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“Sirius! Don’t go out there yet. We have to talk about this,” you warned, catching him by the sleeve of your own Slytherin robes.

Sirius stopped in his tracks, looking down at your hand on his—well, your—arm.

“What are you planning to do with my body?” you demanded, keeping a tight grip so he couldn't bolt.

Sirius, wearing your face, simply shrugged. “I dunno. Troll around a bit?”

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your—or rather, his—nose. “Let’s just switch back before our friends find us.”

Sirius let out a dramatic groan. “Alright, alright. Guess I’ll just have to swap with someone else next time.”

You gave him a dry, sarcastic smile. “As long as it’s not me, I couldn’t care less.”

Pulling out your wands, you both raised them and began to recite the reversal incantation.

Nothing happened.

You stared back at the mirror. You were still looking at the handsome, exasperated face of Sirius Black. You glanced over at your actual body; Sirius was looking down at his hands, equally bewildered.

“Did the incantation not work?” you muttered.

Sirius looked down, his eyes landing on the wand in your hand. “Hold on. Is that my wand?”

You looked down. The wood was entirely wrong. “Ah. Right.”

“Maybe we should use our own wands?” he suggested, gesturing between the two of you.

You let out a soft hum of agreement and quickly swapped the wands back to their rightful owners. Taking a deep breath, you raised your own wand, pointed it at Sirius, and repeated the counter-spell.

Still, absolutely nothing happened.

A beat of heavy silence hung in the air. Then, Sirius let out a panicked, undignified shriek. He stared at his hands—your hands—in pure terror.

“No, no, no! I'm stuck!” he cried.

You, on the other hand, sank onto the stone floor in sheer frustration. Your body was currently being occupied by the most chaotic, annoying boy in Hogwarts.

Sirius began to pace the length of the classroom, biting his thumb as if the pain would wake him up. “What do we do now?! We need to get this sorted, fast!”

“I know that!” you grumbled, leaning your head against the cold wall.

How on earth had you let him drag you into this?

[ 𑣲⋆]

An hour earlier...

“Hey! Psst!”

Sirius’s finger poked aggressively into your shoulder while Professor Slughorn was in the middle of explaining the properties of a new potion.

You rolled your eyes, turning your head just enough to glare at him. “What now, Black?”

“I’ve got a brilliant experiment to test,” Sirius whispered, a dangerous spark of mischief in his grey eyes.

You raised an eyebrow. “Okay. And? What exactly does that have to do with me?”

Sirius let out a quiet chuckle. “You’re going to help me test it.”

“Absolutely not,” you replied instantly.

“Why not?”

“Because your 'experiments' always end in a trip to the hospital wing or a month of detention.”

“Oh, come on! This one is actually brilliant,” Sirius pleaded, clasping his hands together in a mock prayer.

“Can’t you get Potter or Lupin to do it with you?” you questioned, turning back to your notes.

Sirius rolled his eyes. “If I could, do you think I'd be begging a Slytherin?”

“Fair point. So why can’t you?”

Sirius sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “James is too busy trying to corner Lily Evans to ask her to Hogsmeade, Remus has his nose buried so deep in a book he won’t even look at me, and Peter… well, I don’t think he could pull it off. You’re honestly the best person for the job.”

“Still a no.”

“Aren’t you even a little bit curious about what it is?”

You paused, your quill hovering over your parchment. You hated your own curiosity. It was your absolute worst trait.

“Fine,” you muttered. “Tell me.”

Sirius’s face lit up. “Body swapping.”

You grimaced, looking at him like he had lost his mind. “Body swapping? Are you mental, Black?”

“It’ll be quick! I swear I won’t do anything weird.”

“How can I trust you? You’ve said that exact phrase to half the school right before setting off a dungbomb.”

“Touché,” Sirius grinned. “But seriously. Aren't you dying to know if the magic works?”

He had you there. You were curious.

Before you could argue, Slughorn’s voice boomed from the front of the classroom. “Mr. Black! Ms. (Last Name)! As much as I am delighted to see inter-house cooperation, I must ask you to save the social hour for later. Perhaps you two would care to answer my next questions?”

The classroom went dead quiet. Dozens of eyes turned to lock onto the two of you at the back of the room.

You swallowed hard and nodded.

“Excellent!” Slughorn beamed. “Now, Ms. (Last Name), can you tell the class what the Draught of Living Death is?”

You cleared your throat, relying on your memory. “The Draught of Living Death is an incredibly powerful, advanced sleeping potion. It induces a profound, death-like slumber, putting the drinker into an indefinite sleep. Because of its strength, it is highly dangerous if brewed incorrectly or misused.”

“Spot on! Ten points to Slytherin,” Slughorn smiled, turning his gaze. “And Mr. Black? Can you tell us the key ingredients, and the cure?”

Sirius didn't even blink. He leaned back in his chair, radiating effortless confidence. “The Draught of Living Death requires Powdered Root of Asphodel, an Infusion of Wormwood, Sloth Brain, and the juice of a Sopophorous Bean. And if you’re unfortunate enough to drink it, you can be revived using the Wiggenweld Potion.”

“Remarkable! Ten points to Gryffindor as well.” Satisfied, Slughorn turned back to the blackboard, and the attention of the class drifted away.

Sirius immediately leaned back over to you, his grin wider than before. “So? Are you in?”

You had hesitated. The magic was complex, risky, and highly unauthorized. But your Slytherin ambition and raw curiosity won out.

“Fine,” you whispered.

[ 𑣲⋆]

And that was how you had ended up on the floor of an abandoned classroom, staring at your own face.

“I should have never agreed to this,” you snapped, standing up and brushing off Sirius’s trousers. “You have absolutely no idea what you’re doing!”

“Hey, the spell worked! We just… need to figure out the exit strategy,” Sirius muttered, looking down at his—your—chest. He paused, a sudden, horrifying thought crossing his expression. “Wait. How do girls pee?”

“Excuse me?”

You stared at him, your stomach doing a backflip of pure disgust.

“You heard me,” he said, entirely shameless. “How do you ladies manage it? What do I do?”

“Why on earth are you asking me that right now?!”

“Because what if I have to go? I need to be prepared!”

“Then hold it!” You felt a sudden surge of panic. Under no circumstances could you let him wander into the girls' lavatory in your body. “Actually, no. Just… don’t go. At all.”

You grabbed him by the shoulders of your own robes. “Black, can you use your brain for once? We have to switch back. Now.”

“Alright then, if you think I’m not using my brain, then what should we do?” Sirius challenged mockingly, resting his chin in his hand with an exaggerated, pouty frown.

“I—” You paused, your mind racing, but finding absolutely nothing. “I don’t know.”

“Figures.”

You glared at him. It was an incredibly trippy experience, watching your own eyes roll back at you with a lazy, arrogant amusement you had never once portrayed in your life.

“Don’t look at me like that using my own face, Black,” you hissed, crossing his arms over his chest.

Before Sirius could retort, the giant clock bell in the courtyard began to toll, the heavy gong vibrating right through the stone floor beneath your feet.

The color instantly drained from your—well, his—face.

“Oh, Merlin,” you whispered, staring up toward the window. “It’s two o’clock. We have Transfiguration.”

Sirius’s smug expression vanished, replaced by a sudden, rigid terror. “With McGonagall? Together?”

“No, worse,” you said, the panic finally clawing its way up your throat. “Slytherins have double Potions with Slughorn. Gryffindors have McGonagall. Which means you have to go pretend to be a quiet, perfect Slytherin in the dungeons, and I have to go sit next to Potter and pretend I know how to turn a teacup into a gerbil in front of the most observant witch in Hogwarts.”

Sirius stared at you, his—your—mouth hanging slightly open. “Okay. Okay, don't panic. We just need a crash course. Fast.”

The panic in the dusty classroom was practically palpable, thick enough to choke on. The grand clock in the courtyard had finished its two o'clock toll, leaving a heavy, ringing silence in its wake.

“A crash course,” you repeated, your voice—no, Sirius’s deep voice—sounding incredibly foreign in your ears. You gripped his robes, your mind racing. “We have exactly three minutes before the hallways clear and McGonagall starts locking her classroom doors. Start talking, Black. How do I act like you?”

Sirius, currently wearing your face and your green-trimmed Slytherin uniform, took a step back. He crossed your arms over his chest, a slow, ridiculously smug grin spreading across your lips. It was highly unsettling to see your own features look so effortlessly mischievous.

“Well, first of all, you’re slouching,” Sirius said, pointing a finger at you. “I don’t slouch. I lean. There’s a difference. It’s all about looking like you own the room, even when you’re about to get detention. You’ve got to walk like you’ve got a secret, and that secret is that you’re better than everyone else.”

“I am a Slytherin, Black. I already know how to look superior,” you snapped, adjusting the red-and-gold Gryffindor tie that felt like a choke collar around your neck. “What else?”

“Right. James,” Sirius said, his expression turning slightly more serious. “James is going to throw his arm around your shoulders. He does it every five minutes. Do not flinch, do not curse him, and whatever you do, do not call him ‘Mr. Potter’ or whatever formal nonsense you use in the dungeons. Just call him James. Or, if he’s being particularly annoying, just call him Prongs.”

You blinked. Prongs? What kind of ridiculous pureblood nonsense nickname was that? You didn’t have time to ask.

“And Remus?” you pushed, running a hand through Sirius’s dark, unruly curls—which, you had to admit, were incredibly soft.

“Remus is the smart one. He’ll be reading,” Sirius explained, gesturing vaguely with his hands. “If he asks to see your Transfiguration essay, tell him you lost it. If he calls you Padfoot, just roll your eyes and ignore him. He’ll think you’re just in a mood. Oh, and Peter will probably ask to copy your notes. Just tell him to ask Remus.”

Padfoot. Another absurd word. You filed it away in your mind, praying you wouldn't have to use it.

“Alright, my turn,” you said, stepping closer to him, towering over your own body. It was a bizarre sensation, being the taller one for once. You gripped Sirius by the shoulders—your shoulders—and forced him to stand up straight. “Listen to me carefully. You cannot bounce. Slytherins do not bounce when they walk. Keep your chin up, your shoulders back, and look incredibly bored. If anyone from my house tries to speak to you, just give them a short, cold nod and keep walking.”

Sirius looked up at you through your own eyelashes, a teasing glint in his eyes. “A cold nod. Like this?” He attempted a stiff, robotic jerk of his head.

“No, absolutely not. You look like a broken grandfather clock,” you groaned, rubbing your temples. “And don’t smile! I do not smile at people in the corridors. Especially not the Gryffindors. If you see James or Remus, you have to ignore them. If they try to wave at you, look right through them.”

Sirius’s eyes softened slightly, a softer, surprisingly gentle expression appearing on your face. “You know,” he murmured, his voice—your voice—dropping to a quiet, intimate register. “I’ve spent the last three years sitting next to you in Potions, watching you ignore me. I think I’ve got your ‘bored, mysterious Slytherin’ act down to an art form.”

Your breath hitched. You stared at him, caught off guard by the sudden intensity in his eyes. Ever since Slughorn had paired you together in your third year, Sirius had made it his personal mission to pester you, tease you, and steal your ingredients just to get a reaction out of you. You had always assumed you were just an easy target—a stubborn Slytherin who refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. But hearing him admit he’d been studying you so closely sent a strange, fluttering warmth through your chest.

Before you could dwell on it, the distant sound of heavy wooden doors opening echoed from the corridor outside. Class was letting out. The hallways were about to be flooded with students.

“Time’s up,” you whispered, your heart hammering against Sirius’s broad ribs.

“Right,” Sirius said, taking a deep breath. He smoothed down the front of your Slytherin robes, his posture shifting. In an instant, the lazy, hyperactive Gryffindor energy vanished. His shoulders set, his chin tilted upward, and his eyes cooled into a perfect, detached glaze.

It was terrifyingly accurate. He looked exactly like you.

“How do I look?” he asked, his voice dripping with smooth, effortless Slytherin disdain.

“Horrifyingly perfect,” you admitted. “Don’t make me regret this, Black.”

“Never,” he whispered, giving you one last, fleeting wink with your own eyes before turning and slipping out the classroom door, blending seamlessly into the sea of students rushing down the hall.

You stood alone for a fraction of a second, taking a deep breath of your own. Act cool. You are Sirius Black. You own the school.

With a mental prayer to Merlin, you pushed open the door and stepped out into the chaotic, bustling corridor.

Immediately, the sensory overload of being Sirius Black hit you. He was tall, which meant you could see over the heads of most of the younger years, but it also meant you were a walking target. Within three steps, a younger Gryffindor girl waved at you, squeaking a shy, “Hi, Sirius!”

You panicked, offering a stiff, awkward wave back. Shoot. Was that too friendly?

Before you could analyze it, a heavy arm suddenly draped itself over your shoulders, nearly knocking you off balance. You gasped, turning your head to find James Potter grinning widely at you, his messy black hair sticking up in every direction.

“There you are, Padfoot!” James yelled over the din of the hallway, completely oblivious to your rigid posture. “Where did you run off to after Potions? Remus said you went to the library, but I knew that was a lie. You wouldn’t go to the library unless someone threatened to dye your hair green.”

Your mind went completely blank. Padfoot. He had called you Padfoot.

“Ah… right,” you squeaked, your voice cracking slightly before you forced it down into Sirius’s usual lazy register. “Just… had to take care of something. In the bathroom.”

James paused, squinting at you through his round glasses. He leaned in closer, his hazel eyes scanning your face. “Are you alright? You look a bit… pale. And why are you standing so straight? Did McGonagall finally curse your spine?”

From behind James, Remus Lupin appeared, clutching a thick leather-bound book to his chest. His pale, scarred face wore an expression of mild amusement, but his sharp amber eyes were fixed on you with a quiet, observant intensity.

“He’s probably just dreading the Transfiguration quiz, James,” Remus said softly, turning a page of his book without looking up. “Though, usually, Sirius’s coping mechanism is to complain loudly, not stand there like a Buckingham Palace guard.”

You felt a sweat break out on the back of your neck. These boys knew Sirius inside and out. If you didn’t do something characteristic—and do it fast—they were going to figure out something was wrong before you even made it to the classroom.

Desperate, you thought back to Sirius’s advice. You’ve got to walk like you own the room.

You forced your shoulders to drop, adopting what you hoped was a lazy, arrogant slouch. You reached up and ran a hand through your curls, letting out a heavy, dramatic sigh.

“I’m fine, mate,” you drawled, trying to channel Sirius’s signature drama. “Just exhausted. Slughorn’s lecture was incredibly dry today. Honestly, I think my brain has turned to mush.”

James let out a loud laugh, slapping your back. “Now that sounds like you. Come on, we’d better get to class before McGonagall locks us out. I want to see if I can transfix my teacup to look like Lily’s face.”

“That is highly creepy, James,” Remus muttered, finally closing his book with a soft thud.

As the three of you began to walk toward the Transfiguration classroom, you glanced over the banister of the grand staircase, looking down toward the entrance of the dungeons.

Down below, walking gracefully through the crowd of green-and-silver robes, was your own body. Sirius was walking perfectly, his chin tilted up, exuding a cold, untouchable aura. But just as he reached the dungeon stairs, he caught your eye from across the moving staircases.

Using your face, Sirius slowly raised two fingers to his temple, throwing you a cheeky, mocking salute, before disappearing into the shadows of the dungeons.

You swallowed hard, turning back to James and Remus.

Merlin help me, you thought, I am going to kill him when this is over.

The heavy oak doors of the Transfiguration classroom shut behind you, sealing you into a room filled with chatter, desks, and the intimidating presence of Professor McGonagall.

You slid into the seat next to James, your heart doing double-time inside Sirius’s chest. On your other side, Remus took his seat, immediately setting down his inkwell and quill with a quiet precision that made you incredibly nervous.

“Right then,” McGonagall's sharp voice cut through the room, instantly silencing the class. “Today we are progressing to animative transfiguration. You will find a teacup on each of your desks. By the end of the double period, I expect to see those teacups breathing, whiskered, and scurrying. Teacups to gerbils. Wands at the ready.”

You stared at the floral teacup in front of you. Normally, you excelled at Transfiguration. But you excelled at it using your wand, your hands, and your muscle memory.

“Watch this, Padfoot,” James whispered, leaning over your shared desk. He gave his wand a flashy, aggressive twist. “Vertecalis!”

His teacup sprouted a pair of fuzzy brown ears and a tiny, twitching tail, though the body remained entirely ceramic and printed with pink roses. James grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “Your turn. Let’s see if you can actually do it on the first try today. Ten Galleons says yours ends up with a handle for a nose again.”

You swallowed hard. You gripped Sirius’s wand. As a Slytherin, you had been trained in precise, elegant wand movements—sharp angles and minimal effort. You raised the wand, cleared your throat, and performed a perfect, fluid, and highly disciplined wrist flick.

“Vertecalis.”

With a soft poof of purple smoke, your teacup transformed completely into a perfect, sleek, brown gerbil. It squeaked, blinking its tiny black eyes, and began to groom its whiskers on the wooden desk.

Silence fell over your desk.

James stared at the gerbil. Then he stared at you. Slowly, his brow furrowed, and a little flicker of suspicion crossed his face.

“Since when do you do the wrist flick like that?” James asked, squinting through his glasses. “And since when do you get it perfect on the first go without shouting the incantation like a battle cry?”

“I... practiced over the weekend,” you lied smoothly, trying to copy Sirius’s lazy, dismissive shrug. “Decided to show you up for once.”

James’s suspicion melted into a competitive grin. “Oh, is that how it is? Practicing in secret? You absolute traitor. I see how it is.” He immediately turned back to his half-ceramic beast, muttering, “Well, mine’s going to have a better coat of fur, just you watch...”

You let out a silent breath of relief. James was too easily distracted by his own ego to dig any deeper.

Remus, however, was a completely different story.

From the desk beside yours, Remus hadn’t even picked up his wand yet. He was leaning back, his amber eyes narrowed slightly as he watched you.

“Sirius,” Remus said, his voice quiet, almost casual.

“Yeah?” you turned, trying to look bored.

“Where’s your leather jacket?”

Your hand instinctively flew to the collar of the red-and-gold Gryffindor robes you were wearing. Crap. Sirius never wore his school robes properly. He almost always wore his muggle leather jacket over his uniform, or at the very least had his robes draped haphazardly over one shoulder. You had put the uniform on perfectly, buttoned up to the collar, because your Slytherin brain couldn't stand looking messy.

“Oh. Uh. It’s in the dorms,” you stammered, trying to cool your tone. “Thought I’d... follow the dress code today. Keep McGonagall off my back.”

Remus’s eyebrows rose. It was a look of pure, unadulterated skepticism. “You. Following the dress code. To keep McGonagall off your back.”

“Yes?”

“The same McGonagall who gave you three detentions last week for wearing a muggle band t-shirt to breakfast?” Remus asked, his voice dripping with suspicion.

“I’m trying to be a reformed man, Remus,” you grumbled, pulling on Sirius’s curls again—a nervous habit you were quickly developing.

Remus didn't answer. He just kept staring at you, his analytical mind clearly putting pieces of a puzzle together.

To make matters worse, you had to take notes. When McGonagall began writing the theoretical breakdown of the transfiguration on the blackboard, you dipped Sirius’s quill in ink and began to write. Because you were panicking, you forgot to mimic Sirius’s chaotic, giant, messy scrawl. Instead, your hand naturally flowed into your usual, elegant, cursive handwriting—neatly spaced, perfectly aligned.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over your parchment.

You looked up. Remus was leaning over the gap between your desks, his eyes locked onto your notebook. His gaze slowly traveled from the neat, flawless cursive up to your face.

“Your handwriting is beautiful today, Sirius,” Remus murmured, his voice laced with a dangerous amount of suspicion. “It almost looks like... calligraphy.”

“I’m... trying a new style,” you squeaked, quickly closing the notebook.

“Right,” Remus said slowly, leaning back into his seat. He didn't say another word, but the look he gave you said everything.

He knew. Or, at the very least, he knew you were absolutely not Sirius Black.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and stared straight ahead at the blackboard, silently screaming at Sirius in your mind. If you blow my cover in the dungeons while I’m being interrogated by a werewolf, Black, I will personally throw you into the Black Lake.

While you were busy surviving a soft interrogation by Remus Lupin, Sirius was having the time of his life.

Slughorn’s double Potions had been a breeze. All Sirius had to do was sit at your desk, pretend to take notes, and occasionally sneer at a Gryffindor who looked his way. He’d actually found it incredibly liberating to just glare at people and have them instantly back off. So this is the power of a Slytherin, he’d thought, highly amused.

But now, class was over, and Sirius had a much bigger mission. He was heading down to the dungeons.

For three years, he’d heard rumors about the Slytherin common room. Gryffindors always painted it as a dark, damp, vampire-esque dungeon filled with skulls and dark magic. Sirius, being Sirius, was dying to see if they kept a giant squid in a glass wall or if the sofas were actually made of dragon leather.

He descended the cold stone steps, your black robes swishing elegantly around his—or rather, your—ankles. He had to admit, your posture was excellent. Walking straight made him feel remarkably imposing.

He stopped in front of the damp stone wall that hid the entrance.

Wait.

Sirius froze. The password.

"Uh," Sirius muttered under his breath, staring at the blank stone. He racked your brain—or his brain—trying to remember if you had ever mentioned it. You hadn't. Desperate, he tried the first pureblood, dramatic thing that came to mind.

"Salazar?" he whispered.

Nothing.

"Basilisk? Pure-blood? Slughorn is a coward?"

The wall remained stubbornly shut. Sirius was just about to kick it in frustration when a cold, drawling voice spoke up from behind him.

"Are you having a stroke, or did you simply forget how to speak?"

Sirius whirled around. Standing there, looking incredibly unimpressed, was Regulus Black.

Sirius’s heart did a strange, sudden flip. Seeing his little brother from this perspective was bizarre. Usually, when they crossed paths in the corridors, Regulus looked at him with a mix of anger, disappointment, and hurt. But right now, looking at Sirius (who was in your body), Regulus’s grey eyes were completely neutral—just mildly annoyed by a classmate blocking the door.

"Well?" Regulus asked, eyebrow arched.

"I—" Sirius caught himself, quickly dropping his voice to mimic your tone. He cleared his throat. "I was just... thinking. Lost my train of thought."

Regulus rolled his eyes, a familiar, aristocratic gesture that made Sirius want to laugh. "Veridian," Regulus muttered to the wall.

The stone bricks slid aside, revealing the low-panelled, green-lit warmth of the Slytherin common room.

Sirius’s eyes widened as he stepped inside. It wasn't a damp cave at all. It was incredibly grand. Heavy, dark wood bookcases lined the walls, stuffed with ancient-looking volumes. Luxurious, deep-green leather armchairs were gathered around a massive hearth where a crackling green fire burned, casting long, dramatic shadows. Through the thick, reinforced glass windows, the dark, murky waters of the Black Lake rippled, with the occasional silhouette of a grindylow drifting past.

"Brilliant," Sirius breathed out, entirely forgetting to act like you.

Regulus paused, turning back to look at him. "Brilliant? You've lived here for five and a half years. Are you high on firewhisky?"

"Just... appreciating the architecture, Black," Sirius recovered quickly, giving Regulus a cool, lazy nod.

Regulus stared at him for a second longer, his silver eyes narrowing just a fraction. There was a brief, tense moment where Sirius wondered if his own brother’s sharp instincts would see right through the magic. But Regulus just let out a quiet, dismissive huff and walked over to a corner table where two other boys were sitting.

Sirius’s eyes followed him. He recognized them instantly: Barty Crouch Jr. and Evan Rosier.

Barty was currently balancing his wand on his nose, looking incredibly bored, while Evan was lazily flipping through a Herbology textbook.

"There you are," Barty called out as Sirius approached, his eyes lighting up with a chaotic spark. "We thought Slughorn kept you behind to clean cauldrons again. What took you so long? And why were you standing outside the wall like a gargoyle?"

"Forgot the password," Sirius said, sliding into an empty armchair next to them. He leaned back, crossing his legs and resting his ankle over his knee—a very casual, Gryffindor way of sitting.

Evan looked up from his book, his eyes dropping to Sirius’s legs, then up to his face. "Since when do you sit like that?"

Sirius blinked, realizing his mistake. He quickly uncrossed his legs, sitting up a bit straighter. "Cramp. Leg cramp."

"Right," Evan said slowly, not looking entirely convinced. "Anyway, did you get the notes from Slughorn? I slept through the entire lecture on the Draught of Living Death."

"Oh, yeah. I've got them," Sirius said smoothly, reaching into your bag. He pulled out your parchment and handed it over.

Barty leaned over Evan’s shoulder to look at the parchment, only to let out a loud, dramatic groan. "What is this?"

"My notes?" Sirius offered, brow furrowing.

"This isn't your writing," Barty said, pointing a finger at the parchment. "Your handwriting is always neat and tiny. This looks like a Hippogriff ran over the page with ink on its talons. It's massive. And half of these words are misspelled."

Sirius stared at the parchment in horror. He had taken the notes. In his handwriting. Which meant your beautiful, perfect Slytherin notebook now looked like a giant, messy scribble.

"I... was writing fast," Sirius lied, his voice dropping an octave as he tried to sound defensive. "Slughorn was talking quickly."

"He speaks at the pace of a dying snail," Regulus noted quietly from across the table, not looking up from his homework.

Evan squinted at the parchment, then looked up at Sirius, his eyes analyzing your face. "Are you feeling alright? You've been acting weird since you walked in. You look... louder. If that makes sense."

"I am perfectly fine," Sirius insisted, his jaw tightening. He was starting to realize that surviving in the Slytherin house wasn't about being mean—it was about being incredibly quiet and consistent. And he was failing miserably at both.

Barty grinned, a mischievous, dangerous look crossing his face as he leaned forward. "Wait a minute. You didn't actually do that ridiculous body-swap experiment with Black, did you? I saw him whispering to you in class."

Sirius’s heart stopped. He stared at Barty, his mind racing for a lie, praying his face wouldn't betray the sheer panic he was feeling.

The walk to the Transfiguration classroom had been three minutes of absolute, sweat-inducing torture, but sitting down inside McGonagall’s class was infinitely worse.

You were sat at a long wooden desk with James on your left and Remus on your right. Peter was sitting just behind you, occasionally leaning forward to snort at whatever James was doing.

Having successfully dodged Remus’s sharp questions about your handwriting and lack of a leather jacket, you desperately tried to focus on the task at hand. You needed to blend in. You needed to act like Sirius Black—or at least, a slightly quiet version of him.

“Alright, Padfoot,” James whispered, leaning over the desk and pointing his wand at his half-transfigured, rose-printed teacup. “Double or nothing. I bet you five Galleons you can’t make your gerbil do a backflip.”

“We’re supposed to be taking notes on the theory of organic molecular shifting, James,” Remus murmured from your other side, his quill scratching steadily against his parchment.

“Oh, live a little, Moony,” James grinned, nudging your elbow with his own. “Come on, Pads. Show him how it’s done. You’ve been quiet today. Usually, you’d have turned your teacup into a dungbomb by now to get us out of the double period.”

You forced a lazy, reckless grin onto Sirius’s handsome face, though your insides were twisting into knots. “I’m just saving my energy, Potter,” you drawled.

James froze.

The scratching of Remus’s quill abruptly stopped.

Even Peter, who had been lazily balancing an inkwell on his knee behind you, went completely still.

You stared at them, your heart stopping. What did I say?

James’s hazel eyes narrowed behind his round glasses. “Potter?” he repeated, his voice dropping. “Since when do you call me Potter unless you’re incredibly pissed off at me? Or unless…” James gasped, a sudden look of mock horror crossing his face. “Pads, did you get sorted into Slytherin in your sleep? Who are you and what have you done with my best mate?”

“I—I was joking,” you stammered, frantically trying to recover. You let out a forced, bark-like laugh that sounded incredibly hollow. “Just a bit of banter, mate. You know. Keeping you on your toes.”

James stared at you for a second longer before his easygoing nature won out. He snorted, shaking his head. “You’re weird today. Seriously. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you actually did some studying over the weekend and it broke your brain.”

You let out a weak chuckle, pretending to focus back on your perfectly formed gerbil.

But you could feel Remus’s eyes on you.

The sandy-haired boy hadn't resumed writing. He was leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, studying you with an incredibly sharp, analytical gaze.

“Peter,” Remus said quietly, not breaking eye contact with you.

“Yeah, Moony?” Peter piped up from behind.

“What did Sirius eat for breakfast this morning?”

“Uh…” Peter blinked, thinking hard. “Four pieces of toast, half of James’s bacon, and he spilled pumpkin juice all over his transfiguration essay. Why?”

Remus didn't answer Peter. Instead, he leaned closer to you, lowering his voice so James, who was currently trying to make his half-gerbil-half-cup fetch a crumpled piece of parchment, wouldn't hear.

“You didn’t spill pumpkin juice on your essay, Sirius,” Remus whispered, his amber eyes locking onto yours. “Because when I asked you for it earlier, you told me you lost it. And you haven't touched your pumpkin juice in three days because you claimed the house-elves were trying to poison you with it.”

You felt a drop of cold sweat slide down your temple. You gripped the edge of the desk, your knuckles turning white. “I… forgot,” you muttered, trying to sound dismissive. “My memory’s shot today, Remus.”

“And your posture is perfect,” Remus continued, his voice dangerously calm, almost fascinated. “And you’re holding your quill with a thumb-and-two-finger grip. Sirius holds his like a caveman clutching a club. Furthermore, you haven't looked at the door once to see if Evans is walking by, and you haven't tried to kick James’s chair even once.”

You swallowed hard. You were trapped. This boy wasn't just smart—he was terrifyingly observant.

“Who are you?” Remus asked softly, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And what did you do with Sirius?”

The sheer, suffocating weight of Remus Lupin’s gaze was enough to make you want to vanish on the spot. You were frozen, your hand gripping Sirius’s wand so tightly the wood dug into your palm. You opened your mouth to stammer out another desperate lie, but before a single sound could escape your throat, the classroom door was suddenly thrown open.

In walked your own body.

Sirius—looking pristine, poised, and utterly out of place in your Slytherin robes—strode into the Transfiguration classroom with a look of frantic, barely concealed panic written across your features. He didn’t even glance at McGonagall. He marched straight toward the Gryffindor table, grabbed you by the forearm of his leather-jacket-clad arm, and hauled you out of your seat.

“Excuse us, Professor,” Sirius said, using your smooth, melodic voice to address a thoroughly baffled McGonagall. “An urgent prefect matter. Student council. Slytherin business. We must go.”

“Ms. (Last Name), Mr. Black, what is the meaning of—” McGonagall began, her glasses slipping down her nose, but Sirius was already dragging you backward out of the classroom.

James blinked in utter confusion, his half-gerbil-teacup screeching as it fell off the desk. Remus, however, didn’t look confused at all. He simply watched the two of you bolt, a slow, knowing, and deeply amused smile spreading across his face. He knew exactly what was happening now.

Sirius didn’t stop running until he had dragged you up a flight of moving stairs, down a deserted, tapestry-lined corridor, and shoved you into a dusty, unused broom closet, slamming the heavy oak door shut behind you.

The space was incredibly cramped. Surrounded by broken cauldrons and smelling heavily of lemon-scented floor wax, the two of you were pressed nearly chest-to-chest. Because of the height difference, you—in Sirius's tall, broad body—were looming over your own physical form.

“Are you completely insane?!” you hissed, your deep, rumbling voice vibrating in the small space. “You just dragged me out of McGonagall’s class! Remus already knows, Black! He practically dissected me! He knew I wasn’t you the second I wrote a sentence in legible cursive!”

“Oh, you think you had it rough?” Sirius gasped, his hands—your delicate, soft hands—grabbing the lapels of his leather jacket. He looked up at you with your own eyes, which were wide and frantic. “Barty Crouch Jr. is a absolute menace! I walked into the Slytherin common room and within five minutes he asked if I was high on bubotuber pus because I forgot the password! And then I handed him your notes—”

“My notes?” you whispered, a horrible dread pooling in your stomach. “What did you do to my notes?”

“I wrote them,” Sirius squeaked defensively, using your voice. “But apparently your friends think you write like a muggle typewriter, because Barty took one look at my handwriting and asked if a Hippogriff had run over the parchment. He literally asked if we did a body-swap spell! I had to fake a massive coughing fit and run out of the dungeons before they pinned me down and forced me to drink Veritaserum!”

You closed your eyes, leaning your head back against the wooden wall of the closet. “We are doomed. We are going to be expelled. Or worse, my housemates are going to think I’ve lost my mind and lock me in St. Mungo’s.”

“Hey,” Sirius murmured.

You opened your eyes.

Because of the tight space, Sirius was looking up at you, his—your—face only inches from yours. It was the strangest, most intoxicating sensation. For three years, Sirius had been a loud, disruptive, beautiful nuisance in your life. He was the boy who threw crushed lacewing flies at your cauldron, who wrote sarcastic commentary on the margins of your essays, and who constantly sought your attention with a relentless, annoying charm. You had always kept your walls up, playing the cold, untouchable Slytherin.

But looking at your own face right now, carrying an expression of soft, genuine vulnerability that you never let yourself show to the world, something shifted.

Sirius slowly reached up, his large, calloused fingers—which were currently your hands—gently brushing a stray lock of dark hair away from your forehead. His touch was incredibly tender, a stark contrast to his usual chaotic energy.

“I’m sorry,” Sirius whispered softly. His voice—your voice—sounded quiet, almost reverent in the dark closet. “I didn’t mean to ruin your life. Or your notes. I just… I wanted to do something fun. With you. You’re always so serious, (Name). I wanted to see you laugh. Really laugh.”

Your breath hitched. Hearing your own name slip from his lips, spoken with such quiet sincerity, made your heart do a violent, erratic flutter against Sirius’s ribs.

“You’re an idiot, Sirius Black,” you whispered back, the anger completely draining from your voice, replaced by a soft, breathless warmth.

“Yeah,” Sirius murmured, a slow, gentle smile curving your lips. He didn’t look away from your eyes. “But I’m your idiot for the next few hours. We’re stuck like this until we can find a library book that actually has the correct counter-curse.”

You looked down at your own hands resting on his chest, then back up to his eyes. The tension between you was palpable, thick and heavy with a quiet, underlying spark that neither of you had ever dared to acknowledge during your noisy bickering in Potions class. It was a slow-burning realization, melting the cold barrier you had kept between Gryffindor and Slytherin for years.

“We have to go to the Restricted Section tonight,” you said, your voice low and steady. “After hours.”

Sirius’s eyes lit up with that familiar, wicked spark of mischief, but this time, it felt deeply personal. Shared just between the two of you.

“It’s a date, (Name),” he whispered, his thumb lightly brushing against your cheekbone. “Just don’t get me caught. I’d hate to serve detention in your body.”

The heavy wooden door of the broom closet didn’t just open; it flew inward with a dramatic creak, letting in a bright, unforgiving shaft of corridor light.

You and Sirius scrambled backward, knocking into a row of rusty brass cauldrons that clattered loudly against the stone floor.

Standing in the doorway, blocking the exit, was James. He had his arms crossed, his glasses pushed up his nose, and a triumphant smirk plastered across his face. Directly behind him stood Remus, leaning against the doorframe with a deeply amused, "I-told-you-so" expression, while Peter peeked over James’s shoulder, eyes wide with pure curiosity.

“Well, well, well,” James drawled, looking between you (in Sirius’s body) and Sirius (in your body). “I knew you two were acting like absolute nutters, but I didn't think you’d resorted to hiding in broom closets together. What’s going on, Pads? Finally deciding to confess your undying love to our favorite Slytherin?”

“It’s not that, Potter,” you snapped, the habit of using his last name slipping out before you could stop it.

James’s eyebrows shot up. “Potter? Again? Alright, that is officially creepier than the posture.”

“He’s not Sirius, James,” Remus said quietly, stepping into the cramped closet and shutting the door behind them so they wouldn't be seen by passing students. His amber eyes locked onto you. “And she isn't (Name). They’ve swapped. Haven’t you?”

Sirius let out a massive, dramatic sigh using your voice. “Brilliant, Moony. Outstanding deduction. Yes, we swapped. The spell got stuck, our wands are confused, and now I’m wearing a skirt and (Name) is currently occupying my incredibly handsome physique. Are you happy now?”

Peter gasped, pointing a finger at Sirius. “No way! You actually did it?”

James stared at you, his mouth slightly open, before he slowly started to grin. It was a massive, chaotic, highly delighted smile. “Oh, this is the greatest day of my life. Sirius, you look incredibly fetching in green. It really brings out your eyes.”

“Shut up, Prongs,” Sirius hissed, crossing your arms defensively. “We need help. The counter-curse we tried didn't work, probably because we used the wrong wands first and disrupted the magical feedback. We need to get into the Restricted Section tonight to find the advanced reversal texts. But if we get caught wandering the corridors after hours in each other’s bodies, McGonagall will have us expelled before sunrise.”

James’s grin turned into a conspiratorial smirk. He glanced at Remus, who gave a slow, reluctant nod of approval, and then turned his gaze back to you.

“We have a way to get you in there,” James said, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “Without anyone seeing you. But it’s highly classified.”

“What is it?” you asked, your brow furrowing in Sirius’s face.

James reached into his bag and pulled out a bundle of silvery, fluid-like fabric that seemed to gleam and catch the light of the dim closet. It looked almost like water woven into thread.

Your eyes widened. As a Slytherin, you knew exactly what that was, even if you had never seen one in person. “Is that… an Invisibility Cloak?”

“Not just any cloak,” James whispered proudly, holding it up. “But before we let you borrow it, we have a condition. Especially for you, Slytherin.”

You braced yourself, preparing for some ridiculous Gryffindor prank or a demand for house points. “What is it?”

James’s face grew suddenly, hilariously serious. He pointed a finger right at your—Sirius’s—chest.

“You have to solemnly swear, right here and now, that you will never breathe a single word about this cloak to anyone. Not to your Slytherin mates, not to your family, not even to a portrait on the wall. If anyone finds out we have this, we’re finished. Swear it, (Name).”

You looked from the shimmering silver cloak to James’s intense hazel eyes, then over to Remus, who was watching you with a quiet, trusting expression. Finally, you looked at Sirius, who was nodding encouragingly in your body.

You took a deep breath, raising your hand. “I solemnly swear. I won't tell a soul. You have my word.”

“Excellent,” James beamed, instantly dropping the intense act and tossing the heavy, silky fabric into your large hands. “Now, here’s the plan. You two meet us in the Gryffindor common room at midnight. We'll smuggle you out from there.”

“Wait,” you said, looking down at the cloak. “How am I supposed to get into the Gryffindor common room if I don’t know the password?”

Sirius let out a soft chuckle from your body, stepping closer to you in the cramped space. He reached out, his hand—your hand—gently resting over yours as you held the cloak.

“Don’t worry,” Sirius murmured, his voice incredibly soft as he looked up into his own grey eyes. “I’ll tell you the password. Just don’t get comfortable in my bed, alright?”

A slow, tingling warmth spread through your chest at his touch, the proximity making your heart do that familiar, dangerous flutter again. Under the watchful, highly amused eyes of the Marauders, the slow-burning spark between you and Hogwarts’ most notorious troublemaker was officially ignited.

The grandfather clock in the empty hallway chimed a single, deep note, marking half-past eleven. Down in the dungeons, the cold drafts seemed to whisper of secrets, but you weren't there to hear them. You were currently standing just around the corner from the Fat Lady’s portrait on the seventh floor, sweating through a heavy Gryffindor sweater that belonged to Sirius Black.

Inhabiting his tall, athletic frame was still a bizarre exercise in physical calibration. Your strides were too long; your shoulders kept catching on the narrow stone archways; and every time you caught a glimpse of your reflection in a suit of armor, the sight of stormy grey eyes and sharp, aristocratic features staring back made your stomach do a nervous flip.

Adjusting the strap of Sirius’s leather bag over your shoulder, you approached the portrait. The Fat Lady was snozing softly, a half-empty goblet of wine painted near her elbow.

You cleared your throat, trying to pitch your voice to Sirius’s usual lazy, effortless register. "Mimbulus mimbletonia."

The Fat Lady opened one drowsy eye, let out a soft huff, and swung forward. The portrait hole gasped open, revealing the warm, roaring glow of the Gryffindor common room.

Stepping inside felt like crossing into enemy territory. Unlike the cool, subterranean elegance of the Slytherin dungeons, the Gryffindor tower was a riot of scarlet and gold. Plush, overstuffed armchairs sat clustered around a massive fireplace that crackled with dry birchwood, casting cozy, amber shadows across the tapestry-lined walls. It smelled of woodsmoke, cinnamon, and damp wool.

"Pads! Over here!"

You turned your head. Tucked into a corner table near the window, James, Remus, and Peter were waiting. But it wasn't the three boys who made your breath catch.

Sitting in the middle of them, wearing your dark green Slytherin jumper, was Sirius.

He was leaning his elbow on the table, resting his chin in your hand, looking utterly bored—yet the moment you walked in, his—your—eyes lit up with a brilliant, eager spark. It was incredibly disorienting to see your own face look so utterly thrilled to see you.

"You made it," Sirius said, his voice—your voice—dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as you approached. He stood up, and for a brief second, you forgot the height difference. You found yourself looking down at your own face, taking in the subtle, soft curve of your own lips and the way the firelight caught the familiar details of your hair.

"Barely," you muttered, sliding into the shadow of the corner. "Your portrait hole guardian almost didn't let me in. I think my accent was too polite."

James snorted, tapping his wand against a blank piece of parchment on the table. "I told you, Pads—err, (Name). You've got to slur the vowels a bit more. Sirius sounds like he's permanently half-asleep unless he's shouting."

"Hey! I do not," Sirius protested, crossing your arms. He looked at you, his eyes softening as he took in the sight of you wearing his oversized, comfortable Gryffindor clothes. "Though... I have to admit, you look ridiculously good in red, (Name). It almost makes up for the fact that you're currently ruining my reputation by standing up so straight."

"We don't have time for a fashion critique, Sirius," you whispered, a sudden, hot flush creeping up your neck. The casual intimacy of his gaze, even through the bizarre filter of your swapped bodies, was doing dangerous things to your heart rate. "Do you have the cloak?"

"Right here," Remus said quietly. He slid a hand into his school bag and pulled out the fluid, shimmering fabric of the Invisibility Cloak, keeping it low beneath the edge of the table. "The patrol routes tonight are heavy. Filch is down on the third floor with Mrs. Norris, and Professor McGonagall was spotted heading toward the trophy room about ten minutes ago. If you're going to the Restricted Section, you need to go now."

"Underneath the cloak, both of you," James instructed, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious as he looked at you. "Remember what you promised, (Name). Not a word to anyone."

"I haven't forgotten, Potter." you murmured.

"Good. Now get going before we get caught just standing here."

You took the silky, water-like fabric from Remus. Stepping closer to Sirius, you opened the cloak wide. Because you were currently much taller, you had to drape it over both of your shoulders, pulling him flush against your side to ensure the magical fabric covered every inch of your mismatched bodies.

The moment the cloak settled over you, the Gryffindor common room vanished from view, replaced by the shimmering, semi-transparent veil of the cloak's interior.

But the sudden closeness was overwhelming.

With the cloak draped tightly over the two of you, Sirius was pressed firmly against your side. You could feel the soft, steady rise and fall of his chest—well, your chest—against your ribs. Your arm was wrapped around his shoulder to keep the fabric from slipping, and his hand had instinctively found a grip on the fabric of your Gryffindor sweater, holding onto you for balance in the dim space.

"Comfortable?" you whispered, your deep, rumbling voice sounding incredibly close to his ear.

Sirius looked up at you. In the cramped, private darkness beneath the cloak, his eyes—your eyes—shone with a mixture of mischief and something much softer, much more intense.

"Incredibly." Sirius murmured, a slow, breathtaking smile spreading across your face. "Though I have to say, (Name)... holding onto myself is a very weird experience. But I think I like holding onto you much better."

Your heart did a violent, erratic leap against Sirius’s ribs. Before you could lose your nerve, you tightened your grip on his shoulder, guiding him toward the portrait hole.

"Come on, Black." you whispered, trying to ignore the sudden warmth blooming in your chest. "Let's go find that book."

The quiet of the library at midnight was absolute, save for the occasional, eerie creak of the old wooden floorboards and the distant, rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock.

Underneath the silky, weightless cover of the Invisibility Cloak, you and Sirius moved as one. It required a delicate, synchronized dance. Because you were currently taller, your arm stayed securely draped around his shoulders, holding the shimmering fabric down over your ankles. Sirius’s hand remained anchored to the hem of your Gryffindor sweater, his fingers occasionally brushing against your side with a warmth that made it incredibly hard to focus on the dark corridors.

You slipped past the towering, shadow-drenched bookcases of the main library, navigating by the faint, silvery moonlight filtering through the high arched windows.

When you reached the heavy iron gate of the Restricted Section, you paused.

“It’s locked.” you whispered, your deep baritone voice barely a breath against the crown of his—your—head.

“Please,” Sirius whispered back, a smug, quiet chuckle vibrating in your chest. “Who do you think you’re locked in here with? Hand me my wand.”

You reached into your pocket, withdrew his wand, and slid it into his hand beneath the cloak. With a practiced, silent flick of your wrist, Sirius tapped the iron lock.

“Alohomora.” he murmured.

The lock clicked open with a soft, metallic scrape that sounded like a gunshot in the dead silence. You both froze, waiting. When no footsteps echoed, you pushed the gate open just enough to slip through, pulling the cloak tight behind you.

The Restricted Section felt entirely different from the rest of the library. The air was heavier, thick with the scent of ancient leather, dust, and a faint, electric hum of dark magic. Many of the books here were chained to the shelves; some whispered softly as you passed, while others had faces bound in leather that seemed to track your movements.

“Look for The Multi-Faceted Soul or Multiversal Alignments,” you whispered, scanning the dark spines. “They’ll be on the upper shelves.”

“On it.” Sirius murmured.

Because you were currently in his taller body, you had to act as the reacher. You guided him down a narrow aisle, your chest pressed lightly against his back as you scanned the top shelves. The proximity was dizzying; every breath you took in was filled with the scent of the library, but also the distinct, clean scent of Sirius’s leather jacket and cedarwood.

“There,” Sirius whispered, pointing your hand toward a thick, midnight-blue tome bound in silver thread. “The Art of Metamorphic Bindings. That has to be it.”

You stretched your arm up, carefully sliding the heavy book off the shelf.

“Got it.” you breathed, stepping back into the shadows of a deep alcove.

You sank down onto a dusty velvet window seat tucked between two towering bookcases. Sirius sat right beside you, pulling the cloak down so it hung loosely over your shoulders, freeing your hands. You placed the heavy book on your lap, and Sirius immediately leaned in close, his shoulder pressing firmly against yours as you cracked the cover open.

The pages glowed with a faint, magical luminescence, casting a soft, blue light over your faces.

“Let’s see.” you muttered, flipping through the delicate parchment. “Amalgamation… Animagus transfiguration… Ah. Here. Corporate Transference.”

Sirius leaned closer, his eyes—your eyes—scanning the elegant runes. “Look at the counter-spell. ‘Animus Reverti.’ But look at the footnote, (Name).”

Your eyes dropped to the bottom of the page.

FOOTNOTE: Should the initial reversal fail due to mismatched magical conduits (using the wrong wands), the souls will reject a secondary attempt until the celestial cycle aligns at dawn. A premature attempt may result in permanent fusion.

“Dawn,” you whispered, the word sinking in. “We have to wait until dawn.”

“Well,” Sirius said softly. “At least we don’t have to worry about permanent fusion. I love you, (Name), but I don’t think I want to share a stomach with you.”

You let out a soft, genuine laugh—which, coming from Sirius’s chest, sounded deep and incredibly rich. “You’re ridiculous, Black.”

“I’m serious,” he teased, then caught himself. “Well, technically, you are currently Serious. I’m just… me. In a very pretty package.”

You looked over at him.

The soft, blue light of the book illuminated your own face, but the expression on it was entirely Sirius. His eyes were incredibly bright, fixed on you with an intensity that made the dusty alcove feel miles away from the rest of Hogwarts. The playful, arrogant boy who had spent three years throwing potion ingredients at your head was gone, replaced by someone quiet, attentive, and incredibly close.

“You think I’m pretty?” you asked softly, the words slipping out before your Slytherin filters could stop them.

Sirius didn't blink. A slow, genuinely tender smile touched your lips. He reached out, his large, ring-adorned hand—which was actually your hand—gently cupping your jaw. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, the touch sending a sharp, electric shiver straight down your spine.

“I’ve always thought you were beautiful, (Name),” Sirius murmured, his voice dropping to a low, breathless register. “Even when you were glaring at me from across the dungeon. Especially when you were glaring at me, actually.”

Your breath hitched. You looked down at his mouth, then back up to his eyes. The space between you seemed to vanish entirely. Sitting in the Restricted Section, wrapped in a stolen invisibility cloak, the boundaries of Slytherin and Gryffindor completely dissolved.

“Sirius…” you whispered, your heart hammering so loudly against his ribs you were sure he could hear it.

“We have a few hours until dawn,” Sirius whispered, his face moving just a fraction of an inch closer, his thumb resting right at the corner of your lip. “I think we can find a way to pass the time.”

As the space between you collapsed and the air in the narrow alcove grew impossibly warm, the sheer absurdity of the situation caught up to you. You stared at your own face, merely inches away, with Sirius’s soul looking out of your eyes.

Gently but firmly, you reached up with Sirius’s large, calloused hand and caught his—or rather, your—wrist. The contrast was striking; your hand, currently so much larger, easily wrapped around your own delicate wrist.

You pushed him back just an inch, a slow, grounded smile tugging at the corners of Sirius’s lips on your face.

“Sirius,” you whispered, your deep, borrowed voice holding a thread of quiet amusement. “Stop.”

Sirius blinked, his—your—head tilting slightly in confusion, though he didn’t pull his hand away from your jaw entirely. “Stop? But the atmosphere is perfect. The lighting is dramatic, the cloak is cozy, and I’m being incredibly charming.”

“You are being highly chaotic, as usual,” you corrected softly, your grip on his wrist relaxing into a gentle, lingering hold. “And as flattering as it is to hear you say all of those things… I am not having our first kiss while we are wearing each other’s faces. I am absolutely not kissing myself, and I am not letting you kiss yourself either.”

Sirius froze, the realization sinking in. He looked at his hand cupping your cheek, then down at his own body, and finally back up to your stormy grey eyes. A sudden, quiet laugh escaped your throat, the sound light and musical.

“Merlin,” Sirius muttered, shaking his head as a faint blush crept across your cheeks. “You’re right. That would be incredibly trippy. Brilliant, but highly disturbing.”

“Be patient, Black,” you murmured, your thumb gently brushing against the inside of his wrist, right over his racing pulse. “Once we are back in our own bodies… then we can have our moment. Not a second before.”

The promise in your words hung in the quiet space between you, heavy and thick with an anticipation that made the wait feel entirely worth it. It wasn't a rejection; it was a raincheck, one that made the slow-burning tension between you simmer even hotter.

Sirius’s eyes softened, a look of genuine, yielding warmth settling over your features. He slowly let his hand drop from your face, though his fingers lingered against your collarbone for a fraction of a second before he pulled back.

“A deal, then,” Sirius agreed softly, leaning his head back against the stone wall of the alcove, though he didn’t move away from your side. “But you’re going to have to keep me entertained until dawn. It’s at least four hours away, and I am notoriously bad at sitting still.”

“I’m sure we can manage,” you said, adjusting the silver weight of the Invisibility Cloak over your shoulders, pulling him back into the warm, protective shadow of the magical fabric.

[ 𑣲⋆]

With the ancient book resting open on your knees, its faint blue light casting long shadows across the dusty floorboards, the two of you settled in to wait. Sirius leaned his shoulder heavily against yours, his hand sliding down to find yours under the cover of the cloak, his fingers tracing the foreign lines of his own palm in your grip.

And there, hidden away from the rest of Hogwarts in the quietest corner of the castle, the countdown to dawn began.

The first pale, golden rays of dawn finally pierced through the high arched windows of the library, cutting through the dusty gloom of the Restricted Section and painting the stone floor in warm light.

The book on your lap seemed to lose its faint, magical hum as the sun rose, the ink on the pages turning back into ordinary black script.

You looked over at Sirius—who was still wearing your face—and let out a quiet sigh of relief. The wait was finally over.

"It’s time," you said, your deep, borrowed baritone voice cracking slightly with anticipation.

Sirius stood up, stretching your limbs with a dramatic yawn. "Thank Merlin. I love you, (Name), but your posture is exhausting. My back feels like a wooden board."

"That’s called having a spine, Black," you countered dryly, standing up to face him.

You both drew your wands—your correct wands this time. You pointed yours at his chest, and he pointed his at yours. The air between you grew charged, the residual magic of the swap prickling against your skin like static.

"On three," you murmured. "One... two... three."

"Animus Reverti."

The incantation left your lips in perfect unison.

For a terrifying second, the world spun violently. A rush of silver, liquid light erupted from the wands, wrapping around the two of you like a whirlpool. Your vision blurred, your head throbbed, and you felt a strange, gravity-defying pull in the center of your chest—as if you were being dragged through a keyhole.

And then, with a sharp, breathless gasp, your feet slammed back down onto the cold stone floor.

You stumbled, blinking rapidly as the room stopped spinning.

You looked down. The oversized Gryffindor sweater was gone, replaced by your fitted, green-trimmed Slytherin robes. Your hands were smaller, your fingers delicate and unadorned by silver rings. You reached up, touching your face. Your nose. Your cheeks.

You looked up.

Standing a few feet away, towering over you once again, was Sirius Black. He was running a large, ring-clad hand through his messy, dark curls, a breathless, utterly genuine laugh escaping his chest. His actual voice—deep, slightly husky, and full of life—echoed softly in the quiet alcove.

"Oh, sweet Salazar," Sirius breathed, looking down at his leather jacket and his own boots. "I'm back. I have my shoulders. I have my voice. I can finally slouch again!"

To prove his point, he immediately slumped into a lazy, effortless lean against the nearby bookcase, looking at you with those striking, stormy grey eyes.

"See?" you smiled, your own quiet, reserved voice returning to you. "I told you to be patient."

"Yeah, well," Sirius murmured, his lazy demeanor shifting in an instant. The playful arrogance in his eyes softened into something intensely focused, locking onto you. "I've been patient for six hours, (Name). I think my quota for the year is entirely used up."

Before you could offer a witty retort, Sirius took two long strides, closing the distance between you. He didn't hesitate this time.

His hand slid gently around the side of your neck, his thumb resting against your jawline, tilting your head up. His touch was warm, sending a familiar, electric shiver straight down your spine—but this time, it was your skin against his hand. There was no magic filter, no trippy reflection. It was just him. And it was just you.

"Now," Sirius whispered, his breath warm against your lips, his eyes dropping to your mouth before rising back to meet yours. "Where were we?"

"You were about to kiss me," you murmured softly, your hands instinctively reaching up to grip the lapels of his leather jacket. "Without making it weird."

"Right. Let’s do that."

Sirius leaned down and closed the remaining distance, his lips meeting yours in a soft, lingering kiss.

It was everything you had spent three years pretending you didn't want. The kiss started slow, sweet, and incredibly tender, but as your fingers tangled into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, the slow-burning tension of the entire night—and the last three years of bickering in Potions—finally erupted. Sirius pulled you flush against his chest, his other hand finding your waist, deepening the kiss with a fierce, possessive warmth that made your knees go entirely weak.

When he finally pulled back, just an inch, he kept his forehead rested against yours. Both of you were breathing softly, the golden morning light bathing the dusty Restricted Section in a warm, quiet glow.

Sirius let out a quiet, breathless chuckle, a brilliant, brilliant grin spreading across his face.

"Definitely worth the wait," he whispered, his thumb wiping a trace of your shared breath from your lower lip. "Though, if you ever want to swap bodies again... I still want to know how you girls manage the—"

You cut him off by pulling him down by his collar for another kiss, effectively silencing him, and decided that surviving the rest of the term with Sirius Black might not be so bad after all.

The portrait of the Fat Lady swung shut with a soft, heavy thud, sealing the quiet warmth of the Gryffindor common room behind Sirius. The embers in the fireplace had decayed into a low, pulsing orange glow, casting long, skeletal shadows across the empty armchairs.

Sirius stood in the center of the room for a moment, the weight of the silver Invisibility Cloak draped over his arm like water. His chest felt unusually light, his mind still spinning with the memory of the dusty library alcove, the smell of old parchment, and the lingering, electric taste of your lips. He let out a breath he didn't realize he’d been holding, a slow, ridiculously dazed smile spreading across his face as he ran a hand through his own dark, unruly curls. It was his hand. Those were his curls.

With a quiet snort at his own sentimentality, he turned and bounded up the spiral stone stairs to the boys' dormitory, taking them two at a time—relishing the familiar, long-legged stride that was finally his again.

He pushed the dormitory door open as quietly as possible, but the old iron hinges gave a faint, traitorous creak.

Instantly, a figure sat bolt upright in the four-poster bed nearest the window.

James didn’t have his glasses on; his hair was a wild, bird-nest disaster, and he was squinting aggressively into the darkness. He fumbled blindly at his nightstand, knocking over an empty goblet before finding his spectacles and shoving them onto his face.

"Pads?" James whispered, his voice thick with sleep but laced with immediate, sharp alertness.

"Yeah, mate. It's me," Sirius quieted, tossing the folded Invisibility Cloak onto the foot of James’s bed. He began unbuckling his leather jacket, letting out a satisfied grunt as he threw it over his trunk.

James didn't move. He slid his legs over the edge of his mattress, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at Sirius with a deep, unwavering intensity. He squinted through his round lenses, analyzing the way Sirius moved, the way he shook his hair out, the way he slouched.

From the bed adjacent to James, a soft rustle of sheets signaled that Remus was awake too. Remus didn’t sit up, but his amber eyes gleamed in the darkness, watching the interaction with quiet, highly amused interest.

"Alright, hold on," James said, pointing a finger at Sirius’s chest. "Don't move."

Sirius paused, one boot half-off, raising an eyebrow. "What?"

"I need proof," James demanded, his voice dropping to a serious, conspiratorial whisper. "We got burned in Transfiguration today. I’m not letting a Slytherin sleep in our dorm. Are you the actual, genuine, certified Sirius Black?"

Sirius let out a loud, dramatic groan, tossing his boot to the floor with a loud clack. "Oh, come off it, Prongs. Yes, it’s me."

"That is exactly what a cunning, body-swapping Slytherin pretending to be Sirius Black would say," James countered, crossing his arms and tilting his head. "Remus, back me up here. Ask him something."

Remus let out a low, tired chuckle from beneath his blankets, his voice raspy. "Sirius. What did you do with the copy of Advanced Potion-Making we stole from the library last term?"

Sirius rolled his eyes, shoving his other boot off. "I used the blank pages in the back to draft a letter to a random dude, and then I accidentally dropped the rest of it into the Black Lake while trying to see if the giant squid would eat it. It didn't. It spat it back out."

Remus smiled, settling deeper into his pillows. "It's him, James."

"Not good enough," James declared, though the corner of his mouth was twitching. He stood up, marching over to Sirius and grabbing him by the shoulders, shaking him slightly. "Look me in the eye, Pads. If you're really you... what is the password to the secret map?"

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good." Sirius drawled, swatting James’s hands off his shoulders with a lazy, familiar grin. "And if I were still (Name), I’d have probably cursed you into next week for touching me. Now let me sleep. My body is exhausted, and apparently, your bed is much less comfortable than the ones in the dungeons."

James stared at him for one more second before a massive, relieved grin broke across his face. He let out a quiet laugh, shoving Sirius’s shoulder playfully. "Merlin, you're back. Thank god. Your posture today was giving me a mid-life crisis. I felt like I was sharing a desk with a prefect."

"Shut up," Sirius muttered, though there was no real heat in it. He walked over to his own bed, collapsing face-first onto the red-and-gold duvet, letting out a long, contented sigh as his face sank into the pillow.

"So..." James lingered by the edge of Sirius’s bed, his voice instantly turning into a teasing, sing-song whisper. "Did you find the book? Did you swap back in the library?"

"Obviously," Sirius murmured into his pillow, his voice muffled. "Hence the lack of green robes."

"And?" James nudged Sirius’s leg through the duvet. "Did you get your moment? Or did you chicken out because you were too busy admiring your own face in her body?"

Sirius rolled over onto his back, his arm draping over his eyes to block out the faint light. He didn't answer right away, but the slow, private smile that curved his lips spoke volumes. The memory of you—back in your own skin, looking up at him with those beautiful, stubborn eyes right before he kissed you—flashed behind his eyelids.

"I didn't chicken out, Prongs," Sirius said softly, his voice carrying a rare, quiet warmth that made James’s teasing grin soften into something genuinely happy for his friend.

"Good," James smiled, turning back toward his own bed. "Because if I had to listen to you pine over a Slytherin for a fourth year in a row, I was going to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower."

"I do not pine," Sirius protested weakly, though he didn't put up much of a fight. He pulled his blankets up to his chin, his chest warm, his mind already drifting to tomorrow morning's breakfast—and the look he’d get to share with you across the Great Hall, completely in your own bodies, with a secret that belonged entirely to the two of you. 

[ 𑣲⋆]

The Great Hall at breakfast was always a sensory assault of clattering silver, floating candles flickering low in the morning light, and the deafening roar of hundreds of students swapping gossip. But for you, sitting at the Slytherin table, the atmosphere felt exceptionally tense.

You had barely managed to butter your toast before you felt the collective, heavy weight of three distinct stares drilling into the side of your face.

To your left, Barty Crouch Jr. was lazily spinning his wand between his fingers, his dark eyes glittering with a chaotic, sharp curiosity. Across from you, Evan Rosier sat with his chin propped in his hand, systematically tearing a piece of soda bread to shreds while keeping his gaze locked entirely on you. Beside him, Regulus Black sat with perfect, quiet posture, sipping his black tea with a chillingly neutral expression that you knew was far more dangerous than Barty’s overt smirks.

"So," Barty began, his voice dropping to a low, dramatic drawl that barely carried over the noise of the hall. "Are we going to talk about yesterday, or are we going to pretend you didn’t have a sudden, miraculous recovery from whatever brain-rot possessed you during Potions?"

You kept your expression entirely cool, taking a calm sip of your pumpkin juice. "I don't know what you're talking about, Barty."

"Oh, please," Evan scoffed, leaning forward over the table. "You forgot the password to the common room. You sat like a Gryffindor who had never seen a chair before. And then there’s the matter of your notes." He reached into his robes, pulled out a folded piece of parchment, and tossed it onto the table between you. "Explain this."

You unfolded the parchment. Written in giant, chaotic, looping scrawl that looked like it had been penned by a blind troll during an earthquake was a single paragraph about the Draught of Living Death. It was undeniably Sirius’s handwriting.

"I had a hand cramp," you said smoothly, sliding the parchment back to Evan without blinking. "And Slughorn was speaking quickly."

"Slughorn speaks at the pace of a weeping willow," Regulus noted quietly, setting his teacup down with a soft clink. He leaned in, his silver eyes—so hauntingly similar to the ones you had inhabited just hours prior—narrowing as they searched your face. "And you bolted out of the dungeons as if the castle were collapsing. My brother was acting equally bizarre. He was standing like a statue, speaking with actual vocabulary, and then you dragged him out of McGonagall’s class in front of everyone."

"Black was being his usual obnoxious self," you replied, keeping your voice even, channeling every ounce of your pureblood training to keep your heart from hammering against your ribs. "He made a ridiculous wager in Potions, it went too far, and I had to correct him. Privately."

Barty leaned in, a wicked, knowing grin spreading across his face. "Are you sure you two didn't actually pull off that little stunt he was whispering about? The body-swap? Because if you let Sirius Black run around in your body for a single afternoon, (Name), I am going to have to inspect our common room for hidden dungbombs."

"Do not be ridiculous," you hissed, fixing Barty with a glare cold enough to freeze water. "I would never allow Black anywhere near my magic, let alone my body. It was a stupid joke. Nothing more."

Regulus studied you for a fraction of a second longer before letting out a soft, dismissive sigh. "Just make sure his nonsense doesn't bring unwanted attention to our house, (Name). We have enough to deal with without my brother's circus acts."

With the interrogation temporarily deflected, you finally let your shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. You picked up your goblet of pumpkin juice, took another sip, and allowed your gaze to drift across the vast, bustling space of the Great Hall.

Your eyes traveled past the Ravenclaw table, straight to the sea of scarlet and gold.

And there, sitting at the center of the Gryffindor table, was Sirius.

The moment your eyes found him, you realized he was already looking at you. He was slouched in his seat, his leather jacket draped haphazardly over his shoulders, looking effortlessly, irritatingly handsome. Next to him, James, Remus, and Peter were all staring at you too, their breakfast entirely forgotten.

When Sirius caught your eye, a slow, incredibly soft smile touched his lips—a stark contrast to the loud, boisterous grins he usually threw around the hall. It was a private, shared look, carrying the heavy, sweet memory of the dusty library alcove and the quiet promise of dawn.

Suddenly, James leaned over, nudging Sirius hard in the ribs with his elbow. James whispered something rapidly into Sirius’s ear, his hazel eyes darting toward you with a massive, teasing grin. Remus let out a quiet, suffering chuckle, shook his head, and hid his face behind his copy of the Daily Prophet, while Peter snickered into his goblet.

Whatever James said made Sirius burst into a sudden, breathless laugh.

But as he laughed, a faint, unmistakable pink flush crept up his neck, dusting his high cheekbones. He threw a half-hearted, embarrassed shove at James’s shoulder, trying to look annoyed, but his eyes immediately darted back across the hall to lock onto yours. He gave you a helpless, slightly sheepish shrug, his grey eyes shining with an unmistakable, slow-burning affection that made your own stomach do a violent, delicious flip.

Across the table, Barty cleared his throat loudly, snapping you out of your trance.

"If you stare at the Gryffindor table any harder, (Name)," Barty muttered, a highly suspicious smirk playing on his lips, "people are going to start thinking you actually like him."

He was only a few years older than you but his superiority complex immediately drove you nuts. He avoided you in every way he could, yet ever so subtly undermined you wherever he saw fit. In fact, the other members of the team couldn’t see it.

But you did, and you weren’t going to take it lying down.

So you dug your heels in. You proved yourself over and over again. Hotch had taken a chance on you and you weren’t about to let him down and embarrass yourself at the same time.

Through your grit, you slowly earned the respect of everyone around you. Especially Tara, since you both were on the same playing field.

Spencer had been a tough nut to crack, but he eventually came around. In doing so, the time you spent together increased, and your feelings for each other grew beyond platonic. 

You slowly fell in love with him. There weren’t any labels to represent an official relationship, but his personality was magnetic and he was insanely lovable. How you managed to find a man that included every ideal on the list, you had no idea.

However, there came The Contention. 

The biggest root of all of your problems and the source of your biggest fights?

Spencer’s mind-boggling inability to commit.

You didn’t understand it. From what you could gather, he’d had at least one girlfriend before, so it couldn’t be a preexisting fear of commitment itself. Spencer had assured you over and over that it wasn’t anything against you personally, but that didn’t stop the underlying hurt.

It started to affect your self esteem. What about you wasn’t good enough to commit to? What was so wrong with you that being his girlfriend would be such a bad thing? What else did you have to do to be worthy enough of the title?

Due to the infestation of insecurity completely overtaking your mind, it led to more fights. You needed answers, and Spencer refused to give them to you. You managed to push through every fight with a semblance of understanding, trying to be respectful of his feelings and not pushy. 

Until it broke you a couple months ago, which led to The Breakup.

You weren’t one to give ultimatums, you never had been, but you gave him one anyway. You either label the relationship, or break up. 

This was not in your character at all, but the whole situation had been pushing your limits for months and you were tired of feeling like a dirty little secret. Not that you could keep a secret like this from a group of profilers for long, especially since it was completely obvious when you did break up when Spencer, once again, refused to fully commit to you.

The cold shoulders, the refusal to work together, the palpable tension when you were forced to be in close proximity to each other; and you would be lying if you said you didn’t see how it affected the rest of the team. 

It was that fact alone that had you feeling unsurprised when Hotch finally pulled you into his office before briefing one day.

“Listen, it shouldn’t be a shock to you that we all know that something happened between you and Reid. You both weren’t as secretive as you thought you were being.” He stated gently, forcing your eyes down to your hands. Hotch leaned forward to continue.

“It’s okay you wanted to keep it a secret until you figured out what it meant to both of you. I understand that. But clearly something happened, and it’s starting to weigh on the whole team.” He said bluntly. You winced from the guilt panging your stomach, but kept your eyes down, unwilling to meet Hotch’s disappointed stare. 

“You don’t have to tell me any details, and I will be speaking with Reid as well. But I expect you both to find a way to work together. We’re all adults here, and we can’t let personal feelings get in the way of the job. Is that understood?” Hotch said. His empathy was crystal clear, but you understood he needed to be firm as well.

You simply nodded your head in agreement, your brain already running with the impossible idea of hashing this out with Spencer. Hotch’s deep timbre interrupted your racing mind.

“You’re a great agent, and I want to support you in any way I can. Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked sincerely. 

You thought for a beat. You responded with something you knew you might regret, but you’d already made up your mind.

“I’d like to put in a request for a transfer.”

-

Things moved quickly for you after that.

Hotch steadfastly refused to put in a permanent transfer for you, but agreed to temporary reassignment. After making some calls, you were to work with Emily at Interpol for six months. You left for London in two short weeks.

Since you were going to be leaving soon, you asked Hotch not to speak with Spencer since some space would surely help get you both to a point where you could have a mature conversation about everything when you returned.

He reluctantly agreed.

You had quietly let the team know throughout the next two weeks, one at a time. Everyone except Spencer, since he went on leave during the second week to visit his mother. You knew it wouldn’t make a difference anyway, and frankly you didn’t feel the need to let him know. 

Let him find out the hard way.

You managed to prevent Garcia from planning a full blown going-away party. It was only temporary after-all, and you didn't want or need the fuss. You wanted to walk away quietly, and come back stronger. 

Of course, that didn’t stop her from surprising you with a single red velvet cupcake on your last day before your reassignment. Or from helping you pack up your desk at the end of the day.

“Are you sure you have to go away?” she asked, eyes blatantly glossy. She was obviously not coping very well with the looming change. You just smiled sadly at her.

“It’s just too painful right now, and it’s upending the dynamic of the whole team. I need some time, and this is best for everybody.” Penelope nodded but averted her eyes, subtly wiping away a stray tear. You place your hand on her shoulder, attempting to console her.

“Garcia, you’re forgetting that it’s temporary. I’ll be back in six months, better than ever. I promise.” you reassured her as she enveloped you in the biggest hug you’ve probably ever had in your life. You hugged her back fiercely.

“Well, I’m going to miss you the most and don’t let Morgan tell you any differently.” she insisted. You chuckled through your own tears forming.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

Penelope loosened her grip to look at you. “Did you tell him?” she asked cautiously. You shook your head.

“No,” you admitted. “I don’t need to though. It won’t make a difference. It’s not like he’ll end up at my door on his hands and knees begging me to come back. Afterall, he’s the resident boy genius. I’m sure he’ll be fine.” You said bitterly. Garcia looked at you, slightly concerned.

“Maybe, but don’t forget you guys were friends before everything happened. Are you sure you wanna leave him like that, cold turkey?” She asked. Penelope was sweet, and you knew she just wanted to make sure you weren’t leaving with any regrets. You smile sadly.

“I know, but I’ve thought about it a lot, and honestly I think this is for the best. If he couldn’t care enough to label whatever we had, then I doubt he’d truly care if I left without saying goodbye.” You say, finally. Penelope nodded in understanding, but decided to leave you with one last piece of advice.

“I think you should at least leave him a note, or a letter or something. Even if you don’t give it to him, it might be good to give yourself some closure before starting in London. Start off healing on the right foot.” You open your mouth to respond, but Garcia stops you.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, it’s just a suggestion. Feel free to either completely ignore it, or take it to heart. As long as you're happy, it’s none of my business.” She says assuringly, earning a smile and hug from you.

When you pull back, you glance at your empty desk, starting to feel emotional about it all. Garcia notices, and makes her exit.

“I’ll give you a minute alone.” She says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her sad eyes. She gives your shoulders one final squeeze before releasing you, nodding once, and walking away.

You turn toward your now-empty desk, sad at the sight. You took a deep breath to try and curb your tears, to no avail of course since they immediately started fall. You quickly wiped them away, Penelope’s words coming back to you. 

‘I think you should at least leave him a note, or a letter or something. Even if you don’t give it to him. It might be nice to give yourself some closure before starting in London. Start off healing on the right foot.’

“The right foot.” You murmured to yourself, trying not to laugh bitterly at the thought. You and Spencer never started anything off on the right foot in your whole time knowing him. 

But the more you thought about it, starting now might actually be the only therapy you need before jetting off to London tomorrow.

The words echoed and swirled in your mind, loudly overlapping each other numerous times before you caved.

You marched over to the printer, pulled a blank sheet of paper from the tray, grabbed a pen from the FBI mug sitting on your otherwise-vacant desk, and started to pour your heart out on the paper.

Spence,

You won’t receive this until I’m already halfway across the pacific, if at all. But I need you to know, I loved you. Honestly, I still do, although I’m hoping to rectify that with my time away from the BAU. 

I’m not sure if you were just playing games, messing around, or if I was just something to pass the time. I don’t think I’ll ever really know what I meant to you, but you meant the world to me.

I’m truly sorry for giving you the ultimatum. It’s not usually in my character. I just couldn’t keep going and pretending everything was fine knowing you meant so much more to me than I ever meant to you. I was desperate for whatever scraps you gave me when I was willing to give you the world and more. It broke me. I’m sorry that I allowed myself to get to a place where I tried to force you into something you clearly didn’t want.

I’m not angry with you, I never could be. But my heart aches for you right now, and I can’t be here anymore knowing you don’t feel the same way.

I’ll be back in six months. Who knows, maybe then we can try a friendship again if we’re both ready.

Just know that even if it wasn’t real for you, it was all very real to me.

I love you.

You finished signing your name, then wiped the tears from your face to get rid of the evidence of the extent of your feelings for Spencer. As far as you were concerned, you put all those feelings on the page and now you were leaving them behind for good.

You proofread your letter while you allowed the ink to dry. After nodding, pleased with what you wrote, you folded it. You found a spare envelope in your emptied drawers, shoving the letter in with shaking hands. You sealed it, allowing the bitter taste of the envelope to sit on your tongue as you turned it over and addressed it to Spencer.

You let it sit in your hands, staring at the letters that formed his name. After a moment, you stood and slowly walked over to Spencer’s desk. Just as you were about to leave it on top of his keyboard, you froze, letting the letter in your hand hover just above the keys. 

You suddenly snatched the letter back to your chest. “He won’t care.” You whispered out loud, voice wobbly with emotion. At the realization, you turned back towards your desk. You opened the same drawer you found the envelope in, dropping the letter in and slamming it closed. 

Mentally wiping your hands of it, you grabbed your bag and hurried to the elevator before you could change your mind. You pushed the button for the parking garage, leaning against the back of the elevator wall. You groaned.

“God, I still have so much packing to do.”

-

Monday morning, Spencer walked nonchalantly through the doors to the BAU, expecting a day like any other.

Right now, that consists of avoiding you as much as possible. It was too painful, knowing he couldn’t deliver on what you needed to feel secure in the relationship. He thought he had done the right thing by letting you go, no matter how serious he had felt about you. 

You deserved someone who could let their guard down and love you completely, and even though he had fallen unconditionally in love with you, Spencer wasn’t ready to break down that wall. He didn’t know if he ever would be.

After everything that happened with Maeve, he couldn’t allow himself to be put in the same situation. It was too petrifying, especially since you both worked in the same field. He knew how dangerous it was, and every time he looked at you, he saw Maeve’s body, a bullet in her head, and her blood in a puddle on the floor.

He couldn’t handle seeing the same thing happen to you because of him, because of course he still blames himself entirely for Maeve’s death. So, he conceded to continue to protect you and love you from afar if it meant keeping you safe from an added layer of danger; safe from him.

But god, he missed you so much more than he was willing to admit to himself. Spencer questioned if he really made the right decision every day, but it was too late now. He had no choice but to stand by his decision.

So, as he walked to his desk and sat down, Spencer mentally readied himself for another day of dealing with the fallout of his actions; actions that he regretted more every second that passed.

What he didn’t expect to see was your deserted desk; like you’d never been at the BAU at all and you were just a beautiful dream.

Garcia tried to walk by undetected at the exact moment his eyebrows had knitted together in utter confusion. 

“Garcia?” He called, stopping her dead in her tracks. She slowly turned around, sadness obviously weighing her down. “Where is she?” He inquired, keeping his voice low. Garcia sighed.

“I tried to tell her to tell you, but she wouldn’t listen.” She said, voice wobbly. “She left on temporary reassignment in London. She flew out on Saturday morning.” Spencer shook his head in disbelief.

“Why would she do that?”

“She needed time. She was hurting too much and thought some space would be best, for now.” Garcia admitted. At that moment, Hotch caught her eye from his office and beckoned for her.

“I have to go see to our fearless leader, but I’m really so sorry, Spencer. I wish I could’ve convinced her to say something to you before she left, but her mind was made up. I’m so sorry.” She apologized again, and hurried off before she could get any more emotional.

Spencer leaned back in his desk chair, unease from the truth of your absence settling into his bones. He knew you didn’t owe him anything, it was his decision to give you up, but he thought you’d at least say goodbye if you knew you were leaving for so long.

Not to mention that him being the reason you had left the BAU, even if only temporarily, was churning his stomach. He never realized you were hurting that badly, and he felt awful for not noticing it sooner.

Still contemplating the information given to him by Garcia, Spencer’s body went on autopilot. He stared at an open file, his mind a million miles away trying to come up with a solution to this predicament.

His mind gave him nothing.

Just as he was about to explode, Anderson’s voice rang out across the walkway.

”Doctor Reid?” He called. Spencer stood, giving Anderson his full attention. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was tasked with emptying this desk and I found a letter addressed to you in one of the drawers.”

Confused, Spencer walked over and all but snatched the letter out of his hand, in complete disbelief. Sure enough, his name was inscribed across the envelope. He recognized your handwriting instantly. 

Spencer sat down in your empty chair, gripping the letter like it might slip through his fingers and disappear, just as you had.

”What is it then?” Anderson questioned. Spencer shook his head.

”I’m not sure, but I’m also not completely sure if I want to open it.” Anderson shrugged.

”Suit yourself. I gotta keep cleaning out this desk though, if you don’t mind.” He said, politely waiting for Spencer to leave so he could continue with his task.

Spencer slowly stood, apologizing under his breath. He trudged over to his desk and sat down in his own chair. His mind was spiraling from the possibilities of the letter. He debated throwing it in the trash and not opening it all

But that academically-rewarded curiosity got the best of him. Spencer ripped the envelope open and began reading, eyes widening at every word and every confession.

You loved him.

You truly loved him, just as much as he had loved you.

And how did he repay you?

He had let you go, not believing that you loved him back, and breaking your heart in the process.

Now you were gone for six months, and he knew you were unlikely to pick up any calls or answer any texts from him. You had left to start moving on from him after all.

How was he possibly supposed to wait that long for you to come back to talk to you, especially now that he was equipped with this enlightening information? What if you came back completely over him and he was still hopelessly in love with you?

Spencer’s mind snapped.

He couldn’t allow your letter to go unanswered. 

He left his desk, not even aware of his own movements as he flung the door open to Hotch’s office, effectively interrupting his meeting with Garcia. Hotch looked him surprised, and then concerned. Spencer didn’t allow him to get a single syllable out.

”I’m gonna need some more time off, effective immediately. I need to catch the next flight to London.”

-

You hadn’t expected working at Interpol to be so dull, especially during your first few days.

You figured maybe you’d be on a task force of some kind, but instead you were more like Emily’s glorified assistant. All the tasks assigned to you could be done by a lobotomized squirrel, you were sure of it.

You just weren’t as busy as you hoped, or expected, especially if you were supposed to use this time to get over Spencer.

Granted, it wasn’t all bad. You hadn’t seen Emily in over a year and you loved that you’d be able to spend so much time together, in and out of work. Last night, you got to sit down with her with a bottle of wine, laugh, cry, and tell her everything that had happened over the last year. You didn’t skimp on any details about you and Spencer either. She offered you the support and wisdom that you needed, but you knew it was only the beginning of your healing.

You were glad you’d been able to write out your feelings and essentially throw them away before you left. It had been so therapeutic to throw that letter in your desk drawer and walk away, knowing it would never see the light of day.

You just wished your heart had gotten the memo, and that your brain would stop replaying your good memories of Spencer on repeat. 

God, you had such a long way to go before you would be ready to face him again. It was daunting.

Before you could get too lost in your feelings, Emily approached your desk; a coat and bag slung over her arms.

”Hey, I’m taking off so you definitely should too. How’s everything been for you?” She questioned, genuinely wanting to make sure you were settling in. You gave her a small smile.

”I’m good. It’s nice being here, although jet lag is still kicking my ass right now.” You admitted. Emily grinned.

”Oh, I’ve definitely been there. Don’t worry, you’ll be over all that before you know it.” She encouraged you. You gave her another small smile, one hand lifting to rub your neck. Emily tried to ignore the tell that displayed your stress and sadness beacon, but she couldn’t leave you to wallow by yourself without at least offering an alternative.

”You know, there’s a group of us that are planning to go to this Thai place for dinner, if you’re interested? Might be a good way to meet new people…and get your mind off of other people.” She offered, knowing that you knew full-well what she really meant. You grimaced.

”I don’t know, Em. I’m exhausted after everything we talked about last night, and I still have so much to unpack at my new place.” Emily nodded in understanding.

”No worries. We go every week so maybe you can join us next week if you’re feeling up for it.” She checked her watch, “I really gotta go now, but don’t stay any later, okay? Anything you have left over can be done first thing tomorrow, I promise.” She said, and you weren't in any position to say no.

”Sounds good to me. I’ll pack up and leave now then, I promise.” You assured her. Emily gave your shoulder a squeeze, and left you to your own devices. 

You slunk back in your chair, caving to a moment of relaxation that your body was screaming for. You’d never felt so drained in your life; physically, emotionally, and mentally.

Slowly, you sat back up, organizing your things so you could leave. You grabbed your bag and jacket, and switched off your computer; heading outside to catch a cab. 

As the cab drove you to your new apartment, the city lights blurred as you got lost in your thoughts again, freely. It had been two days at Interpol, and you were already starting to question your decision in coming here. You still thought about Spencer nonstop, and now you didn’t know if any amount of space would be enough to help your current situation. 

Too late now.

You gathered your things as the cab pulled up to the front of your building, your door visible from the window. You paid your fare and made quick work getting inside, desperate for a glass of wine and a shower to wash away the day.

And you weren’t about to be stingy with the wine either.

You dropped your things by the door, kicked off your shoes, and made your way through countless moving boxes over to the kitchen to find the biggest wine glass you had.

After pouring yourself a generous amount of red wine, and taking a more than generous sip, you pulled out your phone and ordered some dinner. Just as you finished placing your order, someone was knocking at your door. Incessantly.

You carefully placed your wine glass down, eyeing your door suspiciously. The only person it could possibly be was Emily since she was the only one you knew. But you knew she was already at the restaurant.

You literally have no idea who it could be.

You strolled over to the door, resigning yourself to the logical idea that it was either a friendly neighbor or a stranger at the wrong address.

You could not have been more wrong.

As you pulled the door open, your eyes widened at the sight of Spencer, standing at your doorway, in London.

”Spencer, what the hell are you-“ you start, but he interrupts you

”Is this true?” He says with conviction, holding up a piece of paper. You could feel your heart start to pound behind your ribs at the realization that it was the goddamn letter; the one you stashed away in your empty desk so no one, especially Spencer, would see it.

This was worse case scenario for you.

Your shoulders dropped, “Spencer, please-“

”Is this true? Or were you just saying things to say them?” He asks, eyes pouring into yours.

You take a shaky breath, starting to feel a little overwhelmed. You tried to will away the tears involuntarily forming as you peaked outside; looking left, and then right, before pulling Spencer into your apartment. 

You pushed him past you so you could shut the door, leaning your back against it as you turned to face him.

Spencer gazed at you, expecting an answer. He holds the letter out in front of him, and asks one more time, “Please, is this true? Be honest with me.”

You sighed, ready for the humiliation ritual to end. “I meant every word.” Your voice was wobbly with emotion. Spencer’s arm instantly relaxes, mindlessly dropping the letter to the floor.

”Then what are you doing here? Why didn’t you just tell me?” He questions in earnest. You laugh bitterly and look down, not able to hold his intense eye contact.

“Because it wouldn’t have mattered if I did! We’re broken up, you don’t feel the same way about me that I feel about you, and nothing I said would've changed any of that.” You answer, exasperated and frazzled. You were honestly still shocked that he was here to begin with.

Spencer just stares at you, breathing heavily. With what, you didn’t know. You couldn’t stand the silence and tension growing between you two so you kept rambling.

“I never meant for anyone to see it, most of all you. Penelope said it would help me start to move on, on the right foot or whatever. It was stupid, and I’m actually incredibly embarrassed that you ended up reading it.” You revealed. When Spencer still didn’t respond, clearly still dumbfounded by your admission, you turned the conversation onto him.

“What I don’t understand is why you’re here. You’ve made it abundantly clear that you don’t want me in the same way I want you, so there’s nothing left to-” 

You’d been so deep in your ramblings that you never registered that Spencer had crossed the room, pinned you against the door by your hips, and kissed you with so much passion you were instantly dizzy.

The shock of it quickly wore off, and you immediately kissed him back with just as much vigor. Your arms instinctively snaked around his neck, letting one hand trail up the back of neck into his hair. You absentmindedly gave a gentle pull, earning a groan from Spencer. He pulled back enough to look you dead in the eyes, making sure you mistook nothing he said.

”I love you.” The confession forced all the air from your lungs, but he continued.

“I was just scared. The last serious relationship I had…it didn’t exactly end well.” He paused, swallowing. You ran a thumb across his jaw, encouraging him to open up. “She was murdered right in front of me, and it was all my fault. I’m thoroughly haunted by the memory of it.” He admits, shoulders heavy with guilt.

You couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. You stayed silent, allowing him to continue.

“I wasn’t sure I would ever fall in love again. I honestly didn’t want to, knowing how badly it ended for the last person, all because of me. 

“But then I met you, and I didn’t stand a chance. Without meaning to, without realizing it; I fell for you. I wanted to give you everything you deserved and more.” He licked his lips in apprehension, but went on. 

“But the more serious we got, the more constant were the reminders of Maeve, of what happened to her as a consequence of knowing me. I couldn’t get the images out of my head.” Spencer shut his eyes, as if trying to rid the images behind his eyelids once again; tears slipped down his cheek. Once they did, yours left your eyes as well.

“I knew you’d statistically be more prone to danger just with the job we have, but now it felt like odds were greater because of how strongly I felt for you. I knew it could easily be used against either of us.

“I tried to ignore it, to love you anyway, but I panicked. I couldn’t go through seeing someone else I loved end up with a bullet in their head just because I was too selfish to do the right thing.

“So, that night, when you gave the ultimatum—” you looked down in shame, but Spencer hooked a finger under your chin, tipping your head back up so he could see you. “—which I understand why you did it by the way; it’s nothing to be ashamed of. You needed answers that I wouldn’t willingly provide, so you did what you did as a last resort. I know that.

“That night forced me to confront my inner turmoil. So I did what I thought was the right thing in the moment, and I walked away. I honestly didn’t think it would hurt you to the point of needing time away from the BAU. I thought you’d be over me quickly, and I could keep loving you from across the room, quietly.” He confessed. You could barely believe the words coming out of his mouth. You couldn’t stop yourself.

“And here I was thinking you wouldn’t care if I was gone. I never ever thought you’d follow me out here.” Spencer grinned. 

“I’d follow you anywhere. I couldn’t risk you moving on, not after I knew how you truly felt. I needed to know if there was any way I could have another shot.” Spencer stepped back, getting onto his knees, arms at his sides, fully exposing his chest and heart to you. A hand flew to your mouth. 

“I told myself I wouldn’t take leaving without you as an answer; even if I had to beg on my hands and knees. I know I don’t deserve a second chance after all the hurt I’ve caused you, but I want you more than I’ve wanted anything in my life. I was wrong. I made a mistake, and I’m forever so, so sorry.” Spencer reached up, gripping your hips like they were his lifeline.

“Can we try again, sweetheart?” He pleaded.

Fuck, he had to have known that using your old pet name would be the final straw that broke you. You desperately dropped your mouth to his, hoping that would convey enough of an answer.

Spencer returned the kiss fervently. He stood, but not before wrapping his hands under your thighs to lift you. You obliged, wrapping your legs around his waist as he pinned you to the door once again. You were unbelievably close, and the wetness steadily growing between your legs was proof of the ache that was quickly becoming unbearable. It had been too long for you; too long without Spencer.

Once you introduced your tongue to the mix, it was all over for him.

Spencer roughly pulled you away from the door and made quick work to the couch; laying you down on your back and following suit. He propped himself up on his forearms above you, pushing your legs apart with his knee like it was muscle memory. The action provided a taste of delicious friction, gifting you some relief while simultaneously spurring you on.

It was all tongue and teeth, gripping and pulling, while also overflowing with love and devotion. His hands roamed your body; feeling up your thighs, caressing your ribs, and, finally, cupping your breast. Your sharp gasp came with a whine that had Spencer pulling away and smirking against your lips, a shiver running down his own spine.

“Missed me then?” He asks, acting coy. You almost rolled your eyes.

“God, for a guy with three PhDs you can be so dense.”

“And you can be so stubborn for a girl who claims to be easy-going, which is a fascinating statistical anomaly, by the way.” He teases, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear and running his thumb along your jaw. 

You leaned into his touch, allowing your eyes to flutter shut. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.” You say, without much conviction. Spencer grins, a laugh escaping his mouth before he leans down, gently capturing your lips with his. 

Before you could deepen the kiss, a loud knock at the door shocked you out of complete serenity. Spencer’s brows furrowed.

“Expecting anybody?” You shook your head.

“Absolutely not, but it is fascinating that this is the second time this has happened to me tonight, and within 20 minutes. What’s the statistical probability of that, wise guy?” you tease, emphasizing the word he used for you earlier. Spencer makes a show thinking on it, but before he can respond, there’s one more knock at the door. 

God, you were sick of the knocking at your door tonight.

Spencer leans down one more time, planting a tender kiss on your forehead before helping you to your feet so you could check the door.

You fling the door open, a smile spreading across your face at the second unexpected, but now very welcome interruption to your night.

After giving your thanks, and shutting the door behind you, you met Spencer gaze with a wicked grin. “Spence, how would you feel about staying for dinner?” you ask, holding up a brown bag that held the dinner you had ordered earlier. Spencer stalks towards you, grabbing your free hand.

“That depends. Are you coming back?” he asks, eyes hopeful. You meet his gaze, nothing but adoration and yearning in your eyes.

“It’ll break Emily’s heart and be a paperwork nightmare for Hotch, but I’d love to come home as soon as possible. Under one condition,” you say cunningly. 

Spencer nods, eager to hear your stipulation. “Name it.”

“I come home with you, as my boyfriend.” you conclude. Spencer beams, picking you up and spinning you.

“I can handle that, girlfriend.” he agrees, kissing you through his wide smile. You laugh to yourself in disbelief.

“Wow, if I’d known I just needed to fly to London for a few days to get that label I would’ve done it months ago.” Spencer let out the most exasperated sigh you’ve ever heard in your life.

It has been a tough week. The game that weekend had been too close, so Coach Jensen was being extra hard on them during practices. And then his philosophy paper (which he admittedly barely studied for) came back with a glaring D, and combined with the previous F’s he’s gotten, he needs at least a B in all his course work for the semester if he wants to pass the class. Garrett’s sore, his head hurts, he can’t focus enough to understand what the fuck Kierkegaard is talking about, so really it’s a respite that one of the girls Dean invited over for air hockey and beers made eyes at him when he passed by the living room on his way to the kitchen. It takes three more unsubtle glances, a raised eyebrow, and a tilt of his head, and suddenly Garrett’s week is becoming marginally better with his arms caging the girl (what’s her name again?) against his bedroom door and his mouth attached to her tits. Somewhere downstairs, his friends’ muffled voices playing video games and air hockey can still be heard, but his ears are more focused on the helpless noises coming out of his company’s mouth. 

He moves with efficient experience, tugging her jeans down her waist and unclasping her bra with a snap of his fingers. She giggles when he guides her to his bed and drops between her thighs, but the laughter quickly turns into choked moans the second he presses his tongue into her. It’s there, his head between her legs and her hands gripping his hair, that his bedroom door slams open, causing the girl to yelp and Garrett to snap his head up in shock. 

“Angel, what the fuck?” Garrett sputters at the sight of his best friend, immediately throwing his blanket to cover the naked girl on his bed and scrambling up to his feet. 

Angel–not because that’s her name, but because their first Halloween as friends when they were twelve, she had come as an angel complete with a wide-span, white feathered custom wing that sliced a jagged wound on Garrett’s bicep when she turned around and accidentally hit him with it. It turned out that she hadn’t assembled the wings correctly, and a loose wire had been the culprit. They spent two hours in the emergency room with their year coordinator because Garrett’s dad didn’t bother to drive up to their boarding school and check on him, her in her angel costume sans the wings (which she threw away violently in solidarity with him) and him in his Wolverine get up, hair gel, claws, and all. Garrett thought it was the funniest thing ever, telling her that their costumes matched after all, and had proceeded to call her Angel (from X-men, that is) for the foreseeable future. 

She seemed unbothered at having caught him with his head between a random girl’s legs, but that’s not really the most compromising position they’ve seen each other in in their over ten years of friendship. If anything, she seemed annoyed, but Garrett knows her like the back of his hand, so he immediately clocks the mask and the underlying problem in the twitch of her eyebrows and her raw-bitten lower lip. Something’s wrong.

“What’s wrong?” He asks immediately, tugging his sweats back in place. 

The girl in his bed scoffs. “Are you kidding me?”

Garrett doesn’t wave her off, but it’s a close thing. He stands straighter, jaw clenched. “Angel?”

She finally meets his gaze. “I need you.” 

Just three words, but they get his heart beating against his chest in mixed anxiety and concern. “You got me.”

“Okay.” She nods, finally allowing her eyes to flick towards the increasingly annoyed girl (whose name Garrett still can’t remember) in his bed. “I’ll wait for you downstairs. Brush your teeth, please.”

And then she turns around and leaves. 

For a moment, his room is silent, the kind that sits awkwardly in the atmosphere, and then Garrett clears his throat and faces–Zoe? Zara?--with a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that.”

She stares up at him expectantly, her bare torso still covered by his thin sheets. 

Garrett scratches at the nape of his neck. “You should probably go.”

Her jaw drops immediately. “Unbelievable.” 

But she really shouldn’t have been surprised. If everyone on campus knew who Garrett Graham was, then everyone also knew that his best friend comes first. Always.

By the time he manages to get downstairs, mouth minty cool because he knows better than to face his best friend with pussy breath, Zoe (that’s her name!) had already shoved his chest and left the house, which is a relief. He spots his favorite cockblocker right away in the kitchen, idly chatting with Logan and Tucker, but Garrett can tell her heart isn’t in it. The second she sees him, she lifts her hand and twirls his car keys in her finger, giving him a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Garrett feels another tug in his chest at the sight, but he knows she hates talking about her problems with an audience, so he decides to put a pin in it. At least until they’re alone together. 

“I’m driving,” she says, getting up from the stool. 

He rolls his eyes, reaching over to snatch the cap on Tucker’s head and put it on his own, backwards and all. He ignores the consequent “hey!” that comes from his friend’s mouth and instead makes a face at her. “Do I have a choice?”

“No,” she grins sarcastically, patting his chest and walking out the door, him close on her trail. 

They’re only driving for about seven minutes when Garrett bites the bullet. “So–”

“Zip it, Professor X,” she interrupts, which in turns makes him glare at her. She knows how much he resents that nickname–he’d had a buzzcut one time in 9th grade, he wasn’t bald at all, and she still won’t freaking drop it. “At least let me get my fries first.”

It’s only then that Garrett notices the nearby Wendy’s she seems to be driving towards. “I swear to god, Angel, if you interrupted me just because you wanted fast food–”

“Oh, poor Garrett and his sad little blue balls,” she mocks, pouting her lips. “However will he recover?”

“I hate you,” he deadpans, but there’s a traitorous grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “I actually, bone-deeply hate you.”

“You love me,” she corrects him, pushing at the turn signal.

“I can love you and hate you at the same time,” Garrett tells her, face mock-serious. “I contain multitudes. Right now, it’s veering towards ‘I hate you,’ though.”

She flashes him a smile, but it’s all wrong. “Well, you’re not the only one.”

Immediately, the teasing air evaporates, and Garrett feels his eyebrows come together in confusion. “What does that mean? Angel?”

But his best friend remains frustratingly silent. She goes on to order for the two of them, only acknowledging him when it’s time to pay, which makes him scoff but hand over his card anyway. The grin she gives him then is a little more real, a little more Angel, so at least the tight ball of anxiety in Garrett’s chest loosens a little. She finds a parking spot easily, and for ten, torturous minutes, she does nothing but eat her heart out and ask him insignificant questions about the game last weekend and how practice was. Garrett tries to indulge her a little, but when she opens up another insignificant topic, this time about her Art Criticism professor, Garrett can’t take it anymore. 

“You’re killing me here, Angel,” he sighs, stealing a fry from her. “I’ve kinda been panicking about what’s wrong for the last half hour, so if you could please with a cherry on top get to it, it would be much appreciated.”

She glares at him for his bluntness for a few seconds, before her shoulders visibly deflate and her lower lip begins to tremble.

“Hey,” he sits up immediately, one hand reaching out to grip her chin. “Talk to me. It’s me. What’s wrong?”

She takes a few steadying breaths before saying, “I’m a horrible person.”

“No, you’re not,” Garrett counters immediately, eyebrows furrowing even further. “You’re the best person I know. Who told you that?”

“Garrett,” she says helplessly, and the break in her voice makes his head pound. 

He wants names of the people who hurt her and he wants to hunt them down one by one. But getting angry in that moment isn’t exactly appropriate, so he swallows down his rage at seeing the most important person in his life hurt and crowds further into her space instead, guiding her face so she can look at him. “Angel.”

She shuts her eyes tight, and every tear that drops to her face feels like a gunshot to his chest. “I did it.”

“What did you do?” Garrett asks, forcing himself to keep his voice soft and stable. “Angel, you’re really scaring me here.”

She looks at him, then, and then utters the words Garrett never thought he’d ever hear. “I broke up with Jason.”

“What?” He backs away a few inches in shock. 

“I broke up with Jason,” she says again, clearer this time, and Garrett feels something loosen in his chest. Disbelief, yes, but also something more hidden. Something that feels a lot like relief.

“She did what?” Dean exclaims, pulling his helmet off his head in shock. 

Garrett sighs at his dramatics but repeats his words, anyway, his tone of voice still a little disbelieving, himself. “She broke up with him. For real. Like, permanently. I’m helping her find a new place after practice.”

“Well, shit,” Dean says, face still looking puzzled. “What did the asshole do?”

Garrett pushes his sweat-slicked hair back away from his face. “That’s just it. Mayor Jason did nothing. Like, absolutely nothing.”

“What does that mean?” Logan chimes in, unflinching at the mocking nickname and obviously just as invested in the story of his best friend’s love life. 

“She told me that she just woke up one day and realized that it wasn’t working out anymore. That she…doesn’t love him anymore, I guess.”

Tucker falls down on the bench next to Dean, having heard the words himself. “Shit.”

“I know,” Garrett sighs, fiddling with his gloves. “I kind of feel bad for him.”

Dean laughs at that. “Dude, you hated the guy.”

“I don’t hate him.”

Logan shoves his shoulder. “You literally call him Mayor Jason.”

Garrett scoffs. “He wants to be a politician!”

This makes his friends laugh even harder, and Garrett finds himself chuckling along. “I just think he’s a pretentious asshole. But Angel loved him, and he was good to her, I think, so no, I don’t hate him.”

“Damn,” Tucker says, shaking his head. “I always thought those two would, like, get married and have kids and stuff.”

Garrett feels his stomach drop at the words, but there’s no denying the truth behind them, especially when even he agreed. “Me too.”

“Is she okay, though? Does she regret it?” Dean asks, beginning to put his helmet back on. 

Garrett thinks about their text messages that morning; all playfulness and banter, nothing out of the ordinary. But then he remembers her words in his car the other day, the way she cried into his chest. He clears his throat. “She feels terrible about it. But she’ll be fine.”

“Of course, she will,” Logan reassures him with a pat on his chest. “She’s got you, G. She’ll be just fine.”

He’s at the student union center getting a gatorade in one of the vending machines when she purposefully bumps her shoulder to his, pressing their sides together.

“Ouch,” Garrett deadpans, reaching a hand out to press the necessary button and waits for his drink to fall. 

She nudges him further, until his senses are assaulted by the smell of the strawberry shampoo that she’s been using since high school. “What are you doing tonight?”

That makes Garrett pause for a second. It wasn’t Saturday so he definitely didn’t miss brunch, and they haven’t scheduled their movie nights for that month, either. No games until next week, too. Slowly, he turns to her, eyes full of suspicion. “Why do you ask?”

“Don’t be weird, Garrett,” she rolls her eyes, her shoulder still pressed to his. “What? Do you have plans?”

He crouches down to get his Gatorade. “I was actually planning to study for my Philosophy class. I have an oral exam coming up.”

She snorts; an ugly, raw, Angel sound that automatically makes Garrett feel ten thousand times lighter. “Oral exam? Oh, is that what you were doing when I walked in on you–”

“Shut the fuck up,” Garrett interrupts her with a hand to her mouth, the tips of his ears burning. That only serves to make her laugh more, the heat of her breath scorching his palm. 

“Come by my place later, come on,” she tells him, one hand reaching out to grip at his hoodie. 

Garrett throws his head back in exasperation. “Angel, I really need to do well on this exam. I might not be allowed to play if I fuck it up.” 

“I’ll help you!” She raises her voice, lips stretching into a smile at his disbelieving look. “I swear! I took that class freshman year.”

He immediately frowns at that. “Wait, you did?”

“Yes?” She gives him a weird look, tugging at his hoodie to get him to start walking with her. His feet follow immediately. Traitors. “It’s a pre-requisite to this class I really wanted to take.” 

“How the fuck did you pass that class? It’s hell!” Garrett says, lips turning into a slight pout. “And you passed it your freshman year?”

She laughs again, a high, twinkling sound, looking back at him. “Oh, babe. Don’t you worry. I got you.”

“What’s the catch?” He continues to ask, taking her hand from his hoodie so he could grip it with his own. It feels natural, just like the hundred thousand times they’ve held hands before she got herself a boyfriend. Garrett tries to ignore his heart pounding in his chest.

“You’re my best friend,” she widens her amused eyes at him, squeezing his fingers. “There’s no catch.”

“I don’t believe you for a second, Angel.”

Over the next few weeks, Garrett tries to convince himself he’s being totally normal about the fact that his best friend is taking over his life. 

She texts him after practice to go have dinner. After he bullshits his way to a B+ for his Philosophy oral exam, she drags him to IKEA and makes him help her pick out new furniture for her place. He’s over at her apartment nearly every single day, helping assemble said furniture and unpack her moving boxes (it takes too long because she forgot to label them). She bullies him into studying with her, and it’s the most time Garrett has spent in the library since his first year (except he doesn’t actually study; he tries to do his course work for about twenty minutes before giving up and going on his phone while she’s nose-deep in her readings beside him). She shows up at the hockey house unannounced like she usually does, but this time more frequently, sometimes even getting the other guys to join in on their movie nights. One time she even helped Tuck with dinner. They go on random drives so much that his car feels practically hers as much as his. Their Saturday brunches become a daily thing. 

And Garrett knows nothing is wrong about any of this. It’s nice to not have to schedule their hang-outs anymore. It’s refreshing that all he has to do to see her now is to send her a text and vice versa. He doesn’t even care that the last time he hooked up with someone was that interrupted time with Zoe more than a month ago. Nothing is wrong about his best friend suddenly just being there. All the time. Except when they’re walking together around campus and she’s hooking their arms together or, God forbid, intertwining their fingers, Garrett’s breath catches in his throat and he finds it a little harder to breathe. Or when she shows up at practice unannounced wearing his old high school jersey with a tray of coffee for him and the other guys in the team and his heart stutters in his chest. 

So no. He’s not being completely normal about it. He just can’t figure out the reason why.  

He slams his locker shut before leaning against it. “It’s weird.”

Dean looks up at him from where he’s unlacing his skates. “What’s weird?”

Garrett frowns down at him for a second before averting his eyes. “Angel.”

“Oh, boy,” Logan says, and he sees the rest of his friends exchange knowing looks. 

“What?” Garrett asks, looking between them. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

They’re still smiling at each other like they know something he doesn’t, which fucking sucks. 

Dean’s shoulders begin to shake in laughter. “I have never been wrong a day in my life. Goddamn.”

“What?” Garrett presses, growing more annoyed by the minute. 

Dean continues to laugh, even tutting at him appeasingly. “Don’t you worry your pretty curly head about it, G. You’ll know soon enough.”

“Fuck you,” he says automatically, but the heat isn’t there. 

Dean takes the curse in stride. “So what about your ‘Angel’ is weird?”

The words distract Garrett enough that he forgets about their weirdness entirely. “I don’t know. Everything? I know we’re best friends. She’s the most important person in my life. But I feel like we’ve been…I don’t know, spending so much time together recently. Like, we haven’t spent this much time together since high school, probably, and we were stuck in the same boarding school and taking all our classes together then, so that’s saying something.”

Logan chuckles and shakes his head at him. “G, your best friend just got out of a serious, 3-year relationship. They were living together at one point. Of course you’re going to spend more time with her now. More than half of her day just freed up by being single alone.”

“And I bet she’s bored,” Tucker adds, nodding. “Imagine all the free time all of a sudden. Even her own apartment is probably too quiet now. I remember that Jason guy can talk.”

“Yeah, about apolitical bullshit that no one but him cares about,” Garrett mutters under his breath. 

Dean makes a face. “I’m not getting the problem here. Are you boys getting the problem?” Logan and Tucker dutifully shake their heads, making Dean point at him. “See? That’s such a non-issue, dude. So you’re spending more time with your best friend. Your steak is too buttery. Your bread is too soft. Nyada nyada.”

Garrett throws a glove at his face that he manages to dodge at the last minute. “It’s not that. It’s just…Okay. If one of you makes fun of me for what I’m about to say, I will crush you like a bug. Get it?”

The three look at him expectantly. 

Garrett sighs, training his eyes up the ceiling. “When we were in our senior year in high school and Angel started dating Jason…I kind of had a hard time adjusting.”

Dean looks way too delighted at his words, making Garrett throw another glove at him. This time it hits him right in the center of his chest. 

“Don’t make it a thing,” Garrett warns, giving them a look before sighing again. “Back then we were–I don’t know how to explain it. Attached at the hip? Two halves of the same person? Just. Inseparable, I guess. No one could tell where she ended and I began. And I loved that about us. She was the only family I have. The one I chose. And then Jason happened, and I lost that. The casual intimacy and closeness. It suddenly wasn’t appropriate anymore. I never heard a peep from her, but I was a guy. I could tell our closeness bothered him. So eventually I dealt with it. I adjusted. But it was hard. And to say I didn’t mourn our relationship then would be a lie.”

Tucker leans forward. “How did you adjust?”

Dean smirks. “Let me guess: by fucking half of the senior year population?”

“Fuck you,” Garret tells him again. “But yeah. Kind of. But that’s not even the point! The point is I get the sudden free time, okay? That’s what I felt when she got a boyfriend. All these things I used to do with her suddenly aren’t feasible anymore, so instead I spend hours of my day with nothing to do. Eventually, yeah, I found something to fill the time, but it was hard. I thought I was losing my best friend, and I couldn’t do anything about it because then I might lose her for real. I was a dramatic 18-year-old. Whatever. But what happens when she glues us together again, forms us a routine of being constantly together, and then she gets another boyfriend? That’s bullshit.”

Logan, Tucker, and Dean slowly exchange another look. 

“What?” Garrett asks. 

Logan shakes his head. “Are you hearing yourself, man?”

“What?” He repeats, getting even more confused than before.

“Oh my god,” Dean laughs, slapping his thighs. “He’s fucking hopeless, man. I give up.”

She’s already drunk when Garrett gets to the party, and he knows this because she lights up instantly at the sight of him, her entire body practically vibrating from where she’s standing. “Garrett!!!”

“Hey, Angel,” he says, receiving her tackle with a short grunt. “How much have you had to drink?”

She ignores his question completely, burrowing her face in his chest. “Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been waiting for you for ages.”

Garrett allows himself to chuckle at how obnoxious his best friend is being. He shuffles both of their bodies so that he’s leaning against the fridge, his feet planted firmly on the ground in case she intends to tackle him again. His hands rub her back in slow circles, and Garrett immediately takes note of the goosebumps lining her skin. She’s wearing a tight brown tank top and low-rise jeans, and he puts his hands on the slit of skin of her back showing underneath her top and pulls away just enough to see her face to face. “You cold?”

“No,” she answers instantly, then steps forward even closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “I need to tell you something, Charles.”

It takes him a moment to place the name, and when he does, he rolls his eyes. He’s never living down that fucking buzzcut. “What is it, Angel?”

“I ran into Jason’s friends at lunch,” she continues saying, voice low enough that Garrett has to strain his ears. He nods at her to continue, which she does, voice shaking. “He hates me.”

For a second Garrett isn’t sure whether she’s going to cry, but then her shoulders start shaking, giggles leaving her lips uncontrollably. “He fucking hates me, Prof.” 

Garrett tightens his arms around her, unsure how to approach the situation. “I’m sure he doesn't, Angel.”

“No, he does,” she nods her head in resignation. “And I don’t think I care. I’m a horrible person.”

He pinches the exposed skin of her back, making her yelp. “Enough of that. I won’t let you talk shit about my best friend anymore. Stop it.”

She shuffles closer again, getting on her tiptoes and burying her face against his neck. Every word out of her mouth sends a hot breath against his skin that Garrett tries hard to ignore. “I wish he cheated. Or neglected me. I just wish he did something bad so I wouldn’t be feeling all this guilt.”

“You don’t mean that,” Garrett says against her hair, squeezing her tightly against him. 

“I wish I could say that I’m in love with him,” she continues. “What if I never was? Isn’t that crazy, G? We’ve been together for almost four years. We’ve exchanged I love you’s countless times. But in hindsight, what the fuck do I know about love? If I had truly loved him, how can I wake up one morning and just…stop?”

“That’s just it, though,” Garrett says, which makes her pull away to look at him. “It’s scary.”

“What?”

“Love,” he shrugs. “How fickle it is. What happened to you scares me. What if it doesn’t stop at just romantic love?”

She almost smiles at that. “What, you think I’m going to wake up tomorrow and just decide you’re a repulsive best friend and I want you out of my life?”

“Don’t even joke about that, Angel,” he chides with a fake shudder, and something in her expression melts and softens. 

She steps closer, enough that their noses are touching. “Wanna know something?”

Garrett swallows the lump that suddenly formed in his throat. “What?”

“Jason would hate to see us like this,” she says, and Garrett tenses up instantly, intending to pull away, but she tightens her grip around him.

He takes a few seconds to reply. “I know.”

Garrett sees the way her eyes dilate at his words. “Is that why you pushed me away?”

“I didn’t push you away,” he denies immediately, but even as he says the words his breath stutters in his chest. 

She smiles a little sadly. “Of course you did, G. One minute we’re inseparable and the next we had to pre-sched our hang outs because you’re fucking every girl in school.”

The blunt way she puts it makes Garrett squeeze her hips, and he doesn’t miss the way her breath hitches at the action. He feels like he’s underwater, like everything suddenly became muffled around them. The only clear view is her. His best friend. The most important person in his life. 

Best friend, he repeats the words in his head. Come on, Graham. That’s your best friend. 

“Want to know the funny thing?” She asks again, nudging their noses together. 

Garrett almost chickens out and doesn’t ask. But her gaze is a challenge in itself, and he’s nothing if not competitive, so he forces the words out of his mouth. “What, Angel?”

“The night before I broke up with him, I closed my eyes and imagined my future. Ten, fifteen, twenty years from now. What I wanted it to be. What I think it would be. And,” she cuts herself off with a chuckle, alcohol breath fanning against Garrett’s face. “Jason wasn’t there. He was nowhere to be found.”

Garrett clenches his jaw. “Really?”

“Uh huh,” she confirms, extending one hand up to push back his hair. “Wanna know who was?”

But Garrett already knows the answer. It’s clear as day. Still, when she pushes up on her tiptoes to whisper it to his ear, he feels his world begin to crumble, the words devastating in their honesty. 

“You,” she says, and then she smiles a little cruelly. “My best friend.”

That night wouldn’t be the first time Garrett Graham jerks off to the thought of his best friend. But it’s the first time he doesn’t feel guilty about it. 

He swings his stick harshly. The puck misses the goal.

Another swing. Miss again. 

Swing. Miss.

“Fuck!” Garrett throws his stick to the ice, skating away. 

From the stands, his three friends watch him, faces in varying states of winces. 

“That,” Dean says, voice low. “Is a cry for help.”

Logan scrunches his nose up. “Amen, brother.”

Tuck nods along. “Amen.”

“What can we do about it, boys? Our cap needs an intervention.” Dean says, still eyeing Garrett’s form critically.

Logan chuckles. “Unless we get him to admit he’s in love with his fucking best friend? Nothing.”

“Not nothing,” Dean says with a smirk, lifting up his phone.

Twenty minutes later, she’s there in the tunnels, head whipping around in search of Garrett. 

“Angel!” Dean calls out, making her turn towards him. “Over here!”

She speedwalks towards where he’s standing, wearing a Briar U hoodie Dean’s pretty sure is Garrett’s and loose sweats that may or may not also be Garrett’s. “What happened? Where is he? And don’t call me that.”

“Oh right, sacred nicknames, I forgot. Sorry.” Dean says all of this with a knowing smile on his face, which she decides to ignore. “G’s in the shower. We’re gonna head out. You go do your best friend magic on him and take care of our cap.”

She rolls her eyes but dutifully drops down to one of the benches in the hallway to wait for him. When Garrett steps out of the locker room, he’s wearing a navy zip-up hoodie and his hair is still dripping wet from his shower. He almost jumps at the sight of her.

“Angel,” he says in surprise, his grip on his bag tightening. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know, Prof X. You tell me,” she says, getting up and dusting off her sweats. “Dean says you need an intervention.”

Garrett closes his eyes at that. “I fucking hate him.”

“Come on,” she inclines her head before hooking her arm to his. “You can hate him in the comfort of my new apartment. Movie night?”

The last thing Garrett wants is to spend an entire night pressed up against the best friend he’s trying and completely failing to convince himself he feels nothing for, pretending to watch a movie he could care less about. But clearly the universe had other plans, so now they’re cuddled on her couch, a half-empty box of pizza on the coffee table in front of them and High School Musical 3 playing on the tv.

“Troy Bolton is so hot,” she comments after one of the song numbers, licking her fingers to clean off the pizza sauce. 

Garrett clears his throat and tells himself the view doesn’t affect him. “He’s so short, though. How does he expect to be a collegiate point guard with that height?”

“Good thing it’s a movie,” she emphasizes the last word, nudging his stomach with her elbow. “It’s escapism. Besides, with a pretty face like that, size won’t even matter.”

That makes Garrett’s eyebrows raise to his hairline, his head twisting to shoot her a knowing smirk. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” she juts her chin out and insists, glaring at him. “Sorry you can’t relate.”

Garrett knows she’s making a dig at his looks, but he can’t help but twist her words, his smirk practically a permanent fixture on his face at the moment. “Yep. Never had a problem with size, I’m afraid.”

He watches her jaw drop at his words, laughs out loud when she suddenly slaps his shoulder multiple times. “You are infuriating.” 

“You love me, Angel,” Garrett teases her, hoping she doesn’t hear the way his heart jumps at the bold words. 

“I wish I didn’t.”

He’s still chuckling when he finally catches her hands, stopping her continued assault. “You don’t mean that.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“You love me,” Garrett says again. And maybe this time she hears the catch in his voice, the underlying seriousness beneath the teasing, because she freezes in her spot, both her hands still held tightly in his. 

She looks at him for a few seconds. “I do, yeah.”

Garrett feels like he stops breathing. When he speaks again, the word sounds like a warning even to his own ears. “Angel.”

He feels her shift against him until she’s practically on his lap. “What? Don’t you love me too?”

Garrett is suddenly hyperaware of every point of contact; her thighs almost bracketing his hips, the heat of her skin seeping through their clothes, her hands still dwarfed by his. In the background, Zac Efron is singing something about screaming, but the sound is dull and muffled. He can’t focus on anything except her. 

“You’re dangerous,” he manages to rasp out. 

He thinks of all the times they found themselves in this position; all the times Garrett found himself wanting to cross the boundary they’ve drawn when they were twelve and decided they needed to be in each other’s lives forever as best friends. The summer before high school when they became each other’s first kiss because it’d be embarrassing to be in 9th grade without any experience. His sixteenth birthday when a game of spin the bottle had them doing it again, deeper that time, with tongue. Junior prom when they went together as friends and right there on the dancefloor, Garrett had to grapple with the fact that he wanted to kiss his best friend badly. 

It had always been there in the crevices of their friendship; the unspoken need for more, for intimacy and connection. It had been easier to handle when Jason happened, because finally the boundaries were physical and concrete in the form of another person. But now, in the couch he helped her assemble in the new apartment he helped her find and move into, with her body pressed against his so closely and tightly he can feel every breath she takes, the boundaries might as well be nonexistent. 

“This is a bad idea. You just got out of a relationship.”

She almost smiles. “I know.”

“You’re my best friend,” Garrett says again, but he’s not sure whether it’s her he’s convincing or himself.

She shifts again. Garrett closes his eyes at the feeling. “Garrett. You’re my best friend, too.”

A pause. 

They’re not really sure who moves first, but in the next breath their lips are pressing together, a moan punching out of his throat from the sensation. She plants her hands on his shoulders to anchor herself, straddling him properly now. Almost immediately, she begins grinding down on him, and his body’s reaction is instant. 

“Fuck, Angel,” Garrett exhales a heavy breath, torn between wanting to close his eyes or savoring the sight of his best friend on top of him. “Come here.”

He guides her by her jaw so he can kiss her again, deeper, his tongue tracing her lower lip before slipping inside her mouth. She tastes like the soda she had been drinking. It takes Garrett back to that birthday party when they were sixteen, their classmates all around them cheering while he got to properly taste her for the first time. He thinks about sitting there finishing the spin the bottle game with a raging hard on inside his pants, hoping the light is too dim for anyone to notice. 

He bites at her lips again, causing a soft noise to come from her mouth that absolutely destroys him, enough that his hips juts up without control. 

She pulls away and begins tugging at his zip-up hoodie, chest heaving harshly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Take this off.”

He helps her along dutifully, watching with dark eyes as she tosses the piece of clothing behind her. “Fuck, Garrett, I love your shoulders.”

“Yeah?” He breathes out, letting his hands bunch her top upwards and over her head until she’s left in a lacy lilac bra, sheer enough to leave nothing to the imagination. 

She gives a trembling nod, taking his tank top off too. Her nails trace down his torso, watching his abs contract in fascination. “Got myself off for the first time thinking about them.”

“Jesus Christ, Angel.” Garrett huffs, his breath leaving him. It only gets worse when she reaches behind herself to unclasp her bra, revealing her full breasts, nipples dark and tight just like he imagined. As if he can’t help himself, his face drags forward until he’s close enough to close his mouth around one bud, his hand taking care of the other. 

A choked cry leaves her mouth, head throwing back in pleasure. One of her hands skirts the waistband of his sweats, and then she palms his cock through the fabric like it wouldn’t absolutely ruin him. His hips jerk up again. “You want me?”

The question almost comes off as cruel. Does he want her? As if there’s a world in which Garrett doesn’t. As if he doesn’t feel as if he had been born to worship her like this. 

“You don’t even know how much,” he murmurs against her skin. He kisses over the moles in her chest and shoulders that he used to make fun of when they were kids. 

She shimmies out of her shorts and underwear, and the sight of her thin damp curls short-circuits Garrett’s brain. He isn’t even aware of her hands sliding his sweats down, just enough to free his cock with an angry bob. His blood thuds in his ears loudly. 

She shuffles closer again, until they’re almost chest to chest, hovering above him and teasing the head of his cock at her entrance. “Since when?”

Maybe it’s the intimacy he’s been craving since he first learned what it’s like to want his best friend, or maybe it’s his dick talking, but the honest words are out of his mouth before he could stop them: “Since forever.”

He feels more than sees her body tense up, and in mere seconds she has shuffled away, still within reach but the inch of increased space makes his heart drop to his stomach nonetheless. Shit. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She asks, face going pale. Her eyes scan his face steadily, and he knows guilt is written all over him in capital letters. 

Garrett tugs his sweats up with a sigh. “Angel–”

“Garrett,” she says, voice hard. The lack of a nickname sends a pang through his chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He pushes his hair back and leans his head against the couch, eyes trained to the ceiling. “I’m sorry.”

He hears her shuffle around, knows that it’s her getting dressed, the final nail in the coffin that was their night together. The panic is slowbuilding in his stomach; half of his wits are still stuck to two minutes ago when they were flushed together making out with wild abandon.

How the fuck did he let this happen? More than that, what the fuck is going to happen to them? She’s his best friend. She’s been in his life for over ten years. She’s held him during losses, nursed him when his dad beat him to shit. She’s the only one who truly knows him inside out, and now he’s on the verge of losing her because he couldn’t keep it in his pants. 

“That’s not what I asked.”

Garrett attempts to look at her. She’s wearing her top again, arms crossed over her chest and still staring at him in horrified expectancy. He pries his eyes away immediately, instead focusing on the loose thread in the throw pillowcase next to his lap. When he speaks, his voice comes out defensive. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” 

“The truth, Garrett,” she says, the hard edge to her voice still there. 

Garrett throws his head back again. Anything just to avoid her eyes. “I know it’s wrong, alright? You’re my best friend. We shouldn’t–I shouldn’t have ever—but I couldn’t help it. I’ve wanted you probably since before I even knew what wanting someone meant.”

She inhales a sharp breath. “High school?’

“Yeah, mostly,” he admits, clenching his jaw. “Maybe even before then.”

“Fuck, Garrett,” she breathes out, making him shut his eyes tight. 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

They’re silent for a few seconds before she speaks again. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

That finally gets him to look at her, if a little incredulously. “Are you kidding? I didn’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose you.”

Her face twists, like she’s in pain. “But you blew me off.”

He sits up at that, his confusion clear as day. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Garrett,” she laughs his name out tiredly, shaking her head. “Don’t you remember? The summer before our senior year. We spent almost every day together. We held hands and cuddled and you kissed me everywhere except my lips constantly. Everyone else thought we were dating. And I thought…I thought we were getting there.”

He swallows harshly. He doesn’t know what to say. The memory of that summer hit him like a brick. The train rides spent flushed against each other, his hands on the back pocket of her jeans. The amount of times he stopped himself from just crossing the line and kissing her for real. 

“I fell for you. Hard.” She tells him, causing his mouth to gape open. “I thought we were on the same page. But then we got to Stacy’s party at the end of summer and everyone asked where we stood and you completely blew me off. She’s just my best friend–that’s what you said. And then you let all these girls hang all over you the entire night. It doesn’t get any clearer than that.”

Garrett opens his mouth. “But–”

“Jason asked me out a few days later and I figured why not. Might as well.” She shoots him a sad smile. Her eyes are wet, and Garrett hates himself for making it happen. “I grew to like him eventually. And you started pulling away. Maybe part of it was on me for getting a boyfriend and not having enough time for you anymore. But every time I saw you with a different girl, it just proved to me what I realized at that party. You didn’t want me. I was just your best friend. And if I wanted to keep you in my life, I had to be okay with that.” 

Garrett shakes his head. His heart is thrumming so loudly in his chest he’s sure she can hear it from where she’s sitting. “I wanted you. So bad. I was so scared that it would ruin everything that I never said anything. And then you got together with Jason. It killed me to see you with him. To know that I could never hold your hand or kiss you or put my arms around you anymore because he might get mad. Those girls were just–”

“I know what they were,” she interrupts, a resigned smile on her face. “Still sucked, though.”

“Yeah.” 

A cheer comes from the TV. Garrett almost forgot it was still playing. The characters launch into the finale song, the one at graduation. At least it does the job of filling the silence. 

Finally, she lets out a long sigh. “This was a mistake.”

He can’t even explain the hurt that shoots up his chest at the words that just left her mouth. He wants to build a time machine and go back to three hours ago, debating pizza flavors and movie options without a hint that their night will get derailed. He wants to go back to that summer before their senior year and kiss her right there on the train. But Garrett is no scientist and time travel doesn’t exist, so instead he chooses to say nothing, waits for more hurtful words to come. 

“You’re right,” she continues, beginning to play with her fingers. “I just got out of a relationship. This isn’t–” she shakes her head. “It’s not good. For me or for you.”

Garrett shakes his head. “Don’t say that. Don’t–” His mouth struggles with the words. “You can regret this. Me. But don’t ever think that there’s a reality where you’re not good for me. That’s impossible.”

She looks at him like it hurts her to do it. Garrett reaches down to get his shirt off the floor.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and somehow that makes it worse. 

Garrett puts his shirt back on with as much dignity as he can muster. He bites his lip in contemplation. “Why’d you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Kiss me.” He can tell by the look on her face that she wants to argue about who did the kissing, but thankfully she drops it. 

“The truth?” She asks quietly, making him nod his head. She pauses again, like she’s thinking about lying anyways, and then thinks the better of it. “I’ve wanted to do it for so long, and for the first time in my life I felt like you actually wanted to do it too.”

“I did,” he tells her, voice just as quiet. “I do.”

“I’m sorry, prof,” she smiles at him, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Did I ruin everything?”

Garrett wants to cross the space between them and hold her. It kills him that he hesitates. “No. Never. I love you, Angel.”

“I love you too,” the words get caught in her throat the way they tend to do when she’s about to cry. “And it’s because I love you that we can’t do this. Not now, anyway. Four years is a long time, G. Even if I’m not in love with Jason anymore, jumping into something with you so quickly after him would feel…I don’t want to use you in that way. Not if…”

“What?” He asks. “Not if what?”

She blows a deep breath. “Not if I want this to be for real. Us.”

Garrett feels his own throat constrict at that. “You do?”

“Of course, I do,” she almost laughs, but instead she settles for a shy smile. “What do you say, Xavier? You down to wait a few more months?”

When Garrett laughs back, it’s breathy and wet and all embarrassing. “Angel, I’ve been waiting for years. A few more months is nothing.”

She finally shuffles over and sits next to him, nudging his shoulder with hers. “You don’t have to leave.”

He feels himself grinning. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, voice more casual now, one hand reaching for the remote to pick their next movie. “Zac Efron looked super hot in Hairspray too.”

Dean Di Laurentis, who had never been her boyfriend, which was a legal technicality he clung to with the same lazy confidence he seemed to apply to everything else in his life.

Dean had been a mistake with good hair and a trust fund. A mistake with a grin. A mistake that had lasted a few times longer than it should have because he was pretty and shameless and very good at looking at a girl like he had personally invented bad decisions and would be thrilled to walk her through the beginner course.

But Dean wasn't a girlfriend kind of guy. Dean was Six Flags. You rode the ride, screamed once or twice, maybe bought the photo after, and then got off.

She knew that. She had known that then, technically.

Dean had a way of appearing in her life at the least dignified possible moments looking pleased with himself, and she had a way of refusing to let him be pleased without penalty.

Like the time she found him coming out of a women’s bathroom stall at Malone’s with a girl in a denim skirt. She had been washing her hands at the sink, glanced up in the mirror, taken in his flushed face, his rumpled shirt, the girl fixing her hair behind him, and said, “Hi, whore,” with the flat calm of someone greeting a neighbour at the mailbox.

Dean, because shame had never successfully attached itself to his nervous system, had only chuckled and leaned one shoulder against the stall door. “Hey.”

That was the whole thing. Mostly joking. Mostly old bruised pride dressed up in insults because that was easier than admitting he had maybe gotten under her skin for a minute and then left muddy footprints on his way back out.

Garrett wasn't supposed to be part of that. Garrett had happened after a party, which was already a bad sign because nothing good ever began at two in the morning in a hockey house kitchen with tequila and Dean singing the wrong words to a song everybody else knew. 

It had been loud and hot and stupid, the whole house sticky with beer and laughter and bodies pressed into doorways. She had ended up outside on the back steps because the kitchen had started spinning, and Garrett had come out five minutes later with two waters and an expression that suggested he was trying very hard not to ask whether she was going to puke on his sneakers.

He had sat down beside her instead.

Garrett had looked at her sideways when she laughed at one of his jokes, and something in his face had changed. Garrett’s face was a practiced thing, mostly grin and charm and captain-boy confidence, but this had slipped underneath it. A quiet little interest. A flicker. Like he had found something he wanted to pay attention to and was already annoyed about it.

Then, later, in the upstairs hallway, she had been trying to find the bathroom and he had been trying to find Logan, because Logan had stolen his phone to send a voice note to Coach that began with “hypothetically, if a man loved hockey but hated cardio,” and somehow Garrett’s hand had ended up on her waist. Warm through her shirt. Steadying her when someone shoved past in the hall.

“Careful,” he had said, close to her ear.

She had turned her head, too drunk to be clever and too annoyed by how good he smelled to be normal. “I’m always careful.”

Garrett’s eyes had dropped to her mouth for half a second, then lifted again with that awful amused heat. “Uh huh.”

The first kiss had been an accident. His room had been closer than the bathroom. His door had shut behind them. His mouth had been warm and confident and so immediately, horribly good that she had pulled back after ten seconds just to stare at him like that might make the situation less offensive.

Garrett had grinned down at her, lips a little swollen already, one hand still at her waist. “What?”

“You kiss like you know you’re good at it.”

He’d shrugged. “I am good at it.”

“That’s a disgusting thing to say.”

“Wasn’t really a denial, though.”

She had meant to hate that. Truly. She had tried. 

The first time they almost got caught, she was riding him with her hands braced on his chest and Garrett’s mouth at her throat, and the only thought in her head was a soft, stunned, repeated oh that seemed to have lost all connection to language.

His room was too warm despite the window cracked open behind the desk, the cold night air barely managing to move through the heat they had made under the sheets. The lamp was off. Some blue-white spill from the streetlight outside cut through the blinds in thin, broken lines over the wall and across Garrett’s shoulder. 

His chain had slipped sideways against his collarbone. His hair was a wreck from her fingers. His mouth was open against her neck, kissing up under her jaw with the kind of lazy, devastating precision that made her thighs shake around him before she could stop them.

“Garrett,” she breathed, and then immediately louder, because his hands had shifted to her hips and guided her down harder. “Oh my God.”

His hand flew up before the sound had fully escaped, palm covering her mouth, his other hand tightening at her waist. “Jesus, baby,” he said, voice low and rough and entirely too amused for a man currently participating in the same crime. “You trying to get me murdered?”

She made a muffled noise against his hand that was meant to be a curse and came out humiliatingly close to a whimper. Garrett’s grin flashed in the dark, teeth catching briefly, eyes bright and smug and so pleased with himself she nearly hated him. Nearly. 

It was hard to maintain moral outrage when his thumb was pressed lightly against her cheek and his hips were still moving, slow and deep and mean in the way only a man with a scoreboard in his soul could be mean.

“There we go,” he murmured, kissing the side of her jaw while his palm stayed over her mouth. “Can’t be announcing it to the whole house, right?”

She glared down at him, or tried to. It probably lost some effect when her eyes fluttered halfway shut because he lifted his hips again and hit exactly the wrong place, which was to say exactly the right one.

Garrett laughed under his breath, quiet and filthy with satisfaction. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

She bit the inside of his palm.

His brows shot up. “Oh, we’re biting now?”

She nodded against his hand with as much dignity as a girl could manage while naked on top of him and very actively losing a fight against her own volume.

“Cool,” he whispered. “Very healthy. Super mature.”

She would have laughed if she had any air left. Instead her body gave her away again, a soft, trapped sound catching under his palm as he sat up suddenly, changing the angle and dragging her with him until she was pressed chest-to-chest with him, knees bracketing his hips, his mouth at her ear.

“Shh,” he said, but the edge of laughter in it ruined the authority. 

He was enjoying this too much. Enjoying her like this, messy and desperate and trying very hard to be quiet because if anybody found out she was in Garrett Graham’s room, in Garrett Graham’s bed, after Dean Di Laurentis had spent the better part of the semester behaving like her eventual return to his mattress was a scheduling issue rather than a question, the whole house would become unbearable overnight.

Then the hallway floor creaked. Both of them froze. Him still inside her, both still overheated, still breathing too hard into the tiny space between them. Garrett’s hand stayed clamped gently over her mouth. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. His eyes lifted toward the door, and in the blue-dark she watched every cocky line in his face vanish into immediate, sharp focus.

Outside, Logan’s voice drifted close enough to curdle the air. “Yo– Dean. Is that who I think it is in there?”

Her stomach dropped so fast it was almost physical. Garrett’s eyes snapped back to hers.

For one suspended, insane second, they only stared at each other. She could feel his heartbeat hard against her chest. Could feel where they were still joined, which her body had the absolutely perverse audacity to notice in detail despite the fact that John Logan was currently holding a one-man investigation outside the door. Garrett’s hand loosened slightly over her mouth. Her lips parted against his palm. He held his finger up to his own lips, and she had nodded quickly.

He reached blindly toward the bedside table with one hand, the motion chaotic and deeply unathletic for a man who made a living looking graceful under pressure.

His fingers knocked something over. A bottle cap, maybe. His watch. A textbook hit the floor with a soft thud. She bit down on a laugh before it could get out, which was dangerous because laughter at that moment felt like shaking a soda bottle with the cap still on.

Garrett found his phone at last, thumb flying over the screen. For half a second there was nothing. Then the speaker on his dresser exploded to life with Cherry Pie so loud the whole room seemed to jump.

She slapped both hands over her own mouth now, eyes wide, shoulders shaking immediately with silent laughter. Garrett stared at the ceiling like he could not believe this was the solution his brain had selected and was, worse, proud of himself anyway.

In the hallway, Logan went silent. Then he burst out laughing. “Oh shit– sorry, G! Guess not!”

A second later Dean’s voice, farther away and deeply suspicious, called, “What?”

“Nothin’, man,” Logan said, still laughing. “Keep walking.”

Footsteps retreated. The music kept blaring. Garrett turned it down with the ferocious speed of a man who had made his point and no longer wanted Warrant narrating his sex life. The second the volume dropped, she folded forward into Garrett’s shoulder and started laughing for real, breathless and helpless, her whole body shaking against his.

Garrett’s arms closed around her automatically. Then he started laughing too, quiet and disbelieving into her hair. “Fuck.”

She lifted her head, face hot, eyes watering, and whispered, “Cherry Pie?”

“It was the first thing that came up.”

“You panic-played Cherry Pie?”

He huffed out a laugh. “It worked.”

“That’s not the same as being good.”

“It worked,” he repeated, grinning now, smugness returning by the inch because survival had restored him. His hands slid to her hips again, warm and possessive and much too confident. “And for the record, if Logan thinks you’re in Dean’s room right now, I might throw myself out the window.”

She pressed her lips together, trying and failing not to smile. “Jealous?”

Garrett’s eyes narrowed. “Careful.”

The word landed low in her stomach. Warm and bright and stupid. She leaned down and kissed him before he could see too much of it on her face, and he kissed her back still smiling, still breathing laughter into her mouth, both of them a little shaky now for a different reason.

“Too close,” she murmured against him.

“Yeah,” Garrett said, one hand coming up to the back of her neck, holding her there. “Maybe stop trying to wake the neighbours.”

“You’re the one playing stripper music at full volume.”

“Because you’re loud.”

“Because you’re annoying.”

His grin was all teeth in the dark. “Baby, just before? That wasn't an annoyed sound.”

She shoved at his chest, and he fell back on the mattress easily, gesturing for her to come closer with two fingers. The stupid warmth of it made her go quiet in a way that was much more dangerous than the moaning had been.

The second time they almost got caught, she was drunk enough that focusing on standing upright had become a full-body project.

The house belonged to some guy from one of Dean’s classes, or maybe one of Logan’s, or maybe no one knew and they had all simply agreed to occupy it until dawn. It smelled like beer, perfume, damp coats, and the kind of carpet that had seen too much and forgiven nothing.

She stood in the upstairs hallway with one shoulder against the wall, phone in hand, trying to read the same text from Garrett for the third time.

Garrett: You good?

It was a simple question. Easy. Very Garrett, actually. Casual on the surface, but sent because he had been watching her across the room ten minutes ago with that narrowed captain look he got whenever she reached the stage of drunk where her smile became too slow and her balance became hypothetical.

She typed, yes.

Then deleted it because the letters looked suspicious.

Then typed, yed.

Then stared at that for a long time.

Beside her, a cluster of girls in tiny tops and hockey-adjacent enthusiasm had been having one of those conversations that floated around the party like perfume: who was hot, who was overrated, who was secretly huge, who had commitment issues so severe they should probably be peer-reviewed. 

She ignored it for as long as she could because she had bigger concerns, namely that if the bathroom door did not open in the next thirty seconds she was going to have to start making decisions about where else she could throw up.

Then one of them said Garrett’s name. Her eyes lifted off her phone before she could stop them.

The girl speaking was blonde, glossy in a way that seemed expensive even if nothing she was wearing necessarily was, with a little white top and the high, pleased expression of someone enjoying the sound of her own anecdote. 

“No, I’m serious,” she was saying, one hand pressed to her chest like she was giving testimony. “Last night was the best night ever. Like, Garrett knows what he’s doing. He made me come, like, three times.”

The hallway did a small, drunken tilt.

The problem wasn't even jealousy at first, not properly. The problem was logistics. Garrett had been in her room last night. Garrett had been in her bed last night, sprawled diagonally like he owned both the mattress and several surrounding counties, one arm hooked around her waist while she tried to sleep and he mumbled something into her hair about setting an alarm for practice. 

Garrett had stolen half her blanket and then looked offended when she kicked him in the shin. Garrett had kissed the back of her shoulder at five in the morning before climbing out of bed, half-dressed in the dark, whispering, “Go back to sleep, baby,” like he had any right to sound that soft before sunrise.

So unless Garrett had discovered cloning between midnight and breakfast, the blonde girl was lying.

The girl noticed her staring, because drunken staring was rarely subtle and this particular stare had been delivered with the blank intensity of a haunted doll.

The blonde’s smile faltered into something confused but still sweet, which was somehow worse. “Um… hi, babe. You okay?”

Another girl beside her leaned in slightly, brows lifting. “Did you need some water?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her phone was still in her hand, Garrett’s unanswered text glowing uselessly against her palm.

“You weren’t with Garrett last night,” she said.

The sentence came out too clear. Too certain. Sober-sounding, even, which was deeply unfair given the fact that her inner ear was currently behaving like a loose shopping trolley.

The blonde blinked. “What?”

“You weren’t with Garrett last night.” She frowned, genuinely trying to make the pieces fit and failing so hard that social caution had gone missing in the wreckage. “Why are you lying?”

The air around the bathroom line shifted. A couple of girls looked over. Someone’s mouth dropped open a tiny bit. The blonde’s face did that quick, ugly thing people’s faces did when embarrassment arrived and pride immediately tried to tackle it before it spread.

“And how would you know?” she asked, voice sharpening with a laugh around the edges. “Are you, like, his secretary?”

Her drunk brain, slow but not entirely dead, caught up with the fact that she was standing in a hallway full of girls, defending Garrett Graham’s whereabouts during the exact hours he had spent in her bed, while actively participating in a secret that depended on not doing that.

Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. The blonde’s brows rose.

“I– uh.” She looked down at her phone like it might offer legal counsel. Garrett’s text still sat there, accusatory and simple. “Never mind. Actually.”

Then she stepped out of the bathroom line. There was a slight shoulder bump with the wall and a near-collision with a guy carrying two beers, but she made it away from the girls and around the corner with most of her dignity still technically attached. 

Her heart was thudding stupidly hard for a hallway interaction, heat crawling up her throat and into her cheeks. Not jealousy, she told herself. She was just offended by misinformation. Academically. On principle. People should not be allowed to lie.

Her phone buzzed again as she reached the top of the stairs.

Garrett: Seriously. Where are you?

She stared at it for a second, then typed, need bathroom.

Then, after a pause, added, girls are liars.

His response came almost immediately.

Garrett: What

She squinted at the screen.

Garrett: Baby where are you

The baby landed warm even through the alcohol, which was annoying. She looked back over her shoulder toward the hallway, where the bathroom line and the blonde and the whole stupid conversation still existed. Then she started down the stairs, one hand on the railing, the phone clutched in the other, already scanning the crowd below for Garrett’s dark curls and the broad, familiar shape of him.

She found him near the kitchen archway, and he was already looking for her. He caught sight of her halfway down the stairs, and his face shifted at once, amusement and concern colliding so fast that neither won cleanly. He moved through the crowd before she even reached the bottom, one hand lifting to her elbow as she stepped off the last stair.

“Hey,” he said, ducking close so she could hear him. “You okay?”

She looked up at him very seriously. “You were in my room last night.”

Garrett paused. His eyes moved over her face, then over the stairs behind her, then back down. “Yeah.”

“Like the whole night.”

His mouth twitched. “Most of it, yeah.”

“So that girl is a liar.”

A slow understanding dawned across his face. Then, because he was Garrett and therefore terrible, he started to smile. “What girl?”

She jabbed a finger somewhere upward. “The blonde. She said you made her come three times.”

His brows jumped. “Did I?”

“Garrett.”

“What? I feel like I’d remember.”

She crossed her arms. “She was lying.”

“Sounds like it.”

“She looked me in the face and lied.”

Garrett’s hand slid from her elbow to her waist, steadying her when she swayed half an inch in outrage. “You say anything?”

She stared at him.

His eyes narrowed, still smiling but sharper now. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Baby,” he whispered.

“I said she wasn’t with you last night.”

Garrett closed his eyes for one second. Just one. When he opened them again, he looked like he was fighting for his life against laughter. “Right.”

“She asked how I knew.”

“Okay.”

“And then I left.”

“Good call.”

“I almost said because you were with me.”

His grin did something helpless then, softer under the smugness, like the idea pleased him before he had time to make it a joke. “Yeah?”

She frowned at him. “Don’t look happy. I nearly compromised the mission.”

“The mission?”

“Our secrecy mission.”

“Our secrecy mission isn’t going great if you’re interrogating women in bathroom lines about my location.”

“She started it.”

“Sure.”

“She did,” she whined, dragging the second word out.

“I believe you.” He didn’t, not entirely. Or maybe he did and was simply enjoying himself too much to be decent about it. His hand squeezed once at her waist, warm and grounding. “You still need to pee?”

Her face fell. “Yes.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched again. “Come on. There’s a bathroom downstairs.”

“You know that?”

“I’m observant.”

“You’re a slut.”

“I’m helpful.” He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, voice dropping into that low teasing register that made her stomach flip despite the fact that she was seconds away from becoming a medical emergency. “And for the record, next time I make you come three times, I’m expecting a better cover story than that.”

She turned her head slowly to glare at him. Garrett looked deeply pleased with himself.

The third time they almost got caught, she was in the hockey house kitchen at three in the morning wearing Garrett’s t-shirt with absolutely no plan.

It was after a loss, which meant the whole house had gone strange and heavy by midnight. The kind of subdued where the TV stayed on without anyone really watching it and the boys drank beer not to party but to have something to do with their hands.

Garrett had barely spoken when he came out of the locker room earlier, jaw tight, lip split, a bruise already blooming near his cheekbone, that restless, furious energy still moving under his skin like the game had not fully let go of him.

She hadn’t been supposed to come over. That was the rule. One of the rules. There were several now, apparently, all of them made by two people with a strong shared interest in pretending they had control over anything. 

No arriving together. No leaving together. No obvious texts when the guys were around. No sitting too close at parties. No looking at each other for too long in kitchens, which was quickly becoming the hardest one because Garrett Graham had a deeply inconvenient face and an even more inconvenient habit of watching her mouth when she was trying to speak.

And definitely no sneaking into his room after midnight through the window like a raccoon because he’d lost a hockey game and she wanted to crawl into bed with him.

So, naturally, she had done exactly that. Garrett’s window wasn't as easy to access as she had expected it to be. 

She had nearly died twice, scraped her knee on the siding, and whispered, “This is so stupid,” to herself with feeling before finally pushing the window up and tumbling into his room with all the grace of a bag of laundry.

Garrett had been lying on his bed in the dark, shirtless, one arm over his face. He hadn’t even startled properly. He had just shifted the arm enough to look at her, eyes bleary and bruised with exhaustion, and said, “Baby, what the fuck.”

“I’m being supportive.”

“You broke into my room.”

“I prefer… entered creatively.”

He had stared at her for another second, then lifted the edge of the blanket.

For all the jokes, all the swagger, all the please-don’t-call-this-what-it-is of him, he made room for her too easily. Like his body knew before the rest of him had finished filing objections. She crawled in beside him, careful of his ribs and the angry bruise darkening along one side of his stomach, and he rolled toward her with a wince he tried to hide and a hand that found her hip immediately under the blanket.

“Hi,” he had murmured after a while, lips brushing her hair.

She had smiled into his chest. “Hi.”

Now, hours later, she woke up with her mouth dry enough to qualify as an emergency and Garrett’s arm heavy across her middle.

The room was dark and cold around the edges, the cracked window letting in a thin stream of winter air that made the discarded clothes on the floor look like shadows. Garrett was dead asleep behind her, breathing rough through his nose, body warm and heavy and completely gone in the way only athletes after a bad game seemed capable of being. 

One of his hands was tucked under the hem of the shirt she’d stolen off his floor. She swallowed once. Painfully. Then again. Still bad.

She shifted carefully. Garrett grunted and tightened his arm, which would have been sweet if it had not also trapped her in a dehydrated prison.

“Baby,” she whispered.

Nothing.

“Garrett.”

A deeper grunt this time. His face pressed into the back of her neck.

“Baby,” she tried again, softer. “Can you get me water?”

Garrett’s answer was a long, sleep-mangled sound that might have been English in a previous life. She waited. 

“Garrett. Please. I’m really thirsty.”

“No,” he mumbled into her hair.

She turned her head as much as she could. “No?”

“M’sleep.”

“You’re talking.”

“Sleep talking.”

She groaned softly. “You’re the worst.”

“Mm.”

She lay there for another thirty seconds, hoping thirst might pass. It did not. Eventually she eased his arm off her waist inch by inch, freezing every time he made a noise, and rolled over to look at him properly.

The sight softened her irritation before she could defend against it. His face was turned toward her on the pillow, hair falling messily over his forehead, lashes low against his cheek. The split in his lip had dried dark at one corner. The bruise near his ribs looked ugly, even in the low light. Another mark curved along his stomach where he’d been slammed into the boards hard enough that the crowd had made a single collective ooooh.

He wasn't getting up. She sighed and climbed out of bed.

The floorboards were cold under her bare feet. Garrett’s t-shirt hit high on her thighs, soft and oversized and smelling like detergent and him. She paused at the door, listening. The house had finally gone mostly quiet. No TV. No shouting. No Dean wandering around half-drunk asking philosophical questions about hot girls and mortality. Only the hum of the fridge downstairs and the occasional tick of the heating.

She slipped into the hall and padded down the stairs, one hand trailing lightly along the wall because the dark made everything look unfamiliar. The kitchen waited at the bottom, dim and blue with moonlight through the window over the sink. Someone had left a pizza box open on the counter. There were three empty beer bottles near the stove and a hoodie slung over one of the chairs. The house smelled like stale chips, laundry, and the faint metallic cold of nighttime.

She found a glass in the cabinet after opening the wrong one twice, filled it at the sink, and drank half of it in one go with her eyes closed.

Then the light snapped on. She spun around so fast water sloshed over her hand.

Tucker stood in the doorway in sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, one hand still on the light switch, hair flattened on one side from sleep. He blinked at her. She blinked back.

For one full second, neither of them moved.

Then Tucker looked at the oversized shirt. Her bare legs. The glass in her hand. The stairs behind her.

“Well,” he said slowly. “Shit.”

Her stomach dropped.

“No,” she said immediately. “Please don’t–”

Tucker rubbed one hand over his face, looking more tired than scandalised. “Damn. I owe Logan ten bucks.”

That derailed her panic so thoroughly that she stared at him. “What?”

He gave her a sympathetic look that somehow made everything worse. “I can’t believe you slept with him again.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. The silence that followed wasn't her best work.

Tucker’s brows lifted. “Dean? Obviously?”

Oh.

The relief arrived so hard it nearly made her dizzy, followed immediately by the horrible understanding that she now had to let Tucker think she had climbed out of Dean’s bed at three in the morning. Her brain, which had been half-asleep and mostly water-focused three minutes ago, scrambled for purchase.

“Right,” she said, too quickly. “Yeah. Dean. Obviously.”

Tucker’s expression softened in a way that made guilt stab straight through the middle of her chest. “Oh. Uh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it weird.”

“No, it’s–” She swallowed, clutching the glass with both hands. God bless darkness. God bless Tucker being half-asleep. God bless the fact that Dean’s entire personality was plausible cover for almost any bad decision within a thirty-foot radius. “Please don’t say anything.”

Tucker frowned. “I won’t.”

“No, seriously. Please.” She made her eyes wide because she could, because she had been underestimated by men before and did occasionally enjoy the practical benefits. “It’s so embarrassing. I wasn’t going to. I don’t even know why I– God.” She looked down, shook her head, and gave a small, miserable laugh that deserved an award from whatever committee evaluated female deception in shared kitchens. “Please don’t tell Logan. Or anyone. Especially Dean. Actually, fuck, especially Dean.”

Tucker, who possessed the inconvenient decency of a man who hated watching people feel bad, visibly faltered. “Hey. No, yeah. Totally. Your secret’s safe with me.”

She nodded, still performing devastated shame with one hand wrapped around a stolen water glass. “Thank you.”

“Do you… need anything?”

The kindness almost killed her. “No. I’m good. Just water.”

“Okay.”

Another awkward beat passed. Then Tucker stepped aside from the doorway with the solemn discomfort of someone allowing a ghost to pass through. “Night.”

“Night,” she whispered, and scurried toward the stairs with the glass held carefully against her chest.

She didn’t breathe properly until Garrett’s door shut behind her.

He was still asleep when she climbed back into bed. Useless. Beautiful, bruised, useless man. She set the glass on his nightstand and stared at him for a second in the dark, still buzzing with adrenaline. Then she smacked his shoulder.

Garrett flinched awake with a strangled noise, eyes half-opening. “What– fuck– what?”

“Tucker caught me downstairs.”

That woke him a little more. “What?”

“He thinks I slept with Dean.”

Garrett went very still. Then his face did something fascinating in the dark. Sleep disappeared. Pain disappeared. Every exhausted, post-game softness sharpened into offended disbelief. “He thinks you what?”

“I had to go with it!”

“You had to?”

“Yes, Garrett, because the alternative was saying actually I’m sneaking out of Garrett’s room after cuddling with him because we’re both very normal and secretive and weird.”

He pushed himself up on one elbow, immediately winced, then tried to pretend he hadn’t. “Why the fuck would he think Dean?”

“Because of Dean!”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s kind of the whole answer.” She climbed back under the blanket, still whispering harshly. “You wouldn’t get me water.”

“I was asleep.”

“So I went downstairs and got caught and had to improvise.”

Garrett stared at her, jaw working. Even bruised and half-dead, he managed to look jealous in a way that made her want to laugh and kiss him and maybe shove him a little. “Tucker thinks you left Dean’s room wearing my shirt?”

“I don’t think he was doing t-shirt analysis at three in the morning.”

Garrett dropped back against the pillow with a quiet, pained groan, one hand dragging over his face. “Great.”

She settled beside him, taking a long, triumphant sip of water. “Your fault.”

“My fault?”

“Yes.”

“For being asleep after getting hit, like, forty times tonight,” he said, eyes wide in the dark. Then he groaned. “Fuckin’– Dean?”

She smiled despite herself. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.” He was very obviously jealous. His arm came around her waist and tugged her closer with enough care not to hurt himself but enough insistence to make the point. “I just don’t love Tucker thinking you’re sneaking out of Dean’s bed.”

“Technically, he thinks I’m sneaking out of Dean’s bed and deeply ashamed.”

Garrett made a noise of disgust. “Jesus.”

She pressed her face into his shoulder to hide her smile. “Poor Tucker was very sweet.”

“I don’t want to hear about sweet Tucker right now.”

“You’re so easy.”

“I’m injured.”

“You’re possessive.”

He was quiet for half a second. Then, low against her hair, “Maybe don’t make me hear Dean’s name when you’re in my bed.”

She lifted her head. In the dark, Garrett’s expression was harder to read, but she could feel him looking at her. Could feel the tension under the joke, under the jealousy, under the secret they kept pretending was only fun because fun was easier than looking directly at whatever else had started living between them.

“Okay,” she whispered.

His hand moved under the shirt, warm at her back. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” She nudged her nose against his jaw, soft. “No Dean.”

His breath left him slowly. “Good.”

“You still should’ve gotten me water.”

“Go to sleep.”

“You’re mean.”

“You broke into my room.”

“You let me in.”

“Mm,” Garrett murmured, already pulling her closer, careful around his ribs, his mouth brushing her forehead. “I know.”

The fourth time they almost got caught, Garrett took her on a date three towns over and still somehow managed to know someone there.

It was a cute restaurant. Cute in a way that made both of them a little awkward for the first ten minutes because hooking up in secret at parties and sneaking through windows had not prepared either of them for menus with seasonal specials and candles in little glass holders. 

The place sat on a narrow street with string lights outside and fogged windows and a hostess who smiled at Garrett for two seconds too long before noticing the girl beside him and recalibrating. Garrett noticed the recalibration. His mouth twitched as they followed the hostess toward a booth in the back.

“Don’t,” she muttered.

“I didn’t say anything.”

She crossed her arms. “You were about to.”

“I was gonna say the soup smells good.”

“You were not.”

Garrett laughed, warm and low, and slid into the booth beside her instead of across from her without asking. They were far enough from Briar that no one should have known them, tucked into the back corner of a restaurant full of older couples and small groups and a table of women laughing over wine near the bar.

It made the whole thing feel suspended, like they’d stepped out of the rules for a few hours and could sit too close without having to perform distance for anyone.

His thigh pressed against hers under the table. Their shoulders brushed every time one of them moved. Garrett kept stealing fries off her plate even though he’d ordered his own, and she kept pretending to be offended while pushing the plate half an inch closer because dignity had left with the appetizer.

At some point his hand found hers on the booth seat between them. His fingers sliding over hers, playing with them idly while he told her about a freshman on the team who had tried to tape his stick with what Logan called the confidence of a man raised by wolves.

She laughed into her drink, and Garrett looked at her in a way that made the restaurant feel suddenly much smaller.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“No, you’re doing the face.”

His thumb moved over her knuckles. “Just like hearing you laugh.”

That shut her up immediately. Garrett’s eyes flickered over her face, and she hated him for noticing the way the words landed. Hated him more for softening instead of making a joke out of it. For a second they just sat there, fingers tangled on the seat between them, candlelight catching along the edge of his jaw and the chain at his throat, his knee warm against hers.

Then she looked down at the table because she had limits. “That was gross.”

“Yeah?”

“You should be embarrassed.”

He sucked at his teeth gently. “I’m not.”

“No. I know. That’s one of your worst qualities.”

He grinned and lifted her hand, pressing a quick kiss to the back of it. “Top five, maybe.”

She was smiling despite herself, leaning in closer, when a voice came from the side of the booth.

“Graham?”

Garrett’s hand froze around hers. A tiny, immediate stillness that went through him faster than any expression on his face could catch. His smile stayed in place when he looked up, but she felt the change in his body first. The slight tightening at his shoulder. The way his hand shifted off hers and came to rest on his own thigh. The casual posture assembling itself a second too late to be real.

A guy stood at the end of the booth, tall and broad, with the unmistakable haircut of a hockey player and a jacket with Eastwood stitched over the chest. Recognition hit Garrett’s face, then something flatter underneath it.

“Parker,” Garrett said, easy enough if you weren’t pressed against him and listening to the mechanics of the lie. “What’s up, man?”

The Eastwood player grinned and held out a hand. Garrett slid out of the booth halfway to shake it, and she sank approximately two inches lower in the seat.

Which was stupid. Very stupid. If she wanted to avoid notice, shrinking into the booth like a child hiding from a substitute teacher wasn't a subtle approach. But the whole night had gone bright and hot behind her ears. She took an intense interest in the remaining fries on her plate and prayed for invisibility.

No such luck. Parker’s eyes flicked to her with polite curiosity. The interest of someone who had stumbled into a scene and wanted to know the category. Date? Hookup? Cousin? Hostage?

Garrett, because his life was apparently a sport in all directions, stood in front of the booth with one hand settling briefly on his hip before moving up to scratch along his jaw.

Nervous.

She noticed it instantly. Garrett Graham didn’t usually look nervous. He looked cocky, amused, focused, pissed off, hungry, occasionally concussed, but not nervous. Yet there he was, smiling and doing all the tiny, useless things his body did when he wanted to seem casual too badly: thumb brushing under his nose, hand dragging through his curls, weight shifting onto one foot and then back again.

“What are you doing out here?” Parker asked.

Garrett shrugged. “Dinner.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Parker laughed, looking around. “Didn’t expect to see you this far out.”

“Had to get off campus for a minute.”

The sentence was true enough to pass. It made something soft and stupid open in her chest, because Garrett had wanted to get off campus with her. Not to hook up quickly before someone knocked. Not to drag her upstairs at a party. Dinner. A booth. His fingers playing with hers beside the cushion. The whole quiet normal shape of it.

Parker’s gaze flicked to her again. Garrett saw it and shifted half a step, not blocking her, but angling himself between the attention and her face in a way that made her want to press her forehead to the table.

“This is–” Garrett started, and then stopped.

Her heart gave one hard kick, because there was no good ending there. This is my friend sounded insane. This is the girl I’m sleeping with sounded worse. This is the girl Dean hooked up with and now I am secretly, catastrophically gone for sounded accurate but logistically challenging.

So Garrett, genius athlete, captain of the Briar men’s hockey team, man with a GPA that proved his brain did occasionally participate, did the only thing available. He smiled wider and said, “We’re just eating.”

She closed her eyes.

Parker blinked once, then, mercifully, either understood enough to leave it alone or decided he didn’t care. “Cool, cool. Good to see you, bro.” He clapped Garrett once on the shoulder. “See you on the ice.”

Garrett’s grin sharpened into something more familiar. “Looking forward to it.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

They did the aggressive male handshake thing again, all knuckles and shoulder tension and mutual threat disguised as friendliness, then Parker left toward the bar.

Garrett stood for one second after he was gone, watching him go. Then he slid back into the booth beside her, and both of them sat completely still.

She stared at the table. Garrett stared straight ahead. Then, at exactly the same time, they both exhaled.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Garrett said. “That was– yeah.”

She turned her head slowly. “We’re just eating?”

His jaw tightened. “I panicked. What was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know, Garrett. Fuck.”

His hand found hers again, but this time under the table, fingers lacing through hers with a little more urgency than before. “Too close?”

She looked down at their joined hands. His thumb was moving over hers, once, twice, like he was calming himself as much as her. “Way too close.”

“Yeah.”

“And you were nervous.”

He scoffed and shook his head once. “I wasn't nervous.”

“You scratched your jaw like nine times.”

“My jaw itched.”

Her eyebrows raised. “And your nose?”

“Itched too,” he shrugged. 

“And your hair?”

“Whole body’s falling apart, apparently.”

She huffed a laugh, and his hand tightened around hers. When she looked up, he was watching her with that softer thing again. The thing that kept sneaking in around the edges of their jokes and making them both go quiet.

“Hey,” he said, lower. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For making it weird.”

“It is weird.”

“Yeah.” His mouth pulled at one corner. “But I like this weird.”

The warmth hit so hard she had to look away toward the candle. “You can’t say stuff like that after calling me an eating companion.”

“I didn’t call you that.”

“You kinda did.”

Garrett laughed, then leaned in and kissed her temple because out of town meant he could do that. Could sit beside her in a booth and kiss her hair and hold her hand under the table and look at her like the secret was starting to bother him not because he wanted out of it, but because he wanted out of the hiding part.

She let herself lean into him for half a second. Just half. 

The fifth time, the time they were finally caught, she didn’t think at all, and that was probably why it happened.

Afterward, she would be able to admit there had been options. Reasonable options. Normal options. She could have waited outside the locker room like other people did. She could have texted him. She could have asked Logan if Garrett was okay, which would have been embarrassing but survivable. 

She could have done any number of things that didn’t involve slipping past the edge of the crowd after the game and walking straight into the tunnel like she had a right to be there.

But Garrett had been wrong all night. He had played well in flashes because Garrett Graham could probably play well during a natural disaster if someone gave him skates and a reason. But there had been something jagged in him from the first period. 

Too sharp on the checks. Too quick to shove back. Mouthguard hanging between his teeth while he stared down some Eastwood winger with a look on his face that made her hands go cold around the railing.

He got sent off twice. Once for roughing, once for a fight that started so fast the crowd seemed to notice it only after Garrett already had a fist tangled in someone’s jersey. The second time, even Coach looked furious in that controlled way that made grown men behave like children caught setting fires.

She watched Garrett in the box with his jaw clenched and blood bright at the corner of his mouth, his chest rising hard under the pads, eyes fixed somewhere across the ice but not really on it.

Logan skated by once and said something. Garrett didn’t smile. Didn’t chirp back. Didn’t do any of the things he usually did to make violence look like part of the game and not something older moving through him.

So after the final buzzer, after Briar won, despite Garrett trying to personally fistfight the entire opposing roster, after the crowd started spilling into the aisles and everyone around her buzzed with post-game noise, she moved.

The tunnel was colder than the stands, all concrete and rubber matting and the damp, metallic smell of hockey gear. Voices echoed from the locker room ahead, overlapping male noise and equipment hitting benches and someone laughing too loudly in that exhausted post-adrenaline way.

She slipped past a staff member who was too busy looking at a clipboard to care, turned the corner, and found Garrett standing alone near the wall.

He was still in most of his gear. Helmet off. Gloves gone. Hair damp and flattened at the sides, curls sticking up where he had run his hands through them. His head hung forward, both palms braced on his knees like he was trying to breathe the game out of himself and failing. Blood had dried at his lip again. His jaw worked once. Twice. The tendons in his neck stood out under the harsh tunnel light.

Her chest tightened so fast it hurt. “Garrett.”

His head snapped up. The second he saw her, everything in his face changed. He came back by inches, like her voice had reached into whatever ugly room he was in and opened a door.

“Hi,” he said, breathless, already straightening. Then again, rougher, like the first one had not been enough. “Hey.”

She closed the space before either of them had time to remember they weren’t supposed to do this where people could walk by. 

“Hey.” Her hands went to his face immediately, careful around the split lip, thumbs brushing at the damp edges of his cheeks. “You good? What happened?”

Garrett let out a breath, eyes closing. His hands came up to cover hers for one second, pressing them harder to his face like he needed the contact more than he wanted to admit. “M’fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

His chest was still moving hard, the pads making him look even bigger, all post-game heat and sweat and the raw leftover violence of whatever had been eating at him on the ice. She slid one hand up into his hair, fingers pushing through the damp curls at his temple. His exhale shook.

“You alright?” she asked again, softer now.

He nodded, but it was a bad nod. A nod made out of stubbornness and breath and the fact that he had no idea what to do with her looking at him like this in a tunnel. His jaw shifted. His eyes opened, finding hers, and whatever he saw there made his whole face pull tight for half a second.

“Baby,” he murmured.

That did it. Here, in the tunnel, with the locker room noise around the corner and blood on his mouth and his breathing still rough from whatever fight he had nearly brought home from the ice, the word hit somewhere deeper.

She rose onto her toes and kissed him. It was meant to be small, it really was. A check-in. A reassurance. A brief press of her mouth to his.

Garrett made a low sound the second her lips touched his, and then his arms were around her waist, pulling her in properly, pads and all, crushing the space between them like he’d been waiting the whole night for something solid enough to hold.

The kiss turned immediately. His mouth opened under hers, hungry and rough and not careful enough at first, then careful all at once when she brushed his split lip and he hissed softly into her mouth.

She pulled back half an inch. “Sorry.”

“Don’t care,” he said, and kissed her again.

Everything from the game poured into it. The hits. The fights. The awful, tight look in his eyes from the penalty box. Her hands cold on the railing. The secret they’d been carrying around like something light when it had gotten heavier every time he looked at her across a room and didn’t come closer. Garrett’s fingers dug into her waist. Hers stayed in his hair, tugging lightly. He kissed like he was trying to get back into his own body through her mouth. And she let him.

Then someone behind them said, “Ohhhh shit.”

They broke apart so fast it was almost violent. Logan stood ten feet away with a towel slung around his neck, hair wet, mouth open in the kind of delighted grin usually reserved for a successful prank or Tucker injuring himself in a deeply avoidable way. 

His eyes moved from Garrett’s arms around her waist, to her hands still caught in Garrett’s hair, to Garrett’s swollen mouth, and then back again. For one second, no one spoke.

Garrett’s arms didn’t leave her waist. She noticed that through the panic, through the sudden rush of heat to her face, through the knowledge that the entire delicate architecture of their secrecy had just been bodychecked into open air by John Logan and his shit-eating grin.

Garrett kept holding her.

Logan’s grin widened. “Was comin’ to check on the captain, but… shit.” He lifted both hands, backing away already, eyes bright with the kind of joy that meant the locker room was about to become a crime scene. “Guess he’s alright.”

“Logan,” Garrett said, low warning.

Logan only pointed at him, walking backward. “Nope. No. Don’t Logan me. You have been weird as fuck for weeks, man.”

Her stomach dropped and flipped at the same time.

Garrett’s jaw tightened. “Don’t–”

But Logan had already turned toward the locker room, voice rising with unholy glee. “You’ll never fucking guess what I just saw!”

The sound that came from the locker room was immediate. A burst of voices. Dean’s laugh cutting through first, bright and vicious. Tucker saying something too low to catch. Someone yelling, “What?” and Logan answering with, “Graham!” in the tone of a man unveiling evidence at trial.

She closed her eyes. Garrett dropped his forehead to hers.

For a second, neither of them moved. His breath was warm against her mouth, still uneven. Her hands had slipped from his hair to the sides of his neck. His gear pressed awkwardly against her chest. 

Somewhere around the corner, the locker room erupted again, Dean’s voice now unmistakable. “No fucking way!”

Garrett exhaled, eyes closing. “Fuck.”

She huffed, because there was nothing else to do. A laugh, almost. A sigh. The sound of a girl watching the secret blow up and realising, somewhere under the horror, that she wasn't as upset as she should be.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Fuck.”

His hands flexed at her waist. He didn’t move back.

This was the moment he could step away. Where he could put space between them and run a hand through his hair and say something easy, something Garrett-shaped and evasive, something that made the kiss look smaller than it was. 

He could make it a joke before anyone else did. He could hide behind Logan’s big mouth and Dean’s inevitable commentary and the whole familiar machinery of the hockey house turning one private thing into public entertainment.

Instead he stayed with his forehead against hers, breathing hard, thumbs pressing into her waist through her coat.

Then Dean appeared around the corner, because the universe couldn’t let them have more than three seconds without sending in a rich boy with terrible timing. 

He leaned one shoulder against the wall, grinning like Christmas had come early and wearing only half his gear. Logan popped up behind him, still delighted. Tucker stood a few steps back with his arms folded, looking resigned and not remotely surprised.

Dean’s eyes flicked over the two of them, still pressed together, Garrett’s hands still on her waist. His grin turned wicked. “Well, well, well.”

She groaned. “Don’t.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Dean said, hand over his heart. “I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

“I absolutely will,” he corrected. His eyes slid to Garrett, bright with evil. “Graham. Buddy. Pal. Teammate. You’ve been sneaking around with my ex?”

“She’s not your ex,” Garrett said immediately.

Dean’s grin widened. “Oh, interesting. Strong feelings from the captain.”

“She’s not,” Garrett repeated, jaw tightening.

She shouldn’t have enjoyed that. She did anyway.

Dean’s gaze moved to her, faux-wounded. “I thought we had something beautiful.”

“You were sleeping with six other girls while sleeping with me. You’re a pig.”

Logan made a strangled sound. Tucker’s mouth twitched.

Dean pointed at her. “See? This is why I missed you.”

Garrett’s hand tightened at her waist. “Dean.”

“Oh, relax.” Dean lifted both hands, but he was still grinning. “I’m not poaching. I have respect.”

Logan leaned around Dean, eyes shining. “So how long?”

“Nope,” Garrett said.

“How long?” Logan repeated, louder.

She looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at her. For one brief, stupid second they both seemed to consider lying. It was a beautiful instinct, really. Loyal to the end. Completely useless now that Garrett’s mouth was visibly swollen from kissing her and his hands had still not left her body.

“Three weeks,” she said.

Garrett’s head snapped toward her.

“What?” she said. “He was going to keep asking.”

Logan’s mouth dropped open. Dean shouted, “Three weeks?” Tucker just closed his eyes, nodding once to himself.

“I knew something was up,” Tucker said.

Garrett looked at him sharply. “You did not.”

Tucker opened his eyes. “She came downstairs for water in your shirt and let me think she’d slept with Dean.”

Dean turned slowly. “I’m sorry, what?”

She winced. “That was strategic.”

“You were in my house,” Dean said, pointing at himself, “using me as a slutty decoy?”

“Yes.”

Dean looked moved. “Honoured.”

Garrett made a sound under his breath. “Jesus Christ.”

Logan clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Come on. Let the lovebirds emotionally process before Coach catches Garrett making out in a tunnel like a freshman.”

Garrett finally looked over. “Dude.”

“What? That was supportive.”

Dean pointed at her as Logan started dragging him backward. “We’re talking later. I have questions. Boundary-respecting questions, but questions.”

“No, we’re not,” she called back.

“We absolutely are.”

Tucker gave her a small, sympathetic nod as he turned. “Congratulations. And good luck.”

“Thanks,” she said, because honestly that seemed appropriate.

The three of them disappeared back toward the locker room, taking the noise with them in pieces. Logan already yelling something that sounded like, “Three weeks, boys!” Dean making wounded noises. Tucker telling someone to put on pants.

Garrett laughed, low and real, and the sound loosened the last tight thing still sitting under her ribs. She looked up at him, at the bruise on his cheek and the split in his mouth and the ridiculous, beautiful, inconvenient boy who had somehow gone from secret bad idea to the person she walked into tunnels for without thinking.

“So,” she said, brushing her thumb carefully under the cut at his lip. “Guess we’re blown.”

His grin came back slowly, cocky at the edges and warm all the way through. “Yeah.”

“And you still have to explain why you were trying to fight half of Eastwood tonight.”

The grin faded by a fraction, but he didn’t look away. “Later?”

She studied him for a second, then nodded. “Later.”

His arms tightened. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

Then Garrett kissed her again, because being exposed to the entire hockey house hadn’t cured him of bad timing. She kissed him back anyway, smiling into it when the locker room erupted once more at whatever Logan had just announced.

This time, when Garrett’s hand slid openly to the small of her back and held her there, neither of them moved away.

If someone had told you three hours ago that your date would be the biggest, most egotistical jerk in all of Briar University, you would’ve saved yourself from the trouble and had a cozy night in your dorm instead. Wishful thinking, right?

The guy had spent almost the entire time bragging about his own achievements in life. You’d feebly respond with an Oh really? Or an Ah, I see from time to time to try and show interest, but beyond that, you spoke all of 20 words the whole dinner. To top it off, he asked at the end if you’d pay (“I spent the rest of my savings on beer kegs for the frat party, sorry.”) and once he realized you wouldn’t be putting out on the first date, he suddenly lost all interest and told you it wouldn’t work out.

Hence your current predicament, stuck under the awning in front of the restaurant as rain fell in buckets around you. Your date had driven you, and after the painfully awkward shared meal, he took off before you could even tell him goodbye.

Your finger hovered over the familiar contact for a moment in contemplation before sighing and tapping the name Garrett Graham. After a few rings that seemed to endlessly echo in your ears, the call connected and you were met with the voice you knew and adored.

“Hey, Y/N, everything okay? I thought you had a date with that guy. What was his name again? Chad?”

“It’s Brad,” you huffed. “And I did. It was horrible. He asked me to pay for our tab and talked about himself the whole time. Even told me I dressed like a hooker when I told him I wouldn’t pay for it myself.”

“I’ll fucking kill him.” Garrett’s suddenly angered voice surprised you. “You look drop dead gorgeous. No wonder he misses shots in hockey and bagging the hottest girl on campus.”

“Yeah, well, the ‘hottest girl on campus’ is stuck out here in this damn hurricane level rain. Did I mention he was my ride?”

You heard shuffling on the other end of the phone. “Stay right there. I’m on my way.”

“Wait, Garrett, you really don’t have to-“

The call disconnected before you could finish telling him you would’ve found a ride elsewhere.

You and Garrett had been close for about as long as you could remember in college. He needed someone to vent to about his dad and hockey issues, and you were desperate to make new friends, thus forming an unlikely alliance. You hung out together often and were basically attached at the hip, but nothing romantic ever stemmed from it, much to your secret dislike.

Besides, you wanted something real, and you knew Garrett didn’t do the whole relationship business. You’d be damned if you let yourself become one of his puck bunnies, just another name to add to the roster of girls falling at his feet.

So what if you fell for him?

A wolf whistle pulled you out of your spiraling thoughts. “Daaaamn, little lady, you come here often?”

You hadn’t noticed the familiar black jeep pull up along the curb, nor did you see the familiar face of your best friend hopping out to open the passenger door for you. Garrett’s face was mostly covered by the hood of his jacket to protect him from the rain, but even so, you could see his boyish smile shining right at you.

“Oh, shut it. What took you so long?” You teased as you ran and hopped into the car. “I could’ve drowned out here!”

“I’d be your lifeguard, baby.” He winked as he closed the door and ran around to the other side as your heart raced.

Stop it! You mentally chided yourself. He’s your best friend!

Once inside, he reached back and dug around for something before handing it to you. “Figured you could use this, considering you’re soaking wet and shaking.”

He handed you one of his jackets that smelled so unmistakably of him, even before you put it on. “Thanks, Gar. You always know just how to make me feel better.”

“Of course. I meant it when I said I’d do anything for you.” Garrett paused for a moment, staring into your eyes and giving you one of his soft smiles that turned your insides into mush. Subconsciously, you started to lean closer to each other, to the point where you could just make that one last push and…

Beep!

The sound of the car behind you laying on their horn ripped the two of you apart. They flipped the bird, to which Garrett eagerly returned, before he shifted gears and the two of you were on your way.

“Why do you always go on dates with these shitty guys? You deserve so much better than them.” Garrett’s questioning gaze travelled back and forth between you and the road.

You scoffed, “And who else would I go out with? Half of the guys at this school are already locked down and the other half are looking for a one-night stand or booty call. Do you know how hard it is to be either overlooked or viewed as a piece of meat? What guy would be willing to look at me, in all of my craziness, and still want to choose me every day for anything other than my body?”

“Me.”

“…what?”

“I said me.” Garrett’s response was sure without a hint of hesitation.

“Okay, seriously? Cut the shit, Graham.”

“Fuck it.” Garrett abruptly veered the steering wheel to the right before bringing the Jeep to a lurching stop on the side of the road. His intense stare held yours as he continued, “You really don’t get it, do you?”

You were growing both confused and extremely frustrated with each passing moment. “Get what, Garrett? How you lead me on constantly? How I don’t know what we are because you’re scared of commitment? Because that’s what I’m getting.” Tears of frustration began to well in your eyes. “I’d rather a guy flat out tell me he’s not interested than give me hope for something that’ll never happen.”

“No, no, baby, that’s not what I ever intended to do to you. Please look at me.” He attempted to catch your fleeting gaze, but every time he did, you looked away. “Okay, we’re really doing this.”

He opened his car door, shutting it behind him before walking around and opening yours. He knelt, his hands finding your cheeks.

You couldn’t believe what he was doing. “Garrett! Are you crazy? Get back in the car! We’re on the side of the damn road!”

“I need you to listen to me, because this is really important, okay?” He drew in a deep breath. “You’re it for me. That’s it, it’s you. I’m in love with you, and there isn’t a single universe or timeline where we don’t belong together. I search for you in every room and I feel empty when we’re apart. Nobody gets me in the ways you do. We’re inevitable, baby. Just say you’re as far gone for me as I am for you, and I promise to make you the happiest woman in the world for as long as we both live.”

“Garrett, you can’t just drop all this on me when we’re on the side of the road.” You sniffled. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that? How often I’d hoped you would feel the same? I’m terrified.” Garrett’s eyes displayed an array of emotions; hope, anxiety, nerves all swirled into one, but his face remained guarded as he swiped at your cheeks with his thumbs.

“I love you, Garrett.” You continued. “If you’re far gone for me then I’m just as bad. Everything with you just makes sense.” You paused briefly, trying to articulate how you felt. “But If we do this, I need you to choose me every single time. This could very well break me if you can’t or you’re too scared too. I need you to be all in.”

His response was instant, “I choose you, every single time. I mean it when I say you’re it for me. We’re in this for the long run. It’s you and me, baby. Always gonna be you and me.” He pressed your hand to his chest, right over his rapidly beating heart. “Yours, forever.”

Your lips finally broke into a wide grin, one mirrored completely mirrored by Garrett. His eyes flickered down to your lips and back up before leaning in toward you, hands wrapping around your back. Your hands found his curls as you met in the middle for a sweet, long awaited kiss.

Beep!

Yet another honk from a passing car startled the both of you apart, but this time it was met with soft shared smiles and sweet giggles. Garrett stood up, pressing one last brief kiss to your lips before shutting your door and heading around to his side.

“I’m still gonna kill that fucking Chad, by the way.” “Garrett! Absolutely not!”

“Logan drives like he learned in Grand Theft Auto.”

Garrett smiled slightly before pressing the keys into your palm.

“You just need it for groceries, right?”

“And coffee.”

“And coffee,” he repeated patiently.

You grinned before kissing his cheek quickly.

“Thank you, baby.”

That alone made it worth it.

Garrett watched you leave through the front door a second later, his stupid smile still stuck on his face.

Tuck noticed immediately from the couch.

“Oh, he’s in love.”

Garrett flipped him off while sitting back down beside Logan with his controller.

“She called me baby.”

Tucker looked blankly at him. “You’ve been dating for eight months.”

“Yeah,” Garrett sighed happily. “Still nice though.”

Logan physically gagged.

The game resumed.

Twenty minutes later the front door slammed open hard enough to shake the walls.

Dean stumbled inside, breathing hard. Garrett looked up immediately.

“…woah D, what’s wrong? Why do you look like that?”

Dean looked weirdly pale.

And suddenly something cold twisted low in Garrett’s stomach.

“Dude,” Dean said quickly. “Oh thank God you’re here.”

Garrett sat up straighter immediately.

“What happened?”

“We just drove past what I thought was your Jeep in like a horrible accident and I tried calling you but-”

Garrett didn’t hear another word.

Not one.

The controller hit the floor loudly as he was already moving.

His chest seized violently before his brain could even catch up.

“GARRETT,” Logan yelled after him.

The front door slammed behind him hard enough to rattle.

Then he was running.

Actually running.

Straight down the street toward the flashing police lights visible from blocks away.

His heartbeat thundered violently in his ears.

Every worst-case scenario imaginable crashed through his brain all at once.

You crying.

You hurt.

You trapped.

Dead.

His lungs burned by the time he reached the intersection.

Then suddenly there it was.

His Jeep. Or what was left of it.

The entire front end was crushed inward violently.

Glass everywhere.

Metal twisted almost beyond recognition.

Garrett stopped dead in the middle of the street.

His whole body went numb, because that was your side.

Somebody was talking nearby.

Police radios crackled.

People stared.

Garrett couldn’t hear any of it over the blood rushing in his ears.

The Jeep was destroyed. Absolutely destroyed.

And for one second, Garrett genuinely thought he might throw up right there in the street.

“Sir?”

A paramedic touched his arm lightly.

Garrett yanked away immediately.

“Where is she?”

“Sir, I need you to-”

Then he heard you.

“I said I’m okay.”

His entire body nearly gave out from relief.

He turned so fast it almost hurt.

Sitting in the back of the ambulance wrapped in a blanket.

Garrett physically stopped breathing for a second.

The second you saw his face, fresh tears filled your eyes immediately.

“Oh my God.”

Garrett climbed into the ambulance before anybody could stop him.

His hands grabbed your face instantly. “You okay?”

You nodded shakily. “I’m okay.”

“You hurt?”

“No.”

“Anywhere?”

“No, Garrett, I’m okay.”

You looked devastated though.

“Garrett,” you whispered tearfully. “I’m so sorry.”

His brows pulled together immediately.

“What?”

“The Jeep. I wrecked your car.”

Garrett stared at you for a second like he genuinely couldn’t process what you were saying.

Then immediately:

“Don’t.”

“Don’t apologize right now.” His voice shook slightly. “Jesus Christ, baby, thank God you’re okay.”

Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks immediately. “It’s totaled.”

“I don’t care.”

“You love that car.”

“I love you.”

You physically froze.

So did Garrett honestly.

Because okay, maybe neither of you had technically said that part out loud yet.

But sitting there looking at you alive and crying and safe while his destroyed Jeep sat outside in pieces, nothing had ever felt clearer in his life.

Your bottom lip trembled. “You’re not mad?”

Garrett looked horrified by the question. “Mad?”

“I crashed your car.”

“Baby, if that car did its job and kept you safe, then I couldn’t care less what happened to it afterward.”

Garrett brushed shaky fingers through your hair carefully.

“I thought…” He stopped briefly, swallowing hard. “Dean said horrible accident and I thought…”

“Oh, babe...” You reached for him immediately.

Garrett folded into you without hesitation, arms wrapping around your waist so tightly it almost hurt.

His face buried into your shoulder while he exhaled shakily against your neck.

“I’m okay.”

“I know.”

But his grip tightened anyway.

Outside the ambulance, Logan, Tuck and Dean finally caught up, all breathing hard from apparently chasing Garrett down the street.

Dean looked into the ambulance carefully.

“Oh thank God.”

Logan stared at Garrett hugging you before glancing toward the totaled Jeep.

“…he’s taking this shockingly well.”

Garrett didn’t even look up. “Shut up, dude.”

You laughed wetly against his shoulder.

Garrett pulled back just enough to look at your face again.

“You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded softly. “The airbags went off.”

Garrett’s eyes flicked briefly toward the wreck outside then back to you.

“That Jeep did good then.”

You brushed your fingers lightly against his jaw.

“I’m really sorry, G.”

Garrett leaned into your touch automatically.

You aren’t standing in Ferrari’s garage, you aren’t waiting in the paddock to comfort him from shitty race results. Instead, you’re sitting in your apartment, staring aimlessly at nothing like you have been for two hours straight. 

Your living room is completely silent. You feel the heavy absence that settles over it. The absence of him. There’s still polaroids on the shelf beside the TV, there’s a Ferrari bullet-point pen that cost a stupid amount of money sitting on the coffee table. You haven’t touched anything that belongs to him—you haven’t been able to. You see traces of him everywhere, like the dent in the wall he’d made when you’d both come home too drunk one night and the leftover snacks in your pantry. 

For ten months, you’ve lived in an apartment that might as well belong to him. You knew you should’ve moved ages ago, out of this apartment that wasn’t ever solely yours, out of this town, out of this country. But you hadn’t. So here you were.

The roar of the crowds outside are deafening, the kind of screaming that can only mean one thing.

He’s about to win it.

You know if you turn on the TV, every single channel will be broadcasting it. His face, his voice on the radio, that familiar red that you’d grown to hate. You can already hear the chants of his name outside, the anticipation of the long-awaited home race win he’d chased every year you were together. 

Your fingers are itching for the TV remote, your gaze is drifting to the window outside.

“Charles Leclerc wins the Monaco Grand Prix!”

You cave.

The screen flickers back at you, painstakingly clear as his car crosses the checkered flag. The screams from the crowd fill your head, the sound of victory, of relief, all mixed into one.

You hate how your heart stops when his voice comes on. You hate how you can pinpoint every single emotion running through him by his tone—how you know he’s been crying since he’d started his final lap. 

You hate how you aren’t there.

The TV is playing his interview when you force yourself off the couch and into the kitchen. 

“I want to thank everyone—everyone who supported me. My friends, my team, my family especially. My…” 

He pauses then. You hear him pause, but keep your back turned, grabbing the nearest bottle of wine and a glass. 

“I can’t—I won’t say names,” your fingers tremble as you listen. “I’m not too sure if she… they’re watching. I hope they are. But I want to dedicate this not just to myself, but to them. For supporting me through it all. Thank you.”

You don’t realize you’re completely frozen on the spot, or that your fingers are clenched so tight they leave indents on your palm. All you can think about is him. Charles Leclerc. And how he’s just dedicated the biggest win of his career to you. 

The crowd is still roaring outside. The broadcast moves on, and you realise this moment isn’t devastating to anyone else other than you. He’s celebrating. Everyone's celebrating.

You leave the glass on the kitchen counter, only grabbing the bottle of wine instead. When you sit back down on the couch, taking the first sip, you tell yourself you don’t care. 

It doesn’t work. It never has.

The first knock comes at exactly one in the morning. 

The bottle of wine is finished, though clutched against you like a lifeline. The TV is still playing, always flicking back to replay his victory every half an hour. You aren’t sure why you haven’t turned it off yet, but the distance between the remote and your hand is too far for you to be bothered with. 

The second knock makes you glance over, makes your heart sink with an unmistakable kind of knowing.

“Baby,” you hear, and immediately, you feel the world starting to crash down around you. Charles’s voice is muffled, but clearer than ever. You hear the the slight rasp in his voice, the edges of alcohol that haven’t worn off yet. 

He’s drunk. But so are you.

You don’t register standing up, or even walking to the door. The only thing that snaps you back is the cold handle, and the equally as cold bottle in your other hand. 

“Baby please,” he says, and you hear him lean himself against the door, like he’s trying to steady himself. “Open the door.” “Go home, Charles,” you say, though your fingers are still clenched around the door handle.  There’s silence for a few seconds, as if he’s processing the sound of your voice.  “I am home.”

The click of the door unlocking resounds in your ears, and when the door swings open, you immediately want to close it again. He’s standing there, shirt unbuttoned at the top, his hair messy from champagne and his eyes still partially glowing with the light of winning. He doesn’t look shocked at the sight of you, like he knew you’d give in—that you always do. 

You hate the fact that he looks like he belongs, like he never even left in the first place. 

“Charles,” you say, because you don’t know what else to.  He’s staring at you, every inch of your face like he’s trying to relearn it. 

“I left early.” “What?” “I left the celebrations early.”

He shifts on the spot, almost stumbles, before catching himself. 

“I left because I needed to see you.” “Charles,” you repeat, and he steps closer. “I—” “I dedicated my win to you. My home race. I didn’t even know if you were watching—I didn’t know you still lived here.” He’s standing right on the threshold of the door now, right between you and the rest of the world. 

“I won it,” he says, voice dropping almost to a whisper. “I won Monaco. The race I’ve dreamed of since I was a kid, and all I’m thinking about it you.”

You should be shutting the door on him, blocking him out before you let him back in again. He’s close enough you can smell his familiar cologne, the one that you’d only just managed to get rid of. He’s close enough you can reach over and touch him, run your fingers through his hair like you used to, let him kiss you and apologize over and over again.

“What am I supposed to…” your fingers clench around the bottle, and you take a step back. “You can’t just show up here—you can’t just do this, Charles.” “Do what?” he answers. “Tell you the truth? I can’t tell you how much I miss you and how much I need you back? I can’t tell you that I still love you—” “You don’t mean that.” “Of course I mean that,” his voice grows slightly louder, frustration and want mixing into one.  “On my last lap, all I could think was is she watching? And when I won it, the first thing I did was fucking dedicate the win to you.”

You see it then. The pure, raw emotion that shows on his face up close. You wonder if he’s been drinking not out of celebration, but to drown out the thought of you. You aren’t sure which you’d prefer.

“You weren’t there,” he says, voice cracking at the end like it hurts him to say it. “I couldn’t run to you—I couldn’t stare at you from the podium. I looked at every grandstand, every crowd that screamed my name, and you weren’t there—” “You shouldn’t need me there anymore.” “And yet I do,” he moves closer, the door shutting closed behind him. “I need you so bad it hurts. I can’t focus on anything else, I crashed the first time I got back on track after we broke up. Free practice in Brazil, turn 1.”

You knew that. You’d switched off the TV as soon as he’d come on the radio and confirmed he was okay, and hadn’t watched a race since. Until today.

“Every podium I get, I want to run to you,” he says. “Every shitty result, I still want to run to you. I couldn’t care less about anyone else—fuck, I would’ve ignored the whole team today if you were there. I am ignoring the team by being here, and you’re telling me that I don’t mean a word I’m saying?”

The words hit hard. Harder than they should, with ten months apart. Your mind struggles to form a sentence, and when he moves closer, you can’t bring yourself to step away again.

“You look fine whenever I see you,” you manage to say, voice strained. “Like nothing ever changed.” “You know better than that.” “Do I?” you answer, and his jaw clenches. “Why are you here now? Why are you showing up after almost a year, drunk and telling me how much you miss me right when I’ve moved on?” “You haven’t moved on,” his gaze flickers to the TV, still on, sitting there like proof, then it settles back on you. “You wouldn’t have let me in otherwise. You wouldn’t be drinking.” 

The empty bottle in your hand suddenly feels like a joke. He was right. Of course he was fucking right. Since when has Charles Leclerc ever been wrong?

“Go home, Charles,” you say, voice dropping in volume. “This isn’t—you’re not supposed to even be here. Go back and celebrate with people you actually love.” “I love you.” “Stop it.” “I love you so much. I always have and I always will—baby, please.” “I can’t do this with you any—” “Then force me out. Force me out of your life and I swear I’ll stay out,” he says, and your throat is closing up at the words. “I promise. I’ll pretend like I’m moving on. I’ll pretend I don’t think about you every second of my life. I’ll do it if that’s what you want me to.”

You stare at him. You stare at the face you’d loved for years, the face you’d memorized through late nights and early mornings in bed. You stare at his eyes, red rimmed, desperate. Your heart is screaming at you now, to reach forward and kiss him, to take him back like nothing ever went wrong. 

“I can’t be who you need me to,” you find yourself saying instead, and it comes out like a whisper. “I can’t come second. I can’t sit there and wait my whole life knowing I’ll never compare.” “I’ll—” “You can’t hold onto me and racing at the same time. Don’t you remember how bad it was before? How late you stayed up at night obsessing over lap times and how early you left solely to train? I can’t do that—I can’t live like that.”

He blinks, slowly, standing straighter even slower.

“I’ll never come first,” you say, and when he reaches for you, hands sliding around your waist and pulling you close, you don't pull away. “You know that.” “Do I?” he says, repeating your own words from earlier. He leans closer, gaze flickering to your lips. “Do I know that?” Your heart is pounding in your ears. The space between you two is so easily closable, lessening with every word. “You should,” is all you say, eyes starting to shut on instinct. 

You don’t know when the gap closes completely. You feel his lips on yours—soft, familiar. The bottle of wine in your hand drops, shatters, and neither of you address it. Your hands are already moving to his hair, fingers tangling in it like second nature. 

“Charles,” you say somewhere between everything. It doesn’t come out like the beginning of something this time. It comes out final. He presses you closer, grip tightening around your waist. The kiss deepens, building with ten months worth of frustration, and you swear tears are starting to fall down your face. “Charles.”

Just like that, he pulls away. His grip is still firm on you, and he’s panting, gaze locked on your lips. 

“I’m not letting you choose me over racing.”

He freezes completely. 

There’s a faint, dull ringing in your ears when his hands drop from your skin, taking all the familiar warmth away. It isn’t hurt that flashes across his face, but realisation. He stumbles again when he takes a step back, still drunk and not quite there yet, but he’s there enough to know what the sentence means. 

“Okay,” he says, quiet, and the single word makes you want to rip your hair out. “I’m…I—” He stops himself, and doesn’t start again until he’s at the door. 

You’re still standing in the entryway, shattered glass on the floor, the kiss lingering on your lips.

“Charles,” you say, for what feels like the millionth time.  “Don’t say you’re sorry,” he says before you can. “Don’t apologize.” He brings a hand up, wipes at his lips slightly, runs his hand through his hair and reaches for the door handle.

“I’m sorry,” you say anyway. “I’m so sorry.” The door opens, and he’s right on the threshold of it when he glances back at you.  “I don’t regret it,” he says, and you’re not sure if he means coming here tonight, dedicating his home race win to you, or your relationship as a whole. “Any of it. All of it.” You don’t answer. You watch him hesitate, watch him stare at you like he’s scared of forgetting. 

The door slamming shut echoes throughout the entirety of the apartment. The TV is still playing in the background. His voice comes through the speakers, his car crosses the checkered flag, and the reporter says his name like a miracle, a blessing, and a curse all in one. 

You’ve kept yourself busy. You’ve made a name for yourself here in Italy. You’ve built businesses, managed companies, barely given yourself time to rest solely because you didn’t need to. 

A year and a half of work, of dedication and patience, and now, you find yourself right back where you started. Standing in a Formula 1 paddock, cameras pointed at you, whispers following your every move. 

“Charles Leclerc’s ex—how do you think she’s feeling now that he’s engaged?”

You’ve heard the sentence in more variations than you could count. 

Charles Leclerc, your ex, the man who’d showed up to your apartment drunk and desperate—the man who’d dedicated his first ever home race win to you, was engaged to someone else. 

She’s gorgeous. Half mexican, half french, all elegance and soft smiles. They look good together, at least on all the pictures you stumble across on social media. Alexandra Saint Mleux—even the name sounded perfect, and you knew it’d sound good with his last name attached to the end instead.

He’d moved on. 

Sometimes, when you’re halfway through a bottle of wine, his words from that night in Monaco replay through your head.

“I’ll pretend like I’m moving on. I’ll pretend I don’t think about you every second of my life. I’ll do it if that’s what you want me to.”

And he’d done it. He’d moved on. You just weren’t sure if he was still pretending or not, and the smallest part inside you, the part you’d covered up with work and stress, hoped he was.

“Is this your first time in the paddock?”

You blink, tearing your gaze away from the expanse of familiarity, focusing on the woman next to you instead. She’s got a nametag, the brand that’d invited you written across the top, and is staring at you.

“I can show you around. Got any interest in a particular team? Most start with Ferrari. You might know Charles. Charles Leclerc. He’s quite popular, especially in Italy.”

You think she’s joking. A longer study of her expression tells you she’s dead serious.

“I—” you stop, searching for the right words. “No. It’s alright.” “Not your first time?” “Not really.” “I see,” she says, turning back to her phone like she’s checking something. “We’ll start with Mercedes then. Maybe—” “Actually,” you say, already walking past her. “I need to do something. Catch up with a few people. I’ll meet you up at the paddock club later. Thirty minutes?”

You don’t hear her answer.

It was partially a lie. You just needed space. Space to figure out what you were really doing here, to figure out if you wanted to leave halfway and make up with it by donating a shit ton of cash.

The paddock is as busy as it always is. A reporter almost crashes into you, a mechanic pushing a trolley of tyres cuts through your path, someone’s shouting what sounds like ‘Charles!’, but you don’t want to listen and prove yourself right. It smells like burnt rubber, like fuel, like something so familiar that it hurts. 

You don’t know why you accepted the invite. You could’ve chosen something else—the Italian open, maybe, or even golf, instead of something with so much emotional baggage attached to it.

The steps to Ferrari’s motorhome come into view.

“—and what are your thoughts on how this weekend might go? Any concerns? Mercedes looks strong, are you worried?”

You turn the corner, still debating why you were even here, when a crowd of journalists crash into you. Your heels catch on the concrete beneath you, a camera knocks into your side, and a string of curses escapes you before someone pulls out of the way.

“Fuck, thank you,” you say, swiveling around, tugging at your dress. “I—”

The world stops. 

You recognise the hand that’s enclosed around your arm, the rough skin from gloves, the warmth that something insides you aches for late at night. You recognise the cologne, the scent that makes you think of an apartment in Monaco, a shattered wine glass on the floor and the sound of victory in the background.

“What are you—” Charles stops, hand falling away from arm. “You’re here.”

His voice makes your heart stop—makes the blood in your veins turn cold. Maybe it’s because the last words you’d heard in that voice were I don’t regret it, any of it. All of it, the last expression on that perfect face being betrayal.

When you look up at him again, it still is.

Did he regret it now? Dedicating the most important win of his life to you? 

“I am,” you answer, carefully, wary of the crowd around you. “And so are you.” He laughs at that, quiet, “I’m…yeah. I’m here too.”

The paddock is always loud, always moving, and yet it now falls hushed. Microphones are pointed at the two of you, trying to pick up any conversation, the fans are a mixture of realisation that you’re here, or not knowing who you are at all.

You watch him study you. You watch him take you in, the new hair length, the lines of your face, the smallest changes to the way you hold yourself. He looks the same, you decide. Still in red, still as handsome as ever. The only change you focus on is his finger, like you can see the wedding band that’ll sit there in a few months.

You’re still in love with him. The stark, realization slams into you like a tidal wave. 

“How’ve you been?” He asks, like he’s noticing the cameras. “Heard you live here now—in Milan.” “Yeah,” you say, fixing your hair, trying not to say too much but give too little. “I moved a year and a half ago. April.”

You can see him do the math in his head, figuring out the dates, what had happened a month prior.

“Right,” he lands on, nodding slow. “Yeah, that—”  He stops again, and you smile, quietly repeating another yeah. 

“You look good,” he says, and the two of you glance to the cameras, the people surrounding you. “Like you’re doing well.” “I am.” “Of course you are.” “You seem like you’re doing well too.” “I’m trying.”

His gaze flickers behind him, to Ferrari’s motorhome. 

I can’t talk here. 

You know that’s what he’s saying. You know because it’s the same look he’d give you during interviews, the same look through crowds, at events. You haven’t forgotten—that silent language he’d only ever let you learn, the small touches that meant more than they seemed.

You wondered if she’d learnt it too. His fiancée.

“Were you heading in?” he asks, cocking his head. “Or are you—” “No, yeah,” you say, moving aside, causing reporters and fans to stir again. “I was.” “Right. Me too.”

He raises his hand slightly, like he’s motioning for you to go first, so you do. You keep your head down as the crowd follows, as Charles catches up and holds the door open.

The door shuts just as someone shouts, “Charles! Where’s Alexandra?”

The silence after hurts. It’s heavy silence, the kind that’s filled with anticipation. 

“I’m—” “You’re—”

You both stop. Charles runs a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath like he’s going to start pacing. Your fingers clench beside you, itching to do something. Reach for him, run them through your own hair, you don’t know.

“Not here,” he mutters, turning away again. “There’s windows.” “You’re being so cautious—” “Why wouldn’t I be?” he answers immediately. Defensively. “I’m—of course I’m cautious. My girlfriend—” You watch him pause at the word.

“Your fiancée,” you say, quietly, and he looks at you again. A camera flashes, and the two of you instinctively turn away again. “Charles.”

The name, for the first time in your life, is foreign on your tongue.

“No,” he says. “No, fuck, you can’t be here.” “Charles—” “You can’t be here. Fuck—I can’t—”

Another camera flashes, and then you’re moving. He doesn’t even hesitate when he follows you down the hallway, to the door you know is on the left with his name on it.

“Why are you here?” he asks when his driver room door slams shut. “After what? After a year?” “A year and a half.” “Why?” you stay by the door while he paces. “I’m engaged. I’m fucking engaged and you decide to finally show up and I—” “I’m not here for you.”

He stops.

Your nails dig into the side of your thigh, your heart is loud in your ears. “I was invited. By a brand that I’m doing a—” you smile, bitterly. “I’m not here for you, Charles.” “You can’t be serious.” “I’m—” “You could’ve said no. You could’ve gone somewhere else—I know you’re rich enough to decline a brand invite with no bad press.” “Am I not allowed here anymore?” you ask, fingers stilling. “Just because of you? I’m never allowed to step near a Formula 1 paddock again?” “That’s not what—” “It might as well be.”

Your eyes stray to the room. It’s the same as it always is. His helmet in the corner, race suit hung in the specific way you taught him because he used to just throw it over a chair. There’s a tube of lip gloss sitting on the table, a fur coat folded in the corner.

He watches you notice.

“Is she here?” you ask, dragging your gaze back to him.  “Today?” “What?” “Your fiancée.”

He looks at the lip gloss, the coat, the flowers on the table like they belong to her too. 

“She’s somewhere else. Williams garage, I think.” “With Carlos’ girlfriend.” “Yeah.”

You think he’s about to ask you how you knew. You see him remember—remember how it used to be you.

“What about you?” he asks, leaning against the table. “Your boyfriend.” “I don’t have a boyfriend,” you scoff. “You know that.” “I don’t.” “You still follow me on Instagram.” “You don’t, and you know I’m engaged.” “Hard not to know when Vogue Italy does an article on it.”

He lets out a humorless laugh. You look away again, leaning your head against the door like it’ll protect you.

There are so many things you want to ask him.

Did you mean it? Have you moved on? Do you love her? Do you miss me like I miss—

“Why’d you leave?”

He asks a question first, one that makes you want to ask ‘Why didn’t you?’. 

“You know why.” “Tell me.”

If you focus hard enough, his drivers room could be your apartment back in Monaco. It feels the same. The tension, the constant reminder of you shouldn’t be here playing through your head. The only difference is this time you’re by the door.

“I couldn’t stand it,” you say. “Being in the same place as you. Knowing I could run into you—knowing I might do it on purpose.” “So you left.” “I left.” “And yet here we are.”

You smile again, “Me being here doesn’t mean anything. You know that.” “Do I?” “It shouldn’t. You’re engaged, Charles. To a woman that’s so unbelievably perfect.” “Alex isn’t—” he sighs again. “She’s beautiful. Perfect, if that’s what you want to call her. But she’s not—”

You know what the next words are. 

“Did you mean it?” you ask, before he can finish. “The things you said to me that night? That you’d pretend to move on?” “I meant everything I said that night.” “Even now?” “Especially now.”

He stands up properly, and you think you can’t breathe when he moves closer.

“I miss you,” he mutters, so quiet as if he’s scared someone will hear. “I miss you so much.” You close your eyes, looking away again. His hand ghosts over your jaw, tilting it back towards him.

“We can’t.” “I miss you.” “I know.” “I meant it. I meant every word. I told you I’d pretend—I meant it.” “I know that.”

You open your eyes when his thumb traces your cheek.

“Why are you here?” he asks again, still quiet. “Please.” “Because I miss you too.”

The words feel like a confession. Like a secret, a sin that’s spilling out of you before you can stop it.

“I’m—fuck,” you say, laugh, because you don’t know what else to do. “It’s been a year and a half, and I still miss you. You’re moving on—you will eventually when you marry her.” “I’m not moving on.” “You’re engaged, Charles!” you say, and his hand drops. “You’re engaged to a girl who loves you, and you might not love her as much as she loves you but you will. You will later.” “When? When I’m older? When I’ve got kids or when I’m on my deathbed regretting the fact it wasn’t you?” “You and her are good together.” “You and I are good together.”

“No, we aren't,” you say, and he moves away. “We were never good together. You haven’t changed, have you? Since that night?” “What is that supposed to—” “She’s someone who understands. Who understands she’ll come second. I can’t come second, Charles.” “You won’t come second.” “I don’t believe that.”

He studies you again. The look on your face, the hand that’s itching for the door to leave before you’re trapped again. Trapped in the whirlwind of him.

“I love you.” “I know you love me.” “I’ll leave her.” “Charles.” “If you love me back, I’ll leave her.” “That isn’t fair. You’re engaged—you’ll break her heart.” “It’ll be worth it if I get to have you.” “You’re going to leave her for a chance. For a possibility. What if it doesn’t work? What if we break up and it’s over for good and you’re wishing you had—” “Then I’ll do it all over again. Love you all over again.”

It’s stupid. It’s the most stupidest reasoning you’ve ever heard, and yet the words you’ve been aching to hear for a year and a half.

“You can’t.” “I will.”

You think you might be crying. He reaches for you again, hand around your waist, fingers warm on your skin.

“I love you,” he says again, like a plea. “I’ll always love you.”

He’d said that to her too. On one knee, ring in hand, promising a life together that’s shattering every second you stay here. Maybe it’s pity holding you back, your morals, your fucking common sense. Maybe it’s the fact you’re in his drivers room, the paddock, with all those cameras waiting for the second you step into view again.

“I can’t,” you say, and it’s barely a whisper. “Fuck. I can’t.”

He physically shudders, leaning forward, his head resting on your shoulder.

“Please,” he mutters, and you stand there, turning over his words in your head. “Fuck. Please—” “You can’t leave her.” “I will.” “How?” he pulls away, wipes your tears with his thumb. “She’ll hate you.” “It won’t matter," he mutters. "I don’t care how long it takes. I need you.”

It’s so full of truth it makes you sick. 

“Do you mean it?” you ask, and he’s already nodding. “I—” “I mean it. If it doesn’t work, fine, but it will. It’ll work. I know it’ll work.”

His eyes are wide, waiting for those three words, searching for an answer in your expression.

You give it to him.

“I love you,” you say—pratically gasp, and he shuts his eyes. “I love you so much, and I don’t know why.” 

He goes quiet, like he’s savouring it, like he’s realising what it means.

“I have to go,” you mutter, and he only holds you tighter. “I’ll be here. I’ll—I’m not leaving. Leaving this. I need time.” He waits a few seconds before answering. “Yeah—I’m,” he pulls away. “Yeah. Okay.” “I’ll talk to you after.”

After the day ends, after the weekend, after he leaves her, you don’t know. It seems to be enough for now.

“Yeah. After.”

You reach up and fix your hair, the smudges of your makeup, to make it look like you haven’t just changed your life and ruined someone else's.

He stays there when you turn the door handle. Even when you close it, you know he’s still staring, still waiting.

“Fuck,” you mutter, pulling at your dress and walking down the hallway.

The motorhome is fuller now, with new mechanics, new engineers and faces you don’t recognize. The doors open, and a face you do recognize walks through the door.

“Hi,” Alexandra, his fiancée, smiles when you pass her. “How are you?” “I’m good, thank you,” you answer, and she nods, continuing past to the hallway you’d just walked out of. You don’t turn around and watch, like you’ll be able to see her life falling apart because of you. You don’t turn and apologize though she won’t know why. 

You keep walking, out of the motorhome, out of the gates of the paddock. As soon as you’re home, you pay an absurd amount of money to the brand that’d invited you, the kind of amount that has them apologizing to you instead. 

The first knock comes at exactly one in the morning, a week later. You aren’t drunk this time. Neither is he when you open the door.

He looks tired. Tired because of work, because of the media, because of the news that ‘Charles Leclerc and Alexandra Saint Mleux break off their engagement due to undisclosed reasons.’

“You’re here,” you say, leaning against the doorframe.  He smiles, moving closer, hands already sliding around your waist, “I’m here.”

You hope he never leaves.

Monaco is exactly how you remember it.

It takes months for Charles to convince you to move back. You refuse to live in an apartment, so he buys a house in Monte Carlo, one that overlooks Port Hercules and has a stupidly long driveway like your house in Milan. 

You’re expecting scandal, whispers when you walk past, glares as they remember you were the one who broke up the supposed to be ‘marriage of the decade’. 

“I’ve always loved her,” Charles says instead, to the public, the press. “I’m not denying it. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life sitting in regret that I never tried making it work.”

So instead, Monaco had welcomed you back with open arms. 

You wake up to him, to mornings where he’s there, and not off training. You fall asleep to him, his phone and all those lap times far away, left charging in the kitchen.

“Do you regret it?” you’d asked him once. “At all?” “Regret what?” You’d shrugged, “Any of it. All of it.” “I don’t regret anything when it comes to you. Fuck, actually—I just regret letting you go the first time.”

It feels so familiar, yet so different. It feels right.

You’re back in Italy now, in a holiday house near Lake Como. He’s sitting out on the back deck, hot chocolate in one hand because you’d forced him to get rid of his caffeine addiction. It’s already dark outside, cold enough that you have a blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

“Do you think we’ll ever move out of Monaco?” he asks when you sit beside him. “In the future.” “When we’re married?” He glances at you, “you want to get married?” You consider it. The weight of the words, the life it’ll bring after.

“Maybe,” you say, bringing your knees up to your chest. “Yeah. I think so.”

You hear him set down the cup, but you keep your eyes ahead of you, at the lake, the light reflecting off of it. “Seriously?” “Seriously.”

He moves closer, shoulder bumping against yours, and you look at him.

“You’re not about to propose here, are you?” you smile, stealing the cup and taking a sip. “Romantic, but probably not what a girl would dream of.” “No. Of course not,” he answers, scoffing out a laugh. “I’ve got it all planned.” “Do you?” “I do,” he says. “I’ve had it planned for ages. For years.”

You know he isn’t lying. 

“Tell me.” “No, that would ruin the surprise.” “You’ve already told me you’re planning on doing it.” He smiles, leaning over and kissing you on the forehead, “I’m not telling you.” “Do you plan everything?” you tease. “Your proposal, where the wedding will be, how many kids we’ll have—” “Two.” “Two?” “Boy and a girl if we’re lucky,” he shrugs. “Anything at all I consider lucky if it’s with you.”

You laugh, and he thinks it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard.

“Could’ve had this sooner,” he says. “You. Us.” “You have me now.” “I just wish we hadn’t lost all those months.” “Charles,” you say, and this time it’s you who’s reaching for him, for his face to tilt it towards you. “I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

He practically melts into your touch, eyes shutting.

“I love you too.”

Your fingers graze over his skin, before you pull them away.

“Come inside,” you say, standing. “It’s cold.”

He watches you go, still wrapped in that blanket. Your hair is slightly messy, your face is bare, and yet you look so beautiful it’s devastating.

“Charles,” you call, and he’s moving, following you like it’s second nature. It was—it is.

“You’re thinking,” you say, as he wraps his hands around your waist, blanket falling to the floor while you fuss over something in the kitchen. “What’re you thinking about?” “You. Always you.”

And when you laugh again, kissing him, letting him prop you up on the kitchen counter, it feels perfect.

It feels like it’ll last.

ln4fan

liked by user, user, user, and 728,183 others

ln4fan: save my man! This is not his season and I do believe it's all yn's fault! He's had 3 dnfs and a dns in the last 6 races and it's only been the races that yn's been at. He really needs to dump the bad weight

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user11: wow

user12: I couldn't agree more!

user13: every single word you just said was wrong actually

user14: I've never seen anyone be so extremely wrong in my life really

user15: finally someone else is saying this!! I've BEEN saying it for years oh my god

↳user16: I don't know why you're celebrating? Lando and yn have been in love since before he started f1? Like he talks about their unspoken thing all the time

↳user17: be for real she's totally not fit to be a wag — she's never at the races, she's done nothing to support his brand…

↳user16: she has her own life? She doesn't need to revolve her life around his

↳user15: but a little more support to him wouldn't be too much to ask?

user18: I'm still stuck on the fact that Lando has had so much bad luck lately

↳user19: I went back to see which races she's been at and what lando finished and it's not great

↳user18: what really?

↳user19: he's never scored higher than 7th when yn is at a race — and that was only a single race, more commonly it was 9th or lower

↳not_lando: what?

↳user18: that's so crazy!

f1gossip

liked by user, user, user, and 1,823,813 others

f1gossip: Trouble in paradise? Fans spotted Lando Norris and long term girlfriend yn ln fighting after his disastrous qualifying today. Is this just a bump in the road or are certain rumors (that state that yn is Lando's bad luck charm) true?

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user20: Lando if you make my girl yn cry, I'm gonna make you fight

user21: dump her dump her dump her

↳user22: oh my god get a life

user23: I've been a Lando fan for pretty much his entire career and have watched them grow up together…I've never seen them act like that

↳user24: no my heart is literally breaking for them

user25: are we children of divorce right now?

↳user26: I think we might be

↳user25: 😭😭

user27: I need more information right now actually…

f1gossip

liked by user, user, user, and 1,922,111 others

f1gossip: Something must be in that Vegas air — mere hours after Lando and yn were spotted arguing, Alexandra Saint Mleux (Charles Leclerc's girlfriend) was seen storming through the Harry Reid International Airport. Is this the end of another one of the paddock's iconic relationship?

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user28: I don't know what's happening in Vegas but if it touches either of the lily's I'm hopping on a flight and fisting fighting them myself

↳user29: mood

user30: ok but we don't actually know if yn and lando are broken up!

↳user31: dude…they're totally broken up

↳user30: we don't know that yet! Let me have hope

user32: good! I never liked her

↳user33: just say you're jealous and get over yourself

user34: petition to ban Vegas forever? I can't take this anymore

↳user35: SIGNING RIGHT NOW

Private Messages: The Leclerc’s

Instagram Stories

user36 responded noooooo this is the worst timeline

oscarpiastri responded did you guys really break up?

user37 responded what do you mean you broke up???

user38 responded FINALLY YOU DROPPED HER

alex_albon responded lily is yelling at me right now what do you mean you guys broke up?

user39 responded this is gonna be good for you

user40 responded girl I'm so sorry

lilymhe responded what happened?? The one race I actually miss

user41 responded omg he actually did it

carmenmmundt responded call me hun

user42 responded was it mutual??

Private Messages: Charles and yn

lasvegasgossip

liked by user, user, user, and 17,222,125 others

lasvegasgossip: word on the street is that a famous but heartbroken athlete got hitched last night…who could it be?

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user50: oh my god who's in Vegas this weekend?

↳user51: the raiders and the browns are in town

↳user52: so are the knights and the kraken

↳user53: and so is f1…

user54: so many teams in the city this weekend and yet it could be any athlete that's not playing too

↳user55: I'm more focused on the heartbroken part like who's recently been heartbroken??

↳user56: I mean Lando Norris and yn ln just broke up?

↳user57: there's like 5 recent breakups with the hockey teams it could be

↳user58: there's no one in the football teams that could be described as heartbroken?

↳user59: there was something weird happening with Charles Leclerc and Alexandra Saint Mleux?

↳user60: so it could literally be anyone?

user61: I'm placing money on lando

↳user62: he does seem like someone who would get spontaneously drunk married

↳user63: drunk?

↳user62: all marriages in Vegas are drunk

f1fan

liked by user, user, user, and 2,822,193 others

f1fan: in a shocking turn of events, Lando Norris finishes the 2024 season with a DNF, DNS, DSQ, and a rare DNQ respectively — what a massive disappointment this must be for the British driver that was the favorite underdog of the season

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user64: HA this is totally because he dumped his biggest support system like a loser

↳user65: harsh but I agree

user66: who do I need to fight?? Like what the hell was that

↳user67: that was KARMA and JUSTICE for yn!!

↳user68: JUSTICE FOR YN 

user69: I just…what the fuck happened? He was literally catching up to max and then all that shit happened??

↳user70: she probably cursed him or something honestly

↳user71: seriously! Like did you see how she confirmed the breakup? He was all respectful and she…wasn't

↳user70: I still cringe when I think about it

user72: the whiplash I get between this post and charles'… good lord 😂

↳user73: Charles took all of his bad luck and dumped it on Lando!

↳user72: for real!

charles_leclerc

liked by maxverstappen1, scuderiaferrari, oscarpiastri, and 2,778,445 others

charles_leclerc: what an amazing end to the season — thank you to Ferrari and to my good luck charm. now it's time to rest and recharge for next year

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user74: hell yeah!

↳user75: you totally rocked it!

maxverstappen1: Congratulations Charles liked by charles_leclerc

↳user76: they still don't follow each other btw

user77: fricking amazing to watch this!

oscarpiastri: congrats!!

user78: good luck charm??? Who??

↳user79: it's not Alex is it?

↳user78: highly unlikely - it seems like they've broken up. they haven't been seen together since Vegas and while Alex has privated her instagram, the number of posts have gone way down

user80: calling it now! Charles is the one who got married in Vegas

↳user81: iconic if true!

user82: 4 wins right in a row? Sexiest thing I’ve ever seen

Private Messages: Charles and yn

charles_priv

liked by notyn, madmax, op81, and 2,945 others

tagged: notyn

charles_priv: spending the winter break with my wife ♥️♥️

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notyn: the best winter break I've ever had

↳charles_priv: same chérie

madmax: when did you get married???

↳charles_priv: when I got drunk in Vegas

↳notyn: not gonna lie I don't remember anything about that night…

↳charles_priv: me either

↳madmax: hilarious but congrats

pierre: you've been married for months now and are just telling us???

↳charles_priv: …oops?

↳notyn: that's on Charles!

↳charles_priv: chérie!

↳pierre: oh you're perfect for one another

op81: awkward but congratulations

↳charles_priv: we would appreciate it if this news doesn't reach Lando

↳op81: yeah that's not going to be a problem, I don't even know who you people are

op81: but fyi he's hard key moping

↳notyn: he made his bed

arthur: it was great to get to know you! Might have to take your side if you get a divorce

↳charles_priv: Arthur!

↳arthur: only one of you 2 made me fresh baked cookies and it wasn't you

↳notyn: you're welcome arthur 💙

↳op81: wait cookies are in the table?

↳charles_priv: only for Leclerc's!

↳op81: you adopted me so I count! liked by notyn

↳notyn: he's got a point babe

f1gossip

liked by user, user, user, and 1,182,283 others

f1gossip: romance in the air? Charles Leclerc has been spotted with a new girlfriend in recent weeks — who might this mystery woman be?

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user83: don't worry guys it's just me

user84: who is she????

user85: that's so fast?

↳user86: really?

↳user85: it's only been a couple of months

↳user86: a lifetime for him honestly

↳user87: ummm rude??

↳user88: but fair I feel

user89: twitter detectives! Who is she?

↳user90: no idea yet! It's still too new

↳user89: but I need to know??

user91: I don't really care who she is because HE looks so happy with her

↳user92: he does! And I'm so happy for him

Private Messages: Charles and yn

charles_leclerc

liked by yn, pierregasly, maxverstappen1, and 2,111,203 others

tagged: yn

charles_leclerc: that mystery woman happens to be my wife, thank you

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user93: holy shit PLOT TWIST

↳user94: I honestly did NOT see this coming

↳user93: it definitely wasn't on my bingo card for the year

maxverstappen1: Congratulations again you guys

↳yn: thanks max!

user95: I'm loving this so much?? Like Lando really dumped her for being bad luck and then Charles is literally dominating this season liked by yn

↳user96: It's even better! He calls her his lucky charm

↳user95: I can see why!

landonorris: what the hell is this?!?

comment has been deleted by the author

yn: love you too babe! liked by charles_leclerc

user97: did you guys seriously get married in Vegas?

↳yn: we did!

↳user97: …and you're gonna stay married despite it starting in Vegas?

↳yn: well something good had to come from our broken hearts liked by charles_leclerc

↳charles_leclerc: despite the beginning, you are the best thing that's ever happened to me liked by yn

f1

liked by user, yn, user, and 2,991,988 others

tagged: charles_leclerc

f1: This weekend decides it all! Should Charles Leclerc score a single point this weekend, he becomes the 2025 World Drivers Champion — will this be the year the Monégasque driver takes home the championship? Or will Max Verstappen become a 5x champion?

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user98: Charles! Charles! Charles

↳user99: Leclerc! Leclerc! Leclerc!

user100: we're all rooting for you Charles!

yn: it'll be my husband for sure

↳user101: alright there Mrs Leclerc, flexing on us

↳yn: 😂😂

user102: I'm so sat right now

↳user103: BIG SAME

↳user104: it's gonna happen for sure!

charles_leclerc

liked by yn, arthur_leclerc, maxverstappen1, and 3,102,291 others

tagged: yn

charles_leclerc: I got to marry my lucky charm all over again

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Taglist

If you want to join my taglist, interact with my taglist post. I won’t be adding from anywhere else

You make the list on a sleepy Sunday afternoon, the kind when the rain won’t stop and the castle feels half-asleep. The common room glows gold with firelight, parchment scattered everywhere, and the faint hum of chatter from groups huddled over homework. You’re supposed to be writing your Potions essay, quill in hand, ink smudged on your fingers — but your mind drifts elsewhere.

Seventh year. The last. The thought sits heavy in your chest. You’ve spent so much of it buried in exams and N.E.W.T. prep that you’ve barely noticed how fast it’s slipping away. Every corridor you walk feels like it’s already becoming a memory. You promised yourself this year would feel different — that it wouldn’t just disappear like all the rest.

So, on a whim, you pull out a clean piece of parchment, flatten it over your knees, and at the top, you write:

“Things to do before I leave Hogwarts.”

It looks silly at first. Childish. You tap your quill against your chin, thinking. But then you smile — because why not? Everyone else has goals about careers and scores and responsibilities. Maybe you just want to live a little before the real world starts.

The first thing comes easily. Your quill hesitates only a second before you write:

1. Kiss Sirius Black.

You grin, rolling your eyes at yourself. “Obviously not happening,” you mutter, but you leave it there. Maybe it’s a joke. Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just something daring enough to make your heart race when you look at it.

After that, the ideas tumble out quickly. 2. Sneak into the kitchens after curfew. 3. Charm the Great Hall ceiling to show fireworks instead of stars. 4. Pull a harmless prank on McGonagall. 5. Sneak into the boys’ dorm and switch all their pillowcases to pink. 6. Brew a potion not on the syllabus — and actually make it work. 7. Dance in the rain on the Quidditch pitch at midnight. 8. Sneak into Filch’s office and leave a cupcake on his desk labelled “For my favourite person.” 9. Fly over the Black Lake at sunrise. 10. Make Dumbledore laugh during breakfast.

By the time you finish, your cheeks hurt from smiling. You fold the parchment neatly and tuck it into your bag, ink still fresh at the edges. It’s ridiculous, completely unserious — but for the first time in a long while, the world feels a little bigger.

And maybe, you think, just maybe, seventh year won’t be so ordinary after all.

Sirius Black wasn’t usually the type to snoop. Well— that wasn’t entirely true. He didn’t mind snooping when it was funny, or when it involved James’s secret stash of Honeydukes chocolate, or when it meant reading the occasional detentions list for sport. But this—this was different. He hadn’t meant to find it.

It happened on a Thursday afternoon in the common room. You’d left your bag open on the couch when you went upstairs, parchment half-spilling out. Sirius had been sprawled on the rug, flipping through a Quidditch magazine, pretending to study. His eyes had caught on the parchment because your handwriting was unmistakable — slightly slanted, ink-dark, a little impatient.

He’d just meant to put it back. Really. But then he saw the title.

Things to do before I leave Hogwarts.

Sirius grinned instantly. “Merlin,” he muttered under his breath, “how dramatic can one girl be?”

He almost tossed it aside. Almost. But curiosity was his worst quality. So he skimmed it — eyes darting down the page, half-expecting doodles of cats or homework notes. Instead, what he found made him stop completely.

1. Kiss Sirius Black.

He blinked. Then blinked again.

“…what?”

For a solid ten seconds, Sirius just stared at the words, waiting for them to rearrange themselves into something else. They didn’t. His own name sat there in neat black ink, innocent and bold, the very first item on the list.

He could feel a smirk tugging at his lips, uninvited and unstoppable. “Number one?” he murmured, half to himself, half to the universe. “Not bad, love. Not bad at all.”

The rest of the list blurred for a moment — fireworks, pranks, the Quidditch pitch, a cupcake for Filch — but Sirius barely registered them. His mind stuck to the first line, looping it again and again like a song he couldn’t turn off.

She wants to kiss me.

He tried to brush it off. Loads of people want to kiss me. But somehow, that didn’t sound as smug in his head as it should have. Because it wasn’t just anyone — it was you. The girl who rolled her eyes when he winked, who corrected his essay margins with a sigh, who never blushed even when he was trying his very hardest to make her.

Sirius leaned back against the sofa, parchment dangling between his fingers, and grinned to himself. “This is dangerous information,” he whispered. “Very, very dangerous.”

For a moment, he thought about putting it back. He really did. But the mischief was already sparking behind his eyes. Because now he knew something you didn’t — and Sirius Black never could resist a secret.

He folded the parchment carefully, slipped it into the inside pocket of his robes, and tapped it once like a promise.

“Guess we’ll have to help you with your little list, sweetheart,” he said softly, voice curling with amusement. “Can’t have you leave Hogwarts without crossing off number one, can we?”

He grinned, stretched, and sauntered toward the stairs — that list burning a hole in his pocket and a new plan already taking shape in his head.

2. Sneak into the kitchens after curfew.

You didn’t think much of it, really. Sneaking into the kitchens wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence, not with how often you forgot dinner because of late-night studying. It was a quiet kind of rebellion — harmless, familiar. You’d barely made it past the tapestry when someone cleared their throat behind you.

“Bit late for a stroll, isn’t it?”

You jumped, turning to find Sirius leaning lazily against the wall, wand light glinting off his grin. Of course. It had to be him.

“Bit late for you to be following people around,” you shot back, crossing your arms.

“Following?” He clutched his chest like you’d wounded him. “Please, love. Coincidence. Just happened to be on my way to—”

“To the kitchens?” you finished, one brow raised.

His smirk deepened. “You know me so well.”

You didn’t think too hard about it when he tickled the pear on the portrait and ushered you inside first, or when the elves practically cheered at his arrival. You didn’t even question the way he seemed to know exactly which trays hid the treacle tart. You just let it happen — the laughter, the butterbeer, the stolen biscuits. You talked about nothing and everything until the candles burned low and your cheeks hurt from smiling.

You left with crumbs on your sleeve and a strange warmth in your chest, the kind that lingered even after you said goodnight. You had no idea Sirius walked back to the tower with the same dizzy smile, mentally crossing off number two from a list you didn’t know he had memorized.

3. Charm the Great Hall ceiling to show fireworks instead of stars.

The next week, the Great Hall ceiling exploded into fireworks.

It happened in the middle of dinner, one loud pop echoing through the room before golden bursts of light spiraled into the shape of a phoenix, then a lion, then the words Mischief Managed written across the stars. The entire hall gasped, then laughed, teachers scrambling to stop it, students cheering wildly.

You sat there, blinking up at your own spell gone completely overboard. You hadn’t meant for it to work that well. Beside you, Sirius just leaned back on the bench, grinning like a cat that had stolen the whole jar of cream.

“Didn’t know you had such a flair for drama,” he said, elbow nudging yours.

“I didn’t do that much,” you muttered, watching another burst of crimson light streak across the enchanted ceiling.

“Sure you didn’t,” he said, eyes gleaming, “but if you ever feel like trying again, I might know a few… additions.”

You didn’t notice how his gaze softened when you looked up at the fireworks. You didn’t notice the quiet pride in his smirk, or the fact that he’d been in the hall early, wand raised, whispering the charm before you even arrived.

4. Pull a harmless prank on McGonagall.

And then there was McGonagall.

It started with a whisper in the corridor, a dare to leave a small surprise on her desk before Transfiguration. Nothing major — just a charm that would make her teacup sing God Save the Queen whenever it was lifted. You’d planned to do it yourself, but somehow, when you arrived that morning, she was already scowling at a very melodic teacup.

Sirius didn’t even try to hide his grin as she stared down the class, trying to find the culprit. You buried your face in your notes, biting back laughter, heart pounding. When the class ended, you caught him watching you as he passed, voice low and amused.

“Harmless prank, wasn’t it?” he murmured. “Consider it… taken care of.”

You frowned, confused for half a second — but his wink disarmed every question before it could form. You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, completely unaware that somewhere deep in his pocket, that crumpled parchment now had three neat little imaginary check marks beside your name.

5. Sneak into the boys’ dorm and switch all their pillowcases to pink.

It was supposed to be quick. In and out before anyone noticed. You’d waited until nearly midnight, the castle quiet and shadowed, your wandlight low as you crept into the boys’ staircase with a bundle of bright pink pillowcases tucked under your arm. You’d planned it perfectly: everyone would be asleep, you’d swap the cases, and by morning the entire dorm would look like a flamingo convention. Easy.

You tiptoed into the room, heart pounding, the scent of broom polish and parchment filling the air. James’s snoring echoed faintly from the far bed, Remus had a book still open on his chest, and Sirius’s bed— of course— was messy, blankets tangled like he’d fought them in his sleep. You grinned to yourself and got to work, gently tugging off the first pillowcase, biting your lip to keep from laughing.

You were halfway through the second when a voice murmured from the dark, low and amused. “Now, what exactly do you think you’re doing, sweetheart?”

You froze. Your wand nearly slipped from your fingers. Then, from the shadows, Sirius sat up — hair mussed, eyes glinting in the dim light, smirk already forming.

“Merlin’s sake—” you hissed. “Do you ever sleep?”

“Not when there’s a girl sneaking into my dorm with suspiciously pink fabric,” he said, stretching like a cat. “Should I be worried?”

You rolled your eyes. “Go back to bed, Black.”

He swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, leaning forward, the lazy grin never fading. “See, I’d love to, but now I’m curious. Care to enlighten me?”

“It’s for my list,” you muttered before you could stop yourself.

He tilted his head. “Your what?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

Sirius stood, the hem of his T-shirt brushing his hips, silver chain catching the light as he stepped closer. “Oh no, no, I think I’ll remember that. But since you seem so determined—” He plucked one of the pillowcases from your arm, twirling it around his finger. “—you might as well have a little help.”

You blinked. “You’re offering to help me?”

He grinned. “Of course. Can’t let you commit pillowcase sabotage alone. Terrible form.”

You should’ve said no. You should’ve told him to get back in bed and stop being smug. But somehow, ten minutes later, the two of you were whisper-laughing as you replaced every pillow in the room, trying not to wake anyone. You nearly fell over each other when Remus mumbled something in his sleep, and Sirius caught you by the waist, pulling you against him to steady you. The world went quiet for half a heartbeat — just his breath close to your ear, the faint thud of your pulse, the pink fabric slipping from your hand.

When you finally stepped back, you couldn’t meet his eyes. “Thanks,” you whispered.

“Anytime,” he said softly, and there was something in his tone that wasn’t teasing anymore.

By the time you slipped out of the dorm, you were grinning like a fool. You told yourself it was just because of the prank — because in a few hours, the entire Gryffindor Tower would wake to a sea of pink. You didn’t let yourself think about the way his fingers had lingered a second longer than they needed to, or the way your stomach had flipped when he’d said “sweetheart” like it was something sacred.

You didn’t know Sirius was standing at the window long after you left, looking down at the courtyard, smiling to himself like he’d just made a very dangerous discovery.

6. Brew a potion not on the syllabus — and actually make it work.

You hadn’t meant for it to work. Honestly. It was supposed to be just another one of the ridiculous challenges on your list — “brew a potion not on the syllabus,” nothing too complicated. But then Slughorn had left the storeroom unlocked, and curiosity got the better of you, and somehow you found yourself hunched over a bubbling cauldron in the corner of the dungeon, a candle flickering dangerously close to your sleeve and your heart thudding so loud it felt like it might echo off the stone walls.

You’d read about Amortentia before — the most powerful love potion in existence, capable of smelling different to everyone depending on what they found most attractive. You’d told yourself you were just testing your skill. Just seeing if you could. It wasn’t like it would mean anything.

The potion shimmered, iridescent, spiraling like liquid starlight. You leaned in, cautiously, watching the pearly vapour curl toward you — and that was when it hit.

The scent was intoxicating, warm and sharp all at once. Smoke and cinnamon. A trace of leather. Wind after rain. Something wild and bright that you’d know anywhere. Your chest went tight, breath catching before you could stop it. You blinked, trying to clear your head, but the smell didn’t fade. It was Sirius. Every bit of him distilled into something heartbreakingly beautiful.

You staggered back, shaking your head. “No. Nope. Absolutely not,” you muttered under your breath. “That’s… that’s wrong. That can’t be right.”

“Can’t be what?”

You nearly dropped your ladle. Sirius was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, grin lazy and amused. His tie was loose, his sleeves rolled up, and of course he’d picked now to show up.

“Merlin’s beard, Sirius! You nearly gave me a heart attack,” you hissed, quickly moving to block the cauldron.

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re brewing something. And judging by the smell—” he sniffed dramatically, “—something dangerous.”

“It’s nothing,” you said too quickly.

“Nothing smells like that?” He stepped closer, nose wrinkling playfully. “Wait. Don’t tell me that’s— oh, it is, isn’t it?” His grin widened. “Amortentia. Naughty, naughty.”

“It’s just an experiment,” you mumbled, turning away so he wouldn’t see the flush creeping up your neck.

“An experiment, huh?” He leaned over the cauldron, inhaling deeply. “Smells like…” He trailed off for a second, expression flickering. “You.”

You blinked. “What?”

He straightened, smirk returning like nothing happened. “Lavender, ink, and a bit of trouble. Definitely you.”

You wanted to roll your eyes, but your brain was spinning too fast. You forced a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

He shrugged, stepping around you until you were almost chest to chest. “Maybe. But tell me, what do you smell?”

You hesitated. The air between you was too warm, too charged, and for a second you thought about lying — about saying something easy, like chocolate or rain or firewhisky. But the words got stuck in your throat. “It’s— it’s nothing.”

Sirius tilted his head, watching you closely. “You sure? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You swallowed hard. “Positive.”

He grinned again, all teasing and charm, but his eyes lingered on you for a beat too long before he turned to leave. “Whatever you say, love. But if you start acting funny, I’ll know who to blame.”

When he was gone, you exhaled shakily, staring into the shimmering potion. The steam still curled up, sweet and smoky and painfully familiar, wrapping around you like a secret you couldn’t unlearn. You dipped the ladle one last time, whispered, “I am so doomed,” and watched the reflection of your red cheeks ripple across the surface.

7. Dance in the rain on the Quidditch pitch at midnight.

Gryffindor had won. The stands were roaring, scarlet banners flashing in the wind, and somewhere in the middle of the chaos, Sirius was grinning like he’d swallowed the sun. You’d been screaming yourself hoarse, the thrill of the match buzzing through your veins long after the final whistle. The rain had started halfway through the last lap, turning the pitch slick and golden under the evening light, but no one cared. Victory looked good on him — hair plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. You told yourself you were just going down to congratulate him, nothing more, but your heart clearly didn’t get the memo.

You found him near the goalposts, surrounded by his teammates. James had just thrown an arm around his shoulder, yelling something about “bloody legends,” when he caught sight of you lingering a few feet away. Sirius’s gaze followed, and for a second, the noise seemed to fade — just you, the smell of rain, the grass glistening like emeralds. He said something to James, who smirked (of course he did), and then Sirius jogged toward you, broom in hand, grin still wide.

“Came to bask in our glory, did you?” he teased, voice rough from cheering.

You laughed, shoving your hands into your robe pockets. “Just thought I’d say congrats. You were brilliant out there.”

“Was I?” He stepped closer, dripping rain, looking unfairly good in the grey light. “You almost sound impressed.”

“Don’t get used to it,” you said, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away.

A thunderclap rumbled above, followed by a sudden downpour — the heavens opening in full celebration. The students shrieked and scattered toward the castle, but neither of you moved. The rain was cold, but the air between you was warm, charged, alive.

“You’re soaked,” you said, brushing water from your lashes.

“So are you,” he replied, and somehow that was funny enough to make you laugh, loud and real. He watched you like he couldn’t look anywhere else. Then, in that careless, impulsive Sirius Black way, he dropped his broom and held out his hand. “Dance with me.”

“In the rain?” you asked, half laughing, half breathless.

“On the list, isn’t it?”

Your heart skipped. You froze, eyes widening. “What— how do you—?”

But he only smirked, stepping closer until you could see the raindrops clinging to his lashes. “Come on, love. Don’t ruin my fun now.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, just twined his fingers through yours and spun you onto the slick pitch. The world tilted — laughter, water, thunder — his hand steady at your waist, his smile softer now, almost reverent. You forgot how to think. You forgot why you’d ever promised yourself not to fall for him.

When the rain finally slowed and the cheering inside the castle faded, you were both breathless, soaked to the bone, grinning like idiots. Sirius squeezed your hand once, then brushed a strand of hair from your cheek, eyes dark and unguarded. “Guess I can cross that off the list too.”

You stared at him, heartbeat stuttering. “You—”

He only grinned wider, tapping the tip of your nose with his dripping finger. “Later. You’ll thank me later.”

And just like that, he was gone — running back across the field, laughter trailing behind him, leaving you standing in the rain, half in love and too scared to admit it.

8. Sneak into Filch’s office and leave a cupcake on his desk labelled “For my favourite person.”

You had no idea what was wrong with you lately. Every time you even thought about the list, Sirius seemed to appear — right place, right time, with that infuriating smirk and some perfectly convenient excuse. He’d shown up for the kitchen raid, somehow “guessed” you wanted to charm the Great Hall ceiling, and now, as you stood outside Filch’s office clutching a cupcake in one hand and your wand in the other, you couldn’t help thinking this was getting suspicious.

“Remind me why we’re doing this again?” Sirius whispered beside you, crouched low in the corridor shadows.

“We?” you muttered. “I never invited you along.”

He flashed you a grin that didn’t belong anywhere near a dark, forbidden hallway. “Please. You’d be caught in five minutes without me.”

“That’s not—”

“Shh.” He pressed a finger to your lips, eyes glinting. “Filch’s office is just there.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was doing that stupid fluttery thing again. The corridor smelled like dust and damp parchment, the lanternlight faint and flickering. You crept toward the door, wand poised, muttering, “Alohomora.” The latch clicked, and Sirius let out a low, impressed whistle.

Inside, the office was exactly as miserable as you’d imagined — shelves lined with confiscated items, chains hanging from the ceiling, and that faint smell of cat and despair. You set the cupcake down carefully in the middle of the desk, the little parchment tag fluttering — For my favourite person.

Sirius leaned over your shoulder, breath ghosting your ear. “You know, if anyone ever left me one of those, I might just melt.”

You gave him a side-eye. “You’d never deserve one.”

“Harsh.” His tone was light, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “All this charm and no cupcake? Tragic.”

You turned to face him, whispering, “Are you trying to get us caught?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He was far too close now, close enough that you could see the raindrop still clinging to the end of his hair from earlier, close enough that your voice caught before you could say anything else. He noticed, of course. Sirius always noticed.

When you slipped out into the hallway again, heart pounding, he followed a step behind — humming, smug, unbothered. You squinted at him. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Just helping a friend make her dreams come true,” he said innocently.

That was what did it — that exact line, too pointed, too knowing. You stopped walking, staring at him. “Wait,” you said slowly. “How do you—?”

But he just smiled, that maddeningly perfect, infuriating smile. “Goodnight, sweetheart.” And then he was gone again, disappearing around the corner like smoke.

You stood there, cupcake icing still on your fingertips, trying to shake the feeling that he was two steps ahead of you — and that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t really mind.

9. Fly over the Black Lake at sunrise.

It had started as a joke. You’d scribbled Fly over the Black Lake at sunrise onto the list one night half-asleep, more wish than goal. You couldn’t actually fly — not properly, anyway — and you’d long since accepted that broomsticks were for people braver, lighter, less prone to falling off. But when Sirius found you standing at the edge of the lake one morning, clutching the folded list and squinting into the pink horizon, it was clear the universe had other plans.

“You planning to jump or something, sweetheart?” he called, voice lazy, wind-tossed.

You turned to find him there, leaning on his broom, hair catching the early light. He looked like he belonged to the dawn — wild and golden and alive. “Just thinking,” you said.

“About?”

You hesitated. “About number nine.”

His grin curved slow and dangerous. “Ah. The infamous list again.”

You froze. “The what?”

But he only shrugged, stepping closer, broom balanced casually against his shoulder. “C’mon. I’ll take you.”

“What?”

“Over the lake. Sunrise waits for no witch.”

You blinked. “Sirius, I can’t fly.”

“Good thing I can.”

You tried to protest, but his hand was already extended, his smile too disarming to resist. Against every rational thought in your head, you took it. His fingers were warm even in the morning chill.

“Up we go, love,” he murmured, swinging his leg over the broom and tugging you gently to sit in front of him. The world tilted as the broom rose, smooth and effortless, air whipping past your face. The ground fell away, replaced by endless reflection — the lake mirroring the sunrise, rippling like liquid fire. You gasped, clutching at his arm.

“Relax,” he said softly, close enough that you felt the words against your ear. “I’ve got you.”

You nodded, but when the broom dipped slightly, instinct took over — you spun and pressed yourself into his chest, burying your face there, heart pounding so fast it felt like you were flying without the broom at all. His laughter started, but it died almost instantly, replaced by silence — the kind that hummed, fragile and electric.

Sirius had been touched before. Hugs, handshakes, the casual roughhousing of boys who grew up on pranks and chaos. But this was different. Your breath was warm against him, your fingers clutching at his shirt, and something in his chest cracked open.

“Hey,” he said quietly, his voice gone soft in a way you’d never heard. “You’re alright. Look—” He angled the broom just enough for you to peek. “See? The sunrise’s showing off for us.”

You dared to open your eyes. The sky was a painting — pinks melting into golds, the castle glowing in the distance. You let out a shaky breath, still holding him tight. “It’s beautiful,” you whispered.

He smiled, though you couldn’t see it. “Yeah. It is.”

The words were easy, but they didn’t mean the sunrise. They meant you — the way your hair glowed in the light, the way your laughter still trembled with fear and wonder. He wanted to stay there forever, with the cold wind biting his face and your heartbeat pressed against his ribs.

When they finally landed, the world felt different — softer, quieter, like something had shifted. You stepped off, cheeks flushed, trying to steady your legs. “That was—”

“Terrifying?” he teased, voice a little too steady for the way his heart still raced.

“Maybe a bit,” you admitted, smiling up at him.

He grinned back, but for once, it didn’t reach his eyes — they were too full, too bright, too raw. “Guess that’s another one off your list.”

You frowned. “What— how do you—”

He just laughed, brushing a stray curl from your forehead. “You really don’t know, do you?”

Before you could answer, he turned away, heading toward the castle, leaving you standing there with the sunrise and the dawning realization that he knew everything — and that maybe, so did you.

10. Make Dumbledore laugh during breakfast.

For the next few days, you did your very best to pretend that flying over the lake hadn’t meant anything. That you hadn’t felt Sirius’s heartbeat against your ear, or the way his voice went quiet when he told you to open your eyes, or how the world had never looked that beautiful before. You laughed when your friends teased you, rolled your eyes when they mentioned him, and ducked out of sight whenever he came around a corner. It wasn’t that you were angry. It was worse — you were confused.

He hadn’t said anything, either. No teasing, no smirks, no sly comments about your mysterious “list.” He just looked at you sometimes — not in the usual cocky way, but like he was trying to read something written between your ribs. It made your stomach twist. You needed a distraction, something easy and harmless, and luckily, item ten was exactly that: Make Dumbledore laugh during breakfast.

Simple. Foolproof. Non-emotional. You could do that.

So, the next morning, you positioned yourself at the Gryffindor table, surrounded by giggling second-years, trying to come up with something clever enough to make the Headmaster chuckle. Across the Hall, Sirius sat with the boys — laughing with James, tossing toast at Remus, pretending like everything was perfectly fine.

You tried not to look, but your eyes betrayed you. He looked good, of course he did — hair messy, tie loose, a trace of ink on his fingers. The same fingers that had steadied you on the broom. You swallowed hard and focused on your plan.

Dumbledore was already sipping his tea, his twinkling eyes watching the morning chaos unfold. You leaned toward one of the enchanted platters and whispered a quick charm under your breath. A heartbeat later, the bowl of porridge on his table let out a cheerful meow.

The entire Hall froze — and then erupted into laughter. Even McGonagall’s lips twitched, but what made your chest tighten was Dumbledore himself, eyes crinkling as he laughed softly, the sound warm and unbothered. “Ah,” he said, patting the table fondly, “a most talkative breakfast indeed.”

You grinned, a rush of victory flooding through you — until your gaze drifted back to Sirius. He was already watching you. Not smiling, not teasing. Just watching.

You looked away too quickly, pretending to be engrossed in your toast. He didn’t call your name, didn’t try to come over, but you could feel the weight of his eyes across the Hall.

By the time breakfast ended, you slipped out first, heart pounding, the sound of Dumbledore’s laughter still echoing faintly behind you. You told yourself it was fine. You were fine.

But as you passed through the empty corridor, a scrap of parchment fluttered from your pocket — the list, creased and soft at the edges, a few items crossed off in a hand that wasn’t yours.

You froze.

And just below number ten, someone had scribbled, in neat, lazy handwriting that could only belong to one person:

“You forgot number one, love.”

1. Kiss Sirius Black ??

The day blurred past in half-thoughts and echoes — laughter, footsteps, conversations you didn’t quite hear. But through it all, one thing wouldn’t leave you alone: you forgot number one, love. It replayed over and over in your head, Sirius’s voice threaded through the words, lazy and low, as if he’d whispered it right into your ear.

You’d found the note after breakfast, tucked between your books, the familiar parchment crinkled with faint ink smudges. You’d tried to focus in Charms, tried to laugh with Marlene at lunch, tried to tell yourself that he was just teasing, that it was another joke — but your heart refused to listen. The memory of him on the broom, the warmth of his breath in the cold morning air, the way he’d looked at you across the Great Hall — it was all too much.

By evening, you couldn’t stand it anymore. You needed air, space, anything. The Astronomy Tower was quiet at this hour, drenched in the faint pink and indigo of a dying sunset. The castle below was alive with flickering lights, laughter echoing faintly from the courtyards. You leaned against the stone railing, letting the wind cool your flushed cheeks, your fingers clutching the folded list so tightly it might tear.

“Thought I might find you here.”

You didn’t even have to turn. His voice was unmistakable — soft, rough at the edges, that kind of casual drawl that sounded like trouble wrapped in charm.

“Sirius,” you said quietly, not turning around. “Do you ever knock?”

He laughed, the sound low and easy. “Didn’t realize towers had doors worth knocking on.”

You sighed, still staring out at the sunset. “You’ve been awfully good at finding me lately.”

“Guess I’ve got a knack for it.”

He walked closer, slow and unhurried. When you finally looked at him, the fading light caught his hair and turned it silver, his eyes reflecting the sky — dark grey, storm-touched, full of something you couldn’t name. He wasn’t smiling for once.

“Been avoiding me,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

You swallowed. “You noticed.”

“Hard not to.” His tone softened, the teasing falling away. “Did I do something?”

You almost laughed — because it was such a ridiculous question, coming from him. “You tell me,” you said, holding up the parchment. “You seem to know my secrets better than I do.”

His eyes flicked to the list, and a slow grin curved his lips. “Ah. That old thing.”

“Sirius.”

He raised his hands, mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I may have stumbled across it.”

“‘Stumbled’?” you repeated, arching an eyebrow.

He had the decency to look at least a little sheepish, though the corner of his mouth was still twitching. “Found it in the common room one night. Meant to give it back, but then…”

“Then you decided to make my life a living mystery?”

“Then I realized it’d be more fun helping you cross things off.”

You stared at him, torn between annoyance and something that felt alarmingly like affection. “You could’ve just told me.”

“And missed seeing your face every time something ‘coincidentally’ worked out? Not a chance.”

You rolled your eyes, but your chest ached in a way that made it hard to breathe. “You’re unbelievable.”

He stepped closer, the air around you shifting. “Maybe. But you smiled, didn’t you? You laughed. You lived.” His voice dropped lower. “That list wasn’t just a list, was it? It was you trying to squeeze every last bit out of this year before it’s gone.”

The words hit harder than you expected. You looked down, blinking against the sting in your eyes. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s brilliant,” he said quietly. “It’s you.”

You finally looked up — and the distance between you was gone. He was close enough that you could see the faint constellation of freckles near his collarbone, close enough to smell the faint trace of smoke and rain that clung to him. Your pulse fluttered.

“You really shouldn’t read other people’s lists,” you whispered.

He smiled, that slow, familiar, heart-stopping smile. “And you really shouldn’t make me number one if you didn’t mean it.”

You froze, breath catching. “I— I didn’t—”

But he shook his head gently, stepping closer until your back brushed the cold stone of the railing. “You did. You just didn’t think you’d get this far.”

Your voice came out barely audible. “And what if I didn’t want you to know?”

He leaned in, his breath brushing your cheek. “Then you shouldn’t have let me fall for you halfway through helping.”

That broke something loose inside you — the ache, the fear, the longing you’d been holding back all year. You met his eyes, and everything in them told you the truth: he’d known from the start, and he’d never once stopped choosing you.

The silence stretched, delicate and heavy, until finally he whispered, “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

You didn’t.

Sirius kissed you like it was inevitable — slow and steady at first, then deeper, like he’d been waiting for this longer than he’d ever admit. The world fell away — the fading light, the cool wind, even the castle below. All that existed was the warmth of his hands cupping your face, the way your heart felt too big for your chest, the quiet sound you made against his lips.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathless, laughter bubbling up between you like relief. He rested his forehead against yours, eyes still closed, and for the first time, he looked utterly at peace.

Then he slipped a hand into his pocket and held up the crumpled list between two fingers. “Guess that’s one more thing to cross off, love.”

You laughed, half-shocked, half-dizzy, shoving his shoulder lightly. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he said, tucking the parchment into your hand, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “But now you’re stuck with me.”

The sun disappeared behind the hills, the stars beginning to appear — the same ones that had watched over all your chaos and laughter and quiet moments. You looked at him, his grin softening into something real and rare, and whispered, “I think I can live with that.”

And as the first stars blinked awake over the castle, Sirius kissed you again — this time slower, sweeter — while the list, now complete, fluttered forgotten to the floor beside your tangled shadows.

◟ 1. Kiss Sirius Black.

The first night it happened, you convinced yourself it was nothing.

A sharp sting bloomed beneath your skin, right where the ⯌ lay hidden under fabric and stubborn denial. You hissed softly, fingers flying to your wrist as your heart skipped. The pain faded after a few seconds, leaving behind a dull ache, like a bruise pressed too hard. You told yourself it was stress. Or exhaustion. Or the echo of leaving Hogwarts too fast, too suddenly, without looking back.

By the third night, the lie fell apart.

The mark burned.

Not a soft glow. Not warmth. It burned like fire trapped under your skin, like something was trying to tear its way out. Every pulse felt sharper than the last, flaring when you tried to sleep, when your thoughts drifted too close to the castle, too close to the lake, too close to Sirius Black. Winter break had started the very next morning after everything unraveled, and you had left before sunrise, bags packed in silence, heart locked down tight. Two weeks later, the pain had only grown worse.

You sat on the edge of your childhood bed, curtains drawn against the pale winter light. The room felt smaller than you remembered, too neat, too controlled, your mother’s idea of perfection lingering in every polished surface. Another spike of pain tore through your wrist and you gasped, doubling over, teeth sinking into your lip to keep the sound in. Your hands shook as you reached for the small vial on your bedside table. Antidotes. Ministry-approved suppressants meant to dull soulmark reactions. Temporary relief, nothing more.

You swallowed one without water.

The burn dulled, retreating just enough to let you breathe, but it never disappeared. It never truly did anymore. Every day since you’d left Hogwarts, the pain had returned stronger, angrier, as if the mark itself was furious with you for running.

A knock came at the door. It opened before you could answer.

“You’ve been in here all day,” your mother said coolly, eyes flicking to the shadows under your eyes. “Your latest test results were disappointing.”

Your fingers tightened around the bedsheet.

“A small dip,” she continued, voice precise and sharp. “I expected better.”

You nodded. You always did. The door closed. Silence rushed back in.

And then the pain came again.

Hotter. Deeper.

You slid off the bed, knees hitting the carpet as you clutched your wrist, breath coming out in broken gasps. The antidote wasn’t working, or maybe it was, but whatever this was had grown beyond it. Your vision blurred. The room tilted.

And suddenly, you weren’t there anymore.

You were hovering in a manor.

Sirius was sitting on his bed, shoulders hunched, hair messier than usual, eyes dark with exhaustion. His wrist was bare. No vials. No potions. No antidotes anywhere near him. He was gripping the bedpost like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

James’s voice echoed faintly, distorted, like it was coming from underwater. He was standing nearby, expression tight. “Mate, just take it. You don’t have to be brave about this.”

Sirius laughed softly, but it sounded wrong. Empty. “If I take it,” he said, “it stops, yeah?”

Remus nodded gently. “The pain. The pull. It’ll quiet down.”

Sirius looked down at his wrist, at the faint silver ⯌ glowing against his skin. He shook his head once.

“No.”

James frowned. “No?”

“If it hurts this much,” Sirius said quietly, “then she’s hurting too.”

Your chest clenched painfully.

“I’m not dulling it,” he went on, voice rough but steady. “Not if she’s going through this alone. Not if this is the only way I know she’s real.”

Remus’s breath caught. James went silent.

Sirius swallowed, jaw tight. “If this is what it takes to stay connected… I’ll take it.”

The pain hit you like a curse.

You cried out, collapsing fully onto the floor of your bedroom as his agony tore through your nerves, white-hot and merciless. Your wrist felt like it was on fire, like the mark was screaming. Then the vision shattered, snapping away as suddenly as it had come.

You lay there shaking, tears soaking into the carpet, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Slowly, the burn eased, not gone, never gone, but quieter now, like it had said what it needed to say.

He wasn’t taking the antidotes.

Because of you.

You pressed your forehead to the floor, breath hitching as something inside your chest cracked open. “Idiot,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Reckless, stupid—”

But the words didn’t land.

Because for the first time since the lake, since the mark appeared, since fate tied you to the boy who had hurt you more than once, the pain didn’t feel like punishment.

It felt like proof.

Somewhere, miles away, Sirius Black was hurting too. And he was choosing it. Not out of pride. Not to win. But because he refused to let you suffer alone.

And for the first time, terrifying and soft all at once, you wondered if fate’s cruel joke wasn’t cruel at all.

Just unbearably patient.

Dinner was a carefully controlled thing, every movement measured, every smile practiced. The candles along the table burned evenly, their light reflecting off polished silver and crystal, and you sat straight-backed in your chair with your hands folded in your lap, eyes fixed on your plate. The silence felt deliberate, stretched thin like a warning.

Your mother was the one to break it. “Your marks,” she said lightly, though the edge beneath her words was unmistakable. “They’ve dropped.”

You lifted your gaze slowly. “Only slightly.”

She looked at you then, cool and assessing. “There is no such thing as slightly. Not for you.”

Your father didn’t bother looking up from his meal. “We didn’t raise you to be average.”

The word settled heavily in your chest. Average. You nodded, because that was what was expected of you, because arguing would only sharpen the knives already aimed your way. Your wrist twitched beneath the table, a faint warning pulse that you ignored.

“Winter break is meant for improvement,” your mother continued, lifting her glass. “Not locking yourself away like a sulking child. Hogwarts may tolerate mediocrity in others, but not in our family.”

At the mention of Hogwarts, the mark flared sharply, heat licking beneath your skin. You inhaled slowly through your nose, schooling your face into calm. Your uncle cleared his throat, attempting a softness that didn’t quite land. “She’s young,” he said. “There’s time.”

Your mother’s smile thinned. “Time disappears faster than people think.”

The shift in the air was immediate. You felt it before the words came.

“We’ve been discussing your future,” your father said at last, setting his fork down. He looked at you now, his expression neutral, almost kind. It made your stomach drop. “Long-term arrangements.”

Your mother set her fork down with care. “We need to talk about your bond.”

Your chest tightened.

“You’ve been careless,” she continued calmly. “Allowing it to be seen. Allowing speculation.”

Your father’s gaze remained on his plate. “The boy is unsuitable.”

You swallowed. “It’s not a choice.”

“That’s a convenient myth,” your mother replied coolly. “Soulmarks indicate compatibility, not destiny. They are… suggestions.”

Your wrist pulsed beneath the table, heat blooming slow and angry.

“We are not aligning ourselves with a Black who disgraced his own family,” your father said flatly. “Blood traitor. Unstable. Loud. A boy with no future.”

The mark burned hotter, like it bristled at the words.

“There are other options,” your aunt added, voice gentle and false. “Families who understand obligation. Alliances that would secure your future properly.”

You looked up sharply. “I’m already bonded.”

Your mother met your gaze without flinching. “Bonded does not mean bound.”

The pain spiked suddenly, sharp enough to steal your breath.

“Marriage can be arranged,” she continued, unbothered. “Contracts can override sentiment. The Ministry allows it. It would be… unfortunate, of course, but not unheard of.”

Your fingers clenched into your napkin. Override. The word echoed in your head.

“You would learn to adapt,” your father said. “Many do.”

“And the boy?” you asked, voice shaking despite yourself. “What happens to him?”

Your mother shrugged. “The mark will fade. Or it won’t. Either way, it will cease to be your concern.”

Your chair scraped loudly as you stood, the sound breaking the room’s careful order.

“No,” you said, the word trembling but unyielding.

Your mother’s expression hardened. “Sit down.”

“I won’t.”

“This conversation is not finished.”

“It is for me.”

You turned and left before anyone could stop you, before the scream clawing its way up your throat could escape. The corridor outside was dim and cold, and the moment you were alone your knees buckled. You pressed your back to the wall, sliding down as the burn in your wrist surged violently, furious and raw, like the mark itself was rejecting everything they’d said.

They weren’t threatening. They were planning.

You pressed your sleeve to your wrist, breath coming fast and uneven, and for the first time the fear sharpened into something else entirely.

You had to leave.

Tomorrow, Hogwarts reopened.

Whether it was coincidence or fate dragging you back toward the very thing your family wanted to erase, you didn’t care. Staying meant surrender. And somewhere, miles away, Sirius Black was hurting too, his mark burning for the same reason yours was.

You had come alone.

You’d chosen the empty compartment, the window seat, the quiet hum of the train as it cut through the countryside. You hadn’t looked for Evan’s grin, or Barty’s sharp eyes, or even Regulus, whose presence usually grounded you. Today, you couldn’t bear to be seen. Not with everything sitting raw under your skin. The pain had dulled somewhere between London and Hogsmeade, not gone, just folded away, like something waiting to be unfolded again.

When the train finally slowed, you didn’t rush. You let the others pass you, let the laughter and shouts fade ahead, until stepping onto the platform felt less like entering a storm.

Cold air brushed your face as your boots met the ground. Snow clung to the edges of the platform, thin and pale, the sky washed clean and bright. For a moment, there was nothing. No burn. No ache. Just stillness.

Then your mark stirred.

Not pain. Not fire. Something else entirely.

Warmth spread through your chest, sudden and gentle, like breath returning after you’d forgotten how to inhale. It bloomed outward, soft and bright, a feeling so unfamiliar it stole your breath. Relief. Recognition. Like a flower opening where there had only been tension, petal by petal, light pooling in your ribs.

He’s here.

The thought came without fear. Only knowing.

Your eyes lifted, drawn across the platform by something deeper than sight. And that’s when you saw him.

Sirius stood with the others, laughter half-frozen on his face, James mid-sentence beside him, Remus listening quietly, Peter hovering near the edge. Lily was there too, scarf pulled tight against the cold, her hand brushing Sirius’s arm as she spoke. He looked almost normal like this, surrounded, anchored, like nothing in the world could touch him.

And then he stilled.

You saw the exact second it hit him. The way his smile faltered. The way his breath caught like he’d just remembered something vital. His hand drifted toward his wrist without thinking.

He turned.

Slowly at first, scanning the crowd with a furrowed brow, then sharper, more urgent, until his eyes met yours across the platform.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

Whatever had bloomed in your chest had reached him too, bright and undeniable, and the look on his face told you everything. Wonder. Recognition. Something painfully hopeful breaking through disbelief.

The world rushed on around you, students weaving past, voices rising and falling, but in that single held moment, it felt like the universe had leaned in and gone quiet. He’d felt it too.

The moment stretches, thin and trembling, until Sirius shifts his weight.

It’s barely noticeable, just a step forward, but you see it. Feel it. The warmth in your chest tightens, turning sharp at the edges, like the flower there is afraid of being touched too soon. His eyes don’t leave yours as he moves, expression open in a way that feels far too dangerous.

Panic curls low in your stomach.

You don’t think. You just move.

You break eye contact first, turning sharply as the crowd thickens, slipping between students before your resolve can falter. Robes brush your shoulders, voices overlap, laughter crashes in around you like a wave, and within seconds you are no longer where you were standing.

Sirius stops.

He hadn’t expected it. You see it in the way his hand lifts and then falls uselessly to his side, fingers curling like they’ve closed around nothing. He scans the platform, eyes sharp now, searching, but the crowd has already swallowed you whole.

James says his name again, louder this time. Lily glances between him and the moving mass of students, brows knitting together. Sirius barely hears them.

The warmth in your chest flickers as you push deeper into the crowd, heart pounding hard enough to drown out everything else. Each step away feels wrong and necessary all at once. The mark doesn’t burn in protest. It doesn’t punish you.

It aches.

A quiet, wounded pull, like something reaching out and finding only air. You don’t look back. If you did, you might not stop yourself.

...

You don’t stop walking until the crowd thins and the noise settles into something manageable. Your chest still feels tight, the warmth there dimmed but not gone, like an ember tucked carefully away. Only when you reach the edge of the platform do you slow, drawing in a shaky breath and lifting your head.

“About time.”

Evan’s voice hits you first, familiar and sharp and grounding all at once. He’s leaning against a post like he’s been there forever, arms crossed, eyes scanning you with the kind of concern he pretends he doesn’t feel. Relief loosens something in your chest before you can stop it.

Barty is beside him, grinning too wide, eyes bright with something unreadable. “We thought you’d decided to dramatically vanish before term even started,” he says lightly, though his gaze lingers on your face a second too long.

Regulus stands just behind them, quieter, posture straight, expression careful. His eyes flick to your wrist without meaning to, then back to your face. He doesn’t ask. Not yet.

“I took the long way,” you say, voice steadier than you feel.

Evan snorts. “Figures.”

Barty steps closer and bumps his shoulder into yours, casual but solid. “You look like you survived something,” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear.

You let out a small breath that might have been a laugh. “Something like that.”

Regulus watches you for another moment before speaking. “Come on,” he says finally. “Before they start sorting luggage by force.”

As you fall into step with them, the noise of the platform fades into the background again. Evan talks about nothing important, Barty chimes in with commentary that makes Evan scoff, and Regulus walks close enough that his sleeve brushes yours now and then, a quiet reassurance.

For the first time since arriving, your shoulders ease.

But as you walk, you feel it again. Not pain. Not heat. Just a distant pull, faint but persistent, tugging somewhere deep in your chest.

Sirius is still there.

And even surrounded by friends, you know this is far from over.

You’re sitting with Evan, Barty, and Regulus in the Slytherin common room, firelight flickering low against the stone walls, the lake outside pressing its dark weight against the windows. You’re there, physically at least, but your mind keeps drifting, snagging on thoughts you refuse to name. Your wrist feels normal. Too normal. Like the calm before something breaks. They notice anyway. Evan watches you over the rim of his glass, eyes sharp despite the lazy way he’s slouched into the sofa. Barty’s chatter slows, his grin tilting into something more observant. Regulus doesn’t look at you at all, which somehow makes it worse. He always sees more when he pretends not to. “So,” Evan says eventually, tone casual but eyes intent, “you’re being weird.” You scoff, a little too quickly. “I’m always weird.” “Yes,” Barty agrees easily, leaning closer, “but this is the broody, staring-into-the-distance kind. Very tragic heroine of you.” Regulus exhales through his nose. “You’ve been like this since the incident. Incident.

You stiffen despite yourself.

Evan straightens then, expression shifting from amused to deliberate. “Hey,” he says, softer now. “We’re Slytherins, not statues. You don’t have to sit there pretending nothing’s wrong.”

Barty nods, suddenly earnest beneath the theatrics. “Yeah. Just because we’re ambitious doesn’t mean we’re heartless.”

Regulus hesitates, then adds quietly, “We notice when you’re not alright.”

Something in your chest loosens at that. Just a fraction. Enough to let them in.

They don’t push for explanations. Instead, Evan launches into a ridiculous story about a first-year who tried to challenge him to a duel and tripped over his own robes. Barty embellishes it mercilessly, reenacting the fall with exaggerated flair until Regulus mutters something about dignity that absolutely no one listens to.

Against your will, you laugh.

It startles you, the sound of it. Real laughter, not the brittle kind you’ve been offering all day. Evan grins triumphantly. Barty beams like he’s cured something incurable. Even Regulus’s mouth twitches, just barely.

For a while, it works.

You let yourself lean into them, into the noise and warmth and familiar chaos. You forget the pull in your chest. Forget the platform. Forget the way your heart had bloomed and then panicked all at once.

Then your mark reacts.

It’s subtle at first, a faint stirring beneath your skin, like a memory waking up. The warmth returns, slow and insistent, blooming again in your chest, but this time it doesn’t feel gentle. It feels directional. Like something is calling you.

Your laughter falters.

Evan notices immediately. “Hey,” he says, concern slipping through. “You alright?”

You nod automatically, but your hand curls in your lap. The room feels smaller suddenly, the air too thick, the fire too hot. Whatever they tried to shield you from has found you anyway.

The distraction fades.

And no matter how close they sit, no matter how hard they try to anchor you, the pull doesn’t stop.

You go to the Astronomy Tower because it’s empty.

That’s the whole reason. You don’t want an audience. You don’t want questions. You don’t want to see anyone’s face when you read your mother’s letter and feel that familiar, quiet collapse in your chest. So you climb the stairs, push the door open, and step out into the cold night air without looking around.

You don’t notice Sirius at first.

He’s already there, farther down the tower, leaning against the stone with his back turned, cigarette burning low between his fingers. The wind carries the smoke away before it can reach you. You’re too busy unfolding the parchment, too used to the weight of disappointment to be careful.

The letter is exactly what you expect.

Your grades are mentioned first. Not bad. Not good enough. “Above average,” she writes, as if the words are an accusation. She talks about potential. About wasted opportunity. About how effort means very little without results. You swallow and keep reading because stopping won’t change what’s coming next.

It never does.

Marriage.

She introduces it calmly, like a solution rather than a sentence. Arrangements. Suitable families. The importance of reputation. She writes as if this is already decided, as if you’re simply being informed rather than asked. Your hand tightens around the parchment, heart pounding.

She mentions your bond only briefly. Says it has been taken into account. Says it won’t be an obstacle. That it can be managed if necessary.

Your mark burns suddenly, sharp and furious, heat flaring under your sleeve like it’s reacting to being reduced to a problem. You gasp quietly, pressing your wrist against your side, eyes stinging as you stare out at the stars.

Behind you, Sirius turns.

He hadn’t meant to listen. Hadn’t meant to read anything. But the way you stiffen, the way your breathing changes, pulls his attention whether he wants it or not. When you shift, the letter catches the light just enough for a few words to be clear.

Marriage.

His stomach drops.

Before he can stop himself, the mark on his own wrist pulses, hot and sudden, like it’s echoing yours. He swears under his breath, cigarette forgotten as he straightens.

You sense him then.

You turn, heart jumping into your throat, and find him watching you, expression unreadable but tense in a way you’ve never seen before. You jerk the letter back to your chest instinctively.

“Did you read that?” you ask, voice tight.

“I saw one word,” Sirius says honestly. “And I wish I hadn’t.”

For a moment, Sirius says nothing.

The wind tugs at his hair, smoke curling uselessly into the night as his fingers tighten around the cigarette. His jaw works like he’s biting back a dozen thoughts at once. The burn on his wrist hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s growing sharper, more insistent, like it’s demanding he pay attention.

“They shouldn’t be deciding that,” he says finally, quieter now. Not angry. Not joking. Just… certain.

You shake your head, eyes fixed on the stars. “They already have,” you reply. “They just thought I deserved to know.”

The silence settles again, heavy but not empty. Your mark throbs in time with your pulse, a steady reminder beneath your skin. You don’t look at him. You don’t trust yourself to.

Sirius lets out a short, humorless breath. He flicks the cigarette over the edge of the tower, watching the ember disappear into the dark below.

“Funny thing,” he says, staring straight ahead. “They always start with something small. Grades. Friends. What you wear. Who you talk to.” His voice is casual on the surface, but there’s an edge underneath it, something worn thin. “Then one day you realize every choice you’ve ever made had their fingerprints all over it.”

You don’t respond, but your shoulders tense.

“My mother used to keep lists,” he goes on, almost absentmindedly. “Acceptable names. Acceptable futures. Acceptable mistakes.” A sharp exhale. “Didn’t matter what I wanted. Wanting was the problem.”

Your grip tightens on the railing. The words slide under your skin too easily, settling somewhere uncomfortable and familiar.

“They called it guidance,” Sirius adds. “Said it was love. Said I’d thank them one day for shaping me into something respectable.” He laughs quietly, bitter and soft. “Turns out respectability feels a lot like a cage.”

Something in your chest aches. You hadn’t meant to say anything, but the words slip out anyway. “They do that too,” you murmur. “Make it sound like care. Like you’re ungrateful if you push back.”

Sirius turns his head slightly, really looking at you now. Not smirking. Not measuring. Just listening.

“They tell me I should be grateful,” you continue, voice low. “That I’ve been given every opportunity. That if I fail, it’s because I didn’t deserve them in the first place.” You swallow. “I didn’t realize how much that sounded like control until you said it out loud.”

For a second, neither of you speaks.

The wind rushes past, tugging at your robes, the stars steady and indifferent above you. Your wrist pulses again, warm and insistent, and you don’t pull away this time.

Sirius looks back at the sky, jaw tight. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s how they get you. Makes you think you’re alone in it.”

You aren’t sure when it happens, but the space between you feels smaller now. Not safer. Just… understood.

And that realization sits heavy in your chest, impossible to ignore.

Before you can say anything, Sirius reaches for the letter.

Not roughly. Not gently either. Just decisively, like he’s made up his mind and isn’t interested in arguing with it. For a split second your fingers tighten around the parchment, instinct screaming at you to hold on. Then you let go.

He scans it once. That’s all it takes.

You watch his jaw clench, the muscle ticking as his eyes move over the lines. The night wind tugs at the parchment, trying to steal it from his hands, but he holds firm.

Without looking at you, he lifts his cigarette, tapping it once against the stone railing. The ember flares brighter as he shields it from the wind. Slowly, deliberately, he brings the flame to the edge of the letter.

The parchment catches.

Fire races along the corner, curling the page inward as the ink darkens and disappears. The words vanish one by one, swallowed by heat and light. The smell of burning paper fills the air, sharp and final, and your breath catches as you realize there’s no going back from this.

Sirius watches until the flames bite too close to his fingers, then lets go. The remains crumble into ash, scattering over the edge of the tower and disappearing into the dark below.

The wind carries the last of it away.

Sirius stays quiet for a moment after the ashes are gone, eyes fixed on the place where the letter disappeared into the dark. The night feels steadier now, like something sharp has been removed from the air.

Then he speaks, voice lower than before.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, not looking at you, “I think you’re really smart.”

The words land without ceremony. No teasing. No edge. Just honest, almost hesitant, like he’s not used to saying things that matter out loud.

He shifts his weight, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Grades don’t mean half of what people pretend they do,” he adds. “Some of the cleverest people I know don’t test well. They just… see things differently.”

He finally glances at you then, expression unreadable but intent. “Doesn’t make them any less brilliant.”

Your mark gives a faint, warm pulse beneath your sleeve.

You finally let out a shaky breath, forcing your gaze back to the stars. The night feels softer now, somehow, like holding the letter between you and Sirius never happened, like the fire and the ash never burned.

Sirius doesn’t move closer. He just stays there, leaning casually against the railing, but you can feel his quiet attention, the way it’s tuned to you. There’s no teasing, no challenge—just… presence. And that, somehow, is enough.

“I—” you start, then pause. Words feel heavy tonight, like they might break something if you get them wrong. Instead, you tuck your wrist fully under your sleeve and shrug lightly. “Thanks,” you murmur. “For… you know.”

“For what?” His voice is soft now, careful, not like the usual Black sarcasm you’re used to.

“For noticing,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “For… caring, in a way. Even if it’s just about the letter.”

He nods, slow, deliberate. “Yeah. I notice.” There’s a brief, faint smile tugging at his lips—not smug, not teasing. Just real. “Figured we could use… someone who gets it.”

You blink at him, unsure whether to laugh or sigh. “Someone who gets it?”

Yeah.” He shrugs, lighting another cigarette, though he doesn’t take a drag. “Someone who knows what it’s like to have people decide your life for you.” His gaze flicks over the tower railing, then back to you. “We don’t have to fix it tonight. Just… talk. Maybe not let it eat us alive alone.”

For the first time in weeks, you nod. Not because it solves anything, but because it feels good to be seen. To be understood.

You lean back slightly against the stone, giving yourself a moment to breathe. Sirius takes a slow puff of smoke, letting the silence stretch comfortably between you.

It’s tentative, fragile, but it’s there—something that looks like the start of a friendship.

And for now, that is enough.

The next morning, the Astronomy Tower feels further away than it actually is. You wake with the memory of last night pressing lightly in your chest, warm but confusing. At breakfast, the letter from home doesn’t matter. Sirius doesn’t smirk at you across the Great Hall, but there’s a brief, almost imperceptible nod when your eyes meet. You almost miss it if you’re not paying attention.

It starts slow. A shared table in the library one afternoon, where neither of you admits that you both prefer silence to noise. You’re bent over your Arithmancy notes, he’s flicking through a stack of Transfiguration textbooks, but occasionally your eyes brush, a wordless acknowledgement of the other’s presence. It’s not teasing. It’s not rivalry. It’s simply noticing.

By the second week, your friends start to pick up on it. Evan nudges you subtly as Sirius leans over to reach for a book just a little too close to your elbow. Barty smirks knowingly when you and Regulus are walking toward the same hallway that Sirius happens to be in, shoulders brushing. Even Regulus, ever careful, can’t entirely hide the way he watches you shift uncomfortably when Sirius greets you with an easy, friendly “morning.”

The next morning, the Astronomy Tower feels further away than it actually is. You wake with the memory of last night pressing lightly in your chest, warm but confusing. At breakfast, the letter from home doesn’t matter. Sirius doesn’t smirk at you across the Great Hall, but there’s a brief, almost imperceptible nod when your eyes meet. You almost miss it if you’re not paying attention.

It starts slow. A shared table in the library one afternoon, where neither of you admits that you both prefer silence to noise. You’re bent over your Arithmancy notes, he’s flicking through a stack of Transfiguration textbooks, but occasionally your eyes brush, a wordless acknowledgement of the other’s presence. It’s not teasing. It’s not rivalry. It’s simply noticing.

By the second week, your friends start to pick up on it. Evan nudges you subtly as Sirius leans over to reach for a book just a little too close to your elbow. Barty smirks knowingly when you and Regulus are walking toward the same hallway that Sirius happens to be in, shoulders brushing. Even Regulus, ever careful, can’t entirely hide the way he watches you shift uncomfortably when Sirius greets you with an easy, friendly “morning.”

Sirius himself doesn’t acknowledge the scrutiny. He keeps the gestures small. A shared joke in the common room, a quiet word during potions, a brief comment about homework or the weather that feels more like conversation than confrontation. Each one builds like a stepping stone between the two of you. You’re cautious, distant, and yet… slowly, your defenses start to relax around him.

You catch yourself laughing one evening in the courtyard because of something he said about a ridiculous Quidditch strategy, and it feels like a small rebellion against everything you’ve been carrying. He grins at you—not a smirk, not a challenge—but genuinely pleased. You nearly choke on the sound of your own laughter, aware that somewhere, both friend groups have probably noticed.

The subtlety doesn’t last. A misplaced glance, a shared chuckle, a hallway conversation just a little too close to a lunch table… and suddenly everyone knows there’s a quiet truce forming between you and Sirius. James leans over to Lily with a knowing grin; Peter whispers to Remus, who just shakes his head with a small smile; Regulus frowns slightly but doesn’t say anything, letting it happen. Even Barty and Evan can’t help rolling their eyes at how transparent it all is.

Yet for both of you, the slow pace is deliberate. No grand gestures, no declarations. Just small moments, day by day, building trust, understanding, and a friendship that doesn’t need labels yet. The mark still pulses occasionally, warm and steady, reminding you both that fate is watching, but right now, it doesn’t matter. What matters is the laughter, the shared silences, and the quiet knowledge that someone else understands—someone who’s been through enough to know why it’s important to be careful.

By the end of the month, the friendship is undeniable. Both groups notice, some teasing, some curious, but neither of you cares to explain. It’s yours. A tentative, fragile alliance that has survived the fire of letters, the weight of family expectations, and the stubborn pride of two people who aren’t ready to give in yet. And every time you pass in the corridor, every time he flicks a book in your direction or nudges you with a grin, the mark pulses faintly, warm and alive, reminding you both that this… this slow, steady connection is something rare.

The air in Hogsmeade was crisp, filled with laughter and the smell of butterbeer and fresh pastries. You ducked into Honeydukes, trying to convince yourself it was just about picking up a few sweets. That’s when you saw him—Sirius—already hovering near the chocolate frogs, casually examining a display as if he belonged there more than anyone else.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he said the moment he noticed you, sliding up beside you with that infuriatingly confident grin. “Buying sweets for… yourself? Or are you plotting to steal mine?”

You glanced at him over the top of a candy jar, eyebrow raised. “Oh, I don’t need anyone’s sweets, Black. You can keep yours. I’m here for… quality control.”

Sirius laughed, leaning on the counter, eyes sparkling. “Quality control, huh? That’s a new excuse. I might steal that one.”

You smirked, ignoring the way your stomach fluttered. “Feel free. I’ll watch and judge your taste mercilessly.”

He leaned closer, just enough that your shoulders brushed, voice dropping into that dangerous tone that made it impossible to ignore him. “Judged by you? I’ll take my chances.”

You rolled your eyes, hiding a grin. “You’re terrible at this, you know.”

“Terrible?” he echoed, mock offense in his voice. “I prefer… hopelessly charming.”

You shook your head, laughing softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Hopelessly arrogant, you mean.”

He shrugged, leaning back with a lazy grin. “Same thing. Depends on who’s looking.”

You caught the glint in his eyes and knew the game had started. A slow, playful dance of teasing words and glances, just the two of you amid the bustle of Hogsmeade. Around you, the rest of the Marauders were scattered: Peter wandering hand in hand with his soulmate, James and Lily lost among stacks of books at the bookstore, Evan and Barty trying their luck at the Muggle arcade, and Remus, predictably, refusing to leave the safety of the main street, muttering about how reckless everyone was being.

Sirius leaned closer again, voice low and teasing. “You know… I could probably convince you to share a chocolate frog with me.”

“Convince me?” you repeated, amusement dancing in your eyes. “And what would I get in return for such generosity?”

He smirked, eyes alight with mischief. “My company. Hard to refuse, really.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I suppose it could be… tolerable.”

The line at Honeydukes had thinned out, the store quieting down except for the occasional tinkle of the door as someone came in. You and Sirius lingered near the back, still laughing over a ridiculous argument about who could eat more Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans without vomiting.

“You’re cheating,” he accused, wagging a chocolate frog at you. “There’s no way you’ve had five in a row and still look… unscathed.”

You rolled your eyes, smirking. “I’m clearly built different. Unlike someone who just lost to a candy quiz.”

He stepped closer, leaning against the counter so that the space between you shrank. His grin softened, eyes flicking down to your lips for just a second before meeting yours again. “You’re insufferable,” he murmured, but the tease had gone quiet, replaced by something warmer.

You felt it too—the shift, subtle but undeniable. The playful tension from earlier lingered in the air like static, pulling you both in. Your fingers brushed as you reached for a candy jar at the same time, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

“Merlin…” he breathed, voice low, almost a whisper. “I’ve wanted to do that all day.”

Before you could respond, his hand cupped the side of your face gently, and he leaned in. The kiss was soft, careful, hesitant at first, like testing the waters. Then it deepened slightly, warm and steady, full of the teasing energy that had been there all day but now softened into something real.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, heart hammering, and he mirrored you, forehead resting against yours. “I’ve… been waiting for that,” he admitted, voice rough with amusement and something like awe.

You laughed softly, brushing a wet strand of hair from your face. “That was… surprisingly not awful,” you teased, though your cheeks were flaming.

He smirked, still holding your gaze. “Surprisingly? I’ll take it. But next time, don’t act like you’re not thrilled.”

And for the first time that day, amid the quiet sweetness of Honeydukes and the fading bustle of Hogsmeade, you felt it—this messy, chaotic, perfect start to something neither of you wanted to stop.