🦇

EVERYONE WAS ACTING STRANGE. 

It had been two days since the incident with Iseul. Two whole days since your ex had shown up uninvited, run his mouth one too many times, and gotten himself kicked out by your boyfriends. Whatever they did to him… it wasn’t normal. Paranormal was probably the better word. You still couldn’t explain how they managed to shift the energy in the house like that, how they’d interacted with him. Skylar hadn’t had a clue either, which was somehow both reassuring and unnerving.

Thankfully, Iseul hadn’t gone to the cops. Well, not that he really could have…

Even if he’d tried, who would’ve believed him? "The haunted furniture ganged up on me?" Yeah, good luck getting that into a police report.

No, the real problem was here, now, inside the house. Everyone was acting weird. Like… weird-weird. The kind of over-the-top, too-sweet weird that made your skin prickle.

For starters, the entire house felt suspiciously baby-proofed. You weren’t allowed to so much as reach for a glass of water before someone had already pressed it into your hand. Doors you swore used to creak open easily now seemed to stay shut until Dorian offered to open them for you. And your favorite hoodie had mysteriously gone missing, which you were ninety percent sure had something to do with Dirk’s sudden newfound interest in "spring cleaning."

And no one said a word. Not about Iseul, not about the strange energy in the house, not about why everyone hovered like you might break at any moment.

It was like the house had collectively decided you needed round-the-clock supervision, and no one was willing to admit it out loud.

You yawned as you padded toward the stairs, arms stretching high over your head until your spine gave a satisfying crack. The grit of sleep still clung to the corners of your eyes, and all you wanted was coffee. Black. Scalding. Now.

But you didn’t even make it to the first step. Heavy, quick footsteps pounded toward you, so familiar you didn’t even have to look. You let out a long-suffering sigh.

"Tony, don’t—"

Too late.

"Hey, snookums," he crooned, and suddenly you were off your feet, swept into his arms as if you weighed no more than a pillow. He looked down at you with a grin so wide it should’ve been blinding.

"Look at you. All warm, all soft. You’re lucky I didn’t march in with a tray of eggs and espresso like those corny movies Cabrizzio watches."

"For the love of—Tony!" you groaned, flopping uselessly against his chest. "I can walk."

"Eh, I know, I know," he said with a shrug, voice thick with that rolling, sing-song lilt you knew too well. Already, he was heading down the stairs with you in tow like it was the easiest thing in the world. "But should you? Nah… not a chance."

"Tony."

"No fightin’ me this early, okay?" His grip tightened just a little, warm and firm. "C’mon… you know I’ve been missin’ you."

You narrowed your eyes. "You saw me five hours ago."

"Eh, five hours, baby… longest five hours of my life, I swear." He let out a dramatic sigh that made your chest hum with warmth. "You got any idea how much I worry when you ain’t around? Breaks my heart."

"Tragic," you deadpanned, but your head tipped against his shoulder just a little, tired enough to let him have this small victory.

He chuckled low and pleased, a rumble vibrating through his chest against your cheek. Then he leaned in, voice dipping smooth and velvet, impossible to resist. "Aw, come on… don’t be like that. Gimme a kiss, just a little sugar for Papa, hm?"

You squinted up at him. "You’re ridiculous."

"And handsome," he added without missing a beat.

You groaned, but your hand came up anyway, palm warm against his cheek, thumb brushing the scruff along his jaw. You leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth. It was warm, familiar, and a little too much for how early it was, but you let it linger long enough to feel the hitch of his breath.

"There. Happy?" you muttered against his lips.

His grin went wicked. "Oh, sweetheart, I’m ecstatic."

By the time your feet touched the floor again, you’d already been carried straight into the kitchen. The place was alive with motion: pots clanging, voices overlapping, the smell of eggs and coffee hanging thick in the air. It was a rhythm, the house waking up with half a dozen people all moving at once.

" Buongiorno, amore ," Cabrizzio greeted the moment he saw you. His voice was warm, low with fondness, and before you could answer, he had crossed the room in a few easy strides. He drew you into his arms, his embrace carrying the comfort of basil and olive oil, of home and hearth.

"Look at you," he murmured against your temple. "You’re glowing today. A vision."

Your scowl faltered, melting away beneath the soft press of his words, the tender brush of his lips at your hairline.

"I am making you breakfast," he said, guiding you toward a chair. "Siediti, per favore. Let me take care of you."

Flustered, you let yourself be guided to the chair, sinking into it with a dramatic little huff. You folded your arms in a half-hearted attempt at indifference, but the pretense fell apart the instant your eyes landed on Daisuke.

He was tucked into the farthest corner of the kitchen, one leg curled beneath him, shoulders drawn inward as if trying to take up less space. His quiet presence, usually steady and unshakable, felt muted, subdued. In his good hand, he cradled a mug of black tea. Plain, unsweetened, just the way he liked it. Even from across the room, you noticed how deliberately he held it, as if any sudden movement might topple it. His other arm rested in its sling, pressed close against his chest, guarded and still.

Something tightened in your chest.

Without thinking, you stood and crossed the distance, crouching beside him. "Hey," you said softly, your voice low enough to match the gentle rhythm of his movements. "Can I check it again?"

Daisuke’s gaze lifted, steady and calm, yet softened by something almost like an apology.

"You do not need to," he said quietly, carefully measured.

"I want to."

He paused, the tension in his shoulders flickering as he hesitated. Slowly, the stiffness eased, just enough to give you the faintest sense of surrender, as though he were letting you in despite himself.

"I have already received too much attention," he murmured. "It is not fair to trouble you with this as well."

Your chest pinched. "It’s too late for that. I’m already worried again."

Your hand drifted toward the sling before you even realized it. But the second Daisuke shifted, you froze. He didn’t reject your touch. It was just his body guarding the hurt. Still, the sight made guilt stab through you, and you snatched your hand back as if you’d crossed a line.

"…I’m sorry."

But he moved first. Slowly, carefully, he reached for you, catching your fingers and folding them into his palm.

"No. Do not apologize. It is all right, teacup," he said softly.

You touched him again, like he might shatter under the lightest press of your fingers. The carefulness of it made something twist inside him.

Last night replayed behind his eyes: your face buried in his chest, your body trembling, guilt wracking you until exhaustion claimed you. He had said almost nothing, had only held you, let your tears soak his shirt, wishing he could take it all from you. Even now, he could feel the faint imprint of your grief against him, as real as if it were still there.

"It looks better," you murmured, glancing down at the sling.

He inclined his head, slow, measured. "It hurts less." Then, softer, quieter, almost like a question: "And still… you worry, don’t you?"

Your lips pressed together. "…Of course I do."

Something inside him eased, a small weight lifted, and for the first time that morning, a faint smile brushed his mouth. He nudged your knee lightly with his own, a small, boyish gesture amidst all the tension.

"Then I will do my best to heal quickly. So you won’t have to carry this weight for long."

Your vision blurred, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Before they could spill, a hand brushed against your cheek. You blinked, startled, and turned to see Cameron holding a crumpled tissue.

"It’s clean, don’t worry," he muttered, tone gruff as he swiped carefully at the dampness beneath your eyes. When he was done, he shoved the tissue into his pocket like it was nothing.

"I already threw out all his crap, so… you can quit crying like a baby now." You stared at him, caught between offense and disbelief. He avoided your gaze, rubbing the back of his neck.

"…Now go eat," he added.

You sniffed, trying to hold yourself together, but the effort broke apart in an instant. The tears spilled hot and fast, streaking down your cheeks until your whole face blurred, shoulders jerking with every uneven breath.

The men around you jolted as one. Hands hovered midair, unsure whether to pat your back or steady your arms; voices overlapped in half-formed questions, worried and fumbling. They meant well, but the noise only pressed tighter against your chest. You shook your head hard through the blur, lifting a trembling hand as if to push them all away.

Cameron didn’t hesitate. He caught you before you could retreat into yourself, tugging you firmly against him. One big hand came to rest at the back of your head, fingers spread steady in your hair, while the other wrapped securely around your shoulders.

"Hey—hey. Easy," he muttered, his voice low, a steady anchor that didn’t quite match the sharp scowl still carved across his face. "You’re alright. I’ve got you."

Your fingers bunched tight in his shirt, knuckles whitening as you clung to the fabric. You pressed closer, cheek pressed to his chest, and the solid weight of him was the only thing keeping you upright. His heartbeat thudded steadily under your ear, a rhythm you could finally breathe to.

That bastard’s gone, Cameron thought, jaw grinding. Every last piece of his crap went up in Dante last night. Ash and smoke—that’s all that’s left. Best damn use that junk ever had. He almost huffed at the memory, a grim satisfaction curling under the heat of his anger.

His palm moved in slow, hesitant circles between your shoulder blades. It was awkward at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was doing it right. He only knew to try because he’d felt you do the same for him before—those absentminded little gestures you gave when he was the one wound tight. So he copied it now, rough hands gentler than he thought they could be, tracing the rhythm he remembered.

Your weight leaned heavier into him, trusting, unguarded. And even with the ache of anger still stiff in his chest, something in him softened at the sight.

"…You’re safe, baby."

If you thought things had been strange before, after your kitchen breakdown, the house went full-on bizarre. Everyone had started orbiting you like satellites, their movements timed to your moods, their eyes darting whenever you shifted too suddenly. And at the center of this strange gravity was Timothy.

Timothy had taken over the living room like it was a personal war council. Your coffee table had been stripped bare. The remote, coasters, even the candle you liked… all gone. In their place: a laptop, a stack of printouts, and a terrifyingly neat schedule printed on cardstock.

You slouched deeper into the couch, knees tucked up, watching as Timothy positioned himself by the projector wheeled in from God-knows-where. One hand folded neatly behind the back, the other fussing with cufflinks.

"Let me be perfectly clear," he announced. "Left to your own devices, you are a disaster. Therefore, you will no longer be left to your own devices."

Click. The projector blinked awake, washing the wall with its first slide: HEALING PROGRAM™.

A laser pointer flicked on, the red dot circling the title. "Slide one: daily structure. You will rise at seven o’clock sharp. No snoozing alarms, no lying about in bed pretending you’ve died. I will be there to confirm you’re vertical."

You groaned into your knees. "That’s cruel and unusual punishment."

"It’s accountability," he shot back, already clicking to the next slide. "Between seven and nine, you will hydrate, eat a balanced breakfast prepared by the kitchen staff, and complete one page of journaling with Daisuke. I will review it for legibility and, most likely, grammar."

You shot upright. "Grammar?! Timmy, I’m not turning in homework!"

"You are if you want clearance past nine p.m.," he said flatly.

"Clearance?!"

Click. Click. A color-coded grid replaced the bullet points. "At nine, the Hanks take over. And they want you to—" Timothy squinted at the notes, face twisting as if the words physically offended him. " ‘Hankglide .’ Whatever that means. Frankly, it sounds like a broken bone waiting to happen."

You snorted, then broke into helpless laughter. That earned you a scowl sharp enough to cut glass.

"Do not laugh. This is serious. Your physical fitness is clearly lacking and if it takes… ‘Hankgliding’ to ensure cardiovascular improvement, then so be it."

He ignored your wheezing and clicked again. "Slide four: relaxation. Mateo will facilitate puppy exposure between the hours of two and four. Limited sessions. Any attempts to overindulge will result in revoked privileges."

You rolled your eyes, leaning back into the couch cushions. "Revoked privileges? What am I, twelve?"

Timothy didn’t even glance at you. His hand moved, clicking the next slide into view. Click. The words exploded across the wall in bold, black letters: FAILURE TO COMPLY = INTERVENTION LEVEL TWO.

You squinted, leaning forward. "…What’s Level Two?"

Slowly, he turned his head toward you, the angle catching the sharp line of his jaw in the projector light. "Therapy."

Something in the way he said it, without any trace of a joke, cracked you. A soft laugh slipped out, shaking with relief. You sighed, letting your body rise from the couch, feet shuffling toward him.

Without thinking, you wrapped your arms around him. At first, he tensed, shoulders stiff, a low murmur escaping him, but as you pressed closer, he slowly relaxed, one hand coming up to rest against the small of your back, the other hovering for just a moment before settling gently over your hair.

"You gave us all quite a fright," he murmured, voice lower now, almost fragile. "I refuse to stand by and let you unravel further."

Your chest tightened at the sincerity of it. You leaned into him, feeling the firmness of his stance under your weight, the subtle warmth of his body seeping through your clothes. His thumb brushed absentmindedly along the nape of your neck.

"I may come off… severe," he said quietly, "but understand this: you matter to me. To us. If a regimented schedule is what keeps you standing, then I will fashion one. If what you need is order where there is none, I will provide it. Because the alternative—" His gaze flickered down for just a second, lashes dark against his cheek. "…is losing you. And that is not acceptable."

Your throat tightened. "Oh, Timmy… thank you," you whispered, voice small, breath warm against him.

"Of course," he muttered, still stiff in posture but undeniably softened in presence.

You paused, a quiet silence stretching between you. "...Do I really still have to follow the program?"

"Yes."

And so, despite your protests, the schedule had been followed to the letter, which meant it was now time for the "afternoon pampering" session Barry had penciled in on Timothy’s cardstock.

Barry had you trapped in front of your vanity again; his very own war zone of powders, palettes, and lipsticks, half uncapped and rolling like colorful landmines across the table.

You caught your reflection as he smoothed foundation across your cheek and frowned at the uneven blotches on your skin. The words slipped out before you could stop them. "God, I look like shit."

Barry made a sound so dramatic it nearly rattled the mirror, a gasp-shriek hybrid that came from deep in his chest. His whole body snapped toward you, eyes wide with outrage.

"Excuse me?" His voice cracked sharply, like you’d just told him you drove into a Sephora with your car. His hands shot to your shoulders, pinning you back. "Did you just insult my masterpiece? My canvas? The literal face I’ve been dedicating my artistry to?"

You barely got your mouth open before he was moving. A lipstick was uncapped in one hand, swiped across your lips in a clean motion, then onto his own like he was prepping for war.

And then he attacked.

Not with one kiss, but with dozens. Quick, relentless pecks rained down on your cheeks, your jaw, the tip of your nose. Each came with a loud, ridiculous "mwah," leaving a pink stamp in its wake. He pulled back after every few, inspecting his work with the grave focus of a general surveying a battlefield, only to swoop in again twice as fast.

You squeaked when he caught the corner of your mouth, a sound that made his grin sharpen with victory. "There it is. Evidence. Proof. You’re gorgeous and kissable and tragically, tragically wrong about yourself. Case closed, hun."

You tried to keep still when he finally slowed, lips brushing yours properly now. But then his tongue flicked against the seam of your mouth, slipping in with a slow suck that made your whole body jolt. The sound that escaped you was helpless, high, and humiliatingly small.

Both of you froze.

Then Barry leaned back, eyes lighting up like he’d struck gold. His grin spread slow, feral.

"Ohhh," he sang, drawing the word out. "Was that a squeak? A little squeak?" His teeth tugged your bottom lip just to feel the twitch it dragged out of you.

He chuckled as he finally pulled away, thumb brushing a smear of lipstick from your cheek. His voice dropped softer, steadier.

"No more self-dragging," he said, almost a purr. "You’re way too cute to get away with it."

Your knees were jelly by the time you stumbled out of Barry’s orbit. The mirror had betrayed you: cheeks kissed raw, neck and chest marked in a chaotic pattern only Barry could leave. You pressed your fingers to your lips, still tingling, thinking maybe a hot shower would wash the heat away.

But when you pushed open the bathroom door, steam rolled out, thick and clinging. Heat kissed your skin and made the air shimmer.

Johnny was already there. When he turned, his gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, lingering over every mark Barry had left. Collarbone, chest, the curve of your hip, then up again. The heat coiled in your stomach before the water even touched you.

"Well," he drawled, "you’re shakin’ like a willow in the wind."

Your robe slipped from your shoulders as if on its own, and your bare skin met the warm spray. Johnny shifted, creating space between you, his hand brushing the small of your back, then pressing firmly, drawing you closer. Without a word, you stepped in beside him.

The water hit you like a sigh, washing away the leftover tremor from Barry’s relentless affection. Johnny’s hands followed, big and steady, sliding over your shoulders, pressing in firm circles. He kneaded tension out of your muscles as if it were clay, fingers working, thumbs brushing along bone and sinew until your body relaxed against him.

"That’s it, sugar," he murmured, voice rough velvet, whispering against your ear. "All this tension sittin’ up here like you’re carryin’ the weight of the whole dang world. You gonna give yourself a hump before you even hit fifty."

He leaned in, forehead grazing yours as the water traced down both your backs. His hands slid lower, palms bracing at your hips, thumbs stroking small circles. Then he sank to his knees, water splashing around him, hair plastered to his jawline. From down there, his eyes looked up at you, reverent and impossibly tender, and your stomach flipped.

"Any person’d be blessed just to stand where I’m standin’," he said softly, letting his hands linger against your thighs. "But me? I get to touch you, to hold you…Sugar, I think about that and I feel like I oughta thank somebody every day for lettin’ me."

Your breath caught, cheeks burning. "Johnny—"

"You hush now." He grinned, letting the water drip off his eyelashes, voice low, coaxing. "Let me have my moment, would ya? Don’t get many chances to be poetic in the shower."

You laughed weakly, breathless, letting him guide your legs apart slightly so his hands could massage the trembling in your thighs, kneading it away. You leaned a little, letting your torso press against his chest, feeling his weight anchored beneath the cascade of water.

"You’re such a loser," you muttered, lips twitching despite the heat.

He tilted his head, grin mischievous, eyes soft with devotion. "Yeah, baby. But I’m your loser."

After your shower, you finished a few more errands from Tim’s list, until the clock struck four in the afternoon. Puppy exposure time. Exactly as scheduled. And honestly? You needed it.

Your nerves were taut, fraying at the edges like old rope. Lately, after the visit, they seemed to ignite faster than ever, and Mateo always noticed first. He didn’t ask; he didn’t need to. The shallow hitch of your breath, the restless grind of your fingers until nails scraped skin. He read it all before you even had a chance to spiral.

"Hey," he said, voice soft and steady, already tugging you down onto the rug with him. Before you realized, a blanket was draped over your shoulders, its weight grounding you like a familiar anchor.

The inanimals immediately picked up on the shift. Paws skittered against the hardwood, tails thumping, noses sniffing the air as the pack swarmed closer. But this time, there was a newcomer slinking along with the familiar group. You blinked. Something stitched together from scraps of telephone wire, copper, and black cords, had been twisted into the rough shape of a pup. Its tiny paws clicked lightly as it trotted forward, its head tilting curiously at you, a faint hum resonating through the wires.

You froze. Mateo chuckled, low and warm, pressing gently against the back of your shoulder. "Don’t worry. She’s friendly. Found her following me this morning." His fingers scratched under the little wire pup’s chin. It tilted into the touch, the cords shifting with a soft static fizz.

Before you could second-guess the moment, Mateo’s arms wrapped tighter around you, pulling you half into his lap. His chest pressed firmly against your back, warm and steady, grounding you. One hand combed gently through your hair, untangling the tension as if it were a stubborn knot.

"See?" he murmured, cheek brushing against yours, breath warm and sure. "Nothing can touch you here. Not when I’ve got you."

The inanimals began their gentle chaos. One pup wriggled onto your stomach with a satisfied grunt, pressing close. Another pawed at your hands, nudging them toward Mateo. The wire pup clambered awkwardly over your legs, cords dragging with a faint electrical hiss. Mateo smiled as you let out a small laugh.

"Better?" he asked. You nodded, feeling it. The way your body softened, shoulders releasing, tension melting into the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back. His smile pressed to your temple, soft and certain, as if he’d known all along that you’d surrender to this comfort eventually.

One of the inanimals pawed at your hand, insisting on attention. Mateo guided your fingers to scratch behind its ears, and it immediately flopped onto its side, tail thumping. Another nudged your cheek with wet warmth, eliciting a soft chuckle from you. The wire pup’s hum shifted slightly under your touch, vibrating faintly as if approving.

"See?" Mateo murmured again, holding your hand over the little wire pup’s head. "You’re safe. You’re home."

You let yourself sink fully into him, closing your eyes. The chaos of the inanimals, the warm weight of the blanket, Mateo’s grounding presence, it all stitched you back together, thread by thread. Paws tapped and tails wagged, little bodies pressing against yours, and the wire pup traced gentle arcs across your knees, buzzing faintly. Mateo’s hands remained steady on your back and in your hair, fingers kneading gently, smoothing out every last knot of anxiety.

When your eyes opened, you caught his gaze, soft and certain, a quiet promise in the curve of his smile. 

"We’ll always be here," he murmured.

Night had already fallen, shadows pooling along the baseboards, when you finally wriggled out of Tim’s meticulously plotted schedule. Freedom tasted sweeter than it should have, like you’d cheated the system and won.

The victory lasted all of three steps down the hall before your nose twitched. Smoke. Not thick, but sharp enough to sting the back of your throat. You slowed, blinking, and followed the scent trail to the living room.

Dirk stood rigid at the hearth, one of your ex’s old hoodies dangling from his hand. He hurled it into the fire with a flick of his wrist. Flames, fed and coaxed by Dante’s outstretched palms, flickered and hissed, devouring the cotton in a shower of sparks. The air smelled of burning detergent and something far more acrid, like... anger.

"Bad memories don’t belong here," Dirk muttered, every word sharp. His jaw was tight, shoulders tensed like he was holding something in.

Dante glanced at him, hands steady, palms glowing faintly in the firelight. He didn’t argue, just fed the blaze quietly, perfectly complicit.

Then, as if on cue, both of them noticed you.

Dirk froze mid-throw, half a sleeve dangling from his grip. Dante’s fire guttered, shrinking as if ashamed. Slowly, they turned toward you.

You raised your brows. "...What exactly am I walking in on?"

Dirk cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. "Spring cleaning," he offered, but the words came out flat.

"Bit late in the year for that," you said, folding your arms and smirking. "And you used that excuse days ago."

Dante’s lips twitched, and the heat at his palms flickered down to the soft, steady glow of the fireplace. "We were just… helping," he admitted, sheepish, like a kid caught sneaking cookies from the jar.

"Helping," you repeated, deadpan. "By turning my living room into a bonfire?"

Dirk dropped the sleeve into the flames anyway, muttering something you couldn’t catch. When he looked back at you, the bravado was gone, replaced by that sheepish grin. "They didn’t deserve to sit in your drawers anymore," he said finally. "Not after what they put you through."

The room fell silent except for the soft crackle of burning fabric.

You just stared at them. Your ridiculous, overprotective idiots, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the fire like some sacred burning had been staged in your honor. And for some reason, your chest warmed, despite the smoke.

You stepped closer, taking in the way Dirk’s shoulders were still tense, the small twitch of his fingers as he flexed them. You reached out, letting your hand hover for a heartbeat before brushing against his arm. Dirk stiffened at first, then relaxed ever so slightly under the touch.

Dante’s eyes followed, softening as he watched your movements. You leaned down, pressing a careful hand to his forearm, letting your fingers trail over the slight warmth from his earlier firework. He let out a small breath, one that sounded like relief, and his posture slackened a touch.

"Alright," you said, voice gentle, teasing. "You’re both insane. But…" You exhaled, tilting your head to catch Dirk’s gaze. "My heart is safe now… can’t say the same for my old hoodies."

Both of them perked up, expressions shifting into that familiar mix of protectiveness, mischief, and quiet pride.

You couldn’t resist. Leaning up, you pressed a soft kiss to Dirk’s cheek. Then you moved to Dante, letting your lips brush his temple. 

"They’re gone," you murmured, tracing the air just above the fire grate. "All of it."

Dirk leaned closer. "You really don’t know how much you’re worth to us, do you?"

Dante’s chuckle joined in, quiet but warm. "Worth more than anything we could ever let harm you."

"I know that," you murmured, pressing your forehead against Dirk’s shoulder for a moment, letting the warmth seep in, mingling with the faint trace of smoke still lingering in the room. 

"Oh. And just to be clear," you said, teasing yet soft, letting a small smile tug at your lips, "I forgive you for the mini inferno."

Dirk snorted, rolling his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifted into a sly grin. "Next time, we’ll make it a proper barbecue."

The house was quiet, almost too quiet. You wandered down the hall, drawn by a faint electric hum that made the air tingle against your skin. Your steps slowed as the sound grew stronger, pulling you toward the breaker box.

And there he was. Volt, leaning casually against the wall, half in shadow, the subtle bluish shimmer of his skin catching the dim light. His posture was relaxed, but the tension in his shoulders, the tight set of his jaw... it all said he was holding back.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You stopped a few feet away, noticing the way the hum of electricity seemed to pulse in time with your own racing heartbeat. Volt’s eyes met yours, lingering longer than usual. You could feel the weight of days unspoken hanging between you.

He lifted a hand, almost like testing the waters, and held it out. You stepped closer, each movement measured. When your fingers brushed his, he pressed a soft, deliberate kiss to the back of your hand. The touch was slow, intentional, a bridge across the silence of the last few days.

"My dear," he murmured, voice low and warm, silk over steel, carrying a weight you hadn’t heard in a long time.

You studied him, thumb gliding over his knuckles, taking in the subtle tension in his frame, the way his eyes flicked to yours and away, then back. "Hey," you said finally, voice soft, careful. "I… saw what happened. You really wore yourself out back then."

Volt’s grin was slow to form, almost shy, the mischief tempered by exhaustion and relief. His eyes flashed that familiar spark, tempered now by something gentler, more vulnerable. "Angry? Maybe. Protective? Definitely. Worth it? Always. If it keeps you safe," he said, voice low, letting each word linger in the space between you.

"Anyone who even thinks of hurting you…" His voice dropped to a low rumble, sending a spike through your chest. "…they will regret it."

The silence stretched again after that, not uncomfortable, but heavy with things unsaid. You shifted slightly, letting your hand stay in his, feeling the subtle charge beneath his skin. Every small movement, every blink, every pause seemed loaded, as if the two of you were reacquainting yourselves with each other in the quiet of the night.

Your hand pressed to his chest, feeling the faint warmth beneath the subtle current. "Never seen you like that before," you murmured.

Volt’s grin shifted. "Ah… but how would you like me then?" Without waiting, he took your hand, guiding you toward the empty bar. His cheek brushed yours, breath warm, hands steady at your waist. Every movement was teasing, measured, yet intimate, sending a warmth through your chest that made your pulse hitch.

"You feel that?" he murmured near your ear. "Just us. No distractions. Nothing else matters. Just you… and me."

You shivered, heart racing, trying to match his calm confidence. "Volt…"

He laughed softly, rich and teasing, and dipped his head to press a lingering kiss to your temple. "Shh… no words. Just this. Let me hold you."

You melted into him, letting the warmth carry you. He swayed you gently, one hand gliding along your back, the other at your waist, fingers curling around yours when you fidgeted.

"Always," he murmured, voice honeyed, cheek brushing yours, gaze soft and unwavering. "Always for you, my dear."

You pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the pulse beneath his skin, and let a soft, genuine smile spread across your face. "Always," you echoed, closing your eyes and letting the warmth settle through every nerve.

Tuckered out from dancing with Volt, you decided to stay the night near the breaker box. The soft hum of electricity became a steady, oddly comforting rhythm, filling the quiet corners of the room. Volt curled nearby, finally at rest, his bluish tint fading as he relaxed under your presence. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the gentle twitch of a fingertip now free of tension, drew your gaze, and you let yourself trace the curve of his jaw, memorizing the familiar lines.

You weren’t asleep, though. Instead, you found yourself lying face-to-face with Eddie. Somehow, without words, you’d drifted here together. 

Slowly, carefully, he guided your trembling fingers over the map of scars etched across his skin: jagged burns, rough edges, the fingerprints of lightning.

"This one…" he murmured, voice low, deliberate, "a short circuit…almost had me. But I made it." His thumb brushed along one of the deeper, more jagged marks, and your hand followed, tracing the contours, learning his story through touch.

Gradually, his shoulders softened, tension sliding out like smoke through an open window. The tight lines of worry eased, and for a fleeting moment, he seemed lighter, almost fragile in the most human, honest way.

By the time your fingers returned to rest in his, your chest tightened. Not from fear, but from a sudden, overwhelming realization. Every person in this house, every "intervention," every chaotic touch, every gentle hand guiding you, every meticulously crafted schedule, every puppy pile, they had all been for you. The sheer magnitude of it pressed on your heart, swelling warmth through your ribs.

"Your brain is thinking too much again." Eddie’s voice cut through the soft hum of the room.

"You know… I hate it when you don’t get it," he continued, low and careful. "How much… how much every single one of us loves you. But I can’t make you understand. I just… want you to know. Truly know."

You swallowed, fingers tracing idle patterns against the fabric beneath you. "I… I do get it," you whispered, voice trembling despite yourself.

He shook his head slightly, a faint, exasperated smile tugging at his lips. "You think you do. But sometimes, seeing it, feeling it… maybe then it’ll stick. Because you are loved. Every single one of us. More than you even imagine."

Eddie’s words had hit harder than you thought, echoing in your chest long after he’d whispered them. Even after hours of tossing and turning, your mind refused to quiet. Eventually, you found yourself up again, moving through the quiet house, letting your feet carry you wherever they pleased.

The hallway was dim, shadows pooling along the walls. Your fingers traced the doorframes, half-worried, half-relieved that nobody had followed you… until a curl of darkness slid up behind you, warm and fluid, wrapping around your silhouette like ink in water. Skips.

He didn’t say anything at first, letting you notice him slowly. Shadows pooled at his feet and curled lightly around your legs as he stepped closer. His eyes met yours, dark and intent, and the rest of the world seemed to shrink away.

"I…" you started, voice small. Then you laughed a little at yourself, embarrassed. "I don’t even know what to say. I… I don’t know what I did to deserve all of this… you all… this love."

Skips' lips curved faintly, almost amused, though his eyes stayed serious. Shadows drifted up to brush your shoulders gently. 

"Dragged?" he murmured, voice low and quiet, teasing even. "No. You didn’t drag anyone, Penumbra. You… saved us. Don’t twist it into something it isn’t."

You swallowed, tugging at your sleeve. "But… maybe I’m not… I don’t know… I’m scared I’m the reason things warp. What if I ruin it?"

He shook his head slowly. "No. You gave us something real… something worth holding onto. Everything we feel—it’s because of you. Not in spite of you. Got it?"

"I… I don’t know if I’m worthy," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Skips' shadows shifted, wrapping around you protectively, cocoon-like. He reached up, pressing a hand gently to your cheek, tilting your face toward his. 

"Baby," he murmured, voice trembling slightly. "Penumbra… you’re more than worthy. You don’t earn this. You are it. And if you ever doubt that…" He leaned closer, shadows curling around you tenderly. "…we’ll spend every second proving it to you. Every. Single. Second."

You blinked, heart hammering. "Even… if it’s too much?"

"Never too much," he said softly, exhaling a shaky laugh. "Not with me. Not with any of us. You’re ours… all of you. And I…" He hesitated, voice thick with emotion. "…I am completely yours. I’ll keep you, love you, protect you. If I have to whisper it a thousand times, I will. If I have to grovel, I will. You’re worth it. You always have been."

You let your forehead rest against his, breathing him in. The warmth, the shadows, the careful weight of his presence pressing around you. "You really mean that?"

He brushed your hair back with one hand, shadows lingering softly around your form. "Every word," he said quietly, almost shyly. "Even the ones that make me sound insane. You… you make me feel steady. Alive. And if you ever doubt it, I’ll murmur it into your ear until you do."

You let out a shaky laugh, curling your fingers into his shirt. "You’re ridiculous."

"Maybe," he whispered, softer now, shadowed grin tugging at his lips. "But you… you’re mine. And I’ll spend every quiet second reminding you of that."

Your chest swelled, warmth spreading through your body. After hours of lying awake, letting his presence anchor you, you lifted your gaze slowly, meeting his again. The house was still, the night stretching endlessly around you, the intimacy of this quiet moment wrapping tighter around your chest than any schedule or intervention ever could.

"See…?" he murmured, voice dropping low, brushing against your ear. "You feel that? The world’s quiet. Just us. And it’s all for you. Just you."

You let yourself lean closer, letting the words, the care, the quiet devotion settle into your chest. Then, instinctively, you tilted your face toward his, pressing your lips against his. The kiss started soft, teasing, but as soon as your lips met his, it deepened, urgent and hungry. His lip piercing brushed against yours with every movement, a spark of sensation that made your knees weaken and your pulse spike. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles, while his other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

The shadows around him pulsed, alive and protective, echoing the heat that pooled between you. Every shuddered breath, every tilt of his head, every slick, teasing press of his pierced lip against yours sent shivers through you. It was messy, breathless, and consuming. 

When you finally pulled back, lips glistening, breath uneven, and hearts hammering, his eyes glimmered in the dim light, dark and molten, full of mischief, tenderness, and that dangerous edge that always left you weak.

"Ours," he whispered, voice low and tender. "You’re ours. All of you."

And in that moment, you believed it.

hi!! omg, so sorry it took me a minute to check in! college started and it’s been an absolute whirlwind of everything...

sorry this is kinda shit but i felt bad for the cliffhanger so i thought i might as well at least post this draft <//3 really wanted to add more characters but my mental health tanked so bad i couldn’t bring myself to write anymore :(

still… i honestly can’t believe how much this fic popped??? like, i did not expect anyone to love my dumb writing as much as you all did, and it honestly makes my heart so warm!

if you enjoyed my work, if this story made you smile or feel even a little cozy, i’d be super happy if you wanted to support me with a ko-fi! it’s just a little thing that keeps me going and helps me keep writing the stories i love 💌

here’s the link if you feel like it: https://ko-fi.com/yangelbabywayne

thank you so so much for reading, for commenting. it genuinely means the world. every like, every comment, every share!

You meant to say something witty, but all that came out was a small, breathless laugh.

"Surprise," you murmured. "Party in the breaker box?"

Volt crouched down beside you. There was shuffling, and you felt his jacket slip over yours. His eyes studied your face, searching for something beyond the flush of your cheeks and the glassiness in your gaze.

"You okay, love?"

You laughed, mostly to yourself. "Yeah. S’fine. I’m good."

"You’re not good," Volt said gently. "You never drink like this."

You blinked slowly. "I dunno. Just felt like... fuck it, y’know?"

Boots scuffed across the concrete. You didn’t need to look to know it was Eddie. The sound of him was always distinctive, all heavy steps and no extra movement.

He shifted his weight. The scrape of sole against cement whispered again as he moved closer, but he didn’t crouch. Eddie just stood there, arms folded tight across his chest, watching you with that unblinking steadiness of his.

"You doin’ this for a reason?" he asked, voice low, rough like grit in a wire brush.

You waved a hand vaguely, but it clipped the wall with a soft clunk. You winced, cradling your hand. 

"Not a reason," you muttered. "Just... thinkin’. Or tryin’ not to."

Volt just leaned in a little. "About?"

"Old shit," you said, quieter now. "Doesn’t matter."

You curled in on yourself a little more. Your knees drew closer to your chest. When you spoke again, it was almost to yourself.

"I just... I dunno. Sometimes I think, maybe if I’d said something sooner. Or if I hadn’t walked away. If I’d stayed… I would have fought harder when it mattered."

You let out a weak laugh, breath hitching as you pressed the heels of your palms against your eyes. "Stupid. That’s stupid."

No one answered. Volt was still beside you, close enough to feel the heat of him bleeding through the jacket draped over your shoulders. Eddie’s boots hadn’t moved an inch.

You let your head fall back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling like it might spell out answers. The world swayed just a little with the motion.

Your voice cracked the next time you spoke. "He was good. I fucked it up."

You didn’t see when Volt took the bottle from your hand, just felt the weight suddenly gone. You let your fingers curl into your palm.

"I should’ve tried harder," you mumbled, words pouring out of your mouth before you could stop them. "I—I always thought I’d have time. That he’d come back eventually. Or—or that I’d... I dunno. Be better by then."

You laughed to yourself. Dry and sad and cracked around the edges.

"I used to think maybe if I just fixed the right thing—if I just learned to shut up more, or stopped jumping around, or—" You waved your hand vaguely. "—stopped making everything about feelings, he’d stay."

Your voice wavered then dropped to something quieter.

"He was the first person who made me feel like maybe I wasn’t a total fucking mess," you mumbled, eyes fixed on the blur of the breaker lights. "And then he left and I thought, okay. Cool. Guess I am a mess."

Eddie didn’t speak. Just breathed, a slow and uneven exhale through his nose, like it hurt to hold it in too long. You didn’t see the way his jaw clenched sharp, the way his throat worked around words he knew better than to say. 

You didn’t see the way his fists curled in on themselves, his nails digging into his palms hard enough to leave welts, anything to ground himself in something that wasn’t the sound of your voice cracking over someone else’s name.

But Volt did.

And God, it hurt . To see the flicker of pain Eddie was trying to hide, the weight of it swelling thick between his ribs. 

Volt had worn that same expression, alone in the mirror. It was a grief that came in slow waves, a grief for something they never really had, not in full, not when your heart still held someone else’s ghost. A grief made worse because they both felt it. 

Both carried it. Eddie and Volt, shoulder to shoulder, bound by something tender and doomed.

That was the cruelest part. That they had each other, by all accounts, it should’ve been enough. 

The kind of love they’d built between them wasn’t some flimsy thing, easily shaken. They shared a life now. Shared the same quiet mornings and late-night shifts and sleepy touches. Eddie’s lips at Volt’s throat, Volt’s fingers through Eddie’s curls. 

They’d seen each other gutted, broken open, and reassembled with shaking fingers.

And still, it wasn’t enough to kill the hunger when it came to you .

Because loving you was different. Loving you felt like touching a live wire, like being shocked over and over in the same place and begging the burn to stay, just so you’d feel it again. 

It was a need that outgrew the skin it started in, a current that jumped between them, unchecked, every time you laughed or leaned into one of them or said their names. 

Every stolen second you looked their way felt like a jolt to the chest. And every second you didn’t … every second you didn’t was static in their bones.

Volt looked at you now and felt the scream in him again, fizzing under his tongue like sparks. You were curled in the corner of the breaker room, his jacket bunched uselessly around you. 

"Maybe he was right," you croaked. "Maybe I was just... hard to love."

Eddie shifted, the scrape of his boot against the concrete loud. His voice came next, not loud, but something inside it had teeth and bite.

"No," he said. "You weren’t hard to love. He just didn’t know how."

He looked at you then, jaw tight, eyes darker than usual. "And that’s not the same fucking thing."

"Okay, sure," you slurred, eyes glassy as they rolled skyward. "Break-up therapy in the breaker box."

Beside you, Volt stirred. Then, in one smooth motion, he rose to his feet. Looking down at you, he brushed a wrinkle from his sleeve, tone deceptively light.

"Not therapy," he murmured. "But I do have an idea."

You squinted. "Please don’t say feelings circle."

He smirked, soft, without mockery. "Worse. Dance break."

You blinked at him, slack-jawed. "What."

Volt extended a hand, fingers outstretched, his voice light but certain. "You heard me. There’s no use lying here in a heap of your own tears. Get up. Let’s dance."

"There’s no music," you pointed out, blinking hard.

"There’s humming," he replied, nodding toward the fuse box. "And you’ve got rhythm in there somewhere. Probably. If not, I’ll lead and pretend you do."

You dragged a hand down your face. "I think you’re the one who’s drunk."

Beside you, Eddie made a sound that was half scoff, half genuine laugh. When you turned toward him, his expression had changed. The rigid lines had softened and the guarded veneer had cracked, just slightly. There was something almost gentle in the way he looked at you now.

"Well?" Eddie asked. His brow arched, but his mouth almost smiled.

You sighed, then reached for Volt’s hand.

Standing took more effort than it should have. Your knees wobbled, but before you could tip, Volt caught you. One hand slipped easily into yours; the other found your waist.

You began to sway with him in an uncoordinated shuffle more than a dance. The room buzzed with the ambient hum of wires, and your pulse trailed behind it. No music. Just static, breath, and the quiet scrape of shoes on concrete.

"It’s rhythm," Volt murmured, guiding you in a lazy circle, his hand warm at your back. "Not choreography. And you, my dear, are tragically overdue for a little movement."

"I’m still a mess," you scoffed, not even trying to hide how much you still hurt. 

"Good," Volt hummed. "Messes are far more interesting."

You gave him a look. "You’re so full of shit."

"Terribly," he replied without missing a beat.

Then, suddenly, he twirled you.

Your feet tangled, your body spinning too fast for your brain to catch up. You startled, half-tripping into him with a startled yelp, but Volt only laughed under his breath like he’d expected it, like he knew you would. His arm wrapped tighter around you, hand firm at your spine, slowing your momentum with practiced ease.

"See?" he murmured, breath warm against your ear. "You moved."

You tried to glare at him, tried to be annoyed, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you. They twitched upward despite everything.

It felt weird… this whole thing. This strange little dance in the half-lit breaker box, buzzing with old electricity and fresh heartache. But for one slow, ridiculous turn, your body remembered how to exist without holding grief.

Your head tipped back, lips parting as a laugh broke free, impossible to stop. You laughed until your eyes fluttered shut and your knees dipped slightly with the motion, clinging to the lapels of his coat like they were the only thing keeping you upright.

"God," you gasped between breaths, still laughing, "this is so stupid."

"Yes, you’ve said so," Volt chuckled. "And yet! There you are. Laughing. Which, frankly, is a miracle given the state you’re in."

He twirled you again, slower now. Your laughter hiccupped mid-turn and spilled out in softer bursts.

You didn’t notice how your hands had found his shoulders. How your cheek brushed against the lapel of his coat. How your fingers curled instinctively into the fabric like you’d done it a thousand times in another life. You just let yourself lean into him.

Across the room, Eddie hadn’t moved. He was still leaning against the wall, still half-lost in shadow, but something in his posture had softened. The tight set of his jaw had eased. The edge in his eyes had dulled. He didn’t come closer because he knew that if he touched you, he might not be able to stop. 

So he stayed where he was, loving you the way he knew how. With the quiet ticking of a mind already moving through the list of things he’d do tomorrow to make the morning easier for you. Water by your bed. Toast you probably wouldn’t eat. Painkillers from Farya ready in your hand before you even ask.

He knew your laughter wasn’t a cure. Knew that nothing in this moment could stitch up the pieces of your grief. That this moment wouldn’t fix the way your heart still bled for someone long gone. That when the high wore off and your stomach turned and the lights buzzed too loud again, you’d remember all the reasons you drank in the first place.

But they still gave you this. They chose to give you this because they loved you.

They knew you weren’t theirs. Knew your heart still looked backward. That your fingers might still trace the ghost of someone who didn’t stay.

Still, you laughed. And in that moment with your laughter in that awful little room, they had everything they’d ever wanted.

And for one breathless second, they let themselves believe that in this life, you might have loved them too.