Lexii

Growing up a Weasley meant you always had someone looking out for you.

It also meant you always had to look out for your family.

When you were very little, you didn’t remember being spoiled the way your brothers claimed you had been. That must have happened when you were still a baby—when your mother finally held her long-awaited daughter in her arms after three boys.

But only a year later, she was blessed again with twins. And suddenly, there were two more mouths to feed, two more babies to soothe, two more crying voices in a house that already never seemed to quiet down.

It wasn’t surprising that somewhere in all that chaos, you slipped through the cracks.

Not completely. Never completely.

Your parents loved you—of course they did. You never doubted that. But love, you would come to learn, didn’t always mean attention. And attention was something that had to be divided carefully in a family as large as yours.

But you didn’t grow up alone.

Not really.

Because where your parents were stretched thin, your brothers filled in the gaps.

Bill. Charlie. Percy.

But especially Charlie.

Charlie had been the one to carry you around the Burrow as if you weighed nothing, settling you on his hip while he did chores, letting you tug at his hair as he laughed and pretended to complain. He was the one who taught you how to climb trees, who patched up your scraped knees, who tied your shoelaces, who read to you when your mother was too tired to finish the story herself.

He liked to joke that you were more his child than your parents’, considering how much he had done to raise you.

So when Charlie first left for Hogwarts, leaving you home with Percy as the only older sibling, you cried.

And cried.

And cried.

For weeks.

Both Charlie and Bill had to send you letters almost every day just to soothe you, but even then you still missed them terribly.

And then the day came when you were old enough to join them.

The platform was loud in the way only Platform Nine and Three-Quarters could be, full of overlapping voices and rushing footsteps and the sharp whistle of the train cutting through it all. Trunks rattled over uneven stone, owls hooted impatiently from their cages, and somewhere behind you, your mother was still fussing over whether you had packed enough socks.

It was overwhelming, but not in a bad way—not yet. Not when you were surrounded on all sides by your family, by the familiar press of bodies and voices that had always meant safety. You stayed close to your brothers, close enough that your sleeve brushed Charlie’s every few steps, just in case.

“Alright,” Bill said at last, sliding open the door to an empty compartment with an ease that made it seem like he’d done it a hundred times before, “In you go.”

Before you could protest, Percy was already lifting your trunk onto the rack with careful precision, muttering something under his breath about proper placement and weight distribution, while Bill adjusted your smaller bags so they sat neatly in the corner.

Charlie nudged your shoulder gently, guiding you inside, but you lingered near the doorway for a moment instead of sitting, suddenly unsure of what to do with yourself now that everything had become real.

You watched as Bill brushed his hands together in satisfaction and Percy gave a small, approving nod, as though everything was exactly as it should be.

You hovered in the doorway instead.

“…Can’t I just come with you?” You asked, quieter than you meant to, your fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the compartment door.

Bill glanced at Percy, then back at you, and something in his expression softened immediately. He reached out without hesitation, ruffling your hair in a way that was more fond than teasing, even if it left a few strands sticking up at odd angles.

“If you stick with us like that,” He said gently, “you’ll never make your own friends.”

You frowned faintly, not quite convinced, your gaze dropping for a second before flicking back up.

“It’s only for the ride,” Percy added, adjusting his sleeves as he straightened, already half-turned toward the corridor, “We'll meet you back at the castle.”

They lingered only a moment longer before stepping back into the corridor, already being pulled away by the movement of students and the rising noise as departure drew closer. You moved to follow them instinctively, your body shifting forward before you caught yourself at the doorway, fingers curling slightly against the frame as their voices faded into the general hum.

Charlie hadn’t left.

He stood just outside the compartment, watching you in that quiet, knowing way of his, like he could see straight through the brave face you were trying to hold together. For a moment, neither of you spoke, and then something in his expression shifted—something softer, more certain—as he stepped back inside and slid the door shut behind him, shutting out the corridor noise just enough to make the space feel smaller, steadier.

“I’ll be right down the train,” He said, nodding toward the direction Bill and Percy had gone, “Third compartment on the left, I think.”

“If you get lonely,” He continued, crouching slightly so he was closer to your eye level, his voice lowering just enough to feel like it was meant only for you, “or if anything happens—anything at all—you come find me. Yeah?”

You nodded, the tight feeling in your chest easing just a little.

“Alright.” You murmured.

Charlie smiled then, softer than before, and leaned forward to press a quick kiss to the top of your head. It was such a familiar gesture that it grounded you instantly, made everything feel just a little less uncertain, a little less overwhelming.

“See you in a bit.” He said.

And then he was gone too.

The door slid shut behind him with a soft click, and just like that, the noise of the corridor dulled into something distant, muffled by the glass and wood of the compartment. For a moment, you just stood there, staring at the empty seat across from you, listening to the low rumble of the train as it finally began to move.

It felt strange, suddenly.

Too quiet.

You sat down slowly, smoothing your hands over your skirt more out of habit than anything else, your gaze drifting toward the window as the platform began to slip away. Families waved from outside, figures blurring together as the train picked up speed, and for a brief second, you caught sight of your mother’s bright hair among the crowd before it disappeared entirely.

Students passed by in groups, laughing and talking, already settled into friendships you hadn’t had the chance to form yet, their voices carrying faintly through the compartment door. Every now and then, someone would glance in, hesitate, and then move on.

For a moment, you considered getting up.

Going after Charlie.

He said you could.

But Bill’s words lingered, stubborn and unshakable.

You’ll never make your own friends.

You were still turning that thought over in your mind when the compartment door slid open.

You looked up quickly, your attention snapping toward the sound as a boy about your age stood in the doorway, one hand still resting on the handle as he glanced around the compartment.

“Is this seat taken?” He asked.

You shook your head almost immediately. “No—no, it’s not.”

“Good,” He said with a small, easy smile, stepping inside and sliding the door shut behind him before taking the seat across from you, “Every other compartment seems to be full already.”

You nodded, your fingers curling slightly in your lap as you tried to think of something else to say, aware of that familiar flicker of uncertainty beginning to creep in at the edges. For a moment, the silence stretched just a little too long—

Then he leaned forward slightly, resting his arms against his knees, closing the distance just enough to make it feel less awkward instead of more.

“I’m Cedric." He offered.

You gave your name in return, a little quieter at first, but steadier than you expected, and something in his expression brightened slightly, like he was pleased you’d said it.

“First year?” He asked.

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips, “You too?”

“Yeah.” He glanced out the window briefly before looking back at you, “Do you know what house you want to be in?”

You hesitated, then shrugged lightly. “My brothers are all in Gryffindor,” You said, as if that explained anything at all, “So… maybe that one.”

Cedric huffed a quiet laugh at that, not unkind, just amused. “My dad was in Hufflepuff,” He said, “So I think I’ll probably end up there. Though—” his mouth tilted slightly as he glanced at you again, “—Gryffindor doesn’t sound too bad now.”

Whether he meant anything by it or not didn’t really matter.

You felt warmth creep up your face anyway.

The conversation came easier after that, settling into something simple and steady. You talked about classes you thought might be interesting—Transfiguration, maybe, or Charms—and the ones you were a little nervous about.

He admitted he wasn’t sure how he felt about Potions, and you told him you thought it sounded exciting, though your brothers had warned you about the professor being a troll. You weren’t entirely sure if they meant that literally or not, and the way Cedric laughed at that—genuine and a little surprised—made something in your chest loosen.

At some point, he excused himself briefly, returning a few minutes later with snacks in hand, setting a Chocolate Frog carefully on the seat between you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“For you.” He said simply.

You blinked at it, a little startled, “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” He replied with a small shrug, “I wanted to.”

There wasn’t anything grand about it, no expectation behind the gesture, and somehow that made it easier to accept.

“Thank you.” You said, a small smile forming as you picked it up.

You opened the box carefully, peeling back the flap and catching the chocolate frog just before it could leap free, your attention shifting to the card tucked inside. Cedric leaned forward slightly, curiosity lighting his expression.

“Who’d you get?” He asked.

You glanced down at it, then back up at him, “Merlin.”

You looked back at the card, then held it out toward him without much thought, “Do you want it?”

He blinked, clearly caught off guard, “What? No—are you sure? You should keep it.”

You shrugged lightly, a small, easy motion, “You seem way more interested in it than I am.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, before slowly reaching out and taking the card, something softer settling into his expression.

“Thanks.” He said, quieter this time.

By the time the train finally slowed, the sky had already begun to darken, the last traces of daylight fading into something softer, quieter, as students poured out onto the platform in a rush of movement and chatter. You stayed close to Cedric as you stepped down, not quite thinking about it, just following the steady presence beside you as a large voice called out for first years to gather.

The boat ride felt like something out of a story.

Lantern light flickered against the dark surface of the lake, reflecting in ripples as the small boats carried you across the water, the castle rising ahead of you in a way that made your breath catch without meaning to. It was enormous—far bigger than anything your brothers had ever managed to describe properly—and for a moment, everything else fell away.

You barely noticed how close you and Cedric were sitting until your shoulder brushed his again, the same way it had with Charlie earlier, only this time it didn’t feel like something you needed for reassurance.

Neither of you said much, but you didn’t really need to.

By the time you reached the castle, the noise returned all at once—footsteps echoing through stone corridors, voices bouncing off high ceilings, the shuffle of robes and the occasional nervous laugh breaking through the tension. You followed the line of students into the Great Hall, your gaze lifting almost immediately to the enchanted ceiling above, stars scattered across it like something impossibly real.

It was beautiful.

And overwhelming.

You barely had time to take it all in before the sorting began.

Names were called one by one, each student stepping forward to sit on the stool as the hat decided their place, the hall erupting into cheers with every announcement.

You stood among them, hands clasped tightly together, your attention flickering between the sorting stool and the tables, searching instinctively for familiar faces. It didn’t take long to find them—Bill sitting tall and relaxed, Percy already watching with keen focus, and Charlie leaning forward slightly, his attention fixed on you, giving you a little wave and a thumbs up when you caught his gaze.

You found yourself watching more than listening, your attention drifting until—

"Cedric Diggory."

Cedric stepped forward, looking just a little more serious than he had on the train, though there was still something steady about him, something calm as he sat on the stool and the hat was placed on his head. For a brief second, the hall went quiet.

Then—

“Hufflepuff!”

The table to your right erupted into applause, loud and warm, and you felt yourself smiling without thinking, clapping along as Cedric pulled the hat off and stood. He glanced toward the crowd as he stepped down, scanning faces quickly—

And then he found you.

He smiled, bright and easy, lifting his hand in a small wave in your direction, like it was the most natural thing in the world to look for you in a room full of people.

You smiled back, returning the gesture without hesitation, something light settling in your chest.

Then he turned, heading toward his table, swallowed up by the group that welcomed him in.

The ceremony continued.

Until—

Your name.

It rang out across the hall, louder than you expected, and for a second, everything inside you seemed to go very, very still.

The walk to the stool felt longer than it should have, your footsteps echoing faintly in your ears as you climbed up and sat down, your hands curling slightly into the fabric of your robes. The hat was placed over your head, slipping down just enough to shadow your vision, and for a second, there was nothing but darkness and the sound of your own heartbeat.

It didn’t take long.

“Gryffindor!”

The word echoed, followed immediately by a burst of cheers from the table to your left, loud and familiar and impossible to mistake.

Relief hit you first.

Then something warmer.

You barely had time to take the hat off before you were being pulled forward, laughter and voices overlapping as you reached the table.

“There she is!”

“About time!”

“Another one for Gryffindor—brilliant!”

Percy clapped for you as you joined the table, patting your shoulder with pride, Bill ruffled your hair before pressing a quick peck to the top of your head and Charlie enveloped you into a tight hug. You laughed, a little breathless, the sound spilling out of you before you could stop it as they crowded around you, hands on your shoulders, your back, your hair—solid, familiar, overwhelming in the best way.

You settled into your seat, still adjusting to the new rhythm of the hall. Plates of food appeared with little fanfare, but everything seemed bigger, brighter, and somehow both familiar and completely new at the same time.

You barely noticed when a familiar blond head turned toward the Gryffindor table again—Cedric, scanning for a glimpse of you before diving into his own group. You caught his eye just long enough to exchange a quick, almost shy smile.

You were just leaving the Great Hall on your way to class when you heard your name.

You slowed slightly, glancing over your shoulder just as someone stepped out of the stream of students moving past you.

Cedric Diggory.

You recognized him immediately, of course. You always did. Not because you sought him out, but because he was noticeable. There was hardly a girl in Hogwarts that didn't know of the Golden Boy Cedric Diggory.

You knew him, in the way that came from shared moments rather than shared time—train rides years ago, the occasional passing conversation, a familiarity that never quite developed into friendship but lingered comfortably in between.

He offered you a small, polite smile when you stopped.

“Hi.” He said when he reached you, slowing his pace to match yours as the two of you fell into step almost without thinking.

“Hi,” You returned, a small flicker of curiosity settling in as you glanced at him, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah—yeah, I just…” He huffed a quiet breath, one hand lifting briefly to the back of his neck in a gesture that almost looked like nerves, though it didn’t quite fit him.

“I was wondering if you’d—well, if you needed a partner for Herbology. Professor Sprout mentioned we’d be pairing up for the next assignment, and I thought…” He trailed off slightly, then smiled, a little more certain this time, “I thought I’d ask before it got chaotic.”

For a second, you just looked at him.

Not because the question was strange—it wasn’t—but because it caught you slightly off guard. You weren’t usually the person people sought out first, not for things like that, and there was something about the way he asked—straightforward, but careful—that made it difficult to respond immediately.

“I—um,” You started, the beginning of an answer forming—

And then you heard it.

Your name.

Again.

This time, it was not calm or measured or easy to miss.

It was strained, uneven, pulled tight with something dangerously close to panic.

You turned instinctively, your attention snapping toward the sound just in time to see Ron pushing his way through the corridor toward you, his face red, eyes glassy, shoulders tense like he was barely holding himself together.

He didn’t even slow down when he reached you—didn’t say anything at all, really—just collided into you with enough force to make you take a half-step back as his arms wrapped around you, his face burying itself into your shoulder.

And then he broke.

Not quietly, not subtly—full, shaking sobs that made his grip tighten as if letting go wasn’t an option.

Any trace of hesitation vanished instantly.

Your entire focus shifted without a second thought, your arms coming up around him automatically as you steadied him, one hand moving to the back of his head in a familiar, grounding gesture.

“Hey—hey, what’s wrong?” You asked softly, your voice dropping into something calmer, gentler, the kind of tone you’d used a hundred times before without even realizing it.

He tried to answer.

“I—she—she sent—” He tried, his voice thick and uneven.

Your brow furrowed slightly, “Slow down, I can’t understand you.”

“A—Howler—” He finally managed, the word coming out in a miserable wail.

And then it clicked.

Of course.

Despite yourself, you glanced up briefly, meeting Cedric’s gaze for just a second, and there was something shared there—understanding, a flicker of quiet amusement that neither of you voiced but both clearly felt.

You looked back down at Ron, your expression softening again as you reached up to wipe at his cheeks, brushing away tears that didn’t seem to stop coming.

“Well,” You said gently, not unkindly, “you did steal and then wreck our car. I don’t think you could’ve expected to get off with only a warning.”

That did not help.

If anything, it made him cling tighter, his voice muffled as he groaned into your shoulder, mortified all over again.

“She didn’t have to do it in front of everyone,” He mumbled, the words thick and miserable, “It was so humiliating—everyone was looking at me—”

“I know,” You murmured, softer this time, shifting slightly so you could look at him properly, your hands steady as you wiped the rest of his tears away with your thumbs. “I know. That part wasn’t very nice.”

He sniffed, shoulders still trembling, but the worst of it seemed to be passing now, the sharp edge of it dulling into something more manageable under the familiarity of your voice, your presence.

You hesitated for half a second, then smiled just a little.

“Come on,” You said, tilting your head toward the corridor, “Let’s go to the kitchens. I think you deserve something after that.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, still blotchy and miserable, but already softening at the suggestion.

“Okay.” He muttered, nodding slightly.

You gave his shoulder a small squeeze before straightening, your hand lingering briefly at the back of his arm. Then, as you turned to leave with him, you glanced back at Cedric, your expression apologetic as you mouthed a silent sorry.

He just shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting in quiet amusement, like he had expected something along these lines from the moment your brother appeared.

“It’s fine,” He said lightly, though you were already half-turned away, “We’ll figure it out later.”

Professor Sprout, in the end, did assign partners.

Efficiently, without hesitation, and with absolutely no regard for any quiet arrangements that might have been attempted beforehand. By the time you arrived for the lesson, names were already being called, pairs already being formed, and whatever Cedric had been hoping for dissolved into something unspoken and irrelevant before either of you had the chance to bring it up again.

You ended up with someone from your house—pleasant enough, focused, not particularly talkative—and the lesson passed without incident.

Still, you noticed.

Not in any obvious way, not in a way that lingered too long, but just enough to register the brief glance Cedric gave you from across the greenhouse when the pairings were announced, the small, almost amused exhale that followed before he turned his attention back to his own partner.

It wasn’t disappointment, exactly.

Just something that could have been something else.

And then it passed.

Or at least, it should have.

A few days later, you found yourself alone again—or as alone as one could be in a castle like Hogwarts—standing just outside one of the quieter corridors near the courtyard, adjusting the strap of your bag as you mentally sorted through the next part of your day.

The air was cooler there, the noise of passing students softened by distance, and for a moment, it felt like a pause between everything else.

“Hey.”

Cedric stood a few steps away, hands tucked loosely into his pockets, his expression easy but just slightly more deliberate than usual, like he had made the decision to be there rather than simply ending up there by chance.

“Hi.” You said, a hint of recognition slipping into your tone now, something warmer than before.

He stepped a little closer, glancing briefly down the corridor before looking back at you. “I was going to ask—” He started, then paused, as if reconsidering his wording, “Did you understand the last bit of the Transfiguration homework? The part about switching incantations mid-cast. I was looking over it earlier and—”

It was a better excuse this time.

Though you were questioning why Golden Boy was asking you instead of literally anyone else. It wasn't like he had a shortage of people who were willing to give an arm and a leg to help him.

You opened your mouth to answer, already shifting into the conversation—

And then—

"(Y/N)!"

The voice was sharp, urgent, and far too familiar.

You turned immediately, your attention snapping toward the sound just as Ginny appeared at the end of the corridor, her steps quick and uneven, her expression caught somewhere between panic and embarrassment in a way that made your stomach drop before she even reached you.

With her bright red hair half-falling loose from its tie, her Gryffindor robes swaying around her, and the deep flush spreading across her face, she looked—rather unhelpfully—like a blur of red rushing straight toward you.

She didn’t slow down.

“Can I talk to you?” She blurted the second she was close enough, her voice lowered but no less frantic for it, her hands hovering awkwardly at her sides like she didn’t know what to do with them.

You didn’t even think about it.

“Of course,” You said instantly, your tone shifting the same way it always did, steady and grounding as you stepped toward her, your focus narrowing completely, “What’s wrong?”

Ginny glanced briefly past you—just enough to notice Cedric standing there—before leaning in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that still carried urgency, "In private."

Your eyes racked over her body before they landed on the jacket that she had tied around her waist.

“Oh.” You said softly, not startled, not alarmed—just calm. Understanding. Immediate.

Ginny’s hands clenched slightly at the fabric of her sleeves. “I didn’t know—it just—I don’t know what to do.” She rushed out, her words tumbling over each other now that she’d started, the embarrassment catching up with her all at once.

“It’s okay,” You said quickly, reaching out to steady her, your voice lowering just enough to keep it between the two of you, “It’s alright, Gin. It happens.”

She shook her head, mortified, "A boy from Ravenclaw saw—I'm so embarrassed."

“I’ve got you,” You interrupted gently, already guiding her to turn slightly, positioning yourself just enough to shield her from the open corridor without making it obvious, “Don’t worry about it, okay? We’ll fix it.”

Behind you, Cedric hadn’t moved.

Hadn’t interrupted.

But you were aware of him in that distant way you became aware of anything you had to leave unfinished, the conversation that had barely begun already slipping out of reach.

You glanced back at him briefly, just enough to catch his eye, your expression apologetic in a way that felt almost familiar now.

He didn’t even look surprised.

If anything, there was something faintly amused in the way he exhaled, the smallest shake of his head following like he’d already accepted how this was going to go.

“Go,” He said lightly, one corner of his mouth lifting, “I think this might be more important than Transfiguration.”

You let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh under different circumstances, nodding once in thanks before turning your attention fully back to Ginny, your hand settling at her arm in a reassuring squeeze.

“Come on,” you murmured, already guiding her down the corridor, your voice soft but certain. “We’ll go to the dormitories first, alright? I’ll help you.”

She nodded quickly, still flustered but clearly relieved, her steps falling into place beside yours as you led her away.

You gave one last glance to Cedric, "I can ask Percy to share some of his notes with you?"

He nodded, a smile on his face.

He didn't really have the heart to tell you that the homework was already complete.

By the time the castle began to settle again, you didn’t feel like celebrating.

Everyone else did.

The relief had come quickly, spreading through the corridors like wildfire the moment the truth was out—Ginny was safe, Ron was safe, the attacks were over, and whatever had been lurking in the shadows of Hogwarts had finally been dealt with.

There was laughter again, louder than before, conversations filled with retellings and exaggerations and a kind of excitement that only came from surviving something no one had fully understood in the first place.

You couldn’t quite bring yourself to join in.

Because every time someone said her name—every time someone mentioned what had happened, what she had gone through, what she had almost—

All you could think was:

You hadn’t known.

Not once.

Not when she was quieter than usual, not when she seemed distracted, not when something in her felt… off. You had been there. Right there. Watching, talking, helping with everything that didn’t matter—

And somehow you missed the one thing that did.

So instead of staying in the common room, instead of letting yourself be pulled into the relief of it all, you slipped away.

Down familiar corridors, past the places you knew wouldn’t be crowded, until you reached the kitchens. It wasn’t long before you found yourself sitting at the long wooden table with a mug of hot chocolate cradled between your hands, the warmth of it seeping into your skin in a way that should have been comforting.

It wasn’t.

You stared down into it instead, watching the faint swirl of steam rise and disappear, your grip tightening slightly around the ceramic as everything you’d been holding back finally began to surface.

It was stupid, really.

Your siblings were safe.

That was all that should have mattered.

And it did—of course it did—but it didn’t erase the rest of it, didn’t quiet the heavy, twisting feeling sitting in your chest, the one that kept circling back to the same thought over and over again.

You should've noticed. You should've known.

Your vision blurred before you realized you were crying, the first tear slipping down before you had the chance to stop it, followed by another, and then another until it became harder to pretend you were in control of it.

You ducked your head slightly, one hand coming up to press against your eyes as if that might be enough to hold it back.

You were her older sister.

That was supposed to mean something.

It was supposed to mean you noticed when things were wrong.

It was supposed to mean she came to you.

Like how you would go to your older brothers.

The sound of the door opening barely registered at first, slipping into the background of everything else, until the faint shift in the room—the subtle change in movement, in presence—pulled your attention up just enough to break through your thoughts.

You didn’t look up immediately.

Not until they stopped near your table.

“Hey.”

The voice was familiar.

You blinked, the world coming back into focus in slow pieces as you lifted your head, your eyes landing on Cedric where he stood a few steps away, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it, something careful in the way he looked at you like he already knew he’d found you at a bad moment.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

Then you let out a quiet breath that didn’t quite steady, your gaze dropping back down to your mug as your fingers tightened slightly around it.

“Hi.” You managed, your voice quieter than usual, roughened at the edges in a way you didn’t bother trying to hide.

He didn’t ask to sit.

He just did, pulling out the chair across from you with a quiet scrape and lowering himself into it like he intended to stay this time, like he wasn’t going to be interrupted or pulled away or left with half a conversation again.

“I didn’t see you at dinner.” He said after a moment, not accusing, not even questioning—just stating it gently, like an opening rather than a demand.

You huffed a soft, humorless breath at that, your lips pressing together briefly as you shook your head.

“I wasn’t hungry.” You said, which wasn’t entirely untrue.

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Cedric didn’t rush to fill it, didn’t push, didn’t try to steer you anywhere you weren’t ready to go. He just sat there, patient in a way that made it easier to exist in the quiet rather than feel like you had to escape it.

And somehow, that made it harder to hold everything in.

“I just—” you started, then stopped, your grip tightening slightly around the mug as your gaze fixed somewhere just past it. “I feel like such a bad older sister.”

The words came out quieter than you expected, but once they were there, they didn’t stop.

“I had no idea,” You continued, your voice wavering just enough to give you away, “I didn’t know she was struggling like that, I didn’t know she wasn’t talking to anyone, I didn’t—”

You swallowed, blinking quickly as the pressure behind your eyes built again, “She had to turn to some stupid, sentient journal with the conscience of the bloody dark lord to talk about things. About feelings. About boys.”

"Your her sister. Not a mind reader. Ginny knows how much you love her. No one expects you to know what's going on with your siblings all the time."

You didn’t respond right away.

Your gaze dropped again, your thoughts shifting, not gone—not fixed—but nudged, just slightly, out of the spiral they’d been stuck in.

After a moment, your shoulders sank just a fraction, some of the tension easing in a way you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

“I still should’ve been better.” You murmured.

“She’s okay now,” He added after a moment, "That's all that matters."

The hospital wing smelled faintly of disinfectant and something sweet, probably from Madam Pomfrey’s constant efforts to make it more welcoming. The low hum of worry and whispered conversation filled the air, punctuated by the occasional clatter of a tray or the soft footfalls of nurses.

Harry lay in bed, pale and bruised, one arm still in a sling and a bandage running along the back of his head. His eyes were closed when you entered with Ron and Hermione, though you could see the tightness around his jaw even from a distance, the way his body refused to fully relax.

Cedric was already there, standing near the foot of the bed, hands loosely clasped in front of him. His expression was a mixture of concern and that quiet, composed kindness that seemed to follow him everywhere. The rest of the Quidditch team lingered nearby, some leaning against walls, others sitting on chairs, their chatter subdued in the presence of the hospital wing’s calm authority.

You made your way forward, letting your eyes meet Cedric’s briefly. There was an unspoken acknowledgment there, a quiet thread of familiarity that had been building for years—the kind that didn’t need words. He smiled softly, and you returned it with one of your own, both of you sharing a moment of warmth amidst the tension.

“I—uh—how are you feeling?” Cedric asked, stepping slightly closer to Harry’s bedside. His voice was gentle, careful, like he was trying to tread without adding any more worry.

Harry groaned softly, opening one eye, but his voice came out a little hoarse, “I fell off my broom. I think that says it all.”

Cedric’s expression tightened just a little, a flicker of guilt crossing his features, though he quickly masked it with his usual calm demeanor. He glanced at Oliver, who was hovering nearby, arms crossed, and then back at Harry.

"The dementors clearly interfered with the game, Hufflepuff has agreed to a rematch."

“No,” Oliver said flatly, “Hufflepuff won fair and square, we refuse.”

Cedric’s shoulders slumped fractionally, but he kept his gaze on Harry. When his eyes flicked toward you, though, there was a quiet softness there, a flicker of amusement and admiration all at once. You smiled at him, a small, fond curve of your lips. He looked so earnest, so sweet, offering a rematch even though he’d been the one to win.

“Don’t worry about it.” You murmured under your breath, letting the warmth in your smile reach him.

Then, inevitably, the calm shattered.

Fred and George, never ones to miss an opportunity, had clearly been lingering nearby, and their grins were impossible to miss even from across the room. “Oi, Harry,” George called softly, leaning against the wall, “you saw the Grim in Divination, didn’t you? That’s never good…”

“Yeah!” George added, elbowing him lightly, “Better start making friends in the afterlife! Any last words, mate?”

Hermione groaned, burying her face in her hands. Ron’s jaw tightened, though he didn’t speak. Harry’s eyes were already narrowing, more in irritation than fear, though there was a small twitch in his shoulder that betrayed his nerves.

You didn’t even pause. “Forge!” You snapped, your voice cutting through the murmurs like a whip. Both twins froze mid-smirk, turning toward you, and for a moment, the entire room seemed to hold its breath.

Fred and George exchanged a glance, then slowly sank back, their amusement dampened under your gaze. They muttered under their breath but said nothing more, clearly smart enough to know the game was up—for now.

Cedric blinked at you, clearly caught off guard, and then tilted his head slightly, one brow raised in curiosity.

“Forge?” He asked quietly, amusement lacing his tone.

“With the amount of trouble these two get into,” You sighed, “it’s easier just to call them by one name.”

The courtyard was quieter than usual.

Not empty—Hogwarts was never truly empty—but quieter in the way it always was toward the end of the year. Most students were either shut away in their common rooms or the library, scrambling to finish the assignments they had put off for far too long, or sprawled outside, taking advantage of the rare stretch of warm sunlight.

Students lingered in smaller groups, scattered across benches and steps, their voices softer, their conversations unhurried. The air had finally warmed, sunlight spilling over the stone and settling into something almost comfortable.

You sat on the low wall near the fountain, one leg tucked slightly beneath you, your bag resting at your side as you absently traced your finger along the edge of your sleeve.

Cedric stood nearby at first, lingering just long enough to make it seem unintentional before—after a moment’s hesitation—he sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brushed.

“Done with everything?” He asked, glancing over at you.

“Mostly,” You said, exhaling softly, “I think I’ve got one more essay left for Transfiguration, but I’m pretending it doesn’t exist for now.”

He huffed a quiet laugh at that, his head dipping slightly, “That’s probably for the best.”

A small silence followed and you tilted your head slightly, glancing at him, “What about you?”

“Finished.” He said, though there was a faint hesitation behind it, like his attention wasn’t fully on the answer. His fingers tapped lightly against his knee, once, twice—restless in a way you didn’t usually see from him.

“…Everything alright?” You asked, softer now, your gaze lingering on him just a second longer.

Cedric let out a breath, something shifting in his expression—something more uncertain than you were used to. He glanced at you, then away again, like he was trying to find the right words.

“Yeah, I just—” He started, then stopped, his hand lifting briefly to the back of his neck.

“I was wondering if you—” He tried again, his voice quieter now, more deliberate, “if you might want to—”

“Miss Weasley.”

The voice cut cleanly through the moment.

You both turned immediately.

Professor McGonagall stood a few steps away, her posture as straight as ever, her expression composed—but there was something in her eyes, something that made your stomach drop before she even spoke again.

You were already on your feet before you realized it.

“Yes, Professor?”

“One of your brothers has been taken to the hospital wing.”

The words landed all at once.

Your breath caught. “What—?” You took a step forward instinctively, your mind already racing ahead of you, “Which one?”

“Ronald.”

You stared at her for half a second.

Then—despite everything, despite the concern already tightening in your chest—your shoulders dropped just slightly, disbelief slipping in around the edges.

“…Again?” You said, the word coming out before you could stop it.

McGonagall’s lips pressed together, though whether she was suppressing a sigh or a comment, you couldn’t quite tell.

You ran a hand over your face briefly, already turning on your heel.

“Why is it always those three?” You muttered under your breath, more to yourself than anyone else, exasperation bleeding into the worry, “Honestly, I leave them alone for five minutes...”

Cedric immediately fell into step beside you, his usual composure giving way to concern, though his hands stayed in his pockets, tight against himself as if holding on to some semblance of control.

“You—do you need me to come with you?” He asked quietly, looking at you with that soft, careful gaze he always reserved for moments like this.

You shook your head. “No… no, I’ve got this.” But your pace quickened, Cedric matching you effortlessly.

As you hurried down the familiar corridors, the casual moment that had been building—the one where Cedric was clearly about to ask you to Hogsmeade—slipped just out of reach. Instead, the urgency of the hospital wing, the thought of Ron writhing in pain, took over.

“You were going to ask me something...” You said quietly, almost to yourself, stealing a glance at Cedric. His lips twitched, a small, embarrassed smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah…” He murmured, the words trailing off as his gaze flicked toward you, “We’ll have to… save that for another day.”

The doors to the Hospital Wing swung open with more force than strictly necessary, your steps quick and purposeful as your eyes immediately scanned the room.

It didn’t take long to find him.

Ron was propped up in one of the beds, his leg elevated and wrapped, hair a mess, freckles standing out starkly against skin that was just a little too pale—but he was awake. Talking. Complaining, probably.

Alive.

Your shoulders dropped slightly, relief hitting first, sharp and immediate.

And then—

“Ronald Bilius Weasley!”

Ron startled so hard he nearly knocked his own pillow over. His eyes went wide the second he saw you, pure instinct kicking in before anything else.

“It wasn’t my fault!” He blurted immediately, sitting up straighter despite the clear pain it caused, “Scabbers was Peter Pettigrew and he framed Sirius Black!”

You stopped mid-step.

“…what?”

The path had long since stopped resembling anything civilized.

What had started as something that could vaguely pass as a trail had quickly dissolved into uneven ground, overgrown roots, and branches that seemed determined to catch on your sleeves at every opportunity.

You stepped over yet another fallen log with a quiet huff, brushing leaves from your skirt as you glanced ahead.

“Dad,” Ron called from somewhere behind you, already sounding tired, “where exactly are we going?”

“Somewhere in this direction.” Your father replied cheerfully, not slowing in the slightest.

“That’s not very reassuring.” Hermione muttered.

Fred snorted, “He hasn’t the faintest clue, has he?”

“I heard that,” Your father said mildly, “And I’d like to remind you that I am leading us to the Quidditch World Cup.”

“Eventually.” George added.

You huffed a quiet laugh, adjusting the strap of your bag as you stepped over a particularly stubborn root, your shoulder brushing lightly against Ginny’s.

“Do you actually know where the portkey is?” You asked, glancing at your father.

“Haven’t the foggiest!” He admitted, cheerfully.

A chorus of groans followed immediately.

Fred and George exchanged a look, Ron muttered something under his breath about typical, and Ginny let out a dramatic sigh as she trudged forward.

Harry and Hermione, walking just behind you, shared a glance that was somewhere between amusement and mild concern.

The group pressed on, the forest thick around you, the sound of footsteps and rustling leaves filling the space between conversations. Just as you were beginning to think your earlier comment might actually be correct—

“Ah! There we are!”

Your father’s voice lit up with sudden triumph, and you looked up just in time to see him veering slightly off the path toward a large tree.

A man stood beneath it, broad and sturdy, holding onto several bags that looked far too heavy to be carried comfortably.

“Amos!” Your father greeted warmly, striding forward, “Good to see you!”

“Arthur!” The man—Amos—returned just as enthusiastically, shifting the bags in his grip as the two men shook hands.

The rest of you filtered in behind, and introductions began almost immediately.

“This is my family!”

Names were exchanged, greetings offered, and you stepped forward when it was your turn, offering a polite smile.

You offered a polite smile, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“And you, my dear.” He said warmly.

Your gaze flicked briefly to the bags near his feet, and before you could think twice about it, you stepped forward slightly.

“Can I help you with any of those?” You asked.

Amos blinked at you, clearly charmed. “Aren’t you sweet, love? No, no—it’s quite alright.” He waved a hand dismissively before adding, with a touch of amused exasperation, “My son should be carrying them anyway.”

There was a beat.

Then—

A sudden rustle overhead.

Before you could even react, something dropped from the tree above with a solid thud, landing just a few feet away.

You startled sharply, stepping back on instinct, your heart jumping into your throat—

Only to be met with a very familiar face.

Cedric Diggory straightened from where he’d landed, brushing a bit of dirt from his sleeves like this was a completely normal entrance.

“Sorry.” He said, not sounding sorry at all.

Your father lit up immediately, “And this strapping young lad must be Cedric!”

Cedric smiled, polite and composed as ever, “Yes, sir.”

But then his eyes flicked to you. There was a glint of amusement there, a teasing curve to his mouth as he clearly clocked the way you’d jumped.

You told yourself the increase heartrate was because of the fright.

The world snapped back into place all at once.

Your feet hit solid ground, though not gracefully, and for a moment everything spun—wind in your ears, the taste of dust in your mouth, your grip still locked tight around the portkey like letting go might send you flying again.

And then—

Stillness.

Grass beneath your boots. Voices. The distant roar of something massive in the distance.

You let go.

Around you, everyone else was doing the same—stumbling, coughing, untangling themselves from one another in various states of disarray.

“Ugh—” Ron groaned somewhere to your left.

“I hate portkeys.” Hermione muttered, pushing her hair out of her face.

Harry, however, was glaring at you.

“You didn’t have to push my face into the manky old boot.” He whined, wiping at his cheek.

You turned your head, already narrowing your eyes as he pushed himself up from the ground, brushing at his glasses in mild offense.

“I told you to grab the boot,” You shot back without missing a beat, “Twice.”

“I was going to grab it!”

“You weren’t.” You said flatly.

“I was—!”

“Would you rather we’d just left you there?”

He opened his mouth, then paused, “…okay, but you still didn’t have to shove me.”

Behind you, Cedric chuckled, falling into step with you quite easily as your joint families began the trek towards the tents.

“Never a day off, huh?” He said lightly, amusement warm in his voice.

You blinked at him for a second, slightly puzzled by the comment, like you hadn’t quite realized what you’d just done.

“What?” You asked.

He gestured vaguely between you and Harry, his smile widening just a fraction. “You,” He said simply, “And your tornado of siblings.”

You huffed a quiet breath, glancing away for a second as your father’s voice called out ahead, already moving everyone along toward the tents, "They're a circus."

Cedric laughed softly under his breath, falling into step beside you as the group began moving forward, the field stretching out ahead, dotted with tents that grew more and more elaborate the further you walked.

For a moment, things settled—just walking, the distant buzz of the World Cup crowd building in the background, the aftermath of the portkey fading into something almost normal.

Cedric glanced at you again. “So—” He started, clearly picking up a conversation he’d been trying to have earlier, “about—”

“—Charlie! Bill!”

You didn’t even realize you’d cut him off until it was too late.

The second you spotted them—two familiar figures standing just outside one of the tents—you were already moving.

Charlie barely had time to react before you collided into him, your arms wrapping tightly around him as he laughed, catching you easily and lifting you slightly off the ground.

“There she is!” He said, his voice full of warmth.

“Hi!” You breathed, grinning as you pulled back just enough to look at him properly before immediately leaning into Bill next, who didn’t hesitate to wrap an arm around you, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head.

“Missed us that much?” Bill teased.

“Not at all.” You shot back, though your smile gave you away.

“Well, well, well,” Fred began, spinning around to step in front of you, hands on his hips like the self-appointed announcer of the world, “look at this! Some would think you don’t like the rest of your siblings at all!”

“I don’t.” You said, perfectly deadpan.

Behind you, the rest of your family caught up quickly, voices overlapping, greetings loud and chaotic as always.

Cedric slowed a few steps back, watching the scene unfold with a small smile on his face.

The tents were set, your parents occupied somewhere deeper in the campsite, and your siblings had already scattered—some exploring, some arguing, some undoubtedly causing problems.

You were just stepping out from your family’s tent when you spotted him again.

Cedric.

He was making his way over, hands tucked loosely into his pockets, posture relaxed but purposeful—like he knew exactly where he was going.

Your stomach did that annoying little flip it had started doing around him lately.

You ignored it.

“Well then,” Bill said, straightening slightly as Cedric came to a stop beside you. His tone was light, but there was something amused behind it, “Who’s this?”

You opened your mouth to answer—

But of course, he wasn’t finished.

“We’ve got a lot of siblings,” Bill continued thoughtfully, glancing Cedric up and down as if assessing him, “but I think I’d remember if Mum had another one.”

You rolled your eyes immediately, “Oh, shut up.”

Charlie snorted beside him, arms loosely crossed, watching the interaction with easy curiosity.

You gestured between them. “Cedric, this is Bill,” You nodded toward your older brother, “And that’s Charlie.”

Cedric straightened slightly, recognition settling in almost instantly.

“You need no introduction,” He said, a small, genuine smile forming, “You’re a legend. Best Seeker Gryffindor’s had in years.”

Charlie blinked once—

Then broke into a grin.

“Oh, I like you,” He said immediately, stepping forward and clapping Cedric firmly on the shoulder, jostling him slightly, “Diggory, right?”

Cedric laughed under his breath, steadying himself, “Yeah.”

“Knew I did,” Charlie nodded, as if this confirmed everything, “Bloke with a good head on his shoulders.”

You sighed, already knowing where this was going, “Flattery will get you everywhere with him.”

Cedric’s laugh softened as he glanced at you briefly, something warm flickering there before he looked back at Charlie, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Only the good things, I hope.” Charlie grinned.

“Debatable.” You cut in dryly.

Bill let out a low chuckle at that, clearly enjoying himself as the four of you fell into easy conversation. It wasn’t anything particularly serious—just small talk, Quidditch, the World Cup. There was laughter and teasing, but nothing too serious—just the kind of light, easy back-and-forth that made Cedric’s presence feel completely natural, like he’d always belonged in these small moments with your family.

And every now and then, you caught him glancing at you.

Then—

“(Y/N)!”

Ginny’s voice rang out across the campsite.

You closed your eyes briefly.

"Can you braid my hair?! I want Dutch braids!"

You let out a long, suffering sigh, already pushing yourself to your feet, “Duty calls.”

Charlie laughed immediately, loud and unhelpful.

“Laugh it up,” You said over your shoulder, glancing back at him, “It’ll be you next.”

He scoffed, completely unbothered, “Please. I already did my time with you.”

Cedric, who had been watching the exchange with quiet amusement, tilted his head slightly, “Did you?”

That was all it took.

“Oh, yes,” Charlie said eagerly, clearly delighted to have the chance to embarrass you in front of someone else for once, “You have no idea—she used to cling to me all the time when she was little. Every time I tried to go out with the lads, there she’d be, bawling her eyes out on the doorstep because she didn’t want me to go.”

You winced, covering your face for a moment, but Charlie wasn’t done.

“And there was this rule,” He continued, voice full of mock seriousness, “if I wanted to play Quidditch, I had to put her down for a nap first. Otherwise she would cry the entire game, thinking I’d get hurt on my broom. Every. Single. Time.”

Cedric laughed, genuinely this time, leaning slightly forward like he was savoring every embarrassing detail, “That’s actually kind of adorable.”

You blinked, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Well excuse me,” You said sharply, “for loving my older brother! I shall never do such an unsavory thing again.”

With that, you stormed off toward Ginny, leaving Charlie and Bill doubled over in laughter behind you.

The Great Hall was far more somber than usual. The tables had been cleared, and the usual magical sky that lit up the room with sparkling stars was gone, leaving the Goblet of Fire in the center of the hall as the sole source of light, bathing everything in a delicate, almost eerie blue glow.

You inwardly wished you had gotten to the hall before your brothers had downed the aging potion—if you had, you would have smacked them so hard they might think twice before attempting something so dimwitted.

Unfortunately, it seemed you had arrived just a few minutes too late. Fred and George had ignored Hermione’s warnings entirely and were now rolling on the floor, bickering like children—or rather, old men, considering they looked every bit their great-grandfathers, complete with wrinkles, grey hair, and a beard to match.

You pinched the bridge of your nose and let out a long sigh, stepping forward, “Forge! Seriously?!”

They barely noticed, bickering and rolling against each other as if you weren’t even there. You crouched quickly, yanking their ears in opposite directions to separate them.

“Ow! Hey!” Fred yelped, squirming.

“Oi! That’s cheating!” George shouted, flailing.

“I don’t care!” You snapped, straightening and glaring at them both, “Stop it. Right now.”

They froze, glancing up at you with sheepish grins, like they might actually apologize. But, of course, it didn’t last.

“You could sign up,” Fred said casually, tilting his head with a mischievous glint in his eye, “since you’re seventeen. You could—”

“Absolutely not.” You interrupted firmly. “I am not going to do something as moronic as sign up for a death wish.”

“Harsh.” Came the teasing voice beside you.

You turned, and there he was: Cedric Diggory, hands tucked casually into his pockets, looking absolutely soaked to the bone like he had just gotten caught in the rain.

“You wound me, Weasley.” He said, voice light but carrying that teasing edge you’d learned to expect from him.

You frowned, concern quickly replacing your irritation, “You’d better hope your name doesn’t get pulled, Cedric. The tasks are dangerous. This whole thing is imbecilic.”

“If I’m not mistaken,” He said softly, voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip, “I’d say you were worried about me.”

“Worried the Yule Ball is going to get canceled on account of a funeral, more like it.” You muttered, rolling your eyes.

“Such little faith,” He said, voice lowering in a way that made your pulse skip, “But—uh, speaking of the Yule Ball—I was wondering… maybe you’d like to—”

Before he could finish, the doors of the Great Hall burst open with a dramatic crash, drawing every eye in the room. The tallest, broadest figure you’d ever seen strode in: Viktor Krum.

All conversation ceased instantly. Every student froze, eyes widening, as the Bulgarian Quidditch star made his way confidently to the center of the hall, robes sweeping the floor with every step.

He passed the line, reached the Goblet of Fire, and placed his name inside, sparing only a brief glance at Hermione as he did. You tilted your head, watching the interaction between them with quiet curiosity.

He withdrew his hand, and the hall erupted into cheers, the excitement and tension washing over the room. Just like that, Cedric’s question—and the small, promising moment between you—was swept away.

The stands were packed.

The noise was overwhelming—cheering, shouting, the low hum of anticipation vibrating through the air—but it all felt distant to you, muffled behind the rapid thud of your own heartbeat.

Because down below—

Cedric was stepping into the arena.

You didn’t realize your hands had clenched until your nails bit into your palms, your breath catching as the gates opened and the dragon came into view.

It was massive.

Far bigger than you’d imagined, scales glinting in the light, smoke curling from its nostrils as it shifted, wings twitching with barely-contained power. You brought your hands up almost immediately, fingers splaying just enough so you could barely see through them.

“I’m not watching,” You said, even as your eyes stayed fixed between the gaps, “I’m not watching—”

The dragon roared.

You flinched.

“—I’m watching.”

Around you, people were shouting, gasping, reacting to every movement—but you were locked in on him. Every dodge, every spell, every second he got just a little too close—

Your stomach dropped.

“Cedric—” You whispered under your breath, like he could somehow hear you.

And then—

It was over.

The egg was in his hands.

The stands erupted.

You didn’t even realize you were moving until you were already pushing through the crowd, down the steps, heart still racing as the adrenaline hadn’t quite faded yet. By the time you reached him, he was being ushered toward the edge of the arena, healers already moving in.

You waited until he was back in the privacy of his tent to approach, lest that cow Skeeter see you and decide to write some longwinded lie about how Cedric was madly in love with you.

Cedric blinked, slightly breathless, a little flushed from the heat and effort—but when he saw you, something in his expression softened instantly.

“Well, hello to you too.” He said, voice light despite the situation.

“You’re burned,” You said panicked, ignoring him completely as your fingers brushed carefully along his jaw, already assessing the damage, the skin under your touch began to get remarkably redder and you felt your heart clench, "I told you this was a horrible idea, Cedric."

He huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t stop you as you continued to check him over. The burn wasn’t terrible—but it was enough. Enough to make your chest tighten just looking at it.

“You could’ve been seriously hurt.” You muttered, quieter now, more to yourself than him.

Cedric’s gaze flickered over your face, something softer settling there.

“But I wasn’t.” He said gently.

You didn’t respond right away, finishing what you were doing before stepping back slightly, your shoulders relaxing just a fraction now that he was—relatively—fine.

“…You did well." You said finally, meeting his eyes.

A small smile tugged at his lips, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” You nodded, “I mean, it was still a completely idiotic thing to sign up for—but you did well.”

He laughed softly, “I’ll take that as high praise, coming from you.”

There was a beat.

The noise of the crowd carried on around you, distant again, like the two of you had been momentarily carved out of it.

Cedric shifted slightly, like he was working up to something again.

"So—about the ball—" He started, a little more confident this time, a little more certain now that he had your full attention.

But before he actually got the words out—

A roar of cheers erupted behind you.

Louder than before.

You turned instinctively, just in time to see Harry enter the arena.

“Oh—”

Your attention snapped away immediately, your head turning fully now, your focus shifting as the crowd surged with excitement again.

“Harry!” You called, already stepping forward slightly, completely pulled into the moment.

Cedric blinked.

Then looked between you and the arena.

Then back at you.

And laughed.

“Well,” He said, shaking his head slightly, a grin pulling at his lips, “way to make a guy feel jealous.”

You glanced back at him, only half-processing what he’d said, still caught up in the adrenaline of it all, “What?”

But he just smiled, stepping back slightly, giving you space as your attention stayed fixed on Harry now.

“Nothing,” He said easily, “Go on.”

The noise from the arena hadn’t quite faded yet.

Students were still talking over each other, replaying every moment of the task like they’d all personally been down there facing dragons instead of watching safely from the stands. The air felt charged, buzzing with adrenaline that hadn’t settled, and even as you stepped away from it all, your heart still hadn’t quite slowed.

You barely made it past the outer edge of the enclosure before a familiar voice cut through the chaos—

“Well, that was something, wasn’t it?”

You froze.

Your head snapped up so fast it almost hurt.

No—

There was no way—

But there he was.

Leaning casually against one of the wooden barriers, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Charlie?”

The word left you half in disbelief, half in something brighter—something immediate.

His grin widened.

And that was all it took.

You didn’t think—you just moved.

“Charlie!”

You practically launched yourself at him, arms wrapping tightly around his middle as he laughed, already bracing for the impact, catching you easily like he always did.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming!” You said, pulling back just enough to look at him properly, hands still gripping his sleeves like he might disappear if you let go, “I can’t believe you’re here.”

"I couldn't tell you because I'm here for work, love. Someone’s got to handle the dragons.”

You blinked.

“…You brought them?”

Charlie grinned, clearly proud of that, “Course I did.”

"Couldn't you have brought slightly friendlier ones?"

He laughed, "These are the friendlier ones."

The corridors between classes were always busy, but there was a different kind of chaos that came with a castle full of students anticipating something like the Yule Ball.

Voices echoed off the stone walls, laughter bouncing between groups, whispers slipping through in quick bursts—who was going with who, who had already been asked, who was still waiting. Last you heard, Harry was going with Cho, Fred had somehow managed to land Angelina without even properly asking her, and Ron had spectacularly failed every attempt he’d made, growing more miserable by the hour.

You were halfway to your next class, books tucked under your arm, your mind only half on where you were going, when you felt it—that familiar presence falling into step beside you.

You didn’t need to look.

“You really shouldn’t be all alone in these halls,” Cedric’s voice came, light and easy, threaded with amusement, “Who knows what kind of danger could be lurking?”

You glanced over anyway, already fighting the small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re right,” You said, nodding thoughtfully, “Who knows when Professor Moody will jump out and turn me into a ferret. I was hoping someone would come rescue me.”

“Lucky day, then.” He said, matching your pace effortlessly, his shoulder brushing yours just slightly as the two of you navigated the crowd.

For a moment, it was easy—just walking, just talking, the noise of the corridor fading into something distant.

Cedric cleared his throat quietly.

“So—about the Yule Ball.” He started, and there was something different this time. Something less certain, less practiced.

You raised a brow, glancing at him, “What about it?”

“Well, I was thinking—” He began, and for once, Cedric Diggory actually sounded unsure of himself. His hand lifted slightly, like he meant to gesture, then dropped again, “I was wondering if maybe you’d—”

“(Y/N)!”

Ginny’s voice cut through everything like a blade.

You barely had time to react before she came rushing toward you, slightly out of breath, clutching a bundle of fabric in her arms like it had personally offended her.

“Look at this,” She said urgently, shoving the material up between you and Cedric without warning, “Look at it!”

You blinked, instinctively taking a step back as she held up what could only be described as… a dress.

A very old dress.

“Ginny—”

“It’s ghastly!” She insisted, shaking it for emphasis, lace and sleeves flopping dramatically, “How am I supposed to wear something that looks like it came from the 1700s and not die of embarrassment?”

Cedric, who had been mid-sentence only seconds ago, paused—but to his credit, he recovered quickly.

He leaned in slightly, examining the dress with surprising seriousness, like this was now his responsibility. “It’s… not too bad.” He offered carefully.

Ginny stared at him like he’d just committed a personal betrayal.

“They’re ghastly!” She repeated, louder this time, as if volume alone would prove her point.

You let out a soft laugh despite yourself, reaching out to steady the fabric before she accidentally smacked someone with it. “Alright, alright,” You said, amused, “What exactly do you want me to do about it?”

Ginny lowered the dress slightly, her expression changing from panic to pleading, “Ron told me you’re altering his dress robes,” She said quickly, “Can you do mine too?”

You hesitated, glancing down at the dress, already mentally deconstructing it—too much fabric, outdated cut, sleeves that needed saving or removing entirely. “I mean… I’m not a professional,” You admitted, “But I’ve gotten pretty good over the years.”

Ginny perked up instantly, “Really?”

You nodded, shifting your books slightly under your arm. “Mum used to buy me these ridiculously long skirts,” You said, rolling your eyes faintly, “The kind that made me look like a complete prude. So I started hemming them myself—just a bit shorter, just enough to make them… wearable.”

As you spoke, you gestured to your own skirt, showing the subtle difference.

Cedric noticed.

Of course he did.

“They are quite lovely.” He said, almost absentmindedly—but his gaze lingered on your legs just a fraction too long, something warmer slipping into his tone.

You blinked.

And then immediately felt the heat rise to your cheeks, your composure slipping just slightly as you let out a small, flustered laugh. “Right—well—I can try.” You said, suddenly very aware of him standing so close, “I’m still altering my own dress to fit properly though.”

Ginny, blissfully oblivious to all of it, grabbed your sleeve and looked up at you with wide, hopeful eyes, “But you’ll do it?”

You exhaled, already giving in. “Come on, then,” You said, turning, “I’ll need your measurements.”

Ginny beamed, instantly tugging you along with her.

Cedric opened his mouth—again.

“Wait—”

But you were already moving, Ginny pulling you down the corridor, dress in hand, talking a mile a minute about sleeves, lace, colors, and everything she hated about it.

And just like that, you were gone again—dragged up the stairs toward your dorm, already mentally mapping out every alteration you’d need to make to salvage the disaster in her hands.

Behind you, Cedric slowed to a stop in the middle of the corridor.

His hand, which had lifted slightly to stop you, fell back to his side.

For a second, he just stood there, watching the space where you’d disappeared, the noise of the corridor rushing back in around him.

Then he let out a quiet breath, shaking his head, a soft laugh slipping out despite himself.

“Unbelievable.” He muttered under his breath, though there was no real frustration in it—just something fond.

The Gryffindor common room had never looked like this before.

It wasn’t its usual warm, slightly chaotic mess of scattered books and half-finished homework—tonight, it was alive in a completely different way. Gold and candlelight flickered against polished shoes and pressed robes, laughter spilling from every corner as people adjusted ties, smoothed hair, and whispered last-minute nerves about the night ahead.

And at the center of it all—

You.

Because somehow, despite not even being ready yourself until ten minutes ago, you had managed to get everyone else sorted first.

Ginny had been first. She’d started knocking on your door in tears, having made a complete mess of the little makeup she’d attempted and having no idea what to do with her hair. You sat her down, ignoring the dramatics, and got to work.

Now, she was practically glowing—her dress, which you had managed to salvage into something far more wearable than its original state, actually suited her. You styled her hair neatly and applied a modest amount of makeup, firmly refusing when she tried to convince you to add more.

Then came Hermione. She’d only meant to ask your opinion on her dress and hair, but the moment you noticed how uncomfortable she was with all the bobby pins, you sat her down without a second thought.

Swapping them out for sticking charms—a solution she hadn’t even considered—you adjusted everything with careful precision, touching up her makeup just enough to settle it perfectly into place.

“You look beautiful.” You told her simply.

And you meant it.

Then came Ron.

Which, quite frankly, had been your last nerve.

You forcibly sat him down, ignoring his loud complaints—really, anyone would think you were attempting to torture him rather than make him look even remotely presentable. You fixed his hair, adjusted his robes as much as they could be saved, and sent him off with a firm warning to behave like a human being for once in his life.

Last was Harry—quiet, slightly overwhelmed, but cooperative enough as you smoothed his hair into something vaguely acceptable.

And only then—finally—did you get yourself ready.

By the time you were done, the common room was already beginning to empty, students drifting toward the Great Hall in clusters of excitement and nerves.

You barely spared yourself more than a glance before grabbing your things and heading for the door.

You were late.

Of course you were. At this rate, you’d be lucky to arrive in time to see the champions’ dance.

You pushed through the last cluster of students, adjusting your sleeve as you moved quickly toward the exit when you saw him.

Cedric.

He stood just off to the side, like he’d been waiting—hands flexing slightly at his sides, posture just a little too stiff to be casual. Like he’d been working himself up to something.

Your steps faltered.

Just slightly.

Your stomach flipped.

Again.

He looked up the second he noticed you—and for a moment, just a moment, he forgot whatever he’d been about to say.

Because he was staring.

And for once, Cedric Diggory—confident, composed, effortlessly charming—looked completely, utterly thrown.

You blinked, suddenly very aware of yourself under that look.

“You look beautiful, (Y/N).”

Heat rushed to your face almost instantly. You lowered your gaze, half to hide it, reaching out instinctively to smooth the lapels of his dress robes, the fine material warm beneath your fingers.

“You look quite beautiful yourself.” You murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

A small smile tugged at his lips.

“I—uh—”

But before he could get another word out—

Ron passed behind you, grumbling loudly, “I can’t believe Hermione is going with the enemy.”

Your expression dropped immediately.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

Cedric blinked, “What—?”

“I need to fix that.” You muttered, already turning, fully prepared to march over and set your brother straight.

Because no one—no one—was going to talk about Hermione like that. Not tonight. Not when she finally looked at herself and saw what everyone else already did. And certainly not your little brother.

You barely made it two steps—

Before—

“Oh, Helga—(Y/N) Weasley!”

The room went quiet.

Completely quiet.

You froze mid-step.

Slowly—very slowly—you turned back.

Cedric was standing where you’d left him.

Except now he looked… different.

Still nervous, still unsure—but there was something steadier beneath it now. Like he’d finally decided he wasn’t letting the moment slip away again.

Every eye in the room was on him.

On you.

And he didn’t look away.

“Will you,” He said, voice carrying across the room—firm, but softened at the edges by something unmistakably earnest, “be my date to the Yule Ball?”

For a second—

You didn’t move.

Then your brain caught up.

Heat rushed to your face so quickly it was almost embarrassing, a smile breaking through before you could stop it—bright, relieved, a little breathless.

“Of course.” You said, like it had always been obvious.

Your head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction in playful disbelief.

“I was wondering when you were going to ask me.” You added, a soft laugh slipping through.

“What took you so long?”

You really hated the hospital wing.

In the last four years, you had been there more times than you could count, and not once had it actually been for you. That was the unfortunate reality of having younger siblings who seemed determined to land themselves in trouble in increasingly creative ways, and you had grown used to it—the scolding, the hovering, the quiet irritation that came with it all.

But this time felt different.

The worry sitting in your chest wasn’t familiar. It didn’t feel like the usual exasperated concern you carried for your brothers—it was heavier, sharper, lingering in a way that made it hard to breathe properly. It crawled up your throat and stayed there, refusing to settle, and no matter how many times you tried to reason with yourself, it didn’t go away.

You didn’t really understand it.

Or maybe you did.

There was a difference between platonic worry and something else. Something deeper. Something that made your hands feel restless and your chest feel too tight all at once.

And the stakes had never been this high before.

When Harry had reappeared from the maze, Cedric’s body unmoving beside him as he spoke of Lord Voldemort, something inside you had dropped so suddenly it left you standing there, unable to think, unable to move, unable to do anything but stare.

Like the ground had given out beneath your feet.

You and Cedric hadn’t even been together that long.

After the Yule Ball—after he had finally managed to ask you—you had slipped into something easy, something familiar, something that hadn’t quite had the time to settle into anything fully real yet. Which was exactly why you hadn’t run to him on the grounds like you’d wanted to.

You had stayed back, forcing yourself to let the professors handle it, to let his father reach him first, telling yourself that it wasn’t your place—that whatever this was between you, it wasn’t enough to justify pushing through that kind of moment.

But then the hours had turned into days, and the waiting had become unbearable. Days of not knowing, days of hearing fragments and whispers but nothing certain, days of that quiet, suffocating fear settling deeper into your chest with nowhere to go.

So the moment you heard he was awake—that he had asked for you—you didn’t hesitate.

You ran.

The heavy doors of the hospital wing swung open under your hands, and you stepped inside quickly, your eyes scanning the room before immediately landing on him.

It was easy enough, considering he was the only one in here that began grinning like a fool at the sight of you.

Relief hit you so suddenly it almost made your knees give out.

You forced yourself forward, one step at a time, until you reached his bed, stopping just close enough to touch but not quite letting yourself yet.

“Hi.”

The word came out softer than you intended.

Cedric’s smile shifted, something warmer settling into it, “Well, hello to you too.”

Your eyes moved over him instinctively, taking in the bandaged burns along his arm, the healing cut near his brow, the faint exhaustion he wasn’t quite hiding as well as he thought he was.

“Are you alright?”

“Right as rain now that I’ve seen you.”

A quiet breath of laughter slipped from you, your head shaking faintly, “Only you would say that after facing bloody Voldemort.”

He didn’t argue.

Instead, he reached for you.

His hand found yours easily, fingers wrapping around it before gently tugging you closer, closing the distance you had been holding onto without even realizing it. You let yourself be pulled in, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed beside him, your heart already beginning to beat a little too fast.

Cedric was looking at you—properly looking—but every time you tried to meet his gaze, yours betrayed you, flickering instead to the marks on his skin, the evidence of just how wrong everything could have gone.

Your frown deepened.

“I’m alright." He said gently.

You scoffed, though there was no real bite to it, “You’re in the hospital wing.”

“Which is better than the alternative.”

Your breath caught slightly at that, the words settling heavier than he seemed to intend.

“Cedric—”

“I’m okay.” He repeated, more firmly this time, his gaze steady enough to pull yours back to his.

And then it softened.

His eyes dropped briefly to your hand, still held between both of his, his thumb brushing slowly along your knuckles as though grounding himself in the simple contact. The movement was absentminded, almost, but there was something careful in it too—something that made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

Before you could think too much about it, he lifted your hand slightly and pressed his lips gently against your knuckles.

Your breath hitched.

Your heart stumbled, uneven and sudden, and when his eyes met yours again, something in them had changed—quieter now, a little uncertain, like he wasn’t entirely sure how far he was allowed to go.

“Can I—” He started, his voice catching just slightly.

Your eyes flicked to his lips before you could stop yourself, the movement quick but impossible to hide.

You didn’t trust your voice.

So you nodded.

That was all he needed.

He leaned in slowly, carefully, like this moment might slip through his fingers if he moved too quickly. His hand tightened slightly around yours, the other hovering for a second before resting lightly against your arm, hesitant but certain enough to stay.

And then his lips brushed yours, capturing your upper lip between both of his.

Soft. Barely there.

It was so light it almost didn’t feel real at first, the kind of touch that made your head spin simply because it was happening at all. He lingered there, gentle and tentative, like he was waiting—like he was making sure you wanted this just as much as he did.

For a moment, you let it stay like that, suspended in something fragile and quiet.

Until it wasn’t enough.

You leaned in slightly, closing the space between you properly, and that small shift was all it took.

The kiss deepened—not rushed, not overwhelming, but certain. Your hand tightened in his, your other lifting instinctively to rest against the back of his neck, fingers brushing lightly against his hair as you held him there. He inhaled sharply, tilting his head as he deepened the kiss, devouring you—

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!”

You and Cedric sprang apart like you’d been hit with a Stunning Spell.

Your heart leapt into your throat as you whipped around—

Charlie.

Standing in the doorway.

Arms crossed.

Oh Good Godric.

“Charlie—”

“No,” He cut in immediately, pointing a finger at you like you were five again and had just been caught stealing biscuits from the kitchen, “No—don’t you ‘Charlie’ me.”

You blinked at him, “What are you even doing here?”

“I came to check on you and golden boy,” He snapped, before gesturing wildly between you and Cedric, “And I find this?!”

Cedric, to his credit, had the decency to look at least slightly guilty. Only slightly.

You, however, frowned, “It’s just a kiss—”

“JUST a—?!” Charlie looked personally offended. Then, without missing a beat: “You’re grounded.”

You stared at him.

“I’m what?”

“Grounded for,” He repeated firmly. Then, after a brief pause, as if deciding to make it worse: “Until you graduate.”

Your jaw dropped.

“For-Until I graduate?!”

“Yes!”

“Why?!”

He looked at you like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “For kissing that git!”

You turned, incredulous, gesturing toward Cedric, “You’re the one who said he was a nice boy! That he had a good head on his shoulders!”

“I take it back!” Charlie shot back immediately, “He’s a bloody cradle-robber!”

Your eyes widened, “We’re the same age!”

Charlie was already moving, grabbing your arm and hauling you off the bed before you could argue further.

“Charlie—Charlie, let go—!”

“Nope. Absolutely not. You’re coming with me.”

“This is ridiculous—!”

Behind you, Cedric shifted slightly on the bed, looking far too amused for someone who had just been publicly accused of being a menace to society.

And then—because he clearly had no sense of self-preservation—

“Bye, love.”

"I'm not your love." Charlie replied haughtily, tightening his grip on your arm as he started dragging you toward the door again, “You’re never leaving the house again. Ever.”

“Charlie!”

And just like that, you were being dragged out of the hospital wing, your protests echoing down the corridor.

And Cedric was left sitting alone on the bed, an amused smile on his face, "We have such poor timing."

bonus:

The morning had been quiet.

Suspiciously quiet, really.

Sunlight filtered lazily through the curtains, casting soft gold across the bed, the room still wrapped in that slow, peaceful warmth that only came with days off and nowhere to be. No rushing, no responsibilities pressing in—just stillness.

And Cedric.

You were half-curled into him, head resting against his chest, his arm draped loosely around you, fingers absentmindedly tracing slow patterns along your arm. It was the kind of quiet you didn’t get often anymore—the kind you had learned to appreciate in small, fleeting moments.

For once, there were no interruptions.

No chaos.

Cedric let out a quiet breath above you, something content settling into it as his hand stilled briefly against your arm.

“I’m so glad,” He murmured, voice still rough with sleep, “to have you all to myself.”

You smiled faintly, tilting your head just enough to glance up at him, "Truly, we haven't had a quiet moment like this since—”

“Mum!”

“Dad!”

Cedric froze.

You didn’t even try to hide your laugh.

There was a brief, heavy silence as the distant shouts echoed through the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of something—probably several things—being knocked over.

Cedric exhaled slowly.

Then dropped his head back against the pillows with a long-suffering sigh.

“These bloody Weasleys,” He muttered, dragging a hand down his face, “And their innate ability to know exactly when I’m trying to have a moment alone with my wife.”

You laughed properly at that, shifting slightly so you could look at him more fully, your hand coming up to rest lightly against his chest.

“Well,” You said sweetly, “they’re half Diggory.”

“So their complete lack of sense and tact probably comes from you.”

Cedric blinked.

Then let out a short, disbelieving laugh.

“Excuse me?”

Before you could respond—

A loud crash echoed from somewhere down the hall.

Followed by—

“That wasn’t me!”

“Yes it was!”

Right outside the door this time.

You laughed, leaning up just enough to press a quick kiss to his lips before pulling back.

He sighed, finally getting up, "Alright! What have we said about messing about in the kitchen without mum or dad?!"

A beat of silence.

"That we're not supposed to."

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Twigs and dark leaves crunched beneath the heavy stomp of your boots, each step forcing you to draw a ragged, tired breath from your overworked lungs.

Your hands gripped the straps of your backpack; the fishing gear inside clinking inside as the weight pressed into your aching spine.

You had set out with friends, a group of self-proclaimed ‘natural adventurers.’ In hindsight, that confidence was your downfall. You had done the one thing every horror movie and survival guide warns against—and that was splitting up.

From there, the trip spiraled.

You lost signal, then your footing, and somewhere in the frantic scramble through the bushes and trees, you had lost your phone.

Now, deep within the woods under a sky of oppressive gray clouds, your legs were beginning to give out. But as you shoved past a dense thicket of damp leaves, the greenery finally parted.

There, nestled in the distance, sat a small cabin. A thin ghost of smoke drifted from its chimney, dissipating into the moist air.

Finally. A small, breathless prayer to whatever deity was watching over you. You weren’t alone out here after all.

The cabin looked small from a distance, but up close, it was plenty big enough to house a whole family.

Your body surged with a newfound spark of motivation at the possibility of finally finding salvation. Maybe they had a functioning phone you could use to call for help—or better yet, a truck to drive you back to the closest town, even if it was miles and miles away.

That hopeful feeling made the gear digging into your spine feel a little lighter as you trudged uphill past the rocks and bushes, closing the gap between you and the house.

As you got closer, you took in the land.

Chopped logs were piled messily at the side of the building. There was a long, wooden table with a large cutting knife sitting on top—presumably where the family cut and prepped their meat.

Drawing in a deep breath of encouragement, you carefully climbed the first few steps of the entry stairway. You reached the porch and raised a hand to knock on the heavy wooden door.

“Hey! Who the hell are you?”

You spun around.

A man was stomping toward the porch, a fresh pile of logs tucked under one massive arm and a grime streaked axe slung over his shoulder. He was intimidating, to say the least. His features were hard and unwelcoming, framed by matted, dark hair and an unkempt beard that shadowed a sharp jawline. A sweat stained red henley clung to his broad chest and muscular forearms, which were mapped with the scars of years of manual labor.

His cold blue eyes pinned you to the spot, glaring at you with pure, unadulterated hostility.

“U-um,” you stammered, taking a quick step away from the door. “I mean no harm, sir. I’m just here to—”

“Get the fuck off my property,” he growled.

He dropped the logs—but kept a firm grip on the axe—as he marched toward you, his heavy boots grating against the dirt.

Jesus Christ. What did you get yourself into?

Just when you thought you’d finally found help, it was just your luck to stumble across an axe-murderer instead.

You quickly scrambled down the steps, raising your hands to show you came in peace.

“Sir, please!” you winced, trying to stand your ground. “I’m lost. I… I promise you. I was out on a fishing trip and I—”

“I don’t believe you,” he hissed. He approached just enough to get a good look at you, yet staying just out of arm’s reach. He nodded toward the heavy pack on your back. “Take it off.”

“… Excuse me?”

“Remove your backpack,” the man clarified harshly. “If you mean what you say, then you should have no problem with me goin’ through your stuff.”

With a hard swallow, you slowly removed your backpack as instructed. It was far too heavy to carry with just two arms, but as you strained to pass it to him, he snatched it out of your hands in one quick motion. You couldn’t help but wince at both his strength and rudeness.

He set the axe on the ground, and you finally let out a small breath of relief. He began to rummage through your pack, taking note of the fishing rods and reels, and digging through the fishing lines and tackle boxes filled with various lures. He sifted through the other emergency supplies—a flashlight, a couple of granola bars, and some first aid stuff— a bottle of rubbing alcohol and bandaids.

“See?” you huffed, a little spark of pride returning to your voice. “I told you. I was out on a fishing trip and I got lost—”

“Hands up,” he instructed, stepping toward you. “I’m goin’ to pat you down.”

You blinked. “Pat me down?” you repeated in disbelief. “For what—!”

Before you could even finish the sentence, and long before you gave him permission, two large, rough hands gripped your arms and started patting down your sleeves. You squirmed a little under his touch, but that didn’t stop him. His hands then moved to your waist, patting firmly through the fabric of your clothes.

To save yourself from the awkwardness of the inspection, you cleared your throat and gave him your name.

“…What’s yours?” you then asked.

He ignored you.

Your breath hitched and your face grew warm as his hands continued further down—to your hips, and then between your legs.

Once the man was satisfied that you weren’t a threat, he pushed himself up with a groan and finally looked you in the eye.

“Bucky.”

“Bucky,” you repeated softly. “Great. Well, now that we’ve got all this…” you motioned to yourself and your bag that he left on the ground, “sorted out, do you have a telephone I can use to call my friends?”

Bucky’s dull expression didn’t change. “No phone.”

He didn’t bother to elaborate, either.

He reached down, snatched his axe off the ground, and headed back toward his pile of wood. Thunder started to crackle in the heavy clouds above you as you hurried to grab your pack, stumbling slightly as you tried to keep up with him.

“W-wait, okay—no phone. Fine. But do you have a vehicle or something? A ride to take me back to the nearest town, perhaps?”

“No ride,” was all he said, his voice flat as he started tossing the logs into the existing pile.

What?

No ride?

You couldn’t tell if this man was telling the truth—or if he was using these clipped, short answers just to fuck with you. But as you watched him lift his axe and deliver a swing to a log with perfect precision, you realized maybe this guy didn’t have time nor energy to play around.

That conclusion was almost worse than him joking.

“I’m sorry, you don’t have a functioning phone and you don’t own a vehicle?” you questioned in disbelief. “Then how do you get around?”

You could see the irritation building in his already grumpy features.

“Everythin’ I need is right here,” he grumbled. “Catch my own food. Build my own house. Don’t need to rely on anybody else.”

Your heart started to race as panic settled in.

“Do you know where the nearest town is?” you asked, your hands tightening around the straps of your pack. “Maybe I can get there before sundown—”

Bucky looked up at the sky, taking in the thick clouds and the moisture building in the air, before he looked back down at his logs. He delivered another hard chop before answering.

“Not a good idea,” he mumbled. “Looks like a storm is comin’.”

The forecast before you left this morning had promised a sunny day—but with the clouds thickening, the possibility of rain wasn’t low.

Still, a storm sounded like an exaggeration. A light trickle, at most.

“Can you please just tell me where the closest town is? The sooner you tell me, the faster I’ll get out of your hair.” You pressed.

He set the axe down and wiped the sweat streaking his forehead with his dirty forearm. He looked at you, letting out a slow, impatient breath.

“To the south,” he pointed behind you. “Go straight until you hit the road, then make a left. Though if you leave now, you’ll get caught up in the storm ‘fore you even make it to the street.”

You looked in the direction he was pointing—all you could see was a thick density of bushes and trees. You glanced back at him and gave him a short nod.

“Thank you, sir,” you said, though you hardly meant it because he had hardly been helpful.

As you began to turn and tread through the brush toward the south, Bucky called out, making you pause for just a second.

“I’m tellin’ you, lady, s’not a good idea to leave now,” he warned. “There are some dangerous animals out there—and the storm ain’t goin’ to do you any favors.”

You didn’t listen. You had to get back home. Adjusting your heavy pack and pushing through the dense treeline, you left both the man and his warnings behind you.

For the first twenty minutes, you felt pretty confident.

The woods were quiet, and though your legs were on fire and your back was aching, you felt like you were making good progress.

Then, the first cold drop hit the back of your neck.

A light trickle followed, tapping against the leaves above you. Within minutes, the sky seemed to open up entirely. The ‘light trickle’ you had predicted transformed into a heavy downpour, turning the forest floor into a messy slurry of mud that made your boots slip with every step.

The wind began to pick up, howling through the branches and making the trees groan around you. You squinted through the fog and the heavy curtain of rain, realizing you couldn’t see more than ten feet in any direction.

You were shivering, your hair was completely drenched, and your clothes were soaked through to the bone.

Just keep going straight, you told yourself. As long as you keep going straight, you'll be fine.

Then, a low snarl crept up behind you—and that sure as hell didn’t come from the wind.

Your whole body froze. To your right, partially obscured by dense ferns, a lean, gray shape shifted. It wasn’t a coyote—no, it was far too large. It was a gray wolf, its fur matted and dark with rain, stepped into the small clearing.

“Oh… my god,” you breathed to yourself.

Your heart was beating so fast you couldn’t hear anything else. Every survival tip you had ever read vanished from your mind; the only thing you could think to do was run.

And that’s exactly what you did.

The moment your heels spun, the forest became a blurry nightmare. Your heavy pack bounced violently against your spine as you bolted, not even daring to look back. You just ran and ran, your lungs burning with every inhale.

Then, like an idiot, your boot hit a mud covered root.

Your heart leaped into your throat as your feet slipped out from under you. You let out a sharp gasp, tumbling forward until your shoulder collided hard with the trunk of a thick oak tree. The impact knocked the wind clean out of you, leaving you gasping and dazed in the mud.

A hungry growl vibrated through the air, cutting through the roar of the pouring rain. You looked up just in time to see the gray mass of the wolf taking eager steps toward you, its jaws snapping for your throat.

In a blind, frantic panic, your hand slapped against the side pocket of your backpack. Your fingers curled around the cold canister of bear spray you packed but never actually used.

You ripped it out clumsily, shoved it forward, and squeezed the trigger.

A cloud of stinging orange mist exploded into the air. The wolf’s head snapped back as it landed a few feet away, pawing at its face and whining as the chemicals hit its sensitive nose and eyes.

You scrambled to find your footing, your hands shaking so hard you could barely push yourself up. Just as you were about to make another break for it, a massive shadow blurred past you.

“You idiot!” he hissed angrily, his voice a ragged pant. “What did I tell you!?”

Bucky.

Anger clouded his face, his chest heaving as he gripped a knife in one large hand. Without hesitation, he launched himself at the disoriented animal. As he pounced, the wolf lashed out, its claws swiping across Bucky’s leg.

He let out a pained yell. “Ah, fuck!”

It seemed like he had done this a dozen times before, adjusting his heavy weight until he finally pinned the weakened animal into the mud. The wolf snarled, snapping its jaws blindly, but Bucky’s grip was like metal. His large, scarred hand clamped down on the back of the wolf’s neck, the veins in his forearms tensing as he forced its head into the dirt.

With a loud groan of effort, he drove the blade deep into the side of the wolf’s neck, right behind the jaw.

The animal threw out one violent kick that nearly knocked him off before Bucky adjusted his weight again, twisting the knife to sever the artery.

The wolf let out a weak wheeze before it finally stilled. Bucky remained over the carcass for a moment, his clothes soaked with rain and blood dripping down his leg. He let out a slow, steadying breath before he stood up, wiping the blade on his already dirty jeans.

He turned his cold, blue gaze toward you, and for a second, his eyes resembled the wolf’s—angry and grim.

“I told you, stupid girl,” he growled, his voice barely audible over the storm. “I fuckin’ told you.”

All of it happened in a blur.

One second, you were tumbling through the woods, just a moment away from losing your life. The next, you were standing in the middle of Bucky’s cabin. Your body felt frozen, your pulse still thrumming wildly as your drenched clothes clung to your skin like a layer of ice. You only snapped out of the haze when you felt Bucky’s hands peeling the pack off your shoulders.

When he reached for the zipper of your jacket, you flinched.

“Hey!” you gasped, your voice cracking. “What are you doing—?”

“I’m helpin’ you,” Bucky grunted, sounding offended.

“I don’t need you to remove my jacket for me,” you snapped, though your hands were shaking too hard to even find the zipper.

Bucky’s brows furrowed, and you watched his jaw tick. He looked terrifying in the dim light of the cabin—water dripped from his matted hair, his chest heaved with the earlier adrenaline of the kill, and fresh blood stained the denim of his jeans where the wolf had lashed out.

He took a step forward, closing the distance between you until he looked down at you.

“Listen, girl,” he hissed impatiently. “I just saved your goddamn life. Now here I am, lettin’ you into my home, about to offer you my damn shower—and this is what you say to me?”

You let out a shaky breath, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. He was right. He had saved you.

Your eyes trailed down to the jagged cut on his thigh. “You’re bleeding,” you pointed out. “You need to take care of that wound, or it’ll get infected.”

Bucky only scoffed, stepping away and shaking his head at you as if you were the most frustrating thing he had ever encountered.

“Bathroom’s down the hall, make a left,” he gruffed, already turning his back on you. “And don’t take too long—I need to use it after you.”

Not wanting to risk upsetting him further, you took it upon yourself to head toward the bathroom.

The cabin was certainly large enough to house a small family, which only made you wonder more if he really lived here all alone. The walls were stripped of anything personal—no photos, no decor—aside from a few scattered post-its and scraps of paper covered in messy handwriting, tacked up with rusted nails.

As you neared the bathroom, you noticed the bedroom right next to it. The door was cracked open just barely and curiosity got the better of you.

Leaning back slightly, you caught a glimpse of his private space. It was sparse, but in the center sat what looks to be a queen sized bed. It looked massive in the small room—certainly big enough to fit another person.

“You found it?” Bucky shouted from across the cabin, snapping you back.

“Yeah—I did. Thanks!” you called back, your heart giving a small, startled jump.

After settling into the hot shower, the steam finally began to sedate the bone chilling cold from your limbs. You scrubbed the mud and gunk from your skin with the harsh lye soap. Stepping out, you quickly reached for one of the rough, oversized towels.

You had just managed to tuck the fabric securely around your chest, shivering as the cool air hit your damp skin, when the door suddenly creaked open.

“Jesus!” you yelped, clutching the towel tighter and stumbling against the counter. “Knock much?”

Bucky didn’t enter the room. He just stood stiffly in the gap of the doorway.

In his hand, he held out a bundle of folded fabric— a worn, massive white T-shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts that looked like they could fit two of you.

“Not used to company,” he mumbled. He reached out and set the pile of clothes on the edge of the sink without a single glance in your direction. “‘Sides, I’m not interestin’ in lookin’.”

He didn’t wait for a ‘thank you’ or for you to yell at him to get out. He simply pulled the door shut.

Eventually, you changed into the clothes he provided.

With every step you took out of the bathroom, the shorts threatened to slip past your hips, forcing you to yank the drawstrings tighter. The clothes didn’t smell like fabric softener, but it carried a scent that was distinctly him and the rest of the cabin— pine, and woodsmoke.

Returning to the living room, you found Bucky sitting in one of the wooden chairs, his leg propped up as he examined the angry red gashes on his thigh. He hissed, his jaw tightening as he accidentally grazed the wound with his thumb.

“Thanks for letting me use your shower,” you spoke up, catching his attention.

Your eyes caught the deep gashes on his leg.

“Do you need help?” you offered again. “I can help you clean that up. I have some antiseptics and bandages in my pack.”

Bucky didn’t look up, his fingers hovering stiffly over the torn skin.

“No need,” he said roughly, his voice strained.

It was clear to you that the adrenaline was finally wearing off and the real pain was setting in. He gripped the edges of the wooden chair, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself to stand. He took a single step, his breath hitching as he leaned heavily on his good leg, and began to limp toward the bathroom.

You frowned. “Are you sure—”

“I told you and I’ll keep tellin’ you,” he grunted through the pain, “I don’t need your help, girl.”

Then, he disappeared down the hall and shoved the door shut.

You tried to make yourself comfortable in the dim cabin, but a sudden, strangled shout of pain echoed through the walls. The sound made you jump—an involuntary yell painfully tore straight from Bucky’s throat. Something heavy hit the floor, maybe a stool? Or a basin? Then it was followed by the sound of ragged breathing and more muffled grunts.

“Bucky?” you called out, taking a careful step toward the bathroom. “Are you okay?”

There was no answer.

You stood outside the door, trying to respect his privacy, until another pained groan reached your ears. Your stomach twisted. Despite his prickly attitude, he was obviously struggling with a wound far worse than he wanted to admit—and standing here, not doing anything to help him after he saved your life, only made you feel worse.

“Bucky, I’m coming in,” you warned, your hand reaching for the doorknob.

You waited one more second, expecting him to curse at you to stay out, but the only sound was his labored breathing.

So, you took it upon yourself to push the door open.

Inside, Bucky was laid out in the tub—naked, of course.

His head lolled back against the porcelain as he fought to steady his breath. His dirty, blood stained clothes were piled in a heap on the floor, leaving trails of mud and grime everywhere. The tub was filled with soapy water, and while he was bare beneath the surface, your eyes didn’t wander—you didn’t care to look.

Your entire focus was pinned to his leg, which he had propped up on the edge of the tub.

Stripped of the dark denim, the damage was more visible. The wolf’s claws had dug deep, leaving uneven, angry furrows that were weeping blood into the water. The skin around the punctures was already beginning to puff and redden, and with the grime from the forest floor mashed into the open wounds, it looked even worse.

“Jesus,” you gasped, kneeling beside him to examine the damage. “Bucky, this looks like it’s already getting infected.”

Without giving him the chance to pull away, you reached out and pressed the back of your hand against his forehead. He was burning up—the heat radiating off his skin was alarming, a telltale sign his body was already struggling to fight the bacteria from the wolf’s claws.

“You’re overheating!”

Bucky’s eyes remained shut, his thick lashes casting long shadows against his pale, sweaty cheeks. A low, delirious mumble escaped him as his head rolled further to the side.

“...Tired,” he croaked.

Your frown deepened. “Stay right there. Don’t move,” you commanded, though it was obvious he wasn’t going anywhere.

Before he could argue, you scrambled out of the bathroom. Bucky’s vision was disoriented and blurry, his mind racing through a fog of fever.

Just my luck, huh?

He had been minding his own business until you showed up on his doorstep. His only excuse for following you was a half baked thought about picking berries to go with his meat before the storm broke—and he just happened to grab a knife, and he just happened to head south in the exact direction you walked off to.

Damn. He was a fucking idiot.

You hurried back into the bathroom, clutching the antiseptic, a roll of sterile gauze, and a small bottle of ibuprofen tightly in your hands.

You knelt by the edge of the tub again, popping the cap off the antiseptic. “This is going to sting. Just try to breathe.”

As the cool, medicinal liquid hit his cuts, Bucky’s body jerked causing the water to slosh. A sharp hiss whistled through his teeth, his fingers gripping the wet ledge of the tub. He stared at you warily through heavy, lidded eyes.

Just like the wolf he had saved you from, he looked as if he were ready to pounce.

He wasn’t used to this. For as long as he could remember, pain was something to be swallowed with a bottle of whiskey and a needle and thread. He had built his own house, caught his own food, and bled his own blood without a soul nearby to witness it.

That was the whole point of being out here.

But as you meticulously cleaned the wounds, your touch was... different.

It was soft, steady, and gentle. He hadn’t felt anything like it in years. He had forgotten what it was even like to be tended to.

Bucky’s breath hitched as he watched you focus, your bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration as you began to wrap the clean white gauze around his thigh.

“There,” you said softly, setting the tools down and offering him a weary smile.

You looked at him as if you were expecting a thank you, but the words didn’t come.

He let out a slow, shaky breath and let his head thud back against the tub. He was a fool for letting a stranger in, a bigger fool for letting her see him like this—but as the pain started to dull into a throb, he found he didn’t really care.

Sensing his need for space, you got up slowly. “I’ll let you be. When the storm clears up, I’ll be out of your hair—for real this time.”

Just as you turned for the door, Bucky’s hand shot out of the tub, catching your wrist and splattering water across the floor.

“Take the bed tonight,” he said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You blinked at him. The couch? That tiny thing?

“Sorry, but your couch is far too small for someone like you,” you said, half-insulting his choice in furniture. “Besides, you need proper rest to heal up. I’ll take the couch.”

Bucky’s hand lingered around your wrist for a moment. You expected him to protest further, but it seemed his energy was finally spent.

With a tired sigh, he dropped his hand, letting it hang limply over the side of the tub.

“Fine,” he grumbled.

He had a dreadful feeling it was going to be a long night.

By the time Bucky woke up, the storm had retreated, leaving behind a world that smelled of damp earth and pine needles. Sunlight pierced through the bedroom window, cutting a sharp line across the bed where he lay alone.

He groaned, his eyes snapping open as he braced himself for the throbbing pain in his leg. He reached down, his fingers brushing against the white gauze you had wrapped around his thigh.

To his surprise, the skin wasn’t burning anymore. The fever had also broken. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, testing his strength.

There was a dull ache, sure, but he was steady enough to stand on his own.

He pulled on a clean pair of jeans and limped out into the living room, expecting to find you still curled up on that cramped, uncomfortable couch. A stray thought crossed his mind… that maybe he should’ve invited you to share the bed, but even he knew that would have been going too far for a stranger.

When he reached the living room, he found the couch empty. The rough wool blanket he had given you was folded neatly at one end, and when his eyes shifted to the corner where your heavy pack had been sitting, he found nothing but the bare floor.

His jaw tightened.

A strange, lonely feeling settled in his chest. A feeling he hadn’t felt in years and didn’t care to name. Of course you were gone. You had hiked out the moment the rain stopped, just like you said you would.

All he could do now was hope you made it to town safely.

He grabbed his boots and stepped out onto the porch, intending to finish the woodpile he abandoned yesterday. The air was crisp, and the forest was alive with the sound of dripping eaves and morning birds. He took a deep breath, turning his gaze toward the lake to check the water levels after the storm.

He froze.

Down by the lake, silhouetted against the sparkling reflection of the morning sun, was a figure. You were crouching by the water’s edge, his oversized white T-shirt tucked into those ridiculous drawstring shorts with a fishing line in your hands.

As he watched, you reached down and hoisted a small wicker basket— likely something he kept in the shed for gathering berries—and he could see the shimmer of scales thrashing inside.

By the looks of it, you had already caught three or four good-sized trout.

Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He began to descend the porch steps, his limp much less pronounced than it had been the night before. The damp grass flattened under his boots as he made his way toward the bank, the sound of his approach masked by the gentle lapping of the lake against the stones.

“Thought you said you were leavin’,” he called out, his voice gravelly with sleep.

You jumped, nearly dropping the basket back into the water as you spun around. Your hair was a mess of tangled waves and there were smears of mud on your shins, but your eyes were bright—clear of the panic from the night before.

“Oh!” you smiled at the sight of him. “You’re still alive!” You hoisted the basket up with straining arms, making your way toward him. “I caught you some fish—you eat fish, right?”

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. “More of a red meat kind of guy.”

“Well... fish is good for you,” you informed him, trekking past him barefoot with the heavy basket. “And I’m going to fix you up some breakfast.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed as you reached him. “Don’t waste your effort,” he huffed, still looking as grumpy as ever. “I like my breakfast done a certain way.”

You ignored him, walking right past and back toward the cabin. “You should lay back down and take it easy. Consider this a thank you for saving my life yesterday.”

“I don’t need you playing house,” Bucky mumbled grumpily, following you through the cabin and into the kitchen. “I’ve been feedin’ myself since before you were born. Put those down, I’ll do it.”

You didn’t even look back as you set the wicker basket on the wooden counter. “Sit. Down. Bucky.”

He opened his mouth to snap back—to tell you exactly whose house this was and who was in charge—but the stubborn confidence in your voice caught him off guard. Up until this moment, he pinned you as a naive, helpless girl who couldn’t survive a night without his intervention.

He huffed, sounding like a disgruntled bear, and finally lowered himself into the sturdy wooden chair at the head of the table. A low groan escaped his throat as he eased his shoulders, his injured leg pulsing— a none too friendly reminder of why he shouldn’t have been standing anyway.

From his seat, he watched you move.

“Not only can I catch fish,” you said, getting to work, “but I can also cook it well.”

The cabin, which usually felt cold and cavernous, suddenly felt smaller and more… domestic.

You moved around his kitchen, your bare feet moving across his rough floorboards. You looked ridiculous in his clothes; the hem of his white T-shirt tucked into the oversized shorts, and the sleeves rolled up in thick bundles just so you could use your hands.

He watched the sunlight catch the dampness of your hair as you began to prep the fish. The sight of a woman in his space—wearing his shirt, smelling like his soap, and ignoring his bad attitude just to make sure he was fed—hit him harder than he expected.

“Christ,” he cursed under his breath.

For most of his years, he believed isolation was his only sanctuary. But watching you, he realized things he never thought he would feel.

He liked seeing this—a beautiful woman, clean and comfortable, cooking just for him. He could already picture it, coming home from a long day of chopping wood or hunting, only to find you like this. Safe and sound.

He liked the idea of having someone to protect.

Bucky was suddenly feeling very hungry now, and it wasn’t just for the fish.

“You’re gonna burn ‘em,” he muttered, though his eyes were soft as he watched your back. “Pan needs more grease.”

“I’ve got it, Bucky,” you replied, glancing playfully over your shoulder. “Stop worrying that old head of yours.”

“Old?” Bucky grumbled, though a faint, reluctant twitch of a smile played on his lips.

You turned back to the counter as you began to slice the trout into neat fillets.

“You know,” you began, tone light and teasing, “in my friend group, they called me the Fish Whisperer. Or the Fish Butcher. One of those. It depended on how much wine was involved in the cooking process.”

You let out a small, self deprecating chuckle, turning your head to see if you could pull another reaction out of him. But as you looked back down to finish a particularly tricky cut near the bone, your damp finger slipped on the smooth handle.

The blade skidded across the scales, coming dangerously close to your thumb. You let out a sharp, panicked gasp, pulling your hand back just as the tip of the knife bit into the wooden cutting board.

“Crap—!”

Despite his injured leg, Bucky moved with that same quick, almost predatory speed you had seen in the forest.

In a heartbeat, he was already hovering over you, his large hand reaching out to steady your wrist while his other instinctively moved to your lower back to stabilize you.

“Careful, sweets,” he rumbled into a protective growl.

You swallowed hard at his sudden closeness, his chest pressing against your shoulder. His grip on your wrist was firm but careful—the touch of a man who knew exactly how much damage his hands could do and was choosing, with every ounce of his will, to be gentle.

“Bucky…” you breathed, trying to still your heartbeat. “Are… are you okay?”

You stayed frozen, feeling his warm breath against the side of your neck. He let out a shaky breath, as if trying to stabilize his own heart, his thumb tracing a slow, distracting line over where your blood rushed in your wrist.

“I… just don’t want you hurtin’ yourself,” he said slowly, his voice thick and low. “That’s all.”

Since that little mishap with the knife, the tension in the cabin was suffocatingly thick—and you weren’t entirely sure if Bucky felt it, though he was certainly the cause of it.

By the time you finished preparing breakfast, you laid everything out on the table. Even with your back turned, you could feel his shameless stare burning through the thin fabric of the white T-shirt you wore.

“Where’s the cutlery?” you asked, turning to him.

He simply shrugged, his gaze glued on you before he looked down at the food.

“Your hands are the cutlery,” he said flatly.

You didn’t think it was possible, but eating with your hands only increased the tension tenfold.

You picked carefully at the fish, trying to maintain some level of decency, but Bucky was another story entirely. He went after the meal like a ravenous animal, picking the trout apart with his bare hands. You didn’t even need to ask if he liked the food; the way he was scarfing it down told you everything you needed to know.

You swore he didn’t look away from you once.

Leaning forward with his elbows heavy on the wooden table, he used his blunt, calloused fingers to strip the flaky white meat from the bone. Every time he finished a piece, he licked his thumb and forefinger clean with a slow, wet swipe of his tongue. His eyes remained glued to yours, dark and unreadable, as he licked his lips.

All of this made a strange heat crawl up your neck, and with no napkins in sight, you eventually had no choice but to follow suit.

You hesitantly lifted your hand, licking the salty grease from your own fingertips. The moment you did, Bucky stopped chewing. He went completely still, his gaze dropping to your mouth, his dark blue eyes tracking the movement with a sudden, sharp hunger. He watched every motion, his jaw clenching as he seemed hypnotized by the way your tongue moved.

Small, was all he thought as he felt his body warm. But it’ll do.

“I suppose I should take my leave after this,” you announced mid chew. “Thank you for everything—”

“You shouldn’t,” Bucky interrupted suddenly, a piece of fish still caught between his fingers. “There might be another storm tonight.”

Your brows furrowed. Another storm? While the mountain weather was notoriously unpredictable, the sky outside was currently a clear, piercing blue.

Although he proved himself right yesterday, another storm seemed today entirely unlikely.

Pushing out of your chair and grabbing your plate, you made your way to the sink.

“Well, in that case, I should leave now. The sooner the better—”

“Good luck with that,” he huffed, his tone sharpening with what seems like restless impatience. “The mud and the terrain from yesterday’s mess will only slow you down. You’ll be lucky to make it a mile before you’re stuck again.”

He took a quick sip of his water, letting out a satisfied exhale as his gaze settled on you. “Best you wait ‘til tomorrow.”

You stood by the sink, staring out the window as you weighed your options. Your friends and family were likely worried sick, perhaps already calling for a search party, and the thought of them panicking made your chest hurt with guilt.

But then, you remembered everything that had happened yesterday.

The storm, the wolf, the bone chilling rain, and the way the world had turned into a sliding, muddy trap. Bucky was right about the terrain—if you went out there and twisted an ankle or got lost in the washouts, there wouldn’t be anyone to save you a second time.

You were completely oblivious to the way Bucky’s eyes traced your body. You didn’t notice how he was manipulating the trauma of yesterday to keep you exactly where he wanted you.

In his kitchen, in his shirt, and under his roof—permanently in his sights.

“I… I guess you’re right,” you admitted softly, finally turning back to face him. “I don’t think I have another fight in me today. If the mud is really that bad, I’d just be a liability.”

Bucky didn’t smile—that would have been too obvious—but the tension in his shoulders eased instantly.

“Smart girl,” he rumbled, picking up another piece of fish before tossing it in his mouth. “No sense in chancing it. The woods don’t give second chances twice in a row.”

“I’ll just… stay out of your way, then,” you murmured, feeling a strange mix of relief and unease. “I can help with the chores? Or the woodpile?”

Bucky hummed, pretending to ponder the offer, though he already knew exactly what he wanted out of you.

“I’ll take care of the heavy liftin’,” he explained. “You can help me clean the place a bit—or catch some more fish for dinner.”

“You liked my fish?” you asked, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

Bucky pushed himself out of the chair with a grunt and met you at the sink, handing you his plate. “Guess you were right,” he gruffed. “You can cook, sugar.”

Your face warmed at the nickname. It seemed so at odds with a man as burly and grumpy as Bucky, yet it fell from his lips so naturally.

“Okay,” you agreed, setting the plates in the basin and turning on the tap. “Anything to help lighten your load. Thank you for letting me stay another night, Bucky. I really don’t know how to repay you.”

A swell of satisfaction and pride settled in his gut.

He liked this.

No—he loved this.

“Look at you, doin’ the dishes,” he noted with a nod toward the sink. “That’s already doin’ more than enough.”

He raised his hand to give you a gentle pat on the back, though his body yearned for something more—to press a kiss to your forehead, the way a husband might for a wife.

“I’ll go fetch some firewood to keep the place warm for when that storm hits,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Just stay here. Clean up, catch the fish. Don’t want you gettin’ hurt or lost again, little doll.”

The storm might not have been coming, but as far as he was concerned, you weren’t going anywhere.

For the rest of the day, you did exactly as instructed.

Despite your insistence that he stay off his leg, Bucky spent the entire afternoon outside. While you cleaned the cabin, the thud of his axe echoed against the trees.

Eventually, you headed back down to the water, but the moment you began fishing, you felt the pierce of a gaze tracking your every move. Every time you glanced over your shoulder, you found Bucky only a few feet away, wiping sweat from his forehead, his chest heaving from the labor— but his eyes never left you.

When you moved down the shoreline, or stumbled over a slick rock, or struggled with a particularly strong fish fight, Bucky was at your side in an instant.

“Careful, sweets.”

“Mind your step. Can’t concentrate on my own work if you’re stumblin’ all over the place, little doll.”

“I saw you fall just a moment ago. Sit down—let me check your leg.”

You kept promising you were fine, but nothing seemed to soothe his protective instincts.

You didn’t want to call him suffocating—he was certainly kinder than when you came across him yesterday—but the unwarranted attention he kept giving you felt restless.

As the day bled into evening, you noticed there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky.

You waited, even as you cooked dinner and set the table while Bucky washed up, but by the time the sun had completely fell below the horizon, the air remained still, dark, and clear.

There was no storm.

And it was too late to start the trek to town now.

You and Bucky were sitting at the dinner table yet again, but since the sun went down, neither of you had spoken a single word to each other.

“Hey, Bucky?” you called out.

He didn’t look up. His eyes were glued to the plate as he scarfed down the meal you made the same way he had earlier this morning. When he didn’t answer, you tried again, firmer this time.

“Bucky. There’s no storm like you said there would be.”

Bucky swiped a hand across his mouth, clearing the grease. “I guess not.”

A slow, impatient exhale left your nose. Bucky sensed your tension, and he narrowed his eyes at you, displeased. He rested both heavy forearms on the table and leaned in.

“It’s good that you stayed,” he pointed out, his voice low like a warning. “It’s better bein’ safe than sorry. You should know that by now—’specially after yesterday, sugar.”

Your frown only deepened, and Bucky’s jaw tightened. He clearly wasn’t pleased by how eager you were to leave him.

“I know,” you sighed, looking toward the dark window. “It’s just... my friends and family must be worried sick. If I had left earlier, I could have been home by now.”

“If you had left earlier, you wouldn’t have made me that delicious breakfast for savin’ your life,” Bucky reminded you, his tone sharp with impatience. He shoved his empty plate aside and leaned back in his chair, making it groan. “You should sleep in the bed tonight.”

“What?” You blinked, not quite comprehending his words. “No. Your leg still needs to heal, and that couch is far too small for you—”

“No one takes the couch,” he cut you off like a command. “We both share the bed tonight. There’s plenty of space.”

You hesitated, your gaze drifting toward the dark hallway that led to the bedroom.

The thought of sharing a bed with him—this hulking, unpredictable man, made your pulse race. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you pointed out softly. “I’m perfectly fine on the couch, really.”

“If you’re gonna trek tomorrow morning, you’ll need all the sleep you can get.”

He pushed his chair back, the heavy wood scraping harshly against the floorboards as he stood and began to limp toward the bedroom.

“Come on,” he grunted, not even checking to see if you were following. “I’ve got a set of clothes you can change into.”

With a defeated sigh, you followed him. By the time you reached the bedroom, Bucky was already rummaging through a heavy dresser in the corner. He pulled out another oversized white T-shirt and held it out to you.

“Here.”

“And the pants?” you asked, taking the soft fabric from his hand.

“All I’ve got are sweatpants that’d be way too damn big for you,” he said, shoving the drawer shut. “Unless you want to sleep in jeans?”

You swallowed hard. Sleeping without pants? You looked down at the drawstring shorts you had been wearing all day—stained with mud and smelling of the lake from your fishing trip.

“I’ll just wear these again,” you decided.

Bucky looked at you, his expression darkening with displeasure.

“No. Those are dirty,” he gruffed. “The shirt’s big enough to be a night dress. You’ll be fine.”

His tone left no room for nos or further objections. It wasn’t a request but rather an arrangement he had already finalized in his head.

After retreating to the washroom to change into the fresh shirt, you returned to find Bucky already stretched out on the mattress, his large frame covered by the sheets, taking up half the bed as he waited for you.

The sight of you standing in the doorframe wearing nothing but his shirt made the fabric of his pajama pants feel suddenly, painfully tight. He wasn’t sure he would even survive the night with you lying right next to him.

He scooted over, clearing a space for you while trying to discreetly adjust himself beneath the quilts.

You made your way to your side of the bed, sliding under the covers and lying stiffly beside him.

You stared up at the ceiling, feeling completely out of place in the quiet, suffocating cabin. Beside you, Bucky lay perfectly comfortable.

To him, this was exactly where you belonged.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t leave today,” he said, though the apology rang a little hollow. “I was just lookin’ out for you.”

You turned your head toward him, your hair fanning out across his pillowcase. Bucky’s heart strummed in his chest at the sight of you.

He could get used to waking up to this every morning.

“It’s okay,” you reassured him with a soft, tired smile, though he could still sense the disappointment behind it. “Better safe than sorry, right?”

“Exactly right, sugar.”

From your short time knowing Bucky, it hadn’t taken long to notice just how… blatant he was with his staring. Even now, lying together shoulder to shoulder, his blue eyes were piercing right through yours.

Unreadable and unwavering.

You swallowed hard, trying to break the tension. “How’s your leg?”

“Still hurts,” he mumbled lowly. “But I’m feelin’ a lot better lyin’ next to a pretty girl.”

So much for breaking the tension.

His words, intimate and entirely unexpected, filled you with embarassment. Staring back at him, you had known from the very start how handsome he was beneath all that grumpiness, the tired eyes, and the dark shadow of stubble.

You hadn’t pegged someone like him as the flirtatious type. But as you searched his expression, you couldn’t tell if he even realized he was doing it, or if he was simply saying the first thing that came to his mind.

Averting your gaze, you stared into the dark corner of the room.

“Y-you’re ridiculous,” you stammered, breathless.

Bucky’s large, calloused hand reached out, his fingers hooking gently under your chin. He tilted your face back to him, forcing you to meet his eyes yet again.

“For tellin’ the truth?” he rumbled, his voice filling the tense air between you.

You couldn’t move, held captive by his touch and the intensity of his stare.

You watched as his eyes began a slow and hungry journey. He traced the line of your forehead, the curve of your cheek, and then dropped to your mouth, lingering there until your lips parted involuntarily to suck in a breath.

“Pretty,” he mumbled so quiet, it was like he was speaking to himself.

His gaze continued downward, looking at the delicate column of your throat, then further still, taking in the way his oversized shirt draped over your body, shifting with every shallow breath you took.

When his eyes finally snapped back to yours, they were darker than before—pupils blown wide.

“So goddamn pretty.”

“I…” you started, not quite sure what to say, “t-thank you.”

There was a moment of silence between you two, and throughout the quiet, Bucky’s hands began to be more bold in its movements. He caressed your cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before trailing his thumb slowly over your bottom lip. He watched with a dark, satisfied grin when your breath hitched.

“You know, bein’ out here alone all these years... it makes a man yearn for things,” Bucky started to explain in a low, gravelly whisper. “Things a man like me thought he’d never have.”

“Like what?” you breathed.

“A family,” he answered with what sounded like a dreamy sigh. “I’ve seen it everywhere in these woods. Bears protectin’ their cubs, birds tendin’ to their nests. It’s the most natural, beautiful thing there is—that kind of connection. I just know havin’ somethin’ special like that... it’d finally bring me peace.”

You weren’t entirely sure where he was going with the confession, but all you felt you could do was nod and offer him sympathy.

“I hope you find that peace one day, Bucky.”

Then, his hand suddenly trailed from your cheek down to your throat, his fingers wrapping around the delicate skin of your neck in a gentle yet possessive squeeze that made you gasp.

“Feels like I already have, little doll.”

Bucky didn’t give you the chance to breathe, let alone retract the invitation he saw in your eyes.

He closed the space between you two, his mouth crashing against yours with a hunger only a man like him—starved and isolated for decades—could possess.

It wasn’t gentle at all. It was more like a claim.

His lips were rough, and his tongue swept against yours messily and hungrily. He moved like a man who hadn’t shared a kiss with a woman in his lifetime—like a man who was dying for the touch of another person.

You melted into the mattress as he moved more eagerly against you, the sheets ruffling as he hovered over you. One of his hands held you still by side of your neck while the other wandered your body through the thin fabric of his own shirt. His rough hand, warm and calloused, groped and fondled you through the flimsy white cotton, making you gasp into his mouth.

Bucky growled low in his throat as your fingers tangled into the thick, messy dark hair at the nape of his neck. His stubble tickled your skin, and the needy noises leaving his lips only made you squeeze your legs together, a deep ache beginning to build.

“Bucky,” you gasped, turning your head sharply to break the contact. You were panting, your lips swollen and tingling. “We... we shouldn’t. This is... I’m supposed to be leaving tomorrow.”

Bucky took this as an opportunity to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath searing your sensitive skin. He trailed a line of wet kisses toward your ear, his stubble grazing your jawline.

“Tomorrow’s a long way off, sugar,” he buzzed against your skin.

“Bucky, please—”

You were cut off with a sharp gasp as you felt Bucky grind his hips firmly against your leg.

Against the soft fabric of his pajama pants, he was hard, throbbing... and leaking. In the short time you two had been making out, he had already made a mess of himself in his own pants.

A shaky groan left his lips as he gripped your hip tight, making you wince slightly. “Fuck, baby,” he breathed, resting his forehead against your collarbone. “M’so hard. It hurts.”

Bucky began to rock himself—slow and shallow—against the soft heat of your leg. You couldn’t help but look down, watching the heavy outline of him throb against the fabric as he pressed into you.

“Just... we can fuck tonight—and you can forget all ‘bout me tomorrow,” he pleaded, his voice wrecked. “You can leave as early as you want—but please, darlin’. I need this.” He rocked his hips against yours again, drawing another gasp out of you. “It’s been so long.”

He drew the long hem of the shirt up and past your hip, and his breath hitched at what he saw.

“… No panties?”

Your face burned with embarrassment. “I… didn’t want to re-wear the ones I had on,” you explained, your voice small. “They’re dirty.”

You said that, but what Bucky was seeing right now felt far filthier. Your pussy, exposed and puffy and glistening, was laid out bare right in front of him—ripe and ready for the taking.

You knew exactly how this looked, and the way Bucky’s eyes darkened as they locked onto your cunt only confirmed it. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaz heavy as he took in every inch of you.

Bucky quickly slid down the bed until his broad chest was wedged between your knees. You tried to pull back—mostly out of shyness—but his large hands clamped around your thighs like iron shackles, pinning you wide for him.

“Bucky, wait—!”

But you cut yourself off with an involuntary cry as his tongue flicked out and lapped at your cunt. He was relentless and wasted no time. He buried his face against you, his dark stubble grazing your sensitive inner thighs as he began to feast like a starving animal.

He was messy and loud. The wet, slapping sounds of his tongue working against you filled your ears—vulgar and completely shameless.

You had never been touched or licked like this before. You had never felt the unabashed hunger of a man’s mouth on your skin, and your body was loving every second of it.

“Oh god,” you gasped, your fingers knotting the bedsheets.

Your hips bucked up against his face, seeking more, but Bucky held you perfectly still, his thumbs digging into your skin to keep you exposed.

He let out a low, muffled growl against your clit, his tongue flickering faster and faster against the sensitive peak until you were sobbing for breath. Every time you instinctively tried to close your legs or hide from the overwhelming sensation, he only snarled, forcing you back open for him.

He was devouring you.

He was treating you like the prey he had spent all day stalking.

Bucky finally pulled away, letting you catch your breath. His eyes were dark and his chin was coated with your sweetness mixed with his own saliva and drool.

“Taste s’fucking good,” he groaned so deep, sounding almost frustrated. “Only makin’ it harder for me to let you go.”

He sat back on his heels, still wedged firmly between your thighs, as he pulled his shirt over his head. You watched, enamored, as his broad chest moved— every muscle flexing under the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Dark hair traced the center of his chest, trailing down to where his hands found the waistband of his pants.

He pulled them down and kicked them to the side of the bed. Lying there between your legs was a man of pure masculinity. Thick hair decorated his body, and his hand—which you already thought was massive—could barely wrap around his cock as he stroked himself to his full length.

Bucky’s jaw went slack as he fucked his hand, his eyes shamelessly taking in the way you were spread out for him in nothing but his cotton tee.

Dark, curly hair sat at the base of his cock, and from where you laid, you could smell him—the salty scent of his precum, the masculine musk of pinewood, everything that was uniquely him. It made you ache, your pussy clenching around nothing as you watched.

“You’re drippin’ all over my sheets, sugar,” Bucky grunted. “Makin’ a reaaal mess.”

“Bucky,” you breathed, pushing yourself up on your elbows. “I don’t think you… I don’t think it’ll fit—”

“No?” he cut you off.

He didn’t let you finish—he didn’t need to—but he already seemed darkened by whatever doubt you were about to voice.

“I don’t care,” he grunted, his large hands grabbing your legs and hauling you flush against him. “M’gonna make it fit.”

Your body tensed as you felt the head of Bucky’s cock poke against your entrance. He groaned at the contact, his eyes fluttering shut in relief. You were already so wet, so warm, and so inviting. And judging by how easily his tip began to slide in, it wouldn’t be long before he was buried deep in your cunt.

Bucky held himself there for a moment, bracing his weight on his forearms as he let you adjust to the stretching pressure of his tip alone.

He looked down, a dark, fond smirk pulling at his lips as he watched you squeezing your eyes shut with the effort of taking him.

“Open ‘em up, sugar,” he rumbled the command. “I want you lookin’ at me for this.”

As your eyes fluttered open, meeting his blown out blue gaze, he began to push.

“Oh—fuck, Bucky!” you gasped as he slid deeper, your tight cunt stretching painfully and perfectly around his length.

A broken groan tore from his throat, his chest heaving as he fought every urge in his nervous system to just slam himself deep inside you. He was trying so hard to hold back that his face contorted into a snarl, his muscles locking with the strain.

You mewled and whimpered as he forced his way in, each movement of his hips more strained than the last. He was struggling with the tightness of you, the stretch a dizzying mix of burn and pleasure. By the time he was halfway in, it already felt like too much.

You began to squirm, your hips shifting and doing nothing to soothe the ache in Bucky’s balls. If anything, your movements only made him groan in pleasure.

When he realized you were trying to escape his length, his hands snapped down to your hips. His fingers dug into your skin, pinning you flat against the mattress and making you yelp.

“Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?” he growled, hovering over you with a snarl that made him look terrifying under the warm lamplight. “You aren’t goin’ anywhere. I told you, darlin’—I’m makin’ it fit.”

With that, his grip tightened on your waist and he hauled you flush against his body in a ruthless motion.

Your legs shook and your eyes rolled back as his cock buried itself completely, sinking to the hilt deep inside your cunt. Your head spun with the overwhelming bliss of being filled so thoroughly.

“Haaah—!” you hissed sharply, your back arching off the bed. “B-Buck—”

Bucky’s entire body was shaking, overstimulated with a desire he hadn’t felt in years.

He hovered over you, dark strands of hair shadowing his eyes as he watched your soft legs shake and squirm beneath him. His cock—the one you claimed was too large to fit—was sunk completely inside you, twitching as it savored every desperate ripple and clench of your tight walls around his shaft.

He watched himself grind his hips against yours, slow and steady at first, letting you adjust to every inch.

“Christ,” he groaned, the sound torn from the back of his throat. “You’re takin’ me so well, little doll…”

When your whimpers finally began to break into soft, needy moans, he took it as his cue to pick up the pace.

He started drawing his hips back and thrusting faster, making your body jolt and shake against the mattress with every thrust. The sight of his cock disappearing entirely into your cunt, leaving only his dark curls pressed against your glistening slit, made him throb and leak deep inside you.

“God… feels s’much better than my hand,” he grumbled to himself.

“Bucky…” you whined softly, the sound like music to his ears. “Feels good, don’t stop.”

Bucky was hypnotized.

He looked down, his vision tunneling as he watched the way you moved helplessly beneath him. Your body was rolling with every thrust against his mattress. Your hands came up to his shoulders, soft fingers digging into his hard muscles for stability.

And when you looked at him with those soft, trusting eyes, something in his chest snapped.

“Fuck. Fuckin’ hell—you… fuckin’… goddammit—fuck!”

His hips began drawing back further before slamming all the way in, drawing a loud, sharp cry from you that only made him want to fuck you harder—right through the bedframe and against the floorboards.

Bucky felt like an animal in heat, his mind clouding with a singular, primal thought that went far beyond just getting off.

He wanted to fill you. He wanted to plant himself so deep that it would take.

“Bucky—it’s too much, ah!” you moaned, clinging to him and wrapping your legs around his waist for support, inadvertently drawing him even deeper.

That didn’t help him at all.

“Oh—fuck, sweets!” he roared, pinning his weight onto you as your legs strapped him down. “Fuck—you’re askin’ for it now.”

The thought of breeding you, of keeping you right here in the cabin he built with his very own two hands, made his blood sing. He could see it so clearly—you, rounded and heavy with his child, tits full of milk, never having to leave the safety of these woods or the protection of his arms.

Every filthy thought of a future together was met with another hard thrust inside you.

“Mine,” he growled. He was so lost in the haze of lust that his mind was a jumbled mess. The only thing he could process was the need to fuck and breed.

Fuck and breed. Fuck and breed.

To breed.

Breed. Breed…

“You’re stayin’ right here, sugar. M’gonna fill you up so full, you won’t even remember how to walk out that door.”

His words were purely possessive. If you didn’t know any better, you would think it was just dirty talk—and god, did it work. Your pussy spasmed tight around his cock as you felt yourself getting close.

“Fuuck, Bucky,” you whined, “d-don’t stop…! I’m gonna cum—”

Every gasp that left your lips fueled the dark fire in his gut and the building ache in his balls. He didn’t just want tonight; he wanted years.

He wanted the connection he had seen the animals share in the woods—he wanted a son running around this cabin and you there to be called Mama.

Your cunt clenched as you tossed your head back, letting out a loud cry that rang through the cabin as you came undone all over Bucky’s cock. The feeling was exquisite, your pussy was milking Bucky with every pulse—and at this point, your body was practically begging for Bucky to cum inside.

“I’m gonna breed you,” he rasped, the words sounding like both a warning and a promise.

His eyes were crazed and wild as he looked down at the friction where your bodies joined. “Gonna give you everythin’ you need. Just stay... stay for me, little doll. Let me put a baby in you.”

Your head was rolling back against the pillow, your face drenched in sweat as your vision swam. You were still coming undone, your mind a hazy blur.

“H-huh…?” you managed to whimper with a tired slur of your words. “W-what was that—?”

One of his hands drew up from your hip to your neck, pinning you in place, while the other found your thigh, spreading you wider and bending it back so he could pound into you deeper—making the mattress and wooden bedframe shake and bolt against the cabin wall.

“Oh my god—!”

“Don’t you worry your pretty head ‘bout it,” he grunted, his breath hot and uneven against your ear. “M’just tellin’ you how it’s gonna be. I’m gonna keep this pussy pumped so full of me, you won’t ever remember what it’s like to be without it.”

He pulled back almost all the way, dragging out the pleasure until you cried out, before slamming back in until the hairs on his pelvis hit your slit.

“You’re gonna stay right here,” he reminded you darkly. “Nothin’ but my shirts on your back so I don’t have to waste time undressin’ you. Just easy access... every time I walk through that door, I’m gonna bend you over the table, the bed, the porch... and I’m gonna remind you who you belong to.”

The filth of his words and the overstimulated stretch of your walls was nearly enough to make you pass out.

“I’m gonna fill you up every single night, little doll,” he hissed, his pace becoming uneven and desperate as he felt his own climax nearing. “Until you’re waddlin’ around this cabin carryin’ my name... carryin’ my blood. You’re never leavin’, understand? You’re mine to breed.”

When you didn’t answer right away, he lightly squeezed your throat, making you gasp.

“Understand, sweets?”

“Y-yes,” was all you could muster weakly and tiredly, not understanding enitrely as all you felt was overwhelming pleasure. “Never leaving… fill me…”

You repeated the last few words you remembered him saying, and that was your downfall.

“Yeah?” he huffed a prideful laugh, like he finally had everything he wanted right here—right beneath him. “You gonna make me a daddy?”

His heart leapt in his throat, balls drawing tight as he felt himself finally reaching the edge. This was perfect—a pretty pussy to fuck whenever he pleased, and an even prettier woman to take care of.

Bucky’s entire body buckled, and he let out a loud roar that made you flinch—it sounded more like an animal than a man. His back arched as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself so deep it made you cry out again, his pelvis bottoming out against you.

A thick, hot rush of cum flooded into you, a heavy and pulsing warmth that seemed to go on and on.

His eyes rolled back and his teeth bared in a primal snarl as his entire frame shuddered with his release. He was pumping you full, emptying every bit of himself deep into your womb.

“Fuck—baby—!” he choked out, voice strained and cracking.

He didn’t pull out, even when his cock was completely spent and overworked inside you. Even as his body stilled and his length throbbed tiredly against your used, overstimulated walls, he stayed buried to the hilt.

He panted, his heavy chest heaving against yours as he kept you pinned firmly into the mattress. He was soaking you, making a complete mess of your insides just like he promised.

“There… fuck,” he rasped, his sweaty forehead dropping to rest against yours. “Puttin’ a baby in there right now—you feel it, don’t you? You feel how much I'm givin’ you?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You had absolutely no energy left in your spent body.

All you could smell was the thick scent of sex and sweat, and the only light in the room came from the bedside lamp, which was now flickering weakly.

Then came the thunder. Rain began to pour, hitting against the cabin roof and the surrounding forest floor harshly. Bucky shifted his body, pulling you into his arms and dragging your limp body against his chest, pressing soft, and sweet kisses against your sweaty skin.

“There’s the storm, baby,” he cooed gently, his voice prideful as he proved himself right yet again.

“I told you. You aren’t goin’ anywhere.”

sitting in the drafts since new years oh nah someone save me 🥀 once again, this is my contribution for art's moodboard event hosted here! please be sure to check out the incredible writers who put out their work so far!

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