#soapyywritesz

Ian McKinley let out a quiet, sleepy sigh behind you, his face buried in the back of your shoulder. His grip wasn’t tight, just enough to keep you there, like even in his sleep he knew exactly where you were supposed to be.

“Don’t go,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

You smiled softly, eyes still closed. “I wasn’t.”

“Mm… good.”

His hand shifted slightly, fingers brushing against your arm in a slow, absentminded motion. It wasn’t rushed or intentional—just soft, lazy touches like he was grounding himself.

The kind that made your chest feel warm.

You turned just enough to face him, careful not to break the moment. His hair was a mess, falling into his eyes, and he looked nothing like the sarcastic, sharp-edged version of himself everyone else saw.

Right now, he was just… soft.

“You’re staring,” he muttered, eyes still closed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“You’re not even awake.”

“Don’t need to be.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, reaching up to push his hair out of his face. He leaned into the touch immediately, like it was instinct.

That made your heart do something stupid.

“Go back to sleep,” you whispered.

He shook his head slightly, finally cracking one eye open to look at you. “Nah. This is better.”

Before you could respond, he pulled you closer—if that was even possible—tucking your head under his chin. His hand slid up your back, slow and comforting, drawing soft patterns that didn’t really mean anything except I’m here.

The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t awkward. It was full. Warm.

Safe.

“You’re staying, right?” he asked after a minute, quieter this time. Not teasing. Not sarcastic.

Just real.

You nodded against him. “Yeah. I’m staying.”

He exhaled, tension you hadn’t even noticed easing out of him. His chin rested lightly on your head as his grip relaxed—but he didn’t let go.

Not completely.

“Good,” he murmured. “Would’ve been a terrible morning without you.”

You smiled into his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Outside, the world was starting to wake up.

But neither of you moved.

And honestly?

When your senses finally returned, you were lying on the asphalt, the smell of burnt rubber and blood heavy in your nostrils. Your head throbbed, each pulse sending a sharp stab of pain through your skull. Your leg screamed when you tried to move it, and panic rose like bile in your throat.

“Hey… you’re okay. Just breathe,” a calm voice said, steady and firm against the whirlwind of fear.

Blinking against the harsh glare of the streetlights, you met Rory Peters. His dark eyes were sharp, but there was a softness behind them—a steadiness that somehow anchored you amidst the chaos. His presence was almost impossible to ignore. He crouched beside you, one hand on your shoulder, the other gripping yours with surprising gentleness.

“I… I don’t know what happened,” you whispered, voice trembling.

“You almost didn’t make it,” Rory said softly. His words were quiet, almost intimate, but they carried an undeniable authority. “But you did. That’s what matters.”

The ambulance sirens faded into the distance as Rory guided you to a safer spot on the curb, supporting you carefully. His touch was gentle but firm, his hands steady, and you felt a shiver—not from cold—but from the intensity of being held by someone who seemed to see everything and still chose to stay.

Your adrenaline was finally wearing off, leaving your body trembling with pain and shock. Tears slid down your cheeks unbidden, and Rory didn’t say a word—he just sat beside you, letting you lean against him, holding your hand as if it were the most important thing in the world.

“I… I can’t stop thinking about it,” you admitted, your voice quivering. “I keep seeing it all over again… the sounds, the lights, the screeching…”

He squeezed your hand gently, his thumb brushing circles over your knuckles. “I know. I see it too,” he murmured. “But you survived. That’s what matters. I’ve got you now.”

The night was strangely quiet, the chaos of the accident already fading into memory, leaving a hush that felt almost sacred. Rory stayed with you, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders, checking your injuries, and never once letting go of your hand. Slowly, you began to breathe easier. You clung to that presence like a lifeline.

“Your leg… we’ll get it checked properly, but you’re stable,” he said, his voice low and measured. “I’ll stay right here until someone takes over.”

You blinked up at him, unsure if it was the drugs in your system, the shock, or something else entirely, but your chest warmed at the care in his voice. “I… I don’t even know your name.”

“Rory,” he said softly, his eyes not leaving yours. “Rory Peters.”

“Rory,” you repeated, testing the sound. It felt like a talisman, a word that meant safety in a world that had just turned upside down.

He offered a small, reassuring smile. “And you?”

“Y/N,” you said.

“Y/N,” he repeated, letting the name linger. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re okay. No one’s touching you tonight without me knowing.”

You swallowed against the lump in your throat. You didn’t know why you trusted him—why you felt safe in the arms of a stranger—but some instinct deep in your chest told you he was exactly where you needed him to be.

Hours passed in a quiet blur. Paramedics came to examine you, but Rory stayed in the corner, hands folded but alert, like a silent guardian. You didn’t notice how tired he must have been, how long he’d been awake, how the events of the night might have weighed on him. All you noticed was that he hadn’t left. Not once.

Finally, after what felt like eternity, Rory guided you onto a stretcher, still holding your hand as you were loaded into the ambulance.

“You’ll be okay,” he whispered again, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Your breath caught. “Why… why are you doing this for me?”

Rory looked at you, his expression almost unreadable, but his eyes were soft, unwavering. “Because sometimes… fate brings people together at the exact moment they’re supposed to. Tonight, I’m supposed to be here. And you… you were supposed to survive.”

It sounded like destiny, like something out of a storybook—but in that moment, with his hand still holding yours, the warmth of his presence steady against your trembling, you didn’t care.

As the ambulance doors closed, the night outside fading, you rested your head against his shoulder. Rory didn’t push you away, didn’t let go.

And for the first time since the accident, you felt the tension in your body loosen, the fear in your chest fade, replaced by something quieter, something safer.

Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was something else entirely.

But as you looked up at Rory Peters, the stranger who had become your anchor in the storm, you realized some people were meant to find you exactly when you needed them most.

And maybe… just maybe… you were meant to hold on a little tighter, too.

You wrapped your arms around yourself. “We already know that, Alex.”

“No—listen,” he insisted, stepping closer. “If Death has a design, then it has rules. And if it has rules… it can be interrupted.”

Interrupted.

Not stopped.

Not beaten.

You swallowed. “Like before… with Carter.”

Alex nodded quickly. “Yeah. When Carter almost died—when I pulled him off the tracks—it skipped him. It went to the next person.”

A pause.

Then realization hit you both at the same time.

“You don’t beat it,” you whispered.

“You delay it,” he finished.

---

The plan felt wrong.

But everything about this felt wrong.

“If it comes for you,” Alex said, pacing, “then I stop it. That should push Death past you—buy you time.”

“And then it comes back later,” you said quietly.

His jaw tightened. “Yeah.”

Silence.

“You’re asking me to almost die, Alex.”

“I’m asking you to trust me,” he shot back, then immediately softened. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I swear.”

That was the problem.

You believed him.

---

You felt it before you saw it.

That shift in the air. That invisible pressure pressing down on your chest.

Death was close.

“Alex…” you breathed.

“I see it,” he said, scanning the room.

Kitchen.

Too many variables.

Too many ways to die.

The stove clicked softly behind you.

A faint hiss.

Gas.

Your stomach dropped.

“Don’t move,” Alex said, voice suddenly sharp.

But something already had.

A dish near the edge of the counter trembled… then slipped.

It shattered on the floor.

You flinched—just enough to step back—

Right into the oven handle.

The door dropped open.

Heat blasted against your legs.

“Y/N!” Alex lunged forward, grabbing you before you could fall—

At the exact moment the overhead light sparked violently.

Glass exploded downward.

Right where your head had been.

Everything stopped.

The chain reaction—broken.

For now.

You clutched his shirt, shaking. “Did… did it work?”

Alex looked around, breathing hard.

Nothing moved.

No more shifting shadows.

No creeping sense of something lining up.

“I think…” he said slowly, “it skipped you.”

Relief hit you so fast it almost hurt.

---

But it didn’t last.

Because Alex didn’t let go of you.

And when you looked up at him, there was no victory in his expression.

Only dread.

“What?” you asked, your voice barely there.

He hesitated.

Then said it anyway.

“It skipped you…” he repeated. “Which means…”

Your stomach dropped.

“It’s next in line,” you finished.

Alex nodded.

“And after that…” you said, voice shaking, “it comes back around.”

“Yeah.”

No escape.

No winning.

Just time.

Borrowed time.

---

You squeezed his hand tighter. “Then we keep doing it.”

His eyes snapped to yours. “What?”

“We keep interrupting it,” you said, more firmly now. “Every time it comes—we fight it. We push it back again and again.”

“Y/N, that’s not a solution—that’s—”

“It’s survival,” you cut in.

A long pause.

Then, quieter: “I’m not just going to sit around waiting for it to take you.”

That broke something in him.

You saw it.

The fear he’d been holding in finally slipping through.

“I almost lost you,” he admitted, voice rough. “Back there… I thought—”

“You didn’t,” you said softly.

“But I will,” he whispered. “If we’re not careful… I will.”

Your chest tightened.

So you did the only thing that made sense in a world that didn’t.

You stepped closer.

Rested your forehead against his.

“Then don’t let it happen,” you murmured.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then his hand came up, hesitant at first, resting against your cheek like you might disappear if he held on too tight.

“You’re really staying in this with me?” he asked.

You let out a small, shaky laugh. “Kind of hard to walk away from Death’s hit list.”

That earned the smallest smile from him.

But it didn’t reach his eyes.

Because you both knew the truth.

You hadn’t broken the curse.

You hadn’t beaten Death.

You’d just—