𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐚 ​

You had never minded Draco Malfoy. His gloating and his blown-up ego, his unfairly attractive looks, his snarky retorts were all just background noise. You don’t remember when something changed, or when you realised just the extent of his looks. Maybe it was the time you caught him comforting a crying first-year on the stairs, who had been bullied by a Gryffindor for being a ‘slimy snake.’ The scene had stopped you in your tracks. His voice, softer than you thought it could ever be, carried through the corridor, gruffly murmuring comfort. He had stared for a moment, then crouched down to the younger student’s level, a hand resting against the nape of his neck awkwardly, broad body shielding them from the stares of passing students. It was fleeting, a moment so small it could have gone unnoticed. But it didn’t. Not to you. After that, every little thing stood out. The way he absentmindedly twirled his quill when he was bored in class. The quiet scoff he gave when Astoria tried too hard to impress him. Even the way he loosened his tie just slightly when he thought no one was watching. It was like suddenly, you were. Always watching. Always noticing. And Merlin, it was infuriating. Because Draco Malfoy wasn’t supposed to be kind. He wasn’t supposed to make you pause, to catch you staring, to make your heart trip over itself when his gaze brushed yours across the Great Hall. Yet somehow, he had a cast an Imperio curse on your heart, dangling and tugging the strings within his fingertips like a puppetmaster. You told yourself it was harmless at first. A glance here, a passing thought there. Nothing more than idle curiosity. That’s how all tragedies start, isn’t it? With the belief that you are immune. That you can walk through the fire and come out unburnt. But each gaze, each small smirk, seemed to singe you even further, til you were utterly consumed by the flames, dancing in the aftermath of your ashes. That was the thing with boys like Draco Malfoy – they collected hearts like Chocolate Frog Cards, and built walls high and indestructible around their own. Maybe you were too naïve for your own good, to think you could change that.

Draco had always known you. Smart, quick-witted, and eyes that sung with the stars, eyes that dared to look at him as though he were more than the sum of his surname. He had noticed, long before you realised, how your laughter curled at the edges of his pride, how your words could slice through his arrogance without drawing blood. But he was Malfoy—cursed with a legacy, tangled in shadows he never asked to inherit. Affection was a luxury, and luxuries were dangerous. Still, when you walked into a room, it was as though the air changed, lighter, warmer, unbearable in its temptation. He told himself he wouldn’t reach for you. That people like him didn’t deserve people like you. And yet, he watched. He lingered. He let the thought of you weave into his mind late at night, when silence pressed too heavy against his ribs. The cruelest thing about Draco Malfoy was not his words or his pride, but the way he made you believe he could love you back. And perhaps, in some corner of his fractured heart, he did. But love from him was no gift - it was a warning. A thread pulled loose, leading you straight into a story that would end, as all such stories do, in ruin. Still, he mustered up his courage and one day sent a single rose, pink, your favourite colour, signed with his initials. He told himself it wasn’t creepy as he sat at the breakfast table, eyes fixated on you as he shovelled spoonfuls of porridge into his mouth. His pulse hammered with every second that passed, every breath you took, waiting for your reaction. You picked it up delicately, fingers brushing the soft petals, lips curling into the smallest smile. A smile that wasn’t for anyone else - it was his, though no one else knew it.

For weeks after the rose, life tilted into something dreamlike. The hallways seemed shorter with Draco beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he matched your stride, his pale fingers ghosting yours like he wasn’t quite brave enough to hold on in plain view. In the library, he sat across from you with his chin in his hand, pretending to read when his grey eyes never left your face. And when, one evening, you found yourselves alone in the dungeons, torchlight flickering gold across his sharp features, he leaned in, hesitant, uncertain, and kissed you. It wasn’t fireworks or fanfare. It was quiet. Like something inevitable, something long overdue. His lips were cold, but his hand was warm against your cheek, and for the first time, you thought maybe, just maybe, you’d been wrong about cautionary tales. Days turned into weeks. You learned that Draco laughed, really laughed, when you teased him. That he hated pumpkin juice but drank it anyway because it looked better than water. That when he couldn’t sleep, he walked the corridors until his shoes ached. He whispered secrets against your skin in the dead of night: fears, doubts, the quiet admission that sometimes he didn’t feel strong enough to carry his family’s name. You held him tighter with every confession, thinking you could be his anchor. Thinking love could save him. And then Christmas break passed. You had received a necklace, a lockaet witholding a photograph of both of you at Hogsmeade, courtesy of Pansy, and a card with his mark scribbled all over it. Not just any quill, but one chosen for him: dark green, phoenix feather, imbued with the subtle glimmer of gold in the shaft. You’d written a note that bled sincerity, telling him he mattered more than any expectation, any legacy. That you believed in him, in the boy behind the Malfoy name. But as you board the train, searching for the mess of his blonde hair and his grey eyes that would surely be searching for yours too…right? You glance down the crowded corridor, scanning the familiar faces of first-years chattering, older students lounging with their books, but there’s no sign of him. Not a flicker of his cloak, not a shadow of that self-assured smirk. Your heart hammers, and for a moment, panic rises. Did he leave early? Did he not want to see me? You shake the thought away, telling yourself he couldn’t resist. He would be here. He always looked for you. You step past a compartment full of Gryffindors laughing too loudly, gripping your trunk tighter as you make your way down the train. And then-there he is. Or at least, almost. You catch sight of the familiar platinum hair, bent over a book, sleeve hiding part of his face. He hasn’t noticed you yet. His grey eyes are focused, distant, unreadable. A flutter of hope warms your chest. Maybe he’s just pretending not to notice. Maybe this is some elaborate game only Draco Malfoy could pull off. You hesitate, fingers brushing your wand tucked in your sleeve, heart thudding so loudly it might give you away. Finally, you step closer, and his head lifts. Silver eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the train car seems smaller, the noise of students fading into a background hum. They soften slightly, before hardening into something unspoken.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” You murmur back, watching as he hesitates, before shuffling over to make space next to him. You sit next to him, trying to ignore the way he flinches, trying to pretend that it means less than it should. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the hum of the train and the murmur of other students filling the silence. You notice the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, how his hands fidget with the hem of his sleeve as though he’s wrestling with something he doesn’t want you to see.

“I… got your quill,” he says finally, voice low, almost reluctant. “The one you sent me over Christmas. It’s… perfect.” You smile, warmth flooding your chest.

“I’m glad you like it. I-” Your words falter as you notice the shadow in his expression. Something is there, hidden beneath the surface, and you can’t name it yet. He looks away, staring out the window at the blur of snow-covered countryside.

“I’ve been… busy,” he mutters, almost to himself. “With… things.”

“Things?” you prompt gently, your heart tightening. Draco shifts uncomfortably, jaw clenched.

“Just… family. Obligations. You wouldn’t understand.” You bite back the words that want to spill out, the urge to remind him that you do understand, that you’ve always tried to. Instead, you nod, forcing a small smile, trying to convince yourself that it’s nothing. That this is nothing.

“Oh.” You notice the way he tugs at the sleeves of his robes, tugging them over his arms, the way he tries to shrink into the seat. The questions rings in your mind. What happened to Draco over the break?

You try to ignore it. Truly. But the distance grows. He still sends letters, still speaks to you when others are watching, but the warmth you once held in his presence seems diluted. The touches become fleeting, the smiles rare. Sometimes, he’s just gone from the library when you arrive, or buried in some mysterious meeting with Blaise, Astoria, or the Slytherin prefects. You try and deny it. That he’s still the Draco you fell for. But every cold shoulder, every glance, every excuse chips away at the certainty you once felt. And the worst part? He seems to notice none of it, or he pretends not to. It’s always Quidditch Practice. Study Group. Family Matters. They stacked up like bricks, and weighed against your eyes as you closed them in your bed each night, trying to fight the steady stream of tears that flooded them. And when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, he seemed to be determined to prove you wrong. His hand slipping from yours the second anyone turned the corner. His letters, once sprawling and full of sharp wit, shrinking down to two or three detached lines. Averted gazes at meals. And merlin, Draco was like a wild animal – his sex drive was insatiable. Free time? Gone. Studying? You can do it later. Dinner? Dessert first. But now? He would barely touch you, flinching every time you would even attempt a kiss, mumbling something about needing to go. It was the gnawing tension, the impossibility of knowing him now, that drove you to follow him that night to the Astronomy Tower. You weren’t sure why you even went—you didn’t want to see him with someone else, but you couldn’t stop yourself. The corridor stretched endlessly under your feet, shadows deepening with each step, until you finally saw him, lips attached to her. Astoria. Her laugh was too close, too soft. His smirk, lopsided and tired, faltered the instant his cloudy eyes met yours. The sharp scent of firewhisky clung to his robes, his cheeks flushed with drink.

“Y/N,” he slurred, stumbling a little as he straightened. “It’s not-it’s not what it looks like.”

“Isn’t it?” Your voice cut sharper than you intended, slicing through the night air.

Astoria shifted smugly in his laps, twisting off him as he attempted to push her off.

“Don’t,” you whispered, the sight burning into you. “Don’t insult me by pretending.” He staggered forward, stubbornness blazing through the haze of drink.

“You think I’d choose her over you? You think I’d ever-” His words tripped over his pride. “You’re imagining things. It’s nothing. She’s nothing. But his denial was clumsy, and the ache in your chest knew better. You left him there, the door slamming shut on his protests, your footsteps carrying you as far from him as you could go. Your heart burned with something – betrayal, frustration, anger, hurt as you storm away. He broke your heart. And you let him.

Morning arrives with a brittle, gray light. You storm into the Slytherin dormitory without knocking. The room is quiet except for the soft, uneven sound of someone sniffling. Draco. He lay huddled under the thin covers, hair dishevelled, eyes red and glossy, the unmistakable shadow of last night’s whiskey still clinging to him. He looks smaller somehow, fragile, broken-the proud, untouchable Draco Malfoy reduced to something human, something unbearably vulnerable.

“Don’t try and talk to me,” you said, voice sharp and controlled, though your chest ached at the sight. “I’m just here to collect my stuff.” He blinks at you, lips trembling, but doesn’t respond. You marched past him, grabbing the hoodies you’d left scattered across the room over the years-soft, familiar scents that still smelled faintly of him. Your hands move quickly, almost frantically, rifling through drawers and shelves. You need distance, some tangible proof that you could leave and survive. Then, as your fingers brush the edge of a small velvet box tucked beneath a pile of shirts, your breath caught. You pull it free and freeze. An engagement ring. Gold, delicate, with a single diamond catching the weak morning light.

“Don’t-” Draco’s voice cracked as he suddenly reaches for it, his arm shaking, eyes wild. “Don’t touch that.” You flinch, the movement stopping you, and your gaze falls to his forearm. The inked mark, black and sharp, branded his pale skin. A Death Eater mark. The room spins, the floor tilting beneath your feet. Your chest constricts as you finally understood. The weight of the betrayal wasn’t just personal—it was a choice he had been forced into, a life you could never share.

“You-” The room suddenly feels too small. “You’re-” Draco shoves his sleeve back on, turning away.

“You should go.” He whispers, his voice cracking as if the words themselves were killing him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask softly, the words quieter than you intend, though your throat aches. “Did-did you not trust me enough?” Draco flinches, his shoulders hunching as if your question struck him physically. He runs a hand through his damp, unkempt hair, avoiding your eyes.

“It’s not… I didn’t not trust you,” he murmurs, voice tight, rough with emotion. “I just… I didn’t think you could… I didn’t want to drag you into it. Into them. Into… everything.”

“Everything?” Your voice rises slightly, more out of frustration than anger. “Do you even hear yourself? This-this is everything! You’re involved with them, Draco! You’re a Death Eater! And I-” Your chest tightens, tears threatening to fall. “I thought… I thought we were us. And now I don’t even know who you are.” He swallows hard, finally lifting his gaze, and you see it-the storm behind his grey eyes, a mixture of shame, fear, and desperation.

“I’m still me,” he says quietly. “The part that loves you… that’s still me. But the rest… my family… the expectations…the danger. I didn’t want to hurt you.” Your hands tremble, clenching at your sides.

“We would’ve gotten through it together, Dray! That was us, remember? Always together!”

“You don’t understand okay! You will never understand! Why can’t you get that I’m trying to protect you?!”

“So what-Astoria did?!” You shove the ring in his face, pushing against him, ignoring the way his flesh burns under your skin.

“My parents want me to marry Astoria.” he admits finally, voice breaking into something more human than you’ve ever heard. “It’s not… it’s not about me. I’m meant to propose to her. I was supposed to… to agree, to obey, to-” His words crumble into a sob, his hands gripping the edge of the bed, knuckles white. You stagger back, heart hammering, breath uneven.

“So all of this… all the rose, all the nights, all the promises… were lies?”

“No!” he yells, and it’s like the sound of a dam breaking, the mixture of rage, guilt, and desperation spilling over. “It wasn’t a lie! I love you! You have to believe me-I do! But I’m trapped. Trapped by my name, by my blood, by what they expect me to be. I can’t fight it forever, and I… I thought if I left you out of it, if I kept you safe… maybe-maybe you’d still stay with me, in some part of your heart!” Your hands shake, gripping your bag, your belongings, your chest tightening with the weight of it all.

“I can’t, Draco. I can’t be the one who waits while you destroy yourself… and while you’re already being forced to destroy us. I can’t do it.” He collapses onto the bed, head in his hands, a broken boy beneath the proud Slytherin exterior.

“I didn’t want to lose you,” he whispers hoarsely, almost too quiet to hear. “I really didn’t.” You stare at him for a long moment, seeing the boy you fell in love with, the boy who sent a rose, the boy who once seemed untouchable, now reduced to trembling and tears. And somewhere deep inside, you feel the undeniable, brutal truth: this love, yours, his, the hope you clung to - is already shattered.

“I wish we worked out.” You whisper. “That in some alternate universe your parents approved of us. That we could be together. That I could hold you right now-”

“What’s stopping you?!” His voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and raw, and you startle at the sudden intensity. His hands are trembling as he gestures wildly, as if the motion could physically unburden the weight crushing him.

You swallow hard, tears brimming, your chest aching. “You are,” you manage, voice tight with grief. “You, and everything that comes with you. Your family, your world… the choices you’re forced to make. I can’t compete with that, Draco. I can’t fight a war I never signed up for.” He staggers closer, desperation in every step.

“I don’t care about them!” he snaps, though the edge in his voice betrays the lie he wants you to believe. “I don’t care what they want! All I care about is you!”

“But you do care,” you say softly, shaking your head. “Or you wouldn’t be here, trapped in a life you hate, letting them, letting Astoria take the place that should’ve been ours. You think love is enough to fight that? It’s not. Not alone. Not with everything stacked against us.” Draco’s shoulders slump, burying his face in his hands. “I thought I could protect you… I thought if I shielded you from all of it, you’d stay. But I can’t. I can’t even save myself, let alone you.” Your lips tremble as you whisper,

“I just… wanted us to have a chance. That’s all I ever wanted.” You let out a soft sigh, refusing for the tears that brim in your eyes to leave.

“In another life Draco, I hope we worked out. That we were both brave enough to fight for us.”

“Yeah.” He echoes. “In another life.” You cup his cheek.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” You let out a sob-like laugh. “Promise me you won’t disappear completely… that you’ll eat, sleep… that you won’t let them, let this take everything from you.” He swallows hard, voice thick with emotion.

“I’ll try. I… I don’t know if I can, but I’ll try. For you.” You nod, brushing a hand over his messy hair one last time, the pad of your thumb reaching out to catch the tear that falls from his eye.

The creak of the door disturbed the peace of your reading, and the figure of Clark filled your doorway, shoulders slumped and hair fussed up and messy. He let out a soft sigh as he kicked his boots off, the weariness in his frame making him seem almost smaller, though you knew better than anyone how much he carried. His glasses slipped down his nose as he rubbed at his eyes, before his gaze found you curled up on the couch. The moment his eyes met yours, his tired expression softened, like clouds parting for sunlight.

“Long day?” you asked gently, closing your book. He gave you a small, crooked smile and just nodded, too tired for words. You lifted the blanket beside you in silent invitation, and he didn’t hesitate, shuffling over and lowering himself onto the couch with a groan of relief. The cushions dipped under his weight, his warmth immediately seeping into your side. He tucked his face into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin, and for the first time all day, he let himself simply rest.

“Better?” you whispered. Clark hummed softly, arms looping around you, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.

“Much better, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice muffled and heavy with exhaustion. And with that, the world outside its chaos, its demands, its constant need for him, seemed to disappear, leaving only the quiet beat of his heart against yours. You thread your fingers through his messy hair, brushing it back from his forehead. It’s soft, still holding the faint smell of rain and city dust, and you smile to yourself at the thought of Superman looking more like a drowsy farm boy right now. Clark sighs contentedly, melting further into you, his weight pressing you into the couch.

“You’re too good to me,” he mumbles, voice low and husky from fatigue.

“You say that every time you come home like this,” you tease softly. “And every time, I tell you it’s not true.” He shifts just enough to look up at you, blue eyes heavy-lidded but shining with something gentler than any sunlight.

“It is true. You’re my safe place.” His hand finds yours beneath the blanket, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in lazy circles. You lean down and kiss his forehead, lingering there for a moment, feeling him relax fully beneath your touch. You let him pull you into a lazy kiss, his tongue swiping against yours, humming contentedly against your lips. His lips are slow, unhurried, carrying none of the urgency you sometimes feel when he returns from the world’s chaos. This kiss is different, it’s soft, grounding, like he’s reminding himself that you’re here, that he’s home. When he finally pulls back, his nose brushes against yours, and his eyes are softer than the lamplight spilling across the room.

“I’ve been looking forward to that all day,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with exhaustion. You smile gently, threading your fingers through his thick curls, letting his eyes blink slowly at you, blue and soft, framed by his black glasses.

“So, what has made the great Clark Kent all sad today?” Your fingers brush his jaw, lingering on the stubble that is stubborn to the blades of his razor. Clark lets out a huff, sinking further into the plush, picking at his fingernails, his brows furrowed, lips pouted.

“Nothin’. It’s stupid anyway.”

“Clark.” Something about your tone softened something in Clark, as he lifts his head, puppy dog eyes fully on display.

“Fine. The internet is relentless.” You stifle a smirk.

“Another blog?”

“SUPERSHIT! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?!” He explodes, burrowing his head in his large hands. You can’t help it. You snort before you can stop yourself.

“Memes? Clark, please tell me you’re not doomscrolling your own hashtag again.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” he defends, though his ears flush pink. “But Perry made some comment about ‘Supershit trending again,’ and I-” That’s it. You’re practically doubled over with laughter, clutching your stomach.

“Supershit?!” you wheeze.

“And now there’s weird videos of me to music-”

“You mean thirst traps?!” You practically scream, half-choking on your own laughter. Clark groans, dragging a hand down his face.

“I don’t even know what that means, but they keep putting slow-motion clips of me catching helicopters to… to some song called ‘Pony?’” You absolutely lose it, falling sideways onto the couch, tears streaming.

“CLARK. THEY MADE YOU A STRIPPER EDIT.” He shoots you a deadpan look over his glasses, his ears now crimson.

“I did not sign up for that.”

“You did,” you manage between wheezes, “when you decided to have biceps the size of Kansas!” Clark shakes his head in exasperation but the corners of his mouth betray him, twitching upward.

“Oh, and apparently, I’m also part of something called - ‘SuperLex?’” You shriek, grabbing a pillow to muffle your laughter.

“NO. THEY’RE SHIPPING YOU WITH LEX?!?” He leans back with a long-suffering sigh, arms crossed like he’s accepting his fate.

“Apparently, it’s very popular.”

“Oh my god,” you gasp, voice breaking as you roll onto your back, still laughing. “You’re not even Superman anymore. You’re just an enemies-to-lovers Wattpad trope.” Clark tilts his head down at you, finally grinning, eyes warm despite the red in his cheeks.

“Glad my humiliation entertains you so much.”

“Entertains me?” you say, breathless. “I am LIVING for this.” He shakes his head again, pulling you into his arms despite your cackling.

“One day, I’m cutting the Wi-Fi.”

“Then how will I watch Supershit part two?” you shoot back, and that’s when he drops his head into your shoulder, groaning dramatically while you dissolve into another round of wheezing laughter. You press a kiss to his cheek.

“Show me.” He groans begrudgingly, before handing you his phone.

“Look.” You begin to scroll, a smirk tugging at your lips as you read.

“Superslut. Creative. Oh, @user1234 says ‘Raw. Next.’” You clear your throat, as Clark shoots you a confused look.

“Raw? What am I now, some gourmet steak?” You pat his bicep, snuggling into his chest as you read more aloud.

“This one is popular. @supermancanrailmeintoawall said ‘If that suit was any tighter, I would be able to see the full outline of his massive di-’” Clark covers your mouth before you can finish, eyes widened mortified. Clark’s hand stays clamped over your mouth, his cheeks blazing so red it could rival his cape.

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” he mutters, glaring at his phone like it betrayed him personally. You smirk.

“Oh babe, you haven’t seen half of this.”

“Sweetheart are you sure this is a good idea-OH GOSH!” You, had somehow stumbled on the freaky section of his hashtag, and you were now faced with very…creative scenarios of smut between Lex and Clark. He covers his face with both hands, groaning.

“I’m never showing you my phone again.” You scroll back up just to torment him.

“Clark. They have you and Lex in a-oh my god-is that the Oval Office?!”

“STOP READING IT!” he nearly yelps, lunging for the phone. You rip it away from him, whistling as you continue reading.

“Clark Kent, you are one filthy dog.” You murmur as you scan the screen. “How much fanfiction is there?” Clark freezes, then groans so loudly it rattles against your chest.

“Too much. Way, way too much.” You bite back another laugh, scrolling with exaggerated slowness.

“Oh my god, Clark-they have chapters.”

“Please, don’t—” he starts, but you cut him off with a dramatic gasp.

“‘Lex’s fingers traced down the plane of Superman’s chest, undoing the cape clasp with a sinful smirk, dropping to his knees in a show of submission as he began to suck-”

“GIVE ME THAT!” he practically leaps for the phone again, his ears cherry-red as he fumbles to grab it from you. You dart out of reach, clutching it to your chest, your laughter ringing through the room.

“Babe, you’re practically literature! Do you know how many people dream of becoming the main character in a smut saga?” Clark buries his head in his hands, muttering something about Ma never finding out. Still wheezing, you flop back down beside him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Don’t worry, Supershit. I promise, I’ll only read it when you’re not home.” He peeks at you through his fingers, blue eyes narrowed in mock warning.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.” You grin, tucking yourself under his arm.

“Of course I am. My boyfriend’s the internet’s favorite guilty pleasure.” He huffs.

“You’re lucky I love you.” You fall into a contented silence, him pressing a kiss to your palm, nose buried into the crook of your neck, before you break it.

Ever since you and Bob broke up, you’d been trying your best not to visibly mope too much. It had been almost three months since the breakup, and it was easy to avoid Bob when you went on missions and he stayed behind at the Watchtower. You did everything you could to throw yourself into work and volunteer for missions with barely any breaks in between to avoid the pain of seeing him. 

Everything was going to plan until Bucky put his foot down after you almost got shot in your exhaustion. Luckily, John had gotten there just in time, but it was a closer call than any of your teammates were comfortable with. 

So, for the last week, you’d been locked in your room to avoid Bob. You tried desperately not to run into him, only using common areas when you knew he was scheduled for training. 

That was how Ava and Yelena got the idea to have one of their famous Thunderbolts—you never did quite feel like the “New Avengers” label fit you, much preferring your inside joke team name—girls’ nights out. 

And boy, were they regretting that now. 

You were something of a dark horse when it came to alcohol tolerance. 

At first, Yelena and Ava were blown away by your ability to throw back drinks. For the first hour, Yelena was banging on the bar top and yelling for you to chug while Ava cupped her hands around her mouth and cheered. During the second hour, you hit the dance floor, closed your eyes, and let your hips sway with the pulsating beat of the 2000s dance track playing. 

It was the third hour when all your drinks caught up with you. 

You were delightfully sweet when you were drunk; they had to give you that. 

Even though you were leaning against the bar, blinking slowly at your friends, you had a honeyed smile on your lips. Your already short dress was riding up your thighs as you slumped on a bar stool, and the eyeliner Yelena had carefully applied for you at the start of the night was smudged at the corners.

The nightclub had already started winding down. The dance floor that was buzzing only half an hour ago was now a cluster of stragglers clinging to the last songs. You could taste salt on your lips, from sweat or the rim of some forgotten glass. 

“Yelena, your hair looks soooo good slicked back,” you said, just slightly slurring your words. Yelena, whose love language was exchanging insults and making fun of you, stared back emotionlessly. “Like—like a sexy seal. Ava, tell her she’s a sexy seal.” 

“Yes,” Ava deadpanned. “She is a very attractive aquatic mammal. Happy?” 

You laughed, delighted. “See? You get it. Yelena’s the prettiest seal in the sea. If seals wore blue eyeliner and were trained to kill.” 

You blinked slowly. The lights in the room had gone softer, pink, purple, and blue lights smearing at the edges like a watercolour painting. Your body was slow to obey you, limbs heavy and skin hot, a pleasant hum under your skin where alcohol loosened your nerves. 

Yelena snorted, then sighed as she watched you wobble on your stool. “Okay, dorogaya, time to go,” she declared. In your inebriated state, you had no idea this was the fifth time she’d said this. “Drink’s empty, party’s over. Up you get.” 

You pouted, clutching your glass protectively. It was empty, save for some ice left behind, condensation wetting your fingers. “Noooo, I’m not leaving until Bob gets here!” 

Rubbing her forehead, Ava tried not to lose her temper. “Bob didn’t come out with us tonight,” she reminded you. “He’s back at the Watchtower.” 

You leaned across the bar top, whispering like you were telling them a secret. “Liar. He never misses girls’ night out!” 

Yelena rolled her eyes, muttering, “I am not paid enough for this.” Then, more gently, she tried to urge you out of your stool. “Come on, you’ll see him tomorrow.” 

You shook your head furiously, words dragging together. “Nooo, I need him now! I miss him. I love you both sooo much, but you’re not Bob. Nobody’s Bob but Bob.” You pointed very seriously at Ava, who blinked like she wasn’t sure how to answer.

“True,” is what she went with. “I’m not Bob.” Then, below her breath, Ava muttered, “Who’d want to be from Florida?” 

You giggled, throwing your arms around her anyway. “But you’re my best ghosty-shadow girl. I love you.” Ava had to admit that it was nice to get a hug. If there was one thing the Thunderbolts were starved of, it was physical affection, but you gave it out freely and happily. “But I need Bob to take me home.” 

Yelena lowered her voice while you nuzzled Ava’s shoulder. “She’s going to break him in half,” she declared. Even though he was the one who broke up with you, everyone knew it absolutely destroyed him. “He’s just barely standing, and now this?” 

The pinched expression on Ava’s face suggested she agreed. “I don’t like it either. But she’s not going to move for anyone else. She’ll stand here all night long, hoping Bob will show up.” 

You lifted your head suddenly, eyes bright and wet. “Did I ever tell you? Bob makes the best midnight snack noodles.” A faraway, glazed-over shine filled your irises. “He always stirs them with chopsticks because he thinks it makes the soup tastier.” Your voice grew tender. As your eyelids grew heavy, each blink lasted a second longer than the last. “Nobody makes noodles like Bob…” 

Yelena tried not to let the stab in her chest show on her face. “You are killing me.” 

You perked back up, grabbing Yelena’s hand and kissing it. “But youuu, you’re the absolute best. You’re my girl forever, Lena. Even if you make me drink water when I don’t want to.” 

Taking the opportunity, Ava suggested, “Maybe drink some now? Before you declare your love for the bartender.” 

You gasped, genuinely scandalised, clutching a non-existent string of pearls. “I would never! Only Bob.” Your gaze fell to the bartender, eyes narrowing as you studied him. “…Also, maybe the bartender a little bit. He gave me free fries.”

Yelena muttered something under her breath in Russian, and Ava was glad she didn’t understand the profanity. “She is impossible,” Yelena complained. 

“She went all judo on my arse when I tried to drag her out,” Ava reminded her flatly. “I vote we surrender and text him.”

You were the most experienced out of the three of them at hand-to-hand combat, and you nearly tossed Ava over your shoulder the first time she tried to help you out the door. Even drunk, you weren’t going to let anyone carry you anywhere. 

Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose. “He’ll come. And then what? We get front row tickets to his heartbreak?” 

“Better than a broken wrist,” Ava retorted, but she didn’t look happy about it.  

You leaned across the bar again, all wide-eyed with sincerity. Some of your body glitter was smudged across your cheek. “You guys always take care of me. You’re my family.” Your voice wobbled, suddenly heavy with emotion. “But I just— I need him, okay?”

Yelena shut her eyes, inhaling sharply. “Text him the code,” she told Ava. “Before she starts crying.” 

Ava, who was already pulling out her phone, muttered, “He’s going to kill us for letting her get this drunk.” 

“At least we’ll leave in one piece,” Yelena said.

AVA: code safety net. she’s fine, just refuses to leave the club without you.

When you and Bob first started dating, he set up what he called a “safety net” with the rest of the team. If anyone sent him a code safety net, he’d come running. The idea was that it was for non-emergencies, moments when you needed him but couldn’t ask him yourself. 

The last time anyone sent him that code was over four months ago, when you were still his girlfriend. 

Now, Bob sat on the edge of his bed, tugging his sneakers on one at a time. Getting that code used to mean rolling out of bed, grumbling half-heartedly to himself about how you’d gotten yourself into trouble, and loving that it was his responsibility to come and help you. 

Reading the code word now felt like stepping into dangerous territory. Bob didn’t know if he was allowed to be the person who came to your aid now that you’d broken up. 

When he got the text, he’d already had the messages app open, scrolling through an endless exchange of texts between the two of you. He knew he shouldn’t have reread them again, but it was like pressing on a bruise to see if it still hurt.

Spoiler alert: it did. A lot.

Even months after the breakup, letting you go was something Bob hadn’t quite figured out how to do, no matter how hard he tried. 

He had to remind himself that he had reasons to break up with you; good reasons. Bob reminded himself of these reasons constantly, just to stop himself from taking it all back. 

At the end of the day, it wasn’t fair of him to drag you into his mess. He was still trying to learn what it meant to be Sentry, still doing his best to tame the thing inside him that one day might crack open and release Void into the world again. He couldn’t risk that, not with you sleeping beside him every night. 

Whether he was Bob, Sentry, or Void, he would burn the world down if he ever hurt you. 

And then there was his sobriety. Even in the best of times, it was a fragile, fickle thing. Bob had been in and out of programmes enough to know how it worked: no new relationships for at least a year, not until his feet were steady under him. He had broken that rule the moment he kissed you, but he couldn’t let his feelings for you be the reason he fell apart this time. 

You were the right person at the worst possible time. 

Bob knew meeting you was the kind of kismet people only got once in your life, and that’s if they’re lucky. He never considered himself particularly lucky, so he’d held on tight when he first found you. 

Bob wondered now if that made it worse. Now that you were broken up, he knew exactly what he was missing. 

When he arrived, the club was almost empty. The music was quiet, a few people were slouched against the walls outside, and the bouncer didn’t bother checking his ID when he walked in. 

The smell hit him first. The scent of cheap spirits was soaked into the bones of the club, leaving the floor sticky and tacky beneath his shoes. Even though nobody was smoking, cigarette smoke clung to the walls, making his throat tighten. The air was heavy with memories Bob didn’t particularly want to relive. 

He’d never been much of a drinker, but chemicals were chemicals, and his body recognised the promise of it even if his mind didn’t want it. 

Bob’s mouth went dry, a phantom bitterness gathering at the back of his tongue. His thumb rubbed compulsively across the ridge of his palm, a nervous tick he’d barely registered unless you pointed it out to him. 

He spotted you sitting on a bar stool beside an exhausted-looking Ava and Yelena, and the way your eyes lit up when you saw him made something in his chest shatter. In seconds, you were there, arms flung around Bob’s neck with the easy warmth of someone who didn’t remember they were supposed to keep their distance. 

“I knew you’d come,” you murmured so sweetly that he felt his knees buckle a little.

You smelled of his favourite perfume, sweat, and alcohol, and it was so dizzying that it was almost like another type of intoxication. Bob’s breath hitched. He nearly folded into you without thinking, fingers twitching with the urge to hold you before remembering he wasn’t supposed to anymore.

His heart pounded against his ribs, too fast, too loud, and he irrationally you’d hear it. He forced his muscles to stiffen, every nerve screaming at him to let you go while every neuron insisted he hold you like he wanted to. It was the most delicious sort of agony. 

Yelena and Ava’s eyes flicked his way, because of course they noticed his turmoil, so he took a heavy step back. Inside, everything screamed. Bob tried to mask his face in calmness, knowing his teammates could see right through his efforts. 

“Sorry about this,” Ava said, grimacing at the way you pressed your face into Bob’s neck. “We wouldn’t have dragged you out if we had any other choice.”

Nodding drily, Yelena added, “She refused to leave. We tried everything short of a tranquiliser dart.”

“I’ve never seen her like this,” Ava mused. Now that Bob was here, your shoulders had completely relaxed. “She said she’d only go home if you came.”

Forcing a smile, Bob waved away their concern. “S’alright. Don’t worry about it. I’m glad you texted.”

“Don’t you think Yelena looks like a sexy seal?” you asked excitedly. Bob wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but nodded anyway. 

As you babbled drunkenly about what you got up to that night, Ava and Yelena shared a weary look. “He says he’s glad,” Yelena mumbled, “But he looks like he swallowed glass.”

“Yeah. I noticed,” Ava agreed.

“You know I can hear you, right?” Bob cut in, brows pulled together, offended. “I’m fine.”

When you moved back just enough to peer at him with glossy, adoring eyes, Bob audibly gulped. “I missed you so much, Bob,” you said sweetly. Your voice was a little husky and tired, and it made him shiver. 

Stiffening slightly, Bob gently patted your back with one hand. The other was still busy doing his usual nervous tick, rubbing his thumb across his palm. “Yeah, I—I missed you too,” he stammered, shooting Ava and Yelena a concerned look.

Yelena softened, her expression regretful. “She doesn’t remember,” she explained, cadence uncharacteristically tender.  

It felt as if someone had punched Bob in the gut. He couldn’t actually feel anyone’s punches with his impenetrable skin, but God did he remember what it was like. His breath gushed out of him all at once, and his organs felt like they were being crushed together. 

Incredulous, he looked at you with wide, questioning eyes. And there you were, grinning at him like you’d never broken up. “You look soooo good tonight, handsome,” you told him. The familiar nickname was like a second blow to his stomach. “D’you know that?”

Bob’s eyes darted to the others. “Uh…”

You frowned, unhooking your arms from his neck and catching his hand in yours. “You’re doing it again. The thumb thing,” you noted. “You only do that when you’re worried. What are you worried about, Bob?”

He choked a laugh, trying to pull free gently. “Nothin’, sweetheart. I just— don’t worry about me.”

Suppressing a laugh, Ava commented, “She’s sharper drunk than half the team sober.”

Yelena was slightly less tactful; she didn’t even try to hide her smirk. “Only when it comes to Bob,” she sang. “A tragic gift.” 

“Very inconvenient,” Ava agreed. 

Still holding Bob’s hand, your voice wobbled a little. “You didn’t answer me. I missed you. Did you miss me?” Your head tilted as you took on a seductive tone that used to make Bob do whatever you wanted. “You do, right? You always do, especially at night…”

Heat curled low in Bob’s stomach, and you thought you might have caught a familiar glimmer of gold in his irises. “Of course I missed you,” he admitted hoarsely. 

You hummed happily, lacing your fingers together and resting your other hand on his solid chest. “Knew it. You always say as long as you miss me, you love me. You still love me, right?” 

Bob swallowed loudly. “You’ve… had a lot to drink tonight.”

You offered him a bright, tipsy laugh. “Only enough to tell the truth,” you teased. “You’re my Bob. Always my Bob.” 

When you leaned in and started pressing kisses to his neck, Bob jerked back, turning scarlet. He shot Ava and Yelena a look that said, For God’s sake, how much did you let her drink? 

“Don’t look at us,” Ava exclaimed defensively, hands up. “We tried cutting her off hours ago. She just kept sneaking off and getting more.”

“We told the bartender to deny her orders, but she caught the next guy once his shift ended,” Yelena added, straight-faced. “It’s a miracle she still has a functioning liver.”

Bob huffed out of breath, blowing the hair from his face. “Okay.” He started steering you toward the exit. “C’mon. Time to head home now, yeah? Fresh air’ll do you good.”

Dopily blinking at Bob, you smiled. “If you think so, Bob.”

Yelena and Ava trailed behind, keeping an eye on you. As you stepped into the cool night, the music dulled behind you. You closed your eyes contentedly as the breeze soothed your warm skin. New York City air wasn’t exactly fresh, but Bob said it’d help, so you basked in it regardless.

“Easy now,” he said, holding you steady. “One foot at a time.” You nodded, clinging to his arm and taking careful steps. 

“She does exactly what he says,” Yelena said, partially impressed. “We spent almost an hour arguing with her to switch to water.”

“Tell me about it,” Ava groaned. “I nearly pulled my hair out.”

“I told them I wouldn’t go without you,” you told Bob sincerely. “I knew you’d come. You always come when I need you, and I really needed you tonight.”

All Bob could do was nod, smile, and try not hide how much his hands were shaking. It was ridiculous how he still remembered the sensation of your weight against him. Muscle memory was a cruel thing, and this one came with a sharp jab in his chest. 

“Yeah. I’m here,” was all he could say.

Warmth pooled under your skin, not from alcohol but from leaning against Bob. His skin was always hot, bleeding into you until you felt safe and cosy in his arms. 

You paused as Ava lifted a hand to flag down a cab. Bob could feel the burn of Yelena’s stare and pointedly ignored her. While you were the person who knew Bob best, Yelena was his best friend. The two of them were inextricably bonded after everything they’d gone through, and he knew he’d fall apart if he saw the pained sympathy on her face. 

“For the record, we did try everything,” Ava said as a nearby cab slowed to a stop beside them.

“At one point, she sat on the floor and said she lives in the club now. That was our breaking point,” Yelena added. She hurried to open the back door, watching Bob carefully manoeuvre you inside the cab. 

“Alright, careful now,” Bob warned, careful to put his hand out so you wouldn’t hit your head as you got in.

“Let’s go before she decides she’s staging another sit-in,” Ava sighed. She took the passenger seat, giving the cab driver the address for the Watchtower. 

The middle-aged man stared at her in shock, clearly recognising the address and the team in his car. Without making a big deal about it, he started the meter once Yelena slid into the last available seat in the back, shutting the door behind her. 

The cab rattled softly, city lights flickering across the windows. You were half-curled against Bob’s side, still talking despite your heavy eyelids. Yelena watched you with a conflicted frown.

“Knew you’d come for me, Bob,” you murmured again. Your heartbeat slowed when your head tipped against his shoulder. “Always do.”

“Yeah, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” he assured you. The old anxiety ticks were back before he could stop them, thumb worrying the side of his index finger, shoulder giving the faintest twitch every time your hand shifted further up his thigh. “Let’s just get you home, alright?”

You smiled at him, eyes half-closed and gleaming with exhaustion. “Home’s wherever you are, silly.”

Bob felt his pulse jump in that ugly, uneven way it used to when he was strung out—except this was worse, because there was nothing to take the edge off. Just your eyes, devoted and pure, looking at him like he was still yours.

Noticing the shift towards the kind of honesty you wouldn’t be verbalising if you were sober, Yelena leaned forward a little. “You should rest,” she suggested. “Save the poetry for the morning.”

You giggled tiredly. “S’not poetry. S’the truth.” Your skin tingled deliciously where it touched Bob’s. It wasn’t sexual so much as the electrical spark of recognition, like your body was sighing in relief. “Missed you so much tonight, Bob. Like my chest was hollow until I saw you walk in.” 

Ava turned from the passenger seat to glance at Yelena. 

Beside you, Bob stiffened. “You’ve, uh, you’ve had a long night,” he said, soft and strained. “Just close your eyes, yeah?”

You shook your head clumsily, words slurred but earnest. “Can’t. Gotta tell you.” You touched his chest softly, with all the care in the world. “For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not empty anymore,” you confessed. “And we’ve only been apart for a few hours. Isn’t that wild?”

Silence filled the cab. Even the driver flickered his eyes to the rear-view, then looked away.

Bob kept his jaw locked, molars grinding so hard he knew they’d crack if his body was still capable of breaking. It was better than letting his mouth soften, better than letting something slip that he couldn’t take back. There was a low, burning ache behind his sternum. Not sharp or panicked, but heavy, like his heart was collapsing in on itself.

Ava cleared her throat, trying to cut the tension. “Hey, maybe we all just… take a breather, yeah? Get some rest.”

You pouted, trying to keep your eyes open. “I love you. I always will.” Your laughter came out fond and warm, almost dreamy. “My Bob…”

Bob looked stricken, eyes darting helplessly to Yelena. His thumb rubbed harder against his palm, and he was sure that if his skin could still chafe, it would have. Yelena shook her head slowly, silently urging him not to answer.

Still, there was an almost imperceptible shift toward you when you drifted off to sleep, his body betraying what he wouldn’t let himself admit aloud.

The worst of it was the relief. That tiny, treacherous thought whispering: you still loved him. You still wanted him. It made Bob light-headed, sick with hope he knew better than to trust. 

You can’t love me if you don’t remember why we ended things, he thought. You can’t. But God help me, I want to believe you.

Bob’s head tilted towards you as you dozed, the old instinct to shield you from the world kicking in even when he was supposed to have stopped. This was a masterclass in containment. He didn’t explode or crumble; he absorbed your confession, keeping it together while his heart split down the middle.

Bob effortlessly helped you out of the cab and up to your room in the Watchtower. It had taken a few months to get used to the newfound strength that came with the Sentry serum. But at least he wasn’t accidentally ripping doors off their hinges or breaking dishes when he picked them up anymore.

With uneven steps, he guided you into your room, setting you down on the bed. Seated, you blinked up at him, drowsy and smiling like he’d hung the stars. It was a look that was overfamiliar; an intimate expression he’d missed seeing.

“I’m not tired,” you mumbled, resisting his help.

“Love, you’re half asleep already,” Bob tried, coaxing but awkward. He gave a short, nervous laugh. “C’mon, let’s just get you sorted out.”

You squinted like he’d offended you. “Sorted? I don’t need sorting. I need… food.”

With a huff of laughter, he shook his head. “Face first. Food later. That’s—uh, that’s how it works. Pretty sure.” Then, mostly to himself: “If you’re still awake by then, which… yeah, probably not.”

Disappearing into the bathroom, Bob kept an ear out for any noises as he grabbed your makeup remover and wet a washcloth with warm water. He returned and crouched in front of you, carefully starting to wash your face for you. 

You leaned into the touch happily, taking the opportunity to admire your ex-boyfriend. “You always do it nicer than me,” you mumbled, grinning. “So good to me.”

Quietly, Bob admitted, “Old habit.”

You pouted playfully. “I love it when you take care of me,” you confessed. “I always think it’s so hot when you—”

“Okay, I think it’s time for pyjamas,” Bob blurted, pushing up to his feet a little too fast. He turned away, ears pink, and wondered briefly if his poor heart was as conflicted as his mind was tonight. “Don’t fall over, alright?”

After taking your favourite pair out from your dresser, Bob turned his back to you as you wriggled into your pyjamas. His back was unnaturally stiff, listening for the sound of you stumbling. When you flopped back against the pillows, hair mussed and smile loose, he finally glanced over.

“See?” you said proudly. “All sorted. I can sleep now.”

Relieved, Bob nodded. “Good.” He moved to tuck the blanket around you. 

You blinked up at him, suddenly urgent. “Wait,” you said, loud and high-pitched. “Snack!”

Bob sighed. “But—”

“No, Bob, listen,” you hurried, sitting back up with wide eyes. “If I don’t eat something right now I’ll die.” Your confession wobbled, tears starting to form as your eyes became glassy.

Oh boy. If there was one thing that was Bob’s Achilles heel, it was you crying.

There was something so heart-wrenching and wrong about seeing you in tears. The way your cheeks puffed up and your eyes widened, lips curving down into the most perfect frown, was enough for him to agree to do anything to make it stop.

“I’m so hungry now,” you whined, the first few tears cascading down your cheeks. Bob caught them without thinking, chest aching at the sight. He was torn between wanting to maintain some semblance of ex-appropriate boundaries and the dull twinge in his chest.

Eventually, his soft heart couldn’t take it any longer. “God, sweetheart,” he groaned. “You can’t do that. You know I’m useless when you cry.” He tried to laugh, but it came out as a thin sound.

You sniffled, only a touch dramatic. “You wouldn’t let me starve. You love me too much.”

He shut his eyes at that, steadying himself. “You don’t play fair,” he said under his breath.

Triumphantly, you offered Bob a teary smile. “So… snack?”

“Fine,” he agreed. “Yeah, okay. But you stay put, alright? Don’t you dare try and follow me.” Bob wasn’t sure what he’d do if you kept looking at him like you still loved him. “Just stay here.”

You huffed, visibly offended. “As if I’d follow you.”

Bob arched his brow. “You absolutely would.”

“Nu-uh!”

You padded into the kitchen after Bob, clutching the back of his sweatshirt like he’d disappear if you let go. He was resigned but soft with you, guiding you towards the counter. The fluorescents hummed overhead faintly. 

“Midnight feast!” you whisper-yelled excitedly, pumping your free fist in the air.

“It’s a quarter to two,” Bob corrected.

You gasped, delighted. “Even better,” you declared. 

Bob wasn’t sure what your metric was for deciding what time was better to have a snack, but he laughed anyway. He went through the fridge while you rummaged noisily through the pantry. 

Moments later, your tiny gasp of joy filled the kitchen. You held up two packets of noodles like they were a rare treasure. “Bob, noodles!” You held them out for him, already climbing onto the counter deftly. Even your drunken state couldn’t stop years of practised agility. “It’s perfect.”

Bob gave a half-laugh, shaking his head. “That’s… yeah, sure. Wild, right? Cosmic destiny.”

Midnight noodles were something of a weekly ritual when you were dating. You usually had dinner early with the rest of the team, then stayed up late chatting and cuddling. By the time the two of you were tired enough to sleep, you were hungry again. 

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t mock.”

He smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh no, hey, I’m serious. I swear.”

Taking the packet from you before you tore it open with your teeth, Bob took out a saucepan and set the water to boil. You sat swinging your legs, watching him with lazy admiration. 

Bob’s shoulders hunched, stomach tightening each time you called out to him affectionately. His face was schooled into neutrality, but he didn’t know how much longer he could hold it. He was hyper-aware of your position in the room. If you swayed, even slightly, his whole body tensed in case he needed to catch you.

“You like this,” you mused, teasing him. A lazy, fizzy happiness bubbled in your chest. You couldn’t quite figure out why, but you felt truly happy for the first time in a long time. “Taking care of me.”

Bob ducked his head shyly. “I like when you’re not sad. Or mad at me. So,” he motioned awkwardly to the stove, “noodles.”

You nodded. “You’re good at making sure I’m not sad,” you said fondly. “Can’t ever feel sad around you.”

It was a compliment that meant more to him than you could imagine. 

Bob chuckled lowly. “No, I’m good at screwing stuff up, mostly. This is just hot water and noodles. Even I can’t—” he faltered, jaw tightening. “Well, I probably could mess it up.”

You frowned at his characteristic self-deprecation. “Don’t be mean to Bob,” you scolded.

Bob raised an eyebrow, dropping the noodles in the boiling water. “Pretty sure I am Bob.”

“Exactly,” you huffed. “Don’t be mean to my Bob.”

He nearly dropped his chopsticks at that. Clearing his throat, Bob bought himself some time by stirring the soup base into the water. To himself, he mumbled, “Didn’t know I was still yours.”

You smiled, still oblivious to your break-up. “‘Course you are, Bob. You’ll always be mine, and I’ll always be yours. That’s how the whole ‘forever’ thing works.”

Bob busied himself with the noodles, but when you started humming, he couldn’t stop glancing at you. You leaned your cheek against the cupboard beside you, watching him as if he’d strayed out of a dream. Reaching for him without thinking, you tugged carefully at Bob’s sleeve, pulling his free wrist closer.

“Miss you tonight,” you told him, longing to hold his hand.

Bob laughed softly, deflecting. “I’m right here.”

You shook your head stubbornly. “Not like that. Missed you in my bones, y’know?”

His chest squeezed. He cracked the chilli oil packet open to have an excuse to take his hand back. “Yeah, but you had your thing, right? Girls’ night. Shots. Dancing. Didn’t need me standing awkwardly in the corner.”

“Always need you,” you argued.

Bob’s hand tightened around the chopsticks. Still facing the stove, he begged, “Don’t say that.”

Your brows pulled together. “Why not?”

“‘Cause it’s— you’re drunk, okay?” It was tough to maintain a firm boundary and not get lost in how you treated him like he was still your boyfriend. “You say stuff like that—”

“Because it’s true,” you said happily. “You’re shy tonight. What’s the matter?”

“I’m,” he gestured at himself, voice breaking, “I’m Bob. I’m the guy who ruins every good thing he touches. And you’re…” he trailed off, swallowing hard. Bob couldn’t bring himself to say, You’re the last person I wanted to hurt.

You slid off the counter, stepping closer. Bob finally looked at you, wincing like it hurt to meet your eyes. For a second, all the noise in his body stopped—no fidgeting, no rambling. Just raw, aching stillness.

“You are something good, Bob,” you declared. It would have been sweet had your words not slurred together, reminding him of your tipsiness. 

Bob reached for the bowls and poured noodles and soup into them. “Okay, so, noodles—uh, one for you, one for me,” he rambled, passing you the bowl with a noticeably bigger portion.

Bob returned to your room, balancing a glass of water and some painkillers for the headache you were sure to have in the morning. You were curled beneath the duvet, hair a mess, cheeks warm, still blinking against the low light. The noodles had settled in your stomach without making you nauseous, which you were both grateful for. 

He set the glass on the bedside table, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should tuck you in or back away. “So,” he cleared his throat. Your eyes drifted up to his. They looked like the ocean during a storm, and you were transfixed. “There we are. One water, one magic pill. Not as fun as tequila, but you’ll thank me in the morning.”

You grinned sleepily. “You’re bossy.” You were comfortable in Bob’s presence, letting your guard down entirely.

He huffed a shy laugh. “M’not bossy, I’m being responsible. Someone’s gotta keep you from feeling rotten tomorrow.”

“Bossy,” you sang, pulling the duvet higher. Bob rolled his eyes fondly. He perched at the edge of the bed, hands clasped so tight in his lap his knuckles paled. You noticed. “Why do you look like you’re waiting for your turn at a job interview?”

Startled, Bob stammered, “Wh—what? I’m not— this is just how I sit.”

You giggled. “We’ve been dating for, like, nine months. I think I know how you sit.”

Bob bit his lip, glanced away, then reached down to straighten the corner of the duvet to keep his hands busy. “Just making sure you’re settled,” he said. “That’s all.”

You hummed, dubious. “You’re fussing. You only fuss when you’re nervous.”

His cheeks turned pink at that. “Maybe I’m always nervous around you,” he diverted your question. You blinked up at him, a little too fuzzy to catch the weight of it. “Right. You’re all tucked in. No more sneaking around for snacks, okay?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but a muffled sound at the door caught your attention. A soft little purr. Both your heads turned. “Apine!” you gasped, ecstatic to see Bucky’s feline companion entering your room.

The little white cat slipped in, tail high, and leapt onto the bed. You sat up straighter, arms out, laughing as Alpine bumped her head against your chin and curled beside you. Your smile spread wide and unguarded.

“Hi baby,” you cooed, stroking her head with the back of your hand. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore.”

“‘Course she does. She’s just picky.” Bob brushed a crease from your pillow, doing anything to stop himself from reaching for you.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you accused Alpine, speaking to her in a low, dulcet tone. You watched her with almost childlike delight, pressing your cheek against her. “For weeks and weeks. I thought I got on your bad side somehow. Like that time John accidentally stepped on your tail.”

Bob chuckled, but his hands twisted together in his lap. He bit at his lower lip. Watching Alpine’s purrs vibrate against your cheek made his chest split in two. He’d always been more of a dog person, but he did have a soft spot for Bucky’s cat. “I’m sure she just missed you.”

“Or you,” you argued. “You’re her second favourite, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know about that.”

“No, you are. Everyone knows it,” you insisted. “She follows you around like a shadow. You spoil her with treats when you think nobody’s looking.”

“I guess she likes me well enough,” Bob allowed. His hand hovered near Alpine’s back, then withdrew, retreating to his lap.

You giggled into Alpine’s fur, drunk and unbothered. But then the giggle faded, replaced by a sudden, sharp earnestness you couldn’t quite stop.

“But she hasn’t come near me for weeks,” you murmured, lips pressed to the soft patch between the feline’s ears. Your hand stilled on her fur. “Not since…”

The words trailed away. You didn’t know why. Some small, skittish part of you pulled back from finishing the thought.

Your smile slipped, slow and reluctant, like something precious sliding out of your grip. A heaviness pressed against your chest, cutting off the little bubble of warmth you’d been floating in all night long. You lifted your head, blinking at Bob. His face was flushed, eyes darting from you to Alpine to the headboard behind your shoulder.

Your stomach dipped, a cold wash chasing away the warmth of the alcohol. That’s it, isn’t it? The pieces slid into place with cruel precision, emerging from the alcohol-induced fog that kept them hidden all night long.

“She’s been with you,” you said, the words cracking open in your throat. “Because we—because we’re not…”

Bob froze, throat bobbing as it worked against words that wouldn’t form. “I—I—don’t…” He tried again, breath stuttering. “It’s not—”

The ache in your chest grew so quickly that it made your hands shake. You dragged trembling fingers down Alpine’s back, stroking her fur in desperate repetition, like you could keep yourself from fracturing if you just kept the motion steady.

Your voice spilled into the room in a whisper. “We’re not together anymore, are we?”

The words hurt more once spoken, like they’d hadn’t been true until you said them aloud. Tears pricked hot at the corners of your eyes. You blinked hard, but it only made them spill faster, streaking down your cheeks and landing in Alpine’s snowy fur.

“You broke up with me,” you recalled, your reply wavering in the middle of your sentence.

Bob looked ruined. His whole chest heaved, and for a moment, he just stared, caught in the wreckage. Hesitant and trembling, his hand pulled you gently, carefully into him. The dam broke when Bob wrapped his arms around you, turning your silent cries into sobs.

“Don’t—don’t cry. Please,” Bob begged, audibly torn. One hand rubbed your back in clumsy circles, while the other cupped your head, tender and desperate.

Your question came muffled against his shirt, small and devastating. “Why did you break up with me? I love you so much.”

Bob flinched like the words struck him, eyes squeezing shut. His hand kept caressing your back, not steady but frantic, trying to stop both of you from falling apart.

You pressed your face harder into his sweatshirt, tears hot and messy against the fabric. The sobs came out loud and hard, shaking your shoulders, then softened into smaller gasps and hiccups as the rhythm of Bob’s hand calmed you. 

He could feel how your remaining energy slowly burned itself out. First, your trembling quietened, then your hands loosening where they’d clutched his sweatshirt, then the weighted slump of your body. His arms tightened around you instinctively, holding you upright.

You gave a little sniff. “Don’t you love me?”

Every muscle in Bob’s body locked. His lips parted, but nothing came out at first; not with your breath warming his sweatshirt, not with the fragile pressure of you sinking so trustingly into him.

“I— Do I love you?” The words shuddered out of him, frayed at the edges. “Of course I do.”

But when he pulled back to see your face, your lashes were already lowered, breaths evening out, body soft in the safety of his arms. Your question had used up the last of your energy, and now you were asleep.

Bob’s chest throbbed with relief and grief all at once. You’ll never know, he thought. Not really. Not the way he wanted to tell you—awake, sober, with steady hands instead of shaking ones. He pressed his chin to the top of your head, shutting his eyes to stop his own tears from falling.

You woke to sunlight pressing against your eyelids, a dull yellow insistence that came from your curtains being open. Your head throbbed; not stabbing but heavy, like someone had stuffed your skull with cotton. Your mouth was dry, your tongue thick, every swallow tasting faintly of metal.

You blinked slowly, trying to piece the previous night together. What you remembered came in flashes: Ava’s laugh at the bar, Yelena making a face at the DJ, colourful lights blurring overhead. And then, nothing. Just a clean break in the reel, as though someone had pressed stop and forgotten to hit record again.

At least you were in your own bed, the duvet pulled up to your chin like your own personal fairy godmother helped you home. You couldn’t smell cheap takeaway on your clothes, which meant you’d dodged your usual post-club ritual of inhaling fries at three in the morning. 

Still, the gap in your memory made your stomach twist a little. Not in fear, you trusted Ava and Yelena too much for that, but embarrassment. A mortifying little voice in your head whispered that if you’d blacked out at the end of the night, you’d probably done or said something mortifying. 

You groaned and pressed the heel of your palm to your eyes. 

After taking the painkiller someone left for you on your bedside table, you shuffled into the kitchen looking for something to have eat. You didn’t care that your hair was mussed and you looked distinctly worse for wear; you just needed to get something into your stomach before the nausea took over. 

In the kitchen, Yelena and Ava were sitting at the table while John rifled through the pantry. Both of them look just as bad as you did. Yelena wore sunglasses even though you were indoors, and Ava still had eyeliner streaked across her face. You gratefully accepted a cup of coffee when Ava passed it to you. Collapsing into the chair beside her, you groaned quietly. 

“Okay,” you began, a little sheepish. “Don’t laugh. I don’t remember anything after the club last night.” Your friends shared a look that said they weren’t surprised. “I just wanted to say thanks for dragging me home and dealing with me.”

Yelena smirked. “Dragging is the right word. You fought like a feral raccoon.”

“We were two seconds away from calling animal control,” Ava chimed in, grinning.

If they were teasing you, then their hangovers weren’t that bad.

You groaned, burying your face in your arms. “I knew it. I’m the worst drunk.” When you looked up, you gave your friends your prettiest smile. “Sorry about that. How did you even get me into bed?” 

Yelena and Ava exchanged a quick look. 

Before you could prompt them further, John interrupted. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he screeched. You turned around just in time to see him slam the pantry doors shut, glaring at the three of you like you’d committed a horrible betrayal. “Who ate my noodles?” John demanded. 

All he got in return was three blank stares. 

“Pardon?” Ava asked, her tone suggesting she was already done with the conversation before it started.

“My last two packets of instant ramen,” John said, crossing his arms and glaring between you. You had to admit, as much as you all liked messing with him, he could be pretty intimidating when he wanted to be. “Been saving them all week, and what do I find? Empty shelf.”

Without missing a beat, Yelena said, “Maybe the universe is telling you to eat a vegetable.”

“The universe can shove it,” John deadpanned. “Someone in here’s a thief. And don’t act innocent! It’s been a while, but my noodles used to vanish every week like clockwork.” 

You froze with your coffee cup halfway to your lips. Your eyes snapped to Yelena and Ava, who were already looking at you, matching your wide-eyed look of surprise. 

“It was Bob,” you said quietly, almost accusing, once John gave up and started searching the fridge for something edible. “That’s how you got me to come home.”

Yelena sighed heavily, rubbing between her eyebrows like she was getting a headache. “We didn’t have a choice, you wouldn’t leave without him. Besides, it wasn’t that bad.”

“Wasn’t that bad?!” you exclaimed, not buying it for a single second. “I know exactly how unhinged I get when I’m drunk, and you let me spend the night with my ex-boyfriend?”

“You honestly didn’t do anything embarrassing,” Ava insisted. Then, she paused. “Well, I guess you did forget you were broken up and treated him like you were still together,” she admitted. You opened your mouth to keep yelling, so she hurriedly added, “But he was honestly fine with it!”

“He took it very well,” Yelena agreed. “It crushed his mind, body, and spirit. But he took it well.”

“Even if I was asking for him, I can’t believe you forced him to come,” you retorted.

Yelena gasped. “We did not force him!”

John, who was eavesdropping the entire time, cut in. “Wait, wait, hold up.” Your eyes drifted over to him. “Are we even allowed to call a code safety net if the two of them are broken up?”

You frowned. “Code what?” 

“Nicely done, Walker,” Yelena drawled sarcastically, pretending to applaud him. She was known to resort to his last name when he messed something up. Which, in her eyes, was often. “What is it about a secret code that you don’t understand?”

“What secret code?” you asked, already dreading the answer.

“Okay look,” Ava said, giving it to you straight. “When you and Bob started dating, he set up an emergency code called ‘safety net.’ If you were too far gone at the club, or if you needed him but were too scared to ask, we’d send him the code. He always came to help, no matter what.”

You swallowed, processing the news. “That’s…”

“Overly protective?” John teased, smirking a little. He didn’t mean it, of course. Nobody had called a code safety net more often than him. He just lived to tease you and was convinced you ate his noodles. 

“I was going to say romantic,” you corrected him, rolling your eyes.

“Don’t you think you’re a little too, I don’t know, divorced to be making comments?” Yelena added. 

“Jesus,” Walker muttered, holding his hands in defence and grumbling about ordering takeout instead. 

Once he was out of the kitchen, Ava smirked. “So, midnight noodles with Bob?”

“I have a big mouth when I’m drunk,” you grumbled, downing the rest of your coffee to soothe your dry throat. You’d never told them about you and Bob’s midnight noodles, so you knew you had your drunk self to thank for that one.

“Yeah, but it was cute,” Ava said, leaning back in her chair. “You looked very proud of your little tradition.”

Yelena snorted. “You made it sound like a sacred ritual.”

You pressed your lips together, staring at the empty mug in your hands. “But… why would he still come? Why would he—” You broke off, shaking your head. “He’s the one who ended things. If he doesn’t love me anymore, then why show up to help?”

For once, Ava didn’t have a snarky comment locked and loaded. She just tilted her head, eyes warming. “That sounds like a question for him,” she said.

Yelena nodded, elbowing you lightly. “Yeah. Don’t waste your breath on us. Go ask Bob. We’ll be here eating John’s backup noodles. I found them this morning and stashed them in my room.”

You stood outside Bob’s door longer than planned to. Long enough to wonder if the team could hear your pacing from the hall, long enough to almost turn back around. Twice. You even considered coming back tomorrow, but you knew your courage was dwindling fast. If you left now, you probably weren’t coming back. 

You held your breath as you knocked. From inside, you could hear Bob shuffling around before the door slowly cracked open. He blinked at you, hair a mess and t-shirt wrinkled like he’d been napping. For a stupid, dizzying second, the sight of him all domestic and soft punched through your ribs. You could still feel what it was like when you used to wake up in that bed with him.

Bob looked surprised to see you standing there, but not unhappy. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you echoed, hating how your throat tightened around the word. “Um. Can we talk?”

For a second, you thought he might say no. Then, he stepped back and opened the door wider. “Yeah. Sure. Come in.”

You crossed the threshold and realised you hadn’t prepared yourself for the wave of nostalgia that made your stomach clench. Bob’s room looked exactly the same as it had the last time you were in it. From the mug on his bedside table to the blanket you’d bought for him, half-folded on the bed.

It was all the same, except you didn’t live here anymore. Your fingers itched to straighten the blanket the way you always used to, so you folded them together like a penitent child.

You hovered awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure where to sit. Bob noticed and gestured toward the chair at his desk before sitting on the edge of his bed. It felt like he’d deliberately put distance between you. 

“So,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “What’s up?”

You smoothed your palms over your jeans. “I just— I wanted to check in. See how you’ve been.”

Bob’s brows lifted. “I’ve been… fine,” he said slowly. “Busy, I guess. You know how it is around here.”

“Yeah,” you agreed. “Of course. I get it.”

Before the awkward silence stretched further, he asked, “And you?” 

You blinked. “Me? Oh, you know. Same thing. Busy.”

“Right,” he replied. Bob didn’t point out that he knew Bucky had banned you from going on missions for two weeks, and refused to acknowledge how he’d accidentally broken the windows in the conference room when he found out you were almost shot. 

You nodded, exhaling through your nose as your fingers tightened on your lap. “Okay, so… Ava and Yelena told me about last night.” Bob’s eyes flicked up to yours wearily. 

“They said you came to pick me up,” you continued. “Brought me back. Stayed until I was asleep.” You shifted in the chair, the words scraping raw in your throat. “John mentioned something about missing noodles, so I assume you made those for me. Which I—I don’t remember at all.”

“I don’t know what I did,” you admitted, voice smaller than you intended. “I don’t know what I said. I just keep thinking— God, I must’ve been awful. Embarrassing. Ava said I forgot that we’d, y’know,” you gestured vaguely with your hands, referring to your breakup, “And I hate that I don’t even know what to apologise for.”

Something flickered across his face, not quite a wince, but close. Bob looked down at his hands, thumb dragging over his palm. “It wasn’t like that,” he said finally. “You weren’t being embarrassing. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You almost laughed at how gently he said it. “Then what was it like? Because right now, it feels like everybody knows something I don’t,” you revealed.

Bob hesitated, mouth opening and closing before anything came out. “You were drunk. People get drunk, they… say things. Do things.” His cheeks and ears flushed as he averted his eyes. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” you pressed. “Why did you come when they texted? You could’ve ignored the code, or told Yelena to handle it, but you didn’t. Why?”

His jaw tightened. Truthfully, Bob had never considered the fact that you might find out about code safety net. When the two of you broke up, he assumed you’d never have a reason to hear about it. 

“Because it was you.” He said it like he expected a blowback, shoulders hunched just like when he’d first confessed his feelings for you.

You blinked at him, the honesty of it knocking you off balance. Bob seemed to realise what he’d admitted, because he immediately pushed on, fumbling. “I mean— I set that code up for a reason. Back then. You always knew exactly when I needed help, and I was never as good at figuring that stuff out, so I set up a code. Even last night, I couldn’t ignore it. That’s all.”

“That’s all?”

Bob nodded too quickly, eyes darting to the floor again. “That’s all.”

You studied him. Dating for almost nine months allowed you to mentally store something like a Bob Reynolds textbook. You could tell from the way his shoulders shook like he was bracing for impact that he wasn’t being entirely truthful. Then there was his nervous tick of rubbing his thumb across the ridge of his palm, and the way his legs couldn’t keep still. 

“You didn’t tell drunk-me we broke up,” you said after a beat. “You just let me think…” The words trailed, your breath catching at the memory you didn’t have. “Why would you do that?”

He shook his head, voice rough. “You were drunk. I wasn’t gonna hit you with reality in that state. Didn’t feel right, not when you were smiling for the first time in months.”

You sat back, staring at him like you were trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing. “So… you didn’t tell me because I was drunk. Because you wanted me to be happy.” Bob shifted awkwardly on the bed. “And because you knew I wasn’t saying anything I didn’t mean.”

His head jerked up to meet your eyes before he could stop himself. “You’re sure you don’t remember anything?”

You nodded. “Not a thing. But I can guess. If I thought we were still together, I would have trusted you with my most private thoughts. I would have poured my heart out without knowing what I was doing.”

Bob exhaled slowly. “End of the night, you figured it out. When Alpine came in, you looked at me like—” He broke off, jaw working. “You realised we weren’t together. It hit you, and—it tore you up.” His wince said the memory still hurt. “If I’d known telling you up front would’ve spared you that, I would have said something. But I didn’t know what to do. I just didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You wanted to spare me the pain,” you pressed. “Why? If you were just helping me out of an old obligation, why did it hurt you to see me upset?”

“Because I—” Bob cut himself off, breathing hard through his nose. Because I love you was dangerously close to the tip of his tongue. “Because it was hard. Anyone would’ve found it hard.” The excuse was weak, even to him.

You leaned forward, refusing to let him retreat. “I don’t care what anyone would’ve thought. I care what you thought. Why was it so hard for you?”

Finally, Bob dragged in a breath. “You think this is easy for me because I’m the one who ended things? Believe me, it hasn’t been easy.”

Your heart thudded hard in your chest, but you didn’t speak; you didn’t move.

“I broke up with you because, for once, I wanted to do the right thing,” Bob went on, words tumbling out like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve. “I had to focus on the depression, and the loneliness, and the never-ending void.” He rubbed his eyes. “I messed this stuff up so many times trying to get sober, and I can’t afford to do that with the Void and the Sentry hanging around. If I fall off again, it’s not just me who pays the price. I couldn’t drag you through that.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he pressed forward, too worked up to let himself be interrupted.

“I wanted you. God, I wanted you. And maybe that’s what made it worse. Because every time I looked at you I thought—what if I screw this up? I couldn’t live with myself if I did that.” Bob’s words caught, low and ragged. “So I let you go. Not because I wasn’t sure I loved you. It was just… bad timing.”

You sat frozen, his words blowing up everything you thought you’d known. You’d told yourself a hundred stories about why he’d walked away; boredom, fear, maybe even that he stopped loving you. But you’d never considered this. 

Bob scrubbed his hand over his face, then let it drop. “You know I’m sober,” he said. “And yeah, the serum means drugs don’t really… stick anymore. I can’t drink, can’t use, not in any way that matters. But sobriety isn’t just about not putting stuff in your body. It can make you screw up the people around you while you’re trying to get clean. I guess my fear of doing that to someone never really went away.”

He let out a shaky breath, eyes flicking up to gauge if you were still listening.

“Every program told me the same thing: don’t date in the first year. Because you’re too raw, too unsteady. You’ll lean on someone in ways that end up hurting them.” He shook his head. “And I thought if I wanted a real shot at keeping the Void under control, I had to treat it like I was back at square one. Like I was still in that first year.” His jaw flexed, guilty, pained. “But by then I’d already met you, and for once, I thought maybe I got lucky.”

He looked away. “But I couldn’t have it all. Not when I was still learning how not to let the Void bleed out, or not to let the Sentry serum break everything I touched.”

You let out a laugh, shaky and wet, dragging your hand across your cheek. “Do you have any idea what you’re telling me right now?” you whispered.

His brow furrowed, wary. “I’m telling you why I ended things.”

“No,” you said, tone firming. “You’re telling me you never stopped loving me.” You were startled by how steady the words sounded, considering how violently your pulse was hammering.

Bob’s mouth opened, then closed. He didn’t deny it. 

The months without him came crashing down: every long night staring at empty walls, every mission you buried yourself in, hoping exhaustion would trick you into not missing him. 

“I know exactly what I would have said to you last night if I thought we were still together,” you admitted. “I would’ve told you I love you. That I miss you so much it feels like part of me got ripped away.” You swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in your eyes. “I’ve been walking around trying to pretend that I didn’t search for you every second of the day.”

Bob’s silence should have scared you. Months ago, when it felt like you were on the verge of breaking up, it did. 

“Do you know what the worst part was?” you whispered. “Not knowing why you did it, or if I’d been wrong about you. I kept thinking—if you could walk away so easily, maybe you never loved me the way I loved you. And I hated myself for wanting you anyway.” Your chest rose and fell unevenly. “And now—” You broke off in a half-laugh, half-sob, “now that I know why you did it, it makes me love you even more.”

Bob’s hands twisted together in his lap, and then slowly stilled. “You know,” he said, voice quiet enough that it made you lean in to catch it, “it’s been a year.”

You blinked at him. “Since…?”

He glanced up hesitantly, like he wasn’t sure if saying it aloud might jinx it. “Since the last time the Void broke through. Since I—” Bob exhaled shakily. “Since I lost control like that. One year of doing everything right. No shortcuts, no lies, no risking it. Other than being with you, I guess.”

Your throat tightened. “You did it.”

“I did it,” Bob echoed, almost like he couldn’t believe it himself. “I didn’t think I could, but I did. And these last few months,” his eyes found yours, steady now, “I missed you so much.”

Something tugged at your gut. “Then why be with me at all, if you’d promised yourself a year?” The words came out softer than you meant, not accusing, but like you were afraid of the answer.

Bob’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Because I couldn’t let you go. You were the only thing that made me feel like I wasn’t just surviving that year, but actually living it. I thought—I thought I could hold both, you and the vow, but when it came down to it… I was terrified I’d break one, and I couldn’t risk it being you.”

You bit your lip, forcing yourself not to cry. “I missed you so much,” you said. “Nothing feels right without you.”

Bob swallowed, his gaze fixed on you. “You really think…” His words faltered, and then, barely above a whisper: “You really think you could take me back?”

You reached for him before you could second-guess it, your hand covering his. His fingers tensed, then relaxed, instinctively interlocking with yours.

Bob stared down at your joined hands, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I don’t deserve this,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t—”

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you interrupted, quieter than you meant, but steady. “If anything, the fact that you were willing to give this up to get better proves that you deserve it.”

When he looked up at you again, there was something tender in his eyes. “I just don’t want to hurt you again.”

“You did hurt me,” you admitted, a small, almost rueful smile tugging at your mouth. “By keeping things from me. But we can work on that.”

For a long moment, he didn’t speak, just held your gaze like he was trying to capture the moment in a memory. Then, voice rough, Bob asked, “So what now?”

You squeezed his hand, feeling the warmth of it sink into you. “Now?” You drew in a shaky breath, lips trembling with something like a laugh. “Now we see if we can get it right this time.”

Then Bob leaned across to reach you, almost hesitant, like he was giving you one last chance to pull away. 

Your free hand caught his sweatshirt collar and pulled him in the rest of the way, and then his mouth was on yours. It was laughably familiar, the exact way you used to tug him down for a kiss when he was stalling, and you felt his breath hitch like he remembered that too.

It was the kind of kiss that came from months of restraint tearing loose all at once. His lips pressed hard to yours, hungry and desperate, like your bodies remembered what your minds had tried to forget.

You tasted salt—your tears, his, you couldn’t tell—and his hand slid to cradle your jaw, tilting your face so he could kiss you deeper. It was as if he’d been picturing this moment in his head and couldn’t risk losing a single detail now that it was real.

The tremor in his hands gave him away; Bob always shook when he was holding too much back, and you realised this was months of self-restraint crumbling. Your lungs burned with the need for air but your body refused to stop, greedy and starved, like you’d gone months without food and only he could satiate you again.

The heat of it built fast, familiar and overwhelming, like no time had passed at all. Bob’s mouth found yours with the kind of certainty that only comes from practice, from knowing exactly how to draw that sharp gasp from your lips, exactly how to make your knees weaken.

You broke apart just long enough to breathe, and he let out a ragged groan against your mouth. “I missed this,” Bob whispered, deep and wrecked like it always was after you kissed.

“Then don’t ever make us miss it again,” you said, and dragged him back into another kiss.

Bob’s breath shuddered against your mouth, his thumb tracing over your cheek to ground himself in you. “I love you,” he said, hoarse and certain, before kissing you again.

Your hands slid into his curls, tugging him closer, closer, until the chair scraped back against the floor. Bob didn’t care, didn’t even pause, just caught your waist and pulled you into his lap like he couldn’t bear a single inch of distance. Your knees sank into the mattress you used to sleep on every night, heat flooding your abdomen.

The sound he made when you settled against him was half growl, half plea, and it vibrated through you, low and devastating. His hands slid up your back, spanning your ribs, mapping you all over again with a reverence disguised as desperation.

“You feel exactly the same as I remember,” Bob rasped against your mouth, the words breaking on another groan as your fingers tugged his hair. “Except so much better than anything my mind made up.”

You kissed him instead of answering, teeth catching on his bottom lip. He cursed softly, lost to it. His hands moved restlessly—your hip, your thighs, your back—like he couldn’t decide where to touch you first. There was nothing careful in the way he kissed you. 

When you leaned back, Bob chased your lips. “I can’t stop,” he whined, trembling as his thumb stroked gently across your throat. “Tell me to stop and I will, but—God, I can’t—”

“Don’t stop,” you cut in, breathless, your lips bruising his as you spoke. “Don’t you dare.”

That was all it took. Bob surged up to kiss you again, all fire and urgency, one hand splayed across your back to keep your chest pressed against his. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart against yours. You gasped when your back hit the headboard, legs wrapped around his waist for stability. His mouth was already chasing the sound, devouring it. 

“Missed this—missed you—” Bob muttered between kisses, completely wrecked. His hands roamed, greedy and adoring all at once.

Your fingers hooked into the hem of his sweatshirt, aching for bare skin, tugging it half-way up before you even realised you’d done it. The noise he made when you touched him—strangled, helpless, carnal—shot straight through you like lightning. 

He broke the kiss only long enough to yank his shirt over his head, his chest heaving, eyes burning into yours. “Tell me this isn’t just me,” he rasped, already pulling you back in.

“It’s not,” you whispered. “I love you.” Then you kissed him as your hands traced over familiar lines of muscle, remembering exactly where to touch to make him shiver and groan.

Bob’s masterful composure broke. He fell back without warning, pliant and gasping underneath your fingers. Your knees dug into the mattress again, your hands bracing on either side of his head while his fingers disappeared underneath your t-shirt. You arched into him instinctively, his name breaking on your lips, and his grip on your hips tightened.

Bob knew exactly how to undo you, exactly where to linger, exactly how to make your breath stutter. And you knew him just as well; the way his hands trembled when you trailed kisses down his neck and across his collarbones said you hadn’t lost your hold on him either.

Every scrape of his stubble, every brush of his tongue, every shaky gasp between kisses was a reminder that Bob knew you inside and out.

And then you started laughing. Messy, breathless giggles that bubbled up between kisses when Bob fumbled with the button of your jeans and swore under his breath, when his nose bumped yours because neither of you could keep still.

You dropped your forehead against his shoulder, giggling helplessly. He smelled the same, soap and cedar and the faint tang that clung to him when he woke up, and it sent another wave of hysterical affection through you.

“We’re a disaster,” you teased, rolling over to lie on your back beside him.

“Speak for yourself,” Bob muttered, though his grin was hopelessly crooked, his chest still heaving. “I’m very smooth.”

You gave him a look, one brow arched. He sighed, sagging down beside you, reaching for your hand like it was the only thing tethering him. 

“Okay,” he admitted, eyes flicking away. “Maybe not smooth. More like… sandpaper. Or, uh, a car crash. The kind you can’t look away from because it’s that bad.”

You laughed again, louder this time, tugging him forward so you could kiss the corner of his mouth. “Bob.”

He glanced at you warily, self-deprecating humour still lingering in the downturn of his smile. “Yeah?”

“You’re fine,” you whispered, cupping his cheek, brushing your thumb over the stubble there. “More than fine. You’re the best thing I’ve ever let crash into me.”

You had never minded Draco Malfoy. His gloating and his blown-up ego, his unfairly attractive looks, his snarky retorts were all just background noise. You don’t remember when something changed, or when you realised just the extent of his looks. Maybe it was the time you caught him comforting a crying first-year on the stairs, who had been bullied by a Gryffindor for being a ‘slimy snake.’ The scene had stopped you in your tracks. His voice, softer than you thought it could ever be, carried through the corridor, gruffly murmuring comfort. He had stared for a moment, then crouched down to the younger student’s level, a hand resting against the nape of his neck awkwardly, broad body shielding them from the stares of passing students. It was fleeting, a moment so small it could have gone unnoticed. But it didn’t. Not to you. After that, every little thing stood out. The way he absentmindedly twirled his quill when he was bored in class. The quiet scoff he gave when Astoria tried too hard to impress him. Even the way he loosened his tie just slightly when he thought no one was watching. It was like suddenly, you were. Always watching. Always noticing. And Merlin, it was infuriating. Because Draco Malfoy wasn’t supposed to be kind. He wasn’t supposed to make you pause, to catch you staring, to make your heart trip over itself when his gaze brushed yours across the Great Hall. Yet somehow, he had a cast an Imperio curse on your heart, dangling and tugging the strings within his fingertips like a puppetmaster. You told yourself it was harmless at first. A glance here, a passing thought there. Nothing more than idle curiosity. That’s how all tragedies start, isn’t it? With the belief that you are immune. That you can walk through the fire and come out unburnt. But each gaze, each small smirk, seemed to singe you even further, til you were utterly consumed by the flames, dancing in the aftermath of your ashes. That was the thing with boys like Draco Malfoy – they collected hearts like Chocolate Frog Cards, and built walls high and indestructible around their own. Maybe you were too naïve for your own good, to think you could change that.

Draco had always known you. Smart, quick-witted, and eyes that sung with the stars, eyes that dared to look at him as though he were more than the sum of his surname. He had noticed, long before you realised, how your laughter curled at the edges of his pride, how your words could slice through his arrogance without drawing blood. But he was Malfoy—cursed with a legacy, tangled in shadows he never asked to inherit. Affection was a luxury, and luxuries were dangerous. Still, when you walked into a room, it was as though the air changed, lighter, warmer, unbearable in its temptation. He told himself he wouldn’t reach for you. That people like him didn’t deserve people like you. And yet, he watched. He lingered. He let the thought of you weave into his mind late at night, when silence pressed too heavy against his ribs. The cruelest thing about Draco Malfoy was not his words or his pride, but the way he made you believe he could love you back. And perhaps, in some corner of his fractured heart, he did. But love from him was no gift - it was a warning. A thread pulled loose, leading you straight into a story that would end, as all such stories do, in ruin. Still, he mustered up his courage and one day sent a single rose, pink, your favourite colour, signed with his initials. He told himself it wasn’t creepy as he sat at the breakfast table, eyes fixated on you as he shovelled spoonfuls of porridge into his mouth. His pulse hammered with every second that passed, every breath you took, waiting for your reaction. You picked it up delicately, fingers brushing the soft petals, lips curling into the smallest smile. A smile that wasn’t for anyone else - it was his, though no one else knew it.

For weeks after the rose, life tilted into something dreamlike. The hallways seemed shorter with Draco beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he matched your stride, his pale fingers ghosting yours like he wasn’t quite brave enough to hold on in plain view. In the library, he sat across from you with his chin in his hand, pretending to read when his grey eyes never left your face. And when, one evening, you found yourselves alone in the dungeons, torchlight flickering gold across his sharp features, he leaned in, hesitant, uncertain, and kissed you. It wasn’t fireworks or fanfare. It was quiet. Like something inevitable, something long overdue. His lips were cold, but his hand was warm against your cheek, and for the first time, you thought maybe, just maybe, you’d been wrong about cautionary tales. Days turned into weeks. You learned that Draco laughed, really laughed, when you teased him. That he hated pumpkin juice but drank it anyway because it looked better than water. That when he couldn’t sleep, he walked the corridors until his shoes ached. He whispered secrets against your skin in the dead of night: fears, doubts, the quiet admission that sometimes he didn’t feel strong enough to carry his family’s name. You held him tighter with every confession, thinking you could be his anchor. Thinking love could save him. And then Christmas break passed. You had received a necklace, a lockaet witholding a photograph of both of you at Hogsmeade, courtesy of Pansy, and a card with his mark scribbled all over it. Not just any quill, but one chosen for him: dark green, phoenix feather, imbued with the subtle glimmer of gold in the shaft. You’d written a note that bled sincerity, telling him he mattered more than any expectation, any legacy. That you believed in him, in the boy behind the Malfoy name. But as you board the train, searching for the mess of his blonde hair and his grey eyes that would surely be searching for yours too…right? You glance down the crowded corridor, scanning the familiar faces of first-years chattering, older students lounging with their books, but there’s no sign of him. Not a flicker of his cloak, not a shadow of that self-assured smirk. Your heart hammers, and for a moment, panic rises. Did he leave early? Did he not want to see me? You shake the thought away, telling yourself he couldn’t resist. He would be here. He always looked for you. You step past a compartment full of Gryffindors laughing too loudly, gripping your trunk tighter as you make your way down the train. And then-there he is. Or at least, almost. You catch sight of the familiar platinum hair, bent over a book, sleeve hiding part of his face. He hasn’t noticed you yet. His grey eyes are focused, distant, unreadable. A flutter of hope warms your chest. Maybe he’s just pretending not to notice. Maybe this is some elaborate game only Draco Malfoy could pull off. You hesitate, fingers brushing your wand tucked in your sleeve, heart thudding so loudly it might give you away. Finally, you step closer, and his head lifts. Silver eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the train car seems smaller, the noise of students fading into a background hum. They soften slightly, before hardening into something unspoken.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” You murmur back, watching as he hesitates, before shuffling over to make space next to him. You sit next to him, trying to ignore the way he flinches, trying to pretend that it means less than it should. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the hum of the train and the murmur of other students filling the silence. You notice the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, how his hands fidget with the hem of his sleeve as though he’s wrestling with something he doesn’t want you to see.

“I… got your quill,” he says finally, voice low, almost reluctant. “The one you sent me over Christmas. It’s… perfect.” You smile, warmth flooding your chest.

“I’m glad you like it. I-” Your words falter as you notice the shadow in his expression. Something is there, hidden beneath the surface, and you can’t name it yet. He looks away, staring out the window at the blur of snow-covered countryside.

“I’ve been… busy,” he mutters, almost to himself. “With… things.”

“Things?” you prompt gently, your heart tightening. Draco shifts uncomfortably, jaw clenched.

“Just… family. Obligations. You wouldn’t understand.” You bite back the words that want to spill out, the urge to remind him that you do understand, that you’ve always tried to. Instead, you nod, forcing a small smile, trying to convince yourself that it’s nothing. That this is nothing.

“Oh.” You notice the way he tugs at the sleeves of his robes, tugging them over his arms, the way he tries to shrink into the seat. The questions rings in your mind. What happened to Draco over the break?

You try to ignore it. Truly. But the distance grows. He still sends letters, still speaks to you when others are watching, but the warmth you once held in his presence seems diluted. The touches become fleeting, the smiles rare. Sometimes, he’s just gone from the library when you arrive, or buried in some mysterious meeting with Blaise, Astoria, or the Slytherin prefects. You try and deny it. That he’s still the Draco you fell for. But every cold shoulder, every glance, every excuse chips away at the certainty you once felt. And the worst part? He seems to notice none of it, or he pretends not to. It’s always Quidditch Practice. Study Group. Family Matters. They stacked up like bricks, and weighed against your eyes as you closed them in your bed each night, trying to fight the steady stream of tears that flooded them. And when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, he seemed to be determined to prove you wrong. His hand slipping from yours the second anyone turned the corner. His letters, once sprawling and full of sharp wit, shrinking down to two or three detached lines. Averted gazes at meals. And merlin, Draco was like a wild animal – his sex drive was insatiable. Free time? Gone. Studying? You can do it later. Dinner? Dessert first. But now? He would barely touch you, flinching every time you would even attempt a kiss, mumbling something about needing to go. It was the gnawing tension, the impossibility of knowing him now, that drove you to follow him that night to the Astronomy Tower. You weren’t sure why you even went—you didn’t want to see him with someone else, but you couldn’t stop yourself. The corridor stretched endlessly under your feet, shadows deepening with each step, until you finally saw him, lips attached to her. Astoria. Her laugh was too close, too soft. His smirk, lopsided and tired, faltered the instant his cloudy eyes met yours. The sharp scent of firewhisky clung to his robes, his cheeks flushed with drink.

“Y/N,” he slurred, stumbling a little as he straightened. “It’s not-it’s not what it looks like.”

“Isn’t it?” Your voice cut sharper than you intended, slicing through the night air.

Astoria shifted smugly in his laps, twisting off him as he attempted to push her off.

“Don’t,” you whispered, the sight burning into you. “Don’t insult me by pretending.” He staggered forward, stubbornness blazing through the haze of drink.

“You think I’d choose her over you? You think I’d ever-” His words tripped over his pride. “You’re imagining things. It’s nothing. She’s nothing. But his denial was clumsy, and the ache in your chest knew better. You left him there, the door slamming shut on his protests, your footsteps carrying you as far from him as you could go. Your heart burned with something – betrayal, frustration, anger, hurt as you storm away. He broke your heart. And you let him.

Morning arrives with a brittle, gray light. You storm into the Slytherin dormitory without knocking. The room is quiet except for the soft, uneven sound of someone sniffling. Draco. He lay huddled under the thin covers, hair dishevelled, eyes red and glossy, the unmistakable shadow of last night’s whiskey still clinging to him. He looks smaller somehow, fragile, broken-the proud, untouchable Draco Malfoy reduced to something human, something unbearably vulnerable.

“Don’t try and talk to me,” you said, voice sharp and controlled, though your chest ached at the sight. “I’m just here to collect my stuff.” He blinks at you, lips trembling, but doesn’t respond. You marched past him, grabbing the hoodies you’d left scattered across the room over the years-soft, familiar scents that still smelled faintly of him. Your hands move quickly, almost frantically, rifling through drawers and shelves. You need distance, some tangible proof that you could leave and survive. Then, as your fingers brush the edge of a small velvet box tucked beneath a pile of shirts, your breath caught. You pull it free and freeze. An engagement ring. Gold, delicate, with a single diamond catching the weak morning light.

“Don’t-” Draco’s voice cracked as he suddenly reaches for it, his arm shaking, eyes wild. “Don’t touch that.” You flinch, the movement stopping you, and your gaze falls to his forearm. The inked mark, black and sharp, branded his pale skin. A Death Eater mark. The room spins, the floor tilting beneath your feet. Your chest constricts as you finally understood. The weight of the betrayal wasn’t just personal—it was a choice he had been forced into, a life you could never share.

“You-” The room suddenly feels too small. “You’re-” Draco shoves his sleeve back on, turning away.

“You should go.” He whispers, his voice cracking as if the words themselves were killing him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask softly, the words quieter than you intend, though your throat aches. “Did-did you not trust me enough?” Draco flinches, his shoulders hunching as if your question struck him physically. He runs a hand through his damp, unkempt hair, avoiding your eyes.

“It’s not… I didn’t not trust you,” he murmurs, voice tight, rough with emotion. “I just… I didn’t think you could… I didn’t want to drag you into it. Into them. Into… everything.”

“Everything?” Your voice rises slightly, more out of frustration than anger. “Do you even hear yourself? This-this is everything! You’re involved with them, Draco! You’re a Death Eater! And I-” Your chest tightens, tears threatening to fall. “I thought… I thought we were us. And now I don’t even know who you are.” He swallows hard, finally lifting his gaze, and you see it-the storm behind his grey eyes, a mixture of shame, fear, and desperation.

“I’m still me,” he says quietly. “The part that loves you… that’s still me. But the rest… my family… the expectations…the danger. I didn’t want to hurt you.” Your hands tremble, clenching at your sides.

“We would’ve gotten through it together, Dray! That was us, remember? Always together!”

“You don’t understand okay! You will never understand! Why can’t you get that I’m trying to protect you?!”

“So what-Astoria did?!” You shove the ring in his face, pushing against him, ignoring the way his flesh burns under your skin.

“My parents want me to marry Astoria.” he admits finally, voice breaking into something more human than you’ve ever heard. “It’s not… it’s not about me. I’m meant to propose to her. I was supposed to… to agree, to obey, to-” His words crumble into a sob, his hands gripping the edge of the bed, knuckles white. You stagger back, heart hammering, breath uneven.

“So all of this… all the rose, all the nights, all the promises… were lies?”

“No!” he yells, and it’s like the sound of a dam breaking, the mixture of rage, guilt, and desperation spilling over. “It wasn’t a lie! I love you! You have to believe me-I do! But I’m trapped. Trapped by my name, by my blood, by what they expect me to be. I can’t fight it forever, and I… I thought if I left you out of it, if I kept you safe… maybe-maybe you’d still stay with me, in some part of your heart!” Your hands shake, gripping your bag, your belongings, your chest tightening with the weight of it all.

“I can’t, Draco. I can’t be the one who waits while you destroy yourself… and while you’re already being forced to destroy us. I can’t do it.” He collapses onto the bed, head in his hands, a broken boy beneath the proud Slytherin exterior.

“I didn’t want to lose you,” he whispers hoarsely, almost too quiet to hear. “I really didn’t.” You stare at him for a long moment, seeing the boy you fell in love with, the boy who sent a rose, the boy who once seemed untouchable, now reduced to trembling and tears. And somewhere deep inside, you feel the undeniable, brutal truth: this love, yours, his, the hope you clung to - is already shattered.

“I wish we worked out.” You whisper. “That in some alternate universe your parents approved of us. That we could be together. That I could hold you right now-”

“What’s stopping you?!” His voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and raw, and you startle at the sudden intensity. His hands are trembling as he gestures wildly, as if the motion could physically unburden the weight crushing him.

You swallow hard, tears brimming, your chest aching. “You are,” you manage, voice tight with grief. “You, and everything that comes with you. Your family, your world… the choices you’re forced to make. I can’t compete with that, Draco. I can’t fight a war I never signed up for.” He staggers closer, desperation in every step.

“I don’t care about them!” he snaps, though the edge in his voice betrays the lie he wants you to believe. “I don’t care what they want! All I care about is you!”

“But you do care,” you say softly, shaking your head. “Or you wouldn’t be here, trapped in a life you hate, letting them, letting Astoria take the place that should’ve been ours. You think love is enough to fight that? It’s not. Not alone. Not with everything stacked against us.” Draco’s shoulders slump, burying his face in his hands. “I thought I could protect you… I thought if I shielded you from all of it, you’d stay. But I can’t. I can’t even save myself, let alone you.” Your lips tremble as you whisper,

“I just… wanted us to have a chance. That’s all I ever wanted.” You let out a soft sigh, refusing for the tears that brim in your eyes to leave.

“In another life Draco, I hope we worked out. That we were both brave enough to fight for us.”

“Yeah.” He echoes. “In another life.” You cup his cheek.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” You let out a sob-like laugh. “Promise me you won’t disappear completely… that you’ll eat, sleep… that you won’t let them, let this take everything from you.” He swallows hard, voice thick with emotion.

“I’ll try. I… I don’t know if I can, but I’ll try. For you.” You nod, brushing a hand over his messy hair one last time, the pad of your thumb reaching out to catch the tear that falls from his eye.