grace

Efficiency. It was what you preached and practiced.

Getting a job done and doing it well was your forte. You'd picked this hustle up from an old mentor - a man named Dante who'd found you at fifteen, all sharp elbows with a clever tongue. You were quiet, alone, and running nickel bags to college kids who underestimated you. He'd seen something in you instantly. Potential beyond how pretty you were.

He'd taught you everything. How to cut product without compromising its quality, how to spot a narc from a mile away, and even how to smile at men while palming a blade. With his help, you walked into rooms and owned them before anyone could even question your place there. He'd been a business man first, a criminal second, and had drilled it all into your young, impressionable skull.

Look the part, baby girl. Nobody suspects a little girl wearing pink.

Luckily, you didn't just look the part. You were that girl.

Even before, you'd always had painted nails, immaculately done hair, and clean shoes. Your mother had been absent in the ways that raised a proper girl, but she'd left you with one thing: understanding that looking put-together was the way to live. People treated you differently when you looked soft and expensive. They held doors. They underestimated your intelligence. They saw a pretty face and bright colors and assumed you were fragile.

You let them.

The femininity wasn't a costume you put on for the job. It was you. The acrylics, the gold hoops, the lip gloss that left sticky prints on coffee cups and cheeks alike, all of it was genuine. You just happened to have learned that it was also deeply, profoundly useful. Men saw pink and thought harmless. They saw a skirt and thought easy. They saw you smile and never once clocked the calculation behind it.

Dante had recognized the weapon you already carried. All he did was sharpen it.

He was gone now. Two years dead, buried in a plot you still visited on his birthday. His death had been a lesson all its own. Someone in the inner circle had gotten greedy. Someone had mistaken Dante's age for weakness. You'd corrected that assumption personally.

Afterward, there was no question of who would take over. The men who'd worked under Dante grumbled at first. A woman, barely twenty, with a closet full of pastels and a perfume collection that cost more than their cars. But you restructured the operation from the ground up. Streamlined supply lines. Cut dead weight. Within a year, your product was the cleanest on the East Coast, and your reputation was immaculate. You didn't start conflicts, but you ended them with surgical precision. Everyone who mattered knew: you were not to be fucked with.

Now you were expanding. East Highland was fresh territory: a quiet suburb full of bored kids with trust funds and insufficient supervision. A goldmine. Through the grapevine, you'd heard about a local dealer worth knowing. Fezco O'Neill. Quiet, professional, ran his business out of a convenience store with his younger brother. No turf disputes, no attention, no mess.

Your kind of people.

You'd arranged the first meeting through a mutual contact. Tuesday night. Behind the store. After closing. Samples for cash. Straightforward. Clean.

Fezco, however, had never heard of you. To be quite honest, he was suspicious. He was reluctant to even meet with you.

Your messages didn't come through with a name. They came through with initials, so he didn't even know who to expect. Whether you were a man or a woman, trouble like Mouse or harmless like Laurie.

The first text had come through three weeks ago.

Heard you're the man to talk to in East Highland. I've got product. Clean. Consistent. I'm looking to expand. - D.

No name. No number he recognized. Just a letter and a business proposition. Fez had stared at his phone for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen, before showing it to Ash.

"The fuck is 'D'?" Ash had asked, not looking up from his Playstation he was playing.

"That's what I'm tryna figure out."

"You text back?"

"Nah. Not yet."

He'd waited two days. Let the message sit. In his experience, people who pushed too fast were either desperate or dangerous, and he didn't have time for either. However, the follow-up never came. No double-text. No pressure. Just silence, patient and professional. That, more than anything, made him curious.

So he'd responded. Short. Careful.

Who put you on to me?

The reply came within the hour. Mutual friend. Used to run product through the East Coast. Said you were solid.

No name-dropping. No sloppiness. Just enough to let him know it wasn't a setup. Fez respected that.

Still. A new supplier was a risk. His last connect had flaked, leaving him scrambling to keep up with demand. He needed someone reliable, but need made you vulnerable. Need made you sloppy. And Fezco O'Neill did not do sloppy.

Over the following weeks, the messages stayed sparse. All business. You proposed a meeting, neutral ground, after hours, his territory so he'd feel comfortable. You offered to bring samples first, no commitment. When he mentioned he ran the operation with his brother, you didn't flinch or question it. Just acknowledged it and moved on.

Tuesday night came slow and heavy, the air thick with the kind of heat that made the asphalt shimmer even after dark. Fez had sent Ash to close up the store while he waited out back, leaning against the hood of the Cadillac. A blunt burned between his fingers, more for something to do than anything else. He wasn't nervous, exactly. Just... alert.

The text had said midnight. It was 11:57.

"You think they're gonna show?" Ash appeared at his elbow, quiet as always. The kid moved like a ghost when he wanted to.

"Three minutes early," Fez said, blowing out a stream of smoke. "Ain't late yet."

"Could still be a cop."

"Could be."

"You keep saying that."

"'Cause it's true."

Ash didn't respond. Just crossed his arms and stared out at the dark parking lot, his small face unreadable. Fez sometimes wondered what it must be like inside his brother's head. If he was scared. If he ever got tired. Ash never showed it. He just stood there, solid as a pit bull, ready to bite if things went sideways.

Headlights cut through the darkness.

Not a cop car - too old, too sleek. A Mustang. Cherry red. Vintage. It rolled into the lot with a low, throaty purr, chrome catching the flickering glow of the broken streetlight. Fez straightened slightly, dropping the cigarette and crushing it under his sneaker.

"Nice car," Ash muttered.

"Yeah."

The engine cut. Silence rushed back in. Through the tinted windshield, Fez could just make out a silhouette. Small. Waiting. After a long moment, the driver's side door opened.

And you stepped out.

The first thing he registered was the heels. Strappy. Pink. Six inches, easy. The kind of shoes that announced themselves before you did, clicking sharp against the asphalt like a countdown. His gaze traveled up, long legs, a white dress that skimmed your thighs, a coat the color of cotton candy cinched tight at the waist. Gold glittered at your ears and wrists. Your hair fell in soft waves past your shoulders, and even in the dim light he could see your nails, perfectly shaped and painted the same shade of pink as the coat.

You looked like a cupcake. Like a trap.

"What the fuck," Ash breathed.

Fez didn't answer. His brain was still buffering, trying to reconcile the professional, clipped messages with the woman walking toward them. You moved like you owned the parking lot, the night, the whole damn city. Chin up. Shoulders back. A small smile playing at the corners of your mouth, like you knew exactly what he was thinking.

You stopped a few feet away, close enough to talk but far enough to run. Smart.

"Fezco?" Your voice was sweeter than he'd imagined. Soft. Warm. Like honey poured over steel.

He realized he hadn't said anything yet. He cleared his throat.

"Yeah."

You extended your manicured hand, the small smile widening into a Cheshire grin. Lip gloss shimmered in the moonlight.

"I'm D." You tilted your head, waiting for him to shake.

He took your hand. Your grip was firmer than he'd expected, your palm warm against his. The acrylics pressed lightly into the back of his hand-not painful, just present. A reminder that the softness had edges.

"D," he repeated, letting go. "That your name?"

"D stands for something else." Your eyes glittered with amusement. "I'm Y/n. My old mentor was Dante. That's where the D comes from."

Fez filed that away. Dante. The name rang a faint bell, something from years back, whispers in the kind of circles that didn't make it to polite conversation. A businessman. A legend in certain circles.

"Dante," he said slowly. "Heard of him. Didn't know he had a.. princess."

"Most people didn't." Your smile flickered, just for a second, something softer and sadder bleeding through before you tucked it away. "He liked it that way. Kept me out of the spotlight until I was ready."

"And now?"

"Now I'm ready."

Ash shifted his weight behind Fez, a silent reminder that they were still standing in a dark parking lot. Fez cleared his throat and jerked his chin toward the back door.

"Come inside. We can talk."

You followed him, heels clicking steadily on the asphalt, completely unbothered by the dim lighting or the barred windows or the way Ash kept glaring at you like you might sprout fangs. Inside the store, you draped your pink coat over a dusty chair near the counter and turned to face them both, hands clasped loosely in front of you. Patient. Poised.

"So." You looked from Fez to Ash and back again. "You've been having supply issues. Your last connect flaked. You've been buying smaller, paying more, and stretching product thinner than you'd like. That about sum it up?"

Fez tensed. "You been asking around about me?"

You scoffed, like it was obvious. "Of course I have. Running this business, you gotta know your clients inside and out," you hummed, examining your nails. "If you're not doing that, that's probably why your people flake out. You're not choosing the right ones."

Fez opened his mouth. Closed it. Behind him, Ash made a sound that might've been a laugh. It was stifled quick, but Fez heard it anyway.

He didn't have a rebuttal. You weren't wrong. His last connect had been a recommendation from someone he'd trusted, and that trust had blown up in his face. He'd been so focused on keeping the day-to-day running that he'd let his vetting slip. It stung to hear it from a stranger in pink stilettos, but the sting meant it was true.

"Aight," he admitted, shoving his hands in his hoodie pocket. "Fair."

Your eyes flicked up from your nails, something like approval glinting in them. "At least you can take criticism. That's rare."

"It's rare 'cause most people don't like being told they're messing up."

"Most people stay messy, then." You shrugged. "Their loss."

You unclasped your tiny lipstick-shaped purse and pulled out a velvet pouch, sliding it across the counter toward him. The movement was casual, practiced, like you'd done it a thousand times.

"Sample. On the house. See what you're missing."

Fez nodded at Ash. The kid stepped forward, still watching you with those sharp, suspicious eyes, and took the pouch. He disappeared into the back room without a word.

Silence filled the room. Fez's blue eyes, missing nothing, analyzed you thoroughly. You stared back, crossing your arms. Without asking, you took a seat in the chair that held your jacket, waiting patiently.

"How old are you?" Fez asked.

You answered honestly. Honesty was important.

"Nineteen." You hummed.

Nineteen. Fez didn't know why that surprised him; maybe it was the way you carried yourself, the weight of someone who'd been doing this for decades instead of years. But no.

"Huh," he said.

"Huh?" You tilted your head, amused. "What's that mean?"

"Means you're younger than I thought."

"You're what, twenty? Don't act like you got years on me."

"Twenty-one." He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms to mirror you. "Just figured someone runnin' an operation like yours would be... older."

"Dante started teaching me at fifteen. I've been doing this for four years." You examined your cuticles, unbothered. "Age doesn't mean much in this line of work."

The back door creaked open. Ash reappeared, velvet pouch in hand. He caught Fez's eye and nodded once. Clean. Good quality. The tension in Fez's shoulders eased a fraction.

"Told you," you said, not smug, just satisfied.

"How much?"

You named your price. Fair. Better than fair.

"That includes delivery," you added. "I come to you. Every Tuesday. Same time, same place. No middlemen, no runners. Just me."

"Why?"

You blinked. "Why what?"

"Why you sellin' to me?" He gestured at the store, at you, at this whole situation. "You could sell anywhere. Why me?"

You shrugged, grinning.

"I liked what I heard about you. Reliable. Plus, no one raising a kid in this world could be some flaky pussy."

Ash snorted. Actually snorted. A sharp, surprised sound that he tried to cover with a cough. Fez just stared at you for a second, caught somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to laughter.

Then the corner of his mouth tugged up despite himself. "That your professional assessment?"

"It's served me well so far." You leaned back in the chair, crossing your legs with the casual elegance of someone who'd just commented on the weather. "You'd be amazed how many people in this business turn out to be flaky pussies. It's an epidemic."

"That so."

"Tragic, really." You examined your nails, the picture of mock solemnity. "All these big tough dealers, and the second things get hard, they fold. And short you and hope you won't notice." Your eyes flicked up to meet his. "You didn't strike me as that type. Was I wrong?"

Fez held your gaze. "No."

"Didn't think so." You stood, smoothing down your dress, and extended your hand. "So. We got a deal?"

He took your hand. Firm grip. Warm palm. Acrylics pressing lightly against his skin.

"Yeah," he said. "We got a deal."

The deal was simple. Easy to commit to, even easier to follow through with. Every Tuesday night, you'd bring him what you had to offer, and he'd pay for it. Sometimes, you'd grab a snack from out front of the store and chat to him while he counted shit out. Sometimes you'd tease and fuck with Ashtray, who'd gotten used to you finally a couple of weeks ago when he'd realized you weren't some sparkly narc. You became friends, almost close friends. Fez respected you, Ash admired you (even though he'd never say that shit), and you had come to like both of them. Very much.

Maybe Fez more than you'd let yourself admit.

On occasion, you sat in the living room with him until 3AM, sharing a blunt and telling stories. You'd hear him laugh - actually laugh, not just a stifled chuckle. He'd tell you about his shitty childhood, his badass grandma that you reminded him of. He'd tell you about how much he loved Ashtray and wanted to see him succeed.

You'd exchange eye contact. The type you tried to ignore, but simultaneously couldn't. Tension. Heaviness, but still soft. You always told him to be safe when you left, and he'd always say he'd try his best. It was a promise, though, hidden behind Fez's standoffishness.

Today, shit was weird. Shit was concerning. Because you, normally polished and up-beat, were bruised and bloody.

The Mustang pulled up at the usual time, but you didn't get out right away. Fez noticed that first. He was leaning against the back door, a fresh blunt between his fingers, and the seconds stretched long enough that he started to straighten up, a prickle of unease creeping down his spine.

The door opened, and you stepped out. You didn't wear heels tonight - flats, scuffed at the toes, but still clean. Your hair was in a high bun, messy ringlets falling into your face rather than your usual roller curls. Your coat was still pink, but a red stain tainted the front. You wore makeup, as usual, but it didn't fully hide the split in your lip or the dark bruise blooming along your cheekbone.

Fez went very still.

"Oh shit," Ash said.

You walked toward them like nothing was different, but your usual stride was off. Slightly stiff. Favoring your right side.

"I'm fine," you said before either of them could ask. Your voice was steady. Tired, but steady.

"You're bleedin'," Fez said. His voice came out flatter than he meant it to.

"It's not my blood." You held up a hand, and he saw now that your knuckles were split and raw, the pretty pink polish chipped in places. "Mostly."

He stared at you. You stared back.

"Inside," he said. "Now."

You rolled your eyes. "Fezco, I'm fine. I have product to-"

"Don't give a fuck," his voice was as calm as usual, chill, but it held a different vibe. A firm, uptight vibe. "Get inside, Y/n. Now."

Surprise flickered across your face. But you didn't argue. You'd never heard Fez talk like that. It may have had something to do with you being a lady or you being a distributor with such high status, but he'd never used any firm tones. For the first time since they'd met you, you didn't have a smart remark ready. You just followed them inside, Ash locking the door after them.

Fez didn't stop walking until he was in the back room, the one with the worn couch and the old TV and the stacks of inventory that lined the walls. He turned to face you, arms crossed, jaw tight.

"Sit."

You sat. Not because you were scared of him - you weren't scared of anyone - but because the way he was looking at you made something in your chest twist. Concern. Real, genuine concern. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at you like that.

Ash hovered near the doorway, arms crossed, face unreadable as always. But he wasn't glaring anymore. His eyes kept darting to the bruise on your cheek, the blood on your coat. He was analyzing the damage.

And he was a little snitch.

"She ain't even putting any pressure on her right." He said, acknowledging the way your body leaned to the left like you were afraid to let your right ribs feel any pressure. "Somethin's under the coat."

You shot Ash a look. A warning. He didn't flinch, the little traitor.

Fez's gaze dropped to your torso, to the way you were holding yourself. The stiff, careful posture. The arm tucked just slightly against your right side. He'd been so focused on your face, your hands, the blood, that he hadn't noticed. But Ash had. Ash noticed everything.

"Take off the coat," Fez said.

"It's fine."

Fez moved, reaching for the right side of your pink coat, but before he could lay his fingers on it, you moved in retaliation. Your fingers wrapped around the gun in your thigh holster, tearing it out and pointing it towards the man. A Glock 19, sleek and packed.

It was supposed to deter him. To get him away. You were afraid of the concern, afraid of the care. It had been so long since someone gave a shit.

The only catch was that Fezco wasn't deterred. Your finger wasn't even near the trigger. You were just waving it around. He knew a scare tactic when he saw one, and you weren't particularly scary to him. Last week, you had literally been playing Crash Bandicoot with Ash on his Playstation.

He rolled his eyes.

"Put that shit away. 'Fore I take it from you."

Your grip tightened on the Glock. "Back off, Fezco."

"No."

The word was simple. Flat. He didn't even blink. Just stood there, arms crossed, looking at you like you were a kitten hissing at a bear.

"I'll shoot your-"

With an impatient yet passive grunt, he plucked the gun from your hand, clicking the safety on and tossing it onto the table behind him. He worked his jaw in annoyance, annoyance you'd never even seen him wear.

"You ain't shootin' shit. Take the coat off. I don't wanna have to do it and have you kickin' and screamin' and shit at midnight."

You stared at him. No one had ever disarmed you that easily. No one had ever dared try. And he'd done it like you were a child waving around a toy.

"Fez-"

"Y/n." His voice was still calm, still low, but there was steel underneath. "You're bleedin' through your shirt. You can barely stand straight. You just pointed a gun at me, which, by the way, we gonna talk about later. Right now, I need you to let me help you. Can you do that?"

Ash snickered from the doorway. "She really tried to shoot you."

"She didn't try shit. Finger wasn't even on the trigger." Fez didn't look away from you. "She's just scared."

"I'm not scared," you said, but your voice came out smaller than you wanted it to.

Ash came forward. He sat on the couch next to you, his voice soft but still a bit raspy. His eyes were still locked onto you, but you couldn't meet them. The kid was too perceptive, just too smart.

"You are scared. We ain't gonna hurt you. But we don't want you bleedin' out in here."

His fingers inched forward. You looked up at the ceiling, purposefully trying to ignore what was happening. Trying to ignore that they were exploring your bleeding wounds, your vulnerabilities, and you had no idea what their intentions were. People always had intentions. They had since you were 15 - ulterior motives, reasons to do what they were doing. But you couldn't read theirs. And that was what scared you.

Ash slowly pulled the shoulder of your coat down. Complete silence fell upon the room.

Underneath, your white blouse was ruined. A dark red stain spread across the right side. The fabric was torn, and beneath the tear, wrapped haphazardly around your ribs, was a bandage. Amateur work. Uneven. Already soaking through. The tear in the fabric revealed the edge of the wound itself, jagged and still seeping.

Fez inhaled sharply through his nose. He didn't say anything. But his hands, still raised from taking your gun, curled into fists at his sides.

Ash was the one who broke the silence.

"That's a lot of blood," he said quietly. Not squeamish. Not scared. Just observing. Cataloging. Like he was memorizing every detail for later use.

"I know," you said. Your voice sounded far away, even to yourself.

Ash, gently working your arm out of the sleeve, let the coat fall. You were limp, accepting your fate.

"You were tryin' to do business with a stab wound. And it's not even bandaged right." Ash said. His tone was almost comical, a motherly lecture. But you honestly hurt too much to laugh. "Looks like shit. You're bleeding still. Bad."

"I was in a hurry," you muttered.

"A hurry to bleed out on our couch?"

"Didn't plan on bleeding out. Planned on dropping off product and going home."

Ash gave you a look. It was the kind of look a disappointed parent might give a child who'd done something particularly stupid. Coming from a fourteen-year-old with a teardrop tattoo, it was almost surreal.

"Dumbest shit I've ever heard," he said.

Fez still hadn't spoken. He was staring at the wound, at the soaked-through bandage, at the jagged edges of torn skin visible through the rip in your blouse. When he finally looked up at your face, his expression was unreadable.

"Ash," he said. "Get the suture kit. And clean towels."

Ash slid off the couch and disappeared down the hall. Fez moved closer, crouching in front of you again. He reached for the hem of your blouse, then paused, eyes meeting yours.

"Gotta take this off too," he said. "Can't fix you through the shirt."

You hesitated. It wasn't modesty - you'd lost that years ago, in and out of motel rooms and back-alley patch-ups. It was the vulnerability. The exposure. The fact that once the shirt came off, there was nothing left to hide behind.

But Fez was waiting. Patient. His hands hovering, not touching. Letting you decide.

"Okay," you said finally. "Just... do it."

He was careful. So careful it made your throat tight. He helped you lift your arms, the right one barely moving, the pain too sharp, and eased the ruined blouse over your head. His eyes stayed on the wound, clinical and focused, never wandering.

Underneath, the bandage was even worse than it had looked through the shirt. Wrapped too loose in some places, too tight in others. The blood had soaked through multiple layers. And the wound itself - when Fez gently peeled back the edge of the bandage - was ugly. Jagged. Still oozing.

"Who did this?" Fez asked. His voice was calm. Dangerously calm.

"Fez."

He sighed, looking up at you. His eyes held a message - no more bullshit.

"You gonna tell me who did this? Or do I gotta test out my detective skills 'n shit?"

"Why does it matter who did it?"

Silence for a moment.

"'Cuz I'm gonna kill his ass."

The words hung in the air. Flat. Certain. Like he was commenting on the weather.

You blinked. "You're not killing anyone."

"The hell I'm not."

"Fezco."

"Y/n." He said your name the same way you'd said his. A mirror. A challenge. "Somebody put a hole in your side. You think I'm just gonna let that slide?"

"It's handled."

"Handled means he's still breathin'."

"He's got two bullets in his leg and a broken nose. He's not breathing easy."

"Not good enough."

Ash hadn't moved from his spot on the couch. His eyes flicked between the two of you like he was watching a tennis match. "Nah, Y/n, that motherfucker is going in the ground. Wouldn't be right if not."

You turned your head to look at him, ignoring the spike of pain the movement caused. "Ash, you're fourteen."

"Age ain't got nothing to do with it." He shrugged, casual as anything. "Someone stabs you, they don't get to walk around after. That's just how it works."

"That's not-"

"You shot him twice and he's still breathing. That's a loose end." Ash's voice was flat, matter-of-fact, like he was explaining basic math to someone who wasn't getting it. "Loose ends get people killed. You know that. Fez knows that. I know that. Only person who don't seem to know that is the guy who stabbed you, and he's about to find out the hard way."

"You ain't comin'," Fez said without looking at his brother.

"I'm definitely coming."

"You're staying here with Y/n."

"She don't need a babysitter. She's got a gun."

"She just pointed that gun at me ten minutes ago. She's clearly not thinkin' straight."

"I'm right here," you said.

Both of them ignored you.

"If I stay here, who's gonna watch your back?" Ash crossed his arms. "You always say never go in alone. I heard you tell Rue that. I heard you tell Mouse that. Now you're gonna go after some guy who already stabbed one person tonight and you're gonna do it solo? That's stupid."

"He's got a point," you muttered.

"I said stay out of this."

"You're not my boss either," Ash shot back. "You're my brother. That means we do this together. Same as everything else."

The room went quiet. Fez stared at Ash. Ash stared back. Neither of them blinked.

Finally, Fez exhaled through his nose. "Fine. But you stay behind me the whole time. You don't move unless I say move. And if anything goes sideways, you run. You don't look back. You understand me?"

"Understood."

"I mean it, Ash. You run."

"I said understood." Ash stood, brushing off his jeans. "We going tonight?"

"Nah. Tomorrow. Let him sit with those bullets in his leg for a minute." Fez finally looked back at you. "You got an address?"

You should've said no. You should've told them to drop it, to let you handle your own mess. That was what you always did. What you'd been doing since you were fifteen.

But you looked at Fez, at the steady certainty in his eyes, the way his hands were still curled into fists, the way he'd stitched you up without hesitation and talked about killing for you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then you looked at Ash, at the fourteen-year-old who'd held your hand while you bled, who'd called you stupid with the affection of a brother, who was now calmly discussing a murder like it was a weekend errand.

"There's a warehouse on Fifth and Darrow," you said quietly. "Industrial district. Old meatpacking plant. He uses the basement level as a hideout."

Fez nodded, filing the information away. "Anyone with him?"

"The two guys who ran earlier might have circled back. Couldn't say for sure."

"We'll handle it."

You sighed.

"If you're going to do this, you do it clean. No mess. No attention. I meant what I said earlier, I don't need a murder investigation screwing up my supply chain."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "You worried about your supply chain? Right now?"

"Business doesn't stop just because I got stabbed."

Ash snorted. "She's got a point."

He reached for the suture kit again, threading the needle with steady hands. "Don't move. This is gonna sting." You let him work. The first stitch went in, sharp and burning, and your hand found Ash's again. He held on without complaint.

"You know," you said through gritted teeth, staring at the ceiling, "most business partners don't offer to kill people for each other."

"We ain't most business partners," Fez said.

"No. I guess we're not."

Another stitch. Another spike of pain. Ash's grip tightened around your fingers.

"When this is over," you said, "I'm buying you both dinner. Something nice. Not gas station snacks."

"We like gas station snacks."

"Something healthier than gas station snacks."

"That's ain't a high bar," Ash said.

"Shut up."

"You shut up. You're the one who got stabbed."

"I didn't get stabbed. I got cut with a broken bottle. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Absolutely. Stabbing implies precision. This was messy."

Fez tied off the last stitch and sat back on his heels, shaking his head. "You the only person I know who would argue while actively bleeding out."

"Not actively bleeding out anymore. You fixed it." You looked down at the fresh bandage, the neat row of stitches beneath.

He shrugged. "Don't mention it."

"I mean it. Both of you." You looked at Ash, then back at Fez. "I'm not good at this stuff. People doing things for me, actually giving a fuck." You stopped. Swallowed. "You didn't have to do any of this."

Ash let go of your hand and stood, stretching. "Can we stop with the emotional stuff? I'm tryna go to bed. We got a busy day tomorrow."

"Murder is a busy day," you said, shrugging.

"It's on the to-do list." He headed for the door, pausing at the threshold. "Night, Y/n. Don't bleed on the couch. It's ugly enough already."

"Night, Ash."

He disappeared down the hall. Fez lingered, gathering the bloody supplies, tossing them into a trash bag.

"You know he likes you," Fez said quietly. "He don't offer to kill people for just anyone."

You snorted, letting yourself lean back onto the couch. Your head lolled against the ugly floral pillows, watching Fez with somewhat relaxed eyes.

"Didn't think murder was a love language. This business teaches you a lot of things."

He sighed, sitting down next to you. Ignoring the blood smeared into the cushions. The silence, once heavy, was now comfortable. These nights, here in Fez's presence, were normally the most relaxed you got to be.

"Nah. It don't teach you nothing good." He admitted, his eyes finally moving over to you. The weight of his gaze was different now. Softer. He wasn't looking at the wound or the bruises or the blood on your ruined blouse. He was looking at you. Just you.

"Dante taught me a lot," you said quietly. "Some of it was good, some of it wasn't, but he taught me how to survive. I don't know if that's the same thing."

"Survival ain't living."

"You sound like a fortune cookie."

"I'm serious." He shifted on the couch, turning to face you. "You spend too much time survivin' and doin' nothing else. You push away all the real shit about you."

You didn't have an answer for that. You'd been running for so long, running Dante's operation, running from enemies, running from the grief of losing the only father figure you'd ever known, that you'd never stopped to think about what came after. What happened when the running was over.

"Maybe I forgot."

"Forgot what?"

"How to be a person." You swallowed. "Y/n. Whoever that is."

Fez didn't say anything. He just waited patiently and steadily. The way he always was, without being frantic or angry.

"Dante used to say I was born for this," you continued. "Said I had a gift, and I do, I think. I'm really good at this shit. But sometimes I wonder if I'm good at anything else. If there's anything else left."

"There is."

"You don't know that."

"Yeah, I do." He shifted closer, his knee brushing yours. "I seen it. When you're playin' Crash Bandicoot with Ash and you let him win 'cause you know his ego can't take another loss. And you bring those fancy snacks from the organic store even though you know I got a whole aisle of chips right here. You talk about Dante and your voice gets all sappy and shit, like you're still that fifteen-year-old girl he pulled off the street."

"I don't let Ash win. He's just better than me at Crash Bandicoot."

"Bullshit. You let him win every time. I ain't stupid. I notice everything," Fez said, as if reading your mind. "About you. Always have, even the sad shit."

The words hung in the air between you. Heavy. Meaningful. Your heart was beating faster than it should've been for someone who'd just lost a concerning amount of blood. You swallowed hard, feeling his blue eyes on your face. You couldn't ignore how your chest felt. Like when you were in 8th grade and you were meeting up with your crush for your first kiss.

You turned and met his eyes. You thought your heart would explode, but he was just too intoxicating.

"I notice you, too. At first, it was just business. Now it's.." You couldn't finish.

"Personal." He finished for you, his voice a low, solid sound.

Yeah." The word came out barely above a whisper. "Personal."

He didn't move. Didn't push. Just sat there, knee brushing yours, those blue eyes steady and patient. Waiting for you to decide what came next. You both knew what was being said. It was an exchange of unspoken words through the spoken ones. A language that only the two of you understood.

It was in the way he'd taken your gun without flinching. The way he'd stitched you up with hands steadier than any doctor's. The way he'd promised to kill a man for you and meant it. The way he was looking at you now, like you were something precious. Something worth protecting and waiting for, and a language written on a wall that he understood completely.

"Dante always told me there was nothing personal about business." You said quietly.

His lip quirked up a little, that lazy smile that he wore. Usually, when he was high. But there was no weed involved. He was high on something else.

"I don't think this is business no more, ma."

You exhaled, your eyes still on his face. The steadiness on it, the lack of panic. As if he hadn't just signed himself up to kill for you, and wasn't subtly admitting he wanted to be more than business partners. You fought the urge to shudder.

"I'm scared. To be honest." Your voice was small.

"Of what?"

"This," you chuckled breathlessly. "It's dangerous. It's wrong to feel this.. when you're dealing drugs and running around with people who could kill you. This will kill you quicker than any gun."

Fez cleared his throat.

"Like I said before.. Business got you so outta touch. You a real person, not just a distributor," he said, his hands shoved into his pockets, as if to resist touching.

You stared at him. At his hands, buried in his hoodie like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for you. At the tension in his jaw, the way he was fighting every instinct to close the distance between you.

"Dante-"

"Dante's dead." His voice was gentle, but firm. "I ain't tryna be disrespectful. I know he was like a father to you. I know he taught you everything. But he's gone, Y/n. And you're still here, runnin' his operation and killin' it. But you ain't livin'. You're just... survivin'."

"Survival kept me alive."

"Survival kept you alone." He pulled one hand from his pocket, gesturing at the room around them. "Look where you at. It's two in the morning. You got stabbed. You showed up at my store 'cause some part of you knew that this was the safest place you could be. Not a hospital. Not your own crib. Here. With me and Ash." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "That ain't survival. It's some shit you been fightin' 'cause you think it makes you weak."

"What is it, then?"

"Trust." He said it simply. Like it was obvious. "You trust us. You trust me. And that scares you 'cuz you think it's wrong."

You didn't answer. You couldn't. Because he was right. He was right about all of it.

"I ain't gonna lie and say this life ain't dangerous," he continued. "It is. People die, they go to prison. I know that's some scary ass business. But pushin' everyone away don't make you safer. It just makes you lonely. And you been lonely a long time."

"How do you know?"

"'Cause I was too. Before Ash and Rue. And before you." He pulled his other hand from his pocket and reached for you, slow, giving you time to pull away. "I ain't gonna let nothin' happen to you. And I ain't gonna let you push me away 'cause you think carin' about someone is wrong. It's the only thing that makes this shit worth it."

You looked at his outstretched hand. Scarred knuckles. Blunt nails. The hand that had taken your gun, stitched you up and held you steady.

"You're really not gonna let this go, are you?"

"Nope."

"And if I try to push you away?"

"I'mma push back."

"If I tell you it's too dangerous?"

"I'll tell you you're wrong."

"You're annoying," you whispered.

"Yeah. You've mentioned that before."

"I'm serious, Fez. This is-"

"Dangerous, whatever else. I heard you the first time." He still hadn't lowered his hand. "You done?"

"Done?"

"Done listin' reasons we shouldn't do this. 'Cause I got a whole list of reasons we should, and my list is longer."

You shook, but you finally lowered your fingers into his. You intertwined them through his calloused ones, feeling his warmth and feeling the certainty of all his words. His words were comforting, solid, and never panicked. His touch was exactly the same - the most sure thing you'd ever felt.

He looked down at your hand, brushing a small smudge of blood off the back of it. He smoothed a finger over your damaged knuckles.

"'S easy now, right?" He said softly. "Lettin' yourself feel shit instead of fightin'."

You stared at your joined hands, at his thumb tracing gentle circles over your bruised skin. At the way his palm dwarfed yours. At the scars on his hand.

You didn't respond. Instead, you started to cry.

You knew why the tears were gathering. Not because Fez had done something wrong. You were crying because of Dante, you were crying because you got stabbed, and you were crying because your favorite silky white blouse was completely ruined. You took a breath of air, looking up at the ceiling, refusing to let the tears drop from your eyes.

You were crying because you felt safe enough to do it.

"Fuck." You said, a watery, breathless laugh puffing from your lips.

Fez, his face developing a slight frown, gently turned you towards him a bit more.

"You hurtin'?" He was worried about the stab wound. Maybe the bottle had hit something more important than they'd thought.

You sniffled, pressing down on your eyes with the heels of your hands. You almost didn't want to answer. It was so embarrassing, you were worried he wouldn't understand. He wouldn't understand that beneath the distributor was still a girl who cared about her clothes.

"C'mon, ma. Talk to me."

You laughed again, though it was tearful.

"My blouse. It's ruined."

Silence. You couldn't look at him. Couldn't bear to see the confusion, the judgment, the reminder that you were supposed to be tougher than this. You were the boss. The distributor. The girl who'd shot a man twice and driven herself to a convenience store with a hole in her side. And here you were, crying over fabric.

The blouse, ripped and covered in blood, was at the other end of the couch, discarded.

Fez was still quiet, gears turning.

"We can get you a new one. Tomorrow." He said softly. Not judgmental. Not questioning or rude.

Another sniffle, then a sob.

"But that one.. It was designer."

Fez looked at the ruined blouse. Then back at you. His expression didn't change, still soft, still patient, but something flickered in his eyes. Understanding.

"Designer," he repeated. "Like, fancy designer? The kind with the names?"

"The kind with the names," you confirmed, your voice wobbling. "Vintage Dior. Fall 2004 collection. I found it at this little shop in SoHo. The owner didn't know what she had. I paid two hundred dollars for something worth ten times that."

Silence again.

Another string of sobs, embarrassed and full of mixed emotions, dribbled from your lips. Your face was officially wet. Then an arm, nudging you closer.

"Shh, c'mere."

You went. You didn't have the strength to resist, didn't have the walls left to keep him at arm's length. You let him pull you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you careful and warm, mindful of your bandaged ribs. Your face pressed into the soft fabric of his hoodie, and you cried. Really cried. The kind of crying you hadn't done since you were a kid, since before Dante, since before you learned that tears were a luxury you couldn't afford.

He didn't tell you it was okay or that it was just a blouse or that you were being silly. He just held you, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles on your back. His heartbeat was steady under your ear. Solid. Calm.

"I got you," he murmured. "Let it out. I got you."

"I'm sorry," you hiccuped into his chest. "I'm getting snot on your hoodie."

"I got other hoodies."

"It's a nice hoodie."

"It's from Target. Cost me twelve bucks. You can ruin ten of 'em if you want."

A watery laugh escaped you. "Target doesn't sell twelve-dollar hoodies."

"Okay, it was fifteen. You caught me." His hand smoothed over your hair. 

You let yourself cry for the blouse and the broken bottle and the two years of loneliness. For Dante, who'd never see what you'd built. For the girl you'd been at fifteen. For every night you'd patched yourself up alone. And for the fact that you weren't alone anymore.

And through all of it, Fez held you. Steady. Patient. A solid anchor in the storm.

When the sobs finally faded into hiccups, you pulled back just enough to look up at him. His hoodie was damp. His eyes were soft. He reached up and wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

"Better?" he asked.

"A little." You sniffled. "My face is a mess."

"You look beautiful."

"I have mascara all over my cheeks."

"Yeah. Beautiful."

"You're lying."

"I ain't never lied to you." He said it simply. Like it was a fact. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Not once. Not gonna start now."

You stared at him. At the freckles. The scar. The steady blue eyes that had seen straight through every wall you'd ever built.

"What did I do to deserve you?" you whispered.

"Nah." He shook his head. "That's my line."

You turned slightly to wipe your face, smudging your mascara further.

"I should let you sleep. You and Ash have shit to do tomorrow."

Fez looked down at you, cradled in his arms like an injured bird. He looked over at the blood soaked blouse, and immediately, his mind was made.

"You ain't driving home tonight."

You scoffed, a small smirk forming on your face.

"This is a business partnership. You're not my boss." You asserted, although weakly.

Fez hummed, still rubbing soft circles into your back. "Told you it ain't business no more. And Ash swiped your car keys earlier, so you ain't leavin' anyway."

You pulled back just enough to stare at him, your mouth falling open. "He what?"

"Swiped your keys. When he sat down next to you. Kid's got quick hands. Learned from his grandma."

"That little-" You looked toward the hallway where Ash had disappeared, then back at Fez. The smirk on his face was infuriatingly calm. "You were never gonna let me leave."

"Guilty."

You rolled your eyes. "Why?"

"I want you to stay where I can see you." He said it without embarrassment, without hesitation. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. "You're hurtin', not as strong. Somebody's still out there who wants to hurt you more. If you're here, I know you're safe. That's all."

You looked at him. At the steady certainty in his eyes. At the way his arm was still wrapped around you, holding you close but not too tight. At the ugly plaid couch and the flickering TV and the stacks of inventory lining the walls. You softened.

"You have anywhere for me to sleep besides the bloody couch?" You said quietly, but not angrily, giving up on fighting.

He cleared his throat. "I can take it. You can have my room. 'Long as you don't mind guns. A lot of 'em."

"I'm not kicking you out of your bed."

"You ain't kickin' me out. I'm offerin'." He shifted, already moving to stand. "C'mon. I'll show you where it is. Got clean sheets and everything. Put 'em on last week."

You frowned. "You're really giving me your bed."

"Yeah."

"And you're gonna sleep on the couch."

"Yeah."

"On the bloody couch."

"I'll throw a towel over it. It'll be fine." He wiggled his fingers. "You gonna take my hand, or we gonna debate furniture all night?"

You took his hand. He pulled you up gently, careful of your ribs, steadying you when you swayed slightly on your feet.

"Easy," he murmured. "You lost a lot of blood. Don't need you passin' out on me."

"I'm not gonna pass out."

He led you down the hallway, past the bathroom and what you assumed was Ash's room, door closed, no light underneath, to the last door at the end. His room was simple. A bed with a plain navy comforter, a nightstand with a lamp and a book you couldn't quite make out in the dim light, a closet with the door slightly ajar. True to his word, there were guns. A shotgun propped in the corner. A handgun on the nightstand. A rifle mounted on the wall above the bed.

"Told you," he said, following your gaze. "Lot of 'em."

"I'm not intimidated by guns, Fez."

"I know you're not. Just warnin' you in case you rolled over and got a face full of barrel."

"Your pillow talk needs work."

He laughed, a warm sound you'd gotten used to. You didn't know it was only for you.

"Shit, I'll remember for next time."

The implication hung in the air. Next time. Like there would be a next time. Like this wasn't a one-off, an emergency, a favor he was doing for a business associate.

"You're very sure of yourself," you said quietly.

"'Bout some things. Yeah." He pulled back the comforter, revealing the clean sheets he'd promised. "Bathroom's the next door down. There's a clean shirt on the dresser if you want somethin' to sleep in. It's gonna be huge on you, but it's better than-" He gestured vaguely at your ruined blouse.

"Better than sleeping in a bloody Dior?"

"For sure."

You stood in the doorway, suddenly very aware that you were in his bedroom. His space. Surrounded by his things, his guns, his books, his clean sheets. You felt awful. This was his space, and you were taking it up.

You couldn't let him sleep on the dirty couch.

"Fez."

He turned back, one eyebrow raised. "Yeah?"

"You're not sleeping on the couch."

"It's fine. I've slept on worse. Slept in the back of the Cadillac once. Couch is luxury compared to that."

"There's blood on it. That's disgusting."

"I'mma throw a towel down. Told you that already, ma."

Silence for a moment. You stood there staring at each other.

"Fezco," you said, preparing yourself for the move you were about to make. "Sleep with me. Please? I.. I don't want to sleep alone."

The words hung in the air between you. Vulnerable. Raw. Nothing like the polished, put-together distributor who'd walked into his store months ago in six-inch heels and a pink trench coat. This was just you. Asking for what you needed. Terrified he might say no.

Fez's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. Softened. Deepened.

"You sure?"

"I wouldn't ask if I wasn't."

He held your gaze for a beat longer. Then he nodded, slow and steady.

"Aight." He pushed off the doorframe and walked back toward the bed. "Which side you want?"

"Don't care. Just want you to stay."

"I'm stayin'." He pulled back the comforter on the left side and climbed in, then held it open for you. "C'mon. Before you fall over. You're swayin' a little."

You were. The exhaustion and blood loss were catching up, making the edges of your vision blur. You slid into the right side of the bed, hyper-aware of the warmth of him inches away, the clean scent of his sheets, the gun on the nightstand glinting in the dim light.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You lay there side by side, staring at the ceiling, the silence stretching. Then, you turned towards him, shifting up. He did the same, face-to-face. His warmth spread closer to you.

You broke the silence.

"Your eyes are pretty."

He blinked. Then, slowly, that lazy smile spread across his face. The one you'd come to know. The one that made your chest feel too tight and too warm all at once.

"You hittin' on me, ma?"

"Maybe." You were too tired to deflect, too drained to put the walls back up. "Is it working?"

"Yeah." His voice was softer now. Lower. "It's workin'."

"Good."

The space between you felt electric. His face was inches from yours, close enough that you could count his freckles if you wanted to. Close enough that you could see the way his pupils had widened, the way his gaze kept dropping to your mouth and then back up to your eyes.

"You got pretty eyes too," he said quietly. "Always thought so. Since that first night. You stepped out the car and looked at me and I thought.." He paused.

"What?"

"I thought, 'Damn. That's gonna be a problem.'"

"A problem?"

"Mmhmm. 'Cause I knew right then. You were gonna mess up my whole life." His hand found yours under the covers again. "And I was right. You messed it all up. I was fine before you. Just business. Just me and Ash. And then you showed up with your pink heels, your glittery ass gun and your organic snacks and now I'm plannin' a murder, shoppin' for vintage blouses and sharin' my bed for the first time in-" He stopped and thought. "Ever, actually. Never shared my bed before."

"Never?"

"Never wanted to. Not 'til you."

You stared at him. This man who'd killed people. Who'd raised a child that wasn't his. Who'd built an empire in a convenience store and still found time to buy granola just in case you were hungry when you showed up. Who was looking at you like you were the most precious thing he'd ever held.

"I must be a really special girl." You said softly, cool breath fanning over his face.

"For real. You don't know how special, ma."

Your heart stuttered. The way he said it, not like a line, not like flattery. Like a fact. Like he was stating something obvious, something undeniable, something he'd known for a long time and was just now getting around to saying out loud. You couldn't even speak, your chest squeezed so hard you felt like your heart might explode.

"Y/n?" He saif, gruff voice gentle.

".. Yeah?" You managed.

"Gonna kiss you now. That okay?"

You didn't answer with words. You just nodded, a small, breathless movement, your eyes never leaving his.

He leaned in slow. Giving you time to change your mind. To pull back. To put the walls up one last time. But you didn't. You stayed exactly where you were, heart pounding, ribs aching, feeling more alive than you had in years.

His lips encased yours. There was no desperation, like you'd drunkenly had before with some random man outside of a bar. It was soft and deliberate, like worship and reverence. His hand came up to gently cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek and tilting your face to just slightly fit against his. He kissed you with no rush, like there was all the time in the world to do this. Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be. Because truthfully, there wasn't.

You shifted closer, a manicured hand pressing against his chest. His heart thumped against it, steady. He smelled like woody aftershave and clean laundry and gunpowder. He made a sound low in his throat, something between a sigh and a hum, and it was the best thing you'd ever heard.

He was gentle with your body, his hand avoiding your bandages. He rubbed your back, gripping the t-shirt hanging loosely off your body. When he finally pulled back, his forehead came to rest against yours. His eyes stayed closed for a moment, his breath warm against your lips.

"Gotta be careful with you," he said, his voice low. "You ain't healed up yet. Not even close."

You could still feel the ghost of his lips on yours, the gentle pressure of his hand on your back. Your heart was racing, your skin tingling everywhere he'd touched.

"I'm not made of glass, Fez."

"I know you ain't. You're a tough girl." He opened his eyes, pulling back just enough to look at you. "But you got stabbed tonight and lost a shit tonna blood. I ain't about to be the guy who hurts you more 'cause he couldn't keep his hands to himself."

"You weren't hurting me."

He chuckled. "Could never. Not a chance. That's why we had to stop for the night."

You whined, flopping back against the pillows. He found you under the covers, putting a warm hand back around your waist.

"You gonna be fine. You lived through worse." He shifted closer, his chest pressing against your shoulder. "You want me to feel bad for bein' responsible?"

"I want you to feel bad for being a tease."

"I ain't a tease. I'm a gentleman who ain't gonna rip your stitches back open."

"You're annoying."

"You mentioned that. Lotta times tonight."

"Because it's the truth. Hot, but annoying."

He laughed, low and warm, his breath fanning over your hair. "You know what I think?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"I think you're just mad 'cause for the first time in your life, somebody's takin' care of you instead of the other way around. And you don't know what to do with it."

You opened your mouth to argue. Closed it. He wasn't wrong. God, he wasn't wrong.

"Now go to sleep, mama. We got shit to handle tomorrow."

And for the first time in two years, you fell asleep without fear. Quickly, surrounded by warmth and certainty. You even slept through the night, without a single nightmare.

When the morning light began to filter through the curtains, you even slept through that. However, you didn't sleep through Ashtray walking in.

"Yo, Fez, where's the -- what the fuck?"

You pulled the blankets over your head, groaning.

"Ash, man." Fez's voice was thick with sleep, but still somehow calm. You felt him shift beside you, the mattress dipping. "The hell you doin' bargin' in here?"

You heard a loud snort.

"I fuckin' knew it. I knew you two were feelin' each other!"

"Lower your voice. She's sleepin'."

"She's clearly awake, she just pulled the blankets over her head like a turtle." Footsteps. Then Ash's voice, closer now, directed at the lump of blankets that was you. "Y/n. I know you're awake."

You, sensing your defeat, came out from under the blankets. Ash's eyes widened further.

"In his clothes, too. That's wild, the Wu-Tang shirt," he said, an amused grin forming on his face. "My brother is dating his whole ass supplier!"

"It's not-we're not-" You looked to Fez for help. He was absolutely no help. He was lying back against the pillows, one arm behind his head, watching the whole thing with a lazy smile.

"Ash," Fez said calmly, "you gonna stand there and roast us all morning, or you gonna let my girlfriend sleep?"

Girlfriend. The word hit you square in the chest. You turned to stare at him. He met your eyes, that smile still playing at his lips, and shrugged.

"What? Too soon?"

"No, I just.." You blinked. "We didn't exactly define anything last night. There was a lot of blood."

"Consider it defined, ma."

Ash snorted.

"No way out now, girl. I knew it like, a month ago. You were hella close on the couch, making goo-goo eyes at each other."

"We were not making goo-goo eyes," you protested weakly.

"You definitely were. Fez would pass you the blunt and your fingers would touch and you'd both just-" Ash made a face, half disgusted, half delighted. "Stare at each other for like five seconds. Every time. Rue noticed it too. We had a whole conversation about it."

"You and Rue talk about us?"

"Someone has to. You two clearly weren't talkin' about it yourselves." He crunched a chip, a purple bag in his hand. "You're welcome, by the way."

"For what?"

"For stealin' your keys last night. If I hadn't, you woulda driven home and bled out on your fancy apartment floor and none of this-" He gestured broadly at the bed, the two of you, the situation in general. "-woulda happened. So technically, I'm the reason you're together. You owe me."

"We owe you, bruh?" Fez raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah. Big time. I'm thinkin' a new PlayStation game. Or maybe a car when I turn sixteen."

"You're fourteen."

"Fifteen in March. Never too early to start plannin'."

"Ash." Fez's voice was firm, but there was no real heat behind it. "Get out, man. Start breakfast and we can make a deal later."

"Fine. But this ain't over." He pointed a Takis-stained finger at you. "Y/n, you're my favorite supplier. Don't break his heart or I'll have to kill you. And I don't wanna kill you 'cause you bring those fancy snacks."

"Noted."

"Cool. Welcome to the family." He turned and headed for the door, calling over his shoulder: "Pancakes in ten. Don't do anything gross while I'm gone. The walls are thin and I've already seen enough."

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

The party reeked of liquor and perfumed sweat. Glitter swirled in the air, a purple hue falling onto your skin and making you feel like everything was a dream. Another party thrown by the football team - somewhere you wouldn't typically show your face. But your best friend didn't give you a choice this time.

Maddy's manicured hand gripped your arm, yanking you to her side.

"Bitch!" She exclaimed, her other hand thrusting a drink, full to the brim with something startlingly blue, into yours. "Drink. You aren't gonna be miserable tonight."

You stared the liquid down like it had personally offended you. The last thing you needed was to get sloppy drunk and embarrass yourself with how you'd been feeling recently. Depressed. Icky. Lonely, but too stubborn to reach out for company. And angry. You couldn't lie, the idea of taking revenge at a party had been alluring to you before. But now that you were here, it seemed too daring.

It was evident, though, that Maddie had finally had enough.

You took a breath to speak, trying to push the cup away.

"No." She held up a single finger, the acrylic tip painted with glaring red, and pressed it to your lips before you could protest. "I've watched you rot in your bedroom for like, a month. You've left me on read, bailed on that thing with Kat, and you haven't even let Cassie give her annoying mom-hug." Her eyes narrowed, dark and dangerous. "So tonight, you are going to drink this disgusting blue shit and have fun. With me."

Madeleine Perez had claimed you as her best friend freshman year without asking permission. She'd decided, correctly, somehow, that your energy was the perfect counterbalance to her whirlwind. She'd towed you into her orbit and never let go. Underneath the razor-sharp eyeliner and the casual cruelty she could weaponize at will, Maddy loved with a ferocity that bordered on terrifying. You were hers, and she took your pain as a personal insult.

You rolled your eyes, taking the cup.

"You know I don't want to be here. I don't want to see her, and-"

"And what?" Maddy cut you off with a sharp laugh. "You're gonna hide forever? You think Rue Bennett is gonna vanish off the face of the earth just because you've been ghosting the entire town?" She tilted her head, earrings swaying. "News flash, babe. She's still here. You just need to show her what she fucked up and lost."

"Maddy," Cassie's voice came from behind you, gentle and warning. She'd materialized without you noticing, Kat trailing in her wake. "Maybe don't."

"What? I'm not saying anything that isn't true." Maddy shrugged, unrepentant. "Rue hangs out with Jules now. She didn't cut herself off from planet Earth. My girl isn't going to either."

The name hit you square in the chest. Jules. Of course. Rue and Jules. Jules and Rue. The new girl with the cotton-candy hair and the artistic laugh and the way of looking at Rue that made you want to throw something. You didn't have the right to be jealous, though.. You'd ignored a plethora of texts from Rue.

In fact, that was exactly why you didn't want to be here. You were throwing yourself to the wolves. Exposing yourself to Rue and waiting for her to pounce.

Your phone had buzzed constantly that first week. You'd read every message through the notification preview, never opening them, never giving her the satisfaction of a read receipt.

can we talk

i know you're pissed just let me explain

please

y/n come on

And then, after three days of silence on your end: i'm sorry.

Then nothing for two weeks. Then, just last Tuesday, a single message at 2:47 AM: i still have your hoodie. the grey one with the paint stain. do you want it back?

You hadn't responded to that one either. But you'd cried for an hour afterward, because that hoodie wasn't just a hoodie. It was the one you'd been wearing the night she first kissed you. The night she'd pulled back, breathless and wide-eyed, and whispered, "Is this okay?" like she couldn't quite believe you wanted her.

You'd kept every message. You'd reread them until the words blurred. And you'd never, not once, typed a reply.

You knew, deep down, that Rue didn't deserve one. She couldn't stay clean, she couldn't stop lying, she couldn't stop doing everything she'd sworn she wouldn't. You were angry at her. You were forcing yourself to stay strong. And Maddy was by your side, always.

She plucked the blue drink from your hand and took a sip herself, grimacing. "Ugh. This tastes like battery acid. Why do football players have such terrible taste in everything?"

"They're football players," Kat said flatly. "That's the answer."

Cassie, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally spoke up. "Maybe... maybe you should talk to her, though? Not tonight," she added quickly, seeing Maddy's expression. "But eventually. You can't avoid her forever. And she does look really sad."

"Cassie, no," Maddy groaned. "We're not doing the 'she looks sad' thing. Rue is a big girl. She can handle her own feelings."

"I'm just saying! Closure is important. My therapist says-"

"Your therapist also said you should stop dating guys who look like they've never heard of moisturizer, but here we are."

"That's not fair. McKay has great skin."

"And has the emotional depth of a pet rock," Kat muttered.

You let their bickering fade into the background, your eyes drifting across the party against your will. You couldn't help it. Some magnetic, masochistic part of you needed to find her in the crowd.

And you did.

Rue was in the corner, near the speakers, where the purple lights didn't quite reach. She wasn't alone. Jules was beside her, all long legs and ethereal energy, her hair a cotton-candy cloud in the dim room, and some guy you vaguely recognized from your English class was talking animatedly, gesturing with a red solo cup. Rue wasn't listening to him. You could tell by the distant look in her eyes, the way her fingers were absently picking at the sleeve of her hoodie.

But she was watching you.

Those dark eyes, half-lidded and unreadable, were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your stomach clench. Her jaw was tight. Her shoulders were rigid. She looked away the second your gazes met, ducking her head toward Jules like she'd been paying attention all along. But the muscle in her temple was jumping.

"Bitch, are you even listening to me?"

You snapped back to Maddy, who was staring at you with narrowed eyes.

"Sorry. What?"

"I said," Maddy enunciated slowly, "that you need another drink. A stronger one. Because I refuse to let you spiral." She snatched your cup, still mostly full, and dumped it into a nearby potted plant without a shred of remorse. "We're doing shots."

"Maddy-"

"Shots!"

An hour later, you were drunk.

Not tipsy. Not buzzed. Drunk. The kind of drunk where the edges of the room went soft and the music stopped being noise and started being something you felt in your bones. The kind of drunk where Maddy's laughter sounded like wind chimes and Cassie's worried looks stopped registering and Kat's sarcastic commentary became genuinely hilarious.

The kind of drunk where you stopped thinking about Rue.

Mostly.

"She's still looking at you," Kat murmured, appearing at your elbow with a cup of water she'd been trying to push on you for the last ten minutes.

"Who?" You knew exactly who.

"Don't play dumb. Corner. Three o'clock. She's been staring at you since we got here, and honestly, it's getting a little creepy. Like, blink twice if you're being held hostage, Rue."

You didn't look. You refused to look. Instead, you grabbed the water from Kat's hand and took a sip, even though your coordination was shot and a little of it dribbled down your chin.

"Attractive," Kat said dryly, handing you a napkin.

"I'm very attractive. I'm a catch." The words slurred together slightly. "Maddy said so."

Maddy was already materializing beside you, her eyes glittering with a dangerous, scheming light that you recognized all too well.

"Okay," she said, looping her arm through yours. "Don't be mad."

"Why would I be mad? You only say 'don't be mad' when you've done something I'm definitely gonna be mad about."

Maddy grinned, unrepentant. "There's a girl over by the stairs. She's been checking you out all night, and I may have told her you were single and emotionally available."

"You what?"

"Don't freak out. She's cute. Like, really cute. Dark hair, great cheekbones, definitely your type-"

"Maddy, what the fuck!"

"Come," she insisted, steering you through the crowd with surprising strength for someone her size. "You've been moping for a month. A month! And I love you, but you need to get back out there. The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. Or on top. I don't know your preferences."

"Maddy, stop it." You whined.

But it was too late. You were already face-to-face with the girl from the stairs.

She was cute. Annoyingly cute. Dark hair cropped close on the sides, longer on top, a silver ring glinting in her nose. She had a sharp smile and the kind of confident energy that made your drunk brain short-circuit.

"Hey," she said, her voice low and smooth. "Maddy told me your name, but I want to hear you say it."

Maybe Maddy was right. It was time to explore. After all, you couldn't let all the self-torture be for no reason.

Before you knew it, all of your hesitance flew out the window. A shy, drunk smile spread over your lips as you looked down at your feet, then back up. The girl tilted her head, waiting for you to speak.

"Y/n L/n." You said, holding a manicured hand out for her to take.

"Avery." Her grip was warm and firm, her thumb brushing deliberately over your knuckles before she let go. "Nice to finally meet you. I've seen you around."

"Have you?" Your drunk brain was slow, syrupy, but not so far gone that you missed the way her eyes dropped to your mouth.

"Hard to miss." She leaned a shoulder against the wall, casual, confident. "You're always with Maddy. She's kind of terrifying."

"She's very terrifying," you agreed, glancing back at Maddy, who shot you an exaggerated thumbs up and a mouthed get it, bitch before Kat dragged her away.

And then it was just you and Avery. And the music. And the purple lights. And the two shots of tequila still burning pleasantly in your stomach.

Avery was easy to talk to. She was a senior, she told you, transferred from a school two towns over. She asked about your classes, your taste in music, the book you'd been reading when she spotted you in the library last week. The conversation flowed without effort, lubricated by alcohol and the giddy rush of someone new paying attention to you.

At some point, she'd stepped closer. Close enough that you could smell her perfume - something woodsy, clean. Close enough that her knee brushed yours when she laughed at something you said.

"So," she said, tilting her head, "you're single?"

"Complicatedly single."

"That's the best kind." She grinned. "Complicated means there's a story. I like stories."

"There's definitely a story."

"Tell me?"

You should have said no. You should have changed the subject, asked her about her own stories instead. But the tequila had loosened your tongue, and the words were already spilling out before you could stop them.

"My ex is here." The confession tasted like lime and salt and poor decisions. "She's been staring at me all night. It's... a lot."

She followed your gaze across the room. Rue was still in the corner. Jules had drifted toward the dance floor, leaving Rue alone with her thoughts and her red solo cup and her murderous expression. She was looking at you again - no, not at you. At Avery. The way she was leaning into your space, one hand on the wall beside your head, her body angled toward you like a parenthesis closing around a sentence.

"Rue Bennett," Avery stated simply. "She's your ex?"

"You know her?" The question came out sharper than you intended.

"Everyone knows Rue. Or knows of her, at least." Avery's expression was unreadable. "She's got a reputation. Recovering addict, right? OD'd over the summer?"

Your stomach twisted. Hearing it spoken so casually, so matter-of-fact, made something defensive flare up in your chest. Rue's overdose wasn't gossip. It wasn't a talking point. It was the worst night of your life, the hospital waiting room, the fluorescent lights, the way you'd sobbed into Maddy's shoulder until you couldn't breathe.

"Yeah," you said quietly. "She's been through a lot."

Avery held up her hands. "No judgment. Just repeating what I've heard." She tilted her head, studying you with new interest. "You're still hung up on her."

It wasn't a question.

"I..." You swallowed hard. "It's complicated."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it keeps being true."

She hummed, leaning into you. Her lips met your ear with a gentleness that made a warm wave curl down your spine.

"I can help you figure things out."

Your breath caught. The tequila was swimming through your veins, making everything slow and syrupy and unreal. Avery's perfume was dizzying and nothing like Rue's familiar old spice and laundry detergent. Her hand settled on your hip, light, questioning. Providing you with an option if you wanted it.

You didn't pull away.

"Yeah?" Your voice came out breathier than you intended.

"Yeah." She pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, her sharp smile softening into something more genuine. "No pressure. No expectations. Just... a good time. You look like you could use one."

Maybe she was right. Maybe this was exactly what you needed, something simple, something uncomplicated, something that wasn't wrapped up in overdoses and relapses and 3 AM phone calls that made your heart stop. Avery didn't know you. She didn't know about the hospital waiting room or the unanswered texts or the way you'd cried until your ribs ached. She just saw a girl at a party who looked sad and lonely and in need of a distraction.

And God, you wanted to be distracted.

"I don't usually do this," you admitted, but you didn't step back. Didn't remove her hand from your hip.

"What, talk to attractive strangers at parties?"

"Something like that."

"Then I'm honored." She tilted her head, that dark hair falling across her forehead. "Seriously, though. If you want me to back off, say the word. I'm not here to add to the drama. I just think you're beautiful, and your ex is an idiot for letting you go."

Your drunk brain latched onto that. Your ex is an idiot. Rue was an idiot. Rue had let you go. Rue had chosen pills over you, numbness over you, oblivion over you. And now she was standing in the corner with Jules and her red solo cup, watching you like she had any right to be angry.

Screw her.

"I don't want you to back off," you heard yourself say.

Avery's smile widened. "Good."

She leaned in again. This time, her lips found the corner of your jaw. a barely-there brush that sent sparks skittering across your skin. Your eyes fluttered shut. Your hand came up to grip her shoulder, steadying yourself. The party dissolved around you. the bass, the laughter, the purple lights, until there was nothing but the warmth of her mouth tracing a slow path toward your ear.

"Still okay?" she murmured against your skin.

"Yeah," you breathed. "Still okay."

What you didn't see, what you couldn't see, with your eyes closed and your head tilted back, was Rue.

Rue, who had gone completely rigid in her corner.

Rue, whose knuckles were white around her solo cup.

Rue, whose dark eyes had shifted from murderous to something far more devastating. Something broken. The look of a girl watching the only thing she'd ever truly loved slip through her fingers in real time.

Jules noticed. Of course she noticed. She followed Rue's gaze across the room, took in the scene, Avery's lips on your neck, your hand gripping her shoulder, the way your body curved into hers like a plant seeking sunlight, and her expression flickered with something complicated.

"Rue," Jules said quietly, touching her arm. "Maybe we should go."

"No." Rue's voice was flat. Hollow. "I'm fine."

"You're shaking."

"I said I'm fine."

But she wasn't fine. She was the opposite of fine. She was burning alive, consumed by a jealousy so potent it felt like poison in her bloodstream. Every rational thought was drowned out by the primal, gut-wrenching need to cross the room and pull you away from that girl. To put her body between yours and Avery's. To tell her, in no uncertain terms, to keep her fucking hands off what didn't belong to her.

Except you didn't belong to Rue anymore. That was the problem.

"Rue," Jules tried again, her grip tightening on her arm. "Don't do anything stupid."

And for a moment, it seemed like Rue would listen. She took a shaky breath. She uncurled her fists. She looked down at her shoes, scuffed Vans, and tried to remember all the things Ali had told her about letting go, about accepting the consequences of her actions, about not letting her emotions rule her.

And then Avery's hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, and something in Rue snapped.

She was moving before she could stop herself. Shaking off Jules' grip. Cutting through the crowd with single-minded determination, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her teeth. She didn't know what she was going to do. Didn't know what she was going to say. All she knew was that she couldn't stand there for one more second watching someone else touch you.

No one could stop her, her seething body carving a path through the crowd like a knife through butter. No one even noticed her.

Besides Avery, in the corner of her eye. She could see Rue's wild curls blowing in the slight air flow, stiff shoulders shifting with her walk.

Her lip quirked up into a smirk, pulling off from your skin.

"Incoming."

Before you could process the word, before the tequila-soaked fog in your brain could catch up to what was happening, a hand closed around your wrist, familiar, calloused, urgent, and yanked you backward. You yelped, turning towards whoever had wrenched you off, but the breath was immediately stolen from your lungs.

Brown eyes. Lidded, but full of so much anger that it made your skin burn where they rested. Desperate, angry, jealous eyes that clearly screamed 'enough is enough.' You couldn't decide whether to swoon or to cry.

Rue's grip on your wrist was iron, her fingers pressed against your pulse point like she was counting the beats. She wasn't looking at Avery at all. She was looking at you, only at you, and the intensity of it made the tequila in your bloodstream feel like nothing. Like you'd never been drunk a day in your life. Like you were seeing everything in horrifying, perfect clarity.

"You're done here," Rue said, and her voice wasn't loud. It wasn't a shout. It was quiet and shaking and absolutely terrifying in its restraint. "You and me. Outside. Now."

"Rue."

"Now, Y/N."

Avery stepped forward, her brow furrowing. "Hey, relax."

"I wasn't talking to you," Rue snorted bitterly, turning slightly towards the girl who had her offensive lips all over you. "So shut the fuck up."

The words landed like a slap. Avery's eyebrows shot up, her calm composure finally cracking. For a moment, she looked like she might fire back, her jaw tightened, her hands curling at her sides, but then she glanced at you. At the way you were staring at Rue. At the way your pulse was fluttering under Rue's fingertips.

She raised her hands, stepping back.

"Will do."

Then, without another word, she sent you an amused glance and walked away.

You were now alone with the only person you didn't want to see. You felt the weight of her stare still, stirring up a storm in your chest.

"Outside." She repeated again, pulling you gently but firmly.

"No, I-"

"Nah," another laugh with absolutely no humor in it. "You're coming the fuck outside."

She was already moving, cutting a path toward the back door. You had no choice but to follow, stumbling slightly, the tequila still sloshing through your system and making everything feel unsteady.

You caught a glimpse of your friends as Rue dragged you past them. Maddy was already stepping forward, her expression darkening, clearly ready to intervene, but Kat grabbed her by the elbow and held her in place. Cassie's hand was pressed to her mouth, her wide blue eyes tracking you like you were a car crash she couldn't look away from.

Traitors, you thought bitterly. All of them.

And then the back door banged open, and the cold night air hit your face like a bucket of water.

The backyard was empty. The same string lights from earlier were still swaying gently in the breeze, casting their dim golden glow over the patchy grass and rusted patio furniture. The music from inside was muffled now, reduced to a distant, rhythmic thump. You could hear your own heartbeat. You could hear Rue's ragged breathing.

She finally released your wrist. She took a few steps away from you, her back turned, both hands coming up to rake through her wild curls. You could see the tension in her shoulders - rigid, practically vibrating -before she spun around to face you.

"What the fuck was that?"

The anger in her voice was a living thing, raw and bleeding. You'd seen Rue angry before, frustrated, annoyed, pissed at the world, but this was different. This was volcanic.

"What was what?" Your own voice came out unsteady, and you hated it.

"Don't." She pointed a shaking finger back toward the house. "Don't play dumb with me right now. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

You crossed your arms over your chest, a flimsy shield. "So what?"

"So what?" Rue laughed, but the sound was jagged and hollow. "So I've been texting you for a month. A whole fucking month. And you couldn't send me a single reply. Not one. I thought you hated me. I thought-" She broke off, swallowing hard. "But you show up here, drunk off your ass, and in five minutes you're about to make out with some random girl against a wall?"

"Her name is Avery, and she's not random. She's a senior. Transferred from two towns over. She smells nice and she thinks I'm beautiful and she's not my ex."

Rue's jaw tightened. "Low blow."

"Truth hurts." You shrugged, the tequila making you bold. "Besides, you're one to talk. You've been glued to Jules all night. She's practically draped over you in that corner. What's that about?"

"Jules is my friend."

"Right. Sure. Just a friend who looks at you like you hung the moon."

"She does not-" Rue stopped, her eyes narrowing. "Wait. Are you jealous?"

"No."

"You're totally jealous."

"I'm not jealous. I'm just pointing out the hypocrisy. You can spend all night with Jules, but the second someone talks to me, you go full caveman?"

"I didn't go full caveman."

"You literally yanked me away from her and told her to shut the fuck up."

Rue glared. "I wasn't talking to her. I was talking to you for the first time in a fucking month."

The words hit you square in the chest, knocking some of the wind out of your anger. Rue was standing there, her chest heaving, her dark eyes burning with something that wasn't just jealousy anymore. It was hurt. It was a month of silence and unanswered texts and sleepless nights, all bottled up and ready to explode.

"You could've talked to me any time," you said, your voice quieter now. "You could've found me. Cornered me at school. Shown up at my house."

"I did show up at your house. Three times. Your mom said you didn't want to see me."

"Because I didn't."

"Then what was I supposed to do?" Rue threw her hands up. "Break down your door? Kidnap you? I was trying to respect your space. Ali said-" She stopped, shaking her head. "Never mind."

"Ali said what?"

"Ali said I should give you time. That pushing you would only make it worse. If you wanted to talk, you'd come to me." She let out a bitter laugh. "But you didn't come to me. You came here, got stupid drunk, and then let some random girl put her hands all over you."

"Avery-"

"I don't care about Avery!" Rue's voice cracked. "I don't care about her name or where she transferred from or what she smells like. I care about you. I care that you've been ignoring me for a month, and I just can't get you out of my head. And now someone else is-"

She broke off, her jaw clenching so tight you could see the muscle jumping.

"Someone else is what?" you pressed.

"Touching you, and kissing you, and shit. And you're mine."

The words hung in the cold night air. Possessive. Fierce. Utterly, devastatingly Rue.

"I'm not yours," you said, but your voice came out weaker than you intended. "Not anymore."

"You sure about that?" She stepped closer, and suddenly the air between you felt electric. "Because you haven't pushed me away or told me to leave. You followed me out here, and now you're standing here looking at me."

"Rue."

"Like you want me to kiss you. So, do you?"

Your breath caught. "That's the tequila."

"Is it?" She whispered, looking down at you. "Or is it that you thought you could leave me and forget everything, and you can't?"

The question hung in the air between you, heavy and charged. Rue's eyes were unwavering, dark and searching, like she was trying to see straight through to the parts of you that you'd been hiding for a month.

You exhaled shakily.

"Why couldn't you let me? You know you're bad for me. You're bad for everyone, Rue." You accused, avoiding her eyes. Avoiding falling back in.

The accusation had no effect.

"I know." She didn't flinch. Didn't look away. Her voice was steady, even as her hands trembled at her sides. "I know I'm bad for you. I've known it since the day we met."

"Then why-"

"Because I'm selfish, too. Worst type of person." She stepped closer, and her hand found your chin, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet her eyes. "I'm selfish and I'm fucked up and I'm trying to be better, but I can't-I can't let you go. I tried. I tried to stay away. For a month. And it was the worst month of my life."

You gritted your teeth. Her face, desperate and sorry and intense, peering into yours with the same vibes that you fell in love with in the first place.

"I hate you." You whispered.

"I hate me too. But I love you. And I'm not letting you go."

“It’s not your choice to make. You don’t have the right to pretend it is.”

"Neither do you. Not really. Because if you wanted to leave, you would've done it already. If you wanted me gone, you would've shoved me off the second I grabbed you. But you didn't. You're still here. And I think it's because you hate me, yeah, but you love me more."

"Shut up."

She refused to, her firm hand still on your jaw.

"I'm clean. Thirty-four days clean," She said, her voice firm. Honest, for once. "I go to all my meetings and shit. Drug test any time Leslie says so."

Your eyes, glistening with a thin layer of gathering tears, analyzed her face for any sign of dishonesty, and for all signs of the truth. You sniffled, one tear dropping without your permission.

"Really?"

"Yeah." Her voice was firm. Unwavering. The voice of a woman on a mission to get the only thing she'd ever wanted back. "Not a long time, but it's the longest I've gone since I was, like, fourteen. Think about you more than the drugs. In a way," she laughed bitterly, wiping a tear from your cheek, "you leaving my ass is what kept me clean."

"That's not-" Your voice cracked. "That's not funny."

"I'm not joking." Her thumb swept across your cheekbone, catching another tear before it could fall. "All I can think about is you and how to make you come back. Don't give a fuck about drugs."

"That's too much pressure, Rue. I can't be the thing that keeps you sober. That's not fair."

"I know." She didn't look away. Didn't blink. "Ali says the same thing. Says I can't put my recovery on another person. Says I have to want it for myself or it won't stick." She exhaled shakily. "And I do. Want it for myself, I mean. Most days. But on the bad days - on the days when everything feels like shit and the meetings aren't helping and my brain won't shut up-on those days, I think about you. And it helps."

"Rue."

"I'm not saying you have to take me back. I'm not saying you're responsible for me. I'm just saying.." She swallowed hard. "I'm just saying you're the best thing that ever happened to me. And losing you was the worst thing. And I'd rather be clean and miserable than high and dead. Because at least if I'm clean, there's a chance."

The tears were falling freely now, yours and hers, mingling in the cold night air. Rue's hand was still on your jaw, her thumb still tracing back and forth across your cheekbone. She was trembling.

You laughed through a sniffle.

"I can't stand you. You can never stay away and let me heal."

"Let you heal?" Rue's voice was barely a whisper. "Let you move on and forget me? Maybe meet someone who doesn't come with a mile-long list of problems?"

"Yes. All of that."

"I tried." She admitted.

"It was supposed to be a clean break. That's why I didn't answer your texts or come to the hospital. I knew if I saw you, if I heard your voice, I'd cave. And I couldn't cave anymore, its killing both of us."

"But you're caving now."

"Because you grabbed me!" You shoved weakly at her chest, but there was no force behind it. "You couldn't just let me flirt with a pretty girl in peace. You had to storm over and go all caveman and remind me exactly why I fell for you in the first place."

"Was it the caveman thing?" A ghost of a smirk. "Because I can do that more often."

"Don't you dare."

"Kidding. Mostly." Her smirk faded, replaced by something softer. "If you tell me to leave, I'll go. I won't bother you anymore.. probably. I'll try. Again."

You stared at her. At the sharp jaw and the messy curls and the dark eyes that were still glistening. She meant it. You could see it in her face, the way she was bracing herself, preparing for rejection. She'd walk away if you asked her to. She'd actually do it.

And you realized, with terrifying clarity, that you didn't want her to.

"That's the problem," you whispered. "I don't want you to leave. I never wanted you to leave. I just wanted you to stop."

"Using."

"Breaking my heart."

"I know." She pressed her forehead against yours. "I know. And I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I'll be sorry for the rest of my life. But I'm clean and I'm really trying. And I'm not going anywhere unless you tell me to."

"Stay."

"Yeah?"

"Stay. One more time." You fisted your hands in the front of her hoodie. "But you're on thin ice, Bennett."

"I know."

"And you're not allowed to relapse."

"I know."

"And you have to stop chewing on your hoodie strings. It's disgusting."

With a snort and a mumble that sounded like disagreement, she laced her fingers through yours and tugged you toward the side gate. "Come on. I'll make tea. Leslie bought that weird herbal stuff you like."

"You hate that tea."

"I'll drink it anyway. For you."

"That's... disgustingly romantic."

"I'm a disgustingly romantic person."

"You told a girl to shut the fuck up like twenty minutes ago."

"She had her hands and crusty ass lips on my girlfriend."

"I'm not your girlfriend yet."

Rue stopped walking and turned to look at you, her eyebrow arched.

"You're coming home with me, you told me to stay, and I actually never admitted to anyone that we broke up." She ticked the points off on her fingers. "I'm pretty sure you're my girlfriend."

"I'm your tentative girlfriend."

"Tentative girlfriend." She tested the words, a slow grin spreading across her face. "I'll take it. Seal it with a kiss?" She quirked an eyebrow, her hands reaching out again to cup your face.

She was close before you even realized it, her nose brushing yours.

"You're so-"

"Charming? Romantic? The love of your life?"

"Annoying. I was going to say annoying."

"That too." Her thumb traced your cheekbone, feather-light. "So? Do I get to seal it or what?"

You should have made her wait. Should have made her work for it. But she was standing there with her messy curls and her stupid smirk and her thirty-four day chip heavy in her pocket, looking at you like you were the only thing in the world worth looking at.

"Fine," you breathed. "One kiss."

"One kiss," she agreed.

She leaned in. Her lips brushed yours, soft, almost tentative, like she was giving you one last chance to change your mind. When you didn't pull away, she deepened the kiss, her hands sliding from your jaw into your hair, tilting your head back. A small sound escaped your throat, and you felt her smile against your mouth.

"Missed that sound," she murmured.

"Shut up."

"Make me."

So you did. You kissed her again, harder this time, your fingers twisting in the front of her hoodie, your hoodie, and pulling her closer. She made a surprised noise, then melted into it, one hand dropping to your waist, the other still tangled in your hair. The streetlight flickered overhead. The cold nipped at your cheeks. But Rue was warm, and solid, and here, and that was all that mattered.

The door flew open. You yanked yourselves apart, eyes wide.

Maddy, a manicured hand on her waist and knowing eyes dissecting the situation. Her glossy lips curled into a smirk that was equal parts triumphant and terrifying.

"I knew it," she announced, loud enough for the whole block to hear. "I fucking knew it. Cassie owes me twenty dollars."

"Maddy." You pleaded.

"Don't." She held up a single finger, the acrylic tip glittering under the porch light. "Don't even try to explain. Rue had her tongue down your throat and you look pathetically guilty. You're back together."

"Tentatively," you muttered.

"Tentatively my ass. You're standing in the backyard at midnight making out like the world's ending. I'm not stupid."

You were silenced immediately, a sheepish smile on your face.

"And you." She turned her razor-sharp gaze on Rue. "Fuck up again and I'll key your car. I love you, but I love my bitch more."

"Noted," Rue said, her voice impressively steady for someone facing down Maddy Perez in full protective-friend mode. "But.. I don't have a car."

Maddy's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "Then I'll key your face."

"That's... not how keying works."

"Try me, Bennett." She stepped forward, jabbing a manicured finger toward Rue's chest. "I will find a way. I'm very creative."

"I know you are." Rue's voice was steady, but you could feel her hand trembling slightly in yours. "And I'm not gonna give you a reason to get creative. I swear."

Maddy stared at her for a long, tense moment. The backyard was silent except for the distant thump of bass from inside and the rustle of the string lights swaying in the breeze. Then, slowly, her expression shifted. The sharp edges softened, just a fraction, just enough.

"I'm happy for you guys. If you're happy," She said, smiling a little. Then, she waved a manicured hand. "Now, go fuck or something."

With that, she disappeared back through the back door, flicking her hair over her shoulder - the sign of a job well done by Maddy Perez. The night air got a little chillier, a little darker.

You stood there for a moment, stunned into silence, the ghost of Maddy's exit still hanging in the air.

"Did she just.." Rue started.

"Give us her blessing? I think so."

"In the most Maddy way possible."

"Is there any other way?"

Rue laughed, that real laugh, bright and surprised and still a little shaky around the edges. "I guess not." She turned to you, her dark eyes softening. "So. What now? We take her suggestion, or we go drink tea?" She smirked.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. "She said go fuck, Rue."

every time you walked down the halls of derry high school, you prayed you'd melt right through the floor.

it wasn't because you were insecure. in truth, you were very secure in yourself. it wasn't because people were mean to you. in fact, most loved you. it was because of them. the same reason that anybody wanted to dissolve into the cracks within the four walls of the place they were supposed to grow up.

derry high school was a monument to beige linoleum and flourescent humming. the air itself tasted stale, a mixture of industrial cleaner, old textbooks, and the faint, metallic fear that seemed to seep from the lockers. for most, the fear was abstract. a fear of tests, rejection, not being enough. but usually, it zeroed in on the ones wearing scuffed boots, a jean jacket, and traveling in a pack.

your own place in the derry ecosystem was secure. you were well-liked in a quiet, unchallenging way that came from being friendly to everyone, but known well by few. you were the reliable lab partner, the one who remembered birthdays, the student who could bridge the gap between the drama kids and the yearbook staff. social fluency was your armor, a way to move through the world without making a target on your back. it was a skill born of necessity, honed over by years of watching and learning. of course, it helped that you were pretty. you wore light, floral colors. your hair was always done neatly, makeup smooth and blended. your mary-janes were always un-scuffed and buckled. your skirt swished around your long legs as you walked, sending the occasional polite smile towards someone or waving quickly to those who said hello to you.

henry bowers, though, was an absolute minefield.

he wasn't just a school bully. he was a force of nature, a low pressure system that darkened the hallways before he even rounded a corner. his entourage - belch huggins, victor criss, and patrick hockstetter - trailed behind him not just as friends, but as a wave of insecurity and fear send towards everyone in their way. their laughter was loud. a jarring, predatory sound that cut through the student murmur and commanded silence. desks were kicked, freshmen were shouldered into lockers, and any sign of perceived weakness was pounced upon with cruel, creative glee.

but you remembered someone different. a boy with grass stained knees and a gap toothed smile, who shared his cherry slushie behind the elementary school bleachers. a blonde haired boy who'd get a fierce, protective glint in his eye if anyone so much as looked at you sideways. as much as you remembered him, he didn't exist anymore. you knew what happened to him, though. he had been buried layer by layer under the weight of his father's beatings and his own hardening heart. you'd watched the transformation happen across the cafeteria, with a profound and private grief. the boy who'd been your first friend had become the thing high school students feared most.

now, you navigated the school with one goal - not to be seen by him. you developed a sixth sense for his presence. the particular cadence of his boots on the linoleum, the change in the air when he entered a room. you wanted no part of it. you wanted no part of who he'd become. a laugh in the wrong direction, a moment of vulnerability caught at the wrong time, and you could be seen. really seen.

and being seen by henry bowers was a complicated, dangerous thing. a cold, blue stare that seemed to strip a person down to the real parts of themselves. not just the positives, but the fear and inadequacy. the secrets they tried to hide. sometimes it lead to taunts, shoves, punches and kicks, but sometimes it lead to nothing at all. just that chilling, empty gaze that felt worse than physical harm. you didn't know which version he'd pick if he was to notice you again. you spent years perfecting the art of never finding out.

today, though, everything would change.

you'd been having bad luck all day. you slipped in the mud and fell into a puddle on your walk to school, so you had to go home and change, making you late. then, you spilled your water bottle in class and soaked your freshly written essay for english literature. in chemistry class, you received your test back, only to realize you got a 0 because you forgot to put your name on it. you had to go beg your teacher for a new grade. luckily, since you were a diligent student, she was willing to give you half.

now, you were walking away from the brick school, lukewarm tears drying onto your face from your shitty day.

you listened to the wind in the trees, the crunching of the gravel under your thick shoes, sighing and hoping your evening would be better. your skirt, a bit smaller than usual because of your rush to get dressed, still swished around your thighs in the wind. but then, you heard another set of steps. boots. heavy footsteps falling onto the ground with the same reverberation that you heard on the linoleum floors at school. you felt something cold slither down your spine - fear.

tilting your head slightly, you caught the sight of him in your peripheral vision. you had only been walking for two minutes before you noticed patrick hockstetter behind you, his tall, lanky and predatory form slinking casually.

fuck. fuck fuck fuck.

being noticed by henry was pretty bad. but he was mean, not perverted. patrick was a whole different animal. the type to grope girls from behind their desks, force them to give him a kiss and slap them if they didn't. the type to follow you home and stand outside your window for an hour just to creep you out. he fed off from it. the thrill was something he enjoyed.

you swallowed hard, feeling your heart speed up impossibly. you felt the adrenaline release, the clammy hands, the erratic breathing. fear. in full swing. you kept your pace steady, a deer trying not to bolt in a predator's sightline. the crunch of gravel behind you wasn't just there; it was synching up, a sinister metronome to your own hurried steps. you could feel his stare like a physical weight between your shoulder blades, cold and invasive.

a shortcut. you needed a shortcut. the usual route home was a straight shot down neibolt street, but that was too exposed. your mind raced, flipping through a mental map of derry's back alleys and cut-throughs. there was a gap in the old johnson fence, a quick dash through the overgrown lot that spilled out onto your street. it was risky - dark, isolated - but maybe better than being stalked in the open.

you made a sharp, deliberate turn left into the mouth of a narrow alley between the drugstore and the boarded-up cinema. the sunlight vanished, replaced by the damp chill of perpetual shadow. the crunch of gravel ceased for a beat, and then, horrifyingly, it resumed. he’d followed.

your breath hitched, coming in shallow pants that fogged slightly in the cool air. you walked faster, your mary janes slipping on the wet, uneven pavement. the alley seemed to stretch on forever, the light at the other end a taunting, distant pinprick.

"hey." his voice wasn't loud. just a dry, papery sound that slithered down the alley walls. "pretty girl. don't you know its rude to walk away?"

you didn't turn. you couldn't. your muscles were locked. the swishing of your skirt felt absurdly loud.

his footsteps quickened. he was closing the gap between you, ready to pounce. "i'm talking to you. turn around. let me see that pretty face all cried up. heard ya sniffling."

of course that was why. he loved when girls cried. it was something you'd heard all around from the other girls who'd been unfortunate victims of patrick hockstetter. crying didn't ward him off - it enthralled him. he was sick.

terror, sharp and acidic, flooded your mouth. you broke into a run, the strap of your bag slapping against your side. the alley exit wobbled in your vision.

a hand, bony and strong, clamped onto your upper arm, yanking you to a halt. your bag fell to the ground with a thud, dead weight that patrick obviously deemed unnecessary. he spun you around, his grip like iron. up close, he was all pale skin and hungry eyes, a slick, unpleasant smile on his gleaming teeth.

"now, that's better," he cooed, his breath smelling of spearmint gum. his free hand came up, a finger tracing a line down your damp cheek. "what's the matter, honey? bad day? i can make it better."

"let me go," you managed, your voice sharp and authoritative despite your fear. you'd always been good at masking how afraid you were.

"or what?" he laughed, the sound bouncing off the bricks. "you'll tell? i don't care. i been told on lots of times."

you tried to glare, but you couldn't. the fear was eating you alive. he was stronger, faster. you had no way out.

"i won't tell. i won't say a word. but please, can you just let go?" you pleaded. maybe being nice would help. maybe doing the opposite of what all the other girls had done would have reverse effects.

your voice, shifting from a sharp command to a soft plea, seemed to catch him off guard. he was used to screams, cursing, crying. not soft, desperate negotiations.

"please?" he echoed, his voice a dry whisper. his head tilted, like a bird examining a strange insect. "you're asking nice, huh?"

you held your breath, hope against hope. his grip on your arm loosened slightly, an infinitesimal degree. but the confusion curdled into something more sinister - interest. a new kind of thrill. this was different. clearly something he'd never seen. someone being decent to him when he was being disgusting.

"that's real sweet. cute, even," he murmured, leaning in closer. "but see, when you ask nice.. it just makes me wanna see what happens when you don't."

his free hand moved from your cheek, sliding down to grip the back of your thigh under your skirt, pulling you sharply against him. you gasped, the air knocked out of you, the world narrowing to the feel of his bony frame and the cold dread solidifying in your stomach. your carefully constructed composure shattered.

"stop it!" you cried out, high and panicked. it ripped from your chest reflexively.

patrick's laugh was giddy. "there it is, sweetheart. i like that better," he hummed, reaching up to the waistband of your skirt. "but what happens when i--"

the sentence died off in a choked gurgle.

not by your hand. not by a shout.

henry moved like a shadow given violent purpose. he didn't come from where you could've seen him, but must have come from the other side.

he didn't tackle patrick. he simply appeared behind him, one arm snaking around patrick's throat in a vicious chokehold, the other clamping over the top of his head. it was fast, brutal, and utterly silent save for the scrape of boots and patrick's muffled gasp as he was wrenched backwards and off his feet.

you stumbled forward, free, catching yourself against the cold wall. you watched, heart in your throat, as henry dragged patrick, kicking and clawing at the iron bar of his forearm, back into the gloomy shadow. henry's face was pale, emotionless, eyes reflecting ice. he didn't look at you. his focus was on the squirming form in his grasp.

he slammed patrick face-first into the side of a dumpster with a sickening, wet crunch. patrick went limp for a moment, slumping, a low moan escaping his bloodied face. henry held him up, then leaned close. his voice, when it came, was flat and deadly, carrying perfectly in the silent alleyway.

"you don't look at her. you don't think about her. your fucking shoes don't point in her direction. you got that?"

he gave patrick a hard shake. a strangled sound of agreement or pain was patrick's only reply.

"if i see you within a block of her," henry continued, his voice becoming intimate with its menace, "i won't use my hands next time. i'll use a tire iron. and i'll make sure you're awake for it."

he released his hold, and patrick collapsed into a heap of shuddering limbs on the filthy ground, blood streaming freely from his ruined nose with his predatory confidence utterly annihilated.

"get the fuck up and go home, hockstetter. before i change my mind and kill you."

he stepped over patrick's prone form as if he were nothing more than a sack of garbage. he didn't look back. his entire being was a live wire, every muscle taut, the violence still radiating off from him in waves. you could feel his heat from feet away.

he stopped a pace in front of you. his eyes, which had been so cold and empty while dealing with patrick, were now a turbulent, stormy blue. they darted over your face, your disheveled hair, the red mark on your arm and the tear in your tights. the raw, agonizing conflict was back - fury, shame, and a protectiveness you didn't know still existed.

his hand lifted slightly again, hovering. it was large, capable of brutality you'd just witnessed, but now it trembled slightly in the space between you. he looked at it as if it was a foreign object, then clenched it into a fist and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans.

"you're shaking," he said, his voice low and rough.

you were. you couldn't stop. the adrenaline was draining away, leaving you cold and hollow and stunned. you managed a small, jerky nod.

he looked away, his jaw working. the silence stretched, filled only with the faint scrambling of patrick getting up once he slightly recovered. henry's shoulders stiffened, and he took a half-step to the side, deliberately placing his body between you and the sight of patrick struggling to his knees. protection. subtle, but also obvious in a way.

his gaze landed on your bag, still lying where it had fallen. he moved then, bending to pick it up. he did it with that same jarring care, brushing off the gravel and dirt. when he stood, he didn't offer it. he simply held it, his grip tight on the strap.

"c'mon," he muttered, not quite looking at you. he tilted his head toward the far end of the alley, the one that lead away from the main road, away from prying eyes and away from the direction patrick limped off in. "this way."

it wasn't a suggestion. it was a directive born of a lifetime of understanding derry's shadows. he took a step, then paused, glancing back to make sure you were following. you fell into step beside him, not quite at his side, but half a step behind. he adjusted his pace to yours, just as he'd always done when you were kids.

your chest tightened.

the alley opened into a narrow, weed-choked service road behind the old cinema. the silence between you was a thick, tangible thing.

after a few minutes, he spoke, his voice gruff. "he won't come near you again."

"i know," you answered quietly. the certainty in his promise was absolute.

another blocked passed in quiet. the evening was settling in, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges. the same shades were settling onto the back of your bruised thigh.

"henry," you said, his name feeling strange and familiar on your tongue after so many years of silence.

he flinched, almost imperceptibly. "yeah?"

"thank you."

he swallowed hard, the motion visible in the corded line of his throat. he stared straight ahead, his profile sharp against the dying light. the wind blew the trees and weeds, creating a scratching sound in the empty back road.

"don't," he said, the word bitten off. "don't thank me for that. it scared you."

the raw honesty of his words, the simple, unflinching admission - it scared you - struck you with more force than anything that had happened that day. he wasn't apologizing for the violence, not exactly. but he was acknowledging its effect. it was a level of awareness you hadn't believed him capable of anymore.

"everything about today scared me," you admitted, your voice quiet but steady. "i fell in the mud this morning. i failed a test. patrick. the.. the alley. my leg hurts. you," you listed them like items, giving each its due weight. "but the first five things were just things that happened. the last one.. you came for me."

he stopped walking. he turned fully to face you. the dim light caught the planes of his face, highlighting the tension in his brow, the soft, vulnerable curve of his mouth he always tried to harden with a sneer like a snarling dog.

"i would've done it anyway. for fuckin' greta or.." he said, the words sounding bland. "any chick."

you shook your head slowly, your eyes not leaving his. "no, you wouldn't have."

the denial hung in the air. henry's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking furiously. he wanted to argue, to spit out a lie that would rebuild the wall he'd torn down when he beat hockstetter's face against a dumpster. the truth was a physical weight, too heavy to lift. he couldn't. he wouldn't have done it for anyone else. he wouldn't have promised murder with a tire iron. he wouldn't have felt the world narrow to a single, white-hot point of rage at the sight of someone else's hands on the girl who was the only person that had been remotely good to him in his life, besides his mother, who left.

he looked away, the admission of his own truth being too much to bear while looking at you. the fight drained out of him, leaving behind a raw, exposed weariness that made him seem younger and older all at once.

"no," he echoed, his voice hollow. "i guess i wouldn't have."

the admission cost him. you could see it in the way he swallowed, in the slight tremor of his tight muscles. he'd just handed you a weapon, the knowledge of his own weakness, and waited for you to use it, like everyone else had.

but you didn't. you just stood there, the silence between you shifting once more. you weren't afraid anymore. you weren't sure you ever had been afraid of henry. maybe of who you thought henry was. but never him. there was an acknowledgement of a bridge that had been burned, and the fragile, impossible idea of building a new one from the ashes.

"you stopped answering my calls. in eighth grade." you whispered.

the words landed not as an accusation, but as a quiet, devastating fact. they cut through the fragile truce more cleanly than any shout could have.

henry’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with a shock that quickly morphed into pain. He hadn’t expected that. not here, not now. he’d braced for fear, for disgust, even for gratitude. not for this old, specific wound, gently prodded.

he opened his mouth, but no sound came out. he looked stricken, cornered by a ghost from a time when the world’s cruelty still had the power to surprise him.

"dad stopped letting me use the phone. after i.." left a message on that woman's answering machine posing as her dead kid.

the memory, sharp and ugly, clawed its way out of the dark. it wasn't the full truth, but it was the part that mattered, the part that explained the answering machine. the rest - the late-night calls, the whispered cruelty to a grieving mother, the one twisted skill patrick hockstetter had that henry, in his deepest misery, found fascinating for a week - that was a shame so black he'd bury it with him.

he couldn't look at you. his gaze was fixed on a broken bottle glinting in the weeds. "he took the phone out of the wall. smashed the machine. said it was a.. a faggot's toy." he swallowed. "i never heard any messages."

the confession was a softer, lesser evil. it painted his father as the monster (true) and him as a victim (only partly true). it was the version that might let you keep looking at him without seeing the rot he sometimes feared was in his core.

he risked a glance at your face. you were just listening, absorbing, your expression unreadable. the silence stretched, and henry felt the old, familiar panic rise: the need to fill it, to shock, to push you away before your silence became condemnation.

"so," he said, the word coming out too sharp. "you got your answer. i didn't get your calls 'cause my old man's psycho and i was.." he trailed off, unable to name what he was becoming. "you were better off. trust me."

it was the same thing he'd been doing for years. the protective cruelty. but it sounded feeble now, even to him.

you took a step closer.

"but that's not fair. you didn't give me a choice." you hummed, frowning.

he shook his head, a bitter laugh bubbling from his lips.

"you woulda chosen wrong. you always did."

the words hung in the air, colder than the evening chill. but you heard the tremor beneath them, the echo of the boy who used to whisper secrets under the bleachers, who believed he wasn't worth choosing.

"you don't know that," you said, your voice soft but unwavering. "you never gave me a chance."

he stared at you, the bravado crumbling from his face, leaving only a raw and bewildered ache. "why would you choose this?" the question was sharp. "look at me. look at what i am. i'm everything you hated. you'd be stupid as fuck to choose anything i got."

"i am looking, henry," you took another step, closing the distance until you could see the flecks of lighter blue in his irises, the faint scar through his eyebrow from a fight. "i've always been looking. and i'm not stupid."

"i know you aren't. so go home. be smart." he hissed.

"stop it, henry."

"you stop. you're being a dumbass."

"you're the one being a dumbass!" the words burst from you, not a shout, but a firm, frustrated exhalation. they hung in the air, shocking you both. it was the kind of thing you'd yelled at him when you were kids, scuffling over the last cookie or a cheated board game.

henry blinked, the harsh mark of his anger fracturing into surprise. no one talked to him like that. not anymore. they cowered, lied, pretended he didn't exist. they didn't call him a dumbass straight to his face if they liked their teeth. he was a threat. a monster, the source of anxiety.

"you think pushing me away is smart?" you continued. "you think spending your whole life making sure no one gets close is some kind of genius plan? its not. it's the dumbest thing i've ever seen. and i watched richie tozier try to lick a frozen lamppost."

a sound escaped him - a choked, rusty thing that was almost a laugh. it was cut off instantly, but the damage was done.

he rubbed his hand over his mouth, trying to wipe away the traitorous reaction. when he lowered it, his expression was exhausted, all the fight gone out of him. "what the hell do you want from me, y/n?" the question was a plea, stripped of all pretense. "i don't.. i don't know how to not be an ass. i'm good at it, it's all i got."

"it's not." you said stubbornly.

henry's lips curled into a bitter smile as he shook his head again, irritation flooding back into his body. his frustration was tangible, making him an unseen form of anger, but not violence. a dam that was about to break through. he groaned.

"you sound fuckin' stupid. again."

you quirked your eyebrow, inhaling sharply to retort.

"yeah, well, you--"

you couldn't get another word out. his body was flush against yours in a second, the smell of engine oil from the shop he worked at occasionally, his aftershave, and the same spearmint gum you smelled on patrick (they must've shared earlier at lunch) flooded your senses.

the kiss wasn't gentle. it wasn't questioning. it was a collision. a desperate, furious argument made with lips and teeth and the hard press of his body against yours. it was everything he didn't know how to say and the only way he felt he could shut your mouth.

for a single second, you froze. the shock of it short-circuited every thought.

then, instinct took over. not fear, for once. not the urge to push him away or avoid him. something older, deeper. the crush from sixth grade. the nights you rode your bikes through the empty streets and you admired his blonde hair in the wind. the times you'd iced the bruises he got from his dad as he cried silently. the shared snacks. the innocent hugs. your hands, which had been hanging limply at your sides, came up. one fisted in the worn denim of his jacket, gripping tight as if he might vanish again. the other flattened against the solid, frantic beat of his heart through his thin t-shirt against his warm skin.

you kissed him back.

his hand, which had come up to cradle the back of your head, gentled, his fingers tangling in your hair. the press of his mouth softened, became searching, almost reverent.

it was the most terrifying and honest moment of his life.

he was the one who broke it, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. his breath was ragged, a shuddering gust, mingling with yours. his eyes were squeezed shut, as if he couldn't bear to see your reaction.

"had to make you stop talking. you ain't a good listener."

you laughed breathlessly.

"i might try to listen even less now."

a shaky exhale warmed your skin as the last of the rigid tension in his shoulders dissolved.

"wouldn't blame you," he murmured, his voice low. his eyes were still closed. he looked younger like this, stripped of all the defenses you hadn't let him use. "i talk a lot of shit."

"you do," you agreed, your thumb tracing the threads of his shirt. "i'm sure i could give you a run for your money, though. i learned some stuff."

a low, genuine chuckle rumbled in his chest, the vibration humming against your palm. it was a sound you hadn't heard in years - unforced, uncynical.

"yeah?" he said, finally opening his pretty blue eyes. they crinkled at the corners with an almost-smile. "what'd you learn? how to call a guy a dumbass in five languages?"

"six," you corrected. "and how to tell when someone's being a fake asshole to keep me away from them."

he hummed.

"smart girl. always were."

the compliment, so simple and sincere, was probably the nicest thing henry had said about someone for years. it warmed you from the inside, melting the last chill from the alley.

"you aren't so bad yourself," you said softly. "when you want to be."

"didn't wanna be. easier to play dumb."

you didn't argue. you didn't try to tell him he was wrong. you just reached up and touched his face again, your fingers tracing the lie of his jaw, feeling the tension there. you knew what he meant. the avoiding you, pretending to be the monster his father expected, because being vulnerable had been too dangerous. abandoning the boy who loved cherry slushies and loved his best friend.

"must have been exhausting," you murmured.

he exhaled, leaning into your touch, the safeness of it flooding him with a feeling that was so rare. his eyes drifted shut again, this time softly. "yeah," he whispered, the word ragged. "it fuckin' was."

for a long moment, you just stood there in the quiet service road, embracing him. two kids who'd gotten lost, finding their way back to the same map.

when he opened his eyes again, they were clear. resolved. "i'm done playin'," he stated, his voice low but firm.

"good," you said. "i really missed you."

he smirked sheepishly, rolling his eyes. it was as if the statement embarrassed him slightly.

"sappy. can't lie, though," he said, his voice raspy. "i missed you too. thought of ya every day."

thought of ya every day. it explained the cold stares in the hallways - not hatred, but a tortured form of protection. he'd been seeing you, missing you, every single time. not plotting to bully you.

a lump rose in your throat. you didn't trust yourself to speak, so you just nodded.

he cleared his throat, the vulnerability making him shuffle his boots awkwardly. "alright, alright, doll. enough of this.. feeling shit." he tried to sound gruff, but it came out fond. "let's get you home. your old man's gonna think i kidnapped you."

he walked you home, his hand a warm, calloused anchor in yours. this time, the silence was companionable. the kind of quiet that exists between people who don't need words to understand each other.

at your doorstep, he didn't let go. he turned to face you, but as he did, his eyes caught your leg. the shimmery purple bruise in the rip of your tights from patrick's hand. he hadn't realized it was there.

his throat burned with disgust and fury.

his entire body went rigid. the softness in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, lethal fire. the same one you'd seen in the alley when he made patrick eat dumpster. the grip on your hand tightened for a second, a reflexive spasm of rage, before he forcibly relaxed it.

he didn't speak. just stared at the violent, ugly splash of color against your skin. his jaw worked, teeth grinding so hard you almost heard it.

"henry," you said softly. "it's okay. it doesn't even hurt anymore."

"it's not okay," he laughed, his literal psychopathic tendencies flashing in blue irises. "that's.. he was one of mine. i let that.. that thing walk around with me. and he put his hands on you and left a fucking mark."

you frowned, reaching for him. he didn't pull away, but he stiffened. you put a hand on either side of his face, tracing your thumbs gently along his cheeks.

"you're here with me now. and i'm okay. you told me he'd never touch me again and i believe you." you said, reassuring him. "the bruise will heal. it'll go away and there will never be another one."

your words were a balm, but they couldn't reach the depth of the poison in him. you knew patrick would see henry again before the end of the night. but still, he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing. he was listening, but also calculating.

"yeah," he murmured, the word a low concession. "it'll heal." his eyes opened, and the calculation you saw there was ice-cold, precise. "but he's gonna take a little longer to."

he took your hands from his face, not pushing them away, but holding them tightly, as if he needed the anchor. "you believe me. good. now i gotta make sure he believes me. all the way down to his bones, the dense fuck."

there was no rage in his voice now. no psychopathic flash. this was worse. this was the calm, terrifying certainty of a predator who has identified a threat to its den and is methodically planning its elimination.

"henry," you said, your voice firmer, trying to break through the grim focus. "you can't... whatever you're thinking. you'll get in trouble. real trouble."

a faint, humorless smirk touched his lips. "trouble's my middle name, sweet cheeks. but this ain't about trouble. this is about sending a message so fuckin' clear, even a sick freak like hockstetter can't misunderstand it." he let go of your hands and cupped your face, his touch suddenly, shockingly gentle. "you're my line. he crossed it. there are consequences. that's just how the world works."

he said it like he was explaining gravity. an immutable law. a new law that since you'd come back into his life, he'd implement ruthlessly.

when your father's silhouette filled the window, henry glanced towards it, his blue eyes now relaxed. he didn't step away from you, he simply reached for your hand and squeezed, offering a rough looking smile.

"your dad's watching," he said, his voice low and utterly calm. the fury was gone, replaced by a focused, operational readiness. "gettin' dark. time to go inside."

"henry," you said, still concerned about patrick's fate. "please--"

"i'm not gonna kill him," he interrupted, a strange amusement on his scarred face. the promise was blunt, but it was truthful. "i'm not gonna get put away after i just got my girl back. we're just gonna.. talk. 's all. talk."

the word talk, coming from henry bowers, was even more sinister than a death threat. it was a euphemism that promised a world of pain. but the other part - my girl - echoed in the space between you, a claim so profound and possessive it stole your breath.

the porch light flickered on, a sudden, harsh interrogation.

"y/n?" your dad's voice called, muffled but polite. "you out there?"

henry's eyes didn't leave yours. his amused smile didn't falter. he leaned in, lips brushing your ear warmly. "do your homework. put ice on that leg. i'll see ya tomorrow."

he pulled back, giving your hand one final, grounding squeeze. then, with a startling shift in demeanor, he turned toward your father, who was now a stern silhouette in the golden doorway. henry's posture changed - not slouching, but straightened with respectfull stiffness. he took a step back from you, putting a non-threatening distance between himself and the doorway of your home.

"mr. l/n," he nodded towards your father. "just walkin' her home. town's fulla creeps after dark." his voice was humble, different than you'd heard it at school.

your father's expression was unreadable, a mix of paternal concern and the deep lines of skepticism. he looked from henry to your face, searching for honesty.

"i see," he said, his voice careful and neutral. his eyes dropped to the rip in your tights, the hint of purple beneath the mesh. "everything alright, sweetheart?"

"yes, dad," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "henry walked me home. i.. i took a shortcut and tripped. he helped me."

the lie was flimsy, but you were going to stick with it until the situation was less tense. your dad's eyes lingered on henry for a moment. henry didn't fidget. he met the look with a calm, open expression that was utterly disarming. a true testament to all of the facets of his deep personality. the performance of a lifetime.

finally, your dad gave a slow nod. "alright. thank you, henry. we appreciate you seeing her home."

the 'we' was pointed, a re-establishment of the family unit, a subtle reclamation. henry just nodded again, that same respectful dip of his chin.

"no problem, sir. g'night."

he gave you one last look, a quick, private flash of those stormy blues that held a universe of promises and apologies. then, he turned and walked down the path. he didn't swagger. he just walked, a tall, solitary figure disappearing into the twilight, leaving behind the scent of engine oil, aftershave, and a silence that felt both relieved and charged.

your dad waited until henry was completely out of sight before placing a heavy arm on your shoulder and leading you to the kitchen. he gestured for you to sit at the table while he grabbed you an ice pack.

when he returned, you knew he'd seen the lack of the truth.

"you want to tell me what really happened?" his voice was soft.

you frowned, biting your lip.

"dad.."

"now, y/n. please and thank you."

the "please and thank you" was your father's secret weapon. it was the phrase he used when the situation had moved past parental concern and into the territory of seriousness. it meant the truth, the whole truth, was non-negotiable.

you took a deep breath, the scent of henry still faint on your clothes. you looked at your dad's worried, loving face and knew you couldn't continue to lie.

"patrick hockstetter.. that weird kid all the girls talk about from school?"

you watched the recognition - the horror. he'd heard the whispers at town council meetings, the worried murmurs from other parents. patrick hockstetter wasn't just a bully; he was a quiet, unsettling rumor given flesh.

"he followed me. trapped me in the alley behind the old cinema."

your dad's hand, which had been resting on the table, clenched into a fist. the knuckles went white. "did he hurt you?"

"he tried. he grabbed me. he.." you gestured at your leg, the memory of patrick's hand on the back of your thigh making your skin crawl. "he was saying disgusting things. and i couldn't get away."

the air in the kitchen grew thick with a parental rage so potent it was almost a smell. your father took two paces toward the back door, as if he might go out and hunt patrick down himself that very second. then he stopped, matering the impulse with a visible, shuddering effort. he turned back to you, his face a mask of anguish.

"and then?" he asked, voice still gentle.

"and then henry came." you saw your dad's jaw tighten at the name. "he came out of nowhere. he.. he pulled patrick off me. messed him up a little.. told him if ever looked at me again, he'd do worse." you didn't soften the words. your father needed to hear the brutal, unfiltered truth. "patrick ran."

your father was silent for a long moment, absorbing.

"he walked you home." he acknowledged.

"yes. he picked my things up. he was.. quiet. not like at school. he was just henry. like he used to be when he came to run around in the sprinklers with me that summer." you looked down at your hands, twisted in your lap. "he said sorry. for everything. for patrick."

your dad sank back into his chair, thinking.

"henry bowers," he said finally, the name heavy in the quiet kitchen. "his father's a mean son of a bitch. the apple doesn't fall far, they say."

you opened your mouth to protest, but he held up a hand.

"but," he continued, his eyes wise and tired, "an apple can roll. sometimes it rolls a long way from the tree when it's given the right push." he sighed, rubbing his forehead. "just.. be careful, okay? that boy's got a world of hurt in him."

you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. "i know, dad."

he kissed the top of your head. "get some rest."

but you didn't. you sat by your bedroom window, the ice pack melting against your skin, and watched the street. the night was still. when you went to sleep that night, you dreamt of him. just like you had many nights before.

when your alarm went off at 7:00, you got dressed quickly, forgoing the usual, careful outfit for comfortable jeans and a sweater. you threw your hair up into a ponytail, not bothering with curlers. at 7:43, you stepped onto your porch.

you took the long way.

and there he was, leaning against the old stone wall at the park entrance, exactly as promised the night before. tall, blonde, scarred up. a cigarette hung from his lips, smoking into the wind, and his eyes caught yours quickly. they scanned your outfit, noticing the differences.

"no skirt today?" he hummed. his voice was a low rasp, sandpaper-soft in the quiet morning. the cigarette bobbed as he spoke. his gaze wasn't a leer; it was an observation, a cataloguing of a change that mattered to him.

"not today," you said, stopping in front of him. the air between you was different in the daylight. less charged with desperation, more solid with this new, fragile reality. you were henry bowers' best girl.

he took a final drag, then flicked the cigarette into the gutter, crushing it under his boot with a twist of his heel. "cute." he smirked, tugging at your sweater. "shame, though. wanted pat to see the reason he got his second ass beating."

you rolled your eyes. he'd already delivered the first in the alley. the second.. it was the 'conversation' from last night. the one that left his knuckles raw. he hadn't just protected you; he'd sent a follow-up message. you were hoping he wouldn't follow through, but you were foolish for thinking it.

"you paid him a visit," you said, a statement. your mild irritation disappeared when henry's cold fingers reached for yours without you asking for it. a first move. not typical for him.

he shrugged, chuckling a little.

"he sees you, he sees me. he sees my hand comin' for his teeth. was gonna let it go, but the bruise pissed me off."

you scoffed.

"i told you that--"

"i know what you told me, doll. you told me it didn't hurt and it'd heal and all that shit," he interrupted, his voice slightly losing its playfulness. "but i saw it. on your skin. from one of my boys." he tilted his head slightly towards you, as if making sure you wouldn't slip away. "i can't let that go. the talkin', making nice, the long way home.. that's all for you. but that?" he gestured to your leg. "that needs a different language. and hockstetter only speaks one."

you glanced down at his hands. his knuckles were split, dried blood littering them from where he hadn't bothered to clean. you traced your fingers over the split gently, soothing.

"you forgive me?" his voice softened, but the teasing edge returned. "or do i gotta get on my knees?"

the image was so absurd that as hard as you resisted, a giggle escaped you. his eyes crinkled at the corners with genuine amusement.

"there it is," he murmured. "knew you weren't all pissed off."

you shook your head, still smiling, your fingers still tracing the ridges of his damaged hands. "i'm not. just don't want you to go getting yourself hurt for me."

his free hand came up, cupping your chin with surprising confidence. he forced your gaze to his face. "trust me. he looks way worse."

"didn't doubt it." you sighed.

he chuckled again, more air than noise, but real. he liked your lack of doubt. he liked that you didn't flinch from the evidence of what he'd done. his thumb stroked your cheekbone, a rough, tender caress.

"you're somethin' else, you know that?" he said, his voice a low rumble. "most girls'd be screamin' at me to stop, callin' me an animal."

"you are an animal," you said, but there was no bite in it. it was just a fact, one you were learning to accept. an animal, but not a cold-hearted one. one with some redemption still left in him. "the best kind, though."

he smirked again. "oh yeah? what kind?"

"the type with really nice arms in a muscle tank."

a loud, genuine laugh came now, shocking you both. it was a rich, full sound you hadn't heard since childhood, completely unrestrained. he threw his head back for a second, shoulders shaking, before he reined it in, but the wide, delighted grin remained.

"jesus christ," he wheezed. "that's what you got from all this? my arms in a tank top?"

you shrugged, feeling your own face heat with a blush. "i'm a simple girl, bowers, with simple needs. protection, loyalty, nice biceps. you're three for three."

he shook his head, still grinning, a lightness in his expression you'd thought was gone forever. "unbelievable," he let go of your chin to tug playfully at your ponytail. "alright, simple girl. let's get your simple ass to school before i gotta have another 'conversation' with a truant officer."

he kept hold of your hand as you walked, but the mood had shifted. there was a giddy easiness between you. he'd shown you the darkness, and you'd not only accepted it, but made him laugh about it. it felt like a miracle.

as you approached the school, the usual tension began to creep back, but was different. you were different.

"alright, listen," he said, his voice dropping as you hit the edge of the school property. "the shit you're gonna hear today... it's gonna be nasty. about me. about you. about what they think we did or didn't do." he squeezed your hand. "you look 'em dead in the eye and you don't say a goddamn word. let 'em wonder. let 'em be scared of what they don't know."

"you've given this speech before," you observed.

"never to anyone who mattered," he admitted. then, he straightened up, the mask of unapproachable toughness settling over his features like a helmet. "my shop's on the other side. i got shop class last period," he hummed. "i'll be at the fence at the bell. don't make me come find you."

with that, he let go of your hand. but instead of walking away, he did something that sent a fresh wave of whispers through the students loitering in front of the school doors.

he leaned down and kissed you.

it wasn't the same as the alley. it was firm, deliberate, and over in three seconds. a public brand and declaration. when he pulled back, his eyes were blazing with a fierce pride. proud of himself for being authentic. for letting you back in. proud of himself for finally having something good.

"see you at later, gorgeous."

then, he was striding away, not looking back. he left you there with the taste of spearmint and tobacco and the imprint of his lips on yours. you were the center of every astonished stare in the yard.

you took a deep, steadying breath, feeling the weight of his kiss like a suit of armor. you remembered his advice. you didn't smile. you didn't frown. you just lifted your chin and walked through the whispering crowd, your head high, your expression unreadable.

let them wonder. let them be scared.

you caught the gaze of patrick hockstetter, who'd quickly been left behind by henry, belch and vic. he looked worse than before. the sight of him was a cold splash of reality. patrick stood alone, leaning against the brick wall near the bike racks, a pariah twice over. one eye was swollen shut, a grotesque rainbow of purple and yellow. a butterfly bandage held together a split on his eyebrow. he held himself stiffly, as if breathing hurt.

but it was his expression that chilled you. the predatory hunger was gone, replaced by a hollow, sullen terror. and when his good eye met yours, that terror spiked into pure, unadulterated panic. he flinched, looking away immediately, shrinking into himself as if trying to disappear into the bricks.

the message was received. you were no longer prey.

inside, the whispers were a living thing, clinging to the lockers and trailing behind you.

"…saw him kiss her right out there…" "…bowers? seriously? is she insane?" "…heard what he did to patrick…" "…she's dead meat, she just doesn't know it yet…"

you walked to your locker, ignoring it all. when you spun the combination, you found a small, folded piece of notebook paper wedged in the vent. you pulled it out.

in that same blocky, careful script:

don't eat the cafeteria slop. meet me at the east fire exit. 12:15. -h

a smile touched your lips. he'd planned ahead. he was bringing you lunch.

you tucked the note into your pocket, the paper as precious as a love letter. the morning passed in a blur. teachers glanced at you with new curiosity. girls you barely knew shot you looks ranging from pity to outright envy. boys gave you a wide berth, their eyes skittering away nervously.

when the bell for lunch rang, you didn't go to the cafeteria. you walked to the rarely-used east fire exit, your heart doing a funny little flip.

Hh was already there, leaning against the wall, a brown paper bag in one hand. he'd changed out of his shop coveralls into a clean, grey t-shirt that did, in fact, show off his arms quite nicely. he saw you and pushed off the wall, that private, soft smile that was only for you touching his lips.

"took you long enough," he said, handing you the bag.

you peeked inside. two decent-looking ham sandwiches, a bag of chips, two cans of coke, and two perfect, red cherries placed carefully on top.

"you made these?" you asked, touched.

"stole 'em from the teacher's lounge," he corrected, completely unashamed. "better ingredients. c'mon."

he led you out the door and around the corner to a small, hidden alcove formed by the auditorium wall and a stand of overgrown bushes. it was private, shaded, and quiet.

he sat down on the sun-warmed concrete, patting the spot next to him. you sat, your shoulders touching. he opened his coke with a sharp pssht and took a long drink.

for a few minutes, you ate in comfortable silence, the ordinary school sounds fading away. it felt bizarrely normal, like a thousand other lunches you'd shared as kids, just with more scars and a heavier understanding hanging between you.

"see hockstetter?" he asked casually, taking a bite of his sandwich.

"yeah."

he nodded, chewing. "good. he see you?"

"he saw me."

another nod. a satisfied glint in his eye. "good."

you picked up one of the cherries by its stem, twirling it. "you didn't have to do all this, you know."

he looked at you, his expression serious. "yeah, i did. this," he gestured between the two of you with his coke can, "this is the good part. the part i gotta get right. the other stuff…" he shrugged, his meaning clear. the violence, the intimidation, that was the old language, the background noise. this - the quiet sharing of stolen sandwiches - this was the new thing he was trying to build. and he was treating it with a focused, solemn intensity.

you leaned your head against his shoulder. he stiffened for a second, then relaxed, his arm coming up to wrap around you, pulling you closer.

"best lunch i've ever had," you murmured.

he rested his cheek against the top of your head. "don't get used to it. teacher's lounge might beef up security."

you both laughed, a soft, shared sound in your hidden little world. outside, the rumor mill churned, and patrick hockstetter nursed his wounds, and the whole school wondered.

Hiccup had really tried for it to be Astrid. One would think it would’ve been easy. Astrid was gorgeous, kind, non-rebellious and respectful to her elders. She was well spoken, worked hard, and was approved of by Stoick. But, of course, just because everything in Hiccup’s life had to be difficult and unexpected, it was you. It was you that made Hiccup’s heart jump, it was you he couldn’t ignore, it was you that even Toothless preferred.

You, with your sharp tongue and sharper instincts. You, who questioned everything and didn’t flinch when he got loud. You, who somehow matched his chaos and made it feel like clarity. You, who challenged him and lit a fire in his chest he couldn’t smother, no matter how hard he tried.

You were reckless and brilliant. Stoick didn’t approve. That should’ve been enough to stop him. It wasn’t.

So you and Hiccup became a secret sort of thing. Something undefined. Something that shouldn’t exist, but kept existing anyway.

Late-night visits to your hut under the guise of dragon reports. Long walks that turned into longer arguments that turned into quiet, breathless moments where neither of you said what you really wanted. His hand brushing yours. His lips brushing your neck.

Never in public. Never discussed. Never claimed.

It wasn't that Hiccup wanted to keep it a secret. In fact, he didn't want it to happen in the first place. He wanted to be able to say with full conviction that what he was doing was the right thing, the right path. But he was doomed to do the most complicated and wrong thing, all the time, every day of his life. It had started with Toothless, then with you.

It was never supposed to happen like this.

That’s what Hiccup told himself every time.

Yet here he was again, pressed against you in the dim glow of the forge, your breath hot against his neck, his hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

(Maybe you would. Maybe that was the point.)

The argument had started hours ago, something stupid, something about dragon training techniques, something neither of you actually cared about. But it had escalated, as it always did, voices sharpening, bodies leaning in too close, tension coiling tighter and tighter until--

Snap.

His mouth crashed against yours.

No hesitation. No tenderness. Just heat, frustration, need.

You bit his lip. He groaned.

This was wrong.

Your back hit the workbench, tools clattering to the floor. His hands were under your tunic before he could think better of it, fingers tracing the scars he knew by heart -- the one from the Monstrous Nightmare burn, the thin line from a poorly executed axe throw.

"Gods," you hissed between kisses, "I can't stand you, Haddock."

His grip tightened, fingers digging into your hips as he pulled you closer.

"Liar," he growled against your mouth, voice rough with something between anger and want.

You laughed -- sharp, breathless -- and tangled your hands in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him curse.

"Prove it," you challenged.

And he did.

His teeth grazed your throat, his hands mapping every inch of you like he was memorizing it, like he needed to. The forge was too hot, the air too thick, but neither of you cared. Not when his name was spilling from your lips like a prayer, not when your nails raked down his back, leaving marks he’d have to hide later.

It was reckless. It was messy.

When you were done, you quickly loosed your hair, rebraiding it so it looked just as it had when you came in. You ruffled your tunic, readjusting it, and you watched Hiccup do the same.

Wiping your eye makeup, you glanced at him again.

"We can't keep doing this."

Hiccup didn't answer, opting to pretend he didn't hear it. He always did this. He didn't want to acknowledge that it was an issue unless it was on his terms.

"It's a secret because you want it to be. But someone's gonna find us out sooner than later, Hiccup."

Your words hung in the air, sharp as the blade he'd been sharpening before this, before you, had derailed him completely.

Hiccup kept his back turned, fingers tightening around the edge of the workbench. The wood creaked under his grip.

"No one's going to find out," he said, too calm, too controlled.

You scoffed. "You don't know that."

"I do," he snapped, finally whirling to face you. His eyes burned, not with anger, not with frustration, but with something far more dangerous. "Because I make sure of it."

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating.

You crossed your arms. "That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?" His voice dropped, rough and raw. "What do you want me to say?"

I want you to choose me.

I want you to stop pretending this doesn't matter.

I want you to be as brave with me as you are with everything else.

But you didn't say any of that.

Instead, you straightened your shoulders and met his gaze, unwavering. "I want you to stop acting like this is nothing."

Hiccup flinched.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

The forge door rattled.

You both stiffened.

"Hiccup?" Astrid's voice, sharp and impatient. "You in there? Your dad's looking for you."

Hiccup didn't take his eyes off you.

"Yeah," he called back, voice carefully even. "Be right there."

A pause. Then footsteps retreating.

You exhaled, slow and deliberate.

"We're not done," you muttered, brushing past him.

Hiccup caught your wrist.

For a second, just a second, his thumb traced the inside of your pulse point, soft, almost apologetic.

Then he let go.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "We never are."

And just like that, you were gone.

Leaving him standing there, alone, with the ghost of your touch still burning on his skin.

Oddly, after that, the two of you went days without another incident. You did your job, tending to dragons and making plans. And he did his. You barely spared each other a glance, just like normal, in fear that the others would connect the dots. You spoke when you had to, when your jobs overlapped and you had to work together.

Hiccup missed you, but he was content.

Until fucking Erik.

The moment that grinning, broad-shouldered outsider had stepped off his ship and looked at you, really looked at you, with that open, unashamed admiration, Hiccup had felt something ugly twist in his gut.

And then it got worse.

Because Erik didn’t hide it. Didn’t play games. Didn’t pretend.

He just… wanted you.

And you--

You let him.

Hiccup watched, jaw clenched, as Erik leaned in too close when he spoke to you, as he laughed at your jokes like they were the funniest thing he’d ever heard, as he touched you -- casual, easy, like it was allowed.

It was. That was the worst part.

Hiccup had never given you that. Had never claimed you, not even in the dark when it was just the two of them. He’d kissed you like a thief, like he was stealing something he had no right to.

And now Erik was here, giving you everything Hiccup had been too afraid to offer.

It burned.

Even Toothless hated it. He watched as you got to know Erik's dragon, running a hand down his pretty scales and scratching behind his ear.

Erik's dragon, Terror, was a Monstrous Nightmare, like the one you'd been attacked by so many years ago. But Erik didn't allow you to be afraid. He held the back of your hand as he helped you conquer your fear, allowing you to pet the monster in front of you, the dragon giving a puff of approving smoke.

Toothless's eyes flicked up to Hiccup's, a show of irritation. He grumbled in annoyance.

"I know, bud. Me too." Hiccup said, rolling his eyes.

The final straw came during the evening feast.

Erik had brought you a gift: a delicate silver pendant shaped like a dragon’s wing. "Saw it at the trader’s post," he said, grinning as he fastened it around your neck. "Reminded me of you."

You touched it, smiling in a way that made Hiccup’s chest ache. "It’s beautiful. Thank you."

Across the fire, Hiccup’s grip on his tankard turned white-knuckled. Toothless, curled beside him, let out a low, warning growl.

Astrid elbowed him. "You’re glaring."

"I’m not glaring," Hiccup muttered.

"You are," she said flatly. "And if you don’t stop, someone’s going to notice."

Hiccup didn’t care.

Because Erik was still touching you, his fingers lingering at the nape of your neck, his thumb brushing your collarbone. Casual. Easy. Allowed.

And then--

Then you leaned into it.

Something inside Hiccup snapped.

He stood abruptly, knocking over his drink.

Silence fell.

Every eye in the hall turned toward him.

You looked up, startled.

Hiccup didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared at you, his breath coming too fast, his pulse roaring in his ears.

For one endless second, your gazes locked, and he saw the flicker of something in your eyes. Challenge? Defiance?

Guilt?

Then Erik shifted, his arm sliding possessively around your shoulders.

Hiccup turned on his heel and walked out.

Toothless found him later, perched on the cliffs, staring at the sea.

The Night Fury nudged his shoulder with a whine.

"I know," Hiccup said hoarsely. "I know."

Toothless huffed, unimpressed.

Below them, they heard it. Your infectious giggle, a wild laugh and a splash. Hiccup's eyes dropped down, only to see you and Erik playing in the water by the dock.

Your braid was a mess, hair plastered to your forehead. He could see your beautiful e/c eyes from up there, the sun making them even brighter. Your under-clothes revealed your tanned skin.

Hiccup's breath caught in his throat.

You were glowing.

Erik said something, Hiccup couldn’t hear what, and you laughed again, head thrown back, the sound ringing across the water like music. Then Erik scooped you up, spinning you before tossing you back into the waves with a splash. You surfaced, gasping and grinning, shoving him back with a playful shriek.

It was easy.

It was right.

And it destroyed him.

Toothless let out a low, mournful croon, sensing the shift in Hiccup’s posture, the way his shoulders slumped, the way his grip on the cliff’s edge tightened until his knuckles turned white.

"She looks happy," Hiccup murmured, voice rough.

Toothless flicked his ear, unimpressed.

Hiccup swallowed hard. "Yeah, bud. I know I’m an idiot."

The Night Fury snorted, as if to say, Then do something about it.

But Hiccup just sat there, watching as Erik reached for you again, as you let him pull you close, as your fingers lingered on his arm --

Stop.

The word burned through him, sharp and sudden.

Stop pretending.

Stop running.

Stop letting her go.

Before he could second-guess himself, Hiccup pushed to his feet.

Toothless perked up immediately, tail lashing in anticipation.

"Yeah, yeah," Hiccup muttered, swinging onto the saddle. "Let’s go."

The Night Fury didn’t hesitate.

They dove.

Wind roared in Hiccup’s ears as Toothless streaked toward the docks, wings tucked tight, the sea blurring beneath them. You looked up just as they pulled out of the dive, skimming the water’s surface, close enough to send a wave crashing over Erik.

The man stumbled back, coughing.

You, however, stood perfectly still, staring at Hiccup with wide eyes, seawater dripping from your clothes.

Hiccup dismounted before Toothless had fully landed, boots hitting the dock with a thud.

Erik wiped his face, scowling. "What the hell, Haddock?"

Hiccup ignored him.

His gaze was locked on you.

"You ready to stop ignoring me?" He asked hoarsely, green eyes staring at you. You felt the heat from them warming your cool, dripping skin.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms.

"Ignoring you?" You said snidely, glaring at him. "Spending time with someone I matter to is ignoring you?"

Hiccup flinched like you'd struck him. The words cut deeper than any blade, and for a moment, he just stood there, jaw clenched, breath ragged, water from his dive still dripping from his hair.

Then he stepped closer. Close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his stormy green eyes, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him despite your soaked clothes.

"You do matter to me," he said, voice rough. "You know that."

You scoffed, but your traitorous heartbeat stuttered. "Could've fooled me."

Before Hiccup could respond, Erik's hand met his shoulder, shoving him away from you. He didn't move far, but it was enough to redirect his attention to the man that had captured yours. Toothless growled, claws digging into the dirt, but Hiccup gave him a calming glance.

Erik's grip tightened on Hiccup's shoulder, his voice low and dangerous. "Leave her alone, Haddock. She doesn't want--"

Hiccup's eyes flashed, something wild and untamed sparking in their depths. For a split second, you saw the dragon rider in him, the warrior who had faced down legends and won.

Then his fist connected with Erik's jaw.

The crack echoed across the docks.

Erik crumbled to the ground, pain spreading along his face, blood dripping from his lip. Hiccup did nothing but look down on him, face disinterested as if he was a discarded piece of trash.

Erik held his bleeding face, looking up at Hiccup in surprise.

"You son of a--"

Hiccup cut him off.

"Get out of here. You had your time with her, it's my turn."

"Haddock, I swear--"

"Go. Now."

Erik, rather than taking his chances on someone he'd completely underestimated, climbed up from the dirt while eyeing your horrified expression. With one last glare, he turned to walk away.

Then he stopped and turned back.

"What would your father think about the new chief, Hiccup?"

Hiccup's entire body went rigid. A shadow passed over his face, darker than any storm cloud. The air around him seemed to crackle with barely restrained fury.

You saw the exact moment Erik realized he'd crossed a line he couldn't come back from.

Toothless let out a warning growl, his spines rising along his back.

Hiccup took one step forward -- slow, deliberate. Then another.

Erik stumbled back.

"My father," Hiccup said, his voice terrifyingly calm, "would have thrown you off this dock and let the Scauldrons have you by now."

Erik paled.

Hiccup didn't touch him. Didn't need to. His gaze alone was enough to make Erik swallow hard.

"But I'm not my father," Hiccup continued, tilting his head slightly. "So I'll give you one last chance. Walk away. And if I ever see you near her again--" He paused, letting the threat hang in the air.

Erik didn't wait for the rest. He turned and fled, his boots pounding against the wooden planks.

Silence settled over the docks.

Hiccup exhaled sharply, his shoulders slumping slightly. Then he turned to you, his expression shifting from cold fury to something softer -- something uncertain.

You stared at him, heart pounding.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Ran a hand through his hair.

"I, uh... probably shouldn't have done that," he muttered.

You nodded, looking out over the horizon.

"Probably not. Stoick doesn't even like me, and you're tarnishing your chiefly reputation by fighting my.. Whatever he was." You hummed.

Hiccup stepped closer, his boots scuffing against the worn dock planks. "My dad didn't like me much either at first," he said quietly. "Took him a while to see what was right in front of him."

You turned to face him, the sea breeze tugging at your damp clothes. "And what's that?"

"That sometimes the things that test us the most are the only things that make sense."

You softened for a moment. Then you turned away again.

"Erik will probably never speak to me again. Or even look at me," You snorted. "You've made sure of that."

Hiccup's jaw tightened, but his voice was surprisingly gentle when he spoke.

"Good."

You whipped your head around to glare at him, but the intensity in his gaze stopped you cold. The setting sun painted his profile in gold, highlighting the stubborn set of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for you.

"You think I care about Erik?" Hiccup continued, eyes locked onto you. "You think I care about anyone else’s opinion when it comes to you?"

The wind carried the salt spray between you, the dock creaking beneath your feet.

"You did. You hid me, Hiccup."

Hiccup squeezed his eyes shut like he was in physical pain. For a long long moment, he just stood there.

Then he closed the distance between you in two quick strides. His hands came up to cradle your face, calloused thumbs brushing your cheeks.

"I was scared," he admitted, voice raw. "And stupid. So, so stupid."

You nodded, a watery smile on your face. The honesty and transparency for the first time in months made tears well up in your eyes.

"Yeah. You are pretty stupid."

Hiccup let out a choked laugh, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "Astrid did warn me I was being an idiot."

His thumbs brushed away the tears trailing down your cheeks, his touch unbearably gentle.

"But I'm done hiding," he whispered. "Done pretending. If the whole village has to watch me lose my mind over you, then so be it."

You sniffled, looking up at him through wet eyelashes.

"Really?"

"Really." He nodded passionately, stroking your cheek again.

Leaning in, he pressed a long kiss to your forehead, savoring the feeling of your skin on his. Then, he wiped the tears from under your eyes gently.

"I love you." He admitted, eyes shining with the final freedom of being able to admit it.

You beamed.

You let out a shaky laugh, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. "Better late than never, Haddock."

He laced his fingers into yours, tugging you a little bit.

You stumbled, following him.

"Where are we going?"

He smiled in amusement.

"To see my dad. No more hiding, right?"

Hiccup's hand was warm and sure in yours as he led you through the village, his stride purposeful. The evening torches flickered to life around you, casting dancing shadows across his determined expression.

You squeezed his fingers. "You're serious about this? Right now?"

He didn't slow down. "Should've done it years ago," he said, throwing you a lopsided grin over his shoulder that made your heart stutter.

As you neared the Great Hall, your steps faltered. "Hiccup, wait--what if he--"

Hiccup turned abruptly, cradling your face in his hands. "Then we'll face it together," he said firmly. His thumbs traced your cheekbones. "I'm proud that it's you. We have nothing to be ashamed of."

You took a deep breath, nodding against his palms.

The heavy oak doors of the Great Hall loomed before you. Hiccup gave your hand one last reassuring squeeze before pushing them open with his free hand.

The warmth and noise of the evening feast spilled out - the clatter of tankards, boisterous laughter, the scent of roasted meat and ale. But as you stepped inside behind Hiccup, the lively atmosphere seemed to freeze in place.

Every head turned. Conversations died mid-sentence. Even the serving wenches paused with their trays.

At the high table, Stoick set down his tankard with a heavy thud. The firelight reflected in his piercing gaze as it traveled from your joined hands up to Hiccup's determined face.

"Well," Stoick's voice boomed through the silent hall, "it's about damn time."

Hiccup's shoulders relaxed slightly. "So... you're not angry?"

Stoick snorted, stroking his beard. "Angry? Boy, I've been waiting months for you to stop moping." He raised his tankard in your direction. "I wasn't sure about the lass at first, but.. She's good at keeping you alive, whether she's trouble or not." He teased.

A ripple of laughter spread through the hall. You felt Hiccup's fingers tighten around yours as he shot back, "She's more than capable - she's been putting up with me this long, hasn't she?"

Astrid's voice rang out from the warriors' table, "And doing a better job of it than the rest of us!"

As the hall erupted in good-natured cheers and toasts, Stoick gestured you forward. "Come then, don't just stand there. Let's have a proper look at the woman who finally tamed my stubborn son."

Hiccup leaned close as you walked, his breath warm against your ear. "Told you it would be fine."

You elbowed him gently. "You were the one hiding me."

"My fault," he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to your temple that drew another round of cheers from the assembled Vikings.

Having mutant turtle best friends was not how you thought your twenties would go. Not that you weren't thankful.

You just thought you'd be hanging out with your girls, going to bars, meeting dudes and finding your calling while studying in college. You thought it would be full of mini skirts, glitter, vodka and dreams. You were wrong. Completely wrong. Instead, you were walking home drunk from a bar alone, fell down an open manhole cover, and were caught by strong, green arms.

You screamed for a second. Passed out. When you woke up, you were on an old tattered couch with a giant rat staring at you, then looking at the four hulking turtle-human men in disdain.

That was how you met your boys.

It didn't take you long to love them. You loved Leo's courage, his leadership, his perfect advice every time you asked for it. He was more mature than most people you knew, though he hadn't experienced a full life that was similar to yours. You loved Donnie's intelligence, his excitement about his hobbies, how gentle he was, and how eager he was to teach you about things you'd never heard about. You loved Mikey's carefree spirit, the way he could always lift you up when you were feeling down, and his spectacular sense of humor. And most of all, you loved Raph.

You always attracted a bad boy. Always, always. Though it wasn't romantic, it was natural for you to spend the most time with the most rough-around-the-edges motherfucker there was. It was just how your life went. When you met Raph, he was tough to crack at first. He was a little grumpy about a new human joining their lives, adding to the chaos that April O'Neil originally brought -- but he warmed up to you until he was ultimately the closest to you out of the four.

At first, he didn’t speak to you much. Just kind of grunted when you came by. Didn’t laugh at your jokes. Barely made eye contact.

But you noticed the small things. Like how he always checked the tunnels before you left. How he stood between you and the sketchier parts of the lair. How he walked you out even when you said you didn’t need an escort.

You started staying longer when he was around. He started lingering in the doorway when you visited.

Eventually, that turned into regular late-night talks, usually on the couch, or while he bench pressed literal cars in the corner of the dojo. You’d sit with your legs crisscrossed, talking about dumb things: your classes, your horrible job, your wild roommates. He’d grunt or smirk, occasionally tossing in a sarcastic comment that made you snort into your soda. Sometimes he’d say something unexpectedly thoughtful, and it’d stick with you for days.

What no one told you about Raph was that he listened. He remembered everything -- the names of your old pets, the fact that your mom was sick, your weird favorite candy that no one else liked. He noticed when you wore makeup to hide stress, or when your laugh didn’t sound quite right.

When you got sick, he brought you soup and didn’t make eye contact the entire time. When you got dumped, he punched the punching bag until his knuckles bled and didn’t say why. When you succeeded, a passing grade, a new job, a clean day, he acted like it was your world championship.

And you?

You kept him soft.

You gave him space to breathe. Let him be quiet when he needed to be. Made him laugh when he didn’t want to. You saw past the temper and the walls and the scowl and found the stubbornly loyal, deeply sensitive, fiercely protective man underneath.

You made him feel safe.

It was always you and Raph -- shoulder to shoulder, sarcasm for armor, both pretending it wasn’t more.

Even if everyone else already knew it was.

The day you came into the lair talking about some date, Raph surprisingly held his tornado of anger, disgust, and jealousy inward. You never even noticed it. He wasn't sure how he'd managed to hide everything he was feeling -- maybe through the "keep calm" tactics that you'd taught him one day -- but he did it successfully. It wasn't like you'd never gone on a date before. You'd even gone on multiple dates with one chump, calling him your boyfriend before you eventually got tired of him questioning where you went every Friday night (movie night with the boys.)

“He's actually really nice,” you said, sucking the last few drops of a smoothie Mikey had made through a straw noisily. “He does concrete construction or whatever. He helped with the new sidewalk outside my university.”

The boys listened. Donnie sat on a stool, staring down at some little gadget he was working on, making noises of acknowledgement to show he was listening. Mikey did dishes, occasionally stopping to look at you. Leo sat politely, eyes on you.

And Raph? Raph stood next to you, arms crossed solidly, wishing he could run away and beat the shit out of something.

“Well, angelcakes, he sounds like a nice one.” Mikey commented, grinning. “But remember Mikey's rules for date safety! Never--”

You rolled your eyes.

“Never leave your drink uncovered, never--” You attempted to finish.

“--go anywhere alone, and if he orders milk on a first date, run,” Mikey finished, snapping a soapy finger toward you like a coach on game day.

You snorted. “He ordered beer last time, so I think we’re in the clear.”

“Still kinda weird,” Donnie mumbled, not looking up from his work.

“Beer’s weird?” you asked, lifting a brow.

“No,” Donnie said, adjusting a dial, “him.”

That earned a laugh from Mikey and even the smallest twitch of a smile from Leo.

But Raph? Raph didn’t smile. He didn’t speak.

He just stood there beside you, hulking and silent, jaw tight, arms crossed so hard his biceps flexed like steel cables under his skin.

You never noticed the tension, not really. You never noticed how his eyes flicked to your exposed collarbone, still dotted with the leftover shimmer of whatever perfume you wore. You never noticed how he inhaled, just once, like he could smell him on you. How he fought the urge to throw that smoothie cup across the room.

You never noticed because Raph didn’t let it show.

It wasn’t the first time you’d mentioned some dude. You’d brought up a few before. Guys who left you unsatisfied, frustrated, confused. He’d always been there after. Quietly listening. Driving you home. Standing behind you in line at the bodega, just in case the ex showed up and needed reminding. He made a public appearance a lot now, since Donnie had invented the projection watches -- they gave the boys human bodies, human personas for when they had to go up top and not raise hell. For when they needed to be up there for regular, human business.

This time was different.

This guy was new. He was “nice.” He had a job that involved strength. You smiled when you talked about him.

You stopped by again before you went on tonight's date. Your outfit would've made Raph blush if he wasn't so fucking pissed. You had a short, black dress on, just long enough to keep it classy but with enough leg showing to make you look sexy. Your hair was curled and tucked into a bun, ringlets falling in front of your face. Your makeup wasn't dramatic, it accentuated your naturally beautiful face. You wore heels, but they still didn't touch Raphael's height at all. After all, the man was like six foot seven.

You twirled in front of the boys, smiling brightly.

“How do I look? Is there something I'm missing?”

You were standing in front of him, spinning like some perfect little fever dream, the soft lighting of the lair catching the shimmer on your legs and the curve of your smile, asking him -- the guy currently gripping the edge of the counter so hard it might crack -- if you were missing something.

Yeah. You were missing something. Him.

He didn't say it. He couldn’t say it. Not with Leo watching you like a protective big brother. Not with Donnie adjusting his glasses and muttering something about “statistical likelihood of safety.” Not with Mikey wolf-whistling in the background like he was front row at a runway show.

“Daaaamn, baddie,” Mikey grinned, dramatically fanning himself with a pizza box. “You look like heartbreak in heels. Don’t kill the guy. Unless he deserves it.”

“I won’t,” you giggled, smoothing the sides of your dress. “He’s just taking me to dinner. Somewhere nice.”

“Nice how?” Leo asked cautiously.

You shrugged. “Little Italian place near the East River. It’s casual. Wine, candles… pasta, hopefully.”

Donnie didn’t look up. “Call me if anything seems off.”

“You’ll know before I do,” you said, tapping your phone. “I’m sharing my location with you already.”

“Smart girl,” Leo said with a nod.

Then your eyes flicked to Raph, still standing frozen by the fridge, knuckles white where they wrapped around the counter. You smiled at him -- warm and sweet, like you always did -- and tilted your head.

“Well? You didn’t say anything. I look okay?”

His throat was dry. His jaw clenched. He couldn’t look at your legs again, not when you were dressed like that for someone who wasn’t him.

You looked like temptation itself. You looked like his worst mistake waiting to happen. You looked like everything he couldn’t have.

So he gave a grunt. “Yeah. S’fine.”

“Just fine?” you teased.

He forced himself to look at your face. Just your face.

“You look great,” he muttered.

You beamed, completely unaware of the furnace behind his eyes. “Thank you, Raphie.”

Then you stepped close, too close, and reached up to fix the collar of his tank top with that same tenderness you always had. Your perfume hit him like a punch to the gut.

“You’re always honest with me,” you said softly. “That’s what I like about you.”

His jaw ticked. “Don’t like lyin’.”

You smiled. “I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.”

Then you turned, heels tapping across the cement floor, and disappeared into the tunnels with a quick wave goodbye.

And Raphael?

Raphael stood there silently, watching the spot where you’d been, breathing slow through his nose like if he didn’t, something in him might snap.

Because it should’ve been him.

Taking you to dinner. Making you laugh over wine and pasta. Driving you home with your heels dangling from your hand, your lips gloss-smeared and smiling just for him.

Instead, he was stuck underground. Fuming. Wishing he'd just said it.

Wishing he’d told you the truth the moment you walked in, all sparkling eyes and lip gloss:

You didn’t look perfect.

You looked like his.

He groaned, wiping his huge hand across his forehead in frustration. Leo watched him carefully, pursing his lips. Donnie said nothing, as usual, and Mikey sensed the tension, tucking himself back into his corner where he was eating his pizza and playing his video games.

“She's your best friend. You should have just been honest,” Leo hummed carefully, as if not to set off the beast. “The truth'll come out one way or another.”

Raphael didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, still leaning against the counter, still seething under the surface like a volcano that had been too quiet for too long.

His hand dropped from his forehead, falling heavy against the edge of the counter with a dull thud. His jaw flexed. Once. Twice.

“Yeah,” he muttered finally, voice low and full of gravel. “Well. Too late now, ain’t it?”

Leo tilted his head, arms crossed, giving him that look. The big brother one. The patient, steady stare that somehow made Raph feel like he was still twelve and throwing punches in the dojo.

“It’s not too late unless you decide it is,” Leo said, voice calm, but firm.

Donnie didn't glance up from the device in his hand, but his voice carried from behind his glasses.

“She trusts you more than anyone. Statistically, emotional vulnerability paired with long-standing companionship has a higher chance of success than new--”

“Donnie, if you don't--” Raph snarled.

Donnie blinked. “Right. Not helping.”

Raph turned away from all of them. Walked a few paces across the lair like he might burn the energy off if he just moved enough. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, and his shell shifted with the tightness of his shoulders.

“She looked happy,” he said finally, bitter. “Talkin’ about him. Smilin’. Gettin’ all dressed up. Like he’s doin’ somethin’ for her that I can’t.”

Leo raised a brow. “Or maybe she was just excited someone finally asked. Doesn’t mean she picked him over you, Raph.”

“She did.”

“No,” Mikey chimed in from his corner without looking up. “She just doesn’t know you’re an option.”

That stopped Raph cold.

He stared across the lair, frozen in place, the words echoing in his skull.

She just doesn’t know you’re an option.

Because he’d never said it. Never given her the chance to choose him. Just stood beside her like a shadow while she cried over losers, complained about red flags, rolled her eyes at controlling texts and kissed cheeks that weren’t his.

He groaned again, dragging a hand down his face.

“What am I s’posed to do, huh? Run outta the shadows and confess like some kinda Hallmark hero? ‘Hey, surprise, I’ve been in love with you for years. Wanna ditch the dude who has fuckin' concrete all over his clothes and smells like Axe body spray?’”

Leo snorted. “Better than sulking in the sewers and letting someone else make her miserable.”

Mikey finally paused his game and looked over, eyes more serious than usual. “She’s not the kind of girl you can replace, bro. You know that.”

And Raphael did know that.

He knew it every time she laughed so hard she wheezed. Every time she fell asleep on the couch beside him, legs draped over his lap. Every time she saw him, really saw him, through the walls and the anger and the scars. She was his best friend. His anchor. The only soft place in a world that never gave him one. And he was gonna lose her to some prick in a hard hat who didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as her.

Hours passed. No calls, no texts. But Raph had decided. No matter what happened, he had to tell the truth. He had to come out and say it before he fuckin' exploded.

You finally sent a text, telling them you were going home, the date had gone "fine."

He was going to tell you. Tonight. When you got home from your date. Then, you could tell him whether you wanted the concrete brained little shit -- or whether you wanted someone who'd actually love you. Who loved you. Now. Always. Since he'd let you break into his walls, touch the parts of him that had never had a hand on them.

He threw a hoodie on, grabbing his phone, and moved to leave. Twisting his watch, he became a vision of himself, not quite Raph, but Raph enough.

Still tall. Still hulking with muscle. A buzz cut with a red bandana covering it, tattoos all over his skin, the same intimidating green eyes. He was hot actually, which you'd admitted when you first saw the projection. All of them were. Raph, though.. It truly did him justice.

Although secretly, you'd always thought Raph was hot. Projection or not. It was what originally drew you into him.

Raph heard Leo's voice from the corner of the lair, the dojo.

“Good luck.”

The rain was the first thing he noticed. He welcomed it, letting it pour down onto him in calming waves. He walked to your house, opting not to take the shell-raiser. After all, if things went badly, he'd probably find some dirty criminal to pummel.

He reached your apartment, sitting on your front steps under the overhanging roof. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it, puffing on it slowly as he waited for you to approach.

What would he even say? What would he do if you told him to fuck off? He didn't let the nerves dissuade him. It needed to be said, bad results or not.

It was about five more minutes before he saw your silhouette in the rain. You were small, far smaller than him, of course. He knew it was you by the way you walked. You were walking, walking, walking, he was waiting to see your face through the waves of water. When he finally did, his eyebrows furrowed.

Mascara stained your cheeks. Crying. You were crying.

You walked awkwardly, the closer you got. Your hand clutched your arm.

Then, your e/c eyes lifted. You saw him.

Quickly, you wiped your face with one arm, acting like nothing had ever happened. Then, the hand quickly came back down to cover your arm -- Raph wasn't close enough to see what you were covering. You reached Raph, looking at him in confusion.

“Raph? What are you doing here in the rain--”

He didn’t answer at first.

His eyes were locked on you, all of you. The ruined makeup. The limp in your walk. The tight grip you had on your arm, like you were trying to hold yourself together.

You were hurting. That much was obvious. And trying to hide it from him.

From him.

He stepped forward without thinking, eyes narrowing. His jaw clenched, and his voice dropped low, rough.

“What happened.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the edge in his tone.

“Nothing,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “I’m fine. Really.”

“You’re not fine,” he said, stepping in closer. His eyes dropped to your arm, the one you were still guarding like a shield. “What’s under your hand?”

“Raph, it’s nothing, I swear--”

He was in front of you now, towering over you, not in a way that scared you, never in a way that scared you, but in a way that said he knew. That he wouldn’t let it slide.

“Move your hand.”

You hesitated. Looked up at him.

He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t huffing and puffing, or pacing, or growling with his fists balled up like he usually did when something pissed him off.

No. He was quiet.

And that was worse.

“No. Raph, please, I am perfectly--”

“Move your fuckin' hand, shorty, now.”

“Raph.”

His voice cracked through the rain like thunder.

“You want me to move it?”

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t violence. It was a promise, for your own good. A promise that you'd heard before. He'd make shit happen.

You flinched, not because you were scared, but because you knew what was coming. You knew once he saw it, really saw it, there’d be no stuffing the rage back into the bottle. You hesitated just a second longer.

And then you moved your hand.

Raph’s eyes dropped immediately.

Silence.

The bruise was ugly. Purple and red, already deepening, shaped like thick fingers curled into the soft skin of your arm. It told a story you hadn’t even finished living yet.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Just stared.

Then his chest rose -- slow, steady, dangerous.

His jaw flexed, his nostrils flared, and his eyes, those sharp green eyes, burned.

“Motherfucker,” he muttered, voice low and venomous.

You reached for him. “Raphael--”

You couldn't quite get him in your grip, just the fabric of his sweatshirt in a small hand. It was wet, soaked with rain, but you managed to keep your grip. He turned towards you, lip almost curled into a snarl. Anger heated the air up -- could've boiled the rain.

“You said the date was fine. Fuckin' fine. Look at your--” he cut himself off, taking a breath and looking up at the sky. “You lied to me. Why would you lie to save that waste of space?” He hissed, turning completely towards you.

You flinched, not from fear, never from him, but from the sheer weight of his rage.

The rain kept falling, soaking through your clothes, matting your hair to your face, but none of it mattered. Not with Raphael standing in front of you like a storm barely restrained, fists clenched, shoulders squared, breathing like he’d just fought ten men and still wasn’t done.

“I wasn’t protecting him,” you said quickly, gripping tighter to his hoodie. “I was protecting you.”

That stopped him.

His jaw twitched. His eyes snapped to yours, sharp as glass and just as fragile beneath the surface.

“I knew what you’d do, Raph,” you whispered, voice trembling. “And I didn’t want to lose you to a cell or a manhunt or -- or something worse. I didn’t want to see you destroy yourself for me.”

He looked at you for a moment.. Then laughed. Bitterly.

“Don't worry about it. Ain't no motherfucker on this earth that's gonna touch you and walk away fine. Whether you feel bad or not,” he said. He towered over you, trying to force his green eyes away from the nasty injury on your arm. “I'd burn this city down for you if ya asked me to. I'm gonna kill this fuckin' guy.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Not because you didn’t believe him, no, you absolutely believed him, but because you could feel it. You could feel the truth in his voice, in every clenched muscle, in the way his words shook with restraint.

“Raph--”

“I mean it,” he snapped, stepping closer, close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off his chest. His projection shimmered faintly in the rain, struggling to keep up with the fury boiling just beneath his skin. “I don’t care if I gotta rip the fuckin’ streets up brick by brick, he’s gonna learn.”

You reached for him again, laying your hand gently against the front of his soaked hoodie. His heart was hammering underneath, furious, panicked, wild.

“I’m okay now,” you whispered. “I’m with you.”

He shook his head.

“Not good enough,” he growled. “You should never have to feel scared. Not when you got me. Not when you been right here in front of me this whole time and I’ve been too chickenshit to say what I really feel.”

You swallowed hard. “And what’s that?”

His jaw flexed again, rain trailing down his face like it was trying to cool him off. He took a breath, deep and shaky, and looked down at you like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth.

“Shoulda been me.”

“W-What?”

He looked down at you still, his hand traveling down to pull your wet strap back up over your shoulder.

“Shoulda been me. Takin' you out, now that we can go up top,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Shoulda been me walkin' you home. Kissin' you at your front door step. Shoulda been me you were gettin' all pretty for.”

You stared, eyes wide and glassy.

“You were walkin’ around in that dress, hair done up all nice…smilin’ about some guy who didn’t even deserve a hello from you,” he muttered, eyes locked on yours, voice just shy of breaking. “And I stood there like a fuckin’ idiot, pretendin’ it didn’t kill me.”

His hand slid up, gently brushing your cheek with his thumb, rainwater tracing the movement.

“I ain’t ever felt more useless than watchin’ you leave tonight, knowin’ I wasn’t the one takin’ you out. Knowin’ I let someone else touch you ‘cause I was too much of a coward to say somethin’. And now,” he hissed, “I gotta kill the stupid fucker. Cuz he laid his hands on the girl I love.”

You didn’t even flinch at the words, the girl I love, but your breath caught like a rope had cinched around your chest and pulled tight.

The rain still fell in steady sheets, soaking you both to the bone, but neither of you noticed. Not really. Not with the confession hanging in the air between you, burning hotter than the storm around you.

“Raph…” your voice was soft. Barely a whisper. “Please.”

His gaze flickered, wild for a second, like he’d just realized he’d said it out loud. Like the truth had broken out of him without permission. But once it was out, he didn’t backpedal. He didn’t retreat.

He stepped in even closer, your bodies almost touching, his massive frame shielding you from the worst of the wind.

“I love you,” he said, voice low and rough, thick with emotion. “I love you. You think I’ve been watchin’ you all this time just to be your backup plan? Some guy you crash on when the rest of the world sucks?”

“No,” you breathed, shaking your head quickly. “No, I never thought that.”

“I been in love with you since the second you looked at me like I wasn’t just a monster. Since you laughed at my dumb jokes, shared your food, yelled at me when I got too hot-headed. You see me, and it scared the shit outta me.”

A warm tear ran down your face. His thumb caught that too.

“You're too good for this world. Too good for me. Too good for him. And even though you ain't mine, I'll happily shit-stomp any man that crosses you.”

You let out a soft, broken sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, as your hand reached up to cup his face, rough jaw and all.

“But I am yours,” you whispered. “I’ve been yours, Raph. This whole time. Was just too stupid to see it.”

His breath hitched, just for a second, and his hands flexed on your waist, like he couldn’t believe he was actually hearing the words. Like maybe the rain had messed with his head, or the universe was playing some cruel joke.

But your eyes were honest. Open. No walls, no filters, no fear. Just you, standing there in the storm, bruised and soaked and choosing him.

“You’re-- you wanna be?” he asked, voice cracking, like a kid afraid to hope.

You nodded, fingers curling at the back of his neck, drawing him closer. “Yes. I was just too scared to ruin us by saying it. I didn't want to lose you, Raphael. You're all I have. The only thing worth it.”

A beat of silence passed, thick, electric, before he pressed his forehead to yours with a low, aching groan.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he breathed, voice hoarse, reverent. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

And then he kissed you.

Hard. Fierce. Real.

He kissed you like he’d been holding back for years, because he had. His hands tangled in your hair, one arm wrapping around your lower back, lifting you off the pavement like your feet didn’t deserve to be on the same ground as the man who hurt you. His lips were warm despite the cold, pressed firm and sure to yours like he had no plans of letting you forget how long he’d loved you from the sidelines.

When he pulled back, you were both breathless. His voice was low and shaky when he said:

“If you’re mine… then you don’t ever gotta deal with this shit again. No more cheap dates, no more fake shit, no more bruises you try to hide.”

You swallowed, tears welling fresh again.

“Okay.”

“I mean it,” he said. “I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep you loved. Proper. The way you always shoulda been.”

You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady, thundering beat of his heart under soaked fabric.

“I know,” you whispered.

And he just held you tighter.

Because you were his.

And now, finally, he was yours too.

BONUS:

However, your date, though you thought Raph forgot about him.. did not escape retribution.

A couple nights after the incident, your date, Todd, stood alone. He was sweeping the new concrete, cleaning up after a week of work, headphones dangling from his ears. He hummed a tune, staring down at the pavement, admiring his work.

Didn't even notice the two hulking shadows approaching from behind him -- 'til his headphones were ripped right out.

“What the--”

He turned, startled, just in time to see something big and orange spin toward him. Todd took a full-on roundhouse kick to the chest from Michelangelo and went flying into a pile of sandbags like a cartoon.

“Yikes, bro,” Mikey said, cracking his knuckles. “You can put your hands on women but you can't take a hit yourself? Bummer.”

Raph stepped forward, massive arms crossed, that black hoodie of his soaked from rain and rage. “So you’re Todd, huh?”

Todd wheezed, struggling to sit up. “W-What the hell?! Who the hell are you?!”

Mikey grinned wide. “Let’s just say we’re the after-party to that date you fumbled so bad.”

Todd blinked, confused, then scowled. “This is about that chick? She said it was fine. What, you two her brothers or somethin’?”

Raph’s jaw ticked. “Somethin’.”

Then he grabbed Todd by the collar and lifted him off the ground like a rag doll. “She said it was fine,” he repeated mockingly, eyes narrowing. “Right after she came home cryin’ with a bruise in the exact shape of your grubby little hand. Sound fuckin’ familiar?”

Todd squirmed. “I-I didn’t mean--she was getting mouthy, I just--”

That was all he got out before Raph slammed him into a cement pillar, holding him there like a schoolyard bully from hell.

“I should break every bone in your slimy little body,” Raph growled. “But I promised her I wouldn’t kill you.”

Todd whimpered. “Then what--what are you gonna do?!”

Mikey stepped up beside Raph with a sweet, sunny grin… and a bright pink backpack.

“Oh, we’re gonna teach you, bro.”

Cut to:

Todd, thirty minutes later, is tied up Spider-Man style with neon pink jump rope, suspended upside down from the scaffolding. Mikey had drawn flowers and hearts all over his face in washable marker. His pants were missing (they were now duct-taped to the top of a flagpole nearby), and his shirt had been swapped with a hot-pink crop top that read: “I Cry When Girls Yell.”

A chalk sign was propped up beneath him. It read:

“Hi, I’m Todd. I’m a big, dumb, concrete-throwing jerk who hits girls. My biceps are fake. Don’t be like me. This could happen to you.”

“Next time,” Raph said, crouching down beside him, voice calm but terrifying, “you keep your hands to yourself. Or I’ll let Mikey use the glitter glue.”

Todd whimpered, nodding frantically, tears dripping down his inverted face.

“Glitter. Never comes out,” Mikey added with a wink.

With that, the brothers disappeared into the night, high-fiving as they vanished into the shadows.

Lesson taught. Message delivered.

And Todd? He never went near another woman without a very polite tone -- and two feet of personal space.

You, however, saw it in the news the next day.

The headline read:

“Masked Vigilantes Hijack Construction Site to Publicly Shame Harasser -- Chalk Sign Warns: ‘Don’t Be Like Me. This Could Happen to You.’”

You groaned, rolling your eyes.

“Raphael Hamato! Come here! Now!”

You heard the unmistakable sound of his boots thudding down the stairs before Raph appeared at the entrance to your room, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, baby?” Raph said, leaning against the doorframe, all casual confidence. His smirk widened as he took in your unimpressed expression. “You, uh… saw the news, huh?”

You held up the newspaper, shaking it at him. “This was your idea of ‘handling it quietly’?!”

Raph shrugged, pushing off the doorframe and sauntering into the room. “Eh, we didn’t kill him. That counts as quiet for me.”

You groaned again, tossing the paper onto the bed. “Raph, you literally left a chalk sign. And Mikey drew on his face.”

“Yeah, and?” Raph flopped onto the bed beside you, stretching out like a smug cat. “Dude’s lucky that’s all we did. You shoulda seen the other ideas Mikey had-- we didn't even use the glitter.”

You shot him a glare, but the corner of your mouth twitched. “You’re impossible.”

Raph grinned, reaching out to tug you closer. “Nah, just thorough.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, voice dropping into that low, dangerous tone that still sent shivers down your spine. “And now everyone knows what happens when some punk puts his hands on you. He ever comes near you again, they ain't gonna find his body.”

You huffed, but you couldn’t fight the warmth spreading in your chest. “...You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” Raph agreed, unrepentant. “But I gotta make sure my girl's taken care of.”

You sighed, finally letting yourself smile as you leaned into him. “...Thanks, Raph.”

He squeezed you tighter, pressing another kiss to your bare shoulder, just above the strap of your tanktop. “Anytime, shorty.”

Things had been fantastic.

Since his father had accepted dragons as a part of life, the world had opened up for Hiccup. He spent all of his time working with Toothless, expanding the rookery, cataloging species, sketching maps and forging new gear. The village looked to him like he actually belonged. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t “useless.” He was essential. He was happy. Toothless was even happier. His friends had dragons, too, exploring their sense of self up above the clouds just as he was.

He had finally done something right.

Until the night he met you. He lost his sense of self immediately.

One of the seamen, Golberg, came sprinting back into the center of Berk, out of breath and sweating, eyes wide. His face was beet-red, easy to see even in the dark. He knocked urgently on the chief's door, waking Hiccup in the process.

Him and his father exchanged a look before opening the door.

Golberg immediately started rushing the words out of his mouth.

“IwasdownonthedockandwhenIwastyingtheshipupIheard--”

Stoick stopped him, holding a hand up.

“Breathe, lad. What's going on?”

Golberg sucked in a lungful of air, bent over with his hands on his knees. When he looked up, his eyes were still too wide, his voice trembling with disbelief.

“I heard the whistle! The whistle of a Night Fury! I saw the damn thing, in the sky, and there was--”

Hiccup interrupted.

“Not possible. Toothless is the last one alive.”

Golberg shook his head frantically. “I know what I saw!” he insisted, voice pitching higher. “It looked like a Night Fury -- almost exactly! But different. Bigger, maybe? And the sound -- gods, I swear it, Hiccup, it had the same shriek. The same lightless dive!”

Hiccup felt a chill crawl up his spine. Toothless stirred behind him, sensing the tension.

“Where?” Stoick asked, already turning toward his axe.

“The docks.” Golberg’s voice dropped. “It landed.”

Hiccup didn’t wait. He grabbed his flight gear and swung onto Toothless’s saddle before his father could stop him. The dragon let out a low, uneven chirp -- something between a question and a warning.

Hiccup’s brow furrowed. “You alright, bud?”

Toothless blinked, slow. His pupils were wide, body sluggish beneath him.

Strange.

Still, Hiccup tightened his grip on the saddle. “Let’s go.”

When he reached the dock, there was nothing but wet footprints. Footprints that looked exactly like Toothless's but bigger, like Golberg had mentioned, and then a set of small boot prints beside them. They reached the gravel and then disappeared.

“Damnit.” Hiccup grumbled. “They're gone.”

Toothless again stiffened up, a groan leaving his chest, before he oriented his body towards the thick line of trees across the water. He groaned again, his head shifting with more intention this time. His ears twitched toward the tree line, pupils narrowing slightly.

Hiccup followed his gaze.

A dense stretch of forest stood just beyond the edge of the inlet --dark and mist-veiled, with only the faintest shimmer of moonlight bouncing off the wet leaves. Nothing stirred. Not a single branch moved, no animal sounds. Too quiet.

Hiccup’s fingers flexed around the saddle grips.

“You smell something?” he muttered. Toothless gave a low rumble in response, tail swaying slightly.

It wasn’t just instinct. It was something deeper. Primal. A flicker of recognition from the Night Fury. Of territory being tested. Of something that felt too close, too similar… too other.

Hiccup slid off the saddle slowly, boots hitting the damp wooden dock with a muffled thud. He followed the trail where the prints ended, crouching down to touch the last visible one. Still fresh. Still wet.

Not gone. Just hiding.

He looked back at Toothless --who now stood perfectly still, shoulders hunched, wings twitching like he was bracing for a challenge.

“Okay,” Hiccup muttered under his breath, pushing up the collar of his flight suit. “If they want to play it like that…”

He drew his dagger from his belt -- not to use, but just in case. He wasn’t going to be caught off guard. Whoever you were, you had the nerve to fly into his village on a dragon that shouldn’t exist, insult his intelligence, and vanish into the woods like a shadow.

No. He wasn’t letting it go that easy.

And with one last glance at the still, dark trees, Hiccup stepped off the gravel path and into the forest. Toothless followed, body tense but curious. His black scales shimmered in the night glow.

The forest swallowed them whole.

No village lights reached this far. Just the occasional sliver of moonlight piercing the canopy and the steady rhythm of breath --Hiccup’s, then Toothless’s, both just a little too fast.

Twigs cracked underfoot. Moss muffled the rest. The air smelled like earth and storm.

Then, the brush moved. Deliberate. Close.

Hiccup froze. Toothless’s ears flattened. Another growl rumbled out of his throat, deeper this time, nearly a warning.

But the answer came before Hiccup could react.

A second growl. Lower. Rougher. From somewhere ahead.

Toothless surged forward, snarling, but then stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes locked.

A shadow melted from between the trees like ink in water.

It was your dragon again.

And you, standing to its left, one hand still resting on the beast's side, calm like you'd been waiting.

You tilted your head. “Bringing backup?”

Hiccup didn’t sheath the dagger, but he did lower it. “Didn’t realize I’d need it.”

“Neither did I,” you replied. “But here we are.”

The tension cracked in the air between you.

Your dragon was.. Toothless. But bigger. He had broader wings, shinier scales, and sharper teeth. Instead of green eyes, his were an intimidating ice blue, pupils thin, eyes trained onto Hiccup and Toothless like he expected a fight. His wing curled around the back of you, like a protective sheath, ready to curl you inward if needed.

Your eyes widened, not as hostile as your dragon's.

“It's true.. Everything I heard is true. There is another one.” You said, almost breathlessly. You ran a hand down your dragon's side reflexively, like a calming gesture to both of you.

Hiccup’s breath hitched, a mix of disbelief and something deeper stirring in his chest. The weight of it settled like a stone -- another Night Fury. Not just a myth or a legend. Real. Alive.

Toothless shifted beside him, low growl vibrating through the air, but his eyes were softer now, watching your dragon with cautious recognition.

“You don’t look like one of us,” Hiccup said slowly, eyes flicking back to you. “Not from Berk. Where are you from?”

You met his gaze steadily, fingers still lingering against your dragon’s smooth scales. “Far from here. I’ve been chasing stories for months, trying to find the Night Fury I've been hearing of. Your Night Fury.”

Hiccup’s eyes narrowed slightly, absorbing your words. The weight of months spent searching, the desperation and hope wrapped into one, was clear in your voice. It stirred something in him -- a mix of admiration and skepticism.

“Thor,” he murmured, glancing at his dragon, who let out a soft, almost curious chirp in response. “I didn’t think anyone was still looking for them. Least of all, someone like you.”

You smiled wistfully.

“I found Perseus,” you gestured to the huge dragon beside you, “when he was small. Thrashing around in the bushes, caught in a trap. I was never like the rest of the people in my village. I didn't want to kill them and I wasn't afraid of them.”

Perseus purred, nuzzling against you.

“I raised him. Learned how he works. Learned everything about his species.. The species I thought burned out. But it seems we were wrong.”

Hiccup’s eyes softened as he studied you and Perseus, the enormity of what you were saying settling in like a dawning light. “You raised him… from a hatchling?”

You nodded, fingers gently stroking the sleek scales along Perseus’s neck. “I had to learn fast. Night Furies aren’t like other dragons, they’re elusive, intelligent, and fiercely protective. If you don’t understand that, you don’t stand a chance.”

Toothless shifted closer to you both, his gaze flickering between Perseus and his rider with growing curiosity. The unspoken connection between the two Night Furies hummed quietly in the air -- familiar, like echoes from a past no one had dared to speak of.

Hiccup swallowed hard, a strange mixture of envy and relief flooding him. “I thought Toothless was the last. That the species was gone forever.”

You smiled in amusement.

“Toothless. What a fun name.”

Hiccup blinked, a slow smile creeping onto his face despite the tension lingering between you. “Yeah, well, it fits him. He’s… unique.”

You chuckled softly, the sound light but carrying an edge of knowing. “Unique is one word for it. I imagine he’s got a stubborn streak a mile wide.”

“Toothless?” Hiccup grinned, shaking his head. “You’re not wrong.”

The two Night Furies exchanged a brief glance, the older one’s eyes narrowing with something almost like recognition, before Perseus let out a soft, rumbling purr that seemed to say, I like him.

After the exchange, Hiccup brought you back to the village.

He couldn't decide whether it was a mistake or not.

You were loved. Immediately.

You could do things Hiccup couldn't. Perseus was new and shiny to the people of Berk, adoring fans crowding around him, but backing up when he let out a shattering roar, as if to warn people from coming too close.

Hiccup watched from a distance, a complicated knot tightening in his chest. You moved through the crowd with effortless confidence, sharing knowledge about Night Furies that left the villagers wide-eyed and eager to learn. Your connection with Perseus was undeniable -- fierce yet tender -- and the people of Berk couldn’t get enough.

But there was something else. A tension beneath the admiration. A shadow in Hiccup’s mind whispering that he was losing ground -- not just as a dragon rider, but as the village’s champion of dragon-kind.

A rivalry began.

Who could complete the most raids? Who could defend Berk better? Who caught the better approval from Stoick?

You and Hiccup were at each other's throats as soon as you could be.

One time, you showed up at the same raid, undermining each other and failing to complete it. Your eyes almost burned with irritation as you dismounted Perseus, approaching Hiccup immediately.

Hiccup wasn't much happier.

“What the hell was that, Haddock?!” you shot, voice low but fierce. “Trying to show me up? Because you just made a mess of everything.”

Hiccup’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t trying to impress you or anyone else. I was trying to keep Berk safe. Something you seemed to forget when you decided to go solo.”

Perseus growled softly behind you, wings twitching nervously, while Toothless let out a warning hiss, sensing the tension crackling between the two of you.

You stepped closer, eyes locking with his. “Maybe if you weren’t so busy trying to be the hero, you’d see that we’re stronger together.”

Hiccup laughed bitterly, shaking his head.

“We have no business doing anything together,” he groaned, “You're only here because of your dragon. Not because we need your help.”

You blinked, momentarily thrown off by the sharp edge in his voice, the unspoken hurt beneath the anger. Your breath hitched, but you refused to show weakness.

“Is that what you really think?” you asked, voice steady but cold. “That I’m just some tagalong riding a flashy dragon? Maybe I’m here because I want to protect Berk. Just like you.”

Hiccup’s eyes narrowed, pain flickering there before the stubborn shield went back up. “It’s not the same. You don’t belong here.”

Perseus rumbled low, a protective growl that vibrated through your bones. You wrapped a hand around his neck, grounding yourself.

“I belong wherever I decide to stand,” you said softly but firmly. “And right now, that’s here. Whether you like it or not.”

For a moment, the silence between you was thick enough to cut. Then Toothless stepped forward, nudging Hiccup’s arm, breaking the tension -- a silent reminder that neither of you were alone in this.

He could've sworn he saw a tear glisten in your eye before you stalked off. Perseus stuck behind for a second, grumbling at Hiccup judgmentally, a warning growl.

Hiccup stood frozen for a heartbeat, staring after you as your silhouette vanished into the darkening woods. The raw vulnerability beneath your fierce words twisted in his gut, conflicting with his stubborn pride.

Toothless shifted beside him, letting out a low, almost mournful hiss, before glancing up at Hiccup with those wide, knowing eyes.

Weeks stretched before you and Hiccup interacted again. You’d even been in the same place without speaking. You trained with the rest of the group, but you didn’t train with Hiccup and Toothless. You focused on training Perseus with the larger dragons, namely Snotlout (annoying and far too flirty) and his dragon Hookfang. You sometimes trained with the twins and their Zippleback too, but once again, Tuffnut got a little too comfortable with you.

Today, Perseus had done well. He always did, really. There was something odd about the session though.

Hiccup and Toothless hadn’t even shown up, they were nowhere to be found at all. So you, unfortunately, were kind of off your game. You looked off into the horizon, expecting to see Hiccup on Toothless’s saddle, apologizing awkwardly for being late. But the moment never came.

“Babe!” Snotlout called, gliding up next to you. You felt the heat off Hookfang’s scales seeping into your clothes. “Focus. What are you looking at?”

You rolled your eyes. “Babe? What have I told you about calling me babe, Snotlout?”

Snotlout grinned, completely unbothered. “That it gets under your skin.” He leaned a little too far toward you, raising his eyebrows. “Which I take as a sign you secretly like it.”

Hookfang let out a snort that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, and Perseus curled his lip, baring a row of glinting white teeth. The threat was clear -- one flap closer and Hookfang wasn’t the only one Snotlout had to worry about.

You sighed and gently tugged Perseus back with a hand on his jaw. “Back, boy. He’s not worth the energy.”

Snotlout raised both hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright! Don’t get your tail in a twist. Just trying to lighten the mood.” He squinted at you, then glanced toward the distant cliffs beyond Berk. “You’ve been twitchy all day. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were worried.”

You stiffened slightly, trying to hide the way your eyes flicked to the sky again. Still no sign of Hiccup or Toothless.

“I’m not worried,” you lied. “I’m just… distracted.”

“Mhm,” Snotlout said, clearly not buying it. “Well, for what it’s worth, I heard Hiccup was out early this morning. Didn’t say where he was going, just packed some gear and flew off. Toothless didn’t even say goodbye to Hookfang. Can you believe that? Rude.”

That sinking feeling returned in your stomach. Hiccup might have been petty -- and kind of a jerk when he wanted to be -- but he wasn’t reckless. Not without a reason. And not without telling anyone.

Your voice was quieter when you finally spoke. “Did he say anything to anyone?”

Snotlout shrugged. “Not that I heard. Maybe Fishlegs would know more. He and Hiccup always talk nerd stuff.”

You gave a quick nod, pulling Perseus around with a soft whistle. The massive Night Fury immediately followed, wings twitching with tension.

Snotlout called after you with a lazy wave. “Try not to miss me too much!”

You didn’t even glance back. You were already scanning the skies, muttering under your breath.

“Where the hell did you go, Haddock?”

Surprisingly, you didn’t have to go far.

When you went into the village to get some gear in preparation to go hunt them down, you found that they were already home.

Taking a deep breath, you knocked on the door. Hiccup answered, worry in his eyes, poorly disguised as annoyance to see you.

“Y/n. I’m kind of busy right now.”

Your brows drew together immediately. You could see it in Hiccup’s face -- the exhaustion, the unspoken panic. His shirt was wrinkled, collar askew, and his hair was a mess like he’d been running his hands through it nonstop. Something was wrong.

“Busy?” you repeated, trying to keep your voice steady. “I noticed. You disappeared without a word and didn’t show up for training. Toothless didn’t show up either. And now you look like you haven’t slept.”

Hiccup sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t think you’d care.”

That stung. You stepped forward anyway, peering over his shoulder, and your heart dropped.

Toothless was curled up on the floor behind him, his massive form sluggish, wings drooping over the sides of the rug. His breathing was uneven, too slow. His scales, normally iridescent and alive with movement, looked dull under the dim firelight.

Your voice softened, forgetting every ounce of rivalry between you. “Hiccup…”

“He wouldn’t eat,” Hiccup muttered, stepping aside reluctantly to let you in. “Didn’t fly right. He nearly crashed this morning, so I brought him back. He’s been like this since.” He dragged a hand down his face. “And I have no idea what’s wrong.”

You dropped your gear beside the doorway and approached Toothless slowly. Perseus, waiting outside, let out a soft, distressed hum that vibrated through the wood of the hut. You crouched beside the dragon, resting a hand against his muzzle.

He didn’t flinch, but the touch made his eye flicker open. It was hazy. Unfocused.

You took that as a sign that he wasn't hostile. Leaning down further, you calmly smoothed your hand across his head, starting from his jaw and ending by his folded ears. You frowned, biting your lip. He was warm. Feverish.

“I’ve seen this before,” you cleared your throat, standing. “He’s sick. Perseus has been through it, too. I called it Scorchrot.”

Hiccup blinked. “Scorchrot?”

You nodded grimly. “It hits Night Furies harder than other dragons. Starts with a fever, then weakness in the wings and limbs. If untreated, it can affect their fire glands -- that’s where the name comes from. They burn too hot on the inside, like they’re rotting from the core.”

Hiccup paled slightly, glancing back at Toothless. “How did you treat it?”

“Well, there's a medicine I can make that helped Perseus a lot. Also, cool compresses, a temporary shift in diet -- no fish, just soft roots and rainwater -- and something to lower his body temperature.”

Hiccup ran a hand through his hair, pacing slightly. “Medicine? What kind of--what do you need? Herbs? Minerals? Just tell me and I’ll get it.”

You gave him a steady look. “I’ll need frostleaf, ground thistle root, and dried skybloom petals. They’re rare this far north, but I saw some near the cliffs when I flew in.”

He exhaled sharply, the tension in his shoulders tight as wire. “Right. Okay. I’ll get them.”

You hesitated before stepping forward, voice softer. “You don’t have to do it alone. I know you don’t trust me. But trust me with this. I’ve done it before.”

He met your eyes, something shifting behind his, pride, maybe. Or fear disguised as pride.

“I’m not worried about trusting you,” he muttered. “I’m worried about losing him.”

Your expression softened. “Then we fix him. Together.”

A quiet moment passed. Then, from behind, a weak thrum of a purr came from Toothless’s throat -- hoarse, but there. Alive. Reaching.

Perseus, still just outside the hut, let out a low, supportive hum. He wouldn’t leave either.

And maybe, for the first time in weeks, the rivalry didn’t matter so much.

“Can you.. Will you stay here with him? I don't want him to be alone.”

Hiccup acted like it literally burned his throat to ask for help, but you accepted, smiling softly.

“Yeah. I'll stay.”

You moved back toward Toothless, kneeling at his side again with quiet care. His tail twitched at your presence, just barely, and you stroked along his jaw, murmuring something low and soothing. His eyes fluttered, half-lidded, but calmer now.

Hiccup lingered in the doorway, watching the way your hand moved so naturally, how Perseus let out another soft trill from outside, keeping vigil.

“Thank you,” he said, voice rough.

You didn’t look up. “Go get what we need. We’ll be here when you get back.”

There was a beat -- like he wanted to say something more -- but he only nodded. Then he was gone, off into the thickening clouds of the afternoon, chasing herbs and hope like his life depended on it.

Inside the hut, the heat from Toothless’s fever pulsed faintly in the air. You leaned into it, not shrinking away, fingers steady on his scales.

“We’re gonna take care of you,” you whispered.

When Hiccup returned, you were holding a cold compress to Toothless's head tenderly, stroking his scales. You'd loosed your hair from your braid, the curls tumbling down your back in soft waves -- before you even realized he was there, you cooed, speaking gently to the dragon. It was your nature, he'd realized. You were amazing with them, like you'd known how to love a dragon your entire life. Because in all honesty, you did.

This was the first time he wasn't envious of it. He leaned against the doorframe watching you, an unusual feeling building in his chest.

No envy. No distaste as there usually was. Just.. watching you. Watching how you worked. Watching how your h/c hair blew gently in the wind from the open window. Watching how you turned to smile at Perseus, who had somehow managed to curl his massive form around you on the floor.

You were beautiful.

The thought made Hiccup wince. Why the hell was he doing this?

Because for once, he wasn’t trying to win.

Not a raid. Not a title. Not Stoick’s approval.

Not even a rivalry.

Just--this. Toothless, sick but stable. Perseus curled around you like a shield. You, eyes soft and voice softer, hands moving like you'd done this a thousand times, like dragons were born trusting you.

Hiccup tightened his grip on the bundle of herbs in his arms, unsure what to do with the sudden ache blooming in his chest. You weren’t supposed to be beautiful. You weren’t supposed to be gentle and fierce in the same breath. You were supposed to be frustrating. Competitive. Impossible.

But now? You were kneeling in his hut, taking care of the creature he loved most in the world like he was your own. And for the first time, Hiccup felt like maybe you weren’t just here because of Perseus. Maybe you weren’t just a threat.

Maybe… you were something else entirely.

He stepped inside quietly, setting down the supplies. You turned, surprised but smiling.

“There you are,” you said softly. “I was starting to think you got lost.”

And just like that, Hiccup found himself smiling back.

“Not a chance,” he murmured, eyes flicking to Toothless. “Couldn’t stay away.” Then quieter, “From either of you.”

He winced, turning his head to apologize for being weird, but he hadn't realized that you'd already gotten started on preparing the medicine, probably having taken the herbs from his arms while he was staring like a moron.

His face flushed.

Get it together, Hiccup.

You hadn’t said anything about the comment -- at least not out loud -- so he was really hoping that you hadn't even heard it. If you had, you let it pass. Maybe out of kindness. Maybe because your focus was entirely on Toothless.

Your fingers worked with practiced ease, crushing herbs with a mortar and pestle, mixing them with a dark amber liquid that smelled earthy and sharp. The kind of scent that clung to the back of your throat. Hiccup stayed quiet, hovering nearby with his hands in his pockets like some awkward apprentice.

“Help me lift his head?” you asked, glancing up with that same infuriating, gentle confidence you always had. Like you knew exactly what you were doing. Like you didn’t need him but still wanted him there.

He nodded quickly, grateful to have something to do. As he cradled Toothless’s heavy head, you brought the bowl close, dipping a small ladle into it and holding it near the dragon’s mouth.

Toothless didn’t resist. He trusted you. That fact alone made Hiccup’s chest ache.

You sat back on your heels after the last of the mixture was gone, brushing your hands on your thighs. “He’ll need another dose tomorrow, but this should bring the fever down.”

Hiccup set Toothless’s head back onto the cushions gently and looked at you again.

And this time, when he looked, he really saw you.

Not the rival who beat him at raids. Not the outsider who dazzled Berk. Not the competition.

Just you.

Exhausted but unwavering. Fierce but kind. Beautiful, yes but in that wild, maddening way he never saw coming.

He cleared his throat. “Thanks. For… everything.”

You met his gaze, softer now. “I’m not here to steal your dragon, you know.”

“I know,” Hiccup said, voice low. “I think I just… didn’t know how to let someone help.”

You tilted your head, studying him, something unreadable behind your eyes.

“Well,” you said, finally, “you’re doing better than most.”

And he smiled. A real one. Small, crooked. Honest.

You stood to leave, gathering your things. A small wave of your scent hit his nose -- flowers, smoke from a fire, and leather grease.

He watched as you slung your pack over your shoulder, fingers deft and sure, the same hands that had soothed Toothless back from the edge. You didn’t look at him right away, maybe on purpose, maybe because you didn’t want to break the strange quiet that had settled.

And maybe he didn’t either.

You were halfway to the door when Hiccup found his voice again.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You paused, glancing over your shoulder.

And there it was again -- that look. Like you could see through him without even trying. Like you already knew what he was going to say.

Still, he said it.

“…Thanks for staying.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “Thanks for letting me.”

And then you were gone, the door closing quietly behind you. The scent of flowers, fire, and leather grease lingering like a memory.

Hiccup stood there a long time after you left, watching the door, listening to Toothless’s steady breathing, wondering when everything had stopped being so simple.

And why the thought of seeing you again tomorrow suddenly felt like the most important thing in the world.

Over the next week, Hiccup watched you like he had the first night you'd been there. Watched you care for Toothless while he was sick. Watched you help the both of them through his recovery, helping the dragon regain his strength and teaching Hiccup how to help too.

You guided his hands to where he needed to hold Toothless, supporting him in regaining limb strength. Hiccup wasn't sure if he'd felt such soft, yet firm hands in his life. They were warm too.

And every time your fingers brushed his, by accident, or maybe not, Hiccup’s mind blanked for a second too long.

At first, he told himself it was just proximity. Just admiration. You were helping Toothless, after all -- he’d be an idiot not to appreciate that. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you smiled when Toothless lifted his head for the first time without help. The way you murmured encouragement into the crook of his neck when his limbs trembled from fatigue. The way you praised Hiccup when he got it right, voice soft and proud, like it mattered to you.

Eventually, Toothless was himself again.

You cheered in happiness when he finally took flight, darting around the sky, diving like he used to. Perseus joined him, flying around in circles.

You stood with your hands cupped around your mouth, calling out to them both like a proud parent, laughter spilling from your lips as Toothless and Perseus twirled through the sky like black comets.

Hiccup stood beside you, unable to take his eyes off either of you -- not the dragons, not the joy on your face. Your eyes glowed with the reflected fire of the setting sun, and something about the moment twisted in his chest, bittersweet and beautiful.

“He’s really back,” you breathed, eyes tracking Toothless as he executed a perfect loop. “I was scared he wouldn’t be.”

Hiccup glanced sideways at you, his voice quiet. “Me too.”

Perseus roared playfully mid-air, and Toothless responded with a trilling chirp before they dove together, a synchronized flash of wings and light. Their bond was no longer wary or foreign. It was something else now. Familiar. Like they’d always known each other.

Kind of like… you and Hiccup.

You turned toward him just then, and he realized how close you were standing. Shoulder to shoulder. You’d always felt like competition before. But now, you felt like something else. Like part of his team.

“You helped him get here,” Hiccup said, voice low, a little rough. “I don’t think I could’ve done it without you.”

You blinked, surprised at the honesty. Then your lips curled into a slow smile. “Well, Haddock, maybe you’re not so bad at letting someone help after all.”

He huffed a laugh, half embarrassed. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

You nudged him gently with your elbow. “Too late.”

The dragons whooshed overhead again, close enough for a gust of wind to tousle your hair. As you both watched them chase each other across the sky, Hiccup wasn’t sure what tomorrow would look like -- but for once, he hoped it looked a lot like today.

When he returned home, his dad sat in his chair, reading from a big thick book. He looked up from it, smiling knowingly.

“Hiccup. How's Toothless today?”

Hiccup paused in the doorway, caught off guard by the warm familiarity in Stoick’s voice -- and the knowing look in his eyes. He stepped inside slowly, brushing the wind from his hair and shrugging off his riding gear.

“He’s better,” Hiccup said, glancing out the window for a moment as if he could still see the dragons dancing in the air. “Flying again. Strong.”

Stoick nodded, pleased. “And the other one? Perseus?”

“Also good,” Hiccup replied, then hesitated. “They’ve started flying together. It’s like they’ve known each other longer than we have.”

He closed the book, placing it down on the table next to him.

“You're right to be fond of that one. Y/n. She's fantastic with the dragons.”

Hiccup's jaw dropped immediately, his face burning. What was his Dad insinuating?

“Dad! We're not--”

Stoick interrupted, putting his hand up to silence him.

“My boy. There's no shame in it. She's fair in the face, she's honorable, and she’s got a spirit fiercer than any dragon I’ve ever met. A fine match for a chief’s son, don’t you think?”

Hiccup sputtered, his ears turning as red as a Monstrous Nightmare’s flame. “I--I don’t--we’re just friends! We train dragons together, that’s all!”

Stoick leaned back in his chair, his knowing smile widening. “Aye, and I just happened to notice the way you look at her when she’s not paying attention.”

Hiccup groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, Thor.”

His father’s laughter boomed through the hall. “Relax, son. I’m only teasing.” He paused, then added with a softer tone, “But if there were something more… well, I’d be happy for you.”

Hiccup exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Well. Thanks, Dad.” He shot a glance toward the door, desperate for an escape. “I should, uh… go check on Toothless. Again.”

Stoick waved him off, still grinning. “Go on, then. Just remember--dragons aren’t the only things worth chasing. Betrothal is just as important.”

Hiccup nearly tripped over his own feet on the way out.

The next day, everyone resumed training, pleased that Toothless was well again. He was the last one there, quickly saddling Toothless and climbing on. Looking up in the sky, he saw you already up there, Perseus dipping and blowing targets apart with blue flames. You giggled and cheered, praising him, your braid blowing in the frantic winds.

He could've swooned.

Tuffnut stood next to him, his arms crossed, smirking in that dumb Tuffnut sort of way.

"Wow," Tuffnut drawled, nudging Hiccup with his elbow. "You’ve got it bad."

Hiccup startled, nearly dropping Toothless’ saddle strap. "What? No I don’t." He fumbled with the buckle, refusing to look up. "I was just… assessing Perseus’ flight form. Y’know, as the resident dragon expert."

Tuffnut snorted. "Uh-huh. And I assess Fishlegs’ lunch every day before I steal it. Doesn’t mean I’m not hungry." He leaned in, grinning. "Face it, Hiccup. You’re smitten."

"I am not smitten," Hiccup hissed, finally securing the saddle and swinging onto Toothless’ back. "And even if I were--which I’m not--it’s none of your business."

Tuffnut clutched his chest dramatically. "Oh, but it is! As your best friend--"

"You’re not my best friend."

"--I have a sacred duty to point out when you’re being ridiculous." Tuffnut smirked. "And right now? You’re being ridiculous."

"Ooooh, Hiccup’s got a crush!" Ruffnut’s voice carried across the training arena as she and Astrid strolled up, both wearing matching grins.

Astrid crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. "And here I thought you were too busy being the ‘Dragon Master’ to notice anything else."

Hiccup groaned, rubbing his temples. "Oh, come on. You too, Astrid?"

"What? I call it like I see it," Astrid said with a smirk. "And I see you staring at Y/n like she just invented fire."

Ruffnut cackled, elbowing Tuffnut. "Told you! Even Astrid noticed!"

Hiccup’s face burned. "I do not stare--"

"You literally just sighed when she did that barrel roll," Tuffnut cut in.

"I was impressed by Perseus’ flying!" Hiccup protested weakly.

"Uh-huh," Ruffnut said, rolling her eyes. "And I’m just here for the free mead."

Astrid shook her head, still grinning. "Face it, Hiccup. You’re obvious."

Just then, you and Perseus swooped down, landing gracefully beside them. "What’s obvious?" you asked, hopping off your dragon and brushing off your tunic.

The twins exchanged exaggerated glances.

"Oh, nothing," Tuffnut said innocently. "Just Hiccup’s undying admiration for--"

"DRAGON TRAINING!" Hiccup blurted, cutting him off. "We should, uh, get back to it. Right now. Immediately."

You blinked. "…Okay?"

Toothless gave Hiccup a flat look, as if to say, Really? That’s the best you’ve got?

Astrid snorted. "Smooth, Haddock. Real smooth."

Hiccup buried his face in his hands as the twins howled with laughter.

Some days, being the future chief was really overrated.

At the end of training, Hiccup knew where to find you. Just where you usually were -- watching the sunset at the edge of the cliff with Perseus.

Your skin glowed in the orange sunlight, boot clad feet dangling from the edge as you scratched Perseus behind his ear. You hummed to an old folk song, staring out at the sun. Hiccup landed behind you, unclipping himself from his gear, before slowly starting to approach you.

Toothless, ever the mischievous wingman, nudged Hiccup forward with a low, encouraging warble, nearly sending him stumbling.

"Hey," Hiccup said, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped beside you. "Mind if I join you?"

You glanced up, smiling. "Only if you promise not to trip over your own feet this time and make Toothless dive to catch you."

"Hey, that was one time--" he protested, but you just laughed and patted the spot next to you.

Perseus rumbled in greeting as Hiccup sat down, his tail thumping against the ground like an overgrown cat’s. The sunset painted the sky in fiery golds and deep purples, the ocean below shimmering with reflected light.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just the wind, the distant cries of dragons, and the steady rhythm of the waves.

Then;

"So," you said, bumping his shoulder playfully. "Heard you’ve been admiring my flying."

Hiccup choked. "Oh, for Thor's sake--who told you that?"

You grinned. "Let’s just say the twins aren’t great at keeping secrets."

"I’m going to strangle them," Hiccup muttered, but there was no real heat in it.

You laughed again, leaning back on your hands. "Relax. I think it’s sweet."

His heart did a weird little flip. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Another pause. Then, softer:

"I admire yours too, you know."

Hiccup turned to look at you, really look at you. The way the fading light caught in your eyes, the way your lips quirked in that half-smile he’d come to memorize.

And suddenly, all the teasing, all the nerves, none of it mattered.

Because right here, right now?

This was perfect.

Toothless and Perseus exchanged a glance, then deliberately turned their backs, giving you two the closest thing to privacy two nosy dragons could manage.

"Hiccup?"

"Yeah?'

You cleared your throat.

"I know you thought I came here to.. take your place. Dull your shine. Whatever it was, but," you started to talk, turning in his direction. "I never felt like I had a place before I got here. I was always running, trying to figure out where I belonged. You make me feel like I have a home. A place where I fit perfectly."

Hiccup’s breath caught in his throat. The way you said it, so raw, so honest, hit him like a tidal wave. For a moment, he couldn’t speak.

Then, softly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against yours.

"You do belong here," he said, voice rough with emotion. "And not just because of Perseus, or because you’re an amazing dragon rider--though, y’know, that definitely helps."

You laughed, but your eyes were suspiciously bright.

Hiccup swallowed, his thumb tracing the back of your hand. "You belong here because… because Berk is better with you in it. I’m better with you in it." He huffed a self-deprecating laugh. "And trust me, that’s saying something, because I was really doing well before you showed up."

You leaned into him, shoulder against shoulder, warmth seeping through the contact. "Your dad told me some stories.. about when you were younger. From what I hear, you're a lot different than you were."

Hiccup groaned, his face flushing. "Oh no. What did he tell you? Please don’t say it was the eel incident--"

You grinned, mischief dancing in your eyes. "Oh, it was definitely the eel incident."

"I was twelve!" Hiccup threw his free hand up in exasperation, but he was laughing despite himself. "And in my defense, eels are slippery."

You leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He also told me about the time you tried to impress Astrid by jumping off the Great Hall--"

"Okay, wow, I see how it is," Hiccup interrupted, shaking his head. "My own father, sabotaging me. Some chief he is."

You nudged him, still grinning. "I think it’s sweet. He’s proud of you. And he likes me."

Hiccup softened, his thumb still absently tracing circles on your hand. "Yeah, well. You’re kind of impossible not to like."

The words hung between you, quiet but weighty. The sun had fully set now, leaving only the glow of the village fires below and the endless scatter of stars above.

When he finally glanced down, he saw your e/c eyes looking back up at him. The moonlight reflected in them, your eyelids slightly low. You studied his appearance like a painting, like you'd never seen anything more detailed.

This was the first time you'd looked at him like this. The first time you looked at him like he was something other than transparent.

Hiccup’s breath hitched.

There was something new in your gaze -- something intentional, something certain -- and it sent his pulse skittering like a startled Terrible Terror. Your fingers tightened ever so slightly around his, anchoring him in the moment.

For once, Hiccup Haddock didn’t overthink.

He didn’t stumble.

He just leaned in.

Hiccup’s first brush of lips against yours was hesitant: sweet, questioning, as if he still couldn’t quite believe this was real. But when you let out a soft sigh against his mouth, something in him ignited.

His hand slid up to cradle your jaw, fingers tangling gently in your hair as the kiss deepened. Your lips parted, and the taste of him -- warm, faintly of hearth-smoke and wild mint -- sent a shiver down your spine. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you, until you could feel the frantic hammer of his heartbeat against your own.

The world fell away.

There was only this: the heat of his touch, the rough calluses of his fingers against your skin, the way his breath hitched when you nipped lightly at his lower lip. A low, desperate sound escaped him, and he kissed you like he was drowning and you were air.

When you finally broke apart, gasping, his forehead rested against yours, his voice ragged.

"I’ve wanted to do that… for weeks. Ever since you first helped me with Toothless."

You smiled, thumb brushing the flushed curve of his cheekbone. "Took you long enough."

Hiccup laughed, breathless, his eyes dark and burning in the moonlight. "Yeah, well… I’m a slow learner."

"Liar," you whispered. "You’re the quickest one I’ve ever met."

His grin was wicked. "Prove it."

And then his mouth was on yours again, hungry and sure this time, swallowing your laugh as he kissed you like it was the only thing that mattered.

And maybe, just for tonight -- it was.

Until you heard slow clapping behind you. You broke apart, rolling your eyes, and turned in Hiccup's lap.

Ruffnut and Tuffnut.

"Bra-vo!" Ruffnut drawled, clapping with exaggerated slowness. "And here I thought Hiccup’s only talent was tripping over his own feet."

Tuffnut wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. "So beautiful. So pure. I think I’m gonna be sick."

Hiccup groaned, dropping his forehead against your shoulder. "I swear to Odin, if you two don’t vanish in the next three seconds--"

"Ooooh, scary!" Ruffnut cackled, elbowing her brother. "Think he’ll sic Toothless on us?"

Toothless, still sprawled dramatically on the ground, cracked one eye open--then promptly rolled onto his back, paws in the air, as if to say, Don’t involve me in this nonsense.

You sighed, twisting to smirk at Hiccup. "We could just ignore them."

Hiccup raised an eyebrow. "You think that’ll work?"

"Worth a shot."

"Actually," you smirked, "hold on."

And then -- without breaking eye contact -- you tapped Perseus's side, waking him up. His blue eyes opened slowly, then narrowed playfully. His throat released a growl, not malice, but pretending to be. His main goal was scaring the twins.

He didn't disappoint. The growl rumbled the dirt, stirring pebbles up.

The effect was instantaneous.

Tuffnut yelped, backpedaling so fast he nearly tripped over his own axe. "WHOA -- OKAY -- WE’RE LEAVING!"

Ruffnut, to her credit, stood her ground for a grand total of two seconds before Perseus exhaled an ear piercing roar.

"Alright, alright! Jeez!" She threw her hands up, but her grin was all mischief. "But just know -- this isn’t over! You two lovebirds are officially our new favorite entertainment!"

And with that, the twins bolted, their laughter fading into the night as Perseus gave a satisfied rumble and flopped back down, tail thumping like a pleased cat.

Hiccup stared after them, then turned to you, eyes wide. "…Did you just weaponize your dragon to scare off the twins?"

You shrugged, scratching Perseus under the chin. "What can I say? He’s got range."

Hiccup burst out laughing, pulling you back against him. "You," he said, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, "are terrifying."

You smirked. "And you love it."

"Yeah," he admitted, his voice soft. "I really do."

And as Perseus and Toothless settled in beside you -- one pretending to sleep, the other already actually snoring -- Hiccup decided something:

If this was what the future looked like?

He wasn't even sure how he'd managed to get you to be with him of all people.

He was a true viking, yes, which was great. But.. He was everything you weren't. You were gentle, humble, and quiet. You were beautiful in every way -- your face, your body, your soul. Snotlout knew that he was none of those things. He was aggressive, brash, arrogant and over-confident. He was rough around the edges, had dirty hair and sooty skin more times than not, and had a nasty temper.

How did you fall for him? How did you manage to love him for over a couple of days, let alone a year?

Snotlout was so shocked and so afraid to lose the opportunity that he began thanking Thor every morning, as soon as he got out of bed.

Little did he know, though, that you were more than happy with him. There was no one else in the world for you, you were certain of it. You loved that he was confident. You took your time to give your attention to every crack and flaw that Snotlout had, showing him your support and letting him know that someone was proud of him. You even loved his temper.. Oddly, you found it kind of hot when it flared, especially when it came to defending you.

Snotlout would defend you with his life. There was never a day that he hadn't been the first to dive into a situation where you needed to be protected, whether it was physically, emotionally, or both.

He may have been a bit overprotective, but you even loved that. You found it endearing how Snotlout and Hookfang, his dragon (who was literally only sweet and gentle with you), escorted you on all of your long walks, no matter where to, or slept in your hut when you had one of your pesky night terrors.

There was a rhythm to life with Snotlout -- chaotic, loud, sometimes exhausting -- but it had become your favorite kind of normal.

He liked to pretend he wasn’t soft for you, especially in front of the others, but it didn’t take much to pull back the curtain.

When you were cold, he’d toss his fur cloak over your shoulders and grumble something about “you being too weak to survive a Berk winter,” but the way he’d adjust it to make sure it covered your ears betrayed him. When you were tired, he’d scowl and bark at anyone who tried to talk to you, folding his arms and daring anyone to challenge his right to carry you home -- which he often did, whether you asked or not.

And then there was Hookfang, who somehow matched his rider in both energy and attitude -- except when it came to you.

You were the only person Hookfang willingly let ride with Snotlout, the only one he’d lean his massive, fire-warmed head against in greeting, rumbling low and satisfied. He’d nudge you gently with his snout if you seemed upset, and more than once, Snotlout had returned from training to find the dragon curled protectively around your hut, shielding it from the wind like a living wall.

Snotlout teased you about it, of course.

“Great. Now he likes you more than me,” he’d huff, crossing his arms dramatically as Hookfang rested his chin on your lap like a giant cat. “Don’t forget who feeds you, bud.”

Hookfang didn’t even look at him.

You’d just laugh, running your fingers along the dragon’s warm scales. “He has good taste.”

Snotlout would scoff, but his smirk always gave him away.

He claimed to be annoyed by the way Hookfang doted on you, but you caught him smiling every single time the dragon nuzzled your side or let out a huff of smoke when you giggled. Once, he even said -- in a very offhand, totally-not-emotional way -- that if anything ever happened to him, he knew you’d still be safe because Hookfang would burn the entire island to the ground for you.

And you didn’t doubt it.

When you had a rough day, both of them showed up at your door -- Snotlout with food he probably stole from the hall, and Hookfang settling just outside your window, warming your home like a dragon-shaped hearth. On those nights, Snotlout never pushed. He’d just sit with you, arm around your shoulders, letting you lean into his warmth while Hookfang’s slow breaths rumbled in the background.

You never had to ask for comfort. It just showed up, messy and loud and loyal.

And when you smiled at Snotlout -- really smiled -- you could always tell he didn’t know what to do with himself. He’d blink, flustered, and try to make some joke about how “devastatingly attractive” he was, but he always ended up staring a little too long, looking like he couldn’t believe his luck.

Maybe he couldn’t.

But you never let him forget he deserved it.

It started on one of those days where the air was cold and sharp, and the clouds hung low enough to bite.

You had gone to the forge to pick up some supplies for Gobber, who'd thrown his back out trying to lift a saddle hook with his bad arm again. Snotlout had offered to come with you -- loudly, and repeatedly -- but you’d waved him off, teasing that you could handle a walk to the forge without being escorted like royalty.

He didn’t love it, but he let you go. Hookfang watched you leave with a grumble, wings twitching. Maybe you should’ve listened to both of them.

Because that’s where it happened.

It started off with a voice that made your eye twitch.

“Y’know, I been thinkin’,” he said, leaning lazily against a post near the docks, gnawing on something that looked questionably like jerky. “You’re way too pretty to be with that guy.”

You turned your head, blinking. “Excuse me?”

He smiled -- or at least, showed his teeth in something that tried to be a smile. “Snotlout. That’s who you’re with, right? Big muscles, loud voice, thinks he’s Thor’s gift to the village?”

You knew who you were speaking to. Sven, one of the small breed dragon stablehands. He was annoying, the smell of him could clear a room, and he was way overconfident. Not like Snotlout, who could back himself up, but in a pathetic way.

Your expression flattened. “Yes. That’s him.”

“Yeah, see, that’s wild to me,” he said, like he wasn’t actively digging a hole for himself. “Like, no offense, but you? You’re all soft and smart and… not him. I mean, come on. You could do better. Like, way better. Like, me better.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, clearly thinking he was being charming. “Snotlout’s probably fun for a bit. Y’know, until the yelling and chest-thumping gets old. But guys like him? They burn out. He’s not a long-term investment. But me? I’m the kind of man you settle down with.”

You stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Do you hear yourself when you talk?”

“Sure do. That’s how I know I’m making sense.” He looked at you like he expected you to laugh. “Come on, sweetheart. You don’t really want a guy who spends more time flexing than thinking. You want someone who appreciates you. Someone mature. Someone with two brain cells to rub together.”

“Right. And that’s supposed to be you?”

He pointed both thumbs at his chest. “Bingo.”

You gave a long, slow blink. “Wow.”

“I mean, it’s not too late,” he added, leaning in slightly. “People make bad choices all the time. You’re young. You’ve got time to course correct. Ditch the viking bobblehead and I’ll show you what real affection looks like.”

You took a step back. “I’m not interested.”

“Oh, come on,” he whined, suddenly irritated. “You don’t even know what you’re missing. I’d treat you like a queen. Not like a trophy he can strut around with.”

“I said I’m not interested.”

That should’ve been the end of it. But he grabbed your arm.

“Don’t be like that--”

“Let. Go.”

“You think that guy’s gonna be around forever? You think he can protect you from everything?”

“Last warning.”

And then, there it was, the boots slamming onto the dock like thunder, that familiar growl that rumbled through your spine before the voice you loved broke through the tension like a war horn:

“Get your filthy hands off her.”

The man jumped, but didn’t let go fast enough.

Snotlout stormed up, shoving him back so hard he stumbled and landed square on his butt.

“You deaf and dumb?” Snotlout spat, standing over him.

"I-I--"

You could practically see Snotlout’s fury crackling off of him like fire.

“She said no,” he spat, voice low, dark, dangerous. “She tried to walk away. You think you’re better than me?” He laughed, humorless. “Try surviving me first.”

Hookfang growled again, smoke curling from his nostrils as he moved to flank Snotlout’s side -- tall, burning hot, and clearly seconds away from unleashing a very non-lethal but definitely scarring shot of flame.

The guy backed off fast, hands up, eyes darting between the livid Viking and the increasingly irritated dragon.

“I was just joking,” he stammered.

Snotlout stepped forward. “You touch her again, look at her wrong, breathe in her direction, and I’ll make sure your food has to be mashed for the rest of your life.” He smiled -- all teeth. “Then I’ll let Hookfang explain it in a way you’ll never forget.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Just turned, stalked to your side, and gently tugged you behind him with a hand on your waist. When he looked at you, his expression softened instantly.

His eyes scanned you -- not just your face, but your arms, your hands -- searching for bruises or any sign that the guy had hurt you. “Did he grab you hard? Where’d he touch you?”

You held up your wrist where the guy had gripped you, red but not bruised. “Just here. I’m fine, really.”

Snotlout didn’t answer. He just took your wrist carefully in his hands and lifted it to his lips, kissing the skin with a surprising gentleness for someone who’d just threatened to reduce a man to a puddle of ash.

He leaned in, touching his forehead to yours for a second. “He’s lucky I didn’t break his nose.”

Hookfang snorted in agreement.

Snotlout pulled you closer, his tone grumbling now. “Told you I should’ve come with you. You’re too nice. You give people the benefit of the doubt. Me? I give ‘em free dental work.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling softly at him. "I know, babe. I figured that after they saw the Tuffnut incident, the men in this village would learn."

Snotlout huffed, pulling you flush against his chest. “Yeah, well, clearly that guy missed the show. Maybe I should host a rerun. With better lighting. Bigger audience.”

You snorted. “You just want to punch someone again.”

“I want people to remember what happens when they mess with you,” he grumbled into your hair. “You’re my girl. Any good viking defends his own.”

Hookfang let out a low rumble behind him, smoke curling lazily from his nostrils. Snotlout glanced back and gave his dragon a smug nod. “See? Even Hookfang agrees. You’re our girl.”

You tilted your head, amused. “Our girl, huh?”

Snotlout blinked. “I mean, I don’t share you with him exactly, but like… emotionally, he’s got a stake. You do pet him more than you pet me.”

You laughed, pressing your forehead into his chest. “He doesn’t whine about cuddle time.”

Snotlout gasped. “Rude.”

“I’m just saying,” you teased. “You could take notes.”

Snotlout narrowed his eyes playfully, then leaned in to nip lightly at your jaw, pulling a surprised yelp from you. “Fine. New rule. No more walking around alone. No more letting creeps catch you without backup. You’re gonna wear my arm like jewelry everywhere you go.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked, lips twitching. “And what about when I’m bathing? Or training with Astrid?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I’m waterproof and very durable.”

You were still giggling when he kissed you -- a firm, claiming press of lips that made it clear you belonged to him. But when he pulled back, his hand stayed against your cheek, thumb brushing your skin in that tender way only you ever got to see.

And behind you both, Hookfang made a low purring sound -- yes, purring -- before flopping dramatically to the ground with a thud that shook the dirt.

Snotlout glanced over, grinning. “Told you. Totally whipped.”

You blinked. “Were you talking about you or the dragon?”

“...Yes.”

Then, from behind a nearby fish cart, a familiar voice cut through the moment like a knife:

“Wow,” Tuffnut deadpanned, peeking over the crates. “That was terrifying and romantic. Ten out of ten. Solid performance. You guys gonna smooch it up big time now, or should I give you privacy?”

Snotlout rolled his eyes. “Privacy would be great, thanks.”

“No promises!” Tuffnut called, already walking off. “Just remember, when your kids ask where babies come from, this was the moment it started.”

You buried your face in Snotlout’s shoulder, groaning. “Why is he like this?”

Snotlout snorted, arms still snug around you. “Ignore him. You’re mine. He’s just jealous.”

He tilted your chin up and kissed you again -- slow, certain, full of everything he couldn’t say out loud without shouting it to the whole island.

And yeah, you were his. But more importantly?

Since you were a baby, you'd made your father proud.

You were just a tiny little one, left on the doorstep of Gobber’s blacksmithing shop. Wrapped in a bear pelt, silently staring up at him with big, curious e/c eyes -- like you were daring the world to challenge you even then. Gobber, surprisingly gentle with babies despite the rough edges and missing limbs, had scooped you up with a gruff laugh and decided on the spot: you were his. No questions asked.

You grew up with soot-streaked cheeks, calloused palms, and the clang of hammers as your lullaby. Gobber taught you everything he knew: how to mold metal, fix a saddle, and keep your heart soft even when your hands were strong. He raised you like a Viking, but he let you be kind. And when you showed your worth in dragon training, no one dared question how a blacksmith’s foundling could outmatch half the village.

When you reached the age of fifteen, you started dragon training. You were surprisingly different from your father at that time -- clean, organized, and deadly.

Where Gobber was chaotic, you were calm. Where he bellowed, you spoke with measured words. You didn’t need to shout to be heard, your actions did the talking. In the training ring, you moved like you’d been born to it: precise, quiet, efficient. You didn’t rely on brute strength. You thought before you struck. And when you did strike, it landed.

By the time the first week of training had ended, you’d already impressed Hiccup and irritated Snotlout beyond reason.

“Who even are you?” he barked one day, panting, sweaty, and scowling as he watched you perfectly disarm a Gronckle in under ten seconds.

“Just someone who sharpens her weapons before training,” you said lightly, not even sparing him a full glance.

He scoffed. “Must be nice having a blacksmith for a dad.”

That got your attention. You turned, eyes narrowed, not angry, just sharp. Controlled.

“It is nice,” you said, voice even. “You should try appreciating your father sometime.”

Snotlout went red at that, clearly not expecting a comeback so calm, so devastating. It wasn’t that you were cruel. You just didn’t entertain nonsense. And that confused him more than anything.

Because Snotlout Jorgenson could handle yelling. He could handle sarcasm, challenges, even dragons breathing down his neck.

But you? You were terrifying in a whole new way.

You didn’t chase attention. You didn’t puff your chest. You didn’t care if people were impressed by you. You were so unlike him -- so unlike anyone he’d ever bothered to pay attention to.

As time passed, you got closer with Hiccup.

He became your best friend. You lead him through the training, sparing him the biting remarks from the other students, and you often hung out outside of training too.

But when he discovered that dragons weren't all bad through his secret pet, you'd called him crazy for a moment. Until you met Toothless.

Maybe it was because you trusted Hiccup. Maybe it was because you needed to see the madness to believe it. Or maybe, somewhere deep down, you were hoping he was right -- that the world was bigger and better than you'd been raised to believe.

You didn’t breathe the first time you laid eyes on Toothless.

He was curled like a sleeping cat, wide eyes tracking your every move, tail twitching with a wariness that matched your own. His scales shimmered in the dappled forest light, his wings tucked in like he was trying to make himself smaller.

And you knew, instantly, that you weren’t looking at a monster.

You were looking at a creature who had been hurt. Hunted. Hiccup’s trembling hand reached out, and Toothless leaned into the touch.

That was the moment your world shifted.

And then, everyone's did.

The day Berk learned that dragons were not their enemies was the day everything shifted. And you were there through it all, fighting beside Hiccup when the old ways collapsed, standing firm against the doubt of elders, defending the very beasts that once haunted your village's nightmares.

Years passed. The war was over. Dragons flew free, and the people of Berk had adapted.

You had, too.

Now, you soared through the sky like you’d been born with wings. A blur of grace and steel, high above the forest, your dragon Blight roaring beneath you. He was a Timberjack -- wild and razor-edged, with wings like blades and a voice that could split the sky. You’d named him after the illness that stripped bark and rot from trees -- not because he was a disease, but because he left nothing untouched in his path.

Much like you.

It was peaceful work, harvesting timber from the outskirts of the woods per Gobber’s request. He needed handles for axes, staves for spears, and who better to do the dangerous tree-cutting than the girl who practically danced with danger?

And so many years later, you still pissed Snotlout off.

Not in the usual way people irritated him with whining or bragging or breathing too loud.

No, you pissed him off in the way that made his jaw tighten and his thoughts get scrambled. In the way that had him flying out to the edge of the woods like he had any reason to be there, just so he could catch a glimpse of you slicing through the sky like you owned the air.

And of course, you did.

You always looked so damn effortless.

No matter how effortlessly you flew through the air, your hair always stayed in its neat, intricate braid. You were usually covered in soot and grease, but your nails were always clean and when you washed it off, your face remained clear with a few scars from your old dragon training days. You weren't ever loud or boisterous like he was, but you somehow commanded the world's attention anyways.

He hated it. Or he tried to convince himself he did.

You weren’t dainty. You weren’t trying to be anyone’s fantasy.

And maybe that’s why you were his.

Because Snotlout had spent his whole life being loud. Flashy. Always trying to prove something -- to his father, to the village, to himself. He'd carved out his place in Berk by sheer force of personality. By shouting until someone listened. By throwing his weight around and demanding attention.

You never had to do any of that. You just were.

Quiet, competent, calm and maddeningly brilliant at everything. You were the kind of person who walked into a room and made people shut up. The kind of girl who could spar, forge, command a dragon, and still roll her eyes when Snotlout flexed.

And Thor help him, he wanted you to look.

Not the way you looked at Hiccup, or Fishlegs, or even Gobber -- with patience and friendship and understanding.

He wanted the look you gave Blight when you were proud of him. When he did something right and you whispered something soft under your breath that made the dragon puff up with pride.

He wanted that.

He wanted you to see him, really see him, not the idiot who cracked jokes or puffed his chest or ran his mouth. But the part he rarely showed anyone: the one who tried hard, who felt too much, who just wanted to matter.

And worst of all?

He knew you already did see that part of him in glimpses. Quick flashes. Like the time you caught him gently wrapping a wing splint on a hatchling. Or when you stood beside him during a dragon attack without needing to say a word. Or when you casually handed him a perfectly sharpened axe after he’d been struggling to fix his own for hours.

You never rubbed it in. Never made him feel smaller. But you didn’t coddle him either.

You just existed. In his world. On the edges of his thoughts, in the pit of his chest, and deep in the marrow of every stupid decision he made to try and impress you.

And now here he was again, standing in a forest you’d already claimed as your own, watching you steer Blight into another flawless landing, wind sweeping your braid over your shoulder, soot trailing along your cheekbone like a badge.

“Beautiful,” he muttered, before he could stop himself.

Hookfang grunted beside him in agreement.

Snotlout blinked. “Shut up.”

The dragon made another soft grunting sound, like he was laughing at Snotlout, or maybe judging him, and nudged him gently with his huge snout.

“Seriously?” Snotlout hissed, swatting uselessly at his dragon like he could bat away the truth. “I didn’t mean it like that. It was a -- it was a reflex. A stupid one. Just… shut up, alright?”

Hookfang blinked at him slowly, unamused. Another low rumble vibrated from his chest, as if to say, You keep lying to yourself, bud. I’ve got time.

Snotlout crossed his arms, turning back to the clearing, jaw clenched. But you were already off Blight’s saddle, tying him off to a tree with practiced ease. Your dragon flicked his bladed wings once, letting out a huff before settling down -- completely relaxed, because you were. Snotlout felt a tug in his gut watching the bond, that unspoken trust between you and the beast.

You were humming. Barely. Just under your breath.

He hated that he noticed that, too.

And then, as if the gods weren’t already cruel enough, you turned. Locked eyes with him across the space like you knew he’d been staring. You didn’t smile. Not at first. You just watched him, quiet, composed, unreadable as ever, and Snotlout’s brain completely short-circuited.

You tilted your head slightly. “You here for a reason, or are you just stalking me again?”

Again. That word knocked the breath out of him.

“Pfft, no,” he said too quickly, voice cracking halfway. “I-- patrol. This is, you know… enemy territory.”

You raised a brow. “The Berkian forest?”

“Could’ve been raiders.”

“Could’ve been trees, which you nearly walked into because you were staring so hard.”

Snotlout flushed scarlet. Hookfang snorted.

You started walking toward him, braid swinging against your back, fingers brushing soot off your tunic like you had all the time in the world. Every step you took made his stomach twist tighter.

“I’ve seen you flying out here more than usual,” you said. “Following me.”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Your voice lowered a fraction, softer now. “Why?”

Because he couldn’t stop thinking about you. Because your laugh haunted his sleep. Because you weren’t scared of him, not the puffed-up version, not the insecure one underneath. Because when you looked at him like this, calm and curious and just a little too close, he forgot how to breathe.

But all he said was: “Dunno.”

You gave him a look that felt like it could cut through armor.

Then, softly, teasing, “Want to help me bring the wood back for my dad? I'm not gonna make Blight do it. He's tired today and he always does it.”

Blight purred beside you, lifting his head to you. You cooed, scratching his scales gently.

“I know, Blighty boy. This is your break.”

You scratched gently along the sensitive part of his jaw, and Blight let out a huff of air, satisfied, curling his bladed wings in a relaxed posture. It was a kind of tenderness Snotlout didn’t think you ever let anyone else see. Not Hiccup. Not the other riders. Maybe Gobber, if he was lucky.

And suddenly, Snotlout felt kind of honored. And kind of jealous.

He cleared his throat, voice jumping slightly. “You name a dragon Blight, and then baby-talk him like he’s a newborn sheep. That doesn’t mess with his ego or anything?”

You glanced over your shoulder, unbothered. “He can slice through a tree in one flap. I think his ego can survive a little affection.”

He cleared his throat. “Anyways, carrying wood with you? Alone?”

Your smile turned dangerous. “Unless you’re scared of a little work. Too heavy for you?”

“Me?” he scoffed, straightening his back like you’d just challenged his honor. “Never.”

“Good,” you said, already turning your back to him. “Then grab the straps. The load’s heavier than it looks.”

You didn’t wait for him, didn’t watch to see if he struggled because of course you knew he’d follow. You always knew. And gods, it made him want to scream. Or kiss you. Or maybe both.

He hurried after you, grumbling under his breath about stupid trees and stupid dragons and stupid girls with perfect braids and sharp tongues.

Hookfang stayed behind, lying down next to Blight like they’d already formed some dragon bro pact of mockery. Snotlout glanced back at them, narrowing his eyes.

"Traitors."

You were already hauling two large bundles of freshly cut wood toward your makeshift loading sled. Blight had stacked the timber cleanly in rows with his wings, and you moved like someone who’d done this a hundred times -- smooth, efficient, no-nonsense.

“Thought this was supposed to be the part where we bond,” Snotlout muttered as he picked up the harnessed end of the sled and gave a grunt.

You threw him a dry look over your shoulder. “This is bonding. You want me to hold your hand too?”

He nearly choked on air. “I mean-- I wouldn’t hate that.”

You rolled your eyes, but a faint smile tugged at your mouth.

And that was all the encouragement he needed to keep talking.

“You know,” he started, dragging the sled effortlessly, “most people flirt with me. Like, a lot. All the time, actually. It’s kind of exhausting.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Poor thing.”

“I mean, not that I blame them. I’m pretty great. Brave. Muscular. The best dragon rider Berk’s ever seen--”

“The modesty’s what really gets me,” you cut in.

He narrowed his eyes at the back of your head, then smirked. “So you have been paying attention.”

You paused, adjusting the straps around your shoulders, and glanced at him, really looked at him, a strange expression in your eyes. Something unreadable. Something soft, almost.

“Of course I’ve been paying attention,” you said simply. “You're just too loud to sneak past unnoticed.”

His breath caught, not because of your words, but because of how you said them. Casual. Easy. Like it was just a fact. Like he was a fact. Something permanent in your life.

And for a second, he forgot how to breathe again.

Then you turned back around and kept walking.

“Coming, oh great dragon-riding muscle god?”

He snapped out of it with a sputter. “I-- yeah. Obviously.”

As the two of you disappeared into the trees, the sound of wood dragging behind and the rustle of branches above, Snotlout let the quiet stretch for once. Just for a moment. The breeze shifted, and he caught a whiff of smoke and pine and something that was just you.

And it hit him, terrifying and thrilling all at once.

He was in love with you.

And he was so screwed.

He was used to little crushes. In fact, he used to stare at any girl that walked by. He'd had a huge crush on Astrid back in the day, Ruffnut somehow too, but now? No one else was even worth a glance to him, no matter how infuriating you were.

But it wasn't the same for you. You didn't only look at him. And that bothered him.

Now, you sat in the Great Hall next to Hiccup, laughing at something he’d said, face lit up by the torchlight and framed by your freshly unbraided hair. It tumbled over your shoulder in soft waves, streaked faintly with soot still, but he’d never seen anything more unfair in his entire life. How could someone look like a warrior, a blacksmith’s daughter, a dragon-riding menace and a goddess all at once?

It should’ve been illegal.

Snotlout sat across the hall, glaring into his mug like it had personally offended him. Ruffnut and Tuffnut were arguing over something stupid beside him, goat racing, probably, Astrid sat reading quietly, and Fishlegs was rambling to someone who wasn’t listening, but Snotlout didn’t hear a word.

Because Hiccup leaned closer to you, and you leaned back in that easy, relaxed way you only ever gave to a few people. He watched you nudge him playfully with your elbow, and something snapped.

He slammed his mug down. “I’m gonna kill him.”

Hookfang, curled up near the back wall, cracked open one eye.

Tuffnut leaned over. “Who? Fishlegs?”

“No, Hiccup,” Snotlout hissed.

Tuffnut raised a brow. “Dude, he’s been your cousin since birth.”

“That just means it’ll be easier to explain to the elders,” he muttered.

Because Hiccup got that laugh from you. That rare, nose-crinkling laugh that made your whole face glow. The one Snotlout ached to be the cause of. And maybe he was being dramatic. Okay, he was being dramatic. But how could he not be?

He didn’t do soft feelings. Didn’t know how to be soft without tripping over himself. And you, you were gentle in a way that wasn’t weakness. You were quiet power. Calm confidence. And Snotlout? He was loud chaos. Fire and ego and swinging too hard in every direction. You shouldn’t fit. But gods, he wanted to try.

The hall grew louder as dinner was served. Mead spilled. Fishlegs accidentally got a turkey leg launched at his head. Gobber bellowed a laugh from the far end of the table.

And all Snotlout could think about was how your shoulder touched Hiccup’s for a second too long.

He stood abruptly.

Ruffnut blinked. “Where’re you going?”

“To do something stupid,” he grumbled, already moving.

You looked up as he approached, brow raised in mild surprise. Hiccup glanced up too, smiling in greeting but Snotlout wasn't in the mood for being cordial.

“You,” he said, stabbing a finger at Hiccup. “Come outside.”

Hiccup blinked, brows shooting up in surprise. “Uh... hi to you too?”

You didn’t say anything at first, but you did give Snotlout a look. Calm. Curious. Barely amused. Like you already knew exactly what this was about.

Snotlout didn’t even look at you. Couldn’t. If he did, he might do something dumb like say what he meant. And Thor knew he wasn’t ready for that kind of stupidity.

Hiccup, ever the peacemaker, held up his hands. “Look, if this is about the new tail design for Hookfang, I told Fishlegs I’d--”

“It’s not about Hookfang,” Snotlout bit out, jerking his head toward the doors. “It’s about something else.”

Your brow arched a little higher, but you stayed quiet, lips twitching just slightly.

Hiccup hesitated. “You want to… talk about--”

“Yes,” Snotlout snapped, already regretting this entire interaction. “Outside. Now. Before I say something really stupid in front of her.”

That caught your attention. You tilted your head slightly, clearly intrigued now, watching with interest as Hiccup stood awkwardly, glancing between the two of you.

“I’ll… be right back,” he said slowly, still trying to make sense of it all, and followed Snotlout out into the cool evening air.

The moment the door shut behind them, Snotlout spun around, jabbing a finger at Hiccup’s chest.

“Back off.”

Hiccup blinked. “Back off what?”

“You know what,” Snotlout hissed. “Her. You sit next to her. You smile at her. You look at her like you’ve got some shared secret, and I don’t like it.”

There was a long pause.

Then Hiccup said, “You dragged me out here to tell me to stop being friends with someone I’ve known for years?”

Snotlout scowled. “No! Yes. Maybe. I don’t know, alright? I’m not good at this... feelings thing. But I’m good at spotting competition, and if you are even thinking about--”

“I’m not,” Hiccup said, firmly but gently. “She’s my friend. That’s it.”

Snotlout stared at him, suspicious. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” Hiccup repeated, a small smile pulling at his lips. “Though, if you’re serious about her, maybe you should tell her all this. Instead of threatening me like a territorial yak.”

Snotlout grimaced. “I don’t know how.”

“Well,” Hiccup said, clapping a hand on his shoulder, “start by not stabbing your friends with your finger in public. Then maybe try talking to her like she’s not gonna gut you.”

“She might gut me.”

“Only if you deserve it.”

Snotlout sighed heavily, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I hate this. I hate her. I mean I don’t. I mean I do. Ugh, you know what I mean.”

Hiccup nodded, half-laughing now. “Yeah, I really do.”

Inside, you sat still, watching the door with a knowing expression. Because if there was one thing you’d always known about Snotlout Jorgenson -- it was that he felt everything loud. And when he finally figured out why he felt it?

He was screwed. Royally.

The sun had dipped low by the time he found you again, casting the village in warm, golden light that made everything feel softer. Less threatening. Even the usual chaos of dragon wings overhead seemed quieter, like the whole world had taken a breath and was holding it just for this moment.

You were sitting near the edge of the cove, where the grass met the rocky path down to the water. Your dragon was curled nearby, dozing peacefully, and you were picking at a wildflower with idle fingers, lost in thought.

Snotlout stopped a few paces back. Just... watched you.

He hated how you made him feel like this. Like his chest was too full. Like words piled up in his throat, and none of them were good enough for you. You could throw axes better than anyone he knew. You didn’t take his crap. And sometimes, like now, when you were quiet and still and not yelling at him or teasing him—he found it hard to breathe.

He cleared his throat.

You didn’t jump. Just turned your head slowly, eyes lifting to meet his. Calm. A little curious.

“I’m not here to say something stupid,” he said quickly. Then paused. “I mean, probably. But I’m trying not to.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s new.”

“Hey,” he huffed, then stuffed his hands in his pockets, pacing forward until he stood a few feet from you. “Look. Earlier… with Hiccup… I wasn’t mad at him. Not really.”

“I know,” you said simply, setting the flower down beside you. “You were mad at yourself.”

That made him blink. “How’d you…?”

You shrugged, like it wasn’t worth explaining. “Because you never know what to do when you’re not punching something.”

“…Yeah. That’s fair.” He blew out a breath, then dropped down to sit beside you, not too close, but not far either. “I listened to him. Like he said I should.”

You tilted your head. “And?”

“And he told me to talk to you. Like I’m not an idiot.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “He thinks highly of you.”

“He’s delusional.” He glanced sideways at you, jaw tight. “But he’s right about one thing. I gotta stop acting like an axe-headed moron and just say it.”

You looked at him. Waiting. Patient. Like you knew how much effort this cost him.

“I like you,” Snotlout said quietly. “Not in the weird 'Snotlout way' people joke about. Not because I think you look good in armor, though you do, obviously. But like… when you’re not around, everything feels loud. And when you are around, it’s worse, but it’s a better kind of loud. And I think about you. All the time. Even when I don’t want to. Even when you’re yelling at me. Especially then.”

You stared at him, quiet for a beat.

Then, softly, you asked, “So… what do you want?”

He hesitated. Then turned to you fully.

“I want a chance. I want to try. I want you to know I’m serious. And if you’re gonna gut me for this, fine. Just make it fast.”

You let out a soft laugh, surprised, warm, a little breathless. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “But I’m your idiot. If you want me.”

There was a long pause before you reached out, tugging the edge of his sleeve, your fingers brushing his wrist.

“I always did,” you said.

Snotlout blinked. Then grinned. A little wild. A little awed. “Really?”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Don’t make me say it again, Jorgenson.”

He didn’t. He just reached for your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world -- and when you let him hold it, everything in him quieted.

For once.

And he thought maybe this was what Hiccup meant.

Your fingers were still tangled with his, the silence between you stretching -- but this time, it wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t tense or confused. It was warm. Easy. The kind of quiet that hummed with something new and good and just beginning.

Snotlout stared down at your hands for a moment, as if grounding himself, then looked up at you again. His grin had faded into something softer now -- still him, still smug in a way only he could manage -- but gentler at the edges. A little unsure, a little hopeful.

“Can I--?” he asked, voice low, almost husky. “I mean, should I--?”

You didn’t let him finish.

You leaned in first.

It was simple, the kiss. No dramatic sweep of arms, no crash of firelight or clatter of armor. Just the soft brush of your lips over his. A hesitant meeting. A testing of new ground. He froze for a half-second, like his brain had short-circuited -- and then he kissed you back, just as gently.

His hand came up to cradle your cheek, rough palm warm against your skin, surprisingly tender. He didn’t rush it. Didn’t deepen it. Just held it there, like a moment he didn’t want to break.

When you finally pulled back, your noses were nearly touching, his breath fanning against your skin.

“Wow,” he whispered. “So… this is happening?”

You smiled, eyes shining. “Looks like it.”

After that, it was easy.

Snotlout was still Snotlout -- loud, smug, obnoxiously confident -- but softer. Around you, he eased the weight you carried, always finding ways to protect you, to cherish you. He’d sharpen your blades without being asked. He’d scowl at you if you skipped meals. He still bragged, but now it was about how lucky he was.

And yes, he was still a little territorial. Still kind of an idiot. But now he was your idiot.

Which is how you found yourself sitting beside him in the Great Hall a few nights later, sharing stew and laughter while the rest of the gang shouted over each other across the long table. You were tucked under his arm, his hand playing idly with your braid like he couldn’t help himself.

That’s when Tuffnut plopped down across from you, a wicked grin on his face.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Berk’s most terrifying blacksmith angel,” he said, giving you a dramatic wink. “Tell me -- are you into slightly unhinged men with questionable hygiene and a flair for goat impressions?”

You snorted into your cup. “Can’t say I’ve considered it.”

“Consider it now,” he said, leaning forward, eyes gleaming. “I’ve got charm. Mystery. Probably lice.”

Snotlout, who had been too busy shoveling food into his mouth to notice at first, finally looked up -- a spoon still hanging out of his mouth.

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you flirting with my girlfriend?”

Tuffnut blinked. “Depends. Is she gonna kill me, or are you?”

“Me,” Snotlout said cheerfully, dropping his spoon and grinning like a dragon who’d just spotted a sheep.

He stood, grabbed Tuffnut by the back of the collar, and bodily hoisted him from his seat like he weighed nothing.

“Say it louder for the folks in the back,” he called to the hall. “My girlfriend. This one’s mine. The smart, terrifying, annoyingly perfect one? Yeah, mine.”

You groaned, hiding your face in your hands.

Tuffnut flailed in his grasp. “Alright, alright, you ox! Put me down! I was testing her loyalty! Science!”

Snotlout dropped him unceremoniously, then flopped back down next to you, smug and glowing with pride.

He slung his arm around you again. “You hear that? People are testing you. You passed, obviously. But still. You gotta be careful. With a face like yours? Trouble magnet.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t move from under his arm.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered.

“And yours,” he said, pressing a quick, loud kiss to your temple. “Totally, undeniably, unreasonably yours.”

Across the table, Tuffnut rubbed his neck with a groan. “Next time I flirt with someone, it’s gonna be Astrid. At least Hiccup doesn't brag after he brutalizes.”