#songfic

“It’s fine,” you lie as you pick up a few random tapes and pretend to consider them. You weren’t fine. You were trying not to cry.

Robin can tell she’s upset you and genuinely feels awful. The cassette tape in her hands clatters onto the table as she rushes to hug you. The telltales signs you were holding back tears were there—your eyes shining, bottom lip quivering and the way you went quiet.

You should be used to Steve’s casual dating by now. Should be used to the fact that he was fucking women who aren’t you. But honestly? You weren’t used to it at all.

And so, you rode home on your bike that night, crying as you tried not to imagine Steve and Emma—probably hooking up in the back of his beloved Beamer.

But now? Only three days later—Emma Stevens and Steve were the least of your worries.

The Upside Down always came knocking. Because of course it fucking did.

And this situation you found yourself in with none other than Steve himself—well, you were sure you weren’t going to make it out of this alive.

The room you were in—seemingly a boardroom of such in the upper floors of Hawkins Laboratory—was slowly but surely filling with a sludgy liquid that tried to keep you from moving.

You had no idea what was happening—you figured it had something to do with that energy shield (or whatever Dustin had theorised it was) you had just shot. But the guilt you’re feeling as you realise that you’ve condemned not only yourself but Steve to certain death—well, it’s all consuming.

“On the table,” Steve instructs, tugging on your hand so you follow—having to pull your legs up in order to move through the sludge.

Steve makes sure you go first—hoisting you up onto the table by your waist. You could have easily done it yourself but you took any and every opportunity—selfishly—for that man to touch you.

The table offered some reprieve—both of you free of that strange liquid that surrounded the table like an ominous ocean.

Steve looks at you—a look on his face you had seen only a few times before, one that plainly told you he was scared. “Wh-what do we do?” He asks you.

You look around the room, frantic—at the greyish liquid drawing ever closer—at the hole in the wall that had only made the situation worse as more and more sludge poured in—and finally, you look up at the gaping hole in the ceiling that was too high for either of you to reach and your only way of escape.

Steve is still looking at you—the way he’s always looked at you. Expectantly. Waiting to hear your plan. In the few years you had been falling into the Upside Down together, you always had a plan. Always one step ahead. But now—

“Help!” You yell out. “Help!”

And it’s that moment that Steve realises he was going to die. That if you didn’t see a way out of this? He knew there wasn’t one.

“Help!” He joins you, yelling in the hopes that Dustin, Nancy—hell, even Jonathan—would hear you. Though he knew, deep down, the trio were too many floors down to hear you both.

The two of you yell out, desperately. Trying your dammdest to live—to make it out of this alive. But as your voice cracks and Steve keeps yelling, you realise that no one was coming. That Dustin, Nancy and Jonathan couldn’t hear you. That you and Steve were going to die. Slowly, probably suffocating from the sludge. You thought about how painful it would be for that to fill your lungs.

“Steve—ju-just—stop,” you tell him, reaching out to tug his sleeve to get his attention. “They can’t hear us.”

Steve’s in denial. He shakes his head—fucking terrified—as he keeps on yelling anyway.

“DUSTIN! NANCY! JONATHAN! FUCK—ANYBODY—HELP US! HELP—”

“Steve!” You yell at him, your voice breaking as the tears finally start to fall. “Stop. They’re not—they’re not coming.”

Steve looks at you—at your tears. At the look on your face and he knows you’re right. Knows there isn’t a way out of this. Knows that you both aren’t going to be saved. That your will to live alone couldn’t save you.

“We—we gotta try (y/n),” he says finally and you feel your heart do that funny thing it always did around Steve because fuck, he had so much fight in him. Such a will to live and you feel awful that this was your fault. That you were the one to shot the giant ball of matter.

You just look at him and shake your head, tears already spilling down your cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Steve—I didn’t know that would happen—“

“Hey, hey, hey,” Steve says gently, leaning closer to you and placing a hand on your knee. “Don’t cry. Please. You didn’t know. It’s not your fault.”

“But it is—”

“It’s not,” he cuts across you. You know he’s just saying it to make you feel better. But the matter of the fact is, if you hadn’t shot that thing, you both would still be up on the roof. Not stuck in this room, waiting to die. But you didn’t want the last few minutes of your life to be spent arguing with Steve’s over whose fault it was. So, you just nod and wipe away your tears.

It’s quiet then. Just you, Steve and both of you quietly accepting your fate.

“Wish I could—you know, listen to like one more song before—” Steve cuts himself off as he swallows. Not looking at you. His hand still on your knee.

“What song?” You ask in a quiet voice.

Steve looks at you and—you see the tears in his eyes for the first time. After everything you two had been through together with every Upside Down ‘adventure’ (because was several near death experiences really an adventure?)—you hadn’t ever seen him cry. Until now. But you don’t comment on it. You just look at him, waiting for his response.

“Take On Me,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching.

You can’t help it, you laugh—despite the situation you both were in. It was just…so quintessentially Steve that you couldn’t help it.

“Haven’t you listened to that song enough?” You ask him, because Steve couldn’t seem to go a day without listening to that song. Robin had even made it a rule at the station that he was only allowed to play it three times a week, after you had received multiple complaints from listeners who counted a whopping eighteen plays of the track in a single week.

“Nah,” Steve says with a shake of his head, sniffling a little, “I bet you’d pick Edge of Seventeen.”

You bite back a smile—looking over at Steve with tears still falling.

“It’s a good song,” you say simply. Steve squeezes your knee.

You look away from him and your eyes dart around at the room again. You feel Steve squeeze your knee again. Grounding.

“Hey, look at me,” Steve says gently and you feel his fingers gently graze your cheek as he turns your head to look at him. Not at the reminder of your unfortunate fate. “Focus on me—”

You could feel your heart hammering in your chest. The gentle reminder that you were alive. Alive. Alive.

You hadn’t ever given much thought to it. Your heart that beat to keep you alive. But feeling it racing against your chest like that? Like it was desperate for you to live—you were grateful for it. Hadn’t ever been so grateful to be alive as you were now.

“I don't want to die, Steve,” you burst out in a panic, tears spilling down your cheeks. “I don't—”

“Neither do I,” Steve admits in a quiet voice. His hand on your knee tightening as his honeyed brown eyes flicker to meet yours, his other hand coming down to rest on your shoulder. “But I’m here, yeah? You won’t be alone.”

Your bottom lip quivers and you nod as a small sob escapes you because you were going to die. You were going die with the man you loved. And he still didn’t know—

“I wanna go first,” your murmur quietly. “I don't want to live in a world where Steve Harrington doesn't exist.”

“Don't,” Steve breathes out, jaw tense. Eyes shining and shaking his head. “Don't say that—”

“—and I’m s-sorry that it’s now that I’m telling y-you but I can’t die without you knowing,” you stutter out through shuddering breaths.

Steve looks back at you, lips parted and hanging on your every word. Unsure if he wanted you to keep talking or stop.

“I love you, Steve,” you tell him finally—your face wet with tears. “I always h-have.”

The silence you’re greeted with is the loudest you had ever heard. Your heart still hammering against your chest. Desperate to keep you to alive as death came—the liquid creeping ever closer with every second.

“Fuck—” Steve finally says, the fingers on your shoulder twitching as he shifts closer to you. “I had—I had no idea. And I’ve been—fuck—I’ve been screwing around for months—”

“—it’s okay,” you interrupt him with a shake of your head. “Really, Steve. It’s fine—”

“No. It’s not fine,” Steve says firmly, jaw set and his eyes roaming your face like he was seeing it for the first time. “Because I—shit—I love you too and I—I should've—fuck—I should've asked you out. Should've just done it instead of fucking wasting time. Should have taken you out for milkshakes or some shit—”

“Milkshakes?” You repeat, smiling a little. It was bittersweet. Because he wasn’t running. Didn’t find the idea of you being in love with him repulsive. And he said he loved you too.

Steve lifts his head up and catches your smile and fuck, if he does die—he wants your smile to be the last thing he sees.

“Yeah. Milkshakes,” Steve breathes out, “and bowling.”

“I would have kicked your ass at bowling,” you say, smiling at him as tears continue to fall. “Maybe would have let you get to second base too.”

Steve laughs—despite fucking everything, he's laughing.

“Shit, (y/n),” Steve breathes out, his forehead resting against yours, breath fanning your face. “You can't say that shit to me right now.”

“And I would have destroyed you at bowling. Would have worn a new shirt, bought you the biggest damn milkshake,” Steve's voice falters slightly, going quiet as his eyes flicker up to yours. “Would have kissed you stupid after.”

You smile at each other and for a moment—it’s just you and Steve. No grey sludge that was your death sentence around you.

“Fuck—we screwed up here,” Steve says and you laugh as you cry and suddenly he’s laughing too. You shouldn’t be. You’re about to die. It’s not funny, not in the slightest. But this moment? It didn’t feel scary. Or like death was around the corner. You just felt safe.

“Think we have time for me to kiss you stupid?” Steve murmurs quietly, fingers brushing along your jaw before his gaze falls onto your lips.

“Yeah,” you whisper back, eyes meeting his. Feeling his breath hot against your skin. “There’s time.”

He doesn’t wait a second.

You let out a noise of surprise as Steve's lips descend onto yours. There's no gentleness. No hesitation. Just years of tension and unspoken words between the two of you as your hands find the front of his jacket and tug him closer. Needing him so desperately as you kiss him back.

He groans—fucking groans—against your lips, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth and groaning again when you part your lips for him. His hands scramble to find your waist and he licks into your mouth and in his desperation, begins to press you back against the table.

Your hand shoots out to stop yourself from tumbling back too quickly from Steve's eagerness. But instead of the gooey liquid you're expecting to feel—you feel something solid.

There's a wet noise as you pull away from him. His lips chase after yours.

“S-Steve,” you gasp. “Lo-look—”

Steve’s confused—face flushed, eyes wide and lips still wet from your kiss. “What? Was it too much or—”

It’s then he sees the solidified grey sludge. It had set just beneath the table.

“Does this mean—”

You don’t wait—you lean over the table and place both your hands on the solid surface. It doesn’t crack. Doesn’t budge in the slightest. You start to stand, you needed to be sure—

“(y/n), be careful! It might—”

But you ignore him. You stand up on the solidified sludge and—it’s a solid as concrete.

Steve looks at you for a moment that felt like a lifetime. And then—

He scrambles to his feet—his arms wrapping around your waist as he lifts you half off the ground.

“We’re okay,” he breathes out as you sob in relief, his free hand cupping the back of your head like he needed to touch you. Needed the reminder that he was alive. That you were alive.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

“We’re okay,” he repeats, setting you down and cupping your face between his hands as he wipes away your tears. “We’re okay—fuck—we’re okay.”

You don’t even have time to breathe before he’s kissing you again.

Soft. Gentle. Like he had all the time in the world. And now, he supposed you did. Had time for that date. Had time for milkshakes, bowling and maybe even second base.

“M’gonna—” Steve mumbles against your lips as your hands fist the front of his jacket. “—kick your ass at bowling.”

“Shut up,” you murmur back before pulling away and smiling up at him like this was the beginning of something, “you’re gonna be a gentlemen and let me win.”

Steve scoffs, his hands moving back down to your waist and squeezing gently.

“Oh, absolutely not if you’re offering to go to second base—”

You whacked him on the arm, feeling elated as he laughed. He ducked his head down to kiss you again and—

The sound of banging from the wall behind you is what pulls you away from each other. Steve doesn’t think as he pulls you behind him. Protective. It was so Steve it made your heart do funny things in your chest.

The banging continues. The drywall cracks. Dust fills the air and—

“What the fuck happened in here?”

You had never been so glad to hear Jonathan Byers’ voice.

Through the hole in the wall—seemingly made by the fire extinguisher in Jonathan’s hand—you see Nancy, Jonathan and Dustin. Looking at you and Steve and how close you were standing. His hands on your waist.

“Are we interrupting something?” Nancy asks with a small smile. “Or do you guys want to get out of here?”

You and Steve look at each other, adrenaline pumping through the both of you—having been so close, so certain you were going to die that it's hard to even stand still.

"Yeah," Steve says finally, keeping his arm around you and pulling you close. “Let’s get out of here. We’ve got a date to go on.”

dividers by the lovely @zclhs

These are the things you convince yourself of as you walk away from the love of your life. From the best two years of your life. From late nights in his car driving to the 24/7 diner just because he had a craving for fries, to the walks through campus where you’re wearing his football sweatshirt that still smells like him as he holds your hand and tells you that you’re his favorite person. You’re walking away from it all. 

As you walk into your building, you replay the past few moments in your head. 

Beau was walking you towards your dorm, after what, on the outside, looked like a good date. Except it wasn’t. It was the farthest thing from it. 

It started with the reservation being for a different day, so you suggested just getting fast food from somewhere. But someone at the restaurant recognized Beau and asked how he was feeling about the upcoming draft. It then turned into a twenty minute conversation with a stranger about different picks, where Beau stands on the line of picks, and what team would be best suited for him. It took him till it hit the twenty minute mark to realize that you in fact have left the restaurant and were waiting inside his car. 

The car ride to your dorm building was silent. But the tension was there. You pulled the classic, ‘I’m mad at you’ position, body completely facing the door away from Beau with your arms crossed. His hands were white knuckled on the steering wheel, eyes focused on the road. When he got to your parking lot, he insisted on walking you up to the building. You agreed, but halfway through, you said something under your breath. “I’m so sick of football.” Admittedly, it came out of nowhere. Nothing brought it up, but you were thinking it, so you said it. 

Beau stopped in his tracks. But you kept going. “What?” You turned around, facing him, a couple of feet away from him at that point. 

“I’m sick of it, Beau.” There’s a silence between the both of you before you speak up again. “I’m sick of the stats, of the constant need to be on, of the spotlight on you, on us, I’m sick of it all.” You take another pause. “I don’t know how much longer I can take it.” 

“What are you trying to say, y/n?” He pauses. “Cause to me, it sounds like you’re sick of me.” Your eyes can’t help but roll at his statement. Of course, Beau Maxwell has once again gotten it wrong. For what feels like the thousandth time this week alone. 

“That’s not what I’m saying, Beau. I’m saying that I’m sick of coming second place in your life. I’m sick of football coming before me at all times, even when we’re alone, it finds its way to seep into the cracks of everything we do. I can’t do it anymore, Beau.” His nostril’s flare, and you can see his desperation in his face. 

“Y/n, you know that I have to focus on the draft right now. It’s right around the corner and I have to get picked.” 

“You’re going to get picked, Beau!” It comes out as a yell, not what you were intending. “You’re one of the greatest prospects the league has seen in forever, and it's been set for years that you’re going to be the next star quarterback of the NFL. But, where does that leave me?” Beau’s face showed you that he has never considered that before. “I’m not built to be just the girlfriend of the next star player for whatever team you’re going to get picked for. I have my own dreams, my own ambitions. I don’t want to throw that away.” Neither of you speak, the words landing heavy in the atmosphere. “What are we doing here, Beau? Where do you picture me in your life? Am I with you?” 

Beau shakes his head, not comprehending. “I think maybe we should take a break.” There it is. It’s been lingering for a while now. The words were something neither of you were courageous enough to say until now. “I can’t have anything holding me back. Not right now. I could be anywhere in the fall, and I don’t- I can’t drag you with me wherever I go.” The tears sting your eyes as you try to keep them in. 

“Is that how you feel about me?” The question hits the cold January air, and it lingers. “That I’m just something you’re dragging around?” 

“No! No, of course not! You’re not just something I’m dragging around…” The pause was detrimental, and you knew what was coming. “But I can’t have anything, or anyone, keeping me away from focusing on my rookie season.”

“Then I guess this is it.” You shrugged, before crossing your arms over yourself. The tears have fallen down by now, falling free. 

“I guess so.” There’s nothing more to say, so you turn, and you start walking towards the door, trying not to cry until you get inside. You didn’t want to show him how broken you were. 

Allie and Hannah found you on the couch eating Hot Cheetos while watching Grown Ups a few hours later. One look at your face, and they were rushing over, catching you in a hug. One look at their faces and you were sobbing into Allie’s chest as Hannah played with your hair from behind. You told them everything when you were able to calm down, the weeks leading up to it, what made the breaking point, and how it ended. 

Your two roommates shared a look with each other over the top of your head as you cried into your hands, completely distraught over losing the love of your life. And that’s exactly what it was. 

The biggest loss of your life. 

The days following were even worse. You saw it coming. 

I’m just staring at the ceiling, can’t describe this feeling

Days spent in your bed, looking up at the ceiling of your dorm as you contemplate everything that has happened. You think over every detail leading up to the breakup. The mostly good memories you have with Beau, and then you realize that really the only bad memories were the ones in the final weeks. This particular position you have in your bed reminds you of when you stayed the night at Beau’s off campus house for the first time. 

Beau had suggested the sleepover a few days prior. And to say you were nervous is an understatement. When you showed up at his door with your duffel bag on your shoulder, you were shaking as you knocked. Eventually, Beau came to the door and let you in. “Here baby, let me get your bag.” Beau took your bag and led you upstairs quickly, where you ended up laying and watching a movie on his laptop. He convinced you to watch Remember the Titans. You loved it. 

It didn’t take long before the two of you were looking up at the ceiling, sharing your thoughts and feelings about anything and everything in between. “And that’s why I think the moon landing was fake.” You turn your head to your boyfriend, eyes narrowing. 

“If you truly believe that, I’m not sure this is gonna work out.” Beau laughs, rolling to his side and holding his head up with his fist. 

“Did I trick you at all?” You shake your head, still laying on your back. Your eyes drift back to the ceiling, hands splayed against your stomach. 

“Do you ever think about the things that you’ll never know?” The question causes a bout of silence in the room. Beau sighs, rolling to be on his back again and leading his hand to yours and he grabs hold tightly. 

“Didn’t know I would be having an existential crisis during our first sleepover.” A laugh comes out of your mouth before shaking your head. Turning your head, your face turns solemn. 

“I’m serious, Beau.” His name coming out of your mouth causes him to look back at you. At this point, the two of you had been dating for only a few months. “There’s so many things out there that we don’t know about, and we’ll never know about them.” Beau takes his time with his response, and it builds the tension in the room. His face paints a picture of how he’s trying to take this conversation seriously, and you truly think he is. 

“I think…” He starts, drawing you into whatever he is going to say next. “That knowing you defeats the anxiety of all the things I’ll never know.”  A smile paints your face, and your un-occupied hand reaches out to his cheek, caressing his cheekbone. 

“I love you.” It’s the first time you’re saying it out loud, and you couldn’t feel it more strongly than you do right now. 

“I love you too.” Beau leans, capturing your lips in his. 

The feeling in your stomach cannot be described. 

I’m just searching up my symptoms/desperate to fix ‘em/went to the doctor and she said i was fine

The cursor in the search bar blinks repeatedly. Almost daring you to search what you’ve been mulling over the past few days. Before you can think too much about it, you start typing. 

Heartburn, nausea, low energy, headaches, anti-social. 

Multiple diagnoses come up. Acid reflux, indegestion, ulcers. None of them are appealing. But you think that none of them are true either. You just want to know how to fix them. 

You tried ibuprofen. Then you think about Beau again and the headaches come right back. You try to take Tums and then you see an instagram post with him in and the heartburn is like it never left. You try to go out and socialize with friends but then you see one of his frat brothers and you suddenly want to go right back inside. 

It took two weeks, but Allie convinced you to go to the doctor. It was a quick visit. You signed in, got called back, Allie held your hand as the nurse took all your vitals. The doctor came in and told you all the tests went exceedingly well. You’re completely fine. But you don’t feel it. 

Every movie that I see makes me cry

A few weeks after the fact, Allie and Hannah convince you to watch a movie marathon with them. Complete with your favorites. Grown Ups, Home, Mean Girls, the whole nine yards. You were excited when they brought it up. Happy, even. To distract yourself from the feelings you’ve been having. 

When it happened during Grown Ups, you chalked it up to nostalgia. Hannah and Allie laughed, nodding their heads. 

When it happened during Home, it was the fact that you always cried at the part where she can’t find her mother. Allie and Hannah cried too. 

But when it happened during Mean Girls, and even though you blamed it on feeling empathy for the situation, Hannah and Allie shared a look with each other. 

But then Remember the Titans came on and you bawled into Hannah’s lap as Allie played with your hair. A knock on the door didn’t cause you to look up, but when you heard Dean’s voice saying hello to his girlfriend without noticing you were there, your sobs became louder. 

What if this isn’t what I want?

The question circled around in your head. When you laid in bed at night, as you walked to your classes, when you were studying in the library, when you were drinking at Malone’s, it circled around in ways you couldn’t understand. 

For the past two years, all you’ve wanted is Beau. All you’ve wanted is what he could give to you. And what you could give to him. What the two of you could do to give to each other. What you could do for each other. It wasn’t until you saw him walking with another girl on campus did you finally realize that this breakup is indeed not what you want. 

It’s the farthest thing you want. But, you don’t know how to go back from it. 

Because Beau is the reason you’ve been feeling this way for the past two months. Your breakup is the reason you’ve been staring at your ceiling before your eyelids droop from exhaustion. Your own decisions are what's causing you. 

And then you come to the conclusion. 

I think you’re what’s wrong with me. 

a/n: YOU HAVE TO LISTEN TO tHIS SONG ITS MANDATORY TO UNDERSTAND THE VIBES!! welllllll basically what i’ve learned from starting to write again this year is that i CANNOT write a dominant or smug man because i HATE IT!!! only weird obsessive men who apologize profusely for their misdeeds…… so learn to expect that from me :P i often get stuck in describing emotions and the internal dialogue so a lot of this is very long winded and unnecessary.

this story could truly be read at any time in the canon and more possibly pre-season one . i love adrian so much and i hope i characterized him properly in your eyes, Y/N .

please let me know if you find any typos or something i get so embarrassed

thank u to my beta reader @iluvcatsalot

The only time I'll open up is when I'm firing

A bad case of the Mondays with no silver

With no silver lining

Adrian Chase sets a timer on his phone for five minutes.

Then, he goes to his web browser and types into the search bar: Least lethal places to be shot.

He goes to images and finds a graphic he likes.

He lines up his pistol with his left shoulder, pressing it into his suit. And he pulls the trigger.

The shot rings through the air, and he reacts how any other person would. He screams.

He falls against the wall and slides down onto his ass. He heaves and blinks hard, mouth forming a grimace. He grasps his shoulder and it wets his gloved hand red.

He passes out against the wall, and soon after, his alarm shakes him loose and wide-eyed. He’s healed just enough now to not die on the drive.

Adrian Chase would’ve preferred somewhere on the leg, but that’s just not believable enough, he thinks.

-

Something wakes you. A buzzing, a vibration.

Like muscle memory, you pull your phone from the nightstand and check it with hazy eyes. It’s 1:45 am on a Monday. You have two notifications from seven minutes ago.

1 missed call

And a text that reads:

Adrian: I’m on the way!

You shoot up in bed and respond as fast as you can.

Y/n: no what

Y/N: whats wrong?

Adrian: Hold on. Almost there

Adrian calling…

Fuck. You answer begrudgingly and press the phone to your tired ear, warm from sleeping on your side.

‘What?’ It comes out short. You don’t consciously intend it to.

‘Hello to you, too, grumpy! Can you-’

‘You better not be outside my house.’

‘Why not?’

The last time Adrian Chase showed up outside your door, he almost knocked you over on the way in. He’d been hit in the head and face, and hard. By what, you don’t know. Maybe a fist. Maybe a car.

All you know is that it keeps getting worse. At first, he just needed a place to sleep it off. Sometimes a stab. It’s different now. Bloodier.

His nose was broken and his mouth bled when his teeth gnashed into his cheek. You did all you could, laying him on the couch passing in and out of consciousness. He definitely had a concussion. You broke his nose back in place and kept an eye on him all night for signs of brain damage. You set him up with an IV and pain medication drip you’d stolen from work for him, just in case.

The next morning, he took a shower and thanked you profusely and left.

And after that, you don’t get to see him at all until he’s fucked up again. He texts, yes. And you text him back. It doesn’t satiate you.

You realize you don’t even know if you’re his friend or just a nurse.

It’s becoming a heavy thing to carry.

You ask me if I'm angry

Well, hell yeah, I fucking am

Can't help the way God made me

But He won't get away with that again

‘Adrian, it’s… late.’

‘Well, I was on patrol late. And it’s raining and this guy hit me with a 9mm and I’m cold. Oh, and um… I’m on your stoop.’ He sounds a tiny bit sluggish.

9mm? Throwing the covers off you, you turn quickly and sit with your legs hanging over the side of the bed, ‘You’ve been shot?’

‘Yup!’

He hears you mutter a fuck before he can feel your heavy stomps leading up to the door.

You throw open the door to see him leaning against the outside wall of your house with the phone still to his ear— even though you’ve already hung up— and his face to the ground. His head whips up and his hand with the phone drops slowly. You can tell he’s smiling under the mask, giddy to see you like he’s got no idea. He doesn’t.

There is nothing comforting about the way you look, and in the same sense, the way you look at him. Your hair is a mess and your clothes hang off of you. There’s a missing smile, whether it’s with your mouth or eyes, it’s not there. It’s still you, though. He’ll have to do some digging to find out who’s set you like this. Who’s wearing you so thin?

You didn’t have time to turn the big lights in your apartment on. The only things that keep your home from being swallowed whole in shadow is the full moon and the streetlights coming through the windows, brighter than usual, and a small warm lamp in your living room you keep on at all times. These sources of light shine off the glass in the pictures frames on the wall, on the kitchen counter, on the jewelry you never take off. The heating system buzzes in the background. It’s a calm place you’ve made for yourself.

He’s disrupting it.

You leave the door open where it’s at and start the routine that feels eerily like a weighed down crawl right now. It’s a thousand pounds in your bones. You open a kitchen drawer and throw him a clean towel.

‘Hold this there for a second. Hard. Don’t let go.’ You say in a rush, and you’re unable to stay in one place. You’re frazzled and shaken. He’s almost completely content, if it weren’t for his shoulder fucking killing. He’s happy to be here.

He does as you say.

While grabbing your medical bag from beside your nightstand, Adrian watches you get things ready, watches you zip around your rooms and hallways collecting supplies, and he stays in one place. His suit is all wet from the rain, so he waits for you to tell him where to park himself.

You wash and glove your hands in the bathroom and carry yourself to him with quickness. You maneuver a chair at your table and pull out one for you perpendicular to it. You point absentmindedly.

‘Sit.’ He does as you say, and is quite stable and silent about it for someone who’s been shot. You take the towel out of his hands and apply the pressure on the wound you can see. There’s a three inch radius around the hole that soaks his suit with dark, shiny red. ‘Through and through, or is the bullet still in there?’

‘Uhh-‘

You answer your own question before he can by turning the overhead light on and peering over his shoulder to see the back of the suit and finding there’s an exit hole matching the entry.

‘I mean, I don’t feel like I still have a bullet in me.’

You nod, mostly comfortingly to yourself. ‘There’s an exit.’

He’s barely bleeding anymore, if he ever was. Red slides slowly into the Vigilante suit like a nosebleed, not a gouged hole of flesh. You’ve found that this is normal for him. You sandwich his shoulder between your palms anyways and press hard. You’ll stay that way for a few minutes until you start to stitch.

‘Yay.’ He pumps his uninjured arm in the air triumphantly.

You keep peeling back the towel from him to check the clotting until it’s at a level you’re comfortable with to move forward.

Standing, you grab and start to unravel a sterile mat to place your instruments on.

‘So… I’m gonna check it out. Clean it, check for debris, and stitch it up on both sides.’

‘Okay!’

‘It’s gonna hurt.’ You side eye him.

‘That’s alright. You’re a great nurse. Probably the best in the country, actually.’

‘Definitely… definitely not.’ You huff a laugh that is bereft of humor. ‘Do you want a drink? For the pain?’

‘Can I have some of that juice you have?’

‘That’s… not gonna help with the pain.’

‘And the numbing spray would be good. The tsschk tsschk.’ He imitates the spray bottle with his finger.

You pour him a glass of cranberry juice. As you do, you notice it’s almost gone. You bought it originally for a UTI you had, but after you started getting it just for him. Usually you have a back up jug. You don’t now.

‘Why’re you so sad? And tired?’

Ignoring his heavy question, you set the glass down a bit loudly in front of him in a hurry. You’re trying to speed this up. One, because he’s bleeding out of a manmade orifice. Two, because… this is hurting.

Adrian tears his mask off to chug the drink and he realizes you haven’t asked him to take it off like you commonly do. His hair sticks to his forehead before he pries it off because he hates the feeling. He shakes his head a little like a dog and in the process, jostles his shoulder.

‘Stop moving around so much, please.’

He does as you say.

You reach behind his neck to undo the trappings that keep his armor bound to him. It’s strangely intimate and close to him, and he enjoys it. To you, right now, with the state you’re in, it feels like busy work.

He helps you shrug the top section of the Vigilante off, and he’s left in a black dry-fit long sleeve. Adrian unfolds and puts on his glasses to watch what’s happening. He always does. Scissors enter the neck of his under shirt, and you cut it down to his mid bicep, ruining the shirt but creating a flap that you can peel from him to expose his shoulder completely.

You inspect the wound the best you can. It’s in his shoulder, which is pretty benign as it is for a bullet wound. The bullet hasn’t carried any of his clothing into the hole when it went through, and there isn’t any sign of infection.

There’s a lull in the air while you continue your ministrations. Adrian feels the need to fill it.

‘So- So, this guy was robbing a little old lady in an alley way. Shaking her down for her pearls and fancy stuff. And here I come, vigilant as ever, and I’m like Hey, buddy. I’ve got somethin’ for ya!’

You sterilize him with alcohol and he hisses and throws his head back. It makes the hole bleed again for a moment. You wipe it away softly, with gentle hands. It makes him smile after the pain. You spray his skin down with numbing spray for the impending stitches.

‘He’s like Get the fuck outta here, man. This doesn’t concern you. And I’m like Evildoers always concern me, dickweed.’ He pauses, maybe hoping for a laugh. You’re too focused, your eyes shrouded from him by your brows coming down hard as you work, ‘And then, well, like… yeah, okay, he shoots me. But that didn’t stop me from gutting his ass.’

‘Pretty cool, right?’

To make a long fucking story long,

You’d gone to high school with Adrian. You weren’t in the same circles, notably because you didn’t have a circle, but you saw a lot of each other. He was shorter in high school, more shy, and the two of you had the same bus route.

You cruised through high school without making any lasting impressions. You got good grades. Super smart, obviously. You, best nurse in the whole country, you.

But you were not popular. You were almost see through, really. It was devastatingly lonely, and surely it’s done some damage to your psyche, but it had its perks. You weren’t bullied or shoved into lockers. Your peers knew you like you know your distant relatives. They heard your first and last name during attendance and it was stored in memory without outright acknowledging you. Nobody ever seemed to hate you. Nobody ever seemed to know you very well either.

You had a few fleeting friendships. Fewer lasting ones.

You didn’t ever have a date for homecoming. But you went.

Adrian was shoved into lockers. Adrian did leave a lasting impression— as the kid with the animal t-shirts and the older, cooler brother. They picked on him for all the reasons they do. He was too gangly, he spoke too fast and too much. His backpack clipped in the front. He didn’t ever go to homecoming.

There would be kids kind to him and his nerd friends, but few and far between.

You were one.

When paired with him by the teacher on a partner assignment, you didn’t groan and roll your eyes. And you were very okay sitting next to him on the bus, because hey, it’s an open seat, and you like him. It became a thing, and you started sitting next to him almost everyday. To him, you were blindingly, surprisingly unphased by his differences.

You loved him, of course. He was personable and giggly and bright at the surface. Deeper, he was singular and interesting and sweet and untaken by teenage cruelty.

Some years, you had classes together. You’d sit in the back with him. He overlooked DnD campaign notes during long winded lectures and you did the homework from your other classes. The two of you didn’t speak often during class, but you didn’t need to. It was enough for both of you to know you had a spot next to someone who wanted to sit by you, too. That feels so good in high school. He made you paper stars every once in a while out of straw wrappers. You utter a Thank you, Adrian. It’s a skill that would be useless to anyone else, but he finds you like it. So it’s very useful.

You were not best friends. But you knew him, and you weren’t embarrassed to know him at all.

And so, you go off to college and nursing school in a different state. You stay there for a while— years, actually, for work. In the meantime, Adrian is building himself into Vigilante.

You move back to Evergreen for a job open at the hospital. And your first night back, you have no food in the fridge of your new place yet, so you go out to eat at a place called Fennel Fields. And he’s there. And it’s a pretty full house that night.

A hostess is about to seat you when Adrian swoops in and sprays and wipes the table off for you. He says,

‘One second, let me get that for you— woah. Woah.’ Recognition flashes in his eyes. Still pretty, he thought to himself.

Ah, so you’ve reconnected. Lucky you. Lucky him.

You give him your phone number in a heartbeat. You know no one here anymore. You’re happy to see a familiar face.

‘Here. I want you to have this.’ Says you, handing him a napkin with your contact scrawled on it.

‘Ten numbers? Score! Wait, what is it, though?’ In his defense, you didn’t put the little dashes in between the area code and the other sets of numbers.

‘My phone number.’

‘Oh.’ It gave him a stomach ache to learn you’d gone off to college in a different state. He doesn’t hold it against you. He understands. You were too smart not to go. It was just… a pain in the ass to be reminded of you every once in a while during the most random, menial tasks. He doesn’t want to say the one that got away, but…

Yeah, no, actually, he does. Sounds cool.

‘Is that a good oh? Or…’

‘Are you kidding? I love having people’s numbers! Usually people are hesitant to give me twenty-four hour access to them.’

‘Why?’ You furrow your brow.

‘Well, because I have a lot of thoughts and questions and I can type them really fast.’ He smiles proudly.

He hasn’t changed, you realize.

You thread a length of medical-grade absorbable string through the eye of a curved needle.

‘Y’know, crows use tools too. Like people.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ You ask. You are fond of his facts, whether they be true or not. He seems more concerned for animals than anything else. You like that, you always have. And keeping him talking in the midst of all this may distract him from the pain.

‘And they actually enjoy it. They love to use a little twig for lots of stuff. Like you and your tweezers.’ He’s on the verge of a laugh, ‘You’re like a crow.’

‘It’s a needle driver.’ You smile softly until you glance up at him, and then your face hardens again, ‘Okay. Stop talking.’

You realize this sounds a little harsh so your eyes flit over to him for another moment and you compose yourself into someone kinder. Someone who’s had more sleep. ‘…For a minute.’

You start with the back and forth of stitches. On a gunshot wound, you’d usually practice secondary intention by packing the hole with gauze and leaving it to heal from the inside out, since it’s a very deep hole. This allows for drainage and keeps infections from getting trapped. But for him, he’d just heal over the gauze tonight and then you have a whole other problem. So, you’ll go ahead and suture it closed like he’s been nicked with a kitchen knife, not a chunk of hot lead in one side and out the other.

You stitch it down the middle first, pulling it shut and halving it into two smaller sections, and you keep halving and halving and snipping until you have a nice vertical closure.

He is strangely quiet unless spoken to. But he feels privileged to get to watch you do what you do best. And you touch him; laying hands on him absentmindedly through this whole night, to clean, to reposition, to hold the skin in place. He behaves himself best he can. Though, he fidgets a lot.

You need to do the same stitching on the exit wound. When you move around him to do so, you ask him,

‘And… so, what other birds use tools?’ His head shoots up at your voice.

‘Egyptian Vultures. They use pebbles. They’re rockstars.’ You softly, barely laugh through your nose, not the total crack up he’s anticipating. Probably because you’re concentrating, he knows that. ‘It’s… S’not my joke. I read it somewhere.’ He shakes his head, a little embarrassed.

And then it’s over. You’re pleased with the work you did. Under such conditions, of course.

You cut him the rest of the way out of his shirt, and get him a new long sleeve. You help him put it on like he truly is your patient, guiding his shoulder through the path of least resistance. He groans a little in pain, and starts talking again while his head is not yet fully through the neck hole.

‘You never answered my question.’

‘What?’ You’re standing in front of him, pulling the body of the shirt down over his torso now, and he’s looking up at you with wide, curious eyes as if he’s not just heavily sunken your heart, hoping this topic had been forgotten.

‘You never answered my question.’

‘Which question? Why are you sad and tired? Or Wasn’t my story about getting shot cool?’

‘Both. But mostly the former.’

‘Well… why are any of us tired? I have bills to pay, I guess. I had to take more hours at work.’

‘And the… sad?’

‘I’m— not—‘ You scoff, indignant. Honestly, you’re at a loss for words. Good ones, specifically. You look at him like you can’t believe what he’s saying and you shake your head no.

‘You’re not smiling with your teeth or laughing. And your eyebrows are further down than they usually are. And you haven’t comfortingly touched my hand or shoulder the whole time.’ He’s counting the facts on his fingers.

‘Your shoulder has been shot through.’ You know what he meant. But you act like you don’t.

‘The other shoulder, Y/N!’

Adrian whines, and you throw your hands up, and then they land on your hips.

‘Fine. You got me, okay?’

‘Well, why? Is there someone that needs to be discreetly killed?’

You laugh out loud for the first time, breaking his adamantine eye contact that he’s been trying to keep. Needing something to do with your hands, you strip your latex gloves off and trash them.

‘What?’ He inquires about your laughter.

‘I don’t think you’d want to kill this person.’

‘Bet I would.’

‘Well, he’s my friend.’

‘Oh.’ He doesn’t like the sound of this he.

You sit down in the same chair you did the stitches in and cross your arms over your chest.

‘He’s very—…. worrying. All fingers and thumbs, this one.’ You've been made to really think about it. And your nose scrunches and your fingers rub at your eyes from having to actually say it out loud. You don’t know what you're doing anymore. It’s all gone to the wind now. ‘Actually, I don’t even know if I would call it friends, so much as...’

‘He’s, like… he needs my help. And I’m not so sure I’m happy with the arrangement anymore.’

‘He’s being targeted by the Mafia isn’t he?’ Adrian concludes, ‘Like horse-head-in-the-bed, Goodfellas type Mafia. Or is that the Godfather?’

‘It’s the Godfather. And no. Medical help,’ You take a deep breath, ‘He gets himself lacerated or- or blown up or fucking de-‘

You start to choke up remembering all the states you’ve seen him in, so you go for the exaggeration instead of the truth now, ‘-decapitated twice a week. And I’m a nurse, so. Problem, meet solution.’

Your nostrils flare and relax, the muscles under your eyes flex. They are blown wide open, burning just trying to keep the tears where they are. You watch his face for any sign of understanding. You find it. His mouth forms a small O and he’s silent for a moment, brow furrowing.

‘…Oh.’

You’re really fucking thinking about it now.

‘And I know. I know. The criminals and their crime. He has to do what he has to do. But has he ever thought about taking a break? Or maybe going to an ER—‘ You're getting angry, your tone changes. You’d wished more out of this. Out of reconnecting. You want to be something bigger to him, like he is to you. And as of now, you’re only eye to eye when he’s injured and you’re half awake. The question is—

Is that the only time he wants to see you? Or is this just the way things are, hard as you might want it to change?

You don’t know. It's been killing you not knowing.

‘I can’t do hospitals.’

‘—Instead of crashing into my shitty home and being stitched up by me, not a fucking doctor, who’s shaking from adrenaline?’

‘It’s not shitty.’

‘There are so… so many better options. One day I’m not gonna be able to sew you back together. And you’re gonna bleed yourself to death in front of me...’ You lean forward, elbows on your knees and hands running down your face, stressed. Into your fingers, you say quietly, ‘You’re scaring me.’

‘That won’t happen!’

‘You can’t know that!’ Standing abruptly, you yell for the first time. Though it’s nothing like the yelling you grew up with, it’s enough to get the point across. You tower over him in his chair, so you retreat to the kitchen, bracing yourself against the counter behind you. Your voice breaks, as does the dam keeping the water in your eyes at bay, ‘You’re scaring me, Adrian!’

‘Oh, man. Don’t cry. Please, don’t cry.’ He pleads, standing with you now to get closer to your level, like it only occurred to him how heavy this all is when the first tear hits your cheek.

‘Statistically speaking, your success rate with helping me is 100%. There’s nothing you can’t fix, I’m pretty sure. Plus, with my naps… my success rate with healing is also 100%! And I… I like it here.’ He talks with his hands, seemingly scrambling.

‘You like it here.’ It’s repeated back to him with an undertone of bitterness. You feel patronized.

‘Of course I do.’

‘Then why do you only come when you need something?’

‘I don’t… I don’t understand.’

‘I can’t remember the last time I saw you outside of…—of this.’ Your gesture up and down to him with a flattened hand, ‘Out of the suit. Or even— like, in daylight!’

‘So, wait, you actually, like, want me here?’ You’re fully arguing, and he’s still talking softly to you.

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘You’re angry. I—’ He tries to take a step towards you, palms out in a plea, and you evade him.

‘Of fucking course I want you here! I can’t… how could you think anything else?’

‘You- you never told me that.’

‘I- I let you drip blood all over my floors… and I let you sleep on my couch. And I stay up for hours… to help you. Just so I can see you!’ You lick your lips to soothe them from their chapped nature. It doesn’t soothe you. ‘I f-fucking buy juice! For you!’

You’re breaking all apart.

There’s a stinging silence, and you know that tonight, you won’t receive any of the answers you crave. This is pointless. And perhaps even worse than before.

‘Please, go.’

‘Y/N…’

At the sound of your name so softly called from his mouth, you spring into action. It’s all so full of emotion. Sadness and anger, to make it simple.

And to make it sound like how it actually feels, it’s like a restless ocean— and in it, the burning remnants of a sunken ship floating aimlessly. You love him desperately for what he is, since high school, and now you’re asking him to leave. You have to remind yourself that to keep him and ask him to change his reckless, inconsiderate ways will get you nowhere.

You pick his things up. The top half of the Vig suit off the ground and his mask from the table. Crashing them to his chest, you press him backwards towards the door with both palms. He doesn’t fight you away, but there’s resistance from him every couple steps that you have to push through. He’s strong.

‘Please, just go. And you can’t come back.’ You cry, face scrunching up into a sob.

Adrian is so confused, so struck by how fast this has escalated. He wonders how he can get this all to stop and now. He can scarcely recognize the sounds of the door knob turning, because he’s just looking at you.

‘What—?’ He’s able to say before he’s completely shut out in the rain again.

You say that I look angry

Well, hell yeah, you're fucking right

Hot pacing the back porch from all the conversation

Squared up with time for these dicks tonight

But the only time I'll open up is when I'm firing

A bad case of the Mondays with no silver

With no silver lining

You thank fuck that there’s no window on your front door, because if you could see him right now, pelted with rain and all alone and looking like an orphan pedaling newspapers, you’d surely let him back in against your better judgment. Your feet can’t seem to move in the newfound silence. In front of the door silently for a horrible moment, you stand, swaying a bit from weariness and knowing he’s still right there.

You cry. Guilt curls in your stomach and makes a home there, and you cry, cleaning blood and dirtied materials from your kitchen table.

Almost immediately after he’s left, you receive a string of notifications.

4 missed calls

Adrian: Pick up!!!

2 missed calls

Adrian: Im sorry

Adrian: I don’t want you to be sad

1 missed call

Adrian: If I had known I would’ve bought you juice to

Adrian: too*

Monday

5 missed calls

Adrian: Can you pick up?

Adrian: What’s your favorite juice?

Tuesday

Adrian: The moon is a waning gibbous

What he really wants to say is that he misses you. But that’s far too flowery and weird, right?

Wednesday

2 missed calls

Adrian: You should really take back what you said about me not coming back. Because I really want to

Adrian: Im sorry seriously

-

The week drags by slowly. Adrian lets up with the missed calls but keeps on with his texts. You know you can’t block him because honestly, you don’t have it in you, and because then he’d probably just start sending letters.

Or maybe he would give up. And you’ve deluded yourself to thinking you’re much more important than you are.

It’s been five days now, and it’s Saturday night. You were tearing at the seams at the end of each shift this work week, and each night you brought yourself to your bed and created a cradle of blankets and pillows. Without after-midnight house calls, you sleep well, and you sleep for a good amount of time. It’s not enough. You want to sleep all day.

It’s the weekend now. So you do.

Vivid dreams appear to you— exhaustive people, places, and things come together to create stories you can’t follow anymore in the playground of your unsound, sad mind.

You miss Adrian dearly. He gouged a hole in your home, your world, your everyday routine. His bloodstains are on various surfaces and belongings that you weren’t able to get out. You have a small drawer full of men’s comfort-wear for him. You need to get rid of that.

You barely want to be home. What, with all it’s reminders. And you want to be out in the world even less.

Six months you’ve been taking care of him now. This is the longest you’ve gone without seeing him darken your doorstep.

Sometimes you have no choice— nothing else to do— but to ruminate.

My stomach's torn up of gunfire

And improvisational white lies

It's not sustainable, but it's just traditional

And I couldn't hold him if I wanted to

So I left my man in the middle of the highway

He can be such a bitch and it makes me sick

Alright, alright

Adrian goes to the grocery store and buys six types of juice.

Through his eyes, all he has to do is be persistent, maybe. And he’ll make it up to you somehow. And everything can be set right.

Right?

Vigilante doesn’t pull punches. He’s ruthless, honestly. And his reputation reflects that. Though, for the last couple days, he’s been slicing through people and it no longer satiates him. He goes harder, longer, starts patrol even earlier in the night. Tired and worn, he gores and gores to try and pull a positive reaction out of his brain.

He feels close to nothing. Maybe because he knows he has nothing to look forward to tonight, for his access has been stripped from him.

From the beginning, he often just parked across the street and a little ways down from your house. Just to feel something akin to reassurance that you’re there, and safe. He doesn’t want to creep you out by being in your face all the time, so he’s sneaky about it. The obsessive neurons firing in his brain start the car and drive him there.

For the last week, he watches you arrive to work, watches you leave. And you know his car. Adrian logically knows you might notice he’s there. Maybe he hopes you do. He wants you to know he still cares. That he’s not angry at you. That he’ll come running if you call.

He’s starting to get antsy, though.

-

Sunday

You take to bed early tonight. You toss and turn for thirty minutes, and then you start scrolling on your phone until you fall away into light slumber, the same video replaying over and over in your hand for a minute or two.

You awake briefly to turn over once more and plug your phone in, only to see that there are multiple notifications that need tending to.

3 missed calls

Adrian: Can you just answer once so I know you’re alive and haven’t been killed by a robber

He knows you haven’t. What kind of protector would he be if he didn’t?

Adrian: If you don’t Im gonna have to show up. For a wellness check

You check the time stamp on these texts, and they’re from fifteen minutes ago. This worries you, given the nature of the last message. For the first time this week, you respond to Adrian. You type a perfunctory I’m Alive and hit send in the hopes that it’ll keep this wellness check from materializing.

Adrian calling…

Fuck!

‘Dude…’ You rasp into the phone.

‘Oh, my god!’ He exclaims, obviously not expecting your answer, ‘Hey, listen! Just listen for a second!’

There’s a soft rumbling in the background and you’re immediately suspicious.

‘Are you driving?’

‘…No.’

He’s never been good at lying. But you’ll drop it for now.

‘Okay, what? What do you need?’

‘Can we hang out? In your home, in daylight, tomorrow? I’ll have normal clothes on!’ Adrian drags out the last word with a lilt like it’s a very enticing proposition. You do find it endearing that he’d kept a list of all the things you’d complained about last Monday in his head.

‘No, I can’t.’

‘Why no? You’re being so confusing.’

‘Because…’ You sigh and shake your head.

‘You can’t even think of one reason!’

‘I can think of a thousand reasons!’

‘A thousand?’ He takes it literally, as he is wont to do, and gets a little loud, incredulous and in awe of your supposed myriad of reasons. You groan.

‘I’m going back to bed.’

‘Okay! Okayokayokay. I don’t know if this is gonna help. Maybe, probably not. I’m- I’m horrible at this. I don’t know how to do… like, this. I did some digging on how to resolve conflict.’ Adrian speaks fast and with purpose, ‘Most sources say that, first and foremost honesty is key. Do you… think that’s true?’

‘Um— Most times, yes.’

‘Okay, so, I shot myself that night. With a gun, and it hurt, like, really bad!’ You can envision the whiny face he’s making.

‘What the fuck?’

‘Not in a suicide way. I shot myself in a totally normal, sane way.’ Right.

‘Why would you do that?’ You hear your voice go up an octave.

‘So I would have a reason to see you!’

The silence that follows is taut and unsettling for both of you.

‘What-‘

A knock at your door rings through your halls, and a very familiar one at that. And now you realize what’s happening. Oh, yeah, of course! Silly you! The checklist is as follows: a wake up, a phone call, a stressful and dire situation, a knock at the door, and then ostensibly, a confrontation.

‘Oh, yeah. Can you open the door?’

This time, you do as he asks with miles less urgency, as he is not bleeding. You even give yourself time to put on pants.

When the door recedes and he comes into view, he’s wearing normal clothes. A striped shirt tucked into jeans. He sports a huge grin on his face that reaches his eyes. He got very excited when he heard the metal clinking of the lock turning open. He forces himself back into a neutral face when he sees yours, wracked with stress.

You throw your hands up and then down again to emphasize your exasperation. Continuing the phone conversation, you say, all true and genuine,

‘You don’t need a reason to see me.’

He nods what doesn’t quite seem like a concurrence. He swallows hard.

‘My friends, they— they tell me I can be annoying. That I can’t read a room or whatever. I didn’t want to annoy you. You’re actually the last person on the whole planet I want to annoy.’

‘I didn’t…’ He shrugs and lets out a breath of frustration. He’s trying so hard to mend this. To say the right thing. ‘I just, like…’

‘I’m fucking— really fucking crazy about you, okay?’

What?

‘I didn’t want to say it before and, like, bomb our cool situation we have going, but I just…’ He shifts weight on his feet, looking back and forth between your eyes, ‘…Really don’t fucking care anymore. I just want it back.’

He grabs one of your fists that’s dangling at your side as he’s talking and pries it open into a flat palm. He drops something in it, something almost weightless. ‘I just really, really want this back.’

When his hand comes away, you’re free to see an origami star, a little wrinkled and uneven from years of the skill collecting dust. You look at it. He looks at you.

Your chin quivers. Your eyebrow flexes. A shaky, wet exhale falls from you. Meeting his eyes once more, he’s got tears brimming and an anxious way about him.

You can’t help but see sixteen year old Adrian for a moment, flashing into view and then retreating back.

In high school, when you fall out with a good friend, it fucks up your whole ecosystem for a good while. And especially if you were already low on the hierarchy, one person can make your life so much easier to trudge through. That feeling— that teenage loss— it’s sinking back into Adrian. For him, It’s hard to put into words or even recognize, but it’s there.

‘I lost you.’ He sniffles and shrugs, he shakes his head like he’s disappointed in himself, ‘When you- When you went to dumbass— fuckin’… college. I should’ve tried harder. Maybe things would be different—maybe, I don’t know.’ Maybe you’d still like me like you did then, the words whisper.

He rarely bares himself this much. But he’s willing for some reason, and he can only assume the reason is because it’s you.

Your shoulders relax. Your arms unfold from your chest. Everything unfolds.

‘Adrian, you couldn’t.’ The words feel foreign to you as they spill out. Eyebrows peaking up in sympathy at his words, your voice cracks as you respond, each of the three words lush with reassurance.

‘You don’t annoy me. You couldn’t.’ You say quickly this time. More firm, serious, like the idea that you’d have any other answer is so stupid, like you’re making certain he knows for sure.

‘I like you exactly as you are.’

Adrian swears he can hear music in his head. A movie soundtrack to fully surround the both of you in this moment.

Adrian finds himself to be independent and, at the end of the day— uncaring of what most people think of him. Not strangers, not the random customers at Fennel Fields, barely even his mother.

It is made glaringly obvious that he cares what you think.

He wants to be the best person you’ve ever met in your life. Because you are his. He’s wanted nothing more than exact reciprocation from you.

To be found adequate by you. You are quietly kind. Discerning and passionate and full-hearted and stubborn and not without your own eccentricities that make you much less than normal just like him. You care for him, cleaning him up and getting him together. You’ve done much more for him than he’s done for you. You’ve never made him feel less than. And until recently, before he’d fucked it all up, you’ve been completely tolerant of his whims and questions and facts and jokes. Encouraging, even.

He remembers you in high school through a blurry, sparkling lens. You walk with notebooks in hand in slow motion for him, kicking a rock on the sidewalk as he watches you approach the bus. He pushes his glasses up.

You are so quiet in class. And on the bus, where you feel relieved of all that pressure, you crack open a bit. You laugh and you make him laugh. When you look away for a moment, his head lolls back against the bus seat and he looks at you without blinking. He gazes. And then he fixes himself, pushing those glasses up again.

He loved you then, of course. Like he had any other choice.

He loves you now. As if somehow his brain could forget the feeling.

His head has been pounding with you for so long.

He doesn’t— can’t understand why you do this to him. He doesn’t understand why people dislike him. He doesn’t understand why you do. He doesn’t understand how to say that he’s liked you in a way unfamiliar to him since you had eyeliner that went inside your eyes. Like, on the wet part on the bottom lid. Waterline, he thinks, maybe.

Vigilante is a sworn knight of Evergreen, but still he lives and breathes like a regular man. Souls and minds call to one another, bodies pull and push. These things are a certainty in this world. He has feelings. And these ones specifically; they’re telling him to act.

He’d never do what he’s about to do if you weren’t looking at him the way you are. He’s tried to familiarize himself with social cues. Books and YouTube tutorials and online forums. He thinks he knows this feeling.

Adrian lets out a steady exhale. Then,

A surging, blood-rushing push forward. He takes a step towards you, and he doesn’t have to travel very far to touch you. His hands go to the sides of your face, your ears in the divot between thumb and index finger.

He stoops slightly and brings his face to yours and kisses you, connects your faces with a quickness and unconcealed impatience.

The first press of mouth to mouth, before anybody’s lips start to ambulate… it’s searing and hard and you can feel your lips flushing with blood from the pressure of him and good christ, it’s intimate. Dark clouds have been circling for a week now. This is rain finally meeting the ground. You close your eyes and waste no more precious time being self-denying. You breathe it all in.

You touch his arms that cradle your head instinctively to stabilize yourself. Both hands linger there for a moment before they fly to his sides, and you grasp him, fingers digging into his shirt. You kiss him back. You feel the solid, warm person against you, filled with life. You long to know how his muscles clench and ebb, more than you already do.

He pours everything out into you. Every movement is full and firm but unsettled, like he’s only got a moment before you pull back and abandon this as you realize that you don’t even like him that way, that he’s misread this again.

You do pull back out of his steel grip for a second, but only to say,

‘M’sorry for yelling at you.’ Somewhere in the midst of the kiss, a welling teardrop had escaped you and rolled down your face. He hates it when you cry. But something tells him this isn’t the same as the other times. He smiles big and wide and open and his eyes are creasing so hard and just… alive with exultation. He’s got your head in his hands, faces inches apart.

‘Can I kiss you again?’

You nod feverishly while leaning back into him. You meet him there this time. Adrian’s fingers feed into your hair and one hand abandons ship there to land at the small of your back, and he presses your body to his.

The feeling is that as quick as it starts, it’s over, because you’re pulling back again to ask a very important question. He chases after your mouth, confused.

‘You shot yourself?’ You say looking up at him, still so close.

‘Well, like… a little bit.’

‘That’s so stupid.’ You can’t help but giggle through the sentence, covering your mouth and gasping softly for air at the end.

‘But… romantic, right?’

Another laugh rises from you. This would be a little creepy to other people and their expectations of love, you surmise. The thought barely registers, because you can’t bring yourself to care.

‘…Yeah.’ It’s a sweet word, chuckled out. It’s so light and buoyant. You are free of the weight and woe that dragged you down, and he’s missed you like this. He will still come home to you bloody on many occasions, as this is his calling, and it’s what he's passionate for. But probably less now, namely because he has no good reason to fucking shoot himself. You suppose that it’s all worth it now.

He mirrors you, giggles with his eyes closed.

‘What?’ You beam up at him.

‘You like me back.’ His shoulders shake with glee like a schoolboy.

‘I love you, Adrian.’

His smile drops and his eyes go wide, unable to hide the jolt he feels on his face.

‘Invite me in, please.’ Adrian looks at your lips, all seriousness in his voice. You pull him backwards, lips first, into the house with you. He sends the door slamming behind you with his heel.

The same song keeps playing over and over in Adrian’s head, and you start to hear it too. He tells you he loves you back, how much, and how long. Repeatedly. You’ll love each other right into the mattress tonight. And then tomorrow’s Monday, so you’ll both go to work. You’ll hate it the whole time, just this once. Because you know what’s waiting to pick you up in the parking lot.

Laugh myself to death, it's so hilarious

Everything is a mess and we're aware of it

I'd expect nothing less, but I still hate Mondays

Yeah, I still hate Mondays

send an ask to be added to adrian taglist!

I grew up pretendin' sticks were little guns

I would point 'em at my dad, and he'd get mad

Cause God forbid I hurt someone

I'd hurt anyone I could

Anyone who got too close, and anyone who wouldn't look

But the problem with John Tucker is that you can’t stay away from him. No matter how many times you tell yourself this is the last time, no matter how many walls you build during the day, the moment the sun goes down, the magnetic pull between you becomes a physical ache. It’s an addiction you both share, a mutual gravity that constantly drags you back into his orbit. You find reasons to cross his path, and he always, always stops to look at you.

And slowly, without permission, things start being more than just sex.

It happens first at a crowded house party. The air is thick with beer, loud music, and sweaty bodies, and you’re trying to navigate the narrow hallway to the kitchen when a hand grips your wrist. Before you can gasp, you're pulled into the shadow of the linen closet, and Tucker is there, towering over you. You expect the usual routine. You expect him to mutter a low, dirty suggestion, to tell you to meet him upstairs in the bathroom in ten minutes, or to feel his heavy hands immediately sliding up your skirt to find your naked thighs.

Instead, he just places his palms flat against the wall on either side of your head. He looks down at you, his chest rising and falling, his eyes burning with a desperate sort of hunger that has nothing to do with a quick thrill. He leans in and kisses you. It’s deep, slow, and breathtakingly thorough. His tongue tangles with yours in a way that feels like a quiet conversation, his lips soft and demanding all at once. He tastes like basil and warmth. He doesn't touch the rest of your body—he keeps his hands flat on the wall, entirely focused on your mouth, breathing you in like he's trying to memorize the taste of you before you can slip away again. When he finally pulls back, his breath is shallow. He doesn't say a word. He just looks at you, lets out a soft, breathtakingly sweet smile and walks back out into the party, continuing with his night. You’re left leaning against the wall, your knees shaking, realizing with a spike of terror that he is rewriting the rules without your permission.

The shift bleeds into his bedroom, mutating every touch into something holy, something that threatens to break you wide open. A week later, you’re on your stomach, the sheets bunched beneath your knuckles as he takes you from behind. His weight is heavy and grounding over your back, his fingers wrapped firmly around your throat in a tight, possessive chokehold that makes your vision blur with heat and yielding submission. He’s driving into you, deep and relentless, but there is no cruelty in it—only a desperate need to be as close to you as humanly possible. With every thrust, a low, ragged moan tears from his chest, and he keeps saying your name. Over and over. Your name. On his lips, it doesn't sound like a dirty word muttered in the dark. It sounds sacred. The reverence in his voice makes your throat tight and your chest ache with a violent, beautiful agony. You feel the tears leaking into the pillowcase, because you know that if he says your name like that just one more time, you will completely melt. All your locked doors will fly open, and he’ll see the wreckage inside.

I was born into a one-hundred-year storm

Foot of ice across Vermont

And in that dark, and in that frost, a heart was formed

Malcontented and unwarm

The breaking point comes on a sunday afternoon when he coaxes you into the bath. The water is steaming, smelling faintly of the expensive soap he keeps just for you. Tucker is leaning back against the porcelain, his long legs framing yours, and you are sitting between them, your back pressed flush against his chest. The water laps at your collarbones, warm and enveloping. It’s supposed to be casual, but it’s entirely too sensual.

His right hand slides beneath the surface, his fingers moving inside you with an agonizingly slow, rhythmic pressure that makes you whimper, your head dropping back against his shoulder. He’s reading every shudder of your body, mastering your pleasure with a quiet confidence. But it’s his other hand that ruins you. His left hand rests on your wet thigh, his thumb absentmindedly tracing small, gentle shapes against your skin. You track the movement through the clear water, and your heart stops when you realize what he's doing.

He’s drawing little hearts. Over and over, tracing the shape against your skin without even realizing he’s doing it, a subconscious manifestation of what he’s actually feeling.

A cold wave of absolute panic cuts through the heat of the water. He’s getting too close. He’s slipping beneath the armor, finding the softest parts of you, and if you let him stay there, the fall will kill you when he inevitably realizes you aren't enough. So you push his hands away, scrambling out of the tub onto the cold bath mat, ignoring the confused look that crosses his face. You wrap a towel around yourself tightly, your teeth chattering from the sudden drop in temperature—and the sudden realization that you have to end this before it destroys you.

You were unsuspecting, not unwarned

That I'm the trouble ahead, that I scream in my sleep

You're putting money on red, I'm a sure bet at a losing streak

I keep showing you doors, but you can't open them up

Cause it gеts harder to see me the closеr you try to look

I just live here, babe, but you're the one who decided to knock

You knocked

Which brings you back to tonight. The aftermath of another night where you tried to use his body to forget your soul, and failed. You’re almost fully dressed now, your hand resting on your bag, while Tucker stands by the bed, his chest bare.

He reaches out, his hand hovering over the empty side of the mattress for a second before he shifts, patting the soft fabric. He looks up at you through his eyelashes, his voice soft, trying to make it sound casual, like a joke he doesn't entirely mean. "There's still room for two in this bed, you know."

You look down at your feet, your voice completely flat, detached. "I can't, Tuck. We talked about this. I don't do sleepovers."

The lack of warmth in your tone makes something shift inside him. The softness drains from his face entirely, replaced by a sharp, stung look that makes his jaw tighten until the bone shows. He steps out of bed, blocking your path to your clothes, his bare chest heaving.

"Stop doing that," he whispers, frustrated, his voice cutting through the peaceful silence of the room. "Stop putting the wall up the second you get out of bed."

You force yourself to look up, hardening your expression into a mask of pure indifference, though your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "We agreed on this. No strings, no expectations. You can't get mad at me for sticking to it."

"We agreed, yeah," Tucker steps closer, a desperate, angry heat rolling off him. "But don't look me in the eye and tell me you don't feel what's happening every time we're in this room together."

You do. Of course you do. It’s a terrifying, living thing that sits in the space between your chests every single time his skin hits yours. It’s there in the way his breath catches when he touches you, and the way you completely lose your bearings the second he pulls you close. You feel it so acutely that it makes you feel naked even when your clothes are still on, a heavy, unshakeable truth that you are completely powerless against. You feel it, and it scares the hell out of you.

"Believe me," you say, your voice dropping to a harsh, skin-crawling whisper, desperately trying to save him from yourself. "You don't want this. You think you do, but you don't."

Tucker’s gaze drops, his jaw tightening as he absorbs the dismissal, the quiet exhaustion in his posture mimicking your own. He doesn't yell, he doesn't press closer. He just stands there, a heavy, suffocating silence settling between you as the distance feels more like an ocean than a few feet of floorboards.

Have you ever stared directly at the sun?

Have you ever shared some closeness, so exposed

To have it spit back by someone?

So, forgive me if I jump

At the rattle of your keys

"Oh, are you leaving?," "No, babe, I'm just waking up"

And now what?

I'm left staring at the ceiling, listing reasons you should pack all your shit up

History had taught you that letting someone beneath your skin was a guarantee of definite, absolute ruin. Every time you had dropped your guard, if only by a fraction, it had merely offered a roadmap to your undoing for the person walking away. You couldn't handle the fallout of another ending. Not from him, and not when the reverent, terrifying way he looked at you meant the fall would be fatal.

So you protect yourself by bracing for the impact of the end before it can even start, counting down every flaw, every hesitation, every single reason why you shouldn't let this happen. You convince yourself that staying away is the only way to survive, turning his kindness into a deadline you have to beat.

"You're already gone, aren't you?" Tucker's voice shatters the silence, sharp and bleeding with a new kind of realization. He looks at you, seeing the way your eyes have gone totally distant. "You're standing right here, but you're already gone."

You don't say anything. The silence between you stretches, heavy and agonizing, as you pull your jacket over your shoulders. You reach down and lift your bag, your knuckles white against the strap, your jaw locked so hard it aches.

He looks at you—really looks at the rigid line of your shoulders, the frantic, defensive look in your eyes—and a quiet, crushing realization washes over him. He can't make you stay when you’ve already decided to leave.

His hands drop slowly to his sides. The silence that follows is deafening, heavy enough to crush the air right out of your lungs. His chest heaves, a profound, exhausting hurt settling into his features. The fierce, fighting light in his eyes slowly dulls, leaving him looking entirely hollow, entirely defeated.

"Fine," he says quietly, his voice flat, completely stripped of all the southern warmth you’ve grown so used to leaning on. "Just leave then." He walks past you, stopping at the bathroom door to look back at you one last time. There is no anger in his eyes, just a heavy, hollow exhaustion as he throws a tired line over his shoulder. "You know where the door is."

The click of the lock feels like a physical blow to your chest.

I'm the trouble ahead, and I scream in my sleep

You're putting money on red, I'm a sure bet at a losing streak

I keep showing you doors, but you can't open them up

Cause it gets harder to see me the closer you try to look

I just live here, babe, but you're the one who decided to knock

You knocked

The moment the door closes, your knees give out. You collapse onto the edge of his bed, the sheets still smelling like him, and a violent, silent sob tears through your chest. You have to clamp both hands over your mouth to stifle the sound, terrified he’ll hear you through the thin bathroom wall, terrified he’ll come out and see the absolute disaster you are. You shake so violently you can barely pull your jeans up, your fingers fumbling uselessly with the button. Blinded by a steady stream of hot tears, you gather your things, shove your shoes on, and practically flee the room.

Days blur into a week. Then two.

Every single second is a slow, agonizing torture. Without the distraction of his touch, the truth you’ve been running from settles into your bones like lead. You do love him. You love him so much it physically hurts to breathe, a constant, dull throb in the center of your chest. But when you think of Tucker, you see the sun—something bright, pure, and life-giving, and if you go back, you’ll just choke out his light. You can't bear the thought of becoming the reason he loses his warmth. So, you starve yourself of him. You stay in your room, ignoring the ache, choosing to bleed out in silence rather than drag him down with you.

Meanwhile, Tucker is a ghost of himself. He doesn't joke around in the locker room anymore. At home, he sits in the quiet of his room, staring at his phone, his thumb hovering over your name, waiting for a text that never comes. He’s furious at you for quitting, furious at you for deciding his limits for him, and furious at himself for letting you walk out into the dark.

By midnight on the fourteenth day, the guilt becomes too heavy to carry. You can't keep his spare key on your nightstand anymore; it feels like a physical brand, a constant reminder of the safety you threw away because you were too terrified to hold it. You decide to get rid of it when you know he won't be around to stop you.

The university ice rink is a tomb at midnight, the massive building shrouded in shadows and the smell of damp leather and pulverized ice. You slip through the side door, your sneakers making no sound on the rubber mats. The plan is simple: drop the silver key into his hockey locker through the metal vents and vanish back into the dark before the winter can catch you.

The heavy door clicks shut behind you, the latch locking into place with a definitive, echoey thud.

You take three steps inside, and your entire body locks. The air leaves your lungs as if you’ve been punched. He’s there.

Tucker is sitting on the wooden bench at the very end of the row, his massive frame hunched over, a roll of black stick tape clutched in his large hands. He’s still half-dressed in his gear, his heavy nylon hockey pants on, but his chest is bare, his skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat from an extra hours-long practice he clearly used to beat himself into exhaustion. He doesn't look up, but his voice stops you dead.

"You really thought you could just disappear, didn't you?"

He lifts his head, his eyes locking onto yours and you feel the floor vanishing beneath your feet. He stands up slowly, the movement languid and predatory. He doesn't look like the resigned boy who let you walk out of his bedroom two weeks ago. He walks toward you, his heavy steps unhurried, until he’s standing directly in your space, radiating a suffocating heat that cuts through the metallic chill of the rink.

“It was the only way I knew how to handle this," you whisper, clutching the key so hard it bites into your palm. 

Tucker stops. He looks at your hand, then slowly up to your eyes, his expression stripping away everything but a tired, raw frustration. He reaches out, his fingers wrapping firmly around your wrist, his grip burning. He doesn't pull you in; he just holds you there, forcing you to face him.

"Handle this?" he asks, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "You think cutting me off and ghosting me for two weeks is handling it?" You look at him, really look at him, and see the exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes. "You don't get to decide that you’re not worth the risk."

I'm the trouble ahead, and I scream in my sleep

You're putting money on red, I'm a sure bet at a losing streak

I keep showing you doors, but you can't open them up

Cause it gets harder to see me the closer you try to look

I just live here, babe, but you're the one who decided to knock

You knocked

He gently pries the key from your hand, letting it clatter to the concrete. He takes a half-step closer, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. You can feel the air between you charging, the silence stretching until it feels like a physical weight, thick with the scent of cedar, sweat, and something inevitable.

"I got scared," you admit, your voice cracking. "I'm still scared."

"Yeah," he mutters. "I noticed."

He leans down, his mouth hovering just a breath away, and you can feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace. You bring your hands up, your fingers trembling as they find the damp skin of his shoulders, and the stupid, desperate reality of how much you missed him just collapses the rest of the distance.

When his mouth finally hits yours, it isn't an invitation—it’s the frantic, starving wreck of fourteen days of silence, a collision that tastes like copper and desperate, long-overdue relief. He tears your coat aside, and his hands, burning hot, move with ruthless speed—shoving your sweater up and over your head, his fingers catching on the fabric in his hurry. He doesn't stop, his palms dragging down your skin, tugging your jeans down until you’re shivering and exposed in the cold, dim air of the locker room. He lifts you, your legs locking instinctively around his waist as his heavy hockey pants drop to the bench with a heavy thud.

He steadies you against the steel lockers, the metal biting into your back as he guides himself to you.

The first push feels like a homecoming and an invasion all at once—he is thick and searingly hot, stretching you until the air leaves your lungs in a sharp, broken gasp. You claw at his shoulders, your eyes blown wide as he fills you completely, the cold room turning irrelevant against the crushing, rhythmic weight of his body.

Your bodies align with terrifying, natural precision—two halves of a broken whole finally finding their center. You move with an urgent, ravenous hunger, a primal need that transcends speech. With no space remaining between you, there is only the friction of skin against skin, the frantic hitch in your breathing, and the profound, overwhelming sense that this—being joined like this—is the only way to silence the noise in your heads.

Your hips collide in a chaotic, beautiful symphony of desperation. You ache for his weight, for the way he fills the void and anchors you to reality. As he drives into you, the brittle walls of your self-doubt crumble, replaced by the jarring, exquisite reality of his presence. You aren't just being taken, you are being reclaimed. He is here, he is real, and he is entirely yours to hold. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down until you are flush, heartbeat against heartbeat, skin against skin, until you can no longer tell where you end and he begins.

He pushes into you with a steady, bruising rhythm, crowding his weight down until his mouth is pressed against your throat, swearing softly under his breath.

"I'm not leaving," he grunts against your skin, his hips slamming into yours.

He pulls back to look you in the eyes, his face flushed, his breath coming in broken hitches. "I'm not leaving," he repeats, his voice vibrating through the hollow steel at your back.

He drives into you again, slower now, with a terrifying, agonizing control that forces you to realize that this—this weight, this heat, this absolute refusal to let go—is exactly what you needed all along. He leans in, his forehead pressed against yours, his movements syncing with the frantic, newfound rhythm of your own heart. He moves with a purpose that is almost holy, a slow erosion of your defenses until the panic is gone, replaced by a clarity so sharp it hurts.

"I'm not leaving," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear.

He grinds his hips against yours, hitting that sweet, devastating spot that forces a sob from your throat. He doesn't let you look away—he captures your gaze, locking it to his, even as he drives into you one last time.

"I'm not leaving," he vows, his voice a final, breathless promise that settles deep in your bones.

I just live here, babe, but you're the one

I just live here, babe, but you're the one

I just live here, babe, but you're the one

carmen blinks hard, trying to shake the sleep from his eyes, gaze settling on the window. it’s still dark out. only the orange streetlights casting vague shapes across his room, giving the shadows some kind of meaning.

his brain starts doing that thing again. jumping ahead, building the day's list before he can stop it. the stress creeps in before he even leaves the bed. he’s already forgotten something, he knows it. already late for something, even if the clock says otherwise. he can hear sugar’s voice in his head like it never left: did you check the budget i sent last week? how are we supposed to keep paying all these people if you won’t even sit down and read it? did you know jimmy’s supposed to come this week to talk about—

his alarm cuts in.

too loud. too sharp. especially in all this quiet.

he grabs the phone from the nightstand, silences it before it can ring more than a few seconds.

once the room goes still again, a bit of clarity returns. not peace, exactly, but something close. he exhales slowly through his nose, thumb still resting on the phone, and unlocks it. his fingers move without thinking. open messages, scroll down. the screen lights up, casting a cold glow across his face. it’s your thread.

this. this is another thing he’s been doing too much lately. and he doesn’t really know how to stop. at this point, he’s pretty sure it’s veering into something unhinged. obsessive. like he’s clinging to something that’s not there anymore and pretending it is.

you: the future looks bright chef!

that was the last message. weeks ago.

he frowns, but scrolls anyway. because this small, digital space, this ghost of a connection, is all he has right now. and somehow, it brings him a weird kind of comfort. not the real thing. not even close. it’ll never be the same as seeing you walk into the restaurant every day, laughing at something richie said, your perfume hanging in the air like a memory he doesn’t know how to let go of. but it’s something. and he’ll take something.

he stops on a selfie you sent from that birthday party. friend-of-a-friend. he remembers you whining about it the day before, pouting in that way that always made something in his chest loosen. you’d told him you didn’t want to go, that your friend had begged you to come so she wouldn’t be alone.

trying to hang on to any kind of connection outside of work, he’d boldly and very stupidly, asked you to send a selfie. for proof, he’d texted. he cringes now just thinking about it. what the hell was he doing? trying to be smooth? that wasn’t him. it never would be. he’d freaked out for a full half hour, especially when the word read sat quietly under his message, taunting him.

until your reply came in. a photo of your face. cheeks flushed, a mischievous smile aimed straight at him, eyes shining.

you looked so pretty. all dolled up for your night out with your friends. and he wanted to say just that. god, he almost did.

but he didn’t.

too much of a coward. too afraid of saying the wrong thing, of being rejected. of crossing a line. because at the end of the day, you were still one of his employees.

so instead, he reacted with a thumbs-up emoji and went to bed, heart racing, already half dreaming of you.

he keeps beating himself up in the shower, replaying everything he could’ve done differently. wishing he’d kept the conversation going. asked you what the hell you meant, talking about the future like you weren’t planning to be in it. it follows him through the morning. into the chill of the city streets, the L train, the walk to work. chicago isn’t fully awake yet and neither is he. just noise in his head and cold in his lungs.

he tries not to think too hard about the fact that you’re still on his mind.

but you are.

we get married in our heads. something to do while we try to recall how he met.

if richie knew, he probably would’ve laughed and called you a dumbass. before having a heart attack.

you knew richie loved carmen. despite all the shit he talked, all the complaints about his insane work ethic and the new way he ran the restaurant. you knew it. but you also remembered the way he used to go off about how carmen needed to get a fucking grip if he ever wanted to let someone close. because no way in hell that was gonna end well. not with how he was. that person would probably end up running for the hills. 

so yeah, you did start to feel a little worried when you noticed how your palms got sweaty anytime carmen leaned in to talk to you about something completely mundane at work. how the tiny hairs on your neck would stand up when he passed behind you, muttering “behind,” and placed a light hand on your back. 

you’d always felt so far removed from all the mushy romantic shit, so it was kind of shocking how your body kept reacting to this guy. it made you feel ridiculous, like some schoolgirl with a silly crush.

until time passed. and you started noticing how carmen watched you just as much as you watched him. how his voice would soften when he talked to you, how he’d leave his bad attitude at the door whenever he had to face you. how that hand on your back? it started lingering a little longer each time.

it didn't take long before you started to realize just how much carmy was your type. you hadn’t even known you had a type. but there he was. hard-working. completely focused on his craft. someone who actually cared about people. you saw it in the way he kept pushing syd, little by little, to be her best. in the way marcus lit up just listening to his stories about the insane dishes he’d worked on in those spectacular restaurants before he came here. how he was trying to turn that run-down sandwich shop into something meaningful for the sake of everyone who showed up every day to keep it alive.

and, yeah, it didn’t hurt that he was hot as all hell: wild curls, strong arms, that whole constantly-stressed-out genius thing. and those eyes.

falling in love with carmy had been so easy. you hadn’t meant to. richie’s voice echoed in your head from time to time, but honestly, you didn’t really care to listen. not once the two of you started to talk. really talk. 

he opened up about his brother. someone you only knew in pieces, through the fragments richie had shared. his own memories.

but one night, carm gave you his memories. he told you how much he looked up to mikey. how much he missed him.

to this day, you’re still not sure why he told you what he did, but he said it anyway. that he did go to mikey’s funeral. something richie never lets go. he’s always throwing it in carmen's face: you weren’t there, you fucking baby, you didn’t show up when it counted.

but carmen had shown up.

and you never told anyone.

he was intense, sure, but he could be so sweet. charming in that unintentional way that made it even worse. like how he thought you didn’t notice when he started changing up his schedule. taking breaks when you did. hanging around just long enough to keep the conversation going from the day before.

or maybe just to be there. to have those rare, quiet moments where it was only the two of you. no yelling, no tickets, no chaos. just silence and the way it wrapped around you both like it knew something neither of you had said out loud.

he made you feel too much.

and what made it even harder was how he kept responding to you. bar for bar. matching every glance, every shift, every subtle move. like he was just as caught up in it as you were.

you didn’t realize it until you were in too deep.

a night you still carry with you, when it was just you and carmy, the restaurant quiet after everyone had gone home. you were so drained from the long day, you couldn’t help flopping down on the bench in front of the lockers. carmy came out of the office and found you there, eyes closed, still sitting.

you thought he would grab his things and call it a night. but he didn’t move. maybe he didn’t want to disturb your peace.

when you opened your eyes, he froze.

you felt him watching you. of course you did. but you didn’t want him to stop. you wanted his eyes on you. always. you wanted him.

so when it was just the two of you, sitting in that quiet, feeling the tension like it was something alive between you, you reached out and took his hands.

his hands. god, how often had you thought about them? in passing, in silence, in the lonely hush of nights you didn’t want to spend alone. you ran your thumbs gently across his tattoos, the ink marking him with stories you hadn’t heard yet. you wanted to ask. you wanted to know all of it. but not now. not if it meant breaking the spell of this moment.

carmen looked down, confused at first. then he shifted, taking your hands this time, his fingers curling around yours.

but he didn’t say anything. just looked at you. his eyes held something you couldn’t read, like he was trying to tell you what he didn’t know how to express with words.

your heart was pounding so loud you swore he could hear it. 

and when he reached up, touched your face with the hand inked with the chef’s knife through the palm, you forgot how to breathe.

you didn’t even realize it until it was too late.

you shouldn’t have let it get this far. shouldn’t have let it consume you like this.

you should’ve listened to richie.

you and i (don’t let go) we’re alive (don’t let go). with nothing to do, i could lay and just look in your eyes.

it started as a little comment here and there. a name you’d never heard before slipping out of fak’s mouth.

then came a conversation you overheard while working alongside richie, with fak buzzing around the place like always. they were talking about an old family friend. a girl. how she turned out amazing (“a doctor, can you believe it, man?”). how fak saw her again recently. how he wished things could go back to the way they were. back when all of them had the best times. the bestest times. with claire.

claire.

you had no idea who she was. you’d never seen her around the restaurant, and sugar had never mentioned her. neither had carmy.

if you hadn’t been so intrigued, you probably would’ve felt annoyed. all this talk, putting her on a pedestal. it couldn’t be that deep, right? still, you couldn’t deny the jealousy creeping in as you listened to richie go on about claire as well. how she’d helped him through… something. honestly, you’d tuned out halfway through. something from back before he and tiff split.

you didn’t want to care. you really didn’t. but eventually, curiosity got the better of you. you even asked sydney if she knew who this claire person was.

she didn’t. she was just as lost as you.

meanwhile, carmy was in peak stress, trying to transform his family's restaurant into a high-dining establishment. you could see how much it was weighing on him, so you did what you could to be there, even in that weird, undefined place where you both were. trying to see through the fuzzy lines of your relationship. you didn’t know what it was and how to call it. but you remained supportive, in the form of listening to him rant or go to the nearest home depot when the paint ran out.

he still gave you butterflies, even with everything he had on his plate. the pressure, the stress, the weight of trying to rebuild something from the ground up. it never kept him from making you feel seen. important. like you mattered.

you could still feel his eyes on you when he thought you weren’t looking and that alone was enough to set your heart racing.

and your conversations, they didn’t just continue, they evolved. they became deeper, more intimate. he wanted to know you, really know you. not just the surface-level stuff, but your dreams, your fears, the things you’d kept tucked away for years, unsure if anyone would ever really want to hear them.

so you let him in. slowly, carefully. and with every shared secret, every charged late-night exchange, you started to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something real growing between you. something worth holding on to.

it happened on a random day. nothing special about it. syd walked in with that look on her face, the one you’d come to recognize: frustration bubbling just beneath the surface, begging for a place to land. she didn’t even say hi before diving in, words spilling fast like they’d been waiting to escape her all morning.

“i finally figured out who claire is,” she said, tossing her tote bag onto a stool. “turns out she’s carmy’s sort-of childhood friend slash first love, which, by the way, i don’t even know what the hell's going on with that and it's already getting on my nerves. because now he’s distracted and i need him focused on this right here.” she waved her arms around the empty space to drive her point home.

you blinked, trying to process her words, but it felt like they hit you all at once.

you just stood there, frozen in the middle of the gutted kitchen, stripped bare for renovations.

your heart dropped.

you hadn’t seen that one coming.

wait (don’t let go) and pretend (don’t let go). hold on and hope that we’ll find our way back in the end.

he curses himself for telling fak he ran into claire at the grocery store. like fak was ever going to keep that to himself. now everyone knows. and everyone’s being weird. asking him a million questions about her, like he’s supposed to have some kind of plan. but he doesn’t. he hasn’t seen her in years. people expect him to pick up where they left off, but he doesn’t even know what that was, let alone what it’s supposed to be now.

carmy was painfully shy back then. when claire was around, always orbiting, always close but just out of reach. he never acted on how he felt. he just… pined, like a stupid kid. kept it all to himself. mikey used to tease him when he found those sketches in his notebooks. half-finished portraits of claire he never meant anyone to see. sugar would roll her eyes and tell him to man up, tell claire how he felt.

but he never did. and now, all these years later, people are acting like nothing’s changed. like he's supposed to feel the same. be the same. like some nice story about rekindled young love, which sounds great in theory, but in his case? those memories are laced with chaos. with the noise and mess of his old life. his life, period. it doesn't feel like something worth revisiting. he's not sure.

seeing claire again was nice. she was happy to see him, she remembered things he hadn’t even realized he’d forgotten. that part felt good. but this whole thing? it’s just one more thing added to the pile.

the renovations are behind schedule. jimmy’s breathing down his neck about the money. he can’t seem to get on the same page with syd. sugar’s riding his ass about everything from schedules to invoices.

and then there’s you. drifting further away from him every single day.

and that is what really stings. more than any of the rest of it.

he feels it all the time. in the little things. the small gaps where you used to be. the way your breaks never seem to line up with his anymore. how he used to find you already outside when he stepped into the alley, and now he just runs into you at the door, your break already over. he tries to catch your eyes in those moments, but you look down and walk past him like it’s nothing. like he’s nothing.

he watches you throughout the day, desperate for a sliver of connection. trying to catch you in conversation, even if it’s just something small. but you’re always busy. always somewhere else. always anywhere but with him.

and it’s killing him. he wonders if you’ve already figured it out, how fucked up he is. if you’ve seen too much and decided to back off before it’s too late. or maybe he overwhelmed you with the way he felt. crowded you, hovered over every little moment the two of you had. like he was one of those gross dudes who only came in to try and chat you up, get a peek at your ass and pretend it was about the food.

yeah. if you ever saw what was inside his head, you’d probably run.

because he craves you. constantly. and he’s done lying to himself about it. he likes you. likes being around you, likes how your mind works, the way you talk about things that matter. he loves that you don’t take yourself too seriously, but always seem to have the right words when someone’s in need. how you show up for your people without hesitation, no questions asked.

he loves your voice. your laugh. the way you look at him when you’re teasing, or when you’re serious. your pretty hair, your beautiful eyes, those pouty lips, and yeah, your body. fuck. he’s lost count of how many times he’s imagined you underneath him, imagined how you’d sound, how you’d move, what it would be like to make you feel everything he’s been feeling.

he wants to give you that. all of it.

carmen hasn’t felt this way, this deep, this insane about anyone since… claire, maybe.

and he knows you felt it too. the something between you. it wasn’t just him. even if it was unspoken, it was there.

if he’s this wrapped up in you, then why did he catch tina and his sister talking like it’s obvious? like it’s real? 

“have you seen him? he follows her around like a lost puppy,” he remembers sugar laughing, sounding embarrassed.

“she’s not far behind,” tina has said, not missing a beat.

so why were you pulling away?

the answer became even harder to grasp the afternoon you walked into the office, clearly expecting to find just natalie. you startled slightly when you saw him sitting there too, then quickly masked it with a polite smile and a too-casual tone. said you had something to tell them both.

you were quitting.

a new opportunity had come up. sudden, unexpected, but too good to pass on. you said it aligned better with your professional goals, that it made more sense for where you were heading. your voice was soft, almost apologetic, sweet in that way that made it sting more. like you were trying to spare them, spare him, but still walking out the door.

his mind stopped registering your words after that. his body went still. mind blank. he kept his eyes down, too afraid to look up and see whatever expression was on your face. he just stared at the floor while you and sugar kept talking like everything wasn’t shifting underneath him. everything in him had gone still, cold.

he wanted to speak. to ask why. to understand. but the words sat heavy in his throat, unmoving. and as your voice trailed off and you turned to leave, his face flushed hot, his hands began to tremble. those early signs of panic tightening around his chest.

he should’ve followed you. should’ve asked what changed, what went wrong. why it suddenly wasn’t enough.

but he didn’t.

instead, he ended up in the back of the restaurant, alone, heart racing and breath caught in his lungs, trying to keep it together. hoping, praying, you’d show up like you always did. like you always had.

but this time, you didn’t.

and there was something about you that now i can’t remember. it’s the same damn thing that made my heart surrender.

you couldn’t forget the restaurant even if you tried.

richie had been on your case for days after you quit. texting, calling, refusing to believe it. it blindsided everyone, but it hit him harder than most. because it was you. you had each other’s backs in there. if something had been off, why hadn’t you said anything?

you did your best to ease his worry. said there was nothing wrong, nothing dramatic. gave him the same explanation you’d given sugar. and carmy, though you weren’t sure how much of it he’d heard.

you were moving on.

the restaurant had been good to you. more than good, sometimes. you met people who felt like family, and for a while, it really felt like you belonged. but you had to think about yourself too. your goals, your growth. and the new job? it was a step forward. a better fit for the direction you wanted to go. you kept reminding yourself of that.

still, you couldn’t ignore the way things had shifted in those final days. how often claire’s name came up. how often you saw carmy tense at the mention of it, even if he tried to hide it.

fak, richie, even people you’d never seen in the restaurant before were suddenly showing up, nudging him toward her. pushing him to give it another shot. telling him she was good for him, that he’d be crazy to let her go, that this was his chance.

and every time you heard it, something in you sank.

because no matter what you and carmen had shared in the quiet, in the glances, in the almosts... you didn’t have a history like that with him. not old memories tied up in childhood and old neighborhoods. maybe that’s what it came down to.

syd and marcus were still your friends, even outside of the restaurant, and you thanked the heavens for that. you’d found something real with them: true friendship. if the restaurant left you with anything, it was that.

they kept you updated, told you everything with bright eyes and proud smiles. how the new place was coming together. how different it all felt from where you started. not just the food, but the energy. the ambition. the chaos.

you loved hearing their stories. the quirky guests, the impossible nights, the small wins that made it all worth it. you could tell how much they loved it, even when it was hard. and you were happy for them.

they told you about richie too. how much he’d changed. you told them you’d seen it too, because you still saw richie. he was too special a person to let go of.

then they’d mention carmy. how his meltdowns were getting more frequent. how things had shifted. you didn’t know much about him after you left. you hadn’t asked. they told you how he was seeing claire more seriously now. how marcus had casually dropped the word girlfriend when talking about her.

it stung. more than you let on. but you didn’t flinch. you nodded and smiled. you told yourself you’d moved on. you’d removed yourself from that world.

still, every time they talked about the bear, its struggles, its wins, the people inside it, it felt like hearing about a life you no longer lived.

and it was particularly hard because the bear wasn’t just a restaurant.

it was carmy, and after all this time everything still felt like him.

you might’ve felt completely defeated by that thought if it weren’t for syd.

over coffee one afternoon, she said it like it was nothing.

“he asked about you,” she uttered, her words cutting deep. “wanted to know if you were okay, if you’d ever come by.”

and i’ll miss you on a train. i’ll miss you in the mornin’. i never know what to think about.

carmen still wakes up before the alarm, long before the world stirs. the sky outside is dark, the streets quiet. that part hasn’t changed.

but he’s not alone in his bed anymore.

claire has started staying over sometimes, says it’s easier after her shifts, more convenient. he tells himself he doesn’t mind.

he slips out of bed carefully, trying not to wake her as he begins the ritual of getting ready. his movements automatic.

lately, the days have felt heavier. long, restless weeks stacking on top of each other. he’s been going through the motions, but the certainty that once drove him, the feeling that he was building something meaningful, has started to fade.

he used to believe that cooking was his purpose. that the kitchen was where he belonged. but now he isn’t so sure. maybe it was never really about the food. maybe it was just his way of holding onto mikey, of staying close to the memory of someone who once made him feel like there was something worth chasing.

and now that he’s here, with everything he thought he wanted, it still feels like something’s missing.

he’d had a really tough conversation with syd about it. one of those that left him feeling raw, exposed. richie had walked in halfway through and joined in, adding his own thoughts, his own frustration. by the end of it, carmy felt like he was letting everyone down, yet again. stepping back from the restaurant felt like the right call, perhaps the only way the bear could truly thrive free from his constant micromanaging and inevitable screw-ups. maybe, just maybe, he could rediscover the spark he'd lost, the part of him that used to love this.

he takes the train like he does every morning. the platform’s nearly empty, and when the car doors slide open, he steps into a quiet space with only a few scattered passengers. it's a small relief. no eyes on him, no one who knows his name or expects anything from him. just a few minutes of anonymity. a little room to breathe. maybe even think. maybe relax, though that's a stretch.

he had hoped that being with claire would help. that now, finally with her by his side, he’d start to feel more like himself again. like the younger version of him. that the shy, quiet kid who once thought having her would fix everything—was finally getting what he’d dreamed about for so long. but it doesn’t feel like that. not really.

and carm hates himself for it. because claire is wonderful. kind and patient. she jokes about the heavy things, tries to lighten the weight he carries, even if just for a second. she’s trying to help him heal, to pull him out of the worst parts of himself. and he knows that. but still, something feels off.

and that’s when he wonders… does that last message in the thread need a reply from him? should he beg richie for his phone again, like some desperate teenager, just to sneak another look at your instagram profile? should he face sydney, after everything he’s put her through, and ask once more if she’s heard from you? i think about you.

sometimes he lets himself imagine it. running into you. what he’d do. if he could get past the initial punch of seeing you again. really seeing you, after all this time. would he shrink back like he always used to, hide behind silence so he can keep pretending your absence hasn’t hollowed him out? or would he finally say something? ask for the truth. demand it, maybe. not to make you feel bad, but just to know. to confirm that it wasn’t all in his head. that everything you shared, everything he felt, wasn’t just one-sided. that thinking about you this much still means something.

as if that could ever actually happen. still…

he’s been secretly holding out hope all this time. clinging to the stupid fantasy of a chance encounter with you. on the L. on the street. some accidental moment that would change everything. he’s even taken the long way home more than once, just because he knew it passed near where you used to live. just for the slim chance of seeing you. but it never happened.

and as much as he tries to keep moving, your absence still lingers in the spaces he exists in.

tina still sighs about not having her dance partner during breaks and how no one laughs at her neighborhood gossip like you did. natalie wishes you were around so she could finally introduce you to sophie, her voice going soft every time she says your name. and richie? richie never shuts up about you, still clinging to the version of life where you and he had each other’s backs in the thick of it. he holds onto that chapter fiercely, and part of him is just waiting for you to walk back in and see how far he’s come and be proud.

but for carmy it’s different.

he didn’t just miss you.

he fell in love with you.

(don't let go)

he never said it, but it’s the truth.

it’s in how he still checks the door without realizing, expecting you to walk in. in how your voice still echoes in his head during the quietest parts of the day. in how nothing has felt right since you’ve been gone.

you didn’t just leave the restaurant. you took something with you when you walked out. and no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to get that part of him back.

do you think i have forgotten about you?

carmen’s no stranger to guilt. it’s been living inside him for years, settled deep in his bones. he remembers the feeling in new york, thinking of sugar and mikey, how he left them to deal with their mom and all her turmoil and unpredictability. remembers the guilt curling in his gut when he got that phone call, sugar barely able to get the words out between sobs: mikey's dead. guilt again, heavy and paralyzing, when he couldn’t get out of the car at his own brother's funeral.

and now it’s back. except it’s different. not the same restaurant stress that eats at his stomach on the regular. it’s outside of that. beyond it.

it’s every time he looks at claire.

it shows up in moments that are supposed to be soft. like when claire’s curled into him, warm and willing, tracing her fingers over his chest. saying something sweet, being provocative. trying to love him. telling him how good he is, and all he can think about is how much of a lie that is. how he doesn’t deserve this version of her. 

because his mind drifts, like it always does.

to you.

he’s not proud of it. he hates himself for it.

she’s here, she’s trying. she’s giving him something real. and you’re still in his head. still there when he closes his eyes, still the one he wishes he could see when he opens them.

he’s tried to snap out of it. thrown himself into his new role in the kitchen, started mending his relationship with his mom, tried being the kind of boyfriend claire deserves: one who listens, who shows up, who holds her when she falls asleep.

but none of it’s working.

and it’s not fair to claire. she doesn’t deserve to be the one holding the weight of something that was never hers to carry. so he did something he’s never really done before. not like this.

trying, really trying, to follow through on this whole doing things differently thing, carmen sat richie down and told him the truth. about how things with claire had started to fall apart. how it wasn’t her fault. how he couldn’t keep pretending anymore.

richie, being the closest person he had left, felt like the right one to tell, to get it out. and carmen took responsibility, fully. said it straight: he was the one messing things up. he’s the reason it’s falling apart.

but richie wouldn’t hear it.

“what the fuck are you talkin’ about?” richie’s already pacing, eyes wide, hands flailing. “you’re done with claire? now? jesus christ, cousin.”

“i didn’t say i was done, i just–i don’t know. it’s not working,” carmen shifts, trying to stay calm. 

“not working?” richie snaps. “what the fuck does that even mean? you finally got her and now you’re just what–bored?”

“it’s not about that,” carmy mutters, jaw tight.

“bullshit,” richie throws back. “you know how many guys would kill to be where you are right now?”

“i-i’m tellin’ you, it’s me. it’s not her,” carmen tries again, voice low.

richie scoffs, shaking his head. 

“you serious right now? after everything she’s done for you? you’re the problem? oh wow, man, what a revelation.”

“i am the problem, richie. that’s what i’m saying!” carmen’s voice rises a little, frustrated. 

“then fix it!” richie shouts. “don’t throw her away just ‘cause you’re all fucked up inside.”

richie was pissed, and not in the loud, joking way he usually was. no, this was different. this was a disappointment he felt deeply. he looked at carmy like he couldn’t believe he was watching him do this all over again, backing out the moment something good got too real.

he started pacing again, running his mouth about claire, about how she didn’t deserve this kind of treatment. “she’s claire bear, man,” he muttered under his breath, like that should mean something holy. and it kinda did, to richie. she’d been around since carmy was a little kid. familiar, kind, safe.

but carmen just sat there, bent over at the edge of the table, elbows digging into his thighs, hands locked at the back of his neck. guilt was burning through his stomach like acid. and not just for claire. for richie, too. for not being able to live up to the version of himself everyone kept hoping he’d finally become after getting with claire.

he didn’t fight richie on it, didn’t throw words back, because he knew richie was only half wrong.

the older man, never one to back down when carmy got quiet, leaned in with a little bite in his voice.

“you know i even told her once, right? about this?” he said, almost casual, throwing your name in there. “funny thing is claire wasn’t even in the picture yet and i already knew you were gonna pull this kind of shit.”

carmen froze. his lips thinned into a hard line and something dark settled behind his eyes.

he looked at richie, really looked at him, like he was trying to figure out if he was serious or just pushing buttons like he always did. but richie held firm.

a bitter wave of heat rose in his chest.

“did you–” carmy’s voice cracked, low and strained. “did you fucking say something to her?”

his words came sharp, like they’d been caught in his throat too long. 

“richie, what the fuck did you say to her?”

richie visibly flinched. his mouth opened and closed again. then he let out a laugh, humorless, almost stunned.

“you gotta be kidding.”

something in carmy’s face had changed, the shift in his voice when your name came up stopped him cold. he stared at him for a long second, piecing it together.

and it hit him like a ton of bricks.

“you motherfucker,” richie’s voice grew louder, half disbelief, half something else. anger, probably. or disappointment.

“you were into her and you didn’t say shit?” he pointed at carmy like he was trying to trace the outline of this massive mistake. “you let her walk outta here when you–”

he stopped himself. dragged a hand down his face, pacing, fuming.

“you know what? don’t even answer that,” he snapped, his anger visibly flaring again. “wanna know what i told her, jagoff? i didn’t tell her anything that she couldn’t tell by sharing space with you, you little fuckin' narcissist bitch.”

carmy finally looked up at him, teeth gritted, throat working like he was swallowing glass. richie’s eyes were hard now. protective and furious.

“she’s not just some second act of claire, cousin. she didn’t come around to fix you, that's not what she’s about!”

it came after a beat of silence, after richie had already seen through every layer of bullshit and nailed him to the wall.

“i know–i know that,” carmy finally said, voice low, almost strangled.

it sounded awful, even to his own ears. pathetic, but it was the truth.

and even though richie looked at him like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, like carmen had just handed him the messiest, most out-of-pocket confession, he felt something shift in his chest. relief, even if just a little.

finally someone else knew. someone understood the depth of what he was carrying. how much it wrecked him. how deep it went.

no more burying it behind routine or the bear or claire.

and now richie knew.

god, now richie knew.

so much for doing things differently.

he hadn’t really talked to richie much after that. things still felt off and he didn’t have the energy to untangle it just yet. instead, he tried focusing on getting back on the right foot with syd.

she’d asked for help with a new dish she was developing for the menu: something deeply personal, something that reflected the people she held closest to her heart. her family and her friends.

she told him she was stuck, unsure about the final flavor profile, and though he didn’t want to meddle too much (this was her creation, not his), she kept nudging him for input. said she trusted his instincts.

so he thought about you of peaches.

he said it lightly, almost offhand, but it stuck.

he didn’t know if syd would connect the dots, maybe she wouldn’t even ask. but if she did, if she ever wanted to know why, he’d say something about the brightness of the flavor, the way it lingered, felt right.

peaches were your favorite. 

he can’t help being taken back to that night again, when it was just you two alone, the restaurant emptied out, you sitting on that bench looking up at him with those bewitching eyes that haunt him still.

he’d been completely transfixed by you, by everything you were. by all the things you made him feel without even trying. your beauty, somehow untouched by the long day behind you, still shining through in the artificial light.

and when you reached for him, your fingers brushing his with a touch so gentle it felt deliberate, he swore he died right there. your touch… delicate, intentional, reverent, hit him harder than anything else had in years.

your hands were so soft, so careful, like you were learning him by touch alone, tracing every part of him without rushing. he remembers how it made his skin come alive, how each stroke of your digits lit him up. how much he wanted more. 

he wanted to pull you in, let you keep exploring all the parts of him no one else ever got to touch. he wanted to kiss you, slow and deep, to finally know if your lips tasted like peaches, just like he imagined.

carmen wanted to give himself to you completely in that moment. mind, body and whatever was left of his soul. and he’s never really stopped wanting that since.

that’s why he did it, why he reached out and cupped your face, unable to stop himself. it wasn’t instinct or ease. it was pure need. there were too many feelings rushing through him, building up after everything you had shared, everything left unsaid.

he wanted you. not just in that moment, but for longer than he could admit to anyone, maybe even to himself. and still, even now, after all the time that’s passed and after everything that’s changed, he hasn’t stopped wanting you.

he hasn’t stopped thinking about that night or stopped regretting the way he pulled back, how he let the moment slip through his fingers because he was too afraid of ruining it, of being too much and scare you off.

but now, looking back, all he can think about is how real it was. too real to pretend otherwise. undeniable. and how foolish he was to walk away from something so honest, so rare.

he wonders if you recall that night as often as he still does.

it’s a thought that’s lingered for what feels like forever now, something quiet and constant at the back of his mind. 

but tonight, it’s louder than ever. 

especially after hearing the buzz of surprise and excitement ripple through the kitchen when richie, halfway through reading the night’s guest list, said your name. 

carm tried to play it cool, to keep scrubbing down his station like his lungs weren’t suddenly constricting.

tonight was a new friends and family night. syd’s idea. a soft reset, she called it. a chance to breathe a little, reconnect with the people who mattered and quietly debut a few changes to the menu.

he could feel richie’s eyes on him all day: watchful, heavy, like he was waiting for something to go wrong. richie wasn’t subtle when it came to the people he cared about and carmy knew that look: apprehension. concern. maybe even a little warning.

and carmy got it. richie had watched him fall short more times than he could count, he’d seen carmy spiral, shut down, push people away, so of course he’d be on edge. especially tonight. especially with you.

pepto bismol had become his closest companion through the day, sipped like water in between prep and the minutes before doors, just to keep himself upright.

as the guests began to arrive, he stationed himself near the window overlooking the dining area. just waiting.

eyes scanning every new arrival.

heart pounding harder with each one.

waiting for the moment you’d walk through the door.

he’d spent the whole day bracing for this, imagining it over and over, but when you finally appeared, all that careful anticipation crumbled in an instant.

because nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared him for the reality of you.

a familiar, dizzying lurch hit him in the gut.

how could you still look like that? like everything he’d been missing without even fully realizing it. like a punch straight to the ribs and a lifeline all at once. like something too good to be real.

you looked beautiful. god, you looked so beautiful.

and it wasn’t just the way you were so exquisitely dressed for the occasion or how your hair caught the light. it was the way you looked happy to be there, genuinely. like no time had passed. it knocked the breath right out of him.

the smile on your face when you greeted sugar and pete made his own mouth twitch up, he caught himself mirroring it, dumbly, before he could stop it. then came richie, arms out, wrapping you into a hug, whispering something in your ear. he guided you toward your seat, and carmy quietly sent a thank you into the universe when he realized your seat was directly in his line of sight.

you sat facing the kitchen.

richie turned around just before disappearing back to the floor, and their eyes met. that usual don’t fuck this up look was still there but now something else flickered underneath. something softer. protective. understanding. a silent: i see you.

and carmy, even in his nerves and with his stomach a knot of regret and adrenaline, gave him a small nod. a quiet thanks.

you being here, sitting where you’re seating tonight, was richie’s move.

he told himself to stay focused on service, especially tonight. he owed that to sydney. she had put her trust in him, asked him to show up and get it right. and he was trying, really trying, to keep his head down and stay sharp. but the longer the night went on, the harder it got.

you still hadn’t looked at him. not once. and it was slowly unraveling him.

you knew he’d be here, right? 

you knew this place. you knew the setup, knew exactly where he’d be standing. was it on purpose? he couldn’t tell, but watching you laugh so easily, catching up with syd’s dad and chester, it made him feel disoriented, like he was watching a version of you he didn’t have access to anymore.

every second that passed without your eyes meeting his made his chest feel tighter, heavier. he was falling apart in real time, trying to keep it together behind the pass.

and then came the dish.

fak had announced it a little too loudly, of course, but it landed. 

“new to the menu,” he said, “from chef sydney and chef carmy.”

carmen stood there, watching you the whole time, heart hammering, barely breathing.

you leaned in, tilted your head, examined the plate like it was something that really mattered, eyes soft and focused. you took in the smell first, then a bite.

and then, like gravity itself shifted in the room, you looked up.

right at him.

peaches.

and he knew, in that split second, you remembered too.

do you think i have forgotten about you?

the tension of all the conversations that veered too close to something real. the breaks you shared, shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the quiet between the chaos. you remembered the glances, the ones that lasted a second too long, the ones that said more than either of you ever dared to say aloud. you remembered that night when it was just the two of you.

you remembered what it felt like.

he could see it on your face. the recognition, the weight of it all. the way you held his gaze, steady and certain, made something in him shift. and he took it as a sign.

no more hiding behind glances, no more waiting for the right moment that never came. carmen was done being the guy who only looked when you weren’t looking, the one who kept everything to himself out of fear.

because the truth was, he felt so much for you. still. all of it. untouched by time.

still in love.

and now he was ready to say it, to show you, to fight for you.

he finally understood everything had always been about you.

and as service wound down and the restaurant quieted, all he could think about was finding you before the night ended–

to tell you that.

part 2.

 ₊˚⊹♡