My Wonderland

Three days ago—only two towns away from the alleged community—you had been cut off from the group by a hoard of the dead while scavenging. Azriel had been up a few streets scouring a run through pharmacy for any extra supplies, Rhys and Cassian a building over. You and Feyre had split off to cover more ground, agreeing to rendezvous at the movie theater at the edge of town before sundown.

Azriel never liked the idea of being separated from you, but you and Feyre were more than capable of handling yourselves. But when the hoard swept through the small town and only Feyre made it back to the movie theater, he felt the ball that had been sitting heavy on his chest since you left drop to his stomach. Feyre was out of breath, explaining that you had gotten trapped in the upstairs of a building and told Feyre you would find another way out.

Only you never made it to the theater, and by the time the dead had cleared long after the sun sank past the horizon, you weren’t in the building Feyre led them back to either. They had to make camp for the night and with too many dead still crawling in the city, they couldn’t stay there for long. Another day had passed and Azriel had been in and out of every single one of the ransacked buildings in the dingy town, finding absolutely no traces of you.

This morning would make almost three days since he’s seen you, and that’s already three days too many. Azriel shoved a canteen in his knapsack and slung it over his shoulders, meeting his brother's patient eyes.

“I’m going to find her, Rhys,” he said evenly.

“I know you are,” Rhys tsked softly, taking in the male with his discerning eyes before relenting, “Go on and we’ll catch up with you at the next town. We’ll only be a few hours behind,” He dipped his head toward him. He knew Rhys didn’t like the thought of your small group splitting up even more, but Azriel wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He knew that if the situation was flipped, Rhys wouldn’t wait around while Feyre was out there alone either.

Azriel nodded once in thanks before setting off North. The next town was only about ten miles away, and that was his best guess where you would try and find them.

The roads were overgrown with weeds and dry leaves that covered the asphalt crunched under his heavy boots. If he kept a good pace, he could reach the next town by noon. He passed abandoned cars on the side of the road every now and then, checking them over for any signs you’d been this way, but they were all so pillaged it was impossible to tell.

By the time the afternoon sun dried up the last of the morning dew, he finally reached the next town. It was bigger than the last one, Azriel noted the tall buildings that lined what must have been the city’s downtown and gritted his teeth. It was a lot of ground to cover, especially on his own, but with the others not far behind him he could get a decent head start and reconvene with them.

He surveyed the strip, assessing where to start. You wouldn’t go for the first few buildings in town, knowing they’re the most picked over and vulnerable. No, you’d go deeper into town, and with only the scarce food left in your pack, you had to be out by now. Food and shelter is what you would be after, so that’s what he set off to find.

By the tenth building Azriel had searched he was growing frustrated. He stood in a convenience store, fridges open and long turned warm, shelves stripped bare. Stale chips crunched under his feet as he came to a stop in the middle of the broken down racks in the center of the store.

He took a shuddering breath, scrubbing his hands down his face. You had to be here, in this town, but there was no sign of you and Azriel had no way of finding you.

He looked around helplessly, his breathing becoming ragged. This was his worst fear—not the dead, not the end of civilization, not being on his own—losing you, not being able to keep you safe. He should have insisted you stay together, or came up with a better plan if you got separated. Azriel couldn’t even be sure if you came here, it was only his best guess, but there was no sign of you, you hadn’t even left a message for him.

Hot tears began to sting his eyes. He couldn’t take this, not knowing if you were safe or not. An anguished yell ripped from his throat as he kicked in the shelves making up the short aisle he stood in. Metal clanged loudly as they fell, knocking into the next row. He kicked and he kicked, ignoring the pain that shot up his foot from the impact.

“Woah,”

Azriel lifted his head to find Cassian in the doorway, staring at him with raised brows.

Panting, Azriel quickly wiped his eyes before turning back to his friend, “Glad you caught up,” he muttered as he pushed past him back outside.

Cassian side eyed him, “Dude, are you okay? That was a lot.”

“Where’s Rhys and Feyre?” Azriel ignored his question.

“At a church down the road,” Cassian started walking toward said church he assumed.

He was grateful Cass didn’t question him further on his little tantrum. Azriel was embarrassed enough that his brother witnessed however much of it that he did without having to actually talk about his feelings.

Kicking a rock as he fell into step beside the burly male, Azriel asked, “Since when are they religious?”

Cassian snorted, “Since they noticed signs of life or something when we got into town,”

Azriel stopped walking and turned to face Cassian abruptly, “What? Why didn’t you say anything?” he snapped at him.

He shrugged, “Didn’t want to get your hopes up,”

“Cassian,” he hissed then implored, “I don’t care, I want to know,”

Picking up his pace, Azriel continued down toward the church Cassian had to be talking about, turning the corner and spotting it at the end of the street. It was a tall brick building with ornate white accents at its steep peaks, and a bell tower at the tallest one.

He rushed up to the large arched doors, taking a steadying breath, and pushed them open with his dagger at the ready.

One quick survey of the open room had his shoulders slumping. You weren’t here.

Standing at the head of the altar, Rhys and Feyre were seemingly having a casual conversation. Azriel’s frustration came rushing back, irritated that it seemed like he was the only one worried about finding you.

“Well?” Azriel admonished. Their attention snapped to him.

“You don’t seem too happy,” Rhys observed.

“Is that a joke?” He snapped, “Of course I’m not happy! Y/n is missing and none of you seem to care!”

“Az-“

“I mean- I’ve been looking for her for days, and you guys are just—“ he pulled at the roots of his hair —“just hanging out!”

“Hey! That’s not fair, we have been just as worried,” Feyre scolded, surprised by his outburst, “this isn't the first place we've searched."

Azriel clenched his jaw. “So you cleared the building?” He knew he was being unfair, but he was too anxious to care.

“No, we were waiting for Cass to get back,” Rhys replied evenly.

He took a steadying breath, "I'm going to start looking around."

He made his way further into the building, floorboards creaking beneath his feet. Opening the door to the left of the altar revealed a wide hallway with more doors lining the walls. Trying the handles as he went, the first two were locked and he made a mental note to circle back to those later.

He pushed open the third door. It was a small office with an old wooden desk in the middle, a dead one slouched against it facing the door, already put down. Azriel swallowed thickly, this could be a sign that you’re here. He tired to keep a lid on it, but he couldn’t ignore the hope that flooded his chest.

He swept the next two rooms. A cleaning closet with old mops and buckets and similar small office with papers scattered across the floor.

His heart pounded as he faced the sixth and final door at the end of the hall. You had to be here. He couldn't let himself think about what not finding you today meant. Another night by yourself, alone, lost, possibly hurt…or—no! he can't think that way. He took a deep breath and pushed open the last door—what could be his last hope.

“Stay ba—“ Your warning was caught in your throat. The machete in your hands slowly lowered from where it was pointed at him as your defensive stance melted. “Azriel,” you breathed.

“Oh my gods,” he gasped. He crossed the room in an instant to wrap you in his arms. An arm circled around your waist, his other hand snaked up your back between shoulder blades to tangle in your hair, pressing you as close to him as possible.

He inhaled you deeply with a shuddering breath. Underneath the dirt and the grime, the scent that was undeniably you filled his senses. His heart clenched, gods he missed you.

“How—Are you okay?” he rushed out.

You huffed a wet laugh, “I am now,”

“I looked for you every day,” he confessed, “Feyre took us to the building and-and we waited for you but-“

“Azriel,” you soothed, “it’s okay.” He squeezed you tighter and you let out a small squeak.

He pulled back quickly, hands sliding to your arms as he took a step back, eyes examining your body.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded.

“I’m fine, Az,” you assured with a soft smile on your face.

His eye narrowed as he took in your features. You looked tired, the shadows under your eyes were darker than normal, dirt smudged across your cheek, and a leaf or two in your hair. He was in deep for you, cause wow did he still find you breathtaking. But you’ve been on your own for three days, and as much as he knows you can handle yourself, it still doesn’t mean it’s easy.

He opened his mouth to press, but another voice cut him off as three pairs of footsteps entered the room.

“Holy shit!” Cassian boomed, pushing Feyre out of the doorway to get to you.

“Told you we’d find her,” Rhys gloated as he entered and Azriel glared at him, but the relief he was still feeling softened its edges. He couldn’t hide the soft upturn on his lips, the way his shoulders relaxed for the first time in three long days.

Cassian went to lift you in an undoubtedly bone crushing hug, and at the sound of the pained yelp you let out Azriel’s head snapped to you. He shoved Cassian off of you with a look that could kill.

“Easy,” he hissed, “what’d you do?” Azriel accused.

Cassian raised his hands in surrender, “I didn’t do anything! I swear!” he argued. Azriel scoffed with disbelief.

“What’s wrong?” Feyre asked you pointedly. You were cradling your side, a pained look on your face. You winced at the question.

“It’s nothing, I swear,” you insisted. They all looked at your side pointedly, but Azriel’s concerned gaze is what broke you. “It’s no big deal, just a small, tiny, little cracked rib…or two, maybe,” you mumbled.

“Oh honey,” Azriel breathed. Broken ribs were no joke, and for you to be on your own this whole time, Azriel felt his chest tighten, “let me take a look?” he spoke softly.

You shuffled to the old twin bed in the corner of the small room. It must have been a small rectory of sorts, no supplies of good use but it provided you with a safe place to rest. You sat on the edge of the bed with a huff and Azriel moved to stand between your knees. You went to lift your shirt but bit your lip at the pain that sparked from the movement.

Azriel’s fingers grasped the hem of your t-shirt, but before he lifted it his gaze slid to the three still lingering by the door.

“Do you guys mind giving us a minute,” he lifted an eyebrow.

“Of course,” Rhys said, giving you a sympathetic smile that you tried to return.

He waited until the door clicked shut before returning to the task, lowering to his knees in front of you. His rough fingers softly grazed the warm skin of your stomach as he lifted the fabric, revealing the deep discoloration pooling beneath the surface of your skin.

“Oh honey,” Azriel repeated, cooing with concern. The bruise was big, covering a large expanse of your rib cage, hues of purple blooming, darkest in the center where you must have landed directly. It tinted blue slightly at the edges where it was already beginning to fade as it healed.

“That bad?” you laughed quietly. He met your gaze with his tender one.

“It must hurt pretty bad.” He lowered your shirt, hand resting at the crease of your hip where he brushed his thumb in soothing strokes. It was to calm you as much as it was him, still reveling in the fact that he found you.

“It sucks,” you admitted, “do you know how hard it is to swing that machete?” you tried to joke, but it only made Azriel frown.

“You shouldn’t have been alone,” he murmured, “Feyre-“ you shook your head.

“It’s not her fault,” you said. You brought your hand up to his cheek, and he leaned into your touch.

“You’re right,” he breathed deeply, “I should’ve been there. I should’ve looked harder and found you that first night,” he dropped his head, your fingers moving to run through his hair. His eyes fluttered closed, grounding himself in your comforting touch.

“Stop,” you scolded softly, “Everything’s okay, you found me and I’m alright, it’s no one’s fault.”

He huffed a disbelieving laugh, “Last time I checked, two broken ribs was not alright.” He raised his head to give you a pointed look, a soft smile lifting his lips as you swayed your head from side to side that meant agree to disagree. He rolled his eyes playfully and you just smiled so sweetly at him. He felt all of the overwhelming emotions that have been suffocating him the past few days well up inside him —the fear, the anger, the longing. He was so grateful to have you in his arms again, the reality of almost losing you crashed onto him and tears pooled in his eyes as he took in your perfect features he's missed so much.

The air turned serious, filled with all of the thoughts of how differently this could have ended. He brought his scarred hands up to rest on the sides of your face, stroking each cheek gently with the pads of his thumbs. Your own tears began to fall and he wiped them away, slightly smearing the dirt there. Your grip slid from his own cheeks down his shoulders, his arms, to his wrists and held him against you, savoring his familiar touch.

He looked into your eyes and saw the love and relief he felt reflected there and rose from where he sat back on his heels and surged forward, pulling you into a wet searing kiss. He pressed all of his yearning and anxieties into it, relishing in the taste of your lips against him once more. You returned the kiss with equal passion, leaning into him as much as your wounds would allow, salty tears dancing on your tongues without care. Azriel let himself get lost in the taste of you, committing everything to memory— the way you moved and breathed into the kiss, never wanting to go without your touch again. He only pulled away when there was a loud knock on the door, and he rested his forehead against yours.

“Go away,” Azriel grumbled. But the door pushed open anyway to reveal Cassian. Azriel sighed as you turned to face the intruder, but stayed pressed close to you, basking in your comfort.

“Hey, glad we found you,” he said to you sincerely as he stepped into the room, “Az was losing his damn mind.”

“He’s exaggerating, I knew I would find you.”

Cassian laughed genuinely, “I am not, I caught him throwing a fit!” he pointed an accusatory finger at Azriel.

Azriel shot Cassian a sharp look but couldn’t hide the color that seeped onto his neck and cheeks. "I was hoping you wouldn't bring that up," he muttered.

“Thanks, Cass,” you said sweetly, “but I knew I’d find him too,” your hand came up to cradle his cheek again and Azriel’s heart swelled. He tilted his head to press his appreciation into your palm with a kiss and a smile that was only for you.

“Eugh,” Cassian shuddered, “I thought you guys were bad before, but this is another level,” he complained.

“Did you need something?” he scowled at the nuisance of a man.

“Rhys wanted me to let you know we’re going to make camp here—maybe a few days. We cleared the rest of the building and it seems a good a place as any to recoup before we hit the road again,” Cassian said.

Azriel nodded as you thanked Cassian gently, and he took it as his cue to leave with one last smile in your direction. The door shut gingerly behind him and Azriel were left alone once again. Your teeth began gnaw at the inside of your cheek in what Azriel knew was worry. He stood to sit next to you on the small creaking bed.

“What’s the matter?” he questioned.

“I set us back days,” you looked down at your hands, picking the dead skin around your thumb, “we’re low on supplies, and we would’ve been at the community already if it wasn’t for me,” you muttered.

“Hey, no one’s worried about that,” he reassured, “it’s not your fault, it’s not like you asked for this,” he reminded you.

You nodded solemnly and he moved to lay back on the bed, sheets rustling and springs squeaking as he shuffled towards the wall to make space for you.

“C’mere,” he said quietly. He waited patiently as you slowly lowered yourself into a comfortable position and scooted back against his chest with only a few winces.

“There is no community if you’re not there,” he kissed your shoulder with reverence, your head lying against his extended arm. He brushed a few strands of hair behind your ear and let his fingers trace the soft lobe, down the side of your jaw, your neck, and down your arm until he settled gently on your hip, wary of your tender side.

“I would search till the ends of the earth for you, my love,” he whispered into your hair. He felt your body finally relax, your breathing evening out as you let yourself truly rest in the promise of safety his arms brought.

The sheets are tangled from the way he's pulled you closer. Louis lies beside you, propped on one elbow, his hair falling wild around his face in dark waves that catch faint glints of candlelight. His shirt is open, the linen hanging loose on his chest, though he hasn’t yet made the move to shrug it off entirely.

You rest on your back, sheets drawn to your collarbone. You're not shy with him anymore, still, the gesture feels natural, a kind of softness after heat, as though wrapping your bare skin in cloth lets you lean into the feeling of safety.

He's watching you. He always watches, as though committing every line of your body to memory, as though memorisation could guard against loss. His gaze drags slowly from your face down to where your hand clutches the sheet, then back again. He does not smile, he rarely does, but his eyes are softened, dark and thoughtful, like he is trying to shape words but cannot yet find them.

You stretch a little, catlike, and your knee brushes against his thigh. The faintest shift of muscle tightens beneath your touch.

“Are you staring at me?” you murmur, breaking the hush.

His lips twitch, just barely. “I am,” he admits. His voice is low, warm, frayed at the edges, still rough.

“You make it sound like a sin.”

“Perhaps it is.”

“Then we are both guilty.”

That pulls a sound from him, soft and close to a laugh, though he smothers it almost immediately with a shake of his head. Louis leans down instead, brushing his mouth over your temple, the tip of your cheekbone. He lingers there, his breath cool against your skin, the faintest scrape of fang hidden, controlled.

You’ve grown used to the differences between you, like the way his skin carries no heat of its own. You know it should unnerve you, that reminder of what he is, but it doesn’t. His restraint is as familiar to you as his touch.

He draws back just enough to look at you again. His hand trails along your collarbone, the weight of it feather-light, hesitant even now. Always hesitant, as if he fears pressing too hard, taking too much.

“You're very quiet tonight,” you say.

“And you would rather I chatter on endlessly?”

“I would rather you tell me what you're thinking.”

That earns you a long pause. His thumb brushes your shoulder, back and forth in a rhythm that betrays thought, a stalling habit.

“I think,” he says finally, “that I cannot quite believe you are here.”

You laugh softly, rolling toward him, pressing your forehead to his. “Where else would I be?” He doesn’t answer. You can feel the words he doesn’t say.

With anyone else, with anyone safer, with anyone alive.

Instead, he closes his eyes and breathes you in, as though he can anchor himself with the scent of your skin alone.

The candles gutter in their holders, sending shadows dancing over the canopy of the bed.

You let your fingers trace the line of Louis’s jaw, the strong cut of his cheek. His eyes flutter shut as you draw your hand lower, brushing the open edge of his shirt. His breath hitches.

“Will you always be like this?” you whisper.

His brows knit. “Like what?”

“So careful. So…” You search for the word. “Distant. Even when you’re beside me.”

Louis’s eyes open then, and the look he gives you is pained, fierce in its softness. “If I am distant, it is only to keep from frightening you.”

“You do not frighten me.”

“Maybe I should.” His hand stills where it rests over your shoulder, fingers curled tight against restraint. “You should run from me and never look back.”

“And yet,” you say, tilting forward to press your mouth to his, “here I am.”

The kiss is slow, drawn out, tasting of lingering sweetness rather than urgency. His lips part, tentative, and you take the lead, coaxing him deeper, letting your tongue brush his. When you draw back, his eyes are darker, unfocused.

“You are…” He swallows, falters. “You are temptation given form.”

“And you are ridiculous,” you tease, though your heart beats harder for the way he says it, like prayer and curse entwined.

You shift until you are nestled against his chest, his arm wound around you at last, protective and unwilling to let go.

“Louis?”

“Yes?”

“Do you ever wish-” You stop yourself, words catching.

“Wish what?”

“That I could be what you are. That I could be with you… without limits.”

The stillness that answers you is heavy. His hand, which had been moving idly against your back, freezes.

At last, he says, “No. I wish only that you would never think such a thing.”

“Why?”

“Because I would not curse you to this. Because every joy would be drowned in sorrow. Because your soul is not mine to damn.”

You know it is useless to press him further; the subject is a wound he will not let you touch. Still, the thought lingers as you lay your head against him.

For a long while, the two of you lie there, suspended in that strange calm, his fingers drawing idle lines along your arm, your breathing steady. Sleep tugs at your edges, though you resist. It feels wrong to sleep when he never does, when he lies awake always, guardian and penitent both.

At last, Louis stirs. He brushes his lips across your hair and murmurs, “I must go out for a time.”

You shift against him, reluctant. “Now?”

He nods, looking at the shuttered window. “I need… air. A walk. I will not be long.”

“Do you promise?”

A shadow flickers across his expression. “I promise.”

You study him, that haunted face, those eyes that never truly rest. Then you reach up, tangle your fingers in his hair, and draw him down to you one last time. The kiss is slow, unhurried, but it makes his restraint falter just enough that you feel his teeth brush your lip before he pulls away.

When he rises, he smooths your hair back from your face, then gathers his coat from the chair. His silhouette in the candlelight is all sharp lines and darkness.

The door clicks softly behind him.

You lie back in the bed, still warm from his presence, and close your eyes.

You do not hear the other door open.

The hush of the room is not broken by the door at first, only shifted. Louis has barely gone. Surely the quiet cannot already feel so heavy, so strange.

But then there is a presence. You feel it before you see it, the way the air alters, as though shadows lean closer, as though the candle flames bow. A coolness slides across your skin, more deliberate than a breeze, more personal than a draft.

You open your eyes.

He is standing at the foot of the bed as though he had always been there.

Lestat.

Golden hair catching firelight, eyes pale and gleaming in the dark, a smile curving his mouth like the edge of a blade. He wears his beauty like armour, his presence like a performance, filling the room so completely that it seems smaller, suffocating.

You sit up too quickly, clutching the sheet to your chest. “You, how did you-?”

He laughs, low and amused. “You ask how, not why. Clever girl.” His voice drips like honey, sticky and sweet and cloying. He prowls closer, his boots soft on the carpet. “But surely you know the answer. I go where I please.”

Your pulse is a drum in your throat. “Louis will be back any moment.”

“Louis.” He sighs the name like a joke. “My darling Louis. So dutiful, so tragic. Always so sure he can keep what he loves safe if he only locks it away in shadows.” He tilts his head, studying you with eyes that glitter far too bright.

You draw the sheet tighter. “If you’ve come to taunt him, you’ve wasted your time.”

“On the contrary.” Lestat moves closer until he is at the edge of the bed. He leans forward, resting one hand lightly on the carved post, bending to meet your gaze. “I’ve come for you.”

Your breath catches. “Why?”

“Why?” He repeats the word as though savouring it. “Because Louis clings to you as though you are salvation. Because he worships you with those mournful eyes. Because he loves you so very much.” The smile turns sharper. “And that makes you the perfect instrument.”

You try to back away, but the headboard stops you.

He tsks softly, like scolding a child. “You lie beside him night after night, aching for what he denies you. He holds himself back as though your love is sin.” His hand lifts, brushing the sheet near your shoulder, not quite touching your skin. “You deserve more. You deserve eternity.”

“I don’t want you.”

“Ah.” His grin widens. “But what you want and what you need are not the same, are they?”

You feel the air shift as he moves, too fast, too fluid—suddenly he is at your side, fingers brushing your hair back, cold against your temple. You flinch, but he holds you with a look, those pale eyes pinning you.

“Do not worry,” he whispers. “I won’t hurt you more than I must. And Louis- oh, he will never forgive me. But he will never let you go, either. In the end, I give him a gift he is too cowardly to grant himself.”

You open your mouth to shout, to resist, but he is already there. His mouth at your throat, teeth sliding against skin. For one suspended heartbeat, you think he will kiss you. Then the pain bursts sharp and white-hot, stealing any sound from your lungs.

You gasp, fingers pushing at his shoulders, but he holds you easily, as though you are nothing more than a doll in his arms. The pull is merciless. The world tilts, darkening at the edges. Heat flares, then vanishes, leaving only the pounding rush of your blood as it drains.

Your body trembles, weakening, the sheet slipping from your grasp. The sound in your ears is a roar, as though the sea itself is swallowing you whole.

Then, abruptly, he stops. You are limp against him, your head falling to the side. He shifts you back, holds you like a lover, and with his other hand he slices his wrist. The wound glows crimson in the dim light.

“Drink,” he commands, pressing it to your lips.

You turn your head weakly. “No-”

He grips your jaw, tilting your mouth open. “Drink.”

The taste floods you before you can refuse again, hot, metallic, electric. Your body convulses, your throat swallows before you can stop it. Fire races down your veins, a blaze that sears every nerve.

You hear him laugh, soft and victorious, as you clutch at him, as though drowning.

And then, blackness.

When you are gone from yourself, he arranges you carefully against the pillows, smoothing your hair back with a tenderness that feels obscene. His lips brush your forehead, almost a benediction.

“There,” he murmurs. “Sleep now. When you wake, Louis will be here to witness what I’ve made.”

His laughter lingers even after he has slipped back into the night. The room is silent again, save for the guttering of candles.

Your body lies still.

The door opens with a whisper of hinges, barely a sound at all, but it carries enough to stir the air and make the candle flames sway.

Louis steps inside, moving carefully, as though unwilling to disturb the quiet. His coat is damp at the hem, touched with dew from the river air, his hair mussed by wind. He carries the scent of night with him; wet earth, stone, the faint metallic tang of the city.

He closes the door behind him, eyes already searching for you. He expects you sitting up, waiting, or perhaps dozing lightly as you sometimes do when he lingers too long outside. What he does not expect is silence so deep it presses against him, silence broken only by the faint crackle of wax on the bedside table.

Then he sees you.

At first glance, you might only seem asleep. Your body lies where he left it, tangled in the sheets, your head turned slightly to the side. But something about the stillness snaps at him. He is at your side in a heartbeat, faster than breath, his knees sinking into the carpet as he leans over you.

“Mon cœur,” he whispers, brushing hair back from your forehead with trembling fingers. “Wake.”

You do not stir.

The sheet has slipped lower in his absence, baring the curve of your shoulder, the hollow of your collarbone, the pale line of your throat. His hand falters there, eyes narrowing. He sees it then, the faintest wound, twin punctures, already closing.

He jerks his hand back as if burned. Horror dawns on his face, hollowing it, dragging his features taut.

“No,” he breathes. “No, no-”

His hands hover above you but do not touch. He cannot, not yet. He knows this. He knows what it means, the drained pallor of your skin, the absence of breath, the silence where your heartbeat should be.

He staggers up, pacing, hands tearing at his hair, at his shirt. The realisation is a noose tightening with every second. Lestat has been here. Lestat has found you. Lestat has taken you.

And worse, his gaze snaps back to you, his throat tightening. You are not clothed. Bare shoulders gleam in the candlelight, the rise of the sheet too low, your body arranged as though someone else had positioned you for display. Rage strikes him, hot and black, nausea curling with it. Lestat saw you like this. Touched you like this. Took from you in the most intimate violation and left you behind for Louis to discover.

He makes a sound then, guttural, more animal than man.

In a rush he is at your side again, gathering the sheet, pulling it up over you with shaking hands, tucking it around your body as though modesty could be restored, as though dignity could be reclaimed. His touch lingers, cupping your cheek, his forehead bowing against your temple.

“I am so sorry,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Forgive me. Forgive me for leaving you. Forgive me for letting him near you.”

You do not stir, but something is there, a flicker under the surface. Your lips part faintly as though for air you no longer need.

“You are not gone,” he says. His hands cradle your face, stroking your hair back, smoothing the lines of it with frantic tenderness.

The words tumble out in a fevered rush, prayers to a God he no longer believes in. He whispers in French, in English, half-formed pleas and apologies.

“Stay with me,” he begs. “Do not let him take you from me.”

The room is suffocatingly silent. The only sound is his own ragged voice, his own breath though he does not need it, pulled from him in sheer desperation. He presses kiss after kiss to your cold skin. Your temple, your brow, the corner of your mouth, as if contact might tether you, as if he can will warmth back into you.

For many long minutes he simply holds you, rocking faintly, as though he might soothe you even in your deathlike sleep. He pictures Lestat’s smile, Lestat’s voice mocking him, the way he would have touched you, positioned you. Rage coils tighter, but beneath it there is only grief.

He cannot undo what has been done. He can only be here when you wake.

It begins with a shudder.

Your body convulses once, violently, and Louis almost drops you in shock. He tightens his grip instead, pulling you against him, whispering your name like a litany.

Your eyes flutter open. At first, the world is blurred, a smear of light and shadow. The candles seem too bright, halos bleeding into one another. Your throat is raw, your chest aches with something you can’t name. You drag in a breath out of instinct, but the air is wrong; thin, useless, and it only sharpens the burn clawing through you.

“Shh,” Louis murmurs, though his voice trembles. His hand smooths down your hair, his cheek pressed to your temple. “You're safe. It's alright.”

Safe. The word feels foreign. Your body screams with hunger, with thirst, with need. Pain surges in every vein like fire flooding outward from your chest. You clutch at him, fingers fisting in his shirt. The strength behind it startles you, ripping linen with a sound too loud in the silence.

Louis doesn’t flinch. He only gathers you closer, one hand steady on your back, the other stroking down your arm. “I am here. I will not leave you.”

Your lips part. You want to ask what has happened, why your body feels aflame, why the world smells different, sharper, but no words come. Only a broken sound, somewhere between a whimper and a moan, slips free.

Louis’s face twists. He cups your jaw with one trembling hand, turning your face toward him. His thumb brushes your cheek.

“I know. It burns. I know.”

You don’t know how you know he is right, but you do. The burn in your throat, the clawing emptiness, it isn’t hunger the way you once knew it. It is sharper, more desperate, a gnawing that promises to consume you whole if you do not answer it.

You lean against him without thinking, burying your face against his throat. You don’t understand until he shifts, baring his wrist to you. He presses it gently against your lips.

Instinct takes over.

Your mouth opens, and you bite. Not gently, not carefully, but with all the desperation in your body. His blood floods your tongue, hot where you are cold, rich, alive. The taste is everything. You drink, clutching his arm with both hands, as though it is the only thing tethering you to existence.

Louis gasps, head tipping back. His eyes close, his mouth parting with something like pain, something like relief. “That’s it,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Take what you need."

You can’t stop. The more you drink, the deeper the burn, the more desperate your body becomes. It feels endless, an abyss inside you that his blood only begins to fill. You cling to him, trembling, your mouth sealed to his skin, drinking until your throat aches from swallowing.

At last, Louis pulls you gently back, his hand at your jaw, his strength unyielding though his face is pale. “Enough,” he murmurs. “Enough, my love.”

You resist, a desperate sound tearing from your throat, but he strokes your hair, pressing his forehead to yours. His voice is firm, low, commanding in a way you’ve never heard. “Enough.”

And somehow, through the haze, you obey. You draw back, lips slick with red, your eyes wide and burning. The hunger still claws at you, but dimmer now, dulled to an ache instead of a scream.

Louis looks at you, and his face nearly breaks apart with the grief in it. Blood stains his wrist, trickling down his hand, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His only focus is you, your trembling body, your wide, confused eyes, the way you cling to him even as you shake with pain.

You love him.

And Louis knows.

His arms tighten around you, almost crushing, as though he can shield you from the truth of what has happened. His mouth finds your hair, your temple, the curve of your brow, leaving desperate kisses as though he might reassure himself you are still here, still his.

“I'll help you through this,” he vows. His voice shakes, but the words are steady. “I will guide you, protect you, whatever it takes. You are not alone.”

The ache in your throat gnaws still, but you close your eyes and let the sound of his voice steady you. You cling tighter, not from fear of falling, but from fear of letting go.

Louis holds you as though he has been waiting his entire life to do nothing else.

“Louis…” Your voice is cracked, fragile. The sound of it makes him jolt, as though he had half-convinced himself you would never speak again.

He cups your face immediately, both hands steadying you, his eyes fever-bright.

You swallow, though it does nothing to soothe the dryness, the strange emptiness inside you. “It hurts.”

His thumb brushes across your cheekbone. “I know. The first hunger always does. But it will pass."

Your hands twist in the fabric of his shirt. “What’s happening to me?”

The words crumble on the edges of panic, and you hate the sound of them, hate how small you feel in this moment. But Louis doesn’t falter. He leans in, close enough that your foreheads touch, his voice low and commanding in a way that brooks no argument.

“You are not dying, yes?" His breath shudders, but his tone sharpens. “He tried to take you, but you are mine. You are with me, you're alright.”

His hands hold you steady, his gaze locked on yours, as though sheer will can force the world into obeying him.

“Say it,” he demands softly, fiercely. “You are with me.”

Your lips tremble, but the truth spills out anyway. “I’m with you.”

His grip loosens slightly, smoothing your hair back, but he doesn’t let you go. His mouth presses to your temple, his voice quieter now but no less insistent.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

“I know,” Louis says. His tone softens, but he does not let it waver. “You have every right to be. But you will not face it alone; you need only listen to me.”

Your eyes close against the sting of tears you didn’t know you could still shed. You lean into his chest, pressing your face against the torn linen, and he gathers you close again. His hand rests firm on the back of your neck, holding you as though shielding you from everything beyond this room.

The room has gone quiet again, save for the slow rhythm of Louis’s voice against your hair. His hand strokes through it, smoothing, steadying, and though the pain still coils sharp inside you, his presence presses it back.

That’s when the latch clicks.

You stiffen instantly, and Louis feels it. His hand drops from your hair to your shoulder, fingers curling possessively, as the door eases open.

“Well, well,” comes that familiar drawl, silk over steel. “The tender scene.”

Lestat steps into the candlelight as though it were a stage, his smile sharp. He takes in the picture; you wrapped in sheets, trembling, Louis’s arms around you, and spreads his hands mockingly.

“Louis, my darling, you always did have a taste for the fragile ones. Though this one…” His gaze rakes over you, lingering, deliberate. “…is no longer fragile.”

Louis moves. Not the slow, cautious Louis you know, but something immediate, decisive. He rises to his full height, placing himself between you and Lestat, a wall of black coat and broad shoulders. You’ve never been so aware of his size, how he towers, how he can blot out the room if he chooses.

And now, he chooses.

“You will not look at her,” Louis says. His voice is low, dangerous, carrying more weight than you’ve ever heard from him. “You will not speak to her.”

Lestat laughs. “Mon Dieu, what’s this? The caged bird has found claws?” He circles a few steps inside, head tilted, amused. “You forget yourself, Louis. I made her. She is mine as much as she is yours.”

“No.” Louis’s reply cuts like a blade. He steps forward, forcing Lestat back a pace, and you watch as for once, it is Lestat yielding ground.

Louis looms, taller, broader, radiating a fury so tightly leashed it vibrates in the air. “She is not yours. Not her body, not her blood, not her soul. You will not touch her again.”

You’ve never seen him like this. Louis, who so often folded inward, who carried his grief like a chain, now stands taller than you’ve ever seen him, shoulders squared, gaze unflinching. Commanding.

Unyielding.

Even in your fear, even in the ache searing through you, a pulse of heat winds through your chest at the sight of him.

Lestat notices too. His smile twists, sly. “My, my. I almost admire you, mon cher. Where was this passion when it was me begging for it?”

Louis doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t falter. He takes another deliberate step forward, until they’re nearly chest to chest, and you swear for a moment Lestat looks…smaller.

“This is the last time you enter this room,” Louis growls. “The last time you set foot near her. If you value what remains of your wretched existence, you will leave us.”

The air is electric, a taut wire between them. You clutch the sheets tighter around you, watching, unable to look away. Louis’s back is rigid, every line of him drawn with purpose.

Lestat, ever the showman, only laughs again. But there’s an edge to it this time, a twitch at his mouth, a flash in his eyes that betrays the sting. He steps back, bowing mockingly, never breaking Louis’s gaze.

“As you wish,” he purrs. “But remember, petit frère…I always return.”

He sweeps out with a flourish, the door slamming behind him.

The air in the grand, living-room of the Pointe du Lac plantation was thick with the scent of magnolias, old dust, and the coppery tang that was the signature of your kind. It was a perfume you’d grown accustomed to over the decades, a sensory backdrop to your immortal life with Lestat. But tonight, the symphony of scents was different, underscored by a new, intoxicating note: Louis.

Lestat, in his glorious, impulsive way, had flown out into the humid Louisiana night, a golden blur of hunger and restless energy. He’d left you in charge of your shared, fledgling companion. The word felt inadequate for what Louis was becoming. Fledgling suggested a bird, something fragile and flight-ready. Louis was more like a storm-tossed ship, beautiful and lost, and you were his newly discovered lighthouse.

And Louis, your beautiful, melancholic Louis, was curled into your side on the vast velvet divan like a seeking vine. A decade as Lestat’s wife had taught you many things, but this—this tender, fragile need in a fledgling—was a novel and intoxicating delight. Lestat doted on you with a theatrical, possessive passion, but he was a pillar, an ancient oak; he did not need your care. Louis, however, was a sapling in a storm, and he clung to you with a desperation that made your cold, dead heart feel startlingly, wonderfully alive.

Two crystal wine glasses sat on the low mahogany table before you, filled not with claret but with a far richer vintage: the blood of a young artist Lestat had found near the cathedral, chosen specifically for its vibrant, creative sweetness. You reached for your glass, the deep crimson a stunning contrast against your alabaster skin. As you brought the rim to your lips, you felt the weight of Louis’ gaze.

Louis was watching you, his green eyes, always so full of a stormy, human anguish, now held a different kind of intensity. They were wide, luminous in the candlelight, fixed on your mouth with a fascination that was entirely, deliciously vampiric. He wasn't just looking; he was studying the way your lips closed around the rim of the glass, the subtle movement of your throat as you held the blood there. A raw, unspoken hunger radiated from him, one that had nothing to do with the sustenance in the glass meant for him.

An idea, wicked and sweet, bloomed in your mind.

Instead of swallowing, you let the blood pool in your mouth, a secret held behind your lips. You set the glass down with a soft click that seemed to echo in the quiet room. You leaned down, your hair a dark curtain falling to frame both your faces. His eyes fluttered shut in anticipation, a soft, questioning sound escaping him.

You closed the final inch and pressed your mouth to his.

The effect was instantaneous. A sharp, startled gasp was caught between your lips, and then he was melting. A low, desperate whine vibrated from his throat into yours as he tasted the blood, not from a glass, but from you. It was a transference of life, of intimacy, far more profound than any simple feeding. His hands, which had been resting limply in his lap, flew up to clutch at the silk of your robes, his fingers twisting into the fabric as if he were drowning.

He lapped at your mouth, not with human passion, but with a fledgling’s frantic need, his tongue seeking every last drop of the metallic nectar. He was desperate, tilting his head back to deepen the angle, to get more, to taste you beneath the blood. You allowed it, your own cool tongue meeting his in a slow, languid counterpoint to his frenzy, sharing the gift until it was gone.

You pulled back only a fraction, just enough to see his face. His lips were stained a darker crimson, his eyes dazed and black with desire. "Again," he breathed, the word barely a whisper. "Please."

And who were you to deny him?

You took another sip, held it, and offered it to him again in the same manner. This time, he was less surprised, more demanding. His hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your jawline as he drank from your mouth, the act becoming less about sustenance and more about connection. By the third shared sip, the empty glass was forgotten on the table. He was grabbing at you, restless, trying to shift his body, to find a position where he could be level with you, where he could be the one to initiate the kiss.

You let him. You leaned back against the plush arm of the divan, and he followed, half-covering you, his body a long, lean line of tension against yours. This kiss was different. There was no blood, only the cool, clean taste of him, the lingering hint of his own unique scent—old books, regret, and night-blooming jasmine. It was slow, deep, and exploratory. A human kiss remembered and perfected by a vampire’s senses.

It was then you guided his hands, placing his palms flat against the swell of your breasts, right over the intricate lacing of your corset. He jerked as if burned, his eyes flying open.

"Lestat," he whispered, his voice thick with conflict, his forehead dropping to yours. "You... you are his wife. This... this is not right. We cannot..."

A low, throaty laugh escaped you. “Oh, my sweet Louis,” you murmured, your own hands moving to the hem of his linen shirt. You slid them beneath the fabric, your cool palms skating up the deliciously cold skin of his waist. He shuddered violently, a full-body tremor that spoke of centuries of sensation compressed into a few months. Your thumbs stroked over the hard planes of his abdomen, and you felt the fight drain out of him. His protests died in his throat, replaced by a soft, ragged sigh.

"You think in such human terms, my dear Louis," you murmured, your voice a low, soothing melody. "A vampire's companion is not a business partner. It is not a mere friendship." You leaned in, letting your lips brush the shell of his ear, your fangs—sharper and more defined than his fledgling canines—grazing the sensitive skin. He jumped, a helpless sound escaping him. "It is a bond of blood and eternity. It means you belong to Lestat. And it means," you whispered, pulling back to look into his wide, glazed eyes, "you belong to me."

That was all it took. The last vestige of his human morality shattered. His hands, which had been clinging to your robes, became frantic. He fumbled with the intricate laces of your corset, his elegant fingers made clumsy by need. He tugged at the laces of your corset with a fledgling’ impatience, the silk groaning in protest. You helped him, your own movements swift and sure, until the constricting garment loosened, and he could push the silk of your dress and chemise from your shoulders.

In turn, you made quick work of his shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it to the floor. Your mouth found his neck again, not to feed, but to worship. You trailed open-mouthed kisses from his jaw down to his collarbone, your fangs tracing a delicate, threatening path over his pulseless throat. Each graze of a sharp tip made him jerk and twitch beneath you, his hands tangling in your hair, not to pull you away, but to hold you closer.

"Please," he begged, the word a broken litany. "I can't... I need..."

"I know."

Your mouth found his again, more demanding now, as your hands went to the fastenings of his trousers. He gasped into your mouth, his own hands roaming over your bare shoulders, down your back, learning the map of you with a reverent urgency. The fastenings gave way under your insistent hands.

Soon, he was bare beneath you, his skin like polished marble in the candlelight. You rose onto your knees, hiking up the light layers of your skirts—the simple, comfortable ones you wore within the privacy of the house—until they pooled around your waist. His eyes were dark pools of want, his cock hard and flushed against his stomach. He looked utterly debauched already, and you hadn't even begun.

You positioned yourself over him, one hand braced on the back of the divan, the other guiding him to your entrance. “Look at me, Louis,” you commanded softly.

As you sank down onto him, a choked, sobbing gasp was ripped from his lungs. His eyes flew open, staring up at you in stunned, overwhelming ecstasy. It was nothing like his human experiences. This was not the warm, quick coupling of a mortal body. This was a joining of two cold, supernaturally sensitized beings. Every nerve ending was alight, every sensation amplified a thousandfold.

You set a slow, deep pace, wanting to draw this out, to savor every hitch of his breath, every helpless twitch of his hips. His hands clutched at your thighs, your hips, anywhere he could hold on. His eyes were screwed shut, his beautiful face a mask of overwhelmed ecstasy. His head fell back against the velvet, exposing the long, elegant line of his throat.

"Oh, God... oh, mon Dieu..." he babbled, his words slurring into incoherence. "It's... it's too much... don't stop..."

You cooed at him, the sound a soft, dark comfort. "Shhh, my love. My needy, beautiful boy. Let it be too much. There is no shame in it."

You maintained the slow, deep pace, watching him come apart beneath you. The knowledge that any of his servants, the very humans who had once tended to his mortal needs, could walk in and see their master like this—brought to a state of whimpering, desperate pleasure by his maker's wife—only seemed to fuel his arousal further. His hips began to stutter upwards, trying to match your rhythm, but he was too far gone for coordination.

“Please…” he begged, though for what, he likely didn’t know.

“Please what, mon cœur?” you asked, your voice a low purr as you leaned over him, your hair curtaining his face.

“I… don't.…” he babbled, his words slurring into incoherence. Whenever you deliberately increased your pace, even slightly, he would fall apart, his whines and moans becoming a nonsensical litany of your name, Lestat’s name, and pleas to a God that had long since stopped listening.

“That’s it,” you whispered, leaning down to capture his mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing his broken sounds. “You are ours, Louis. Forever. There is no right or wrong in the dark, only this. Only us.”

With a whine, his back arched clear off the divan, a broken, keening cry tearing from his throat as his release crashed over him, violent and all-consuming. The sight of him, so utterly lost in the sensation, was your own undoing. Your own climax followed, a silent, powerful wave that left you shuddering atop him, your own sharp cry muffled against his neck.

For a long moment, the only sound was the frantic, unnecessary panting from Louis. He was boneless beneath you, his arms wrapped around you, holding you to him as if you were the only solid thing in his spinning world. You nuzzled into his neck, placing a soft, closed-mouth kiss over the spot where his mortal life had ended.

He finally found his voice, hoarse and wrecked. "Lestat..."

"Lestat knows the nature of a companion, Louis," you whispered, stroking his damp hair. "He brought you to me because he knew what I craved. And he knew what you needed."

Louis turned his face into your touch, his eyes closed, a look of profound peace finally smoothing the usual anguish from his features. He was sated. He was claimed. And as you held him in the quiet dark, you knew Lestat would return soon, his golden presence filling the room, and he would see the two of you, tangled together, and he would smile that wicked, knowing smile. For he had given you a perfect, needy thing to dote on, and in doing so, had bound the three of you together in a web of blood and desire that would last for all the endless nights to come.

Smoke hangs low over the outskirts of Troy long after the fighting ends.

It rolls through the ruined streets in thick grey waves, stinging your eyes, settling into your throat with every breath. Somewhere behind you, something collapses with a splintering crash, followed by another burst of screaming. The sound barely turns heads anymore.

You keep your gaze lowered as you’re dragged downhill toward the shore.

The soldier gripping your arm is young, flushed with the ugly exhilaration of surviving battle. His fingers are locked so tightly around your wrist they’ve long since gone numb, but that seems to be the least of your problems.

You stumble once over broken stone and he jerks you upright hard enough to wrench your shoulder. “Keep moving.”

You nod quickly before he can do any worse.

Around you, other captives are being herded toward the ships in frightened clusters. Some cry openly. Others call desperately for husbands or brothers who will never answer them again.

The beach comes into view slowly through the smoke.

Ships line the shore in impossible numbers, dark against the water, their hulls towering over the sand. Greek soldiers move constantly between them carrying armour, weapons, sacks of grain and other supplies. They are nowhere near done fighting this war.

A wounded Greek soldier collapses several paces ahead of you with a rough cry of pain. The men around him curse in annoyance more than concern.

“He’s bleeding everywhere,” one snaps.

“Well, pick him up then.”

“I’m not carrying him back to camp like that.”

The injured man tries to push himself upright and fails immediately. Blood pours steadily through his fingers where he’s clutching his thigh.

Without thinking, you slow. The soldier holding you notices at once. “Don’t.”

But you’re already staring at the wound. Deep, but clean-edged. Dangerous mainly because no one is stopping the bleeding properly.

“He needs pressure,” you say quietly.

The soldier gives a short incredulous laugh. “He needs a priest.”

“He’ll die before he gets one.”

That earns a few glances. Nothing more at first. Just irritation from exhausted men who want the day finished. Before caution can stop you, you add, “I can help him.”

The soldier beside you snorts. “And why would we trust a Trojan?”

You swallow. “I know how.”

For a moment no one answers. The wounded man groans again, weaker this time, and one of the older soldiers finally looks properly at you. His gaze flicks over your clothes, your posture, your face, as if he's trying to place you.

“You’ve done it before?”

You nod once. He considers it, then must decide he's got nothing to lose and shrugs. “Let her try. If she kills him, we throw her in the sea.”

Your grip tightens briefly around your own shaking hands before you kneel beside the injured soldier. Up close, he can’t be much older than you. Sweat streaks through the dirt on his face and his breathing has gone shallow with pain.

When you press down on the wound, he sucks in a sharp breath and curses.

“Sorry,” you murmur automatically.

You tear a strip from the already ruined edge of your sleeve and bind it tightly around his thigh, trying to ignore the blood soaking warm across your palms. The soldier watches you with visible suspicion the entire time, as though expecting you to suddenly drive a knife into his throat.

Once your hands start moving, the rest becomes easier.

Your father used to complain that you asked too many questions when the physicians came to the house. You had followed them endlessly as a child, more interested in bandages and herbs than weaving or music. At the time it had seemed useless knowledge.

“He needs the wound cleaned properly,” you say, sitting back slightly. “And stitched, eventually. But he’ll live.”

The man guarding you lets out a low whistle. “Well. Look at that.”

“You sound surprised,” another voice says nearby.

The soldiers straighten almost immediately.

The man approaching is older than most of the warriors around him, though not old exactly. His armour is finely made but worn from years of use, and there’s something measured in the way he moves through the chaos of the beach.

Recognition lands slowly and unpleasantly in your stomach.

This is Odysseus.

His gaze settles first on the wounded soldier, then on the blood covering your hands. “You did this?”

You hesitate. “I treated him, yes.”

“And where did you learn?”

“My father employed physicians.”

He lifts an eyebrow slightly. “A noble family, then.”

You say nothing to that.

Around you, the surf crashes softly against the shore. Somewhere further down the beach, men are arguing over spoils loud enough for everyone to hear.

Finally Odysseus says, “Who was your father?”

You almost answer automatically before stopping yourself.

His expression shifts faintly, noticing the hesitation “You don’t have to look so alarmed,” he says, not unkindly. “I asked for your name, not for your loyalty.”

A few of the nearby soldiers chuckle under their breath.

Heat rises embarrassingly into your face. You lower your eyes for a moment before telling him.

Odysseus stays silent for a moment, then looks back at the wounded soldier. “She’s useful,” he says simply. “Send her to the Myrmidons.”

The soldier beside you blinks. “Achilles’ men?”

“Yes.”

Even before the war, stories about Achilles spread across Greece and Troy alike like something mythic. You’d seen what he did to Troy’s outer defences three days ago, and you know enough to understand men do not survive that kind of violence unchanged.

Odysseus notices your expression and smiles slightly, though there’s something tired in it.

“He's not as bad as everyone seems to think.”

Before you can think of any response to that, he turns away, already calling orders to someone else further down the beach.

The closer you get to the camp, the more unbearable the noise becomes.

The Greeks move with the exhausted confidence of victors. Some are still laughing. Others look half-dead where they walk, streaked with soot and blood, too tired even to speak. One soldier sits directly in the sand while another pours wine over a cut on his arm, both of them grinning at some joke you can’t hear.

It feels unreal suddenly, how ordinary they make it seem.

You wonder vaguely if your father is dead. The thought arrives strangely flat, too large for your mind to fully grasp yet.

The soldier leading you gives your arm another tug when you slow.

“Keep up.”

The Myrmidon encampment resembles a small city built entirely for war. Shields stacked in careful rows, spears planted upright in the ground, fires already burning despite the lingering heat of the day.

The soldier finally releases your arm near one of the larger tents. “Stay here,” he says. “Don’t wander.”

As though you could.

Then he disappears back toward the shore without another glance.

A sudden wave of exhaustion nearly buckles your knees.

You steady yourself against the rough wooden support beside the tent, closing your eyes briefly. Your entire body feels heavy now that the fear has nowhere immediate to go. Smoke still clings to your hair and clothes while dried blood tightens across your fingers.

“Here.”

You start violently. One of the Myrmidons is standing nearby holding out a waterskin. He’s younger than the others, his nose visibly crooked from an old break.

You hesitate before taking it carefully. “Thank you.”

He shrugs. “You stopped Nikos from bleeding out. Figured that earned you water.”

Your throat tightens unexpectedly at the simple kindness of it. You drink too quickly and immediately cough.

The soldier grins faintly. “Easy. It’s water, not treasure.”

Another voice cuts in from somewhere behind him. “Depends who you ask.”

You look up as a man steps around the tent entrance, and his gaze lands on you immediately.

“This her?”

“The healer,” the younger soldier confirms.

The man studies you for a long moment, eyes flicking briefly to the blood on your clothes. “You know how to stitch wounds?”

“Yes.”

“Set bones?”

“I’ve helped before.”

“You faint at blood?”

You blink. “No, of course not.”

“Good.” Then he jerks his head toward the inside of the tent. “Come on, then. Someone split his arm open an hour ago and he’s been complaining ever since.”

By the third day, you stop flinching every time someone shouts.

The Myrmidons work you relentlessly from sunrise to well past dark. Most injuries are minor, like deep cuts, split knuckles and bruised ribs, sometimes burns from overturned cooking fires. But there are enough serious wounds scattered between them to keep your hands constantly occupied.

You clean blood from skin until your fingers wrinkle from seawater and wine. You stitch flesh by firelight while men grit their teeth and pretend not to groan.

No one is cruel to you.

That surprises you most.

Some barely speak at all beyond telling you where it hurts. Others thank you awkwardly after, as though uncertain whether they’re supposed to. A few still look at you with open distrust, but even that has faded since the soldier you saved survived the night.

Nikos, the man in question, now grins whenever he sees you, which would almost be charming if he weren’t missing half a tooth.

The camp itself settles into rhythms quicker than you expect. Men training near the shore at dawn, armour repairs are done in the afternoon, and loud arguments over food are always held in the evening. At night, the sea wind carries the smell of salt and smoke through the tents while exhausted soldiers collapse wherever they can find space.

And through all of it, Achilles remains strangely absent.

You see him sometimes from a distanc, crossing the beach or training shirtless in the surf at sunrise, his bronze skin gleaming with seawater while younger soldiers watch him. Once, you see him returning from battle still streaked in blood that clearly does not belong to him.

No one speaks to him casually.

Even the other commanders seem to orbit rather than approach.

The first time he walks through camp near enough for you to hear his voice, conversation dies almost instantly around him.

You understand why before he even reaches you.

It is not simply that he is beautiful, though he is. The stories had not exaggerated that part. Achilles moves with the unbearable confidence of someone who has never doubted his own importance for even a moment in his life. Men look at him expecting greatness and he accepts it as naturally as breathing.

He doesn't glance at you once, which should not bother you.

It does anyway.

Later that evening, you are crouched beside one of the fires grinding dried herbs into powder with the flat end of a knife when familiar voices drift through the camp nearby.

“You should let her look at it.”

“I said it’s fine.”

“It’s bleeding through the bandage.”

“That sounds like a problem for the bandage.”

A few nearby Myrmidons snort laughter and you glance up before you can stop yourself.

Odysseus stands near the centre of camp with his arms folded loosely across his chest, looking profoundly unimpressed. Across from him, Achilles is in the process of removing one bracer with visible irritation.

Even from several paces away, you can see the blood darkening his forearm.

“It’s a scratch,” Achilles says.

Odysseus raises an eyebrow. “That's wonderful news. Then surviving treatment should be well within your abilities.”

“I don’t need treatment.”

“No,” Odysseus agrees mildly. “You need humility, but we work with what we have.”

More laughter this time, quickly stifled when Achilles shoots the surrounding men a look. You immediately lower your eyes back to the herbs, hoping neither of them noticed you watching.

Then, “You.”

Your stomach drops. Achilles is staring directly at you now.

The firelight catches against sharp cheekbones and sun-browned skin still damp from sweat and seawater. There’s dried blood streaked along one shoulder beneath the edge of his armour, and his hair curls loosely around his face from the humidity off the sea.

For one horrifying moment, you think he’s speaking to someone else.

Then Odysseus glances toward you too.

“The healer,” he says helpfully.

“Yes,” Achilles says, still looking at you. “I gathered that.”

Heat creeps instantly into your face. You rise to your feet, trying not to make your awe and nerves too obvious.

Several Myrmidons grin openly.

Then, after a beat, he holds out his injured arm toward you with the vague impatience of a man indulging something unnecessary.

“Well?” he says. “Apparently I’m dying.”

Your feet carry you forward before your mind fully catches up.

Every eye in the camp seems fixed on you as you cross the space between the fire and Achilles. You can feel the curiosity, the amusement, the expectation that this will go poorly somehow.

Your pulse pounds hard enough to make your hands feel unsteady.

Up close, the cut looks worse. Much worse.

The bleeding had seemed manageable from across the camp, but now that he’s holding his arm nearer the firelight, you can see how deep the blade went. The skin along the inside of his forearm is split open almost cleanly, blood still sliding steadily down toward his wrist despite the rough bandage tied around it.

You frown before you can stop yourself. Achilles notices immediately.

“What?” he asks.

You don’t answer right away. Nervousness slips strangely to the background as you lean closer, carefully taking hold of his wrist to turn the arm slightly toward the light.

“What happened?”

“Someone got lucky.”

Odysseus makes a quiet noise from nearby. “That’s one interpretation.”

Achilles ignores him.

You barely hear either of them now. Your focus narrows entirely onto the wound beneath your hands. The bleeding isn’t pulsing heavily anymore, which means whatever vessel was hit has likely slowed on its own. You look up sharply.

“Can you move your fingers?”

His brow furrows faintly. “What?”

“Move them.”

For the first time since you approached him, Achilles looks mildly uncertain instead of irritated. He flexes his hand experimentally.

His fingers move.

“Again,” you say, reaching for his hand before thinking too hard about it. “Grip mine.”

A few nearby soldiers go suspiciously quiet. Achilles stares at you for half a second, then curls his blood-slick fingers around your hand.

Gods, he's strong.

You test each finger carefully, watching the movement of the tendons beneath the skin of his wrist. “Can you feel?” you ask, pressing lightly near the edge of the wound.

His jaw tightens slightly. “Yes.”

“And this?” You lightly trace the inside of his palm.

“...Less.”

You release his hand abruptly and turn toward the supplies near the fire.

“I need clean water,” you say. Someone passes it over immediately.

You kneel beside Achilles on the packed sand, soaking a cloth before carefully washing blood away from the wound. The water turns pink almost instantly beneath your hands.

Achilles hisses quietly when you clean deeper into the cut.

“That bad?” Odysseus asks from somewhere behind you.

“Yes.”

The camp stills slightly at that. You glance up briefly. “Not fatal,” you add quickly. “It's only his arm after all, he'll be fine.”

Achilles leans back against a wooden post with his injured arm braced on one knee, watching you work. You rinse the wound again, and the deeper you clean it, the less you like it.

“Gods,” you murmur under your breath.

“What?” Achilles asks immediately.

You hesitate, then reach for the small clay bottle tucked among the medical supplies. Strong distilled alcohol. You’ve only used it twice since arriving in camp because most soldiers would rather bite through leather than endure it.

When Achilles sees what you’ve picked up, one corner of his mouth twitches faintly. “That seems dramatic.”

“It’ll hurt.”

“I’ve been stabbed before.”

“Yes,” you say distractedly, uncorking the bottle. “And apparently learned nothing from it.”

A few nearby Myrmidons laugh outright. Achilles exhales sharply through his nose, almost a laugh himself, but then you pour the alcohol directly into the wound. His entire body goes rigid instantly.

You continue cleaning the cut carefully while the alcohol evaporates sharp and bitter into the night air. Achilles doesn’t complain, though his breathing stays slightly uneven beneath the silence.

Once the wound is finally clean enough to examine properly, you thread the needle with steadier hands than you feel.

“You’re lucky,” you murmur.

“Odysseus said I was dying.”

Odysseus immediately protests from behind you. “I implied no such thing.”

“You implied it with enthusiasm.”

You shake your head slightly, concentrating on the stitching. “No. You weren’t dying.” Achilles hums softly, smug already.

Then you add, “But you were very close to losing full use of your sword hand.”

The smugness disappears.

Around you, several Myrmidons straighten visibly and Achilles goes still beneath your hands.

You tie off one stitch before continuing carefully. “The blade nearly cut through the tendon. Another inch and you may never have held a sword properly again.”

For the first time all evening, he says nothing.

The next morning passes much the same as every other morning in camp. Wounded soldiers line up outside the medical tent before sunrise. Someone arrives with a split lip from a drunken fight. Another with a shoulder dislocated during training

You work steadily through all of it.

Still, by midday, you realise people are looking at you differently.

Achilles spoke to you.

Which apparently means something here.

You notice it most among the younger Myrmidons first. Men who barely acknowledged your existence three days ago now step aside to let you pass through camp. One even offers you the better seat beside the fire before seeming embarrassed by his own politeness afterwards.

Later, you’re carrying fresh bandages toward the larger supply tent when two soldiers pass nearby speaking in low voices.

“…nearly took the tendon clean through, I heard.”

“He let her stitch it herself?”

“Well obviously someone stitched it, you idiot.”

“That’s not what I mean...”

Inside the supply tent, the air smells thickly of oil, linen, and dried herbs. You crouch near one of the storage chests, sorting through bundles of clean cloth by lantern light while outside the camp slowly settles into night around you.

The distant sound of waves rolls steadily against the shore. You exhale slowly and rub tired fingers against your eyes.

“You look exhausted.”

You nearly drop the bandages. Odysseus stands near the tent entrance, half-shadowed by the lantern hanging outside. He looks mildly amused by your reaction.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“So I gathered.” Odysseus steps fully into the tent, glancing briefly over the organised piles of supplies surrounding you.

“You’ve made improvements.”

You blink. “What?”

“The medical tent.” He gestures vaguely. “It was chaos before you arrived. Men digging through bandages with bloody hands. Wine spilled over half the supplies. One fool used boiled seawater for cleaning wounds.”

You grimace instinctively.

“Exactly,” Odysseus says.

Despite yourself, a small laugh escapes you.

His expression softens faintly at the sound, though only for a moment. “How is Achilles’ arm?”

The question catches you off guard. “He shouldn’t be training with it yet,” you say automatically. “If the stitches tear, it’ll reopen.”

Odysseus hums, unsurprised. “And will he listen to that advice?”

“…No.”

He's watching you carefully. “You frightened him,” he says.

You stare at him in disbelief. “Achilles?”

“Yes.”

“That seems unlikely.”

A smile pulls faintly at the corner of his mouth. “Not for his life. Achilles values that less than he should.” He pauses. “But his sword hand? That’s another matter.”

Outside, voices drift through camp accompanied by bursts of laughter and the crackle of firewood. Somewhere further off, metal rings sharply against metal from men still training in the dark.

Odysseus leans one shoulder against the tent post. “He’s called for you twice today.”

Your head lifts sharply. “What?”

“You were with other injured soldiers both times.” Mild amusement flickers across his face. “He seemed irritated by this inconvenience.”

“Why would he call for me?”

Odysseus gives you a look that suggests he already knows the answer and finds it entertaining. “You stitched his arm,” he says simply.

Before you can press further, footsteps approach outside the tent. Heavy and familiar. Odysseus hears them too.

Then Achilles ducks through the entrance.

He’s changed out of his armour, though the sight of him somehow remains equally distracting. Loose dark fabric hangs open slightly over his chest, exposing sun-browned skin still damp from seawater. His hair is wet, strands plastered to his neck and forehead.

And despite your instructions, there’s a fresh split in one of the stitches across his forearm. “I tore it,” he says simply.

“Of course you did.”

Odysseus makes a quiet sound suspiciously close to a laugh.

Achilles ignores him completely, his gaze fixed on you. “So... it started bleeding again.”

You can only stare at him, then at the sword hanging comfortably at his side, and then back at him. “You trained with it.”

A beat of silence.

“I got bored.”

Over the next several days, Achilles acquires an astonishing number of injuries.

At first, they are legitimate.

A reopened stitch after training too soon. A bruise spreading dark beneath his ribs from a sparring match that apparently became too enthusiastic. A shallow cut across his shoulder from battle that still bleeds enough to justify attention.

Achilles fights constantly. Of course he gets hurt, so there's nothing strange about it. Still, certain patterns begin to emerge.

For one thing, he never sends anyone else for you. The summons always come directly from him, usually delivered by some deeply unenthusiastic Myrmidon appearing at the entrance of the medical tent.

“Achilles wants you.”

The first few times you go immediately, but by the sixth, irritation begins creeping in. Especially because Achilles himself never appears particularly concerned.

You arrive at his tent one afternoon expecting something serious from the urgency of the message, only to find him sitting shirtless beside the table inside, sharpening a dagger while a thin scrape crosses one knuckle.

You stop in the entrance. “…That’s it?”

Achilles glances up. “It’s bleeding.”

“It’s barely skin-deep.”

“It could become infected.”

You walk forward slowly. “You interrupted the stitching of an actual wound for this.”

“You finished eventually.”

You clean the scrape anyway. His gaze never leaves your face the entire time. Afterwards, as you’re packing away the supplies, Achilles says casually, “Your hands are steadier now.”

You look up.

“When you arrived, you shook every time someone spoke to you.”

Heat rises instantly into your face. “I did not.”

“You did. But you’re less frightened now,” he says. The words should sound mocking, and yet somehow they don’t.

You focus aggressively on tying off the bandages. “Maybe I’m simply getting used to arrogant Greeks demanding treatment for papercuts.”

A laugh escapes him before he can stop it.

Then, from outside the tent, “Is the arm being amputated or are you two finished?”

Achilles’ entire face hardens instantly back into annoyance.

You bite the inside of your cheek hard to stop yourself smiling.

The injuries continue.

A split lip after training. A shallow burn across his palm from grabbing overheated bronze. A cut on his jaw that looks suspiciously like someone else barely managed to touch him during sparring and he’s still offended about it.

Each time, he sends for you. Each time, the injury grows less convincing.

This cut on Achilles’ shoulder is three days old and healing perfectly, which makes it deeply irritating that he insists on having it redressed again.

“You do realise,” you say, trying not to sound annoyed as you unwind the linen from around his upper arm, “that wounds cannot improve out of spite alone.”

Achilles lounges beside the fire like a man with absolutely no intention of taking you seriously. One knee bent, forearm resting lazily across it, bronze skin flickering gold in the firelight. Around him, half a dozen Myrmidons sit scattered through the tent cleaning weapons, drinking watered wine, or arguing over some training dispute.

“It reopened this morning,” Achilles says.

“You trained with it again.”

“Yes.”

“Then it did not reopen mysteriously.”

A few of the men nearby laugh.

Achilles glances toward them briefly, unimpressed. “I liked you better when you were frightened of me.”

You laugh softly before you can stop yourself and the tent goes quiet for exactly one second, because you laughed at Achilles. You realise your error immediately and freeze with the fresh bandage halfway around his arm.

Then, thankfully, Achilles laughs.

The tension breaks instantly around the fire. “Well,” one of the older Myrmidons mutters. “That’s new.”

Heat crawls up your neck as you focus aggressively on tying off the bandage.

Achilles, unfortunately, continues watching you.

“You’re staring again,” Odysseus remarks mildly.

Achilles doesn’t even glance at him. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe she’s pleasant to look at.”

Someone makes a strangled sound into their wine cup and you nearly stab yourself with a needle. Odysseus watches the entire exchange with the expression of a man observing a slow-moving disaster he predicted long ago.

“You could attempt subtlety,” he suggests.

Achilles finally looks over at him then, visibly puzzled by the idea.

“Why?”

The simplicity of the answer sends another ripple of laughter around the fire. You keep your eyes firmly on the bandages in your lap, willing your face to cool.

Achilles, meanwhile, appears completely untroubled.

“She’s beautiful,” he says, like this is an obvious fact no one intelligent would dispute. “I’m not sure what subtlety has to do with it.”

Someone near the back mutters, “Gods help the poor girl.”

You stand quickly, gathering the used cloth before anyone can say anything worse. Achilles' gaze lifts immediately, following you with the same steady focus that’s begun to make your stomach feel strange at unpredictable moments.

“I’ll bring fresh supplies tomorrow,” you say, mostly to the room in general.

“You won’t need to.”

You pause.

“You'll stay,” he says, reaching for his wine, calm as ever.

The words settle over the tent without immediate reaction, almost too casual at first to register.

Then several heads lift at once.

You stare at him. “What?”

“With me, in my tent,” Achilles clarifies, as though you’re the one being slow. “You spend half your time there already.”

A few of the Myrmidons exchange looks but no one seems particularly surprised. Your pulse begins beating unevenly.

“I still work in the medical tent.”

“Someone else can handle scraped knees and drunken knife accidents.”

“That is not all I handle.”

“No,” Achilles agrees easily. “You handle me.”

Odysseus closes his eyes briefly like a man asking the gods for strength.

Achilles barely seems aware of the reaction around him. His attention remains fixed entirely on you.

“You’ll have more space here,” he continues. “And I prefer having my healer where I can find her.”

There’s something underneath the words now. Not hidden particularly well. The implication hangs thickly in the air.

You become suddenly, horribly aware that every man in the tent understands exactly what Achilles wants. And because he is Achilles, no one thinks it strange that he should simply… decide.

Your mouth goes dry.

“I don’t remember agreeing to this.”

Achilles only tilts his head slightly, studying you.

“No,” he says after a moment. “You didn’t.”

That evening you're in his tent, and he's told you of one last injury he wants you to look at before he retires. The fire near the centre has burned low, filling the tent with soft gold light and long shadows that shift across the walls whenever the sea wind stirs outside.

Achilles sits on the edge of the cot while you kneel in front of him with fresh linen draped across your lap.

The cut along his ribs is, like always, very shallow.

“Hold still,” you murmur as you clean away the blood around it.

“I am holding still.”

"Then you're not doing it well enough."

It's bizarre. A few weeks ago you could barely look at him without feeling afraid. Now the fear has changed shape into something far more dangerous. You notice too much; the warmth radiating from his skin this close, the scrape of his breathing every time your fingers brush near his ribs.

You focus harder on the bandage.

“Does that hurt?” you ask quietly, pressing near the edge of the cut.

“A little.”

You pause.

“A little?”

“For most men, perhaps more.”

You snort softly despite yourself. “Of course.” Achilles’ mouth curves faintly at one corner.

Trying to ignore it, you reach for the clean linen and begin wrapping it carefully around his torso. The position forces you closer, one hand braced lightly against his side while the other pulls the bandage tight.

His skin is warm beneath your palm.

When you finish tying it off, you start pulling back immediately, suddenly desperate for distance before he notices how flustered you’ve become.

But Achilles moves first.

One large hand closes around your wrist, and your breath catches.

"Are you done?" His voice rumbles low.

You nod, not daring to meet his gaze fully, and his grip turns to iron, completely unyielding. He tugs you closer, effortlessly lifting you onto the edge of the cot as if you weigh nothing.

"Achilles-" you start, but you stop short when you feel his free hand trace the line of your jaw, rough calluses scraping gently over skin.

"I meant it. That I want you here. That you're beautiful."

His voice has dropped an octave, more of a whisper than his usual commanding cadence.

You try to pull back, instinct screaming caution, but he doesn't let go.

Instead, he manoeuvres you with ease, positioning you astride his lap, your knees sinking into the furs beside his hips. You're enveloped by him. His arms encircle your waist, hands splaying across your back, holding you in place.

"Stay here," he orders, and it's not a request.

Your breath catches as his lips brush your neck, a deliberate graze that sends sparks racing down your spine.

You know you should protest, should remind him of your role, your boundaries, but the words dissolve on your tongue when he nips at the sensitive skin there, just hard enough to mark.

His hands roam now, bold and possessive, sliding under the hem of your tunic to grip your hips. He lifts you slightly, adjusting you against the hard planes of his body, and you gasp at the evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against you.

He manhandles you effortlessly, flipping you onto your back in one fluid motion, the furs cushioning your fall as his weight looms over you. Not crushing, but enveloping, his thighs bracketing yours, keeping you pinned without effort.

You stare up at him, breath shallow, as he peels away the last barriers between you. His fingers hook into the ties of your clothing, pulling with a rip that echoes in the tent.

Cool air kisses your exposed skin, but his touch is fire, trailing down your collarbone, over the swell of your breasts. He pauses there, thumb circling a peak until it hardens under his attention, drawing a whimper from your lips.

"Don't act so surprised", he growls, voice thick with need, "You knew this would happen."

Before you can process, his mouth descends, claiming yours in a kiss that's all teeth and hunger.

The world narrows to sensations.

The scrape of his stubble, the salt of his skin, the way his huge frame dwarfs yours completely. He moves you again, rolling you to your side, one arm hooked under your knees to draw them up, opening and exposing you to him as he slots his body behind yours.

There is no gentleness in his conquest, only raw, unfiltered desire that mirrors the warlord he is.

In the midst of it, you risk a glance over your shoulder, and his eyes lock on yours, showing a flicker of something deeper. There's possession, yes, but it's laced with a fierce protectiveness.

"Are you scared of me, little healer?" He asks; you can feel his breath stir your hair. You shake your head quickly, then slow, deciding to nod instead.

His grip gentles a bit.

"You need not be. I like you too much to break you, I'll be gentle," he murmurs in response.

You hear the rustle of clothing, faintly registering his own clothes being ripped off. Then his skin meets yours, a shock of heat and muscle.

His hand leaves your body to position himself at your entrance. You feel the rub of his cock through your folds, silken smooth against your gathering wetness.

When he finally enters you, it's unhurried, letting your body accommodate the difference. The stretch itself is overwhelming, a burn that blooms slowly into pleasure.

His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady as he sets a rhythm that increases steadily in pace, unrelenting. You cling to his arms, nails digging into hard muscle, head thrown back against his shoulder.

The tent fades, the war outside ceases to exist. There's only Achilles, taking you, binding you to him in this most primal way.

The only kind of claim that matters in times of war.

When he's confident you've grown accustomed to him, he speeds up his pace, cock hitting a spot inside you that makes you see stars.

The sound of skin against skin echoes around the tent. His arms draw you further into the cradle of his body, lifting your leg higher so he can hit a spot inside you that you didn't know existed.

You feel his body start to tense, as does your own, the knot in you tightening and tightening with every thrust. His breathing becomes more laboured, the drags of air becoming harsher against the nape of your neck when he leans further into you.

When release crashes over him, it's with a groan so deep it could be considered a roar.

Yet, even as his body shudders against yours, he keeps grinding his hips into you, chasing your pleasure as much as his own. His arm snakes its way around your waist, finding the bundle of nerves that sends lightning rushing through your body.

That, in combination with the deep rolling sensation of him still inside you, finally pushes you over the edge.

You go slack, sagging against his body, whimpering as the aftershocks course through you.

He doesn't withdraw; instead gathers you closer, if that's even possible. His massive arms caging you in and pulling you so you're sprawled over his chest.

"You'll stay right here," he whispers into your hair, the words a vow sealed in sweat and sighs.

And as exhaustion claims you, nestled against Achilles' chest, you accept you've been utterly conquered.

Thor lounged at the head of the long feasting table, legs spread wide, his tunic open just enough to expose the swell of his chest. His palm rested low on your back, guiding you with gentle insistence. The revelers barely noticed- their future king, their hero, just victorious in battle, seated like any other warrior at the head of the table. No one questioned it when you settled into his lap, cloaked in the haze of wine and celebration.

But only you felt it- his cock, thick and half-hard beneath the ceremonial robes, pressing up against you.

He nudged you forward, guiding you subtly with one hand at your lower back until you sat perched on his knees. Your body shielded his movements. You barely registered the soft shift in fabric until you felt him- hard and proud- being pulled free beneath the table.

Then, he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice like honey poured over hot coals.

"Sit on it, little one. You’ll stay there until I’m finished eating."

"Yes, my lord," you whispered, barely audible, your breath trembling as you obeyed.

Thor's hands gripped your hips, lifting you with effortless strength until the blunt head of his cock pressed against your entrance. Your breath stuttered as he held you there, poised- teasing- before easing you down, slow and merciless.

The stretch was immediate. Obscene.

He split you open inch by inch, your slick walls forced to accommodate his sheer size. Your gown draped elegantly around you, concealing nothing of the way your thighs shook, how your belly tensed. A soft, broken sound caught in your throat as the head pushed past your entrance, and then more- thicker, hotter- until you were nearly seated.

Each breath came shorter, sharper, as your body clenched around him, fluttering helplessly.

By the time he bottomed out, buried to the hilt, your pulse was roaring in your ears. You were so full it felt like he had stolen the air from your lungs.

And still, he held you there- deep and unyielding.

You couldn’t take a full breath. Not without clenching.

Not without whining.

Thor feigned indifference, plucking a fig with lazy precision in one hand, then drawing the stem across your collarbone before setting it down to reach for a goblet of wine. The other hand remained at your waist, anchoring you with quiet authority, his touch steady and grounding. He leaned in slightly, brushing your hair away from your neck, hooking it behind your ear with a tenderness that made your stomach twist. As your back settled against his chest, his lips grazed the shell of your ear again.

"You’re squeezing me like you want everyone to know," he murmured, low and filthy.

"My ah-apologies... I c-can’t help it," you breathed, your voice barely audible, ragged from restraint.

Thor’s lips brushed your temple, deceptively tender as his words curved darker.

"I think it might serve you better to stay silent, my treasure," he said low enough only you could hear, the possessiveness in his tone wrapping around you like iron. "Your voice gives you away- and I quite like keeping you to myself."  He took a long drink, before he plucked another honeyed fig from the silver tray beside him, and smiled.

"Open," he murmured.

You parted your lips, cheeks flushed. He pressed the fruit in, slow, and then offered his fingers- slick and glistening. You sucked them clean, obedient and dazed, your eyes fluttering shut as he rumbled his approval. 

The minutes passed in a blur of overstimulation. Every twitch of his thigh beneath you sent aftershocks of pleasure up your spine. He filled you so completely it felt like he was pressed into your very stomach, stretching you in ways that defied reason. The heaviness of him pulsed inside you, a constant presence you could neither ignore nor endure.

Occasionally, Thor rocked his hips ever so slightly- just enough to feel the ripple it caused through your body. Just enough to make your hand fly to his forearm and squeeze. It earned you a quiet chuckle, his mouth full of roasted meat as though nothing were amiss.

When the musicians struck up a rowdy chorus, he tapped his heel in time beneath the table. The subtle bounce of his leg jostled you, made you sink down that impossible inch deeper with every beat. Each bounce, each movement, sent you careening toward the edge again. It was all so much.

Every shift made you swear it was harder not to whine or moan. 

The court roared with laughter and slurred songs, but you could barely hear it over the thunder of your heartbeat. You sat perfectly still, trembling, your fingers curled into the folds of his robe.

Then-

Boots scuffed against the stone floor as someone returned to the head table. From the corner of your eye, you spotted Loki, tousled and far too smug. His green and gold tunic was half-laced, his hair disheveled in the way it only got when he'd had company.

He sauntered to his seat with lazy grace, goblet already in hand, and collapsed into his chair with a satisfied sigh.

"I do hope the food hasn't gone cold," he drawled, eyes glittering as he glanced up- right at you.

Thor didn’t flinch.

He leaned back in his seat,  sated by war, wine, and the warm, trembling cunt squeezing around him. You weren’t fast enough this time- your moan slipped out, soft and breathless, before you could catch it. 

"Quiet now," Thor's voice came through a playful warning. "Or I’ll take you properly, right here at the table."

Loki tilted his head, swirling his drink thoughtfully before smirking over the rim of his goblet, his eyes taking in your current state. 

"Careful, brother. Keep this game up and you'll break your little darling right here in front of us all," he drawled though only loud enough to reach Thor's ears- and yours.

You swallowed hard, choking down the soft gasp that threatened to rise. Your teeth sank into your lip, biting the tender flesh hard enough to bruise. Thor let out a low, amused bark of laughter, his chest rumbling against your back.

"But she warms me so sweetly, brother," he replied, his tone indulgent. "Would you fault a king for keeping his throne just so?"

Loki gave a lazy shrug, his gaze never leaving your flushed face. "Not at all. Only wondering how long she can keep from crying out. Her eyes are already starting to roll back," he said with a smirk that bordered on wicked delight. "One more little nudge and I daresay she'll melt in your lap."

You squeezed your eyes shut, trembling, humiliation blooming beneath the heat of it all. Every inch of you ached, stretched taut and throbbing, your own body a betrayer to your dignity. You gave a quiet shudder, wriggling subtly on his lap in a futile attempt to ease the ache your lover was causing in your cunt- only to make things worse. The motion sent him grinding deeper, pressing against that unbearable sweet spot, and your breath hitched hard.

"Still so needy? I thought I told you to behave tonight," he murmured against your ear, the heat of his breath fanning across your cheek. His voice had dropped lower now, dark and smooth, curling down your spine like velvet-wrapped steel. The weight of it made your thighs tense, your heart pound, and your breath stutter in your throat. Still, you whimpered- just a little- in answer, shame and pleasure warring as your fingers squeezed his forearm.

He hummed around a mouthful of food, not even pausing as his grip anchored you.

Your head dropped forward, forehead nearly touching the table, your body spasming quietly around him.

"Now, now."  Thor pulled you back up against his chest. "Told you, keep fluttering like that and I’ll make a show of you, sweetling."

His hand slipped beneath the fabric of your gown. Calloused fingers trailed slowly between your thighs, and then- his thumb found your pulsing clit.

The blonde rubbed slow, lazy circles, as if he had all the time in the world. As if no one was watching. As if you weren’t already breaking apart from just the stretch of him alone. Your thighs trembled, your breath hitching in your throat as Thor  continued to converse with Loki like you weren’t there at all.

"You spoil her," Loki commented dryly, raising his brows. "A whole feast laid before you and still you gorge yourself on her."

"She is my favorite dish," Thor said with a grin, taking another bite of meat.

Then-

He shifted beneath you, his arm coiling tightly around your waist as he rocked his hips up once, slow and deliberate. His cock dragged along that devastatingly sensitive spot high inside you, the one that made your toes curl and stars burst behind your eyelids. The blunt head of him kissed it directly, and the jolt of pleasure it sent through your body.

That was all it took.

You came- silently, pathetically, squirming against his massive frame as he kept you still. Your inner muscles fluttered helplessly, spasming around his cock, your body no longer able to obey your will. Your fingers dug into the meat of his forearm where it wrapped around your waist, the only anchor you had in the torrent crashing through you. One hand slipped to grip the edge of the chair, nails biting into the carved wood as you trembled through the waves of release. Tears prickled in your lashes from the overwhelming sensation, from the ache that never faded.

Your head dropped back to his shoulder, your cheek turning to bury itself in the crook of his neck, where his skin was warm and smelled faintly of spice and smoke. You struggled to catch your breath, your entire body still trembling.

"Couldn’t wait, could you?"

He simply shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement as his fingers lifted to stroke the column of your neck. The gesture was deceptively tender, grounding, as though he hadn’t just undone you in full view of a feasting hall. Then he took another sip of wine, resuming his meal like nothing had happened.

Like he wasn't still buried deep inside you, thick and pulsing, as if he hadn't just pulled you apart without ever thrusting.

Loki huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he raised his goblet.

"And they call me the cruel one," Loki muttered, the curl of his lips turning dark as he took a long sip of wine. His gaze drifted to the visible tremble still rippling through your limbs. 

Thor gave your thigh a possessive squeeze before lifting his goblet again. You sat up, just enough to accept the offering as he guided it to your lips. You drank obediently.

"Drink, sweetling," he murmured, his tone like warm smoke. "Not cruel to you, am I?"

You shook your head, unable to form words, your body still fluttering helplessly around him. You were a mess- wrecked and shaking- but no more than many others scattered across the feast. Still, none of them knew what it meant to be Thor’s. Not like this.

"Said you'd break her, didn’t I?" Loki added with a dry smile, swirling his cup lazily before taking another sip.

Thor hummed in amusement, lips brushing your temple as he smoothed your hair back once more. "You worry for nothing, brother. She’ll last many an hour." That idea alone made your body seize up again, your muscles fluttering helplessly around him. Hours? The word echoed in your skull like a drumbeat- part thrill, part dread. You weren’t sure if you could endure minutes more, let alone hours. And yet, some wicked part of you clenched tighter at the thought, your body aching for what it couldn’t handle. Your eyes fluttered closed, the thought both terrifying and electrifying.

Thor’s hand returned to your hip, firm and steady. He gave one last, deliberate roll of his hips, a subtle warning of what was to come- later, when the hall quieted and no eyes lingered. You bit your lip, barely swallowing the sound that rose in your throat.

He smiled, pleased.

You supposed you should be surprised, but, after years spent at Hogwarts, nothing really shocked you anymore. This really was just another Saturday at Hogsmeade. With a sigh, you resign yourself to simply waiting out the chaos of above, hoping that someone with more than a few brain cells to rub together would eventually realize that vanishing spells were clearly making an already bad situation worse.

That's when another body ducks into your hiding spot, shoving you unceremoniously into the corner.

"Hey! Find your own spot. Move," you hiss, shoving back at the person who was very much invading your personal space.

"Shove off. I don't exactly fancy the idea of being burnt to a crisp," the person snaps back, twisting around to face you, a scowl clear across their face.

It takes a moment to place him, but you recognize the boy. Blaise Zabini. Trouble tended to follow him wherever he went. And by trouble you specifically meant Mattheo Riddle. Again, you probably should have been surprised, but Blaise Zabini being at the scene of the crime was about as expected as the centuries old rivalry between the snakes and the lions. And it was just your luck that he had to bring his problems to you. Admitting defeat (you didn't need his blood on your hands), you scoot over a bit giving him more room to take cover.

"So, I'm assuming you know who started this whole mess," you say dryly, trying, and failing, to ignore the way Blaise's leg was pressing up against you.

"No," he replies curtly, face remaining unchanged as he pointedly avoids making eye contact with you.

You raise a disbelieving eyebrow and Blaise must be able to sense your skepticism because there's a short pause before he lets out a low grunt, begrudgingly looking over at you.

"I don't know what happened. I ditched Mattheo and the rest of them when we got to Hogsmeade. Didn't feel like serving another detention for something I didn't do," he says.

You don't know if it's the sheer exhaustion laced in his voice, or the unanticipated sincerity in his eyes, but you believe him.

"Well. At least you acknowledge that Mattheo is a problem," you say with a sigh, trying awkwardly to lighten the mood as the sound of rogue explosives continues from above.

Blaise snorts and you swear you even catch a glimpse of a smile. You might have imagined it though.

"I live with them. I am no stranger to the fact that Mattheo has a nasty habit of making his problems, everyone else's problems." He pauses. "It's really Theo you have to watch out for though. He'll scheme right alongside Matt, but he's never the one that gets caught."

His words hang in the air. You couldn't remember there ever being a time where you'd heard Blaise string that many words together. You'd kind of always thought he was a quiet one. Always watching, analyzing, staying three steps ahead of everyone else. It had never occurred to you that maybe he was the one really worth talking to. The fireworks last for several more long minutes which you and Blaise spend in silence—aside from the occasional intake of breath when a loud crack sounds just a little too close.

When all the noise finally subsides, Blaise is the one to peek his head up above the counter first before extending a hand, wordlessly helping you to your feet. The shop is a complete and utter disaster. Rows and rows of shelves have been blasted over, boxes of product are scattered across the floor—burnt, torn, completely spoiled. Even the lights overhead were flickering, the occasional spark threatening to start a whole new problem.

"Bloody fucking hell." The words escape your mouth without a second thought as you stare at the carnage in shock.

You figured the damage would be bad. But this was brutal.

"There! It must have been them!" The voice you vaguely recognize as belonging to the shopkeeper rings out across the store.

Your head swivels as you look around, trying to spot the alleged troublemakers when you realize that the store is completely empty except for—oh. Oh no. The pieces seem to click for Blaise too, as he begins shaking his head.

"It wasn't us. We went for cover under the counter as soon as the fireworks started going off," he states as Minerva McGonagall appears next to the shopkeeper with her arms crossed and a glare already burning a hole through the two of you.

"Really?" The shop keeper scoffs. "Then how did you two know to hide straight away, hmm? And if you were hiding, how did you know it was fireworks being set off?"

"Well, the hiding part was mostly a result of our above average self-preservation skills, and the knowledge of fireworks bit probably came from the fact that we have functioning ears," you reply dryly, agitated by the fact you were being accused of something you clearly didn't do.

Beside you, you hear Blaise try to suppress a snort and can't help but feel pleased that you were able to amuse the boy once again, but that was far from your greatest concern at the moment. The shopkeeper doesn't look convinced. She turns to McGonagall, fists clenched and her mouth in a thin line.

"These two were here before all the explosions started, and they're still here now. I just know it was them and I demand something be done. They cannot be allowed to get away with something like this, my shop is in ruins!"

You have to feel a bit bad for the old woman, her shop had definitely seen better days. And really you couldn't blame her for being so upset. But it just wasn't fair that you were being blamed when you had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. You stand there just stewing in frustration as McGonagall apologizes profusely for the wreckage, promising that everyone involved would be held accountable.

"What do you expect us to do? Pay for all the damages?" you ask, crossing your arms in defiance.

Looking around, your family definitely could not afford to essentially rebuild the entire store from ground up. And quite frankly they shouldn't have to. Because none of this was your fault. Blaise perks up a bit at the suggestion however.

"Yes! My mother would be happy to pay. We can cover all the costs, no need to even involve y/n," he says, a charming smile gracing his face even though the rest of him remains tense.

But McGonagall shakes her head.

"No, no, no, Mr. Zabini. I will not have you believe that you can just throw your family's money at problems to make them disappear. Absolutely not. You and y/n will complete volunteer hours. Here. Starting this week," McGonagall says sternly.

"But Professor, it really wasn't us," you try to protest.

"Well, unless you have the names of the students who did this, the evidence against you is strong enough—"

"What, her just saying she saw us so she knows we did it is enough? That's bull—"

"That is enough. Unless you would like to serve a detention as well, I highly recommend you stop while you are above water," McGonagall says coldly.

You want to argue more, but Blaise's hand on your wrist stops you in your tracks.

"It's not worth it," he mutters under his breath, giving your wrist a light squeeze.

You bite your tongue, but not before shooting a nasty glare the shopkeeper's way. Apparently finished with the two of you, McGonagall turns to working out logistics with the old witch, leaving you and Blaise to scurry off to await your fates.

Your first afternoon spent at Honeydukes was awful. You didn't want to be there. Blaise didn't want to be there. And the shopkeeper? You had words to describe her that would probably get your sentence increased by at least a few months. You had thought she was a sweet, little old lady before, but now she was just miserable to be around—constantly snapping at you and Blaise and ordering the two of you around, then getting upset when you did exactly what she asked. It was infuriating, and you could tell that Blaise was at his wits’ end too by the end of the day.

When you finally returned to the castle that night, you were exhausted. All you wanted to do was fall face first, down onto your bed and promptly pass out. But you had more work to do. A charms assignment, a full translation for ancient runes, 12 inches due for potions, you were going to be up all night. You knew Blaise would be up too. He pretty much had the same class schedule you did. These hours at Honeydukes would probably wear down on him too. Or maybe not. He'd always seemed a bit super human to you. Always above everything.

You force the mental image of Blaise out of your head, willing yourself to focus on the work in front of you. Worrying about him wasn't going to do anything to help you. In fact, it was kind of what got you into this whole mess in the first place. You shake your head to clear it. Focus. Charms. Right. Your quill is just about to reach your parchment when a sharp knock jolts you forward, splashing ink across the blank page. Damnit.

With a huff, you drag yourself across the dorm room, swinging your door open, ready to tear into whatever poor soul is waiting on the other side. Except—you blink. Blaise Zabini is standing there looking rather disheveled. A far cry from his usual clean-cut, pristine presentation, you almost don't recognize him. Gone is his usual perfectly crisp, white button down and tie, and in its place is a worn down jumper that had definitely seen better days. His trousers are loose and wrinkly and it appeared as though he hadn't even bothered to tie one of his shoes. In short, it looked like he'd been run over by a hoard of wild hippogriffs.

"Are you— are you alright?" you ask, unable to keep your shock from seeping into your voice.

"I'm fine," Blaise replies, deadpan.

You give the boy another once over.

"Are you sure? You look awful."

"Tactful as always," Blaise says dryly, ignoring the barb and pushing his way into your dorm without so much as an invitation.

You want to protest, but honestly you're too tired so instead, you close the door and turn to find Blaise seated on the very chair you had occupied just a mere minute ago. You still don't have the energy to fight it though.

"What do you want Blaise, I have so much to do," you find yourself sighing as you lean back against your door.

Blaise mirrors your movement, leaning back in the chair and raising an eyebrow as if to challenge you.

"If you're just going to sit there, I'm not doing this. Please don't waste my time," you huff, feeling yourself growing more and more agitated.

"I'm never a waste of time," Blaise replies plainly, still refusing to elaborate on why he had shown up at your door so late at night.

"Yes, yes. I know. You're god's gift to the world and you're better than everyone else. I should be groveling in your presence. Can you please tell me why you're here, or leave me to work in peace."

You can't quite read the look that flashes across Blaise's face at your words, maybe hurt? Begrudging respect? You can't tell, but Blaise opens his bag that you hadn't really noticed before and pulls out his own stack of parchment.

"We're going to work together," he says as if the decision had already been made unilaterally.

"Are we?" you ask, arms crossed as you tilt your head at the boy.

You weren't exactly opposed to the idea. Blaise was wicked smart, you knew he was right up there competing for top marks in most subjects. But he was also Blaise Zabini, and while he might be nice to look at, his reputation certainly preceded him. Though he had surprised you a fair bit in the few interactions you'd had with him so far.

"We are. Look, we both have a heavy course load this term and with all the extra hours we'll have to spend outside of Hogwarts, I've done the math and there's just no way we'll be able to get all of our course work done without working together," Blaise says bluntly.

As much as you hate to admit it, you know he's right. Just thinking about all the work you had to do before Blaise had knocked on your door filled you with dread. Looking at Blaise, you can tell he already knows he has you so you let out another sigh, throwing your hands up in defeat.

"Fine. But you're taking the lead on ancient runes. I'm horrible at it."

Blaise was exceptionally difficult to get a read on, you were coming to understand as you spent more and more time with the boy. For the first few weeks of your mandatory community service at Honeydukes, you had been particularly bitter and it seemed like Blaise was on the same page. It simply wasn't fair that you and Blaise were taking the hit for something neither of you had done, and you made sure to make that point perfectly clear. But for Blaise, nothing seemed to affect him. It was like he didn't even care.

As the weeks went on though, you came to find that you didn't really mind the work you were doing—it was actually a bit therapeutic. The reason you were there aside, it wasn't actually so bad and getting out of Hogwarts was a nice perk. And Blaise, well, you were making progress with him you supposed. He wasn't nearly as snarky with you as you'd seen him be with others and you could swear you'd caught him staring before. But he was still…aloof. Hovering, as if he could never quite find the right words.

When the two of you did speak, words between you and Blaise were exclusively related to work: what aisle was stocked with exploding bon bons, which price tags went with the fudge flies, who was going to take the arithmancy notes, and who was going to write up the summary on the 6th—or was it the 7th—Goblin War. So it was a surprise to you when Blaise was the one to bring up a topic outside of your usual subject matter. Of course it was quidditch.

It was something about Malfoy being his usual primadonna self on the pitch and Riddle and Goyle, the team's beaters, making a pact to use him as their moving target for the day. Apparently they bludgered too close to the sun and Malfoy went down. Dramatically. In your personal opinion, the boy probably had it coming, but you didn't voice that particular opinion. Blaise had just been venting and honestly, you were happy to let him do so. It made him so much more…human.

Of course you had to pick his brain for all the details, because please, it was hilarious, but Blaise insisted that he didn't know what Malfoy had said in the locker rooms that day to get Riddle so pissed off, or how Riddle had then successfully roped Goyle into the whole mess.

"Blaise, how could you not think to ask what got the whole thing started? Mattheo got Gregory to turn on Draco, I need to know everything that happened. This is historic," you'd insisted between giggles.

Something about the whole thing must have been infectious, because Blaise was smiling too now, and you'd decided then and there that you liked it very much when Blaise smiled. His whole demeanor softened, seeming to draw you in.

Of course the lousy shop keeper had had to go and ruin it all, snapping at the two of you to work more and chat less.

"Rest be assured, we will be circling back to this," you'd told Blaise before turning on your heel to continue stocking shelves.

And then Blaise actually did. Later that night when Blaise was once again at home in your dorm room, he'd turned to you, quill hovering above parchment, eyes lighting up as if he'd just remembered the most important thing in the world.

"I found out what happened between Malfoy and Goyle," he'd announced proudly, eyes gleaming as your face lit up.

"Tell me everything."

"Apparently Malfoy took the whole 'Goyle can't read' bit a little too far."

"You're joking."

You don't really remember a lot of that night because you and Blaise stayed up so late that you didn't realize that you hadn't gotten any work done until the sky started to turn light again. It was worth it though, because by the time the two of you were ready to head down to the Great Hall that morning, it felt like you'd known Blaise your entire life. It was strange to think that just a few weeks ago you'd known so little about him.

As the weeks stretch on, you develop a bit of a routine. Go to class, stop in the library, report to the Headmaster's office to floo to Honeydukes, grab a late dinner, wait for Blaise's knock on your door. It was nice. And your relationship, if you could even call it that, with Blaise was nice too. He wasn't always as snobbish as people made him out to be and really, his haughty attitude could be rather comedic at times. Not that you'd ever let him know that, his ego was already big enough for the both of you combined.

You feel a soft jab at your arm.

"Are you going to do your side, or are you going to make me do it since I'm clearly the more talented wizard," Blaise quips, a taunting grin on his lips as he glances down at you.

"Oh shove off, would you."

With a roll of your eyes, you quickly cast a levitating charm and watch as the last of the glittery, pink banners that normally decorated the shop floats up to its familiar position on the ceiling.

"I'd say we did rather good," you decide, standing back to admire your work.

You'd spent much of the day redecorating the shop and it was almost looking back to normal if you did say so yourself. And you did.

"Of course it looks good, I did most of it," Blaise teases, his smile only growing.

If you were delusional, you'd think the boy was flirting with you. In his own twisted way. So you roll your eyes again, and shake your head disapprovingly.

"What do you even do when you're not being an absolute headache," you sigh dramatically.

"Look pretty." Blaise's shit-eating grin is unmistakable now.

"Ugh. You deserve this place. We could put you on the shelf, call you eye candy," you scoff before fully thinking through your words.

"So you agree, I'm pretty?" Blaise preens, looking all too smug.

You needed to get this back under control.

"If I actually thought that, I wouldn't let you know. Your head is already too big as is."

With that, you quickly turn your back to the boy, hoping he'd missed the heat that was now creeping up to your cheeks. You really needed to get your head on straight. But it was hard. Now that you were actually thinking about it and watching as Blaise's lean, quidditch muscles flexed as he moved boxes around the shop—he really was the definition of a pretty boy. It was almost mesmerizing watching him.

Seeing Blaise sprawled across your bed had to be some kind of sick joke. It had been meant as just a lighthearted, harmless quip, but since that afternoon at Honeydukes, all you could think about was how freaking attractive the boy that you'd been spending all of your time with for the last several weeks was. Of course you'd always seen it, but now you just couldn't get it out of your damn head. You wanted to bang your head on the wall. Or climb him like a tree. You weren't sure which. But there he was, none the wiser, lounging on your bed like some kind of godly entity. Sick.

You really needed to clear your mind. Slumping back in your chair and silently chastising yourself for being so distracted, you crack open your potions textbook. Surely a deep dive into bezoars would take your mind off things, or at least be so dull you'll have no choice but to focus on not falling asleep.

Laying across your bed, scribbling away at a translation for ancient runes, Blaise was riding high. Your words "eye candy" echo in his mind as he writes. You thought he was attractive. His chest tightens at the thought. See, Blaise was many things. Observant and decisive were two of those things. And what he had observed for the past year was someone who was cheeky and intelligent and fit, and what he decided was that they would be his. You would be his.

Of course in order to make that happen, Blaise would have had to actually do something about it. And he always told himself he would, he just…never did. And his pride wouldn't even allow him to consider why that might be, but now he had a chance. You thought he was attractive. You might even like him. He would take it. For now.

Glancing up, Blaise had to stifle his in take of breath. You really were perfect in his opinion. And he had high standards. But looking at you now, the way your eyes slowly scanned the pages of your book, the soft curve of your lip as your tongue flicked out to wet your fingers as you turned the page, it was almost enough to make Blaise want to combust right then and there.

Instead he clears his throat, pulling your eyes away from your book and towards him, exactly where he preferred them.

"There's a quidditch game tomorrow," he mentions casually in that cold, steady tone that was so practiced it was basically second nature to him.

"Oh, exciting. Who's playing?" you ask, head tilting in a way that told Blaise he had your full, undivided attention. And he reveled in it.

"Slytherin and Hufflepuff."

"Right, well, good luck in case I don't see you in the morning."

There's a moment of pause.

"I thought you might like to come watch," Blaise finally spits out, desperate to hold your attention for even a few moments longer.

"Why, because you're playing?" you ask, a small smile playing on your lips.

"Especially because I'm playing," he responds with a cocky grin.

"I suppose I'll be there then."

Your eyes lock back in on your book and for once, Blaise thinks it might be for the best because his grin is now threatening to take over his entire face.

Blaise was thoroughly convinced that the world was on his side. It was a perfect day for quidditch—warm but cloudy enough that there was no sun beating down, barely a breeze, and stands packed with spectators. And of course there was you, right there in front surrounded by Pansy Parkinson and Lorenzo Berkshire. Oh. That might actually be a problem, but he would have to mitigate that particular issue later.

"Blaisey!"

Blaise is greeted by Mattheo with a thump on the back.

"Don't call me that," he monotones, his familiar scowl finding its way to his mouth.

"Oh don't be like that, I heard you finally got that special someone in the stands. Eh? Exciting day," Mattheo sings, voice intentionally loud enough to draw the attention of the rest of the team.

Blaise was going to murder him later. Painfully.

"Oi, Riddle. Shut your trap and stop trying to sabotage your own team, yeah?" Flint shouts.

He was still pissed about Malfoy getting mauled, but at least ferret boy had been cleared to play today.

"Sorry, sorry," Mattheo relents, holding his hands up in surrender, but that troublemaker grin doesn't fade from his face. "I'll be expecting a thank you at the wedding though," he taunts quietly as he passes by.

The quidditch stands are crowded and you aren't exactly sure where you're meant to be as you're funneled forward through the wooden rows. Somehow you manage to end up right in the front, standing next to a girl with short, sleek hair and a brunette boy that looked like he could be on the cover of a magazine. Pansy Parkinson and Lorenzo Berkshire. You knew the two of them ran in the same circle as Blaise, but you weren't exactly sure how friendly they all were. It seemed you were about to find out though as Lorenzo leans forward on the rail to get a good look at you.

"You here for Zabini?" he asks. "Took him long enough, been wondering how long it would be before you started coming around."

You blink. You'd never talked to Lorenzo Berkshire before in your life and you had no idea what he was on about. Thankfully, Pansy comes to your rescue.

"Ignore him. Bloody idiot, that one," she sighs as if it were a common disclosure she gave out often.

Lorenzo seems completely unfazed by the comment, so maybe it was.

"You know the rest of the team?" Pansy asks, making easy conversation.

You didn't want to seem ungrateful, but you were surprised by how willing these two were to ease you into their little group.

"I know a few of them. A bit hard to tell though from this distance," you reply timidly.

"That's fine. Only thing you really need to know is which one Zabini is anyway. But look down there," Pansy points to the group of boys in emerald green down on the field. "Obviously that one is Blaise, I'm sure you're familiar," she says with a smirk, "The two he's standing with are the other chasers Nott and Pucey. Then the blonde who's not paying attention? That's Malfoy. The two next to him are the beaters, Riddle and Goyle. And that last one who's been monologuing this whole time is the team captain Flint. He's the keeper."

Your eyes follow Pansy's movements as she lists off each of the players, doing your best to soak in the information. Seemed easy enough, especially once Pansy put a name to the faces you hadn't quite recognized. Pansy and Lorenzo bicker back and forth some more as you watch the players on the field get ready to begin. It had been a long time since you'd come down to watch a quidditch game.

Once the game starts though, you realize that there was one thing you hadn't taken into account when accepting Blaise's invitation to the match. And that was his quidditch uniform. Sweet Salazar, you hoped no one noticed you salivating over the way his robes clung to him as he soared through the sky. And every time he flew past you caught a glimpse of that cocky smile of his that was growing to be all too familiar. It was definitely worth coming out.

The match is a quick one, and according to Lorenzo, the matches against Hufflepuff usually are. By the time Malfoy finally catches the snitch, Slytherin had already scored enough points that it wouldn't have even mattered if Diggory had been the one to catch the snitch first. You can't quite bring yourself to hoot and holler like Enzo when the match finally comes to an end, but the way Blaise's eyes find you as soon as the whistle blows tells you that you didn't have to. He knows you were there and he's the only one that matters.

After, you stand with Pansy and Lorenzo and wait for the team to trickle out of the locker room. Draco is one of the first ones out and when he spots Pansy, is quick to scoop her up into a hug. Mattheo and Greg are next, quickly joining Lorenzo off to the side where he's busy chatting up some of the Hufflepuffs. Then, finally you see him—hair still damp, either from sweat or a shower, but practically glowing as he spots you waiting there for him.

There's nothing grand or romantic about the way he saunters up to you, and there's no sweeping hug like when Draco greeted Pansy, but you can't help but feel your heart flutter as Blaise appears before you, perfect as always.

"Did you enjoy the game?" is the first thing Blaise asks, his hand brushing the back of yours as he stands in front of you.

You feel yourself short circuit for a split second at the contact before quickly recovering.

"Yeah. It was fun. You looked good out there," you hear yourself mumble as you try desperately to cling to the feeling of Blaise's skin against yours.

"Did I?" Blaise preens, that shit eating grin appearing once more.

He'd been doing that a lot recently. Smiling. Or at least a lot more than you'd ever seen. Not that you had really noticed before of course.

You reach out and give the boy a light shove on the shoulder.

"That's not what I meant," you reply as heat rises to your face, but even you can tell there's no sincerity behind your words.

"It's alright if it was." Blaise's voice is lower now. Hungry almost as he takes a step closer.

You feel your heart stop while your mind races at a mile a minute, repeating Blaise's words in your mind over and over making sure you heard right. That you weren't imagining it. But before you can respond properly, a voice calls out, pulling Blaise away while words sit at the tip of your tongue. All you can do is watch as Blaise turns away to rejoin the rest of the team, throwing one more parting glance your way before his face returns to its typical stoney expression.

You would think that, with its magical organization system, the Hogwarts library would be much easier to sort through. Yet here you were on what seemed like a wild goose chase, trying to track down the one book that would help you to complete your transfiguration essay. You'd been searching for nearly forty minutes now and it really was frustrating because the more time it took for you to find the blasted book, the more time your brain had to microanalyze every interaction you'd ever had with Blaise Zabini. You were driving yourself mad.

"What do you think the chances are that Zabini completely fumbles, despite everything we've done?"

Wonderful. And now your delusions were causing you to hear voices talking about Blaise out loud. Would you ever escape—wait. You take a step closer to the shelf, holding your breath as you try to hear through the rows of books.

"He better not. You know how hard it was to sneak those fireworks into the school? Told him today that I expected a thank you at their wedding. Course he doesn't know that we're the masterminds behind it all yet. Expect he'd be a little more grateful if he did, yeah?"

That voice you distinctly recognize as belonging to Mattheo Riddle, and, peering through the gaps in the shelves, there he was sat directly across from none other than Lorenzo Berkshire. But fireworks? Whose wedding? What did Blaise have to fumble? Your brain goes into over drive, straining to put the pieces together, and when it all starts to click you let out a breath you didn't realize you had been holding. Huh. You could confront the two right then and there, but instead you decide to take your new found discovery and file it away for later.

As it turns out, 'later' would actually be later that night. It's dark out when Blaise finally knocks on your door. You were expecting it of course, but this time he marches in with his usual confident swagger before you even have the chance to roll off your bed.

"Hey," is all he says as he drops his book bag on the ground before taking a seat next to you on the bed.

The mattress dips beneath him causing you to slide towards him until your legs are pressed against each other. You're not sure if you should curse gravity, or thank it.

"Hi," you squeak out, acutely aware of how close the two of you are sitting.

"Did you ever finish that transfiguration essay? I thought we could swap ideas," Blaise says, bending down to pull out parchment and a quill.

Your mind stutters at how inhumanly calm Blaise is while sitting so close that you could smell every individual note in his expensive cologne.

"Yeah, but, I don't think I want this to end. Once we've stopped going to Honeydukes and have more free time again," you blurt out. No plan, just words cascading out of your mouth.

Blaise doesn't even look up, just continues scribbling his name onto his parchment.

"That's fine. This arrangement has been working well."

You shouldn't feel surprised at this point, but you were always a little bit stunned by how nonchalant Blaise could be at times.

"No. I'm saying I think I like you," you try again, hoping to get your point across.

"Obviously. What's not to like?"

If it weren't for that obnoxious smile that had grown on you so much over the past weeks you'd have thought he was being an arrogant prick.

"You're an absolute headache. You know that?" you pout, giving the boy a smack and jolting his quill sharply across the page.

With a wave of his hand, the parchment and quill are magicked back into his bag as Blaise turns to face you know, eyes burning.

"A good looking one though, hm? That's what you were going to say this morning no?" he asks, as he slowly moves closer.

You shake your head no, but you both know that it's a lie.

"I decided that you would be mine a long time ago. It was just a matter of getting you on the same page, so of course you like me, you've always been mine."

You simply don't have the words to respond. All you can do is remember how to breathe as your eyes fully train in on the way Blaise's mouth moves as he tells you exactly who you belong to. And then that mouth is on yours and you forget how to function all together.

It's soft and sweet, and much more gentle than you ever imagined Blaise capable of being. As the kiss deepens, you feel Blaise pull you closer, hand sweeping against your thigh, guiding it until you're seated on his lap. His lips trail down your jaw, your throat, fingers pulling at the neck of your jumper as he nips at your collar bone.

"Blaise."

His name slips out from between your lips—breathy, airy and Blaise growls. His touch feels like it's burning away at your skin yet you still press yourself against him, desperate for the feeling. His mouth finds yours once more, kissing you until your lips are swollen and you're left gasping for air. When you finally pull apart, Blaise is looking up at you with something that can only be described as pure, unadulterated admiration.

In that moment you wonder how long Blaise had had his eye on you. How long you'd unknowingly pulled his attention. How long you'd occupied his thoughts, driving him mad just as he had been to you these last few weeks. You'd have to find out another time.

You shift your weight in Blaise's lap until you're at eye level, a teasing grin pulling at your lips. One that clearly said 'I know something you don't'.

"Blaise?" you ask, voice sing-song as you look at the boy with wide, innocent eyes.

"Yes, angel face?"

You feel your nose scrunch up.

"Is that a no?" Blaise chuckles, breath warm against your cheek.

"We'll circle back. But I heard the most interesting thing this afternoon in the library. Do you know what it was?"

Blaise shakes his head.

"I'm sure there are lots of interesting tidbits to pick up in the library, sweet cheeks."

You give him an unamused look.

"That's just bad and you know it," you huff, giving the boy a quick peck on the lips. "Now hush, I know who set off those damn fireworks at Honey Dukes."

Blaise raises an eyebrow and you can tell you have his interest piqued.

"It was your beloved teammates. Riddle and Berkshire. They outright admitted to it in the library earlier. Were worried you would fumble after 'all the hard work they did' to get you some alone time with me," you chirp, giving Blaise a playful poke on the shoulder. "Said you should be thanking them."

"Is that right?" Blaise asks, eyes suddenly dark as his expression becomes unreadable.

You feel yourself hesitate at the change in Blaise's demeanor and it seems like Blaise picks up on the shift because his face immediately softens again.

"I'll have to handle those two myself," he mutters. "But first—"

His hands make a trail down from your waist, dragging tantalizingly against your thighs, and hooking behind your knee caps before he yanks you close once more. Your arms wrap around his neck as a laugh escapes you. It's quickly smothered though as lips collide and you find yourself lost in a hazy bliss once more. You decide in that moment that if Blaise isn't going to thank his friends for framing the two of you, then you just might.

…But probably not.

It could not be said that the same lesson had been instilled in his soulmate however. It seemed like every other day a runaway sweater, a hairbrush, even a half written essay once, appeared in his possession. Now, most people over the course of their lifetime, would keep all of these things. Hoarding them in hopes of being able to use them as clues to find their soulmate, but not Blaise.

He knew well and good that someone out there was missing these things, probably looking about frantically in hopes that they’d find them before they were teleported off. And so every time a new item showed up, he’d make sure to lose it just as quickly, tossing it out the window or leaving it behind in an empty classroom. They were just things after all. And he didn’t want his soulmate to miss them.

On the flip side, your dormitory was a disaster zone. Or some might say it was at least, Blaise for example. But you preferred the term ‘organized chaos’. There was a method in all the madness after all. Sort of. See at the ripe old age of seventeen, you’d come to terms with the fact that you didn’t have a soulmate.

A harsh reality perhaps, but it did come with some perks you supposed. Like the fact that you didn’t have to meticulously keep track of every single item in your possession because you knew you’d always find it eventually.

Of course there’d been many a time where you’d gotten your hopes up. A sweater had gone missing and you’d sworn you’d looked for it in every nook and cranny you could think of. You’d dared to convince yourself that maybe you really hadn’t lost anything else before. But then it had turned up under your bed almost as if it were mocking you.

To make matters worse, you’d never received a lost item either. Not even as a child. Most kids delighted in at least a few lost toys or trinkets falling into their possession, but you hadn’t even been granted that.

It had been an endless, painful cycle until you finally made peace with the fact that maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. It was exceedingly rare, but you’d heard of a case or two of someone just not having a soulmate. You tried not to think about it too much, but when the signs were all there, well.

“Are you quite positive you don’t want to come to the manor with us?” Daphne Greengrass presses one last time, sitting across from you in the Great Hall.

It was the first morning of break and anyone who was going home for the holiday would be leaving shortly. Daphne and Astoria had been insisting you come with them for the break as you wouldn’t be returning home, but you just hadn’t wanted to be a burden.

“I promise mother and father won’t mind, and even if they do, I doubt they’d notice for the first few days anyway. It’s not like they ever pay Astoria or I any mind.”

You have to laugh at your friend’s words despite the fact that, like your own parents, hers didn’t exactly shower her with attention. At least not like the Malfoy’s did for their only son. But that would be rather suffocating you supposed.

“I’ll be fine here. Promise. Besides, I don’t think Blaise has any plans on going home either, so I’ll have company,” you tell her.

A sly grin forms on your friend’s face as she wiggles her eyebrows at you.

“Mhmm I’m sure Blaise will keep you wonderfully occupied,” she teases, giving you a knowing look that causes heat to rise to your cheeks.

“Oh shut up, you know as well as I do that he has a soulmate out there somewhere,” you hiss, tossing a breakfast roll at the girl.

“Right, as if that means anything,” Daphne replies, rolling her eyes, “Surely the universe isn’t expecting everyone to just sit around waiting and hoping for their soulmate to appear.”

You feel your shoulders sag a bit, just from the thought of the whole idea of soulmates. You know Daph means well, but the thought of being with someone who very much had a soulmate just felt— wrong. Like you were messing with fate. Or stealing? That wasn’t the right word for it, but it felt wrong. You couldn’t describe it.

Besides, as if she were one to talk. She had a soulmate. And she knew who they were. Even if she was choosing to ignore it.

Daphne seems to be able to read your shift in spirit, as she leans towards you, face clearly showing concern.

“Look, all I’m saying is you don’t deserve to be counted out just because you’ve never had someone else’s junk magically become your problem. Okay?”

You’re able to manage a small smile as you nod along with your friend’s words; Daph always knew just what to say.

“I have to finish packing a few last things. Come help? I want to spend every last moment here with you. I don’t know what I’ll do without you over break,” she sighs, swiftly moving on which you’re grateful for.

Daphne, like most people, kept her dorm neat and tidy. Each item clearly had a home, but the room still felt lived in. Authentic. Which is something you’d always appreciated.

You lounge on the girl’s bed, stomach down, chin in the palms of your hands as you watch your friend flit frantically about her room.

“Don’t tell me you lost something,” you say worriedly, recognizing the panicked look on your friend’s face.

You watch as Daphne’s head falls back, brown waves cascading down her back as she groans at the ceiling.

“Just a rancid pair of shoes mother got for my last birthday. I hardly care what happens to them, but I’m sure my mother will ask. She has the nastiest habit of only remembering the bits I wish she wouldn’t.”

Before Daphne can go on, there’s a knocking at the door. Three sharp raps against the wood before it swings open to reveal Blaise leaning lazily against the door frame.

“Tori is looking for you,” he drawls, “says to hurry or you’ll be late.”

His eyes flicker to where you lay sprawled across the bed, the faintest smile ghosting his lips when he sees you.

“You going with them for break?” He asks as Daphne haphazardly begins shoving the last of her belongings into her trunk.

“No, I’m staying here I’m afraid,” you reply, pushing yourself into a sitting position as Blaise’s eyes remain firmly planted on you.

“I tried to get them to come to the manor with us, but you know how they are. Stubborn as it comes,” Daphne huffs, finally pulling her trunk over to the door.

Blaise just hums in response, moving to the side to allow you and Daphne through before falling into step beside you.

"So you're staying here at the castle then?" Blaise asks as the two of you follow Daphne out to the common room where Astoria is waiting for her sister anxiously.

"Mhmm, can't let you and the house elves have all the fun now can I?" you reply with a laugh

Blaise doesn't get a chance to respond before Daphne engulfs you in a bear hug. By the way she was acting you'd think you were going to be apart for years rather than just one week of break. But spending a week at Greengrass manor probably felt like years to be fair.

"Promise you won't have too much fun without me," Daphne says, her face deadly serious.

"I promise," you reply, hugging the girl back.

"And you better take good care of y/n," she says, turning her attention to Blaise.

"I'm sure y/n can take care of themselves just fine Daph. But will do."

Seemingly satisfied with your answers, Daphne gives your hand one last squeeze before she and her sister disappear through the dungeon doors leaving you and Blaise behind.

"So, I hear Enz was accosted by the Malfoys and gets to spend the break at their manor," you say after a brief moment of awkward silence.

Blaise clears his throat looking suddenly rather nervous.

"Yes, and Mattheo and Pansy are spending the break in Italy with Theo," he replies.

You feel your eyebrows raise as you turn to look at the boy.

"I'd have assumed you'd have gone with at least some of them to spend your break."

“I could say the same about you going with the Greengrasses," Blaise replies easily.

"Touche."

There's another pause as the two of you stand there together, the silence growing.

"So I suppose I'll see you around then," Blaise says finally, clearing his throat once more and bobbing his head at you.

"Suppose you shall." You reply as he turns, retreating back to his own dormitory.

The halls of the castle are quiet as ever, just the low hum of portraits chattering as you make your way down the corridor to the library. You figured since you were staying at school, you might as well use the time to get ahead on some of your assignments. It’s not like you had anything better to do anyway.

The library is equally empty, with just a few of the other students who had stayed behind mulling about. On the bright side for you though, it meant that most of the prime real estate was free for the taking. You make yourself comfortable at one of the tables closest to the fireplace, the warm glow casting your shadow along the walls.

You pull out your books, your parchment, and a quill you’d found lying under your desk the other day. You hadn’t remembered having it, you usually didn’t buy the fancy quills, but it looked like it had been left there a while ago so you figured you must have forgotten about it.

You’d hardly been in the library long at all when a second shadow joins your own, but you’re too focused on the essay you’re scribbling away at to notice. Dark eyes watch you with amusement as you quietly mutter to yourself, the feather of your quill brushing against your lips every so often. It’s not until he lets out a soft, but pointed, cough to get your attention that your eyes flicker up from your parchment.

“Working on the dark arts essay?” He asks, his fingers uncharacteristically tapping against the table top as he leans back in his chair.

You nod, setting your quill down, careful to not smudge the ink.

“Figured I might as well knock it out of the way. Plus I finally have some peace and quiet with everyone gone. I know it might be hard to believe, but it’s a lot harder to write an essay with Daphne chatting your ear off.”

Blaise lets out a low chuckle, his fingers still drumming away as he opens his mouth to say something before closing it just as quickly. You can see his eyes darting about distractedly in the glow of the fireplace as you pick up your quill once more, fiddling with the soft vanes of the feather.

"Fancy quill," Blaise says suddenly, eyebrows furrowing as his eyes fall onto the writing utensil in your hands. "Where'd you find something like that?"

Your own eyes flicker down to the quill in surprise, the feather suddenly feeling heavy in your hand.

"I- I don't remember. I found it lying under my desk the other day, looked like it had been there for ages. Figured it must've been old," you reply as Blaise continues to stare at the quill in question.

"I have some like it," he mutters softly, eyes still focused on it as if it was going to divulge all of its secrets to him.

After another moment of silence, Blaise seems to snap out of it, sitting up straighter in his chair and the drumming of his fingers coming to a stop.

“Would you like to study in my dorm later?” He blurts out, a weight seeming to disappear from his shoulders as soon as the words leave his mouth.

You feel your heart flutter a bit in excitement as Blaise waits anxiously for your reply. You never thought you’d see cool, calm, and collected Blaise Zabini squirm.

“Sure, but only if I can see your notes from ancient runes,” you answer, a soft smile gracing your lips as Blaise visibly softens.

“That is an added bonus of studying with me,” he replies rather cockily, his confidence clearly returning with full force.

The water of the Black Lake is dark and murky, reflecting the sky through the many windows lining the dungeons. Your light taps on the door of Blaise’s dorm ring out, echoing on the cold stone walls. You knew the Slytherin common room would be deserted with most students away on break, but the emptiness was beginning to feel rather eerie.

The door swings open and Blaise stands towering over you. A bit of the nervousness from before peeks through as you greet him and he shoves his hands in his pockets, gesturing with his head for you to come in.

The room is pristine, not a surprise for someone with a soulmate, every inch seemed to be accounted for. Books sat neatly on the shelf, their spines displaying alphabetization for easy retrieval. Quills sorted by color in jars lined the desk and rolls of parchment were stored an inch apart with surgical precision. Even the bed was perfect with not a wrinkle in sight, pillows perched neatly against the headboard.

You’d been in here before of course, always with a group of friends, but you were still consistently baffled by just how fabricated the room felt. Like it was difficult to believe someone actually lived there.

A cough jerks you back to reality as Blaise sits down on the edge on the bed, marring its perfect image.

“Shall we start with History of Magic, or do you want to skip straight to the good stuff?” He asks with a tilted grin, pulling out a familiar looking notebook and waving it in the air.

Your eyes widen a bit and you feel your mouth water. Blaise’s notes from ancient ruins were something of a legend in your year. You had no idea how he understood anything in that class, but you’d heard even Hermione Granger had asked for Blaise’s help on a few rare occasions.

You practically trip over yourself to take a seat beside the boy, not even noticing the way your legs brushed as the mattress dipped beneath you. You abandon your book bag somewhere on the floor, completely focused on the holy grail of ancient runes. You ignore the laugh that escapes Blaise’s lips as he passes the notebook into your eager hands, the worn leather soft against your fingertips.

“God, I want to take your brain out and study it,” you mutter as you turn through pages and pages of perfect translations, complete with charts and page references to Spellman’s Syllabary.

Blaise just snorts, leaning in to watch as you admire his work.

“You might have to settle for my bad explanations I’m afraid, I prefer to keep my brain in my head thanks,” he replies, subtle affection seeping into his voice as he smiles down at you.

You just hum in reply, letting the boy guide you through the notes, abstract constructs suddenly becoming child’s play under his careful guidance. Before you know it, you’ve completed all of your assignments for ancient runes and you’ve moved onto history of magic, then charms. It’s all a blur the way the two of you work seamlessly together, practically reading each other’s minds, always knowing where the other is falling short and how to fix it.

You don't know how or when the topic shifted, but one moment you were making an offhanded comment about Flitwick's mustache and the next you were rolling around laughing on Blaise's bed as he told you about one of his mother's many partners who he swore bore a striking resemblance to your professor. Mustache, glasses, and all he insisted with probably the biggest grin you'd ever seen gracing his face.

It had spiraled from there, perhaps the lack of sleep adding to your delirium as you lay side by side staring at the ceiling. Your shoulders were pressed together and you could feel the ghost of Blaise's fingers against your own, his chest rumbling with laughter.

"I swear on my life Blaise, I don't think Mattheo knows how to swim. He almost drowned Enzo when he went in after him. I don't know how you never heard about it!" you exclaim between giggles, recounting to him the time Mattheo had stupidly fallen off the dock of the Black Lake.

As your laughter dies down, the two of you are lulled into a comfortable silence. It’s not awkward or uncomfortable like before. You’re just enjoying each other’s presence.

“Mattheo thinks Daphne is his soulmate,” Blaise blurts out, eliciting yet another laugh from you.

As you rush to slap your hands over your mouth, you still can’t help the snort that slips through and Blaise turns his head to look at you with bewilderment.

“Blaise, Daph has known Mattheo is her soulmate for years. Do you realize how often that boy loses his quidditch jersey? Or his textbooks? He lost his whole bloody owl once and it appeared in Daph’s room while we were studying!”

You turn to meet Blaise’s stare and suddenly become very aware of just how close the two of you are. Your noses are mere centimeters away and you can feel the warmth of his breath.

“Daph has just gotten really good at returning the important stuff,” you murmur, acutely aware of the way Blaise’s eyes had trained in on your lips.

You barely have time to close your eyes before you feel soft lips against your own, warm but hesitant as they begin to move slowly.

You know it’s wrong. You know he has a soulmate out there somewhere, but Daphne’s words echo in your head. You don’t deserve to be counted out.

Before you can think your way out of it, you feel yourself begin to kiss back. You can feel Blaise’s lips stretch into a grin as he shifts beside you, turning himself so he’s able to land an arm on either side of you, boxing you in, his lips never leaving yours.

Your mind goes blank, completely lost in the feeling of Blaise’s hand against your waist and the way he’s kissing every doubt and bit of insecurity out of your head. A soft moan escapes your lips and Blaise just melts further into you, his kisses becoming slow and deliberate until you’re both left panting and gazing into one another’s eyes.

It only takes a moment for you to realize what you’d just done, a wave of cold washing over you, your eyes widening with guilt. You push yourself up into a sitting position and Blaise has to scramble off of you, hurt written all across his face.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter as you quickly begin to gather your things. “I know you have a soulmate. I can’t come between that.”

You vaguely hear him call out to you as you toss your bag over you shoulder and flee the scene. It takes everything in you to not look back, but you know if you did you’d cave to those big, brown eyes. So instead you disappear through the door, escaping to the safety of your own dorm before crawling under the covers, still fully clothed, to hide from the world.

Avoiding Blaise for the remainder of the break is surprisingly difficult. You'd think avoiding someone in an almost empty castle would be easy, but no matter where in this wretched castle you went, it didn't take Blaise long to materialize seemingly out of nowhere. You were beginning to think the portraits were ratting you out.

Point is, when Daphne finally returned, you couldn't be happier. Anything to get your mind off the whole idea of soulmates and the people who had them.

"You will never believe what happened to me over break," Daphne squeals, practically glowing as she dumps the contents of her trunk out onto the floor.

Victoriously, she snatches up a dark green lump of fabric, waving it in the air as if it were a trophy. But you just raise an eyebrow.

"Mattheo lost his quidditch jersey again? Daph, I'm not helping you sneak that sweaty old thing back into his dorm again. His owl bit me last time," you sigh from your spot on her bed.

"No. Better!" Daphne chirps, hands fisted around the jersey excitedly as she skips over to join you on the bed. "He owled me over break. He finally figured it out! You'll never have to help me sneak things back into his dorm ever again!"

You want to be happy for your friend. You really do. So you slap the biggest grin you can muster onto your face as she grasps your hands giddily, rambling on about how she’d spent break writing back and forth with Mattheo.

"He and Theo will be back tonight and we're all going down to the Black Lake. You'll come won't you?" she asks.

"Yeah, of course," you reply, ready to do whatever it takes to be a supportive friend.

"And oh my gosh, I forgot to ask. How was your break? How did things go with-"

"It was so eventful," you interrupt, cutting her off before she could even get his name out. "My break was eventful, and I will tell you all about it tonight. But I should probably go grab a jacket. I think it's supposed to be chilly tonight. Be right back?"

You’re off the bed and halfway through the door before Daphne even gets the chance to respond. God, you just needed to play it cool for a few hours. You could do that for your best friend. Not everything was about you, you thought, chastising yourself as you walked briskly back to your dorm.

When you finally arrive, you swing open the door to your wardrobe, haphazardly rifling through the closet in search of your favorite sweater. You weren’t exactly a messy person per se. You just didn’t need to keep your dorm in pristine condition to avoid losing things like everyone else.

However you were currently seeing the small flaw in that logic. The flaw being that while your items perhaps weren’t magiked away, never to be seen again, they were still lost.

With a frustrated groan, you frantically check the small pile of clothes that had gathered on your desk chair, then the trunk at the end of your bed. Your sweater was nowhere to be found. You quickly look under your bed, in your book bag, even the common room in a last ditch effort trying to remember the last time you’d worn the thing. Oh. Oh no.

Blaise knew he’d messed up. It wasn’t hard to tell by the way you’d bolted out of his dorm. Or then proceeded to avoid him as though he had the plague for the entire rest of break. But he just felt drawn to you. He couldn’t explain why. It was like a faint pull in his chest whenever you were near.

It was common knowledge to everyone at this point that you didn’t have a soulmate. And he knew with certainty that he did have a soulmate out there somewhere. So why was it so easy for him to be hypnotized by your eyes? Why was he waking up in a cold sweat at night dreaming about his lips on yours?

After you’d fled from his dorm, Blaise had let himself fall back onto the bed, a string of curses leaving his mouth as he closed his eyes, covering his face with his hands. He’d known kissing you was a bad idea, but it just felt so right. He couldn’t stop himself.

When he woke up the next morning, the sweater was there. At the end of his bed as if it had always been there, but Blaise knew better. It was yet another item his soulmate had lost. Lousy timing on their end when he was trying to sulk over y/n.

With a sigh, Blaise balled up the sweater, already brainstorming places to leave the thing in order to re-lose it when he stops. He’d never kept anything from his soulmate before. He examines the soft fabric in his hands, thin and worn in some places it was obviously well loved. Surely they wouldn’t miss one sweater? If only for a few days? Perhaps keeping it for a bit would help keep y/n out of his head.

You can see your hand visibly shake with nerves as you raise your fist to knock on the door. Honestly you didn’t even know why you were here, you didn’t even like that sweater that much anyway you try to convince yourself. Still though you hear yourself knock three times before stepping back, half hoping the door never opens.

Unfortunately for you, the door swings open after just a few moments to reveal Blaise leaning against the door frame, handsome as ever.

He looks surprised to see you, which you suppose made sense considering you'd been avoiding him, but you can't help but notice the way the edges of his mouth slant upwards a bit at the sight of you.

"Uh hey," he says, clearing his throat as he tilts his head at you as if to ask what you were doing here.

"Hi. I lost my favorite sweater. Was wondering if I left it here." you reply awkwardly, just trying to cut to the chase.

It's clear that Blaise was expecting something else entirely and you feel your heart clench as a flicker of hurt flashes across his face before he turns quickly to survey his room.

"Uh no, I don't think so. I keep it pretty tidy in here so I'd probably have noticed," he responds, his eyes not quite able to meet yours again.

You're about to say thanks anyway and hightail it out of there when a flash of color catches your eye. There, folded neatly on the nightstand was your sweater. Why on Earth would Blaise lie about not having your sweater, you wonder as your eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Without thinking, you push past the now also very confused boy and make a beeline for the nightstand. Picking up the familiar, but rather worn out sweater, you confirm it's yours before turning back to Blaise.

"This is my sweater," you tell him, lifting the evidence for him to see.

Blaise looks at you like you'd grown an extra head.

"No, that's my soulmate's sweater. It showed up on my bed one morning a few days ago. It's the only thing of theirs I've ever kept," Blaise replies, slowly as if it'll help make sense of the situation.

You just blink at the boy in front of you, wondering why he would claim your sweater belonged to his soulmate when you really begin to replay his words in your head. And the puzzle pieces finally begin to piece themselves together.

"Blaise. What exactly do you mean, 'it's the only thing of theirs you've ever kept'?" you ask, voice steady and eerily calm.

Blaise just looks at you lost, his brows furrowed in confusion.

"I don't know, I guess every time I've gotten an item from my soulmate, I've just sent it back right away. So they don't miss it."

"Send it back?" you repeat, your face dead pan as you finally realize what's been going on.

All these years thinking you didn't have a soulmate because this absolute tosser was too kind and considerate.

"Yes. Every time I get an item, I just lose it again so it goes back to them. So they don’t notice it was ever missing."

You raise an eyebrow, nodding along, waiting to see if the dots will connect for Blaise as well.

“So it’s like it was never miss-“ Blaise’s words trail off as his eyes widen slightly, realization sinking in.

It all made sense now. You knew you'd never seen that blasted quill before! And no wonder Blaise recognized it so quickly.

It really hits you then. You had Blaise's quill. Blaise had your sweater. You were soulmates.

You feel your legs grow shakey as you sit down on the bed, hands still clutching your sweater so hard your knuckles were turning white. Wordlessly, Blaise moves across the room, sitting beside you as you both stare straight ahead in silence.

“So you do have a soulmate,” Blaise exhales, finally saying what you’d been too afraid to.

“You’re my soulmate.”

“I’m your soulmate,” he repeats, though you can hear a slight tinge of satisfaction in his words. “And you’ve been avoiding me all week for no reason.”

You scoff a bit, crossing your arms in defense.

“I wasn’t avoiding you. I was strategically being in places you weren’t,” you reply indignantly.

“Still for no reason,” Blaise teases, his shoulder bumping against yours playfully as you feel your cheeks begin to heat up.

“I didn’t know that at the time,” you reply, shoving the boy back with a laugh. “Can’t believe you gaslit me into thinking I didn’t have a soulmate.”

“Pft. I was trying to be nice.”

“Mmm, you’re lucky I like you, ya know,” you say, smiling up at the boy.

You’d have thought finding your soulmate would be a lot more jarring. You’d always imagined it to be some big dramatic event when two soulmates finally came together. But you found that you liked this better.

“That mean you’re going to let me finish what I started?” Blaise asks cheekily, turning to face you.

“I don’t know. I told Daphne I’d meet her down by the Black Lake,” you reply, feigning innocence as you feel yourself being pushed further back onto the bed.

“Daphne is going to see her soulmate. I don’t think she’ll be terribly torn up if you don’t show.”

His lips are on yours once more before you have the chance to respond, and honestly, you’re okay with that as his hands slowly guide your head onto one of his satin pillows.

Daphne would have to wait, you decided your lips moving hungrily against Blaise’s.

You were making up for lost time.

You eyed him a moment before recognizing him as Prince Legolas. You glanced away. “Half.”

“Half?”

“Half-elleth.” You caught his look of surprise as he took in your features which greatly favored your elf father. Fortunately, your life expectancy took after his as well. “And Mithrandir, to answer your question.”

He chuckled. “That answers a lot of questions, actually. And where is the wizard now?”

You sighed in irritation. “Wherever he usually is, I suppose. Which is anywhere but where I need him the most.”

That got laughs from several of the guard and Thorin shot you a narrow-eyed look. “Do you know these elves?”

You smirked at your friend. “No, but I suppose they find my company more pleasurable than yours.”

“Cheeky elf,” Thorin grumbled though his lips twitched in amusement.

As you neared the palace and the inevitable meeting with the Elvenking, the conversation died away. Partly in grim anticipation, and partly in awe as you took in the world around you. The halls of the palace opened before you, carved into the very heart of the wood. Opulent and vast, possessing its own quiet beauty so vastly different to Imladris. Even the dwarves were taken with the halls around them.

“This way,” one of the guard said as he directed the Company down a branching corridor.

Ori stumbled, his eyes locked on the grandeur around him instead of where he was going. You caught him and he nodded his gratitude as you made sure he was steady on his feet. Thorin gave you a nod of thanks as well, though he should know by now you looked out for all of them as if they were your own kin.

Your mind raced as you neared the throne room wondering at the destiny of the Company. What did Thranduil intend to do with all of you? Before you could even guess at an answer, you were led over stone bridges and stairs until stood in a vast chamber. It was a masterpiece of elven design and at its center stood the throne, towering over everything around it. And upon it sat the Elvenking, his presence commanding, his form striking. Long hair like spun silver framed his regal face, and draped over a resplendent silver robe. Upon his brow sat a crown reflecting the branches and boughs of his kingdom. You gasped in surprise, never expecting him to be so beautiful despite the descriptions you’d heard.

His gaze moved over the company, cold and assessing. But when it landed on you, it was no longer indifferent. The chill in his eyes turned into something else, something that made your pulse race and your skin prickle. Something deep and intense that lingered far longer than it should but you couldn’t bring yourself to look away.

Finally, his focus shifted to the leader of your group. “Thorin, son of Thrain. I did not expect to see you here again.”

“Nor would you have to had your guard allowed us to continue on our way,” Thorin replied, defiance in every word. “What is your business with us?”

The king stood, every movement elegant and deliberate, his eyes never leaving Thorin. “Your presence is…unfortunate.” He paused and his gaze slid back to you with unsettling focus. “You trespass, yet I am merciful.”

“Merciful?” Dwalin spat. “To us?”

Thranduil’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I offer you freedom. You may go, all of you.” A pause, a beat of silence, then, “provided you leave the elleth behind.”

You sucked in a breath as every eye turned to you. The words hung heavy in the air. Seeing they surprised you as much as any of them, Thorin’s response was instant and fierce. “No. She is one of us. You cannot have her.”

The Elvenking’s laugh was a beautiful, bitter sound. “So loyal.” His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. “Would you rather rot in my dungeons?”

When you started to protest, a hand grasping yours quieted you. Dwalin pulled you back with a shake of his head. “Leave it,” he hissed.

Thorin’s gaze moved between the two of you before he looked at Thranduil once more. “Better to rot than to break faith with a friend.”

Thranduil arched a brow before nodding slowly. His face was unreadable though a flicker of something flashed in his eyes. He was calm, controlled, yet his interest in you remained unwavering. “Then to my dungeons you shall go,” he declared, gesturing to his guards. “We shall see how long loyalty keeps you warm.”

And that was the last you saw of the dwarves for many weeks.

While Thranduil held true to his word and had the dwarves placed in his dungeons, you were led to an opulent room with a comfortable bed. You were dressed as befit a proper elleth and more than once you joined the king for a meal where little was said beyond your pleas for him to release your friends with promises you would remain behind. For his part, Thranduil always seemed to be watching you, waiting for something and seemed utterly disappointed when it didn’t happen.

Most of your time was spent alone as you waited for something to change. You read. Paced. Laid in a bed you seldom slept in. Days flew by, each one much the same as the one before. Until the day you heard a commotion in the hall outside your room. Before you could ask the guard what was going on, the door swung open.

Thranduil stood framed in the opening, his composure cracked, his mask gone. It was a shock to see him so unguarded, so vulnerable, and even more of a shock to see the relief that washed over him when his eyes found you.

“You’re still here,” he said in a breath. “Did you know of their plans to escape?” The question an accusation and a plea.

You met his gaze steadily, unflinching. “How could I? You haven’t allowed me to see them, let alone speak to them, since the day we were captured.” Your words were bitter, short. Filled with the resentment you couldn’t help but feel at the thought they’d left you behind, though you knew they’d had little choice.

He searched your face looking for deception and found none. “I should have known,” he muttered to himself. He took a step closer and hesitated as a thousand emotions flashed across his face. Then, as quickly as he came, he turned away. The silence rushed back in to fill the space he left behind, but it was somehow even lonelier than it was before.

You didn’t see the king again until he announced you would accompany him on his journey to the mountain to reclaim from the dwarves what rightfully belongs to the elves. He ordered you placed in one of the wagons, afraid if given your own mount you’d disappear like your companions. Two of his guard rode beside the wagon to ensure you stayed where you belonged, their presence watchful and silent.

When you saw Thranduil, it was always at the end of the day when you were led to his tent to dine and find your rest on the cot he had placed on the opposite side from his own. Or early in the morning when you both rose, broke your fast and prepared for the day’s journey. His gaze followed you as the guards led you away until you were gone from his sight before going to find his own mount.

You didn’t understand your purpose. Why he brought you. He could have easily left you in Mirkwood. Or perhaps he meant to trade you for whatever treasure he believed Thorin would keep from the elves. Despite your friendship, you found it unlikely Thorin would make that deal.

Finally, on the last night before you made camp in the shadow of the mountain, you could take it no longer. “I don’t know why you brought me,” you confessed, hoping for answers.

And for a moment, you thought you’d get them. But he only studied you, eyes deep as the skies above your head, his expression unreadable. “You will, in time,” he said at last. Another beat passed. Two. “Stay close to my guards when we reach the mountain.”

The camp beyond your tent laid quiet. “Why?” you ask, the word meaning so much more than it seemed. Why did he want you to? What did he know? Why did he care?

“There will be danger.” He answered only the obvious, sidestepping your unspoken plea. “I would not see you harmed.”

You nodded in frustration. He looked at you a long moment. Studied you as if you were something precious, something he was afraid to lose. Finally, you turned away, faced the wall of the tent and pretended to sleep.

Thranduil had left you guarded in his tent since you’d arrived at the final destination, your promise to remain with his guard apparently not enough for him to allow you to roam beyond the flaps of your temporary home. You’d made your displeasure known by refusing to speak to him so you’d received no more answers to your many questions. And now you were afraid you’d never get the chance.

The world went from ordinary to chaos in an instant and you now found yourself engulfed in battle. A cacophony of screams and steel surrounded you as you fought, swift and sure. Yet it was never enough as orcs crashed around you. There was no sky, no ground, no respite. Only bodies, blood and blades. You weren’t certain when you’d become separated from the guards, if they even still lived, but now you fought alone, growing weary and desperate.

Orcs were everywhere. An unending flood of enemies. Their blades crashed against yours until you shoved them away with the desperate grace possessed by your father’s people. You sliced, stabbed, cut them down any way you could. You fought with everything you were, but you could not fight them all.

An orc charged toward you, monstrous, larger than the others. Time slowed, stretched as his weapon arced above you, prepared to deliver the fatal blow.

Then Thranduil was there. He moved like light, like the wind, and intercepted the blow meant for you. His swords flashed, lethal and precise as he dispatched the orc. As he saved your life. You stared uncomprehending as your world narrowed to the figure before you. To the king who fought like a man possessed.

“Why?” you pled even as you spun to stop another blade, to end another life. “Why risk yourself for me?”

His eyes met yours briefly in the chaos. “I have dreamed of you,” he finally confessed. “My entire life, you have haunted me.”

You could not breathe. Could not think. His words crashed over you, more devastating than any blow you’d yet taken in the battle. You were his soulmate? It was impossible. You would have known.

“Have you not seen me?” he asked, his voice heavy with yearning, as you fought side by side.

You shook your head, unable to do more. You had no answer for him. No truth that would make sense of his claim.

“You are my dream.” His voice broke as surely as his heart. “My curse. My constant.”

As he slayed the last orc in the group that had charged the two of you, there was a brief lull. He turned you to face him, hands on your arms as he studied you.

“I had never seen your face before that day in the throne room,” you managed, the words a confession, an apology.

He swallowed before drawing you closer and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. The gesture, so filled with emotion, with longing, stole the breath from your lungs. “Be careful.” He whispered the plea then he was gone, leaving you with the echoes of his confession.

When you next saw Thranduil, he rode astride a great white elk, a beast that you had seen only in your dreams until that moment. The image seized you, an echo of all the dreams you’d ever had of the soulmate you thought you’d never find. The battle raged around you as the pieces fell into place. He cut through the enemy lines, regal and relentless. The motions the very ones that had danced in your mind since before you could remember. His twin blades flashed with deadly precision as the majestic beast carried him forward with grace and fury. He was your vision brought to life. Everything you never let yourself hope to find. You lost sight of him again as you turned back to the relentless horde, more determined than ever to survive.

It seemed like days before the chaos calmed and the battle ended. The elves swept across the field, ending the few orcs that still breathed and moving their brethren that needed to the healing tents. You’d fought to save the Company. The Durins were injured but breathing. You’d done the duty charged to you by the grey wizard and now you sought your reward.

You spotted him at last, his form unmistakable as he dismounted from the great elk and issued commands. You ran through the chaos, closing the distance in a blur. You didn’t give him a chance to brace before throwing your arms around his neck, clinging to him, afraid he’d disappear if you let go.

He stiffened in surprise as you collided with him but then his body relaxed in your hold. One arm wrapped around your waist as the other hand found the back of your head to keep you held tightly against him.

You pulled back just enough to see his eyes, just enough to lose yourself in the wonder you saw there. He studied you, searching for the reason, for what had changed between you.

“I never saw your face,” you explained, your words tumbling in your joy as you smiled. “I only saw a regal form upon a white elk. I have found you.”

His expression transformed as confusion gave way to realization. To a joy that mirrored your own. “I had given up hope.” His voice was raw with emotion.

“But I had not. And I am so glad it is you.” You laugh through your tears, filled with the joy that can only come from finding your soulmate. Finding the one destined to be your perfect match.

Since childhood, the stories of soulmates had been the stuff of wonder. The whispered promises of destiny, the golden bands glowing on your grandparents’ hands. Their tale of meeting, falling in love, and living a life so tightly bound it seemed nothing could shake them was a family legend. You’d grown up watching that love, seeing it every time your grandfather kissed your grandmother’s knuckles or the way she still smiled like a girl when he walked into a room. That was the dream. The goal.

And now it was here.

The battlefield below still smoldered, but up here, on this rooftop, your heart thudded with something greater than adrenaline. You’d felt it in your bones the moment your ring flared with gold. The certainty and completion as the truth of fate settles over you. Your soulmate. 

Superman. Clark Kent.

You’d always known of him, of course. His name carried like thunder. And in the hero circles of Metropolis, his secret identity wasn’t truly a secret. You’d known the man as well as the myth. You’d wondered, in idle moments, what kind of soulmate the universe would choose for him. Never once had you thought it could be you.

Until now.

Your eyes locked with his. The glow on your finger pulsed warm. “It’s you,” you breathed, your chest so tight it almost hurt. A smile stretched your lips, trembling with the enormity of it. “Clark, it’s…you.”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them, nerves pouring into relief. “I honestly never even thought it could be you, but I’m pleasantly surprised. I mean, everyone knows you’re incredible, Clark. You’re kind, strong, dependable, and I like to think I’m nice, too, so maybe this is perfect? I always thought about what it would be like, what kind of life we’d live, and now—”

You froze.

Because the look on his face wasn’t joy. It wasn’t wonder, or tenderness, or the soft awe you’d seen a thousand times in your grandparents’ story.

It was anguish.

“Clark?” you whispered, the light in your voice flickering.

He stepped back a half-pace, his jaw trembling. “I… I can’t.”

The words sliced the air clean.

“What?” you asked, voice cracking, your smile faltering into confusion.

His eyes glistened, anguish carved deep into his expression. “I’m with someone. I have been, for a long time. Lois and I—” He shook his head, as though the very thought of saying this to you was a wound. “She’s the love of my life. I’ve built something with her, something I’ve fought for. I’ve made promises. I’ve… I’ve planned to propose.” His voice broke there, ragged. “I can’t throw all of that away. Not even for this.”

The rooftop felt colder. The gold on your finger seemed to mock you with its glow.

You blinked, stung, the words tangling in your throat. “But Clark… this isn’t just something random. This is the universe. It chose us, doesn’t that mean something?”

His face twisted, pain etched into every line. “It means everything. That’s why this hurts so damn much.” His voice cracked, raw. “But I’m not just Superman, or some symbol of fate. I’m a man. A man who’s already chosen. And I can’t betray that choice. Not even for destiny.”

Silence strangled the rooftop.

Your chest caved in as you whispered, “So what was the point? For the universe to give me hope just to rip it away?”

His shoulders shook as he whispered back, “I don’t know. But I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

The glow at your hand shuddered and then seared black, the golden ring consumed in ink. Cold fire shot through your veins, stealing your breath. You gasped, staggering under the weight of it, the sudden emptiness in your chest so profound it hollowed you out.

Clark’s face crumpled as the sound of your breaking heart thudded in his ears, a rhythm he would never be free of. His hand twitched at his side, as though he wanted to reach for you, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Instead he turned, cape snapping in the wind, and rose into the sky. With him, he carried every promise he would never keep.

You stayed behind, alone on that rooftop. The inked ring on your finger still burned. And the dream you’d carried your whole life, the one you’d built from bedtime stories and daydreams, lay shattered around you, irreparable.

❥❥

It’s a year and a half later, in the Watchtower’s briefing chamber, the holographic display glowed with the shifting red patterns of the Injustice display, each pulse marking another suspected sighting of the Injustice League. Every time the team closed in, the trail went cold.

“They’re not hiding behind tech,” John Stewart said flatly, arms crossed as his ring projected a swirling green overlay across the map. “I’ve scanned for anomalies and  nothing. Whoever’s covering their tracks knows magic.”

J’onn inclined his head, his deep voice calm but weighted. “It is more than cloaking. They are erasing presence itself. Even my telepathy can’t find a trace.”

Diana exhaled sharply through her nose. “Then they have a mystic strong enough to blind both man and god. We’ll keep chasing shadows until we find someone who can read what our tools cannot.”

Strategies began tumbling across the table. John suggests contacting Zatanna, J’onn weighing Constantine’s reliability, and Diana noting the potential delays of relying on outside allies. 

Clark had been silent, listening with a tight jaw. Finally, his voice cut through the discussion.

“…I know someone.”

The table quieted. Heads turned.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

Clark’s shoulders shifted under the weight of every gaze. He kept his tone even, professional. “A vigilante. Independent. She can track energy signatures: human, mystical, artificial. If anyone can follow the Injustice League’s trail, it’s her.”

Barry leaned forward. “Then why didn’t you mention her sooner?”

Clark’s eyes flickered downward. He could hear your heartbeat even now, faint but unmistakable, buried beneath memories of the rooftop. He forced his tone steady.

“We have a difficult past,” he said at last. “An…altercation that won’t be easy to move past. But she’s capable. More than capable. If we want results, she’s the League’s best option.”

The silence that followed wasn’t just thoughtful, it was suspicious. Bruce studied him for too long, Diana’s gaze softened, and even J’onn’s eyes held a quiet knowing.

Superman rarely faltered. But now, everyone in the room could see the strain in his face. There was something unique about the connection you shared with Superman, but no one would push for now.

❥❥

The night air was sharp against your skin as you crouched on the roof, your focus trained through binoculars at the warehouse below. Your case had nothing to do with the League. It was yours, private and controlled..

But you felt him before you heard him.

Even without the bond, even after it burned to ash, there was still something. A faint tether, cruel and fraying, humming at the edge of your awareness whenever he was near.

So when Superman’s boots touched the concrete behind you, his voice gentle as he said, “We don’t mean to scare you,” you didn’t even flinch.

“I already knew you were there,” you murmured, lowering the binoculars, your eyes never leaving the street below. “I’ll always know.”

The words hung in the air like smoke, meant for him alone. He stiffened.

Clark cleared his throat, searching for steady ground. “We—”

But the crack in his voice gave him away, and the silence that followed twisted too tight.

Bruce stepped forward, his presence steady as stone. “We need your help,” he said, his tone clipped, professional.

J’onn added, his voice a calm counterpoint, “The Injustice League has found someone who cloaks their movements. Magic. Strong enough to blind us. We cannot track them.”

Your eyes flicked at last, sweeping across the group. Diana stood poised, calm as always. J’onn was unreadable, but purposeful. Bruce’s eyes lingered on you, sharp and appraising. And Clark, he couldn’t even look at you directly, his jaw tight, his shoulders taut.

You exhaled slowly, masking the ache with skepticism. “Why me? You’ve got Constantine. He loves this kind of thing. You know, cigarettes, trench coat, disaster follows.”

Diana smiled faintly at that, but it was Bruce who answered.

“Because Constantine isn’t you,” he said flatly. “You come highly recommended. The best at following energy trails, mystical or otherwise. And you’re the one we’re here to see now.”

Your gaze cut to him. For the first time tonight, there was something other than pain in your chest, recognition. The detective in him recognizes the one in you. A silent nod of respect passed between you, quiet, but it held.

Clark shifted closer to you, his voice tight as he started approaching you.  “It’s dangerous work. We haven’t figured out the scope of what they’re planning yet. Don’t take it lightly—”

You moved to counter each of his. Not away quickly enough to be obvious, but carefully, naturally. Slipping to stand near Diana instead, gesturing toward the warehouse as though the movement had nothing to do with him. The space between you stretched, pointed, and deliberate.

“We’re all always in danger, Clark,” you said evenly, finally meeting his eyes. Distrust swam in yours, shadowed by the memory of his rejection.

He faltered, mouth opening, then closing again. The look on his face was too raw, too full of guilt to be hidden.

Bruce noticed. J’onn noticed. Diana noticed, and with the glances, an unspoken acknowledgment rippled through the group: something was off here. Very off.

Bruce cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “We’ll brief you fully on the Watchtower.” His eyes met yours again, steady. “This won’t be easy. We need your eyes.”

You swallowed, then nodded once. “Fine. For the people.”

The words were clipped, professional. But beneath them, everyone could feel it. There is an undercurrent of something jagged, broken, and unresolved.

And as you gathered your things, you made certain once more: every time Clark tried to step closer, you slipped just out of reach. Always natural. Always deliberate.

Always reminding him of the distance he’d created.

❥❥

The Watchtower’s briefing chamber pulsed with light as the holographic map stretched across the table, red energy trails blinking out into silence.

J’onn’s voice was steady. “Every time we approach, their presence vanishes. The mystic they employ is strong. Stronger than any we’ve faced together.”

Diana added, arms folded. “If they can conceal themselves this thoroughly, it’s only a matter of time before they strike where we cannot follow.”

You leaned forward, fingers brushing the controls. “Not entirely true. Glamours like this are messy. They don’t erase, they smear.” You worked quickly, layers of energy peeling back until faint trails emerged. “See? They routed through Blüdhaven, Gotham, then here.”

The room froze.

Barry’s jaw dropped. He leaned toward John Stewart and mouthed: ‘What the hell?’

John only gave a tight shrug, though his eyes flicked to you with something that looked a lot like respect.

“Impressive,” Diana said warmly. “You’ve seen what none of us could.”

Your lips quirked, but before you could respond, Clark shifted. His throat bobbed. His eyes stayed locked on the projection like it might save him from looking at you.

“Good work,” he managed, voice careful. Too careful. “We needed that.”

J’onn tilted his head, watching the way your shoulders tensed the moment Clark’s voice entered the air. His eyes narrowed faintly, but he said nothing.

Your gaze flicked his way, just long enough for the tension to spark, then away again. “It wasn’t that hard,” you said smoothly, deliberately casual. “Anyone with training could’ve done it.”

Clark’s mouth pressed thin, his jaw working.

Barry’s eyes ping-ponged between you and Clark, his brows furrowed. He leaned over to John again. ‘What is happening now?’

John muttered under his breath, “Later.”

You kept speaking, professional, crisp. “I can keep unraveling their trail, but if I push harder, their mystic will know. That puts all of us at risk.”

Clark shifted again, a quick, stressed sound escaping him before words followed. “Then maybe you shouldn’t—”

“I can handle myself,” you cut in, sharper than you meant to. The room stilled at the venom within your voice. You rolled your shoulders back and steadied your voice. “But you’ll need safeguards ready in case they bite back.”

For a moment, silence stretched too long. Even Diana’s brow creased as her eyes flicked between you and Clark.

That was when Bruce spoke, his tone smooth and grounding. “Then we build them.” He looked at you, steady, unwavering. “You and I. Portable wards and defensive tech that we’ll use to reinforce the Watchtower while we’re at it.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his certainty. He saw your skill and valued it. He was surprising you more and more. Your lips twitched, a small, almost reluctant smile. “Sounds like you’ve been waiting for an excuse to overhaul your security anyway.”

The faintest glimmer touched his eyes. “Always.”

Clark finally looked up. His eyes met yours for a split second. Raw, pained, guilty, before darting away again. His shoulders hunched as though the weight of the silence might crush him.

Barry threw his hands in the air, whispering to John now, “Seriously, what the hell?”

This time, even Diana’s lips twitched, though her eyes never left the two of you.

Everyone could feel it. The tension, the ache, the wrongness.

But the group knew better than to push the Man of Steel. And they didn’t know you well enough to ask those types of invasive questions. So they’ll observe for now, give both of you the space you need to work through whatever it was that happened. 

❥❥

The meeting had technically ended, but the tension hadn’t. The Watchtower’s briefing room hummed with the fading energy of the holographic displays, the air still thick with unsaid words.

On one side of the room, Diana and J’onn flanked Clark, their voices low.

“Clark,” Diana began gently, laying a hand on his forearm, “you don’t have to force yourself through this mission if it’s… difficult. No one here will think less of you.”

J’onn nodded, his voice resonant and calm. “You are carrying more than one weight, my friend. The marriage, your life as Clark Kent, and the expectations of the world. If you wish to step back, we will understand.”

Clark’s throat bobbed. His eyes flickered once across the room, just for a heartbeat, landing on you before darting away again. His jaw tightened.

“No,” he said, sharper than intended. Then softer, almost pleading. “No. Lex is involved. If he’s tied to the Injustice League, I need to be here. I have to shut him down.”

Diana’s eyes softened, understanding but unconvinced. J’onn’s gaze lingered with quiet suspicion, the kind that said he knew there was more beneath the surface. But neither pressed further.

On the other side of the room, Barry had cornered you with John Stewart and Bruce nearby, listening in.

“So, okay,” Barry said, words tumbling out fast, hands waving for emphasis, “say I go top speed around the world. Would the trail just be one giant blur? Or would it layer? Like, would you see each lap stacked on top of the other? Because if so, we could probably make the world’s coolest sketchpad drawings. Like cosmic Etch-a-Sketch. I’m talking record-breaking drawings.” 

You blinked, then laughed; genuinely, brightly. The kind of laugh you hadn’t let yourself feel in months. “Barry, if you want to try it after the mission, I’d be more than happy to see what that looks like. Just promise not to knock me over in the process.”

Barry grinned, wide and boyish. “Deal!”

John Stewart shook his head but couldn’t hide his smile. “I can already tell this is going to be chaos.”

Bruce didn’t laugh, not exactly, but he did watch you. The way your laughter softened the lines of your face, the way you lit up when you spoke about your abilities instead of hiding behind them. The corner of his mouth tugged, almost imperceptibly.

“You adapt quickly,” he said.

You arched a brow, meeting his gaze without hesitation. “Comes with the job. Surveillance, wards, detective work. You either learn to keep up or get left behind.”

His mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Then you’ll fit right in.”

You tilted your head, lips curving. “Careful, Batman. Sounds like an endorsement. I thought you didn’t hand those out.”

“I don’t.” His tone was dry, but the look in his eyes sharpened. “Not unless they’re earned.”

Your grin widened just slightly, a glint of amusement sparking. “Good. I’d hate to think you were going soft.”

Barry’s eyes went wide, and John raised a brow, turning towards each other to ensure they saw that incident. 

Barman didn’t flinch. “Don’t worry,” he said, voice like gravel, smooth and certain. “I’m not.”

The beat that followed was weighted, the kind of silence that carried heat. Your pulse picked up, thudding against your ribs. His, too.

Across the room, Clark stiffened. He’d heard it. The hitch in your hearts, the subtle change in rhythm when your eyes locked. The warmth rolling off you both, the quiet hum of attraction was undeniable to his senses.

And it hit him like another rooftop all over again.

❥❥ 

You crouched over a half-finished device, carving a rune with a precision blade. “If you overload the circuit before the inscription settles, you’ll fry the channeling array.”

Bruce’s voice drifted from across the table, low and steady. “I wouldn’t.”

You smirked without looking up. “Wouldn’t or  didn’t know you could?”

When you glanced up, his eyes were already on you, sharp and amused in that way only he managed. “Both,” he said simply.

Your lips twitched, but the retort stalled as your thoughts caught up with you. When had this started, this progression between the two of you?

It had been subtle at first, but with all the hours either spent working in close quarters or talking on the phone when you both had your own cases to go back to

But sitting here now with his gaze steady on you, it felt like something more.

You slid the finished ward across the table. His hand reached out at the same time as yours, fingertips brushing as neither of you pulled back immediately. The air shifted, heavier, warmer.

His eyes caught yours, dark and unblinking. You didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

“Careful,” you murmured, voice low, sharper than you intended. “You keep looking at me like that, I might think you actually enjoy this.”

Bruce’s mouth curved, subtle but unmistakably dangerous. He reaches a hand up to brush a hair away from your face as he murmurs just for you to hear, “Who says I don’t?”

The words hit like a spark in dry tinder. Your pulse jumped, your throat dry. For a heartbeat, it felt like the space between you might collapse.

And across the Watchtower, Clark froze.

There it was again, the stumble of both your hearts syncing in the same moment. But it wasn’t just that. His eyes had caught the exchange when he entered the room to check on progress: the way your bodies leaned just slightly forward, the invisible tether pulling you closer, the silence between you charged with heat.

Clark knew those signs. He’d lived them. He’d built a life with them. He recognized the shape of two people orbiting each other, pulled by gravity they couldn’t ignore.

And it for reasons he doesn’t know, it bothered him more than it should.

❥❥

Bruce had been watching you for days. He didn’t mean to, but old habits died hard. And patterns? Patterns screamed at him.

You were sharp as ever when working a case, but when the adrenaline bled away, the cracks showed. The way you rubbed at your sternum absentmindedly, like trying to ease an ache beneath the skin. The exhaustion in your eyes that no amount of rest seemed to cure. The way your hands sometimes trembled when you thought no one was looking, quickly fisted tight as if to hide it.

To anyone else, it was nothing. But Bruce knew better.

He’d seen sickness born of grief. He’d studied the rare consequences of broken bonds. And when he put it all together, the conclusion hit harder than he wanted to admit.

So when the workshop quieted and the others left, he finally said it aloud.

“You’re distracted.”

You gave a small, humorless laugh, still focused on stacking etched wards. “Guess I’m not hiding it as well as I thought.”

Guess I’ll have to be direct. He set down the device in his hand, leaning his weight against the table as his eyes fixed on you. “I know about the bond.”

The air seemed to vanish from the room. You froze, your back stiffening. “…You know?”

“I put it together after the rooftop,” Bruce said steadily, getting ready to lay out his evidence like it was a case. “The black ring and the way you can’t stand too close to him without flinching. The tension every time his name comes up. I’ve seen enough to know what it means.”

Shame burned hot in your chest. “So you know I was his.”

Bruce’s gaze softened just slightly. “You were. And I know he walked away.”

Your breath hitched. The dam cracked. “Then you know what that does to someone.” Your voice shook despite your best efforts. “It’s like the universe won’t let me forget. Like my own body wants me to pay for something I didn’t choose. I wake up aching. Breathing feels wrong. And no one ever talks about it. How it gets inside you and eats at you, because no one wants to admit the universe can be that cruel.”

Your voice cracked. “And the worst part? I keep thinking it’s my fault. That if I’d been enough, or more, then Clark wouldn’t have—”

“Stop.”

His voice was firm, but not harsh. You blinked up at him, startled by the sharpness in it.

Bruce pushed off the table, stepping closer, his presence grounding. “It’s not your fault.”

You shook your head, tears burning your eyes. “You don’t know that—”

“I do,” he interrupted. His jaw tightened, his voice low. “Because I’ve seen it. I’ve studied it. And I’ve lived my own version.”

Your breath caught. “Yours?”

He nodded once. “Years ago. I never met them. Never knew their face, their voice, or their laugh. One afternoon, the bond turned black. Death. Gone before I had a chance.”

He takes a slow breath, maintaining eye contact with you. Allowing you to see a side of him few ever did. “And I needed to understand, so I learned everything I could. Every exception, every outcome. Including this one, bond sickness. The weight it leaves in the one left behind. Rare, but real.”

You withhold the urge to scoff at the word ‘rare’. You both know what it means. The most compatible soulmates are the only ones that deal with bond sickness. It’s why no one talks about it, since those types of bonds have long thought to be a rumor, a fairy tale to tell kids. You both know better though, and you can’t help but feel grateful that Bruce didn’t say it aloud. 

His eyes searched yours, steady and unwavering. “I know how heavy it is. And I know it’s not a punishment you deserve.”

The tears spilled then, hot and unrelenting. You turned away, ashamed, but Bruce stepped forward and caught you, his arms wrapping firm and certain around your shoulders as he pulled you into his chest.

You sagged into him, the sob tearing free before you could swallow it down. His chest was solid, his scent warm with leather and faint smoke. His hands were gentle and protective, holding you like you were something worth protecting.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” he murmured to your ear, voice displaying a rare softness. “Not anymore.”

And for the first time since the rooftop, you let yourself collapse. For the first time in years, Bruce Wayne decided someone was worth catching.

❥❥

The Watchtower doors hissed open. Clark stepped inside, meaning to update Bruce on intel.

Then your voice reached him. Raw and shattered. It was a nasty habit Clark had picked up since you’ve started working with them. He automatically tuned into your voice whenever he has the chance to hear it. And how he wishes he didn’t..

“It’s like the universe won’t let me forget. Like my own body wants me to pay for something I didn’t choose… and the worst part? I keep thinking it’s my fault. That if I’d been enough, Clark wouldn’t have—”

Clark staggered, hand braced against the door frame. His stomach lurched, bile rising. He had thought the rejection cruel enough. He hadn’t realized it would scar you from the inside out.

And hearing Bruce’s voice steady and soft, “You don’t have to carry it alone”, it broke something in him.

He had wanted to believe he’d done the right thing. That Lois was his anchor, his choice, and his life. But now, all he could hear was the echo of your sob, and the truth that he had inflicted. A wound the universe itself refused to let you heal from.

It made him sick.

❥❥

The Watchtower’s mission table glowed with streams of energy signatures. You tapped through them, your fingers sweeping across the holographic interface as if peeling layers of fog off the world. With the Watchtowers defenses finally appropriately upgraded to the rigorous standards of both you and Bruce, the mission could make some genuine process.

“There.” Your voice cut clean. A thin, pulsing thread of corrupted magic glimmered under your guidance. “They’ve been covering their tracks with a glamour, but it leaves residue when it brushes against places of power. They routed through Blüdhaven and Gotham before disappearing again.”

Bruce, standing beside you, gave the smallest nod. “You were right.” He pulled a small device from his belt, one of the prototypes you’d been working on together. “And the wards?”

You smiled faintly, holding up your own modified gauntlet. “Built to withstand most offensive spellwork. They won’t last forever, but they’ll buy you enough time to hit back.”

The others exchanged glances. Seeing Batman and a vigilante mystic trading gadgetry like old partners was not an image they’d expected. Nor was it one they’re against. 

The team isn’t blind, they’ve seen the way you and the Dark Knight have been hovering around each other, trading glances, jokes and smiles like you’ve known one another for years. It was a pleasant change to see their comrade walk a bit lighter after the years of him resembling the weather of Gotham: dark and gloomy.

As the discussion continued, the maps shifting with every projection of risk, you leaned back. “The last piece of information we need is their benefactor—the one funding this operation. That’s who we have to cut off. And the only way to hear it firsthand…”

“…is from inside,” Bruce finished.

The word inside hung in the air.

You didn’t hesitate. “They’re hosting a gala. I’m the only one at this table who isn’t on every international broadcast or magazine cover, or already expected to be there. They’ll know you instantly. Me? I can slip in.”

Clark stiffened, the muscle in his jaw flexing. “That could be dangerous,” he said, and though his tone was measured, his eyes flickered toward John Stewart and J’onn for silent backup, an unspoken plea.

Before anyone could answer, Bruce cut in. “It’s the best option. She has the skills and the discretion. If we want results, this is how we get them.”

The decision settled. No one would argue with Batman once he’s made his stance clear, and none of them felt like he was incorrect.

You began gathering your notes, sliding equipment back into cases. “I’ll need to prep right away. If I’m going to blend in at that gala, I have to be seen beforehand. Shopping, salons, the whole performance. These women gossip in circles tighter than a noose. If they’re talking about me before I arrive, then I’ll be in their minds exactly the way I want to be.”

The room stilled. Your casual explanation carried the weight of a chess move ten steps ahead.

Barry let out a low whistle. “That’s… actually genius.”

Bruce’s eyes flickered toward you, lingering a beat longer than usual. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, causing a sense of triumph to run through you at getting a reaction from Bruce in public like that.

You smirked. “Try not to sound so surprised.”

Bruce’s mouth curved the faintest bit. “She’s right.”

Clark’s eyes dropped to the table, shoulders taut.

You turned to Diana, your tone shifting softer. “But I’d like you to come over while I’m getting ready. After I’ve done the rounds. It’ll help to have someone with better fashion instincts than me.” Your lips curved into something warmer. “Besides, it’d be nice to just spend time with you.”

For a heartbeat, Diana blinked, surprised. Then her smile blossomed. “I’d like that. Very much.”

❥❥

Your apartment hummed with low music as sunlight slanted across the floor. Shopping bags and tissue paper littered the couch from your afternoon of “being seen.” You’d already secured the whispers you wanted: a mysterious new face stirring curiosity.

Now came the part you were actually looking forward to.

“Are you sure this one isn’t too much?” you asked, holding up a deep sapphire gown.

Diana tilted her head, studying you with the same intensity she might use in battle. “Too much? No, you underestimate yourself. That color sings on you.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I usually dress for utility, not… this.”

Diana smiled, sitting cross-legged on the couch with a nail file in hand. “You sound like Bruce.”

You snorted. “God forbid.”

The two of you dissolved into laughter, the easy kind, warm and unguarded.

When it quieted, Diana’s expression softened. “You know, I don’t often get this. Sisterhood. Most see the tiara or the armor, but not me.”

Your chest tightened. “Yeah. I get that. Most see the black ring before they see me.”

Diana’s eyes warmed with something protective, fierce in its gentleness. She reached out, squeezing your hand. “Then they don’t deserve to see the rest of you. But I do. And I hope you’ll let me.”

The lump in your throat threatened to choke you. You squeezed back, smiling through it. “I’d like that. Sister.”

The word lingered in the air like a promise.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt the ache in your chest ease, not from romance, or from destiny, but from friendship.

❥❥

The Watchtower transport bay was quiet when you stepped inside, heels clicking softly against the metal floor.

Bruce was already there, suited in tactical black beneath a civilian overcoat that would blend into the gala crowd. His posture was relaxed on the surface, but you’d spent enough time with him now to recognize the subtle tension in his shoulders. He was waiting and it seemed like he was getting impatient as he starts tapping his foot. And then he sees you.

The sapphire gown clung in all the right places, the fabric flowing like water as you moved, shimmering faintly in the overhead lights. Your hair was swept back elegantly, every detail deliberate. Not the armor of a vigilante or the weary set of someone carrying grief. Tonight, you were radiant.

Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But his eyes swept over you in one long, deliberate pass, dark and unreadable — except for the sharp heat buried there. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, gaze snapping back to your eyes as if he hadn’t been caught looking.

You smiled faintly, something knowing and a little wicked. “Well? Do I pass inspection, detective?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, subtle but undeniable. “You’re going to shut down the room.”

A spark jumped in your chest at the gravel in his voice. You held his gaze a heartbeat too long, your pulse quickening.

Across the bay, Clark entered and froze.

He’d seen you in battle. He’d seen you broken. But he’d never seen you like this. Elegant, strong, alive. And worse,  the attraction between you and Bruce was unmistakable. 

Clark’s stomach knotted. Silent appreciation burned through him, you were stunning, he could not deny that. But the weight of guilt crushed it. That beauty, that strength, should have been his to cherish. Instead, all he could do was watch Bruce see what he had thrown away.

The transport bay filled as the team gathered for one last check-in before you went under. Holographic projections hovered above the table, casting shifting light across the steel floor.

“Security will be tight,” J’onn said evenly, gesturing to the glowing layout. “Dozens of cameras, layered wards, and more than a few high-level donors with private bodyguards.”

John Stewart’s ring flashed as he pointed out escape routes. “I’ll keep a bubble over the building in case things go south. You get into trouble, I’ll yank you out before they know you’re gone.”

Barry leaned back against the table, hands stuffed in his pockets. “And if anyone tries to tail her, I’ll make them dizzy before they can blink.”

It was all business. But the room wasn’t steady, not really.

Because every time Bruce spoke, you looked to him first. And every time you answered, he leaned just slightly closer, as though the rest of the League wasn’t even there.

“Stick to the perimeter at first,” Bruce said, voice low and even. “Make the circuit, get your bearings. Don’t go near the target until you’ve mapped the room.”

You nodded once, lips curving faintly. “Detective’s orders. I can follow those.”

Something unspoken passed in that glance, sharp and daring.

Clark noticed it all. He heard the quickening of your heartbeats when your eyes caught. He saw the subtle shift of your bodies leaning toward each other. Not enough for most people to clock, but obvious to him. He smelled it, too, in the air between you: the faint uptick in adrenaline, the almost imperceptible change in your pheromones, the markers of attraction most humans would miss.

And it gutted him.

Because it wasn’t just that you and Bruce were circling each other. It was that the universe itself seemed to be pulling you closer, bond or no bond. Fuck, he should have—

“Eyes and ears will be on you at all times,” Diana said, her tone calm but firm, reigning in Clark’s attention. “Remember, you’re not alone out there.”

You smiled softly at her. “I know. I can feel it already.”

Another laugh bubbled out of Barry, breaking the heaviness. “Just don’t forget us little people when you’re out there turning heads.”

You smirked. “I’ll send you a postcard from the champagne bar.”

The room loosened a little with the laugh that followed, even from Diana. But Clark’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Because he knew what Bruce was thinking. He could hear it in the way Bruce’s heart picked up when you laughed, see it in the way his gaze lingered on you too long.

And Clark couldn’t silence the truth screaming in his chest: He had broken you. But it was Bruce who was already helping you putting the pieces back together.

❥❥

The gala glittered like a thousand jewels under crystal chandeliers. Laughter chimed over champagne, the air thick with perfume, politics, and greed.

You stepped into the room, every detail of your appearance perfectly calculated. Heads turned immediately. The sapphire gown flowed like liquid midnight, your hair swept up to bare the curve of your neck, every step confident but not ostentatious. Exactly the kind of mystery these people thrived on.

You felt the shift ripple through the crowd as you passed: the whispered ‘Who is she?’ and ‘I saw her earlier gown shopping!’ The sidelong glances, the subtle maneuvering to get closer. It was working.

“Eyes on you already,” Bruce’s voice murmured in your comm, smooth and controlled.

“I told you,” you whispered back, lips barely moving as you accepted a champagne flute from a passing waiter. “These people are vultures for novelty. Give them something shiny, they’ll circle.”

On the far side of the ballroom, you spotted him. Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s favorite son, draped in a tailored black suit and his signature Brucie smile. Warm, charming, and just arrogant enough to sell the part. Beside him, Diana gleamed like marble brought to life, poised and effortless, her laughter like music.

Across the sea of glittering gowns and tuxedos, his gaze swept over you in a long, deliberate pass. Unreadable to anyone else, but to you, it struck low and sharp. A heat in your stomach, making your pulse stumble. You didn’t falter, but every nerve in your body hummed, aware of him.

Clark’s voice cut into the comm, taut, controlled. “Keep your distance from Wayne and Diana. Too much attention between the two of you could compromise the cover.”

You smirked faintly into your glass. “Relax, Boy Scout. I know how to play the part.”

“Then play it,” Bruce muttered under his breath, but his eyes hadn’t left you. A challenge, a game for the two of you.

Before you could retort, the doors opened.

A hush rolled through the room as Lex Luthor entered in a sharp black suit, his presence swallowing the space as easily as if he owned it. Which, in many ways, he did. Conversation tilted, laughter quieted, and all eyes angled toward him.

“Bingo,” you whispered.

Lex’s gaze swept the crowd, then landed on you. And he smiled.

It was the kind of smile that expected people to bow. You didn’t. You held his eyes, your expression politely curious, just amused enough to pique his interest.

A moment later, he was at your side. “New face,” he purred, voice warm but edged. “And one worth noticing.”

You tilted your head, offering him a small smile. “That’s one way to greet someone.”

He chuckled, clearly charmed. “Most women trip over themselves to be noticed by me. Yet you don’t seem impressed.”

You sipped your champagne, your voice light. “Should I be?”

His laughter rang louder this time, delighted. “I like you.”

The conversation flowed easily from there. You fed him just enough admiration to keep him preening, balanced with wit sharp enough to keep him intrigued. When he asked for a dance, you accepted, gliding into the center of the floor as the string quartet swelled.

Across the room, Bruce’s jaw tightened as Lex’s hand settled at your waist. The glass in his hand stilled, then found its way onto a passing tray. He turned smoothly toward Diana, the Brucie smile sliding easily into place.

“Care for a dance, Princess?”

Diana’s brow arched, amusement flickering, but she placed her hand in his. Together, they swept onto the floor. To the untrained eye, they were dazzling. Gotham’s billionaire and Themyscira’s princess warrior gliding as though they owned the space.

But you weren’t untrained.

You saw it. The way Bruce’s gaze slid toward you and Lex, sharper and too frequent for the role he played. His laugh came at all the right cues, his charm was impeccable, but beneath it, the simmering tension bled through in every glance. And every time his eyes brushed yours across the floor, something in your chest sparked, heat flushing your body with a flash of desire that had no business in this mission or the silent game Bruce issued. Yet, there it was, and the urge to prove something to Bruce about his own game.

Bringing your focus to Lex at the perfect time, you catch another one of his inflated-ego comments.

“Dancing with Lex Luthor is a privilege, you know,” he said, voice low, smug.

“Oh, I know,” you replied smoothly, “and I’ll be sure to remind myself if I ever get bored.”

He laughed, full and delighted. Hooked.

On the other side of the dance floor, Bruce’s growl was audible even through the comms. “I don’t like this.”

Diana’s voice was calm, teasing. “It’s working. Look at her, he’s completely distracted.”

Clark said nothing, though the tension in his silence weighed heavy.

Barry, though, caught the way Bruce’s jaw tightened. He smirked.

“Hey, Bats, relax. You know Lex only likes himself. She’s way too good for him anyway. I mean, look at that shiny dome, you could probably see your reflection in it. Maybe that’s why he’s so arrogant, he stares at himself all day.”

For the first time in the mission, Bruce actually barked out a genuine low chuckle. Clark snorted despite himself, as Diana let out a soft, amused chuckle.

And you, right in Lex’s arms, chose that moment to laugh too, the sound light and unguarded. To Lex, it sounded like you’d found his quip amusing. He preened. You smiled. Everyone else knew the truth.

Lex preened, smug satisfaction radiating from him.

Bruce smiled his Brucie smile, but you saw through it. You saw the simmer, the sharpness in his eyes when Lex’s hand lingered too long at your waist.

Something was brewing, and you had no idea of the storm that was coming your way. 

❥❥

The night air was cool against your skin as you slipped out a side door into the alley, heels tapping softly on the uneven pavement. The distant thrum of music and laughter from the gala was still audible, but here in the shadows it felt like another world.

Diana was already waiting, her presence regal even beneath the faint glow of the streetlights. Bruce joined a moment later, his tie slightly loosened, his mask of easy charm gone.

“Good work,” he said, voice low, steady. But his eyes didn’t linger on Diana, the found you instead.

You nodded, smoothing the fabric of your gown. “We’ve got enough to trace the money trail. Lex didn’t mean to drop it, but he wanted me impressed. Easier than I thought.”

Diana gave a small, approving smile. “Then it was worth it.”

As the beam from the Watchtower prepared to lock onto the three of you, Bruce shifted closer deliberately. His hand rested lightly on your lower back, warm and grounding, steadying you as the world dissolved into light. Almost as if he was trying to replace Lex’s touch. 

And then the weight was gone.

When you rematerialized in the Watchtower, the absence of his hand startled you more than the disorientation of the transport. For one breathless moment, you found yourself missing it. Missing the quiet pressure of his touch, brief as it had been.

You walked with Diana and Bruce into the debrief chamber, the others already gathering. Your and Diana’s heels clicked softly against the steel floor, the sound echoing as you moved toward your seats.

And then you looked up.

Bruce was already watching you.

The eye contact lingered, too long to be casual, too sharp to be ignored. Something unspoken pulsed between you, heavy and inevitable. A conversation waiting to happen.

You sat across from him, your posture calm, professional, as the debrief began. But your pulse betrayed you. And when his gaze dropped, just briefly, to the curve of your mouth before meeting your eyes again, your chest tightened with the certainty.

Something was brewing. And neither of you would be able to ignore it much longer.

❥❥

The debrief had ended, the team dispersing into different corridors of the Watchtower, each to their own duties or rest. You gathered your notes, the satin of your gown swishing softly as you rose. The weight of the night clung to you, not just the mission but the brush of Lex’s hand, the glances across the ballroom, and most of all, Bruce’s presence at your side.

When you stepped out into the quieter hallways, Bruce fell into stride beside you without a word. His hands were tucked into his coat pockets, his expression composed, but the air between you vibrated with something left unsaid.

Neither of you spoke at first. The corridor was long, hushed, the sound of your footsteps steady in sync. Finally, as you reached the hall leading to your quarters, he broke the silence.

“You handled yourself well tonight.”

You glanced at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I think that’s an understatement. I did incredible and saved the mission.”

“You’re right, I don’t know why the rest of us bother when you’re on the job,” he said, dry, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

You gave a small laugh as you both slowed as you reached your door. You turned to face him, expecting a nod, a brusque goodnight. Instead, he stopped too, his jaw tight as though he was weighing something.

Then his eyes lifted to yours, and his voice dropped lower, quieter, but steady.

“Watching you with Lex tonight…it bothered me more than I care to admit.”

Your brow arched. “Bothered you?”

“It shouldn’t have.” His eyes finally met yours, sharp and conflicted. “You’re my colleague. A… teammate.”

You tilted your head, hearing what he hadn’t said. “Technically?”

His hand flexed at his side. Then he stepped closer, the shadows of the corridor softening his expression. “Because I don’t want to just be your coworker. I feel more for you than that. Since meeting you, I’ve realized something I didn’t think possible, that I can fall in love again. That maybe I can have the kind of love soulmates are supposed to be. Overpowering. Fulfilled. Real.”

Your breath caught. The words, the rawness, the truth of it, cutting through every wall.

“Let me be that for you,” he said, barely more than a whisper.

Your eyes burned. Your lips parted. And softly, shakily, you nodded. “Yes.”

He didn’t wait. His hand cupped the back of your head as his mouth claimed yours, kissing you with the passion of a man starved for years. He pressed you gently but firmly against the door, protective even in his urgency. His palm cradled your skull, shielding you from the force of the impact, while his other hand anchored at your waist.

You melted into him. The ache of rejection, the sickness of the broken bond, all of it blurring beneath the certainty of Bruce Wayne’s mouth on yours.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, your heart didn’t ache. It soared as the world slowed.

Bruce’s lips softened against yours, the urgency giving way to something deeper, steadier. He pulled back only enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours. His hand was still cradling your head like you were something breakable, something precious. You are.

Your chest rose and fell, each breath shaky, your hands gripping the fabric of his suit as if letting go might undo everything.

He whispered first, voice low, gravel brushed with vulnerability. “You don’t have to answer tonight. Or tomorrow. But know this,”  His thumb brushed your jaw, the gentlest touch from the roughest hands. “I’m here. I won’t run. I won’t lie. If you let me, I’ll prove every word I just said. I would want for nothing more than to be yours..”

Your eyes closed, the burn of unshed tears pressing hot behind them. “Bruce,” you breathed, not sure if it was a plea, a warning, or gratitude.

He kissed you again, softer this time, reverent. A promise, pressed into the quiet of the corridor.

When he pulled back, his expression was steady, though his shoulders were still tense like a man holding back an entire storm. “Get some rest,” he murmured. “We’ve got work ahead of us.”

You nodded, still dazed, still tasting him on your lips. With a final squeeze of your waist, he stepped back. For the first time in years, the space between you and someone else didn’t feel like a wound.

You slipped into your quarters, leaning against the door once it shut, heart pounding for an entirely different reason than it used to.

This wasn’t the promise the universe had written for you.

But maybe, just maybe, it was better.

a/n: hahaha i was working on this throughout the week as well as equinox part 4, but i'm struggling with getting that out. instead i'm having thoughts of whole other ideas with different people instead of equinox. she'll be done though, eventually.

as always, i hope you've enjoyed. feel free to leave a like, comment or reblog, as they mean the world to me.

if things did not make sense, ignore it and move on, please and thank you. also keep an eye out for 13 nights of kink coming out in October.

taglist: thank you for everyone signing up! feel free to sign up here:

@Itszarinaig @Babypink224221 @notsochillnerd @mess-is-my-aesthetic @h-l-m

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You gathered the young hunter you were training, Lilal, as well as Jake near the training ring. You took out orange paint and gave them each the same insignia on their faces, the outline of a ikrans wings in flight. You reminded Lilal of her training and of how far she had come as you ran your finger across her nose and forehead.

When it came to Jake, you smiled stiffly to return the one he sent to you and tried to ignore his intense gaze as the dream you had last night came to mind.

“My dream last night was of us flying together. You will pass this rite today, Jake. No fear, strong heart,” you whispered so Lilal could not hear. 

He breathed in deeply, “I had the same one,” he muttered and you paused with your finger forming the diamond between his eyes. 

Before you could respond, Tsu’tey and the two other tributes rode up to you on Pa’li. “Are you ready? It is time,” he asked impatiently.

You nodded and looked at Jake who visually paled. “Strong heart,” you reminded him once more as you and Lilal moved to get Pa’li to mount.

“Easier said than done,” he grumbled.

You and Tsu’tey led your trainees and Jake high into the mountains and through the grotto that led to the ikran’s nest. Hundreds of ikran would be huddled together, perfect for the young hunter you were training, Lilial, as well as Tsu’tey’s teens, Saeyla and Ka’ani to find one to bond with. 

Jake had kept pace with your group all the way up the mountain, although you had caught him staring slack jawed in wonder a couple times at the scenery. You were impressed that he had managed the treacherous journey up without complaint, and his skills were better than what you were imagining. 

Your party emerged on the cliff face and you could hear the squawks and calls from the ikran as they flew around the air in front of you. All three teens looked at each other, nervous, but trying to be brave. Jake just looked like he was steeling himself before catching your eye. You nodded in encouragement, despite your better judgement.

“Lilal, Jake,” you called the two prospective hunters over to you as Tsu’tey did the same with his. 

“No fear, the ikran can smell it. You move fast, no hesitation, no wavering. Eywa will guide you. Do you have questions?” you asked.

Lilal shook her head, you had been preparing her for this for weeks, but Jake nodded. “Yeah, a lot actually,” he huffed out a laugh with no humor.

“What has Neytiri told you?” you asked, doubting the truth in his words.

“Uh, that I am ready for this, and that Ikran bond for life,” he recited as you waited for the rest. “Also that I would need this.” He held up a mouth-binder. At least he had that, you had noticed it at his waist before you left.

“That is all she told you?” Lilal asked, shocked as he met her eyes. He was looking even more nervous now.

“Yeah…” Jake was cut off. 

“Jakesuli will go first,” Tsu’tey called, and you noticed his group had broken up and were ready to move to the rookery. 

Tsu'tey smirked at Jake, expecting him to fail or die. You could not have that, but you also would not let him look weak. Neytiri was right. He was ready for this.

Jake bravely nodded, showing little fear, despite just saying he had no idea what to do. 

You followed him out onto the ledge, noting his tense shoulders. You wrapped your arm around his bicep to get his attention and stop him from rushing forward, as the Ikran roared when they noticed Na’vi approaching them. 

“Now you choose your ikran,” you instructed. “This you must feel inside. If he also chooses you, move quickly, use the mouth binder so he cannot bite. You will have one chance,” you warned.

“How will I know if he chooses me?” Jake asked tensely.

You cocked your head. You would have thought it was obvious.  “He will try to kill you.”

“Outstanding,” he muttered before moving forward.

The banshee’s eyed him as he approaches them but most fly off or back away,obviously not meant for him to bond with. You grip your knife, hissing at a purple ikran who gets a little close for comfort. Tsu’tey follows you both out to watch Jake’s progress.

Jake unravels the mouth-binder made from a serpent's hide as he attempts to approach several ikran, but they each took off.

Finally, a large blue and teal male turns towards Jake, glaring at him with fire in its gaze. The ikran roars and Jake cocks his head before letting out a hiss in return.

“Let's dance,” he challenged and shifted his weight back and forth between his legs.

“That moron is going to die,” Tsu’tey laughed with the others and you gritted your teeth, not wanting to tear your focus from the fight as Jake managed to wrap the binder around the jaws of the ikran and in its moment of confusion, jumped on the back of the beast.

You stepped forward, watching each second like it was moving at twice the speed. The ikran attempted to take flight, but Jake’s weight around its neck kept its balance off center. Your heart stayed in your stomach even as the others yipped and laughed at the struggle. Jake got his arms around the ikrans head, so close to being where he needed to be.

“Make the bond,” you yelled, frustrated that he was taking so long. You did not want to prove Tsu’tey right and have him die in front of you.

At your urging, he let go of the hold around its head and brought its queue around to make tsheylu. 

“Kehe,” you gasped, as he foolishly let the ikran headbutt him, the force driving him back and allowing it to buck him off and over the edge.

“Jake!” you screamed, running to the side only to see him gripping a root and still conscious. 

He swung himself up before you even had the thought to go help him and leapt at the creature, clamping his legs around its head as he grappled for purchase around its neck. 

Ka’ani whooped in excitement, but you were too nervous. “Tsheylu!” you urged, lowering yourself to a lunging stance as you watched on in equal parts impressed awe and worried horror.

His weight at the ikrans head had it lowering Jake to the ground, but he never let go, just clung on with all of his might. He managed to grab the kuru, yelling out in victory when he connected it to his. 

“Stop!” Jake ordered. You finally breathed out in relief at the bond and the ikran stopped thrashing around.

You moved to be in front of the ikran’s head now that it was safe to be closer. 

He said his next words so low and so quickly that you almost missed it, “That's right! You're mine,” he said cockily to the beast below him.

Jake slowly moved back and let go of the ikrans head after releasing the binder. He adjusted to riding on the back of a calm banshee and you surged forward, resting one hand on the beast's head and another on his thigh.

“Admit it, you were nervous for me weren't you?” he beamed from atop his mount, proud of himself.

You narrowed your eyes, but ignored him. “Go! The first flight seals the bond. You cannot wait,” you ordered, pushing them out to the cliff’s edge and backing away. Jake looked at you, eyes wide and questioning again like before, but you just nodded in encouragement.

“Think ‘fly’,” you suggested and he repeated the word out loud. You could tell he was not prepared for the instant reaction of his ikran as they both took off flailing into the wide open sky.

You laughed as he grappled for purchase and they left your line of sight. Ka’ani, Lilal and Saeyla laughed and whooped for the dream walker as you ran to your own ikran, Na’tu. 

Tsu’tey barked at them to stop and they quickly shut their mouths in submission to their teacher. You did not stop to address them though, you were too quick to mount Na’tu and take off into the sky, looking for your soulmate and his new ikran.

You found them a minute later, flying much straighter than you had seen them leave. You were glad to see he had figured it out. You were finding that he may be less of an idiot than you thought. He was still an idiot, but not as bad of one.

You let out a whoop as you got closer to let him know you were nearby. He looked around and your chest warmed at his excitement at the prospect of seeing you. You let out another yell when you got closer and his eyes finally found you. 

You locked eyes with the avatar as you flew around and beside him. Shooting him your first genuine and unrestrained smile which he heartily returned tenfold.

-

You ran a hand through Jake’s dreadlocks, straightening them out before gathering them together in the back. He sat in front of you as you were on your knees, the top of his back against your stomach while you leaned on him. 

You were in a home much different than that of the Omatikaya. The woven walls and a springy floor gave you no clue where you were, but the sound of soft, rolling waves made you realize you must be on the coast or among the reef.

“Tonowari said he wants me to bond with an ilu first. I tamed Toruk when I was 22, I think I can manage an overgrown fish,” he scoffed and you laughed at his pouting. 

“Maybe he is right, start small. You are not as young as you used to be,” you smiled, knowing it would rile him up. 

He turned towards you, making you drop his hair as he raised his brows. “Oh really, you wanna go there? I still can do this,” he reached an arm around you, knocking you off balance and allowing him to guide you into his lap. You shrieked as he peppered your face with kisses and eventually pushed him away. 

You playfully glared up at him from where he  cradled you. “If you are going to kiss me, Ma’ Jake, do it properly,” you tutted, pulling him down to your lips with a finger hooked around his necklace.

 “You’re right, as usual,” he said before his mouth met yours and he kissed you like it was the first time. 

You pulled away momentarily for breath. “Jake,” you murmured, pressing your mouth closer to him again as you felt his hands grip your hips. 

“Ugh gross!” a teenage voice complained. You separated from Jake to open your eyes and look who was there. 

Jake sighed, "impeccable timing as always, Kelyan.” 

You looked to the opening of the kelku and only saw a silhouette of a person, the light blinded you from making out a face. You blinked, trying to get your eyes to focus and when you opened your eyes, hoping for clarity, you instead found the top of Hometree as you laid in your hammock.

You clenched your fist and groaned as all of the information and visuals gave you a headache. Heat warmed your cheeks at the thought of his lips on yours and his hands on your body.

You had a lot more questions than answers this morning. Why could you never see your children like Jake apparently could? And what did Jake mean when he said he had tamed the Toruk? Maybe you were misremembering things. Surely Jake was not going to figure out how to do what only 5 other people had done in Pandora’s history.

-

He had approached you the night he passed his dream hunt, grasping your hand and backing you into a corner of the room with no one else around. 

“Congratulations,” you had whispered, feeling all the air leave your lungs as he smirked down at you. 

“Thank you,” he murmured. “Now that I am one of the people, Neytiri said I could choose a woman,” he said and you blinked back in response. 

You stiffened, preparing for the worst. Maybe he was going to tell you he had chosen someone else, to warn you to abandon hope for a future. But then you reminded yourself that those would be good things. It would take the decision from you, a decision you knew you were very close to not having the ability to make anymore. 

Your heart was already becoming his, with each passing day, with each vivid dream, he proved himself a strong warrior, a loving mate, even that he would be a good father one day. How could you resist what was chosen by Eywa?

“And who have you chosen?” you asked numbly, trying not to let your thoughts show on your face.

He cocked his head to the side, watching you closely. “Haven’t I been clear from the start? You, always you,” he muttered, stepping impossibly closer.

“I-” you started but he cut you off.

“I know you aren't ready yet, but I’m just telling you because I want you to take your time. I’ll wait for you, as long as you need me too.”

“Jake…” you murmured, shaking your head slightly even as your heart screamed in elation. That was the tipping point for you. The moment you realized there was no going back, he was already etched into your heart.

“You’re my dream girl… literally.” He smiled at his own joke and you affectionately rolled your eyes. 

Your gaze flicked down to his lips, feeling the pull to get closer to him. Your dream last night still lingered in your mind. His hard mouth on yours, the way he had held you like something to be treasured. You had to invoke your self restraint to not let him sweep you away in his current, especially because you knew how sweet it would be.

“What is it? Tell me,” he asked softly, even as you fought to gain any composure you still had. He could already read you like a book.

“I just… I-” you stuttered over words because there was no answer. You had no fight left when it came to him, only respect and love remained where there once was distaste. Of course, you still hated the sky people and what they did to your people, but now you knew Jake was right. He was different from them in every way.

“I see you,” you managed to finally say and his eyes simultaneously softened and lit with fire. 

“You do?” he asked hopefully as if you were going to trick him all of a sudden. 

You giggled at his uncertainty. “Yes, Jake. I see you,” you repeated and he smiled. 

“I see you,” he replied. 

He reached out to grasp your hand, holding tightly as you stood on the edge of the loud, robust celebration and it felt right, like you finally had something to celebrate. 

-

Then the time of more sorrow came. Bulldozers arrived, knocking down the Tree of Voices. One of the people’s most sacred connections to the ancestors, just gone. 

Scouts reported back that they had come as soon as the sun rose, machines too powerful to stop. You had sobbed in the upstairs common area that morning when you found out. Jake had wrapped his arms around you from behind as you cried and he had lowered you to the ground as the people wailed.

Eytukan started organizing a war party immediately, Tsu’tey would lead. You knew you would be picked to go, or if not, you would volunteer. Blood must be spilt for this. 

But instead of the same rage you felt, your soulmate just looked hopeless and afraid. He did not look like the cocky, brazen warrior you had come to know him to be. 

The people gathered around Tsu’tey, Eytukan, and Mo’at. Sadness morphing quickly into anger. 

“Ftang! Rutxe! (Stop please)!” Grace pleaded with the people as they released war cries. The people looked to her, sending glares at the dream walker. “Fìkem nì'ul kawng sìyi nì'aw (you will only make it worse).”

Tsu’tey’s lip curled, “You do not speak here,” he ordered. He turned back to the people, raising his arms. “Foti awngal tìyakuk, mì te'lan! (We will strike them in the heart)” he roared and your clan resumed their cheers.

Jake leaned in closer to speak to you after hearing Tsu’tey’s words. “I wanted to wait to tell you, but I think you need to know-” he started.

Your father stepped forward, eyeing the two of you critically. “What is this?” he asked, growing angry. He was a well respected hunter and warrior, but he was not known to be calm. The room quieted down as the people’s attention shifted to find Jake’s arms still wrapped around you.

“Sempul,” you started, taking Jake by the hand. You were tired pretending he was not who he was to you. You were done with being ashamed of him. “I know this is not who you wished for me, but Eywa has shown us visions, we bear matching tanhì,” you explained and your mother let out a cry of sorrow at the news. 

You pursed your lips at the sound, but your father continued as if he did not hear it. “Vitra muntxa… with a dream walker? Is this possible, Tsahìk?” your father asked, turning to Mo’at who took in the scene before her like it was a tragedy. 

“Come. Let me see you, child,” she beckoned you both forward and when you stopped in front of her, she took your chin in her hand. She looked over each of the tanhì on your face before doing the same with Jake. 

“They are the same,” she announced grimly and the people collectively gasped.

“It is as I said, we are soul bound,” you emphasized as Jake gripped your hand tightly.

“When did you have your vision, what did you dream of?” Mo’at asked, looking between you and Jake. 

“Nearly every night since I arrived on Pandora,” Jake admitted and you nodded. Mo’at’s eyes widened. 

“Mine started several rotations ago, they happen often. Always us together, there are children. In the dreams we have a family,” you added.

“This cannot be!” Your mother cried from where she was nestled to your father’s side, making a big show of being distraught.

You turned towards your parents, “It is the will of Eywa, I did not understand it at first either, but I have come to know him.”

“Then you know that his people are the ones who did this, they must pay. He must pay,” Tsu’tey pointed a finger at Jake and your hackles rose.

“No!” you demanded, “He is innocent.”

“Tsu’tey, don't do this,” Jake spoke up from behind you, stepping forward and letting your hand slip out of his grasp. 

“Silence,” Tsu’tey demanded, marching forward towards him.

“Listen, brother-” Jake tried again, but Tsu’tey shoved him down hard. 

“Kehe!” you yelled as Jake fell to the ground and Tsu’tey roared, “I am not your brother!” 

Jake quickly stood back up and tried once again, “Tsu’tey please, do not attack the skypeople,” you looked to Jake surprised at his unwillingness to fight back.

“The Omatikaya will die if you do,” he said, turning to meet your gaze as if pleading with you to understand. He turned to the people, “I am not your enemy. The enemy is out there, and they are very powerful!” He yelled, growing more desperate to have his words heard.

You backed away at what you felt to be a betrayal. He would not stand with you, did he think the Na’vi were powerless, too weak? You backed away as the men continued to argue, their words echoing in your ears but not being heard.

Your mother was at the edge of the crowd and came up to you when she saw your reaction. “Have you mated with him?” she whispered bitterly. You blinked, slowly tearing your eyes away from the argument. 

“What?” you asked, confused, processing her words slowly.

“Have you mated with him?” she hissed, her eyes glassy.

“No,” you admitted, shaking your head.

Relief filled her gaze. “Good, this can be fixed,” she assured you, but it only filled your chest with a prickly sensation. Everything was going wrong, your entire life was crashing down around you.

Both pairs of eyes flew to the center of the ring where Tsu’tey lunged again at Jake, “No more talking!” he bit out, knife suddenly in hand. 

Jake dodged his body, but missed the swing of his arm. “Jake!” you cried out as a line of blood swelled on his chest where Tsu’tey cut him. Your mother grabbed your shoulders, pulling you to her side as you fought the urge to surge forward and intercede.

He never pulled out his knife, not even to defend himself. You soon realized it was because he did not need it.

Tsu’tey did not let him recover, just threw a punch which Jake readily caught and returned, hitting Tsu’tey across the face and kneeing him in the stomach. You gasped at the brutality when Jake punched Tsu’tey so hard in the face that he spun around and fell to the floor. 

“Surely you were not meant for a vrrtep, look at the violence he is so comfortable with. This is their way, Ma’ite, not ours,” your mother muttered in your ear. 

You did not answer her as Jake started speaking, “I am Omatikaya. I am one of you.” Tsu’tey slowly stumbled up to his feet. “And I have the right to speak.”

He transitioned to Na’vi, a clunky sound coming from his mouth. “Lu aylì'u ngaru, (I have something to say). Ayngaru nìwotx, (To all of you).”

He breathed deeply. You noticed a sheen of sweat forming on his chest and forehead as he looked to you. You shook your mother off, stepping forward towards him. A deep, sinking feeling sat in your stomach.

“The words are like stones in my heart,” he continued, eyes boring deeply into yours.

He opened his mouth to speak, but as he did, Grace’s eyes rolled to the back of her head and she collapsed onto the floor. The people gasped as Neytiri crouched beside her and rolled her over. “Grace!” she exclaimed, but there was no response.

You looked at Jake, worried he would be next. “No,” he muttered, shaking his head and his gaze met yours. 

He took a deep breath, “okay,” he steeled himself. “Look, I was sent here-” but his words died in his throat as his eyes rolled back and he went limp. His body made a thud as he hit the floor and you were already moving. Your father reached out a hand to stop you, his iron grip around your arm halting you from reaching him.

Tsu’tey beat you to the body, standing over him and grabbing his kuru to yank his head back. “Se'a srak? Fìpo lu vrrtep a mì sokx atsleng! (You see? It is a demon in a false body!)” he ground out. You screamed in frustration, clawing at your fathers hand until he let you go, as Tsu'tey's knife rose to Jake’s throat.

“Kehe!” you screamed, tackling your lifelong friend to the side and scrambling back into a crouch over Jake’s prone body, your knife at the ready. 

Tsu’tey popped back up and went to continue his attack, but paused when he saw you. You hissed in warning from over Jake’s body, a hand digging into the grass by his arm. He snarled back, but backed away, going to Eytukan’s side to cool off.

The people slowly dispersed, your parents approaching to drag you away, but you merely hissed at them too, daring them to try. 

You did not move until Neytiri came up beside you and offered to help move him somewhere safer. She had grown fond of the dream walker too. 

Together, you dragged him to the edge of the room where a thick crop of moss grew and you carefully laid him on it. You sat on your knees beside him, smoothing the hair out of his face.

“Jake,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his closed eyelid, but he did not stir. It was eerie to see his breaths rising and falling but knowing there was no one truly inside. 

You sat by his side for hours until he finally blinked awake. “Jake,” you sighed in relief, pulling him to you in a hug as he sat up. 

“Woah, hey, I’m here,” he murmured, hugging you back tightly. 

“What happened?” you asked, not letting go. 

“They pulled me out, but we don’t have time. They’re heading here right now. They’re gonna take down Hometree,” he urged and you finally pulled away.

“What?” you asked in shock. 

“We have to go,” he repeated and pulled you up to stand. “Where’s Tsu’tey?” he asked. 

You tugged him down the spiral and found Eytukan and Tsu’tey discussing the battle plan. Grace fell in line behind Jake, evidently being awoken from her slumber as well.

“Ma’ Olo’eyktan,” you got Eytukan’s attention as the warriors stood up.

“Ma Eytukan, lu oeru aylì'u frapor, (Eytukan, I have something to say),” Jake said in Na’vi.

“Tìng mikyun (listen),” Grace urged from behind you. 

Eytukan nodded, “Pivlltxe, ma Jakesully, (Speak),” he ordered.

“Eo ayoeng lu txana tìkawng (A great evil is upon us),” he started, and the words caused your heart to sink even though you knew his meaning already. The truth of his words were what discouraged you.

He gestured to the sky, “Sawtute zera'u… fte fol Kelutralti, skiva'a! Skiva'a! (The sky people are coming… to destroy Hometree, destroy),” he stuttered, still learning the language. The people shifted on their feet, looking nervously at each other. 

“Au!” several shouted in anger at the words.

“Tell them they are gonna be here soon!” he begged you when he realized he did not know the words.

You turned to the group, “Pìyate fìtseng ye'rìn,” you explained and Jake jumped in again.

“You have to leave, or you are gonna die!” he demanded. You stilled, looking over to him. He wanted you all to just leave? To just let them destroy your home with no fight, without even trying. Maybe he was more of a coward than he seemed.

“Are you certain of this?” Mo’at asked, looking between you.

Jake hesitated, and you could tell it was because his words weighed heavy. 

“They sent me here to learn your ways. So one day I could bring this message, and you would believe it,” he admitted and your blood ran cold. 

“What?” you stammered, stepping away from him in disgust. “What are you saying, Jake? You knew this would happen?” Your lips curled slightly at the thought. 

He stepped closer, hands coming to rest at your shoulders as he searched your eyes for understanding. “Yes.” 

You pushed his arms off of you, a grimace making its way onto your face as he confirmed all of your fears.

“At first it was just orders. Then everything changed. I fell in love,” he smiled as he stepped closer and put a hand back on your shoulder, holding you still with gentle firmness. “with the forest, with the Omaticaya People… with you!” he confessed, but it all sounded hollow to your ears. “With you,” he repeated when you started shaking your head.

You hit his hands away from you, “I trusted you. I told you what you were and you said I was wrong!” you screamed, shoving him back so hard that he stumbled. 

“Trust me, please,” he pleaded but you barely heard it. 

“You lie! You are as bad as every skyperson!” you yelled, hitting his chest with the sides of your fists, but he stood there and took it.

“Please, I only wanted to-” he started but you shrieked at his words. 

“You will never be one of the people,” you screamed, stumbling back and turning to walk away. 

He betrayed everyone. He betrayed the Na’vi after they had taken him in and taught him your ways. He betrayed Neytiri who spent the last three moon cycles with him every day. He betrayed you and the promises he had made to you. He had said he was not like them and he lied.

When Grace had taught you that word, “lie”, you had not really understood it then. You thought that only humans would be dumb enough to not see through one. 

Now you knew you were the fool.

“Wait!” Jake called, taking several steps to follow after you, but you heard Eytukan command them to be bound. You finally released a sob at the betrayal, letting tears fall down your face as Ayana ran up behind you. 

“Are you okay?” she asked, but you did not hear her, too focused on getting out of the vrrtep’s sight. 

After Jake was revealed to be a liar, the fall of hometree was swift. 

In less than two hours, everything that you knew was gone. You had wiped your tears and taken up your bow with Tsu’tey and the other warriors. Jake had yelled your name when you passed by the place where he was bound alongside Grace, but you did not spare him a glance, just kept walking as you joined the others.

At Eytukan’s orders, you had set off for the ikran at the top of Hometree, ignoring Jake’s screams for you to stop, to run. The flames engulfing your home had licked at your heels on the way up and the explosions rocked your balance off kilter as you scrambled for purchase. By the time you and the others made it to the top, you could feel the steady swaying of Hometree. 

You had no time to sob, no time to scream for them to stop, only to run for your life, yipping for Na’tu to meet you as dozens of Ikran took off into the sky to escape the now falling tree. 

She landed in front of you as you saw Tsu’tey mount his own ride. You were relieved to see he would be safe. 

Na’tu took off into the sky as Hometree fell unceremoniously. It creaked and groaned as it toppled nearly in slow motion. “Kehe,” you muttered to yourself in sorrow, watching in terror as you saw people running for their lives below. 

You swooped down, flying over the area where people had once stood, but now only splinters lay in the grass. You were somewhat relieved to see that Grace and Jake were no longer tied up and bound to posts. A large limb of Hometree had fallen over the arch, crushing the area where Grace had been tied, but you could tell from the way the ropes swung frantically that she had been cut down, they both had.

You heard your name being called down below and you spotted Jake stumbling through the wreckage. He was screaming your name and it broke your heart to hear it. You did not stop for him, just kept on flying. You could not face the man who had indirectly murdered your people and burned your home quite yet. You would have to work up the courage before you faced your soulmate again.

-

“Sa’nu!” a little voice called, causing you to open your eyes and look for the child you knew by heart. 

“Yes, little Ta’ni. What is it?” you smiled, picking up the three year old and putting her on your hip, careful to avoid your stomach which was round with your second child. 

“Sempu said he would be back by now, but he is taking a long time,” your daughter complained, tugging on one of her short, black curls with a four fingered hand. She looked so much like Jake when she pouted, it made you smile.

“Should we go find him then?” you asked her and she clapped.

“Yes! Sa’nu, do you think he is in the river again?” she asked and you laughed. 

“Maybe, let us check there first.” you nodded. The two of you left your kelku and took the short path down to the stream where you had first met your mate all those years ago.

You found Jake there, as Ta’ni predicted, washing himself off after a long day hunting with his group. He had become Tsu’tey’s right hand after the battle that drove the RDA out, and he kept busy.

 “Sempu!” your daughter yelled.

Jake turned at her little voice, his face broke out into a wide smile at the sight of his family.

“There are my girls!” he exclaimed, wading towards you through the water. You stepped in ankle deep, a shiver going up your spine at the chill.

“How was your day, my heart?” you asked, as Jake stopped in front of you, pecking your lips before taking his daughter from you and holding her on his arm.

“Busy, the herds are turning west, away from the good grazing land, and Tsu’tey expects me to do something about it.” He scoffed at the stupidity of sturmbeast’s and you smiled. 

“They always turn west in the off months, give it time and they will find their way,” you encouraged him.

“Tell that to Tsu’tey,” he replied.

“I will tell Uncle Tsu for you, Sempu!” Ta’ni remarked cheerfully. 

“That would be just perfect, would you do that for me, babygirl?” he teased the chubby toddler in his arms.

“Yep!” she agreed. 

“Actually, Uncle Tsu sent something for you today,” Jake said, carrying her over to his bag which laid on the rocky shore. 

“Really? For me?” she asked, excited at the prospect of a gift.

“Yeah, all for you,” he nodded, crouching down to pull a little toy, painted orange and yellow. Jake flew it into Ta’ni’s hands, making her giggle.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It is toruk,” you explained, coming to stand beside Jake as he stood back up. “Your sempu flew with him to victory against the mean people who tried to take our land.”

“And did you win?” she asked curiously. 

“Yes, in some ways,” he nodded and she smiled.

“Because mommy and daddy were brave?” 

“Because you make us brave, babygirl. You brought us together,” Jake smiled, kissing your daughter’s forehead.

Your vision blurred and you swayed on your feet, grasping your swollen belly on reflex. “Jake,” you muttered, grabbing his attention. His brows furrowed as he stepped closer and grasped your hand. 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he demanded.

“I- I think I have to wake up now,” Ta’ni’s concerned face was the last thing you saw before you came to, gasping for breath on the ground below the tree of voices.

Neytiri looked up at the sound, obviously restless from the traumatic day before. “Another dream?” she asked numbly and you nodded. People were still asleep around you both, dawn just breaking under the arches. 

“Neytiri, you trained him, do you think it’s possible for Jake to tame Toruk?” you asked out of the blue and she stilled. Her jaw clenched at the sound of his name. 

“What did you see?” she pressed for answers, leaning in. You could not help but notice the bags under her eyes and the soil clinging to her braids.

“Just answer me,” you sighed, not willing to divulge your heart to her, the wounds Jake created were too fresh to rehash. Ash clung to the air and the elders whispered that Hometree still burned. 

“I do not know,” she stated, looking down at her hands, “If he made the right choices, if he went in with an even head. A week ago, I would have said it was possible, but now… I think Toruk would reject a traitor, that is weakness.” She spat the word with harsh condemnation.

“That is what I was afraid of,” you grumbled. You coughed as the dust you had breathed in yesterday stirred in your lungs again.

She looked up to you, her bloodshot eyes meeting yours, “Why afraid?” she asked.

“Because, my dreams are not a guarantee of the future. He could get himself killed pulling reckless stunts like that,” you said, tucking your knees in front of your body and resting your head on them.

“Why are you afraid for him? Let the betrayer learn his lesson. Eywa can enact vengeance on our behalf,” she gritted out.

Her words scared you, because as much rage as you felt in your chest and as upset as this made you, you could not live with yourself if he was dead. 

As soon as you woke up, all you could think of was telling Jake that your son’s name was Kelyan, because you realized you never got the chance to tell him. Or that you finally got to see your daughter's face and you liked that it looked like his.

“I am still angry at him,” you answered her, “but I still love him too.”

-

That evening, the clan gathered around the tree of souls, chanting and singing for hours. Your voice grew hoarse from crying and continued use.

Your parents had survived the fall of Hometree, but Ayana had not. Your young friend had been crushed under the trunk of her own home, the human’s fire burned away any remains. The Olo’eyktan had likewise been killed, impaled by a splinter through his chest. Dozens more were now with Eywa. 

You sang the old songs, pleading with Eywa to help you now. You prayed to the great mother to keep Jake safe, wherever he was. 

You asked for guidance for him, that Eywa would be with him if he dared try anything stupid, and a small part of you hoped that he would. If he came back, you would know he was not a coward, it would prove him right in some capacity and not all of this sorrow would be in vain. 

If he came back with Toruk… then you knew your dreams held truth. 

Throughout your entire life, you rarely had prayers answered as fast as this one. 

A shadow flew over the people, an orange blur in the sky made the people shriek and startle. Screams filled the air, but you did not join them. Only stood and turned to see Toruk with Jake on its back. Exactly as you feared, exactly as you hoped.

He dismounted and the people calmed, realizing the beast was not there to kill them all.

The crowd parted in two as Jake walked through them straight to you. Your breath hitched as his eyes met yours. He stopped in front of you, his head cocking to the side.

You stared up at him, unblinking as your mind ran through the events of the last week, but all came back to focus on him. “I see you,” you whispered through the hush of the people, eyes brimming with tears.

Jake smiled softly. “I see you,” he replied. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was afraid of what would happen, but I am not anymore. I’m in now, all the way,” he murmured so only you could hear.

You nodded slowly, mulling over his words. “I was angry, Jake. It blinded me so that I did not see you. I did not help you when you needed me. Forgive me,” you asked.

He shook his head, “No, don’t apologize. It’s not your fault, baby,” he called you the nickname he always used in your dreams and it felt like a full circle moment. Maybe one day you could ask him what it meant. 

“Is Grace-” you started, trailing off, too timid to ask about the whereabouts of the one they called Sa’nok.

“She’s okay, with Norm and the others,” he confirmed and you nodded. He cupped your face before he turned to the leaders watching from under the tree. Jake took your hand and climbed up the steps of the dais to Tsu’tey and Mo’at.

Mo’at backed away, Neytiri coming up behind her to comfort her mother, but Tsu’tey stood still, looking at Jake with fear clouding his eyes.

Jake stepped forward and you let go of his hand. “Tsu'tey of the Rongloa, son of Ateyo. I stand before you, ready to serve the People. You are Olo'eyktan, and you’re the best warrior. I can't do this without you,” He said to the Olo’eyktan in Na’vi.

Tsu’tey looked afraid, before he gathered his courage, glancing at the giant beast behind you and then back to Jake. “I will fly with you,” he agreed.

Jake nodded, shoulders lowering an inch in relief. “With your permission, I will speak now,” Jake requested. “You would honor me by translating.”

Tsu’tey nodded, gesturing to the people as Jake stepped forward towards the people. 

“The Sky People have sent a message that they can take whatever they want, and no one can stop them,” he started, eyes narrowed and fiery. 

“But we will send them a message,” he demanded. “Ride out, as fast as the wind can carry you, tell the other clans to come. Tell them that Toruk Makto calls to them! You fly now, with me, brothers and sisters! Fly! And we will show the Sky People… that they cannot take whatever they want! And that this... this is our land!” His voice held grief and conviction. 

His speech tugged new emotions from your heart, pride being the most prominent. You were proud to call this man your soulmate, that his heart was not one that ran or cowered. He would stand with you, even if it did kill you all, he would stand.

Jake reached for your hand, holding it tightly so you did not slip away again. You understood he needed you here by his side to support him through this. You raised your free hand and let out a war cry. He would fight, you all would.

The rest of the clan followed, ululating and starting to move. Jake tugged you forward and you ran with him to the toruk. You hesitated as he ran up its wing and mounted on with ease. 

“You coming?” he asked, teasing, but also maybe hesitant you would say no.

Your eyes softened, “I will ride with you,” you repeated Tsu’tey’s words, following his lead up the side of the great beast. He pulled you up behind him, winding his arms around the Toruk’s kuru’s as you wrapped your arms tightly around Jake’s middle.

The take off was bumpy, but the sight of a hundred Ikran’s taking off around you was beautiful. The people separated, veering off to the mountains, the plains, the sea, and the surrounding forests. You and Jake headed for the plains where you knew the Olo’eyktan, Akwey, trained fierce warriors. 

The flight gave you time with Jake that you realized was much needed.

“Our son’s name is Kelyan,” you said over the wind.

“Kelyan,” he repeated, testing the name in his mouth. “I like it,” he decided.

“Me too,” you smiled, as the breeze rustled your hair. 

“What dreams did you have while I was gone?” he asked.

“We should talk no more of dreams. They are the reason we met, but they are not the only reason I am falling in love with you. I want to spend time now with you,” you said, hoping he heard you clearly over the air rushing around you.

His hand gripped your arms around his waist and you knew he had.

“Okay, no more dreams. Just us in the here and now,” he agreed. 

“Tell me how you tamed Toruk,” you asked, laying your head on his smooth shoulder, and he chuckled. 

“Oh I see. Not much changes on a different planet, the girl still always wants the guy with the nicest car.”

You pinched your brows together. “What are you saying, Ma’ Jake?”

He shook his head and patted your arm, “Nothing, baby, I’m just joking.”

“You are already testing me,” you sighed, not really meaning the words. 

“Alright, alright! Well, I figured Toruk is the baddest cat in the sky. Nothing attacks him, why would he ever look up? So I came in from above,” he explained and you picked your head up. 

“That… is very wise,” you said, having never thought about it before. 

You could not see the proud look on his face, but you knew he had one. “I thought so too.”

“You are very wise, I am sorry I did not see it before,” you apologized again. “I know you will lead us to victory, even without the dreams telling me so.”

“I thought we said no more apologizing,” he shook his head.

“You said to not do it, but I will a few more times,” you smiled against his skin, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. 

He reached down and held your thigh that sat behind his. “Whatever you need to do, baby. As long as you’re mine.”

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You had been sick and weak for days, making it so that the Tsahìk had to be called and your mother did not let you leave your parents kelku, not that you could. You had missed the dreamwalker’s arrival two days before, but your friend Neytiri had come by to catch you up to speed and complain about her new pupil.

Because you had never met him before, his appearance shocked you deeply. You fully faced him with paused breath and wide eyed horror as you realized you actually did recognize him. 

The Na’vi people had a gift that the humans did not possess. Eywa gave the people of Pandora vivid dreams of their vitra muntxa throughout their life. It could be only once or it could happen often, no two people had the same experience.

Not every Na’vi that would have a mate, had a dream of them first, but many did. For couples whose pairing would be truly soul entwined, their freckles matched up perfectly, a sure indicator of a strong bond.

Dreams of your soulmate had plagued you nearly every night for years. Bright bursts of a strange looking man with five fingers and hair covered brows. You had pushed away the thought of your dreams ever becoming true, vowing to never allow yourself to mate with one of them, a demon. 

You had grown up attending Dr. Augustine’s school, you were familiar with dreamwalkers, but after the shooting that killed your classmates, including Neytiri’s sister, you had formed a hatred for them that burned down throughout your body. You wore it internally like white mourning paint.

“Actually, this is gonna sound crazy, but I think I saw you in a dream once,” he laughed bashfully and the sound tugged oddly at your ears. You had heard the sound before when you had been forced to endure visions of his humor. The sound in reality made a lightness in your chest, but you quickly tamped it down. Instead, you pursed your lips and glared harder at the man. 

“Do not laugh at that, it is not to be mocked,” you ground out and his smile dried up. 

“Right. Uh, well, my name is Jake,” he continued and you sighed, already exhausted that he would not take your hints, as obvious as they were.

“You do not know me,” you spat, making tsaheylu again with the Pa’li and remounting. His face fell as the direhorse burst into movement and you rode away from him.

-

Jake ran a finger down your nose, stirring you from sleep. You blinked awake, opening your eyes to see your mate smiling fondly at you where he laid on his side in your shared hammock. 

“Good morning, baby,” he said sweetly in nearly perfect Na’vi. 

You smiled, closing your eyes again and burrowing deeper into his hold. “Good morning, Yawnetu,” you murmured into his chest. His hand smoothed over your hair, brushing the strays back into place and away from your eyes. 

Little feet pattered across the kelku and giggles accompanied them. Your eyes opened again to laugh, “We can hear you, come out my little ‘angtsìk,” you called.

“Here she comes!” Jake called as a little voice squealed in delight from behind you where you laid on your side. You felt a tiny body using your shoulder and hip to climb onto the hammock and Jake reached over you to help her.

Jake said, “Hey, don't hurt mama,” but it was in vain as a sharp elbow dug into your side. The pain made you suck in a breath and you jerked awake. 

You gasped and sat up, immediately cradling your head as you processed the dream. 

This one had been so vivid, as if you were really there with him. His heat still lingered on your skin and the child’s laugh still rang in your ears. Now that he had been in front of you in the flesh, Eywa’s call was harder to ignore. This was torture, you decided.

Tears leaked down your face, in spite of your better judgement. You wanted that life so bad, to have a family and a soul bond with someone. But to embrace it with him would be to turn away from your people, your very way of life.

A man was not worth that, no matter how charming his smile or how handsome his face. No matter how bright your future was with him.

-

That night, you sat at dinner by yourself, not able to sit next to Neytiri and that demon after your dream. She sent you wary glances from across the fire, but you never returned them, too focused on eating your teylu and keeping your eyes away from the tawtute.

“Hey, Neytiri. Who is that?” Jake asked his teacher, nodding to the lonely woman across the fire. 

Neytiri followed his gaze and was surprised to see you. “That is Y/n, an accomplished hunter,” she explained.

“Huh, y/n…” he tested the name in his mouth and it sounded right. His eyes stayed glued on you as Neytiri asked more questions.

“Why do you ask? Did you meet her today?” she asked.

“Yesterday, out by the river. But I think I’ve been dreaming about her too. That sounds creepy-”

Neytiri stilled, “No, it is a sign from Eywa,” she gasped, leaning in towards him.

“A sign?” he restated, gesturing for her to explain. 

She rolled her eyes at his cluelessness. “Eywa sends us dreams about our vitra muntxa, our soul mates. If you are dreaming about her, then it is likely she dreams about you as well,” Neytiri explained, toying with the leaf in her hand.

“Really?” he asked in shock, finally tearing his gaze from you to look at her. “She acted like she hated the sight of me.”

“That does not mean she does not dream of you, Jake,” Neytiri chuckled.

“Wait- Soul mates?” he repeated, the words finally clicking, looking at her intently.

She nodded, “Yes, it is rare to dream about your soulmate more than once. The bond must be strong,” she noted and Jake’s eyes widened. 

“As soon as I arrived here, I‘ve had dreams about that woman nearly every night. Usually nothing serious, just joking around, flying together. But, sometimes I see kids, or see her when she’s old.” He shook his head and Neytiri smiled for your future of happiness.

“Eywa must have sensed your path here. You must certainly go talk to her, it is the great mother’s will,” Neytiri insisted.

“Now?” Jake asked, looking to Neytiri, surprised. In the little time he had known her, the chief’s daughter was hardly ever kind to him, she did not mince words or flatter anyone. If she was saying this to him, it must be something important.

“Yes! Go!” she urged, flipping her hand in your direction and Jake scurried up to his feet.

“Geez, I’m goin’” he grumbled, turning to find you again and awkwardly walking over.

“Hey,” he greeted you and you rolled your eyes at his interruption. “Can I sit here?” he asked, gesturing down to the empty space next to you.

“If you have to,” you grumbled.

“Okay,” Jake sank down into a crouch and eyed the room from your vantage point. You could watch every single other person in the room from this spot. 

“So… I heard we might be soulmates,” he started and the casual tone made you nearly choke on your food. 

He raised his eyebrows as you cleared your throat. Eventually you got out, “Who told you that?” you muttered.

“Neytiri. I told her about these dreams I've been having, she thinks you might be having the same ones,” he admitted and you sighed, of course. 

“I have…” you admit and his lips curved up into a smile. You quickly smash his hopes back down by saying, “but it can not be. Not while the humans kill and destroy my people,” you insisted, ripping a teylu in half as you crunched down on it.

Jake blinked, “But, I’m not like them,” he promised and you scoffed.

“You are exactly like them,” you established, staring into the fire.

He shook his head, a cocky smile lit his face. “ You don't even know me. Give me a chance.”

“That is not wise,” you replied, but his resolve only hardened.

“It is the will of Eywa according to Neytiri. You don’t listen to the great mother?” he challenged and your nostril’s flared.

“Of course I do, skxawng,” you gritted out, offended he would question your loyalty.

“Then prove it. Let me win you over,” he requested and you balked.

You did not reply, not sure what to say to that, and silence fell over the two of you. You stared forward and Jake stared at you, as your minds both ran laps around the other.

Jake finally faced away from you and you felt like you could breathe just a little easier. At least, until he finally broke the silence. “I think our daughter's name is Ta’ni,” he said quietly and you sucked in a breath. “But the boy, I’m not sure about, I always call him Ace in my dreams,” he muttered with a faraway smile.

Your eyes slowly traveled to meet his. You opened to him slowly, the topic of your future children softening your heart into sap. “I have not seen the boy yet, and not the daughter's face, just heard her laugh… and felt her elbow,” you grumbled and Jake’s eyebrows furrowed.

“I think I have seen just about everything,” he breathed out and your eyes turned glassy at the thought of there being more. Maybe you had only scratched the surface of your life with him, and that would be for the best. The more you knew, the more you softened to him.

“That is a curse more than a blessing, you will never get to experience it,” you said both as a reminder to him and to yourself.

“I think we will. Let me prove it to you. I’m gonna win you over eventually, just give me a chance,” he requested one more time. 

You sighed, finding only hope on his face. “Fine, you may try, but you will not succeed,” you warned. 

His smile cracked wide, “You won't regret it,” he promised.

“I already do.”

-

He was true to his word. Over the next month it started slowly. At first it was making a point to say hi and ask you how you were when he passed you on the spiral, or even going so far as to give you updates about his training.

“I shot an arrow today, it was pretty cool,” he noted out of the blue when you passed him under the arches of Hometree’s first floor.

You stilled your walk and looked back at him. “You shot your target?” you asked in clarification.

“Uh, no. I didn't say that. I mean, I did shoot a tree… just not the one I was aiming for,” he admitted. 

The bashful look in his eye paired with the way his ears flattened to his head made your lips curve up for a second at him. He was an utter skxawng and you both knew it.

His tail twitched behind him and his expression changed to one of smug victory before you realized you were involuntarily smiling at him and straightened your lips back into a grimace. 

“You will have to do better than that if you wish to win me over,” you gritted out and turned away.

“I plan to!” he yelled after you and you just rolled your eyes at his loudness. 

Tsu’tey was walking by and stopped at the noise. “What is he screeching about?” he asked you with a scoff.

You stopped again and shrugged. “Not a clue,” you answered. 

“He will die quickly,” Tsu’tey guessed and the thought made your stomach churn. 

Realistically, that option would be the best case scenario for you. He would be out of the picture and you would no longer be tempted to let him occupy any more of your mind. But the thought of him being gone... that scared you. You couldn't imagine why. 

“Perhaps he will give up soon and go back to his own kind. Let us pray it is in Eywa’s will,” you agreed.

-

Neytiri was the only one who knew about you two being connected via soul. When your friend, Ayana, arrived home from a hunt, she had guessed that something was up with you, but she thought it was to do solely with your hatred of the dream walker.

“He looks funny, like he is in a costume,” she laughed, watching the man step on someone’s foot during training as you both observed the training grounds from a nearby tree.

You analyzed his looks closely, “He does not look so different than us. He might be considered handsome,” you said, trying not to sound defensive. You were stuck with him in some sort of way after all.

Ayana looked at you in shock. “Surely you are messing with me,” she scoffed and you momentarily panicked. 

“No, I cannot have my own opinion about him?” you asked.

“Of course you can, as long as it is not in favor of him,” she grinned, turning back to watch as Neytiri barked orders to him and he hurried to do as she asked. 

“I passed by him last night and got a closer look, have you noticed he has nearly the same freckle pattern under his eye as you do?” she asked and you stilled.

“No,” you answered truthfully and your mind reeled at the meaning.

“Maybe he is your soulmate,” she teased and you froze at her joke. “Have you had any interesting dreams lately?”

You forced out a chuckle, “Every night,” you said.

“Pfft,” she scoffed and took your words as a joke like you hoped. “I would not envy you, if that were truly the case,” she laughed.

-

Eventually, Jake's advances increased to sitting beside you at meals, not saying much of anything at first. He would crouch beside you, crunching on teylu or fruit as you warily kept your mouth shut. But by the second week of silence, you gave in. 

“What did Neytiri teach you today?” you asked, sounding annoyed but feeling slightly curious in truth.

His head shot in your direction and he swallowed what he had in his mouth. “Uh, we went hunting again. Didn’t let me shoot anything, but she did force me to jump off of a tree,” he explained.

“I see you made it to the bottom,” you fought a grin at the grimace he had on his face and he scoffed.

“One way or another,” he cocked his head.

“That explains the new hair accessories,” you said, gesturing to where two leaves and even a small twig were nestled in the hair that had fallen out of his braid. 

He reached up and patted his head, pulling out most of the debris and sighing. “I’m not really sure what to do with all of this hair. Back on earth I would shave it when I got annoyed with it.”

“You need braids,” you noted, eating another teylu. 

“Yeah, hey, Neytiri said you’re a good braider. What do you say?” he asked and you shot him incredulous eyes. 

“I do not think that is a good idea,” you replied.

His eyebrows furrowed together in an expression that was very human. “You say that a lot,” he said.

“Because you do not have many good ideas,” you ground out before pursing your lips.

“You said you would give me a chance, and I know that Na’vi don’t say things they don’t mean,” he pointed out and you narrowed your eyes at your previous words getting thrown back in your face. “Wouldn’t it be in Eywa’s will?” he asked coyly.

You narrowed your eyes at his obvious manipulation. “I see what you are doing, but fine, if only to shut you up,” you begrudgingly agreed. 

Instead of making a big spectacle, or wanting to schedule another time so you could braid his hair properly, you finished your teylu and got up, expecting him to follow you without telling him. Maybe you would get lucky and he would cluelessly stay behind. 

You had no such luck as he shot up to his feet and stumbled after you, nearly jogging to keep up with your quick steps. You passed Neytiri and she gave you a knowing, satisfied look at having passed off her student for at least part of her day. You shot her a playful glare back to show you were displeased and she laughed.

You led him to your parents' kelku, telling him to wait outside as you ducked inside to grab beads and small leather strips to tie off the braids. You still kept a good bit of your stuff here since your hammock could not store things.

You headed back outside and ordered him to sit down on the thick branch below him. Your parents would not be back for an hour or two. You had time to do the lackluster braid you planned. 

You crouched beside him, ignoring the way your leg brushed the warm skin of his back or the way his breath hitched for a second. You grabbed the thick lock of fallen hair and combed through it with your fingers, starting the braid loose so it would not hurt his scalp. 

“I had another dream last night.” he said after a moment and your hands stilled before resuming motion.

“Me too,” you admitted reluctantly. 

“Tell me yours first, maybe they’re the same,” he requested. 

You sighed, “Okay, you were arriving back from a hunt, you looked to be a few years older than you are now. I was with child,” you said and his head shifted at the words. 

“You had a scrape, a sturmbeast got too close and I cleaned it for you. You touched my stomach, said that our child would be a strong hunter, like its mom. Then I woke up.” You left out most of the details, like how he had kissed you when he arrived back home or how your back hurt from the weight of the baby, or even how a nearly finished bassinet sat in the corner of the kelku and you knew on instinct that he had built it by hand. 

“That…” his voice choked and your heart stuttered at his tenderness. Even though you could not see his face, you could feel the emotion radiating off of him. “That is a good one,” he nodded and you finished the braid, moving to the other side to start another one. You originally thought to just do the largest section of free flowing hair, but you selfishly wanted to know about his dream. 

“Mine was different, but you were still pregnant, I think probably with the same baby.” He shrugged but continued, “your back was hurting, so Tsu’tey told me about this thing that helped with Neytiri’s pain. We eventually become friends I guess. Anyway, I got behind you and lifted your stomach and it made the pain go away. You were so excited about it that you made me kabobs and picked all this fruit for me the next day, trying to entice me to do it again, as if I wouldn't have done it for hours, all you had to do was ask,” he spoke softly. 

“Neytiri and Tsu’tey had a baby?” you asked excitedly, knowing your friend would be overjoyed at the prospect of children. 

He nodded, making your hands have to freeze so you didnt lose hair. “They had two by the time we had our first,” he said and you shook your head.

“Eywa blessed them greatly,” you smiled.

“Seems like Eywa blessed us too,” he corrected and you felt that was about all the emotions you could handle for the night without tipping over into the territory of starting to like him. You tied off his braid and stood.

He turned to look at you. “I have to… attend to Na’tu,” you quickly came up with an excuse. Using your ikran seemed flimsy, but you needed to get out of there.

“Right,” Jake nodded, “Hey, thanks for the braids,” he said as you started backing away.

“You are welcome, dream walker,” you said, turning to walk away. “Do not mess them up, I will not do them for you again,” you called over your shoulder.

“Yes ma’am,” he replied as you fled and ascended up to the top of hometree.

Part 2 here

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Saturday means the same coffee stand on the corner where the barista with the chipped purple nail polish starts making his drink the second she sees him coming. It means the farmer’s market under the green-striped awnings in the square, where he buys a loaf of crusty sourdough from the old Polish couple in stall fourteen and fresh eggs from the woman who always insists the yolks are brighter in spring. It means peaches if they’re in season, because one summer in Wakanda he had bitten into one so ripe it had run down his wrist and made him laugh out loud in the middle of a field, and ever since then peaches have felt like proof of life. It means flowers some3times, too, if the apartment feels especially bare. Something cheap and cheerful in a mason jar on the kitchen counter. Something that says a man can make a home even if he was taught for years he did not deserve one.

It is a good routine. A hard-won one. Bucky likes the honesty of it, the way these small rituals ask nothing of him except that he show up.

This morning, June sun already warming the pavement, his paper cup of coffee hot in his hand, he feels almost light. The market is crowded enough to buzz but not so packed he gets hemmed in. A violinist near the fountain is playing something bright and quick. Someone’s kid is trying to pet every dog within reach. The air smells like basil and strawberries and the faint yeasty sweetness of fresh bread.

Bucky buys his loaf first. Then tomatoes. Then a bunch of green onions. He pauses at the peach stand, testing one for give with his thumb, and decides they need another week.

By the time he reaches the citrus table, the vendor is rearranging pyramids of lemons in rough wooden crates, their skins bright and dimpled in the morning light. Bucky reaches automatically, already picturing chicken piccata for dinner, and another hand reaches at the same exact moment.

Your fingers brush his.

The world splits open.

One second he is standing in the farmer’s market with coffee on his breath and sunlight on the back of his neck, and the next—

Neon. Laughter. Chapel bells tinny through cheap speakers. Your mouth, painted the color of a ripe cherry, open on a breathless laugh. White satin clinging to your hips. A fake Elvis in a rhinestone jumpsuit grinning around too-big teeth beneath a plastic crucifix bolted crooked over the altar.

Bucky gasps.

The bag of lemons slips from both your hands and tumbles to the pavement, yellow fruit rolling in wild directions as if they’ve been startled too.

The vision doesn’t stop there. Visions of different lifetimes flash through his eyes like he’s watching the life of ten different couples all at once. 

A steering wheel under his palms, worn smooth with use. Summer wind through open windows. You in cutoff shorts, feet on the dashboard, singing badly and loudly while the road curls ahead of you like a dare.

White sheets. Lace curtains breathing in a warm midnight breeze. Gold band on your finger catching moonlight where your hand presses against his chest. Your mouth moving against his throat with a broken little sound that is half laughter, half prayer.

A rough cabin wall. Splintered pine under his palm. You in a wool shift with your hair braided down your back, cheeks wind-burned, smiling over your shoulder as foxes cry somewhere out in the dark and a baby sleeps in a cradle by the fire.

Smoke and jazz and blackout curtains. East London. Silk black as sin against your skin. Your hand catching his by the wrist before he can disappear back into the war.

A beach. Bright afternoon. Children shrieking at the tide. Orange drinks sweating in glass pitchers while he kneels in the sand with his sleeves rolled up, helping a little girl press shell fragments into the turret of a sandcastle, and you walk toward him laughing, sunlight at your back so fierce it turns you to gold.

Then all of it is gone.

The market snaps back into focus so suddenly it hurts. Sound crashes in—vendors shouting prices, stroller wheels rattling, the violinist sawing away by the fountain. Bucky stumbles backward a step. Across from him, you catch yourself on the edge of the citrus crate, looking exactly as wrecked as he feels.

Your eyes lock on his.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Bucky’s heart is pounding hard enough to bruise. “You saw that too.”

It isn’t a question.

In this world, everybody knows about soulmarks and first-flashes. Knows that when you meet the person your soul is tied to, memory can strike like lightning. Some people get a single image. A porch swing. A train platform. A hand in a hospital room. Some get a rush of several lives at once, enough to leave them reeling for days. Most people dream of it when they’re young. Spend adolescence looking at every stranger a little too long. Wondering when it will happen, if it will happen, whether the person on the other end of them is alive or halfway across the planet or just around the corner.

Bucky stopped wondering a long time ago.

HYDRA did not leave much room for destiny.

You swallow. “That was not normal.”

“No,” he says, voice rough. “No, that was… not.”

The lemon vendor is gathering the fallen fruit with admirable indifference, the kind that says he has seen stranger things at this market and will see stranger still. “You two need a minute?” he asks.

You make a sound that could be a laugh or a near-sob. “Maybe five.”

Bucky buys the entire bag of lemons because it feels like the least insane thing he can do, then follows you blindly toward the edge of the square where there’s a row of benches under a sycamore tree. The shade dapples your face when you sit, and for one unmoored second he knows the pattern of it. Not from now. From somewhere else.

He stays standing until you glance up at him and pat the spot beside you with a shaky hand.

“You’re real?” you ask once he sits.

He almost laughs. “I was about to ask you that.”

You rub your palms over your knees as if trying to ground yourself. You’re wearing denim shorts and a white tank top and sunglasses pushed up into your hair, and you look like someone who belongs to summer. Not delicate exactly, but bright. Alive in a way that makes Bucky’s ribs ache. “I know this is a weird question,” you say, “but are you going to tell me your name, or am I just supposed to keep calling you fake-Elvis-groom in my head?”

“Bucky,” he says automatically. Then, because he has spent years relearning how to offer the softer pieces of himself without flinching, he adds, “James. But people call me Bucky.”

Your mouth curves, the first real smile since the vision hit. “I’m glad to know at least one of us looked better in Vegas.”

He huffs out a breath that is almost a laugh. “I looked good.”

“You looked reckless.”

“That too.”

You tell him your name, and the moment it lands between you something in his chest settles with a frightening kind of certainty. Not because fate says so. Not because the universe stamped your names together in some cosmic ledger. Because the sound of it moves through him like recognition. Like stepping into a room he did not realize he had been trying to get back to his whole life.

For a while neither of you says anything. The market hums on around you. Somewhere nearby, a dog sneezes. Someone drops a crate. Bucky stares at the paper sleeve around his cooling coffee and tries to swallow around the strange thickness in his throat.

“I’ve heard of people getting strong first-flashes,” you say at last, quieter now. “But not like that. That was… a lot.”

“A lot,” he agrees.

You tilt your head toward him. “How many do you remember already?”

He thinks of the chapel. The truck. The bed with the lace curtains. The cabin. The club in London. The beach. “Six,” he says. “You?”

“Same.”

A breeze stirs the leaves overhead. It smells like sun-warmed bark and citrus oil.

“I don’t know what to do now,” you admit.

That, strangely, is what steadies him.

Because Bucky knows that feeling. Knows what it is to be handed something overwhelming and not know where to put it. Knows that survival sometimes looks like doing the next smallest thing instead of solving the whole impossible shape at once.

He glances toward the coffee stand, then back at you. “You want to start with coffee?”

You look at him for one long beat, then laugh softly, incredulously, like maybe you can’t believe that is the question that just saved you from bolting. “Yeah,” you say. “I think I do.”

So that is how it begins.

Not with thunder. Not with immediate declarations. Not with some cinematic collision that resolves every loneliness in a heartbeat.

With coffee. With your hand wrapped around a paper cup. With the two of you sitting at the edge of the market, dizzy on each other’s borrowed memories, learning the outlines of the present slowly enough to survive it.

He learns that you come to the farmer’s market most Saturdays too, though usually later. That you always buy flowers you don’t strictly need. That you live twenty minutes away in an apartment with bad plumbing and excellent light. That you work in graphic design and keep odd hours and have a weakness for peaches even when they’re underripe. You learn that he is in therapy. That he likes routine because sometimes routine is the difference between drifting and staying. That his apartment in Brooklyn is small but his windows face west and the light there in the evening is good. That he cooks. That he bakes bread when the weather turns cold because kneading something until it rises feels like a miracle he can participate in.

He does not tell you everything that morning. Not about HYDRA, not about the winter that lasted decades, not about the names he no longer answers to. But you do not push. Maybe because you can feel, in the strange echoing chambers of whatever ties the two of you together, that he has already been dragged open too many times to count.

When you part, it is almost noon.

You both hover awkwardly by the fountain, neither one wanting to be the first to say goodbye.

“So,” you say, shifting the bouquet of daisies and feverfew you bought somewhere along the way into one hand. “Do soulmate rules say we’re supposed to immediately move in together now, or is there like a grace period?”

Bucky smiles before he can stop himself. “I think there’s paperwork.”

“Tragic.”

He glances at the lemons peeking out of your canvas bag. “You still owe me half of these.”

You grin then, bright and quick and devastating. “That sounds fake.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But it’s a reason to see you again.”

Something softens in your expression. “Okay,” you say. “Then I’ll take the fake reason.”

He gives you his number. You type your own into his phone and hand it back, your fingers brushing his again. No flash this time. Just warmth. Just the sharp, impossible awareness of skin.

“All right, Bucky Barnes,” you say. “Text me when you want to split custody of the lemons.”

He watches you walk away.

At the corner, you turn and look back.

The city seems to hold its breath.

Then you smile at him one more time and disappear into the crowd.

Jesus Christ on a plastic sign

The Vegas lifetime comes back first.

Not all at once. In drips. In flashes that catch Bucky at strange moments over the next few days, as if the memory has been jarred loose and is still deciding how much of itself to reveal.

He is washing dishes on Tuesday night when he looks down at a ring of soap suds circling the drain and suddenly he is twenty-six—or thirty, or some other age in some other body—and the air smells like desert heat trapped in asphalt. He can hear slot machines from the lobby below the motel balcony and your laugh from inside the room, where the air conditioner is fighting a losing battle and you are standing in front of the cracked mirror pinning your hair up with bobby pins you bought from the gift shop downstairs.

“Tell me again,” you say, smiling at him through the mirror, “why exactly we’re doing this.”

Because you had met forty-eight hours earlier in line for dollar margaritas and spent the night talking until sunrise on the motel roof. Because you had missed your flight on purpose. Because he had looked at you over watery eggs in a diner the next morning and known, with the same bone-deep certainty he feels now on a Brooklyn Tuesday in a kitchen lit by one warm overhead bulb, that life was sometimes simplest when it was ridiculous.

Because you had asked if he wanted to get married as a joke and then kept grinning at him after he said yes.

“Tax benefits,” he answers solemnly, sitting on the end of the bed in his borrowed suit jacket.

You laugh. “Romantic.”

“Practical.”

“Liar.”

You cross the room barefoot, white dress swishing around your thighs. It is not really a wedding dress. It is a satin slip from a resale shop with a tiny champagne stain at the hem and thin straps that make him forget his own name every time he looks at you. You stop between his knees and hook your fingers in the lapels of his jacket.

“Tell me not to do it,” you whisper. There is laughter in your voice but something trembling under it too, a softness that asks to be taken seriously. “Tell me we’re being insane and I’ll call it off.”

He looks up at you and feels his whole impossible life narrow into one clean, brilliant line. “I think,” he says, resting his hands on your hips, “that if we don’t do this, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life wondering why I let the best idea I ever had walk out of a motel in Vegas.”

Your expression cracks open into something so nakedly happy it almost undoes him.

The chapel is tiny and tacky and perfect. The plastic crucifix is screwed above a velvet curtain backdrop. The fake Elvis officiant keeps winking like he personally invented love. You say your vows through laughter because your bouquet is made of silk roses that smell faintly like dust and the minister’s sideburn is half detached. Bucky can barely get the ring onto your finger because his hands won’t stop shaking.

Afterward, you run into the sun with your shoes in one hand, your new husband’s name in your mouth as if you were born to say it.

On the sidewalk outside the chapel, there’s a sign for a twenty-four-hour wedding package with JESUS CHRIST LOVES YOU printed above a blinking arrow in red bulbs, and the whole thing is so absurd that you double over laughing. Bucky catches you around the waist before you can fall.

“Mrs. Barnes,” he says into your hair, tasting the words.

You lift your face to his, eyes wet from laughing. “That sounds made up.”

“Probably is.”

You kiss him anyway.

In the present, water runs cold over Bucky’s hands in the sink. He blinks hard and finds himself staring at a plate gone slippery in his grip.

He dries his hands, sits on the edge of the counter, and texts you before he can think better of it.

Got another one. Vegas.

The reply comes so fast it is almost a breath.

me too

Then, after a beat:

did we really get married because the line for margaritas was too long and we needed something else to do?

Bucky smiles helplessly at his phone.

we were committed to the bit

You start texting every day after that.

At first it is practical. Did you remember this detail? Did the chapel carpet have stars on it or was that just me? Do you think the fake Elvis was secretly judging us? 

But the practical gives way to easy almost before either of you notices. He sends you a picture of a dog in a raincoat outside the bodega. You send him a photo of the flowers you bought even though your rational brain said you didn’t need them. He tells you when therapy goes badly. You tell him when work is making your eyes cross. By Friday, your name on his screen feels less like a surprise and more like the continuation of something that was already in motion long before lemons hit pavement.

The next Saturday, he finds you at the market before he reaches the citrus stand.

You are standing at the peach table, frowning at a fruit in your hand with the seriousness of someone evaluating a gemstone.

“You know those need another week,” he says.

You glance up and smile in a way that makes his whole body wake up. “I know. I’m being optimistic.”

“Reckless.”

“Wow. You meet one man in Vegas and suddenly he thinks he knows you.”

He laughs, and there is no fear in it this time.

You spend the morning together again. Coffee, bread, flowers. At the tomato stall your shoulder brushes his and warmth skates down his spine, but no memory comes. At the herb table he tucks a stray basil stem behind your ear and your breath catches, but still nothing.

It hits later, when the two of you are leaving the market and pass an old pickup truck parked crooked by the curb, windows down, classic rock spilling tinny from the speakers. You stop dead. So does he.

Your head turns toward him.

His chest caves in around a heartbeat that is no longer entirely his own.

Winding roads, doing manual drive

In that life, you are eighteen and everything feels enormous.

Summer stretches in front of you like a dare. The town is small enough to suffocate if you stay still too long, so you never do. Bucky has a beat-up blue truck with a sticky clutch and a radio that only works when you slap the dashboard in exactly the right place. He teaches you how to drive manual in the abandoned church parking lot at the edge of town, laughing every time the engine stalls because you keep popping the clutch too fast.

“You’re mean,” you tell him, gripping the steering wheel.

“I’m helpful.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“Because you cuss like my grandpa.”

You cut him a glare so ineffective it makes him grin wider. He reaches across the bench seat to guide your hand to the gearshift, his palm warm over your knuckles.

“Slow,” he says. “Feel it catch. Don’t force it.”

Outside, cicadas scream in the heat. The sun is dropping behind the trees, turning the windshield gold.

You try again. This time the truck lurches, shudders, then rolls forward smooth as breath.

“Oh my God,” you say, startled into laughter. “I did it.”

Bucky looks at you the way boys in movies are always supposed to look but almost never do in real life—like the sight of you happy is enough to rearrange his whole future. “Yeah,” he says softly. “You did.”

Once you know how, you drive everywhere with no destination at all. Back roads. County lines. Winding stretches of blacktop between soybean fields and creeks and gas stations with flickering signs. You drive because gas is cheap and the cab of the truck is a world no one else can enter. You drive because Bucky’s knee pressed against yours feels better than anything either of you have a name for yet. You drive because being young and in love can make movement feel holy.

Sometimes you pull over on the shoulder just to watch the sky bruise purple over the fields. Sometimes you kiss at red lights until the truck behind you honks. Sometimes you park at the overlook above the quarry and share a bag of gas station peanuts while Bucky tells you all the places he wants to see one day, voice gone soft with wanting.

“Anywhere specific?” you ask.

He shrugs one shoulder. “As long as you’re there.”

You laugh because you think he is teasing. Then you look at him and realize he is not.

The air changes.

He reaches up, pushes a strand of hair behind your ear with trembling fingers. “I know we’re eighteen,” he says, trying for casual and failing spectacularly. “I know people say that means we don’t know anything. But I know this.”

Your breath catches.

Behind you, the truck ticks and cools in the dusk.

“I know,” he says again, “that I could drive with you forever and never get tired of the road.”

Then he kisses you, and the whole wide summer tilts.

The memory drops away while a bus sighs to the curb and someone nearby curses over a jammed stroller wheel.

You are breathing hard. So is Bucky.

“That one hurt,” you say quietly.

He knows what you mean. Not because it was bad. Because it was good in the simple devastating way only youth can be. Because watching some other version of yourself love with that much unguarded certainty feels like pressing a bruise you didn’t know you had.

“You drove stick,” he says.

“I was bad at it.”

“You were terrible.”

You laugh then, startled and watery, and he thinks he would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound.

There is a diner half a block away with cracked vinyl booths and a waitress who calls everyone honey. He nods toward it. “Come on.”

“Is this where we process our cosmic psychic episodes now?”

“Pancakes seem medically necessary.”

So you sit across from each other in a booth smelling faintly of syrup and coffee grounds while the waitress tops off your mugs and pretends not to notice that the two of you keep staring. The market bag rests by Bucky’s boots. Your flowers lie across the seat beside you like a witness.

“You ever think about what it means?” you ask after a while.

He traces a thumb over the seam of his coffee cup. “The past lives?”

“The soulmate thing. Any of it.” Your gaze is steady on his. “Like… are we supposed to just trust that because we loved each other before, we automatically will now?”

Bucky is quiet for so long, the waitress comes by to ask if he wants more bacon.

When she leaves, he exhales. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I think maybe it’d scare me if it worked like that.”

You nod once. “Me too.”

Because obligation is not love. Because destiny without choice starts to look too much like a cage.

Bucky leans forward, forearms on the table. “I don’t want this to be automatic,” he says, surprising himself with the urgency in his own voice. “I don’t want you because of… cosmic paperwork.” Your mouth twitches at that. He presses on. “I want to know you. Now. Here. I want whatever this is to be because we choose it.”

Something in your face softens so completely it leaves him winded.

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat. “Then we do it the hard way.”

His mouth curves. “Dating?”

“Scandalous, I know.”

He looks at you across the table, sunlight striping the booth through the blinds, and feels a piece of his life click gently into place.

“Yeah,” he says. “Dating.”

The smile you give him then follows him home and waits with him through the week and sits with him at the edge of sleep. It is still there when he picks you up for your first actual date on Thursday, when you buzz him into your apartment building wearing jeans and a green top that makes your eyes look unfair, when he spends ten whole seconds forgetting why he came.

You cook together in his kitchen because restaurants feel like too much too soon. Lemon chicken. Roasted potatoes. Salad with too much parmesan because you insist there is no such thing.

It is simple. It is easy in the kind of way Bucky once would have distrusted on principle. You move around his kitchen as if you’ve already learned its shape. You lean against the counter and steal bites from the pan. You laugh when he pretends to guard the sauce from you and do not look startled when he laughs back.

After dinner, you help him wash dishes. After dishes, you stand by the open window drinking wine while the city breathes warm and loud below.

“I had a nice time,” you say, glancing at him over the rim of your glass.

His pulse kicks. “Good.”

“I’m serious. For a man who hoards lemons as a manipulation tactic, you clean up pretty well.”

He snorts. “I’ll put that on my dating profile.”

“You should. Honest branding.”

He smiles, and you smile back, and the air between you changes.

It is not sudden. Not violent. Just the slow, unmistakable tightening of a thread.

He sets his glass down first.

You do the same.

When he steps closer, you do not move away.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, because in every life he has ever loved you there has been want in it, but in this one he wants the shape of your yes more than he wants air.

Your eyes go soft. “Please.”

He kisses you carefully at first, because he is not eighteen in a truck anymore and he is not some reckless fool in Vegas with rings in his pocket and a grin too wide for his face. He is a man who has taken years to learn how to touch gently. Who knows what damage carelessness can do.

But then your hand lifts to his cheek and your mouth opens beneath his and the careful part of him turns molten.

The flash hits so hard he breaks the kiss with a gasp.

You are hit by it too. He sees it in the way your pupils blow wide, the way your hand clutches the front of his shirt.

“Oh,” you breathe.

The apartment falls away.

Early nights in white sheets with lace curtains

The room is small and gold with lamplight.

In that life, you have been married for six hours.

Your shoes are by the door. Your veil lies in a pearly heap over the chair back. Somewhere downstairs the last of the wedding guests are still laughing over cake and champagne, but up here the inn is quiet except for the tick of rain against the lace-curtained window and your own uneven breathing.

You stand with your back to Bucky near the bed, fingers trembling where they rest at your throat. The silk of your nightdress skims the backs of your knees. Your wedding band glints like a promise.

He has never seen anything more beautiful.

You are not delicate. Nor candlelight that makes you look like something painted. You are real in all the ways that matter most—nervous and wanting and trying to be brave.

You glance at him over your shoulder, and the vulnerability in your face brings him to his knees faster than reverence ever could.

“We don’t have to,” he says softly.

Your brows draw together. “I want to.”

“I know.” He steps closer, slow enough to stop if you need it. “But I want you to know we don’t have to do anything tonight except be married.”

Something in you loosens. Relief. Love. A tenderness so intense it almost aches to look at.

“I want to be married,” you whisper.

He smiles, cupping your jaw. “You already are.”

“No,” you say, eyes luminous. “I mean like this. Here. With you.” Your breath shakes. “I want tonight.”

He kisses you then, gentle enough to ask, deep enough to answer.

The nightdress slips from your shoulders a little at a time. He learns your skin by lamplight and fingertips, by the soft sounds you make when he touches somewhere that matters, by the way you cling to him when pleasure finally starts to outrun nerves. The white sheets twist around your legs. The lace curtains stir in the open window. Rain cools the room, but your bodies are all heat.

You are not shy for long.

He kisses his way down the column of your throat, your collarbones, the slope of your breast. Your fingers knot in his hair when his mouth finds your nipple and he sucks gently, then harder at the sound that tears from you. By the time he lowers you onto the bed your hair is loose around your shoulders and your face is flushed and he is so hard it hurts.

“Bucky,” you whisper, reaching for him.

“Tell me what you need.”

You laugh softly, dazed with wanting. “You. Obviously.”

He smiles against your mouth, then works two fingers between your thighs and nearly loses his mind at how wet you are for him already. Your hips jerk. Your eyes flutter shut.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “There you go.”

He takes his time because he can. Because there is no war waiting outside this room, no clock to race. Because after the vows and the music and the endless hands grabbing at you all day, he wants this moment to belong only to the two of you. He strokes you until your body learns the shape of pleasure under his hands. He brings you apart once with his fingers, your back arching off the bed, then again with his mouth until you are clutching the sheets and crying his name into the rain-soft dark.

When he finally settles between your thighs, braced on one forearm, your gaze on his is wrecked and certain all at once.

“You still sure?” he asks, voice gone rough as gravel.

You wrap a hand around the back of his neck and pull him down until your foreheads touch. “I have never been more sure of anything.”

He pushes into you slowly, giving you every inch with a care that feels like worship. The stretch of you around him steals the breath from his lungs. Your mouth opens on a gasp. He stills.

“Okay?” he whispers.

You nod, biting your lip. “Move.”

So he does.

Slow at first. Then deeper when your nails dig into his shoulders and you lift to meet him. The bed creaks softly. Rain taps the window. He kisses you whenever your face crumples with feeling, every thrust turning more desperate as your body opens for him. You cling to him, legs wrapped around his hips, whispering his name like a secret you intend to keep forever.

When you come, it is with your mouth against his throat and tears bright at the corners of your eyes.

He follows with his forehead pressed to yours, his whole body shaking with it.

Afterward, you lie tangled in white sheets gone warm and wrinkled around you, the lace curtains stirring like breath. He draws lazy circles over your stomach while you trace the line of his mouth with one sleepy fingertip.

“This counts as a successful wedding night,” you murmur.

He laughs softly. “Good. I was hoping.”

You turn into him, already half asleep. “Anywhere is home,” you whisper, the words blurred at the edges with exhaustion, “if you’re in the bed.”

He never forgets them.

When the memory releases you both, Bucky is still standing in his apartment with his chest heaving and your hands fisted in his shirt.

The kitchen light is too bright. The city outside the window too loud. He can taste you without ever having had you in this life.

Your face is flushed all the way down your neck.

“Well,” you say after a stunned second, voice frayed. “That was wildly inconvenient timing.”

He laughs once, brokenly, because if he does not laugh he might combust.

“You okay?” he asks.

Your gaze lifts to his, honest and heated. “Ask me in five minutes.”

He brushes his knuckles over your cheek, a touch so careful it is almost absurd after what you both just saw. “I mean it.”

“I know.” Your hand slides down to cover his where it rests against your face. “Yeah. I’m okay. A little overwhelmed. A lot turned on. But okay.”

Heat hits him hard and immediate. He closes his eyes for a second.

You laugh softly. “Right. Sorry. That was—”

“Don’t apologize.”

When he opens his eyes again, your expression has gentled. “Bucky.”

He knows what you are asking. Not just whether he wants you. That is almost insultingly obvious. You are asking whether he can separate memory from present. Whether he can stand in this kitchen and want what is in front of him without letting the weight of every before crush what could be now.

He answers by leaning down and resting his forehead against yours.

“I want this,” he says quietly. “But I want our first time in this life to be ours.”

Your breath leaves you in a rush. So does some tightness in his chest he hadn’t fully realized he was carrying.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He kisses you once more, soft and lingering. Then he walks you home because if you stay the night he is not sure either of you will survive your own restraint, and because there is something holy in wanting badly and still choosing patience.

At your door, you touch his wrist before he can step back.

“For the record,” you murmur, eyes warm, “that other us had very good taste.”

He grins helplessly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I get it now.”

Then you kiss him quick and disappear inside with a smile that haunts him for days.

The weeks that follow feel like being built from the inside out.

The flashbacks do not stop, but they become less like ambushes and more like weather—still sudden, still powerful, but no longer catastrophic. A scent, a sound, a patch of light can call one up. Sometimes you text each other in the middle of the workday with fragments: did you remember the red truck in the mountain life had one broken taillight? or I think Bucharest-you stole that robe from the hotel. Sometimes a memory arrives whole when you are together and leaves both of you laughing or aching or red-faced in its wake.

In between, you date.

Real dates. Present-tense ones.

You go to a bookstore in Cobble Hill and accidentally spend two hours arguing about whether people who dog-ear paperbacks can be trusted. You sit in the park eating takeout and watch a wedding party take photos under the arch. You make pasta in your kitchen and burn the garlic because you are too busy kissing against the fridge. You let him meet your friends, who like him immediately and try not to look too smug about it. He tells Sam about you over beers and gets stared at for a full ten seconds before Sam breaks into the kind of grin that means Bucky will never hear the end of this.

And slowly, because slowness is another name for mercy, you get used to the fact of each other.

One night in late July, you fall asleep on Bucky’s couch halfway through a movie. Your head ends up in his lap, your bare feet tucked under his thigh, the credits rolling blue light over the room. He does not move for an hour because the weight of you there feels too precious to disturb.

When you wake, drowsy and disoriented, you blink up at him and smile.

“There you are,” he says before he can stop himself.

The words do something strange to the air.

You sit up slowly, blanket slipping down your shoulders. “What?”

He swallows. “Nothing. I just—”

But then the memory comes, not violent this time. Gentle as smoke.

You see it in each other’s faces as it arrives.

Sleepyhead ’cause all the fucking foxes kept me awake last night

The cabin is barely more than one room and a stubborn prayer.

In that life, winter has a vendetta against you. The land is raw and half-finished around you—trees felled and stacked, fields only partly cleared, the nearest neighbors hours away by horse. Everything aches. Your hands, your backs, your hope.

And still, you build.

By day Bucky swings an axe until his shoulders burn and your tiny patch of earth starts, slowly, to look like something that might feed you come spring. By day you mend, cook, scrub, carry water, keep accounts in a little ledger with cramped neat writing, and somehow still find the energy to laugh when the hen gets loose again and wreaks havoc under the table.

By night you sit by the fire mending his shirts while he carves handles for tools and the baby—your daughter, round-cheeked and solemn—sleeps in a cradle made from wood Bucky planed himself.

It is not easy. God, it is not easy. There are weeks when the roof leaks and the wind gets through the chinks in the walls and your flour goes sour and the loneliness of so much open land makes your chest feel flayed raw. There are days Bucky comes in from the field looking so worn you have to bite the inside of your cheek not to cry.

But there is you. There is him. There is the little sleeping weight of your child and the fire and the bed you built with your own hands.

Sometimes that is enough to make hardship look almost like devotion.

One night in early autumn, the foxes scream outside the cabin so long and loud that neither of you gets any real sleep. By dawn you are cross and bleary-eyed, hair half falling from its braid as you stand over the hearth trying to stir cornmeal mush that refuses to thicken.

“Sleepyhead,” Bucky says softly when he comes up behind you.

You elbow him weakly. “I’ll kill you.”

He laughs into your hair and wraps his arms around your waist anyway, his chin settling on your shoulder. Outside, the new fence leans and the world is still cold and demanding. Inside, his body is warm all along your back.

“We’re doing it,” he murmurs after a while.

You blink at the pot. “Doing what?”

“Building it.” He turns his face into your temple. “A life.”

The words are simple. They hit with the force of revelation.

You tip your head back against his shoulder and close your eyes. In the other room your daughter stirs. The foxes have gone quiet. Morning light pushes pale and stubborn through the little window above the table.

“We are,” you whisper.

He kisses your cheek. “Told you I’d build you something.”

You smile, tired and full to aching. “You built me everything.”

The memory fades with the warm dim glow of Bucky’s living room around you.

You are still on his couch, the television a muted wash of menu screens no one bothered to turn off. For a while neither of you says anything.

Then you reach out and lace your fingers through his.

“That one felt different,” you say.

He nods. “Yeah.”

Not youthful. Not fevered. Not all heat and spark and want. That life had been built plank by plank. Through work. Through weather. Through choosing each other when the choosing was made of practical things—fences, soup, babies, roofs, morning fires.

It lands in him heavier than some of the others. Maybe because recovery has taught him what it means to build anything worth having by hand.

“I liked them,” you say quietly. “That version of us.”

He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “Me too.”

You glance around his apartment then, at the bookshelf he assembled crooked and fixed himself, at the herb pot on the windowsill, at the loaf of bread cooling under a dish towel on the counter.

“You’re doing it too, you know,” you murmur.

He looks at you. “Doing what?”

“Building a life.”

The thing in his chest, scarred and careful and too often braced for loss, goes very still.

You squeeze his hand. “It’s a good one.”

He kisses you then because there is no other answer big enough.

By August, you keep a toothbrush at his place.

By September, there is a sweater of yours folded over the back of one of his dining chairs, two hair ties on his bathroom sink, a half-used bottle of your fancy conditioner in his shower that he is under strict orders not to touch. None of it is dramatic. None of it is announced. The shape of your presence simply grows until it feels absurd to remember the apartment before it.

The flash that takes you next comes in early October, on a rainy Thursday when you duck with him into a jazz bar in the West Village to escape a downpour.

The room is all amber light and low ceilings and cigarette-scarred booths preserved from another era. A singer in a black dress stands by the piano, crooning into a microphone. Bucky goes still before you even make it to the bar.

You know before the memory hits what it will be.

The note hangs in the air.

Then London rushes in.

late nights in black silk in east london

The war has made everything look dimmer around the edges.

Bucky is young in the way only war can make a man young—old enough to be exhausted by it, young enough to still be surprised by beauty. He is stationed overseas for too long in a city stitched with blackout curtains and ration books and the bruise-colored exhaustion of people trying very hard to act as if life is still ordinary.

Then one wet December night, a fellow soldier drags him down a narrow stairwell off an alley in East London and the whole world changes shape.

The club is hidden beneath a tailor’s shop with no sign out front. Music seeps through the floorboards before the door even opens. Inside, the room glows low and gold around the edges, tables crowded close, voices pitched just above the band. Women in silk and men in uniform and civilians with danger in their smiles. Someone is laughing at the bar like the war has never existed. Someone else is dancing with one shoe off.

And there you are.

You should not stick out. You’re not center stage or demanding attention. You’re leaning one hip against the bar in black silk gloves and a slip dress that gleams when you move, listening to the pianist with your head tilted slightly as if you know a secret about the song.

Bucky sees you and forgets how war works.

Maybe he forgets how breathing works too.

“Careful,” his friend  mutters, following his line of sight. “That one looks expensive.”

Bucky barely hears him.

When you look over and catch him staring, you smile. Not coy. Curious, amused, entirely too direct. Then you lift your glass in a tiny salute.

He is doomed.

Later, after he has found enough courage or foolishness to cross the room, you tell him your brother runs supplies out of the docks and your mother thinks this place is scandalous and your favorite thing in the world is men who look like they’d fall apart if a woman in black silk talked to them too long.

“I am not falling apart,” he says, already half gone.

You laugh, low and delighted. “No? That’s a shame. You’d be awfully handsome doing it.”

You dance with him before midnight. Then again after. The band slows, the room blurs, and you fit against him so easily it feels less like meeting and more like remembering a step he somehow learned before birth.

Outside, the rain has stopped. The alley smells like wet brick and smoke.

“Are you always this easy?” you ask when he walks you to the corner.

“Only in London.”

“Convenient.”

You stop beneath a streetlamp draped in wartime dimming paint. Your lipstick has worn soft at the edges. His gloves are damp. Somewhere far off, a siren starts and then dies.

“I don’t know how long I’m here,” he says, because war steals the illusion of endless time from a man pretty quick.

You look at him with that same level, fearless steadiness you will carry in every life. “Then don’t waste the nights you’ve got.”

So he doesn’t.

He spends every free hour he can find with you in that black silk East London life. Dancing in hidden clubs. Eating chips from newspaper parcels by the river. Kissing in doorways while the city holds its breath between bombings. Falling in love so fast it would look irresponsible to anyone not living under the same shadow.

On his last night before shipping out again, this time to Bucharest, he finds you in the club after closing, curled barefoot on the stage in your black dress with your knees drawn up, humming to yourself while the pianist smokes by the door.

He sits beside you. The stage creaks.

You do not ask him if he is leaving. You already know.

For a long moment you just lean into him shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the dark.

Then you take his hand and lace your fingers with his as if you have always had the right.

“I hate war,” you say flatly.

“Yeah.”

“I hate that it teaches people to love in a hurry.”

He turns to look at you, but your face is tipped toward the empty room. “Maybe,” he says after a while, “it just teaches people not to waste time pretending they don’t.”

That makes you smile a little, though your eyes shine.

When you finally kiss him, it feels like grief and promise all tangled together.

“I’d have found you anyway,” you whisper against his mouth.

He believes you.

Presently, the jazz bar swims back around you in amber and brass.

Your hand is flat over your heart. Bucky is gripping the edge of the bar hard enough his knuckles ache.

“You were terrifying in that one,” he murmurs.

You blink at him. “Terrifying?”

“You had me done in about twelve seconds.”

Your laugh spills out warm and bright enough to make nearby heads turn. “Good.”

He stares at you, at the woman in front of him and the woman in black silk and the impossible thread between them, and something old in him loosens. That London memory is the first one that brushes directly up against the era he remembers in his bones. The first one that lets him feel, without the cold hand of history around its throat, that he once had youth. Flirtation. A version of himself that existed before damage became the loudest fact in the room.

Later, walking you home under a shared umbrella, he tells you more.

Not everything. Not all at once. But more.

About Brooklyn in the forties. About enlisted men and too much bravado and the way the world sharpened at the edges when war started circling. About the years after, in pieces, with pauses long enough to breathe in between. You listen without interrupting except to ask where it hurts. Not where it happened. Where it hurts. The difference matters so much he nearly stops in the middle of the sidewalk.

At your building, rain dripping from the umbrella’s edges, you cup his face and kiss him like he is something to return to, not something to be rescued.

That night he sleeps six straight hours for the first time in weeks.

The last of the big memories comes in November.

By then, the market has become yours together. Saturday mornings are no longer Bucky’s alone. They are yours in the plural, so natural now he sometimes forgets to be startled by it. Coffee for two. Bread for two. Peaches finally back in season for a heartbeat before the weather turns. Your fingers hooked through one of the canvas bag straps while he carries the heavier side.

At the stall with the glass-bottled lemonades and orange sodas, you reach for a bright neon-orange drink at the same time he does.

The glass knocks against his ring finger.

Sunlight slams through him.

Neon orange drinks on the beach

Salt lives in the walls of that house.

Here, you and Bucky live in a little coastal town where everyone knows everybody’s business and no one minds much as long as you bring enough food to the potluck. The house is white clapboard with a porch swing and chipped blue shutters. Sand collects in the doorway no matter how often you sweep. Wind rattles the windows in winter and smells like sunscreen in summer.

You have children in that life. Three of them.

A girl with your laugh and Bucky’s serious eyes. A boy who climbs everything he’s told not to. A baby still soft at the wrists who rides your hip with one fist full of your shirt.

The beach is five minutes from your front door. On hot afternoons you walk there loaded like pack animals—blankets, towels, snacks, toys, a cooler that bumps against Bucky’s leg every other step, the toddler already whining for the ocean before you’ve even crossed the dune grass.

It is a beautiful chaos. Your favorite kind.

The day memory gives you is bright enough to ache.

The sky is clear blue from edge to edge. Your youngest is asleep under the shade tent with one plump foot sticking free of the blanket. Your son is digging a moat around a sandcastle with all the focus of a man handling explosives. Your daughter, solemn with purpose, is handing Bucky shell fragments one by one so he can decorate the towers properly.

“No, Daddy,” she says with immense patience. “That one goes there.”

Bucky, thirty-something and sun-browned and already half buried in sand because the children have no respect for rank, nods gravely. “My mistake.”

You come down from the boardwalk carrying a tray of neon-orange lemonades in plastic cups, ice clinking. Condensation slicks your fingers. The sun catches on the rims of the cups until they glow like tiny lanterns.

Bucky looks up when your shadow falls across the sand.

Even after years, even with sunscreen on your nose and beach hair whipping your cheeks, he looks at you like there has never been anyone else worth the trouble of sight.

“You’re my favorite person,” he says as you hand him a drink.

You arch a brow. “Even over the tiny tyrants?”

“Depends. Are they giving me lemonade?”

Your daughter takes her cup in both hands and squints up at you. “Mama, Daddy made the castle wrong.”

You laugh. “I’m shocked.”

“It was sabotage,” Bucky says.

The children shout over each other. The baby wakes and starts fussing. A gull swoops dangerously low near the pretzel bag. The tide inches closer. Everything is loud and sandy and sticky and imperfect.

It is paradise.

Later, when the children are collapsing in a sugar crash on towels striped green and white, Bucky stretches out beside you and tugs you down until your head rests on his chest. The ocean hisses and folds itself a few yards away.

“You think,” he says after a while, fingers combing absently through your damp hair, “we’ll ever get tired of this?”

You tip your face up. “The beach?”

“This.”

The life. The family. The ordinary miracle of it.

You can feel the answer in him before he says it. In the steady beat under your ear. In the salt-warmed skin of him. In the children making sleepy, disgruntled sounds nearby because even paradise requires snacks and naps and somebody always getting sunscreen in their eye.

“No,” you say softly. “I don’t think so.”

His mouth brushes your forehead. “Good.”

Because in every lifetime, it turns out, what the two of you build is not grandeur.

It is a table. A bed. A road. A cabin. A dance floor. A beach towel in the sun. A thousand tiny places where love gets to put its shoes by the door and stay awhile.

When the memory loosens its grip, you are back at the market with cold glass sweating in your hand.

You are crying.

So is Bucky, though he only realizes it when you reach up and wipe at his cheek with your thumb.

“That one was rude,” you say thickly.

He laughs through the ache in his throat. “Yeah.”

It isn’t the children, not really. Though that got him. It’s the ordinariness of it. The ease. The way love in that life had settled into the bones of things so thoroughly that joy looked almost plain. A beach day. Lemonade. Sand. A family.

A future.

You look at him with tears still bright in your eyes. “Do you ever think maybe that’s why it keeps happening?”

“What?”

“Us.” You glance down at the bottle in your hand, the impossible orange brightness of it. “Not because we’re destined in some giant dramatic way. Maybe just because every time the universe throws us somewhere new, we keep making the same choice.”

The market blurs around the edges.

Bucky takes the bottle from your hand and sets both your drinks down on the stall so he can hold your face in both palms.

“I think,” he says, voice low and unsteady, “that no matter where I find you, you keep teaching me that a life doesn’t have to be extraordinary to matter.”

You inhale sharply.

He goes on because he has spent too much of his existence losing time, losing names, losing chances to say what needed saying. Because he will not waste this one.

“I loved you in a chapel with a plastic sign. In a truck on back roads. In a bed with lace curtains. In a cabin when we had almost nothing. In London when the whole world was on fire. On a beach with kids climbing all over me and sand in places there should never be sand.” Your mouth trembles around a laugh. His thumbs catch the tears on your cheeks. “And every time, it wasn’t because things were perfect. It was because it was you.”

Your hand covers one of his. “Bucky—”

“In this life,” he says, holding your gaze, “I don’t care what fate says. I don’t care what we were before unless it helps me be better to you now. I just…” He exhales, helpless in it. “I just know I am more myself when you’re in the room. And I want to keep choosing that. For however long I get.”

Something breaks open in your face.

Then you are kissing him in the middle of the farmer’s market, November wind cold around your ears and strangers surely staring and lemons probably within a three-yard radius somehow, and Bucky does not care about any of it.

When you finally pull back, you rest your forehead to his and laugh wetly.

“You took forever to say that,” you whisper.

He blinks. “I did?”

“Yes.” You kiss him once, quick and smiling. “It’s okay. I was going to let you.”

That night you come home with him.

Home, because that is what it is now no matter how recently he learned to say it.

The apartment smells like the rosemary chicken you cooked together and the bread he baked that morning and the cold air that followed you in when he opened the door. Your overnight bag sits by the couch. Your laughter is still in the walls from where you nearly dropped the oranges while making cocktails because he kissed your neck and ruined your concentration on purpose.

There are no visions this time.

No past lives pouring through the cracks.

Just the two of you in the warm gold hush of his bedroom, lamplight soft on the sheets, your sweater slipping from one shoulder as you sit on the edge of the mattress and look up at him.

“This is ours,” you say quietly.

He nods. “Yeah.”

You reach for him.

The first time you make love in this life is not a reenactment of any before. There are echoes, maybe. The same reverence. The same hunger braided with tenderness. But this is its own living thing, shaped by who you are now—older in different ways, scarred in different places, more careful and more certain all at once.

He undresses you slowly, like unwrapping something he intends to keep. You do the same for him, kissing each mark on his body as if introducing yourself to every chapter. When your fingers brush the long scars at his shoulder and side, you do not hesitate. You just look at him for permission and then kiss them too.

His throat goes tight.

On the bed, he takes his time. He is afraid this time, rather he wants to feel every second of being chosen with full knowledge. Your skin under his mouth. Your breath hitching when he drags his thumb over your clit. The way you smile against his lips when he says your name like a marvel. He works you open with his hands first, then his mouth, until you are clutching the sheets and half laughing, half sobbing because pleasure in this body, in this life, feels new and familiar all at once.

“Bucky,” you whisper when he comes back up over you, eyes dark and wrecked.

“I’ve got you.”

You nod, hands framing his face. “I know.”

When he pushes into you, slow and careful, your mouths are open against each other. He feels your body welcome him in inch by inch, feels your legs tighten around his hips, feels the tremor that runs through you when he finally settles deep. It is overwhelming in the simplest way. Not because of memory. Because of presence. Because you are here. Because he is too.

He moves. You move with him.

Outside, the city keeps being itself. A siren in the distance. Somebody laughing on the street. Heat clanking faintly through old pipes. Inside, his bedroom narrows to breath and skin and the soft wreck of your voice. You scratch lightly through his hair and murmur yes against his mouth and he nearly comes from the sound alone. He holds himself back long enough to watch the exact moment pleasure overtakes you, the way your eyes go bright and your body arches up into his with a cry he feels all the way to his ribs.

He follows soon after, buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, your names tangled together in the dark.

Afterward you lie under the sheets while the room cools around you. Your head rests on his chest. His hand drifts up and down your bare spine. The curtains are plain cotton, not lace. The sheets are soft gray, not white. The city outside is Brooklyn and not some inn in another century. It does not matter.

You draw lazy circles over his sternum.

“You know,” you murmur sleepily, “I think I liked every version of you.”

His fingers still for a second. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You tilt your chin to look at him. “But this one might be my favorite.”

Emotion catches him so hard it almost hurts.

He bends and kisses your forehead because if he tries to speak right then, he will probably embarrass himself beyond repair.

Months later, when winter gives way to spring and then, at last, to summer again, Saturday morning finds the two of you at the farmer’s market under the same green-striped awnings where everything began.

Bucky has two coffees in a cardboard carrier. You have a bouquet of sunflowers tucked under one arm. The bread guy waves. The peach stand is finally, gloriously in season. The lemon vendor clocks you both and grins like he has been expecting to see how this turns out.

“Need a bag today?” he asks.

You glance at Bucky. Bucky glances at you.

Then, smiling, you both reach for the same lemon on purpose.

No flash comes.

There is no need.

Your fingers lace together instead, easy as breath.

The square is bright with morning. The violinist by the fountain is playing something warm and sweet. Coffee steams between you. Peaches perfume the air. Beside you, your soulmate—your chosen person, your present-tense miracle—squeezes your hand.

And because love, in the end, is often this simple, you walk the market together like you have done it all your life.

Maybe you have.

Maybe you will again.

Either way, the peaches are ripe, the bread is warm, and Bucky Barnes is laughing at something you said with his whole face open to the sun.

It is not a dramatic ending.

It is better.

It is a life.

And every ordinary second of it feels, impossibly, like falling in love again and again.

cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, 18+

There is a special place in hell for men like Michael.

You can see her through the window by the door. Her big eyes are looking at where you are, paws against the glass. Her mouth opens, and she scratches at the window, and your bottom lip trembles as you set your hand down where she touches.

You could care less about the things you left inside. Your clothes, your bags, your shoes, even your fucking computer can stay behind, but not her. Your tabby cat is inside, sitting by the window, and Michael changed the fucking locks.

You bang on the door for an hour. You leave, come back, keep banging, but no one ever answers. You've never felt this desperate or uneasy, but every time you come back and see her by the window, you nearly lose all of your composure. It isn't fair. She doesn't belong to him. He can take years from you, take your money, take your sanity, but he won't take her. You'll come back every single day. You'll become a nuisance. You'll never let him relax. Until he gives her back to you, he will never know peace.

A single day passes before you decide it's time to take drastic measures.

The nearest military base is situated a good distance away, but not so far that you won't drive to its neighboring city. There's a small main road with a few local shops, including a few restaurants, a bookstore, a coffee shop, and the crown jewel—a pub.

It's just after supper time when you ring the bell above the door walking inside. On a Friday evening, it's lively, packed close with warmth and tall pints and plastic baskets full of chips and greasy fingerfoods.

There's a lot of military around here. You can tell by their haircuts and the way they chug their glasses; but you aren't looking for baby-faced rookies with too much pent-up aggression. You're looking for the meanest guy in the room, and that means someone with scars and someone who goes cloudy behind the eyes when you ask him how he's gotten back from where he's been.

That man is sitting at the far booth with his back to the wall. A place where he can have an eye on the rest of the room at all times. Big, gloved hand wrapped around a sweating glass, gaze focused on the foam of his beer as he pretends to listen to whatever the red-cheeked man across from him is laughing about.

You ask the bartender what they're drinking and order another round, picking up each glass and making your way towards their table. You'd be nervous if you weren't so determined. You stand awkwardly beside the table before his friend notices you there.

"Tha' fer us, bonnie?"

He juts his chin out at the drinks you're holding, and you set them down with a nervous smile.

"Yeah," you look between them. You fixate on the big guy, who barely squints at you over his drink, and you bite your lip. "I was hoping you had room for one more."

His friend cackles, "aye. Always fer a pretty face."

"Cute," you swallow. "But…I wasn't really talking to you."

The bigger one sits up at that. He leans back in the booth, rolling out his shoulders, and you hop up onto the seat next to him. His friend seems to get the message, picking up his new drink and tipping it towards you before taking a long drink of it and going to find a warm spot at the bar.

"Lookin' for advice or a fuck?"

"Neither," you say softly. "You're big, yeah? Are people…generally afraid of you?"

He laughs, and when he wipes at his masked face, you see a glimpse of a tattoo sleeve that adorns his massive left arm.

"Suppose."

"Great. How much for you to be my bodyguard for a few hours?"

He kisses his teeth under the mask, and then he turns his head to look down at you. His eyes are half-lidded, the skin looking a little greasy under the eye-black smudged there, but he's so calm and collected and amused. You've amused him; you're entertaining him. It's the most interesting thing that's happened to him all week, and you hope you're keeping his attention.

"Wot's tha' include?"

"It's gonna be illegal," you mumble, biting your bottom lip. "Just a little bit."

"Tha's my specialty, love."

"Not murder," you clarify, and he just shrugs. "Just…a little breaking and entering. Maybe some intimidation."

"'s Friday night, swee'eart, at least offer me somethin' fun."

"This isn't funny," you suck in a shaky breath. "It's…" You look down at the sticky pub table, swallowing again. You dig your nails into your own legs to keep your composure. "I need to get something back. Something that belongs to me. So it's not really…it's not really stealing."

A pregnant silence falls between you. You fail to keep the tears at your lash line back, and you quickly use the back of your hand to wipe your face gently. You think about your cat scratching for you on the other side of the window. You think about her sweet face; you think about Michael forgetting to feed her in the mornings as he usually did, and how he never changed the water filter in time even when you asked him to.

"'m Simon."

The low timbered voice breaks you out of your inner spiral. You look up at him again, and when you meet his eyes, you're finally able to let out a breath of relief. You don't know why, but there's something extremely soothing about sitting next to him. About being in his vicinity. He's so large and takes up so much space, but it's warm there, and he's not as mean as his outer layer might suggest. He's calm, and the way he presents himself tells you that it is not by luck that he's still sitting beside you.

You tell him your name, and his gloved hand touches under your chin.

"Olright, love. Lead the way."

Every time you have ever come back to this apartment, you have met the closed door with dread. A little fear. You feel none of that; not with the apparition at your back. You knock on the window beside the door, and like always, she appears. She meows on the other side, her eyes wet as she scratches and sniffs. You look over your shoulder at Simon who tilts his head to the side.

"This wot he stole?"

You look back at her on the other side of the window, shrugging.

"No," you say softly. "But it's all that matters."

The jiggling of metal brings your attention back to him. Simon is at the door, a multi-tool in one hand, and he's focused intently on working the doorknob until you hear the sound of a lock turn and then the door opens. The chain on the door jangles just as Simon opens it slightly, and you watch with rapt attention as he sticks his arm inside for just a few seconds, and then he swings the door open wide.

You push past him, reaching for the cat. She meows loudly, coming right to you, and you coo as you bend and pick her up from the floor. Loud purrs and sweet chirps follow as you hug her to your chest. You pet her little head, turning towards the living room. You used to keep her carrier behind the couch, and you find it as you go searching for it, exactly where you left it. You slip her inside and zip it up.

"What the fuck is this?"

You freeze, standing up straight and turning. You're caught, definitely—you knew he must have been home by the fact that the chain was latched, but you tried the nice way. You weren't going to get your cat back by being patient, not anymore.

"I'm just getting her, I'll…I was just leaving."

"Fuck no, you broke into my flat."

"Our flat," you snap back, putting the straps of the carrier over your shoulder. "And I'm leaving."

Michael looks like he's going to take a step towards you, but then he notices the dark shape in the corner of the room. He frowns a little, squinting.

"Who the bloody hell is that?"

You turn just in time to see Simon take a small step forward. The sudden movement seems to terrify Michael; he scrambles backwards into the kitchen counter, making the plates behind him fall off the counter and shatter onto the ground. He nearly trips over himself trying to get distance, and Simon seems to think it's very funny. He laughs, chest heaving, and he looks down at you as he gets closer.

"Flopping like a fuckin' fish, he is, in'he?"

Michael looks around frantically before he finds a pair of prongs. His hand shakes as he holds the pointy end towards Simon, spitting at him.

"Get the fuck out of my flat! T-The both of you!"

Simon's reaction tells you that maybe he has a few wires crossed in his head. He steps forward instead of away, laughing still, and you watch warily as he tilts his head to the side and nods his head towards Michael.

"Go on, then, mate," Simon taunts. "Try it."

Like a fool, Michael obliges. You flinch when Michael swings, but Simon tilts his body at just the right moment to dodge. He smacks Michael's arm, but he tries again—and like playing footie with a child, the weapon is now in Simon's hand, and then oh—

Michael's screaming as it pierces through his open palm.

He bleeds a lot less than you thought he might. Sadly, also, his blood is as red as yours. You thought he might be a little less pathetic at a moment like this. It is a gift, however, to see him bursting into tears as Simon grips the collar of his shirt and leans over him.

"Lot like you like to take things that aren't yers, tha' right?" Simon spits. "Like to punish and intimidate and fuckin' take, even if ya aren't owed."

"Please—please just get out, take her, fuckin' please!"

"Oi, wot's all this?" Simon snorts. "Now yer pissin' where you stand cause it got too real, eh? Got wot was comin' ta you? Reckon it's not like you thought. Reckon you thought she'd come hat in hand, beggin' for wot she deserves, but you wouldn't know good cunt even if it sat on yer face, yeah?"

"Please…"

"Simon—" You try, but he tsks, shaking his head.

"Nah, love, he's gonna learn," Simon murmurs. "Have you learned?"

"Yes," Michael squeaks, and you're not longer staring at the blood dripping on the hardwood, you're oogling at the giant man standing in what once was your kitchen that's starting to look more delicious by the second.

"Good," Simon breathes. "I know where ya lay yer head, mate. Know where ta come back if things aren't quiet on her end. You'd do well to remember tha'."

He releases Michael with a shove; Michael sinks to the floor, hands trembling, and Simon makes his way towards you to put a hand to your back and turn you around towards the front door.

"Need anythin' else?" Simon asks. You're too speechless to say anything, so all you do is shake your head. You clutch the carrier closer; she meows from inside the bag, and Simon nods his head towards outside so that you start moving. The door shuts behind you both, and then you're being led to his truck, ushered into the passenger seat, precious cargo on your lap as you breathe a huge sigh of relief.

The drive is quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You don't realize until a few streets over that you're smiling; a big, sparkling grin that's taking over your face, and when Simon rolls his truck to a stop at a red light, you lean over the center console and give his masked cheek a big, wet kiss of gratitude.

"Got a death wish or somethin'?" Simon turns to look at you, glaring from under the mask. It's so hard to be scared of him. He just put the fear of God into your terrible ex-boyfriend so you could get your precious cat back; he scared him shitless—literally—and he did it looking this good.

"Is that what a kiss gets me?" You ask. You slide your hand down his bicep, swallowing the drool when you feel just how solid and beefy he is under that hoodie. He fills it out too well. He must be so fucking handsome under that mask; there's no way he wears it for anonymity, he must be so hot, he wears it so he doesn't have to swat away all the boys and girls when they usually buzz around him like moths to light—

Maybe death is really this sweet. This good. Your cat is snoozing, safe and sound, in your bedroom with a full belly. The lights are on low; soft orange glows from well-placed lamps, giving the entire living room a warm feeling. There's a man on your couch with his belt unbuckled, mask halfway up his face as he pants because his cock is in your mouth, and he tastes like sweet, sweet victory.

"Ahh—fuck."

You nuzzle your nose up the length. He's so hard; you don't think a man has ever been this hard for you. He's leaking so pretty, dribbles down the length that you catch with the tip of your tongue, forcing him to hiss and spit and bite his knuckles. He keeps his hips still, but his hand around your hip squeezes the flesh there nice and tight, borderline bruising when you suck his tip a little too softly. You lick a stripe around the head before leaning back up towards him, and his hand around your hip curls against the back of your neck as you share a messy, wet kiss.

You twist your wrist, pumping his cock with a gentle glide of your palm, and he grits his teeth between kisses, touching his forehead to yours.

"Oll tha' for a cat, yeah?"

It is true. You did do it for her. But you did it for you, too.

"Not just the cat," you whisper, smoothing your thumb along the tip. He kisses you again, slower this time, and you groan into his mouth as you squeeze your thighs together. "Look at you…"

"Fuck—" Simon grunts, and his other hand finds the base of his cock, squeezing hard, and you giggle as he scrunches his nose. "Don't say shit like tha'."

You can't with his mouth on your cunt. He's laying flat on his back on the couch, legs too long to fit. Boots against your blanket, you'll whine to him about it later, but now both thighs are on either side of his head, and he's slurping with a hot tongue. You cup both sides of his head, dragging your hips, and while normally you'd think twice about dropping your weight on someone like this, the ease at which he hoisted you up his chest tells you Simon's a big, big boy—and he can handle whatever you give him.

"Gonna let me handle things from now on," Simon murmurs. He kisses the inside of your thigh, and you yelp when he smacks one side of your ass. He's waiting for an answer, and you took too long to give one.

"Y-Yeah," you breathe, leaning your head back. You feel yourself dripping between the legs, flooding his mouth, but he curls his tongue all the same. Uses two thumbs now as he hooks his arms around your thighs to pull the wet, sensitive skin back so he can drink what he's owed. He said he takes payment like this, getting his fill; he says he's never really satisfied until there's cum in his mouth and some in your cunt, and he's not gonna leave your flat before becoming familiar with those two, mutually non-exclusive events.

"Yeah, y'r pretty, olright," Simon laughs, but there's no more humor when he bounces you on his cock. Oh, he hurts a little. He told you he might, but then you're really there, knees on either side of him as you clutch onto the meat of his shoulders and hope to God he doesn't let you go. "Told you tha' you'd feel it, didn't I?"

"Yeah," you whisper, cupping that face of his, half-revealed to you, and you rub your thumbs down his scarred cheeks. Gorgeous, even with eyes that dead inside. "'s big."

"Don't—" He snarls, holding down your hips, shaking his head. "Wot did I say about sayin' shit like tha', eh?"

Life has spoiled you. Life is too good. Life is your pet curled up between your pillows and warm beneath the blankets, and life is fucking the sanity out of big, pudgy military men with blood under their fingernails and their breath stuck in their throat. You've rendered Simon to nothing but grunts and sputters. He's focused on keep the rhythm, arms clasped around your middle as he fucks up into you and pants into your neck. You reach for the back of the couch, digging your nails in, and all you can do is cry and take it as he keeps bringing you back down again and again and again.

The kiss you share is starved. You're so hungry, your hand slipping under the mask to cup the back of his head, and he draws your hips down and holds you there as he licks into your mouth and relishes in the pulsing of your cunt. This is what he fights for, maybe.

Not the glory. Not for the good of others. Not for Price and his self-guided moral compass, not for Laswell and her targets, not for revenge, not for blood, not to save the world. It's so he can come back here onto home soil and fuck a gorgeous girl without ever being interrupted by the sound of anything but her.

Her. You. Whatever she is, what you are, what you will eventually be—it manifests itself in the very room he's in, and he's got it between his teeth, and he won't be letting go for anything.

Nothing at all.

He's smoking a cigarette by the open window as she makes tea. He smiles, just barely, with teeth a little yellow when he sees you burn your hand a little as you pour the water into a misshapen mug.

"Olright?" He asks. The mugs shake a little as you bring them back into the room, precarious as you overfilled the mugs. He takes one from you and takes a long sip, flicking the cigarette out as he watches you get settled. You set your mug down on the coffee table, leaning forward to give him that same sweet, wet kiss on his cheek.

"Never better."

Belly full. Eyes bright. You are nothing like the woman that propositioned him just a few hours ago. A monotone, piss-drink evening, and then a scared, desperate girl asking him if he was willing to do something a little off the books.

Fucking finally. The world was just starting to get a little too dull.

It's the middle of the night when he hears the creak of a door. The sound of a little bell. You're laid out on your side, having just fallen asleep. The movie on the telly still plays, but Simon has turned the volume down. The light flickering from the screen is enough that he sees the cat trot into the room, eyes searching for you and seeing the two of you settled there.

She comes over slowly, sniffing the toes of Simon's boots, and then she closes her eyes as she rubs her face against his leg. Low purring, headbutts, and then she's putting a paw to his boot and looking up at him with the same big, wet eyes her mother has. Simon reaches down, scratching under her chin, and then she's curling up on his lap, little head next to yours as he leans back and takes it in. The sight for sore eyes. The thing that makes his medals and his stripes and all the money in the world look worthless—cheap.

You don’t understand why you know his name. Why you know that if you could reach out and touch him, the skin of his hand would be rough from work and the softness behind his eyes would be just for you.

But you’re eight. You just know this is important. You just know this is yours.

You spend that first night trailing behind him like a shadow. Watching him steal bread from a windowsill and give all of it to Steve. Watching him charm a girl behind the soda counter and then turn around and share the free candy with the skinny kid at his side. Watching him sit on a tenement rooftop and lean back on his elbows, staring at a sky full of city light and smoke, somewhere in Brooklyn.

You wake up smiling. Head full of his laugh. Heart full of the way he tipped his head back and told a joke you can’t quite remember.``

The next night, you dream of him again.

And again. And again.

At school, kids whisper in corners, swapping stories about their own soulmate dreams. The girl who sees a boy in Seoul practicing violin on a rooftop. The boy who watches his soulmate paint murals across brick walls in São Paulo. They talk about first kisses in borrowed bodies, about the way it feels when their soulmate looks into a mirror and for one breath you see their face and yours overlap like a promise.

You stay quiet.

You don’t tell them that your soulmate is older than you. That instead of fumbling through middle school with you, he’s out there in the world, already grown. You don’t tell them that every night you lay your head down, you wake up in the 1940s—the clothes, the cars, the ration lines, the war posters peeling on brick.

You don’t tell them that your soulmate signs a piece of paper and becomes a soldier.

You don’t tell them how, the night he ships out, you wake up in his skin.

It happens without warning. You go to sleep in your own bed—a little bigger, a little more lonely than it was when you were eight—and your eyes open into blinding sunlight. You’re on a train platform. Your hand—his hand—is gripping a duffel bag so tight your knuckles ache. Steve is talking, voice breaking, telling you to write. To come back.

You feel your own throat burn when you hear yourself say, “Don’t do anything stupid ‘til I get back.”

“How can I?” Steve shoots back. “You’re taking all the stupid with you.”

You laugh. Except it’s not really a laugh. It’s something torn, something afraid.

You wake up with tears on your face. The world is dark and quiet and the clock on your nightstand says 3:07 am. You press your shaking hands over your mouth and feel the echoes of his goodbye like a bruise.

It takes you three days to stop crying.

You tell yourself this is what soulmate dreams are. Messy. Overwhelming. Beautiful.

You cling to that word—beautiful—for as long as you can.

It carries you through boot camp, through the taste of dirt and the ache of muscles that are not your own. It carries you through Europe, through the first time you watch a body fall because you pulled the trigger.

It lasts right up until the night everything changes.

The night you watch him fall off the train, it feels like your own heart shatters inside your chest.

You wake up screaming. Your own bedroom walls. Your own hands, empty and reaching. Your mother bursts through the door and gathers you up, still half asleep, asking if it was another nightmare, sweetheart?

You can’t breathe.

“He fell,” you choke, words tearing out of you. “He fell, he fell—”

“Who?” she asks gently, like she doesn’t already know. Parents grew up with soulmate dreams too. They know the helpless, distant look that comes with them. The way kids wake up with tears that aren’t quite theirs.

“My soulmate.”

Something in her face folds. She holds you tighter.

“Sometimes,” she says softly, “the timing’s just… the timing’s cruel, baby. It doesn’t mean your story’s over. It just means…”

She trails off, because there’s no good ending to that sentence.

You don’t dream for three days. You can’t decide if that’s mercy or punishment.

On the fourth night, you open your eyes into a cold so vicious you can’t feel your fingers.

Water crushes you from all sides. It burns your lungs. Your body—the one that’s not yours—is thrashing, pulling, dragging itself toward a pinprick of light above while the weight of metal on your arm drags you down.

The scream rips your throat raw. Bubbles burst from your lips and vanish into the icy dark.

You don’t make it to the surface.

When you wake, you taste blood and river silt in the back of your throat. Your bed is soaked with sweat. Your nails have left crescent moons in your palms.

You don’t sleep again until your body gives you no choice.

The next dream isn’t better.

White light. A ceiling blinded by it. A ring of faces leaning over you, mouths moving in a language you can’t quite understand but immediately hate.

A bite of cold against skin as someone presses a scalpel to flesh.

You scream awake again.

Your mother starts taking you to therapists after that.

Most kids, the brochures say, dream of exams and awkward dates and milestones. Your charts fill up with words like recurrent nightmares and secondary trauma and dissociation.

None of it changes the fact that every time you close your eyes, you are dragged back into that room.

Back into that chair.

You learn the cadence of commands in Russian before you ever learn where on a map to put Moscow. Nine unpronounceable words barked like gunfire. Each one a hammer blow. Each one chipping away at a man who used to laugh on rooftops and steal bread for his sick friend.

You watch them strip him down to bones and obedience.

You watch them shock him, carve him, freeze him.

You watch them put a metal arm where flesh used to be.

You watch until the line between what’s his and what’s yours starts to blur around the edges.

You startle when people touch your left arm. You flinch when someone says the word soldier too loudly. You hold your breath when you hear Russian in movies and your heart slams against your ribs like it’s trying to claw free.

You learn how to build walls between your nights and your days, between the girl who smiles and nods and does her homework and the girl who wakes up hoarse from screaming words in a language she shouldn’t know.

You get very good at pretending.

You stay very, very quiet.

Because the first time you tried to explain this to someone—really explain, not just, “I have bad soulmate dreams”—they looked at you like you’d made it up for attention. Like it was impossible that one man could hold that much darkness.

Impossible or not, he lives inside your skull.

And for some reason, you’re still helplessly in love with him.

Your soulmate never dreams of you.

That’s how it’s supposed to work—two lives, two vantage points. Two people growing together in parallel, building a mosaic of each other’s days until, one day, you meet. You’ve lived each other’s memories. You’ve hurt when they hurt and laughed when they laughed. You fit.

Except.

He has never once looked into a mirror and seen your face.

You know because you’ve checked. Every time he’s near a reflective surface, you hold your breath, waiting. Wondering what you’ll look like in that cheap barracks mirror. In the gleam of a Hydra scalpel. In the shine of a shield’s vibranium curve when Captain America bursts into a lab and says his name like a miracle.

You never see your own eyes looking back.

And later—much, much later, when the Soldier with the metal arm stands on a sidewalk in a world full of color television and smartphones and watches Steve drive away—there is a terrible emptiness where your presence should be.

You know he doesn’t dream at all. Not really. Just orders. Missions. A voice in his head telling him to comply.

You lie awake sometimes, staring at the ceiling. Wondering what it was like for him in the 1940s, before you were even born. Before your existence meant he was supposed to have something soft to fall into, a second life to land in when the world got hard.

Did he think his soulmate had died? Did he think he didn’t have one at all?

Did Hydra take that away from him, too?

The questions feel like weights on your chest.

You grow up. You go to college. You study psychology because of course you do. Professors call you insightful. They praise your understanding of trauma. They don’t know you learned it half-asleep on a concrete cell floor.

You watch news footage of Washington, D.C. tearing itself apart—carriers falling out of the sky, smoke boiling up between monuments. You watch a flash of metal and a familiar face with hair that’s now long and wild and eyes that are empty in a way you’ve never seen in your dreams.

You frighten your roommate when you fall to your knees in front of the television and sob like someone stabbed you.

She thinks you’re crying about the city.

You’re crying because your soulmate just dragged Steve Rogers out of a river and collapsed beside him on the mud, and for the first time since that train, you feel something fragile and human slip through the cracks of his programming.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” he says, and you press your face into your hands and whisper, It’s you. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you.

Later, when footage leaks of him in Bucharest, of governments calling him a terrorist, you shake so hard you spill coffee all over yourself. Your hands don’t stop trembling all day.

By the time word spreads—half rumors, half official—that the Winter Soldier is dead, you’ve gotten very good at breathing around a permanent ache.

He’s not dead, you think stubbornly, even as your therapist gently suggests a new medication.

Because you still dream.

The locations change. The walls switch from damp concrete to smooth wood. The windows open onto African sun instead of Siberian ice.

But he’s alive. You can feel it every night when you close your eyes. You make coffee in a kitchen that smells like earth and greenery and peace while a man with long hair and a beard leans in a doorway and tries to relearn how to be a person.

You’re there when people call him White Wolf as a joke. You’re there when he wakes up screaming and claws at his arm like he wants to rip it off.

You see every tremor, every step forward, every stumble back.

You keep your silence like a promise.

Because there is a tiny, terrified part of you that believes if you ever try to step into his real, waking world—if you look him in the eyes and he doesn’t know you—the last piece of you still holding on will break.

You meet him on a Tuesday.

It’s almost insultingly mundane.

New York sky, too bright. Air full of car horns and overheated asphalt. Your shoes pinching a little because you wore the nicer pair for the interview. The building in front of you is an angular tower of glass and metal that the world knows on sight.

Avengers Tower.

They’d asked you to come in for a consult. Trauma specialist, they said. We have people who need help and don’t trust easy, one of the recruiters had told you over the phone. Your résumé is… unique.

You laughed. If only he knew.

The security check is thorough. The elevator ride is nauseatingly smooth. Your own reflection in the mirrored walls looks small and out of place between the polished chrome and the sleek lighting.

You’re smoothing your hands down your blazer when the doors slide open.

And he’s standing there.

Just standing there, in the hallway, like a dream you didn’t mean to interrupt.

He’s wearing a Henley that clings to shoulders you’ve only ever seen under body armor. His hair is shorter than it was in Wakanda, pulled back into a low knot, a few strands falling loose around his face. The stubble on his jaw is a shade darker than you remember from last night, when he shaved in a small bathroom, the mirror fogging up with steam.

His eyes are the exact same blue they’ve always been.

For a second, you forget how to breathe.

He blinks, clearly not expecting the elevator to open on a stranger. He shifts his weight like he’s considering retreating.

You know every micro-expression in that face.

You know what he looks like when he’s bracing for pain.

You know what he looks like when he’s trying not to hope.

“Uh,” he says finally. “You lost?”

The sound of his voice in the same space as you is… wrong. It vibrates in your ribs like a plucked wire.

You swallow. Realize your fingers are trembling. Clench them into fists.

“I—um. No.” You hold up the visitor badge dangling from your neck. “Here for an interview. Trauma team.”

His eyes flick down. Your name flashes in black letters against your chest, next to the Stark Industries logo.

Something in his gaze sharpens. Not hostile. Just... wary.

You’ve seen that look from behind his eyes. It’s different being on the receiving end.

“Right,” he says slowly. “Right. They mentioned they were bringing in someone new.”

You should leave. You should step out of the elevator, shake his hand, introduce yourself like you don’t already know the shape of his scars, the cadence of his nightmares, the way he curls his fingers when he’s trying not to reach for someone.

Instead you stand there, staring, while your heartbeat hammers in your ears.

He frowns. “Are you okay?”

The question snaps you back like a rubber band.

“I’m fine,” you lie, because what else is there to say? Hey, I’ve watched every second of your life for as long as I can remember, you look good in daylight?

You force your feet to move. You step onto the floor. The elevator closes behind you with a soft whoosh.

You’re close enough now to see the tiny pale lines at the corner of his mouth. The faint shadow of where a scar used to be along his jaw, before Wakanda’s healers smoothed it away.

“Name’s Bucky,” he offers, almost awkwardly, like he’s still getting used to saying it out loud.

I know.

You bite the words down before they can escape.

You offer your own name instead, and he repeats it—your name—in that careful, rough voice, like he’s trying it on his tongue.

You feel the sound all the way through your bones.

You get the job.

Of course you do. You’re good at it. You’ve spent half your life studying trauma and the other half drowning in it. You know how to listen. You know how to sit with silence without flinching away.

You don’t get assigned to Bucky.

You think that’s probably for the best. At least at first.

He’s… there, though. In the halls. In the kitchen at 3 am when you’re both pretending you don’t have insomnia. In the training rooms, working a heavy bag until his chest heaves and sweat darkens his shirt.

You get used to feeling his eyes on you, quick flickers, like he’s cataloguing your presence. You get used to swallowing a dozen confessions every time he looks your way.

You do not get used to the way your whole body hums when he stands too close.

It takes exactly three weeks for everything to crack.

You’re in your office. It’s late. You should have gone home hours ago, but you’re dictating notes for a session and staring blankly at your laptop screen when there’s a knock on the door.

Your heart knows who it is before your eyes do.

“Come in,” you call, somehow sounding normal.

The door opens. Bucky steps in, hovering just inside the threshold like he’s not sure if he’s welcome.

He’s in sweats and a threadbare t-shirt, hair damp from a shower. There’s a tension in his shoulders that sets off every alarm in your body.

You stand up automatically. “Is everything okay?”

He huffs a breath that’s not quite a laugh. “Define ‘okay.’”

You gesture toward the chairs. He doesn’t move.

“I know I’m not on your schedule,” he says. “I’m not… your patient. Or whatever. I just…”

He trails off. His jaw tightens. His metal fingers flex against his thigh, the plates catching the light.

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “You can sit. Or not. You can pace if you need to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Bucky.”

His eyes flick to yours. For a moment, something like trust flickers there.

He comes in. Closes the door.

And then he just stands there, breathing hard, like walking from the elevator to your office took more energy than a mission.

You wait.

“I’ve never had dreams,” he says abruptly.

You blink. Your grip tightens on the back of your chair.

He’s staring over your shoulder, somewhere past you, like if he looks at you this will be too much.

“Not the soulmate kind,” he clarifies. “Everybody else did. Back home. Before the war. They’d talk about seein’ their girl, or their guy, or just… faces. Names. Whole lives.”

You knew this. You’ve wondered about it your whole life. Hearing it in his voice feels like stepping off a ledge.

“I kept waitin’,” he continues, words rough. “Figured maybe it’d start late. Or maybe my soulmate was younger. Or maybe…” He swallows. “Maybe I just didn’t have one. Maybe they died. Maybe I did somethin’ wrong before I was even born.”

Your chest aches. “You didn’t,” you say, without thinking. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His gaze snaps to you.

There’s a sharpness there. A warning. A plea.

“You don’t know that,” he says quietly.

I do, you think. I’ve seen you my whole life.

He takes a shaky breath. “Then the war happened. And the train.” His voice stutters on the word. You know the memory he’s stuck on. The rush of air. The scream. The impact. “And then… nothin’. No dreams at all. Just… missions.”

He says the word like it tastes like ash.

“I thought that was it,” he says. “That whatever chance I had at… that kinda thing… it was gone.”

He laughs again, brittle. “Then I get out. Hydra’s gone. I’m in Wakanda, learnin’ how to be a person again. And I start hearin’ about people seein’ my life in their sleep. ‘The Winter Soldier is my soulmate,’” he quotes, in a mocking falsetto that makes something in your stomach twist. “Jokes. Memes. Kids on the internet makin’ content.”

His mouth curls in disgust.

“It’s not funny,” he grits. “There’s nothing—there’s nothin’ funny about any of it. And I know most of it’s bullshit. But I keep thinkin’… if there is somebody out there who had to watch all that—” His breath hitches. “Every time they shut me down. Every time they woke me up. Every time I—”

He cuts himself off. You know the word he’s swallowing.

“Kill,” you say softly.

His jaw clenches. He nods once.

“If there is someone,” he whispers, “if I do have a soulmate… and they saw all that… I don’t know if I want to meet them. I don’t know if I deserve to.”

Your own hands are shaking now.

He looks at you, really looks, and you realize there are tears standing in his eyes. He blinks them away violently, like he doesn’t have the right.

“I came here because…” He trails off. His shoulders slump. “Because I thought maybe talkin’ about it, with someone who knows how this stuff works, would help. Except I feel worse. Because all I can picture is some kid who grew up with my nightmares. Some—some sweet person who maybe just wanted to see their soulmate’s first day of school and instead got strapped into my life like a horror movie they couldn’t turn off.”

His voice breaks.

“And I don’t know how to live with that.”

The silence that follows is thick and heavy and humming with something electric.

You could lie.

You could say something clinical. You could talk about vicarious trauma. About how whoever they are, they’re probably fine now. That it wasn’t his fault.

You could stay safely behind your professional distance.

Instead, you take a breath that feels like stepping off another ledge.

“Bucky,” you begin, gently. “Look at me for a second?”

He hesitates, then does.

You step around your desk. You sit in the chair opposite him so you’re on the same level, knees almost touching.

Your heart is beating so loud you’re sure he can hear it.

“You’re right,” you say softly. “It’s not funny. At all. And if your soulmate… if they saw what you went through… I’m not going to pretend it didn’t hurt them. It did. It… it does.”

His face crumples, just a little.

“But,” you continue, before he can drown in guilt, “they’re not that kid anymore.”

He swallows. “How would you know?”

“Because,” you say, and your voice shakes, “I’m not a kid anymore.”

The words hang there between you.

For a second, he doesn’t understand.

You watch the moment he does.

His pupils blow wide. His lips part, but no sound comes out. His metal hand curls slowly, fingers digging into his own thigh.

“I—” His throat works. “What?”

You force yourself to hold his gaze.

“I’ve… always had dreams,” you say. “About you. Since I was eight. Brooklyn. Steve. The war. The train.” Your eyes sting. “The water. The lab. The chair. The missions. Wakanda. Here.”

You see his breath stutter. See his jaw go slack. See denial and hope crash together behind his eyes like two waves colliding.

“No,” he whispers. “No, that’s— you can’t—”

“You just told me you came here because you were worried,” you say, gently but firmly. “Because you couldn’t stop thinking about what it must have been like for your soulmate. For me.”

The word lands between you like a thrown knife.

He flinches.

“I thought about telling you earlier,” you admit, voice shaking. “When I first got here. When I saw you in the hallway, it almost knocked me over. Like… like the world finally lined up the way it was supposed to. But I didn’t know if you’d want that. If you’d want me. Knowing everything I know. So I… I waited.”

“And you—you saw…” His voice breaks.

“Yes,” you whisper. “I saw.”

“All of it?”

You close your eyes, just for a second, and it’s all there behind your eyelids. Blood and ice and metal and a scream cut off mid-breath.

“Enough,” you say. “More than enough.”

His face twists. He jerks to his feet like he can’t bear being still. He paces once, twice, then presses his metal hand against the wall like he needs the anchor.

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. “I’m so— God, doll, I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

The nickname slips out before he can stop it. It rips through you like a live wire.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you repeat, more fiercely this time.

He whirls on you. “I killed people.”

“You were tortured,” you shoot back. “You were brainwashed. They took your choices away. They took your— your dreams—”

He laughs, raw. “That too, huh?”

“And they tried to take your name,” you say. “Your face. Your heart. They tried to make you a weapon. But they didn’t win, Bucky. They didn’t.”

His eyes shine. “Then why do you wake up screamin’?”

The question knocks the breath out of you.

Because of course he’s thought it through. Of course he’s pictured it in more detail than you ever wanted him to.

You swallow. “Sometimes I do,” you admit. “Especially when I was younger. It was… a lot. To see that much pain and not be able to stop it. To watch someone you—” You break off, tongue thick.

“Someone you what?” he asks quietly.

You look up at him. At the man you’ve watched fall and break and get rebuilt over and over.

“Someone you love,” you say.

His breath hitches like you hit him.

“You don’t even know me,” he says, but it’s weak. Tattered.

You smile, shaky. “I know you better than anyone alive, James Buchanan Barnes.”

He flinches at the full name, but doesn’t correct you.

“I’ve seen you steal bread for a sick kid,” you say, voice gaining strength. “I’ve seen you dance in a Brooklyn club like you owned the whole damn room. I’ve watched you sign up to go to war and then get on that train even after you thought you lost your best friend because you couldn’t live with yourself if you didn’t try to stop what was happening.”

A tear slips down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away.

“I’ve watched you be hurt and broken and put back together more times than I can count,” you continue. “And every single time, there was this… this core of you that never went away. This stubborn, ridiculous goodness. This… this refusal to give up, even when giving up would have been easier.”

You take a breath. It comes out broken.

“Those dreams… they hurt. They still do, sometimes. But I never once wished for someone else.”

His face crumples.

“Not once?” he whispers.

“Not once,” you repeat.

He stands there, for a long moment, breathing like he just ran a marathon. Then, slowly, like he’s moving underwater, he comes back to the chair and sinks into it.

His metal hand is shaking.

You bite your lip. Then, very carefully, you reach out and lay your fingers on the back of his knuckles.

He goes absolutely still.

“You asked how to live with it,” you say softly. “With the fact that someone had to see what you went through.”

He swallows. Nods, just barely.

“You live with it by letting me choose,” you say. “By letting me tell you that I’m here on purpose. That I walked into this knowing exactly what you’ve carried, and I still… I still want to be the one who sits with you when the nightmares hit. I still want to be the one who makes you coffee in the morning and teases you about your bedhead and tells you when you’re being too hard on yourself.”

Your voice drops.

“If someone had to be in that room with you, I’m glad it was me.”

A sound tears out of him. Not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. Something in between and more broken than both.

“I don’t deserve you,” he chokes.

You squeeze his hand. “That’s not your call to make.”

He lets out a strangled noise that might be agreement. Might be surrender.

Very slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, he turns his hand under yours so your fingers fit between his, metal and flesh and skin. The plates are warm from his body heat. You can feel the faint whir of servos when he moves.

“You sure about this?” he asks, eyes searching yours. “Because once I start… I don’t know if I’ll be able to—”

“I’ve been sure since I watched you steal that bread,” you say, and a wet, disbelieving laugh escapes him.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay.”

You fall asleep beside him for the first time two weeks later.

It’s not planned. You’d met up in the common room after a late debrief, both too wired to sleep. One thing turned into another—movie, conversation, a shared blanket. At some point, his head tipped against the back of the couch and his breathing evened out.

You watched him for a long time. In your own bed, he’d always been half a world away. Here, his arm was draped along the back of the couch behind you, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.

You dozed off listening to his heartbeat under your ear.

You wake up in your own bed.

Not the Tower couch. Not his room. Your room, where you fell asleep months ago with his whimpers echoing in your head.

Except the pillow smells like him and you’re warm all over, like someone tucked a blanket around your shoulders.

You blink blearily. Sit up.

And realize this is not your room.

It takes a second to piece together what you’re seeing. The walls are the wrong color. The window looks out over a city skyline instead of the tree outside your apartment. There are pictures on the dresser—Avengers in various stages of exhausted celebration. Sam grinning. Steve. Nat. A younger, thinner Tony.

Bucky, looking startled in every single one, like he can’t quite believe he’s allowed to be there.

You look down.

You’re in his bed.

He’s not beside you.

Your heart jackhammers in your chest. You swing your legs over the side, bare feet hitting cool floor—and then you freeze.

Because the light in the bathroom is on. And you can hear the shower.

Water. Steam. The faint silhouette of a man through frosted glass.

You back away instinctively, cheeks burning, and that’s when the wrongness hits you.

You don’t feel like a passenger.

You feel… solid.

You lift your hand. It’s your hand. Your skin, your faint scar on the knuckle.

But the air tastes like him. The room smells like him.

And something about the angle of your own vision is off, like you’re seeing yourself from a height you don’t have.

“Hey,” a familiar voice says behind you, slow and careful. “You okay?”

You spin.

Bucky is sitting up in the bed, hair mussed, eyes heavy with sleep. He’s shirtless. The sheets are pooled around his waist, baring the curve of his shoulder and the scars you could trace in the dark.

Except.

You look down again. Your hands. Your body.

You look back up.

“Holy shit,” you whisper.

He blinks. Then his eyes widen.

“Are you—” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Is this—god, please tell me this isn’t some fucked-up hallucination.”

“You’re… dreaming,” you say slowly. “About me.”

He stares at you.

Then he laughs, helpless and hoarse.

“I fell asleep on your couch,” he says. “I remember that much. You were… right there. Warm. Breathin’ against my chest.” His voice goes soft. “And then I… I opened my eyes and I was somewhere else. Here. But different. And I could feel things that weren’t mine. This…”

He gestures to you. To your body. To the way you’re standing in the center of his room, wearing his t-shirt, hair a mess from sleep.

“This is your place,” he says. “Or… a version of it. From before you moved in here.” His mouth quirks. “You sure have a lot of books, doll.”

You laugh, shocked and shaky. “You… saw my apartment?”

“Think I might still be seein’ it,” he replies. “Or I’m seein’ you seein’ me seein’ it. I don’t know, this soulmate physics stuff is above my pay grade.”

You step closer, slowly, like approaching a wild animal.

“You never dreamed before,” you say. “Not like this.”

He swallows. “Guess I finally caught up.”

You can see the moment it hits him, really hits him, what this means. His shoulders tremble. His eyes shine.

“For all those years, you… you watched my life,” he says. “And I never gave you anything back. Not a single night of peace. Not a single stupid moment of my day to balance out the bad.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” you begin, but he shakes his head, smiling through the tears.

“Maybe not,” he says. “But I still hated the idea of you bein’ alone in it. Of you carryin’ all that without ever gettin’ to hand me somethin’ to carry in return.”

He reaches out. His flesh hand hovers near your cheek, not quite touching.

“Let me have some of it now,” he whispers. “Let me see you. All of you. The good and the bad. Let me watch you cry over exams and spill coffee on yourself and dance in your kitchen when you think no one’s lookin’. Let me be the one who wakes up shakin’ because you had a rough day and I need to make it better.”

Your eyes burn.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he cuts in, fierce. “I’ve wanted to, since the day I realized you exist. Since the day I stepped into your office and saw how my nightmares had carved lines in your face.”

He steps closer. His hand finally lands on your cheek, calloused thumb brushing away a tear.

“Let me share it,” he says. “Please. I can’t go back and stop those men from hurtin’ me. I can’t take those images out of your head. But I can be there now. I can stand in front of whatever’s comin’ next.”

You sink into his touch.

“I don’t want you to keep punishin’ yourself for things you couldn’t control,” you whisper.

“Then don’t you do it either,” he says softly.

You let out a small, wet laugh. “Hypocrite,” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling a little. “Guess I am.”

You look up at him. At the man who has haunted your nights and now, finally, stands in your days.

“Stay,” you say. “In my dreams. In yours. In the kitchen at 3 am. On the couch when we both pretend we’re really into whatever movie’s on.”

His smile deepens, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Anywhere you’ll have me, doll,” he says. “I’m there.”

You step into his arms. He wraps himself around you like he’s been waiting his whole life to remember how.

You breathe him in. Warmth and soap and the faint metal tang that’s always hovered at the edge of your senses.

You tilt your head up.

He kisses you like you’re something holy.

It’s not like the secondhand kisses you watched him give girls in clubs. It’s not like the bruising, desperate collisions you felt through his body in Hydra missions. It’s slow. Reverent. His mouth soft against yours, his hand cupping the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You kiss him back like you’ve been practicing in your sleep for years.

When you pull back, you’re both breathless.

“Think I’m gonna like this whole dream thing,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours.

“Yeah?” you whisper.

“Yeah.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “Got a lot of time to make up for. A lot of nights to give back.”

You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

“I’ll be there,” you say. “Every time you close your eyes.”

He nods, like that’s a vow you just exchanged.

You wake up on the Tower couch with your head on his chest and his arms around you, holding on like the world might try to take you if he loosens his grip.

His shirt is damp where your tears have soaked through.

His eyelashes are wet, too.

“Morning,” he murmurs, eyes blinking open.

You smile up at him, throat tight.

“Morning,” you whisper. “Did you sleep okay?”

He looks at you like you hung the moon.

“I dreamed,” he says simply.

Your chest aches in the best way.

“Me too,” you say.

He kisses your forehead.

You think, for the first time in your life, that maybe nightmares can be outnumbered.

That maybe, together, you can rewrite the story.

Not by erasing what Hydra did. Not by pretending the chair and the lab and the missions never happened.

But by layering new images over the old ones. Shared breakfasts and late-night talks and soft touches and kisses that taste like hope. By letting him see you the way you’ve always seen him—flawed and hurting and still, somehow, unbelievably good.

By letting your dreams finally, truly, belong to both of you.