You've Done It All Nanamin, You Can Rest Now. We Love You.

this is my kind of lover, congratulations peeps if you have someone like this 🩷

100% recommend, best to be read at 3am

this, didn't just hit a nerve. it hit my whole brain.

it captured every painful thought perfectly, in its rawest form.

as somebody who had experienced this for a very long time, i approve this.

to have any-fucking-body just be the way steve is. it alleviates the burden, enough that you can breathe again.

this feeling, it's fucked up.

it hurts you in ways that nobody can see. it isn't something you can just get over. it's not something that pops up every month like a period.

i can't say i'm fully healed. i still have relapses, i just don't let anybody see it.

whomever has gone through this or is going though it, we don't have the words that can take away all that pain instantly. but with time, therapy and the right kind of people, that pain will get easier to bear. and eventually, it will move into the back of your mind.

nobody is too much to handle or carries a lot of baggage. we're all human. we feel. we cry. we feel everything.

that's ok.

nobody in this world is actually normal. so don't worry if you don't fit in. everyone is abnormal in their own way.

take it from a psychology student 😉

All lights turned off, Can be turned on | Steve Harrington

Word Count: 17.3k,

Warnings: Angst, depression, su!cide mentioned

A/N: Found this in my docs as well, Not edited or proof read.

----

You and Steve used to tell each other everything.

You don’t remember when that stopped.

It wasn’t all at once, not like a car crash, not like the kind of thing that left broken glass and skid marks and screaming in its wake. No, it was slower than that. Something you barely noticed at first. Like a leak under the sink, dripping water into the dark, rotting the foundation of everything before you ever thought to check.

And now, here you are. Sitting in the passenger seat of Steve Harrington’s car, pretending everything is fine.

The heater is on, but you’re still shivering. The leather seat sticks to the back of your legs, and the silence between you sticks even worse.

You’re not sure why you said yes when he called you. Maybe it was easier than ignoring him again. Maybe it was the way he said your name, soft and careful, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he wasn’t gentle enough. Like you hadn’t already been disappearing for months.

Maybe you just missed him.

The worst part is, Steve hasn’t changed. Not really. He still drives too fast but somehow never gets caught. He still chews on the inside of his cheek when he’s thinking too hard. He still glances at you out of the corner of his eye like he’s waiting for you to say something first.

And you still don’t.

You don’t know how to explain what’s wrong. Not in a way that doesn’t sound pathetic, not in a way that doesn’t make you feel like an open wound with no skin to protect you.

How do you say, I feel like a ghost in my own body?

How do you say, Everything is heavy, even breathing?

How do you say, I miss you so much it makes me sick…when he’s right there?

Steve taps his fingers against the steering wheel. You recognize the rhythm some song he used to blast on summer nights, windows down, both of you singing at the top of your lungs. But now, he doesn’t turn on the radio. He just keeps driving, waiting.

“Robin said your voicemail is full.” His voice is soft, careful.

You don’t look at him. “That’s nice.”

“She’s worried about you.”

You bite the inside of your cheek until it hurts. You want to say she doesn’t need to be, but that would be a lie, and Steve always knows when you’re lying.

He exhales through his nose, tightening his grip on the wheel. “I’m worried about you..”

You say nothing.

Steve makes a sound, half a scoff, half a sigh. “Jesus, will you just…say something?”

You swallow. Your throat feels tight. “What do you want me to say, Steve?”

“I don’t know,” he mutters. “That you’re okay? That you’re not—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head like he’s trying to get the thought out before it can settle. “I don’t know. Something. Anything.” He pleaded

There’s something in his voice that cracks you open a little. It’s not frustration, not really. It’s fear. You hate that. You hate that he’s scared for you, hate that you’ve done this to him.

You press your forehead against the window, watching the streetlights blur past. “I’m fine.”

Steve laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “Right. Fine.” He shakes his head. “You really expect me to believe that?”

You don’t answer.

Because no, of course you don’t. Steve might be a lot of things, annoying, stubborn, entirely too attractive for his own good but he’s not stupid no matter how much he thinks he is.

The car slows to a stop at an intersection, red light bleeding into the windshield. Steve turns his head, looking at you. You can feel his gaze like a weight on your skin.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Look at me.”

You don’t.

He doesn’t let up. “C’mon. Just..look at me, please.”

You do and the moment your eyes meet his, your throat feels even tighter.

Because Steve is looking at you like you’re breaking. Like you’re something fragile, something precious. Like he doesn’t know how to fix you, but he wants to. Desperately.

It makes you want to cry. It makes you want to scream. It makes you want to grab his stupid, perfect face and kiss him because maybe if he knew how much you love him, maybe if he really knew, it would explain all of this. Maybe then he’d understand why it’s been so hard to breathe without him.

But you don’t.

Because Steve has a life, a future, a heart big enough to love the whole damn world, and he deserves better than someone who can barely get out of bed in the morning.

Instead, you force a smile. “I’m fine, Steve.”

He stares at you. Then his jaw tightens, and he turns back to the road. The light turns green.

He doesn’t say another word and neither do you.

You and Steve used to tell each other everything.

That’s what makes this worse.

Because if this were anyone else, you could pretend. You could fake a smile, change the subject, tell them you’ve just been busy, sorry I haven’t called, work’s been crazy, you know how it is. But Steve knows better. Steve remembers.

He remembers what your voice sounds like at 2 AM when you can’t sleep.

He remembers the way you bite your lip when you’re about to cry but don’t want anyone to notice.

He remembers the day your mom packed up and left, shoved a stack of cash in your hand like that would make up for anything, kissed you on the forehead, and walked out the door.

He remembers that you didn’t cry then, either.

Maybe that’s why he looks at you like this now, like he’s waiting for the dam to break, like he wants you to break, just a little, just enough to let him help.

But you don’t.

Because if you let one thing slip, it’s all going to come pouring out, and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to shove it back inside again.

So instead, you sit there in his car, staring out the windshield like you can will yourself invisible. The heater hums, blowing warm air against your cold fingers, but you still feel frozen.

Steve’s gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles have gone white.

“She called me,” he says, voice low, tight.

You blink. “…Who?”

Steve’s jaw clenches. “Your mom.”

Your stomach drops.

Of course she did.

Not because she cares. Not because she suddenly woke up in her new life and thought, God, I miss my kid, I should check in. No, she called because the bank probably told her your rent was due soon, and she needed to make sure you hadn’t run off and died somewhere before she sent the next check.

You don’t say that out loud. You don’t say anything at all.

Steve exhales sharply through his nose. “She said you’re not picking up.”

“So?”

“So, she’s worried about you.”

You let out a laugh, sharp and bitter. “No, she’s not.”

Steve flinches. Just a little. Just enough for you to catch it.

You shake your head, turning away, pressing your fingers against the cold glass of the window. Your breath fogs up the surface, blurring the outside world into a smear of streetlights and passing cars.

“She doesn’t care, Steve,” you say, voice quieter now. “She just wants to make sure I’m still alive so she doesn’t have to feel guilty when she pays my rent.”

Silence.

“That’s bullshit.”

You glance at him. “What?”

Steve turns in his seat to face you fully. “That’s bullshit,” he repeats, firmer now. His eyes are dark, shining with something you don’t quite understand. “You think she doesn’t care? Fine. But I do.”

Your throat tightens.

Steve swallows, running a hand through his hair. “I care. Robin cares. Dustin cares. Hell, Eddie would probably kick your ass if he knew you were pulling this disappearing act.”

A weak attempt at a joke, but his voice cracks at the end, and that’s what makes your chest ache. Not the words. The way he sounds.

Like he’s scared.

Like he’s losing you.

You should say something. You should tell him he’s not. But your ribs feel like they’re caving in, pressing against your lungs until you can barely breathe, and the words won’t come.

Steve shakes his head. “Look, I get it, okay? I get it.” His voice softens, his fingers flexing against his knee. “Some days, it’s easier to just… not. Not answer the phone, not get out of bed, not deal with anything.”

You don’t ask how he knows that.

You don’t ask what his bad days look like, or how often they happen, or if he ever sits alone in his car after work, gripping the steering wheel and trying to find a reason to go home.

You don’t ask, because if you do, then this whole conversation is going to turn into something real, and you don’t know if you’re ready for that.

So you do what you always do. You deflect. “I didn’t ask you to come here,” you murmur.

Steve scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah. You never do.”

It’s the same thing he said last time. The same bitter truth, thrown in your face like a reminder that you have done nothing but push him away for months and he’s still here, and you have no idea why.

You open your mouth, then close it.

Because what are you supposed to say to that? Sorry? It wouldn’t mean anything. Thank you? That would just make it worse.

Steve studies your face, eyes scanning every inch of you like he’s memorizing it, like he’s trying to understand something you’re not giving him.

Then, he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You should get inside.”

It’s not a command. Not a demand. Just… a suggestion. A tired, quiet plea.

You hesitate.

Because stepping out of this car means going back to the same four walls, the same shitty apartment that isn’t really yours, the same bed where you lie awake at night staring at the ceiling, wondering if you’re ever going to feel like a real person again.

But if you stay, you’ll have to deal with Steve looking at you like this and that might be worse.

So you reach for the door handle, pressing your fingers against the cold metal. “Yeah. Okay.”

Steve doesn’t say anything as you step out.

He doesn’t say anything as you shut the door behind you, as you walk up the steps to your building, as you fumble for your keys with shaking hands and you don’t look back.

Because if you do, you might see him still sitting there, waiting for something you’ll never give him.

---

Steve Harrington isn’t a fixer.

Not really. Not in the way Robin is, where she tries to talk things through, tries to logic her way into making things better. Not in the way Dustin is, where he gets all loud and determined, like if he just explains enough, the universe will bend to his will.

Steve’s not like that. Never has been. But when someone he loves is hurting? He wants to fix it and he can’t.

Which is how he ends up here, slumped in the break room at Family Video, head in his hands, while Robin leans against the table with her arms crossed, looking at him like she’s not sure whether to shake him or hug him.

“She won’t talk to me,” Steve mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. “I mean, I knew something was wrong, obviously. But last night—” He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply. “I don’t know, man. It was like she wasn’t even there.”

Robin doesn’t say anything right away. Just drums her fingers against her elbow, chewing on the inside of her cheek like she’s trying to figure out the right words.

Finally, she sighs. “Yeah.”

Steve blinks. “Yeah?”

Robin shrugs, looking away. “She won’t talk to me either.”

That makes his stomach drop.

Because Robin is…Robin. She’s the one people go to when they don’t want to talk to him. She’s the one who sees all the things he misses, the one who knows how to poke and prod until someone has to say something and if even she isn’t getting through?

Steve leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. “Shit.”

Robin makes a noise in agreement, grabbing an old receipt off the table and crumpling it in her hands. “I tried stopping by the other day,” she admits. “Knocked on the door for, like, five minutes. Nothing. I thought about climbing through the window, but, y’know, didn’t want to get arrested for breaking and entering.”

Steve snorts. “Pretty sure they wouldn’t arrest you. You’d just get yelled at for falling and breaking your arm.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. My point is, she’s not just ignoring you. She’s—” She hesitates, waving her hand in the air. “Avoiding.”

Steve nods. “Yeah.”

It shouldn’t make him feel better, knowing it’s not just him. But it kind of does. Because it means he didn’t do something wrong. It means it’s not personal.

It just means… you’re hurting, really hurting and Steve has no idea what the hell he’s supposed to do about it.

Robin sighs again, running a hand through her hair. “Do you think she—” She stops, frowning, like she’s not sure if she wants to say it out loud.

Steve sits up. “What?”

Robin hesitates. Then, quietly “Do you think she even wants help?”

The question settles in the air between them like smoke. Steve doesn’t know how to answer. Because of course you do. Right? Nobody actually wants to feel like this. Nobody actually wants to be alone in their shitty apartment, shutting the world out until all that’s left is the sound of their own breathing.

But you’re not trying either. You’re not reaching out, you’re not answering calls, you’re not doing anything to pull yourself out of it. So maybe… maybe Robin has a point.

Steve exhales, rubbing his hands over his face. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I mean, she doesn’t…ask for anything. Ever. Even before all this. Even when her mom—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching. “I don’t think she even knows how to let people help her.”

Robin makes a frustrated noise, throwing the crumpled-up receipt at the wall. “Okay, well, that’s stupid.”

Steve lets out a humorless laugh. “Yeah.”

Robin presses her lips together, thoughtful. “We should do something.”

Steve lifts his head. “Like what?”

Robin shrugs. “I don’t know. Force her to hang out with us? Show up at her place and refuse to leave until she talks?”

Steve considers that for a second. It’s not a bad idea, necessarily. But the last time he showed up uninvited, she barely even looked at him. She just stood there, gripping the edge of the window like she wanted to slam it shut but didn’t have the energy.

He sighs. “I don’t think she wants us there.”

Robin groans, flopping dramatically against the table. “Okay, well, what does she want?”

Steve doesn’t answer. Because if he knew that, he wouldn’t feel like this. Wouldn’t feel like he’s standing outside a locked door, banging his fists against it, waiting for her to open it just a little.

Wouldn’t feel so goddamn helpless. Robin sits up, narrowing her eyes at him. “You love her.”

Steve freezes. His heartbeat stutters, then picks up, hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to escape. “I—”

Robin raises a hand. “And before you start with the ‘what, no, shut up, Robin’ thing, dude, come on.”

Steve stares at the table. His hands curl into fists in his lap. “It’s not like that.”

Robin snorts. “Bullshit.”

He clenches his jaw. “It doesn’t matter.”

Robin’s expression softens. “Steve.”

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t.” His voice is flat. “She’s dealing with enough already. The last thing she needs is—” He gestures vaguely at himself. “—this.”

Robin sighs, tapping her fingers against the table. “You know, sometimes I forget you used to be an actual dumbass in high school. But then you say shit like that, and it all comes rushing back.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Thanks.”

Robin ignores him. “Listen, I don’t know what the right thing to do is, okay? I don’t know if we’re supposed to wait for her to come to us, or if we’re supposed to force her to let us in, or if we’re just supposed to—” She waves her hands around. “I don’t know. But what I do know is that you giving up? Not an option.”

Steve lets out a slow breath. Because she’s right. Of course she is.

Robin stands, grabbing her coat. “C’mon. We’re taking a break.”

Steve frowns. “A break from what?”

Robin shrugs. “I don’t know. Thinking. Worrying. Feeling like shit. Take your pick.” She nods toward the door. “Let’s go.”

Steve hesitates. Because it feels wrong. Feels like walking away, like leaving something unfinished. Like giving up.

But Robin’s already halfway out the door, and he knows she won’t take no for an answer, so he follows.

---

You don’t remember when it started.

Not exactly.

You used to. You used to be able to point to a day, an hour, a moment, like that’s when it happened, that’s when things shifted. Like you could pinpoint the exact second something cracked inside you, like there was ever just one reason.

But the truth is, it wasn’t a moment. It was slow, like falling asleep.

One minute, you were fine. Maybe not happy, maybe not okay in the way other people seemed to be, but you were moving, at least. Breathing, laughing, living and then…then, one day, you woke up, and everything was heavy and it hasn’t stopped being heavy since.

You try to remember the last time you didn’t feel like this. Try to think back to a version of yourself that wasn’t always tired, that didn’t feel like they were made of lead and regret.

But it’s all so blurry. The last few years, hell, maybe the last decade just bleeding together. Like your brain pressed a thumb against the edges of your memories and smeared them into nothing.

You remember childhood. You remember Hawkins before everything went to hell. Long summers, scraped knees, riding bikes through the woods like you were invincible. Before you knew the things that lived underneath. Before you knew what it meant to lose.

You remember Steve. Always Steve.

You remember growing up with him, watching him turn from the loud-mouthed, cocky kid next door into this. The Steve who worries too much. The Steve who never lets people see that he worries too much. The Steve who never lets anyone go, even when they try to slip through his fingers.

You don’t remember when you started slipping. You don’t remember when you stopped wanting to be around anyone but him.

It wasn’t a choice, not really. It just…happened. One day, the thought of being around people became exhausting. One day, the idea of leaving your apartment, of talking, of pretending you were still the same person who cracked jokes with Robin and argued with Dustin and letting Lucus play horrible music in your car, One day, it all just felt like too much. But Steve never did. Steve was the only thing that still felt safe and maybe that’s why you hate this so much. Because if he’s starting to feel heavy too, if being around him hurts now, if even Steve is slipping away….then what’s left?

The sun has barely started setting when the knock comes. You already know who it is.

Steve knocks like he means it. Like if he just knocks loud enough, long enough, you have to answer. You don’t move.

You stare at the wall, curled up in a blanket that doesn’t feel warm enough, willing him to go away.

Another knock. “Come on,” his voice filters through the door, muffled. “I know you’re in there.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

He sighs. You hear the rustling of fabric, the shift of weight as he leans against the door. He’s not going anywhere. He never does.

There’s a long pause. Then, quieter. “You don’t have to talk. I just… I don’t wanna leave you alone.”

You swallow, pressing your face into the fabric of your sleeve.

Because you should want that. You should want him here, should want someone here, should want anything other than this emptiness sitting in your chest like an open grave.

But you don’t know how to reach for him. You don’t know how to say stay. So you just don’t.

You just stay there, curled up in your blanket, waiting for him to give up. Eventually, he does.

You listen to the sound of him exhaling, of his footsteps fading away, of the silence settling in again.

You tell yourself this is what you want, but then why do you feel worse?

---

The voicemail is waiting when you wake up.

You don’t check it at first. Just roll onto your side, staring at the dust collecting on your nightstand, willing yourself to go back to sleep even though you know it won’t happen.

Then another one comes in and another. You don’t have to listen to know who they’re from.

You’ve ignored enough of Steve’s calls to recognize the sound of him trying anyway. You cleared your voicemail box a few days ago, more out of boredom than anything…so now he and Robin have free reign to leave you messages that you won’t listen to.

Except, you do eventually.

Robin’s comes first.

“Hey, loser. It’s my birthday, and you’re supposed to be here. You better not be pulling that ‘oh, I forgot’ bullshit, because I know you didn’t. I told you like, twenty times. Anyway, I miss you. And not in the sad, dramatic way you probably think…just in the normal, regular way. So… come over, okay?”A pause. “Please.”

Then Steve’s, his voice is softer. Tired.

“I don’t know if you’re even checking these, but… it’s Robin’s birthday. She wants you here. I want you here. You don’t have to stay long. You don’t have to talk. Just… come, okay? It’s at my place.”

You sit with that for a while. Roll it over in your head.

Think about how much easier it would be to ignore them. Think about how nice it would be to just sink further into this, this in-between state, where you don’t have to deal with anything, don’t have to pretend.

But then you think about Robin waiting for you and Steve. And how bad it will be if you don’t go. If they start knocking on your door again, if they start pushing even harder, if you finally push them away the same way you have with everything else and you don’t want that.

Not really. So you go. Late, though. Hours past the time Robin said to come. If you show up late enough, most people will already be gone. If you time it right, you can show your face, hand over the gift, and leave before anyone really sees you.

One foot in, one foot out, always.

Steve’s house is lit up when you get there. The driveway is mostly empty, but you can still hear laughter from the backyard, Robin’s unmistakable cackle, Dustin’s high-pitched wheeze, the sound of clinking bottles and the buzz of conversation. You hesitate at the curb, shifting the weight of the gift bag in your hands.

A few records. Some Robin has been talking about for months, saying she’s too broke to afford. You bought it weeks ago, back when you were still trying to convince yourself you were going to get better, when you thought maybe you’d show up and hand it to her with a smile and everything would feel normal again.

But nothing feels normal anymore. You make it to the porch. Stand in front of the door. Your fingers twitch toward the handle, but you don’t move. The laughter from the backyard drifts through the air. They all sound happy. You should turn around. You should leave before anyone notices before you dull their happiness.

The side gate opens, you don't notice, too busy in your own head and Steve steps out, holding a trash bag in one hand, looking half-exasperated, half-something else. But the moment he sees you…really sees you, he freezes.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just watches you, watches the way you stand there, stiff and uncertain, your arm twitching like you’re about to knock, then dropping back down. Watches the way your grip tightens around the gift bag, how you shift from foot to foot like you’re debating running.

Ten minutes.

He realizes, suddenly, that he's just being watching you for 10 minutes, and you’ve just been standing there in your own world.

He swallows. “Hey. You came.”

You don’t jump. Don’t flinch. You just look at him, expression unreadable. “Yeah,” you say after a moment. “I… I bought her this a while ago. She deserves to have it.”

Steve’s chest tightens. Because fuck, you sound, you sound tired. Not just physically, not like you didn’t get enough sleep, but the kind of tired that sits inside you. The kind of tired he doesn’t know how to fix.

He clears his throat. “Come on,” he says, nodding toward the backyard. “We’re all back here.”

You hesitate and Steve knows, knows, that this is it. That you’re going to back out, that you’re going to make some excuse, that you’re going to disappear again.

“Please.” It comes out quiet. Not demanding. Not pushing. Almost desperate, you nod. Steve lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, stepping aside so you can follow.

As you walk behind him, he risks a glance back and that’s when he notices it.

The weight loss. The way your clothes hang just a little looser than they used to. The way your shoulders curve inward, like you’re trying to make yourself smaller, like you’re bracing for something. But more than that, your eyes. He’s seen you tired before. Seen you scared. Seen you cry. But he’s never seen you like this.

It makes something sharp twist in his chest, something angry, not at you, never at you, but at the way things got this bad without him noticing. Right before you step into the backyard, he watches it happen.

The shift.

Your back straightens, your shoulders roll back, and suddenly, it’s like you’re on. Like you’ve flipped a switch, turned into some version of yourself that’s passable enough to make it through the night.

Steve clenches his jaw. Because he knows you and this, this isn’t you.

Robin looks up from her spot at the table, eyes widening when she sees you. “Holy shit.”

And you, you smile.

But Steve doesn’t. Because now that he’s seen the difference, now that he’s really looking,he doesn’t think he can pretend anymore, either.

The backyard feels too big.

Too open, too bright, even with the sun dipping below the trees. The string lights Steve put up years ago glow softly, casting everything in a warm, golden haze. People are spread out in clusters Dustin and Mike playfully shoving each other near the fire pit, Max sitting with Lucus on the porch swing and a few other people you don’t know, don’t recognize.

It should feel familiar. These are your friends. Your people. But instead, you feel like a stranger in your own skin.

You hover near the back, close enough to look like you’re part of it, far enough to not actually be part of it. The laughter and voices blend together into something distant, something that doesn’t quite reach you.

“I’ll get you a drink, pop?” He asks quietly, you just nod.

Steve moves through the small crowd easily, the way he always has. It’s different now, he’s not King Steve anymore, hasn’t been for a long time but he still has this way of fitting, like he belongs and for a long time, you thought you did too.

But now, standing here, watching everyone from a few feet away, you wonder if you ever really did, or if you just convinced yourself you did because you were always next to him.

Across the yard, Nancy is watching.

Not in an obvious way, but you can feel it. The occasional glances, the way her brow furrows slightly when she looks at you. She’s never been one to miss details. You know she’s going to say something before she even moves.

Nancy finds Steve in the kitchen.

He’s leaning against the counter, half-distracted, sipping a beer. There’s already a pile of empty bottles in the sink, a testament to the night slowly winding down.

“Hey,” she says, stepping beside him.

Steve glances at her. “Hey.”

Nancy tilts her head toward the back door. “So… what’s going on?”

Steve frowns. “What do you mean?”

Nancy sighs. “You know what I mean.”

She crosses her arms, leaning against the counter beside him. “She looks… bad, Steve.”

Steve stiffens. “Nance…”

“I mean it.” She gives him a pointed look. “She's barely spoken to anyone at all lately, She looks like she hasn’t been sleeping and I saw the way she was standing by the gate when you let her in like she was debating leaving.”

Steve exhales sharply, setting his drink down. “Yeah. I know.”

Nancy watches him. “How long has this been going on?”

Steve rubs a hand over his face. “A while.”

Nancy doesn’t say why didn’t you tell me? but Steve hears it anyway.

It’s not that he didn’t want to. He just didn’t know how. How do you explain something that isn’t one thing? How do you explain the slow, sinking feeling of watching someone you love slip further away, even when they’re standing right in front of you?

“I don’t know what to do,” Steve admits quietly. “I keep trying, and she just—” He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Nancy presses her lips together, thinking. “She came, though.”

“Yeah.”

“And that’s something.”

Steve exhales. “I guess.”

Nancy nudges him gently. “She wouldn’t have come if she didn’t want to.”

Steve isn’t sure if that’s true. But he wants it to be.

Robin is sitting cross-legged on the grass, surrounded by wrapping paper and a growing pile of gifts.

You hover nearby, fingers curling around the handle of the gift bag, heart hammering against your ribs. This shouldn’t feel so big. It’s just a gift. Just a stupid birthday present.

But somehow, it does. You don’t remember the last time you gave someone a gift.

Not like this. Not something you put thought into, something you picked out because you knew they’d love it.

Your stomach twists. Maybe she won’t. Maybe this is stupid. Maybe you shouldn’t have come.

Steves suddenly beside you, handing you your drink and he nudges your arm. It’s light, barely there, but you feel it. The reminder. The push.

So you step forward. Clear your throat. Robin looks up.

Her eyes widen slightly, like she’s still surprised you’re here.

You swallow. Hold out the bag. “Uh. This is for you.”

Robin blinks. Then, without hesitation, she grabs it.

Rips the tissue paper apart and she freezes. Her mouth falls open.

For a long moment, she just stares down at the records in her lap, like she doesn’t quite believe they’re real. Then she looks back at you, eyes wide.

“Holy shit.”

You shift your weight. “You, uh. You kept talking about them.” You gesture vaguely. “Figured you should have them.”

Robin’s fingers skim the covers, tracing the edges like they might disappear if she blinks. “This must’ve cost you a lot of money.” She looks up, shaking her head. “I can’t take these.”

You shake your head too, quickly, heart lurching. “Yes, you can.”

Robin’s expression softens. She studies you for a second, then nods. “Okay.” Then, quieter. “Thank you.”

And then she stands before you can stop her and she hugs you.

It’s quick, nothing dramatic, but it shocks you. You go stiff immediately, muscles locking up, breath caught in your throat.

Because fuck, you don’t remember the last time someone hugged you.

Not a casual pat on the back. Not an arm slung over your shoulder. A hug. A real, genuine, someone-wants-you-here hug.

For a second, you don’t move but slowly, hesitantly, you hug her back and it takes everything in you not to break completely.

Your throat clenches. Your arms shake. There’s something dangerously tight in your chest, something heavy behind your ribs, something overwhelming.

Steve sees it. No one else does, but he does.

The way you freeze. The way you hesitate before melting into it, before gripping Robin’s shirt just a little too tight, before squeezing your eyes shut like you might actually cry.

Robin pulls back, grinning at you. “I love them. I love you.”

You force a small smile. “Glad you like them.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “I don’t like them. I love them.”

Her voice is light, teasing.

But Steve watches the way your fingers twitch. The way you don’t respond to that. The way you glance toward the door, just for a second like you’re still half-thinking about running because you are and when everyone is busy with cake, you do.

---

Two weeks.

Two weeks since Robin’s party. Two weeks since you stepped back into them, into all of it and in those two weeks, you’ve successfully avoided everyone.

No calls. No visits. No late-night knocks on your door.

Nothing.

You should feel relieved. Should feel better. This is what you wanted, right? To be left alone?

But instead, all you feel is nothing. Like something inside you has been scraped out and hollowed, leaving you with only the dull, aching weight of emptiness.

Your apartment feels suffocating, the silence pressing in too tight. Sleep doesn’t come easy, when it does, it’s restless, fractured, full of static and half-remembered voices.

So, you get up and you walk. It’s almost midnight when you end up at the liquor store.

It’s the kind of place that doesn’t ask questions, the kind that stays open too late and doesn’t care much about who walks through the doors.

The guy at the counter barely looks at you. He takes your fake ID, glances at the picture, looks back at you, then shrugs and slides it back across the counter.

A minute later, a small brown paper bag is in your hand. You don’t know why you’re doing this. You just want to feel something.

---

Steve’s driving.

Robin is in the passenger seat, her feet up on the dashboard, flipping through a mixtape case. They’re coming back from a long shift at Family Video, Steve is exhausted, Robin is rambling about something, and everything is normal.

Then her voice high pitched, “Holy shit. Is that Y/N?”

Steve’s stomach drops. Before he can even think, his foot slams the brake. The car jerks forward, tires screeching, and Robin yelps, grabbing the dashboard.

“Jesus, Steve, warn me next time!”

But Steve doesn’t hear her. His grip tightens around the steering wheel, eyes locked on the sidewalk.

On you. You’re standing under a flickering streetlight, paper bag in hand, bottle tilted toward your lips.

There’s something about that, about seeing you, alone in the middle of the night, drinking like it’s the most natural thing in the world, makes his chest tighten with something sharp and wrong.

Robin breathes out a quiet, “Shit.”

Steve doesn’t think. He just throws the car into park, leaves the keys in the ignition, and gets out. Robin calls after him, but he doesn’t stop, how can hr when you’re right there.

You still don’t see him.

You just keep walking, one slow step after another, like you’re sleepwalking, like the whole world has blurred around the edges and you’re moving through it without really being there.

“What are you doing?”

Your steps falter, you turn and when your eyes meet his, flat, unfocused, tired…Steve’s stomach clenches.

You look wrong. Not just exhausted, not just numb, but wrong in a way that makes his skin crawl, in a way that makes his heart slam against his ribs because this isn’t you.

He takes a step forward, eyes flicking down to the brown paper bag clutched in your hand. “What is this?”

You stare at him, flatly, hollowly you speak. “I’m thirsty.”

Something inside Steve snaps. His arms fly up, frustration spilling out. “Are you kidding me?!”

You blink at him. Like you don’t get it. Like you don’t understand why he’s angry, why his chest feels like it’s about to explode.

“You have people who care about you.” His voice cracks. “People who love you, who are willing to help you through this and you’re out here doing this? What the fuck are you doing?”

Silence.

“It's nothing Steve, just drop it.”

Steve shakes his head, voice raw. “You think this is nothing? You think this is just your life to throw away? After everything we’ve been through? After everyone we’ve lost?”

You flinch.

But he doesn’t stop.

“Do you think Barb wanted to die? Do you think Billy wanted to? What about fucking Hopper? Do you think any of them got a choice?” His voice rises, filled with something sharp and desperate, something clawing its way out of him. “And now you’re out here, drinking in the middle of the fucking street like none of it matters? Like you don’t matter?”

Your stomach twists. Because that, that is exactly how it feels.

Like you don’t matter. Like you’ve been waiting to disappear for so long that maybe this is just the next step.

You swallow down the lump in your throat. “I didn’t ask for a fucking lecture, Steve.”

“Well, you’re getting one.” He exhales sharply, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ, Y/N. You think you’re the only one who’s struggling? You think you’re the only one who has to wake up every day and pretend to be fine?”

You scoff. “Oh, yeah. Poor Steve Harrington. Must be so hard for you.”

Steve stares at you. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you don’t get it!”

Your voice rises, sharp and bitter, something ugly curling in your chest.

“You…” Your breath shudders. “You have people, Steve! You have everyone. You have Robin and Dustin, and all of them love you. You’ll never be alone!”

You shake your head, taking a step back, fingers tightening around the bag. “I don’t have anyone, Steve. Nobody stays. Nobody ever fucking stays, I’m not apart of a group, everyone has someone aside, the children all have each other, Nance has Jonathan, Robin has you, you and her! I don’t fucking have anyone! I never did because no one stays, my own Mother didn’t want to stay!” Your voice cracks.

Steve’s face twists, and for a second, something pained flashes through his expression. “I stayed.”

“Yeah?” You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “For how long? Until I make things too fucking hard for you? Until you finally realize I’m not worth it?”

Steve’s chest aches. “That’s not…”

“Don’t fucking lie to me.” You shake your head, eyes burning. “I see it in your face, Steve. You don’t know what to do with me anymore. You’re exhausted. You’re—” Your voice wobbles. “You’re gonna leave just like everyone else.”

“I’m not leaving you.”*

“Why not?!” The words explode out of you, raw and furious, and suddenly you’re pushing at his chest, shoving him back. “Why do you even fucking care?”

Steve grabs your wrists before you can shove him again, holding you there, his grip tight but steady. “Because I love you!”

Your breath catches. But it doesn’t change anything.

Because Steve can say that all he wants, but you know, you know, that it won’t last.

Love has never lasted for you.

So you rip your arms out of his grip, stepping back. “Well, I don’t fucking want it.”

The words hit him.

Hard.

You watch something in his face break, something deep, something that looks a little too much like hope dying.

And you, you don’t know how to stop, how to stop the self sabotage, how do stop the want, the need the urge to push him away even further now after the confession.

“Maybe that’s why I’m not around anymore,” you continue, words spilling out like poison. “Maybe I don’t want to be around you. Ever thought of that, Harrington? I don’t want any of it, I don’t want you!”

Steve flinches like you hit him.

Because maybe if you push hard enough, maybe if you make this ugly enough, he’ll finally give up on you.

He swallows hard, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling too fast.

Quietly, brokenly, his voice waivers. “Fuck you.”

It cuts through the air like a gunshot. You don’t breathe.

Steve shakes his head, jaw clenched, furious. “Fine. You wanna be alone so fucking bad? Fine.”

Your chest is heaving. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Leave me the fuck alone! Finally!” The words rip out of you, loud, shaking, cutting through the night like a blade.

Steve just stands there.

His face twists, and he swipes a shaking hand over it, exhaling sharply, like he’s trying to keep himself together.

But you see it. See the way his eyes go glassy, see the way his chest rises and falls too fast, too uneven.

He turns, gets back in his car, drives away and you, you stand there, watching the taillights disappear into the dark. As he watches you become small and smaller in his rearview mirror.

Robin is still in the passenger seat, staring at him, wide-eyed.

“Whoa.”

Steve grips the steering wheel, knuckles white.

He exhales, voice tight, wrecked. “I know, Robin. I know.”

---

Steve reels.

For days, he feels like he’s floating, like he’s moving through the motions of his life without actually being in it. He goes to work. He watches movies with Robin. He drives Dustin home from the arcade.

But his mind is stuck.

It keeps replaying your voice, the venom in it, the way you said maybe I don’t want to be around you, the way he told you he loves you and you acted like it was nothing, like it didn’t fucking matter and maybe it shouldn’t.

Maybe he should let it go. Move on. Forget. But that’s the thing about Steve. He doesn’t let go and he could never try and forget you.

The others keep trying, even when Steve stops, one by one, they try.

Robin knocks on your door again. Stands there for almost twenty minutes, knocking, knocking, knocking. No answer.

Nancy calls. Nothing.

Jonathan even swings by. Dustin and Lucas take turns dropping in. Even Will tries.

Nothing and then Max, Max says, Fuck this.

She stands in the parking lot of your apartment, hands on her hips, glaring up at your window like she can will you into existence.

Lucas frowns. “Uh… Max?”

“What are you doing?” Dustin asks.

She doesn’t answer.

Just rolls her shoulders, shakes out her arms, and nods toward the boys. “Lift me up.”

Lucas blinks. “What?”

“You heard me,” Max says. “You’re all freakishly tall. Get me to that balcony.”

Dustin sputters. “Are you insane? You’re gonna fall and die.”

Max gives him a look. “It’s the second floor, Dustin.”

Dustin and Lucas exchange a glance. Then, reluctantly they link their hands together, bending down slightly. Max steps up, balancing on their grip, and they push her up.

She grabs the railing. Hauls herself over. Lands with a soft thud on the balcony and then she turns toward your window.

It’s unlocked. Because of course it is.

Max sighs. “Jesus, dumbass.”

She pushes it open. Climbs inside, the apartment is dark. Quiet, too quiet.

“Y/N?”

No answer.

She steps forward, glancing around. Clothes on the floor. A half-empty glass on the counter. An unmade bed.

But no you.

Max frowns. Steps further in. Looks around the corner, into the bathroom, the closet.

“She’s not here.”

The boys freeze.

“What?” Dustin calls up.

Max peers over the balcony. “She’s not here.”

Lucas exhales. “Maybe she’s just…out?”

Dustin nods, a little too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe she’s just out.”

Because it’s fine. It’s fine. Hawkins isn’t that big. Maybe you just needed air. Maybe you just needed space.

Yeah. Yeah, that’s probably it.

Dustin stops by Family Video a few days later.

Steve is behind the counter, barely paying attention, flipping through tapes.

Dustin walks in, leans against the counter, and says, “We broke in.”

Steve blinks. “What?”

“Well Max did,” Dustin repeats, like that means something.

Steve frowns. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Dustin sighs, dragging a hand through his curls. “She wasn’t answering the door. So we broke in. Well, Max broke in.”

Steve straightens. “What?”

“She wasn’t there.” Dustin stares at him. “We don’t know where she is.”

Steve clenches his jaw. His heart kicks up, just a little. But he forces his expression blank, shakes his head. “Maybe she’s just out, busy.”

Dustin scoffs. “Yeah, that’s what we said. But it’s been days.” He crosses his arms. “Don’t act like you don’t care.”

Something sharp flashes in Steve’s chest. “She made it pretty fucking clear she didn’t want me to care.”

Dustin stares at him, unimpressed. “You do care, though.”

Steve doesn’t say anything.

Dustin exhales, shaking his head. “We’re family, Steve and she’s going through it. She has every right to go through it, we all do.”

Then he turns and walks out, the bell above the door ringing behind him.

Steve just stands there, alone with his thoughts, his never ending thoughts of you.

---

You haven’t been home in days.

You don’t really know where you’ve been. Mostly your car, parked in empty lots or just outside the Welcome to Hawkins sign, watching the road stretch ahead of you and wondering if you should just go.

Not that you have anywhere to go. You could see your Mother, but she wouldn't welcome you, wouldn't want you there she didn't even want you here.

But the thought lingers anyway. Maybe if you just leave, if you just drive, you’ll feel something other than this.

But you never make it past the sign.

You just sit there, engine humming beneath your hands, watching the road blur under the heat of the sun or the glow of the streetlights. You tell yourself you’ll do it tomorrow or the next day.

But tomorrow comes, and you’re still here. When you finally step inside your apartment, it feels off. You notice it immediately.

The air feels shifted, like someone else has been here. The window is cracked open, the curtain shifting slightly in the breeze.

Your stomach clenches. For a split second, your heart hammers, your body reacting on pure instinct, memories of Starcourt, of things slipping through cracks in the walls, of knowing you weren’t alone even when you should have been.

You see the fingerprints on the dusty window, they're small and then you exhale. Because, of course, it was one of the kids.

You don’t even have to think about it. Max, probably, or Dustin, probably Max. You can see it in your head, the way they must have whispered outside your door, debating who would do it, who would be the one to climb up.

You should be mad. Should be annoyed, normally you would give them shit not for breaking in but for the fact they could’ve gotten hurt, Max would roll her eyes, Dustin would steal some chips. But you’re not, and you don’t, instead you just feel tired.

You press play on your voicemail without thinking.

The first one is from Robin.

“Okay, I don’t know if you’re dead or if you’re just ignoring me, but this is, like, the eighth time I’ve called, and it’s starting to get embarrassing, so, just pick up the phone, alright? Or don’t. Whatever. Just know I miss you, you asshole.”

Click.

The next one is from Nancy.

“Hey. It’s me. I just… wanted to check in. The kids said you weren’t home, and look, just call me, okay? We can talk, I can listen or we can just watch movies, whatever you want.”

Click.

You wait and that's it, nothing from Steve. Of course not. You tell yourself you don’t care because you told Steve you didn’t care. So you don’t. Because its easier to have no one and now you don’t

Then the last voicemail plays, a voice you don’t recognize, older…tired.

“Hello… I, uh. I don’t know if this number is still good, but… this is your aunt, Marlene, we’ve never met, probably never will, anyway I’m calling because—”

A pause, a sigh.

“It’s about your mother. There was an accident. She didn’t make it.”

Silence.

“I’m… I’m sorry for your loss.”

Click and that’s it.

That’s it.

No details. No information. No anything. Just a handful of words from a stranger and a deadline.

You just stand there.

Staring at the phone.

Staring at nothing.

Your mom is dead.

She’s dead.

And you should, what? Care? Be devastated? Something?

You don’t even know how to feel.

She left when you were eighteen. She walked away. You’ve spent years telling yourself she didn’t matter, that you didn’t need her, that you never had her to begin with, not really.

But now she’s gone.

Like, actually gone and the realization crashes into you all at once.

It’s not just about her. It’s not just about your so-called mom. It’s about the fact that she was the last thing connecting you to something else, to anything else.

Now there’s nobody.

Nobody but the people you keep pushing away.

Your breath stutters. Your vision blurs. Your hands tremble, then the dam breaks and you start to cry.

Not the kind of crying that sneaks up on you in the dark, not the kind that you can swallow back, shove down, ignore.

This is something else.

This is everything.

It’s every bad day, every quiet ache, every unspoken word, every time you wanted to scream but didn’t.

It’s Starcourt, it’s the Upside Down, it’s the people you lost, it’s the ones you almost lost, it’s the way you never let yourself grieve because there was never any time.

It’s Steve.

It’s the fight, the words you threw like knives, the way he looked at you, the way he walked away.

It’s all of it and now it’s pouring out of you.

You clutch your own arms, pressing your forehead against the wall, sobbing so hard it hurts and there’s no one here to see it.

No one here to stop it because you made damn sure of that.

---

The thing about loss is that it doesn’t come all at once, it comes in waves. It builds, slowly, creeping under your skin, sinking into the cracks of you, pressing against your ribs like it’s trying to make room and then it drowns you.

That’s what this feels like, you are drowning. Your mother is dead.

She is dead, and she was never a good mother, never really there, but she was something. She existed. She was a person in the world, breathing the same air as you, sharing the same blood as you, the same looks as you and now she’s gone, and it's just you.

You try to imagine her, try to remember the last time you saw her, the last time you heard her voice, but everything is blurry, like looking through a fogged-up window.

You try to imagine what it must’ve been like her last seconds, last thoughts, last breath.

Did she see it coming? Did she think of you? Did she feel afraid? Or was she just gone before she even had the chance?

And why does it matter? She left.

She walked away from you. She built a whole life somewhere else and didn’t once look back.

So why does it hurt so fucking much?

You slide down the wall, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes, trying to stop the burning, trying to stop feeling, but it’s everywhere, all at once and for the first time in your life, you understand.

You get it.

This, this weight in your chest, this endless sinking, this exhaustion that has settled into your bones like it belongs there, this was always the ending, wasn’t it?

It was always pointing here. Because what’s left? You have no family. No future.

You lost it at Starcourt. You lost pieces of yourself in the Upside Down, left them rotting between vines and monsters, left them gasping in the smoke-filled air, left them screaming in the neon glow of a mall on fire.

More importantly you lost Steve and that’s the worst part.

Because Steve was the one thing, the one fucking thing, that still felt like home. The one thing keeping you tethered to the idea that maybe, maybe, there was something else.

But you pushed him away.

You pushed all of them away and now there is nothing. There is no one, not even you and that realization shatters something inside you.

You stare at your hands, at your own fingers, at the skin and blood and bones that make up you, and you don’t know what to do with them anymore.

You don’t know what to do with yourself and maybe you don’t have to.

Maybe this is it, maybe this is where it ends. The thought should scare you, but it doesn’t.

It just feels… inevitable.

Like taking a final breath before stepping off a ledge. Like maybe you were always meant to end up here.

You should leave a note, something for Robin. Something for Nancy. Something for the kids but that would take so much work, so much effort, so much time and you don’t have that. It would be better that way for them anyway.

But there’s only one person you want to say goodbye to, only one person you want to hear one last time.

Your fingers tremble as you reach for the phone. You stare at the numbers, stare at the dial tone, at the empty silence waiting on the other end.

You call Steve.

It rings and rings.

And rings.

Just when you think it’s going to go to voicemail because that's what you deserve.

“Hello?”

---

Steve pulls up outside Robin’s house, shifting the car into park but leaving the engine running. The street is quiet, bathed in the dim glow of streetlights, the cicadas humming in the background. Robin leans back in her seat, staring out the windshield, arms crossed over her chest.

They’re both tired.

It’s been a long day. Not bad, just long. A double shift at Family Video, filled with annoying customers and late returns, followed by a long-winded discussion about whether or not The Empire Strikes Back is actually the best Star Wars movie and now, the stillness.

Robin sighs, shifting in her seat. “Sometimes I think we’re gonna work here forever.”

Steve huffs a quiet laugh. “You say that like it’s the worst thing ever.”

“It is,” she groans, letting her head fall back against the headrest. “This town is a black hole. People either get out, or they get stuck in the upside or worse, the upside down.”

Steve grips the steering wheel a little tighter. He knows that feeling, knows it too well.

Robin turns her head, looking at him. “You ever think about leaving?”

Steve exhales, shrugs. “Sometimes.”

It’s not a lie. He has thought about it. Thought about packing up, driving until Hawkins is just a distant memory in his rearview mirror.

But he never does.

Robin watches him for a second, then shifts. “Have you talked to her?”

Steve’s stomach clenches. He doesn’t need to ask who her is.

His fingers tighten around the wheel. “Drop it.”

Robin frowns. “Steve—”

“I mean it, Robin.” His voice comes out sharper than he intended. “Just drop it.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just watches him, eyes searching. Then… “I heard you, you know.”

Steve blinks. “What?”

Robin tilts her head. “The fight. The night you two screamed at each other in the middle of the street.” She exhales, quieter now. “I heard you.”

Steve’s throat feels tight. “What are you talking about?”

Robin gives him a look. “You told her you love her.”

Steve swallows. Looks away. “As a friend.”

Robin scoffs. “Steve.”

He presses his lips together. Stares at his hands. Finally, quietly, “I know.”

Robin watches him. Something softens in her expression. “How long?”

Steve shakes his head. “I don’t know. Forever.” A humorless laugh escapes him. “It’s always been her.”

Robin doesn’t say Jesus, Steve, or I told you so. She just nods and that’s one of the reasons why he loves her. Because she gets it.

They sit in silence for a moment. Then Robin sighs, stretching her arms. “Well. I’m gonna call her tomorrow. Call me if anything happens.”

Steve shakes his head. “Nothing’s gonna happen.” He gestures vaguely. “Nothing ever happens.”

Robin snorts. “You say that like we don’t live in the most cursed town in America.”

Steve doesn’t laugh.

Robin studies him for a second, then pats his arm. “See you tomorrow, Dingus.”

She hops out, heading inside, and Steve watches her go before pulling away.

He doesn’t know why he feels uneasy. When he gets home, the house is dark, it always is. His parents are gone, they’re always gone and he's always alone. He steps inside, kicking off his shoes, running a hand through his hair.

The phone starts ringing.

Steve frowns, shutting the door behind him. He wasn’t expecting a call. Robin just got home, Dustin’s probably passed out.

He pauses, walks over to the phone. Picks up the receiver.

“Hello?”

Silence.

But not nothing, because he hears it.

The shaky, uneven breathing. The way it hitches, like whoever’s on the other end is trying and failing to hold it together. Like they’re choking on their own sobs.

And Steve knows. “Y/N?” His voice is softer now, careful, like if he says the wrong thing, you’ll disappear.

Nothing. Just more shaky, gasping breaths.

Steve grips the phone tighter, panic creeping into his veins. “Sweetheart, you need to breathe with me, okay? Just, just match my breathing, in and out. Can you do that for me?”

No response.

“Please.” His voice breaks. “Just try.”

He starts breathing, slow and steady, hoping you’ll follow. He knows you can hear it, knows you want to listen, want to do what he’s saying.

But he also knows you’re barely holding on.

Finally, finally a sound. Your voice, small and broken. “I don’t wanna be here anymore.”

Steve’s heart stops then kicks into overdrive.

“Be where?” His voice is urgent now. “Are you home? I’ll come get you. You can come here, you know that, right? You’re always welcome here. No matter what. No matter what happens.”

Silence.

Steve grips the phone so tight his knuckles turn white. “Y/N.”

“My mom’s dead.”

Steve stills. His brain stutters, trying to process the words, trying to make sense of them. “What?”

Your voice wobbles. “Some aunt, Marlene, I think, called me. Said she was in an accident and that was it. That was all she said.”

Steve swallows, running a hand over his face. “Jesus.”

“She didn’t even care enough to tell me anything. Nobody did. I have nobody, Steve.”

His heart hurts.

“That’s not true,” he says immediately. “You have me. You have all of us, no matter what.”

But it’s like you don’t even hear him. Like you’ve already made up your mind and barely above a whisper you repeat, “I just don’t wanna be here anymore.”

And Steve gets it, he sees the picture clear as day now, what here is, where here is. The way you sound, the weight in your voice. It clicks.

His stomach drops. His whole body tenses, panic flooding every inch of him. “Y/N, wait—”

“I’m sorry.” Your voice breaks completely. “I didn’t mean any of it Steve, I’m sorry, I just wanted to say goodbye.”

The line clicks dead.

Steve freezes, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move. He’s in pure shock for a moment. He just stands there, the dial tone ringing in his ear, echoing inside his skull.

Then his body reacts, the phone crashes against the wall. He grabs his keys and then he’s running. Running out the door, into his car, peeling out of the driveway so fast his tires scream.

Because he has to get to you.

Now.

Steve has been scared before.

He’s been terrified.

He’s been chased by things with too many teeth, been tied to a chair in a dark basement with you bleeding beside him, been seconds away from dying more times than he can count.

But this, this is different.

This is a fear that burns, that consumes, that digs its claws into his chest and doesn’t let go.

His heart is racing, slamming against his ribs so hard it feels like it’s trying to break free. His hands are white-knuckled around the wheel as he flies down the streets of Hawkins, barely registering stop signs, barely hearing the sound of his own breathing, all he hears is you.

I don’t wanna be here anymore.

The words play on a loop inside his skull, hitting harder than anything else ever has. Because this isn’t something he can punch, isn’t something he can fight off, this isn’t a near miss, this isn’t luck.

This is you.

Because you are slipping through his fingers and you have been for a year and he cannot lose you. He presses harder on the gas, blowing through a red light, gripping the steering wheel so tightly it aches.

He doesn’t care.

He needs to get to you.

The moment he pulls up outside your apartment, he’s moving. Keys out, door slamming behind him, legs pumping.

He gets to the front entrance, but the door is locked, of course it is.. The buzzer panel is old and rusted, the names next to each button fading, barely legible.

He presses all of them.

One after another, over and over, until finally. “Jesus Christ, shut the fuck up!” A loud buzz, the door clicking open.

Steve shoves inside, taking the stairs two at a time, nearly tripping over his own feet in his desperation.

Your door.

His fist slams against the wood, hard enough to make it shake. “Y/N!”

Nothing.

No sound, no movement.

Panic surges up his throat, his body moving before he can even think, he throws his weight against the door.

Once.

Twice.

The wood splinters, the frame cracking.

A third time…the door bursts open.

Steve stumbles inside, chest heaving, eyes scanning the room.

Empty.

The bed is unmade, a glass of water sits half-finished on the counter, clothes are draped over a chair, but you aren’t here.

His heart stutters, his mind is a mess but something makes him remember.

Remember the way you used to sit on the roof when you first moved in, smoking joints and staring at the sky, talking about how it felt good to finally be free.

Steve turns and runs.

The fire escape is cold against his hands as he climbs, metal biting into his palms. He moves fast, too fast, feet slipping once, barely catching himself.

His pulse is pounding in his ears, he doesn’t know what he’s about to find. He just knows it has to be you.

Steve is breathless by the time he reaches the top.

His lungs burn, his legs shake, his chest aches, but none of it matters because there you are, standing at the edge.

The wind pushes against you, lifts your hair, makes you look so small, so fragile, like one wrong step could send you tumbling down and Steve has never been this scared in his entire fucking life.

Not when he was tied to a chair in a Russian bunker, not when a monster the size of a mall came crashing through fire and wreckage, not even when he thought he was going to die in the back of a speeding car, while being chased.

Nothing, nothing has ever been as terrifying as this.

You.

Standing there, staring down at the town like you don’t belong to it anymore. Like you’re already gone.

Steve cannot let that happen. “Hey.” His voice cracks as he steps closer, slow and careful, hands shaking at his sides. “Sweetheart, I need you to step back, okay? Please.”

You don’t look at him.

Your arms are wrapped around yourself, fingers digging into the sleeves of your sweater, like you’re holding yourself together, like you have to hold yourself together because if you don’t, you’ll fall apart completely.

Your voice comes out hollow, quiet. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Steve exhales shakily. “Neither should you.”

Another step.

His heart is beating so fast, too fast, slamming against his ribs, but he keeps moving, keeps going, because if he stops, if he hesitates for even a second he’s afraid he’ll lose you.

“You love this roof.” His voice wobbles, desperate, full of something too big for him to name. “You used to drag me up here, remember? You’d sit up here for hours and tell me about all the places you wanted to go, all the shit you wanted to do.”

You let out a quiet laugh. But there’s no joy in it. No life. Just emptiness. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Look how that turned out.”

Steve’s stomach twists, his throat tightens. His eyes burn and suddenly, he’s angry.

Not at you, never at you but at everything else. At the way the world chewed you up and spat you out. At the way it took and took and took until there was nothing left of you but this, this wreckage of a person who doesn’t even think they deserve to stay.

“You don’t get to do this.” His voice breaks. “You don’t get to fucking leave me, Y/N. You don’t get to decide that you don’t belong here anymore, you don’t get to leave me behind, you dont get to leave us behind.”

Finally you turn to look at him and Steve almost falls apart right there. Because you’re crying, your face is crumpling, your lips are shaking, and your eyes, your beautiful, familiar eyes are so tired.

Like you’ve been carrying this for so long. Like you don’t know how to stop.

“Steve…” Your voice cracks, and something inside of him shatters.

His hands tremble at his sides. His vision blurs. His whole body shakes, and then he’s crying too.

“You can’t do this to me,” he chokes out. “You can’t.”

You swallow hard. “I don’t know how to be here anymore, Steve.”

And that’s when he loses it.

“Then let me show you!” His voice breaks, loud and raw, echoing in the empty night air. “Let me fucking show you how, because I can’t—” He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots, his breath shuddering. “I can’t do this without you.”

You blink at him, startled.

He takes another step, closer now, close enough to touch.

“I don’t know how to be here without you.” His chest heaves. “Do you get that? Do you understand what you fucking mean to me? You think you have nobody? You think you don’t matter? That’s bullshit.”

His hands fly up, gesturing wildly, voice rising, full of so much desperation he feels like he might burst.

“I wake up thinking about you, I go to sleep thinking about you, I—” He lets out a broken laugh, shaking his head. “I have loved you my entire fucking life, and you think you don’t matter? You are the most important person I have ever fucking met, and I will not let you go, do you hear me? If you can’t stay for you, please stay for me, please I’m begging you!”

Your lip trembles, a tear slips down your cheek. “Steve…”

“Come here.” His voice cracks completely now. “Please.”

You hesitate.

For one unbearable second, you hesitate, but then you step back.

Steve moves instantly, closing the space between you, grabbing you by the shoulders and pulling you into his arms, holding you so tight it’s like he thinks you’ll disappear, like you’ll fall off that edge you’re no longer on if he lets go.

You break apart in his arms, you sob and so does he.

His hands clutch at your back, his face presses into your hair, his whole body shakes with the weight of everything he almost lost.

“I got you,” he whispers, over and over, like a prayer, like a promise. “I got you, I got you, I got you.”

Because he does and he always will.

Steve doesn’t let go of you.

Not when he walks you back inside your apartment, not when he eases you onto the couch like you might break, not when he kneels in front of you, hands still gripping your waist like he needs to feel that you’re here, that you’re real.

Your face is pale, eyes red and unfocused, your body limp with exhaustion, but you’re breathing. You’re here.

That’s all that matters.

Steve swallows hard, forces his voice steady. “Is there anything you need right now?”

You blink slowly. “What?”

He squeezes your knee, grounding. “I’m not leaving you alone and you’re not staying here. Not like this. You’re coming with me, okay? You’re coming to my house.*”

You don’t respond.

You just stare at him, like his words are coming from far away, like they’re slipping through cracks in your mind before they can reach you.

So Steve makes the decision for you. He pushes himself up, strides into your room. It’s quiet, untouched, like you haven’t really lived in it for a long time. Like it’s just a place you exist in.

Steve doesn’t think too hard about that.

He grabs the first duffel bag he can find, shoves in some clothes, sweatpants, a hoodie, a couple of T-shirts. Soft things. Comfortable things. Things that won’t make you feel like this. He throws in your toothbrush, doesn’t even bother with anything else.

Then he comes back to you. You haven’t moved. You’re still sitting exactly where he left you, hands resting limply in your lap, eyes distant.

Something in Steve’s chest cracks. He crouches in front of you again, sliding his hands into yours. “Come on, sweetheart.” His voice is soft, careful. “We’re going home.”

You don’t resist, you don’t do anything.

You just let him guide you up, one hand steady on your waist as he walks you down the stairs, out the front door. Your movements are slow, sluggish, like you’re walking through water, like none of this is quite real.

Steve doesn’t say anything.

He just opens the car door for you, helps you sit, pulls the seatbelt over your shoulder and buckles you in like you can’t do it yourself.

You don’t react. You just sit there, head lolling slightly against the seat, staring blankly out the window.

Steve clenches his jaw, swallows down the lump in his throat, he gets in and drives. It’s late. The roads are empty.

Steve’s hands are tight around the steering wheel, but his eyes keep flickering to you, watching your hands twitch in your lap, watching the slow, shallow rise and fall of your chest.

He doesn’t let himself think about what would’ve happened if he hadn’t answered the phone. If he took the long way back to his house from Robin’s like he was planning to but eventually decided not to.

If he hadn’t gotten to you in time, if he didn’t run that red light. He can’t think about that. He just focuses on the road. When he pulls up outside his house, you still don’t move.

Steve doesn’t even hesitate. He gets out, walks around to your side, opens the door, and reaches for you. “Come on, honey.” His voice is gentle, coaxing.

You let him help. You move like you don’t know how, like your body is detached from your mind, like none of this is real.

Steve guides you inside, one hand on your back, the other still gripping the duffel bag.

For once he's truly, truly thankful his parents are never home because he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to fix any of this, but he knows you don’t need anyone else right now.

Just him.

You’re eventually in his room, the room is still littered with the pictures on the wall, ones of you, of Robin, of all of them.

You stop.

Your eyes land on a photo of you and Steve, from years ago, arms draped around each other, laughing. You stare at it, your lip trembles again, before you can stop it, before you even understand why a single tear slips down your cheek.

Steve sees it without thinking, without hesitating he reaches out and wipes it away. His fingers are warm, gentle against your skin.

His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. “It’s gonna be okay.”

You don’t respond. Steve exhales, nodding like he expected that. “You hungry?”

You shake your head.

“You wanna shower?”

No.

“Sleep?”

A pause.

But then you nod, Steve moves without thinking, pulls back the covers. Helps you sit, then eases you down, hands steady on your arms.

He tucks you in, He doesn’t remember the last time he tucked you in, maybe some stupid drunken night but it feels right, it feels needed.

The second the blankets are around you, you turn on your side, staring at the closet door, silent tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

Steve watches you for a long moment, then he turns off the light and sits. There’s a chair in the corner of his room, and he sinks into it, his legs bouncing, hands gripping the arms like he needs to hold on to something.

His mind races, he should call Robin. She’ll know what to do or Nancy. Probably both.

But then a sound pulls him out of his head a small, broken gasp. Steve’s head snaps up, you’re shaking. Your body is trembling under the blankets, breath hitching, sharp and uneven.

“Y/N?”

You don’t answer, Steve doesn’t think he never really has with you, he just moves.

Crosses the room, kneels beside the bed. “Hey, sweetheart, it’s okay, I’m here—”

Then you reach for him. Without a word, without thinking, you turn and latch onto him, burying your face in his chest, gripping his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you here.

Steve freezes, because you don’t do this. You haven’t held him like this since last Summer, since the fire, since he started losing you.

But you’re sobbing now, whole body shaking, fingers digging into his arms, and Steve, Steve doesn’t care about anything except holding you tighter.

“I got you,” he whispers, one hand sliding into your hair, the other rubbing circles into your back. “I got you, I got you, I got you, I’ll always have you.

You cry harder and Steve stays, he always will.

He holds you, presses his cheek against the top of your head, murmuring soft reassurances, ”It’s okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Eventually, your breathing slows, the sobs fade and you fall asleep in his arms.

Steve exhales, tightens his grip and lets himself fall asleep holding you.

---

Steve wakes up to the sun peeking through his blinds. For a second, he forgets. For a second, it’s just morning, and everything is normal. Then he looks down, your hand is in his. Your fingers curled around his like you were afraid to let go even in sleep.

Steve exhales, throat tight, when his mind races with what happened 12 hours ago, the phone call, the drive, the roof. The way you had looked at him, like you were already gone, in a way you were.

His chest clenches. He carefully shifts his hand, running his thumb over the back of yours, grounding himself in the fact that you’re here. That you’re breathing.

The alarm clock blinks 10:02 AM.

Shit.

He was supposed to be at work two minutes ago.

Robin was opening, but he was supposed to be there and that’s obviously not happening. Steve glances at you, you’re still asleep.

He’s shocked, honestly. You never sleep this late, but judging by the dark circles under your eyes, you haven’t been sleeping much at all.

You look exhausted and the thought of waking you up, of pulling you out of whatever rest you’ve finally found, it feels wrong. So he doesn’t.

Instead, he carefully shifts out from under you, wincing when the mattress creaks, moving slowly so he doesn’t wake you. His chest aches as soon as he’s no longer touching you.

But you’re safe. You’re here. That’s all that matters. He makes sure the window is shut, leaving the bedroom door open.

Then he heads downstairs, goes straight to the phone, and dials Family Video.

It rings twice before Robin picks up. “Family Video, what do you want?”

“Robin.”

Something in his voice must tip her off, because she immediately straightens. “What?”

Steve presses a hand over his eyes. “I can’t come in today.”

Robin scoffs. “Yeah, no shit, Harrington, I figured that when you weren’t here—”

“Robin.” His voice breaks a little.

That’s when she really hears it. “Steve?” Her voice is different now. Quieter. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

Steve lets out a slow, shaky breath. “No.”

Robin’s whole demeanor shifts. “Talk to me.”

Steve grips the phone tighter. “It’s Y/N.”

A pause.

”What happened?”

Steve doesn’t even know how to say it, it hurts to think about it, he can’t even imagine saying it but It all comes spilling out, rushed, like if he doesn’t say it fast, it’ll swallow him whole.

“She called me last night. She—” His breath hitches. “Robin, she said she didn’t wanna be here anymore.”

Silence.

”In Hawkins?”

Steve swallows hard. “No, I got to her apartment, and she wasn’t there, so I ran up to the roof, and—” His voice wobbles. “She was on the edge, Robin. She was just… standing there.”

Robin exhales sharply. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah.” Steve lets out a humorless laugh, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah.”

Robin is silent for a moment, like she’s trying to process it. ”Where is she now?”

“Sleeping upstairs.”

Robin’s breath catches. “Oh my God.”

Steve swallows. “She barely said anything, but she—she let me take her home. I—I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t leave her alone, I wouldn’t.”

Robin is quiet for a moment.”You did the right thing.”

“Did I?” His voice breaks completely. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, Robin. I don’t know what to do with this. What do I do?”

Robin sighs. “We just… we just have to be there. That’s all we can do.”

Steve shakes his head. “What if it’s not enough?”

Robin’s voice is softer now. “It is.”

Steve lets out a breath.

“You’re staying with her, right?”

“Of course.”

“Good.”* Robin hesitates. “I’ll stop by after my shift, okay? And Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“You did good.”*

Steve exhales, pressing his forehead against the wall. “Thanks, Robs.”

They hang up.

And Steve stands there, gripping the phone, trying to remember how to breathe. Steve keeps staring at the phone for a long time before he dials again.

His hands shake, his stomach churns. He doesn’t want to call Nancy. Doesn’t want to say it out loud again. Because saying it makes it real.

He dials the Wheeler house.

It rings once.

Twice.

“Hello, you’ve reached the Wheeler residence, where Mike Wheeler is far too cool to be answering the phone, at ten in the morning on a flipping Saturday—”

Steve exhales sharply, already done with this. “Mike—”

”—but because I’m a good son, I—”

“Mike, shut the hell up and put Nancy on the phone.”*

There’s a pause.

”Jesus, what crawled up your ass?”

Steve clenches his jaw, his voice cracks. “Mike, I swear to God—”

Mike must really hear his voice. The tightness in it. The way it’s shaking.

Because his whole attitude shifts.

“Oh, shit.”*

Steve exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just get Nancy, man.”

“Yeah, okay.” There’s a clatter on the other end, probably Mike throwing the phone down instead of setting it down like a normal person.

“NANCE! IT’S STEVE! SOMETHING’S WRONG!”

Steve closes his eyes.

Waits.

“Steve?”

Nancy’s voice is firm. No hesitation, no teasing, no bullshit, just Nancy, in that way she always is when she knows something is serious.

Steve swallows hard. “I need your help.”

“Is everything okay?”

Nancy’s voice is sharp, cutting through the haze in his head, and Steve grips the phone so tight his knuckles turn white.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Because no. No, nothing is okay.

But if he says that, if he admits it, then it’s real. Then it’s another thing he doesn’t know how to fix, another problem too big for him to hold.

Nancy exhales. “Steve.”

He swallows. “I don’t know what to do.”

Her voice softens. “What happened?”

Steve drags a hand down his face, fingers tangling in his hair, heart hammering so hard it feels like it’s trying to break free from his ribs. “I need your help, Nance. I—” His voice wobbles, cracks right down the middle, and he hates it, hates the way it makes him sound small, like he’s fucking helpless. “I don’t know what to do.”

Nancy’s quiet for a second, and he can picture her, can see the way she’s probably standing in the kitchen, hand on her hip, brows furrowed, that look she gets when she’s thinking, when she’s trying to fit all the puzzle pieces together before she says anything.

“I need more information than that, Steve.”

Her voice is firm but not impatient. Grounding.

Steve exhales, leans his forehead against the wall, and forces the words out.

“Y/N called me last night.”

He hears Nancy shift on the other end, like she’s bracing.

“She—” He stops, presses his lips together, his throat burning. “She didn’t wanna be here anymore, she said goodbye, then I went to her place. She was on the roof…she was at the edge.”

Silence.

Not the bad kind. The kind that means something. The kind that sits heavy, like a weight neither of them know how to hold.

Nancy exhales. “Jesus, Steve.”

“Yeah.” His voice is barely above a whisper.

“Where is she now?”

“Upstairs. In my bed. Sleeping.”

Nancy doesn’t respond right away. When she does, her voice is careful. “Is she okay?”

Steve lets out a humorless laugh, swiping at his face. “No.”

Nancy doesn’t tell him everything’s going to be fine, doesn’t try to downplay it. That’s the thing about her, she knows better.

“What happened?” she asks instead. “Start from the beginning.”

Steve tells her. Not all of it. Not the ugly parts, the parts that make his head spin and his stomach clench, the parts that feel too big to say out loud. But enough, the phone call. The way you sounded.

The way he drove like his life depended on it because it did, because yours did. Breaking down your fucking door. Running up the fire escape like a maniac. Finding you on the edge of the roof. The begging. The way he almost lost you. The way he doesn’t know what the fuck to do now.

Nancy listens, doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t tell him to calm down or to breathe or to stop blaming himself, even though she probably should.

”You did the right thing, Steve.”

He laughs, shaky, rubbing at his chest. “Then why does it feel like I fucked it all up?”

“This is a traumatic event for you too Steve, it's okay to feel like this.” Nancy sighs. “Also because you’re not used to not being able to fix things.”

That shuts him up. Because yeah. Yeah, maybe that’s exactly it.

Steve has never been the smartest person in the room, never been the leader, not even with a bunch of children, never been the one with the answers.

But when it comes to his people? That’s all he has.He takes care of them. All of them.

Robin, Dustin, the rest of the kids, he makes sure they eat, makes sure they get home safe, makes sure they have someone to call when shit hits the fan. You, he never truly had to worry about you before, you were always the one looking after him, but now it's you he has to worry about and he doesn’t know how to take care of you and it’s fucking killing him.

Nancy exhales through the receiver. “She’s safe. She’s alive. That’s because of you, Steve.”

Steve shakes his head, blinking up at the ceiling. “I don’t wanna overwhelm her. But I don’t—” His voice cracks again. “I don’t know what to do, Nance. What do I do?”

Nancy is quiet for a moment. ”For now you just have to be there. I’ll talk to my Mom, vaguely for some advice to see what's best for her, okay?”

Steve squeezes his eyes shut. Because that’s what Robin said.

And if they’re both saying it, if they’re both telling him that’s all he can do, maybe it’s true. Nancy sighs, softer now. “Do you want me to come over?”

Steve hesitates. He does, in a way. Wants someone else to carry this weight with him, to know what to do when he doesn’t. But then he thinks about you.

Thinks about how fragile you looked, about the way you latched onto him like you couldn’t breathe without him, like he was the only thing keeping you here and he knows you’re going to wake up soon.

He also knows that when you do, the only person you’ll be able to handle right now is him.

So he shakes his head, even though Nancy can’t see him. “No. Not yet.”

Nancy hums, understanding. “Okay.”

Another pause.

”Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re doing the best you can.”

Steve lets out a shaky breath, runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

Steve hangs up the phone.

Exhales.

Runs a hand down his face, trying to ground himself, trying to press himself back into reality, back into here and now, instead of spiraling down the endless, clawing tunnel of what-ifs.

He hears footsteps. Turning and there you are.

Standing at the bottom of the stairs, still wrapped in the hoodie he gave you last night, sleeves too long for your hands, eyes swollen from crying, face pale with exhaustion.

Steve freezes and you freeze, too. Like neither of you know what comes next because you never planned on living another day.

You swallow hard. “I’m sorry.”

Your voice is small. Unsteady. Like a fragile thread holding something much bigger, much darker in place.

Steve’s stomach clenches. “Don’t apologize.”

Your bottom lip wobbles, the second it does, Steve moves, stepping forward, closing the space between you, hands twitching at his sides because he wants to grab you, wants to hold you, but he doesn’t know if you’ll let him.

You shake your head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Steve’s heart cracks. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head harder. “Yes, there is. There has to be, because—” You swallow, breath stuttering, hands clenching at your sides. “Because normal people don’t feel like this, Steve. Normal people don’t wake up and immediately want to disappear. Normal people don’t have this…this thing inside them, this voice, this…this lingering urge in the back of their head telling them it’d be easier to just stop existing, to, to jump off a roof.”

Steve’s chest is aching. But you’re not done.

You look up at him, eyes desperate, pleading, breaking. “I don’t know what to do.” Your voice cracks. “I don’t know how to make it stop and I’ve been horrible, and I am horrible, and I hate myself, Steve, I fucking—” Your breath hitches, coming out as a choked sob. “I hate myself so much I can’t breathe sometimes.”*

Steve doesn’t know he’s crying until he feels the tears slip down his cheeks. He can’t hear you talk like this. He can’t.

Because every single word is a knife to his gut, every single syllable is a lie, and he wants to grab you and shake you and make you see what he sees.

“I know you don’t get it,” you whisper. “I know it doesn’t make sense to you, because—because you’re you. You’re Steve Harrington. You’re—” You gesture vaguely, helplessly. “You’re warm, and you’re good, and you take care of people, and everybody loves you—”

You stop yourself. Let out a broken laugh, shaking your head.

“I don’t even think I know how to be loved.”

And that’s it.

That’s the thing that ruins him.

Because fuck that.

Fuck that so much.

Steve moves, grabbing you, pulling you into him so hard it knocks the breath out of both of you, wraps his arms around you tightly and then, into your hair, into your skin, into everything that makes you, you.

“I love you.”

You go rigid.

But Steve just holds you tighter.

“I love you.”

Your fingers twitch.

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.”

The words pour out of him, over and over, as many times as it takes, like maybe if he says them enough, they’ll sink into your skin, they’ll push out all the other shit, they’ll replace the darkness with something real.

Your hands fist into the fabric of his shirt, your body shakes, and then you’re sobbing into his chest, shaking your head like you don’t believe him, like you can’t believe him.

“Stop,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Stop saying that.”

“No.” Steve holds you tighter, presses his lips against your temple, voice breaking. “No, because it’s true, and I don’t give a shit if you don’t believe it, I’m gonna say it until you do.”

You let out a choked noise.

“I love you,” Steve says again, firm this time, steady. “I love you, and you are not alone, and you don’t have to do this by yourself, I won't let you ever again even try to, and I swear to God, Y/N, if you ever try to leave me again, I—” His voice cracks, and he pulls back just enough to look at you, to force you to see him. “I can’t lose you.”

Your eyes are wet and wide, you stare at him like you’re searching for something, like you’re waiting for him to take it back. But he won’t, he never will. He means it.

And you must see that, must feel it, because your face crumples completely, and then you’re gripping him, burying yourself against his chest, and Steve doesn’t think he’s ever held onto something so tightly in his entire life.

He rocks you slowly, his hands smoothing over your back, his lips pressed against your temple, murmuring soft reassurances between your ragged, gasping breaths.

“I got you. I got you, sweetheart. I got you.”

----

It’s been weeks.

Weeks of slow, steady progress.

Weeks of Steve picking you up every morning, weeks of phone calls where he doesn’t hang up until he knows you’re okay, weeks of sleep overs between your apartment and his house, weeks of always having him, or Robin or Nancy with you, weeks of him refusing to let you retreat back into yourself.

Weeks of driving you all the way to the city because he found a doctor there, one that actually listens, one that doesn’t look at you like you’re broken beyond repair.

Weeks of new medication, of trying something different, of slowly, so slowly, feeling the weight in your chest start to lift.

It’s not perfect. You still have bad days. You still have moments.

But for the first time in the last year and a half, you don’t feel so alone, and you don’t want to be alone. Steve has everything to do with that.

There have been more hangouts, more time spent with the group.

Movie nights at Steve’s where Robin falls asleep halfway through and Dustin talks over the entire thing.

Arcade trips where Max beats everyone at everything.

Long afternoons at Steve’s pool, Steve sitting at the edge with his eyes never leaving you, while Lucas and Erica fight over the floaties.

You’ve started laughing again. Really laughing.

And Steve…god. Steve looks at you every time, like it’s the best sound he’s ever heard because to him it is.

Tonight, it’s just the two of you. Back on your roof. Steve had been hesitant at first, for obvious reasons but you told him it was different now. That you just wanted to be here with him, so of course he went up with you. He would go anywhere with you.

You’re lying flat on your backs, side by side, looking up at the stars. The night is warm, a soft breeze cutting through the air.

Things feel light.

Steve exhales. “We should leave.”

You blink, turning your head to look at him. “What?”

He gestures vaguely at the sky. “Hawkins. The whole damn town. Just… pack up and go. Start fresh.”

You snort. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Steve hums. “Maybe.”

You glance back up, staring at the stars. “Where would we even go?”

Steve shrugs. “Somewhere warm. Somewhere with a beach.”

You huff out a quiet laugh. “You just want an excuse to wear those tiny-ass swim trunks.”

Steve grins. “Obviously.”

Silence settles between you, not uncomfortable.

Just there.

A few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have been able to sit in this kind of quiet without your own thoughts eating you alive. Now it’s just nice.

You turn your head again, you look at Steve. Really look at him.

The way the soft glow of the stars reflects in his eyes. The way his hair curls slightly at the ends. The way his lips part slightly, like he’s about to say something but stops himself.

And you, you know. You always have. So you sit up, take a deep breath and say it, finally say it.

“I love you.”

Steve goes completely still.

His eyes snap to yours, wide and disbelieving. “What?”

Your heart is pounding, but you don’t look away. “I love you.”

He blinks. “Like… like a friend?”

You shake your head. “No.” A slow breath. “It’s always been more.”

Steve sits up, his whole body frozen.

His voice is barely there when he says, “Then why, why didn’t you ever—”

You let out a small, shaky laugh. “Because I don’t deserve you, Steve.”

His face.

God.

His whole expression crumples, like those words actually hurt him.

“Don’t say that,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “Please, don’t say that.”

You swallow, glancing down at your lap. “It’s true.”

“No, it’s not.” Steve shakes his head, firm, unwavering. “You deserve the world, llease let me give it to you.”*

Your eyes snap up to meet his, he means it. You can see it all over him. Your chest aches. “How long?” you whisper. “How long have you—”

Steve laughs, shaky, rubbing a hand over his face. “As long as I can remember.” He swallows. “It’s always been you. But I didn’t think—I didn’t think I could have you.”*

Your breath catches. “I have a lot of baggage, Steve.”

Steve nods, lips pressing together. “I know.”

You exhale. “My family—I don’t have anyone else, it would be too much.”

“You’re could never too much, you’re everything to me.”.His eyes shift, his whole body tense, voice so sure when he says, “Fuck our families. We created our own.”*

Your throat tightens.

“We have those kids.”

A pause.

“We have Robin.”*

A beat.

“We have each other.”

You suck in a breath. Your whole body feels electric, like you’re standing on the edge of something huge, something you never thought you’d let yourself have.

“Did you really mean it?” Your voice comes out small, barely there, but it’s the only thing that exists in this moment.

Steve doesn’t even hesitate.

“God, I mean it with every bone in my body.”

You blink up at him, at the way his eyes burn with it, at the way his hands shake just slightly like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers. “Okay.”

Steve’s breath catches. His lips part slightly, like he’s about to ask you to say it again, to make sure he’s not dreaming. “Okay?”

You nod, swallowing against the tightness in your throat. “Okay.”

For the first time in almost two years, something settles in your chest. Something warm, something good.

Steve is still watching you like you might disappear, like he doesn’t believe this is happening, like he’s waiting for you to take it back.

Softly he asks. “Can I kiss you?” His voice is barely above a whisper, like he’s scared of the answer.

You let out a small, trembling laugh, feeling something inside of you crack wide open. “Nothing would make me happier.”

Then it’s happening.

Slow.

Hesitant.

Both of you leaning in, eyes fluttering shut, waiting, waiting, waiting until his lips meet yours.

It’s soft, careful, like he’s terrified of breaking you, like he’s afraid of moving too fast, of doing this wrong.

But then you melt into him and Steve sighs against your lips, like he’s been holding his breath for years and only now is he finally letting it out.

His hands cup your face, fingers threading into your hair, and you press closer, tilting your head, letting yourself fall. Steve deepens the kiss, slow and steady, and it’s….It’s everything.

Everything you didn’t think you deserved. Everything you almost let slip away. Everything you never let yourself want until now.

You pull back, just barely, enough to feel his breath against your lips, enough to see the way he’s looking at you.

Like you hung the stars in the sky, like he’s been waiting for this. Like he’s been waiting for you and well he has.

“I’ve always dreamed of this,” Steve whispers, thumb stroking your cheek, his voice thick with something that makes your chest ache. “I’ve always dreamed of you.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t trust yourself to speak.

Because fuck, you almost never had this.

You almost left this and him behind.

The thought of it makes your stomach turn, makes your fingers clench around the fabric of his shirt, because how close were you?

How close were you to never having this? To never seeing him look at you like this, to never knowing what it’s like to feel this wanted, this safe, this loved?

“Thank you Steve, for everything.”

Steve shakes his head, closing his eyes for a second like he’s trying to keep himself together.

“Don’t thank me, please.” His voice is quiet, breathless. “I’d do anything for you.”

You suck in a shaky breath. “I was scared.”

Steve blinks at you, hand still resting on your cheek. “I know.”

You shake your head. “No, I mean—” You close your eyes for a second, gathering the words, feeling them crack inside you like something fragile, something breaking open. “I was scared that if I let myself have this, if I let myself have you that I’d lose you. That one day, you’d wake up and see me the way I see myself and realize I’m not worth it and I wouldn't be able to handle that.”

Steve makes a small, wrecked noise in the back of his throat. His hands tighten their grip on you, like he’s trying to anchor you, like he’s trying to hold onto you physically the way he’s always been trying to hold onto you emotionally.

“You don’t get to say that,” he murmurs, shaking his head, voice raw. “You don’t get to decide that for me. I love you, and you don’t get to tell me that I shouldn’t.”

Your chest hurts, because you now know he means it.

“You’re not losing me, sweetheart.” His voice is so sure, so steady, like there’s not a single part of him that doubts it. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your throat is too tight. You shake your head, blinking rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay. “You promise?”

Steve leans in, presses his forehead against yours, breath warm against your skin. “I swear on everything I have.”

The tears slip free. You let out a small, shaky laugh. “I’m glad I stayed.”

Steve exhales sharply, almost brokenly, his whole body tensing against you. “I’m glad I made you stay.”

The weight of it all, of everything settles between you. The nights you almost didn’t make it. The fights, the pain, the loneliness and the fact that despite all of it, despite how close you were to falling off the edge, despite how many times you tried to push him away, Steve is still here.

“Can I kiss you again?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, like he’s afraid of ruining this moment.

You let out a trembling laugh. “Please.”

He’s kissing you again, harder this time, less hesitant, less careful because now he knows you’re not slipping away.

His fingers thread through your hair, tilting your head, deepening it, like he’s pouring everything into this kiss, like he’s making up for all the times he didn’t do this sooner.

When he pulls back, his forehead stays pressed against yours. His breath is warm, uneven, like he’s trying to memorize this moment, like he’s afraid to move too fast and wake up from a dream he’s spent years convincing himself he’d never have.

“I love you,” he breathes, voice thick with something raw, something unshakable. His hands tremble slightly where they cradle your face, his thumbs skimming over your cheekbones like he needs proof that you’re real. “God, I love you so much.”

This time you don’t just hear it, you feel it deep in your bones, in the spaces that have always felt empty, in the cracks you were sure no one could ever fill.

You let out a breath, shaky and light, something breaking open inside you in the best possible way. You lean in, pressing your lips to his once, twice, slow and lingering, just because you can.

“I love you Steve Harrington.”

His whole body sags with relief, like those words physically hold him together, like he was holding onto a ledge and you just pulled him back up.

Steve laughs softly, shaking his head, pressing another kiss to your forehead, your cheek, the tip of your nose.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice full of something so devastatingly tender it makes your chest ache, “you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.”

You close your eyes, resting against him, breathing him in, letting the moment settle deep into your skin.

So softly it’s barely above a whisper. “I think I do.”

Steve pulls back just enough to look at you, really look at you, eyes shining in the dim light, searching for something but whatever it is, he must’ve found it.

Because he smiles, slow and sure, before leaning in again, pressing his lips to yours like a vow, unspoken, unwavering, forever.

The world is quiet, the night stretching endlessly around you, but here, in this moment, there is only him. Only the warmth of his touch, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against yours, the way he holds you and you finally believe you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

DEADPOOL & WOLVERINE dir. Shawn Levy (2024)

this was...devastating

Five minutes

Satoru Gojo? Yuta Okkotsu

thanks to shawn and his characters, i want hot older men ;)

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ Built for Battle, Never for Me ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ ⊹˚

“And I will fuck you like nothing matters.”

summary : You loved Jack through four deployments and every version of the man he became, even when he stopped choosing you. Years later, fate shoves you back into his trauma bay, unconscious and bleeding, and everything you buried resurfaces.

content/warning : 18+ MDNI!!! long-form emotional trauma, war and military themes, medical trauma, car accident (graphic details), infidelity (emotional & physical), explicit smut with intense emotional undertones, near-death experiences, emotionally unhealthy relationships, and grief over a still-living person

word count : 13,078 ( read on ao3 here if it's too large )

a/n : ok this is long! but bare with me! I got inspired by Nothing Matters by The Last Dinner Party and I couldn't stop writing. College finals are coming up soon so I thought I'd put this out there now before I am in the trenches but that doesn't mean you guys can't keep sending stuff to my inbox!

You were nineteen the first time Jack Abbot kissed you.

Outside a run-down bar just off base in the thick of Georgia summer—air humid enough to drink, heat clinging to your skin like regret. He had a fresh cut on his knuckle and a dog-eared med school textbook shoved into the back pocket of his jeans, like that wasn’t the most Jack thing in the world—equal parts violence and intellect, always straddling the line between bare-knuckle instinct and something nobler. Half fists, half fire, always on the verge of vanishing into a cause bigger than himself.

You were his long before the letters trailed behind his name. Before he learned to stitch flesh beneath floodlights and call it purpose. Before the trauma became clockwork, and the quiet between you started speaking louder than words ever could. You loved him through every incarnation—every rough draft of the man he was trying to become. Army medic. Burned-out med student. Warzone doctor with blood on his boots and textbooks in his duffel. The kind of man who took people apart just to understand how to hold them together.

He used to say he’d get out once it was over. Once the years were served, the boxes checked, the blood debt paid in full. He promised he’d come back—not just in body, but in whatever version of wholeness he still had left. Said he’d pick a city with good light, buy real furniture instead of folding chairs and duffel bags, learn how to sleep through the night like people who hadn’t taught themselves to live on adrenaline and loss.

You waited. Through four deployments. Through static-filled phone calls and letters that always said soon. Through nights spent tracing his name like it was a map back to yourself. You clung to that promise like it was gospel. And now—he was standing in your bedroom, rolling his shirts with the same clipped, clinical precision he used to pack a field kit. Each fold a quiet betrayal. Each movement a confirmation: he was leaving again. Not called. Choosing.

“I’m not being deployed,” he said, eyes fixed on the duffel bag instead of you. “I’m volunteering.”

Your arms crossed tightly over your chest, nails digging into the fabric of your sleeves. “You’ve fulfilled your contract, Jack. You’re not obligated anymore. You’re a doctor now. You could stay. You could leave.”

“I know,” he said, quiet. Measured. Like he’d practiced saying it in his head a hundred times already.

“You were offered a civilian residency,” you pressed, your voice rising despite the lump building in your throat. “At one of the top trauma programs in D.C. You told me they fast-tracked you. That they wanted you.”

“I know.”

“And you turned it down.”

He exhaled through his nose. A long, deliberate breath. Then reached for another undershirt, folded it so neatly it looked like a ritual. “They need trauma-trained docs downrange. There’s a shortage.”

You laughed—a bitter, breathless sound. “There’s always a shortage. That’s not new.”

He paused. Briefly. His hand flattened over the shirt like he was smoothing something that wouldn’t stay still. “You don’t get it.”

“I do get it,” you snapped. “That’s the problem.”

He finally looked up at you then. Just for a second.

Eyes tired. Distant. Fractured in a way that made you want to punch him and hold him at the same time.

“You think this makes you necessary,” you whispered. “You think chaos gives you purpose. But it’s just the only place you feel alive.”

He turned toward you slowly, shirt still in hand. His hair was longer than regulation—he hadn’t shaved in days. His face looked older, worn down in that way no one else seemed to notice but you did. You knew every line. Every scar. Every inch of the man who swore he’d come back and choose something softer.

You.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” you whispered. “Tell me this isn’t just about being needed again. About being irreplaceable. About chasing adrenaline because you’re scared of standing still.”

Jack didn’t say anything else.

Not when your voice broke asking him to stay—not loud, not theatrical, not in the kind of way that could be dismissed as a moment of weakness or written off as heat-of-the-moment desperation. You’d asked him softly. Carefully. Like you were trying not to startle something fragile. Like if you stayed calm, maybe he’d finally hear you.

And not when you walked away from him, the space between you stretching like a fault line you both knew neither of you would cross again.

You’d seen him fight for the life of a stranger—bare hands pressed to a wound, blood soaking through his sleeves, voice low and steady through chaos. But he didn’t fight for this. For you.

You didn’t speak for the rest of the day.

He packed in silence. You did laundry. Folded his socks like it mattered. You couldn’t decide if it felt more like mourning or muscle memory.

You didn’t touch him.

Not until night fell, and the house got too quiet, and the space beside you on the couch started to feel like a ghost of something you couldn’t bear to name.

The windows were open, and you could hear the city breathing outside—car tires on wet pavement, wind slinking through the alley, the distant hum of a life you could’ve had. One that didn’t smell like starch and gun oil and choices you never got to make.

Jack was in the kitchen, barefoot, methodically washing a single plate. You sat on the couch with your knees pulled to your chest, half-wrapped in the blanket you kept by the radiator. There was a movie playing on the TV. Something you'd both seen a dozen times. He hadn’t looked at it once.

“Do you want tea?” he asked, not turning around.

You stared at his back. The curve of his spine under that navy blue t-shirt. The tension in his neck that never fully left.

“No.”

He nodded, like he expected that.

You wanted to scream. Or throw the mug he used every morning. Or just… shake him until he remembered that this—you—was what he was supposed to be fighting for now.

Instead, you stood up.

Walked into the kitchen.

Pressed your palms flat against the cool tile counter and watched him dry his hands like it was just another Tuesday. Like he hadn’t made a choice that ripped something fundamental out of you both.

“I don’t think I know how to do this anymore,” you said.

Jack turned, towel still in hand. “What?”

“This,” you gestured between you, “Us. I don’t know how to keep pretending we’re okay.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then leaned against the sink like the weight of that sentence physically knocked him off balance.

“I didn’t expect you to understand,” he said.

You laughed. It came out sharp. Ugly. “That’s the part that kills me, Jack. I do understand. I know exactly why you're going. I know what it does to you to sit still. I know you think you’re only good when you’re bleeding out in a tent with your hands in someone’s chest.”

He flinched.

“But I also know you didn’t even try to stay.”

“I did,” he snapped. “Every time I came back to you, I tried.”

“That’s not the same as choosing me.”

The silence that followed felt like the real goodbye.

You walked past him to the bedroom without a word. The hallway felt longer than usual, quieter too—like the walls were holding their breath. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

The bed still smelled like him. Like cedarwood aftershave and something darker—familiar, aching. You crawled beneath the sheets, dragging the comforter up to your chin like armor. Turned your face to the wall. Every muscle in your back coiled tight, waiting for a sound that didn’t come.

And for a long time, he didn’t follow.

But eventually, the floor creaked—soft, uncertain. A pause. Then the familiar sound of the door clicking shut, slow and final, like the closing of a chapter neither of you had the courage to write an ending for. The mattress shifted beneath his weight—slow, deliberate, like every inch he gave to gravity was a decision he hadn’t fully made until now. He settled behind you, quiet as breath. And for a moment, there was only stillness.

No touch. No words. Just the heat of him at your back, close enough to feel the ghost of something you’d almost forgotten.

Then, gently—like he thought you might flinch—his arm slid across your waist. His hand spread wide over your stomach, fingers splayed like he was trying to memorize the shape of your body through fabric and time and everything he’d left behind.

Like maybe, if he held you carefully enough, he could keep you from slipping through the cracks he’d carved into both of your lives. Like this was the only way he still knew how to say please don’t go.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he breathed into the nape of your neck, voice rough, frayed at the edges.

Your eyes burned. You swallowed the lump in your throat. His lips touched your skin—just below your ear, then lower. A kiss. Another. His mouth moved with unbearable softness, like he thought he might break you. Or maybe himself.

And when he kissed you like it was the last time, it wasn’t frantic or rushed. It was slow. The kind of kiss that undoes a person from the inside out.

His hand slid under your shirt, calloused fingers grazing your ribs as if relearning your shape. You rolled to face him, breath catching when your noses bumped. And then he was kissing you again—deeper this time. Tongue coaxing, lips parted, breath shared. You gasped when he pressed his thigh between yours. He was already hard. And when he rocked into you, It wasn’t frantic—it was sacred. Like a ritual. Like a farewell carved into skin.

The lights stayed off, but not out of shame. It was self-preservation. Because if you saw his face, if you saw what was written in his eyes—whatever soft, shattering thing was there—it might ruin you. He undressed you like he was unwrapping something fragile—careful, slow, like he was afraid you might vanish if he moved too fast. Each layer pulled away with quiet tension, each breath held between fingers and fabric.

His mouth followed close behind, brushing down your chest with aching precision. He kissed every scar like it told a story only he remembered. Mouthed at your skin like it tasted of something he hadn’t let himself crave in years. Like he was starving for the version of you that only existed when you were underneath him. 

Your fingers threaded through his hair. You arched. Moaned his name. He pushed into you like he didn’t want to be anywhere else. Like this was the only place he still knew. His pace was languid at first, drawn out. But when your breath hitched and you clung to him tighter, he fucked you deeper. Slower. Harder. Like he was trying to carve himself into your bones. Your bodies moved like memory. Like grief. Like everything you never said finally found a rhythm in the dark. 

His thumb brushed your lower lip. You bit it. He groaned—low, guttural.

“Say it,” he rasped against your mouth.

“I love you,” you whispered, already crying. “God, I love you.”

And when you came, it wasn’t loud. It was broken. Soft. A tremor beneath his palm as he cradled your jaw. He followed seconds later, gasping your name like a benediction, forehead pressed to yours, sweat-slick and shaking.

After, he didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He just stayed curled around you, heartbeat thudding against your spine like punctuation.

Because sometimes the loudest heartbreak is the one you don’t say out loud.

The alarm never went off.

You’d both woken up before it—some silent agreement between your bodies that said don’t pretend this is normal. The room was still dark, heavy with the thick, gray stillness of early morning. That strange pocket of time that doesn’t feel like today yet, but is no longer yesterday.

Jack sat on the edge of the bed in just his boxers, elbows resting on his thighs, spine curled slightly forward like the weight of the choice he’d made was finally catching up to him. He was already dressed in the uniform in his head.

You stayed under the covers, arms wrapped around your own body, watching the muscles in his back tighten every time he exhaled.

You didn’t speak. 

What was there left to say?

He stood, moved through the room with quiet efficiency. Pulling his pants on. Shirt. Socks. He tied his boots slowly, like muscle memory. Like prayer. You wondered if his hands ever shook when he packed for war, or if this was just another morning to him. Another mission. Another place to be.

He finally turned to face you. “You want coffee?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You shook your head. You didn’t trust yourself to speak.

He paused in the doorway, like he might say something—something honest, something final. Instead, he just looked at you like you were already slipping into memory.

The kitchen was still warm from the radiator kicking on. Jack moved like a ghost through it—mug in one hand, half a slice of dry toast in the other. You sat across from him at the table, knees pulled into your chest, wearing one of his old t-shirts that didn’t smell like him anymore. The silence was different now. Not tense. Just done. He set his keys on the table between you.

“I left a spare,” he said.

You nodded. “I know.”

He took a sip of coffee, made a face. “You never taught me how to make it right.”

“You never listened.”

His lips twitched—almost a smile. It died quickly. You looked down at your hands. Picked at a loose thread on your sleeve.

“Will you write?” you asked, quietly. Not a plea. Just curiosity. Just something to fill the silence.

“If I can.”

And somehow that hurt more.

When the cab pulled up outside, neither of you moved right away. Jack stared at the wall. You stared at him. 

He finally stood. Grabbed his bag. Slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. He didn’t look like a man leaving for war. He looked like a man trying to convince himself he had no other choice.

At the door, he paused again.

“Hey,” he said, softer this time. “You’re everything I ever wanted, you know that?”

You stood too fast. “Then why wasn’t this enough?”

He flinched. And still, he came back to you. Hands cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he was trying to memorize it.

“I love you,” he said.

You swallowed. Hard. “Then stay.”

His hands dropped. 

“I can’t.”

You didn’t cry when he left.

You just stood in the hallway until the cab disappeared down the street, teeth sunk into your lip so hard it bled. And then you locked the door behind you. Not because you didn’t want him to come back.

But because you didn’t want to hope anymore that he would.

PRESENT DAY : THE PITT - FRIDAY 7:02 PM

Jack always said he didn’t believe in premonitions. That was Robby’s department—gut feelings, emotional instinct, the kind of sixth sense that made him pause mid-shift and mutter things like “I don’t like this quiet.” Jack? He was structure. Systems. Trauma patterns on a 10-year data set. He didn’t believe in ghosts, omens, or the superstition of stillness.

But tonight?

Tonight felt wrong.

The kind of wrong that doesn’t announce itself. It just settles—low and quiet, like a second pulse beneath your skin. Everything was too clean. Too calm. The trauma board was a blank canvas. One transfer to psych. One uncomplicated withdrawal on fluids. A dislocated shoulder in 6 who kept trying to flirt with the nurses despite being dosed with enough ketorolac to sedate a linebacker.

That was it. Four hours. Not a single incoming. Not even a fender-bender.

Jack stood in front of the board with his arms crossed tight over his chest. His jaw was clenched, shoulders stiff, body still in that way that wasn’t restful—just waiting. Like something in him was already bracing for impact.

The ER didn’t breathe like this. Not on a Friday night in Pittsburgh. Not unless something was holding its breath.

He rolled his shoulder, cracked his neck once, then twice. His leg ached—not the prosthetic. The other one. The real one. The one that always overcompensated when he was tense. The one that still carried the habits of a body he didn’t fully live in anymore. He tried to shake it off. He couldn’t. He wasn’t tired.

But he felt unmoored.

7:39 PM

The station was too loud in all the wrong ways.

Dana was telling someone—probably Perlah—about her granddaughter’s birthday party tomorrow. There was going to be a Disney princess. Real cake. Real glitter. Jack nodded when she looked at him but didn’t absorb any of it. His hands were hovering over the computer keys, but he wasn’t charting. He was watching the vitals monitor above Bay 2 blink like a metronome. Too steady. Too normal.

His stomach clenched. Something inside him stirred. Restless. Sharp. He didn’t even hear Ellis approach until her shadow slid into his peripheral.

“You’re doing it again,” she said.

Jack blinked. “Doing what?”

“That thing. The haunted soldier stare.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “Didn’t realize I had a brand.”

“You do.” She leaned against the counter, arms folded. “You get real still when it’s too quiet in here. Like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Jack tilted his head slightly. “I’m always waiting for the other shoe.”

“No,” she said. “Not like this.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. They both knew what kind of quiet this was.

7:55 PM

The weather was turning.

He could hear it—how the rain hit the loading dock, how the wind pushed harder against the back doors. He’d seen it out the break room window earlier. Clouds like bruises. Thunder low, miles off, not angry yet—just gathering. Pittsburgh always got weird storms in the spring—cold one day, burning the next. The kind of shifts that made people do dumb things. Drive fast. Get careless. Forget their own bodies could break.

His hand flexed unconsciously against the edge of the counter. He didn’t know who he was preparing for—just that someone was coming. 

8:00 PM

Robby’s shift was ending. He always left a little late—hovered by the lockers, checking one last note, scribbling initials where none were needed. Jack didn’t look up when he approached, but he heard the familiar shuffle, the sound of a hoodie zipper pulled halfway.

“You sure you don’t wanna switch shifts tomorrow?” Robby asked, thumb scrolling absently across his phone screen, like he was trying to sound casual—but you could hear the edge of something in it. Fatigue. Or maybe just wariness.

Jack glanced over, one brow arched, already sensing the setup. “What, you finally land that hot date with the med student who keeps calling you sir, looks like she still gets carded for cough syrup and thinks you’re someone’s dad?”

Robby didn’t look up from his phone. “Close. She thinks you’re the dad. Like… someone’s brooding, emotionally unavailable single father who only comes to parent-teacher conferences to say he’s doing his best.”

Jack blinked. “I’m forty-nine. You’re fifty-three.”

“She thinks you’ve lived harder.”

Jack snorted. “She say that?”

“She said—and I quote—‘He’s got that energy. Like he’s seen things. Lost someone he doesn’t talk about. Probably drinks his coffee black and owns, like, one picture frame.’”

Jack gave a slow nod, face unreadable. “Well. She’s not wrong.”

Robby side-eyed him. “You do have ghost-of-a-wife vibes.”

Jack’s smirk twitched into something more wry. “Not a widower.”

“Could’ve fooled her. She said if she had daddy issues, you’d be her first mistake.”

Jack let out a low whistle. “Jesus.”

“I told her you’re just forty-nine. Prematurely haunted.”

Jack smiled. Barely. “You’re such a good friend.”

Robby slipped his phone into his pocket. “You’re lucky I didn’t tell her about the ring. She thinks you’re tragic. Women love that.”

Jack muttered, “Tragic isn’t a flex.”

Robby shrugged. “It is when you’re tall and say very little.”

Jack rolled his eyes, folding his arms across his chest. “Still not switching.”

Robby groaned. “Come on. Whitaker is due for a meltdown, and if I have to supervise him through one more central line attempt, I’m walking into traffic. He tried to open the kit with his elbow last week. Said sterile gloves were ‘limiting his dexterity.’ I said, ‘That’s the point.’ He told me I was oppressing his innovation.”

Jack stifled a laugh. “I’m starting to like him.”

“He’s your favorite. Admit it.”

“You’re my favorite,” Jack said, deadpan.

“That’s the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”

Jack’s grin tugged wider. “It’s been a long year.”

They stood in silence for a moment—one of those rare ones where the ER wasn’t screeching for attention. Just a quiet hum of machines and distant footsteps. Then Robby shifted, leaned a little heavier against the wall.

“You good?” he asked, voice low. Not pushy. Just there.

Jack didn’t look at him right away. Just stared at the trauma board. Too long. Long enough that it said more than words would’ve.

Then—“Fine,” Jack said. A beat. “Just tired.”

Robby didn’t press. Just nodded, like he believed it, even if he didn’t.

“Get some rest,” Jack added, almost an afterthought. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You always do,” Robby said.

And then he left, hoodie half-zipped, coffee in hand, just like always.

But Jack didn’t move for a while.

Not until the ER stopped pretending to be quiet.

8:34 PM

The call hits like a starter’s pistol.

“Inbound MVA. Solo driver. High velocity. No seatbelt. Unresponsive. GCS three. ETA three minutes.”

The kind of call that should feel routine.

Jack’s already in motion—snapping on gloves, barking out orders, snapping the trauma team to attention. He doesn’t think. He doesn’t feel. He just moves. It’s what he’s best at. What they built him for.

He doesn’t know why his heart is hammering harder than usual.

Why the air feels sharp in his lungs. Why he’s clenching his jaw so hard his molars ache.

He doesn’t know. Not yet.

“Perlah, trauma cart’s prepped?”

“Yeah.”

“Mateo, I want blood drawn the second she’s in. Jesse—intubation tray. Let’s be ready.”

No one questions him. Not when he’s in this mode—low voice, high tension. Controlled but wired like something just beneath his skin is ready to snap. He pulls the door to Bay 2 open, nods to the team waiting inside. His hands go to his hips, gloves already on, brain flipping through protocol.

And then he hears it—the wheels. Gurney. Fast.

Voices echoing through the corridor.

Paramedic yelling vitals over the noise.

“Unidentified female. Found unresponsive at the scene of an MVA—single vehicle, no ID on her. Significant blood loss, hypotensive on arrival. BP tanked en route—we lost her once. Got her back, but she’s still unstable.”

The doors bang open. They wheel her in. Jack steps forward. His eyes fall to the body. Blood-soaked. Covered in debris. Face battered. Left cheek swelling fast. Gash at the temple. Lip split. Clothes shredded. Eyes closed.

He freezes. Everything stops. Because he knows that mouth. That jawline. That scar behind the ear. That body. The last time he saw it, it was beneath his hands. The last time he kissed her, she was whispering his name in the dark. And now she’s here.

Unconscious. Barely breathing. Covered in her own blood. And nobody knows who she is but him.

“Jack?” Perlah says, uncertain. “You good?”

He doesn’t respond. He’s already at the side of the gurney, brushing the medic aside, sliding in like muscle memory.

“Get me vitals now,” he says, voice too low.

“She’s crashing again—”

“I said get me fucking vitals.”

Everyone jolts. He doesn’t care. He’s pulling the oxygen mask over your face. Hands hovering, trembling.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “What happened to you?”

Your eyes flutter, barely. He watches your chest rise once. Then falter.

Then—Flatline.

You looked like a stranger. But the kind of stranger who used to be home. Where had you gone after he left?

Why didn’t you come back?

Why hadn’t he tried harder to find you?

He never knew. He told himself you were fine. That you didn’t want to be found. That maybe you'd met someone else, maybe moved out of state, maybe started the life he was supposed to give you.

And now you were here. Not a memory. Not a ghost. Not a "maybe someday."

Here.

And dying.

8:36 PM

The monitor flatlines. Sharp. Steady. Shrill.

And Jack—he doesn’t blink. He doesn’t curse. He doesn’t call out. He just moves. The team reacts first—shock, noise, adrenaline. Perlah’s already calling it out. Mateo goes for epi. Jesse reaches for the crash cart, his hands a little too fast, knocking a tray off the edge.

It clatters to the floor. Jack doesn’t flinch.

He steps forward. Takes position. Drops to the right side of your chest like it’s instinct—because it is. His hands hover for half a beat.

Then press down.

Compression one.

Compression two.

Compression three.

Thirty in all. His mouth is tight. His eyes fixed on the rise and fall of your body beneath his hands. He doesn’t say your name. He doesn’t let them see him.

He just works.

Like he’s still on deployment.

Like you’re just another body.

Like you’re not the person who made him believe in softness again.

Jack doesn’t move from your side.

Doesn’t say a thing when the first shock doesn’t bring you back. Doesn’t speak when the second one stalls again. He just keeps pressing. Keeps watching. Keeps holding on with the one thing left he can control.

His hands.

You twitch under his palms on the third shock.

The line stutters. Then catches. Jack exhales once. But he still doesn’t speak. He doesn’t check the room. Doesn’t acknowledge the tears running down his face. Just rests both hands on the edge of the gurney and leans forward, breathing shallow, like if he stands up fully, something inside him will fall apart for good.

“Get her to CT,” he says quietly.

Perlah hesitates. “Jack—”

He shakes his head. “I’ll walk with her.”

“Jack…”

“I said I’ll go.”

And then he does.

Silent. Soaking in your blood. Following the gurney like he followed field stretchers across combat zones. No one asks questions. Because everyone sees it now.

8:52 PM 

The corridor outside CT was colder than the rest of the hospital. Some architectural flaw. Or maybe just Jack’s body going numb. You were being wheeled in now—hooked to monitors, lips cracked and flaking at the edges from blood loss.

You hadn’t moved since the trauma bay. They got your heart back. But your eyes hadn’t opened. Not even once.

Jack walked beside the gurney in silence. One hand gripping the edge rail. Gloved fingers stained dark. His scrub top was still soaked from chest compressions. His pulse hadn’t slowed since the flatline. He didn’t speak to the transport tech. Didn’t acknowledge the nurse. Didn’t register anything except the curve of your arm under the blanket and the smear of blood at your temple no one had cleaned yet.

Outside the scan room, they paused to prep.

“Two minutes,” someone said.

Jack barely nodded. The tech turned away. And for the first time since they wheeled you in—Jack looked at you.

Eyes sweeping over your face like he was seeing it again for the first time. Like he didn’t recognize this version of you—not broken, not bloodied, not dying—but fragile. His hand moved before he could stop it. He reached down. Brushed your hair back from your forehead, fingers trembling. 

He leaned in, close enough that only the machines could hear him. Voice raw. Shaky.

“Stay with me.” He swallowed. Hard. “I’ll lie to everyone else. I’ll keep pretending I can live without you. But you and me? We both know I’m full of shit.”

He paused. “You’ve always known.”

Footsteps echoed around the corner. Jack straightened instantly. Like none of it happened. Like he wasn’t bleeding in real time. The tech came back. “We’re ready.”

Jack nodded. Watched the doors open. Watched them wheel you away. Didn’t follow. Just stood in the hallway, alone, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

10:34 PM

Your blood was still on his forearms. Dried at the edge of his glove cuff. There was a fleck of it on the collar of his scrub top, just beneath his badge. He should go change. But he couldn’t move. The last time he saw you, you were standing in the doorway of your apartment with your arms crossed over your chest and your mouth set in that way you did when you were about to say something that would ruin him.

Then stay.

He hadn’t.

And now here you were, barely breathing.

God. He wanted to scream. But he didn’t. He never did.

Footsteps approached from the left—light, careful.

It was Dana.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned against the wall beside him with a soft exhale and handed him a plastic water bottle.

He took it with a nod, twisted the cap, but didn’t drink.

“She’s stable,” Dana said quietly. “Neuro’s scrubbing in. Walsh is watching the bleed. They're hopeful it hasn’t shifted.”

Jack stared straight ahead. “She’s got a collapsed lung.”

“She’s alive.”

“She shouldn’t be.”

He could hear Dana shift beside him. “You knew her?”

Jack swallowed. His throat burned. “Yeah.”

There was a beat of silence between them.

“I didn’t know,” Dana said, gently. “I mean, I knew there was someone before you came back to Pittsburgh. I just never thought...”

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

“Jack,” she said, softer now. “You shouldn’t be the one on this case.”

“I’m already on it.”

“I know, but—”

“She didn’t have anyone else.”

That landed like a punch to the ribs. No emergency contact. No parents listed. No spouse. No one flagged to call. Just the last ID scanned from your phone—his name still buried somewhere in your old records, from years ago. Probably forgotten. Probably never updated. But still there. Still his.

Dana reached out, laid a hand on his wrist. “Do you want me to sit with her until she wakes up?”

He shook his head.

“I should be there.”

“Jack—”

“I should’ve been there the first time,” he snapped. Then his voice broke low, quieter, strained: “So I’m gonna sit. And I’m gonna wait. And when she wakes up, I’m gonna tell her I’m sorry.”

Dana didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just nodded. And walked away.

1:06 AM

Jack sat in the corner of the dimmed recovery room.

You were propped up slightly on the bed now, a tube down your throat, IV lines in both arms. Bandages wrapped around your ribs, temple, thigh. The monitor beeped with painful consistency. It was the only sound in the room.

He hadn’t spoken in twenty minutes. He just sat there. Watching you like if he looked away, you’d vanish again. He leaned back eventually, scrubbed both hands down his face.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You really never changed your emergency contact?”

You didn’t get married. You didn’t leave the state.You just… slipped out of his life and never came back.

And he let you. He let you walk away because he thought you needed distance. Because he thought he’d ruined it. Because he didn’t know what to do with love when it wasn’t covered in blood and desperation. He let you go. And now you were here. 

“Please wake up,” he whispered. “Just… just wake up. Yell at me. Punch me. I don’t care. Just—”

His voice cracked. He bit it back.

“You were right,” he said, so soft it barely made it out. “I should’ve stayed.”

You swim toward the surface like something’s pulling you back under. It’s slow. Syrupy. The kind of consciousness that makes pain feel abstract—like you’ve forgotten which parts of your body belong to you. There’s pressure behind your eyes. A dull roar in your ears. Cold at your fingertips.

Then—sound. Beeping. Monitors. A cart wheeling past. Someone saying Vitals stable, pressure’s holding. A laugh in the hallway. Fluorescents. Fabric rustling. And—

A chair creaking.

You know that sound.

You’d recognize that silence anywhere. You open your eyes, slowly, blinking against the light. Vision blurred. Chest tight. There’s a rawness in your throat like you’ve been screaming underwater. Everything hurts, but one thing registers clear:

Jack.

Jack Abbot is sitting beside you.

He’s hunched forward in a chair too small for him, arms braced on his knees like he’s ready to stand, like he can’t stand. There’s a hospital badge clipped to his scrub pocket. His jaw is tight. There’s something smudged on his cheekbone—blood? You don’t know. His hair is shorter than you remember, greyer.

But it’s him. And for a second—just one—you forget the last seven years ever happened.

You forget the apartment. The silence. The day he walked out with his duffel and didn’t look back. Because right now, he’s here. Breathing. Watching you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“Hey,” he says, voice hoarse.

You try to swallow. You can’t.

“Don’t—” he sits up, suddenly, gently. “Don’t try to talk yet. You were intubated. Rollover crash—” He falters. “Jesus. You’re okay. You’re here.”

You blink, hard. Your eyes sting. Everything is out of focus except him. He leans forward a little more, his hands resting just beside yours on the bed.

“I thought you were dead,” he says. “Or married. Or halfway across the world. I thought—” He stops. His throat works around the words. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

You close your eyes for a second. It’s too much. His voice. His face. The sound of you’re okay coming from the person who once made it hurt the most. You shift your gaze—try to ground yourself in something solid.

And that’s when you see it.

His hand.

Resting casually near yours.

Ring finger tilted toward the light.

Gold band. 

Simple.

Permanent.

You freeze.

It’s like your lungs forget what to do.

You look at the ring. Then at him. Then at the ring again.

He follows your gaze.

And flinches.

“Fuck,” Jack says under his breath, immediately leaning back like distance might make it easier. Like you didn’t just see it.

He drags a hand through his hair, rubs the back of his neck, looks anywhere but at you.

“She’s not—” He pauses. “It’s not what you think.”

You’re barely able to croak a whisper. Your voice scrapes like gravel: “You’re married?”

His head snaps up.

“No.” Beat. “Not yet.”

Yet. That word is worse than a bullet. You stare at him. And what you see floors you.

Guilt.

Exhaustion.

Something that might be grief. But not regret. He’s not here asking for forgiveness. He’s here because you almost died. Because for a minute, he thought he’d never get the chance to say goodbye right. But he didn’t come back for you.

He moved on.

And you didn’t even get to see it happen. You turn your face away. It takes everything you have not to sob, not to scream, not to rip the IV out of your arm just to feel something other than this. Jack leans forward again, like he might try to fix it.

Like he still could.

“I didn’t know,” he says. “I didn’t know I’d ever see you again.”

“I didn’t know you’d stop waiting,” you rasp.

And that’s it. That’s the one that lands. He goes very still.

“I waited,” he says, softly. “Longer than I should’ve. I kept the spare key. I left the porch light on. Every time someone knocked on the door, I thought—maybe. Maybe it’s you.”

Your eyes well up. He shakes his head. Looks away. “But you never called. Never sent anything. And eventually... I thought you didn’t want to be found.”

“I didn’t,” you whisper. “Because I didn’t want to know you’d already replaced me.”

The silence after that is unbearable. And then: the soft knock of a nurse at the door.

Dana. 

She peeks in, eyes flicking between the two of you, and reads the room instantly.

“We’re moving her to step-down in fifteen,” she says gently. “Just wanted to give you a heads up.” Jack nods. Doesn’t look at her. Dana lingers for a beat, then quietly slips out. You don’t speak. Neither does he. He just stands there for another long moment. Like he wants to stay. But knows he shouldn’t. Finally, he exhales—low, shaky.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Not for leaving. Not for loving someone else. Just for the wreckage of it all. And then he walks out. Leaving you in that bed. 

Bleeding in places no scan can find.

9:12 AM

The room was smaller than the trauma bay. Cleaner. Quieter.

The lights were soft, filtered through high, narrow windows that let in just enough Pittsburgh morning to remind you the world kept moving, even when yours had slammed into a guardrail at seventy-three miles an hour.

You were propped at a slight angle—enough to breathe without straining the sutures in your side. Your ribs still ached with every inhale. Your left arm was in a sling. There was dried blood in your hairline no one had washed out yet. But you were alive. They told you that three times already.

Alive. Stable. Awake.

As if saying it aloud could undo the fact that Jack Abbot is engaged. You stared at the wall like it might give you answers. He hadn't come back. You didn’t ask for him. And still—every time a nurse came in, every time the door clicked open, every shuffle of shoes in the hallway—you hoped. 

You hated yourself for it.

You hadn’t cried yet.

That surprised you. You thought waking up and seeing him again—for the first time in years, after everything—would snap something loose in your chest. But it didn’t. It just… sat there. Heavy. Silent. Like grief that didn’t know where to go.

There was a soft knock on the frame.

You turned your head slowly, your throat too raw to ask who it was.

It wasn’t Jack.

It was a man you didn’t recognize. Late forties, maybe fifties. Navy hoodie. Clipboard. Glasses slipped low on his nose. He looked tired—but held together in the kind of way that made it clear he'd been the glue for other people more than once.

“I’m Dr. Robinavitch.” he said gently. You just blinked at him.

“I’m... one of the attendings. I was off when they brought you in, but I heard.”

He didn’t step closer right away. Then—“Mind if I sit?”

You didn’t answer. But you didn’t say no. He pulled the chair from the corner. Sat down slow, like he wasn’t sure how fragile the air was between you. He didn’t check your vitals. Didn’t chart.

Just sat.

Present. In that quiet, steady way that makes you feel like maybe you don’t have to hold all the weight alone.

“Hell of a night,” he said after a while. “You had everyone rattled.”

You didn’t reply. Your eyes were fixed on the ceiling again. He rubbed a hand down the side of his jaw.

“Jack hasn’t looked like that in a long time.”

That made you flinch. Your head turned, slow and deliberate.

You stared at him. “He talk about me?” 

Robby gave a small smile. Not pitying. Not smug. Just... true. “No. Not really.”

You looked away. 

“But he didn’t have to,” he added.

You froze.

“I’ve seen him leave mid-conversation to answer texts that never came. Watched him walk out into the ambulance bay on his nights off—like he was waiting for someone who never showed. Never stayed the night anywhere but home. Always looked at the hallway like something might appear if he stared hard enough.”

Your throat burned.

“He never said your name,” Robby continued, voice low but certain. “But there’s a box under his bed. A spare key on his ring—been there for years, never used, never taken off. And that old mug in the back of his locker? The one that doesn’t match anything? You start to notice the things people hold onto when they’re trying not to forget.”

You blinked hard. “There’s a box?”

Robby nodded, slow. “Yeah. Tucked under the bed like he didn’t mean to keep it but never got around to throwing it out. Letters—some unopened, some worn through like he read them a hundred times. A photo of you, old and creased, like he carried it once and forgot how to let it go. Hospital badge. Bracelet from some field clinic. Even a napkin with your handwriting on it—faded, but folded like it meant something.”

You closed your eyes. That was worse than any of the bruises.

“He compartmentalizes,” Robby said. “It’s how he stays functional. It’s what he’s good at.”

You whispered it, barely audible: “It was survival.”

“Sure. Until it isn’t.”

Another silence settled between you. Comfortable, in a way.

Then—“He’s engaged,” you said, your voice flat.

Robby didn’t blink. “Yeah. I know.”

“Is she…?”

“She’s good,” he said. “Smart. Teaches third grade in Squirrel Hill. Not from medicine. I think that’s why it worked.”

You nodded slowly.

“Does she know about me?”

Robby looked down. Didn’t answer. You nodded again. That was enough. 

He stood eventually.

Straightened the front of his hoodie. Rested the clipboard against his side like he’d forgotten why he even brought it.

“He’ll come back,” he said. “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually.”

You didn’t look at him. Just stared out the window. Your voice was quiet.

“I don’t want him to.”

Robby gave you one last look.

One that said: Yeah. You do.

Then he turned and left.

And this time, when the door clicked shut—you cried.

DAY FOUR– 11:41 PM

The hospital was quiet. Quieter than it had been in days.

You’d finally started walking the length of your room again, IV pole rolling beside you like a loyal dog. The sling was irritating. Your ribs still hurt when you coughed. The staples in your scalp itched every time the air conditioner kicked on.

But you were alive. They said you could go home soon. Problem was—you didn’t know where home was anymore. The hallway light outside your room flickered once. You’d been drifting near sleep, curled on your side in the too-small hospital bed, one leg drawn up, wires tugging gently against your skin.

Before you could brace, the door opened. And there he was.

Jack didn’t speak at first. He just stood there, shadowed in the doorway, scrub top wrinkled like he’d fallen asleep in it, hair slightly damp like he’d washed his face too many times and still didn’t feel clean. You sat up slowly, heart punching through your chest.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t look like the man who used to make you coffee barefoot in the kitchen, or fold your laundry without being asked, or trace the inside of your wrist when he thought you were asleep.

He looked like a stranger who remembered your body too well.

“I wasn’t gonna come,” he said quietly, finally. You didn’t respond.

Jack stepped inside. Closed the door gently behind him.

The room felt too small.

Your throat ached.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he continued, voice low. “Didn’t know if you’d want to see me. After... everything.”

You sat up straighter. “I didn’t.”

That hit.

But he nodded. Took it. Absorbed it like punishment he thought he deserved.

Still, he didn’t leave. He stood at the foot of your bed like he wasn’t sure he was allowed any closer.

“Why are you here, Jack?”

He looked at you. Eyes full of everything he hadn’t said since he walked out years ago.

“I needed to see you,” he said, and it was so goddamn quiet you almost missed it. “I needed to know you were still real.”

Your heart cracked in two.

“Real,” you repeated. “You mean like alive? Or like not something you shoved in a box under your bed?”

His jaw tightened. “That’s not fair.”

You scoffed. “You think any of this is fair?”

Jack stepped closer.

“I didn’t plan to love you the way I did.”

“You didn’t plan to leave, either. But you did that too.”

“I was trying to save something of myself.”

“And I was collateral damage?”

He flinched. Looked down. “You were the only thing that ever made me want to stay.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

He shook his head. “Because I was scared. Because I didn’t know how to come back and be yours forever when all I’d ever been was temporary.” Silence crashed into the space between you. And then, barely above a whisper:

“Does she know you still dream about me?”

That made him look up. Like you’d punched the wind out of him. Like you’d reached into his chest and found the place that still belonged to you. He stepped closer. One more inch and he’d be at your bedside.

“You have every reason not to forgive me,” he said quietly. “But the truth is—I’ve never felt for anyone what I felt for you.”

You looked up at him, voice raw: “Then why are you marrying her?”

Jack’s mouth opened. But nothing came out. You looked away.

Eyes burning.

Lips trembling.

“I don’t want your apologies,” you said. “I want the version of you that stayed.”

He stepped back, like that was the final blow.

But you weren’t done.

“I loved you so hard it wrecked me,” you whispered. “And all I ever asked was that you love me loud enough to stay. But you didn’t. And now you want to stand in this room and act like I’m some kind of unfinished chapter—like you get to come back and cry at the ending?”

Jack breathed in like it hurt. Like the air wasn’t going in right.

“I came back,” he said. “I came back because I couldn’t breathe without knowing you were okay.”

“And now you know.”

You looked at him, eyes glassy, jaw tight.

“So go home to her.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t do what you asked.

He just stood there—bleeding in the quiet—while you looked away.

DAY SEVEN– 5:12 PM

You left the hospital with a dull ache behind your ribs and a discharge summary you didn’t bother reading. They told you to stay another three days. Said your pain control wasn’t stable. Said you needed another neuro eval.

You said you’d call.

You wouldn’t.

You packed what little you had in silence—folded the hospital gown, signed the paperwork with hands that still trembled. No one stopped you. You walked out the front doors like a ghost slipping through traffic.

Alive.

Untethered.

Unhealed.

But gone.

YOUR APARTMENT– 8:44 PM

It wasn’t much. A studio above a laundromat on Butler Street. One couch. One coffee mug. A bed you didn’t make. You sat cross-legged on top of the blanket in your hospital sweats, ribs bandaged tight beneath your shirt, hair still blood-matted near the scalp.

You hadn’t turned on the lights.

You hadn’t eaten.

You were staring at the wall when the knock came.

Three short taps.

Then his voice.

“It's me.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Then the second knock.

“Please. Just open the door.”

You stood. Slowly. Every joint screamed. When you opened it, there he was. Still in black scrubs. Still tired. Still wearing that ring.

“You left,” he said, breath fogging in the cold.

You leaned against the frame. “I wasn’t going to wait around for someone who already left me once.”

“I deserved that.”

“You deserve worse.”

He nodded. Took it like a man used to pain. “Can I come in?”

You hesitated.

Then stepped aside.

He didn’t sit. Just stood there—awkward, towering, hands in his pockets, taking in the chipped paint, the stack of unopened mail, the folded blanket at the edge of the bed.

“This place is...”

“Mine.”

He nodded again. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

Silence.

You walked back to the bed, sat down slowly. He stood across from you like you were a patient and he didn’t know what was broken.

“What do you want, Jack?”

His jaw flexed. “I want to be in your life again.”

You blinked. Laughed once, sharp and short. “Right. And what does that look like? You with her, and me playing backup singer?”

“No.” His voice was quiet. “Just... just a friend.”

Your breath caught.

He stepped forward. “I know I don’t deserve more than that. I know I hurt you. And I know this—this thing between us—it's not what it was. But I still care. And if all I can be is a number in your phone again, then let me.”

You looked down.

Your hands were shaking.

You didn’t want this. You wanted him. All of him.

But you knew how this would end.

You’d sit across from him in cafés, pretending not to look at his left hand.

You’d laugh at his stories, knowing his warmth would go home to someone else.

You’d let him in—inch by inch—until there was nothing left of you that hadn’t shaped itself to him again.

And still.

Still—“Okay,” you said.

Jack looked at you.

Like he couldn’t believe it.

“Friends,” you added.

He nodded slowly. “Friends.”

You looked away.

Because if you looked at him any longer, you'd say something that would shatter you both.

Because this was the next best thing.

And you knew, even as you said it, even as you offered him your heart wrapped in barbed wire—It was going to break you.

DAY TEN – 6:48 PM Steeped & Co. Café – Two blocks from The Pitt

You told yourself this wasn’t a date.

It was coffee. It was public. It was neutral ground.

But the way your hands wouldn’t stop shaking made it feel like you were twenty again, waiting for him to show up at the Greyhound station with his army bag and half a smile.

He walked in ten minutes late. He ordered his drink without looking at the menu. He always knew what he wanted—except when it came to you.

“You’re limping less,” he said, settling across from you like you hadn’t been strangers for the last seven years. You lifted your tea, still too hot to drink. “You’re still observant.”

He smiled—small. Quiet. The kind that used to make you forgive him too fast. The first fifteen minutes were surface-level. Traffic. ER chaos. This new intern, Santos, doing something reckless. Robby calling him “Doctor Doom” under his breath.

It should’ve been easy.

But the space between you felt alive.

Charged.

Unforgivable.

He leaned forward at one point, arms on the table, and you caught the flick of his hand—

The ring.

You looked away. Pretended not to care.

“You’re doing okay?” he asked, voice gentle.

You nodded, lying. “Mostly.”

He reached across the table then—just for a second—like he might touch your hand. He didn’t. Your breath caught anyway. And neither of you spoke for a while.

DAY TWELVE – 2:03 PM Your apartment

You couldn’t sleep. Again.

The pain meds made your body heavy, but your head was always screaming. You’d been lying in bed for hours, fully dressed, lights off, scrolling old texts with one hand while your other rubbed slow, nervous circles into the bandages around your ribs.

There was a text from him.

"You okay?"

You stared at it for a full minute before responding.

"No."

You expected silence.

Instead: a knock.

You didn’t even ask how he got there so fast. You opened the door and he stepped in like he hadn’t been waiting in his car, like he hadn’t been hoping you’d need him just enough.

He looked exhausted.

You stepped back. Let him in.

He sat on the edge of the couch. Hands folded. Knees apart. Staring at the wall like it might break the tension.

“I can’t sleep anymore,” you whispered. “I keep... hearing it. The crash. The metal. The quiet after.”

Jack swallowed hard. His jaw clenched. “Yeah.”

You both went quiet again. It always came in waves with him—things left unsaid that took up more space than the words ever could. Eventually, he leaned back against the couch cushion, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I think about you all the time,” he said, voice low, wrecked.

You didn’t move.

“You’re in the room when I’m doing intake. When I’m changing gloves. When I get in the car and my left hand hits the wheel and I see the ring and I wonder why it’s not you.”

Your breath hitched.

“But I made a choice,” he said. “And I can’t undo it without hurting someone who’s never hurt me.”

You finally turned toward him. “Then why are you here?”

He looked at you, eyes dark and honest. “Because the second you came back, I couldn’t breathe.”

You kissed him.

You don’t remember who moved first. If you leaned forward, or if he cupped your face like he used to. But suddenly, you were kissing him. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle. It was devastated.

His mouth was salt and memory and apology.

Your hands curled in his shirt. He was whispering your name against your lips like it still belonged to him.

You pulled away first.

“Go home,” you said, voice cracking.

“Don’t do this—”

“Go home to her, Jack.”

And he did.

He always did.

DAY THIRTEEN – 7:32 PM

You don’t eat.

You don’t leave your apartment.

You scrub the counter three times and throw out your tea mug because it smells like him.

You sit on the bathroom floor and press a towel to your ribs until the pain brings you back into your body.

You start a text seven times.

You never send it.

DAY SEVENTEEN — 11:46 PM

The takeout was cold. Neither of you had touched it.

Jack’s gaze hadn’t left you all night.

Low. Unreadable. He hadn’t smiled once.

“You never stopped loving me,” you said suddenly. Quiet. Dangerous. “Did you?”

His jaw flexed. You pressed harder.

“Say it.”

“I never stopped,” he rasped.

That was all it took.

You surged forward.

His hands found your face. Your hips. Your hair. He kissed you like he’d been holding his breath since the last time. Teeth and tongue and broken sounds in the back of his throat.

Your back hit the wall hard.

“Fuck—” he muttered, grabbing your thigh, hitching it up. His fingers pressed into your skin like he didn’t care if he left marks. “I can’t believe you still taste like this.”

You gasped into his mouth, nails dragging down his chest. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

He had your clothes off before you could breathe. His mouth moved down—your throat, your collarbone, between your breasts, tongue hot and slow like he was punishing you for every year he spent wondering if you hated him.

“You still wear my t-shirt to bed?” he whispered against your breasts voice thick. “You still get wet thinking about me?”

You whimpered. “Jack—”

His name came out like a sin.

He dropped to his knees.

“Let me hear it,” he said, dragging his mouth between your thighs, voice already breathless. “Tell me you still want me.”

Your head dropped back.

“I never stopped.”

And then his mouth was on you—filthy and brutal.

Tongue everywhere, fingers stroking you open while his other hand gripped your thigh like it was the only thing tethering him to this moment.

You were already shaking when he growled, “You still taste like mine.”

You cried out—high and wrecked—and he kept going.

Faster.

Sloppier.

Like he wanted to ruin every memory of anyone else who might’ve touched you.

He made you come with your fingers tangled in his hair, your hips grinding helplessly against his face, your thighs quivering around his jaw while you moaned his name like you couldn’t stop.

He stood.

His clothes were off in seconds. Nothing left between you but raw air and your shared history. His cock was thick, flushed, angry against his stomach—dripping with need, twitching every time you breathed.

You stared at it.

At him.

At the ring still on his finger.

He saw your eyes.

Slipped it off.

Tossed it across the room without a word.

Then slammed you against the wall again and slid inside.

No teasing.

No waiting.

Just deep.

You gasped—too full, too fast—and he buried his face in your neck.

“I’m sorry,” he groaned. “I shouldn’t—fuck—I shouldn’t be doing this.”

But he didn’t stop.

He thrust so deep your eyes rolled back.

It was everything at once.

Your name on his lips like an apology. His hands on your waist like he’d never let go again. Your nails digging into his back like maybe you could keep him this time. He fucked you like he’d never get the chance again. Like he was angry you still had this effect on him. Like he was still in love with you and didn’t know how to carry it anymore.

He spat on his fingers and rubbed your clit until you were screaming his name.

“Louder,” he snapped, fucking into you hard. “Let the neighbors hear who makes you come.”

You came again.

And again.

Shaking. Crying. Overstimulated.

“Open your eyes,” he panted. “Look at me.”

You did.

He was close.

You could feel it in the way he lost rhythm, the way his grip got desperate, the way he whimpered your name like he was begging.

“Inside,” you whispered, legs wrapped around him. “Don’t pull out.”

He froze.

Then nodded, forehead dropping to yours.

“I love you,” he breathed.

And then he came—deep, full, shaking inside you with a broken moan so raw it felt holy.

After, you lay together on the floor. Sweat-slicked. Bruised. Silent.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

Because you both knew—

This changed everything.

And nothing.

DAY EIGHTEEN — 7:34 AM

Sunlight creeps in through the slats of your blinds, painting golden stripes across the hardwood floor, your shoulder, his back.

Jack’s asleep in your bed. He’s on his side, one arm flung across your stomach like instinct, like a claim. His hand rests just above your hip—fingers twitching every now and then, like some part of him knows this moment isn’t real. Or at least, not allowed. Your body aches in places that feel worshipped. 

You don’t feel guilty.

Yet.

You stare at the ceiling. You haven’t spoken in hours.

Not since he whispered “I love you” while he was still inside you.

Not since he collapsed onto your chest like it might save him.

Not since he kissed your shoulder and didn’t say goodbye.

You shift slowly beneath the sheets. His hand tightens. 

Like he knows.

Like he knows.

You stay still. You don’t want to be the one to move first. Because if you move, the night ends. If you move, the spell breaks. And Jack Abbot goes back to being someone else's.

Eventually, he stirs.

His breath shifts against your collarbone.

Then—

“Morning.”

His voice is low. Sleep-rough. Familiar.

It hurts worse than silence. You force a soft hum, not trusting your throat to form words.

He lifts his head a little.

Looks at you. Hair mussed. Eyes unreadable. Bare skin still flushed from where he touched you hours ago. You expect regret. But all you see is heartbreak.

“Shouldn’t have stayed,” he says softly.

You close your eyes.

“I know.”

He sits up slowly. Sheets falling around his waist.

You follow the line of his back with your gaze. Every scar. Every knot in his spine. The curve of his shoulder blades you used to trace with your fingers when you were twenty-something and stupid enough to think love was enough.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it.

“I told her I was working overnight.”

You feel your breath catch.

“She called me at midnight,” he adds. “I didn’t answer.”

You sit up too. Tug the blanket around your chest like modesty matters now.

“Is this the part where you tell me it was a mistake?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away.

Then—“No,” he says. “It’s the part where I tell you I don’t know how to go home.”

You both sit there for a long time.

Naked.

Wordless.

Surrounded by the echo of what you used to be.

You finally speak.

“Do you love her?”

Silence.

“I respect her,” he says. “She’s good. Steady. Nothing’s ever hard with her.”

You swallow. “That’s not an answer.”

Jack turns to you then. Eyes tired. Voice raw.

“I’ve never stopped loving you.”

It lands in your chest like a sucker punch.

Because you know. You always knew. But now you’ve heard it again. And it doesn’t fix a goddamn thing.

“I can’t do this again,” you whisper.

Jack nods. “I know.”

“But I’ll keep doing it anyway,” you add. “If you let me.”

His jaw tightens. His throat works around something thick.

“I don’t want to leave.”

“But you will.”

You both know he has to.

And he does.

He dresses slowly.

Doesn’t kiss you.

Doesn’t say goodbye.

He finds his ring.

Puts it back on.

And walks out.

The door closes.

And you break.

Because this—this is the cost of almost.

8:52 AM

You don’t move for twenty-three minutes after the door shuts.

You don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You just exist.

Your chest rises and falls beneath the blanket. That same spot where he laid his head a few hours ago still feels heavy. You think if you touch it, it’ll still be warm.

You don’t.

You don’t want to prove yourself wrong. Your body aches everywhere. The kind of ache that isn’t just from the crash, or the stitches, or the way he held your hips so tightly you’re going to bruise. It’s the kind of ache you can’t ice. It’s the kind that lingers in your lungs.

Eventually, you sit up.

Your legs feel unsteady beneath you. Your knees shake as you gather the clothes scattered across the floor. His shirt—the one you wore while he kissed your throat and said “I love you” into your skin—gets tossed in the hamper like it doesn’t still smell like him. Your hand lingers on it.

You shove it deeper.

Harder.

Like burying it will stop the memory from clawing up your throat.

You make coffee you won’t drink.

You wash your face three times and still look like someone who got left behind.

You open your phone.

One new text.

“Did you eat?”

You don’t respond. Because what do you say to a man who left you raw and split open just to slide a ring back on someone else’s finger? You try to leave the apartment that afternoon. 

You make it as far as the sidewalk.

Then you turn around and vomit into the bushes.

You don’t sleep that night.

You lie awake with your fingers curled into your sheets, shaking.

Your thighs ache.

Your mouth is dry.

You dream of him once—his hand pressed to your sternum like a prayer, whispering “don’t let go.”

When you wake, your chest is wet with tears and you don’t remember crying.

DAY TWENTY TWO— 4:17 PM Your apartment

It starts slow.

A dull ache in your upper abdomen. Like a pulled muscle or bad cramp. You ignore it. You’ve been ignoring everything. Pain means you’re healing, right?

But by 4:41 p.m., you’re on the floor of your bathroom, knees to your chest, drenched in sweat. You’re cold. Shaking. The pain is blooming now—hot and deep and wrong. You try to stand. Your vision goes white. Then you’re on your back, blinking at the ceiling.

And everything goes quiet.

THE PITT – 5:28 PM

You’re unconscious when the EMTs wheel you in. Vitals unstable. BP crashing. Internal bleeding suspected. It takes Jack ten seconds to recognize you.

One to feel like he’s going to throw up.

“Mid-thirties female. No trauma this week, but old injuries. Seatbelt bruise still present. Suspected splenic rupture, possible bleed out. BP’s eighty over forty and falling.”

Jack is already moving.

He steps into the trauma bay like a man walking into fire.

It’s you.

God. It’s you again.

Worse this time.

“Her name is [Y/N],” he says tightly, voice rough. “We need OR on standby. Now.”

6:01 PM

You’re barely conscious as they prep you for CT. Jack is beside you, masked, gloved, sterile. But his voice trembles when he says your name. You blink up at him.

Barely there.

“Hurts,” you rasp.

He leans close, ignoring protocol.

“I know. I’ve got you. Stay with me, okay?”

6:27 PM

The scan confirms it.

Grade IV splenic rupture. Bleeding into the abdomen.

You’re going into surgery.

Fast.

You grab his hand before they wheel you out. Your grip is weak. But desperate.

You look at him—“I don’t want to die thinking I meant nothing.”

His face breaks. And then they take you away.

Jack doesn’t move.

Just stands there in blood-streaked gloves, shaking.

Because this time, he might actually lose you.

And he doesn’t know if he’ll survive that twice.

9:12 PM Post-op recovery, ICU step-down

You come back slowly. The drugs are heavy. Your throat is dry. Your ribs feel tighter than before. There’s a new weight in your abdomen, dull and throbbing. You try to lift your hand and fail. Your IV pole beeps at you like it's annoyed.

Then there’s a shadow.

Jack.

You try to say his name.

It comes out as a rasp. He jerks his head up like he’s been underwater.

He looks like hell. Eyes bloodshot. Hands shaking. He’s still in scrubs—stained, wrinkled, exhausted.

“Hey,” he breathes, standing fast. His hand wraps gently around yours. You let it. You don’t have the strength to fight.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he whispers.

You blink at him.

There are tears in your eyes. You don’t know if they’re yours or his.

“What…?” you rasp.

“Your spleen ruptured,” he says quietly. “You were bleeding internally. We almost lost you in the trauma bay. Again.”

You blink slowly.

“You looked empty,” he says, voice cracking. “Still. Your eyes were open, but you weren’t there. And I thought—fuck, I thought—”

He stops. You squeeze his fingers.

It’s all you can do.

There’s a long pause.

Heavy.

Then—“She called.”

You don’t ask who.

You don’t have to.

Jack stares at the floor.

“I told her I couldn’t talk. That I was... handling a case. That I’d call her after.”

You close your eyes.

You want to sleep.

You want to scream.

“She’s starting to ask questions,” he adds softly.

You open your eyes again. “Then lie better.”

He flinches.

“I’m not proud of this,” he says.

You look at him like he just told you the sky was blue. “Then leave.”

“I can’t.”

“You did last time.”

Jack leans forward, his forehead almost touching the edge of your mattress. His voice is low. Cracked. “I can’t lose you again.”

You’re quiet for a long time.

Then you ask, so small he barely hears it:

“If I’d died... would you have told her?”

His head lifts. Your eyes meet. And he doesn’t answer.

Because you already know the truth.

He stands, slowly, scraping the chair back like the sound might stall his momentum. “I should let you sleep,” he adds.

“Don’t,” you say, voice raw. “Not yet.”

He freezes. Then nods.

He moves back to the chair, but instead of sitting, he leans over the bed and presses his lips to your forehead—gently, like he’s scared it’ll hurt. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish again. You don’t close your eyes. You don’t let yourself fall into it.

Because kisses are easy.

Staying is not.

DAY TWENTY FOUR — 9:56 AM Dana wheels you to discharge. Your hands are clenched tight around the armrests, fingers stiff. Jack’s nowhere in sight. Good. You can’t decide if you want to see him—or hit him.

“You got someone picking you up?” Dana asks, handing off the chart.

You nod. “Uber.”

She doesn’t push. Just places a hand on your shoulder as you stand—slow, steady.

“Be gentle with yourself,” she says. “You survived twice.”

DAY THIRTY ONE – 8:07 PM

The knock comes just after sunset.

You’re barefoot. Still in the clothes you wore to your follow-up appointment—a hoodie two sizes too big, a bandage under your ribs that still stings every time you twist too fast. There’s a cup of tea on the counter you haven’t touched. The air in the apartment is thick with something you can’t name. Something worse than dread.

You don’t move at first. Just stare at the door.

Then—again.

Three soft raps.

Like he’s asking permission. Like he already knows he shouldn’t be here. You walk over slowly, pulse loud in your ears. Your fingers hesitate at the lock.

“Don’t,” you whisper to yourself. You open the door anyway.

Jack stands there. Gray hoodie. Dark jeans. He’s holding a plastic grocery bag, like this is something casual, like he’s a neighbor stopping by, not the man who left you in pieces across two hospital beds.

Your voice comes out hoarse. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know,” he says, quiet. “But I think I should’ve been here a long time ago.”

You don’t speak. You step aside.

He walks in like he doesn’t expect to stay. Doesn’t look around. Doesn’t sit. Just stands there, holding that grocery bag like it might shield him from what he’s about to say.

“I told her,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

He lifts his gaze to yours. “Last night. Everything. The hospital. That night. The truth.”

Your jaw tenses. “And what, she just… let you walk away?”

He sets the bag on your kitchen counter. It’s shaking slightly in his grip. “No. She cried. Screamed. Told me to get out”

You feel yourself pulling away from him, emotionally, physically—like your body’s trying to protect you before your heart caves in again. “Jesus, Jack.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to come back with your half-truths and trauma and expect me to just be here.”

“I didn’t come expecting anything.”

You whirl back to him, raw. “Then why did you come?”

His voice doesn’t rise. But it cuts. “Because you almost died. Again. Because I’ve spent the last week realizing that no one else has ever felt like home.”

You shake your head. “That doesn’t change the fact that you left me when I needed you. That I begged you to choose peace. And you chose chaos. Every goddamn time.”

He closes the distance slowly, but not too close. Not yet.

“You think I don’t live with that?” His voice drops. 

You falter, tears threatening. “Then why didn’t you try harder?”

“I thought you’d moved on.”

“I tried,” you say, voice cracking. “I tried so hard to move on, to let someone else in, to build something new with hands that were still learning how to stop reaching for you. But every man I met—it was like eating soup with a fork. I’d sit across from them, smiling, nodding, pretending I wasn’t starving, pretending I didn’t notice the emptiness. They didn’t know me. Not really. Not the version of me that stayed up folding your shirts, tracking your deployment cities like constellations, holding the weight of a future you kept promising but never chose. Not the me that kept the lights on when you disappeared into silence. Not the me that made excuses for your absence until it started sounding like prayer.”

Jack’s face shifts—subtle at first, then like a crack running straight through the foundation. His jaw tightens. His mouth opens. Closes. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough around the edges, as if the admission itself costs him something he doesn’t have to spare.

“I didn’t think I deserved to come back,” he says. “Not after the way I left. Not after how long I stayed gone. Not after all the ways I chose silence over showing up.”

You stare at him, breath shallow, chest tight.

“Maybe you didn’t,” you say quietly, not to hurt him—but because it’s true. And it hangs there between you, heavy and undeniable.

The silence that follows is thick. Stretching. Bruising.

Then, just when you think he might finally say something that unravels everything all over again, he gestures to the bag he’s still clutching like it might anchor him to the floor.

“I brought soup,” he says, voice low and awkward. “And real tea—the kind you like. Not the grocery store crap. And, um… a roll of gauze. The soft kind. I remembered you said the hospital ones made you break out, and I thought…”

He trails off, unsure, like he’s realizing mid-sentence how pitiful it all sounds when laid bare.

You blink, hard. Trying to keep the tears in their lane.

“You brought first aid and soup?”

He nods, half a breath catching in his throat. “Yeah. I didn’t know what else you’d let me give you.”

There’s a beat.

A heartbeat.

Then it hits you.

That’s what undoes you—not the apology, not the fact that he told her, not even the way he’s looking at you like he’s seeing a ghost he never believed he’d get to touch again. It’s the soup. It’s the gauze. It’s the goddamn tea. It’s the way Jack Abbot always came bearing supplies when he didn’t know how to offer himself.

You sink down onto the couch too fast, knees buckling like your body can’t hold the weight of all the things you’ve swallowed just to stay upright this week.

Elbows on your thighs. Face in your hands.

Your voice breaks as it comes out:

“What am I supposed to do with you?”

It’s not rhetorical. It’s not flippant.

It’s shattered. Exhausted. Full of every version of love that’s ever let you down. And he knows it.

And for a long, breathless moment—you don’t move.

Jack walks over. Kneels down. His hands hover, not touching, just there.

You look at him, eyes full of every scar he left you with. “You said you'd come back once. You didn’t.”

“I came back late,” he says. “But I’m here now. And I’m staying.”

Your voice drops to a whisper. “Don’t promise me that unless you mean it.”

“I do.”

You shake your head, hard, like you’re trying to physically dislodge the ache from your chest. 

“I’m still mad,” you say, voice cracking.

Jack doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t try to defend himself. He just nods, slow and solemn, like he’s rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head. “You’re allowed to be,” he says quietly. “I’ll still be here.”

Your throat tightens.

“I don’t trust you,” you whisper, and it tastes like blood in your mouth—like betrayal and memory and all the nights you cried yourself to sleep because he was halfway across the world and you still loved him anyway.

“I know,” he says. “Then let me earn it.”

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your whole body is trembling—not with rage, but with grief. With the ache of wanting something so badly and being terrified you’ll never survive getting it again.

Jack moves slowly. Doesn’t close the space between you entirely, just enough. Enough that his hand—rough and familiar—reaches out and rests on your knee. His palm is warm. Grounding. Careful.

Your breath catches. Your shoulders tense. But you don’t pull away.

You couldn’t if you tried.

His voice drops even lower, like if he speaks any louder, the whole thing will break apart.

“I’ve got nowhere else to be,” he says.

He pauses. Swallows hard. His eyes glisten in the low light.

“I put the ring in a drawer. Told her the truth. That I’m in love with someone else. That I’ve always been.”

You look up, sharply. “You told her that?”

He nods. Doesn’t blink. “She said she already knew. That she’d known for a long time.”

Your chest tightens again, this time from something different. Not anger. Not pain. Something that hurts in its truth.

He goes on. And this part—this part wrecks him.

“You know what the worst part is?” he murmurs. “She didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve to love someone who only ever gave her the version of himself that was pretending to be healed.”

You don’t interrupt. You just watch him come undone. Gently. Quietly.

“She was kind,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Good. Steady. The kind of person who makes things simple. Who doesn’t expect too much, or ask questions when you go quiet. And even with all of that—even with the life we were building—I couldn’t stop waiting for the sound of your voice.”

You blink hard, breath catching somewhere between your lungs and your ribs.

“I’d check my phone,” he continues. “At night. In the morning. In the middle of conversations. I’d look out the window like maybe you’d just… show up. Like the universe owed me one more shot. One more chance to fix the thing I broke when I walked away from the one person who ever made me feel like home.”

You can’t stop crying now. Quiet tears. The kind that come when there’s nothing left to scream.

“I hated you,” you whisper. “I hated you for a long time.”

He nods, eyes on yours. “So did I.”

And somehow, that’s what softens you.

Because you can’t hate him through this. You can’t pretend this version of him isn’t bleeding too.

You exhale shakily. “I don’t know if I can do this again.”

“I’m not asking you to,” he says, “Not all at once. Just… let me sit with you. Let me hold space. Let me remind you who I was—who I could be—if you let me stay this time.”

And god help you—some fragile, tired, still-broken part of you wants to believe him.

“If I say yes... if I let you in again...”

He waits. Doesn’t breathe.

“You don’t get to leave next time,” you whisper. “Not without looking me in the eye.”

Jack nods.

“I won’t.”

You reach for his hand. Lace your fingers together.And for the first time since everything shattered—You let yourself believe he might stay.

Baby Blues

Pairing - Sylus x f!MC

Summary - In the first two weeks of being new parents, the dynamic hasn’t been quite what you and Sylus expected. He’s eager to be involved, but your daughter doesn’t seem to have warmed to him.

Word count - 2.7k

⚠️Warning⚠️ - Mentions of pregnancy and childbirth. Hurt/comfort, fluff, and a little sprinkle of angst.

Your newborn didn’t like Sylus.

It sounded ridiculous, but you know he was thinking it too. You didn’t have the gall to say it out loud—not that it even needed to be said. The fact was definitely lingering between you both.

You never thought much of why she would wriggle and kick up a storm in your stomach whenever he touched the swell of your belly, but you now had an inclination that it was because she didn’t like his hands there.

It was strange and upsetting, but he didn’t seem too hurt by it so far, only silently helpless as he watched you do everything. You were two weeks postpartum, so your emotions were already all over the place. It seemed as though Sylus was holding his own feelings back to make room for yours, and when you had asked him about it, he simply kissed your forehead and reassured you that he was fine. All while your screaming daughter cried for you against his chest.

Not that he opened up to you all that often. You did manage to get things out of him with a push sometimes, but he was like an unyielding gate, refusing to open to anyone.

Your exhaustion was only adding to the toll on your fragile emotions. The baby only wanted your touch, and sleep was almost impossible for you because of that very reason. Only you could feed her. Only you could soothe her. Only you could touch her.

That was one thing that was really getting to Sylus. The bloodshot whites of your eyes as you rocked the fussy newborn to sleep and fed her at all hours of the morning. The barely touched plates of food that ended up stone cold and in the bin. Not to mention the completely non-existent ten minutes you needed to at least have a wash without having to run out of the shower to her aid.

He must have felt quite useless in the weeks where you should be recovering, but he didn’t want you to worry about his feelings by indulging you in his thoughts. 

Your pregnancy had been smooth, ending with a good twenty-seven hours of rather torturous labour, and pushing that went on for an agonising two hours. It had all been worth it, though. Your little bundle of joy with tufts of platinum hair had finally greeted you both with a piercing wail, but eased her protests once placed against your heaving chest.

You just wished she would settle with both parents.

It was another day of desperate wailing, your arms becoming so heavy with the exertion of having no option but to hold her. You tried to put her in her pram for Sylus to push her around for a while, but her cries only increased to the point of her little face turning purple. You couldn’t sit and just listen to it, and you absolutely would not ignore her—no matter how much Sylus pushed for you to go and get some sleep.

“She wants me,” you say for what felt like the millionth time that week.

Sylus was evidently reluctant to stop trying, but he wouldn’t keep you from her. He conceded with a defeated huff, watching your every move as you gently lifted your screeching daughter out of the plush pram. Her screams died down quickly as you placed her against your chest, her ear-piercing wails whittling down to soft whimpers.

“Of all the dangerous paths I’ve crossed and violent challenges I’ve encountered, it’s our newborn daughter who finally defeats me,” he mumbles quietly, trying to make a lighthearted joke about it.

You tried to smile at his attempt to add a bit of humour to the situation, but the comment only made you cry. Hard.

“Hey.” He immediately stepped toward you, rubbing a large hand up and down your back soothingly. You had to give it to him, his patience with you in the last two weeks had been immaculate. “Don’t cry, sweetie.”

You couldn’t stop, your ragged breaths and shaking shoulders refusing to relent. “I d-don’t get it,” you bawl. “What are we doing d-differently?”

Sylus sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. His hand continued to rub soothing circles against your back to ease your upset. “Well, she did live inside you for nine months. Besides, you didn’t exactly like me either when we first met.”

He smiled faintly, tilting his head down to capture your gaze. Despite the obvious tease, he still seemed to be holding himself back. It was frustrating him more than he wanted to admit to you. You knew he was protecting your feelings, but you wished he would just show some sense of vulnerability.

You don’t dare set your sleeping daughter down in her moses basket, knowing full well that she would just wake straight back up. So the rest of the afternoon is spent with your tiny newborn curled up against your chest, a few feeding and changing breaks in between.

Once the day turned into night, nothing in the world sounded more appealing to you than a hot shower, a hot meal, and a hot cup of tea. But letting her scream and cry while you did that was not an option. It wasn’t fair on her, and it wasn’t fair on Sylus.

He didn’t leave you unless he absolutely had to throughout the day. You watched him every time he heard a little whimper from the baby, his hands flexing and twitching. Every time you had to get up to do something for her, he was either at your back or side.

He wanted to help.

The chef brought through a very large bowl of marinated chicken and pasta for you, upon Sylus’s instruction. As soon as the bowl was set on the little table beside your recliner chair, you almost began drooling. You hadn’t managed to eat much at all in the chaos, and Sylus wasn’t amused when you didn’t even get the chance to finish the two biscuits he’d brought you earlier in the day.

You reached a careful hand over to the fork, not even lifting it before your daughter began to wriggle and whine in your other arm. Dropping it immediately, you retract your hand, only making it halfway back to the fussy newborn before long, slender fingers wrapped themselves around your wrist.

“No,” Sylus says firmly. “Absolutely not.”

Your initial response is to immediately go on the defence. “She’s cry—”

“I know she’s crying,” he interrupted tightly. “I know. But you’re going to eat while your food is hot, and you’re going to do it without our screaming daughter on your chest.”

“But—” 

“No buts.”

He had that commanding look in his eye, the one that would intimidate most, but was only used on you when he was especially adamant on you doing something necessary for yourself. 

You were a little relieved to see him so passionate, if you were being honest. He had been treading on eggshells to not upset you or the baby for fourteen whole days, and it wasn’t good for anyone. You felt the tension on him every time you both managed to get into bed together for more than five minutes. He needed this little outburst.

“This needs to stop now. I’m going to figure her out, and you are going to eat. Alright?” His tone left no room for argument, and the more your daughter protested against your intention to eat, the more hungry and tired you felt.

It wasn’t easy, but you handed her off to him carefully, swallowing a lump in your throat. You couldn’t take your eyes off of her distressed little face as Sylus attempted to cradle her.

You were practically twitching, your legs about to push the footrest of the recliner down to retrieve her in the first thirty seconds she was away from you. Sylus noticed immediately, and pushed it back up with his foot before you could close it down fully.

“She’s not in any danger,” he said calmly, but his whole body was visibly tense. “She’s right here, I won’t leave the room. Just eat, sweetie.”

You wanted to protest further, but he wasn’t going to yield this time. His eyes remained trained on you until you finally sagged back into the chair, and it wasn’t until you picked up your fork that he finally turned away, focusing on the distraught newborn kicking up a storm against his chest.

He held her the way you did, one hand cupped over her head to keep it steady while the other hand softly patted her back. Why she didn’t want to be near him was an utter mystery to you, he wasn’t doing anything incorrectly. 

You couldn’t eat while the two most important people in your life were quite clearly in a distressing situation before you. “Are you alright?” You asked him gently, hoping that he would answer you.

“I will be if you eat,” he quickly responded, not looking at you.

Sighing, you stab a slice of the chicken onto your fork, just looking at it for a moment. Your brain had managed to kick itself into gear as you forged a new approach to his silence. 

This was an opportunity to head in the right direction.

“I’ll eat if you speak to me.”

Blood red eyes shot in your direction, an eyebrow raised. “Blackmail?”

You quickly shook your head. “You were right, this does need to stop. Starting with you shutting yourself off from me.” 

“Eat.”

The forked piece of chicken points straight at his unamused face. “Talk.”

He shook his head a little in clear annoyance, the stress consuming him. Your daughter continued to wail, immune to the warmth and safety of his arms. He was basically trapped after promising to remain in the room with you.

Your bleary eyes held his irises of rubies, neither of you conceding. It was a mental challenge to ignore the fragrant aroma of garlic and fresh basil beneath your nose, but you were not eating until at least one of the two beautiful people before you had calmed down.

Sylus visibly swallowed, finally giving in as he noticed your lack of a bluff. “Do you think she knows?” His voice was quiet, barely heard over your newborn’s cries.

“Knows what?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again, nodding his head towards the piece of chicken on your fork. You shovel it into your gob, eager for him to continue.

His eyes flicker down to your daughter before he speaks again. “Do you think she knows that I’ve done terrible things? Do you think that’s why she doesn’t like me?”

“I—” you grumble and roll your eyes as he nods to your plate of food again, waiting for you to take another mouthful that you end up having to speak through, “I don’t see how she could. Is that why you’ve been so quiet?”

The corner of his mouth curled upward ever-so-slightly. “Missing my tongue, kitten?”

You couldn’t help your own smile as his shoulders sagged a little from where they were practically touching his ears. It wasn’t often that he opened up to you like this. You almost always had to pry or throw in a proposition to coax him into speaking.

You took another bite of your food, moving the plate from the small table to your lap. “Do you really think she doesn’t like you?”

His smirk faded away quickly, a gentle thumb brushing over your daughter's head. She continued to cry, but the volume had dropped a little. “Do you not think that?” He asked.

You didn’t know how to answer that question. To tell the truth, you did think that, but not for the same reason he was thinking.

“I think she may be a little attached at the moment. We’re very different shapes and sizes. Maybe she feels—”

“Unsafe?” 

His tone had dropped an octave—something you didn’t think was possible considering the already bone-chilling vibrations of his voice. Never before had you witnessed him in a state of such vulnerability. He was insecure about this, and it was finally starting to show.

You went to stand up to be near him, but he immediately stepped forward to halt your movement.

“Eat.”

Not wanting to lose this free-speaking Sylus you had barely met before, you did as he said, twirling a fat mouthful of pasta onto your fork for extra brownie points.

You both remained in silence for a few moments, only your fork scraping against the bowl in your lap marrying with the sounds of your baby’s cries surrounding the small sitting room.

Sylus’s gaze didn’t leave the newborn cradled in his arms, a gentle sway in his hips as he tried to keep her moving. All you could do was study his composure, seeing it as it cracked.

After a moment, he looked back at you. “I don’t want to keep failing you.”

You coughed on the mouthful of the creamy pasta at his words, completely in awe of his confession.

Failing you? How did he get to that conclusion?

“You’ve done everything for her,” he continued, not allowing you to immediately reassure him. “I want to be able to do everything, too. For both of you.”

The all too familiar sting in your wet eyes built in intensity by the second, and you quickly found yourself sniffling.

Not only was he insecure about your daughter not feeling safe in his arms, but he felt that he’d failed you both in the past two weeks. It was heartbreaking for you to hear.

“Don’t cry—”

“You’re…fuck, Sylus. You’re not failing anyone,” you tuck your fork back into the pasta with a loud sniffle, ignoring his glare that silently demanded that you continue to eat. “How the hell did you come to that conclusion?”

He looked entirely reluctant to answer, his head dropping back down to stare at his tiny twin. You didn’t want him to stop speaking again, so you quietly picked your fork back up, hoping it would capture his attention.

The silence stretched between you as you made the effort to eat for his sake. Even your daughter's cries became a little weaker—like she was pitying him.

He didn’t look at you as he said, “I’m the bad guy. The boogie man. The kind of monster that parents threaten their kids with visits from in the middle of the night if they don’t brush their teeth before bed.”

“Not in our story, you’re not,” you quickly reassured him earnestly. “You’re the husband and father who keeps the monsters away from your family. That’s the only Sylus she will ever know. The real one.”

He still didn’t look up from the newborn, now almost completely silent in his arms, but you catch a subtle bob in his throat. You didn’t need him to respond to you. You knew you had said the right words to soothe that self-deprecating thought in his complicated mind. You could see it.

“Have I told you how perfect you were two weeks ago,” he asked, knowing full well that he’d told her every day since then.

Your mouth curled into a soft smile. Even after all these years together—after welcoming your first child into this scary, yet beautiful world—Sylus had no trouble giving you butterflies.

“I think you might’ve mentioned it,” you hummed softly.

And on that very note, the baby was fast asleep in his hold for the very first time in two whole weeks. His face didn’t reveal anything, but you knew he was relieved. All he wanted to do was make this easier for the both of you.

Finally, you had managed to figure out what the problem had been all this time.

“You were too tense,” you point out quietly, noticing how openly at ease he now was. “That’s what she didn’t like.”

He hummed in response, unable to tear his gaze away from the sleeping babe in his arms. You didn’t say anything further, letting him enjoy that special moment in peace while you proceeded to enjoy the rest of your meal.

Despite the challenges of becoming new parents, things were going to be alright from that point onwards.

A/N - Hello! I hope you enjoyed this oneshot, thank you so much for reading. Just to let you know, I do take requests ❤️

i miss gojo but this helps...

✎ LOVE ENTRIES — an anthology | gojo satoru

a series of episodes of your life with the strongest sorcerer throughout the past and present

genre: canon compliant (2006-2018), mostly fluff, suggestive content, hurt/comfort

more: moodboard | extra scenarios 💌 | reader’s CT | ko-fi

p.s. got an idea for the next entry? drop it in my askbox!

☆⌒.*･ entry year : 2006—2009

entry # attraction ➴ to think it started with your crush on his best friend...

entry # rivals... in love? ➴ gojo is in shambles—so suguru might have a crush on you too?

entry # say no! ೀ valentine's special ➴ valentine's is around the corner and word has it that you're going on a date with geto...? no way! gojo is going to make sure that you're saying no! ever wonder how gojo finally gets you to become his? be prepared for a confession of a lifetime!

entry # stupid liar ➴ no way. impossible. you couldn't possibly be jealous of gravure idol gojo likes so much now... or could you?

entry # unconcealable ➴ your boyfriend may not show it, but the six eyes are his burden to bear. you know it firsthand when he falls into your arms for the first time

entry # love wins all (soon!) ➴ haibara's death. geto's defection. nanami's leaving. when everything goes wrong in your third year, the last thing you would expect is your boyfriend breaking up with you. but to gojo, this is a moment of truth—and through this, you'll realize why he chooses to stay with you for good

⭑ — ☁️ side stories

rivals... in love? — extended cut!

hot, hot summer!

☆⌒.*･ entry year : 2010—2017

entry # finally mine 18+ (soon!) ➴ gojo says he’ll make you droll when you have your first time together. you are determined to seduce him to turn the tables!

entry # stay with me (soon!) ➴ comes the biggest conflict in your relationship when you realize that you might be pregnant. this event, for better or worse, will change the trajectory of your relationship forever

entry # wife her up (soon!) ➴ it's a canon event that animals and babies aren't particularly fond of the strongest sorcerer… but you, you’re always going to be his no matter what

entry # insatiable 18+ ➴ your boyfriend is hot and wild, and he has one problem: he always finds you too pretty to resist

entry # forever ➴ the three times he asked you to marry him

entry # newlyweds 18+ ➴ you and your new husband make out in the most inappropriate place possible

entry # kyoto: the onsen incident 18+ ➴ it's your first trip as a married couple and you should be excited—until a shameless woman makes a move on your husband!

entry # to my beloved ➴ bad days don't mean the end of the world, and your husband is making sure you know that

entry # my wife, all mine ೀ valentine's special ➴ years pass, but one thing that's constant is how annoyingly your husband is in love with you. with the new school year comes a fresh batch of first years, and gojo is determined to make you look at his way—he's way better than those youngsters, and he's going to show you just that!

entry # wedding anniversary 18+ ➴ seven years of dating, two years of wedded bliss, and gojo is having his greatest existential crisis yet... all because this year, you apparently have forgotten the most important day of your lives

entry # daddy-to-be ➴ in which you're worried about how he'd react to you carrying his baby

entry # sweet felicity ➴ what do you get the man who already has everything for his birthday?

entry # protect ➴ the word “protect” now means so much more to him

⭑ — ☁️ side stories

05.56 P.M — how gojo gets arrested by the police

07.55 A.M — gojo cheated on you last night

12.34 A.M — blindfold play 18+

12.55 P.M — first ultrasound

04.18 A.M — six weeks pregnant with gojo’s baby

08.45 P.M — cockwarming 18+

11.07 P.M — what if you get a divorce?

03.12 A.M — ungodly hour cravings

07.30 P.M — gojo vs your pregnancy hormones

before the dawn — finding out about geto's ultimate betrayal hits you hard

08.25 P.M — at the end of this pregnancy journey, you fall in love with your husband once again

baby pics — photo album of baby satoru

⭑ — extras 💌 pregnancy diaries ❀

☆⌒.*･ entry year : 2018—present

special entry # through megumi’s eyes (soon!) ➴ megumi’s life ends and starts when the strongest sorcerer takes him in. see your love story through his eyes, his hidden feelings, and extended scenes of several love entries!

entry # baby ➴ a domestic life with your husband and baby

entry # heaven's fury ➴ sometimes you forget that your husband has burdens as the strongest sorcerer alive. when he goes back home from a bad day and you're the first person he comes contact to, you're made aware of it once again

entry # wife ➴ in which the new batch of first years are unaware that their eccentric teacher’s wife is the pretty woman roaming the school grounds

entry # sick days ➴ who holds the fort when you fall sick? of course, it's your lovesick husband and baby!

entry # mission: baby steps! ➴ the three times gojo tried to make his baby love him (and how he miserably fails)

entry # the babysitters club ➴ in which yuji, megumi and nobara are tasked with the most important mission ever by their teacher—watching over his baby son!

entry # throughout heaven and earth ➴ a sudden mission. a curse beyond your grade. all hell breaks loose when gojo realizes that there are hidden machinations behind the incident that befalls you

entry # baby to the rescue ➴ in which gojo recruits your baby son to “save” you from a credit card salesman

entry # beach day 18+ ➴ in which the three of you (you, your husband and baby) spend the weekend on the beach!

entry # treasure ➴ the strongest sorcerer meets his match in his petulant son, who inherits his six eyes and is having trouble with them

entry # curiosity 18+ ➴ when gojo is found out by his own son during your nighttime activities

entry # all of me ➴ you understand that some things in marriage just needs compromise. and he soon understands too, when you're at your most vulnerable and he fails to be by your side when you need him the most

⭑ — ☁️ side stories

09.45 P.M — how scared he is to lose you

11.10 P.M — meeting the newborn for the first time

06.27 A.M — gojo with his baby in the morning

06.20 P.M — baby doesn’t let gojo kiss you

11.52 A.M — gojo will show baby who is here first

10.00 A.M — gojo trying to get his baby say his first word

02.33 P.M — baby going to the aquarium for the first time

07.02 A.M — morning with you and his toddler son

08.12 A.M — why your son isn’t in your wedding

© CHULUOYI. do not copy, repost, modify, or translate my works in any platforms.

MEN ARE FUCKIN COMPLICATED AS SHIT!!!

⚠️: rant ahead (solely for entertainment purposes)

You don't need an expert to say this but trying to find a man (or boy) to date or even just get to know is so fuckin hard. You think women are weird with their mood swings? Try boys!

I have been texting this japanese guy who randomly approached ME and he was alright. BUT NOW, unfortunately, what was smooth sailing has now become shitty lake water.

Our "friendship" is approaching its one year and yet that guy refuses to show me his face or reveal what he sounds like through facetime; says he's insecure. Ok, that I kinda understand that crap! What I don't understand is how can this guy be insecure if he can send me a pic of his fuckin abs?(don't know if that's him tho)

What gets even weirder is that he disappears for weeks/months at a time and when I ask what happened he gives me reasons and explanations that are vague as shit! At first I was ok, thought he probably needed his space and alone time. It happened a second time, I was chill. Third time was the charm because I lost my cool with the reasons he's pulling out of his ass and immediately he gets defensive! I mean if your friend goes missing for a long time, you eventually text ti find out if they're alright. That's the normal response! I gave up on that eventually😕

THEN HE DROPPED THE FUCKIN BOMB: he said he likes me! WTF...the dude ignores me yet he has the audacity to like me when I know jack about him. This is the same dude that refused to give his best friend my profile in fear that his friend would flirt, work his way into my heart and he would lose me (his words not mine). What the actual fuck should I make of this?

It's been another 2 months since he ghosted me (again). His friend has been keeping me company and he's seems like a good guy I guess.

Honestly it's so fuckin disappointing. I wasn't expecting much tho. In my entire life, I haven't dated or been in a relationship so I'm actually clueless. The disappointment approaches the point of being hurtful because even though I wasn't expecting a lot- from a guy who sits a thousand miles away, who refuses to show me who he really is even when it's been a year- it doesn't make it hurt any less. He's my age so I guess that's why it bothers me.

I don't know wtf went wrong but I do wish it worked out.

broooo you've basically just explained how my life has been for WEEEEKS. To whomever is still mourning them, my deepest sympathies 😔

MANGA SPOILERS BEWARE:

Gojo is really gone huh? Probably Megumi too.

What a ….waste. Of potential, of storyline, of plots that went nowhere. Y’all can sit here all you want saying “this is Geges story he knows what he’s doing” OK…that doesn’t make what’s he doing interesting or good. Face it. Not every author/artist etc is great and that’s okay. This story is turning out to just suck. And I mean…that’s just my opinion at the end of the day 🤷🏽‍♀️

I just can’t grapple them being gone. I love them both so much as characters. Like…it’s been a month since Gojo and I cry almost every day. I feel like I’m mourning a real person. I don’t even want to read it anymore. Especially after my #1 JJK boy Megumi’s fate is like up in the air, but probably sealed tbh.

No hate to Gege as a person. There’s a difference.

i live for this 🫶🫶🫶