miguel knew that he divided the spider society the moment he let everyone know that they would not stop until miles morales was brought back to him.

anger coursed through his veins when the young spider-man managed to slip through his fingers and escape from the society again. he’s been defeated by a sixteen year old boy, who only had a year experience as a vigilante, who didn’t know much about the big sacrifices all spider-heroes had to make. and yet, he managed to draw everyone out of headquarters so that he can escape where no one can find him.

but miguel will make sure that miles is found, even if he has to take drastic measures in order to protect the multiverse.

the boy wasn’t supposed to be spider-man , and yet miles managed to outsmart him single-handedly. outsmarted himself , spider-man 2099. who has been protecting the multiverse for years with more experiences compared to the young hero. who has never seen how fragile the universe is. who made one mistake that caused the ruins of other people’s lives, wiping their existences off the arachnid humanoid poly multiverse (yes, that name does sound a little far-fetched, but he will always refer to the multiverse as that). miles morales reminds him of himself, and miguel hates it . the one who thought that he can have the best of both worlds; saving lives and having the people close to them alive.

i thought we were supposed to be the good guys?

we are , he told gwen. they still protect the multiverse, saving people’s lives. he was keeping the universe together. and yet, he couldn’t get her words out of his head that echoed in the back of his mind. miguel knows that the weight of his words and actions have divided the society, but what was he supposed to do when he tried to explain the situation to miles calmly and it didn’t work out? and the possibility of another multiverse wiping off its existence can happen again?

miles morales reminds him of himself , believing that spider-man can have everything in his life. the reality of it is that they can’t . no matter how hard he tried and the consequences led to severe destruction because of him— it was selfish of miguel to think he could have it all .

miguel sneers when a couple of the spider-heroes give their updates that they couldn’t find miles morales in the universe they’re assigned to. his fangs bare under his mask, the tone of his voice edge command and hint of desperation as he commands the heroes to continue their search on the young vigilante. the multiverse is large and he knew that miles could be anywhere. but the boy wouldn’t be able to hide and escape away from him for too long. miguel knows that—he’ll make sure to find miles morales and confinement will have to be done.

setting up coordinates to a certain dimension, he strode into the wormhole and reappeared at the end of the time tunnel. the rain has stopped and he’s greeted to a new environment. it was pitch black, quiet and the full moon brightens up the dark canvas of the skies. feeling the serenity in the air, calmness begins to settle in him, something that he hasn’t felt in a long time. he scouted the multiverse, taking notes of which universes he visited so that he could look for miles. earth-223 is no different; his mission is still to catch the young boy. but a thought crosses his mind when he comes to this universe, and his heart starts to race a little faster.

miguel hasn’t visited earth-223 in a while and his stomach curls as he overlooks a part of the city. he glances down at his gizmo and as he suspected, there are no energy levels of anomalies on earth-223. he has a job to do—to protect the multiverse—but at that moment, his mind is drawn to one thing that he’s been hoping to do since his arrival.

he moves and swings swiftly from one place to another, going to a place that he had in mind. with one last jump, miguel lands on top of a roof building perfectly, landing on his feet and rising up to stand. he overlooks a particular street apartment that he’s been looking for. his eyes look down at the street and observe the citizens that walk past by. miguel knows that he shouldn’t be doing this but a part of him couldn’t help himself to go along with the plan. to find someone from this universe that he knows well.

and within his view, there you were. walking down the streets of where your apartment complex is. seeing how late it is at night, you must have just got off work, ready to return back to your home. he watches as you approach the apartment’s main entrance, taking out your keys and watching you enter the building.

miguel lets out a breath that he didn’t realise that he was holding back. you live on the fifth floor of the building and he contemplates on if he should do what he’s been wanting to do with you. in the apartment, he has a hunch that you’re walking up the stairs to your flat. it should take less than five minutes at least and his mind races as he debates on whether he should take the leap or not.

“lyla,” miguel speaks up. “call them.”

“a-are... are you sure you want to do that?” lyla questions. you should be on the way up to your place, maybe walking down the corridor as you prepare to get your keys out to get inside. he knows your routine like the back of his hand.

“just do it,” his voice firms. “call them.”

lyla doesn’t argue and she tells him that she’s connecting his earpiece to your phone number. through the window of your apartment complex, he can see that the front door unlocks and opens. you step in, put down your bag and take off your coat to hang it up. miguel sees that you stop midway and your hands pat down to your side pockets. he knows that his call is ringing on your phone because a smile appeared on your face despite how tired your day must have been. “hey,”

“hey,” miguel responds back. he notices you move around in your apartment, going to the kitchen. your voice speaks to him on your end of the line, asking about what he has been up to with that calm and cheerful tone of yours. he keeps it brief about his day because he would rather hear about yours, than to remember the crisis he is currently facing. the mask on him disappears away as miguel listens to you. his free hand rubs against the pad of his fingers together, sometimes running through his dark brown hair. his eyes never leave your sight as he sees you walking around in your kitchen, listening to you talk his ear off that he welcomes deeply.

“when are you ever going to stop calling me that?” miguel half jokes. the corner of his mouth curves up into a half smile. though his words come across displeasure, his heart races at the nickname you made. please never stop calling me that. “ miguelito? really?”

“well, you never complain.” you tease back. there’s a moment of pause before he hears you speak up again. “hey, i can tell something is bothering you. you okay?”

miguel realises that he can never escape from your skepticalism, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. you’re the only civilian who knows about his identity and what he does, even if he isn’t the spider-man from your earth. he knows better than to let anyone in but when it comes to you, he couldn’t stay away. drawn to you like a moth to flame. maybe in truth, the reason he is on your earth is not to find miles morales. but rather, to look for you .

“i don’t know if what i did was the right thing to do.” miguel’s voice wavers.

quietness settles between the two of you, and he allows himself to lower his guard down as his voice guides him. “i know that i have to be the one to do it. but i just… don’t know where i am going with this. i thought i knew what it takes to carry this burden.”

miguel sighs, the weight of his thoughts and words prior tightens in his chest. he finds it a struggle to downright say that he wants to express at times. he stayed silent and exhaled out slowly, his chest deflated. miguel’s eyes clock on your figure by the window and though he could only see a side profile of you, he catches a small glimpse of you quietly as well. not long after, you speak up. “i’m really sorry that you’re having a rough time.”

“i feel that i did this to myself. always so… rigid.” a solemn expression etched on his face.

“true but you have gone through a lot.”

“there’s this new kid who isn’t like the rest. different. which worries me.” miguel begins. “i told him about the predicament of the future of all spider-man—that we will all lose someone close to us. and, miles wouldn’t accept that.”

“i see.” you say. “who is he predicted to lose?”

“his father, a captain.” miguel says. “miles is trying to change the future and i can’t let that happen.” his voice sterns for a brief moment. “or else he’s making the same mistake as i did. have the same guilt that i carry.”

the invisible weight he feels in his mind and chest lightens somehow when he tells you what’s going on. you’re quiet when he’s done talking and there’s a moment of pause lingering between you two.

“i don’t really know much about the effects of messing up timelines,” you say. “but from an outsider’s perspective, it seems that miles would go against the predicted fates because he would rather give all he’s got than do nothing. even if he’d get hurt by messing up the timeline, i think miles would be even more hurt and guilt-ridden if he didn’t give it a try for himself to save someone.”

miguel stays quiet. there is something in your words that reaches him, anchoring him to see things differently. you’ve always been good at putting things into a different perspective.

“i know you care for the kid, miggy.” you continue. “even though you have an odd way of demonstrating that.”

he could imagine the corner of your mouth curving up into a smile as you chuckle softly at your end of the line. and he does the same; cracking a smile on his face for once since the mess of the spider society everything happened. miguel allows himself to venture with the idea of a peaceful life with you; a life where he would return home to you on his good and bad days, and you would be the one he is excited to come home to. he wants to be comforted by you. to hold you in his arms, hiding his face in the crook of your neck.

he wishes he could just be with you. to him, you are his world. but he knows that you’re only a tiny fraction of this multiverse he swore to protect, even if it means keeping his distance away from you.

“miguel? are you still there?” your voice speaks through the earpiece.

he cleared his throat, breaking away his thoughts of a life he knew that he couldn’t really have. “yeah, i’m here.”

“thought i lost you for a moment, there,” you say. miguel sees you moving around in your living room and settles to sit in the middle of your sofa. you cross your legs in a lotus position and he couldn’t help but watch you, feeling himself strained to stop the smile from forming. but he couldn’t help it, not when you look so carefree and safe.

“anyways, are you free to swing by? i made an extra batch of food to share.” you said. “feel like i cooked a bit too much this time.”

“not this time i’m afraid.” miguel says. “work’s getting intense.”

“that’s a shame,” you tell him. “well, i don’t know where you are but that doesn’t mean you can’t escape from me telling you off. and to remind you to look after yourself.” he sees you stuff a spoonful of food into your mouth. he gives you a moment to eat but still manages to talk to him. “or else who am i going to ramble someone’s ear off but yours?”

you are what he is protecting, and he’ll do anything to make sure the world you’re in is safe.

You met Johnny Storm at the tender age of six, when he was just a tiny blond boy with a stupid-looking bowl cut on him that you never fail to make fun of till this day. He really did look ridiculous. It was a bright, sunny day when you first saw him in the local neighborhood park, and you approached him because you were jealous that he had a cool rocketship plushie held in his hands. Ever since then, you clicked instantly, becoming the bestest of friends. If you ask Sue, she would say that Johnny had always liked you since you were both kids. Maybe it was a puppy crush, maybe it was real love, but either way, she’d recognize the sparkle in her brother’s eyes whenever you were there with him. Something that never seemed to dim after all these years either.

Unfortunately, after their mother passed, they had to move away, and you never saw them ever since. 

Almost twenty years later, here you are, an aspiring biologist, being personally called in to work in the Baxter Building by Reed Richards himself. It took a good year to readjust to your current work environment, but it has been worth it. Especially being able to reconnect with the Storm siblings once again.

“Your design model is still compensating too aggressively during high-stress simulations”, you mutter, scrolling through the latest batch of data projected across the holographic screen in front of you. “See? It spikes here.”

Reed adjusts his glasses, eyes narrowing thoughtfully at the graph. “Hm. you’re right. The emotional variance threshold is overcorrecting.”

“Which means the system’s still prioritizing instinct over learned behavioral patterns.” You sigh.

“It’s a prototype,” Reed says simply.

You let out a snort. “That’s basically saying ‘it barely works.’”

“It works enough.” You can see Reed’s lips quirk up a bit.

The machine sitting in the middle of the lab says otherwise. The Synchronization Index prototype, or as you call it, the compatibility testing machine, looked less like revolutionary technology and more like someone had combined an MRI scanner together with a gaming console. After close to four months of development (even with Reed’s brains), the project was still deeply unfinished. 

The original purpose had been simple enough: improve the team’s coordination during missions by analyzing behavioral compatibility and predictive patterns under stress. The deal was also simple. Reed handles all the computational side of things while you focused on the neurological aspects of it.

Johnny, naturally, called it a soulmate machine.

“It’s not a soulmate machine,” you had told him at least four times this week alone.

The lab doors slid open before Reed could respond, followed immediately by the familiar sound of someone humming dramatically off-key. Johnny strolls into the lab.

“There you are, Stretch,” he says, pointing accusingly at Reed. “I’ve been looking for—”

He stops mid-sentence.

Slowly, his gaze drifts toward the machine in the center of the room. Then toward the holographic screens floating overhead. Then towards you.

“Oh my god,” Johnny breathes. “You finally built the soulmate machine.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, but Reed answers before you can. “It measures adaptive synchronization and predictive behavioral compatibility.”

Johnny stares at him blankly.

“So,” he says carefully, “the soulmate machine.”

“It is not—”

“The soulmate machine,” Johnny repeats firmly.

You cross your arms. “Why are you even here?”

“Doesn’t matter now, it can wait. I’m more interested in this.” Johnny immediately drops into the chair connected to the machine. “Test me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s unfinished.”

“That’s never stopped any of you before.” He’s unfortunately correct.

Johnny leans back further into the chair with the confidence of a man who has never once feared consequences in his entire life. “C’mon. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

Both you and Reed look at each other, then at him.

Johnny points between the two of you. “Wow. Okay. Little concerning that you both did that.”

Reed steps toward the console, thoughtful. “Actually, this could be useful.”

You blink. “Reed.”

“We need additional live-response data.”

“With Johnny?”

Johnny gasps dramatically. “I’m an excellent test subject.” 

You sigh, then look at the clock. 3:52 PM. “Well, I have a meeting with the higher-ups from my department.” You look at Reed. “Do what you gotta do, the ball’s in your court now.”

You give a small wave goodbye to Johnny, taking off your lab coat and walking out of the lab. 

The second the lab doors slide shut behind you, Johnny swivels lazily in the chair to look at Reed.

“So,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head, “how exactly does the soulmate machine work?”

“It is not a soulmate machine.”

Johnny points at him. “You saying that only makes it sound more like a soulmate machine.”

Reed sighs softly, then gestures toward the neural monitors attached to the chair. “The system analyzes how effectively two individuals function together under varying conditions.”

Johnny grins. “So basically, which of the team I’d survive a road trip with.”

Ignoring him, Reed scans through the available baseline profiles, though most of them are incomplete. Then he pauses. “Hm.”

Johnny immediately narrows his eyes. “That ‘hm’ never means anything good.”

Reed taps something on the console. “You require a baseline comparison subject.”

“Okay?”

Your name sits at the top of the compatibility database, and Johnny straightens in the chair almost immediately. “Oh.”

“The two of you possess nearly two decades worth of history,” Reed explains. “The system also has extensive conversational and behavioral references involving both of you.”

Johnny tries very hard to act normal about that information, but of course he fails immediately.

“Aww,” he says weakly. “We’re scientifically best friends.”

Reed continues typing. “Additionally, your stress-response stabilization patterns consistently improve in her proximity.” 

“Reed.”

“And according to mission analysis, you subconsciously prioritize her positioning during emergency scenarios.”

“Reed.”

“In theory, she is the ideal baseline candidate.”

Johnny stares blankly at the screen for several long seconds.

Then, “…Huh.”

Reed looks at him. “Anything wrong?”

“Nope.” Johnny clears his throat. “No problem. Totally normal amount of information to learn about yourself on a random Tuesday. I’m down, let’s do this.”

Reed presses the final command anyway and the machine hums to life. Blue light flickers across the monitors as the sensors attached to Johnny’s temples begin scanning neural activity. A holographic screen expands overhead, rapidly cycling through data points.

Johnny watches the loading bar with mild suspicion.

“So what happens if the results suck?”

“They likely won’t.”

“Wow,” Johnny says dryly. “Your confidence in me is inspiring.”

“You misunderstand. The system favors familiarity.”

Johnny opens his mouth to respond, but the machine suddenly lets out a sharp chime.

Processing Complete. The holographic display shifts, then, a percentage flashes onto the center screen.

98.9%

The room goes completely silent.

“The previous highest recorded compatibility score,” Reed says slowly, “was ninety-one percent.”

Johnny tears his eyes away from the screen. “And mine is—”

“Ninety-eight point nine.”

“…That feels illegal somehow.”

Reed steps closer to the display, studying the rapidly expanding analysis graphs now populating the screen.

“Fascinating. This level of compatibility is statistically abnormal.”

Johnny’s eyes widened. Statistically abnormal. With you. His brain suddenly begins replaying every interaction he’s had with you over the past year at lightning speed.

The way you automatically know what he needs before he asks for them, the way you know exactly what his different silences mean, the way he always looks for you first whenever he walks into a room, the way being around you somehow makes everything feel—

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Johnny slowly sits upright in the chair.

Reed glances at him briefly. “Are you alright?”

“No,” Johnny says immediately.

Reed pauses, and Johnny points dramatically toward the glowing percentage still floating on the screen. “I need to date her.”

“…What?”

“I need to date her,” Johnny repeats, now sounding genuinely alarmed by the realization. “Like, immediately.”

Reed blinks once. “You arrived at that conclusion very quickly.”

“Reed, the science literally said we’re soulmates.”

“It did not say that.”

“It basically did.”

“The machine measures adaptive synchronization.”

Johnny lets out a short laugh. Not because anything’s funny, but mostly because he suddenly feels a little insane.

Of course it’s you.

Of course.

The girl he’s been stupidly in love with since he was young apparently turns out to be his cosmic statistical anomaly too. That honestly tracks. Johnny drags a hand down his face. “You have gotta be kidding me.”

Reed glances up briefly. “Is something wrong?”

“Reed,” Johnny says slowly, “this machine just told me I’ve been wasting my own time for years.”

“That is not what it—”

“Ninety-eight point nine percent,” Johnny repeats. “Do you understand how bad that is for me emotionally?”

Reed considers this. “I don’t think the results are inherently negative.”

“No, see, that’s because you’re happily married.”

Johnny stands abruptly from the chair and starts pacing. He looks at Reed with newfound determination. “I know what I have to do now!” And before Reed could respond, he rushed out of the lab, into the elevator.

The kitchen was quiet and peaceful before Johnny speed-walks inside, tripping over the stairs on his way in. “Ben,” he says urgently.

Ben is halfway through making dinner, and he doesn’t even look up from the stove when Johnny walks in. “You blow somethin’ up?”

“No.”

Ben looks up at Johnny, raising a rocky eyebrow in question. Johnny looks deeply distressed, and he notices this, so he turns the heat down slightly. “Alright. What happened?”

Johnny runs both hands through his hair before pointing accusingly into the air like the compatibility machine personally offended him. He then says your name.

“The stupid compatibility machine thing said me and her are ninety-eight point nine percent compatible.”

Ben blinks once then goes back to stirring the pasta sauce.

“…That all?”

Johnny stares at him. “What do you mean ‘that all’?”

“I mean,” Ben shrugs, “sounds about right.”

“What?”

Ben finally looks at him properly now, expression somewhere between amused and exhausted. “Dude, you’ve been in love with her since before your voice dropped.”

“I have not.” He’s not that obvious, is he? Ben gives him a look, and Johnny immediately folds.

“Okay, fine,” he mutters. “Maybe a little.”

“A little,” Ben repeats flatly.

For a moment, the kitchen falls quiet except for the sound of simmering sauce and Johnny aggressively rethinking the last ten years of his life. Then,

“What do I do?”

Ben blinks. “About what?”

Johnny gestures wildly. “About her!”

Ben stares at him. “…You ask her out.”

Johnny looks bored. “That’s your advice? I was expecting more.”

“That’s usually how datin’ works, yeah.”

“No, but what if she thinks I’m joking?”

Ben’s expression shifts slightly.

Ah, there it is.

Johnny slumps further against the counter now, suddenly looking far less dramatic and far more nervous than before. “I mean, c’mon, Ben,” he says quieter. “Look at me.”

Ben’s lips quirk up a bit. “Unfortunately, I am.”

Johnny lets out a frustrated breath, dragging both hands down his face. “I mean, seriously, Ben. Why would she take me seriously?” He gestures vaguely toward himself. “I’m me.”

Ben snorts. “Yeah. Tragic condition.”

“Hey, I’m serious.” Johnny can’t help it, his lips pull down to a frown.

“I know.”

Johnny leans back against the counter, arms crossed tightly now. “She’s smart. Like, terrifyingly smart. She overthinks everything.” A pause. “What if she thinks I’m just someone who dates for fun and I’m not… serious enough for her?”

Johnny stares down at the countertop as he keeps talking, words coming easier now that he’s started. “I mean, I’ve never exactly given off ‘stable long-term investment’ vibes.” He laughs weakly. “Half the city thinks I’m emotionally allergic to commitment.”

Ben pulls the garlic bread out of the oven before finally speaking.

“Johnny.”

Johnny looks up, seeing Ben setting the tray down carefully. “You know why this is different?”

Johnny shrugs helplessly.

“Because you’re scared.”

Johnny blinks, Ben points at him with the giant oven mitt. “You don’t get scared about girls.”

“That is wildly untrue.”

“No,” Ben says. “You get nervous sometimes. You get awkward sometimes. But scared?” He shakes his head. “Not like this.”

Johnny doesn’t answer because unfortunately, Ben’s right. He leans back against the counter across from Johnny. “You’ve liked her for so long you forgot there was ever a version of your life without her in it.”

“And if she matters that much to you,” Ben continues, “then act like it.”

Johnny lets out a slow breath. “…How?”

Ben gives him an incredulous look. “By bein’ honest.”

Johnny immediately grimaces. “Again with this terrible advice.”

Ben laughs. “I’m serious.”

“I know, that’s why it’s terrible.”

Ben shakes his head fondly before saying, more gently this time. “If she thinks this is just another thing for you, then you prove it ain’t.”

Johnny takes a few seconds to internalize everything that Ben has said, but then, they both hear the sound of someone clearing their throat. It was Sue, standing there with her cup of tea, giving them both an impressed smile. 

“Aw, you’re finally growing up.” She nods to Johnny. Johnny gives her an unimpressed scowl.

That night, Johnny starts to conjure up every plan that would finally make you realize that he was in love with you.

Well, maybe “conjure up” was too elegant of a phrase. Obsess over was probably more accurate.

The plan was simple. He would tell you how he felt, eventually.

After some preparation.

Maybe a little preparation.

Okay, maybe a lot of preparation.

Because there was a difference between knowing what you wanted to do and actually doing it. Johnny knew he wanted to ask you out, but the problem was that every time he imagined himself saying the words out loud, his brain immediately supplied several horrifying possibilities.

You’re laughing—no, you’re staring. Hm… maybe you’ll just outright say no. Or maybe, just maybe, you saying yes and then asking why it took him almost two decades.

Which was how Johnny arrived at the conclusion that he should start small. You know, ease into it, test the waters and everything.

A concept he had never successfully practiced his entire life.

From the next day onwards, he was absolutely insufferable. He would be everywhere, and while he usually is everywhere you are, this was just on another level.

One day, Johnny appears in your lab sometime after lunch, leaning casually against the doorway. At least, he thinks he looks casual, but in reality, he's been standing there for nearly thirty seconds waiting for you to look up from your tablet.

You don't.

He shifts his weight, and still nothing.

A few more seconds pass before you finally glance up.

"Hey."

The smile you give him is immediate and familiar. Johnny has seen that smile thousands of times over the years, and somehow it still manages to hit him like a truck.

"Hey yourself."

You return your attention to whatever you're working on, but eventually, he clears his throat. "You know, I was just thinking."

"Dangerous."

The response comes so quickly that Johnny almost laughs. "See, normally that joke would hurt my feelings."

"Normally?"

"Normally."

You finally set your tablet down and look at him properly. "What do you want?"

"Wow."

"What?"

"Straight to business."

"Johnny."

"Fine, fine." He pushes himself away from the doorway and wanders further into the lab, pretending to inspect one of the monitors nearby. Really, he's just buying himself time, because suddenly the line he'd been planning feels incredibly stupid.

Not that it stopped him.

"I'm admiring the view."

The words leave his mouth before he can reconsider them.

You furrow your brows in confusion, then glance over your shoulder toward the large monitor behind you. "The graph?"

Johnny stares. "No."

Your eyes move toward the windows lining the far side of the lab. “Manhattan?"

"No."

You look back at him, and slowly, realization dawns on your face.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

For one glorious second, Johnny thinks he's finally done something right. Then you tilt your head. "That was terrible."

His confidence immediately evaporates. "What?"

"You've used that before."

The accusation is so immediate that Johnny almost chokes. "What? No."

"Johnny."

"Okay, maybe once."

Your eyes narrow.

"More than once."

"I knew it," you say.

"You knew what?"

"You have a system."

Johnny gasps, genuinely offended. "I do not have a system."

"You absolutely have a system."

"I'll have you know my flirting is entirely improvised."

That only makes you laugh harder, which unfortunately, is still the best reaction he's gotten all day. “I’ve known you since we were kids, fireboy. I know how you work.” You point at him with your pointer finger.

Johnny plops down a chair, leaning back and groaning. “Ugh, I was just trying to be… nice.” He finishes lamely with a smile. 

“Or… you want something from me.” You approached him, ruffling his hair to annoy him. He doesn’t try to swat your hand away this time, which makes you raise an eyebrow as he tilts his head of messy hair when you pull away. “Mmm, no, not really.” He says with that lazy smirk of his.

You look at him for a few seconds, and scoff playfully, going back to your work.

A few moments later, he ponders again, trying to come up with another plan. He vaguely remembers Reed telling him that a way to Sue’s heart was with direct compliments. Maybe it’ll work on you too?

That evening, he finds you in one of the common lounges of the building, probably wanting to get out of the lab and work in a newer setting. You’re sitting on the couch reading through some notes handed by your team.

“Hey.”

You wave without looking up. Johnny tilts his head, curious as to what you were doing, and sits right beside you. Maybe a little too close, but you don’t notice, not really. Or maybe you do, he thinks. It’s impossible to tell. He observes you under the warm light of the room.

“I think you’re really pretty.” The words leave his mouth before he can overthink them. You finally look up.

“Aw, thanks.” Then, “Are you okay? Do you need anything?” You eye him suspiciously, as this behavior was a stark contrast to his usual teasing and provoking.

“What? No! I just wanted to say that.” Johnny grins like he’s proud of himself. He waits, and nothing. No realization, no blushing, no dramatic revelation, just… gratitude. Like he’d told you the weather was nice. 

You return to your notes, and a beat passes. “I think you’re pretty too.” You don't even look up when you say it.

You just continue highlighting something in your document, and Johnny spends the next ten minutes trying to remember how breathing works.

Johnny recites all of his efforts to Sue, and she just laughs at him. Laughs! He gives her an offended, yet desperate look. “What?”

When Sue’s laughter dies down a bit, she begins to give him some advice: be more direct using actions. Actions, okay, he can do that. Absolutely no problem at all.

The first thing Johnny tries is flowers. You look up from your workstation when he walks into the wet lab carrying an enormous bouquet. Your eyes widen.

"Oh wow."

Johnny straightens. Here we go.

"You got flowers."

"Yeah."

"Who's the lucky girl?"

Johnny freezes. "...What?"

You point at the bouquet. "Are these for someone?"

For a brief, horrifying second, Johnny considers lying. But he internally sighs and sucks it up. "They're for you."

"Oh."

His heart immediately starts beating faster when you give him a smile, a genuine smile. The kind he usually loves seeing. Except,

“That’s so sweet.”

Not romantic. Sweet. Like he’s somebody’s grandmother.

You take the flowers. “Thank you.”

Johnny waits.

You place them in a vase, mentioning something about how this wet lab was actually the perfect place to deliver them because it was coincidentally a plant science lab! How nice!

Then you immediately return to your microscope, and the conversation is apparently over.

Johnny leaves the lab ten minutes later feeling like he somehow lost.

The second thing Johnny tries is lunch. Surely lunch is more date-adjacent, right? So when he remembers you mentioning a tiny sandwich shop three neighborhoods away, he immediately flies across Manhattan to get your favorite order.

You blink when he sets the bag on your desk.

"What's this?"

"Lunch."

You give him a grateful look, “Aw, is this you finally repaying me for all I’ve cooked for you?”

What?

Oh, that’s right. You cook for him—a lot. You mentioned that cooking was one of the ways you destress, and you keep making extra food for yourself, so you started cooking up two portions instead. One for you and one for him.

“Uh, yeah..” He chuckles awkwardly.

Then, you look at the logo stuck into the parchment paper. "Wait."

Johnny perks up.

"You remembered my order?"

"Of course I remembered your order."

You look genuinely surprised, and somehow that feels worse. "Johnny," you say carefully, "I told you that one time. Like eight months ago."

"Yeah."

A pause.

"...That's actually kind of impressive. Thanks."

Johnny immediately decides to survive on that compliment for the next week. Okay, so he’s getting it now! Cater to your wants and needs, not just give you things he thinks sound good.

Johnny starts making notes. Like, actual notes. Like he’s conducting a science experiment. In his chicken scratch writing, he writes down all the attempts he did, and what the outcome of it was.

ATTEMPT #5: Complimented hair, and she said thank you. Outcome: inconclusive.

ATTEMPT #7: Brought coffee, and she smiled, promising to grab coffee with me sometime. Outcome: promising.

ATTEMPT #10: Asked if she would ever date a superhero, and she said probably not. Too busy, too dangerous. But she still said it depends. Outcome: devastating.

The first person you mention it to is Sue, mostly because you’ve known her for two decades now, and also because she’s the safest option. Someone you’re able to trust.

Ben would immediately make it weird, Reed would probably start taking notes, and Johnny… well, Johnny is the problem. So Sue it is.

You, Reed, and Sue are scattered around Reed's lab on a surprisingly quiet afternoon. Reed is buried in whatever world-ending project currently occupies his attention, Sue is reviewing mission reports, and you're attempting to organize several weeks worth of research data.

Attempting being the operative word, because Johnny keeps interrupting your thoughts.

You finally let out a frustrated sigh. Across the room, Sue glances up.

"Everything okay?"

You hesitate, but decide to ask her anyway. "Has Johnny been acting strange lately?"

Sue immediately looks interested, which should have been your first warning.

"Strange how?"

You spin your chair around. "I don't know." A lie. You know exactly how, you just don’t know why. You tap your pen against the desk. “He’s been…”

Sue waits.

“Different…”

“Different.”

“Mm. Different.”

Sue's mouth twitches, and you narrow your eyes. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"The thing where you clearly know something."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Fortunately, Sue respects her brother enough not to air out his feelings about you.

"Liar."

Sue laughs, and you slump back into your chair.

"It's just weird."

"What's weird?"

You gesture vaguely. "He's been showing up everywhere."

Sue hums.

"He keeps bringing me things."

Another hum.

"He complimented me three times yesterday."

Sue raises an eyebrow.

"Only three?"

You throw a pen at her, but she catches it effortlessly with her powers. Of course she does.

"My point is," you continue, "Johnny's always been nice, but this feels… intentional. Like every interaction has an ulterior motive behind it.”

Sue studies you quietly. "What if he's just paying more attention?"

You snort. You seem to do that a lot these days. "Why?"

The question slips out before you can stop it. Why now? Why after all this time? Sue doesn't answer, or maybe she chooses not to. Instead, she returns her attention to the report in front of her. You make a mental note to dig into that later.

Then, you suddenly remembered something. “Hey, Reed. How did it go with the synchronization index results two days ago? You know, the one that Johnny took?”

Reed pauses, but you don’t really seem to notice it. You ask again, absentmindedly. “Who did you use as a baseline comparison? Was it Sue?”

“Uh, no. We used you, actually.”

“Oh, cool! What did Johnny and I get?” You ask with curiosity.

Reed runs a hand through his hair. "So, you know how the highest compatibility score previously recorded was ninety-one percent."

You stare.

"...Okay?"

"Your scores were ninety-eight point nine percent."

The room goes completely silent.

For a moment, you genuinely wonder if you heard him correctly. A strange warmth blooms in your chest. Ninety-eight point nine, you and Johnny. A ridiculous part of you immediately wants to smile, because of course it's Johnny.

Of course the person who knows you best would be Johnny.

But then another thought creeps in.

Slowly, unpleasantly. The timing.

The sudden attention, the compliments, the flowers, the lunches, the flirting, the everything.

Your stomach drops.

Oh.

Oh. That explains everything.

You look away before either Reed or Sue can notice the change in your expression, because suddenly it all makes sense. Johnny took the test, got the score, and he started… trying. Not before, but after. You hate how the realization quickly settles, and how neatly all the pieces fit together. Because for one stupid second, you'd let yourself wonder if maybe…

No. You shut that thought down immediately.

This wasn't romantic, this was Johnny.

Johnny, who turned everything into a competition. Johnny, who chased things because they were exciting. Johnny, who had never looked twice at a finish line he hadn't crossed yet.

Ninety-eight point nine percent. This was a challenge, a goal. You hate how much that possibility bothers you. Maybe because a small, selfish part of you wanted it to mean something else. Wanted all those lingering looks and stupid compliments to be real. Wanted him to choose you because he wanted you.

Not because some machine told him he should.

You force a smile onto your face. "So that's why." You mumble.

Sue's eyes flick toward you, observant and knowing. Unfortunately, you don't look at her long enough to notice. Because by then you've already made up your mind. Whatever this is, it needs to stop.

Before you start hoping for things Johnny Storm was never actually offering.

Johnny realizes there's a problem three days later. Not because you reject him, no, that would’ve been easier. No, the problem is that you're being nice. The kind of nice that creates approximately twelve feet of emotional distance.

"Thanks for the coffee, Johnny."

"Thanks for the meal, Johnny."

"Thanks for helping me carry those samples, Johnny."

By Thursday, Johnny is standing in the kitchen staring into the refrigerator like it personally betrayed him. "This is bad."

Sue barely glances up from her tea, like she already knows what he’s talking about. "How bad?"

"She thanked me."

Sue blinks, and Johnny points dramatically. "Exactly."

"Johnny, most people like being thanked."

"Not like this."

Sue studies him for a moment. "You think she's avoiding you."

"I know she's avoiding me."

"Did she say that?"

"No."

"Then how do you know?"

Johnny groans. "Because it's her." He throws himself into a chair. "I know her." That was the problem. Johnny knew exactly how you acted when you were annoyed, stressed, happy—everything! And lately? You were acting careful, like somebody trying not to touch a hot stove.

Sue watches him sulk for a moment before finally setting down her mug. "When was the last time you showed interest in something she likes?"

Johnny frowns. "I know things she likes."

"No. I mean actually interested."

"I am interested."

Sue gives him a look. "Johnny."

"Oh." The realization visibly hits him. “You mean… science? I like science, this should be easy.”

Sue stares at him. “No, like… biology. Things that are in her field. Let her know that you care about the things she’s doing, and the fact that you love listening to her. It’ll get her to open up to you more.”

“Sue, you’re a genius!”

Johnny becomes aggressively committed to the bit. He appears in your lab the following Monday wearing glasses.

You stare. "Why are you wearing glasses?"

Johnny immediately touches them. "Oh, these?" He adjusts them casually. Too casually. "Been reading a lot lately."

You narrow your eyes. "Reading."

"Yep."

"What kind of reading?"

Johnny shrugs. "Scientific reading." The answer is so vague that it somehow circles back around to being suspicious. You slowly set your tablet down.

"What scientific reading?"

Johnny freezes. Not because he doesn't know, but because he knows too much. The last three nights have been spent with his face buried in journals while Reed chuckled at him from across the lab. Now his brain is suddenly trying to sort through a ridiculous number of scientific terms at once.

"Cells."

You blink. "Cells."

"Yeah."

A beat.

"There are a lot of those."

Your stare intensifies, and Johnny immediately folds. "Okay, fine. Molecular biology." Now you look genuinely surprised. "Oh."

For the first time all week, Johnny feels like he's accomplished something.

"Why?"

There it is. the question he's been trying desperately to avoid. Why. Because saying because he’s hopelessly in love with you feels a little aggressive for a Monday morning. So instead he says, "I wanted to understand your work better."

The words come out before he can stop them. And for a second, neither of you say anything. Something shifts briefly in your expression, it softens. But at the same second, it disappears.

"Oh."

Johnny's stomach does a weird thing. Because that sounded way more sincere than he'd intended. Which is unfortunate because it was completely true.

You clear your throat. "Well."

You point toward the journal tucked under his arm. "If you're reading that one, chapter four is outdated."

Johnny looks down, then back up. "You've read it?"

You immediately look offended. "Johnny."

"Right. Stupid question."

"Very stupid question."

"You know, I walked directly into that one."

"Yes, you did."

You chuckle, and Johnny feels like his heart is about to burst. “Do you actually wanna learn these things?”

“I mean, yeah!” He nods enthusiastically. Seeing this, you walk over to one of the shelves in the corner of the room. It was quite high up, but you were pretty sure you were able to reach it last time. So you stood on your tip-toes, and tried grabbing the massive textbook sitting on top. 

Johnny immediately comes over. “I can reach that—”

“No. I can do it.” You say as you hold the corner of the book. 

“No, no, really, I can help you.” He says, and he reaches a hand to the same book, but it ends up falling onto the floor with a loud thud. You look at him with an unimpressed look. He purses his lips, hands behind his back now, looking guilty and looking everywhere but your eyes.

You inhale and exhale sharply, but you grabbed the book from the floor anyway, and placed it in front of him. It was a worn down copy of a ‘Campbell’s Biology’ textbook. “This was with me throughout my high school and university days.” You open up a specific chapter.

“If you really want to learn a few things, you’re welcome to come to me any time. I know you’re smart and capable, but if you have too many thoughts sitting in that brain of yours, I’d love to help you sort them out.” You looked back to the book. “I’d start with this part of the textbook.”

Johnny follows your gaze to the page you've opened. The margins are filled with tiny handwritten notes, some written in different colors, accumulated over what looked like years of use. Several sections had been highlighted, and a few pages were dog-eared.

The book practically screamed that it belonged to you. For some reason, that realization settles strangely in his chest.

He'd expected a polite dismissal. Maybe a sarcastic comment about how long this latest phase of his would last. Instead, you'd handed him one of the textbooks that had followed you through high school and university and were now offering to help him through it.

The fact that you seemed completely sincere about it only made the feeling worse.

Or better, he wasn’t entirely sure.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he carefully turns a page. "You're really volunteering to tutor me?"

You glance up from the chapter. "I'm offering to answer questions."

"That sounds suspiciously like tutoring."

"Only because I know you'll have questions."

Johnny lets out a quiet laugh. "Wow. Good to know you have so much faith in me."

"If I get stuck," he continues, trying, and failing to sound casual, "you're not gonna make fun of me, right?"

You look genuinely puzzled. "Why would I do that?" The answer comes so quickly that he almost misses it. As if the idea had never even crossed your mind. Johnny feels something warm settle in his chest.

Because that's just it, isn't it? You never treated him like he was less intelligent than the people around him. You'd always looked at him like he was perfectly capable of keeping up if he wanted to.

"You'd be surprised," he says lightly.

"Johnny."

Your voice softens just enough to make him look up. "I know you're smart."

The statement is delivered so matter-of-factly that it catches him completely off guard. Johnny flashes a grin. "Careful. Keep saying stuff like that and I'm gonna start developing self-esteem."

You immediately roll your eyes.

"Tragic."

"Absolutely devastating."

Johnny shows up in your lab the next morning like he’s been doing it for years.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just leans into the doorway for a moment, watching you work, then crosses the room and places a small stack of printed pages on the edge of your desk.

You glance at them, then up at him.

“What’s this?”

“Lab notes,” he says.

You blink once. “…From who?”

“Reed.” That at least makes sense.

You pick up the top sheet and scan it quickly. It’s formatted the way Reed likes everything formatted—dense, precise, slightly over-detailed in a way that assumes the reader is already three steps ahead. Still, it’s useful.

You look back up at Johnny. “Why are you delivering these?”

He shrugs, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I was already coming here.”

You study him for a second longer. He looks… normal. Casual, even. Like he’s just passing through. But he’s also watching you closely, like he’s waiting to see whether this counts as helpful or intrusive. “Put them there.”

Johnny does.

For a few minutes, the lab is quiet again except for the usual hum of equipment and the soft rhythm of your pen making contact with paper.

You assume he’ll leave. He doesn’t.

Instead, he drifts further into the room, stopping near one of your benches. He looks around like he’s trying to decide whether he’s allowed to exist in that space without an explicit task.

Then, carefully, he picks up a pair of gloves from your supply tray.

“You don’t need those,” you say without looking up.

“I know.”

Another pause, then he puts them back. After a moment, he starts to speak again. “Can I touch the cabinet?”

You don’t look up. “Yes.”

“Cool.”

You hear movement behind you after that. Cabinets opening. The faint clink of containers being shifted. At first, you ignore it. Johnny has always been… present. This is not new. What’s new is the silence. When you turn around again, he’s reorganizing one of your supply shelves. By size, at first glance. Then by category.

Then, after a moment of observation, you realize he’s also separating things by how often you reach for them. The most frequently used items are already drifting toward eye level.

You stop. “…What are you doing?”

“Helping,” he says, without looking at you.

“That’s not helping.”

“It is if I’m right.”

You step closer, arms folding. “You don’t know what I need where.”

Johnny finally looks at you then, one hand still holding a labeled vial. “I think I do.”

The confidence in it makes you pause, not because it’s arrogant, but it sounds… considered. Like he’s been paying attention in a way you didn’t realize required effort.

You glance at the shelf again. It is, inconveniently, better organized than it was before. “…Why?” you ask finally.

Johnny shrugs, setting the vial down carefully. “Because you shouldn’t have to look for things twice in the same day.”

That’s all he says, like it’s not something worth making a big deal out of.

You stare at him for a second longer than necessary, then look away first. “Fine,” you say. “But don’t reorganize anything else without asking.”

He smiles a little.

“Bossy.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“Right. Sorry.”

A beat.

“…Boss.”

Your lips quirk up just a tiny bit.

A few days after that, you notice something different in your lab. Your bench is already set up when you walk inside. Not partially, but fully set up. The samples are arranged in labeled rows. The pipettes you prefer are already out. Even the centrifuge has been pre-adjusted to the settings you would have chosen yourself, down to the slight calibration you usually account for.

You stand there for a moment longer than necessary.

“…Reed,” you talk into your communication device, still looking at the bench. “Did you come into my lab this morning?”

A pause. “No,” Reed answers. “Why?”

You glance around, though you already know the answer isn’t going to change. “Someone set up my experiment.”

“That’s unusual,” Reed says, in the tone of someone who is already mentally moving on to five other problems.

Then, mildly, “Is anything missing?”

You look again. Nothing is missing, everything is exactly where it should be.

You turned off your communication device, and that’s when you heard him.

“Morning.”

Johnny is leaning against the doorway like he’s been there the whole time, like he didn’t just quietly rearrange your entire workflow before you arrived.

You stare at him. “…Did you do this?”

He looks vaguely pleased with himself. “Maybe.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s a pretty good one.”

You walk over to your bench, slow and deliberate.

“You prepared my experiment.”

“I set it up,” he corrects. Johnny pushes off the doorframe and walks closer, hands in his pockets like this is all completely normal.

“I remembered what you said last week about wasting time on setup when you could be running data sooner.”

You blink. That was something you said once, in passing, but you hadn’t even been talking to him. “…You remembered that?”

Johnny shrugs. “You were annoyed when you said it.”

You glance at him. “That’s not an explanation.”

“It’s a reason.”

You don’t respond immediately. You exhale through your nose and turn back to the bench. “Don’t make a habit of entering my lab before I do.”

Johnny’s expression shifts slightly, like he’s bracing for a stricter rejection than the one you actually give him. 

“But since you’re here already… you mind helping me out?” You grabbed a spare lab coat and tossed it to him.

He beamed at you like you handed him the keys to the city.

It doesn’t make sense at first. That’s the part you keep coming back to. Johnny Storm doesn’t set up experiments. He doesn’t organize supply shelves. He doesn’t remember small things you said in passing weeks ago and act on them like they mattered.

You sit at your workstation, but your attention keeps drifting back to the bench he prepared.

Everything is already in place. Clean, ordered, functional. Not just “good enough,” but it’s efficient. Annoyingly efficient. You glance at it again. Then, you catch yourself doing it and look back at your screen.

At first, it had been easy to explain away. The compatibility score, the machine, the timing of it all. Ninety-eight point nine percent.

It gave you something neat to hold onto, a reason for sudden behavior that didn’t quite match the version of Johnny Storm you were used to. Because that version made sense. He overdid things and got excited. He moved fast and moved on faster. But somehow… this isn’t that. This has been consistent.

You had told yourself it was all tied to the test, a reaction to being told something about himself that he now wanted to prove or act on. And while that still could be true, it’s just getting harder to fully believe it, because none of this looks like showing off anymore.

You don’t change what you do at first. It’s not obvious, at least not immediately. You just… stand a little closer than usual when he’s talking. Close enough that he notices, but not close enough that it should matter.

Johnny notices anyway because of course, he always notices you.

He’s mid-explanation about something he probably understands better than he’s currently articulating when he pauses for half a second too long, eyes flicking down like he’s just become aware of where he’s standing in space. Then he clears his throat and continues talking.

A little faster this time. You don’t move away.

Later, when he brings you a set of revised lab notes, you take them from him and your fingers brush his hand for a second longer than necessary.

It’s nothing, barely even contact. But Johnny goes still in a way that is immediately noticeable if you’re looking for it.

Which, unfortunately, you are. “Everything okay?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says too quickly. Then, after a beat, “Yeah. Totally fine.” He smiles like he means it, but… it doesn’t quite land.

You nod and go back to your screen.

The next day, you repeat it on purpose. Not dramatically, just enough to see if yesterday was coincidence.

You lean slightly closer when he’s showing you something on a monitor. Not touching him, just narrowing the space between you and him until he has to decide whether to acknowledge it or ignore it. He chooses neither.

He stops talking for half a second, then resumes with the wrong sentence and has to restart. You file that away quietly.

Interesting.

By the third day, you add something else. A little bit of… sauce, if you will. “You look tired,” you say when he walks in.

Johnny immediately straightens. “I’m not tired.”

“You’re slouching.”

“I’m standing.”

“You’re slouching standing.”

“That’s not a thing.”

You tilt your head slightly. “It is for you.”

He makes a sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t so strained.

Then, you reach out and fix his collar without thinking about it too much. It’s a small adjustment. Barely a touch. Something you’ve done before in passing when he’s been too distracted to notice. Except this time, he does.

He goes completely still. Just… frozen in place like his brain has temporarily stopped accepting new input. Just as soon as you start, you finish adjusting it and step back.

“There,” you say. “Better.”

Johnny nods once. “Yeah. Great. Perfect. That’s—yeah.” He clears his throat. “You’re acting strange.”

“I’m not acting strange.”

A pause.

“You’re acting strange,” he repeats, like that fixes it.

The next scheduled debrief for the development of the Synchronization Index is today. You don’t think much of it when you hear about it.

It comes up in passing, the way most things in Reed’s lab do. Something about recalibration, about running comparative datasets again to stabilize the Synchronization Index after recent adjustments.

Your name is mentioned, briefly, almost absentmindedly.

You barely look up from what you’re doing. “High compatibility,” Reed says, like it’s nothing particularly remarkable.

And it isn’t, not really. The system has been producing results like that more often now, different pairings, different variables. You nod once, as if filing it away in a place that doesn’t require further attention.

“Ninety-four point six percent. Interesting,” you say, and move on. You don’t think about it again.

Not yet. But Johnny hears about it, and of course he makes a huge deal out of it. “Wait,” he says immediately, stopping so abruptly it almost looks like he’s bracing himself. “Back up a second.”

Reed pauses, patient in the way he always is when Johnny is involved.

“You ran her with who?”

“Dr. Scott,” Reed replies.

There’s a short silence.

Johnny’s expression doesn’t change right away, but something in him clearly does. “…Why?”

“Control comparison.” That seems to make things worse.

“No,” Johnny says, too quickly, like the word alone should be enough to undo the situation.

Reed blinks once. “No?”

“That’s not—” Johnny gestures vaguely, as if trying to physically rearrange the concept in the air. “That’s not how it works.”

“It is how it works.”

“No, because the machine doesn’t understand context,” Johnny says, already building momentum.

“It does,” Reed answers calmly.

Johnny ignores him completely. “It must’ve been off,” he decides.

Reed studies him now, more carefully.

“The system?”

“Yes.”

“It produced consistent results.”

Johnny immediately shakes his head. “That just means it was consistently wrong.”

From somewhere behind them, Sue makes a sound that might be a cough or might be laughter she is actively suppressing. Johnny continues pacing lightly now, more animated the longer he talks, as if movement will make the conclusion feel less real.

“It’s probably calibration drift,” he says. “Or environmental interference.”

“You are suggesting the machine is unreliable.”

“I am suggesting,” Johnny says, pointing vaguely as if the argument is already settled, “that the machine is not accounting for real-world variability.”

“That is the same thing.”

“It is not.”

Reed does not look convinced.

Johnny exhales, running a hand through his hair, trying again with more urgency. “I’m just saying, it doesn’t make sense.”

Sue finally looks up from her tablet. “What doesn’t make sense?”

Johnny answers immediately. “That.”

Sue tilts her head slightly. “That… what?”

He hesitates, then gestures vaguely again, like the answer is obvious and frustratingly invisible.

“That it would do that.”

Reed watches him carefully now.

“Do what?”

“Be inaccurate.”

Sue leans back slightly in her chair, watching him with an expression that is far too knowing for his comfort. “You don’t like the result,” she says gently.

“That’s not true.”

“It is a little true,” Reed adds.

Johnny turns toward him immediately. “It’s not.”

Reed raises a brow.

Johnny pauses for half a beat, then corrects himself. “It’s… not about liking it.”

Sue hums faintly. “Then what is it about?”

Johnny doesn’t answer right away. There isn’t a clean answer that doesn’t sound like something he is not ready to say out loud, he thinks. Instead, he defaults to what he knows:

“Repeat the test,” he says.

Reed studies him for a long moment.

“Why?”

“To verify consistency,” Johnny replies immediately.

Sue’s expression shifts slightly at that. Not amused anymore, just observant. “That’s not why,” she says again, quieter this time.

Johnny looks at her. For a second, something almost slips through his expression, something that’s… unguarded. Then he shakes it off like it never happened.

“It is why,” he insists, and huffs. He looks back while rolling his eyes, and spots you. He immediately calls out your name and beckons you over.

You smile once you see him, and you walk towards him casually with your hands inside your lab coat pocket. "What?"

Johnny points at you immediately. "Tell Reed the machine is wrong."

You exhale with a smile, looking at his determined face. Determined for what, you don’t know yet. "...Hello to you too."

"Hi. Tell Reed the machine is wrong."

You glance between him and Reed. “What happened to our machine?"

"You got ninety-four point six percent with Dr. Scott."

You wait. "Okay?"

Johnny stares. The fact that you're not immediately alarmed somehow makes him look even more alarmed. "No, not okay."

You laugh. "Why?"

"Because it doesn't make sense. I mean what does the machine think is happening?" Johnny asks, already spiraling. "You guys barely know each other."

You open your mouth, but Johnny keeps going. "You've worked together for, what, eight months?"

"A year and a half."

“That’s not helping,” he mutters immediately.

You study him for a moment. “Helping what?”

Johnny ignores that completely. “It’s not just about time anyway,” he continues. “It’s about context. Shared experience. Patterns. You don’t just build compatibility off proximity and shared work hours.”

“…And what counts as real compatibility?” you ask quietly.

Johnny opens his mouth, but nothing comes out right away. For the first time, the confidence slips just slightly at the edges, because the answer he almost gives is not scientific at all.

And he knows it.

Johnny is beginning to feel beyond frustrated. He’s done all this and all that, but he just… doesn’t have enough confidence yet. He doesn’t have that one final push to make him brave enough to actually tell you about his feelings. Tonight, he’s pacing in the common room like the floor has personally offended him. Then, he sees a rocky, orange build in front of him. “Ben!”

Ben stops, then sighs. “Whatever it is, you’re doing it wrong.”

Johnny blinks. “I haven’t told you what it is yet…”

Ben finally turns back to face him. He shrugs. “I’ve got an idea.”

Johnny huffs. “Nothing’s working. I don’t know what else to do to get her to come to me.” Johnny drags a hand down his face. “I tried the normal way, didn’t work. I tried the direct way, didn’t work. I tried… whatever I did, and it still didn’t work.”

Ben nods like this is normal information. “Then stop doin’ it.”

Johnny looks at him. “That’s your advice?”

Ben shrugs. “You ever try not runnin’ at a wall?”

Johnny blinks.

“…What does that mean?”

“It means,” Ben says, leaning back, “you keep actin’ like you gotta prove somethin’. Just stop chasin’ it.”

Johnny tilts his head, a bit confused, but somewhat getting it. Bless him. “So I… don’t initiate.”

Ben squints. “If that’s what you wanna call it, sure.”

Johnny nods, already locking in the interpretation. “I don’t initiate.” Johnny had stared at him for a long moment before asking, “And then what?”

Ben had shrugged. “Then she comes to you.”

Which, in hindsight, was not actually advice. It was just a sentence. But Johnny, unfortunately, hears it like a strategy.

The first time, you don’t think much of it.

Johnny not showing up to the lab at the usual time isn’t unheard of. He has missions. He has Reed. He has whatever chaotic schedule comes with being Johnny Storm. So you keep working. You assume he’ll appear later, sliding into the room mid-task like he always does, making some comment about how you look like you haven’t blinked in hours.

But he doesn’t.

Huh, must’ve been super busy today. You think.

The second time it happens, you catch it early enough that it feels worse. You run into him in the hallway outside the lab in the morning, and you see him before he sees you.

When he finally sees you, his expression changes the way it always does, like you’ve become the most natural point of focus in the room. The warmth is there, the familiarity is there, but something underneath it feels restrained, as though it doesn’t quite reach the surface the way it usually does.

“Hey,” he says when you approach.

“Hey,” you reply, automatically matching his tone, because that part hasn’t changed yet.

For a brief moment, it almost feels normal. You ask him if he’s still available later to go get some coffee you’d scheduled together, expecting the usual easy confirmation, maybe a joke about how you’re the only person who tries to make him sit still for breaks.

Instead, Johnny goes quiet for a fraction too long. It’s subtle, not enough to interrupt the rhythm of the conversation outright, but enough that you notice the shift in him as he searches for something to say.

“Yeah,” he starts, then hesitates, and when he continues, it comes out slightly less certain. “Actually, I might have to rain check that.”

“A rain check,” you repeat, because it sounds wrong coming from him.

He nods quickly, a little too quickly, like he’s trying to reinforce it before it can be questioned. “Yeah. Reed’s got me tied up with something. It came up at the last minute.”

There’s something about the way he says it that doesn’t sit right. Most importantly, he is not someone who usually steps away from time with you without making it sound like a loss he intends to fix.

You study him for a moment longer, and that’s when you start noticing the details you might have missed otherwise. The way his posture is slightly more controlled than usual, the way his gaze flickers away from yours a fraction too soon, like he is afraid that if he holds it too long, something will slip.

“Is everything okay?” you ask.

Johnny nods immediately, but there is a delay before the nod settles into something convincing. “Yeah,” he says. Then, after a beat that feels like an afterthought he didn’t mean to reveal, he adds, “I’m fine.”

He looks at you properly then, and for a second you see it more clearly. Not distance exactly, and not indifference, but effort. Like he is trying to maintain a version of himself that does not naturally fit the situation he is in.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says. When you don’t respond right away, he continues, a little more quickly now, “We’ll reschedule. I’ll let you know.”

By the third, fourth, fifth time, you stop pretending you don’t notice. He still shows up (sometimes), still helps, and still answers when you ask him things. But everything has shifted half a step to the side, like he’s deliberately trying not to occupy the same space in the same way.

Even the jokes change.

They’re still there, just… less immediate. Like he’s letting silence happen before deciding whether to fill it. And worse than that, he starts leaving first. Not in a rude way, but in a careful way, like he’s trying not to overstay something you didn’t realize had a limit. 

It takes you a while to bring it up, mostly because at first you keep convincing yourself there isn’t anything to bring up. People drift a little without it meaning anything deeper than that. Except Johnny doesn’t really “drift.” Not like this.

So when you finally catch him alone in the lab doorway one afternoon, you decide you’re just going to ask. He looks up when you call his name.

“Hey,” he says, like always.

“Hey,” you reply, but you don’t move back to your work this time.

Instead, you just look at him for a second longer than usual, trying to figure out where exactly the shift happened. Johnny notices that immediately. Of course he does.

“Everything okay?” he asks, a little too quickly.

You hesitate, then shake your head slightly. “I think something’s changed,” you bring it up.

That makes him pause. “What do you mean?”

You lean back slightly against the edge of the table, folding your arms without really thinking about it.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “You’ve just been different lately. You’re around less. You keep rescheduling things. Even when you’re here, it feels like you’re halfway somewhere else.”

You pause, then add, a little more quietly, like you’re afraid that this is the case, “Did I do something?”

That finally gets a reaction out of him. “What? No,” he says immediately, almost horrified by the idea.

But then it fades a little, like the certainty doesn’t hold. “No, it’s not that.”

You watch him carefully now. “Then what is it?”

Johnny opens his mouth, closes it again, and lets out a breath through his nose like he’s trying to decide whether he’s about to say something stupid or something irreversible.

“It’s… advice,” he says eventually.

That makes you blink, looking at him like you’re silently saying ‘are you kidding me?’

“Advice.”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding once, like that explains everything and also absolutely nothing. “From Ben.”

You stare at him for a second. “…Ben told you to start avoiding me?”

“No,” Johnny says quickly, then corrects himself just as fast. “Not like that. He said I was doing too much. Like I was…” He stops, clearly searching for the wording, then gives up a little. “He said I should stop chasing and just… let things happen.”

You narrow your eyes slightly.

“And your interpretation of that was to disappear?”

“I thought,” he says, slower, “if I stopped being in your face all the time, you’d have space. And then you’d… come to me.”

That lands in the air between you in a way that makes the room feel quieter than it was a second ago.

“…Come to you?”

He nods once, like he fully hears how bad that sounds now that it’s out loud. “Yeah,” he says, more uncertain now. “That was the idea.”

I shake my head in even more confusion. “What do I need to come to you for?”

“Just… uhhh…” Johnny stands there, confused on how to go on with this.

“Okay, don’t answer that, just… That is the worst plan I’ve ever heard you describe out loud,” you say.

Johnny gives you a look. “Yeah, I’m starting to realize that.” For a second, it almost resets into something lighter. But then he goes quiet again, and whatever humor was in his expression fades back into something more unsettled.

“I just didn’t know how else to do it,” he admits.

You take a step closer without really thinking about it. “Do what?” you ask, softer now.

Johnny looks at you, and this time he doesn’t try to joke his way around it.  Instead, he just exhales, like he’s been holding something in for too long. “Tell you,” he says quietly. “That I like you. Without messing it up.”

For a second, you don’t say anything.

It isn’t that you don’t understand him. You do. It’s just that your brain takes a moment to process what exactly he just said, because it doesn’t fit neatly into any of the explanations you had been building over the past week.

Johnny watches you carefully while that happens, which only makes it harder to think, because he looks like he’s bracing for impact even though he’s standing completely still.

“I—” he starts, then stops himself almost immediately, shaking his head slightly. “Okay, no, I’m not doing the talking thing right. Just—ignore that. Forget I said it. That was—”

“Johnny,” you interrupt gently, not loud, just enough to pull him back.

He goes quiet again. You take a breath, slower than usual, trying to steady yourself in the way you normally do when something unexpected comes up in the lab.

“So,” you say after a moment, “your plan was to avoid me until I came to you.”

He hesitates. “…Yeah.”

“And that was supposed to help you tell me you like me.”

“Also yes,” he admits, a little miserably.

You nod slowly, like you’re processing experimental results that don’t behave the way they’re supposed to. “That’s not how people work,” you say.

“I know that now,” he says quickly. “I panicked.”

“You’ve been panicking?” you ask.

Johnny lets out a breath that sounds halfway like a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Kind of,” he says. “Yeah.”

You glance down briefly, then back at him. “I thought you were… I don’t know,” you admit, a little more honestly than you intended. “Trying to prove something. Or that it was just the test. Or that it was easier to turn it into a challenge than actually… yeah.”

Johnny shakes his head immediately. “No,” he says, firmer now. “No, it wasn’t that.”

He hesitates, then adds, more carefully, “I didn’t start doing any of this because of the test. I started because I was trying not to ruin it.” He looks at you like he needs you to understand that part specifically.

“I’ve known I like you,” he says, a little more quietly now. “For a long time. That’s not new. What’s new is that I actually said it out loud and then immediately realized I have no idea what I’m doing with it.”

Then, almost helplessly, “So I listened to Ben.”

You huff a small laugh at that before you can stop yourself. Johnny shifts slightly, like he’s preparing himself again, but this time it’s not for retreat.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says more simply. “But I think I already kind of did.”

You look at him for a second, then shake your head. “You did something very stupid,” you agree.

He nods immediately.

“Yeah.”

“But,” you add, after a pause, “you didn’t mess it up.”

That makes him look up properly. You exhale, a little softer now. “You just made it more complicated than it needed to be.”

Johnny stares at you for a moment like he’s not entirely sure whether that’s better or worse.

“…Is that fixable?” he asks.

“I mean, it’s not like you burned down my lab or something. Of course it’s fixable.” You say with a smile. That gets a real laugh out of him this time, and something tight inside him finally loosens. 

Then, quieter again, “So… what now?”

You look at him for a second longer than necessary, and this time, instead of overthinking it, you just answer him plainly. “Now you stop avoiding me,” you say. “And we figure it out properly.”

Johnny nods once, absolutely no hesitation this time. “Okay,” he says.

In the warm afternoon light of the building hallway, he starts to lean in, almost instinctively. You do too, but then,

“Wait.”

Johnny pulls back slightly, confused, and a bit worried. “What is it?” He asks in a low voice, like he doesn’t want to ruin the moment.

“You did all of that because of the stupid soulmate machine?” You immediately regretted the words that came out of your mouth, because—

“You called it the soulmate machine!” Johnny exclaims, wide eyes and a smile that’s brighter than the sun. 

“Oh my God, no, I—” You start, but he interrupts you.

“Nope! No take backs! You called it the soulmate machine, it is officially named the—”

You kiss him.

Honestly, it isn't even a conscious decision.

One second he's standing there preparing what is undoubtedly going to become the most obnoxious victory speech in recorded history, and the next you're grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him down.

The rest of the sentence disappears completely, and for perhaps the first time in his life, Johnny Storm shuts up.

The hallway goes very, very quiet. When you finally pull back, Johnny just stares at you. You stare back.

His brain is clearly attempting to reboot.

"...Did you just kiss me?" he asks.

You immediately roll your eyes.

"Oh my God. No, hold on." He points at you, looking genuinely overwhelmed now. "You kissed me."

"Yes."

"You kissed me."

"Johnny."

"You kissed—"

You place a hand over his mouth.

"You're ruining it."

He makes a deeply offended noise against your palm for approximately two seconds. You release your hand, then the biggest grin you've ever seen appears on his face.

"You like me."

You groan.

"I literally just kissed you."

"I know!" he says, sounding absurdly pleased with himself. "I'm just making sure we're both on the same page!"

additional notes: thanks for reading till the end!

the title idea was literally inspired by a statistics class that i'm doing in uni atm, the same class that i have finals for in a week...

also, as i've mentioned before i definitely felt disappointed with the end results of this fic but!!! it's my first one in a long time, and it's my first ever in this account. so please stay tuned for more works! i swear i'm planning to write something better for you guys :)

The first sound is small. Too small to mean anything on its own. A soft scrape somewhere in the house that makes you pause mid-scrub, dish still in your hand, suddenly very aware of how quiet everything else is.

Then it happens again. Closer this time.

Your stomach drops before your mind catches up. You don’t think. You just move. You pull your phone out of your back pocket as you back up to the kitchen counter, sinking into a squat against it.

While you're whispering to yourself that it’s probably nothing, the house settling, a branch, anything normal, your fingers are already dialing.

You don't know why you're calling your neighbor. Even though he's a big, buff, federal agent, you two aren't that close. But your body recognizes where safety is in a moment of crisis.

Leon answers on the second ring.

“Yeah.”

It’s all he says at first.

And somehow that steadiness is what breaks you out of your paralysis.

“I think someone’s in my house,” you say, voice too tight, too fast. “I heard something. I don’t–I don’t know.”

His tone instantly shifts.

“Lock yourself in a room. Now.”

You’re already moving.

“Bedroom,” he adds. “Door locked. Stay on the line.”

You do as you’re told without question, because there’s something about the way he speaks that doesn’t leave space for hesitation. The line stays open while you sit on the edge of your bed, listening to your own breathing and the faint, distant sound of your house feeling wrong.

“Leon,” you whisper after a moment. “I’m sorry, I just, I didn’t know who else to call.”

“You did the right thing,” he says immediately.

Nothing extra, just certainty.

Minutes later, you hear another sound outside. Not inside your house this time. A car door shutting too firmly. Footsteps on gravel.

Your phone crackles slightly as he says, “I’m here.”

You hear the front door open.

“Hey,” his voice calls out, lower now, closer in real space than the phone. “It’s me.”

His boots make their way to your bedroom. A soft knock follows.

“You in there?”

“Yeah,” you shout back, fiddling with the lock.

When the door opens, Leon steps in like he belongs there. His eyes are scanning, posture already assessing every corner of the room before they land on you.

Nothing about him is rushed. That’s the first thing your body registers. Like the world can be falling apart, but he’s already decided how to stand between you and it.

“It’s okay,” he says again, quieter this time.

You shake your head.

“I thought…I thought someone was–”

“I know.”

He doesn’t let you finish the spiral. Just closes the distance carefully, stopping close enough that you can feel his presence without him crowding you.

“I checked the house,” he adds. “Front, back, windows. Nothing’s broken. Nobody’s inside.”

Your breath catches like your body doesn’t quite believe it yet.

Leon watches you for a second longer, then says, “You’re safe.”

You force out a short breath, a sheepish smile crawling onto your face. You scratch your cheek with trembling fingers.

A nervous habit.

“Well that's embarrassing,” you say softly.

“Hey.”

You look up.

“If you hear something again,” he says, “you call me sooner.”

You can feel it once the adrenaline fades. Embarrassment rushes in to take its place.

Your hands twist together in your lap. “God, I’m sorry. I probably freaked out over nothing.”

Leon doesn’t accept the premise. He just leans against the doorframe, still half in assessment mode, like he’s making sure your fear doesn’t come back the second he leaves.

“It wasn’t nothing to you,” he says.

You huff out a small, awkward laugh. “Still. I made you come over here for basically… paranoia.”

“You didn’t make me do anything.”

There’s no annoyance in it.

You're still embarrassed.

You glance at him, then away again, heat creeping up your neck.

“I feel like I should make it up to you.”

That gets a faint shift in his expression. Subtle curiosity.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know,” you say quickly. “But I want to.”

He studies you for a second like he’s deciding whether to argue further. Then he doesn’t.

“Okay,” he says simply. “How.”

You blink, thrown.

“Uh.”

The seriousness of him makes your brain scramble for something equally serious. Something appropriate. Something adult and neighborly.

And then, because your brain betrays you in moments like this, you say, “Do you like pie?”

That earns the slightest pause.

Leon’s mouth twitches, almost imperceptibly.

“Pie.”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” he says finally, like he’s confirming a detail in a report.

Relief loosens your shoulders immediately.

“Good. Okay. I can do pie. I can definitely do pie. It’s like the least weird thank-you food.”

“I wouldn’t call it weird.”

“That sounded like you almost did.”

“I was considering it.”

You laugh, properly this time. It surprises you how easy it is around him, even after something like tonight.

Leon pushes off the doorframe a little.

“You don’t have to pay me in pie for checking your house.”

“I’m not paying you,” you insist. “I’m… expressing gratitude. With baked goods. Very normal human behavior.”

He nods once. “Understood.”

That makes you smile again, softer now. Less frantic.

“Okay,” you say. “Then it’s settled. Pie.”

Leon hesitates like he’s about to refuse out of principle, then doesn’t.

“Alright,” he says. Then, quieter, almost like an afterthought: “What kind.”

You blink. Almost smile.

“Apple,” you say. “Is that okay?”

Leon considers it with the same seriousness he gave your broken locks and your fear.

“Yeah.” He nods his head. “I like apple.”

Something about the way he says it, simple and unguarded, makes the whole moment feel different.

Not just a rescue or neighborly obligation. More like the beginning of something. Something unspoken but shared.

You nod, smiling a little to yourself.

“Okay. Then I’ll make you apple pie.”

Leon straightens slightly, like the conversation has officially concluded in his head, but he doesn’t leave immediately. Instead, he glances at you once more.

“You’re okay now?” he asks.

You think about it. Then nod.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I am.”

He holds your gaze for a second longer than necessary.

“Good,” he says.

And this time, when he finally turns to go back outside into the night, it doesn’t feel like he’s just your neighbor anymore.

You lay naked on the bed, legs spread, juices glistening off your folds while Simon hovers above you. His arms cage your head in as he kisses you rough, his tongue sliding over your soft lips, yours entering to explore the expanse of his mouth. He kisses the length of your jaw, down your neck where he licks the salty-sweet skin, bites just hard enough for you to writhe beneath him, and sucks until purple bruises are left to ache in the best way possible.

Before he can lower himself between your legs, you let your fingertips brush just under the waistband of his sweatpants, and his mouth stills against yours.

“Si… just let me try something tonight. I really want to,” you say breathlessly, pulling away from the kiss, gazing up at him with a look that is more of a beg than anything.

He kisses your forehead, moving his hand down to pull yours away, but before he can you reach in deeper, squeezing the base of him and earning a rumbling groan from him instead. His fingers wrap around your wrist, not moving you, just simply holding on like he has to steady himself.

“Lovie, please. Don’t embarrass me now,” he whispers, voice rough and low, wavering ever so slightly when your hand begins to trail further up his limp cock.

You don’t reply, but you do run your thumb against his tip, swiping the precum beading from his slit, evidence of his arousal despite him remaining soft. Lips meeting him again, he’s reluctant, but eventually he finds your rhythm.

Pushing his sweatpants down, you pull his cock out, stroking it gently and your warm, soft palm against him feels like you're touching his raw nerves. Even if he couldn’t get it up, it is still incredibly sensitive from months and months of pent-up need and no sex. Not that you hadn’t tried before, because you have, and every time he gets frustrated.

There’s not much you can say to convince him to try again on the same night.

Nonetheless, you focus on his tip, gliding your thumb under the ridge, rubbing against his slit, and you feel his cock twitch barely in your hand. You pull his body closer to yours, resting his cock on your folds, and he hisses from the sheer pleasure of that alone. Your body heat, your slick, the thought of him touching your aching clit like this has him beyond needy.

“Just slide against me. It’ll feel good, yeah,” you say, nodding your head slowly in encouragement.

His hips roll against you, his cock sliding underneath your palm and through your folds, and he bites back a whimper while shivers run down his spine. Simon can feel his cock hardening, just barely, just enough that he might actually be able to feel your walls wrap around him, so he wastes no time in finding out.

“Please, please,” he says under his breath, begging his body to let him pleasure you in ways he usually can’t, just for tonight if that’s what it takes.

He grabs the base of his cock, positioning at your entrance, and it takes a few tries but his semi-hard tip pushes through your entrance. You gasp softly, the feeling foreign and orgasmic, and your walls clench hard around him. A guttural groan rips from his chest when he begins to rock into you, his eyes meet yours, passion and desire swirling around as his pupils dilate from the sight of you taking him regardless of the conditions.

“You feel so good, Si,” you moan, lifting your hips to give him easier access, glancing down every few seconds to watch the way his impossibly large and yet still soft cock rubs through your walls.

“You feel like a dream,” is all he can get out before his eyes are shutting tight and his fingers are tangling in your hair.

Your body meets his, helping him through it, helping him get to where he needs to be so that just for tonight, he can feel man enough for you. And when he cums deep inside of you, his tip pulsing with long, thick ropes of warm cum, ‘thank you’s’ fall from him repeatedly before he kisses you with a newfound confidence.

“Again Si, don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He stays rocking inside you, cumming again and again until his cock is too raw, until your pussy is full of his cum, and you feel every last bit of him. When he’s done, he lowers himself between your legs, cleaning his mess and sucking your clit, watching you cry from pleasure, watching you squirm away, but there is nothing he could give you that would ever come close to the feeling of showing him that he is enough for you.

│Masterlist│

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You don’t move. You’re not sure if it’s because you can’t… or because if you do, it makes this real. The room is too quiet, too still, like even the air knows better than to disturb him. Eddie lies across from you.

You stare at his hands first. Not his face. You can’t, not yet. His fingers are still, folded neatly over his chest, rings gone, nails clean. Your breath catches.

No. No, no, no. How could this have happened?

Days earlier...

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of the trailer, notebook in your lap, pen tapping anxiously against the page as everyone talks over each other. “This is not a suicide mission,” Dustin insists, already halfway to yelling.

“It’s literally called a crawl, Henderson,” Eddie shoots back, pacing like a general with a cigarette he hasn’t lit yet. “What did you think we were doing, a nature walk?”

Steve groans from the couch. “Can we focus? Please? Just for like—five seconds?”

You glance up at Eddie. He’s in his element. Hair wild, eyes lit up, hands moving as he talks through the plan like it’s a campaign in one of his campaigns, but this isn’t a game, and you both know it. That’s the part no one says out loud.

“Alright,” Eddie says, clapping his hands once. “Roles. We need roles.”

And just like that, it becomes real. Robin grabs a pen. Nancy leans forward. Dustin starts arguing again. You write it all down. Because someone has to. Because if you keep your hands busy, maybe you won’t think about the way Eddie keeps glancing at you like he’s trying to memorize something.

The trailer door creaks when it swings shut behind you, the noise too loud for how quiet everything else feels. You don’t go far. Just the stoop. Same place you’ve sat a hundred times before, knees tucked in, shoulders brushing his, the world feeling smaller, safer.

It doesn’t feel like that tonight. The night air is cool, but not enough to calm the heat buzzing under your skin. It’s always worse when you’re stressed; your powers humming like they’re waiting for something, like they know what’s coming.

Eddie follows a second later, letting the door click softly behind him. He doesn’t say anything at first, just drops down beside you like it’s routine. Like tomorrow isn’t...You don’t let yourself finish the thought.

He lights the cigarette first, the flame briefly illuminating his face—tired eyes, set jaw, something heavier sitting behind it all. He takes a drag, then passes it to you without looking. It’s muscle memory at this point. For a while, it’s just that. Passing it back and forth. Watching the smoke curl into the dark. Letting the quiet stretch.

Then, “I don’t like it,” you say. Your voice comes out smaller than you intended.

Eddie exhales slowly, smoke slipping past his lips as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Yeah,” he says, like that’s enough. Like that covers everything.

“It’s not like before,” you press, turning toward him now. “They’re splitting us up. I’m supposed to be with Steve and Nancy and Robin—on the front line, Ed. That’s—” You stop, jaw tightening. Dangerous. You don’t say it, but it hangs there anyway.

He finally looks at you then. Eddie tilts his head slightly, studying your face like he’s trying to read every thought before you can hide it.

“You’ve handled worse,” he says, softer now. “You literally move things with your mind. Kinda puts you at the top of the food chain, sweetheart.”

You let out a weak huff, shaking your head. “That’s not—”

“I know,” he cuts in gently.

That’s the thing about him. He always knows when you’re not actually arguing about what you’re saying. “It’s not about the monsters,” you admit. “It’s about not being with you.”

For a second, he doesn’t respond. He just looks at you. And you see it, just for a flash. The crack in the armor. The same fear you’ve been trying to shove down all night. Then it’s gone. Replaced with that familiar crooked half-smile.

“Hey,” he says, nudging your knee with his. “C’mon. You trying to tell me you don’t trust me to survive one little crawl without you?”

You glare at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“It’s not.”

He sighs, the smile fading just enough. “I’m gonna be okay,” he says, quieter now. More serious. “We all are. That’s kinda our thing, right? We keep getting thrown into this upside-down, nightmare fuel bullshit, and we keep… coming back.”

You search his face. He sounds convincing. Too convincing. “Eddie,” you whisper. He hesitates. And that’s all it takes for you to know. He’s scared too.

You reach for his hand without thinking, lacing your fingers through his. His rings press cool against your skin, grounding. He squeezes back immediately. “Hey,” he murmurs again, this time like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. “Look at me.” You do.

“You’re gonna go out there tomorrow,” he says, “and you’re gonna do your whole… badass, nosebleed, telekinetic thing—”

You almost smile.

“—and I’m gonna be right where I’m supposed to be. And then after?” He shrugs lightly. “We meet back here. You complain about how reckless I was, I pretend I had it totally under control, and we argue about it for like… twenty minutes.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Only twenty?”

“Okay, an hour. Max.” There’s a pause. Then, softer, “I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s meant to comfort you. But something about the way he says it, too quick, too certain, makes your chest tighten. You lean into him anyway, resting your head against his shoulder.

His arm comes around you without hesitation, pulling you in close like he’s trying to memorize the weight of you there. The cigarette burns out somewhere between your fingers. Neither of you notices. The night stretches on. Too quiet. Too still. And for just a moment, just one, you let yourself pretend this is all it will ever be.

Morning comes too fast. It always does when you don’t sleep. The sky is pale, washed out in that early gray-blue that makes everything feel unfinished. Like the day hasn’t decided what it wants to be yet.

You sit in the passenger seat, hands clenched in your lap, watching the trees blur past as the car hums along the road. No one’s talking much. Steve’s driving, jaw tight. Nancy’s flipping through notes she already knows by heart. Robin’s tapping her foot, restless energy spilling out in quiet bursts.

And you, you feel it. That low, electric buzz under your skin again. Your powers. Awake. Waiting. Like they know.

The car slows as you pull up to the edge of Lover's Lake. It looks normal. Too normal. Water still, reflecting the pale sky. Trees unmoving. No sign of what’s underneath. But you know better. You all do.

Doors open. Gravel crunches under your shoes as you step out, the air colder here, heavier. Eddie’s van pulls up not long after. Your heart stutters when you see him. He climbs out, pushing his hair back, scanning the group like he’s counting, making sure everyone’s here. When his eyes land on you, something in his shoulders loosens. Just a little.

You walk to him without thinking. Neither of you says anything at first. There’s too much to say, and no time to say it. “Morning,” he mutters, like this is any other day.

“Yeah,” you echo. Your hands brush. Then linger. He glances down at them, then back up at you, something unreadable flickering across his face before he masks it.

“Alright!” Steve calls, clapping his hands once, too loud, too forced. “Let’s—uh. Let’s stick to the plan, yeah?” The plan. Right.

You swallow, stepping back just slightly, even though every part of you wants to stay exactly where you are. “Pairs,” Nancy adds. “We go in, we find the gate, and we move fast.”

Eddie nods, but he’s still looking at you. Always looking at you. “You ready?” he asks quietly. No. You nod anyway.

The water is colder than you expect. It steals the air from your lungs the second you dive in, a sharp, biting chill that wraps around your body and pulls you under. For a moment, everything is just soundless pressure. Then, movement.

You kick, pushing forward, following the others as the world shifts from familiar to something darker, murkier. The gate shimmers ahead of you, unnatural, pulsing faintly like a wound in the water. Your chest tightens. You’ve done this before. You can do it again. You push through.

The Upside Down hits like a shock.

You break the surface with a gasp, coughing slightly as that thick, metallic air fills your lungs. Everything is wrong here: muted colors, drifting ash, the distant, constant hum of something alive and watching. You pull yourself onto the shore, water dripping from your clothes, hair clinging to your face.

One by one, the others emerge. Eddie drags himself up beside you, breathing hard, shaking water from his hair. For a second, it’s just relief. He made it through. You’re both here.

He lets out a breath, glancing at you with a small, almost disbelieving smile. “Still hate swimming.” You almost laugh. Almost. Then reality crashes back in.

Nancy stands, scanning the horizon. “We don’t have time. We split here.” There it is. The moment you’ve been trying not to think about since last night. Your stomach drops.

Steve steps closer to you, already shifting into focus. “You’re with us,” he says, steady. “We need you up front.” You nod automatically. But you don’t move. Because Eddie’s right there.

Close enough that you can still see the droplets of water clinging to his lashes, the way his chest is rising a little too fast, like he hasn’t fully caught his breath, or maybe like he’s trying not to show that he’s just as shaken as you are.

“Hey,” he says quietly. It’s softer than before. Not for the group. Just for you.

“You remember what I said, right? We do our parts, we meet back up. Easy.” Easy. The word almost makes you laugh. Instead, you just look at him. Like, if you memorize him now, you can hold onto it later.

His hand comes up, slower this time, more hesitant, like he’s giving you the chance to pull away if you want to. You don’t. His fingers brush your cheek, thumb settling just under your eye, grounding you in a way nothing else can.

“You’ve got this,” he murmurs. Your breath stutters. You weren’t going to...you weren’t going to do this. Not here. Not now. But something in your chest tightens, sharp and insistent, like a warning you can’t ignore. Like, don’t waste this.

“Eddie,” you whisper.

He tilts his head slightly. “Yeah?” And that’s it. That’s all it takes. You close the distance before you can overthink it, your hand gripping the front of his shirt as you pull him in.

Your lips meet his; quick at first, like you might still back out of it, but you don’t. It deepens without permission, without planning, like everything you didn’t say last night is spilling out all at once. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, holding you there, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go too soon. For a second, everything else disappears.

No Upside Down. No plan. No splitting up. Just him. Then reality crashes back in. You pull away, breath uneven, forehead almost resting against his.

His eyes search yours, wide, a little stunned, but there’s something else there too. Something softer. Something that makes your chest ache. “Guess that’s my good luck charm, huh?” he says, voice rougher than usual, trying—trying—to make it light.

You shake your head, a shaky exhale leaving you. “Just… come back to me.” There’s no joke in that. No deflection. Just truth. It hits him. You can see it.

His expression falters for half a second before he nods, more serious now. “Always do.” The words settle between you. A promise. One he fully intends to keep. One you want to believe.

“Guys,” Robin calls again, softer this time. Time’s up. Your hand lingers on his shirt for just a second longer. Then you let go. You take a step back. Then another. And this time, you don’t kiss him again. Because if you do, you won’t leave.

You turn, forcing your feet to move, falling into step beside Steve, Nancy, and Robin, even as everything in you pulls in the opposite direction. You don’t look back. You can’t. Because if you see him still standing there, if you see him watching you, you might run right back.

The woods feel different here. Quieter. Not in a peaceful way, more like everything is holding its breath.

Branches snap under your boots as you move, the four of you cutting through the trees in a tight formation. Steve leads, bat slung over his shoulder. Nancy just behind him, focused, sharp. Robin at your side, glancing around like she’s trying to map everything at once.

And you, you’re not fully here. Your mind keeps drifting back. To the separation. To the kiss. To him. “You good?” Robin asks, nudging your arm lightly.

You blink, pulling yourself back into the moment. “Yeah. Just… focusing.”

She hums, not fully convinced, but she lets it go. For about five seconds. “So,” she says, dragging the word out just a little too casually. “You and Eddie?”

Your heart stutters. Steve groans from up ahead. “Robin—”

“What?” she shoots back. “We’re walking through literal hell, I think I’m allowed one personal question.”

Nancy glances over her shoulder at you, not unkind, just… curious. Observant, like always. You hesitate. Because what even is it? You and him. “It’s not—” you start, then stop, shaking your head slightly. “It’s nothing, official.”

Robin raises a brow. “Mm. The kiss didn’t look very ‘nothing official.’”

Heat rushes to your face. “You saw that?”

“Hard to miss,” Steve mutters.

You exhale, a small, nervous laugh slipping out despite everything. “It’s just… been a thing. For a while.”

“A thing,” Robin repeats, like she’s testing the word.

You shrug, though it feels heavier than that. “We never labeled it. We didn’t need to.” Didn’t want to. Because labeling it makes it real. And real things can be lost.

Nancy’s voice is softer when she speaks. “You care about him.” It’s not a question.

You nod anyway. “Yeah.”

The word sits in your chest, heavy and undeniable. More than care. You just haven’t said it out loud yet.

Robin glances at you, then forward again, something gentler settling into her expression. “Well… for what it’s worth,” she says, “he looks at you like you hung the moon.” Your throat tightens. You don’t trust yourself to respond. So you just keep walking.

The air feels thicker on this side. Heavier. Eddie walks a few steps ahead, pushing branches aside, trying to keep his focus on the path ahead. Trying not to look back. Dustin notices.

“You’re gonna trip if you keep doing that,” he says, adjusting his backpack as he catches up.

“Doing what?” Eddie mutters.

“Looking behind you every five seconds.”

Eddie scoffs, but it’s weak. “I am not—”

“You are,” Dustin cuts in. “And it’s kinda obvious.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t deny it this time. For a moment, they just walk. Then, “You guys finally a thing?” Dustin asks, like he’s been waiting all morning to bring it up.

Eddie huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Nah. Not… officially.”

Dustin squints at him. “That didn’t look unofficial back there.”

“Yeah, well,” Eddie mutters, kicking at a rock in his path, “turns out near-death experiences are great for, uh… speeding things up.”

Dustin snorts. Then softens, just a little. “You like her.” It’s simple. Blunt. True.

Eddie doesn’t answer right away. His expression shifts, something quieter, more honest settling in now that it’s just the two of them. “Yeah,” he admits finally. “I do.” More than that. But he doesn’t say it. Not yet.

Dustin grins, nudging his shoulder. “So what, you gonna ask her out after this? Like, a real date? Very normal, non-Upside-Down-related?”

Eddie lets out a breath, glancing ahead, then, just for a second, back in the direction you went. “Yeah,” he says, softer now. “That’s kinda the plan.”

Dustin raises his brows. “Kinda?”

Eddie huffs. “Okay, it’s the plan, alright? We get through this, we come back, and I—” He pauses, running a hand through his hair. “I make it official. No more ‘thing.’ No more almost.”

Dustin’s grin widens. “About time.”

Eddie shakes his head, but there’s a small smile there now. Hopeful. Dangerously hopeful. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “About time.”

The trailer looks the same. That’s the worst part. Same crooked steps. Same torn screen door. Same cluttered yard like nothing ever touched this place, like the world didn’t split open beneath it. But the sky above it is wrong. Dark. Heavy. Ash drifting slowly like snow that never melts.

“You sure this is gonna work?” Dustin asks, glancing up as something screeches faintly in the distance.

Eddie doesn’t answer right away. He’s already moving, dragging the amp into place, kicking aside debris, hands busy because if they stop, he might start thinking too hard. “We don’t need it to work forever,” he says finally. “Just long enough.” Dustin nods, swallowing.

Eddie plugs in the cables, fingers steady even though his chest feels like it’s caving in. He grabs his guitar, slinging the strap over his shoulder like second nature.

“Alright,” he mutters. “Showtime.” He climbs onto the roof. Dustin follows, a little more hesitant, adjusting the makeshift setup behind him.

“Remember,” Dustin says, voice tight, “we distract, then we bail.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. Too easily. Dustin watches him for a second longer than usual. “Eddie…”

Eddie glances back. Dustin hesitates. “Just—don’t get… carried away.”

Eddie smirks, spinning his pick between his fingers. “Relax, Henderson. I got it under control.”

The house looms out of the darkness like it’s grown there. Rotting. Twisted. Vines crawling over broken walls like veins. Your chest tightens the second you see it.

“You feel that?” Robin whispers. You nod. You don’t just feel it. You know it. That low, electric hum under your skin spikes, sharper now, like your body is reacting to something too big to fully understand.

“Stay sharp,” Nancy says quietly. “We go in, we stick together.”

Steve pushes the door open slowly. It creaks. Too loud. All of you freeze. Nothing moves. Nothing reacts. But that doesn’t make it better. You step inside.

The air is thicker here. Warmer. Like something is breathing just beneath the walls. Every step feels wrong. Every instinct is screaming at you to turn around. But you don’t. Because you can’t.

Eddie doesn’t hesitate. The second his fingers hit the strings, sound explodes into the air. Loud. Aggressive. Alive. It cuts through the silence like a blade. The bats react instantly. Screeches echo overhead as the sky seems to move, the swarm shifting, drawn toward the noise.

Dustin ducks instinctively. “Oh, that got their attention—!”

Eddie grins. Wide. Wild. Adrenaline flooding his veins, drowning out the fear. “Yeah,” he shouts over the noise. “That’s kinda the point!”

He leans into it, fingers flying across the fretboard, the music louder, faster, filling the dead air with something almost defiant. For the first time all day, he looks alive.

The deeper you go, the worse it feels. The house seems to stretch around you; hallways too long, shadows too thick, the air pressing in like it’s alive. You don’t like it. Not one bit. Your steps slow. Then stop.

“Wait,” you whisper.

The others freeze instantly. Steve turns first. “What?”

You don’t answer right away. Because you’re listening. Not with your ears. With something else. That hum under your skin—it shifts, sharpens, like it’s trying to warn you.

Your eyes flick down the hallway ahead. The door. The one you’re supposed to find him behind. Your chest tightens. “…something’s off.”

Nancy frowns slightly, stepping closer to you. “What do you mean?”

You shake your head, frustrated. “I don’t know, I just—he should be here. I can feel it, this place is—” You swallow. “It’s wrong.”

Robin exhales quietly. “I mean… everything here is wrong.”

“No,” you insist, voice lower now. “This is different.” The air feels… empty. And that’s what scares you most.

Steve grips the bat tighter. “Alright. We check it. Quick.” He moves first. You follow right behind him, heart pounding harder with every step toward the door. This is it. This is where he should be. Where it all ends.

Steve positions himself to the side, nodding once. Then, he swings the door open. It slams against the wall. All of you brace, ready, waiting. But there’s nothing. The room is empty. Too empty. No movement. No presence. No him.

Just the slow drift of ash and something dark staining the walls like a memory left behind. Silence. Heavy. Wrong. Your stomach drops.

“No…” you breathe.

Nancy steps forward, scanning quickly. “That’s not—he was supposed to be here.”

“He was,” you say, your voice barely holding steady. Because you know he was. You felt it. But now, nothing. And then it hits you. Not all at once. But like something clicking into place. Horribly. Perfectly.

Your head snaps up. Your breath catches. “…he moved.”

Steve turns. “What?”

Your chest tightens, panic rising fast now. “He’s not here because—because he’s not waiting for us.”

Your mind races. Connecting everything. The hum. The emptiness. The shift. And then, the music. Faint. Distant. But there. Your heart stops. “No.”

Robin looks at you, confused. “What—?”

You shake your head, already backing up, fear flooding your system. “He’s not here because he—”

You can’t even say it. You don’t want to. But you know. Your voice breaks anyway. “—he went to Eddie.”

Silence crashes down around you. Steve’s expression hardens. “Why would he—”

Robin's eyes widen, head spinning to Nancy and Steve. Your pulse is pounding in your ears now. Too loud. Too fast.

“He’s not just drawing the bats,” you whisper.

The truth settles in your chest like something heavy and irreversible. “He’s drawing everything.” The music pulses faintly through the walls.

Still playing. Still going. Too long. Way too long. You turn toward the door, already moving. “I have to go back.”

Nancy grabs your arm instantly. “No. If we leave now—”

“He’s alone!” you snap, panic breaking through completely now. “He’s out there by himself and Vecna is—”

“And we stick to the plan,” Steve cuts in, firm, but there’s strain in it now. He knows. They all do. Because the plan is already falling apart.

You rip your arm free, shaking your head. “There is no plan if he’s not here!” Your chest heaves. The hum under your skin spikes, almost painful now, like your body is screaming at you to move. To go. To save him. The music keeps going. Too loud. Too steady. Like a countdown you can’t stop. You look at them. Desperate. Terrified. “I’m not leaving him.”

You don’t wait for them to agree. You’re already moving. The second your feet hit the threshold, you’re running. Branches claw at your arms as you tear through the woods, lungs burning, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack your ribs open.

The world blurs. All you can hear is the music. Faint at first. Then louder. Still playing. Still going. “Eddie—” you gasp under your breath, pushing harder, faster, ignoring the way your body is starting to strain under the pressure building inside you.

The hum beneath your skin is no longer a warning. It’s a scream. You trip—catch yourself—keep going. You don’t think. You don’t slow. You just run.

The trailer comes into view. And everything stops. The music is still blasting. But it’s wrong now. Frantic. Desperate. You stagger to a halt just past the tree line, chest heaving, vision swimming, and then you see him.

Eddie is still on the roof, fingers flying over the strings, hair whipping around his face as the swarm circles violently above him. Dustin is shouting something, you can’t hear it, not over the blood rushing in your ears.

And then, you see him. Standing at the edge of the trailer. Still. Watching. Vecna. Your breath leaves you completely. He’s not rushing. Not attacking. Just walking forward. Slow. Certain. Like he already knows how this ends.

“No,” you whisper.

Your body moves before your mind catches up. “Eddie!” Your voice tears through the air. He hears you.

His head snaps in your direction, eyes wide, confusion flashing across his face, because you weren’t supposed to be here.

The ground shakes faintly beneath your feet as that pressure builds, your powers surging wildly now, uncontrolled, fueled by pure panic. “Get away from him!” you shout, your voice breaking as you throw your hand out instinctively, and everything around you reacts.

The air distorts. Debris lifts. A shockwave bursts forward, and Vecna stops. Just barely.

You move before he can. “Don’t!” you shout, your voice cracking as you throw your hand forward. The air splits. Power surges out of you in a violent wave, tearing through the ground, sending debris flying straight at him, and it hits. Hard.

Vecna slides back, the force distorting around him, the world rippling like it’s struggling to hold its shape. And for a second, you think you stopped him.

“Stay away from him!” you scream. The words rip out of you before you can stop them. Raw. Desperate. And then, Vecna smiles. Not wide. Not human. But enough. Enough to make your blood run cold.

“Ah,” he says, almost… pleased. “There it is.”

You force yourself upright. Your head is still ringing, that pressure lingering at the edges of your thoughts, but it’s not pulling you under anymore. It’s just there. Watching. Waiting. You steady your breath, planting your feet.

“No,” you say again. Stronger this time.

Vecna tilts his head, studying you. “You feel me,” he says. “Even now.”

You don’t deny it. Because it’s true. He’s been there. Seen things he shouldn’t have. Felt things that were never his. Your chest tightens.

“You don’t get to use that,” you say, your voice low but steady. Behind you, you hear movement. Eddie, shifting closer, trying to figure out where to step in without making it worse.

“Hey,” he calls, forcing a lightness that doesn’t quite land. “So if this is like a psychic staring contest thing, I’m thinking we skip to the part where you lose—”

“Eddie, stay back,” you cut in sharply. He goes quiet. But you can feel him there. Close. Too close.

Vecna’s gaze drifts past you again. Locking onto him. And something in your chest snaps into clarity. “Oh,” you breathe. Not fear. Not confusion. Understanding. “That’s what this is.”

Vecna doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

“You’re not trying to get to me through my mind,” you say, stepping forward, placing yourself fully between them. “You already did that.” Your power hums, building beneath your skin. Unsteady, but yours. “You’re trying to get to me through him.” Silence.

Then, a shift in the air. Approval. “Perceptive,” Vecna says.

Your jaw tightens. “You think if you hurt him, it’ll break me.”

Vecna takes another slow step forward. “I know it will.” The words land like a blade.

Behind you, Eddie exhales sharply. “Okay, wow, rude—also, can we not talk about me like I’m not standing right here?”

You don’t turn. You can’t. Because if you do, if you look at him, you might hesitate. And you don’t have that luxury.

“Then you’re wrong,” you say, lifting your hand. The air distorts instantly. Debris rattles, lifts, cracks spreading through the ground at your feet. Your voice doesn’t shake now.

"Your connection to this world, this boy, makes you weak. I need you strong. He's simply a distraction."

“If you want him,” you say, “you go through me.”

Vecna’s expression darkens. Just slightly. Enough. “Gladly.” He moves.

Faster than before, a violent surge forward. You react on instinct. Your hand snaps out. The ground erupts between you, splitting upward in a jagged barrier that forces him back as the impact ripples through the space. The force knocks you a step back, but you hold.

Your breath comes fast, power crackling wildly around you now, stronger with every second you stay standing. Behind you, “Holy shit,” Eddie breathes.

You almost smile. Vecna recovers quickly. Always does. He lifts his hand, and the air around you tightens.

Pressure slams into your chest, forcing a gasp from your lungs as your body strains against it. You push back. You fight it. “No—” you grit out, forcing your arm forward, the pressure fractures, exploding outward.

A shockwave is tearing through the space again, stronger, sharper. Vecna is pushed back further this time. Not unharmed. But not defeated. Never that easy.

You stagger, catching yourself, breath uneven, but still standing. Still between them. Vecna straightens slowly. Watching you. Reassessing.

“You will exhaust yourself,” he says calmly.

“Maybe,” you shoot back.

Your voice is rough now, but unwavering.

“But not before you fail.”

Behind you, Eddie shifts again. Closer. You feel it immediately. “Eddie—” you warn.

“I’m not just gonna stand here while you—” he starts.

“Stay. Back.” The words come out sharper than you mean, but they land. He stops.

Vecna's gaze flickers between you. Tracking. Calculating. Then, he changes tactics. His hand lifts again, but this time, not toward you.

Your eyes widen. “No—!”

You spin, throwing your arm out behind you, and the force snaps into place just in time. An invisible barrier slammed up between Eddie and the attack. The impact ripples through your body like a shock, knocking the breath from your lungs as you drop to one knee, the strain immediate and overwhelming. But you hold it.

“Hey—hey!” Eddie’s voice, panicked now, closer than ever. “You don’t gotta do that—!”

“Yes, I do!” you choke out, forcing the barrier stronger, even as your vision starts to blur at the edges. Because now you know. This isn’t about overpowering Vecna. It’s about keeping Eddie alive long enough. For something. For anything.

Vecna watches. Patient. Almost… satisfied. Because this? This is exactly what he wanted. You're straining. Breaking. Choosing him over yourself. Your breath shakes. Your arms tremble. But you don’t drop it. You don’t move. You don’t let him through.

The pressure finally breaks. Your knees hit the ground harder this time, the barrier flickering as your arms shake from the strain. The force dissipates in a sharp, snapping wave, air rushing back into your lungs as you gasp for breath.

“Hey—hey, hey—” Eddie’s there instantly, dropping beside you, hands hovering like he doesn’t know where to touch without hurting you. “You with me? You still with me?”

“I’m fine,” you choke out, even though you’re very much not.

Vecna steps forward. Unhurried. Certain.

You try to push yourself up again, but your power flickers, weaker now, unstable. And then, a crack. Not from you. From behind him. The air splits and suddenly, Steve barrels in from the side, bat swinging hard into Vecna’s shoulder with a sickening thud.

“HEY, UGLY!” he shouts.

Vecna staggers. Just slightly, but enough. Nancy’s already moving, reloading with practiced precision. “Move!” she calls.

Robin grabs your arm, hauling you up with surprising strength. “C’mon, superhero, we are not dying in demon suburbia today!”

Your legs barely cooperate, but adrenaline kicks in just enough. You stumble back, Eddie right beside you. Another shot rings out. Vecna turns, slower this time, recalibrating, attention shifting. That’s all the opening you need.

“Go!” Steve yells. You don’t argue. You run. The woods blur again, but this time, you’re not alone. Eddie keeps pace beside you, one hand hovering near your back like he’s ready to catch you if you fall. Which you might.

Actually, yeah, you definitely might. You duck behind a cluster of broken trees, half-collapsed debris forming a small pocket of cover.

“Here—here—” Eddie pulls you down with him, both of you dropping into the space, hidden just enough. For a second, you just breathe. Or try to, at least.

Your chest heaves, lungs burning, head spinning from the aftershock of everything you just pushed through. Your hands are still shaking. You don’t notice until his hands close around them. Warm. Steady. Grounding.

“Hey,” he says softly. You look up. He’s closer than before. Closer than he should be with everything going on. But neither of you moves away.

“Hey,” he repeats, gentler now, thumbs brushing over your knuckles like he’s trying to anchor you back into your body. “You’re okay.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I almost—”

“I know,” he cuts in quickly. “I know, but you didn’t.”

Your eyes drop for a second. “He’s gonna keep coming after you.”

“Yeah, well,” he huffs lightly, trying for a smirk, even now, “story of my life. I’ve always had a very punchable face.”

You let out the smallest, breathless laugh. It almost breaks halfway through. His expression softens immediately.

“Hey, hey—don’t do that,” he murmurs. “Don’t go there right now.”

You shake your head, voice quieter now. “I felt him, Eddie. He’s in my head. He knows—he knows how much I—” You stop yourself. But it’s too late. The words already hanging there. Unfinished. Heavy.

He stills. Just for a second. Then, his grip tightens slightly. Not trapping. Just holding. “You don’t gotta say it like it’s a weakness,” he says quietly.

Your eyes flick up to his. “It’s not,” he continues, steady now. “That’s the thing. That’s why he’s using it, because it matters. Because it’s real.”

Your throat tightens. He leans in just slightly, not a kiss, not this time, but close enough that his forehead almost brushes yours.

“You think I didn’t notice?” he adds, softer. “The ‘thing’? Us?”

A shaky breath leaves you. “Eddie—”

“No, let me—just this once,” he says, voice low, but certain. “If we get outta this—when we get outta this—no more almost, okay?”

Your chest aches. That same promise from before. Closer now. Realer. “No more almost,” you echo faintly.

He nods once, like that settles it. Then, because he’s still him, even now. He gives your hands a small squeeze and smirks just a little.

“Also, for the record?” he adds, glancing toward the direction Vecna went. “That whole… glowing, power explosion thing? Metal as hell.”

You huff out another weak laugh. “Shut up.”

“Hey, I’m serious,” he says. “You were incredible.”

Your breathing starts to steady. Just a little. Because of him. Because he’s still here. Right in front of you. Alive. And for a moment, just a moment, the world quiets again.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you. Your breathing steadies. Your hands are still in his. Eddie’s still looking at you like that. Soft. Certain. Like he meant every word. “No more almost,” he repeats under his breath, like he’s locking it in.

Your chest tightens. You nod. Then, a sharp crackle cuts through the air. Loud. Jarring. Too loud. The walkie at your hip bursts to life.

“—hello?! HELLO?!”

You both flinch. Reality slams back in. You scramble for it, fingers fumbling slightly as you bring it up.

“Dustin?” you breathe. Static crackles. Then:

“THANK GOD,” Dustin’s voice comes through, rushed, panicked, overlapping itself. “Okay—okay, I need you guys to listen to me—this is not part of the plan—this is definitely not part of the plan—”

Your stomach drops. “What happened?” Eddie cuts in, already shifting, already moving back into action.

“They’re not just swarming!” Dustin shouts. “They’re changing direction—like all of them—and I think—I think he’s controlling it—”

Your chest tightens. Vecna. “He knows,” you whisper. Eddie looks at you. You don’t need to explain.

“Dustin,” you say quickly, forcing your voice steady, “where are you?”

There’s a pause, huffling, something crashing in the background. “Trailer—well, near the trailer—okay, not exactly near, more like running away from, but that’s not the point—!”

“We’re coming,” Eddie says immediately.

“No—wait—listen—” Dustin’s voice cracks slightly now, fear bleeding through. “We need you. Both of you. Like, right now. If we don’t redirect them or something, they’re gonna circle back and then we’re all—”

Static cuts him off for a second. Then, “—just get here. Please.” Silence. The line goes quiet. Your grip tightens on the walkie. For half a second, neither of you moves. Then Eddie stands. Fast. Offering you a hand without even thinking. You take it.

“Round two?” he mutters, trying for that same edge of humor, but it’s thinner now. More real. You nod, pushing yourself up, legs still a little unsteady, but you’re standing. You’re here. And you’re not done yet.

“Stay close to me,” you say, already turning in the direction Dustin’s voice came from.

Eddie huffs lightly, falling into step beside you. “Yeah, I was planning on it this time.” You glance at him. Just for a second. He’s still there. Still okay. Still with you.

“No more almost,” he adds, quieter now, but firm. Your chest tightens again. “Yeah,” you say. Then, you run. Together.

You don’t slow down. Branches whip past, the ground uneven beneath your feet as you and Eddie tear through the woods, the air growing louder with every step, screeching. Dozens of them. No, hundreds. Your chest tightens.

“They’re closer,” you say, breath uneven.

“Yeah, I gathered that!” Eddie shoots back, ducking under a low branch. “Henderson better not be leading us into a literal death pit—!”

The trees thin. And then, you see it. The trailer. Or what’s left of it. The sky above churns, black and alive, the swarm circling violently, tight, fast, erratic. Not distracted anymore. Hunting.

“Holy—” Eddie breathes.

“Down!” you shout. You grab his arm and yank him with you just as a cluster of bats dives low, their screeches piercing as they skim the ground where you were standing seconds ago.

You hit the dirt hard, rolling. Your heart is pounding. Too fast. Too loud. You push up, and then you feel it. That hum. But it’s different now. Not just a warning. Not just fear. It’s rage.

“They’re not leaving,” you say, voice sharper now, something else bleeding into it.

Eddie glances at you. “Yeah, no kidding—”

“No,” you cut in, eyes locking onto the sky. “They’re not leaving because he’s controlling them.” Your hands tremble. Then steady. Something shifts. Decision.

“Then we stop them,” you say. Before he can respond, you step forward. And you let go. The air around you distorts instantly. Stronger than before. Less controlled, more focused.

A group of bats dives toward you, fast, screaming. Eddie’s voice cuts in behind you. “HEY—!”

But you don’t move. You lift your hand, and the world snaps. The first one hits an invisible wall midair. Its body jerks violently. Then, crushes inward with a sickening crack before dropping to the ground. Another follows. Then another.

Your breath shakes, but you don’t stop. You can’t. They keep coming. And now, so do you. With a sharp motion, you fling your arm outward. A wave of force blasts through the air, catching a cluster mid-flight and slamming them into the trees with bone-snapping force. The woods echo with the impact. Silence follows, briefly.

Then more screeching. Always more. Behind you, “Holy shit,” Eddie breathes again. But this time it’s different. Not fear. Not fully. Something like awe.

You barely hear him. Your focus narrows. Every movement is sharper. Every sound is louder. Another swarm dives. You react faster this time, catching them midair, holding them. Your hand trembles, then tightens. They drop. One by one.

Your chest heaves. This isn’t clean. This isn’t easy. But it’s working.

“Hey—hey, okay—” Eddie steps closer now, cautious, hands hovering near your shoulders. “You’re kinda going full Carrie right now and I love that for you, but also—are you good?”

You don’t answer right away. Because you don’t know. Your power crackles around you, unstable but strong, the ground faintly fracturing beneath your feet. “I have to be,” you say finally. Because there’s no other option.

OVER HERE!” Dustin’s voice cuts through everything. You turn. He’s waving frantically from behind a chunk of debris, ducking as another bat swoops low.

Steve’s there too, swinging wildly, trying to keep them back. Nancy fires again, precisely and controlled. Robin’s dragging something, gear, wires, something half-falling apart.

They’re overwhelmed. You see it instantly. “They’re not gonna hold them,” you say.

Eddie nods once. “Then we don’t let them.”

You step forward again. This time, not just reacting. Leading. The swarm shifts. Drawn to you now.

Your power pulses outward, stronger, brighter, like a signal. Like a challenge. “Come on,” you mutter under your breath. Your hand lifts. The air bends. And when they dive, you meet them.

The impact is explosive. You catch the first wave midair, hold, then slam them down in a crushing force that ripples through the ground.

More follows. You pivot, throw, crack, drop. Your movements aren’t hesitant anymore. They’re sharp. Decisive. Every strike fueled by one thing: Keep them away from him.

“GO!” you shout over your shoulder. “MOVE!”

Dustin scrambles up, grabbing Robin’s arm. “She’s literally clearing a path—GO GO GO—!” Steve doesn’t argue this time. They run. Eddie lingers. “Eddie!” you snap.

He hesitates. Just for a second. Then backs up, slow at first, then turns, following the others. But he doesn’t take his eyes off you. Not once.

The swarm falters. Just enough. Just long enough. You stagger slightly as the last wave drops, your breath coming in sharp, uneven pulls. Your power flickers. Still there, but draining quickly.

You look up. The sky isn’t clear. Not even close. But it’s thinner now. Weaker. For the first time, you’ve pushed back.

Then, that feeling hits again. Sharp. Cold. Familiar. Your chest tightens. “…he’s not done,” you whisper.

And somewhere, beyond the trees, something shifts. Watching. Waiting.

“MOVE!”

Your voice tears through the air as you finally break, turning and sprinting toward them, legs barely keeping up with the adrenaline still surging through your system.

They’re already ahead; Steve helping Dustin, Nancy covering behind them, Robin glancing back every few seconds like she’s counting, making sure you’re still there.

You catch up fast. Eddie slows just enough for you to fall into step beside him, his hand brushing yours like he needs to feel that you made it back.

“You good?” he asks, breathless. You nod. Lie.

“Gate’s this way!” Dustin shouts, pointing ahead.

Through the trees, you see it. Faint. Pulsing. The way back. Hope flickers. Just for a second. Then, the air drops. Heavy. Cold.

Your steps falter. You feel it before you see him. “…no,” you whisper.

The others slow. Turn. And there, at the edge of the clearing, Vecna stands. Not untouched. Not unbothered.

There are cracks now, fractures across his form, something darker leaking through, like your earlier attacks actually did something. But he’s still standing. Still moving. Still coming. Unfinished. Your chest tightens.

“We keep going,” Steve says immediately. “We don’t stop—”

“No,” you cut in. Your voice is steady. Even if your body isn’t. “He won’t let us.”

Vecna steps forward. Slow. Deliberate. Your eyes flick to the gate, then back to him. Decision. “Go,” you say.

Eddie’s head snaps toward you. “No—”

“GO!” you shout, sharper now, already stepping forward. “I’ll hold him—just go!”

“Not a chance,” Eddie fires back instantly. You don’t have time to argue. Vecna lifts his hand, and everything explodes.

You meet it head-on. The force slams into you, knocking you back a step, but you hold, throwing your own power forward in response, the air cracking violently between you as energy collides.

Your breath rips out of you. But you don’t fall. Not yet. “Go!” you scream again over your shoulder.

This time, they listen. Reluctantly. Steve grabs Dustin, pulling him back toward the gate. Robin follows, Nancy, firing one last shot before retreating. But Eddie, Eddie stays.

“Eddie!” you shout, panic breaking through.

“Not happening!” he shoots back, grabbing your arm as you stumble slightly. “I’m not leaving you—”

“You have to—”

“I’m not—!”

Vecna moves. Faster this time. Stronger. Your attention snaps back too late. The force hits again, harder. You cry out, dropping to one knee as the pressure crashes down on you, your power flickering violently as you try to push back.

“Get—away—from—her!” Eddie shouts, stepping forward.

“No!” you gasp.

But he’s already there. Too close. Exactly where Vecna wants him. Vecna’s hand shifts, and suddenly Eddie is lifted. Off the ground. Like nothing.

Your breath stops. “EDDIE—!”

His body jerks midair, arms straining, choking on the invisible force holding him—

“Hey—!” he gasps, panic finally breaking through. “Help—”

“Put him down!” you scream, scrambling to your feet, your power surging wildly now, unstable, desperate. Vecna doesn’t move. Doesn’t falter.

“Witness,” he says calmly.

Your chest caves in. “No—”

Eddie is thrown. Hard. His body slams into the ground with a sickening crack, rolling, then going still. Too still. Your world stops. Sound cuts out. Everything narrows to one point. Him.

Not moving. Not—“Eddie?” Your voice barely exists. No response. Something inside you breaks.

“NO!”

It rips out of you—raw, violent, everything you have left pouring into it as you throw your hands forward. And this time, there’s no hesitation. No control. Just everything. The ground splits beneath you, power erupting outward in a blinding, violent surge that tears through the space between you and Vecna.

The air distorts. The world shakes. Debris lifts, shatters, and explodes outward. You push harder, screaming. Every memory, every feeling, every moment with him fueling it. Just come back to me. No more almost.

The force hits. And this time, Vecna doesn’t just move. He breaks. His form fractures violently, cracks splintering across him as the energy tears through. The sound is unbearable, like something ripping apart from the inside.

Then, silence. He’s gone. Or, what’s left of him is, rather. Your power collapses instantly. Everything drops. So do you. Your body hits the ground. Hard.

Your vision swims. Darkness creeping in at the edges. But you don’t care. You crawl. Hands shaking, breath uneven, dragging yourself across the ground towards him.

“Eddie—” your voice cracks. “Eddie, please—”

You reach him. Your hands find him, cold. Too still.

“Hey—hey, c’mon—” your voice breaks completely now, hands gripping his jacket, shaking him lightly. “You said—you said—no more almost—”

Nothing. Your chest caves in. “No, no, no—”

Footsteps crash around you, voices: Dustin, Steve, someone shouting. But it all sounds far away. Like you’re already losing it.

“Stay with me,” you whisper, your forehead pressing against his. “Please just—come back to me—” Your vision blurs. Darkness is closing in faster now. Too fast. You can’t—You can’t—

Beeping. Soft. Rhythmic. Your eyes flutter. Everything is bright. Too bright. The smell hits first, clean, sterile, unfamiliar. Then, pain. Dull. Everywhere.

Your fingers twitch against rough sheets. Slowly, you open your eyes. White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. A machine beside you, blinking steadily. You blink again. Trying to focus. Trying to understand.

“…Eddie?” Your voice is barely there. Fragile.

For a second, nothing happens. Then, a sharp inhale. Movement.

“Oh my god—” The voice cracks. Familiar. You turn your head, slow, heavy, like it weighs too much, and there they are. Nancy is already standing, eyes wide, tears spilling down her face as she rushes closer.

Beside her, Dustin looks like he hasn’t slept in days, eyes red, chest rising too fast like he forgot how to breathe. “You’re awake,” Nancy says, voice breaking as she reaches for your hand. “Hey—hey, take it easy—”

Dustin lets out a shaky laugh that immediately turns into something closer to a sob. “Yeah, yeah—no sudden movements, okay? You—you took a hit, like—a really bad one—”

You don’t hear most of it. Because one thing is missing. “Where is he?" Your voice is stronger now. Sharp. Urgent.

They both freeze. Just for a second. Too long. Your heart drops. You push against the bed immediately, muscles screaming in protest as you try to sit up. Pain shoots through your body. You ignore it.

“Where’s Eddie?” you demand, more frantic now, eyes darting between them.

“Hey—hey, no—” Nancy tries to steady you, hands on your shoulders. “You need to stay down—”

You shove her hands away. Not hard, but enough. “No, I don’t,” you snap, breath uneven. “Where is he?”

Dustin looks at Nancy. Nancy looks back. That silence. It’s too loud. “Tell me,” you whisper. Your voice shakes now. Not from pain. From fear.

Dustin steps forward slightly, hands raised like he’s trying to calm you without touching you. “He’s—he’s here, okay? He’s—he’s in the hospital—”

Your breath stutters. “Is he awake?”

Another pause. Shorter this time. But it’s enough. “No,” Nancy says softly. “Not yet.” The words hit. Hard.

You shake your head immediately, swinging your legs over the side of the bed despite the way your body protests. “I need to see him.”

“Hey—no, you—” Dustin starts, panic rising again. “You literally just woke up—like, seconds ago—”

“I don’t care,” you cut in, voice breaking as you try to stand.

Your knees buckle slightly the second your weight hits the floor. Pain flares. You grab the edge of the bed, gripping it hard enough your knuckles go white. Nancy’s there instantly, catching your arm. “You’re not steady—you need a minute—”

“I don’t have a minute,” you whisper. Your chest tightens. Your mind flashes. Him hitting the ground. Not moving. Too still.

You swallow hard, blinking rapidly. “I don’t have a minute,” you repeat, more desperate now. “Please.”

Nancy’s expression crumbles slightly. Dustin looks like he might argue again. Then he sees your face. Really sees it. And something in him gives.

“…okay,” he says quietly.

Nancy looks at him. “Dustin—”

“She’s not gonna stop,” Dustin says, voice softer now. “You know that.” Nancy exhales shakily. Then nods.

“Alright,” she murmurs. “But slow. We’re going slow.”

You don’t argue. Because you can’t. Not if it means getting to him. They help you, one on each side, as you take your first shaky steps, the world tilting slightly with each movement.

Your body is weak. But your focus isn’t. “Which way?” you ask, breath uneven. Dustin swallows. “This way.”

You nod. And you move. The hallway feels too long. Every step echoes. Too loud. Too slow.

The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, sterile and unforgiving, casting everything in that same washed-out white that makes it hard to tell what’s real and what’s not.

You don’t like it. It feels nothing like him. Dustin stays on your right, one hand hovering near your arm like he’s ready to catch you if you go down again. Nancy’s on your left, steady, quiet, watching you more than the path ahead. You barely notice.

“Almost there,” Dustin murmurs.

Your chest tightens. You nod, even though you’re not sure you can handle what’s waiting on the other side. Your steps slow. Just slightly.

Because suddenly, you’re scared. Not of Vecna. Not of the Upside Down. Of this. Of what you might see.

Nancy notices. Her voice softens. “Hey… you don’t have to rush.”

You shake your head immediately. “No,” you whisper. “I do.”

Because if you hesitate now, you might not go in at all. Dustin stops in front of a door. Room number barely registers. Your heart is too loud.

“This is it,” he says quietly. Silence settles. Heavy.

You stare at the door. Your hand lifts, then stops. Hovering. Your breath shakes. Just come back to me.

The memory hits hard enough to make your chest ache. You swallow. Push the door open. The room is dim. Quiet. Too quiet.

Machines hum softly in the background, a steady rhythm that fills the space where his voice should be.

Your eyes find him immediately. Like they were always going to. Eddie lies in the bed, pale against the white sheets, bandages wrapped around his torso and arm, bruises dark against his skin.

Still. Too still. Your breath catches. “No…” you whisper. The word breaks on the way out. You move before anyone can stop you.

Crossing the room in uneven steps, ignoring the way your body protests, ignoring everything except him, you reach the bed. Your hand hovers over his for a second, then settles.

Warm. He’s warm. Your chest cracks open with it. “Hey…” your voice trembles. “Hey, it’s me.” No response. The machine beside him beeps steadily. Too steady. Too indifferent.

You swallow hard, your other hand coming up to brush lightly against his arm, careful of the bandages, like you’re afraid he might disappear if you’re too rough.

“You said…” your voice falters. “You said no more almost.”

Your vision blurs. You shake your head, a small, broken laugh escaping you. “That was—you don’t get to just say that and then—” your voice cracks completely now. “and then not be here for it.”

Behind you, you can hear Dustin shift, hear Nancy’s quiet sniffle, but they don’t interrupt. They know this isn’t for them. You lean in slightly, your forehead almost resting against his arm.

“Come back to me,” you whisper. The same words. But softer now. Fragile. Real. Silence answers you.

For a second, nothing happens. Then, a twitch. Small. Barely there. But you feel it. Your breath stops.

“…Eddie?” Your eyes snap to his face. Waiting. Hoping. His fingers shift weakly beneath yours.

Another small movement. Then, a faint groan. Your heart jumps. “Eddie—?” His brows knit slightly, like the world is too heavy to come back to all at once.

Then, slowly, his eyes flutter open. Unfocused at first. Dazed. Then, they find you. And something in them clicks.

“…there she is,” he rasps, voice rough, barely there—but him.

A sob breaks out of you before you can stop it. Half-laugh, half-relief, completely overwhelming. “You’re such an idiot,” you breathe, squeezing his hand tighter. “You scared the shit out of me—”

He huffs weakly, the ghost of a smirk pulling at his lips. “Yeah, well,” he murmurs, eyes barely staying open, “you should’ve seen the other guy.”

A shaky laugh escapes you, tears still falling. “You’re not funny.”

“I’m a little funny,” he whispers.

You shake your head, leaning closer, unable to stop yourself this time. “No more almost,” you remind him, voice soft but firm. Even now. Especially now. His gaze steadies on you. Tired. But certain. “Yeah,” he breathes.

Then, with what little strength he has, his fingers tighten slightly around yours. “Yeah… no more almost.”

The room quiets slowly. Not all at once, but piece by piece. Dustin lingers the longest, hovering near the foot of the bed like he’s still not convinced this is real, like if he looks away too soon, something might undo it.

“You better not do that again,” he mutters, voice thick, trying to sound annoyed and failing completely.

Eddie lets out the faintest huff of a laugh. “No promises, Henderson.”

Dustin shakes his head hard, blinking fast. “Yeah, okay, that’s—super reassuring.”

Nancy rests a gentle hand on your shoulder. “We’ll be right outside,” she says softly. “Just… call if you need anything.”

You nod, barely taking your eyes off Eddie. “Thank you,” you whisper. She squeezes your shoulder once, then guides Dustin toward the door. He glances back one last time. Then they’re gone. The door clicks shut.

Silence settles. Real silence this time. Just the quiet hum of the machines. And him. You exhale slowly, like you’ve been holding it in for hours, days, or longer. Your hand is still wrapped in his. You don’t let go. He watches you. Tired. But there.

“…you look like hell,” he murmurs.

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, wiping quickly at your face. “Yeah? You should see yourself.”

“Hey,” he says weakly, shifting slightly with a wince. “Chicks dig the ‘barely survived a supernatural death match’ look.”

You raise a brow. “Do they?”

He glances at you, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

Your chest tightens. You shake your head, softer now. “Yeah. I am.” There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just full.

Your thumb brushes lightly over his knuckles, grounding yourself in the fact that he’s warm, that he’s here, that this isn’t something you’re going to wake up from.

“I thought—” you start, then stop. Your voice falters. You try again. “I thought I lost you.”

The words land heavily in the quiet. Eddie’s expression shifts. The humor fades, just a little. Enough to let something real come through. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too.”

Your breath catches. You look up at him. Really look. He’s not deflecting. Not joking. Just honest. “I heard you,” he adds, voice rough. “Before, uh—lights out.”

Your heart stutters. “You did?”

“Mm.” His eyes stay on yours. “The ‘come back to me’ part? Kinda hard to ignore.”

Heat rushes to your face, but it’s tangled with something deeper—relief, vulnerability, everything you didn’t say out loud before. “I meant it,” you say softly.

“I know,” he replies. “So,” he continues, voice quieter now, almost careful. “We’re not… doing the ‘thing’ anymore, right?”

Your brows knit slightly. “What?”

He gestures weakly between you with his free hand. “The—y’know. The undefined, emotionally confusing, ‘are we or aren’t we’—thing.”

Despite everything, you laugh. Soft. Real. “No,” you say, shaking your head. “We’re definitely not doing that anymore.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “That sucked.”

You smile, just a little. Then it fades. Not into sadness. Into something more certain. You shift closer to the bed, your hand tightening slightly around his. “No more almost,” you say again.

This time, it’s not fragile. It’s a decision. His gaze holds yours. And for once, Eddie Munson doesn’t joke. Doesn’t dodge. Doesn’t soften it with humor. He just nods. “Yeah,” he says. “No more almost.”

Your free hand lifts, hesitates, then gently brushes a piece of hair back from his face, careful of everything, like you’re still half-afraid he might disappear if you move too fast.

He leans into it. Just slightly. Eyes softening. And then, quietly, “You stayed,” he murmurs.

You swallow. “Of course I did.” Like, there was never another option. Like there never could’ve been. Another pause settles. But this one feels different. Faint. Sharp. Familiar.

It flickers at the edge of your mind. Gone as quickly as it came. But not unnoticed. Your breath hitches, just slightly.

Eddie’s brows knit. “Hey… you okay?”

You blink. The room comes back into focus. The machines. His hand in yours. Everything normal. You nod. A little too quickly.

“Yeah,” you say. Soft. Convincing. Almost.

had you in the first half, didn't i?

The conference room is already full by the time you arrive.

Nick Fury stands at the head of the table, one hand braced against the surface while holographic files flicker blue across the glass. 

A few of the Avengers are scattered around the room, quiet in the way people get when the situation is bad enough that nobody feels like joking.

You stop near the back wall, and Fury doesn’t waste time.

“Three separate HYDRA channels intercepted chatter about Franklin Richards,” he says. “Two mentions of latent reality manipulation. One mention of Doom.”

That gets everyone’s attention. A holographic image of Doctor Doom appears over the table.

“Victor Von Doom’s been searching for ways to increase his hold over interdimensional energy,” Fury continues. “If he gets his hands on that kid, best case scenario is a planetary incident.”

“Comforting,” someone mutters.

Fury ignores it.

“The Fantastic Four already have building security, but that’s not enough. Doom doesn’t do frontal assaults unless he’s making a statement.”

You cross your arms loosely. “So what’s the ask?”

Fury finally looks at you. “You’re going to the Baxter Building.”

You stare at him. “You’re assigning me protection detail?”

“You’re the best close-quarters operative SHIELD’s got access to.”

“I’m not a nanny.”

“And Franklin Richards isn’t a normal kid.”

The room goes quiet for a second. Fury taps the table, pulling up more files.

“Doom’s people are already in New York,” he says. “I need someone who can identify a threat before it happens.”

You glance at the file again before exhaling slowly through your nose. “…Fine.”

The Baxter Building scanner flags you before the elevator even reaches the top floor. You hear the security system shift immediately.

Threat detection.

You barely step into the penthouse before a streak of fire comes flying toward your head, and you duck on instinct.

The blast scorches the wall behind you. Seriously?

“Little aggressive for a greeting,” you call out.

Johnny Storm drops from above a second later in a flare of heat, landing hard in front of you. And annoyingly enough, he’s hot. 

Like, offensively hot. Which, paired with the fact he’s currently trying to light you on fire, feels unfair.

“Hands where I can see them,” he says.

You glance around the massive apartment. “You always attack guests before asking questions?”

“Usually only the ones that trip every security alarm in the building.”

Fair.

Before you can answer, movement flashes from your left, and an invisible force slams toward you. You twist sideways just before Susan Storm tries to pin you against the wall with a force field.

Johnny launches forward again. You catch his wrist before he can grab you, using his momentum to yank him forward and slam him directly onto the floor.

Hard. The breath leaves him in a rough oof. Okay, maybe a little harder than necessary. Johnny stares up at the ceiling for half a second in genuine shock.

Did this random woman just body him in his own living room?

And unfortunately, his first coherent thought is:

Of course, the insanely hot girl breaking into our apartment is evil. 

He twists quickly, flames sparking up his arms again, but you’re already moving. You duck under another burst of fire, grab the back of the couch, and vault over it smoothly.

Johnny actually loses sight of you for a second, which should not be possible.

“What the hell—”

You appear behind him. A sharp kick to the back of his knee sends him stumbling.

“Director Fury sent me,” you say flatly.

Johnny turns quickly enough to catch your next strike, but the impact still rattles up his arm.

Strong. Very strong. Susan throws another invisible field toward you, trying to trap you between the kitchen island and the wall.

You plant one boot against the counter and push off, flipping cleanly over it before the field can close.

Johnny actually blinks. Okay, that was kinda cool, he thought. 

“You could’ve opened with that!” he says.

“You attacked me before I got the chance!”

“You looked suspicious!”

“You set me on fire!”

“A little!”

You grab his arm again when he lunges, twisting sharply enough to send him crashing face-first into the couch cushions.

“Mmph—”

Susan stops abruptly, because now she’s trying very hard not to laugh. Johnny lifts his head slowly from the couch, hair a mess.

“…Suze, seriously?”

You finally pull a SHIELD badge from your jacket and toss it onto the coffee table.

“I’m here because there’s a credible threat against Franklin Richards.”

That gets their attention immediately. Johnny pushes himself upright more seriously this time while Susan steps closer to the badge.

“Fury sent you?” she asks.

You nod once. “He believes Doctor Doom has taken an interest in Franklin.”

Johnny’s expression shifts immediately, and a tiny voice pipes up from the hallway.

“Mommy says no fighting in the house.”

All three of you look over. Franklin stands there in little dinosaur pajamas holding a stuffed triceratops, completely unimpressed.

Johnny points vaguely toward you from the couch. “She started it.”

Franklin looks at the scorch marks on the wall. Then at Johnny, then back at you.

“And she beat you.”

Johnny’s still halfway draped over the couch when heavier footsteps echo from down the hall. 

“Why does it smell like smoke?”

Ben rounds the corner first, stopping short at the sight of: the scorched wall, overturned cushions, Johnny looking personally victimized, and you standing calmly in the middle of the living room like none of it happened. 

Ben looks at Johnny. “…You lose another fight, hotshot?”

Johnny points at you immediately. “She’s freakishly fast.”

“I heard yelling,” another voice says distractedly from farther back.

Reed appears next, tablet still in hand, like he was working up until the exact second he walked into the room. He barely glances up at first, then he sees you.

“You’re a Widow,” he says plainly.

Johnny looks between the two of you. “A what now?”

You cross your arms. “Former.”

Reed nods once, already understanding more than he says out loud.

“Red Room training,” he explains to the others. “Espionage. Close-quarters combat. Psychological conditioning.”

Johnny slowly turns back toward you. “…Oh.”

That suddenly explains why he got his ass kicked in under two minutes.

Ben lets out a low whistle. “And Fury sent her?”

“He did,” you answer.

Reed finally sets the tablet down fully, expression sharpening into something more serious.

“If Victor is targeting Franklin, this is exactly the kind of protection we need.”

Susan folds her arms loosely. “You knew about her?”

“Not personally,” Reed says. “But I know the program.”

You hate the way people always say that. The program, as if there weren’t real people inside it. Franklin, meanwhile, has wandered closer completely unnoticed. He stares up at you curiously from beside the couch, dinosaur plush still tucked under one arm.

“You flipped Johnny.”

Johnny groans. “Why is everyone focused on that part?”

You glance down at Franklin finally. Up close, he looks impossibly small for someone apparently capable of rewriting reality.

“…He attacked me first,” you tell him.

Franklin considers this very seriously, then nods once like that’s perfectly reasonable.

“Okay.”

Ben barks out a laugh.

Johnny throws his hands up. “Oh, so we’re ALL against me tonight?”

And despite yourself, just briefly, the corner of your mouth twitches, and Johnny notices immediately. And oh, he is absolutely screwed now.

“Alright,” Sue says after a moment, breaking the tension. “If Fury assigned you here, we should probably get you settled in.”

You nod once, professionally and simply. Like you haven’t just physically humbled one of New York's most recognizable superheroes in front of his family.

Johnny pushes himself fully off the couch with a dramatic sigh. “I’ll show her around.”

Susan gives him a look immediately. “Johnny—”

“What?” he says defensively. “I live here too.”

Ben snorts loudly from the kitchen. You almost decline on principle alone, but Johnny’s already walking backward toward the hallway.

“C’mon, Spy Girl.”

You stare at him. “…Spy Girl?”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna stick,” Ben says instantly.

Johnny ignores him. “Unless you’ve got a cooler nickname.”

You brush past him into the hallway. “I don’t.”

“See? Spy Girl it is.”

The Baxter Building is quieter away from the main living area. Modern and expensive, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Manhattan. Johnny walks beside you with his hands shoved in his pockets while you silently clock any exits, blind spots, camera placements, and potential entry points.

“You do that all the time?” he asks.

You glance over. “Do what?”

“The weird assassin scanning thing.”

“Security assessment.”

“That sounds less cool.”

“It’s not supposed to sound cool.”

Johnny grins slightly. You’re pretty sure he grins at literally everything.

He points down another hallway. “Labs are Reed’s territory unless you like hearing the phrase ‘quantum fluctuation’ for six hours straight.”

“I don’t.”

“Smart woman.”

You ignore that, but he keeps trying anyway.

“This is the east wing. Kitchen’s back there, game room downstairs, Franklin’s room is closest to Sue and Reed’s—”

You stop walking briefly near one of the windows. “Too exposed.”

Johnny pauses. “What?”

“The glass.”

He looks around. “Bulletproof.”

“Still exposed.”

There’s no judgment in your tone, and Johnny studies you for a second. You really do see everything. Not casually either, but constantly. Like your brain never shuts off.

He gestures farther down the hall instead. “Your room’s over here.”

The guest room is bigger than most apartments in Manhattan.

You step inside, automatically checking the window locks, vent access, sightlines, and distances to adjoining rooms. Johnny leans against the doorway, watching you do it. “You always this friendly?”

You don’t look at him. “You always this talkative?”

“Yes, actually.”

That finally gets a tiny reaction. Not quite a smile, but close enough that he catches it. Victory.

“You know,” he says, “most people introduce themselves before throwing me into furniture.”

You unzip your duffel bag and start removing weapons without any warning. Johnny watches a knife hit the dresser. Then another, then a handgun. Then somehow, another knife.

“…Jesus Christ.”

You finally glance at him. “You asked.”

He lets out a laugh before he can stop himself.

“You know, this whole cold, mysterious thing would work better if you weren’t secretly funny.”

“I’m not funny.”

“You kinda are.”

You slide open the bedside drawer, automatically checking its depth. Johnny watches you for another second before speaking again. 

“What should I call you then?”

There’s a pause, and you almost tell him not to bother. Instead, you give him your name quietly.

Johnny repeats it once like he’s testing it. Then smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “Way better than Spy Girl.”

A second later, Franklin appears, clutching his dinosaur plush to his chest. He looks between the two of you curiously, then directly at Johnny.

“Mommy said you’re not allowed to fight the security lady anymore.”

Johnny places a hand over his chest. “First of all, rude.”

Franklin ignores him completely and walks right into your room like he’s known you for years. You straighten slightly on instinct, watching as he studies the knives laid out on the dresser with intense four-year-old seriousness.

“Are those real?”

“Yes.”

Johnny immediately cuts in. “No touching.”

Franklin sighs dramatically like he’s heard this speech a thousand times.

You crouch slightly instead of towering over him. “Good listening skills keep people alive,” you tell him evenly.

Franklin nods once, very seriously.  Then he points at one of the smaller blades. “That one’s pretty.”

Johnny blinks. Most adults react to your weapons with fear, but Franklin reacts like he’s looking at cool rocks.

“You should see her fight,” Johnny mutters. “Humiliating experience for me personally.”

Franklin gasps softly. “Did she really throw you?”

“Oh my God,” Johnny groans. 

You look down at Franklin. “He started it.”

Franklin thinks about this carefully before nodding.

“Okay.”

Johnny points accusingly at him. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Franklin climbs up onto the edge of the bed beside your duffel bag, as he belongs there. And weirdly, you don’t mind.

“You staying here forever?” he asks.

The question catches you off guard for half a second. “Just until things are safe.”

Franklin accepts that answer easily.

Then: “Will you cook for me? Uncle Ben is busy, and Uncle Johnny burns my grilled cheeses all the time.”

Johnny narrows his eyes. “You are unbelievable.”

A tiny smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it.

Dinner is louder than you expected. Ben and Johnny argue over something stupid within the first five minutes.

Reed gets distracted halfway through explaining something scientific and starts talking to himself absentmindedly. Susan keeps the entire table functioning through sheer force of will.

And Franklin sits beside you like that decision had been made without consulting anyone. You’re halfway through the meal when Ben gestures toward you with his fork.

“So what kinda missions did Fury have ya doin’ before this?”

Susan gives him a look. “Ben.”

“What? I’m curious.”

You take a sip of water calmly. “Mostly extraction. Intelligence recovery, threat elimination.”

Johnny nearly chokes on his drink. “Threat elimination?” he repeats.

You glance at him. “You say that like you didn’t try to light me on fire three hours ago.”

Ben laughs loudly.

Johnny points at you. “In my defense, you looked evil.”

You deadpan: “And now?”

Johnny opens his mouth, then stops. Because honestly, still, a little, just in a different way. Susan hides a smile behind her wine glass.

Franklin leans toward you conspiratorially. “Uncle Johnny likes pretty girls.”

Johnny nearly drops his fork. “Franklin!”

“What?” Franklin asks innocently. “You said it.”

Johnny points across the table. “Okay, nobody talk to the child anymore.”

Franklin turns back toward you. “One time, he spent two hours doing his hair before a date.”

“DUDE!”

You finally laugh softly under your breath. Actual laughter this time, and the entire table goes weirdly quiet for a second. Because it’s the first genuinely relaxed thing they’ve seen from you all night. Johnny stares a little too long, then grins slowly.

And somehow, against all logic, you’re almost comfortable. Then every alarm in the Baxter Building starts screaming at once. The sound cuts through the room immediately, and red emergency lights flash across the walls.

Franklin startles beside you. Johnny’s already on his feet before the system voice even speaks.

“Threat detected in Midtown Manhattan. Multiple casualties reported.”

Reed’s tablet lights up instantly.

Susan stands so quickly her chair nearly tips over. “What happened?”

Reed scans the incoming data, expression tightening fast. “…Energy signatures match Latverian tech.”

Johnny’s joking expression disappears as flames flicker faintly beneath his skin. Ben’s already moving toward the equipment hall.

“Doom?” he asks.

“Possibly,” Reed answers grimly.

Another alert flashes across the screens. Civilian evacuation failure. Structural collapse risk. Hostile entities confirmed.

Johnny curses under his breath. Franklin grabs onto your sleeve instinctively at the sudden tension. You look down at him briefly before standing.

“What’s protocol?” you ask.

Sue’s eyes immediately go to Franklin, then to you.

“Protect him.” Simple as that.

The others are already moving. Johnny pauses only long enough to look back at you while pulling on part of his suit.

“Security system’ll lock once we leave,” he says quickly. “Nobody gets in without Reed’s clearance.”

You nod once. “Go.”

Another explosion rattles faintly through the distant city outside the windows, then they’re gone.

Franklin presses closer to your side, and you crouch slightly in front of him.

“Hey,” you say evenly. “You know where the safe room is?”

He nods once, smaller now than he was earlier. You move quickly after that, checking windows, securing entry points, loading your weapons, and muting unnecessary alarms

Outside, flashes of orange and blue light flicker against the skyline. Too far away to assess clearly, but too close for comfort. Franklin sits curled into the corner of the couch, hugging his dinosaur while you monitor the security feeds.

Ten minutes pass, then twenty. Then, the balcony doors burst open in a rush of heat. You’re on your feet instantly, gun already raised, before you recognize Johnny landing hard against the floor.

His suit’s scorched, and there’s blood near his lip, not all of it looks like his.

“Easy,” he says quickly, hands raising slightly. “It’s me.”

You lower the gun immediately. “What happened?”

Johnny runs a hand through smoke-singed hair, breathing harder than before.

“There’s more of them than we thought,” he says. “Doom sent Doombots all over Midtown as a distraction.”

Your expression sharpens immediately. “For Franklin.”

Johnny nods once. Another explosion rumbles faintly somewhere outside.

“We need you out there,” he says. “Ben and Sue are handling evacuation, Reed’s trying to stop whatever Doom’s actually building, and these things just keep coming.”

Your brain’s already moving ahead of the conversation, and you turn towards Franklin immediately 

“Hey, buddy,” you say, kneeling in front of him. “Need you to do something important for me.”

Franklin looks up from the couch, dinosaur plush tucked under his arm. “Like a mission?”

“Exactly like a mission.”

That gets his full attention instantly. You guide him quickly through the hallway toward the panic room while Johnny follows behind you.

The reinforced door slides open with a mechanical hiss. Franklin steps inside before turning back toward you.

“You’re coming too?”

Your chest tightens slightly.

“No,” you say gently. “You stay here until we come get you.”

Franklin frowns immediately. “But the bad guys are outside.”

“I know.”

“Then you should stay too.”

Johnny goes quiet behind you.

You crouch fully in front of Franklin, smoothing back a piece of hair from his forehead before you even realize you’re doing it.

“The whole reason I’m here,” you tell him softly, “is to make sure nothing happens to you.”

Franklin stares at you seriously for a second.

Then, “What if something happens to you?”

Something in your expression flickers. Before you can answer, Johnny leans lightly against the doorway.

“Then I punch the bad guys for her,” he says.

Franklin considers that, then nods once. “Okay.”

You hold your pinky out automatically.

“Stay in here until one of us comes back. Promise?”

Franklin hooks his pinky with yours immediately.

“Promise.”

The panic room seals shut a second later. Then Johnny looks toward the balcony doors.

“We gotta move.”

You follow him quickly back into the main living area, already checking the ammo in one of your handguns.

“Closest access point?” you ask.

“Forty-third and Lexington.”

You nod once. Johnny moves toward the balcony before pausing. Right, flying.  He turns back toward you, holding his hand out. You hesitate, giving him a once-over. 

“I won’t burn you,” he says quietly.

And annoyingly enough, you believe him. You slip your hand into his, and his fingers close around yours carefully. Warmer than a normal person should be, but nonetheless gentle. Then flames burst around him as he pulls you close and launches both of you into the night sky.

The city rushes beneath you in streaks of gold and red. Wind tears past as Johnny flies fast enough to make most people panic, one arm secured tightly around your waist while flames trail behind him across the sky.

You, somehow, stay perfectly calm. Johnny glances down at you briefly. “You do this often?”

“Fly through Manhattan with human torches?”

A grin flickers across his face despite everything. “Cute.”

You roll your eyes, but your grip tightens slightly when he drops altitude sharply between buildings. Below you, Midtown is chaos: smoke, fire, screaming, metal tearing through streets. And moving through all of it, Doombots. At least twenty, from what you can see immediately.

“Jesus,” Johnny mutters.

Your eyes track the street instantly. “Too organized.”

“What?”

“They’re herding civilians.”

Johnny looks again. The Doombots aren’t attacking randomly; they’re funneling people into specific streets.

“Reed was right,” Johnny says darkly. “This whole thing’s coordinated.”

A blast of green energy suddenly shoots toward you from below, and Johnny jerks sideways instantly. The shot narrowly misses.

“Okay!” he shouts. “Guess they noticed us!”

You’re already pulling a handgun from your thigh holster.

“…You carry that while flying?”

You fire twice before answering. Both shots hit the same Doombot directly in the faceplate, and it stumbles backward into a parked car. “Yes.”

Johnny laughs once in disbelief before diving. The landing nearly cracks the pavement. Heat explodes outward around him as civilians scatter away from the intersection. Three Doombots turn immediately. 

You barely hit the ground before the first one charges. You duck under a metal swing aimed directly at your head, sliding across the hood of a destroyed taxi before driving a knife straight into the gap beneath its jaw plating. Electricity sparks violently, and the bot collapses.

Johnny whistles low. “That was hot.”

“Focus.”

“Trying to.”

Another Doombot lunges toward him from behind; you see it first. “Johnny!”

Too late. The machine slams into him hard enough to send him crashing through a bus stop. You move instantly; gunfire rings through the street as you unload into the Doombot’s exposed spine joints.

Then Johnny erupts out of the wreckage in a burst of flame so bright it forces you to shield your eyes briefly.

“Okay,” he says, voice echoing slightly with heat. “Now I’m annoyed.”

Fire tears across the street. Three Doombots melt almost instantly. The fourth survives long enough to aim directly at you.

Your stomach drops. The blast fires, and suddenly, heat wraps around you as Johnny grabs you around the waist and yanks you backward against his chest. The energy blast misses your face by inches. You both hit the pavement hard behind an overturned car.

Johnny’s breathing heavier now. “You good?” he asks quickly.

You stare at him for half a second. “…You saved me.”

Johnny blinks. “Yeah? That generally tends to happen during teamwork.”

Another explosion shakes the block nearby. You start to move again, but a sharp metallic cable suddenly snaps around your ankle from behind. Your body slams hard onto the pavement, pain shooting through your ribs instantly.

Before you can react, another Doombot pins you down. Its arm shifts mechanically into a weapon, charging.

Johnny sees it. “HEY!”

The street erupts into white-hot flame. It’s not controlled anymore; his anger takes over instead of strategy. The Doombot barely has time to turn before Johnny hits it full-force, tackling it clean through the side of a building. The explosion rattles the entire block.

You shove yourself upright roughly, breathing harder now. Then Johnny comes flying back out through the smoke and debris, landing in front of you.

“You hurt?” he asks immediately.

You shake your head once despite the pain. Johnny looks at the blood running down your arm.

“…That’s a lie.”

You glance down briefly. Huh, didn’t even notice that.

Johnny grabs your wrist before you can brush it off. “You have GOT to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Acting like almost dying is mildly inconvenient!”

Another explosion shakes the street hard enough to rattle the windows above you. Then a familiar voice cuts through the chaos. “Johnny!”

A massive orange shape crashes through two Doombots like a freight train. Ben lands in the middle of the intersection, grabbing one machine by the head and slamming it directly into the pavement.

“Kid, you look awful.”

Johnny points toward you while catching his breath. “She got stabbed by a robot.”

“I did not get stabbed.”

“You are literally bleeding.”

Before you can argue further, an invisible force field snaps around the remaining civilians nearby as Sue lands beside you.

“You’re hurt,” she says immediately.

“It’s superficial.”

Susan gives you a look that clearly says, "I don’t believe you for a second."

Then Reed Richards speaks through the comms in Johnny’s suit. “Johnny, get her back to the Baxter Building.”

You straighten immediately. “I can still fight.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion,” Reed replies calmly. “We’ve identified Doom’s signal source. We can handle the rest from here.”

Johnny crosses his arms instantly. “See? Science Dad said go home.”

You glare at him and he grins despite the soot covering half his face. Sue steps closer, lowering her voice slightly. “Franklin needs you.”

And that, annoyingly, is what finally gets you moving. Johnny keeps one arm around you as he flies, noticeably steadier this time. Probably because there’s blood on your sleeve now.

You try ignoring the ache in your ribs as Johnny keeps glancing down at you anyway.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That is not comforting.”

The Baxter Building balcony comes into view a few minutes later. The second you land, the apartment security unlocks automatically. And before you can even fully step inside, small footsteps sprint across the floor.

Franklin Richards crashes directly into your legs. “You came back!”

You steady yourself carefully so you don’t fall over from the impact. “Told you I would.”

Franklin pulls back just enough to look up at you properly. “You’re hurt.”

Johnny shuts the balcony doors behind you. “Yeah, because she’s apparently allergic to taking cover.”

“I was taking cover.”

“You were standing in front of laser fire!”

Before the argument can continue, a robotic voice chirps from the hallway. H.E.R.B.I.E. rolls quickly into the room, carrying a medical kit almost half his size.

Franklin points dramatically at you. “She got attacked by robots.”

“Thank you, buddy,” Johnny says dryly. “We gathered that.”

You sit reluctantly on the edge of the couch while H.E.R.B.I.E. starts scanning your injuries with a series of concerned electronic noises. Franklin immediately climbs up beside you, close enough that his little shoulder presses against your arm.

Johnny crouches in front of you while H.E.R.B.I.E. disinfects the cut along your arm. You don’t even flinch.

“You seriously don’t feel pain normally, do you?”

“I feel it.”

“You just ignore it.”

“That too.”

H.E.R.B.I.E. sprays something cold against your ribs, and you tense slightly this time.

Franklin gasps softly. “Did that hurt?”

You glance down at him. “…A little.”

Franklin thinks about that carefully before holding his dinosaur plush out toward you. “This helps me when I get scared.”

Johnny watches your expression soften almost imperceptibly as you carefully take the stuffed dinosaur from him, like you’re handling something fragile.

“Thanks, buddy,” you say quietly.

Franklin nods once, satisfied. Then curls against your side while H.E.R.B.I.E. continues patching you up. And Johnny, completely exhausted, covered in soot, adrenaline still running through him, looks at the two of you sitting there together and realizes he’s in serious trouble.

The Baxter Building is quieter by the time you leave your room. Most of the damage downtown has been handled. Reed and Sue still aren’t back yet, but Ben’s somewhere downstairs with H.E.R.B.I.E., loudly complaining about “tin can dictators.”

You’ve showered, scrubbed the blood off your skin, and washed smoke out of your hair. Still, your ribs ache.

You towel-dry your hair absentmindedly as you step out onto the balcony connected to the upper rooftop access. The city stretches endlessly around you, lights flickering against the dark sky. Helicopters still move in the distance.

You sit on the edge of the rooftop ledge, elbows resting on your knees. For the first time all day, it’s quiet. Then heat settles nearby, you don’t even need to look over.

“You know,” Johnny says, “most people say thank you after I heroically save their lives.”

“You tackled me into a car.”

“It was a protective tackle.”

You snort softly despite yourself, and Johnny grins immediately at the sound. He sits beside you, one knee bent up toward his chest, while the wind pushes loose strands of damp hair away from your face.

“You feeling okay?” he asks after a second.

“I’m fine.”

“That’s your answer to everything.”

“Usually works.”

Johnny studies you quietly for a moment. “You scared me back there.”

That gets your attention. You glance over at him. Johnny shrugs a little awkwardly under the weight of your stare. “Robot almost blew you in half. Kinda killed the mood.”

“The mood?”

“Yeah. We had a whole thing going.”

You roll your eyes lightly. “We did not.”

“We absolutely did.” There’s that grin again, the one that should annoy you more than it does.

Johnny leans back on his hands slightly. “Franklin really likes you, by the way.”

Your shoulders tense almost invisibly. “He’s a good kid,” you say shortly.

“Yeah, but he doesn’t warm up to people fast.” Johnny bumps your shoulder lightly with his. “You’re good with him.”

Your jaw tightens. “Don’t.”

Johnny frowns slightly. “Don’t what?”

“Say things like that.”

“Like what?”

You stand abruptly, gripping the towel tighter in your hands as you move a few steps away toward the railing. Johnny watches the entire change happen in real time. The walls going back up, the distance.

“You’d make a really good mom.”

The words hit harder this time, because now he means them. You let out a humorless laugh under your breath. “There it is.”

Johnny stands too, confused now more than anything. “Okay, clearly I missed something.”

“You did.”

You stare out over the city instead of at him. “You don’t know me.”

“I’m trying to.”

“No,” you say sharply. “You like the version of me you made up in your head.”

Johnny’s expression shifts immediately. “That’s not fair.”

“You flirt with anything that breathes.”

“Wow.”

“You don’t like me, Johnny.”

The words come out colder than you mean them to. But once they start, they don’t stop. “You like the fighting and the attitude and whatever fantasy you’ve built around me in your head, but you don’t actually know what I am.”

Johnny steps closer slowly. “Then tell me.”

You laugh again quietly, but there’s nothing amused about it. “The Red Room sterilized us.”

Silence.

The city noise suddenly feels very far away. Johnny blinks once. “What?”

“When we graduated,” you say flatly. “They made sure none of us could have children. No attachments. No families. Nothing that could interfere with missions.”

Johnny just stares at you. When you finally look at him, there’s no pity on his face. Just pure horror.

“They took that choice from us before we were old enough to understand what it meant.”

Your throat feels tighter than you want it to.

“So when you say things like I’d be a good mother…” You shake your head once. “You’re talking about someone that doesn’t exist.”

Johnny’s quiet for a second. “That’s bullshit.”

“They hurt you,” he says firmly. “That’s what happened here.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It literally is.”

You look away again immediately. Johnny steps closer until he’s standing directly in front of you. “You think that makes you unlovable or something?”

You don’t answer, which is answer enough. Johnny exhales sharply through his nose before gently taking the towel from your hands and tossing it onto a nearby chair.

Then he looks back at you. “No one hears that story and thinks there’s something wrong with you.”

Your chest tightens painfully. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“You want kids someday.”

Johnny blinks. “Did I say that?”

“You’re normal, Johnny.”

He actually laughs softly at that. “Baby, there is nothing normal about me.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitches faintly. Johnny’s expression softens immediately when he sees it. “You really think I only want you because you’re hot and mysterious?”

“You said it. Not me.”

“I mean, you ARE hot and mysterious.”

You groan quietly, covering your eyes for half a second.

Johnny smiles a little before lowering your hand carefully away from your face. “I like you,” he says simply. “Like… a lot.”

“You’re mean to me constantly, you almost broke my shoulder earlier, and you scare me a little if I’m being honest.” He tilts his head slightly. “Still like you.”

Your eyes drop briefly to his mouth before you can stop yourself.

His voice softens. “C’mere.”

You hesitate, not because you don’t want to, but because that’s the problem. You’ve wanted to since he smiled at you in the living room after you threw him through a couch. Johnny gives you an out when you don’t move right away. His hand loosens slightly against your face.

But then you lean in first, barely. And Johnny’s restraint snaps almost immediately.

His hand slides fully against your jaw as he kisses you properly, warm and firm and entirely too easy to melt into. The rooftop wind pushes through your still-damp hair while he steps closer instinctively, one hand settling carefully at your waist like he’s worried you’ll disappear if he lets go. You kiss him back before you can overthink it.

Johnny makes a quiet sound against your mouth when your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, and suddenly the kiss deepens without either of you really meaning for it to. Heat radiates off him in waves, not enough to burn, just warm enough that you can feel it through the thin fabric of your shirt.

One of his hands slides up your spine slowly before stopping at the base of your neck. If anything, you kiss him harder. Johnny lets out a breathless laugh into your mouth at that.

“Oh, so this is why you keep threatening me,” he murmurs between kisses. “You’re obsessed with me.”

You huff out the smallest laugh against his lips. “You’re unbelievably annoying.”

“And yet—”

He kisses you again before you can finish the sentence. When you finally pull back, Johnny rests his forehead lightly against yours for a second, both of you still catching your breath a little.

Then he grins. “So…” he says. “Think this means I win?”

You stare at him flatly. “I literally beat your ass this morning.”

Johnny nods once thoughtfully. “Yeah,” he says. “But emotionally? Huge comeback for me tonight.”

okieeee hope you all enjoyed!!! I wasn't sure with the tag list if you guys want to be tagged in content not related to Eddie, so I didn't put one this time.

k bye love you guys.

The blade leaves his hand before he seems to realize it.

It slips from his grasp and strikes the stone with a dull, hollow sound that echoes far louder than it should, the metal skidding just slightly before coming to rest beside the body now pooling red at its edges.

For a moment, Geta remains standing, his chest rising and falling too quickly, his gaze fixed on what he has done as though the weight of it has only just begun to settle.

Then, it breaks.

His knees give way beneath him without warning, his body folding as though something vital has been cut from him. The fury that had held him upright dissolves into something far more human.

He drops to the floor, breath catching sharply in his chest as his hands brace against the stone, the tremor in them impossible to hide now.

You are beside him before thought can catch up.

The pain in your body protests immediately, sharp and insistent, but you ignore it as you lower yourself to him, your arms coming around him without hesitation, pulling him into you as though you might steady something that has come entirely undone.

He does not resist. For the first time since you have known him, he does not hold himself together.

His head drops forward, his breath breaking unevenly as the sound that escapes him is not anger, not command, but something raw and unguarded.

Something that tears from him in quiet, fractured bursts as he clutches at you, his composure gone entirely.

“I—” he tries, the word catching as though it cannot find its place. “I—”

There are no words for it, not yet. You hold him tighter.

One hand comes to the back of his head, steadying him against you as you draw a slow breath, forcing your own voice to remain calm, even as everything around you has shifted beyond repair.

“Aelia,” you call, your voice low but firm. The door opens almost immediately.

Aelia enters and stops only briefly at the threshold, her gaze taking in the scene in a single, practiced sweep: the body, the blood, the emperor on his knees, the empress beside him.

She does not ask questions. She nods, then turns.

“Inside,” she calls sharply, her voice carrying now, stripped of its usual softness as others rush in behind her, servants and guards alike moving with urgent precision.

They do not speak, but they move. The body is lifted, removed, and the blood is already covered.

But Geta does not move, not yet.

He remains where he is, his breath still uneven, his hands tightening briefly in the fabric at your side as though anchoring himself there.

“We must…” he begins, the words broken between breaths, his voice hoarse from what has just passed. “We must alert the people.”

The statement is not steady, but it is certain.

He pulls away slowly, then, not fully leaving you, but enough to force himself upright.

His hands bracing once more against the floor before he rises, unsteady at first, then more controlled as he gathers what remains of himself piece by piece.

His gaze lifts, sharpening, returning.

“Summon the Senate,” he orders, his voice still rough but regaining its authority with every word. “And the square, have them gathered.” The command moves quickly through the room, as it always does.

The square fills again. Not with celebration. But with something far more uncertain, the murmur of the crowd unsettled.

When he steps forward this time, there is no pageantry. 

Geta stands before them, the remnants of what has passed still etched faintly into him despite the composure he has forced back into place, his voice carrying not as performance but as declaration.

“People of Rome,” he begins, and though the words are steady, there is something beneath them still. “You are owed truth.”

The crowd quiets, completely.

“My brother,” he continues, the title spoken without softness now, without familiarity, “has committed treachery against this house and against the future of this empire.”

A ripple moves through them. He does not pause.

“He conspired to strike at my wife,” his voice tightens slightly there, though it does not break, “and at the child she carries.”

“And for this,” he says, quieter now, more deliberate, “he has been judged.”

Then his gaze lifts again, sharper now, with something steadier rising in it as he continues.

“But hear me well—”

“The child lives.”

The square erupts. Not in the same wild celebration as before, but in something deeper, something relieved.

Geta stands through it, unmoving, until it settles again.

“Rome endures,” he finishes, his voice firm once more. “And so will its future.”

Night comes quietly after that.

Not with ceremony, not with the lingering hum of celebration, but with a heaviness that settles into every corner of the palace. As though Rome is learning how to breathe again after something has been severed.

He does not speak much when you return to the chambers.

When you lie beside Geta, he does not reach for you with the certainty he once carried; instead, he turns toward you as though guided by instinct alone, the weight of the day still pressing heavily into him.

You gather him without hesitation.

Your hand moves through his hair in slow, steady motions, your touch patient and grounding, the rhythm unbroken as his breath begins to falter, then settles again.

He says nothing at first, but his hand finds yours eventually, holding it there with a quiet insistence, as though the contact itself is what keeps him anchored.

It takes time, but he yields to it. And at last, he sleeps.

Morning arrives softly.

The light filters in gently, pale and warm against the linens, and when you stir, you find him already awake, his gaze resting on you in a way that feels different.

“I should not have…” he begins, his voice low, quieter than you have heard it before. “You should not have seen me so undone.”

You turn your head toward him, studying him for a moment before answering.

“It is no shame,” you say. “You are allowed your grief.”

Something in his expression eases, the tension in him loosening just slightly as he exhales, nodding once in quiet acceptance.

He does not leave you to rise.

Instead, when he returns, it is with a tray balanced carefully in his hands—bread still warm, fruit freshly cut, honey and diluted wine placed with deliberate care.

He sets it beside you, then turns back, his gaze firm but softened at the edges.

“You will not rise today,” he says, though there is no harshness in it. “You have been taxed enough.”

You begin to object out of habit. But the look he gives you stills the words before they can form.

“…very well,” you concede at last.

That seems to satisfy him.

He sits beside you, then lifts a piece of bread and dips it lightly before offering it to you himself, his movements unhurried, attentive in a way that feels almost unfamiliar. 

You accept it, and he continues, feeding you in quiet intervals, the moment stretching gently between you.

It is peaceful in a way you had not expected. A breath leaves you slowly, a soft exhale as its warmth settles in your chest.

“Amor meus,” you murmur. 

The words come naturally now. But you do not let them pass without truth behind them.

“There is something I must tell you,” you continue, your voice steady despite the shift it brings. “And I will not speak falsehood to you.”

He stills, only slightly.

“I intend to see Lucius again.”

The quiet deepens. His hand pauses where it rests, his gaze sharpening just enough to betray the thought behind it.

“…why?” he asks, his tone controlled, though there is something beneath it now, something guarded.

“Because he should know,” you say simply. “Of the child.”

Then, more deliberate, “He should know of his nephew.”

Geta exhales slowly, his gaze lowering for a moment as he considers it, weighing the implications with the same care he gives to all things that matter.

“He is not a man to be trusted,” he says at last, quieter now.

“No,” you agree. “But he is a soldier of Rome.”

That gives him pause.

“Compassion may not win him,” you continue, your tone thoughtful, grounded. “But it may temper him.”

At length, he nods. Once.

“You may go,” he says, the decision not given lightly. “But you will not go unguarded.”

His gaze lifts back to yours, firmer now, resolute.

“You will be protected,” he continues. “There will not be another moment such as yesterday.”

The promise is absolute. You incline your head slightly, accepting.

And this time, there is no fracture in the space between you. Only understanding.

The kitchens are quieter at this hour.

Not empty, but subdued, the rush of the earlier day softened into a slower rhythm as bread cools on stone and fruit is sorted into neat piles.

When you step inside, the movement falters just slightly, eyes lifting, then lowering again as the work continues with careful awareness of your presence.

“I will take figs,” you say, your voice even, your gaze already finding them among the arranged trays.

There is no hesitation this time.

A servant gathers them quickly: dark, ripe, their skins just beginning to split at the seams, and places them into your hands with a small bow of the head.

You take them without ceremony, the memory of your mother’s voice lingering quietly in your mind. “His favorite when he was small.”

The walk below is longer today, or perhaps it only feels that way.

The guards flank you closely now, their presence heavier, their attention sharp with every turn of the corridor as though the stone itself might betray them.

Only the echo of footsteps follows you downward, into the same dim, cold space.

They stop at his door. You lift your hand, and that is all it takes. The lock turns.

Lucius is seated when you enter.

He looks up immediately. Recognition flickers, and just as quickly, he turns his gaze away, his posture tightening as though your presence alone is something he refuses to meet directly.

You step inside, and the door closes behind you.

“Leave us,” you say, lifting your hand once more without looking back. There is a brief hesitation, then compliance. The guards withdraw.

He does not rise.

“Have you come to finish what was started?” he asks, his voice low, edged with something that does not quite reach hostility.

You ignore it. You step closer, setting the figs down upon the small stone ledge between you, their color stark against the dull gray.

“For you,” you say simply.

He glances at them, just once. Then back away again, his jaw tightening faintly.

“I have no need for gifts from you.”

“Eat them or do not,” you reply, your tone even, though the effort to remain steady shows in the way you shift your weight slightly, the lingering pain pulling at your posture.

His gaze flicks back to you, sharper now, assessing as it lingers a moment longer than before, taking in the way you hold yourself, the faint stiffness in your movement.

“You are injured,” he says.

Not a question, you do not answer it. Instead, “You have a nephew.”

He stills, only slightly.

Then, “I have no interest in your lineage,” he replies, his tone dismissive.

You watch him a moment longer. Then lean you in, just enough that your voice lowers, the words meant only for him.

“Our mother lives.”

That gets him. His head turns slowly.

His eyes find yours again, this time without avoidance, it's something sharper in them now.

“I do not have a mother,” he says, his voice quieter, but far more rigid than before. “Not one who abandoned me to this.”

You step forward instead, your hand striking the figs against the stone with a force that echoes in the small space.

“Not everything in Rome conspires for your suffering,” you snap, the restraint you have held finally fracturing just enough to let something real break through.

A pause. Then, quieter—but no less firm—“She believed you dead.”

He does not turn away this time, but he does not move closer either.

Then his jaw tightens, and when he speaks again, there is no restraint left in it, only the hard edge of something long carried and never eased. 

“You expect me to accept you as a sister?” Lucius says, his voice low but cutting, his gaze fixed on you now without flinching.

“You lived within walls of silk and gold while I learned to survive with nothing, while I had to fend for myself in the dust.”

“And you murdered my father,” you answer, just as plainly, your voice steady despite the weight behind it.

“Rome has taken something from us both,” you say, quieter now, though no less certain. “It has shaped us into what we are, whether we wished it or not.”

He watches you, though not with dismissal this time.

“I did not come to claim you,” you continue, your tone measured, grounded. “Nor to demand anything of you.”

A pause. “I came to inform you.”

Your gaze flicks briefly to the figs, then back to him. “So that what remains between us is not built on ignorance.”

You straighten slowly, the movement careful now, your body reminding you of its limits as you take a step back toward the door.

“I will not disturb you further,” you say. Then you turn.

You don’t realize how tightly you’ve been holding yourself together until the palace doors close behind you.

The corridors feel too quiet, the torchlight softer than it should be, your pulse still carrying the echo of that conversation.

By the time you reach your chambers, your fingers faintly sticky from the figs, your breathing has only just begun to steady.

Geta is pacing when you enter, restless in a way that doesn’t suit him, but the second the door opens, he stills.

His head snaps toward you, and in two quick strides, he’s in front of you, hands finding your arms, then your face, like he needs to see for himself that you’re unharmed.

“You took too long.” There’s no anger in it.

“I’m fine,” you say softly. “I spoke with him.”

His jaw tightens at that, but he doesn’t let you go. If anything, his grip lingers at your waist now, thumb brushing absent circles against your side.

“And?” he presses. “What did Lucius say?”

You study him for a moment, weighing your words.

“It… reached him,” you answer. “More than I expected. He didn’t turn me away.”

Geta exhales, something in his expression easing, though not entirely. His eyes flick over your face like he’s searching for something you haven’t said.

“Good,” he murmurs. “It needed to.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Needed to?”

His hand slips from your waist only to take your hand instead, guiding you further into the room, though he doesn’t release you.

He hasn’t been letting you go much lately.

“The Senate grows restless,” he says, his voice shifting into something more controlled.

“There is talk, again, of expansion. Of pushing beyond our current borders. They speak of restoring Rome’s strength, of campaigns that will remind the world who we are.”

A quiet breath leaves him, edged with something close to disdain.

“They forget how quickly Rome can bleed when it reaches too far.”

“And Lucius?” you ask.

Geta’s gaze sharpens.

“He has the loyalty of soldiers,” he says.

“Men listen to him. If this becomes a campaign…” His grip tightens slightly around your fingers. “We will need him fighting for Rome. Not standing apart from it.”

Then, quieter, “With us.”

“And you think he will?” you ask.

Geta studies you for a long moment before lifting your hand, pressing a brief kiss to your knuckles.

The gesture is soft, but there’s tension beneath it, something that hasn’t fully eased.

“I think,” he says slowly, “that whatever you said has given us a chance.”

“And right now,” he adds, voice lower, “that’s more than we had this morning.”

He pulls you closer then, almost without thinking, like the distance between you is something he can’t quite tolerate anymore.

Your hand is still in his when he lifts his chin slightly, calling toward the doorway without ever taking his eyes off you.

Aelia appears almost immediately, head bowed, awaiting instruction.

“Have a bath drawn,” Geta says, his voice calm again, controlled in that way he’s perfected. Then, after the briefest pause, “Warm. And bring oils.”

The servant nods and disappears just as quickly.

By the time the servants finish preparing the bath and quietly disappear, the room is thick with steam, warm and scented faintly with oil and crushed herbs.

You barely have a moment to take it in before Geta’s hands are on you again, slower now, more deliberate.

There’s no urgency in him this time, only care.

“Come,” he murmurs, voice low, guiding you forward.

He helps you undress with a gentleness that feels almost at odds with the man you first met, his touch unhurried, lingering only where it feels natural.

When the last barrier between you and the warmth is gone, he steps in first, then turns, offering his hand.

You take it.

The water is soothing, heat wrapping around your body as he draws you down with him, settling you carefully against him as if it’s the most natural place for you to be.

His arms come around you without hesitation, one draped along the edge, the other resting at your waist, holding you close.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

There’s only the quiet lap of water, the distant sounds of the palace beyond the walls, and the steady rise and fall of his breath behind you.

His fingers trace slow, absent patterns against your skin.

Then, softer, “This reminds me of our first nights together.”

Your breath stills slightly. You don’t need to ask what he means.

For a split second, your mind betrays you. You remember the tension that used to sit in your bones, the uncertainty, the way you had watched him then, measuring every movement, every word, unsure of where you stood or what he might do. Afraid.

You had not known him then. Had not known what he could be. The thought brushes against you, but it doesn’t stay.

Because now, his touch is steady and familiar. Because now, there’s no tension coiled beneath it, no unspoken threat, only warmth and something softer that has grown quietly between you.

You shift slightly, leaning back into him without thinking. Geta’s arm tightens just a fraction at the movement, as he expected it, like he’s been waiting for it.

“I remember how you looked at me,” he continues, voice quieter now, almost reflective. “Like I was something to survive.”

His thumb moves slowly at your side, a small, grounding motion. “I did not like it,” he admits. “But I understood it.” 

“If I had known then…” He exhales softly. “I would have given you a reason not to.”

The words settle between you, not heavy in the way they once might have been, but honest.

His chin dips slightly, brushing near your shoulder as he draws you just a little closer, the water shifting around you both.

“But you stayed,” he adds, quieter still. “And now…”

He doesn’t finish, he doesn’t need to. Instead, his hand finds yours beneath the water, fingers lacing together as naturally as breathing.

After a moment, his tone shifts again, and the softness remains.

“We will dine in the garden tonight,” he says, almost like he’s offering you something to hold onto beyond the past. “No interruptions.”

His thumb brushes over your hand. “Whatever you wish to eat, I will have it brought.”

The garden is quiet in a way the rest of the palace never is.

Oil lamps flicker low against marble and vine, casting warm light across the table set just for you, the night air soft against your skin after the heat of the bath.

Geta sits close, closer than propriety might demand, but no one here would dare remark on it. His hand rests loosely over yours between courses, as if the contact is something he refuses to give up now that he has it. 

The food is simple by imperial standards but chosen with care, figs drizzled in honey, fresh bread still warm, wine poured only when your cup dips low, each detail shaped quietly around your comfort.

“You’ve been quiet,” he murmurs at one point, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles. “I had hoped for more than silence tonight.”

You glance at him, something softer in your expression now than earlier, the tension of the day worn down by warmth and closeness.

“I am enjoying it,” you tell him, your voice gentler than it had been all afternoon. “That is not something I’ve been afforded often in this place.”

He nods once. “Then you will have it more often.”

The moment settles between you, but not for long. Never that. 

Footsteps approach along the stone path, measured and unhurried, in a way that suggests the man does not fear being turned away.

Geta’s hand stills over yours, the warmth in him tightening into something sharper before the figure fully emerges into the lamplight.

Marcus Opellius Macrinus inclines his head slightly, though there is nothing submissive in the gesture. His presence alone is enough to disturb the quiet that has been carefully built around you.

“Caesar,” he greets smoothly, then his gaze shifts to you, assessing, curious.

Geta does not rise.

“I am dining with my wife,” he says in a way that leaves little room for misinterpretation. “I do not recall summoning you.”

Macrinus smiles faintly, the expression thin, practiced.

“No summons was needed. I wished only to pay my respects to the Augusta.” The title sits differently on his tongue.

Geta’s jaw tightens, but after a brief pause, he gestures—reluctantly—toward the open space at the table. “Then do so. Briefly.”

You do not wait for him to continue.

“You know me,” you say, your voice steady. “You knew my father.”

Macrinus’ gaze settles on you more fully now, something sharper flickering behind his eyes as he studies you with renewed interest.

“I did,” he replies. “A formidable man.”

You hold his gaze, unflinching. “He thought you untrustworthy.”

Macrinus does not bristle. If anything, the faintest hint of amusement touches his expression, as though your bluntness has confirmed something for him rather than offended. 

“Many great men have thought many things of me,” he says lightly. “It has not hindered my service to Rome.”

Geta exhales quietly through his nose, impatience threading into the gesture. “You did not come here to reminisce.”

“No,” Macrinus agrees, settling into the offered seat with ease that borders on presumptuous. “I came with news. The Senate has begun discussions regarding a new general to oversee future campaigns.”

Geta’s attention sharpens immediately, though his hand remains over yours, a silent anchor.

“They move quickly,” he says. “Faster than expected.”

“They are eager,” Macrinus replies, glancing briefly between the two of you. “And eager men make… interesting choices.” A pause, deliberate. “There has been a name raised more than once.”

You feel it before he says it. 

“Lucius.”

Macrinus watches you as he speaks, not Geta, as though the reaction he seeks is not political, but personal.

“The legions favor him,” he continues, voice smooth. “They trust his command. His presence would unify the ranks.”

Geta’s fingers tighten slightly around yours, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind.

“And you?” Geta asks, his tone measured, guarded. “Do you favor him as well?”

Macrinus tilts his head, considering. “I favor what strengthens Rome,” he says. “And men who inspire loyalty are… useful.”

His gaze flickers to you again, subtle, yet intentional. “Especially when that loyalty extends beyond the battlefield.”

Your mouth opens, but Geta's grip becomes ironclad once he feels the shift of your tension. His thumb moves once against your hand, slower this time, reminding you of his presence.

“Then we will consider it,” he says at last, his voice cool once more. “In due time.”

Macrinus inclines his head again, satisfied, though his attention lingers on you a moment longer than necessary before he finally rises.

“I look forward to seeing what you decide,” he says.

And then, just as smoothly as he arrived, he steps back into the shadows of the garden, leaving the quiet behind him altered.

It clings to the garden, heavier now, pressing in where warmth had been just moments ago. 

Geta does not look at you at first, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead, jaw set, his hand still covering yours, but no longer gentle.

There’s a tension in it now, something restrained, like he’s holding onto more than just you.

You’re the one who breaks it.

“You were not watching him,” you say, your voice even, measured. “You were watching me.”

That pulls his attention.

For a moment, he says nothing, and in that silence, you can feel the shift, the softness from earlier folding back into something colder, more familiar.

“You speak as though you understand what you saw,” he replies, his tone controlled, but edged now. “You do not.”

Your brows draw slightly. “Then explain it to me.”

A mistake, you see it the moment it hits his face.

Geta exhales sharply through his nose, something darker flickering across his expression, frustration slipping through the cracks of his composure. 

“You ask as though this is a matter of curiosity,” he says, voice tightening. “As though it is a conversation to be entertained over wine.”

His hand slips from yours then, placing distance where there had been none.

“You are a woman who has not had to bear what I have,” he continues, the words colder now. “You have not faced the decisions that come with this title, the sacrifices that are required to keep Rome from tearing itself apart.”

For a brief second, the old instinct rises, the one that might have made you quiet, careful.

But you are the Augusta now, not simply the daughter of a traitor. 

“You think I do not understand sacrifice?” you return, your voice steady, but firmer now, something steel threaded beneath it. “My father taught me what men like you call necessity.”

That gets his attention in a different way. You don’t stop.

“I have watched loyalty be bought and discarded,” you continue. “I have seen alliances built on convenience and broken just as easily. Do not speak to me as though I am blind to it simply because I do not sit where you do.”

Geta’s gaze hardens, but there’s something else there now, too.

“And yet,” he counters, quieter now, but no less intense, “you question me. You give them reason to look for weakness.”

“I gave him nothing he did not already believe,” you say. “You are the one who reacted.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. Then Geta shifts closer, face inches from yours.

“You think this is about pride,” he says, his voice lower now, more contained, but no less intense. “It is not.”

You hold your ground. “Then what is it?”

“Macrinus is not a man who acts without desire,” he says finally, quieter now. “Men like him do not move unless something calls them to it.”

“And what do you think would call him?” you ask.

Geta’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I do not intend to find out.”

The anger in him doesn’t disappear, but it loosens, giving way to something else, something more exposed than he likely intended.

His hand lifts again, slower this time, like he’s choosing the action rather than reacting on instinct, and his fingers brush lightly against your arm.

“You challenge me,” he says, quieter now. “More than anyone else would dare.”

You don’t soften completely, not yet.

“You spoke to me as though I knew nothing,” you reply, your voice still steady, but no longer sharp. “I will not accept that.”

His jaw tightens faintly at that, but he doesn’t pull away. “No,” he says after a moment. “You will not.”

Geta’s hand shifts, his fingers brushing more firmly against your arm now, just enough to hold your attention.

“Then learn this,” he says, his voice low, measured, but softer than before. “Everything I do… is to ensure that what is mine is not taken from me.”

Morning comes with less softness than the one before.

The council chamber is already full by the time you enter, voices low but intent, men gathered in quiet clusters beneath high stone and filtered light.

Marcus Opellius Macrinus stands among them, composed as ever, speaking with measured ease as though he had never intruded upon your evening at all.

Geta is at the head of the room, posture rigid, expression unreadable, though his gaze finds you the moment you step inside.

It lingers a second longer than it should, something unspoken passing between you before he turns back to the matter at hand.

“…the legions have made their preference clear,” Macrinus is saying, his tone smooth, persuasive without seeming to push. “A commander they trust will prevent unrest before it begins.”

“And you believe that man is Lucius Verus,” one of the senators mutters.

“I believe he is the most effective choice,” Macrinus replies.

There is a murmur of agreement. Not unanimous, but close enough to matter.

You remain still, listening, your expression carefully composed as the discussion circles the same conclusion again and again. It is not truly a debate; it is a confirmation of something already decided.

Geta does not speak immediately. Instead, his gaze shifts to you.

The room quiets as others notice, the expectation settling like a weight across the space. The final decision is yours to voice.

You hold his gaze for a moment, steady, unreadable, the conversation from the night before still sitting somewhere beneath your ribs. Then, without hesitation, “I agree,” you say.

Your voice is calm, firm, and certain. “If Rome requires unity, then it must be given a leader the men will follow.”

Geta studies you for half a breath longer, something unreadable flickering in his expression before he inclines his head slightly.

“Then it is decided.”

The meeting dissolves soon after, men already speaking of logistics, of timelines, of movement. Macrinus does not leave with the others. 

Instead, he approaches you directly, his presence as composed and deliberate as ever.

“Augusta,” he says, inclining his head just enough to be respectful. “Might I request a moment of your time? A walk, perhaps.”

You glance at Geta. He is watching the exchange closely, his expression neutral, though there is something sharper behind it.

After a brief pause, he gives a small, dismissive wave of his hand.

“Go,” he says. “Do not stray far.”

Macrinus smiles faintly, as though the permission had never been in doubt, and offers his arm. You take it.

The garden is quieter in the daylight, the shadows softened, the air carrying the faint scent of citrus and stone warmed by the sun. For a while, neither of you speaks, your steps slow, measured along the familiar path.

It is Macrinus who breaks the silence.

“Are you happy?” he asks, as though he is inquiring about the weather.

You glance at him, your expression unchanged. “That is a curious question.”

“Is it?” he replies lightly. “I find it a useful one.”

You consider him for a moment before answering. “I have grown… accustomed to my place.”

“Accustomed,” he repeats, the word carrying the faintest hint of amusement. “And the man who placed you there?”

You do not hesitate. “I have learned what is needed of me. Of Rome.”

Macrinus hums softly, unconvinced in a way he doesn’t bother to hide. “Of course you have.”

You do not rise to his dismissal.

Instead, you continue walking, your voice steady. “You presume much.”

“I observe,” he corrects. “And I remember.”

That draws your attention back to him more sharply.

“My mother and father?” you ask.

He nods once. “I knew of their intentions. Their ambitions for Rome.” A brief pause. “They would have favored this outcome.”

Your expression tightens slightly. “You speak as though you honored them.”

“I respected them,” he says simply. “They understood what Rome demands.”

You stop walking.

“I know it was you,” you say, your voice calm, but edged now, something colder threading through it. “You were the one who exposed them.”

Macrinus does not deny it; he doesn’t even hesitate.

“They knew the cost,” he replies, just as calm. “As do you.”

“They chose Rome,” he continues, his gaze steady on yours. “As you did this morning.” Macrinus watches you closely.

“You are more like them than you realize,” he adds, quieter now. “That is why I do not believe your answer in the chamber was… entirely political.”

Your jaw tightens faintly. “You mistake me.”

“Do I?” he asks, almost lightly.

You hold his gaze, unflinching. “I chose what was necessary.”

A flicker of something passes through his expression then, something almost approving.

“Yes,” he says. “You did.”

He begins walking again, slower this time, giving you the choice to follow or remain.

“Then we understand each other,” he adds.

You hold his gaze, steady despite the weight of his words.

“I do not like what you are implying,” you say, your voice cool, though there is an edge beneath it now that you do not bother to hide.

Macrinus does not look surprised. If anything, he seems to have expected it.

“What do you think I am implying?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, his tone almost curious rather than confrontational.

You do not answer immediately, your eyes narrowing just enough to show you are not willing to play along with his careful phrasing. “That my decision was not my own,” you say at last. “That I am easily influenced.”

A faint smile touches his mouth, though it does not reach his eyes.

“No,” he replies. “If I believed that, I would not be standing here with you.”

He resumes walking then, slow, measured, expecting you to follow. After a moment, you do.

“I am implying something far less dismissive,” he continues. “That you understand power. And more importantly, when to yield it.”

Your expression tightens faintly. “I did not yield anything.”

Macrinus lets out a quiet breath, something almost amused beneath it.

“No?” he says. “You stood in a room full of men who had already decided their course, and you gave them what they required to move forward.”

“That is governance,” you return.

“That,” he corrects gently, “is survival.”

You say nothing, but your silence invites him to continue.

“Your father understood it,” Macrinus goes on. “As did your mother. They knew that Rome is not sustained by ideals, but by choices that others are willing to accept, even when they are not their own.”

Your jaw tightens. “And you believe they would have approved of this?”

“I know they would have understood it,” he replies. “Lucius commands loyalty. That alone makes him valuable. But more than that—”

He glances at you then, briefly.

“—he is a man who inspires attachment. The kind that moves people to act beyond reason.”

You stop walking again, forcing him to slow with you. “You speak of him as though you know his intentions,” you say.

“I know men,” Macrinus answers simply. “And I know when one has been given a reason to care.”

“You presume too much,” you say, though your voice is quieter now, more measured.

“Do I?” he replies, not unkindly.

His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than necessary.

Then, softer, “You chose what was necessary this morning,” he says. “Not because you were told to. Not because you were swayed. But because you recognized the outcome Rome required… and ensured you were aligned with it.”

“That is not weakness,” he adds. “It is precisely what makes you dangerous.”

Macrinus steps forward again, slower now, his hands folding neatly behind his back as if the conversation has reached its natural end.

“Your parents understood that,” he says, almost idly. “They simply chose a moment when Rome was less willing to accept their vision.”

A pause.

“They misjudged the cost.”

You follow after a moment, your steps quieter now, your thoughts less easily dismissed.

“And you did not?” you ask.

Macrinus glances at you briefly, that same faint, unreadable smile returning.

“No,” he says.

The walk ends without ceremony.

By the time you return to the inner corridors, the air feels different again, as though the palace itself has swallowed the conversation whole.

You do not linger. You move through it with purpose, the weight of Macrinus’ words still pressing faintly at the edges of your thoughts.

When you enter your chambers, Geta is already there.

He sits near the window, a scroll unfurled in his hands, the light catching the sharp line of his profile as he reads. 

He does not look up immediately, though you know he has heard you. His focus lingers just a moment longer on the parchment before he exhales softly and rolls it partway closed.

“Persia,” he says, almost to himself, tapping the edge of the scroll once against his palm. “The Senate wastes no time.”

Only then does his gaze lift to you. There’s something searching in it. Not as sharp as before, but not entirely at ease either.

“What did he want?” Geta asks, his tone measured, though quieter than it had been moments ago.

You move further into the room, slow, composed, giving yourself a moment before answering. “Conversation,” you say simply. “He seems to favor it.”

A faint huff of breath leaves him, something between amusement and dismissal. “Macrinus favors many things. None of them without purpose.”

His eyes stay on you now, more intent. “And what purpose did he find in you?”

You meet his gaze evenly. “He asked if I was happy.”

That gets a reaction. Small, but unmistakable. Something tightens briefly at the corner of Geta’s mouth, his fingers curling slightly around the scroll before he stills them.

“And what did you tell him?” he asks.

You don’t look away. “That I have grown accustomed to my place.”

Geta studies you, his expression unreadable, though his gaze sharpens just slightly at the phrasing. “Accustomed,” he repeats quietly, as though testing the word.

“And was that all?” he asks.

You hold his gaze. “No.” That is enough to pull him closer.

“What else?” he presses, his voice lower now.

You exhale softly, not out of hesitation, but control. “He spoke of my parents,” you say. “Of their intentions. Their understanding of Rome.”

Geta’s jaw tightens faintly at that, though he doesn’t interrupt.

“And?” he prompts.

You tilt your head slightly. “He believes they would have supported today’s decision.”

A flicker of something crosses his expression then, something sharper, more guarded. “Macrinus believes many things,” he says. “Most of them convenient.”

You watch him carefully. “He also believes I understood what I was doing.”

Geta stills, just slightly, his gaze searching yours again, but this time with something more complicated behind it. Recognition.

“And did you?” he asks, quieter now.

The room feels smaller suddenly. “Yes,” you answer.

He studies you for a long moment. Then, softer, “He asked if you were happy,” Geta says again, more to himself than to you. “And you gave him an answer that told him nothing.”

Your lips press together faintly. “It was not his question to ask.”

“No,” he agrees. His gaze lifts back to yours, more direct now. “But it is mine.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. Then he steps closer, closing the last of the space between you, his voice lower now, stripped of the sharper edges from earlier, but no less serious.

“Are you?” he asks.

You don’t answer him right away.

The question lingers between you, heavier than anything spoken in the council chamber, heavier than Macrinus’ quiet provocations. 

Geta is close now, close enough that you can see the shift in him, the restraint, the way he holds himself still as if the wrong answer might fracture something he cannot afford to lose.

You draw in a slow breath. “I have grown to love you.”

The words sit somewhere uneasy, caught between truth and something you cannot fully name. 

There is a part of you that recognizes it, that leans into it, and another that resists it, that remembers too clearly what came before, what this was meant to be.

Right and wrong, tangled together.

Geta doesn’t respond immediately, and for a moment, he just looks at you.

Like he’s measuring the weight of it, testing whether it is something fragile or something he can hold onto.

His expression doesn’t soften all at once, but it is replaced with something quieter. 

His hand lifts slowly, not claiming, just deliberate as it comes to rest lightly at your arm.

“You say it as though it is a compromise,” he murmurs.

His thumb brushes once against your sleeve, a small, grounding motion as he exhales softly, more to himself than to you.

“I did not expect it,” he admits. “Not from you.”

His gaze drifts briefly, as if recalling something, before settling back on you.

“You are stronger than most who stand in this place,” he continues, his voice low. “You see things as they are, not as they are presented. And still…” A faint pause. “You choose to remain.”

His hand shifts slightly, not gripping, just holding. “And you are kinder than I anticipated,” he adds, quieter now. That draws a faint reaction from you. 

Geta’s jaw tightens just slightly, not in anger, but in thought.

“When my brother died,” he says, the words deliberate, “you offered me more than I offered you when your father was taken.”

The admission is quiet, unadorned. “I remember that.” His gaze holds yours, something steadier and more certain.

“I do not forget what is given to me,” he says. His hand moves from your arm to your cheek, slower this time, his touch careful, almost thoughtful.

“Then I will accept what you offer,” he says softly.

You hold his gaze, the weight of his words still settling somewhere uneasy beneath your ribs. It pulls something from you before you can stop it.

“I do not call you amor meus for your benefit,” you say, quieter now, your voice softening just slightly at the edges.

Geta stills, but you don’t look away.

“I have seen the change in you,” you continue, measured, but not cold. “You listen more. You weigh things differently. You do not act as quickly as you once did.”

A faint breath leaves you. “That is not weakness.”

It’s the closest thing to praise you’ve given him, and he takes it like it matters.

For a moment, he says nothing, his gaze searching yours as if confirming that what you’ve said is real, not just another careful offering.

“That is not for Rome,” he replies, his voice lower now, quieter. “It is for you.”

“My restraint. My patience,” he continues, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek again, slower now. “Do not mistake it for something I extend to others.”

Something in your chest tightens faintly at that, though you don’t show it.

His hand slips from your cheek then, not pulling away completely, just lowering, his attention shifting as his gaze moves over you more carefully now, more observant.

“Are you well?” he asks, the question softer than the ones before it. “Your wounds—”

His fingers hover briefly near your abdomen, not quite touching, as though remembering before acting.

“And the child,” he adds, quieter still. “Have you felt any strain?”

You exhale softly, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction under the change in him. “I am well,” you tell him. “Tired, perhaps. But no worse than before.”

He studies you a moment longer, as if deciding whether to believe that, then nods once, slow and deliberate.

“You will rest more,” he says, not quite a command, but not entirely a suggestion either.

You tilt your head slightly, something softer flickering through your expression now.

“I would rather not remain within these walls,” you admit.

That draws his attention back fully. “What would you have instead?” 

“The sea,” you say. “Or the beaches. Somewhere quieter. Away from this.”

“The coast is not far,” he says slowly. “There are villas kept for such purposes.”

His gaze returns to yours, more focused now. “You wish to leave the city,” he observes.

The journey to the coast is quiet, and when you arrive, it feels as though Rome itself has loosened its hold on you.

The villa sits just above the shoreline, pale stone warmed by the sun, the sound of waves a steady rhythm below.

You are dressed for the heat, a loose, flowing garment draped lightly over your frame, the fabric catching the breeze as you step out onto the terrace. Servants move quietly around you both, attentive without intruding, bringing cool water, fruit, and shade where it is needed.

Geta watches you more than the sea.

He stands beside you, one hand resting at your back, not restrictive, just present, as though this place has not lessened his need to keep you close.

“This suits you,” he says at last, his gaze moving over you with something softer than before. “You are not meant for marble halls and closed air.”

You glance at him, a faint smile touching your lips. “And yet, that is where you keep me, amor meus.” The words are light, but not careless.

Something shifts in him at that, his hand pressing slightly more firmly at your back before easing again.

“Not always,” he replies, quieter now. “Not if you would rather this.”

You turn your gaze toward the water, the horizon stretching wide and endless, a calm you have not felt in some time settling faintly into your chest. “I would,” you admit. “At least, for a while.”

He says nothing to that, but you feel the acknowledgment in the way he remains beside you.

Later, you are seated beneath a shaded colonnade, the sea breeze carrying cool relief through the day's heat.

A servant sets down a tray of figs and watered wine before withdrawing, leaving you in a quiet that feels almost private despite the life surrounding you.

Your hand rests lightly over your stomach without thinking.

“What are we to name our child?” you ask, your voice softer now, thoughtful rather than uncertain.

Geta’s gaze shifts immediately, drawn to the question with quiet intensity.

“That depends,” he says, his tone measured. “A son will require a name that carries weight. A daughter… something no less worthy.”

You glance at him, something warmer in your expression. “The midwife and my mother both say it is a stallion.”

The words linger only a moment before he reacts.

A faint breath leaves him, something close to a laugh, though more restrained, and yet unmistakably lighter than anything you’ve heard from him before.

“Then they have given Rome what it desires,” he says, though there is something more personal beneath it now.

“A son,” he repeats, quieter now, as if testing the reality of it.

His gaze drifts briefly, thoughtful, before settling back on you.

“He will need a name that commands respect before he speaks,” he says. “Something worthy of inheritance.”

“Severus.” The name settles with weight.

“Strong. Enduring,” Geta continues, his voice steady, but quieter now. “A name that does not yield.”

You consider it, your fingers absentmindedly brushing against the fabric over your stomach.

“Severus,” you repeat, softer, as if feeling it take shape.

Your gaze lifts back to him, something gentler there now. “You have already begun to shape him.”

Geta’s expression shifts faintly at that, something almost contemplative passing through it.

“He will be shaped by what he inherits,” he replies. “And by what we leave behind.”

You reach for him then, your hand finding his where it rests against the table, your fingers threading lightly with his.

“Then we will give him something worth inheriting,” you say, your voice softer now.

Geta stills at the contact, his gaze dropping briefly to your joined hands before lifting back to you. 

“For you, amor meus,” he says, his thumb brushing slowly over your fingers, lifting them to his lips, “I will.”

The heat lingers heavier as the afternoon stretches on, the sun higher now, the air thick despite the steady breeze from the sea.

You shift slightly beneath the shade, exhaling a quiet breath as your hand lifts to brush at your neck. “It is warm,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

Geta notices immediately. “I will have them bring more shade,” he says, already half-turning, his voice carrying the instinct to command. “Or have them fan the air—”

“No.” The word is gentle, but firm.

You rise before he can call anyone, your hand slipping into his, fingers curling with quiet insistence as you draw him up with you.

There’s something lighter in your expression now, something unburdened by chambers and councils.

“Come,” you say, a faint smile touching your lips as you tug him toward the open terrace. “There is no need for servants to solve what the sea already has.”

He allows himself to be pulled, though not without a faint narrowing of his eyes, something amused flickering beneath the restraint.

“You intend to walk into the water as you are?” he asks, glancing briefly at the fabric draped around you both.

You don’t answer him.

Instead, you stop at the edge where stone gives way to sand, and without hesitation, your fingers move to the fastening at your shoulder.

The fabric loosens easily, slipping from your frame in a slow, deliberate motion, catching the light as it falls.

Geta lets out a quiet breath, something almost incredulous, though the corner of his mouth lifts.

“The servants will see,” he remarks, his tone dry, though there is no real objection in it.

You glance back at him, something playful, something challenging in your gaze.

“And when did you begin to care what they see?” you ask lightly.

That stills him for only a moment.

Then, a low, almost amused exhale leaves him, the tension in his posture easing as he shakes his head faintly, more at you than in disapproval.

“You are—” he begins, but doesn’t finish it, the word lost to something softer.

Instead, his hands move to his own garments, slower than yours, more deliberate, but no less certain.

There is no rush in him, only quiet acceptance, as if this, too, is something he has decided rather than been led into.

“You will be the ruin of my restraint,” he mutters, though there is no real frustration in it.

You are already stepping toward the water. The sea greets you cool against the heat, the shift immediate, refreshing, pulling a quiet breath from you as you move deeper, the waves brushing softly against your skin.

Behind you, you hear him follow.

Geta steps into the water after you, the fabric he shed left forgotten on the sand, his gaze fixed on you as he closes the distance between you both. The sea moves around him, less gentle, less yielding, but he does not seem to notice.

“You are pleased with yourself,” he observes, quieter now, the earlier edge gone, replaced with something warmer.

You turn slightly toward him, the sunlight catching across the water between you.

“A little,” you admit.

He reaches you then, his hands finding your waist beneath the surface, grounding, as if even here, even now, he will not allow distance to settle between you.

For a while, there is nothing but the sea.

The water moves gently around you both, the rhythm steady, endless, the sun warming your skin as the salt clings lightly in its wake.

Geta does not speak, and neither do you; the quiet between you is no longer strained, but full, settled in a way that feels rare.

His hands remain on you beneath the surface.

Eventually, he exhales softly, as though remembering the world beyond this moment, and lifts his chin slightly toward the shore.

A servant, already waiting at a respectful distance, steps forward at the subtle signal.

“Cloths,” Geta calls, his voice carrying easily over the water.

They come quickly, heads bowed, eyes carefully averted as they approach the edge of the sea, offering soft linen without looking too closely.

You step forward first, letting the fabric wrap around you, the warmth returning slowly as the breeze touches damp skin.

Geta follows, the same care taken, the same quiet efficiency.

Your discarded garments are gathered without a word, carried back ahead of you as you both move from the shore, leaving only footprints in the sand that will not last long.

By the time you return to the palace, the world has already begun to intrude again.

A messenger waits just beyond the threshold, posture rigid, urgency clear even in stillness. The moment Geta sees him, something shifts, the softness of the coast giving way to something sharper.

“Caesar,” the man says, bowing deeply. “The troops assemble. It is time to see them off to Persia.”

Geta nods once with no hesitation. But he does not move immediately. Instead, his gaze turns to you.

For a moment, it is just the two of you again, the noise of duty held at a distance, though only barely now. His hand reaches for yours, slower this time, as if marking the moment before it passes.

“I will not be long,” he says, quieter than before, though there is certainty in it.

Then, as if deciding something in that same breath, he slips his hand from yours only to gesture lightly toward one of the servants. A small box is brought forward, opened at his instruction.

Gold catches the light. A bracelet, finely worked, simple in design but unmistakably valuable, its weight evident even before it is placed. Geta takes it himself.

“This time,” he says, his voice lower now, more personal, as he fastens it carefully around your wrist, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary, “I will give you something that remains when I do not.”

The metal settles against your skin, warm from his touch. You glance at it, then back at him, something lighter returning to your expression despite the moment.

“You intend to buy my love with jewelry?” you ask, the edge of a smile breaking through.

His mouth curves faintly in response, something rare and almost easy in it.

“As many as it takes,” he replies.

His hand closes briefly over yours once more, thumb brushing across your knuckles in a way that feels quieter than before, but no less intentional.

Then, reluctantly, he lets go. Duty does not wait.

By the time the sun begins to fall, the chamber feels quieter, the absence of his presence more noticeable now that you have grown used to it. 

Servants move around you with practiced care, preparing the chamber, laying out fresh linens, oils, and light garments for the night, their voices kept low as if the stillness itself demands it.

You allow them to tend to you without resistance.

When they finally withdraw, you are left alone in bed, a scroll open in your hands, the soft flicker of lamplight dancing across the page.

The words blur slightly as your thoughts wander, not entirely focused, the steady rhythm of the sea beyond the walls doing little to quiet them.

The chamber doors open. Not loudly, but without permission.

You don’t look up immediately, though your grip on the scroll tightens ever so slightly. “You should not be here,” you say, your voice measured, before your gaze finally lifts.

Marcus Opellius Macrinus stands just within the doorway, entirely at ease, as though the boundary he has crossed is of no consequence at all.

“Should I not?” he replies lightly, stepping further inside without waiting to be invited. “I find such rules to be flexible, when necessary.”

Your expression hardens.

“This is not a place you enter unannounced,” you say, sharper now, sitting a little straighter though you do not rise. “Not without consequence.”

A faint smile touches his mouth, though there is something thinner beneath it. “And yet,” he says, his tone edged with quiet implication, “here I stand.”

You set the scroll aside with deliberate care. “You speak of power as though it makes you untouchable,” you say. “But power does not make you welcome.”

Macrinus exhales a quiet breath, something almost amused at that. “No,” he agrees. “But it does make me difficult to refuse.”

You study him for a moment, then tilt your head slightly, your voice cooling further.

“You choose the men who go to war,” you say. “You shape the campaigns, advise the emperor… and yet you do not stand beside them when they leave.”

The words land cleanly. A challenge.

“You send others to bleed in your place,” you continue, your gaze steady. “And expect to be regarded as a man of strength.”

Macrinus laughs. Not loudly, but genuinely, the sound low and brief, as though you had said something more interesting than offensive.

“You mistake absence for cowardice,” he replies, his tone settling again into something smoother. “I do not lead men into battle because my value lies elsewhere.”

He takes another step into the room, unhurried, entirely comfortable within a space that is not his.

“Rome does not need another sword,” he continues. “It needs men who know when to use them.”

His gaze fixes on you more directly now. “And I assure you,” he adds, quieter, “I am very good at that.”

You do not look away. “Then you hide behind them well,” you return.

“I did not come here to quarrel,” he says instead, his tone shifting, softer, though no less deliberate. “Nor do I wish to make an enemy of you.”

“You and I are not so different,” he says at last, his voice low, controlled. “We both understand what Rome requires to remain… balanced.”

Your expression does not soften. “Do not place me beside you so easily.”

Macrinus inclines his head slightly, as if accepting the resistance without conceding the point. “You chose the same outcome I did this morning,” he replies. “You simply did it with more grace.”

“You speak as though you stood with my family,” you say, your tone cooler now, more pointed. “As though you shared their vision.”

A faint pause. Then, “I did,” he answers.

You still, just slightly, your gaze sharpening as you search his face for something that might contradict it. “You exposed them,” you say. “That is not loyalty.”

“No,” he agrees, unflinching. “It is judgment.”

“They sought to move Rome before it was ready,” he continues, his tone even, almost instructional. “I ensured it did not fracture in the attempt.”

Your jaw tightens. “You ensured their deaths.”

“I ensured Rome endured,” he corrects. The distinction is deliberate. Cold.

You hold his gaze, anger pressing just beneath the surface now, controlled, but present. “Do not speak of them as though you honored them.”

Macrinus watches you carefully for a moment, then exhales softly, as if deciding how much to give. “Your mother lives because of me,” he says.

You still completely. “…what?”

“I advised against her execution,” he continues. “Geta saw no immediate use in sparing her. I provided one.”

Your pulse sharpens, your fingers curling slightly against the linens. “What use?”

Macrinus’ gaze does not waver. “You.”

“If you had resisted the marriage,” he says, his tone calm, as though discussing strategy rather than something far more personal, “she would have been… persuasive leverage.”

“You expect me to be grateful?” you ask, your voice quieter now, but far more dangerous.

“I expect you to understand,” he replies. The lack of apology is almost worse.

“I preserved what could be preserved,” he continues. “Because I recognized that you would be… necessary.”

Your breath steadies, but the anger does not dissipate. “You do not get to claim proximity to my family after that,” you say.

Macrinus tilts his head slightly, considering you.

“I do not claim proximity,” he says. “I claim alignment.”

“We both want Rome to endure,” he adds, quieter now. “To be stable. Not ruled by impulse, or sentiment.”

His gaze flickers briefly, meaningfully. “You have seen what those things cost.”

“And you believe that makes us the same,” you say.

“I believe,” he replies, “that it makes us capable of understanding one another.”

The room feels smaller now.

“And that,” he finishes, “is far more valuable than being enemies.”

He does not linger after that.

Macrinus studies you for a final moment, as if committing your reaction to memory, then inclines his head in something that resembles respect more than apology.

“Rest well, Augusta,” he says quietly, the words carrying a meaning that feels less like courtesy and more like calculation.

Then he turns and leaves you to the silence he disrupted. The chamber settles again, though it does not feel the same.

Eventually, exhaustion wins where thought does not, and you lie back against the linens, the scroll forgotten beside you as the steady rhythm of the sea lulls your body into rest, if not your mind. Sleep comes slowly.

The descent into the lower levels of the palace is colder, quieter, the air thick with damp stone and silence that clings too closely to the walls. 

The guards posted along the corridor do not question you, though their eyes follow, wary, uncertain of what draws the Augusta to such a place alone.

Your mother’s cell is as it always is. Dim. Still. But she rises the moment she sees you.

“Columba mea,” she says, her voice softer than you remember, though no less steady.

You step inside, the door closing behind you with a dull, final sound, and for a moment, neither of you moves.

Then you cross the space between you, lowering your voice as if the walls themselves might listen.

“He came to me,” you say quietly. “Macrinus.”

Something shifts in her expression immediately. Not surprise, but recognition.

“And what did he want?” she asks.

You hesitate only briefly. “He spoke as though he stood with you. With father. As though he understood what you intended for Rome.”

Your mother exhales softly, something close to bitterness threading through it. “He understands many things,” she says. “Loyalty is not one of them.”

You step closer. “He told me he was the one who kept you alive.”

Your mother lets out a quiet breath, her gaze sharpening slightly as she studies you. “Yes,” she says. “That would be like him.”

Your brow furrows. “He said it was to use you against me. If I refused the marriage.”

A faint, humorless smile touches her lips. “Of course he did.”

You search her face. “Then why?”

Your mother is quiet for a moment, as if weighing how much to give you.

“Because Macrinus does nothing without purpose,” she says finally. “And his purposes are never singular.”

“He was not saving me,” she continues. “He was preserving an option. For himself.”

“He speaks of Rome as though he alone knows how to sustain it,” you say. “As though we are… aligned.”

Your mother’s gaze hardens at that.

“He wants you to believe that,” she replies. “Because if you trust him, he does not have to oppose you.”

You step closer still, your voice lowering further. “He spoke of sacrifice. Of necessity.”

Your mother lets out a quiet breath, her expression shifting, something darker moving beneath it now.

“Did he tell you,” she asks carefully, “who taught Caracalla to fear your child?”

The question stills you.

“…what?”

She holds your gaze. “It was not a thought that came to him alone,” she says. “Macrinus fed it to him. Slowly. Quietly. He knew what it would provoke.”

The air seems to thin.

“He told him a child like yours could become a rival,” she continues. “A threat. Something that must be removed before it could grow.”

Your hand moves instinctively to your stomach.

“He does not strike with his own hand,” your mother adds. “He moves others to do it for him.”

The realization settles in, cold and sharp. “And now,” you say slowly, “he seeks my trust.”

“Yes.”

Your mother steps closer, her voice lowering, more urgent now, though still controlled.

“Because he intends to take what Geta holds,” she says. “Not through open defiance. Through influence. Through positioning himself where power already rests.”

Your chest tightens faintly. “He spoke as though we were the same.”

Her expression sharpens.

“You are not,” she says firmly. “You may understand Rome. You may understand sacrifice. But you do not manufacture it.”

You exhale slowly, your thoughts turning, aligning in ways they had not before.

“He believes I will stand beside him,” you murmur.

Your mother watches you carefully. “Then let him believe it,” she says.

You look back at her, something more focused settling into your expression now. “And what would you have me do?”

A faint pause. Then, “Survive,” she answers. “And learn where he intends to stand… before he moves.”

You glance toward the door, toward the guards beyond it, then back to your mother. The walls feel too close suddenly, too willing to carry what should not be heard.

So you step closer. Your voice drops lower, slipping into the language she taught you as a child, one no Roman ear would easily follow.

“Should I tell him?”

The words are quiet and careful. Meant only for her. Your mother stills.

For a moment, she does not answer. Her gaze shifts, not away from you, but inward, as though she is weighing something far beyond the question itself.

There is weariness there now, the kind that does not come from imprisonment alone, but from knowing too well the cost of every choice placed before you.

“If you do not,” she replies in the same tongue, just as soft, “then you choose for him.”

She exhales, her expression tightening faintly. “And men like him do not forgive being made blind.”

Your chest tightens slightly at that. “And if I do?” you ask, your voice still low, still guarded.

Her gaze sharpens, though something gentler threads beneath it now.

“Then you place truth between you,” she says. “And you accept what it may break.”

There is no comfort in it, only honesty.

Your mother reaches for you then, her hand briefly closing over yours, firm despite everything.

“You chose him once,” she adds, quieter now. “Do not begin choosing against him without knowing the cost.” Her grip lingers for a moment longer before she releases you.

And the choice is yours to make. 

sorry for the cliffhanger again i promise it's worth it!!! thank you all for your love and support, i have SO MANY eddie fics in my noggin rn im so excited to put pen to paper (or hands to keys, whatever, you get it).

also today years old finding out you can schedule posts???

beasbuggies:

The days without him had settled into something quieter than you expected.

Not peaceful, not entirely, but structured in a way that allowed you to move, to think, to exist within the palace without the constant pull of his presence shaping every moment.

The new garments had come as promised, deep crimson silks laid out with careful precision, the color rich and striking against your skin in a way that felt intentional.

You stand before the polished bronze, turning slightly, watching the way the fabric falls along your frame, the way the gold accents catch the light.

It is not vanity, not truly, more observation than indulgence, the same careful awareness you apply to everything else.

Still, there is something in it, something you cannot quite name.

The doors open. You do not need to turn to know it is him.

Geta fills the room the moment he enters, his presence immediate, uncontained in a way you have not yet seen from him.

There is no measured pause this time, no careful control reassembled before he approaches. He crosses the space quickly. And then, he is there.

His hands find you before words do, firm at your waist as he lifts you cleanly from the ground, the motion sudden enough to pull a quiet breath from you as the world shifts beneath your feet.

He turns with you. Once. Twice. The movement is unrestrained, almost boyish in a way that does not fit the man you know, and yet it is real: unfiltered, something loosened by absence, by return.

“You wear them,” he murmurs, his voice lower but brighter than before, something alive threading through it as his gaze moves over you, taking in every detail as though committing it to memory.

The dress. The color. You.

He sets you down, but not far, not enough to break the closeness he has already claimed, his hands remaining where they are, his touch shifting.

It's not rough, but not entirely controlled either, his fingers tracing along your arms, your shoulders, as though reassuring himself that you are real, that you are still here, that nothing has changed in his absence.

“You suit it,” he adds, quieter now, his gaze lifting back to your face. Crimson. His favorite.

You hold his gaze, steady despite the intensity of his return, though something in you softens, just slightly, at the way he looks at you now.

“You chose it,” you reply.

“And I was right.”

His hand lifts, brushing lightly along your hair, then down again, his touch lingering just a fraction longer each time, something almost restless in the movement, something that speaks more of feeling than control.

“I should not have been gone so long,” he says after a moment, the words quieter now, less declarative, more honest. You study him, something shifting in your expression.

“You returned,” you say simply. Then, softer, “You said you would.”

His hand moves again, more deliberately this time, coming to rest at your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly along your cheek as he leans closer: not rushed, not demanding, but certain in the space he takes.

The kiss that follows is slower than before. Not the brief claim of ceremony. Not the uncertain edge of something new. This is familiar now, chosen.

His lips linger, his touch steadier, more controlled than the moment he entered with, though the intensity remains beneath it, quiet but unmistakable.

When he pulls back, it is not far. Not enough to break the space between you.

“You did not leave,” he says, almost as if confirming it.

You hold his gaze. “The palace is mine,” you remind him.

A faint breath escapes him, something close to a smile. “Yes,” he says softly. “It is.”

The kiss deepens without warning.

Geta’s mouth claims yours with sudden hunger, no longer testing or savoring but devouring. His tongue pushes past your lips, tasting you like a man starved for days.

The hand at your jaw tightens, tilting your head exactly where he wants it, while his other arm bands around your waist and hauls you flush against him. You feel the hard line of his body, the tension coiled in every muscle, the unmistakable press of his cock already straining against his tunic.

A low, rough sound vibrates from his chest into your mouth when you kiss him back just as fiercely.

He breaks away only to drag his lips down your throat, teeth scraping, voice hoarse against your skin. “Four days,” he growls. “Four days without burying myself in you.” 

Your breath catches. Heat floods low in your belly, slick and immediate. You’ve missed this, too, whether or not you want to admit it.

The weight of him, the way he takes up every inch of air in a room, the way he makes your body forget every reason it should still hate him.

His hands are already working at the crimson silk, impatient. He doesn’t bother with the delicate laces this time; he simply fists the fabric at your hips and rips downward.

The tear is loud in the quiet chamber. Cool air hits your bare skin as the dress falls away in tatters.

You gasp, half protest, half thrill. “Geta—”

“Hush now, amor meus. I will buy you as many more gowns as you wish.” 

He lifts you again, spinning once more before dropping you onto the wide bed. You bounce once against the linens before he’s on you, covering you completely, mouth latching onto one breast while his hand palms the other.

He sucks hard, teeth grazing your nipple until you arch with a sharp cry.

“Say it,” he demands, voice muffled against your skin. “Tell me you ached in my absence.” 

Your fingers thread into his copper hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan. “I ached for you,” you admit, the words slipping out breathy and honest.

His laugh is dark, pleased. “Good. Because I have thought of nothing else but putting a child in you.”

His hand slides down to press possessively over your lower belly. “I will fill you until it takes.”

He shoves your thighs apart with his knee and reaches between your legs. Two thick fingers slide through your folds, finding you already soaked.

He curses under his breath, circling your clit once, twice, then pushing both fingers deep inside you without mercy. You moan, hips rolling up to meet the thrust.

“So wet already,” he mutters, pumping his fingers faster, curling them against that spot that makes sparks burst behind your eyes. “Your body knows what it needs. It weeps for my seed.”

You come hard and fast, clenching around his fingers with a broken cry of his name. He doesn’t stop, dragging it out until you’re shaking and oversensitive, only then pulling his hand free.

Before you can catch your breath, he flips you onto your stomach, yanks your hips up, and sinks into you in one brutal thrust.

The stretch burns so good. You cry out into the pillows, fists twisting in the sheets as he bottoms out, hips flush against your ass. He doesn’t give you time to adjust. He fucks you hard; deep, punishing strokes that jolt your entire body forward with every snap of his hips.

“Take it,” he growls, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. “Take every inch. This womb is mine to breed.”

You push back to meet every thrust, greedy for more. The angle has him hitting that perfect spot over and over. “Harder,” you demand, voice wrecked.

A savage sound tears from his throat. He obeys, pounding into you faster, the slap of skin on skin loud and obscene. The hand in your hair yanks your head back so he can lean over you, biting down on the junction of your neck and shoulder.

You love it. Every rough snap of his hips, every growl, every mark he leaves. Your second orgasm builds fast and viciously. But you want more control.

When he pulls out for a moment to flip you again, you take the opening. You shove at his chest, hard. He lets you, surprise flashing across his face for half a second before dark delight takes over. You push him onto his back and climb on top, straddling his hips.

His hands immediately grip your thighs, fingers digging in. “Futuo,” he rasps, eyes blazing up at you.

You wrap your hand around his slick cock, thick and throbbing, and guide him back inside you. The slide is smoother now, but no less intense.

You sink down slowly, savoring every inch until he’s buried to the hilt again. A shared groan fills the room, then you start to move.

You roll your hips experimentally at first, finding the rhythm that makes his jaw clench. His hands slide up to your waist, guiding but not controlling, letting you set the pace.

You brace your palms on his chest and begin to ride him properly—hard, fast, grinding down on every downstroke so your clit rubs against his pelvis.

“Gods below,” he groans, head falling back against the pillows. His hips buck up to meet you, but he lets you stay on top, watching with raw hunger as your breasts bounce with every movement. “Look at you. Fucking yourself so greedily on me. Milk my cock. Draw my seed deep.”

You lean down, biting his lower lip before whispering against his mouth, “Yes, amor meus.”

His grip tightens, a possessive growl escaping him. You sit back up, riding him harder, one hand slipping between your bodies to rub your clit. The pleasure coils tighter, hotter.

Geta’s control finally snaps. He sits up abruptly, arm locking around your back to hold you against him, and starts thrusting up into you with renewed ferocity. The new angle is devastating. You cry out, nails raking down his back as he fucks you from below, relentless.

“Release on me,” he orders, voice rough and commanding. 

You do. The orgasm rips through you like lightning, walls fluttering and clenching around him as you moan his name loud enough for half the palace to hear.

Geta follows right after, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a guttural groan, hips stuttering as he fills you with pulse after pulse of hot cum.

He keeps you pressed down on him even as he softens, one large hand splayed possessively over your belly again.

“Stay like this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and satisfied. “Let it take root. I will not leave this bed until I am certain my child grows within you.”

The room does not feel the same once it is quiet again. Not because anything has changed within it, but because you have.

The weight of him still lingers in the sheets, in the air, in the way your body feels slower now, more aware, more awake than it should be.

You lie there for a moment longer than necessary, your gaze fixed somewhere distant, your breath gradually evening out as the intensity fades into something far more complicated.

It is not just satisfaction. It would be easier if it were. Instead, it settles into something deeper, something harder to name, a pull that feels dangerously close to longing, tangled with something sharp and unwelcome.

Guilt. Your jaw tightens faintly as you sit up, the crimson silk now ruined, the marks on your skin still warm reminders of something you had not resisted, something you had met.

You should hate him. You do. And yet, your fingers curl slightly against the linens.

Why did you want it? Why did your body respond before your mind could stop it? The questions linger.

The day moves forward whether you are ready or not. By the time you are dressed again, the palace has resumed its rhythm, the echo of footsteps and distant voices filtering back into the space as though nothing has shifted at all.

He is already composed again. Geta stands near the window when you turn, his posture restored, the earlier intensity folded neatly back into something more controlled, more familiar.

“I am expected at the Senate,” he says, not turning immediately. “You may attend.”

Then, more deliberately, “Or you may not.”

You study him. The offer is real. Limited, but real.

“I will remain,” you say.

He nods once, as though he expected no less. “As you wish.”

He leaves soon after.

You move through it without direction at first, your thoughts too tangled to settle into anything structured, the echo of the morning refusing to fade no matter how much distance you try to put between yourself and it.

By the time he returns, the light has shifted. Lower. Warmer. Darker. You hear him before you see him, his steps sharper this time, faster, the energy in them different from before.

You turn as he enters. “Amor meus,” you say softly. The words come easily now, too easily.

And that, that is what breaks it. He stops. Not gradually, but immediately. The shift is violent. Not physical—yet. But in him.

In the way his expression hardens, in the way something dark flashes across his face as though a thought has struck him too fast to ignore.

“What did you say?” His voice is low, dangerously so.

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden change. “I—”

He moves before you can finish. Fast. His hand finds your throat, not crushing, but firm enough to force you back, your body colliding with the wall behind you as the breath leaves your lungs in a sharp rush.

The impact is enough to still you, to ground you. To remind you exactly who he is.

“Do not,” he snaps, his grip tightening just enough to hold your attention, his gaze locked onto yours with something far more volatile than anything you’ve seen before. 

Your pulse spikes, not fear alone, recognition. He leans closer, his voice dropping further.

“You spoke in private with her." Not a question, an accusation. His thumb presses slightly at your jaw, forcing your focus fully onto him.

“What did you say?”

The room feels smaller. Tighter. The air is thinner between you. And for the first time since he returned, the softness is gone.

Replaced entirely by something sharper, something dangerous. Something that reminds you, this was never going to be simple.

Your vision blurs before you can stop it. Not all at once, just a slow dimming at the edges, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat as his grip lingers a moment too long, the pressure not enough to truly harm, but enough to remind your body of its limits.

Your lashes flutter. Once. Twice. He feels it.

His hand releases you as though the realization strikes him all at once, your body dropping the short distance to the floor as air rushes back into you in a sharp, desperate inhale that burns all the way down.

You gasp, hard. Your hands come to your throat instinctively, your chest rising and falling unevenly as you fight to steady your breath, a cough breaking from you as the world slowly rights itself again.

For a moment, there is only that. Air. Sound. The dull ache where his fingers had been.

Above you, Geta stands utterly still, watching.

He moves then, more controlled now, retrieving a goblet from the table nearby before stepping back toward you, lowering it slightly in your direction.

“Drink,” he says.

The word is quieter than before. Not gentle, but not sharp either. You hesitate only a moment before taking it, your fingers still unsteady as you bring it to your lips, the wine warmer than before, slower going down, but it steadies something in you all the same.

When you lower the cup, your breathing has evened. Not fully, but enough.

He crouches slightly now, not lowering himself entirely to you, but close enough that you cannot avoid his gaze, that sharp, searching intensity returned, though the earlier volatility has tempered into something colder.

“Tell me again,” he says. “What passed between you?”

You feel it; the weight of the moment, the choice laid before you not as command, but as expectation.

You could lie, you know how. You were taught. But you don’t. Not this time. You swallow once, your voice steadier than your pulse.

“She spoke of Lucius,” you begin, carefully, deliberately, your gaze holding his. “Of what they intended.”

A pause. His expression does not shift, so you continue.

“They meant to free him,” you say. “To draw him from your control, to use him as leverage against you. Not to place him upon your throne—”

You stop yourself there. Not out of hesitation, but out of awareness. That is the truth he has kept from you. You do not speak it. Instead, “They believed his presence would fracture your hold over Rome,” you finish.

Geta watches you without interruption, his gaze moving across your face not with anger now, but with calculation, with something far more precise. He studies every shift, every breath, every flicker of hesitation or lack thereof.

You do not look away, you do not falter. And he sees it. After a moment, something in him settles.

“You do not lie,” he says quietly. Not a question, but a conclusion.

You hold his gaze. “No.”

His jaw tightens slightly, his gaze dropping, not in submission, not in weakness, but in something that feels internal.

Measured. Then, just as quietly, “I knew.”

“I knew of the plan,” he continues, his voice steadier now, though something beneath it has shifted. “Before it was carried out.”

Your brows draw faintly. “Then why—”

“Because I needed to see where you stood.”

He looks at you again, something more grounded in his expression now. “You are not them,” he says. A pause. Then, more deliberate, “And you are not blind to what they risked.”

He studies you a moment longer, something quieter settling into him now, something that does not come easily.

Then, “I misjudged the moment.”

The words are careful, chosen. Not an apology as most would give it. But close, closer than anything he has offered before.

His gaze flicks briefly to your throat, to where his hand had been, before returning to your eyes.

“You will not be handled so again.”

There is no softness in the promise, only certainty. He rises then, stepping back just enough to give you space, not withdrawing entirely, but no longer looming, no longer pressing.

He leaves you only briefly.

Not long enough for the moment to cool, not long enough for you to fully gather yourself, but long enough that when he returns, there is something quieter about him .

Something more deliberate, as though he had taken those few breaths to steady whatever had fractured.

Geta kneels this time, not looming, not towering, but lowering himself just enough that the distance between you feels intentional.

In his hand is a cloth, dampened and warm, faintly scented with oil, and when he lifts it to your throat, his touch is careful. Far more careful than before, as though he is measuring the pressure of it, ensuring it soothes rather than reminds.

He does not speak at first, only presses the warmth gently against the place his hand had been, his gaze flicking between your face and the mark he left, something unreadable settling behind his eyes.

The silence stretches, but it is no longer sharp; it is quieter now, threaded with something that resembles restraint rather than control.

“You will bruise,” he says after a moment, his voice lower, steadier, the edge of earlier anger gone but not forgotten.

His thumb brushes lightly along your jaw as he adjusts the cloth, the gesture almost absentminded, almost tender, as though he does not entirely realize how different it is from before.

A pause follows, then he exhales softly, shifting the moment away from what it was.

“What would you have for the evening?” he asks, the question unexpected in its normalcy, as though he is offering something simple to ground what has just passed. “You may choose it.”

You steady your breath, your voice quieter but no longer strained as you answer.

“Something warm,” you say, after a moment of thought. “Lentils with herbs… and bread fresh from the ovens. Perhaps figs, if they have them.”

He watches you as you speak, something in his expression easing just slightly at the simplicity of it, at the fact that you did not reach for excess when it was offered.

“It will be done,” he says, and there is no hesitation in it.

His hand lingers a moment longer at your throat, the cloth still warm against your skin, before he draws it away slowly, his gaze lifting back to yours as though ensuring you are steady, as though confirming that what remains between you has not entirely broken.

He does not linger.

A voice calls from beyond the chamber: low, urgent, carrying the tone of something that cannot wait, and Geta stills for only a fraction of a second before rising, the shift back into duty immediate and practiced.

His hand brushes once more along your shoulder, not quite an apology, not quite reassurance, before he turns, already reclaiming the composure of the man the palace expects him to be.

“I will return,” he says simply.

The silence he leaves behind is shorter this time.

The door opens again not long after, and Aelia steps inside with her usual quiet presence, her gaze finding you immediately.

There is no surprise in her expression, only awareness, as she approaches, her hands already moving to gather what you will need for the evening.

“My lady,” she says softly, though her eyes linger at your throat. She notices.

Her fingers lift gently, brushing near the mark without touching it fully, her expression tightening just slightly as she takes in the faint discoloration already beginning to bloom beneath your skin.

“He should not—” she begins, then stops herself, choosing her words more carefully. “His temper is not always governed as it should be.”

You say nothing. You do not defend him, but you do not agree either.

Aelia exhales quietly, then turns, selecting a length of silk from the garments laid out: light, but rich, dyed in a soft tone that will not draw attention, only conceal.

“This will suffice,” she says, stepping back toward you.

She wraps it carefully around your neck, the fabric cool at first, then settling comfortably, hiding what lies beneath without appearing deliberate.

Her touch remains gentle, practiced, as she adjusts it just so, ensuring it sits naturally against the line of your shoulders.

“When you bathe later,” she adds, her voice quieter now, “it should be tended properly.”

A pause. Then, softer, “He will see to it.” The statement carries more meaning than the words alone. She does not elaborate.

Instead, she moves to your hair, leaving it long as before, brushing it until it falls smoothly down your back, unbound, softening the severity of everything else.

“He prefers it so,” she murmurs, almost to herself. You do not comment, nor do you ask her to change it.

Dinner feels different tonight. Not in setting, not in grandeur, but in the way the room holds itself.

You enter as before, the hall lit in warm gold, the tables already set, the air thick with wine and low conversation. Caracalla is already seated, his posture loose, his expression sharp as it lifts the moment he sees you.

“Well,” he drawls, leaning back slightly, his gaze flicking over you in open appraisal, “the empress returns. I wondered if you had finally grown tired of your new accommodations.”

His eyes linger just a moment too long at the scarf. Noticing. Probing.

You take your seat without responding, your posture composed, your attention fixed elsewhere as though he had not spoken at all. That, more than anything, seems to amuse him.

“Silence does not suit you,” he continues, his tone lighter but edged. “I much preferred the one who stood in the arena. At least she—”

“Enough.” The word cuts clean through the room.

Geta has already taken his place, though you had not noticed the moment he entered. His voice is not raised, but it does not need to be; there is something in it that stills the air entirely, sharp and final.

Caracalla’s grin falters, only slightly.

“You forget yourself,” Geta continues, his gaze fixed on him now, something colder settling beneath the surface. “Or perhaps you forget where you have spent your time.”

A pause. Measured. Then, “In brothels and wine houses, indulging every vice you lack the discipline to refuse.”

Caracalla’s expression shifts instantly, the amusement gone, replaced by something darker, something far less controlled as he straightens, his jaw tightening.

“You would speak to me of indulgence?” he snaps, his voice rising despite himself.

“I would speak to you of restraint,” Geta replies evenly. “Something you have yet to master.”

The tension snaps tight. For a moment, it feels as though it might break into something worse.

Caracalla rises abruptly, his chair scraping harshly against the floor as he steps back, his gaze burning with something unresolved, something sharp enough to linger long after he turns.

“This is not finished,” he mutters. And then he is gone.

Geta does not move at first. His gaze remains fixed on the space Caracalla vacated, as though ensuring the moment has truly passed before he turns back. When he does, his attention settles on you. Assessing, as if trying to read what lies behind your eyes.

Weeks pass in a way that feels almost unreal.

Not peaceful, never that, but softer at the edges, the sharpness of everything that came before settling into something more manageable, more familiar.

The palace no longer feels entirely like a cage, and you no longer move through it as though every step must be measured for survival.

Somewhere along the way, you begin to breathe again.

The gardens are where it happens most.

Open air, sunlight filtering through carefully pruned trees, the scent of herbs and flowers carried on a breeze that feels far removed from the stone corridors below.

It is the only place where Rome feels distant. And today, it feels lighter.

Geta stands across from you, a dulled blade in hand, his posture relaxed in a way you have learned to recognize as deceptive.

There is always control in him, but here, it loosens just enough to make room for something else.

“You are slow today,” he remarks, circling slightly, his tone almost casual.

You scoff, shifting your grip as you follow his movement, the sun catching against the edge of your blade.

“You are distracted,” you counter, your lips curving faintly despite yourself. “Perhaps Rome has finally exhausted you.”

A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “Hardly.”

He lunges.

You meet him easily, the clash of metal ringing through the open space, your footing steady, your movements fluid as you pivot and press back against him.

The rhythm is familiar now, less about proving, more about testing, about matching each other step for step.

But today, there is something different in it, something lighter.

You feint, stepping back instead of forward, drawing him with you before twisting away, slipping just out of reach.

“You hesitate,” you say, glancing over your shoulder.

“I indulge you,” he replies smoothly.

You laugh. The sound is brief, but real, carried easily in the open air as you step back again, lowering your blade just slightly.

“Then perhaps you should stop.”

He moves again, faster this time, closing the distance, but you twist away, the edge of his blade grazing yours as you slip past him, your shoulder brushing his chest in the process.

The contact lingers, just for a moment. Then you pull away, light on your feet, the space opening between you once more.

“Careful,” he murmurs, turning to face you again, his gaze sharper now, but not unkind. “You grow bold.”

“Or perhaps,” you say, backing further away, a spark in your expression now, “you grow predictable.”

That earns you a look. Not anger, something closer to a challenge.

You turn then, quick, deliberate, moving away from him entirely, not retreating in defeat, but in play, the edge of something almost reckless threading through your movement as you put distance between you.

“Come, then,” you call lightly, glancing back. “Catch me.”

For a moment, he does not move. Then he does, faster than before.

You laugh again, the sound brighter this time as you move further into the garden, the grass softer beneath your feet, the sun warmer against your skin as you weave between the stone paths and open space.

You feel it before you understand it. The shift. Subtle at first. A heaviness in your limbs. A slight pull in your chest.

Your breath comes unevenly, just for a moment, longer than it should, and when you turn again, your vision does not steady as quickly as it should.

The world tilts, just slightly, you slow. Then stop.

“Geta—”

The word barely leaves you before everything slips. Your knees give way, the ground rising too quickly, your vision narrowing at the edges as the light fractures into something distant and unreachable. And then, nothing.

He is there before you hit the ground fully. Geta catches you with a force that lacks all previous restraint, your weight falling into him as his grip tightens instantly, his posture shifting from ease to something far more urgent.

“Look at me.” His voice is sharp now. Not controlled.

Your name follows. Once. Twice. But your eyes do not open. The garden, moments ago filled with light and laughter, falls into something far more still. 

Consciousness returns in fragments.

First, the weight of the linens beneath you, softer than the grass had been, then the faint coolness against your temple: a cloth, damp and carefully placed, and finally the low murmur of voices just beyond your full understanding, rising and falling in measured tones that feel distant at first, as though you are listening from somewhere far away.

Your lashes flutter, slowly. The room sharpens in pieces. Aelia is the first thing you truly see, her face hovering close, her expression tight with concern as she presses the cloth more firmly to your forehead, her touch gentle but purposeful.

“My lady,” she murmurs, her voice soft but urgent. “Stay with us.” There is another figure beside her.

A man, older, composed, his garments marking him as something more than a servant, something practiced and learned.

His gaze is steady, observant, already studying you with the quiet intensity of someone trained to read what others cannot see.

A physician. Your breath comes unevenly as you try to focus, your limbs heavier than they should be, your thoughts slow to gather into anything coherent.

Then, movement. Geta is at your side before you fully register how he got there, his presence immediate, his hand finding yours with a grip that is firmer than usual, grounding, almost, relieved.

“You wake,” he says, his voice lower than you have heard it in days, stripped of its usual control. “Can you hear me?”

You try to answer, it takes a moment.

“I… yes,” you manage, though it comes faint, your voice thinner than you expect.

His thumb presses briefly against your wrist, as though confirming something, his gaze searching your face for any sign that you are not entirely present.

“You fell,” he says, quieter now. “In the gardens.”

You nod slightly, though the motion makes your head feel heavier, the room tilting just faintly at the edges. The physician steps closer.

“My lady,” he begins, his tone respectful but direct, “you must answer plainly, if you are able.” You turn your head slightly toward him.

“When last did you bleed?”

The question cuts through the haze. Your brow furrows faintly, your thoughts reaching for something that does not come easily.

“I…” you start, your voice trailing as you search for it, the days blurring together in a way that feels suddenly significant. “I do not recall.”

Aelia’s hand stills. Geta’s grip tightens. The physician does not react outwardly, but something in his posture shifts; subtle, but deliberate.

He nods once, then moves. His hand comes to your abdomen, pressing lightly at first, then more carefully, more precisely, his touch clinical rather than invasive.

He listens, not with instruments as one might expect, but with experience, with the quiet knowledge of a man who has done this many times before.

He pauses, then presses again. Your breath catches slightly at the sensation, not pain, but unfamiliar awareness settling low in your body, something that suddenly feels different.

The physician leans back, considers, then looks to Geta. There is a moment. Small, but weighted.

“My lord,” he says, his voice even, though the words carry unmistakable meaning, “she carries life.”

Aelia’s breath catches audibly, her hand tightening slightly around the cloth she still holds against your temple.

You blink. Once. Twice. The words do not settle immediately.

“…what?” you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper.

The physician inclines his head slightly. “You are with child, my lady.”

The world stills again. Beside you, Geta does not speak immediately. The room does not move at first. Not after the words are spoken.

Everything holds: Aelia’s hand, the physician’s posture, even the air itself, as though the moment must be allowed to settle before anything else can follow.

Then, Geta exhales.

“All of you,” he says, his voice quiet but absolute. “Leave us.”

There is no hesitation. Aelia withdraws first, though her gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, something soft and protective passing through it before she lowers her head and steps away.

The physician follows, composed as ever, offering a brief nod before turning toward the door.

The chamber empties. The door closes. And then, it is only the two of you. He does not speak immediately. For a moment, he simply looks at you. Something you have not seen so clearly before.

His hand tightens around yours, not enough to hurt, but enough to ground himself in the reality of what has just been said, as though he needs to feel it to believe it.

“You are well?” he asks at last, his voice lower now, stripped of everything but the question itself.

You nod, still half caught in the weight of it, your hand resting in his as your thoughts struggle to settle into something coherent.

“I think so,” you say softly.

A breath leaves him: sharp and relieved.

“Thank the gods,” he murmurs, almost under his breath, the words carrying a sincerity that does not feel performative.

He shifts closer then, his free hand lifting to your face, his thumb brushing lightly along your cheek, his touch careful in a way that feels newly deliberate.

“There will be no risk to you,” he continues, more firmly now, though the edge of that earlier relief still lingers beneath it.

“You will be attended at all hours. Anything you require—”

“I am not made of glass,” you interrupt quietly, though there is no real resistance in it. His gaze flickers, then softens, just slightly.

“No,” he agrees. “But you carry more than yourself now.”

You let out a small breath, something almost like a laugh slipping through it despite everything, your gaze shifting away from him just slightly.

“You do realize,” you say, your tone lighter than it has been, though still edged with something real, “that I am going to grow rather large.”

His expression stills for only a moment, then breaks. A quiet laugh escapes him, softer than anything you’ve heard before, the sound unguarded, almost disbelieving as he shakes his head slightly.

“I do not think that will trouble me,” he replies, his gaze returning to you, something warmer settling there now. “You will remain exactly as you are meant to be.”

A pause. Then, more quietly, “And I will see to it.”

His hand lingers at your face a moment longer before lowering again, resting near yours, not pulling away entirely, not breaking the space between you.

The news does not remain within those walls for long; it never could.

By midday, the palace is already stirring with it: servants whispering, guards exchanging looks, the quiet machinery of announcement beginning to turn with unmistakable purpose. And at the center of it all, Geta does not hesitate.

“Prepare the square,” he orders, his voice carrying through the chamber with renewed authority, something almost bright beneath it. “Rome will hear it from me.”

The city gathers quickly, faster than it had for your wedding.

By the time you are led out once more, the square is already alive: crowds pressing in, voices rising, anticipation thick in the air as banners are unfurled and musicians take their places.

The scent of incense burns stronger this time, as though even the gods must be made aware.

You stand beside him again. But this time, it is different. His hand rests on your back, not guiding, but steady. Present, as though he means for all of Rome to see exactly where you belong.

He steps forward. The noise quiets, not entirely, but enough.

“People of Rome,” he calls, his voice carrying effortlessly, practiced and powerful, echoing against stone and sky alike. “You have witnessed strength. You have witnessed unity.”

Then, “Now, you will witness legacy.”

The words land. The crowd leans in. His hand finds yours, lifting it just slightly, enough to draw their attention fully to you.

“My wife,” he continues, his tone shifting from command to declaration, “carries my child.”

For a moment, there is silence. Then the square erupts.

Cheers break over you in waves, louder than anything you have heard before, the sound swelling until it feels as though it might shake the very ground beneath you.

Flowers are thrown, voices cry out in praise, in blessing, in something that borders on reverence.

Rome does not just celebrate. It claims. You feel it in your chest. In the way every eye turns to you now, not just as empress, not just as wife, but as something more. A future.

Beside you, Caracalla steps forward. And for once, there is no immediate bite to him. No mockery, no edge.

Instead, his expression shifts into something almost performative in its warmth, his arms opening as he approaches you, his grin wide, almost too wide to be entirely trusted.

“Sister,” he says, the word smooth, carefully chosen. Before you can react, he pulls you into an embrace. It is firm. Public, and entirely unexpected.

Your body stills for only a moment before you allow it, though your gaze flicks briefly to Geta, searching for something; confirmation, warning, anything. Geta does not intervene; he just watches closely.

Caracalla pulls back just as quickly, his hands settling briefly at your shoulders, his expression still fixed in that same exaggerated warmth.

“Rome is blessed,” he says, loud enough for those nearest to hear.

You do not remain long, not after that. Not after the weight of it settles fully into you.

The celebration continues above, but you descend again, the sound of it fading behind you as you move through the familiar corridors, deeper, lower, toward the one place that matters now.

They do not stop you, not anymore. The door opens at your command. And she is there.

Lucilla looks up immediately, her expression shifting the moment she sees you: not just relief this time, not just recognition, but something more urgent, something instinctive.

You do not speak at first. You step inside. And she sees it. Not the announcement, not the spectacle, but you. Something in your posture, in your stillness.

Her breath catches. “What is it?” she asks, rising quickly despite the weakness that still lingers in her frame.

You close the distance, slowly. And then, “I carry life.”

The words leave you steady, but they echo. Lucilla stills, for only a moment. Then, she moves.

Faster than you have seen since your arrival here, her hands coming to you, gripping your arms, your face, searching you as though the truth must be confirmed through touch alone.

Tears fill her eyes before she can stop them.

“My daughter—” she breathes, her voice breaking despite herself.

Her hands drop then, lower, pressing gently, reverently, against your abdomen, her touch trembling as though she is reaching for something sacred, something she had not dared to hope for.

“A child…” she murmurs, almost to herself.

Her gaze lifts back to yours, something fierce now beneath the emotion, something proud, something certain.

“You carry strength,” she says, her voice steadier now, though still thick with feeling. “A stallion, I think.”

The word lingers. Her thumb presses lightly against you, her expression softening again as the reality of it settles fully into her.

A week passes in a strange, suspended calm.

The palace adjusts around you as though your body has become something to be accounted for, something watched without being watched, attended to without being confined.

The whispers do not cease, but they soften, turning from speculation into something closer to reverence. And still, you remain yourself. 

He returns in the late afternoon.

The light is warmer then, stretching long across the marble floors as Emperor Geta steps into your chambers, the tension of council still lingering faintly in his posture, though it eases the moment his gaze finds you.

He pauses, just briefly. As though the sight of you settles something he had not realized was unsettled.

“You have been well?” he asks, his voice lower now, the sharpness of the day worn down into something quieter, something meant only for you.

You nod. “I have.”

Then he steps closer, his hand lifting almost absently to brush along your arm, the gesture softer than it once was, more familiar now.

“What would you have of the day?” he asks, and there is something in the way he says it, less command, more offering, as though the choice itself matters to him. 

“If it pleases you, we may go where you wish.”

You study him for a moment, something thoughtful passing through your expression.

Then, “I would go to the square,” you say, your voice steady but lighter than before. “To walk among the shops, as I did before.”

Before marriage, before Rome claimed you.

The words hang between you, unspoken but understood. Geta considers it. Not long, but just enough.

Then, “Very well. You shall have it."

A faint shift in his expression follows, something almost amused threading through it.

“You may find it… changed,” he adds.

You meet his gaze. “So have I.”

That earns you something softer, something that lingers just a moment longer than necessary before he turns, already moving to make it happen.

The square feels different when you return to it. Not because it has changed, but because you have.

The stalls are the same, lined with fabric, fruit, carved goods, and small trinkets that catch the eye, the voices of merchants rising and falling in familiar rhythm.

But now, the space parts for you without needing to be asked, the crowd shifting instinctively, aware of your presence before fully seeing you.

Still, you walk. Not as a spectacle; not entirely. But closer to what you had once been. Geta remains beside you, not pulling you forward, not directing your path, but there all the same, his presence steady rather than overwhelming as he allows you to move at your own pace.

You pause at a stall. Fabric. Bright, simple, nothing like what fills your chambers now. Your fingers brush over it. Familiar. For a moment, it feels like something you remember rather than something you own.

“You would wear this?” he asks quietly, stepping closer, his tone touched with something like curiosity.

You glance at him. “I did,” you reply. Then, softer, “And I liked it.”

He studies the fabric, then you.

“Then you may still have it,” he says simply.

The square has begun to soften around you.

Not in the way it once did, never fully, but enough that the noise settles into something familiar, something almost comforting as you pause at another stall. Your attention is drawn to the small, simple things you had once allowed yourself to enjoy.

It is the children who find you first; they always seem to.

A few of them slip forward through the shifting crowd, their eyes bright, their curiosity outweighing whatever caution the adults around them still carry.

One reaches for your hand, another for the edge of your sleeve, their voices overlapping as they speak to you all at once, eager, unguarded.

You lower slightly to meet them, just enough.

“What is your name?” one asks, bold in the way only children can be, her gaze fixed on you with something like awe.

You answer her. And for a moment, everything feels almost normal.

Then you feel a slight change in energy. A presence at your back, older, heavier than the small hands at your sides, the movement subtle enough to go unnoticed for a breath too long.

You turn to meet the presence.

And then, steel. The impact is sudden; brutal.

The blade drives into your abdomen with a force that steals the air from your lungs before your mind can even comprehend what has happened, your body jolting forward as pain erupts sharp and immediate, radiating outward in a way that feels impossible to contain.

You do not scream, not at first.

Your breath catches, your body folding slightly as the world tilts violently around you, the warmth spreading beneath your hands where they instinctively move to the wound, the reality of it crashing in all at once.

Then, the sound comes. Not from you, but from the square.

Screams ripple outward, sharp and chaotic, the children scattering instantly, their voices breaking into panic as the crowd surges back in confusion, in fear, in the sudden realization that something has gone terribly wrong.

The boy is already pulling back.

Older than the others: just enough, his face set with something wild, something desperate, as he stumbles away from you, the blade still slick in his hand, before he turns to flee. Disappearing into the chaos as bodies move, collide, scatter in every direction.

You drop.

The strength leaves your legs without warning, your body giving way beneath you as the ground rushes up too quickly. The pain is now overwhelming, your vision is narrowing as the noise around you distorts into something distant and unbearable all at once.

And somewhere, through it, a voice cuts through. Geta does not see it happen, but he hears it. The screams. Not one, but many.

The kind that does not belong to celebration, to chaos, to anything expected within the order of the square. It stops him immediately.

“What is that?” he demands, his voice already sharpening, his body turning toward the sound before the answer can come.

Then, he sees the crowd shift. Not parting. Breaking. And something in him drops.

“Move.” The word is not loud, but it carries.

Guards scramble instantly, forcing a path forward as he pushes through without waiting, without care for anything in his way, his composure fracturing with every step as the sound grows clearer, sharper, unmistakable.

And then, he sees you. On the ground. Blood pooling from your stomach. “Get her up—” he snaps, dropping to you before the guards can even reach your side.

His hands are already on you, searching, pressing, trying to understand what he is seeing even as his mind refuses it.

“Who did this?” he demands, his voice breaking into something far more volatile than anything you have ever heard, his gaze snapping upward, wild, searching the crowd for a target.

“Find him,” he roars, the command tearing from him without restraint. “Do not let him leave the square! Bring him to me alive!”

The guards move instantly, scattering into the chaos, their orders clear, their urgency sharpened by the fury in his voice.

But he does not follow; he stays. His hands hover, then press again, more carefully this time, his breath uneven now, his control slipping with every second that passes.

“Stay with me,” he says, his voice dropping again, but no less intense, his hand coming to your face, forcing your attention toward him.

“You do not close your eyes, do you hear me?”

There is blood on his hands. Yours. And for the first time, he looks afraid.

The chamber smells of iron and crushed herbs.

Not the quiet warmth of the bathhouse, not the polished calm of your rooms: this is something sharper, urgent, the physician’s space stripped of comfort in favor of function.

Linen is pressed against your wound, hands moving quickly, efficiently, the world reduced to pressure, heat, and the overwhelming awareness of pain that refuses to dull.

You cannot stop shaking.

“Will it live?” The words break from you between breaths, uneven, desperate, your hands grasping at anything: fabric, air, the edge of the table, as though you might hold the answer in place if you ask it enough times.

“Tell me—please—tell me if the child will live—”

The physician does not look up immediately. His focus remains fixed, his hands steady as he works, binding what must be bound, slowing what must be stopped.

Only after a moment does he speak, his voice controlled, measured in a way that feels almost cruel in its restraint.

“My lady,” he says, firm but not unkind, “you must allow me to finish.”

Another press, another careful movement.

“Your life must be secured before any other can be judged.”

The words land, heavy. You sob anyway.

Across the room, your husband does not stand still. He paces.

Back and forth, back and forth, the movement relentless, his hands stained, his breath uneven. The control he once held so tightly now fractured into something volatile, something barely contained.

Every step feels too loud, too sharp, his presence filling the chamber with something that borders on violence.

“He will not see another sunrise,” he snaps, his voice cutting through the room like a blade, his gaze flicking toward the guards stationed at the door as though they themselves are responsible for not having the boy already in chains before him.

“I want him found,” he continues, louder now, his composure unraveling further with every word. “Dragged from whatever hole he thought to crawl into, do you hear me?”

The guards do not move, they do not speak. But they hear him. Of course, they do; the entirety of Rome can hear him. 

“He will beg for death before I am done with him,” Geta adds, his voice dropping again, more dangerous now, quieter in a way that feels far worse than shouting. “And I will decide if he is granted it.”

He stops pacing only for a moment, long enough to look at you.

The sight of you: pale, shaking, blood still staining what cannot yet be hidden, halts something in him, if only briefly. His jaw tightens, his hands clenching at his sides as though the anger has nowhere else to go.

Then he turns away again. Because he cannot fix this with force. Not here, not now.

The physician finishes the binding at last, his hands slowing, his movements more deliberate now as the immediate urgency eases into something more controlled.

He steps back, just slightly. And for the first time, he looks at you fully.

“You must be still,” he says, his tone quieter now, though no less firm. “Your body must not be strained further.”

Then, “I will examine what remains.”

The room holds its breath, and even Geta is still. The room holds itself in that fragile, suspended stillness just before the physician moves again.

His hands hover, ready to continue, to press further, to determine what can and cannot be saved. But before he can, the doors open sharply, the sound cutting through the quiet with a force that makes every head turn at once.

The guards return, and they do not enter carefully. They drag him.

The boy stumbles forward between them, his tunic torn, his face already marked with the beginnings of bruising, one eye swelling, his lip split where he must have been struck. 

He is younger than you expected, far younger, his frame slight, his fear not hidden in the slightest as his gaze flickers wildly across the room before landing on you.

“My lord,” one of the guards says, breath still uneven from the chase. “We found him attempting to flee the lower streets.”

They shove him forward and he nearly falls.

“Is this the one?”

You are not meant to move. The physician’s voice comes immediately, sharp with warning.

“My lady, you must remain—”

But you are already pushing yourself up.

The pain is immediate, sharp enough to steal your breath, but you force through it.

Your hand is gripping the edge of the table as you steady yourself, and your body is trembling under the strain as you step forward despite every instruction given to you.

Geta moves as if to stop you. He doesn’t, he just watches. Because he knows you will not be stopped.

You look at the tattered boy before you.

He cannot meet your gaze for long, his shoulders drawn in, his chest rising and falling too quickly, fear written plainly across his face in a way that feels wrong for something so violent.

He is poor. That much is obvious. Thin, desperate, and terrified.

You nod, once.

“Yes.” The word is quiet.

Then, Something catches your eye, subtle and out of place.

A glint of gold against the worn fabric of his tunic, just visible at the edge of his pocket, something that does not belong to him, something far too fine to be his own.

Your gaze sharpens instantly. “Wait.”

The guards hesitate. You step closer, slower this time, your hand lifting with more care as you reach, not for him, but for the object itself. He flinches, but does not pull away. You take it.

Gold. Heavy. Recognizable. You turn it in your fingers, the shape, the weight, the marking unmistakable even before you lift your gaze.

And when you do, you do not look at the boy. You look at Geta. Recognition flashes instantly. There is no question. It is his brother’s.

Caracalla.

You turn back to the boy. This time, you do not soften.

“Where did you get this?” you demand, your voice steadier now, sharper despite the weakness pulling at your body.

He shakes his head immediately, too fast. “I—I don’t—”

“Do not lie to me.”

The words cut clean, your hand tightening around the ring as you step closer despite the pain, your presence forcing him to look at you, to face what he has done.

“Tell me.”

A pause, then another. And he breaks.

“I didn’t—please—” His voice cracks instantly, the words spilling out unevenly, his composure collapsing entirely as tears begin to streak through the dirt on his face. “He said—he said I would be safe—he said no one would touch me if I did it—”

“Who?” you press.

But you already know.

“He—he told me it was just one thing—just one strike—” the boy continues, sobbing now, his voice shaking so badly the words barely hold together.

“He said it had to be the child—that it had to be stopped—”

The room feels smaller, tighter. “Say his name.”

The command is quiet, but absolute. The boy chokes on it.

“Emperor Caracalla.”

Geta does not move at first. But something in him changes entirely. The last thread of restraint snaps clean.

“You dare,” he says, his voice low, almost unrecognizable now, the fury in it controlled only by the sheer force of his will as he steps forward, slow and deliberate.

His gaze locked onto the boy as though he was no longer a person, but a message.

“A child,” he continues, quieter still, though the danger in it is far greater than shouting. “You were sent to kill my child.”

Geta’s hand lifts slightly, then clenches at his side, his jaw tightening as he finally turns to you, his gaze searching your face, not for confirmation.

But for something else. Something far more dangerous. Permission.

And for the first time since the blade struck, the truth is no longer hidden. This was never random. This was never just chance. This was war. 

For a moment, the room waits on you.

The boy trembles beneath the guards’ grip, his sobs uneven, his eyes wide and pleading, while Geta stands like something carved from stone. Fury coiled tight beneath his skin, ready to be loosed at the slightest command.

You feel it: that expectation, that weight. Your fingers tighten slightly around the ring before you lower your hand.

“Release him.”

The words come quieter than they should. But they do not waver.

The guards hesitate immediately, their gaze snapping to Geta, waiting, always waiting, for his word instead of yours.

You step forward again despite the pain, your voice sharpening just enough to cut through their doubt.

“He is nothing,” you continue, your eyes still fixed on the boy. “A frightened child, handed a blade and a lie. A pawn.”

Geta watches you. Something shifts behind his eyes, not agreement, not entirely, but recognition.

He exhales once through his nose, slow, controlled, before flicking his hand in a dismissive motion.

“Let him go.”

The guards release him at once. The boy stumbles, nearly collapsing where he stands, too shocked to move at first. His breath hitches as he looks between you both, unable to believe what has just been given to him.

Geta steps closer. “You run,” he says, his voice low, venom threaded through every syllable.

“And you pray to whatever gods you believe in that you never cross my path again.”

Then, colder, “Because next time, I will not ask who sent you.”

The boy does not wait; he flees.

The physician moves quickly now, urgency returning as he steps back to your side, his hands steady as he resumes what had been interrupted, his focus absolute.

“My lady, you must lie back.”

You do, this time without protest. His touch is careful but firm, pressing again, listening, assessing in that same practiced way. His brow furrows slightly as he works through what he must determine.

The silence stretches too long. Your breath catches again despite yourself.

“Please—” you whisper, your voice thinner now, stripped of everything but the need to know.

He pauses. Then, looks up. “There is life.”

The words are simple, but they strike like something divine. Your breath leaves you all at once.

Relief crashes through your chest so sharply it almost hurts, your eyes closing briefly as your body finally releases the tension it had been holding.

“The womb is strong,” he continues, quieter now, almost approving. “It has held.”

Beside you, Geta stills. Then exhales, slow and deep, something in him loosening for the first time since the attack.

“Thank the Gods,” he says.

They do not keep you there long after. Not until the bleeding is contained. Not until the life within you is certain.

You are brought back to your chambers, the movement slower now, more careful. The palace feels different again, not soft, not safe, but sharpened by what has just nearly been lost.

He is already there.

Caracalla stands near the center of the room when you enter, his posture composed, his expression arranged into something almost convincing.

“My sister,” he says, stepping forward immediately, his voice smooth, his arms already opening. “I heard what happened—are you—”

He does not finish, because you do not let him. The moment he comes within reach, you move.

Your hand connects with him hard enough to snap his head to the side, the sound sharp in the room, the force staggering him back a step as his carefully crafted expression shatters instantly.

Silence follows, brief, stunned.

Caracalla straightens slowly, his jaw tightening as he lifts a hand to his face, feeling the impact. Disbelief flickers into something darker as he lets out a quiet, humorless scoff.

“Well,” he mutters, turning his head slightly as though testing the sting. “It seems the Augusta has found her bite.”

His gaze shifts to Geta. And something passes between them. Unspoken, but unmistakable. Geta does not move immediately. But the stillness in him now is not calm.

It is something far worse: something controlled, something deliberate. And as his gaze settles fully onto his brother, it is clear.

The room does not have time to breathe. The echo of your hand against Caracalla has barely settled before everything fractures.

Then, Geta moves.

The blade is in his hand before anyone registers it, drawn from his side in one fluid, violent motion as he closes the distance in a heartbeat.

He seizes Caracalla by the front of his tunic and slams him back into the stone wall hard enough to rattle the room.

The blade presses against his throat.

“You—” Geta’s voice breaks into something unrecognizable, raw and unrestrained as he crowds into him, the blade biting just enough to mark. “You would send a child with a blade onto my wife?”

Caracalla does not cower, even now. His breath is uneven, his body pinned, but his mouth curls into something defiant, something ugly.

“I would do what must be done,” he spits, his voice hoarse but steady. “I will not see Rome handed to the womb of traitors.”

The words hang, poisoned. His gaze flicks past Geta, toward you.

“And her,” he continues, the sneer deepening, “she carries rot beneath silk. A bastard line dressed as empire—”

The blade presses harder. Geta’s grip tightens, his knuckles whitening, his entire body coiled with something that has long since passed fury and settled into something far more volatile.

“You speak of rot,” he snarls, his voice dropping low, lethal, his face inches from his brother’s. “You, who drown yourself in filth and call it power?”

Then, sharper, “You hide behind boys and blades because you lack the strength to face me yourself.”

Caracalla laughs. It is broken, breathless, but it does not stop.

“And yet,” he murmurs, blood already beginning to bead at the edge of the knife, “you hesitate.”

For the smallest fraction of a second, time stills.

Then, the blade moves. Clean. Decisive.

There is no hesitation left in him as Geta drags the knife across his throat, the motion swift and final, the sound of it swallowed by the room as blood spills instantly, dark and unstoppable.

Caracalla’s breath cuts. His body jerks once, twice, before it slackens in Geta’s grip, the defiance still etched faintly into his expression as it drains from him just as quickly as the life does.

Silence crashes down.

Geta holds him there for a moment longer, his chest rising and falling unevenly, the blade still clenched in his hand, his entire body rigid with the aftermath of something that cannot be undone.

Then, he lets go. Caracalla collapses to the floor in one loud thud.

And just like that, Rome has lost an Emperor.

this chapter is EVERYTHING TO ME!!!!!!! UGH!!!! rip Caracalla

(did i get lifted this fine 4/20 and finish this chapter? yes don't judge me)

i hope you all enjoyed >:)

beasbugs:

Morning does not arrive all at once.

It seeps in: slow, deliberate, through gauze curtains that soften the light into something almost golden. The room is quiet in a way that feels intentional, as though the world beyond these walls has agreed, just for a moment, to hold its breath.

You wake beneath that light. Not abruptly. Not with the sharp pull of memory. But gradually, your senses returned one by one; the warmth of the sheets, the faint scent of oil and incense lingering in the air, and then… the weight at your waist.

An arm, solid and present. Geta sleeps behind you, his arm draped low across your middle, his hold loose but unmistakable. His breath is steady against the back of your shoulder, warm, rhythmic, grounding in a way that feels entirely at odds with everything you know of him.

For a moment, you do not move. It is easier not to. Easier to pretend, just briefly, that this is something simpler than it is. Then you shift, only slightly. The reaction is immediate.

His arm tightens, not forceful, not restraining, but aware. Conscious. As though even in sleep, he does not forget where you are. A breath passes. Then, “Good morning.”

His voice is low, roughened faintly with sleep, spoken close enough that it brushes against your skin. He does not remove his arm, though it loosens just enough to allow you to turn.

You do. Slowly, carefully, until you can see him. He looks younger, like this. Less composed, the sharp edges of his usual expression softened by the quiet of morning. But his eyes are already open, already on you, already watching.

You do not smile, but neither do you pull away.

“Morning,” you reply, your voice quieter than usual, steadier than you expect. For a moment, you simply exist there, suspended in something that feels dangerously close to stillness.

A knock comes from the chamber doors, full reality of the day settling in. Geta exhales, a quiet sound, as though the moment had been expected to end.

“Enter.” The doors open.

Servants move in with seamless precision, their presence swift but unobtrusive as they carry in what is less a meal and more a display of abundance.

Platters are arranged across the low table: fresh figs split open and glistening, grapes still heavy on their stems, bread warm enough that steam curls faintly from where it has been torn, small dishes of honey thick and golden, soft cheeses, olives steeped in oil and herbs.

There is meat as well, thinly sliced, seasoned and rich, alongside small pastries brushed with sweetness that lingers in the air. Wine, of course. It is poured before either of you asks. The scent of it—dark, deep, familiar—threads through everything.

You watch as the servants finish their work, your gaze lingering not on them, but on the table itself. It is excess. It is power. It is the epitome of Rome.

When they leave, the silence returns, though it feels different now, softened by the presence of something shared.

Geta shifts, sitting up, the sheets falling slightly as he reaches for one of the cups. He pours with practiced ease, the liquid catching the light before he offers it toward you.

“You will eat,” he says, though the words carry less weight than they had before. You glance over the table and grab a goblet. This time, without hesitation.

The first sip is smoother than the night before, less biting, warming rather than burning as it settles. You reach for the food more slowly, selecting a piece of fruit, then a small portion of bread, your movements deliberate but not resistant. He watches, quietly. Not pressing.

The morning stretches, unhurried, the two of you existing within it without immediate demand. It is strange how quickly silence can shift from something suffocating into something… almost bearable.

Then, he reaches for something at his side. A small box. Your hand stills, just slightly, as he opens it. Inside, gold. Richer than before, heavier, the craftsmanship more intricate, more deliberate. And at its center: emerald.

Deep, vivid, catching the morning light in a way that draws the eye without effort. It is not subtle. It is not meant to be.

It is meant to be seen. Your breath catches, faint but undeniable. Geta notices.

“Your hand,” he says, softer now.

You offer it. He removes the previous ring with careful precision, setting it aside as though it had always been temporary, as though this had always been the intention. Then he slides the new one into place, his touch steady, deliberate.

His thumb brushes along your knuckles, once, slow, before he lifts your hand and presses his lips there. The gesture is formal, yes, but there is something beneath it now.

“You wear this better,” he murmurs.

You glance down at it, the emerald gleaming against your skin, bold and unyielding.

“It is… well chosen,” you admit.

The words are simple, but they are not empty. His gaze lifts, searching your face for something, measuring the shift, however slight.

“And you,” you add after a moment, your voice calm, deliberate, “do not choose without purpose.” A flicker of approval underneath your tone.

The morning continues around you, quiet and inevitable, the weight of what is to come resting just beyond the edges of it.

The day of your wedding. And still, for this brief moment, you are not yet standing before Rome.

The moment does not last; it simply cannot.

When Geta rises, it is with the same quiet certainty he carries in all things, the softness of morning already slipping from him like something never meant to remain. He adjusts his garments with practiced ease, his gaze flicking once more to you—brief, measured, unreadable.

“There is much to be done,” he says.

“I will see you at the ceremony.” The words linger only a moment before he turns, the doors opening for him without hesitation. And just like that, he is gone.

You are given only a breath of silence, then the room fills.

Servants arrive in a quiet rush, their movements swift, coordinated, purposeful. Where the morning had been slow, deliberate—this is something else entirely. Preparation. Transformation.

Aelia is among them, her presence steadying in a way you do not fully question. She moves to you first, her touch light but assured as she guides you from the bed.

“My lady,” she says softly, though her hands do not pause. “We must begin.”

There is no refusal to be made. You nod once and allow it.

The baths are drawn again, but this time there is no shared quiet, no lingering stillness. The water is hotter, scented more richly, oils and crushed herbs steeping into the surface until the air itself feels thick with it. You are undressed without ceremony and lowered into the water.

The heat envelops you, loosening what remains of tension in your limbs as Aelia and the others begin their work. Your skin is washed with careful precision, every trace of oil, of sleep, of yesterday removed. It is thorough, almost ritualistic in its intent.

Then comes the preparation; more intimate, more deliberate.

Aelia’s hands remain gentle, even as the process becomes more exacting, removing what must be removed, smoothing what must be smoothed, ensuring that nothing remains unrefined. It is not cruelty.

It is an expectation. Roman brides are presented as perfected forms, untouched by imperfection, their bodies prepared as carefully as their gowns. You do not speak. You endure it, simply because you must.

When the bathing is complete, you are lifted from the water, wrapped in linen, your skin dried with soft cloths before oils are worked into it: light, fragrant, something floral but restrained.

Your hair is next. It takes time. Longer than anything else.

Aelia takes charge, her fingers deft and practiced as she separates your hair into sections, weaving it into the traditional style of a Roman bride.

Six braids, drawn back and wound carefully, pinned and shaped with precision until they form a structure that feels both delicate and unyielding.

It is not left loose today. Today, you are not yourself. You are something else, something Rome will recognize.

A veil is prepared—flammeum—a deep saffron-orange, nearly golden, meant to glow in the light like flame. It is set aside for now, but you can feel its presence even before it is placed.

Your face is tended to next. Subtle, but deliberate. Your features are not hidden, only refined: color returned to your lips, your skin smoothed to an even tone, your eyes darkened just enough to sharpen your gaze.

When Aelia steps back, she does not speak immediately. She studies you, then nods once.

The gown is brought forward. It is unlike anything you have worn before. White, not the soft ivory of courtly dress, but a purer shade, symbolic, unmistakable. The tunica recta is simple in structure but flawless in execution, woven tightly, falling straight and clean along your form.

A girdle: cingulum, is tied at your waist, knotted carefully in the nodus Herculeus, the knot of Hercules.

A symbol. Strength. Fertility. Something meant to be undone only once. The weight of it settles more heavily than the fabric itself. Aelia’s hands are steady as she secures it.

“You stand straight,” she murmurs quietly. You do, because you cannot do anything else.

Jewelry follows. Gold, but not excessive; deliberate. Chosen to enhance, not overwhelm. And finally, the veil.

The flammeum is lifted and placed over your head, its color transforming everything it touches, casting your reflection into something warmer, something almost unreal. It frames your face, softens your features, and yet somehow makes you appear more… untouchable.

Complete. Aelia adjusts it one final time, her fingers lingering just slightly at your temple.

“There,” she says. Soft. Certain.

You turn, and the polished bronze mirror catches your reflection. For a moment, you do not recognize the woman staring back.

She is composed and refined. Beautiful in a way that feels almost distant. A bride of Rome. A symbol. A promise. And beneath it, still you. Somewhere.

The city knows before you ever step outside. It hums with it: anticipation, spectacle, the promise of something Rome will remember.

By the time they lead you to the threshold, the noise has already risen into something immense. It carries through the corridors, through the stone, through your chest like a second heartbeat.

Aelia lingers just behind you, her hands making one final adjustment to the flammeum, smoothing the saffron veil where it rests over your hair.

“You are ready,” she says softly.

You do not feel ready, but you nod. Before the doors open, you pause. Just long enough to reach for the small cup waiting on the table beside you. No one stops you. No one questions it.

The liquid is sharp. Strong. It burns as it goes down, settling warm and immediate in your chest, loosening something tight and unyielding inside you. You set the cup down. Then, you step forward.

The square erupts. Sound crashes over you in waves; cheers, cries, the roar of thousands pressed shoulder to shoulder, all eyes lifted, all voices raised in celebration of something they believe to be unity.

Gold banners ripple overhead, laurel garlands draped across pillars and archways, flowers woven into every available space.

Lilium candidum and lavandula thread through the air, their scent carried on the heat, mingling with incense, dust, and the unmistakable presence of Rome itself.

You are led through it. Displayed. Witnessed. Claimed.

At the center, beneath a raised structure adorned in gold and ivory, he waits. Geta stands as though the entire city exists only to frame him, draped in ceremonial attire, laurel resting at his brow. But when you approach, his attention shifts. Fully. To you.

The noise dims, just slightly. Not gone, never gone. But distant enough that you can hear your own breath again.

A priest steps forward, robes marked with the symbols of tradition, his voice rising above the crowd in practiced cadence. The ritual begins: invocations to the gods, blessings spoken in language older than either of you, binding not just two people, but two legacies.

Your hand is taken. Not by force, but by ceremony. Geta’s fingers close around yours, steady, deliberate, his thumb brushing once across your skin as though grounding you in the moment.

The words come, words older than time, etched into tradition.

“Ibi tu Gaius, ego Gaia.” Where you are, Gaius, I am Gaia.

A declaration of union. Of shared identity. Of something Rome has repeated for generations.

You repeat it. Your voice does not falter, not even now. The priest nods, satisfied. A cloth is drawn between your hands, binding them briefly, symbolically, before being removed. Offerings are made, grain cast, wine poured, the gods acknowledged in every motion.

And then, it is done. There is no grand proclamation. No drawn-out pause. You are no longer what you were. Geta lifts your hand once more, pressing his lips to your knuckles in a gesture that is softer than the spectacle around you deserves.

“Roma watches,” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. “And you do not tremble.” It is almost in admiration.

“Nor do you,” you reply.

A flicker of something passes through his expression. Then, he moves closer. Roman weddings do not demand a kiss, not in the way other traditions might. But emperors are not bound by tradition alone.

His hand lifts to your jaw, not harsh, not claiming in the way it once was, but certain. And then, he kisses you. It is not rushed, not forceful, but deliberate. A statement more than a question.

For a moment, your body tenses, instinct rising sharp and immediate. Then, you do not pull away. You allow it, just enough, long enough that it becomes something real in the eyes of everyone watching.

The crowd erupts again, louder than before, the sound breaking over you both as he draws back, his gaze lingering on yours for a fraction longer than necessary.

Something has shifted. Not undone, but changed. Your hand remains in his. The ring catches the light. The veil frames your face. And beneath the roar of Rome, you stand beside the man who has just made you his wife.

The celebration does not begin. It erupts.

The square, already swollen with ceremony, transforms as the rites conclude. Tables are brought in, laden again with food and wine, musicians filling the air with rhythm and sharp, triumphant notes.

Torches are lit despite the lingering daylight, their flames dancing against gold and marble, turning everything richer, louder, more alive.

You are never alone in it. Geta keeps you at his side, his hand a constant presence at your back or guiding your wrist as he moves you through the crowd.

Faces blur together: senators, generals, noblewomen draped in silk and jewels, each bowing, each offering words of allegiance, of praise.

“Domina.” “Augusta.” “Rome is honored.”

They all know you. Not just for what you are now, but for who you were. Daughter of General Acacius. Their eyes linger: curious, wary, respectful.

Geta introduces you anyway, one by one, his voice smooth, controlled, as though he is placing you carefully into the structure of his world.

“My wife,” he says each time. Not a title, but a statement. And every time, the word lands differently.

The feast gives way to spectacle, it always does. You are led back to the front, to the raised platform where three seats await: thrones, carved and elevated, placed so that all may see.

You are seated between them. Between Geta and Caracalla once more. The crowd shifts, waits. And the games begin.

The gates open, and they bring him out.

Lucius steps into the arena, the sun catching against his shoulders, his stance steady, unbroken despite everything that has led him here. The crowd roars, recognizing strength, recognizing survival.

Another warrior follows. Larger, heavier. Built for brute force rather than precision. The fight is immediate. Brutal.

Steel clashes, bodies move, the sand kicks up beneath their feet as they circle, strike, and recover. You watch it unfold with a steady gaze, your expression unchanged even as the crowd surges with every near hit, every shift in momentum.

Lucius is faster. Smarter. He wins, it is clean and decisive. The other man falls, the sand-stained, the crowd erupting in approval. It should end there, but it doesn’t.

Caracalla leans forward, his interest sharpened now, his grin stretching wider as he watches Lucius stand victorious.

“Is that all?” he calls, his voice carrying easily. “For a wedding worthy of Rome?”

The crowd quiets, waiting. Then, his gaze shifts slowly and deliberately to you.

“Our empress,” he continues, mockery threaded through the title, “is said to be… skilled.”

A ripple moves through the crowd. You do not react, not outwardly. But you feel Geta’s attention shift beside you, feel the subtle stillness in him as he watches, waiting to see how this unfolds.

Caracalla gestures lazily toward the arena. “Let us see it,” he says. “Let Rome witness.”

A blade is brought forward. Two, in fact. They toss Lucius a dulled weapon. Yours, however, is not. The pointed blade is placed into your hand, the weight of it settling instantly, familiarly, the edge sharp enough that you can feel its intent without testing it.

The crowd murmurs, uncertain now. Curious. You rise, slowly. The veil shifts with you, the gold at your waist catching the light as you step down from the platform and into the sand.

The heat meets you again; familiar, real. Lucius watches you as you approach, his stance shifting, guarded, uncertain not of your ability, but of your intention. You give him nothing, at first.

You begin as you always do: controlled, measured. And just slightly off. Your footing falters by a fraction. Your grip loosens just enough to be noticed. Your strikes come slower and less precisely, giving the illusion of hesitation, of inexperience.

Lucius adjusts. He lowers his guard, not fully, but enough. Just enough. And then, you move. The shift is immediate.

Your stance corrects, your blade snapping into place with clean precision as you meet his next strike head-on, the sound of it ringing sharp through the arena. The hesitation vanishes, replaced by something faster, sharper, and undeniable.

The crowd reacts. A murmur turning into something louder. Lucius realizes too late, and you press him hard. Your movements are fluid, controlled, each strike calculated not to overpower, but to outthink. You pivot, redirect, force him into defense, into reaction.

He recovers. He’s good, but so are you. If not, maybe even better. Your blade catches his, twists, and disarms. His weapon hits the sand. And before he can recover, you step in close. The point of your blade presses to his throat, just beneath his jaw. It draws blood. Not much, but just enough.

The arena falls silent. You hold him there, your breath steady, your gaze unyielding as you lean in just slightly, your voice low enough that only he can hear: “Cave ne iterum erres.”

Take care you do not err again.

Or perhaps, A warning.

Then, you pull back, lowering the blade and releasing him. The crowd hesitates, and then explodes. Not just in approval, but in something else. Respect, fear, and something newly formed.

You turn, the pointed blade still in your hand, your posture unshaken as you ascend back toward the platform, the weight of every gaze following you now not with curiosity, but recognition.

You are not just a bride. Not just a symbol. You are something far more dangerous. And as you take your place once more between Geta and Caracalla, Rome knows it too.

The roar of the crowd follows you long after the arena is behind you. It lingers in the air, in the streets, in the very stone beneath your feet as you are led back toward the palace, the procession looser now, less rigid, the formalities of ceremony giving way to celebration.

Rome has seen you and has decided what you are.

The streets are still lined. Not as tightly as before, not as controlled, but filled all the same with people who linger, who watch, who call out as you pass.

Some shout your name now: others simply lift their hands, offering praise, approval, something that feels dangerously close to admiration.

You walk beside Geta, your posture steady, your expression composed, though something inside you has shifted in a way you do not fully name.

Then, a break in the rhythm. Small feet against stone. A cluster of young girls slips past the guards before they can be stopped, their laughter bright and breathless as they rush toward you.

They stop just short of you, wide-eyed, taking in the veil, the gold, the presence of you.

“Domina,” one of them says, the word soft and uncertain, though filled with something like wonder.

You look down at them. For a moment, everything else quiets. Without thinking, you lift your hand to the bouquet still resting at your side, the stems wrapped in linen, the flowers chosen with care—lilium candidum and lavandula, pale and fragrant.

You separate a few stems, kneel just slightly, and offer them.

The girls light up instantly, their small hands reaching, careful but eager as they take what you give them. One laughs, another murmurs thanks, and then they are gone again, darting back into the crowd, clutching the flowers as though they are something precious.

The guards move to close the space again, and the moment ends. But not entirely. You rise. And when you turn, Geta is watching you. There is something in his expression you have not seen before. Not calculation. Not assessment. Something quieter.

“You give freely,” he says, his tone low enough that it does not carry beyond you.

You adjust the bouquet in your hand, what remains of it. “They are children,” you reply simply.

A pause. Then, “Yes.” It is not disagreement, but it is not quite understanding either.

He studies you for a moment longer, as though filing the moment away, as though adding it to the growing list of things he has yet to fully define about you.

Then he gestures forward. “Come.”

The palace is alive. If the square had been loud, this is something deeper, more contained, but no less intense.

Music fills the halls, the low thrum of strings and percussion weaving through the space as voices rise and fall in laughter, in conversation, in the steady rhythm of celebration.

The doors open to a sea of gold and movement.

Wine flows freely, carried by servants who move through the crowd with practiced ease. Tables overflow once more, though now the focus is less on display and more on indulgence. Nobles mingle, their voices lifted, their inhibitions softened by drink and spectacle.

And at the center of it, you. You are drawn into it almost immediately, greeted again and again, hands reaching, voices praising, every interaction reinforcing what has already been made clear.

You are seen. But this time, it feels different. Not suffocating, not entirely. A cup is pressed into your hand before you can refuse it, the wine richer than before, deeper, something meant for celebration rather than ritual.

You take a sip, then another. The music swells, and the noise rises. And somewhere between one moment and the next, you find yourself not resisting it fully.

You move through the crowd beside Geta, your steps steady, your posture still composed, but the edge of it softened just slightly by the warmth settling in your chest, by the rhythm of the music, by the way the room seems to pulse with life rather than expectation.

A laugh slips from you. Quiet, but real. You do not dwell on it, but you do not suppress it either.

Beside you, Geta notices. His gaze flicks to you, lingering just a moment longer than necessary, something unreadable passing through it before he looks away again, as though allowing the moment to exist without claiming it.

For now, the party stretches on. Wine flows. Music builds. And for the first time since everything changed, you allow yourself, just slightly, to exist within it.

The night does not end all at once. It lingers, stretched thin between laughter and music, between the last poured cups of wine and the slow dimming of torches as the celebration begins to fade into something softer, more private.

The crowd thins, the music quiets, and still, Rome hums. You barely notice when the shift happens.

One moment you are surrounded, voices rising and falling around you, the warmth of wine settling comfortably in your chest, the next, the space opens, the press of bodies easing as the night draws toward its inevitable close.

Tradition waits, it always does. Geta finds you easily.

There is no announcement, no grand declaration. Only the subtle shift of his presence at your side, the way the remaining onlookers part without needing to be told, as though they understand what comes next.

You feel his hand at your waist. Steady. Certain.

“Come,” he murmurs. You do not resist, not now, definitely not here.

The walk back through the palace is quieter than any before it. No cheering, no spectacle. Only the echo of footsteps and the low murmur of voices fade behind you. At the threshold of the chamber, he pauses.

Then, he lifts you. It is not clumsy, not even with the wine softening his movements. His arms slide beneath you with practiced ease, pulling you up and into his hold, the shift sudden enough to draw a quiet breath from you as your hands instinctively find his shoulders.

The door opens, closes. And you are carried across the threshold, a ritual older than either of you. Claiming. Binding. Sealing what has already been decided.

He sets you down. Not gently, but not roughly either. You land against the softness of the bed, the linens shifting beneath you as the motion settles, your breath catching just slightly from the suddenness of it.

For a moment, he just stands there. Looking at you. There is something looser in him now, the careful control softened by drink, by the length of the night, by the weight of what has been done.

“You…” he starts, then exhales a quiet, almost disbelieving breath, running a hand back through his hair.

“You stood before all of Rome,” he says, his voice lower now, threaded with something that is not quite mockery, not quite awe. “And did not bend.”

He steps closer, slowly.

“You fought,” he continues, his gaze fixed on you, something brighter flickering there now. “You held a blade to a man’s throat as though you had been born to it.”

A faint, breathy laugh escapes him. “My wife.”

The word sounds different now. Not just a title: something heavier, something claimed.

His hand reaches out, brushing against your arm, your shoulder, his touch less precise than before but no less intentional.

“You are…” he pauses, searching for something, his thumb tracing absently along your skin. “You are more than they understand.” The praise is real, unfiltered. And that, somehow, makes it more dangerous.

You shift slightly beneath him, your expression still guarded, your body not quite relaxed, not quite tense. You are here, but not fully. His hand stills for a moment, his gaze sharpening just slightly as though recalibrating, as though deciding what to do with the space between you.

He doesn’t wait for permission.

His fingers slide from your shoulder to the clasp at your throat, the one that holds the heavy veil in place. It falls away with a whisper of silk, pooling at your hips like spilled wine.

The chamber is dim now, only the low braziers and a single oil lamp left burning, and the light catches on the bare skin it reveals. Your pulse beats hard beneath his thumb as he traces the line of your collarbone.

You turn your face away. Geta exhales, slow and unsteady, the wine thick in his breath. “Look at me.”

You don’t.

His hand moves to your jaw, not forcing, but guiding: firm enough that you feel the calluses from sword hilts and chariot reins. He turns your head until your eyes meet his. 

They are darker than usual, pupils blown wide, the usual sharp calculation blurred at the edges by drink and something hungrier.

“You are my wife,” he says again, quieter this time, almost wondering. “Rome watched you swear it. Now I will have what is mine.”

He leans in and kisses you.

It is not gentle, not like before, but it is slower than you expected. His mouth is warm, tasting of spiced wine and the honeyed figs from the feast.

He lingers, coaxing instead of demanding, tongue tracing the seam of your lips until they part despite you. 

When you still don’t kiss him back, he makes a low sound in his throat: half frustration, half amusement, and deepens it, tilting your head the way he wants.

Your hands stay fisted in the linens beneath you.

He breaks the kiss only to mouth along your jaw, down the column of your throat, teeth grazing the place where your pulse flutters wildly.

“I saw you in the arena,” he murmurs against your skin. “Saw the way you held that blade. You could have killed him. You wanted to.”

A soft, drunken laugh. “And still you knelt for me. For Rome. For this.”

His fingers find the laces of your stola. They fumble once, wine making him clumsy, before he growls softly and simply tears the delicate fastenings open. 

Cool air hits your breasts; your nipples tighten instantly. You suck in a sharp breath and try to push his shoulders, but he catches your wrists in one large hand and presses them down above your head, pinning you easily.

“Shh,” he says, almost soothing. His free hand cups your breast, thumb circling the peak until your back arches despite yourself. “Let me see you.”

You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper.

He releases your wrists only to shove the ruined stola down your hips, dragging it off until you are bare beneath him. 

His gaze drags over you slowly, openly hungry, but there is that same strange quiet in it: the same look he gave you when you handed flowers to the children. Like he is trying to solve you.

He strips his own clothes with less ceremony, tunic and belt discarded in a heap. The lamplight licks over the lean muscle of his chest, the faint scars, the copper trail of hair leading down. He is already hard, cock heavy, and flushed against his stomach. 

When he settles between your thighs, the weight of him presses you deeper into the mattress. You tense.

Geta feels it. He pauses, forearms braced on either side of your head, and looks down at you. His hair has fallen forward; it brushes your cheek. For a moment, the only sound is the crackle of the brazier and your own ragged breathing.

“You’re shaking,” he observes, voice low.

“I don’t want this,” you whisper. The words scrape out raw.

His expression flickers, something almost like surprise, then a crooked, wine-soft smile. “Liar.”

He reaches down, fingers sliding between your legs. You try to close them; his knee keeps them open.

He strokes you anyway, slow and deliberate, finding the slick heat that betrays you even as your mind fights. A low, satisfied hum vibrates against your throat when he feels how wet you already are.

“See?” he murmurs. “Your body knows what it desires.”

Two fingers push inside you without warning. You gasp, hips jerking. He curls them, stroking that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes, and your hands fly up to clutch at his shoulders before you can stop yourself.

“That’s it,” he praises, voice roughening. He pumps his fingers lazily, thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless strokes. “Let it happen. Let me in.”

You bite back a moan. It slips out anyway; small, broken.

He withdraws his fingers only to replace them with the blunt head of his cock. He rubs it against your slick folds, coating himself, teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves until your thighs tremble. Then he pushes forward.

The stretch is sudden, overwhelming. You cry out, nails digging into his back. He groans, deep and guttural, forehead dropping to yours as he sinks in to the hilt.

“Futuo,” he breathes. “So tight. So perfect.”

He stays there, buried deep, letting you adjust even as his arms shake with the effort of holding still. His breath is hot against your cheek. “Breathe,” he commands softly. “I won’t break you tonight. Not like this.”

You hate how the gentleness undoes something in you.

He begins to move: slow rolls of his hips at first, dragging against every nerve. Each thrust pushes a helpless sound from your throat. Your legs fall open wider without permission. Your hands slide into his hair, gripping.

Geta notices. His rhythm falters for half a heartbeat, then he smiles against your mouth; sharp, victorious.

“There she is,” he whispers. 

He kisses you again, harder now, and snaps his hips forward. The gentleness frays at the edges; the wine and the heat of you strip away the last of his restraint.

 He fucks you deeper, harder, one hand sliding under your ass to tilt your hips so he can grind against your clit with every stroke.

You meet him now, you can’t help it. Your body arches, heels digging into the small of his back, chasing the building pressure. The reluctance burns away under the relentless drag of him, under the way he growls your name like a prayer and a curse at once.

When you come, it crashes over you without warning: white-hot and blinding. You clench around him, crying out into his mouth, nails raking down his back hard enough to draw blood. Geta curses, hips stuttering, and follows you over the edge with a broken groan, spilling deep inside you in hot pulses.

For a long moment, the only sound is your shared, ragged breathing. He stays inside you, softening slowly, forehead pressed to yours. His thumb strokes lazy circles over the curve of your hip, almost absent-minded.

“You gave freely to those children,” he murmurs, voice hoarse with spent pleasure. “Tonight… you gave to me.”

You don’t answer. Your body is still humming, traitorously warm and sated beneath his.

Geta kisses the corner of your mouth, soft now, almost tender. He rolls off you but pulls you against his chest before you can move away, one arm locked around your waist like a chain. His breathing evens out quickly, wine and exhaustion claiming him.

You lie there in the circle of his arms, skin cooling, heart still racing, and feel the slow, dangerous bloom of something that is not quite hatred unfurling low in your belly.

Morning comes more slowly this time. Not golden and soft like the day before: this one feels heavier, quieter, as though the room itself is aware of what has passed within it.

You wake to stillness. The curtains remain drawn, the light muted, the air warm beneath the weight of the linens. Your body feels… different. Slower to move, a faint soreness settling into your limbs, into your hips, a reminder you cannot ignore even if you try.

You shift, carefully. A breath catches in your throat before you can stop it. Behind you, your husband stirs. He is awake quickly this time.

His arm is already around you again, though looser now, his hand resting just above your hip as he takes in the small movement, the way you hold yourself.

There is a pause. Then, “You should not rise so quickly.” His voice is lower than usual.

You still slightly, not answering at first, your gaze fixed somewhere ahead of you rather than turning to face him.

“I am fine,” you say, though it comes quieter than you intend.

He does not argue. He sits up first this time, the movement controlled, before reaching for the edge of the bed and calling for the servants without raising his voice.

They come quickly, naturally. Breakfast is brought again: rich, abundant, impossible to ignore. Bread, fruit, honey, soft cheeses, and wine diluted for the morning, though a stronger drink sits just within reach if desired.

He does not wait for you to decide. “You will eat,” he says, more firmly now, though not unkind.

You push yourself upright, more slowly this time, your movements careful and controlled as you settle at the edge of the bed, the soreness reminding you where you stand.

A plate is placed in your hands, and you take it, reluctantly at first.

“You must keep your strength,” he continues, quieter now, his gaze steady on you. “You will be expected to carry my legacy.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the plate. You do not look at him when you reply.

“I understand.”

Then, after a moment, you take a bite. Small, but deliberate. That seems to satisfy something in him. He reaches for the wine, pouring it himself this time, offering it to you without comment. When your hand brushes his as you take it, he does not pull away immediately.

Not quite. “You did not falter,” he says after a moment, his tone quieter now, less pointed than before. “Not before Rome. Not before me.”

There is something in the way he says it. Not praise alone. Recognition. You glance at him then, briefly.

“And yet,” you reply, your voice steady despite everything, “you still expect more.”

A faint exhale leaves him, something almost like amusement. “I always will.”