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tinyfandomknight · 1 month ago

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Not the First or the Last | Hiccup Haddock

Pairing: Hiccup Haddock x Nomad!Reader Summary: Turns out, Hiccup wasn't the first dragon rider -- and Toothless wasn't the last Night Fury. You prove to be a master of all things concerning the species. Themes & Warnings: kind of enemies to lovers, fluffy at some points, violence if you squint, sick Toothless, Hiccup is kinda an ass a little bit.

Things had been fantastic.

Since his father had accepted dragons as a part of life, the world had opened up for Hiccup. He spent all of his time working with Toothless, expanding the rookery, cataloging species, sketching maps and forging new gear. The village looked to him like he actually belonged. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t “useless.” He was essential. He was happy. Toothless was even happier. His friends had dragons, too, exploring their sense of self up above the clouds just as he was.

He had finally done something right.

Until the night he met you. He lost his sense of self immediately.

One of the seamen, Golberg, came sprinting back into the center of Berk, out of breath and sweating, eyes wide. His face was beet-red, easy to see even in the dark. He knocked urgently on the chief's door, waking Hiccup in the process.

Him and his father exchanged a look before opening the door.

Golberg immediately started rushing the words out of his mouth.

“IwasdownonthedockandwhenIwastyingtheshipupIheard--”

Stoick stopped him, holding a hand up.

“Breathe, lad. What's going on?”

Golberg sucked in a lungful of air, bent over with his hands on his knees. When he looked up, his eyes were still too wide, his voice trembling with disbelief.

“I heard the whistle! The whistle of a Night Fury! I saw the damn thing, in the sky, and there was--”

Hiccup interrupted.

“Not possible. Toothless is the last one alive.”

Golberg shook his head frantically. “I know what I saw!” he insisted, voice pitching higher. “It looked like a Night Fury -- almost exactly! But different. Bigger, maybe? And the sound -- gods, I swear it, Hiccup, it had the same shriek. The same lightless dive!”

Hiccup felt a chill crawl up his spine. Toothless stirred behind him, sensing the tension.

“Where?” Stoick asked, already turning toward his axe.

“The docks.” Golberg’s voice dropped. “It landed.”

Hiccup didn’t wait. He grabbed his flight gear and swung onto Toothless’s saddle before his father could stop him. The dragon let out a low, uneven chirp -- something between a question and a warning.

Hiccup’s brow furrowed. “You alright, bud?”

Toothless blinked, slow. His pupils were wide, body sluggish beneath him.

Strange.

Still, Hiccup tightened his grip on the saddle. “Let’s go.”

When he reached the dock, there was nothing but wet footprints. Footprints that looked exactly like Toothless's but bigger, like Golberg had mentioned, and then a set of small boot prints beside them. They reached the gravel and then disappeared.

“Damnit.” Hiccup grumbled. “They're gone.”

Toothless again stiffened up, a groan leaving his chest, before he oriented his body towards the thick line of trees across the water. He groaned again, his head shifting with more intention this time. His ears twitched toward the tree line, pupils narrowing slightly.

Hiccup followed his gaze.

A dense stretch of forest stood just beyond the edge of the inlet --dark and mist-veiled, with only the faintest shimmer of moonlight bouncing off the wet leaves. Nothing stirred. Not a single branch moved, no animal sounds. Too quiet.

Hiccup’s fingers flexed around the saddle grips.

“You smell something?” he muttered. Toothless gave a low rumble in response, tail swaying slightly.

It wasn’t just instinct. It was something deeper. Primal. A flicker of recognition from the Night Fury. Of territory being tested. Of something that felt too close, too similar… too other.

Hiccup slid off the saddle slowly, boots hitting the damp wooden dock with a muffled thud. He followed the trail where the prints ended, crouching down to touch the last visible one. Still fresh. Still wet.

Not gone. Just hiding.

He looked back at Toothless --who now stood perfectly still, shoulders hunched, wings twitching like he was bracing for a challenge.

“Okay,” Hiccup muttered under his breath, pushing up the collar of his flight suit. “If they want to play it like that…”

He drew his dagger from his belt -- not to use, but just in case. He wasn’t going to be caught off guard. Whoever you were, you had the nerve to fly into his village on a dragon that shouldn’t exist, insult his intelligence, and vanish into the woods like a shadow.

No. He wasn’t letting it go that easy.

And with one last glance at the still, dark trees, Hiccup stepped off the gravel path and into the forest. Toothless followed, body tense but curious. His black scales shimmered in the night glow.

The forest swallowed them whole.

No village lights reached this far. Just the occasional sliver of moonlight piercing the canopy and the steady rhythm of breath --Hiccup’s, then Toothless’s, both just a little too fast.

Twigs cracked underfoot. Moss muffled the rest. The air smelled like earth and storm.

Then, the brush moved. Deliberate. Close.

Hiccup froze. Toothless’s ears flattened. Another growl rumbled out of his throat, deeper this time, nearly a warning.

But the answer came before Hiccup could react.

A second growl. Lower. Rougher. From somewhere ahead.

Toothless surged forward, snarling, but then stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes locked.

A shadow melted from between the trees like ink in water.

It was your dragon again.

And you, standing to its left, one hand still resting on the beast's side, calm like you'd been waiting.

You tilted your head. “Bringing backup?”

Hiccup didn’t sheath the dagger, but he did lower it. “Didn’t realize I’d need it.”

“Neither did I,” you replied. “But here we are.”

The tension cracked in the air between you.

Your dragon was.. Toothless. But bigger. He had broader wings, shinier scales, and sharper teeth. Instead of green eyes, his were an intimidating ice blue, pupils thin, eyes trained onto Hiccup and Toothless like he expected a fight. His wing curled around the back of you, like a protective sheath, ready to curl you inward if needed.

Your eyes widened, not as hostile as your dragon's.

“It's true.. Everything I heard is true. There is another one.” You said, almost breathlessly. You ran a hand down your dragon's side reflexively, like a calming gesture to both of you.

Hiccup’s breath hitched, a mix of disbelief and something deeper stirring in his chest. The weight of it settled like a stone -- another Night Fury. Not just a myth or a legend. Real. Alive.

Toothless shifted beside him, low growl vibrating through the air, but his eyes were softer now, watching your dragon with cautious recognition.

“You don’t look like one of us,” Hiccup said slowly, eyes flicking back to you. “Not from Berk. Where are you from?”

You met his gaze steadily, fingers still lingering against your dragon’s smooth scales. “Far from here. I’ve been chasing stories for months, trying to find the Night Fury I've been hearing of. Your Night Fury.”

Hiccup’s eyes narrowed slightly, absorbing your words. The weight of months spent searching, the desperation and hope wrapped into one, was clear in your voice. It stirred something in him -- a mix of admiration and skepticism.

“Thor,” he murmured, glancing at his dragon, who let out a soft, almost curious chirp in response. “I didn’t think anyone was still looking for them. Least of all, someone like you.”

You smiled wistfully.

“I found Perseus,” you gestured to the huge dragon beside you, “when he was small. Thrashing around in the bushes, caught in a trap. I was never like the rest of the people in my village. I didn't want to kill them and I wasn't afraid of them.”

Perseus purred, nuzzling against you.

“I raised him. Learned how he works. Learned everything about his species.. The species I thought burned out. But it seems we were wrong.”

Hiccup’s eyes softened as he studied you and Perseus, the enormity of what you were saying settling in like a dawning light. “You raised him… from a hatchling?”

You nodded, fingers gently stroking the sleek scales along Perseus’s neck. “I had to learn fast. Night Furies aren’t like other dragons, they’re elusive, intelligent, and fiercely protective. If you don’t understand that, you don’t stand a chance.”

Toothless shifted closer to you both, his gaze flickering between Perseus and his rider with growing curiosity. The unspoken connection between the two Night Furies hummed quietly in the air -- familiar, like echoes from a past no one had dared to speak of.

Hiccup swallowed hard, a strange mixture of envy and relief flooding him. “I thought Toothless was the last. That the species was gone forever.”

You smiled in amusement.

“Toothless. What a fun name.”

Hiccup blinked, a slow smile creeping onto his face despite the tension lingering between you. “Yeah, well, it fits him. He’s… unique.”

You chuckled softly, the sound light but carrying an edge of knowing. “Unique is one word for it. I imagine he’s got a stubborn streak a mile wide.”

“Toothless?” Hiccup grinned, shaking his head. “You’re not wrong.”

The two Night Furies exchanged a brief glance, the older one’s eyes narrowing with something almost like recognition, before Perseus let out a soft, rumbling purr that seemed to say, I like him.

After the exchange, Hiccup brought you back to the village.

He couldn't decide whether it was a mistake or not.

You were loved. Immediately.

You could do things Hiccup couldn't. Perseus was new and shiny to the people of Berk, adoring fans crowding around him, but backing up when he let out a shattering roar, as if to warn people from coming too close.

Hiccup watched from a distance, a complicated knot tightening in his chest. You moved through the crowd with effortless confidence, sharing knowledge about Night Furies that left the villagers wide-eyed and eager to learn. Your connection with Perseus was undeniable -- fierce yet tender -- and the people of Berk couldn’t get enough.

But there was something else. A tension beneath the admiration. A shadow in Hiccup’s mind whispering that he was losing ground -- not just as a dragon rider, but as the village’s champion of dragon-kind.

A rivalry began.

Who could complete the most raids? Who could defend Berk better? Who caught the better approval from Stoick?

You and Hiccup were at each other's throats as soon as you could be.

One time, you showed up at the same raid, undermining each other and failing to complete it. Your eyes almost burned with irritation as you dismounted Perseus, approaching Hiccup immediately.

Hiccup wasn't much happier.

“What the hell was that, Haddock?!” you shot, voice low but fierce. “Trying to show me up? Because you just made a mess of everything.”

Hiccup’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t trying to impress you or anyone else. I was trying to keep Berk safe. Something you seemed to forget when you decided to go solo.”

Perseus growled softly behind you, wings twitching nervously, while Toothless let out a warning hiss, sensing the tension crackling between the two of you.

You stepped closer, eyes locking with his. “Maybe if you weren’t so busy trying to be the hero, you’d see that we’re stronger together.”

Hiccup laughed bitterly, shaking his head.

“We have no business doing anything together,” he groaned, “You're only here because of your dragon. Not because we need your help.”

You blinked, momentarily thrown off by the sharp edge in his voice, the unspoken hurt beneath the anger. Your breath hitched, but you refused to show weakness.

“Is that what you really think?” you asked, voice steady but cold. “That I’m just some tagalong riding a flashy dragon? Maybe I’m here because I want to protect Berk. Just like you.”

Hiccup’s eyes narrowed, pain flickering there before the stubborn shield went back up. “It’s not the same. You don’t belong here.”

Perseus rumbled low, a protective growl that vibrated through your bones. You wrapped a hand around his neck, grounding yourself.

“I belong wherever I decide to stand,” you said softly but firmly. “And right now, that’s here. Whether you like it or not.”

For a moment, the silence between you was thick enough to cut. Then Toothless stepped forward, nudging Hiccup’s arm, breaking the tension -- a silent reminder that neither of you were alone in this.

He could've sworn he saw a tear glisten in your eye before you stalked off. Perseus stuck behind for a second, grumbling at Hiccup judgmentally, a warning growl.

Hiccup stood frozen for a heartbeat, staring after you as your silhouette vanished into the darkening woods. The raw vulnerability beneath your fierce words twisted in his gut, conflicting with his stubborn pride.

Toothless shifted beside him, letting out a low, almost mournful hiss, before glancing up at Hiccup with those wide, knowing eyes.

Weeks stretched before you and Hiccup interacted again. You’d even been in the same place without speaking. You trained with the rest of the group, but you didn’t train with Hiccup and Toothless. You focused on training Perseus with the larger dragons, namely Snotlout (annoying and far too flirty) and his dragon Hookfang. You sometimes trained with the twins and their Zippleback too, but once again, Tuffnut got a little too comfortable with you.

Today, Perseus had done well. He always did, really. There was something odd about the session though.

Hiccup and Toothless hadn’t even shown up, they were nowhere to be found at all. So you, unfortunately, were kind of off your game. You looked off into the horizon, expecting to see Hiccup on Toothless’s saddle, apologizing awkwardly for being late. But the moment never came.

“Babe!” Snotlout called, gliding up next to you. You felt the heat off Hookfang’s scales seeping into your clothes. “Focus. What are you looking at?”

You rolled your eyes. “Babe? What have I told you about calling me babe, Snotlout?”

Snotlout grinned, completely unbothered. “That it gets under your skin.” He leaned a little too far toward you, raising his eyebrows. “Which I take as a sign you secretly like it.”

Hookfang let out a snort that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, and Perseus curled his lip, baring a row of glinting white teeth. The threat was clear -- one flap closer and Hookfang wasn’t the only one Snotlout had to worry about.

You sighed and gently tugged Perseus back with a hand on his jaw. “Back, boy. He’s not worth the energy.”

Snotlout raised both hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright! Don’t get your tail in a twist. Just trying to lighten the mood.” He squinted at you, then glanced toward the distant cliffs beyond Berk. “You’ve been twitchy all day. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were worried.”

You stiffened slightly, trying to hide the way your eyes flicked to the sky again. Still no sign of Hiccup or Toothless.

“I’m not worried,” you lied. “I’m just… distracted.”

“Mhm,” Snotlout said, clearly not buying it. “Well, for what it’s worth, I heard Hiccup was out early this morning. Didn’t say where he was going, just packed some gear and flew off. Toothless didn’t even say goodbye to Hookfang. Can you believe that? Rude.”

That sinking feeling returned in your stomach. Hiccup might have been petty -- and kind of a jerk when he wanted to be -- but he wasn’t reckless. Not without a reason. And not without telling anyone.

Your voice was quieter when you finally spoke. “Did he say anything to anyone?”

Snotlout shrugged. “Not that I heard. Maybe Fishlegs would know more. He and Hiccup always talk nerd stuff.”

You gave a quick nod, pulling Perseus around with a soft whistle. The massive Night Fury immediately followed, wings twitching with tension.

Snotlout called after you with a lazy wave. “Try not to miss me too much!”

You didn’t even glance back. You were already scanning the skies, muttering under your breath.

“Where the hell did you go, Haddock?”

Surprisingly, you didn’t have to go far.

When you went into the village to get some gear in preparation to go hunt them down, you found that they were already home.

Taking a deep breath, you knocked on the door. Hiccup answered, worry in his eyes, poorly disguised as annoyance to see you.

“Y/n. I’m kind of busy right now.”

Your brows drew together immediately. You could see it in Hiccup’s face -- the exhaustion, the unspoken panic. His shirt was wrinkled, collar askew, and his hair was a mess like he’d been running his hands through it nonstop. Something was wrong.

“Busy?” you repeated, trying to keep your voice steady. “I noticed. You disappeared without a word and didn’t show up for training. Toothless didn’t show up either. And now you look like you haven’t slept.”

Hiccup sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t think you’d care.”

That stung. You stepped forward anyway, peering over his shoulder, and your heart dropped.

Toothless was curled up on the floor behind him, his massive form sluggish, wings drooping over the sides of the rug. His breathing was uneven, too slow. His scales, normally iridescent and alive with movement, looked dull under the dim firelight.

Your voice softened, forgetting every ounce of rivalry between you. “Hiccup…”

“He wouldn’t eat,” Hiccup muttered, stepping aside reluctantly to let you in. “Didn’t fly right. He nearly crashed this morning, so I brought him back. He’s been like this since.” He dragged a hand down his face. “And I have no idea what’s wrong.”

You dropped your gear beside the doorway and approached Toothless slowly. Perseus, waiting outside, let out a soft, distressed hum that vibrated through the wood of the hut. You crouched beside the dragon, resting a hand against his muzzle.

He didn’t flinch, but the touch made his eye flicker open. It was hazy. Unfocused.

You took that as a sign that he wasn't hostile. Leaning down further, you calmly smoothed your hand across his head, starting from his jaw and ending by his folded ears. You frowned, biting your lip. He was warm. Feverish.

“I’ve seen this before,” you cleared your throat, standing. “He’s sick. Perseus has been through it, too. I called it Scorchrot.”

Hiccup blinked. “Scorchrot?”

You nodded grimly. “It hits Night Furies harder than other dragons. Starts with a fever, then weakness in the wings and limbs. If untreated, it can affect their fire glands -- that’s where the name comes from. They burn too hot on the inside, like they’re rotting from the core.”

Hiccup paled slightly, glancing back at Toothless. “How did you treat it?”

“Well, there's a medicine I can make that helped Perseus a lot. Also, cool compresses, a temporary shift in diet -- no fish, just soft roots and rainwater -- and something to lower his body temperature.”

Hiccup ran a hand through his hair, pacing slightly. “Medicine? What kind of--what do you need? Herbs? Minerals? Just tell me and I’ll get it.”

You gave him a steady look. “I’ll need frostleaf, ground thistle root, and dried skybloom petals. They’re rare this far north, but I saw some near the cliffs when I flew in.”

He exhaled sharply, the tension in his shoulders tight as wire. “Right. Okay. I’ll get them.”

You hesitated before stepping forward, voice softer. “You don’t have to do it alone. I know you don’t trust me. But trust me with this. I’ve done it before.”

He met your eyes, something shifting behind his, pride, maybe. Or fear disguised as pride.

“I’m not worried about trusting you,” he muttered. “I’m worried about losing him.”

Your expression softened. “Then we fix him. Together.”

A quiet moment passed. Then, from behind, a weak thrum of a purr came from Toothless’s throat -- hoarse, but there. Alive. Reaching.

Perseus, still just outside the hut, let out a low, supportive hum. He wouldn’t leave either.

And maybe, for the first time in weeks, the rivalry didn’t matter so much.

“Can you.. Will you stay here with him? I don't want him to be alone.”

Hiccup acted like it literally burned his throat to ask for help, but you accepted, smiling softly.

“Yeah. I'll stay.”

You moved back toward Toothless, kneeling at his side again with quiet care. His tail twitched at your presence, just barely, and you stroked along his jaw, murmuring something low and soothing. His eyes fluttered, half-lidded, but calmer now.

Hiccup lingered in the doorway, watching the way your hand moved so naturally, how Perseus let out another soft trill from outside, keeping vigil.

“Thank you,” he said, voice rough.

You didn’t look up. “Go get what we need. We’ll be here when you get back.”

There was a beat -- like he wanted to say something more -- but he only nodded. Then he was gone, off into the thickening clouds of the afternoon, chasing herbs and hope like his life depended on it.

Inside the hut, the heat from Toothless’s fever pulsed faintly in the air. You leaned into it, not shrinking away, fingers steady on his scales.

“We’re gonna take care of you,” you whispered.

When Hiccup returned, you were holding a cold compress to Toothless's head tenderly, stroking his scales. You'd loosed your hair from your braid, the curls tumbling down your back in soft waves -- before you even realized he was there, you cooed, speaking gently to the dragon. It was your nature, he'd realized. You were amazing with them, like you'd known how to love a dragon your entire life. Because in all honesty, you did.

This was the first time he wasn't envious of it. He leaned against the doorframe watching you, an unusual feeling building in his chest.

No envy. No distaste as there usually was. Just.. watching you. Watching how you worked. Watching how your h/c hair blew gently in the wind from the open window. Watching how you turned to smile at Perseus, who had somehow managed to curl his massive form around you on the floor.

You were beautiful.

The thought made Hiccup wince. Why the hell was he doing this?

Because for once, he wasn’t trying to win.

Not a raid. Not a title. Not Stoick’s approval.

Not even a rivalry.

Just--this. Toothless, sick but stable. Perseus curled around you like a shield. You, eyes soft and voice softer, hands moving like you'd done this a thousand times, like dragons were born trusting you.

Hiccup tightened his grip on the bundle of herbs in his arms, unsure what to do with the sudden ache blooming in his chest. You weren’t supposed to be beautiful. You weren’t supposed to be gentle and fierce in the same breath. You were supposed to be frustrating. Competitive. Impossible.

But now? You were kneeling in his hut, taking care of the creature he loved most in the world like he was your own. And for the first time, Hiccup felt like maybe you weren’t just here because of Perseus. Maybe you weren’t just a threat.

Maybe… you were something else entirely.

He stepped inside quietly, setting down the supplies. You turned, surprised but smiling.

“There you are,” you said softly. “I was starting to think you got lost.”

And just like that, Hiccup found himself smiling back.

“Not a chance,” he murmured, eyes flicking to Toothless. “Couldn’t stay away.” Then quieter, “From either of you.”

He winced, turning his head to apologize for being weird, but he hadn't realized that you'd already gotten started on preparing the medicine, probably having taken the herbs from his arms while he was staring like a moron.

His face flushed.

Get it together, Hiccup.

You hadn’t said anything about the comment -- at least not out loud -- so he was really hoping that you hadn't even heard it. If you had, you let it pass. Maybe out of kindness. Maybe because your focus was entirely on Toothless.

Your fingers worked with practiced ease, crushing herbs with a mortar and pestle, mixing them with a dark amber liquid that smelled earthy and sharp. The kind of scent that clung to the back of your throat. Hiccup stayed quiet, hovering nearby with his hands in his pockets like some awkward apprentice.

“Help me lift his head?” you asked, glancing up with that same infuriating, gentle confidence you always had. Like you knew exactly what you were doing. Like you didn’t need him but still wanted him there.

He nodded quickly, grateful to have something to do. As he cradled Toothless’s heavy head, you brought the bowl close, dipping a small ladle into it and holding it near the dragon’s mouth.

Toothless didn’t resist. He trusted you. That fact alone made Hiccup’s chest ache.

You sat back on your heels after the last of the mixture was gone, brushing your hands on your thighs. “He’ll need another dose tomorrow, but this should bring the fever down.”

Hiccup set Toothless’s head back onto the cushions gently and looked at you again.

And this time, when he looked, he really saw you.

Not the rival who beat him at raids. Not the outsider who dazzled Berk. Not the competition.

Just you.

Exhausted but unwavering. Fierce but kind. Beautiful, yes but in that wild, maddening way he never saw coming.

He cleared his throat. “Thanks. For… everything.”

You met his gaze, softer now. “I’m not here to steal your dragon, you know.”

“I know,” Hiccup said, voice low. “I think I just… didn’t know how to let someone help.”

You tilted your head, studying him, something unreadable behind your eyes.

“Well,” you said, finally, “you’re doing better than most.”

And he smiled. A real one. Small, crooked. Honest.

You stood to leave, gathering your things. A small wave of your scent hit his nose -- flowers, smoke from a fire, and leather grease.

He watched as you slung your pack over your shoulder, fingers deft and sure, the same hands that had soothed Toothless back from the edge. You didn’t look at him right away, maybe on purpose, maybe because you didn’t want to break the strange quiet that had settled.

And maybe he didn’t either.

You were halfway to the door when Hiccup found his voice again.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You paused, glancing over your shoulder.

And there it was again -- that look. Like you could see through him without even trying. Like you already knew what he was going to say.

Still, he said it.

“…Thanks for staying.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “Thanks for letting me.”

And then you were gone, the door closing quietly behind you. The scent of flowers, fire, and leather grease lingering like a memory.

Hiccup stood there a long time after you left, watching the door, listening to Toothless’s steady breathing, wondering when everything had stopped being so simple.

And why the thought of seeing you again tomorrow suddenly felt like the most important thing in the world.

Over the next week, Hiccup watched you like he had the first night you'd been there. Watched you care for Toothless while he was sick. Watched you help the both of them through his recovery, helping the dragon regain his strength and teaching Hiccup how to help too.

You guided his hands to where he needed to hold Toothless, supporting him in regaining limb strength. Hiccup wasn't sure if he'd felt such soft, yet firm hands in his life. They were warm too.

And every time your fingers brushed his, by accident, or maybe not, Hiccup’s mind blanked for a second too long.

At first, he told himself it was just proximity. Just admiration. You were helping Toothless, after all -- he’d be an idiot not to appreciate that. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way you smiled when Toothless lifted his head for the first time without help. The way you murmured encouragement into the crook of his neck when his limbs trembled from fatigue. The way you praised Hiccup when he got it right, voice soft and proud, like it mattered to you.

Eventually, Toothless was himself again.

You cheered in happiness when he finally took flight, darting around the sky, diving like he used to. Perseus joined him, flying around in circles.

You stood with your hands cupped around your mouth, calling out to them both like a proud parent, laughter spilling from your lips as Toothless and Perseus twirled through the sky like black comets.

Hiccup stood beside you, unable to take his eyes off either of you -- not the dragons, not the joy on your face. Your eyes glowed with the reflected fire of the setting sun, and something about the moment twisted in his chest, bittersweet and beautiful.

“He’s really back,” you breathed, eyes tracking Toothless as he executed a perfect loop. “I was scared he wouldn’t be.”

Hiccup glanced sideways at you, his voice quiet. “Me too.”

Perseus roared playfully mid-air, and Toothless responded with a trilling chirp before they dove together, a synchronized flash of wings and light. Their bond was no longer wary or foreign. It was something else now. Familiar. Like they’d always known each other.

Kind of like… you and Hiccup.

You turned toward him just then, and he realized how close you were standing. Shoulder to shoulder. You’d always felt like competition before. But now, you felt like something else. Like part of his team.

“You helped him get here,” Hiccup said, voice low, a little rough. “I don’t think I could’ve done it without you.”

You blinked, surprised at the honesty. Then your lips curled into a slow smile. “Well, Haddock, maybe you’re not so bad at letting someone help after all.”

He huffed a laugh, half embarrassed. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

You nudged him gently with your elbow. “Too late.”

The dragons whooshed overhead again, close enough for a gust of wind to tousle your hair. As you both watched them chase each other across the sky, Hiccup wasn’t sure what tomorrow would look like -- but for once, he hoped it looked a lot like today.

When he returned home, his dad sat in his chair, reading from a big thick book. He looked up from it, smiling knowingly.

“Hiccup. How's Toothless today?”

Hiccup paused in the doorway, caught off guard by the warm familiarity in Stoick’s voice -- and the knowing look in his eyes. He stepped inside slowly, brushing the wind from his hair and shrugging off his riding gear.

“He’s better,” Hiccup said, glancing out the window for a moment as if he could still see the dragons dancing in the air. “Flying again. Strong.”

Stoick nodded, pleased. “And the other one? Perseus?”

“Also good,” Hiccup replied, then hesitated. “They’ve started flying together. It’s like they’ve known each other longer than we have.”

He closed the book, placing it down on the table next to him.

“You're right to be fond of that one. Y/n. She's fantastic with the dragons.”

Hiccup's jaw dropped immediately, his face burning. What was his Dad insinuating?

“Dad! We're not--”

Stoick interrupted, putting his hand up to silence him.

“My boy. There's no shame in it. She's fair in the face, she's honorable, and she’s got a spirit fiercer than any dragon I’ve ever met. A fine match for a chief’s son, don’t you think?”

Hiccup sputtered, his ears turning as red as a Monstrous Nightmare’s flame. “I--I don’t--we’re just friends! We train dragons together, that’s all!”

Stoick leaned back in his chair, his knowing smile widening. “Aye, and I just happened to notice the way you look at her when she’s not paying attention.”

Hiccup groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, Thor.”

His father’s laughter boomed through the hall. “Relax, son. I’m only teasing.” He paused, then added with a softer tone, “But if there were something more… well, I’d be happy for you.”

Hiccup exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Well. Thanks, Dad.” He shot a glance toward the door, desperate for an escape. “I should, uh… go check on Toothless. Again.”

Stoick waved him off, still grinning. “Go on, then. Just remember--dragons aren’t the only things worth chasing. Betrothal is just as important.”

Hiccup nearly tripped over his own feet on the way out.

The next day, everyone resumed training, pleased that Toothless was well again. He was the last one there, quickly saddling Toothless and climbing on. Looking up in the sky, he saw you already up there, Perseus dipping and blowing targets apart with blue flames. You giggled and cheered, praising him, your braid blowing in the frantic winds.

He could've swooned.

Tuffnut stood next to him, his arms crossed, smirking in that dumb Tuffnut sort of way.

"Wow," Tuffnut drawled, nudging Hiccup with his elbow. "You’ve got it bad."

Hiccup startled, nearly dropping Toothless’ saddle strap. "What? No I don’t." He fumbled with the buckle, refusing to look up. "I was just… assessing Perseus’ flight form. Y’know, as the resident dragon expert."

Tuffnut snorted. "Uh-huh. And I assess Fishlegs’ lunch every day before I steal it. Doesn’t mean I’m not hungry." He leaned in, grinning. "Face it, Hiccup. You’re smitten."

"I am not smitten," Hiccup hissed, finally securing the saddle and swinging onto Toothless’ back. "And even if I were--which I’m not--it’s none of your business."

Tuffnut clutched his chest dramatically. "Oh, but it is! As your best friend--"

"You’re not my best friend."

"--I have a sacred duty to point out when you’re being ridiculous." Tuffnut smirked. "And right now? You’re being ridiculous."

"Ooooh, Hiccup’s got a crush!" Ruffnut’s voice carried across the training arena as she and Astrid strolled up, both wearing matching grins.

Astrid crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. "And here I thought you were too busy being the ‘Dragon Master’ to notice anything else."

Hiccup groaned, rubbing his temples. "Oh, come on. You too, Astrid?"

"What? I call it like I see it," Astrid said with a smirk. "And I see you staring at Y/n like she just invented fire."

Ruffnut cackled, elbowing Tuffnut. "Told you! Even Astrid noticed!"

Hiccup’s face burned. "I do not stare--"

"You literally just sighed when she did that barrel roll," Tuffnut cut in.

"I was impressed by Perseus’ flying!" Hiccup protested weakly.

"Uh-huh," Ruffnut said, rolling her eyes. "And I’m just here for the free mead."

Astrid shook her head, still grinning. "Face it, Hiccup. You’re obvious."

Just then, you and Perseus swooped down, landing gracefully beside them. "What’s obvious?" you asked, hopping off your dragon and brushing off your tunic.

The twins exchanged exaggerated glances.

"Oh, nothing," Tuffnut said innocently. "Just Hiccup’s undying admiration for--"

"DRAGON TRAINING!" Hiccup blurted, cutting him off. "We should, uh, get back to it. Right now. Immediately."

You blinked. "…Okay?"

Toothless gave Hiccup a flat look, as if to say, Really? That’s the best you’ve got?

Astrid snorted. "Smooth, Haddock. Real smooth."

Hiccup buried his face in his hands as the twins howled with laughter.

Some days, being the future chief was really overrated.

At the end of training, Hiccup knew where to find you. Just where you usually were -- watching the sunset at the edge of the cliff with Perseus.

Your skin glowed in the orange sunlight, boot clad feet dangling from the edge as you scratched Perseus behind his ear. You hummed to an old folk song, staring out at the sun. Hiccup landed behind you, unclipping himself from his gear, before slowly starting to approach you.

Toothless, ever the mischievous wingman, nudged Hiccup forward with a low, encouraging warble, nearly sending him stumbling.

"Hey," Hiccup said, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped beside you. "Mind if I join you?"

You glanced up, smiling. "Only if you promise not to trip over your own feet this time and make Toothless dive to catch you."

"Hey, that was one time--" he protested, but you just laughed and patted the spot next to you.

Perseus rumbled in greeting as Hiccup sat down, his tail thumping against the ground like an overgrown cat’s. The sunset painted the sky in fiery golds and deep purples, the ocean below shimmering with reflected light.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just the wind, the distant cries of dragons, and the steady rhythm of the waves.

Then;

"So," you said, bumping his shoulder playfully. "Heard you’ve been admiring my flying."

Hiccup choked. "Oh, for Thor's sake--who told you that?"

You grinned. "Let’s just say the twins aren’t great at keeping secrets."

"I’m going to strangle them," Hiccup muttered, but there was no real heat in it.

You laughed again, leaning back on your hands. "Relax. I think it’s sweet."

His heart did a weird little flip. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Another pause. Then, softer:

"I admire yours too, you know."

Hiccup turned to look at you, really look at you. The way the fading light caught in your eyes, the way your lips quirked in that half-smile he’d come to memorize.

And suddenly, all the teasing, all the nerves, none of it mattered.

Because right here, right now?

This was perfect.

Toothless and Perseus exchanged a glance, then deliberately turned their backs, giving you two the closest thing to privacy two nosy dragons could manage.

"Hiccup?"

"Yeah?'

You cleared your throat.

"I know you thought I came here to.. take your place. Dull your shine. Whatever it was, but," you started to talk, turning in his direction. "I never felt like I had a place before I got here. I was always running, trying to figure out where I belonged. You make me feel like I have a home. A place where I fit perfectly."

Hiccup’s breath caught in his throat. The way you said it, so raw, so honest, hit him like a tidal wave. For a moment, he couldn’t speak.

Then, softly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against yours.

"You do belong here," he said, voice rough with emotion. "And not just because of Perseus, or because you’re an amazing dragon rider--though, y’know, that definitely helps."

You laughed, but your eyes were suspiciously bright.

Hiccup swallowed, his thumb tracing the back of your hand. "You belong here because… because Berk is better with you in it. I’m better with you in it." He huffed a self-deprecating laugh. "And trust me, that’s saying something, because I was really doing well before you showed up."

You leaned into him, shoulder against shoulder, warmth seeping through the contact. "Your dad told me some stories.. about when you were younger. From what I hear, you're a lot different than you were."

Hiccup groaned, his face flushing. "Oh no. What did he tell you? Please don’t say it was the eel incident--"

You grinned, mischief dancing in your eyes. "Oh, it was definitely the eel incident."

"I was twelve!" Hiccup threw his free hand up in exasperation, but he was laughing despite himself. "And in my defense, eels are slippery."

You leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He also told me about the time you tried to impress Astrid by jumping off the Great Hall--"

"Okay, wow, I see how it is," Hiccup interrupted, shaking his head. "My own father, sabotaging me. Some chief he is."

You nudged him, still grinning. "I think it’s sweet. He’s proud of you. And he likes me."

Hiccup softened, his thumb still absently tracing circles on your hand. "Yeah, well. You’re kind of impossible not to like."

The words hung between you, quiet but weighty. The sun had fully set now, leaving only the glow of the village fires below and the endless scatter of stars above.

When he finally glanced down, he saw your e/c eyes looking back up at him. The moonlight reflected in them, your eyelids slightly low. You studied his appearance like a painting, like you'd never seen anything more detailed.

This was the first time you'd looked at him like this. The first time you looked at him like he was something other than transparent.

Hiccup’s breath hitched.

There was something new in your gaze -- something intentional, something certain -- and it sent his pulse skittering like a startled Terrible Terror. Your fingers tightened ever so slightly around his, anchoring him in the moment.

For once, Hiccup Haddock didn’t overthink.

He didn’t stumble.

He just leaned in.

Hiccup’s first brush of lips against yours was hesitant: sweet, questioning, as if he still couldn’t quite believe this was real. But when you let out a soft sigh against his mouth, something in him ignited.

His hand slid up to cradle your jaw, fingers tangling gently in your hair as the kiss deepened. Your lips parted, and the taste of him -- warm, faintly of hearth-smoke and wild mint -- sent a shiver down your spine. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you, until you could feel the frantic hammer of his heartbeat against your own.

The world fell away.

There was only this: the heat of his touch, the rough calluses of his fingers against your skin, the way his breath hitched when you nipped lightly at his lower lip. A low, desperate sound escaped him, and he kissed you like he was drowning and you were air.

When you finally broke apart, gasping, his forehead rested against yours, his voice ragged.

"I’ve wanted to do that… for weeks. Ever since you first helped me with Toothless."

You smiled, thumb brushing the flushed curve of his cheekbone. "Took you long enough."

Hiccup laughed, breathless, his eyes dark and burning in the moonlight. "Yeah, well… I’m a slow learner."

"Liar," you whispered. "You’re the quickest one I’ve ever met."

His grin was wicked. "Prove it."

And then his mouth was on yours again, hungry and sure this time, swallowing your laugh as he kissed you like it was the only thing that mattered.

And maybe, just for tonight -- it was.

Until you heard slow clapping behind you. You broke apart, rolling your eyes, and turned in Hiccup's lap.

Ruffnut and Tuffnut.

"Bra-vo!" Ruffnut drawled, clapping with exaggerated slowness. "And here I thought Hiccup’s only talent was tripping over his own feet."

Tuffnut wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. "So beautiful. So pure. I think I’m gonna be sick."

Hiccup groaned, dropping his forehead against your shoulder. "I swear to Odin, if you two don’t vanish in the next three seconds--"

"Ooooh, scary!" Ruffnut cackled, elbowing her brother. "Think he’ll sic Toothless on us?"

Toothless, still sprawled dramatically on the ground, cracked one eye open--then promptly rolled onto his back, paws in the air, as if to say, Don’t involve me in this nonsense.

You sighed, twisting to smirk at Hiccup. "We could just ignore them."

Hiccup raised an eyebrow. "You think that’ll work?"

"Worth a shot."

"Actually," you smirked, "hold on."

And then -- without breaking eye contact -- you tapped Perseus's side, waking him up. His blue eyes opened slowly, then narrowed playfully. His throat released a growl, not malice, but pretending to be. His main goal was scaring the twins.

He didn't disappoint. The growl rumbled the dirt, stirring pebbles up.

The effect was instantaneous.

Tuffnut yelped, backpedaling so fast he nearly tripped over his own axe. "WHOA -- OKAY -- WE’RE LEAVING!"

Ruffnut, to her credit, stood her ground for a grand total of two seconds before Perseus exhaled an ear piercing roar.

"Alright, alright! Jeez!" She threw her hands up, but her grin was all mischief. "But just know -- this isn’t over! You two lovebirds are officially our new favorite entertainment!"

And with that, the twins bolted, their laughter fading into the night as Perseus gave a satisfied rumble and flopped back down, tail thumping like a pleased cat.

Hiccup stared after them, then turned to you, eyes wide. "…Did you just weaponize your dragon to scare off the twins?"

You shrugged, scratching Perseus under the chin. "What can I say? He’s got range."

Hiccup burst out laughing, pulling you back against him. "You," he said, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, "are terrifying."

You smirked. "And you love it."

"Yeah," he admitted, his voice soft. "I really do."

And as Perseus and Toothless settled in beside you -- one pretending to sleep, the other already actually snoring -- Hiccup decided something:

If this was what the future looked like?

He couldn’t wait for tomorrow.

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meekosthemeparkphotos · 1 year ago

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Wendy Darling and Peter Pan

#Wendy #Wendy Darling #Peter Pan #Characters #Disney Characters #Neverland Map #Fantasyland #Magic Kingdom #theme park #Disney #Walt Disney World #WDW

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yogirl-willow · 8 days ago

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The Crimson Pact | Part 13

SoulBond!AU

Pairings: Yandere!Saja Boys x F!Reader

Synopsis: You were never supposed to remember them.

Four hundred years ago, a pact was made—a blood-soaked bond tying five demons to one human soul: yours.

They’ve waited lifetimes for your reincarnation, cursed with obsession, tethered by fate.

And now that you’ve returned?

They’ll burn the world before they let you go again.

Warnings: Soul bond with the Saja Boys, Yandere themes!, obsessive behavior / possessiveness, romantic psychological tension, intense emotional fixation, yearning, emotional manipulation, hurt/comfort, slight angst.

A/N: Here's chapter 13! We're getting to some serious stuff now. Shit is getting real. I hope you guys enjoy! (Also, I'm so sorry but the tag list is closed) because tumblr will only allow around 50 huhu. If I could tag everyone I definitely would!

───────── ༺🜃༻ ─────────

The Saja boys are all demons.

They are wrath and ruin. Jealousy and death.

And yet, before her, they kneel.

Because she is the Heart. Because her soul is what keeps them from unraveling into true monsters. Because they were bound by her love and her curse.

They don’t just crave her—they depend on her. Without her presence, their minds deteriorate. Their bodies decay. Their hunger becomes unbearable.

Only Y/N’s touch tames the demon inside.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Names (For those who get confused): Haneul (Abby), Seoha (Romance), Hwimori/Hwi (Mystery), Seungho (Baby)

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Part 13:

The Thread and the Thorn

Your body felt like it was suspended in warmth—not heat, not light, but something older, deeper. As if every thread that made you human had been rewoven into something eternal.

And then you saw it. The bond. Threads—fine as hair, crimson as fresh blood—spun out from your chest like a blooming star, glowing softly in the dark. Each one stretched across space, across time, and connected to five other hearts. Jinu. Haneul. Seoha. Hwimori. Seungho. The bond pulsed. A heartbeat shared.

And you felt it—not just the bond itself, but everything inside it. Their love. Their grief. Their agony. Their centuries of waiting. It swallowed you whole.

Jinu, always watching, always leading. His love wrapped around you like velvet, deep and sacred, worshipful in a way that made your throat tighten. In his love, you saw altars. Devotion carved into centuries. He didn’t want your affection—he needed your existence.

Seoha. Calculated, clever, endlessly composed. His love was sharper. A map of every emotion you never said aloud. In his thread, you felt the thousand unsaid ways he kept you breathing, even in silence. You realized now he didn’t twist emotions to control you. He did it to understand you. To always keep you safe.

Haneul. Pure, burning, aching. The way his love held you was like a fortress on fire—desperate, unyielding. He didn’t just want to protect you. He wanted to undo every time he failed to.

Hwimori. His love was songlike, rhythmic, like the breath between sobs. Animalistic in its purity. You felt his fear—of losing you, of being abandoned again. You felt the way he curled around the thought of you like a prayer, like a childhood memory he refused to forget.

And Seungho. Oh, Seungho. His love bled. It blistered. It was a wound that refused to scar. And yet, it carried you so gently, as if you were porcelain already cracked. You realized now: his obsession wasn’t about control. It was grief that had nowhere else to go.

Their threads tightened around your heart. You understood now. Why they watched you like hawks. Why they didn’t let you walk alone. Why they stared too long, held too tightly. It wasn’t possessiveness.

It was terror. You were their miracle. And they had died for you. Each of them. You felt your soul tighten, like a lock clicking into place. And then—

A kiss.

Soft. Featherlight. On your temple, your cheeks, your collarbone. Hands smoothed your hair, touched your back, held you like something sacred. Warmth flooded you. The scent of them, and the pressure of their arms. You were being held. Cradled. Loved.

Your lashes fluttered. A breath stuttered through your nose. The first thing you felt when you woke was an ache. Then the weight of limbs. Then a presence.

The moment your breath shifted—shallow to steady—they froze.

“She’s breathing different,” Seungho said sharply, almost accusing.

"She's awake—" Hwimori whispered.

“Y/N?” Haneul. Gentle. Panicked.

Hwimori crawled close, clutching your hand. “Please, open your eyes, darling. Please.”

Your eyes fluttered open in the slightest way. The world was dim. The dim ambient lights of your bedroom ceiling flickered above like dying stars. The first thing you saw was Jinu. His arms cradled you, face pale, tear-streaked. Around him, the boys paced like caged wolves. Haneul had his hands buried in his hair. Seoha was kneeling, breathing hard. Hwimori’s eyes were bloodshot. Seungho stood with his arms crossed, but his fists trembled at his sides.

You blinked, eyes fully opening this time. And all five of them gasped. Your eyes— They were a blood crimson. Like dusk swallowing the sun. Like old blood and divine wrath. Like the bond made flesh. They stared at you as if you’d become someone else entirely.

You saw it on their faces—not just awe. It was fear.

“Oh my god,” Hwi whispered.

“You’re here,” Seoha said, voice so quiet it shook. “You really came back.”

Jinu clutched you tighter, like if he let go your soul might disappear again. “Are you okay?”

You didn’t answer yet. You were staring at them. And suddenly, you understood. Not just the love, not just the pain. The weight. The grief. The choices. The deaths.

You reached a shaking hand to Jinu’s cheek. He inhaled sharply, his eyes wide as he leaned into the touch like it was the only thing keeping him sane. Your voice cracked. Soft. Hoarse. True.

“I remember you.”

Jinu broke.

A sound escaped him. Broken, shattered, and desperate. Tears poured from his eyes like a dam had burst. Silent sobs wracked his body as he buried his face in your shoulder. You felt his lips tremble against your skin.

The others were silent at first. Then Hwi started crying too, cheeks wet as he clung to your arm. Seoha looked away, biting down hard on his fist, lips trembling. Haneul bent forward, pressing a kiss to your knuckles over and over again. Seungho stared at you like he’d forgotten how to breathe, his chest rising and falling with ragged restraint.

You reached out. You cupped Hwi’s face. He melted. You kissed the corner of Seoha’s neck. He closed his eyes like he was being sanctified. You pressed your lips to Seungho’s temple. He made a sound like a wounded animal. You took Haneul’s scarred hands in yours, kissed them. He bit his lip until it bled. And then you leaned up and kissed Jinu. On the mouth. Slow. Certain.

Their arms wrapped around you in a heartbeat. Five bodies, one bond.

“I remember,” you whispered again, voice shaking. “I understand now. I remember all of it. The deaths. The centuries. The waiting. The grief.” Your lips trembled. “I can’t believe what you did for me. How much you hurt. You carried all of it. And I… I forgot you. I forgot all of you.”

“You didn’t mean to,” Seoha said through clenched teeth. “You never meant to.”

“We knew it wasn’t your fault,” Hwi murmured.

“You’re here now,” Jinu breathed. “You’re here.”

“Never do that again,” Seungho snapped, his voice cracking. “Don’t ever make us watch you hurt like that again.”

Haneul clutched you tighter. “I thought we were losing you again.”

“But I made it back,” you whispered.

You looked at them—and they saw something different now in your gaze. Crimson eyes, yes. But more than that. Recognition. Empathy. A knowing that dug through centuries.

You touched your chest and the bond throbbed. “It’s complete now, isn’t it?”

They nodded. Jinu spoke. “The pact has accepted you. The bond is eternal.”

“If we knew it would hurt you that much, we would have never—” Seoha started.

You silenced him with a look. “I had to remember,” you said. “It was a moment of pain. But it’s nothing compared to what you’ve lived through. The pain you bore waiting for me.”

They looked shattered. In awe of you. Then came the touches. Fingers in your hair. Lips on skin. Kisses like prayers. Hands that held you like you were a miracle made flesh.

“I love you,” you said, over and over, through tears. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

And they whispered it back, worshipped it back, every one of them crumbling into your arms. When you finally laid back down, they wrapped around you. Pillows. Limbs. Heartbeats.

And you let go. You felt whole.

You fell asleep to the feel of five mouths kissing you into dreams.

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The sun hadn't even fully risen yet when you stirred, the sky outside a faint shade of lavender. Light filtered through the gauzy curtains in soft, honeyed streaks, catching in the strands of your hair as you lay tangled in warmth and limbs and the lingering glow of something eternal.

You blinked slowly, your lashes heavy with sleep, your cheek pressed against a bare chest—warm, steady, and impossibly sculpted. One arm curled protectively around your waist, another loosely draped over your thigh. The smell of skin, spice, and sleep clung to the air, familiar and grounding.

They surrounded you. All five of them. Jinu was to your left, his long lashes fanned out over sculpted cheeks, his lips parted slightly. In sleep, the sharp lines of his face softened—no leader’s burden, no immortal ache. He was just a man. Yours.

Next to him, Seoha’s usually sly expression was slackened, one hand beneath his cheek like a boy dreaming of quiet mischief. Even now, his collarbone peeked through the loose dip of his tank top, drawing your eyes like a magnet.

Haneul was the furnace at your back—muscle and heat, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that had lulled you to sleep. His hand still lay possessively on your hip. Even resting, he looked like a soldier, sculpted and tense beneath the sheets, as if ready to leap into battle at your first sigh.

Hwimori was curled near your legs, like always—his breath barely audible, his brows relaxed in peace. He looked so young in sleep, gentle and soft. His hair was mussed adorably, and his lips moved in what might’ve been the start of a dream.

And Seungho. Quiet, cold, and dangerously still—yet somehow the one you’d gravitated toward in your final sleep. His arm was draped across your stomach, and he held you even in unconsciousness with a grip that refused to let go.

You watched them for a while. Like this, you could almost pretend they weren’t demons. That they weren’t the ones who had carved their way through centuries with blood on their hands and your name on their tongues. They looked peaceful. Handsome beyond reason. Mortal in their stillness.

You swallowed. The pain from last night had faded to a memory, but the weight of it still lived in your bones. The memories hadn’t vanished. They lingered just beneath your skin, like echoes.

I’m still me, you thought. But more whole.

You remembered the healer. The concubine. The girl in the woods with the spirit fox. The maid who sang in the palace. The noble’s daughter who should’ve chosen love over comfort.

But you were also you. Just… more.

You moved slowly, untangling your arm from beneath Haneul’s. As you pushed back the sheets to get up, a low voice grumbled, sleep-heavy and deep, “Where do you think you’re going?”

You squeaked in surprise as Haneul’s strong arm yanked you back down to his chest. Your palm met warm skin—broad, firm, smooth. Your head hit his pec with a soft bounce. “Haneul!” you hissed, but your protest was ruined by your giggle.

“Mmm,” he hummed, voice still thick with sleep and something darker. “You’re warm. Stay.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Seungho muttered from the other side, his voice rough and low, like gravel soaked in midnight.

“It’s six in the morning,” Seoha groaned without opening his eyes. “Even fate needs beauty sleep.”

“She is our beauty sleep,” Jinu whispered, his hand finding yours under the sheets and lacing your fingers together.

“You’re all so clingy,” you mumbled, but your heart ached with affection.

They began to stir, one by one. Soft kisses pressed against your temple, your cheek, your shoulder. Seungho kissed your wrist without a word. Seoha, now propped up on one elbow, leaned in to steal a kiss from your lips, murmuring, “Still ours?”

You nodded sleepily. “Still yours.”

Jinu cupped your face and smiled. “Good morning, my heart.”

“Good morning” you smiled, “I could get used to this,”

The boys all smiled. Hwimori slipped out of bed first, shuffling toward the kitchen in his oversized hoodie. “I’ll make her tea,” he mumbled.

“Thank you, Hwi!” You called out softly. Hwi brushed his bangs over his forehead— something he rarely did, and flashed you the sweetest smile that had your heart melting.

You watched him go, heart full, body warm from their closeness. Seoha brushed his thumb over your thigh. “How are you feeling?”

You let your fingers skim across his jaw before answering. “Tired. But recharged. I feel… really good. Like I finally stopped holding my breath.”

“Do you still feel any pain?” Jinu asked.

You shook your head. “No. It’s gone. I feel…” You placed a hand on your chest. “Light. Whole. Like I’ve finally come back to myself.”

The room was quiet for a beat. “Thank the fucking gods,” Seungho muttered, grabbing your hand and kissing your knuckles with more tenderness than he’d ever admit.

Hwimori returned a few minutes later with a steaming mug. “Careful. It’s hot.”

You smiled and took it, kissing his cheek. “Thank you, Hwi.”

He blushed a deep red. You looked around at them—your boys, your demons, your past and present—and your chest squeezed. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Their heads snapped toward you. “For what?” Haneul asked.

“For last night. For the pain. For ruining the date. After everything you planned…”

“Stop,” Jinu said gently. “You didn’t ruin anything. We’re just glad you’re okay.”

You smiled and took a sip of tea, then set it aside. “Still… I want to do something. For Hwi’s birthday. Maybe I can bake today?”

Hwimori’s eyes lit up like stars. “You’d really do that?”

You nodded. “You guys are busy today anyway, right?”

Seoha groaned and flopped onto his back. “Rehearsals. Again. Ugh. Can’t we just stay in and worship you instead?”

“No can do,” Jinu said, rolling his eyes. “Idol Awards are tomorrow. We need to be perfect.”

At the mention of it, your breath caught slightly. Zoey’s message flickered in your mind. The invite. The mail. You hesitated.

But looking around at them—all still sleep-rumpled, lips kiss-swollen, eyes soft with devotion—you swallowed it down.

Later. You’d ask later.

For now, you just wanted to be in this moment. With them. You smiled, and five hearts beat just a little faster.

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The kitchen of Huntrix’s shared penthouse buzzed with the smell of eggs, miso soup, and freshly steamed rice. The morning sun filtered through gauzy curtains, casting streaks of gold across their dining table. Bowls clinked, chopsticks moved, and sleepy grumbling filled the air as the three girls slowly came to life.

Rumi sat near the edge, cradling a cup of barley tea between her palms, lost in thought.

“You guys did what?” Mira’s voice cut through the morning fog, sharp and incredulous.

Zoey barely looked up from her phone, her thumb hovering over the message thread. “We invited Y/N to the Idol Awards tomorrow.”

Mira’s eyes widened. “Wouldn't she be going anyway if she's soulbonded to those demons?”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Rumi said, keeping her voice steady. “I figured... maybe we could get the idea into her head ourselves. They’ve been keeping her hidden, remember? She hasn’t gone to any of their press events, their shoots, nothing.”

“They’re definitely protective,” Zoey chimed in, finally tearing her eyes off the screen. “Like... crazy possessive protective. If she’s at the awards, they’re way less likely to cause trouble, right? They wouldn’t risk her getting hurt.”

Mira blinked, sitting straighter. “Wait—Rumi. That’s actually genius.”

Rumi froze, chopsticks halfway to her mouth.

“If she’s there,” Mira continued, “they won’t act out. Even if they planned something... they’d hold back. She’s their weakness. They won’t want her in harm’s way.”

There was a flicker of discomfort on her face, like the idea of demons feeling anything made her stomach turn.

Zoey perked up instantly. “Right?! It’s like using their own psychotic love against them.”

“I... yeah. Exactly,” Rumi said quickly, smiling faintly.

But something twisted in her chest. They don’t know the real reason I wanted her there. Her eyes flicked to the silent corner of her mind—one guarded carefully from even her friends. A ritual only they could perform. A backup plan. A failsafe.

Tonight, she would meet Jinu. She had to. If he didn’t show... if he didn’t listen... then the ritual might be her only chance to stop everything. To protect Y/N. To set Jinu free. To finish what her father couldn’t.

She stared into her tea, the liquid dark and swirling. Please show up, Jinu. Please let me convince you.

“Ugh,” Zoey groaned suddenly, jolting Rumi from her thoughts. “She saw the message.”

Mira paused mid-bite. “Y/N?”

“Yeah.” Zoey flipped her screen around. “Seen. No reply. Like, girl, you okay??”

“She probably hasn’t checked her mail yet,” Mira said, licking broth off her chopsticks. “Or maybe she’s still adjusting to being soulbound to five literal demons. Kinda a lot.”

“Still. It’s weird.” Zoey frowned, chewing on her bottom lip. “She replied to me yesterday…”

Before any of them could spiral into theories, a familiar voice rang from the hall: “Hey girls!” Bobby poked his head into the kitchen, bright-eyed and clipboard in hand. “Think you can be ready in thirty? The van’s on the way to take you to the rehearsal venue!”

“Got it, Bobby!” they chorused, nearly in unison.

Zoey sprang up and tossed her dishes in the sink. “Okay but this is it. Tomorrow’s the Idol Awards. Our night. Takedown’s going to wipe the floor with them.”

“We’re gonna expose those monsters for what they are,” Mira grinned. “It’s time people saw behind the pretty faces.”

Zoey gave a dramatic twirl, grabbing a hair tie from the counter. “And we’ll finally win. With this new single? There’s no way they can touch us.”

“Crush them,” Mira agreed, clinking her glass against Zoey’s water bottle.

Rumi smiled faintly but didn’t join in. Her eyes lingered on her half-finished bowl, chopsticks resting in place. Her appetite was gone. She kept stirring the soup in small, distracted circles.

If we win... if they lose control… if she gets caught in the middle...if they lose her…

Her hand tightened around her spoon. She couldn’t let that happen. She wouldn’t.

Not again.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The day had unfolded with the soft, sleepy kind of warmth that only mornings with them could bring.

Breakfast had been gentle and slow—hands brushing as toast was buttered, kisses placed between sips of tea, sleepy smiles exchanged over bowls of warm congee. Haneul had cooked most of it, still shirtless, humming as he served. Jinu had insisted on feeding you bites of egg with his chopsticks. Hwimori braided a few strands of your hair behind your ear mid-chew, murmuring how soft you looked today. Seoha had brewed a special blend of tea just for you and smirked each time you caught his eye. Even Seungho, ever the aloof one, had sat closer than usual, brushing his thumb over your knee beneath the table like a quiet promise.

Now, the kitchen was yours.

Sunlight poured through the wide windows, dappled across the countertops where ingredients were already lined up: flour, sugar, vanilla, soft butter, cocoa powder, and Hwi’s favorite strawberries waiting in a bowl. You danced barefoot across the tiles, hips swaying in rhythm, your oversized tank top loose around you, clinging in all the places they liked. Your leggings were dusted faintly with flour. You didn’t care.

The speaker in the corner played a familiar beat. And you couldn’t help it—you sang along.

"'Cause I need you to need me

I'm empty, you feed me so refreshing…"

You stirred the batter in time to the music, the spoon spinning in wide circles as you began to bounce on your heels, humming through a smile.

“You're all I can think of,

Every drop I drink up…”

With a happy twirl, you stepped toward the fridge, shimmied your hips, and did a little shoulder pop—your body light and loose, completely lost in the rhythm.

"You're my soda pop,

My little soda pop…"

Your hips swayed more exaggeratedly as you grabbed the eggs and shut the fridge with your hip, laughing to yourself. You gave a cheeky little spin, flicking your hair back. Despite everything—despite the soulbond, the memories, the chaos—you really did enjoy their music.

Not that they knew that, of course.

You were mid-step, lip-syncing dramatically to the chorus, when Haneul wandered into the kitchen in sweats, drawn by the scent of strawberries and the voice of his own song playing from the speaker—only to stop in his tracks at the sight of you.

His brows lifted, a slow smirk spreading on his face as he leaned against the doorway. You had no idea he was watching.

And you looked so damn cute like that—messy ponytail, tank top slipping slightly off one shoulder, hips swaying like a tease, mouthing his lyrics like you meant them.

He nearly groaned.

“Cool me down, you're so hot

Pour me up, I won't stop…”

“Holy shit,” Haneul murmured under his breath, eyes glued to your backside. He raised a finger to his lips and tilted his head toward the hallway as footsteps approached. Seoha entered, already dressed for rehearsal—dark pants, silver jewelry, scent of cologne trailing behind him. He halted, blinking once at the sight before him. Then smirked.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, grinning. “She’s dancing… to us?”

“Shhh,” Haneul held up his hand again. “Let her finish. It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

Seoha chuckled quietly and leaned against the wall beside him, arms folded. “This is... dangerously cute.”

“You’re my soda pop,

My little soda pop…”

The chorus hit again, and you gave a little jump to the beat, hips shaking in perfect time with the music, your whole body a rhythm of domestic joy and pop song innocence. The rest of the boys filtered in—drawn by the sound and the missing members of their pack.

“Why are you two lurking in the hallway like stalkers—” Jinu stopped short, and the others bumped into him. They froze. Seungho’s eyes narrowed slightly. Hwimori’s mouth parted. They all stared.

You turned, oblivious, spoon in your mouth as you tasted the batter, and— You froze. Six pairs of eyes on you.

Your jaw dropped. “H-How long have you guys been standing there?”

Seoha smirked first. “Long enough to consider recording it for eternity.”

“You were really feelin’ that chorus, huh?” Haneul grinned.

Seungho didn’t say a word—just stalked toward you slowly, eyes locked on yours, until he was right behind you. Before you could retreat, his hand slipped down and gave your ass a possessive squeeze.

You squeaked. He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “If you’re going to dance like that in our kitchen, you better be ready to finish what you started.”

“Sh-Shut up,” you stammered, face turning scarlet.

They laughed—open, warm, unfiltered joy. “You’re never living this down,” Haneul added, grabbing a strawberry from the counter and popping it in his mouth with a wink.

“You guys are the worst,” you grumbled, trying to hide your flustered smile as you stirred the batter again.

“You’re the one who was dancing to our song, baby,” Seoha said, smoothing his hands down your hips from behind and kissing the top of your head. “You should know better by now.”

You glanced at them—sculpted torsos, styled hair, dressed in coordinated blacks and silvers for rehearsal. They looked like the idols they were… demons in disguise. Too handsome. Too dangerous. And yet—completely yours.

“Don’t you guys have to leave soon?” you asked, flicking batter toward them playfully.

“Eventually,” Jinu said, stepping closer to brush flour from your cheek. “But watching you like that might’ve just made my whole day.”

“You’re lucky we didn’t drag you back to bed,” Seoha muttered against your skin.

“Yet,” Seungho added darkly.

You rolled your eyes but smiled—giddy, flustered, glowing. They were yours. And somehow, today felt lighter. You returned to your mixing bowl, cheeks still hot, but heart full.

And they watched you with the kind of awe only demons in love could give.

A few minutes passed. The kitchen was still warm with the scent of vanilla and sugar, the soft hum of your music still echoing faintly from the speakers. Batter clung to your whisk as you stirred, smiling faintly to yourself. The boys were nearby, some packing up for rehearsal, others chatting softly—Jinu was on the phone discussing logistics with the venue manager, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose while Seoha triple-checked their schedules.

Everything felt… almost normal. Until your phone buzzed again. You wiped your fingers on your apron and picked it up, screen still lit from earlier. A new message from Zoey blinked at you.

“Hey hey! Double texting—but just wanted to make sure you got the invite? lmk!”

Your heart stalled. The Idol Awards.

You hadn’t even replied to her first message. And now, here she was, following up. You stared at the screen for a beat longer than necessary before swallowing and turning your head toward the living room. Jinu was still distracted. The others were already dressed and lingering before they had to leave. If you were going to ask, it had to be now.

You set the whisk down. “Hey… about the Idol Awards tomorrow.”

Five heads turned. You hesitated, eyes scanning each of them. “It’s a big night for you guys… did you… want me to be there?”

The shift was immediate. Tension rippled through the room like a cold wind. Seoha’s shoulders stiffened, his gaze sharpening.

“Why?” he asked slowly. “Did Zoey message you by any chance?”

You blinked. “How did you know that…?”

Silence. Absolute silence. Seoha didn’t flinch. He just watched you, expression unreadable. Your chest tightened. “She just messaged to ask if I was going,” you clarified, trying to keep your tone even. “So I wanted to know—”

You trailed off as you scanned their faces again. Something had changed in them. They weren’t shocked or confused. They were already aware.

Hwimori stepped closer. “Did you… want to go?”

You hesitated, gaze dropping. “Well… yeah. I mean… it’s a big moment for you. Don’t you want me to see it?”

There was a beat.

“Of course we do,” Seoha finally said, but his voice was taut. “But that place will be crawling with cameras, staff, fans—security everywhere.”

Jinu set his phone down, eyes locked onto yours with unsettling calm. “And Huntrix. They’ll be there too. Watching. Maybe waiting.”

You stared at him. “Do you think they’d actually do something to me?”

Seungho’s voice cut in—sharp, low. “They’ve already reached out to you privately. That alone is reason enough not to trust them.”

“We’re just being careful, baby,” Haneul added gently, as if to balance out the tension. “It’s not about not trusting you. It’s about keeping you safe.”

Safe. That word again. Your eyes flicked to Seoha, a knot forming in your stomach. Something told you not to ask… but you couldn’t stop yourself. You remembered what he said about handling your mail. A favor, he'd called it. A kindness. But if they were reacting like this… there was no way that invitation ever made it to your hands.

You sat down slowly at the kitchen table, heart heavier than you expected. “I just thought… after everything last night… I’d be there. Supporting you. With you.”

Hwimori knelt beside you, brushing his fingers lightly across your knee. “We want you there. But it’s dangerous. And if anything happened to you in that crowd, we’d burn the building down. You know we would.”

The words sounded romantic. Protective. But they chilled you. You looked up at them again. Their faces—so familiar, so beloved—now held something darker. Something heavier. Like you were a glass sculpture they couldn’t bear to shatter.

You nodded, offering a faint smile. “It’s okay. I get it. I’ll stay home.”

They all exhaled in relief. Jinu kissed your temple gently. Seoha rested his hand on your shoulder. Haneul pulled you into a tight hug, murmuring, “We’ll be back before you know it.”

“I’ll miss you,” Hwimori whispered. “Don’t overwork yourself.”

“Don’t go anywhere while we’re gone,” Seungho added, his tone a quiet warning disguised as sweetness.

You nodded again. But the ache in your chest didn’t fade. You walked them out to the door, watching them each lean down to press kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your hair.

“We love you,” Jinu said, touching your chin. “No matter what.”

“I love you,” you whispered and smiled, waving at them walking down the hallway. And then the door clicked shut. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

You walked back into the kitchen, the smell of sugar and vanilla still thick in the air, but your stomach turned. That familiar itch crept beneath your skin again. Why hadn’t they just told you? Why hadn’t they trusted you with the truth? You paced for a moment, staring blankly at the mixing bowl.

Derpy lay curled on the kitchen rug, his massive striped paws twitching as he dozed, but one of his eerie, oversized eyes cracked open at your stillness. The magpie, perched on the hanging pot rack, tilted its tiny-hatted head at you curiously.

Then a terrible thought bloomed in your chest. Seoha handles the mail…

You dropped everything. You checked the stack by the door again—same bills, same coupons. Nothing new. Derpy slowly rose to his feet with a low, rumbling huff, padding behind you as you moved to the kitchen trash, digging through flour-covered paper towels and broken eggshells. The magpie flitted to the counter edge, its glossy wings catching the light.

Nothing. You tried the bin in the living room. Then the bathroom. The tiger and the bird followed, quiet shadows in your trail, heads cocked in a silent mirror of your growing urgency.

And just when you were starting to feel ridiculous— There it was. Shoved toward the bottom of the hallway trash, crumpled slightly, but still pristine. An envelope. Gilded in soft gold. Your name on it.

Your breath caught. You pulled it out slowly, your fingers trembling. The seal wasn’t broken. The magpie’s beak dropped open dramatically, wings flaring like it had just witnessed a crime scene. Derpy blinked his big cartoonish eyes at the envelope, utterly confused.

You peeled it open. Inside was your ticket to the Idol Awards. Addressed to you. Your name printed in ornate lettering. A special seat reserved.

Your heart twisted. You stood there, staring at it like it might bite you. Like the paper itself could burn. They had thrown it away. They knew. They had seen it. And they had made the choice—for you.

You pressed a hand to your chest, willing yourself not to cry. The magpie hopped onto your shoulder gently, its feathers brushing your cheek. Derpy nudged your leg with his nose, a low chuff rumbling in his throat like he could sense your distress.

They said it was for your protection. And maybe it was. But… why hadn’t they trusted you enough to explain? Why did you have to find this like a secret they hoped would stay buried?

You returned to the kitchen slowly, placing the invitation on the counter next to the batter. It sat there like a ghost—glaring, radiant, painful.

You stirred the mix, mechanically. The magpie remained perched nearby, chirping quietly like it was trying to comfort you. Derpy sprawled out beside the fridge, watching with soft blue eyes, tail flicking like a metronome.

And as you stirred, your thoughts spun darker. They said it was for your safety. But Huntrix wanted you there too. Why?

And what was so dangerous about this night that both sides wanted you to be in a certain place? You didn’t want to believe they were hiding something. But that itch—that cold doubt—gnawed at your ribs.

You finished prepping the cupcakes, the mochi mix, the cream fillings. You piped hearts onto the tops. Cleaned up the mess. Kept your hands busy because your head wouldn’t stop spinning. An hour passed and you realized you were out of sweet rice flour.

You groaned. “I should’ve gotten enough…”

The mochi had already started setting. You couldn’t leave it hanging. Your eyes drifted to the invite again. The magpie followed your gaze with a suspicious squeak. You bit your lip. They’d told you not to leave the apartment.

But after everything... you couldn’t help but want to breathe a little rebellion into your lungs. Just once.

It was just one errand. A quick trip to the store. They wouldn’t even know.

You cleaned your hands, grabbed your jacket, and slipped your shoes on. As you approached the door, the magpie suddenly took off, flapping in front of you with a sharp, anxious trill, trying to block your path. Derpy rose, muscles taut, his tail thumping once in warning.

“I’ll be quick,” you whispered, brushing the bird aside gently. “Be good, okay?”

The magpie let out one last, distressed chirp.

And then you stepped outside.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The chamber was dark, lit only by the low hum of violet runes etched into the stone. Shadows clung to the walls like smoke, shifting faintly with every breath of air that stirred.

One of them moved first, robes whispering as he stepped forward, eyes clouded with something older than time.

“It has sealed,” he murmured, voice like dust on parchment. “The bond.”

There was a pause. The second leaned forward, lips thinning. “Is it strong enough?”

The first’s mouth curled, not in joy—but in certainty. “It’s been growing for lifetimes,” he said. “Rooted deeper than most mortals could ever understand. Than anything he could’ve ever created. It was never a question of strength. Only of time.”

Silence stretched again, heavy. “And the demons?” the second asked finally. “They don’t know what she could become?”

The first’s gaze gleamed and he shook his head. “No. They don’t. I suspect perhaps the oldest one… Jinu, was it?” the first rubbed his chin in thought, “Suspects. After all, I did meddle quite a bit…”

“Then how in the world would it even be possible?” The second’s voice was quiet, but pointed. A knife behind velvet. The first turned his head ever so slightly. “That depends… the only one who has knowledge of what could transpire is…” his eyes softened, “-the daughter of Daehyun.”

The second’s expression flickered—surprise, maybe, or something near suspicion. “She’s still alive?”

“She walks among them,” the first confirmed, a wry smile curled on his lips, “As a hunter no less…”

The second scoffs in disbelief. “The irony of it all…”

The first agrees with an amused nod, “But we do not know what she knows. Or what role she intends to play. If she has any true connection to any of them.”

“And if she does?”

“Then it may be enough.” The first tilted his chin slightly upward, as if tasting fate on the wind. “Though I doubt she understands the scope of what her blood once tried to create.”

Another silence, this one longer. “You should intervene,” the second said, voice firmer now. “If there’s even a chance—”

“I will not meddle,” the first interrupted smoothly, but his tone was too still, too deliberate. “Not yet.” He turned away from the runes, gazing deeper into the stone.

“The pieces are in motion,” he continued. “The bond has changed her… But what she is becoming?” His fingers brushed the air, tracing something unseen. “That is not solely their doing.”

The second narrowed his eyes. “You think it will awaken?”

“I think,” the first said softly, “that what binds them… was never just about love.”

And the runes pulsed once, dim and red.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

"When your patterns start to show, it makes the hatred want to grow out of my—"

Rumi trailed off from her singing, the words suddenly tasting bitter on her tongue. Her voice dropped, her body slowing as she lost the rhythm. The song just... wasn't right. At first, she had suggested the diss track. An anti-demon anthem. Something loud and vengeful.

But that was before. Before she knew about Jinu. Before the soulbond. Before learning what her parents had tried to build.

“What's going on? Why are we stopping?” Mira complained, snapping her body out of formation with an exaggerated stomp. Her eyes narrowed, sweat glinting at her temple. She hated wasting time—especially this close to the awards.

Rumi exhaled, annoyed at herself. “It's just these lyrics are throwing me off. I don't think they're right just yet...”

“Seriously? Now?” Mira crossed her arms, her voice sharp and disbelieving. “We’ve rehearsed this for weeks, Rumi. Now you’re saying the lyrics don’t work?”

“No, it’s fine,” Zoey said quickly, trying to smooth things over. She knelt beside her duffel bag, flipping through her battered notebook filled with scribbled verses and crossed-out lines. “It’s the second verse, right?”

She rattled off some backup lines, equally sharp, equally condemning. Words that mirrored the pain, the betrayal, the rage they'd all channeled since the incident with the Saja boys. But Rumi shook her head.

“No, Zoey, it’s just—it’s the whole song.”

Zoey looked up from the page, face frozen in disbelief. “Oh, okay great. Well then I might as well tear these all up!” She ripped out the page in front of her and shredded it for dramatic flair, the paper fluttering to the floor like dead leaves.

“Rumi, we don’t have time to change the lyrics even if we wanted to,” Mira exploded, her frustration bubbling over. “The Idol Awards are TOMORROW! This is the performance—we can’t just rewrite the damn thing!”

“Well... I don’t think I can sing this song,” Rumi said quietly but firmly.

Mira and Zoey stared at her like she had grown horns. The stage practically froze in the echo of her words. The silence between them was thick and sharp, full of disbelief and confusion. Rumi had been distant lately—distracted, vague. But now? Now she sounded like someone else.

“Zoey, has Y/N replied?” she asked suddenly, voice softer, more tentative.

The shift in topic was so abrupt, so surreal, the girls just gawked at her. “Seriously?!” Zoey cried, blinking in disbelief. “Rumi, what’s with you? Why do you want her there so bad? I get that it’s a good idea to stop the Saja boys from doing anything—but we shouldn’t be focusing on that—”

“Is that why you can’t sing the song?” Mira asked, her tone sharpening. “Because you don’t want her to hear this? Because of the soulbond?!”

Rumi’s eyes widened. “What–! No! I–“

“We don’t even know if it’s real,” Zoey added, her voice rising in exasperation. “You can’t just base our entire performance on—”

“Hey girls,” Bobby called as he entered, arms full of drinks and convenience store snacks. “Just wanted to bring some last-minute pick-me-ups…”

They barely heard him.

Zoey and Mira were still glaring at Rumi, lips parted in disbelief, sweat cooling rapidly on their skin. Bobby’s cheerful voice became background noise, distant and irrelevant.

And then— A tremor. A softcrack beneath their feet. Like lightning striking glass from under the stage. They all stopped. Zoey’s spine straightened. Mira’s eyes darted to the ground. Rumi turned her head sharply toward the far end of the stadium.

A faint pulse of pink light shimmered beneath the floorboards. Thin like a thread. But it spread—spiderweb cracks of residual energy spiraling outward in slow motion. The Honmoon was reacting. Rumi’s eyes locked with the others.

They didn’t need words. Demons. A breach.

They grabbed their things instinctively, choreography forgotten. In an instant, they were moving—rushing out of the stadium, hearts pounding, leaving confusion, anger, and broken lyrics behind.

The performance could wait. Something else had cracked first.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You walked to the grocery store, hands shoved deep into your jacket pockets, but your thoughts were miles away—still circling the envelope like a vulture over something dead.

They threw it away. They didn’t even tell you. They chose to hide it.

The thought pulsed in your chest like an old wound ripped open again. You knew them—you knew how obsessive they were, how protective, how the soulbond had changed everything between you. But knowing didn’t stop the sting. You weren’t their pet. You weren’t a doll to be kept on a shelf, dressed up and adored but locked away when inconvenient. Even if they said it was for your safety, even if some part of you believed that... it didn’t make it okay.

You reached the corner store, ducking under the flickering neon sign. It had been so long since you went out alone. You used to do this sort of thing all the time—quick errands, solo walks, people-watching from trains and cafés. But ever since the boys came into your life, your world had become... small. Controlled. Every step shadowed. Every door opened for you. Every hand held tight.

You didn’t even realize how much you missed this. The cold air on your cheeks. The freedom of deciding something without checking in.

Inside, the grocery was quiet. You scanned the shelves, fingers brushing labels, searching until your eyes landed on the baking section. The memory hit before you could stop it.

Jinu. Pushing the cart, grinning under his mask, teasing you over what brand of flour you liked. His hand brushing yours as you both reached for sprinkles at the same time. The warmth in your chest, that fluttering feeling. You bit your lip and swallowed hard. Even he didn’t tell you.

You scanned the shelf. No sweet rice flour. “Of course,” you muttered under your breath, sighing. You spotted a staff member restocking nearby. “Excuse me—do you have any more of this?”

The woman glanced at the empty spot and shook her head. “Sorry, we’re out. But the other branch—ten minutes from here? They should still have stock.”

She pointed out the location to you on your phone. The nearest store was one subway stop away. You hesitated. They told you not to leave the apartment. You promised yourself you wouldn’t go far. But this wasn’t far. It was one stop. One errand. One ingredient.

It was a tiny rebellion. Afterall, you had missed being outside doing your own thing.

You left the store and made your way to the station. The smell of warm asphalt and train metal hit you, and suddenly, you were thrown back into a life that felt like someone else’s. People passed in waves—suits, students, tourists, old ladies with tote bags. It was loud, messy, ordinary.

You breathed it in. You boarded the train, grateful for the empty seat near the door. As you sat down, the low jingle of a familiar tune drifted from the girl beside you.

“Soda Pop”

You froze. On the screen, the Saja boys grinned. Bright lights, perfect smiles, voices slick with polish.

“Join the pride. We need you.”

Their eyes sparkled. Their movements were hypnotic. They were flawless. You stared. Not at the fan-club invite video, but at the gap between who they pretended to be and who they really were. How dangerous they really were. How easily they lured people in—just like they lured you. The smiles. The charm. The seduction.

And yet... No one knew them like you did.

No one saw the way they held you at night like you’d vanish if they let go. The way Seungho whispered confessions to your sleeping body. The way Haneul’s hands trembled every time you winced. The way Jinu always said “Mine” with the quiet finality of a man who’d burned worlds for you.

Your heart ached. You leaned your head against the train window, eyes fluttering closed. And then—

The glass darkened. You blinked. Outside the window… darkness. Crawling, slithering, writhing. Faceless monsters. Hundreds of them. Crawling across the outside of the train like insects. Sticking to the glass. Scratching at the metal. Their limbs dragged across the walls like tar.

You gasped. Passengers glanced at you, confused. A man beside you frowned. “Miss, are you okay?”

You turned to him, panic etched into your face. “Don’t you see them?! Outside—there’s—”

You looked around. Everyone sat still. Scrolling. Talking. Sleeping. Normal.

Why aren’t they seeing this?

Your heart pounded. “They’re—there’s something outside—!”

No one moved. No one reacted. Then— A shadow passed through the window. Into the train. One of them came through the glass like mist, sliding toward the man who had spoken to you. You opened your mouth to scream just as the monster placed a hand on the man’s chest— and sucked the soul right out of him.

A bright blue wisp of light—his essence—ripped from his body. He vanished. Your scream tore through the silence.

“MISS—WHAT—?!” someone shouted.

But no one saw the monster hovering there. No one saw the way more were crawling in. More and more, seeping through the windows, the cracks, the air vents. You turned—people’s bodies slumping, souls lifted. No one else reacted.

Only you.

You backed away, tripping into the corner of the car, sobbing, trembling. What the hell is happening? What is this?! What the fuck is this?! Are you going to die?!

You saw them crawling, writhing. Stealing the souls of everyone with you in the train cart. You froze, blood curling beneath your veins as you noticed their skin.

Patterns. Purple, familiar patterns littered their skin in the same way you knew them. Your stomach sank. These monsters were… Demons?

You reached for your phone, for something—anything—And then— The lights flickered. The doors hissed. The train began to slow. But the demons didn’t.

Another demon had entered. This one was larger than the others and had a face that terrified you to your core. His red skin looked hard and scale-like. Patterns littered his limbs, but now, they weren’t beautiful as you’d known them. Right now, those patterns looked menacing. He had terrifying horns that curled like a ram’s. His eyes– soulless, red, and devious. He looked like a monster from nightmares.

This couldn’t be a real demon, could it? He looked nothing like the boys. Nothing like the beautiful demons who whispered sweet nothings into your ear and held you close at night. His eyes were wild and terrible— and locked onto you.

And he began to move. Right toward you.

TO BE CONTINUED

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A/N: Dun Dun Dunnnnn. Why is it that whenever you leave the house, something shitty always has to happen? Drama follows you everywhere, doesn't it?

*Sigh, I think you guys can just anticipate the events of the next chapter. It's going to be a bit intense, and a bit ouchie. I'm sorry!! But trust the process. <3

Thank you all for reading as usual! MWAH!

Willa x.

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abbotjack · 3 months ago

Text

.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.

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.

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