturing further into the groceries, you throwing a few well-timed glances back at him, Ryan staring intently at his shoes before shaking himself, tearing away from your line of sight at the call of his name. During your interaction the commotion taking over the front of the store has died down, cheerful warmth still radiating in spite of the cold rattling against the exterior walls.

“Hold on, Michael,” comes a voice over the shelves a few minutes later as you’re leaning into the milk fridge, overwhelmed with the hum of freezer elements, unable to discern it’s familiarity, “I just want to check something first.”

“Go for it, J,” encourages Michael, hearing the bell jingle as he pushes open the door and says his goodbyes to Ryan, gusts of freezing wind playing with his curls. “I’ll be in the patrol car with my ass pressed to the heater.”

You pay the conversation no mind, finally having picked up enough produce to keep a small family fed for a week - or your roommates satiated for at least 3 days. Making your way to the checkout, the voice comes again, curious and careful. “Y/N?”

Spinning, you find yourself facing the small, bright officer, deep brown eyes widening in disbelieving joy. He’s stronger with your name this time, excited. “Y/N! Since when do you shop up in the mountains?”

“Jeremy,” you breath, shock coursing through your veins, “oh my god, is that really you?”

“Jesus,” he chuckles incredulously, both embracing for a long moment before he holds you out at arm’s length. He can’t quite comprehend your existence, drinking in the sight of his long lost friend. “It’s been, what, 2 years? How’ve you been?”

“Alright,” you admit rather hollowly, blinking a few times to stay on track. “What’re you doing here?”

“I work here now.” There’s pride in his voice, chest puffing up and finger jabbing the patch adoring his breast pocket, a similar one on his arm. “I was transferred here after we stopped working together, you’re looking at Motbury’s detective chief inspector.”

“You’re kidding.” You laugh, elated and vaguely aware of Ryan paying for his groceries, returning the wave he throws you from the door. Another billow of wind, ice nipping the tip of your nose. “You finally got your promotion.”

“You bet your ass I did, and a haircut.” His fingers skim the colour that’d made him so unrecognisable, and your heart feels instantly lighter.

At that message, you stop reading, your blood running cold as a wave of anxiety hits you, and you quickly swipe the notification to call him back. Hands shaking, you bite your lip, standing to your feet and pacing back and forth as the phone rings, unable to keep from wincing when you hear Steven’s voice.

“(Y/n), thank christ, listen, I— I don’t know how to say this, but… fucking hell…,” his voice breaks slightly, and you hear him sniff before continuing, “Parker, he— Parker’s dead, (y/n), he’s fucking dead and…”

You can hear his voice, still talking, still panicking, but your phone slips from your hand, falling to the hardwood at your feet, and you stand there, frozen. You can’t even begin to process what’s happening, your mind repeating the phrase over and over, but still figuring out nothing. Slowly, you kneel down and pick up the phone, your fingers almost numb as you do.

Steven is still going, and you begin to listen again as he says, “...and Cib, he ran off, we don’t know where the fuck he is, but he’s out of his goddamn mind and we— we don’t know what he’s doing.”

You don’t even bother getting up from the floor, slumping back against the couch as you pull your knees to your chest. “Dead… Parker is— Parker— ” you can’t get yourself to say it, the words caught in your throat.

“Listen, (y/n), keep your door locked, alright? If he’s gonna end up on anyone’s doorstep, it’ll be yours.”

You nod numbly, the thought that he has his own key popping up somewhere in the back of your mind, but it went mostly unnoticed amidst every other thought running through your head. “Steve, what do we do, where do we—”

A pair of feet appear in your line of vision, and you freeze, hesitating before looking up to see the figure looming over you. Cib’s eyes are sunken, tired, and he’s breathing heavily as he asks, “Is that Steven?”

Meanwhile, you hear persistent questioning in your ear, all along the lines of, “what’s going on?” but you can’t bring yourself to answer either voice. Instead, you rise your feet, legs trembling and almost collapsing beneath you.

“Cib… what did you do?” Your voice is shaking as you ask the question, a question you really don’t want an answer to. You see the blood on his hands, the look in his eyes, and you can’t help but wince as he takes a step toward you, unconsciously inching away until you hit a wall.

"Babe, listen," he continues to walk toward you, but you cut him off, your hands held out in front of you as you weakly warn him,

"Don't— don't take another step closer."

But he doesn't listen, moving forward, grabbing your wrists and pulling them down to your sides so he can stand in front of you, look you in the eye as he says, "I did this to protect you. I did this for us,” his breath reeks of alcohol, and you’re leaning as far against the wall as he continues, “for you.” "I never asked for this," your voice breaks as you speak, and you struggle to pull yourself out of his grip; but he's far stronger, his grip becoming almost painful, and your continued attempts to escape weaken. “He was my friend, and he was your friend too, wasn’t he?” There’s no response from Cib, not that you were expecting one. “He didn’t—” you close your eyes for a moment, sniffling as you try to force away the tears, “he didn’t deserve this!” "(Y/n), we can just forget about this, alright? We'll just, we'll keep going, like it never happened." His voice is desperate, and he leans down to your level, one of his bloodied hands moving to cup your cheek as he adds, "Please." He’s crying, tears rolling down his cheek, and your chest feels heavy. The moment feels like it might never end, his gaze piercing, his thumb brushing away the tears that streak down your face. Eventually though, you tear yourself away, ducking around him and running to the door with no clue of where you’re going. You can feel the smear of blood on your skin, hear him calling after you, and you just keep running, refusing to turn around.

That is, until you reach your car, and realize you have nothing on you but the phone in your hand. The sound of Cib’s footsteps only get closer, and you take a shallow breath before turning around, shuddering when you see him.

“(Y/n), please— please, don’t be afraid of me. I’m not gonna hurt you, I would never—”

“You killed him… he was your friend and you killed him; Cib, how could you, how could you kill anyone?” You find yourself shrinking in as he moves nearer, your hands moving to wipe away both the tears and blood that stained your cheeks.

“I couldn’t, I— I didn’t,” he runs a hand through his hair, gritting his teeth as he goes on to say, “all I could think about was you, and how he was always thinking about you. The fucker said he loved you, and I couldn’t— I couldn’t fucking stand it. He was trying to take you away, I couldn’t just let him.” His voice had grown to a shout, but at the sight of your trembling figure, his tone softens, “Friends don’t cross each other like that.”

Before you can say anything, he continues, “I just… I just wanted to teach him a lesson, and then— I looked down, and— and there was so much blood and he wasn’t moving and I, I, I didn’t know what to do…” He falls against you, pulling you close against him, and you can’t bring yourself to struggle against him. Sobbing softly into your hair, his fingers cling to the fabric of your shirt and you find yourself frozen in his arms. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to,” he repeats it like a mantra, his voice barely a whisper.

Against your better judgement, you wrap your arms around him, your hand rubbing his back as he somehow holds you tighter. The blood on his hands stains your pajama shirt as it had your skin, and you can feel your ribcage shrink around your already straining lungs, crushing your pounding heart.

Hands trembling, you try to pull away, but he doesn’t let go, and you can’t find the strength to struggle as he leans almost all his weight against you. “Please don’t leave me,” he mumbles into your hair, his nails slightly digging into your back as he holds you to him, “I can’t lose you.”

“Cib, I—”

“Just let go of her, dude.”

You both hear James’ voice, and while you try to glance over to where he is, Cib just turns away, pulling you with him. His arms are almost crushing you now, and you’re struggling to breathe, trying to push him away as you say, “It hurts, Cib, please, just—”

“No! No, no, no, no, you’re not taking her away from me,” he almost growls, and your panic grows, pulse pounding in your ears as you begin to hit him. “Babe, just calm down, I got you—”

“You’re hurting me, let go!”

“If I let you go, they’ll take you,” he murmurs into your ear, pulling away to look you in the eye. His hands easily grip your wrists, both stopping you from hitting him and holding you in place. “I’m not letting anyone take you away from me.”

Your voice is weak when you respond, holding his gaze as you remind him, “You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

He freezes at that, looking at you almost in shock, not saying a word, his grip still not loosening in the slightest. However, James makes quick work of that, easily removing Cib’s hands from you and pushing you in Steve’s general direction. You can’t keep from stumbling slightly, your legs shaking as you listen to the chaos behind you, James doing his best to calm, or maybe subdue, Cib.

And then you finally notice Steven’s presence, and how he’s looking at you with sad eyes, and how his arms are open just slightly; and then he’s gently wrapping an arm around your shoulders, telling you something. You can’t process any of his words, but they’re softly spoken, and you lean into your friend’s side as he starts to walk you away from the scene.

“You can stay with me and Alyssa tonight…”

“Don’t fucking do this, man.”

“…we’ll figure this shit out in the morning…”

“Let me go, dude, you can’t— you can’t take her!”

“…hopefully.”

Steve ushers you into the passenger seat, and as he closes the door, you look out the window to see an almost rabid Cib, fighting against James and slowly tiring himself out. Hugging your arms around your torso, you sink into the seat, body still trembling.

“We’re gonna figure this out, alright?” Steve assures you, reversing out of the parking lot as James struggles to push Cib into his own car. You know he’s not sure, though, he’s just trying to make you feel better, calm you down. Somehow, it still helps.