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babyscottoncandy · 2 months ago

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We Hug Now

Theodore Nott,, Harry Potter

Summary: Theodore Nott x Fem¡Reader,, the aftermath of their breakup was disastrous. Theodore seemed perfectly fine as always, getting into every girls' pants. While you were left of the mess made.

TW: Angst, Sexual Innuendos, Cheating

Based off the song "We Hug Now" by Sydney Rose

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You always thought heartbreak would come quietly—like the soft closing of a door or the fading of a song. But when Theodore Nott walked out of your life, it felt more like a storm tearing through everything you’d built together. He didn’t flinch, didn’t look back. He just moved on, slipping seamlessly into someone else’s sheets while you were left trying to pick up the pieces of yourself he left behind. Everyone said he was doing fine—laughing in the common room, flashing that lazy smirk, tangled up with girls who weren’t you. And maybe he was fine. Maybe he never felt a damn thing to begin with.

But you did. And now, in the ruins of what used to be love, you’re left with nothing but questions, rage, and a burning need to either forget him—or make him feel everything he made you feel.

The library is too quiet.

Every sound echoes—the scrape of your chair, the creak of old floorboards, the soft thud of books being returned to their shelves. The kind of silence that should feel peaceful, but instead feels like it’s pressing against your skin, crawling into your lungs, making it hard to breathe.

Across the room, Theodore Nott leans against the far shelf, flipping through a book he has no intention of reading. He hasn’t said a word to you since you both walked in twenty minutes ago. Not a nod. Not a glance. Just that infuriating, calculated stillness like none of this matters to him at all.

You place another book on the shelf with more force than necessary. He doesn’t react. Of course he doesn’t.

You hate how aware of him you still are—how you can feel him without even looking. The way he runs a hand through his hair, the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the way his presence fills a room even when he says nothing. Especially when he says nothing.

You grab another book. Your fingers shake. You don’t know why.

He moves, finally. Walks past your aisle to return something to the other side of the room, and you pretend not to notice. But your eyes flick up, unbidden, catching the way his jaw tenses when he walks by, the way he doesn’t look at you but feels like he almost did.

It’s infuriating, the way he ignores you. The way he doesn’t acknowledge everything that was left behind—everything you never said, and he never had the decency to explain.

The air between you hums with things unsaid. Minutes crawl. Books blur. You don’t speak. He doesn’t either. But you both feel it.

That ache beneath your ribs. That familiar pulse of something dangerous and unspoken, still clawing at your throats. And when detention finally ends, you don’t wait for him. You walk out first. But not fast enough to miss the way he watches you go.

The common room is half-lit, fire crackling low in the hearth, casting shadows that move like whispers on the walls. You’re curled into the armchair in the corner, a book open on your lap that you haven’t turned a page in for the last twenty minutes. You’re not eavesdropping. Not really.

They didn’t even notice you were there—tucked behind the back of the chair, half-buried in a blanket, forgotten.

“…told me he snuck out again last night,” someone says, laughing. You freeze. You know that voice. Blaise.

“Where to this time?” another boy asks, amused.

“Sixth floor. Empty classroom. With Emma Davies.” Blaise snorts. “Said she nearly cried when he left right after.” Your throat tightens. “Merlin,” the other boy mutters. “That’s the third one this week.”

“Fourth,” Blaise corrects, like it’s funny. “He’s having the time of his life, mate. No strings. No guilt. Just—” he whistles low, “—whoever he wants, whenever he wants.”

The words hit harder than they should. You weren’t his girlfriend. You never had a label. But there were nights you fell asleep to the feel of his breath on your skin, mornings you woke up with the ghost of his fingers still tangled in yours.

And now he’s…fine. You stay very still. You don’t cry. Don’t move. Don’t even blink.

They keep talking—something about Quidditch, someone’s potions grade—but the rest is static. You can’t hear anything over the blood rushing in your ears.

You close your book quietly. Rise even quieter. Walk out of the common room like your chest isn’t caving in. He wasn’t yours. But you were his.

The music is too loud, bass thrumming through the floor like a second heartbeat. The Slytherin common room has been transformed—green lights flickering like fireflies on the ceiling, bottles scattered across every surface, laughter bouncing off the stone walls in waves.

You don’t even know why you came.

Someone dragged you along—maybe out of pity, maybe to prove something. You told yourself you’d stay five minutes. Long enough to be seen. Long enough to prove, to whoever might be watching, that you’re fine. You’re not watching for him. Except you are. And there he is.

Theodore Nott—at the center of it all, like he was made for this. One arm thrown lazily around some girl you don’t recognize, his head tilted back in a laugh that sounds nothing like the quiet boy who used to press his mouth to your collarbone and breathe like the world stopped there.

He looks golden in the low light, all smirking lips and slow, confident movement. Effortless. Free.

Like he hasn’t thought about you in weeks.

The girl leans into his ear. He smirks. Says something that makes her blush and hit his arm. He downs the rest of his drink and lets her drag him toward the music, the lights catching in his eyes like stars. He’s not looking at you. Doesn’t even know you’re there. But you feel like he’s everywhere.

You turn away too quickly, the ache blooming in your chest sharp and familiar. Someone offers you a drink. You take it. Someone else pulls you into conversation. You nod, smile, laugh at the right times. You pretend so hard it almost works.

Until you glance back, and he’s watching now.

Only for a second.

But it’s enough.

His eyes meet yours across the room—cool, unreadable, cutting straight through the haze of noise and light. You don’t look away and neither does he.

Then someone touches his shoulder, says something, and he’s gone again—smiling at her, that stupid lazy grin, already forgetting you were ever part of the picture.

You take another sip. Swallow the burn.

If he can pretend, so can you.

The party’s still humming in the common room, but you’re done with pretending. The sound is muffled now—just bass through the floor and the occasional burst of laughter from down the hall. You’re in someone’s empty bedroom—doesn’t matter whose. The door is cracked. The light is low.

You only came in to breathe and then he walks in. The door shuts behind him. Quiet click. You turn, already bracing yourself. “Theodore,” you mutter, warning in your voice.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just leans back against the door, watching you like he’s trying to figure out what version of you he’s about to get. “You followed me?” you ask, arms crossed tightly.

“You disappeared.” You scoff. “So?”

“So I noticed.”

You hate how that affects you—how the words land deeper than they should. You shouldn’t care that he noticed. Not after everything.

You stop just in front of him. Arms crossed. Heart racing. Words burning your tongue.

“You’re really enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” His brows lift. “Excuse me?” You tilt your head, tone sharp. “Four girls in one week, Theo? Impressive. Bet it’s nice not having to feel anything.”

He sets his drink down slowly, gaze narrowing. “And what, you’ve been keeping track?” You ignore the sting. “It’s not hard to notice when you’re trying so hard to be noticed.”

He leans back against the mantel, jaw tight. “What do you want me to say?” You laugh, humorless. “Nothing. That’s what you’re good at, right? Saying nothing.”

His expression darkens. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” you snap. “Call you out? For pretending like none of it meant anything? For acting like I was—” You stop. Bite it back. Too much.

But he’s already stepping closer. “You think I don’t feel anything?” he says, voice low and harsh. “You think this is easy for me?”

“You made it look easy,” you whisper.

He shakes his head. “You were the one thing I didn’t know how to handle. And I hated how much I wanted you.”

You flinch. “Wanted?” His eyes flick to your mouth. “Still do.”

The space between you evaporates. And then his hands are in your hair, and your mouth crashes into his like this is war, not love. You kiss him like you’re trying to break him. He kisses you like he’s already broken. It’s hot, angry, desperate—fingers tugging, teeth clashing, breathless gasps between swallows of each other.

He walks you back until your spine hits the stone wall, lips trailing down your neck, hands rough at your waist like he’s starving for the feeling of you again. You grab at his shirt, pull him closer, need him closer. “You’re an idiot,” you murmur against his skin.

He laughs into your throat, breath ragged. “You never stopped being mine.” You don’t answer, you just pull him in harder.

Morning comes too soon, the sunlight creeps through the curtains, slow and cruel, painting gold across tangled sheets and bare skin. Your eyes open slowly, a haze of warmth still clinging to your limbs. For a moment, you don’t remember where you are.

Then you feel him beside you. Theodore. Asleep—or pretending to be. His back is turned, shoulder blade sharp under the sheets. You lie still, not touching, not breathing too loud, scared to break whatever fragile spell still exists between you.

But it breaks anyway.

He shifts.

Sits up.

Doesn’t look at you.

“Theo,” you say softly, voice rasped with sleep and something more fragile. He stands. Pulls on his shirt. His silence stretches, thick and awful. You sit up, blanket clutched around you, heart starting to race. “Say something.”

Still, nothing. He finds his wand on the desk. Runs a hand through his hair. Finally turns to you—but there’s no warmth in his face. No trace of last night.

“What do you want me to say?” he says flatly. You blink. “Anything. Everything. I don’t know.”

He laughs, sharp and bitter. “It was a mistake." Your stomach drops. “What?” He doesn’t repeat it. Doesn’t need to. You shake your head. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like it didn’t mean anything—”

“It didn’t,” he says, cutting you off. The words hit like a slap. You stare at him, mouth open, chest aching. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” His voice is colder now, clipped. “It was just sex. Don’t make it more than that.” You flinch like he hit you. He sees it—but doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften. Just keeps his face blank, like this is routine. Like he’s done this before.

You feel something inside you collapse. “You’re lying,” you whisper. “Last night—”

“Last night didn’t change anything,” he snaps. “You’re not mine. I don’t want you.” Silence swallows the room whole.

You want to scream. You want to hit him. You want to cry. But you don’t.

You just nod. Slow. Like you’re finally understanding the rules of a game you never agreed to play. “Right,” you say, voice barely there. “Got it.” He doesn’t stop you when you get dressed.

Doesn’t look at you when you open the door. And as you leave, he doesn’t say goodbye. But the second the door clicks shut, he sinks to the floor, head in his hands. And he does feel it, he just won’t let himself show it.

You don’t cry right away. You walk. Fast. Barefoot, clothes from the night before still clinging to your skin, hair a mess, mouth bitten raw from his kiss.

The castle is silent this early—bare stone corridors and flickering torchlight and the echo of your own footsteps. You don’t know where you’re going. You just need to move. To get away from that room. From him. But even as you walk, it follows you. His voice. His hands. The way he looked at you like you were something to be devoured—then discarded.

You make it to the bathroom. Lock the door. Sit on the cold tile floor and pull your knees to your chest. The silence buzzes in your ears. Then it cracks.

And suddenly you’re crying.

Not pretty, delicate crying. Not the kind anyone would call poetic. This is the kind of sobbing that leaves your chest raw. The kind that shakes. The kind that makes it hard to breathe.

You feel stupid.

For going to that party. For letting him touch you again. For thinking—hoping—that maybe last night meant something. That maybe there was still a version of him that loved you quietly, even if he never said it out loud. But he didn’t love you. He doesn’t love you.

You press your hand to your mouth to muffle the sound, to keep the rest of the castle from hearing how thoroughly he broke you.

The worst part? You’d let him do it again.

If he looked at you that way—if he said your name like a secret again—you’d go back. And you hate yourself for it. By the time your breathing calms, the sun is up.

You rinse your face. Avoid your reflection. Walk out like nothing happened. In the hallway, someone waves. You smile. The mask slips back on. But underneath it? You’re wrecked, and no one knows.

The castle moves on, like it always does. Classes resume. Quidditch matches get scheduled. People gossip about who’s dating who and which professor might secretly be an alcoholic. Everything is normal.

Except it isn’t, not for you. Because he’s fine. Theodore Nott is walking around like he didn’t rip you apart just days ago. Like he didn’t say the most devastating things you’ve ever heard in a voice so calm it made your skin crawl.

He’s smiling.

He’s surrounded by people—shoulders brushing his as they laugh at something he’s said. That effortless smirk is back, lips curling like the world amuses him. His sleeves are rolled, tie loose, hair a little messy in that way that looks deliberate. Girls lean in when he talks. He doesn’t lean back.

He’s magnetic again.

Confident.

Untouched.

You pass him in the corridor once. He doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t look at you. Not even accidentally. It’s like your existence has been erased from his memory. Like you were just a blip—an inconvenience he finally shrugged off.

And everyone else seems to believe it too.

You hear someone say, “Theodore’s been in a good mood lately. Guess he’s finally over her. You’re “her” now. No name, just a past tense.

You clench your jaw, keep walking. Pretend you didn’t hear it. Pretend it doesn’t matter. But later, alone, you replay it. Over and over. That laugh. That smile. That version of him that exists without you. He’s better, and you? You haven’t slept in days.

It’s spring again, the same light filters through the castle windows. The same warmth lingers in the air. But everything’s changed.

Including you. It’s been a year since the last time you touched him. Since you let him break your heart and walk away like it cost him nothing. A year since you cried in silence and forced yourself to become someone new.

And you did.

You cut your hair.

You stopped looking for him in every hallway.

You learned how to stop flinching when someone asked you about last year. And then—when you weren’t even trying—you met someone else.

He’s kind. Steady. He doesn’t play games or leave you guessing. He holds your hand in the corridors. Kisses your temple in the library. He knows how to love gently. And the best part? You let him.

You don’t compare him to Theodore anymore.

You don’t need to, you're happy — and Theodore notices.

He watches you sometimes. Pretends he’s not. You’ll catch it out of the corner of your eye—the way his gaze lingers too long, the way his expression falters when your boyfriend pulls you into a hug, when you laugh without bitterness, when you look radiant in the kind of happiness he never gave you.

He doesn’t say anything. Of course he doesn’t, but he feels it.

Because now you’re the one smiling. You’re the one surrounded by warmth. And he’s the ghost haunting a story you stopped telling. Sometimes he sees you with him—your boyfriend—and something bitter curls inside him.

Too late, and he knows it. And the worst part? You don’t even look at him anymore. Not like you used to. Not at all.

You didn’t expect to see him again—not like this.

Not standing in the middle of the courtyard, soaked to the bone, rain dripping from his lashes, fists clenched like he’s holding something back that might rip him apart if he lets go.

But there he is.

And there you are.

Face-to-face in the middle of a storm, like the universe couldn’t bear to let the silence last any longer.

“Don’t go to him.”

The words are ragged, barely louder than the downpour, but they stop you cold. You freeze mid-step, your fingers still curled around the edge of your hood.

You turn slowly.

He looks like hell.

Dripping wet. Pale. Hollow-eyed.

You blink. “What?”

“The guy you’re with,” Theodore says, voice cracking. “He’s cheating on you.”

A beat of silence.

Then laughter. Sharp, humorless, bitter.

“That’s low, even for you.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Oh, really?” You step closer, the rain plastering your hair to your face. “You disappear for a year—ghost me, ignore me, treat me like I never meant a damn thing—and now you suddenly care?”

His jaw tightens. “It’s not like that.”

“No?” You tilt your head. “Then what’s it like, Theo? Enlighten me. Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you just hate seeing me happy.”

His breath catches.

“I hated it,” he says, finally. “Watching you smile at him. Watching him touch you. Pretend he knows you like I did. Like I still do.”

Your heart stumbles.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t say that. You don’t get to say that.”

“I left because I had to,” he says, stepping forward, rain running down his face like tears he’d never admit to. “I didn’t stop caring. I didn’t stop—” He breaks off, shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s saying any of this. “I left because I was being pulled into something dark. Something that would’ve destroyed you if I let it touch you.”

You stare at him, rain soaking into your skin, your chest cracking open all over again.

“You could’ve told me,” you say, voice breaking.

“No,” he says quietly. “You would’ve stayed. You would’ve tried to save me.”

“So what?” you whisper. “You decided to ruin me instead?”

He flinches.

“I thought—if I made you hate me—if I made it hurt—you’d leave. You’d be safe.”

Your eyes burn. “It didn’t make me safe. It made me wrecked. I cried for weeks. I blamed myself. I thought I wasn’t enough. That you never loved me. And now you show up and tell me—what? That it was all some noble fucking sacrifice?”

He doesn’t answer.

Because it was.

And it wasn’t.

He takes a breath, shaky. “I saw him last week. Your boyfriend. He had his hands all over some Ravenclaw behind the library. He didn’t even look sorry.”

You want to say you don’t believe him.

But you know he’s not lying.

Not now. Not with his voice that raw. Not with that look in his eyes.

You look down. The hurt is spreading, cold and dull and heavy.

“He gets to touch you,” Theodore says, quieter now. “He gets to make you laugh. And all I get to do is watch.”

He shakes his head. “And I hate him for it. I hate you for it. Because you moved on. You got everything. The perfect boyfriend. The clean reputation. The freedom. And me? I’m still here, buried in the shit I can’t crawl out of. Still thinking about you. Still wanting you. And I can’t have you, because I made sure of that.”

You meet his eyes.

And for the first time in a year, you see the ruin he’s been hiding under all that distance. The grief. The rage. The love that never left.

But it’s too late.

For both of you. “I wish you hadn’t told me,” you whisper. “About him. About any of it. I was finally okay.”

He nods once. It’s almost a flinch. “I know.” Then he turns and walks away. And this time, you don’t stop him.

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#fanfiction #harry potter #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott #slytherin boys #angst #draco malfoy #blaise zabini #lorenzo zurzolo

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babyscottoncandy · 2 months ago

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The Way

⌗ Oc x Carl Gallagher,, Shameless

"i got a bad boy —

i must admit it"

Carl Gallagher, a street-smart rebel from a broken home, and Anahi Woodland, a rich, popular cheerleader, can’t stand each other. But when their worlds crash together, hate turns to heat—and enemies become something more.

"you got my heart —

don't know how you did it"

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#fanfiction #shameless #carl gallagher #carl gallagher x reader #Spotify

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babyscottoncandy · 2 months ago

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Sweater Weather

⌗ Oc x Robin Buckley,, Stranger Things

"and if i may —

just take your breath away"

Robin Buckley, the quirky band geek with a sharp tongue and a talent for disappearing into the background, never expected to cross paths with Cindy Lee—the school’s golden girl, cheer captain, and sunshine in human form.

"one love, one house —

no shirt, no blouse"

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#fanfiction #stranger things #robin buckley x reader #robin buckley #maya hawke #Spotify

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babyscottoncandy · 2 months ago

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Scott Street

⌗ Oc x Steve Harrington,, Stranger Things

"Do you feel ashamed —

when you hear my name?"

The world didn’t change overnight, but to Linda Finch, it felt like it did. One day, Steve Harrington was the boy who shared his pudding cup with her at lunch, who knocked on her window when it rained so they could count thunder together. The next, he was gone—still there, in the halls of Hawkins High, but in a way that made her feel lonelier than if he’d moved away entirely.

"Anyway —

don't be a stranger"

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#Spotify #fanfiction #stranger things #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #joe keery

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babyscottoncandy · 2 months ago

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Silver Springs

⌗ Oc x Five Hargreeves, TUA

"time casts its spell on you —

but you won't forget me"

When Five Hargreeves accidentally time-travels to the 1950s, he meets Elliot’s daughter—a girl who looks strikingly familiar. She turns out to be the younger version of the woman he once loved and lost during a mission with the Commission. Now, both younger, fate gives them a second chance.

"i'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice —

will haunt you"

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#fanfiction #the umbrella academy #five hargreaves x reader #five hargreeves #Spotify

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babyscottoncandy · 2 months ago

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Wattpad & Fanfics

⌗ hiii guys! thank you for following meeee, appreciate it sososo much! i just want to let you guys know that i have a wattpad account:

juliettehasnomromeo

i enjoy writing alotttt on there and may make fanfictions based off of shorts stories i have on here! i also do applyfics (which i adoree) so please follow and stayed tuned in! my works (applyfics) are below!:

(my current fav, just got done with act two!)

(love the plot and characters but i'm rewriting it because i had new/better ideas)

(first applyfic that really blew up, horrible writing but amazing memories)

#fanfiction #wattpad #applyfic #stranger things #harry potter #slytherin boys #challengers #theodore nott #squid game #angst #draco malfoy #marvel

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babyscottoncandy · 2 months ago

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Scott Street

Steve Harrington,, Stranger Things

Summary: Steve Harrington x Thought-Daughter¡Fem Reader,, childhood bestfriends turned distant when highschool hit. Steve Harrington become "King Steve," popular - a jock - and an asshole. (Y/n) was Hawkins Highschool's odd one out, a girl so sensitive the sight of a bug dying would be bound to make her cry.

TW: Angst,, Mentions o/DV,, Bullying

Based off of the song "Scott Street" by Phoebe Bridgers

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The world didn’t change overnight, but to her, it felt like it did. One day, Steve Harrington was the boy who shared his pudding cup with her at lunch, who knocked on her window when it rained so they could count thunder together. The next, he was gone—still there, in the halls of Hawkins High, but in a way that made her feel lonelier than if he’d moved away entirely.

They used to sit in the grass after school, making stories out of clouds. He’d make her laugh so hard her stomach hurt, and she’d braid wildflowers into his hair. But high school swallowed him whole.

“King Steve,” they called him. She heard it whispered down the corridors, loud and smug. He grew into broad shoulders and better hair and laughter that wasn’t hers anymore. His eyes didn’t meet hers in the hallways, even when they passed close enough for their arms to brush. Sometimes she thought they did—flickers of recognition, of old softness—but they always left too quickly.

She stayed the same. Sensitive, quiet, strange. The girl who cried when she found a crushed ladybug in her locker. The one who still hummed to herself when she was nervous and counted ceiling tiles when the class got too loud. She wasn’t cool, not in the way Steve was. Not in the way Hawkins expected her to be.

She watched him laugh with people who’d never known how he once cried when her cat died. She saw him push someone into a locker once—Steve, her Steve. Her chest tightened, and she swallowed down the ache because she didn’t know him anymore. Maybe he never really knew her either.

He still wore that stupid jean jacket she patched up when they were thirteen.

He still walked like he owned the world, but sometimes his shoulders drooped when he thought no one was looking.

And when she saw him hugging a girl by the bleachers, their bodies pressed close in a way that felt nothing like how they used to hug—fast and warm and so full of trust—it hit her.

They hug now. Not her and Steve. Just Steve and other people. And all she could think about was how loud the thunder was without him.

It was after gym class, the air still thick with sweat and tired laughter, when it happened.

(Y/n) had taken the long way to the cafeteria, hands gripping her worn notebook like it was a shield. Her cardigan sleeves swallowed her fingers. Her hair was wind-tossed, lips chapped from biting them all morning. She had that faraway look again—the one that made people whisper.

Tommy H. was the first to say something. Of course he was.

“Hey, Harrington,” he snorted, elbowing Steve in the ribs. “There’s your girlfriend. Still writing love poems to dead birds or whatever?” Laughter, sharp and mean, echoed through the hall.

Carol chimed in, voice syrupy and cruel. “Remember when she cried during that biology video last year? Literal fetal pigs and she started sobbing like it was Bambi’s mom. Freak.”

Steve chuckled under his breath. Just a little. The kind of laugh that wasn’t real but felt like betrayal anyway.

He didn’t say anything. Not please don’t, not she’s harmless, not hey, shut up. Nothing.

He stood there with his stupid good hair and his silence, not looking at her, not really.

She heard it all. Every word. She always did. Her footsteps slowed, then kept going, stiff and measured like she could out-walk the burn in her chest. Her notebook trembled in her grip, knuckles white. She didn’t cry—not this time. Not in front of them.

But Steve saw her shoulders tense. Saw the way she pulled into herself like a house during a storm.

He looked down at his shoes, then up at his friends, all still laughing like it was nothing.

And he said nothing. Again. Because silence was easier than remembering how she once sewed his Halloween costume when his mom forgot.

Because silence didn’t make him weak, didn’t make him weird, didn’t make him hers.

He told himself it didn’t matter.

But when he went to sleep that night, all he could see was the back of her cardigan vanishing down the hallway—and he hated himself for not running after her.

The sky was dipped in amber, the kind of golden-hour haze that made even Hawkins look soft. (Y/n) walked home in silence, the air cool against her cheeks, her fingers curled into the sleeves of her sweater. Her headphones dangled uselessly around her neck—no music today. Just the sound of her boots on the pavement and the echo of laughter that still rang in her ears.

Their table. Their jokes. Him.

She rounded the corner to her street, the familiar ache settling in her chest like clockwork. Home wasn’t far—just a few more steps past the crooked mailbox and the rusted bike chained to the stop sign.

Then she saw him.

Steve.

He was sitting on the edge of his driveway, back hunched, elbows on his knees, fingers running through his hair like he didn’t know what to do with them. His car sat beside him, gleaming even in the fading light, but he wasn’t looking at it. He was looking at nothing.

Or maybe everything.

She froze for a second, heart thudding louder than the traffic in the distance. He hadn’t seen her yet. His face was different now—unmasked, tired in a way she never saw at school. The fake confidence he wore like armor had slipped. He looked… like the boy who used to knock on her window with a flashlight and a smile.

She kept walking. Didn’t stop. Didn’t wave.

Her house was directly across from his, the porch light flickering as she stepped up onto it. She felt his eyes on her before she closed the door behind her.

But still—nothing. No words. No apology. No hey, remember me?

Just silence between two houses.

Just memories in the cracks of the pavement.

Just her, alone again, with the ghost of who he used to be sitting across the street.

She found him behind the school, leaning against the wall, cigarette in hand like he was in a movie. Golden light cut across his face, casting shadows under his eyes. He looked older. Tired. But not sorry.

“Can I help you?” he asked when he noticed her. His voice was flat, guarded.

(Y/n) didn’t answer right away. She just stared at him, arms crossed tight over her chest like she was holding herself together.

“I heard you laughing,” she finally said. Her voice was quiet, but it trembled with something sharp. “When they made fun of me today.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. He looked away, exhaled smoke, said nothing.

“I wasn’t even doing anything. Just… existing. And you laughed.”

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” he muttered.

“But you didn’t stop them either,” she snapped, louder now. “You just stood there. Like you always do.”

Steve’s gaze flicked back to her, annoyance flashing in his eyes. “What do you want from me, (Y/n)?”

“I want you to care.” Her voice cracked on the word. “Like you used to.”

He scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “That was a long time ago.” She blinked, like that somehow hurt more than anything else.

“So that’s it?” she asked. “You just… changed? He looked at her for a long moment, eyes unreadable. “Yeah. I did.”

She stepped forward, her voice shaking but fierce. “No. You didn’t change. You just learned how to pretend better. You turned into someone they would like. Someone who thinks silence is better than kindness.”

He flinched.

“You used to be the one who stood up for people like me,” she said, softer now, more broken. “You used to be my person.” Steve’s mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

“You didn’t change,” she whispered. “You just stopped being you.”

And with that, she turned and walked away. He didn’t follow. He never did.

The hall was alive with chatter, lockers slamming shut, papers rustling, the occasional shriek of laughter echoing off the walls. Just another day in Hawkins High.

Steve was rummaging through his locker, distracted, hands moving fast as he looked for something—probably a textbook he hadn’t touched all year. And then it happened.

The photo slipped out. It had been tucked inside a forgotten notebook, yellowing at the corners, bent from too many years of being crammed into small spaces.

It fluttered to the floor like a memory falling too fast to catch.

Tommy H. got to it first. He bent down, picked it up, and let out a laugh—loud and obnoxious.

“Yo, Harrington,” he called, holding it up. “What is this?” Carol leaned over his shoulder, snorting. “No way. Is that you with Bug Girl?”

The photo was small, faded—taken sometime in middle school. Steve and (Y/n), maybe twelve years old, sitting cross-legged in a yard that used to feel like the whole world. Her face was lit up with a smile, eyes crinkled with laughter. Steve had his arm around her, his head tilted toward hers like gravity pulled them together.

There was a ladybug crawling on her hand.

“I didn’t know you were such a freak back then, Harrington,” Tommy said, waving the photo around like a trophy. “What, was this your girlfriend or your pet project?”

Someone else laughed. “She looks like she named that bug Steve Jr.” Steve snatched the photo back.

“Shut up,” he said, but it was too soft. Not angry enough. Not anything enough.

The thing about healing is that it doesn’t happen all at once.

(Y/n) didn’t wake up one day and stop flinching when people laughed too loud near her. She didn’t suddenly feel brave walking through the halls of Hawkins High. But eventually—slowly, quietly—she stopped looking for Steve in every corner.

She started smiling again. Just little ones. At first it was at books. Then the sun. Then at him.

His name was Jamie Rivers. He was a senior like her—quiet, a little awkward, the kind of guy who said “excuse me” even when someone else bumped into him. He sat behind her in English and once lent her his pen when hers ran out during a quiz. It wasn’t much. But it felt different.

He didn’t tease her. Didn’t ask why she talked to trees sometimes during lunch, or why she got misty-eyed reading poetry. He just liked her. Genuinely. For who she was, not who she was trying to be.

And she liked him back.

Their first date was to a little diner just outside of town. He picked her up in a beat-up car that smelled like pine and nervous energy. She wore her favorite sweater. He complimented it without laughing. She let him hold her hand halfway through their milkshakes.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t like Steve.

But that was the point.

They started dating. Holding hands in the hallway. Sharing books. Laughing—real, bright, unguarded laughter.

And Steve noticed.

It started with the smallest things.

Steve didn’t even realize how much he noticed her until she wasn’t looking at him anymore.

At first, it was a glance in the hallway—her laugh echoing off the lockers, soft and unrecognizable because it wasn’t being filtered through sadness. He turned his head on instinct, expecting to find her walking alone like always, arms wrapped around herself like a shield.

But she wasn’t alone.

Jamie was there. Walking next to her, leaning just a little too close, his hands stuffed in his pockets like he was trying not to reach for her—but failing. Steve watched her bump his shoulder playfully, watched Jamie grin like he’d just won something.

And maybe he had.

That was the first time Steve felt it—the tightness in his throat. The weird mix of jealousy and guilt that tasted like copper.

Then there was the library. She used to sit alone, her hair a curtain around her notebook, scribbling stories no one else ever saw. But now she sat with Jamie, their heads close together, smiling over a shared paperback. Steve stood at the end of the aisle for too long, pretending to look for something, pretending his stomach didn’t drop when Jamie touched her hand and she didn’t pull away.

And then there was the cafeteria.

It was loud, like always. Everyone was talking over each other, jokes flying, food being swapped and stolen. But Steve wasn’t listening.

He was watching her.

She sat two tables over, knees tucked up under her on the bench, her tray barely touched. Jamie said something, and she laughed, head thrown back, eyes bright.

Not the cautious kind of laugh she used to give him—the quiet kind, like she was always waiting for it to be taken away.

This one was full. Free.

He hated how beautiful it looked on her.

He hated how he didn’t know the joke.

And he hated—really hated—how Jamie leaned in, pressed a kiss to her temple, and she just smiled, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Steve looked away, jaw tight, fingers clenched around his soda can until it crumpled.

“Dude,” Tommy said next to him, oblivious. “What’s your deal?” Steve didn’t answer.

Because how do you explain that you let someone slip away so slowly, you didn’t even notice until she was already someone else’s reason to smile?

He used to be the sun she revolved around. Now she didn’t even glance at his orbit.

Months had passed since Steve first saw her with Jamie, but it still felt fresh. Like every time he saw them together, it was the first time, and it punched him in the gut all over again.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

No, the worst part was how he kept seeing them. Over and over, their hands intertwined, their heads close together, sharing whispers and laughs that he used to be the one to hear. Every time he thought he might be getting used to it, they appeared in the hallway, laughing over something he wasn’t a part of.

She was still the girl he remembered—the girl who loved the quiet hum of rain against windows, who would talk for hours about the stars and the way they were just like people, always disappearing only to return again. But now, she spoke about those things with Jamie. Not him.

And God, how it hurt.

Steve had changed. He had become the guy who ignored his friends’ snickers when they noticed him staring at her. He was “King Steve,” the jock with all the answers—but he wasn’t fooling anyone. He wasn’t fooling himself. He missed her more than he could admit.

The phone rang, its sharp sound cutting through the late-night quiet of Steve’s room. His heart stuttered as he glanced at the clock—past midnight. He wasn’t expecting anyone to be calling at this hour.

When he saw the name flash on the screen, he felt a sudden tightening in his chest. It was (Y/n).

He picked up the receiver quickly, his voice hoarse. “Hello?”

There was a long pause on the other end, just enough to make his nerves spike. Then, he heard her voice—familiar, but something was different. It was faint and off, like she was holding her breath.

“Steve…?” (Y/n)’s voice trembled, and he could feel the unease in every word.

“(Y/n), hey, what’s going on? Are you okay?” he asked, sitting up straighter, his heart racing. Something was wrong. He could tell from the tone.

“I… I need you to pick me up,” she said quickly, her words stumbling over each other. “I’m at a party… down by Oak Street. I… I just—I need to leave. It’s bad here, Steve.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll come get you. Where exactly are you?” His voice was urgent, the concern now clear in every syllable.

But then, she hesitated again. A long, shaky breath followed. “It’s nothing, Steve. I… I just fell. I tripped, I guess. It’s really nothing. I’m fine. I… I just want to go home. Please.”

The words hit Steve like a cold punch to the stomach. He could hear the unsteady breath in her voice, the way she was trying to cover it up. Nothing?

It didn’t sound like nothing.

“(Y/n), are you sure?” Steve pressed, his voice soft but firm. “You’re not fine. You don’t sound fine. What happened?”

There was another pause on the line. And in that silence, Steve could practically hear the panic in her trying to cover it up, to hide something she was too scared to say out loud.

“Steve, please…” She sounded almost pleading now, voice cracking at the edges. “I just want to go home. It’s not a big deal. I just… tripped. Please. Just come pick me up. I’ll be fine.”

But Steve wasn’t buying it. Not for a second. There was something wrong—something more than just a “trip.”

He ran his hand through his hair, heart hammering. “(Y/n), I’m on my way. Stay on the phone with me, okay? Don’t hang up.”

“Okay, yeah. I will. I’ll wait.” Her voice was small, far too small. The desperation beneath it was hard to ignore.

“I’m coming. Don’t hang up. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Steve said, his voice sharp now, even as his thoughts swirled in confusion and worry. He wasn’t sure what exactly had happened, but he knew one thing: something wasn’t right.

Before she could say anything else, he hung up. His hands were already shaking as he grabbed his jacket and rushed for the door. Every instinct he had was screaming at him that there was more to the story. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Jamie—her boyfriend, the guy who always seemed to act like he owned her—had something to do with this.

He threw himself into the car, foot heavy on the gas as he sped down the dark streets. The thought of her alone, hiding something, left him cold.

The night air was cool, the faint sound of distant music still lingering as Steve pulled up to the dimly lit house by Oak Street. The party was in full swing, people spilling out onto the lawn, laughing, shouting. He felt his hands tighten around the steering wheel, anxiety twisting in his gut as he cut the engine. He knew something wasn’t right. His mind raced, replaying the conversation over and over. I just tripped.

He didn’t believe it. He couldn’t.

As he stepped out of the car, his eyes scanned the crowd, heart thudding painfully in his chest. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but the moment he saw her, he knew.

She was rushing toward him, practically stumbling across the gravel driveway, her breath shallow. She looked disoriented, like she had just sprinted from something. Her hair was messy, and there were visible signs of tears on her cheeks. But it was the blood that caught his attention first.

Her nose was bleeding, a dark stain dripping down her chin. Her hands were shaking as she wiped at her face, smearing the blood along her sleeve.

“(Y/n),” Steve said softly, his voice breaking through the shock in his chest as he reached out to steady her. She was too pale, her skin too flushed, and the blood on her face made his stomach turn. “What the hell happened?”

Her eyes darted away from his, unable to meet his gaze. She hesitated for a moment, like she was trying to figure out what to say, what excuse to give.

“I… I tripped,” she said, her voice small, too small. Her hand went up to her nose, trying to stop the flow of blood, but it was clear she was trembling, struggling to hold herself together. “It’s nothing, really. I just… I wasn’t paying attention.”

Steve said nothing. His gaze stayed on her, a quiet pain creeping through his chest as he silently took in her disheveled appearance. The way she couldn’t look him in the eye. The way she was covering up what was clearly more than just a simple fall.

“Let me get you in the car,” he finally said, his voice soft but firm, and he gently took her arm, guiding her toward the passenger seat. She didn’t argue.

The drive back was filled with the hum of the engine and the sound of her unsteady breathing. Neither of them said a word. The silence between them wasn’t awkward, but it was heavy—like an invisible weight pressing down on them. Steve could feel her eyes on him, but he didn’t look over, couldn’t look over. He didn’t want to see the lie in her eyes, not when he already knew the truth.

The truth was all around them.

She wasn’t telling him everything, and maybe, in some way, she never would. But Steve didn’t need her to say it. He could see it. The way her shoulders were slumped, the way she was holding herself together with a fragile, shaky resolve.

When they pulled up to her house, Steve didn’t move immediately. He just kept staring at the road, the sound of the engine slowly dying down.

“I’ll… I’ll walk you inside,” he said quietly, though his voice wavered, barely audible.

She didn’t respond at first, just sat there, staring ahead at the front door. After a long moment, she nodded, her movements stiff as she slowly unbuckled her seatbelt. Steve got out of the car and walked around to her side, but she was already halfway up the driveway, not looking back.

He watched her for a second, unsure of what to say, unsure of what he could possibly do. The tension between them hung thick in the air. She was trying so hard to pretend it was just a stupid accident.

And he was trying not to say the words that had already settled in his chest. Instead, he just followed her, walking silently behind her as she opened the door and disappeared inside.

When the door clicked shut behind her, Steve finally stood there alone in the dark, feeling the weight of everything that had gone unsaid. The truth was clear now, but some things, some feelings, couldn’t be fixed with words.

And he couldn’t fix her. Not now. So he turned and walked back to his car, the cold night air biting at his skin, but it did nothing to numb the ache inside him.

He didn’t look back.

The next day was a blur of half-hearted smiles and forced conversations. (Y/n) didn’t show up to school until just before lunch, and when she did, she was walking as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders. Her steps were slow, careful, like she was avoiding drawing attention to herself. She looked pale—too pale. Her eyes were red, like she hadn’t slept at all, and when she passed the group of students standing by the lockers, she didn’t even try to pretend she was okay. She didn’t even look at anyone.

Steve watched her from the other side of the hallway, leaning against the lockers, pretending to talk to a few of his friends, but his focus was entirely on her. She was barely interacting with anyone. She walked through the crowded halls, her gaze lowered, her face closed off.

Every so often, someone would call out to her—somebody from class, a random acquaintance—but she just kept walking. No response. Not even a glance in their direction.

Steve noticed the small things. Like the way she never once looked at him when she passed, even though she was so close. The way she kept her distance, her shoulders hunched in on themselves, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her jacket. She was a ghost of the girl he once knew—quiet, withdrawn, isolated. It was like she was trying to disappear.

It hurt to see her like this. It hurt more than he expected.

He had told himself he’d keep his distance, that he wasn’t going to force his way into her life after everything that happened. But watching her this way, Steve couldn’t help but feel the pull to reach out, to do something. Anything.

But he stayed silent. He had to. She hadn’t said anything. She hadn’t even asked for help.

It had been a long day—one where Steve had spent more time than he liked staring across the school hallways, watching (Y/n) pull further and further into herself. He couldn’t get the image of her blood-streaked face out of his mind, nor the way she tried to hide the truth, how she downplayed it like it was no big deal.

But Steve knew better. He knew exactly what happened. And he wasn’t going to sit back anymore.

The rage that had been bubbling beneath the surface all day finally boiled over as he stepped out of the school building after the final bell rang. His heart was pounding, his hands clenched into fists. He didn’t care what anyone thought or said anymore. He was done standing by.

He knew where Jamie hung out after school.

Steve made his way to the local parking lot, where the older teens often met, some with their cars, others with their friends. His eyes scanned the area, and then he spotted him—Jamie, leaning against his car, laughing with a group of guys. He hadn’t seen Steve yet, and Steve took a deep breath as he crossed the parking lot.

His footsteps were heavy, deliberate.

“Jamie,” Steve’s voice rang out, cutting through the conversation like a knife.

The sound of his name caught Jamie’s attention. He turned, a smirk already forming on his lips, expecting the usual teasing or some snide comment, but he didn’t expect the look on Steve’s face.

Steve’s face was hard, his jaw clenched tight, eyes burning with fury. He was livid, but it was a quiet kind of anger—one that felt darker than anything Jamie had seen before.

“What the hell do you want, Harrington?” Jamie sneered, but his voice wavered just slightly.

Steve didn’t say a word. Instead, he closed the distance between them in two long strides, his fist connecting with Jamie’s jaw with a sickening crack.

The force of it knocked Jamie back against his car, and he stumbled, holding his face in shock. His friends stood still, unsure of what to do, eyes wide with surprise. Steve didn’t wait for Jamie to regain his footing. He lunged again, another punch landing right to Jamie’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

“Don’t you ever touch her again,” Steve growled, his voice barely controlled. “You think you can hurt her, treat her like that, and get away with it? You’re wrong.”

Jamie was gasping for air now, his hands scrambling to push Steve off him, but Steve was relentless. He grabbed him by the collar, pulling him up to his level.

“You hit her. You made her feel like this. And you don’t get to act like you’re the victim,” Steve hissed, his chest heaving with each breath.

Jamie’s eyes were wide now, fear creeping into his expression. He’d never seen Steve like this—not the “King Steve” everyone feared, but the version of him who was genuinely enraged, the version who cared about someone more than his reputation.

“You don’t get to make her cry,” Steve said, his voice lower now, full of quiet fury. “You don’t get to make her feel worthless, to make her feel like she’s alone. You’re nothing but a coward, Jamie.”

Jamie opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, Steve shoved him hard, sending him sprawling to the ground. He landed with a heavy thud, gasping and clutching at his stomach.

Steve stood over him for a moment, breathing heavily, eyes locked on Jamie’s, waiting for any sign of remorse. But Jamie’s face remained bruised and angry, his pride damaged more than anything.

“Stay away from her, or next time, I won’t stop,” Steve warned, his voice cold as ice. “You’re lucky I’m not doing more damage right now. But I swear to God, if you ever hurt her again, you won’t have a second chance.”

He turned on his heel, walking away from the scene without another word. The group of guys who had been watching stepped back, not daring to say a thing.

As Steve walked to his car, his hands still shaking with adrenaline, the anger slowly began to fade, replaced with the bitter ache of knowing he couldn’t fix everything.

The sun had barely set when Steve pulled into his driveway, the events of the afternoon still lingering in his mind. His knuckles were sore from the confrontation with Jamie, but the adrenaline had worn off, leaving him with a quiet kind of emptiness. He hadn’t expected to feel better after hitting Jamie. He hadn’t even really thought it through. It was just the anger—just the need to protect her.

He parked his car and got out, making his way toward his front door, when something caught his eye. There, on the porch, was a folded piece of paper.

It was small, the handwriting unmistakably familiar. His heart gave a painful little lurch in his chest.

It’s from her.

Without thinking, Steve walked up to the porch, kneeling down to pick up the note. He unfolded it carefully, as if handling something fragile. The words were simple, barely more than a few letters.

“Thank you.”

He stood there for a long moment, holding the note in his hands, feeling the weight of the words sink into his chest.

Thank you.

It was all she could say. It was everything she needed to say, but it didn’t fill the space he felt between them. There was still so much left unsaid, so much that he didn’t know.

But it was enough.

His fingers brushed over the paper, as if trying to absorb the depth of her gratitude, even when she didn’t say it out loud. Even though she hadn’t directly come to him, this—this small, simple note—felt like more than words. It was her way of saying that she saw him, that she understood.

It was a quiet evening when (Y/n) arrived home, her mind still buzzing from the chaos of the day. She had been trying to push away the memory of the party, the bruises she’d hidden beneath layers of makeup, the quiet conversations with friends that no longer seemed to hold the same meaning. She could feel the weight of everything pressing down on her, but she tried not to dwell on it.

As she walked up the path to her porch, something caught her eye. It was a small piece of paper, slightly crumpled, tucked under the edge of the doormat. It was out of place—she hadn’t dropped anything, and no one else ever came by this late. Curiosity piqued, she bent down to pick it up, feeling a flutter in her chest when she saw the familiar handwriting.

Steve.

Her pulse quickened, and she unfolded the note, careful not to tear it. The words were simple, short, but they carried more weight than she expected:

“If you ever need anything, I’m here. Anytime. – Steve”

Her heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, she just stood there, staring at the note in her hands. It wasn’t much, just a few words scribbled on paper, but it felt like a quiet admission of everything they never said. He hadn’t come to her with grand gestures or promises, just a reminder that, no matter what, he was there. No conditions. No expectations. Just… anytime.

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them away quickly. She was fine, or at least, she’d been telling herself that for weeks. She didn’t need him. She didn’t need anyone. But the note… it made something shift inside of her. Something she didn’t even know was still there.

She stood on her porch for a long moment, clutching the note to her chest, unsure of what to do with it. A part of her wanted to call him, to thank him for even thinking of her. But another part of her—one that had been hurt by the past, by everything left unsaid between them—wondered if it was better to leave things in the past.

In the end, she tucked the note into her pocket and stepped inside, her heart a little heavier, a little more open. She wasn’t ready to face Steve, not yet. But maybe, just maybe, the note was a sign. A sign that, even after all this time, there was still something left worth holding on to.

For now, she’d hold on to the words he’d given her, quiet and simple as they were. And maybe, when the time came, she’d take him up on it. Anytime.

The days after the note passed like molasses—slow, heavy, and strangely silent. (Y/n) didn’t respond, didn’t call, didn’t mention it. But she kept it. Folded carefully in the back of her notebook, slipped between pages of notes and half-sketched doodles, like a secret she wasn’t ready to give up.

At school, things continued on like normal—or at least, they tried to. The crowded hallways were filled with slamming lockers, shrieking laughter, the sharp perfume of hairspray and cologne lingering in the air. People still whispered, still looked at her too long when they thought she wasn’t paying attention. Jamie was nowhere to be seen. His absence made everything feel both better and worse.

And Steve…

He didn’t say anything, didn’t approach her, didn’t push. But sometimes—just sometimes—he looked.

She caught him once between classes, leaning against his locker in that effortlessly careless way he always had. His eyes met hers across the sea of students, and it was like time slowed just enough for her to see it—that flicker of something in his expression. Guilt, maybe. Worry. Or just the memory of something they both tried not to think about.

She looked away first.

But the next day, she was the one who looked.

And it kept happening. In the cafeteria, during passing periods, when he thought she wouldn’t notice—Steve would glance up, and there she’d be. Eyes soft but guarded, like she wanted to say something and couldn’t find the words. Like maybe she was remembering the kids they used to be—their laughter in the summer heat, muddy shoes on front porches, bug jars and whispered secrets after dark.

There was nothing romantic about it. Not yet. Just something old and half-forgotten blooming quietly beneath all the noise of teenage cruelty and regret.

They didn’t smile. They didn’t nod. They just looked. And somehow, that was enough.

The bell had rung hours ago. The halls of Hawkins High were long emptied, lockers echoing in the silence like distant ghosts. (Y/n) had stayed behind to finish an overdue project—something about the way her house felt too loud when she was alone lately. She packed her things slowly, the sky already beginning to dip into dusk outside the classroom window, tinged pink and a little lonely.

She didn’t expect to see Steve when she pushed open the side door near the gym.

But there he was—shoulder pressed against the brick wall, hair a little messier than usual, one strap of his backpack slipping down. He looked up at the sound of the door and blinked, clearly just as surprised to see her.

Neither of them said anything. Not at first.

She adjusted her bag on her shoulder, gave him a slight nod, and began the walk home. She didn’t expect him to follow. But after a few seconds, she heard the crunch of gravel behind her.

He caught up without a word.

The streets were quiet, scattered leaves brushing across the sidewalk in the cool wind. They walked side by side, not close enough to brush arms, but not as far as they might’ve months ago. The silence wasn’t tense, but it wasn’t entirely comfortable either—it held weight. Like something long unsaid was walking with them.

(Y/n) glanced at him once. He was staring ahead, jaw tight, like he was thinking too hard. She looked away before he noticed.

Halfway down Maple Street, she broke it. “I used to know every thought in your head,” she said softly.

Steve’s step faltered, just for a second. He didn’t look at her, but his voice came low and hoarse. “Yeah. I know.”

She didn’t know what made her say it. Maybe it was the weight of everything unsaid. Maybe it was the quiet hum of twilight that always made things feel more honest. Either way, once it left her mouth, it hung between them like a thread.

They didn’t say anything else for a while. Just the sound of their shoes on pavement, the wind tugging at her sleeves, the smell of cold earth and faraway woodsmoke.

When they reached their street—his house on one side, hers on the other—they both paused at the fork in the sidewalk.

Steve finally looked at her. “I—” he started, then stopped. Shoved his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t think you’d still… y’know. Talk to me.”

She shrugged, but there was something fragile in her smile. “You didn’t.”

And then she crossed the street, her porch light flickering on as she stepped up the stairs. She didn’t look back. But he stood there a while longer, watching the spot where she disappeared behind the front door.

And it wasn’t quite forgiveness. But it wasn’t nothing.

The classroom buzzed with the low drone of tired teenagers and a teacher who clearly wanted to be anywhere else. (Y/n) sat near the back, pen tapping quietly against her notebook, her thoughts miles away. Steve was two rows over—diagonally across—slouched in his seat like his spine had given up entirely.

It wasn’t supposed to be a memorable day. Just another long afternoon.

But then, some kid in the front—loud, attention-seeking—joked about a science experiment from last year. Something dumb involving baking soda and vinegar, and the poor janitor who slipped in the aftermath.

“Explosion of the century,” he said dramatically, “RIP to Mr. Jenkins’ shoes.”

Steve snorted before he could stop himself.

At the same time, (Y/n) groaned and muttered, “We told them not to put the cap back on the bottle.” Their voices overlapped. The words came out too quickly, too easily.

Silence fell.

A few students turned to look. The teacher paused. But Steve’s eyes had already flicked across the room to meet hers.

(Y/n)’s hand froze mid-tap. Her gaze locked with his. His lips were curled in the ghost of a smirk, like he couldn’t believe it either. The same joke. The same memory.

A shared disaster from a lifetime ago—seventh grade science club. The two of them had laughed so hard they nearly got detention. She remembered Steve doubling over, tears in his eyes, saying “Jenkins is gonna sue us.”

She remembered everything. Now it was just quiet again. A little awkward. A little warm. Steve blinked like he was about to say something, but then looked away, hiding behind his hand, suddenly very focused on the peeling edge of his desk.

(Y/n) turned back to her notebook. Her pen didn’t tap anymore. She didn’t smile. But she didn’t stop thinking about it, either.

Sixth period ended in the same slow drag it always did, chairs scraping against the floor, the clatter of notebooks and tired footsteps. Steve was one of the last to leave—he’d zoned out again halfway through, staring out the window like something out there might matter more than whatever the hell they were learning.

When he finally stood and grabbed his bag, he noticed something folded and wedged between the pages of his open notebook.

Small. Torn paper. No name.

He glanced around. Empty classroom. Just the hum of the overhead lights and the faint scent of old pencils. He unfolded it slowly, calloused fingers handling it more gently than he meant to.

There were only three words. “Still funny, Harrington.”

And next to them, a quick little doodle—a bottle mid-explosion, with a stick figure diving out of the way dramatically. A joke. A memory.

His mouth twitched.

He didn’t need a signature. He knew. The handwriting was too familiar. The humor too pointed. It was her.

Steve stood there for a second longer, staring at the paper like it had caught him off guard. Because it had.

Then, without thinking, he folded it back up and slipped it into the back pocket of his notebook. No hesitation. No smirk. Just… quiet.

He didn’t tell anyone about it. Didn’t throw it out. Didn’t forget.

It became a quiet thing. Subtle. Almost shy.

After her first note—“Still funny, Harrington”—Steve didn’t respond with words. But a few days later, she opened her locker and found a torn scrap of notebook paper taped to the inside.

A doodle. Stick figures. One labeled “YOU” running from a bottle with fizz drawn dramatically in shaky lines. She smiled all the way to English class. That’s how it started.

They didn’t talk about it. Never looked at each other when it happened. But the notes kept coming, passed in silence—hidden under desks, slipped into books, dropped into lockers like little ghosts of who they used to be.

Nothing deep. Nothing too brave.

Just; “Cafeteria pizza still a crime.” “Saw a squirrel today. It reminded me of the one that attacked us in 5th grade. You still owe me a band-aid.” “Science lab smelled like trauma today.”

Sometimes a scribble. Sometimes a single word. Once, a napkin with “emergency use only” written on it, wrapped around a grape Jolly Rancher. She didn’t eat it. She kept it in her bag like it meant something. It wasn’t like they were friends again. Not exactly.

But the notes? They felt like a secret handshake no one else remembered.

It was easier this way. Safer than eye contact. Safer than talking. Safer than the truth. Because it wasn’t about confessions. It was about remembering what it felt like when the world hadn’t gotten in the way.

Steve was driving home from work, the sun beginning to set as he cruised through the familiar streets of Hawkins. The car radio was on low, the hum of static occasionally cutting through the air. He didn’t mind the silence, especially after a long day of dealing with kids at Scoops Ahoy. It was almost peaceful.

Then, a song came on.

The familiar opening chords immediately caught his attention. He almost didn’t recognize it at first, but when the lyrics started, his chest tightened. It was their song. The one they’d blast on the way to school, windows down, singing loudly and terribly. It was one of those tracks that felt like it belonged to a different time, a different version of them. The carefree, innocent version that felt like it would never end.

He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, his breath catching in his throat as the song played out. The memory of her laugh, of the way she used to joke around with him about the lyrics, flooded back all at once. The way they’d get caught in the song, laughing even when they didn’t know all the words. It was simple. It was easy. It was before everything changed.

The song carried on, and Steve’s heart squeezed painfully. He tried to keep his focus on the road, but the weight of it all—the distance, the time that had passed, the things that had gone unsaid—was too much to ignore. He wanted to roll the windows down, turn the volume up, and pretend like they were back there again, just the two of them, driving down this same road, carefree and without a care in the world.

But he couldn’t. He was alone now. She was gone, and all that was left were the memories. He could almost hear her voice in his head, teasing him, singing off-key, and making everything feel lighter, like it was all okay.

As the song reached its end, Steve found himself pulling over to the side of the road, his eyes suddenly wet. He didn’t even notice when the tears started to fall. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, not even sure why it was hitting him this hard. But it was.

He sat there in the stillness of the car, the sound of the song still echoing in his mind long after it had ended on the radio.

He couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing now. Was she listening to it too? Did it remind her of him the same way it reminded him of her? Or was she, like him, just trying to move on?

He didn’t know. And that uncertainty was almost harder than the sadness.

The gym was packed, the air thick with excitement, and the scent of cheap cologne and hairspray hung heavily in the atmosphere. The annual Hawkins High School dance was in full swing, the DJ’s blaring music mixing with the chaotic chatter of students, all pressing against each other on the dance floor. Lights flashed, casting streaks of color across the room, as people danced, laughed, and tried to ignore the awkwardness of high school socializing.

Steve had arrived with a group of his friends, and (Y/n) had come with a few of hers. It wasn’t a big deal—just another school event they’d both end up attending. But the noise, the flashing lights, and the way the crowd seemed to pulse with youthful energy made Steve feel distant. He was stuck between the person he used to be and the one he was trying to be now. And (Y/n)? Well, she had always been a reminder of who he used to be, too.

As the night went on, they found themselves drifting closer to each other. Neither of them had planned it. It wasn’t as if they’d meant to meet up, but somehow, in the middle of the chaos, they ended up standing side by side, just a few feet apart. The music blared louder, people crowded past them, but in that moment, the world felt quieter.

For a few seconds, it was like they were the only two people in the room.

Neither of them said anything.

The laughter, the chatter, the pounding bass of the music—they were all far away now. In the space between them, there was a stillness. Neither of them looked directly at the other, but they both knew the other was there. The distance felt like something older than time itself, something deeper than the walls they’d built between them.

The air felt heavy, thick with years of history—shared memories, unspoken words, and too many small things left unsaid. Neither of them moved, both of them unsure of what came next. They didn’t need words. The quiet exchange of notes had been enough for a while. It was their secret, their little world hidden in scribbled messages and silent understanding.

But now, in the middle of the dance, it felt like everything had shifted again.

It had been months—no, years—since they’d shared a space like this. No shouting. No awkward small talk. Just… silence. And in the silence, there was a pull. Something both familiar and foreign.

From the corner of his eye, Steve caught the glimpse of something in (Y/n)’s hand—just the slightest flicker of paper between her fingers, something she was about to tuck away.

Steve found himself walking toward her, almost on instinct, his hand already reaching into his pocket. It was just a small thing—an impulsive gesture—but something about tonight made him feel like he had to do it. He pulled out a sticky note, simple and plain, but enough to say what needed to be said.

When he reached her, he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He just handed it to her, his fingers brushing lightly against hers as he did. She looked down at the note, her eyes scanning it quickly.

“You still have the best smile in Hawkins.”

It was a silly thing to say, but it was their thing. Steve had always teased her about it when they were younger, and somehow, it still felt like a part of them. Her lips curved into a small, genuine smile as she read it, and for a second, the whole world seemed to quiet down.

Without a word, (Y/n) reached into her own pocket and pulled out a sticky note of her own. She handed it to him, and Steve took it with the same quiet ease. He unfolded it, reading the words written in her familiar handwriting.

“And you still think you’re funny.”

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it, a soft, genuine chuckle that felt like a weight lifting off his chest. She was right, of course. He wasn’t exactly known for his impeccable humor. But it had always been their thing—her teasing him for his attempts at jokes, him pretending to be offended.

He glanced back at her, his smile soft and real, the same as the one from years ago. No words needed to follow. Their exchange, brief as it was, felt like everything they had lost—and everything they had regained—without either of them needing to say a single thing.

For a moment, the chaos of the dance faded into the background. The notes had always been their language, the quiet bridge between them. It didn’t matter that everything around them had changed; this felt familiar, like coming home to something simple, something that hadn’t gone anywhere at all.

Steve slipped the note into his pocket, the weight of it comforting, almost grounding him in the moment. He didn’t say anything. Neither did she. And for once, neither of them felt the need to.

It was the first time in years that Steve had forgotten her birthday. He hated himself for it, but somewhere between the chaos of work, school, and everything else, the date slipped past him unnoticed. When he realized, it was too late to make it right—not that he thought he could, anyway.

But (Y/n) never said a word.

No mention of it. No subtle reminder. Nothing. She simply carried on as she always did—laughing with friends, studying quietly in the library, staying mostly to herself. The way she always did when things hurt but she didn’t want anyone to know.

He saw her, of course. It was impossible not to. But when she passed him in the hallways, there was something colder about her smile. Something… distant. She didn’t seem angry, not at him at least, but the silence between them grew heavier. Steve didn’t ask, didn’t try to explain. He just let the days go by.

Then, a week later, as the last bits of dusk fell over Hawkins, Steve found himself standing on (Y/n)’s front porch. He didn’t really know what had compelled him to do it, but he stood there, feeling the cool air nipping at his skin as he stared at the wrapped cassette in his hands.

It was an old one. He’d dug through the shelves of Melvald’s and found an old cassette tape, a relic from their childhood. He’d spent hours making a playlist. Songs they used to dance to, songs they used to sing in the car, songs that held memories of simpler times when nothing felt as complicated as it did now.

And then, he added one more. A new song. One he couldn’t explain to her in person, one that said everything he couldn’t find the words for.

With one final glance at the door, Steve left the cassette on the porch, tapping it softly against the wooden surface, just where she would find it when she came outside. He didn’t ring the doorbell or knock. He didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.

Then, he turned and walked away, his heart heavy, unsure of what to expect.

The next morning, (Y/n) stepped out onto the porch, the early sunlight casting long shadows on the ground. She had been up early, as usual. But today, there was something different. Something that had caught her attention—something small, tucked against the door.

She crouched down, her fingers brushing the edges of the wrapped cassette, a small note attached to the front.

She knew what it was before she even opened it. A gift from Steve. She hadn’t expected anything from him, but somehow, in a way, she had.

Unwrapping the cassette, she saw the familiar handwriting on the front of the tape:

“For the good old days. And the ones that might come.”

Her fingers traced over the note, and for a moment, she was back there, back to when everything felt easier. The days before the silence, before the walls between them grew so high.

She popped the cassette into her player, and as the first song began to play—one of their old favorites—a flood of memories came rushing back. Laughter. Songs they used to sing together. Quiet walks in the park.

And then the next song came on.

It was new. A song she didn’t recognize, but the lyrics hit her all the same. Every word felt like it was written just for them. The melody was soft, almost haunting, but the words were simple. And raw. Her breath caught in her throat.

She leaned back against the porch, the weight of the words settling into her chest. It was like Steve had finally found the words that had been missing all this time—the words he couldn’t say out loud. He couldn’t explain why he’d forgotten her birthday, or why things had become so complicated. But with the tape, with this song, he had somehow said it all.

She closed her eyes, letting the music fill the quiet morning.

For a moment, everything felt like it was right where it needed to be.

The night of graduation arrived, and the gymnasium was filled with the hum of laughter, music, and chatter. Balloons floated above, banners swayed from the ceiling, and everyone was celebrating the end of high school. But amidst all the noise and excitement, Steve and (Y/n) found themselves on opposite sides of the room, as if the weight of the past few years had made an invisible distance between them.

They didn’t speak much during the ceremony. There were glances exchanged, a fleeting smile here and there, but nothing that felt like it used to. It wasn’t that things were bad between them; it was just that things had changed. They had changed.

The night stretched on, the music pulsing around them as students danced, laughed, and posed for pictures. Steve leaned against the gymnasium wall, nursing a cup of punch, and watched the crowd. He wasn’t really participating, but then again, neither was (Y/n). She was standing near the edge of the dance floor, tucked away with her friends, but not quite a part of the festivities.

He caught her gaze across the room, her eyes meeting his, and for a brief second, everything else faded away. It was just the two of them again.

Without thinking, Steve pushed off the wall and started walking toward her. She didn’t move, but the corners of her mouth curled slightly when she saw him approaching.

The music blared, but in that moment, the world felt quieter, as if they were in their own little bubble. As he reached her, she raised an eyebrow, a small smirk playing at her lips.

“Hey,” she said softly, but it wasn’t the usual greeting. There was something more to it, something heavier beneath the surface.

“Hey,” Steve responded, his voice a little quieter than usual. They stood there for a beat, just taking in the moment. It was strange. He wanted to say so much, but the words didn’t come.

And then, just as the silence was beginning to stretch awkwardly, (Y/n)’s eyes flicked toward the table across the room, where the photo booth was set up.

“You know,” she started, her voice carrying the slightest hint of nostalgia, “I can’t believe we’re really done with this place.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, his hands in his pockets. “Feels like we were just freshmen.”

They both shared a small, knowing look. It wasn’t just the years that had passed—they both knew how much had changed between them over that time.

There was a slight pause before (Y/n) added, her tone soft but unmistakable, “You remember that day we skipped class to go to Melvald’s? You were convinced you could beat me at that weird game with the spinning discs.”

Steve’s lips curled into a smile, the memory hitting him like a wave. “I almost beat you,” he said with a mock defensiveness. “You just got lucky with that last turn.”

Her laugh was quiet but genuine, the sound so familiar it almost felt like a balm to the tension that had built up between them over the years. For a second, they were twelve again, sitting at Melvald’s after skipping school, arguing over a stupid arcade game. There had been no walls between them back then, no unspoken feelings, no time lost.

And then, almost like it always did, the silence crept in again, but this time it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, soft. As if the shared moment was enough.

Finally, after a few seconds, (Y/n) reached into her pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper—something she’d clearly scribbled on quickly earlier in the night. Without saying anything, she passed it to him.

Steve unfolded the paper and found a tiny doodle of two stick figures. One had a ridiculous amount of hair, clearly representing him, and the other had glasses and a goofy smile. Beneath it, in her messy handwriting, it simply said:

“Still better at the game than you.”

It was an inside joke. One that only the two of them could get. The same thing they used to laugh about years ago, when they were kids.

He chuckled softly, his heart a little lighter than it had been all night. Without thinking, he took out a pen from his pocket and scribbled a reply on the back of the paper.

“You wish. Still can’t beat me.”

When he handed the paper back to her, their fingers brushed, and for the briefest moment, everything felt right again.

She looked down at it, a smile tugging at her lips “I’ll take that as a challenge,” she said quietly, her voice warm.

Steve’s smile lingered, and for the first time that night, he felt like everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.

As they stood there, side by side, the noise of the party fading around them, neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. The exchange, the small shared secret between them, said it all.

For a moment, it was just like it used to be. And maybe that was enough.

It had been a week since the last time

It had been a week since the last time Steve had seen her. The small, fleeting conversation they’d shared outside her house had left him with a strange, gnawing feeling, but he told himself it was nothing. He told himself that things would get easier, that everything was just a phase. After all, they had been friends forever, right?

But today, everything felt different. The air in Hawkins was thick with the hum of summer heat, but Steve couldn’t shake the weight that was hanging in his chest. He hadn’t seen her around. Not since the conversation outside her house. He knew she was still in town—she had to be, right? Her car was still parked in the driveway. So why hadn’t she been at school? Why hadn’t she been out for her usual walks, or in the small café down the street where they used to run into each other every other afternoon?

As he made his way down the street toward his own house, he noticed something strange. The windows to her house were dark—dark in a way they shouldn’t have been. He couldn’t see any movement inside. He glanced at the mailbox and saw it was overflowing, something that had never happened before. She was always so organized. Always so… there.

Confused, Steve made his way up the driveway, not even thinking twice as he stepped onto her porch. He knocked, but the sound felt hollow, empty.

No answer.

He hesitated, his hand hovering over the doorknob, before slowly letting it fall back to his side. A sense of dread washed over him, something he couldn’t explain. There was a faint rustling noise coming from around the side of the house, and he walked toward it, heart thudding louder with every step.

As he turned the corner, his eyes landed on a scene that made his stomach drop.

There she was—(Y/n)—moving boxes from her house into a car, her back to him. She looked smaller than usual, her movements slow, almost deliberate. She was trying to lift a heavy box and, with a frustrated sigh, she set it down again on the ground. It looked like she was trying to do everything herself.

Steve stood there for a moment, paralyzed by the sight. He should’ve called out to her, should’ve offered to help, but the words wouldn’t come. His feet were rooted to the ground as he watched her carry another box into the car.

And then it hit him.

Her car was packed—completely packed.

No. No, this couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t be leaving. Not like this. Not without a word. Not without—

His thoughts were interrupted as (Y/n) straightened up and looked over her shoulder. Their eyes met, and the realization hit both of them at once. She froze, just for a moment, as if she wasn’t sure what to do or what to say. Then, without a word, she quickly turned her attention back to the box in front of her, hiding her face.

Steve’s heart twisted in his chest.

“(Y/n)?” he asked, his voice coming out more quietly than he meant. “What’s going on?”

She didn’t look at him. She didn’t even acknowledge him at first. She just continued moving boxes, her movements quick, her hands shaking ever so slightly.

“I’m leaving, Steve,” she said finally, her voice tight, her tone flat. “I’m going to college. Out of state. You know… like we talked about.”

It felt like the world around him stopped.

He blinked, trying to understand, trying to piece it all together. But his mind wasn’t processing the words. She was leaving. She was really leaving.

“You… you didn’t say anything,” Steve said, his throat tight. It came out harsher than he intended, and he immediately regretted it. But he couldn’t help it. It felt like everything was unraveling around him.

“I didn’t think I had to,” she replied quietly, her voice barely a whisper. She didn’t even look up as she continued working, shifting things from her porch into the car. “I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

A wave of frustration washed over him. “Well, you could have told me. You could’ve said something.”

She paused for a brief moment, her shoulders tensing. Then, she exhaled deeply. “I didn’t think you’d want to hear it. I didn’t think you’d care.”

The words stung. But Steve knew she was right. Somewhere along the way, they’d grown distant, and now here they were—on opposite sides of a divide he couldn’t cross.

“I always care,” he said, though the words felt like they barely scraped the surface.

She didn’t respond to that. She just moved to grab another box.

“Is it really that easy?” he asked, his voice suddenly small. “Just leaving? Just… gone?”

She didn’t look at him, but Steve saw her shoulders stiffen again. “It’s not easy, Steve. But it’s something I have to do.”

His gaze softened. The sight of her trying so hard to hide it, trying to pretend everything was okay, it broke him. He wanted to reach out, to stop her from leaving. To tell her that things didn’t have to be like this, that they could go back to how they used to be. But the words were trapped inside, tangled in the space between them.

Instead, he stood there, helpless.

“I’ll miss you,” he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

For the first time, she stopped moving, and for a brief second, she just stood there, her head down. He could see her lips trembling as she fought back the tears she wouldn’t let fall. “I’ll miss you too,” she said softly.

As she drove away, the silence between them stretched further than the miles that now separated them, and Steve realized that some goodbyes never get the chance to be said.

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#fanfiction #stranger things #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #joe keery #angst

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babyscottoncandy · 3 months ago

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pleaseee give requests! check out my pinned post for more infooo ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

#fanfiction #reqs open #request #the outsiders #harry potter #stranger things #slytherin boys #squid game #challengers #shameless

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babyscottoncandy · 3 months ago

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Bad Things

Su-Bong "Thanos",, Squid Games

Summary: Su-Bong "Thanos" x Fem¡Reader,, Su-Bong was never the type to commit to any person until he met (Y/n), a genius who somehow ended up in a strip club as a stripper, who had him head over heels.

TW: SW,, Drugs/Substance Abuse,, Pregnancy,, Mentions o/Sex

Based off the song "Bad Things" by MGK and Camila C.

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The strip club was a chaotic haven, a world where smoke thickened the air, neon lights buzzed overhead, and the thumping bass of electronic music rattled the walls. Su-Bong “Thanos” leaned against the bar, nursing a glass of something half-empty, his eyes glazed over with that signature combination of too many substances and too little sleep. His hair was disheveled, his clothes slightly wrinkled, and his vibe… well, Thanos was never the type to blend in anywhere. A rapper, a wannabe genius, and a druggie all rolled into one package, Su-Bong was content with drifting through life in a haze of poorly thought-out decisions.

“Yo, bartender!” he shouted randomly, slapping the bar with a bit too much enthusiasm for someone in his state. “Another drink! And make it stronger than my future.”

The bartender didn’t even bother looking up, too used to Su-Bong’s antics by now. It was a regular scene. But tonight, something was different—something caught his eye, and it wasn’t the cheap whiskey.

Su-Bong sat at the bar, slouched in his chair with a cigarette hanging from his lips and a bottle of cheap liquor in his hand. He hadn’t been in the club long, but he’d been watching you since you stepped on stage. There was something about the way you carried yourself—flirtatious, confident, and so unbothered by the eyes that drank you in—that captivated him.

He was used to being the one to draw attention, used to having people beg for a glimpse of his charisma and arrogance. But tonight? Tonight, it was all about you. His gaze never left your form as you spun around the pole, your movements fluid and graceful. It was an art form. And for the first time in a long while, he felt something—something that wasn’t the typical numbness.

The crowd was loving it, but you weren’t here to please them. You were here for the thrill, for the fun of it. You loved teasing the men who couldn’t take their eyes off of you, knowing full well the power you held over them. Tonight, your eyes kept drifting toward Su-Bong, and each time, you shot him a knowing smile. It was like a game to you—one that you were winning effortlessly.

You slipped into your jacket and took a deep breath. The night was chilly, the cool air cutting through the alleyway as you stepped outside. The buzz of the city surrounded you as you walked towards your car, trying to ignore the slight buzz of discomfort that always seemed to cling to you when you were alone after hours.

That was when you heard it.

A voice, low and threatening, cut through the stillness. “Hey, sweetheart. Got a minute?”

You froze.

Turning slowly, your stomach twisted in on itself. The man was unkempt, his face half-hidden in the shadows. His eyes were wild, unblinking, and in his hand was a knife—shiny, too clean, and terrifying. It glinted in the dim light as he stepped forward, his hand shaking slightly, but his grip firm.

You instinctively took a step back, your heart hammering in your chest. “W-what do you want?” you stammered, trying to sound calm, but your voice wavered.

“Your purse. Now,” he growled, his voice harsh, almost panicked. He waved the knife in the air, and your breath hitched.

You didn’t know what to do. Every instinct screamed at you to run, but the knife—that knife—kept you rooted to the spot. The last thing you needed was to make a move that would escalate things. The cold steel of it glinted as it hovered in the dim light, and your mind raced for any possible escape.

“I’m not looking for trouble,” you tried again, keeping your hands in view, not wanting to provoke him. “I’ll give you the purse, okay? Just… please, don’t hurt me.”

The man’s laugh was jagged, desperate. “I don’t want your purse, lady. I want something more.” His eyes flickered over you, and you could see the hunger in them, the desperation. It made your skin crawl.

Before the man could react, a figure appeared in the alleyway, silhouetted by the dim glow of the club’s lights. It was fast, and you didn’t even have time to process it before the man was flat on his back, groaning in pain.

You blinked, staring at the stranger who stood over the would-be mugger, his clothes unkempt and his posture… well, ridiculous. He had an aura of unpredictability around him, a weird mix of confidence and complete absurdity.

“You alright, lady?” the man asked, his voice sounding slightly slurred, but still strangely endearing. His hand was extended toward you, the other still hanging loosely by his side. You raised an eyebrow as you looked him over.

He had messy hair, a leather jacket that probably hadn’t seen a wash in weeks, and a pair of sunglasses that were clearly meant for the daytime. But there was something familiar about him. Then it clicked. His voice, his swagger—this was Su-Bong “Thanos,” the rapper and druggie who made the rounds in the local scene. You’d heard his name a million times in the clubs, but you’d never seen him in person before.

“Wait a minute,” you smirked, narrowing your eyes as you took in the sight of him. “You’re that rapper idiot, right? Thanos, isn’t it? The one who’s always high off his own ego?”

Su-Bong grinned, looking you up and down like he was sizing you up, his eyes twinkling with a mix of amusement and charm. “Yo, yeah, that’s me. You… you’re the dancer from the club, right?” He paused, his grin growing wider. “Damn, girl, I swear I’ve seen you shake it on stage before. You’re fire.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. His ridiculousness was contagious. “I’m flattered, but, uh, do you always save people by randomly throwing people around like that?” you asked, gesturing to the unconscious guy still twitching on the ground.

“Nah, just when it’s fun,” Su-Bong shrugged nonchalantly, then added with a cheeky grin, “And when they’re annoying me.”

“Uh-huh,” you smirked, feeling the heat rise in your chest. You didn’t usually let anyone get this close to you, especially not after hours when you just wanted to get home and crash, but there was something about his cocky attitude that made it hard to look away. “Well, thanks for the rescue, ‘Thanos.’ I guess I owe you one.”

He leaned in closer, clearly trying to be dramatic, his voice dropping to a more serious tone that somehow didn’t match his demeanor at all. “You don’t owe me anything, babe. I just couldn’t stand to see you get robbed. Not when you’re looking so… distracting.”

You raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of your lips. “Flattery will get you everywhere. But I’m not about to sleep with you just because you knocked out some loser. Nice try though.”

Su-Bong let out a loud laugh, making the whole alleyway seem a little brighter. “Damn, you’re just as fire off-stage as you are on. I like you, (Y/n). I really do. You got that… confidence. I respect that.”

You shrugged, your hands tucked in your jacket pockets. “You don’t get very far without it. And clearly, you’ve got enough ego for the both of us.”

He chuckled, stepping closer and then abruptly taking a step back like he was having an internal debate. “Yeah, well… maybe one day, I’ll show you just how much I can handle.”

You scoffed playfully. “Don’t get cocky, ‘Thanos.’ You’ll scare me away.”

“Oh, I’m not scared of that.” His eyes gleamed mischievously. “But maybe you should be scared of me next time someone tries to rob you. I’ve got your back now, whether you like it or not.”

You met his gaze, holding it for a second longer than you expected. There was something oddly magnetic about him, despite how ridiculous he was. Maybe it was his confidence. Maybe it was just the way he made everything seem so… effortless.

“Alright, you’re alright,” you said, finally cracking a smile. “But I’m still not sleeping with you.”

Su-Bong threw his head back, laughing loudly, the sound echoing in the alley. “Damn, I’m just trying to be a gentleman! You’re tough, girl. I respect that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you said, already turning to leave. “Catch you later, Thanos. Try not to do anything too stupid, alright?”

“You know you like it,” he called after you, his voice full of laughter.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the grin spreading across your face as you walked off, the chaos of the night already slipping into the background. Somehow, you had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time you crossed paths with Su-Bong.

You had always been used to the crowd, the spotlight, and the occasional flirtatious encounter that came with your job. But after that night, things felt different. The alleyway, once just another mundane part of your routine, had become a place of tension. A place you couldn’t quite shake the feeling of being watched.

It had been a week since Su-Bong—Thanos—had barged into your life, knocking out the mugger with his ridiculous swagger and grinning like he was some sort of hero. You tried to brush it off at first, laughing it off as just another weird encounter. But for some reason, he couldn’t seem to stay out of your mind. His cocky grin, his obnoxious confidence, and the ridiculous way he carried himself—it was hard to forget.

And, as it turned out, Su-Bong wasn’t just a one-time thing.

Every night, without fail, you noticed him.

It started small. At first, he’d be leaning against the wall, tucked in the shadows near the back alley, his scruffy figure barely visible under the dim light. You tried to ignore it, telling yourself it was just a coincidence. He was probably there for something else, right?

But as the days went on, you realized it wasn’t a coincidence at all. Every night, after your last set, when you slipped out of the back door to make your way home, there he was—waiting for you.

At first, you just rolled your eyes and kept walking, pretending you hadn’t seen him. But it didn’t take long for him to break the silence with his usual over-the-top greeting.

“Yo, baby girl,” he’d call out with that cocky grin plastered on his face. “You missed me already?”

You couldn’t help but smirk, rolling your eyes. “You’re out here again, huh? What, you think I need an escort now?”

“Well, yeah,” he’d reply without skipping a beat, crossing his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’m just lookin’ out for you, girl. Can’t have you out here by yourself, not after last time. You do remember last time, right?”

He was referring to the mugging attempt, of course, and while it had been terrifying in the moment, you couldn’t deny that his presence had given you a sense of security.

Still, you weren’t about to admit that. “I’m fine,” you’d respond, your voice laced with sarcasm. “I can take care of myself, Thanos.”

He’d just laugh, that obnoxious, carefree laugh that made everything seem less serious. “Yeah, sure you can. But, you know, it never hurts to have a little backup. Besides, you wouldn’t want to walk home alone in this city, would you?”

You’d sigh, knowing full well he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “Fine, whatever. But don’t think you’re getting a thank-you out of me,” you’d tease, your voice softening despite yourself.

“Aw, c’mon, babe,” he’d say, stepping up alongside you as you began walking down the alley. “I’m just tryin’ to be nice here. Can’t blame a guy for lookin’ out for a pretty girl, right?”

You would chuckle, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous. I don’t know how you’re always this confident, Thanos. You’ve got an ego the size of the moon.”

“Hey, when you’re as awesome as me, you gotta show it off,” he’d reply with that familiar grin, giving you a playful nudge.

You couldn’t help but laugh at him, despite yourself. It was silly, but in a way, you’d gotten used to him showing up, even if it was a little strange. There was something oddly comforting about having him there, even if you didn’t want to admit it. Every night, it became a routine—Su-Bong, the oddball rapper with a messy past, would show up to walk you home, his loud, ridiculous presence acting as a buffer between you and the world.

One night, as you stepped out of the club after your shift, you found him leaning against the wall, as usual. But this time, there was something different in his posture. He wasn’t laughing or making a joke; he looked… serious. His eyes softened when he saw you, and for a second, it almost felt like he wasn’t the obnoxious mess you’d grown used to.

“You good?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

You gave him a wary smile. “Yeah, just… tired. Long night.”

He nodded, pushing off the wall and walking up beside you. “Want me to grab you a ride home? I can get us a cab. Or, y’know, I could just give you a lift myself, if you trust me.”

You raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting the offer. “You, give me a ride? In that… what, your glorious car that I’ve seen you driving around?” You couldn’t help but tease, but there was a hint of genuine curiosity in your voice.

He shrugged, unfazed. “Hey, it’s not that bad. And I don’t mind. Just… if I’m gonna keep making sure you’re safe, might as well go all the way, right?”

You hesitated, the weight of his words settling in. It wasn’t just about the knife-wielding mugger anymore. It felt like he actually cared.

“Alright,” you finally agreed, your voice softening. “You win. But I’m not sitting in the backseat, alright? You’ve gotta deal with my sarcasm front and center.”

He grinned, almost as if he’d won a small victory. “Deal. I’ll take all the sarcasm you can throw at me. You know I love a good challenge.”

As you both walked toward his beat-up car, the quiet between you was comfortable—something you hadn’t expected. It was strange, but somehow, having Su-Bong, the self-proclaimed hero, around every night after work felt a little less like a chore and a little more like a choice.

The ride to your apartment was nothing like you’d ever experienced before.

You’d expected the usual quiet, mundane car ride home—just a brief escape from the chaos of your night. But with Su-Bong behind the wheel, that was never going to be the case.

His car was a beat-up mess, an old thing that probably hadn’t seen a wash in years. The leather seats were cracked, the dashboard was littered with empty snack wrappers, and the air smelled faintly of stale cigarettes and something that you couldn’t quite place—maybe weed? Definitely a mix of chaos. But none of that mattered as he slammed the car into gear and sped off, making a sharp left turn that had you gripping the door handle instinctively.

“Woah—su-bong!” you shouted, leaning back in your seat as he swerved around another corner, the tires screeching in protest.

“What?” He grinned at you from the driver’s seat, the ridiculous confidence on his face never faltering. “You scared or something?”

“Scared?! I’m trying not to have a heart attack!” you shot back, trying to sound annoyed, but you couldn’t keep the smile from tugging at your lips. He was so ridiculous, so unpredictable, that it was hard to stay mad for long.

“Pfft, this is nothing,” Su-Bong said, swerving around another turn, his hand effortlessly shifting the gearstick. “If you’re gonna hang with me, you gotta be ready for a little adventure, ya know?” His voice was laced with a mix of cockiness and complete obliviousness to the danger he was putting both of you in.

You glanced at him, feeling your pulse quicken. “You’re insane, you know that?”

“Nah,” he replied, effortlessly breezing through the next intersection like he owned the road. “I’m just living life. No time for slow driving, babe.”

Before you could respond, the car blasted with the sudden boom of heavy bass as the speakers came to life, drowning out your thoughts. You jumped a little, caught off guard as the car’s old speakers rattled with the beat of the music.

“Yo, yo, yo!” Su-Bong shouted, his hand slapping the steering wheel in time with the rhythm. “This track’s fire! You gotta hear this!”

It was loud—ridiculously loud—and the music was straight-up rap, the kind that boomed with heavy bass and fast-paced verses. You weren’t usually the biggest fan of rap, but Su-Bong’s energy was contagious. Despite your initial surprise, you found yourself nodding along, the music rattling through your chest with every beat.

“Alright, alright, I get it!” you laughed, trying to be heard over the pounding bass. “But are you sure you can handle driving like this?”

“Can I handle it?” he shouted back, his face lit up with the thrill of the ride. “I live for this. Look at me go! No hands on the wheel, no problem!”

And just like that, he threw his hands up in the air, the car swerving again as he hummed along with the lyrics. Your eyes widened, heart racing, as you quickly grabbed the door handle, bracing yourself for the ride.

“Su-Bong!” you screeched, genuinely worried. “Keep your hands on the wheel!”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m a professional!” he said nonchalantly, his eyes still on the road—barely. The music blared so loud that you could feel the vibrations in your seat, the sound almost deafening.

“You’re an idiot,” you muttered, trying to keep your cool despite the fact that you were moments away from either laughing or having a panic attack. There was no in-between when it came to Su-Bong.

He shot you a grin, his eyes glinting with mischief. “I’ll take that as a compliment, babe. You know you like my style.”

You couldn’t deny it. Despite the fact that you were pretty sure you were seconds away from crashing, there was something about him that made it all feel… fun. Alive.

“Seriously though,” you said, shifting in your seat to look at him. “If we die tonight, I’m haunting you forever.”

Su-Bong tilted his head, his grin widening. “Deal. You can haunt me all you want, babe. But I promise we’ll be just fine. Look at that—flawless driving,” he said, swerving through another turn with ridiculous ease. The car’s tires screamed in protest, but somehow, he pulled it off.

You rolled your eyes, but the adrenaline was starting to get to you. It was like you were in some kind of action movie, and you were either the heroine or the idiot for getting into the car with him. Either way, you couldn’t stop the thrill running through your veins, and it wasn’t just from the speed of the car.

“You’re insane,” you muttered, but there was a smile tugging at your lips again.

“Yeah, but you love it,” Su-Bong grinned, his eyes flicking to you for a brief moment before turning back to the road. “You think you can keep up with me?”

You leaned back in your seat, crossing your arms, your expression turning teasing. “You think you’re the only one who can handle this? You’re not the only one who lives for the thrill, Su-Bong.”

“Oh, I know,” he said, glancing at you with that cocky look in his eyes. “But I’m definitely the one who knows how to show you a good time.”

You rolled your eyes again, but the laughter bubbled up from your chest. There was no getting rid of him, and frankly, you didn’t want to. Despite the chaos, the blaring rap music, and the almost terrifying driving, there was something undeniably magnetic about Su-Bong. Something that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, this reckless adventure wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

A few days had passed since Su-Bong had gotten you home in one piece, despite his completely reckless driving and obnoxious sense of confidence. You hadn’t really expected to hear from him again after that—figured it was just another one of his impulsive acts of “heroism.” But, much to your surprise, he’d kept showing up like clockwork, always there in the alley after your shifts, escorting you home like it was some sort of routine.

You’d almost started to look forward to it.

But tonight was different.

As you walked out of the club, stretching your tired muscles after another long shift, you spotted Su-Bong standing against the brick wall—again, as usual—but this time, he was grinning like he had something up his sleeve.

“Yo!” he called out, practically bouncing on his feet. “I got something special for you tonight.”

You raised an eyebrow, walking over toward him with a smirk. “Special? What, did you sign us up for a bungee jump or something?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, nah. But I am taking you somewhere a little more exciting tonight. You’re gonna love it.”

You couldn’t help but feel a slight twinge of curiosity, but you tried to hide it. “You sure you’re not just dragging me to some back-alley karaoke bar again?”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Nah, I’m not that predictable, am I?” He took a step closer, his tone suddenly more serious. “I’m taking you to my friend’s club tonight. Nam-Gyu’s place. It’s a bit more… private. You’ll like it. Trust me.”

Nam-Gyu. You’d heard of him—one of Su-Bong’s friends, another rapper in the local scene, but apparently with a bit of a reputation. If Su-Bong vouched for the place, though, you figured it couldn’t be that bad.

“Okay, fine. You can’t keep surprising me with random stuff forever,” you said, crossing your arms. “Lead the way.”

A wicked grin stretched across Su-Bong’s face as he reached for his keys. “That’s what I like to hear, baby girl. Let’s roll.”

You followed him to his car, and as usual, the music blasted through the speakers before you could even get the door closed. He slammed the gearshift into place, the car roaring to life as he revved the engine with his signature, reckless enthusiasm.

As you drove through the city, the streets flashing by, you couldn’t help but feel a little nervous—this was a different kind of place. The fact that it was “private” sounded a little mysterious, but you trusted him (well, somewhat). And besides, you didn’t want to admit that you were kind of excited to see where Su-Bong was taking you.

When you finally pulled up to the club, you were surprised to see a sleek, black building tucked away behind a row of trees. It was way more low-key than you expected, with only a few cars parked outside. Su-Bong parked the car with that same reckless flair, jumping out without hesitation and opening the door for you.

“Welcome to the real underground, babe,” Su-Bong said with a wink, gesturing toward the entrance like it was some kind of VIP exclusive. “Nam-Gyu’s place. You won’t find anything like it around here.”

You raised an eyebrow but couldn’t help the curious grin that spread across your face. “Alright, Thanos. Let’s see what you got.”

Inside, the club was darker than the ones you were used to, with neon lights flashing in hypnotic patterns across the walls. The atmosphere felt electric, a mix of sleek design and gritty underworld energy. It wasn’t as flashy as the places you performed at, but the music was just as loud, and the crowd? Rowdy, to say the least.

Su-Bong led you through the crowd, nodding at a few familiar faces as he made his way toward the back. You couldn’t help but notice how everyone seemed to know him, giving him the kind of respect that made it clear he wasn’t just another rapper here for a good time. He was someone who ran in the deeper circles.

“Yo, Nam!” Su-Bong called out as they reached the back area, where a man with a buzz cut and a leather jacket was lounging on a couch, surrounded by a few other shady-looking individuals.

Nam-Gyu looked up, his expression unreadable at first, but when he saw Su-Bong, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Thanos,” he greeted with a nod, as though this was just another casual meeting between old friends. “You bring me someone new?”

You smiled, trying to look as confident as you could. “Not just anyone, Nam-Gyu. This is the one and only Y/N.”

Su-Bong shot you a sideways glance and then grinned even wider. “She’s got talent. You’ll see what I mean.”

Nam-Gyu stood up, his eyes sweeping over you with mild interest. “She looks like she can handle herself,” he said, offering you a handshake. “Welcome to my place.”

You took his hand, nodding politely but still feeling a little out of place. “Thanks for having me.”

“Of course,” Nam-Gyu replied, his gaze flicking back to Su-Bong. “Thanos talks a lot, but when he says something, it usually means something.” His voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it, a hint that this place was more than just a club.

Su-Bong stepped forward with a playful grin. “Well, I’m the one who says she’s got talent, so… Nam, don’t make me look bad, alright?”

Nam-Gyu chuckled, turning toward the DJ booth and waving toward the back. “Relax. You know how we do things around here.” He turned to you with a wink. “I think you’re gonna like it.”

As Su-Bong pulled you into the crowd, the music pulsed around you in a way that made your body buzz. It was harder, faster, and rawer than anything you’d experienced before. Su-Bong was practically bouncing on his heels, nodding along to the beat with exaggerated confidence.

“See? I told you it’d be fire,” he said, grinning like a proud kid showing off his favorite toy.

You couldn’t help but laugh, even as you looked around, the feeling of the place settling in. It was gritty and real, and maybe just a little dangerous—but you’d gotten used to that with Su-Bong. And as the bass reverberated through your chest, you couldn’t help but admit that maybe this was a kind of thrill you hadn’t experienced before. A different kind of world, one you didn’t quite understand yet—but with him by your side, you weren’t as scared as you thought you’d be.

You gave Su-Bong a sideways glance, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Alright, alright. This might actually be kind of fun.”

Su-Bong winked at you, his usual cocky grin back in full force. “I knew you’d come around, babe. Stick with me, and you’ll never have a boring night again.”

The night after Su-Bong took you to Nam-Gyu’s club, everything seemed to blend into one chaotic mix. The sounds of the city, the pulsing beat of the music, and Su-Bong’s larger-than-life energy had you feeling like you were in a whirlwind. You weren’t used to his world, not really, but something about the unpredictability of it all kept pulling you in.

Tonight, though, there was something different in the air.

Su-Bong had invited you out again. This time, you found yourself in his car, the familiar scent of weed and cologne surrounding you as he navigated the streets with his usual reckless abandon.

“So,” Su-Bong said, glancing at you as the music blasted through the car. “You’ve been hanging around a while. You ever think about… loosening up a little?” He was grinning, but his tone was serious, like he was trying to gauge something.

You raised an eyebrow, your curiosity piqued. “Loosening up?” you repeated, leaning back in your seat. “You mean, like… not stressing over everything?”

“Exactly,” he said with a casual shrug. “You’ve been working hard. Living life in the fast lane, like I do, but it’s easy to get stuck in your own head. Sometimes, you gotta let go. Trust me, I know how to take the edge off.”

You could see where this was going, but you weren’t sure if you were ready to follow him down that road. Su-Bong had a way of making things sound so effortless, like it was no big deal. But you’d heard the rumors—about the substances people used in the circles he ran in. You didn’t want to be just another person caught up in it, not really.

“What do you mean, ‘take the edge off’?” you asked cautiously, trying to keep your tone light.

Su-Bong shot you a sideways glance, his grin widening. “Come on, you’ve got to know how it is. Everyone does it. Just a little something to take the weight off your shoulders.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a small baggie, the contents hidden inside. His fingers moved deftly, almost too casually, as he pulled out a small white pill.

Your stomach dropped. You’d seen people like him before—always talking about the “high” and the “rush,” but you never thought you’d be in this situation. You’d heard about the risks, the people who got lost in it, and the way it could take control of someone’s life. And yet, here Su-Bong was, offering you a glimpse into that world.

“Don’t do it,” you said, your voice shaky. “I didn’t come here for that, Su-Bong.”

He seemed to pause, the playful look on his face shifting into something softer for just a moment. “Look, I’m not gonna force you,” he said, his tone changing slightly. “But you’re overthinking it. One time, and it’s just… it’s just something to help you forget for a bit. No harm in that.”

You hesitated, looking at the pill in his hand, your heart pounding in your chest. The pull of curiosity was strong, but the fear of what could happen if you went down that road kept you rooted where you were. “I’m not you, Su-Bong. I don’t want to get caught up in all that.”

For a moment, there was a quiet understanding between you two. Su-Bong didn’t try to push it, just watching you with those intense eyes that seemed to always be reading you. Finally, he slipped the pill back into his pocket, sighing.

“You don’t have to,” he said softly, looking away from you for a moment as the car slowed to a stop at a red light. “I get it. Some things, you can’t just dive into without thinking about the consequences.”

You appreciated the fact that he wasn’t pushing you, but you also couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach. It wasn’t just about the substances. It was about Su-Bong himself. The easy way he lived, always rushing into things without thinking—sometimes you worried he didn’t realize how much he was losing control of.

As the light turned green, you felt the weight of the moment shift. You weren’t ready to dive into his world of substance use, but you weren’t ready to walk away from him either. Maybe, in time, you could help him find balance, just like you were trying to do for yourself. But for now, you just wanted to enjoy being you—free of the chaos he seemed to embrace so easily.

“I’m good,” you said, breaking the silence.

Su-Bong gave a small nod, his grin returning, though it seemed less playful now, more reflective. “Yeah, I get you. But, you know, I’ll always be here if you change your mind.”

You didn’t reply, but there was something in the way he said it that made you think maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as carefree as he liked to make it seem.

The drive continued in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You both knew where the other stood. In a world full of fast decisions, maybe it was nice to slow down every once in a while.

He looked at you with that familiar grin, his eyes glinting. “One time, Y/N. Just once. You’re not gonna regret it.”

Your hands felt clammy, but you found yourself nodding, unable to look away from the pill in his hand. There was something in his voice that made you believe him, even if you knew better. The need for relief, the escape from the endless cycle of work, the constant pressure, it all mixed with the thrill of being here, with him, in this moment.

You reached for the pill, your fingers brushing his as you took it. Su-Bong’s smile widened. “Trust me, babe. You’ll feel like a new person.”

The pill felt small in your mouth, barely noticeable as you swallowed it down with a gulp of air. The seconds ticked by in silence. Su-Bong kept glancing over at you, a nervous anticipation settling over him.

At first, nothing happened. Your heart raced, but it could’ve just been the adrenaline of the moment. Then, slowly, the world around you began to blur. The sharpness of your thoughts softened, and a warm, familiar rush settled over you.

Everything felt a little easier, like the weight you had been carrying on your shoulders had been lifted just enough for you to breathe.

You exhaled, your body relaxing into the seat. It felt… good. Too good. A sense of calm washed over you, as if the noise and chaos of life were just distant echoes. The anxiety you hadn’t even realized you were holding onto faded into the background.

Su-Bong’s voice cut through the haze. “How do you feel?”

You looked at him, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Different. In a good way.”

He nodded, a satisfied look crossing his face. But even as he smiled, something in his eyes flickered, almost as if he were waiting for something—waiting for you to say the words he wanted to hear, to say you were hooked.

And that’s when the reality of it all hit you.

This wasn’t just about feeling good for a moment. It was about the slippery slope you were now standing on. The world around you felt soft, but you knew this feeling was temporary. The sense of ease would fade, and then what? Would you keep going back to that escape? Would it always be this easy to forget?

You turned your gaze out the window, watching the city lights blur past as Su-Bong drove. The high was nice, yes, but a gnawing feeling in your gut told you that this moment was something more than just a little escape. It was a door opening, and you had no idea where it would lead.

As Su-Bong reached for the radio, changing the song to something upbeat and loud, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were on the edge of something dangerous.

The music blared through the car, the beat pulsing in your chest. But now, it was hard to ignore the fact that you’d crossed a line. The question was: would you ever go back?

Su-Bong didn’t seem to notice the shift in your mood. He was too busy jamming along to the music, lost in his own world. You tried to focus on the rhythm, but the weight of your decision hung in the air like a fog you couldn’t escape.

For now, you were caught between two worlds—the one you knew and the one you were just beginning to understand. But one thing was for sure; nothing would ever be the same again.

The lights inside the club had always been bright, always flashing in rhythm to the music. But tonight, they felt harsher, too bright, like they were highlighting everything you were trying to ignore. The constant pressure, the constant need to perform, to be perfect—every night felt like a cycle you couldn’t break.

Su-Bong had been there, waiting in the shadows, just like always. But this time, he wasn’t just a distraction or a carefree joke. This time, he was the one handing you a way out.

At first, you resisted. The pills, the escape, the numbing sensation that came with it all—it wasn’t something you thought you’d need. You weren’t like those people, the ones who lost themselves in the high. But with each passing day, with each stressful night at the club, it became harder to resist.

It wasn’t long before Su-Bong noticed. He always noticed.

He was there after every show, leaning casually against the doorframe, waiting for you like a predator who knew exactly when to strike. His smile was always a little too knowing, a little too confident. It was a charm you couldn’t ignore, not even when you tried.

“You don’t need to keep pretending like you’re fine, Y/N,” he’d say, his voice low and teasing, as if he was talking about something no one else could understand. He’d pull out a small pill, gliding it across the counter to you, that signature grin never leaving his face.

At first, you hesitated, telling yourself it was just one time. You could control it. But with Su-Bong there, telling you it was okay, telling you it would make everything easier—it became so much harder to say no.

And so, you didn’t.

One pill turned into two. Then, three. And with every hit, the pain, the pressure, the nagging thoughts—everything seemed to drift away. It felt good. It felt like freedom, even if it was just for a moment.

“You see?” Su-Bong would say, his voice slick with reassurance. “This is what you’ve been looking for. No more stress. No more worrying about what’s next. Just feel it. Let it go.”

It wasn’t just the pills. It was the way he made it sound so harmless, the way he painted it like an escape, something you deserved, something to help you get through the night. The high was a temporary fix, but the way he made it seem like a reward for all the hard work—you couldn’t help but fall deeper.

By now, your relationship with Su-Bong was more than just the occasional offer. It became routine. You would go through the night, dancing and smiling, your body moving to the beat, but the only thing keeping you afloat was the buzz, the pills tucked into your bag, always there waiting for the next round.

“How’re you feeling?” Su-Bong would ask, his voice always low, as he handed you more, his grin never faltering.

“I’m good,” you’d say, though you could feel it deep in your chest. The high was starting to fade too quickly now. You were chasing it, but it was slipping away faster than you could catch it. But with Su-Bong around, it never felt too bad.

You never realized how much you had come to rely on him until one night, when you didn’t have the strength to ask for it yourself. The club had emptied out, and the workers were packing up. The glow of the neon lights reflected off the glass, casting long shadows across the alley.

You stood there, your hands trembling, trying to find the energy to leave. The pressure of the night, the exhaustion, the constant strain of needing to be perfect—it was all too much. You couldn’t face the world without another pill.

Su-Bong was there, waiting, as always. But this time, he didn’t say anything. He just pulled the bag from his pocket and handed it to you without hesitation. You knew you didn’t need to ask. He was always there to give you what you needed, even when you didn’t want to admit you needed it.

“Just one more, Y/N. I’ve got you,” Su-Bong murmured, his tone soft, almost coaxing. He knew exactly what you were thinking, knew exactly what you wanted. And somehow, the way he said it—so sure, so confident—it made you feel like it was the only thing that would make everything okay.

You took the pill from his hand, swallowing it down without a second thought. The world began to blur again, and for the first time in a long time, you felt like you could breathe.

It wasn’t the first time you had taken it, and it wouldn’t be the last.

But every time you fell back into it, you realized just how much control he had over you. Su-Bong didn’t just offer you an escape—he made sure you needed it. And as much as you hated to admit it, the idea of living without it, without him, seemed impossible now.

“You good?” he asked again, his voice like a soft, dangerous hum. You nodded, smiling the kind of smile you didn’t feel, but it was enough to keep him satisfied.

“I’m fine,” you lied, knowing that deep down, things were slipping out of control.

You didn’t want to admit it, but you knew. The cycle was spinning faster now. And you had no idea how long you could keep up with it before everything came crashing down.

The music in the club was louder tonight, the bass thumping through the floor, but it felt like it was miles away. Everything was distant, as if the noise, the flashing lights, and the crowd weren’t real at all. Your thoughts were clouded, like a fog that never really cleared. You’d been here too long—performing, pretending, and with every passing minute, it felt more like you were living someone else’s life.

Su-Bong was there, as always. He was waiting in the back alley, his usual spot, where the world outside felt far removed from everything that weighed on you. You hadn’t even noticed him approach until he was standing beside you, close enough that his presence filled your every breath.

“Tonight was rough, huh?” Su-Bong’s voice broke through the silence. His words weren’t full of the usual jokes or sarcasm. They were softer, almost concerned, like he was seeing through the mask you wore.

You didn’t answer right away. The high from earlier was wearing off, but it wasn’t enough to clear your mind. You were tired. So tired. “I just need a minute,” you muttered, leaning against the wall of the alley, your hands trembling.

He watched you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he stepped closer, his hand brushing against yours. The heat from his skin sent a jolt through you, a strange mix of comfort and unease. You looked up at him, but you couldn’t read his eyes. They were too dark, too intense.

“You can come to my place, if you want,” Su-Bong said, his voice low, almost like a question. “Get away from all this.”

You didn’t know why, but something in the way he said it made you nod. It was as if you had no control over your own decisions anymore, as if you were caught in some sort of web, tangled in his words and the pull of his presence.

The drive to his place was quiet, save for the occasional beat of the rap music that blasted from his car’s speakers. You stared out the window, letting the cold air from the cracked window cool your flushed skin. The world outside was blurry, the streets lighting up in quick flashes as he sped through them recklessly.

When you finally reached his apartment, the door slammed shut behind you with a finality that echoed in the silence. Su-Bong didn’t waste time. He motioned for you to sit on the couch, but you didn’t follow his instructions. Instead, you moved towards the window, pulling the curtain back slightly to glance at the city lights below.

“You know you don’t have to do this, right?” Su-Bong’s voice cut through the quiet room. It wasn’t an accusation, but more of a gentle reminder. Like he was giving you a way out, even though you knew deep down you wouldn’t take it.

You turned to look at him, your heart pounding in your chest. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” you confessed softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He stepped closer, and for a moment, there was a stillness between you. His hand brushed against yours again, and this time, you didn’t pull away. His fingers wrapped around yours gently, and the contact sent a strange warmth through you, grounding you in that moment.

“I know,” Su-Bong murmured, his voice low and soothing. He reached up, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering just a little longer than it should have. “But you don’t have to figure it all out tonight. We can just… be here. Together.”

The air between you seemed to crackle, and without thinking, you stepped forward, closing the space between you. His hands found your waist, pulling you in close as his lips brushed against yours. The kiss was slow at first, tentative, like neither of you wanted to acknowledge how much you needed it. But as it deepened, it became something else—something raw, something real. The chaos of the night, the pressure of your life, the confusion of everything that had been building up inside you—it all seemed to vanish as you kissed him.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was an unraveling. A surrender.

You pulled away for a moment, your breath shallow as you looked up at him. His eyes were darker now, filled with something more than just lust. There was an understanding there, a quiet acceptance.

“I’m not good for you,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Su-Bong’s thumb traced your jawline, his touch tender. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t need you to be perfect. I just need you to be real.”

His words hung in the air between you, and for a brief moment, it felt like everything made sense. But that was the thing about moments like this—they never lasted long enough.

You leaned in again, this time with more urgency, more desperation. The walls you had built around yourself were crumbling, piece by piece, and the only thing that seemed to fill the void was him. His touch. The connection that had started with a shared glance, a shared high, and now… something deeper.

As you moved towards his bed, your heart was racing. It wasn’t just about the sex, though. It was about the closeness, the way his presence filled the empty spaces in your soul. The things you had been hiding from, the parts of yourself you had locked away—they were spilling out, unfiltered, raw. And somehow, Su-Bong was the only one who seemed to see it.

When the moment finally came to a halt, when the exhaustion and emotions settled, you found yourself lying next to him, staring up at the ceiling in the quiet of his room. The air was thick with unspoken words, and neither of you seemed in a hurry to break the silence.

Su-Bong was the first to speak, his voice soft and almost uncertain. “You know, Y/N, I never thought I’d say this, but… I don’t want you to keep running. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You turned your head to look at him, the weight of his words sinking in. There was something sincere in his gaze, something that made you question everything you had believed about him.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “But… I want to try. I want to stop pretending.”

Su-Bong smiled, a small, soft grin that made your heart skip a beat. “We’ll figure it out, together. One day at a time.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed it.

You had known something was off for weeks, but you kept pushing it down, ignoring the signs. The late-night cravings, the nausea that came and went, the dizziness that seemed to follow you everywhere. It wasn’t until you missed your period that the weight of the situation hit you. The reality settled in with an almost suffocating force, and no matter how hard you tried to dismiss it, you couldn’t escape the thought: What if I’m pregnant?

So here you were, sitting in the bathroom of your apartment, the harsh fluorescent light above casting a sterile glow on the cold tiles. You held the pregnancy test in your shaking hands, staring at it as though it could somehow change if you stared long enough. Your mind raced. You had never wanted this. You weren’t ready for a child. You couldn’t even keep your own life together, let alone bring a new life into it.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves, and finally, you peeled open the box. There was a small, almost cruel silence in the room as you followed the instructions, your heart pounding in your chest as you waited for the test to process. The minutes felt like hours. It was hard to focus on anything except the heavy weight of what you knew could change everything.

When the time finally passed, you looked down. The two lines stared up at you, stark and undeniable. Your heart stopped. Positive.

You sat there, frozen, as the world seemed to stop around you. Your thoughts were a jumbled mess—fear, confusion, anger, guilt. You had no idea what to do next. You hadn’t even considered the possibility that this could happen. You were used to running from things, ignoring them, hiding away in the high you chased. But this was different. This wasn’t something you could run from.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you stared at the test in disbelief. The bathroom felt too small, too confining, and yet the outside world felt miles away. You couldn’t make sense of anything. You couldn’t even make sense of yourself anymore.

You leaned your forehead against the cool tile, trying to breathe through the panic rising in your chest. You didn’t know what to do. You didn’t know how to fix this. You couldn’t even fix yourself.

The party was a blur of flashing lights, loud music, and the heavy thrum of bass that made the walls of the house vibrate. You barely noticed the people around you, the laughter, the chaotic fun. All you could focus on was the gnawing feeling in your gut, a pit of dread you couldn’t shake. The flashing images of your life in the last few weeks had become a montage you couldn’t turn off. The pregnancy test, the growing fear, the moments of trying to escape into the noise of the club scene, hoping it would all somehow disappear.

But it hadn’t disappeared. The truth was a constant weight on your shoulders, and you couldn’t ignore it anymore. You knew you had to face it, even if you weren’t sure what to do.

Su-Bong was nowhere in sight at first. You wandered through the party, half-heartedly sipping on a drink, trying to pretend you were fine, trying to forget the reality that had been clawing at you from the inside. Every time you looked at him in the crowd, your stomach twisted more. He seemed so carefree, so full of life, his usual confident smirk always on display, surrounded by people who adored him. He seemed untouchable in a way, like he could do whatever he wanted and never have to answer for it.

But tonight, everything felt different. You felt like you were sinking into yourself, standing on the edge of a cliff, terrified to fall.

Finally, you spotted him—Su-Bong, in the middle of a conversation, his laugh echoing through the room. He caught sight of you and, with that typical swagger, made his way over, a grin already spreading across his face.

“Y/N! You look way too serious for this crowd. What’s up?” He placed a hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently before stepping back, his eyes scanning you with a playful gleam. “You good? Or are you just trying to play it cool?”

You didn’t want to ruin his night. You didn’t want to make it harder than it already was. But the anxiety gnawing at you was unbearable, and there was no hiding it anymore.

“I’m fine, just… tired,” you lied, trying to offer him a half-hearted smile.

He raised an eyebrow. “Tired? You’re acting like you’ve been through a marathon. Come on, let’s get you out of your head. You’re here to have fun.” He gestured toward the table where drugs were being passed around like candy. The smell of smoke hung in the air, mixing with the sweet, sickly scent of alcohol. It wasn’t a surprise, but tonight it made you sick.

You shook your head, taking a step back. “I’m not doing that, Su-Bong. I’m done with it.”

His grin faltered for just a moment before his usual cocky demeanor returned. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “What do you mean, you’re done with it? You’ve been doing it for months.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the lump in your throat. “I don’t want to anymore,” you said quietly, but the words felt weak. “I don’t need it. I’m done pretending everything’s fine.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, not fully understanding what was going on. “You don’t need it? What, you think you’re better than all this now?” His voice had a sharp edge to it, the irritation slowly creeping in. “You think walking away from it’s just gonna fix everything, huh?”

You looked at him, frustrated and hurt. “No. It’s not about being better, Su-Bong. It’s about… it’s about everything spiraling out of control. I’m not just acting like I’m too good for this. I’m saying it’s not working anymore. None of it is. And I’m trying to get my life back, to figure out what’s real.” Your voice wavered slightly, but you pressed on. “But that’s hard when I’m stuck in a cycle of—of crap I can’t get out of.”

He stepped closer, now eyeing you more carefully, but there was still a flicker of defensiveness in his eyes. “You’re acting all serious and distant tonight. Is it about me?” he asked, his voice dropping lower. “What’s going on, Y/N? You’re not talking to me.”

“I’ve been trying to keep everything together. Trying to keep up appearances. Pretend I’m not breaking down inside.” You inhaled sharply, trying to steady your racing heart. “But it’s not just the partying. It’s everything. It’s all falling apart.”

He tilted his head, his smirk finally fading. “What do you mean by that? What do you think you’re falling apart from?”

You bit your lip, debating whether to tell him. You’d been avoiding it for weeks now, terrified of the consequences, afraid of his reaction. But the truth had nowhere else to go. You couldn’t keep hiding it.

“I’m pregnant, Su-Bong. With your kid.” The words left your mouth before you could even process them, and the silence that followed felt suffocating.

The shock on his face was immediate. His eyes widened, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. He blinked several times, as if trying to make sense of what you had just said. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out at first. He took a step back, his hand dropping to his side as though he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“You’re… pregnant?” He repeated, voice thick with disbelief.

You nodded, your heart racing as the reality of it all came crashing down on you. “Yeah. With your kid.”

Su-Bong stared at you, his face unreadable, but you could see the gears turning in his mind, the panic flickering in his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, his expression faltering as he processed the words. The music from inside the party seemed distant now, the noise too sharp. The whole world seemed to shrink down to the two of you standing there in the cold, quiet night.

He exhaled slowly, shaking his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. “Shit, Y/N… I don’t… I don’t even know what to say to this. This is… this is too much.” His voice was low and strained.

You flinched, your chest tightening as his words hit harder than you expected. “Su-Bong…” you whispered, your throat tight with emotion. “You don’t have to say anything. I just… I just need you to know. I didn’t know how to tell you. I’m scared, okay? I don’t know what to do, and I didn’t want to drag you into it.”

He looked at you, his eyes filled with confusion and frustration. “Scared? Of course, you’re scared! But I’m scared, too!” His voice raised slightly, raw with emotion. “What do you expect me to do? I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready to be a dad. I’m not!”

The words stung, and your heart sank into your stomach. You tried to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. “I never asked you to be ready, Su-Bong. I didn’t expect you to have all the answers. But I need you to understand. I don’t know what to do alone.”

He ran a hand over his face, frustration and panic clear in his expression. “I… I don’t know what to say. I didn’t want this to happen. I’m not ready for any of this. I’m just—fuck.” He kicked the ground lightly, trying to find something in the air to focus on.

You took a shaky breath, trying to control the lump in your throat. “I know you’re not ready. I know it’s a lot, but I—”

“Stop, Y/N,” Su-Bong cut you off, shaking his head. “I can’t just turn around and pretend this is gonna be fine. You think I’m ready to just—just jump into this? I can barely keep my own shit together, let alone deal with a kid. I’m not good at this. I don’t know how to be a dad!”

You stepped back, feeling the sharp sting of his words, the weight of it all crashing down. “I’m not asking you to do anything you’re not ready for, Su-Bong,” you whispered. “But I’m scared of doing this alone.”

His expression faltered, his frustration giving way to something else—regret, maybe? But before he could speak, you turned and walked away from him, the tears finally slipping down your cheeks, the sounds of the party fading behind you as the night swallowed you whole.

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#fanfiction #squid game #squid game s2 #thanos #thanos x reader #choi su bong x reader #su bong #top #squid games x reader

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babyscottoncandy · 3 months ago

Text

White Mustang

Tom Riddle,, Harry Potter

Summary: Tom Riddle x Fem¡Reader,, Their relationship started off as a shock to Hogwarts - Tom Riddle was dating the sweetest girl in Hogwarts? But all sweet love turns rotten.

TW: Toxic Relationships,, Possessive Behaviors,, Mentions o/Sex,, Stalking,, Angst

Based off "White Mustang" by Lana Del Rey

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There was something about her that didn’t belong in a place like Hogwarts — at least, not the version Tom Riddle saw it as. The castle was all stone and shadows, secrets tucked behind centuries-old portraits and dusty stairwells. It wasn’t built for softness. And yet, there she was.

She had a kind of warmth that clung to everything she touched. The sort of girl who smiled at ghosts and complimented Slytherins without fear. The sort who helped first-years find their classes even if it made her late, who remembered the names of owls in the tower, and who cried during Care of Magical Creatures when a flobberworm was stepped on.

People called her sweet. Almost too sweet. Professors adored her. Classmates admired her. She floated through life like sunlight in human form — all soft colors, gentle laughter, and that Hufflepuff compassion that never wavered, no matter how cruel the world around her could be.

And perhaps that was why Tom noticed her.

He first saw her in the corridor near the Library. She had dropped a stack of books and parchment had fluttered everywhere like leaves in a storm. Several people rushed to help her, and she thanked each one like they’d done something extraordinary. Tom stood further down the hall, unnoticed, watching with an unreadable expression. He didn’t move to help. He never did. But he watched.

She smiled at everyone — and when she smiled, it looked like she meant it.

He hated that it made her stand out. He hated that people loved her for it. But more than anything, he hated that she hadn’t even looked in his direction.

It wasn’t vanity. Not really. Tom Riddle didn’t crave attention in the way lesser boys did. But he noticed everything — and he knew when something shouldn’t be overlooked. She was curious. She was kind in a way that didn’t falter. And that made her dangerous.

The next time he saw her, it was by the greenhouses. She was humming something under her breath as she walked, arms full of blooming dittany, cheeks flushed pink from the sun. He stepped in her path — a calculated move, perfectly timed — and though she blinked up at him with surprise, her expression never dimmed.

He spoke to her for the first time that day. Her voice was warm, open, utterly unaffected by the way others usually stiffened around him. She didn’t flirt. She didn’t shrink. She simply was. And that puzzled him more than it should have.

He began to find excuses to see her after that. Nothing obvious — that would have been foolish — but enough that her face became a regular fixture in his world. The sight of her walking across the courtyard, arms wrapped around a thick book; the way she tilted her head when she was curious, like a bird considering something too beautiful to ignore; the faint scent of vanilla and ink that lingered when she passed.

It was intoxicating. Infuriating.

She always asked how he was, even when others avoided his gaze. She told him she thought he was brilliant, and she said it like it was simply true — not a line, not a performance. And slowly, carefully, Tom began to pull at the strings that held her life together.

He listened more than he spoke. Noticed who she spent time with. Which friends she clung to. Which ones she only smiled at because it was the polite thing to do. And from there, the cracks began.

He planted doubts gently — so softly that they barely registered at first. A well-placed comment about a friend’s jealousy. A subtle remark about how little others understood her. She never accused. She never snapped. She just listened. And over time, her circle grew smaller, and Tom’s presence grew larger.

She began to seek him out without realizing it. Trusted him. Looked to him with eyes that believed he was safe.

And that — that was when he knew she was his.

Not in the way other boys talked about owning someone. Not in the crude, shallow sense of conquest. Tom didn’t want her because she was beautiful or kind or easy to love. He wanted her because she was light, and he wanted to cage it. To keep it. To control something so unlike himself that it felt like power.

He didn’t love her.

But he needed her to believe that he did.

Because when she looked at him like he was good — when she held his hand like she trusted him — something unnameable stirred in his chest. A strange, foreign ache that made him tighten his grip just a little too much.

She never flinched. And that, more than anything, made her the most dangerous person he’d ever met.

He made her feel like she mattered. Not for being sweet. Not for being helpful. But simply for existing.

When he called her different, she didn’t understand the look in his eyes. It wasn’t admiration, exactly. It was something heavier — like possession just beginning to root.

Still, she felt drawn to him.

Her friends noticed. One or two asked if she was spending too much time with him. They phrased it delicately, but the message was clear: be careful. She laughed it off. Tom was intense, yes. But he had never been unkind to her. He respected her. He made her feel… seen.

She didn’t recognize the way her world had started to narrow.

She stopped sitting with large groups. Declined invitations she once would’ve accepted without thinking. She told herself she was just tired. That it was a busy term. But in truth, her thoughts circled back to him too often, her time too filled with silent walks and long, slow conversations that left her feeling oddly breathless.

Tom never flattered her. Never showered her with compliments. But when he looked at her — really looked — she felt as though she were something rare. Something fragile. Something he wanted to understand.

And in her innocence, she mistook that for affection.

So she let him in. Let him close enough to memorize the rhythm of his voice. Close enough to smile when he approached, heart skipping in a way she hadn’t known before. She gave him the kind of trust that came so easily to her — without hesitation, without suspicion.

She didn’t see the way he watched her with calculation just behind his stillness. She didn’t notice how easily he drew her away from others. How he slipped opinions into her thoughts like ink in water — colorless at first, then suddenly everywhere.

She liked the challenge of him. The mystery. Tom Riddle wasn’t easy. And in her quiet, warm-hearted world, where everything was softness and smiles, he was something else entirely. Something sharp-edged and silver-toned. He didn’t flatter. He didn’t praise. But when he looked at her like she was the only one worth speaking to in a crowded room, it left her breathless.

He made her think differently. About people. About herself. He once asked her what she wanted — really wanted — with a kind of intensity that made her feel bare. She hadn’t known how to answer.

He told her that most people went their entire lives never asking that question. And the way he said it made her feel like he’d seen something in her no one else had.

Sometimes, she dreamed about him. Not in a romantic haze of hands held and kisses shared — but dreams full of shadows and candlelight and the way his voice sounded when he said her name slowly, like a secret. When she woke, her pulse always beat faster, and she never knew if it was from excitement… or fear.

She brushed that off. Called it nerves. Her friends noticed she was quieter these days. Thoughtful. They joked that she must be in love, but they didn’t say his name. No one did.

There was an unspoken truth about Tom Riddle at Hogwarts. Everyone respected him. Feared him, maybe. But no one questioned him. No one claimed to know him. He was too polished, too controlled. People gave him a wide berth the way they did with fire — beautiful from afar, but not meant to be touched.

And yet she did.

One day, she came across him in the Restricted Section.

She hadn’t meant to be there. She was searching for a herbology text on poisonous blooms for a class project. But when she turned a corner, there he was — alone among shelves older than any student, fingers trailing across cracked spines like they held answers no one else could understand.

He didn’t look surprised to see her. "Curious?"

She nodded, smiling despite herself. “Always." Tom watched her like a hawk watching something soft and unaware. And still, she didn’t flinch. He let her stay.

They didn’t talk much, just read in the same quiet space for a while, but her heart was loud in her chest the whole time. There was something unspoken beneath it all — like standing at the edge of a cliff with her toes just over the line.

It wasn’t love. Not yet. But it was a fascination that grew claws.

The wind bit at her cheeks as she stepped onto the stone balcony of the Astronomy Tower. Her fingers were pink from the chill, and her cardigan was too thin for the hour, but she didn’t mind. She just needed to breathe.

Most of the castle was asleep or close to it, but she often found herself wandering lately — not lost, exactly, just… restless. Like something inside her was shifting, and she hadn’t figured out what.

She wasn’t expecting anyone to be there. Certainly not him.

Tom stood by the railing, hands tucked neatly behind his back, his profile bathed in moonlight. The stars made his features even sharper, like they were highlighting him on purpose. He didn’t turn when she arrived.

For a moment, she considered leaving — not out of fear, just the quiet worry of intruding. But then he spoke.

“I thought I was the only one who came up here.”

His voice was calm, almost serene. Not a hint of irritation. Just statement, as always.

“I could say the same about you,” she replied softly, stepping closer. Her shoes scuffed against the stone, loud in the hush of night.

Tom glanced at her then, eyes catching hers in that cool, unreadable way. “You don’t strike me as someone who likes being alone.”

“I don’t,” she admitted. “But I like the quiet.”

He nodded faintly, as if that made perfect sense to him. For a while, neither of them spoke. The wind curled between them, tugging at her sleeves and making the stars shimmer above like blinking eyes.

She leaned against the stone edge, resting her chin on her arms, watching the moon. “Sometimes it feels like the castle breathes differently at night.”

Tom tilted his head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” she said, smiling. “It’s just a feeling. Like it exhales. Like everything’s still and soft, just for a little while.”

He didn’t smile, but his gaze lingered.

“You always speak like that,” he said finally.

“Like what?”

“Like the world is gentle.”

She blinked, unsure if it was a compliment or not. “I suppose I see it that way.”

“Even when it isn’t?” His voice was lower now, nearly lost beneath the wind.

She paused. Thought. “Especially then.”

He turned his eyes back to the sky, and for a moment, he looked… tired. Not physically, but in that way that sits behind the ribs — the kind of tired that comes from holding too much alone.

“I used to come up here when I couldn’t sleep,” he said quietly. “When I was younger.”

That surprised her. He never spoke of his past. Never spoke of himself, really.

“Why?” she asked, her voice soft with curiosity.

His eyes didn’t meet hers. “Because it was high enough to pretend the world was smaller than it really is. Like maybe it could be controlled.”

She didn’t respond right away. What could she say to that? It wasn’t something most sixteen-year-olds confessed.

So instead, she shifted closer, just enough so their shoulders almost brushed. Not touching. But almost. And she whispered, “You don’t have to control it, you know. The world. It’s not all cruel.”

Tom was silent for a long while.

Then, without looking at her, he murmured, “You’re very sure of that.”

“I have to be,” she said. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”

He looked at her then — truly looked — and something flickered in his expression. It wasn’t vulnerability. Not quite. But maybe the closest he ever came to it.

“You’re a strange girl,” he said, almost to himself.

She smiled. “I’ve been called worse.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, barely-there, but real. And for the rest of the hour, they stood there in silence, sharing the cold, the stars, and something else neither of them dared to name.

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It had started with whispered rumors.

Strange things. Unsettling things. Whispers in the common room that certain students remembered things they shouldn’t. That someone had been cursed. That someone else was missing. But no one said names. No one ever said his name.

Y/N didn’t believe it at first. Couldn’t.

Not when she had sat beside him in the tower, shoulder to shoulder under the stars. Not when he’d listened to her with that impossible intensity, as if her words mattered more than anything else in the world.

But doubt crept in the way cold does — slowly, then all at once.

She hadn’t seen him for three days.

Not at meals. Not in the corridors. Not even in the library, where he was practically a fixture.

So when she caught sight of his silhouette disappearing down a back hallway near the dungeons, her heart raced. She followed, telling herself it was only concern. That she just wanted to make sure he was okay. She didn’t let herself wonder why he’d be going that way, or why her stomach twisted as she descended the stairs after him.

He didn’t notice her at first.

The classroom he stepped into was abandoned, dust clinging to every surface, air thick with old magic. She stayed by the door, breath held, hidden in shadow.

And then she saw it.

The way his hand moved, wand slicing through the air with precision. The words he spoke weren’t ones she recognized — harsh, guttural, unnatural. And the way the shadows in the room reacted — as if they were alive — made her skin crawl.

When she stepped forward, her shoe scraped the floor. The sound was soft, but he turned instantly.

His eyes found hers.

Not surprised. Not startled. Just… still.

“Y/N,” he said, voice low. “You shouldn’t be here.”

She stepped into the room anyway, heart pounding. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer.

She looked past him, at the circle of runes drawn on the floor in what looked too dark to be ink. Her stomach turned.

“Is this why you’ve been avoiding me?” she asked. “Tom, this isn’t— this isn’t normal magic. This is—”

“Power,” he cut in smoothly. “It’s power. And don’t pretend you don’t feel it.”

His tone wasn’t cruel. It was calm. Persuasive. As if he were offering her something instead of hiding it.

She took a step back. “This isn’t you.”

He smiled, just a little. “You’re wrong. This is exactly me.”

Something in her chest cracked at that.

But before she could speak again, he crossed the space between them in two measured steps. His hand caught her wrist — gently, not tightly — and when he looked at her, there was a strange softness in his expression. One that didn’t belong.

“I didn’t want you to find out this way,” he said, voice low, almost regretful. “But maybe… maybe it’s better that you did.”

She shook her head, voice trembling. “Why?”

“Because I trust you.”

It was a lie. Or maybe not. Maybe he did trust her — in the way a predator trusts that the rabbit won’t run until it’s too late.

“You don’t have to understand it yet,” he said, and his thumb brushed her wrist like he was soothing her. “You just have to trust me.”

She swallowed hard. Part of her — the part that was always kind, always hopeful — wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that whatever he was doing, it had a purpose. That he wasn’t just sinking into something she couldn’t reach.

But another part of her, quieter and more frightened, whispered: This is not the boy who stood with you under the stars.

Tom leaned in just slightly, just enough for his breath to ghost her cheek.

“You’re the only one who sees me,” he murmured. “Don’t stop now.”

And somehow, despite the fear, despite the dread curling in her gut like smoke — she didn’t move.

She liked the greenhouses best in the early morning, when the dew hadn’t dried and the sunlight slid in low through the glass panes. It was one of the few places she could still feel normal — surrounded by growing things, the sweet rot of soil, the quiet hum of bees.

She didn’t expect Tom to be waiting for her.

He stood just inside the door, sharp in his uniform, hands in his pockets. Not a leaf dared cling to him — pristine, composed, as always.

Her steps slowed. “Tom?”

“You weren’t at breakfast,” he said.

“I wanted some space.” Her voice was careful, not cold. “Just for a bit.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing like he was analyzing her words the way he analyzed runes — looking for hidden meaning, weakness, flaw.

“From me?” he asked.

She hesitated. “From everything.”

That wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

The truth was, she’d begun to feel like she was being watched. Like eyes followed her wherever she went. Not just in the halls — in her thoughts. Like her mind was no longer entirely her own.

Tom stepped closer.

“You don’t need space from me,” he said softly, and it was terrifying how much conviction was in his voice. “I’m not like them.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, eyes flicking away. “You’ve changed, Tom.”

“No.” His voice cut sharp, then softened again. “I’ve only become what I was always meant to be.”

He was closer now. Close enough that the scent of his cologne — something dark and clean, like smoke and ink — clouded her head. He looked down at her like she was something small and breakable.

“You used to tell me I wasn’t like other people,” he said. “You liked that about me.”

“I still— I mean, I didn’t mean—” she fumbled, trying to backtrack, trying not to upset him.

His fingers brushed her chin, tilting her face up. He wasn’t smiling.

“You don’t get to pull away now,” he said softly. “Not when you’ve seen me. Not when I’ve let you.”

It felt like a threat hidden in a lullaby.

Her breath caught. “You’re scaring me.”

Tom stilled. For a moment, something passed over his face — a flicker of something that could have been guilt. Or annoyance. It was impossible to tell.

Then he stepped back, letting the air return to her lungs.

“I don’t want you to be afraid,” he said smoothly, his voice wrapping around her like silk. “But I will admit, I don’t… share well.”

“Share what?” He looked at her like it was obvious.

“You.” Her stomach dropped.

“I’ve seen the way Avery looks at you,” he went on, tone still calm. “And that boy in Potions — what’s his name? Samuel? He doesn’t know you. Not the way I do.”

She shook her head, voice barely above a whisper. “They’re just friends—”

“You don’t need them.”

The way he said it wasn’t pleading. It was command. Inevitable. Final.

“I don’t want them,” he continued. “I want you. I’ve chosen you, Y/N. Don’t make me regret that.”

And there it was — not love. Not affection. Possession. The careful hands had become a cage. She didn’t know what to say. How to get out. How to breathe.

So she just nodded, eyes on the floor, and whispered, “Okay.” Tom smiled then — genuinely. Like the sun had come back out.

Rain tapped against the tall, arched windows of the library like fingers against glass. It was late — nearly curfew — but the castle was quieter in the rain. Softer. As if it sighed with her.

She sat curled in one of the back alcoves, parchment forgotten in her lap. Her eyes had stopped reading an hour ago, but her mind kept spinning, tugged in only one direction.

Tom.

He was seated across from her, as always, one leg crossed over the other, dark eyes scanning the text before him with unshakable focus. His hand moved now and then, making a neat annotation in the margin. He hadn’t spoken in nearly fifteen minutes, but his presence was louder than thunder.

She watched him when he wasn’t looking.

It was in moments like this — when he wasn’t trying to charm or control or protect — that she let herself wonder.

What if he wasn’t just dangerous? What if he wasn’t something to fear?

What if he was just… misunderstood?

She thought of the things he’d told her, in moments when the night was too quiet and he let his mask slip — the orphanage, the loneliness, the way the world never seemed to fit around him. The way he hated weakness, because he’d been surrounded by it for too long. How he needed control, because life had taken so much from him before he even had a choice.

He never said the word love. Not once. But sometimes he looked at her like he needed her. Like the dark in him quieted around her. Like she was the only softness he could stand.

And wasn’t that love? Or close enough to touch it?

She loved him.

She realized it then, with a quiet ache, as the rain smudged shadows across the floor. Not in the way she was supposed to love — not gently, not safely — but deeply. Darkly. As if he were a storm she’d willingly drown in.

Because she’d seen behind the curtain. Because she knew him, or wanted to.

And if he was poison, then she would drink.

Her heart beat faster in her chest, and she didn’t know if it was excitement or fear. Maybe both. Probably both.

He looked up suddenly, as if he felt her gaze, and their eyes met.

His expression didn’t change. But his stare held hers like a tether.

“What?” he asked, voice low, almost amused.

She blinked, flustered, then smiled without meaning to. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

“About me?”

She hesitated.

“Yes.”

His lips curved, just barely. A smirk, not a smile. But it made her stomach flip anyway.

“Good.”

He reached across the table, slow and deliberate, and let his fingers brush hers. Barely a touch. But her skin burned where it happened.

“You belong with me,” he said, quiet and sure. “You know that, don’t you?”

And even though something inside her warned her not to — she nodded.

Because she did. Or wanted to.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

The corridor was silent except for their footsteps — soft against ancient stone, weaving between torchlight and shadow. Most students were asleep. No one came down here, not unless they were lost or looking for trouble.

She wasn’t lost.

And she was already in too deep to be afraid of trouble.

Tom led the way, his fingers loosely laced through hers. His hand was cold. It always was. But it steadied her, even when the air around them felt like it was pressing in.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said without turning.

“I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

She hesitated. “About whether I should be here.”

He stopped walking. Turned slowly. His dark eyes pinned her in place.

“And?”

She met his gaze — heart pounding, hands trembling — and whispered, “I want to be.”

That seemed to satisfy him. His lips twitched, almost into a smile, and he raised their joined hands like he was inspecting something precious.

“I thought you might say that,” he murmured.

He guided her forward again, through the last stretch of the corridor, until they reached a heavy, iron-studded door. He flicked his wand and it opened with a groan.

The room inside was nothing like a classroom.

The walls were carved with runes she couldn’t read, the floor etched with a circle of symbols that pulsed faintly — not with light, but with something deeper. Something ancient.

The air tasted wrong. Metallic and sharp. Like blood in the mouth.

She paused in the doorway.

“Tom… what is this?”

“A place for learning,” he said calmly. “Real learning.”

She turned to him, nervous. “You’ve been doing magic in here.”

“Yes.”

“Dark magic.”

“Yes.”

The honesty should’ve scared her more than it did. But it was the fact that he wasn’t trying to hide it — not from her — that made her chest ache.

“You said you wouldn’t keep things from me,” she whispered.

“And I’m not.”

He stepped behind her now, wrapping his arms around her waist. She felt the weight of him, the surety. His mouth brushed the shell of her ear when he spoke.

“I want you to see everything. To understand me. To stay.”

She shivered. Whether from fear or desire, she didn’t know anymore.

“This magic… it’s not safe.”

“No,” he agreed. “But neither am I.”

His fingers splayed across her stomach, holding her in place.

“And yet, you’re still here.”

She didn’t answer.

Because he was right.

Because something about the way he said her name — soft, reverent, like a prayer and a curse — made her feel chosen. Claimed. Known.

And it didn’t matter that his hands were stained with things he never spoke aloud. She still reached back for him, heart pounding.

Because love wasn’t supposed to make sense.

The Hufflepuff common room was unusually quiet that night, the soft light from the hearth casting long, flickering shadows along the walls. Most students had gone to bed, but Y/N sat by the fire, her legs stretched out in front of her, the book in her lap forgotten. Her mind was elsewhere, lost in the pull of thoughts of Tom — his cold, commanding presence, the way his hands felt on hers, the way he made her feel seen, like no one else could.

But her friend, Eliza, wasn’t as lost in the fog of it all. She was pacing in front of the fire, her face tight with worry, the flickering shadows making her look smaller than usual. Eliza had always been the one who took care of everyone, the one who noticed things others didn’t. And tonight, she noticed her — Y/N — slipping deeper into something dangerous.

“Eliza, stop pacing. You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” Y/N murmured without looking up, her voice quiet, distracted.

Eliza didn’t stop. “I’m not pacing, I’m thinking, Y/N. And you need to listen to me.”

Y/N sighed, finally looking up, catching the desperation in her friend’s eyes. She wasn’t angry. She was scared.

“What is it?” Y/N asked, though she could guess.

“Tom,” Eliza said sharply. “You have to stop getting closer to him. You don’t see it, but I do. You’re in over your head, and I can’t stand by and watch you fall.”

Y/N’s pulse quickened. “I’m fine, Eliza. I don’t need protecting.”

“You’re not fine,” Eliza insisted, her voice cracking slightly. She stopped pacing and dropped to her knees in front of Y/N, grabbing her hands with urgency. “You don’t know what he’s involved in. He’s… he’s dangerous, Y/N. He’s pulling you into something dark, and I can see it. I don’t want you to get hurt. I can’t lose you to him.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted, a pang of guilt rippling through her. “He’s not like that. He cares about me.”

Eliza shook her head, her grip tightening on Y/N’s hands. “He doesn’t care about you, not like that. He’s using you. Manipulating you. I know how he looks at you, like you’re some kind of… of prize. And I’ve seen the way he does it to other people. You can’t see it, but I can. He’s pulling you in, and I swear, Y/N, he’ll break you when he’s done with you.”

Y/N felt a pang in her chest. “You don’t understand, Eliza,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Tom… he’s not like everyone says. I know him. I see him for who he really is.”

“That’s exactly what he wants,” Eliza said desperately. She rose to her feet again, pacing once more, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “He’s telling you everything you want to hear, giving you a version of himself that’s not real. But you’re falling for it. You’re letting him pull you under.”

Y/N’s heart ached. She wanted to argue. She wanted to scream that Tom was different with her, that he was the only one who saw her — truly saw her. But instead, all she could say was, “He’s not using me. I want to be with him, Eliza. I don’t need to be saved.”

Eliza stopped again, staring at her as if Y/N had just slapped her. “But that’s the thing, Y/N,” she said, her voice quieter now, heartbreakingly soft. “You do need saving. And the worst part is that I don’t think you can see it. You think you’re in control, that you’re making choices, but he’s already got you. You’re not you anymore — you’re just his.”

Y/N stood up, feeling the anger flare in her chest, the sharp, stinging need to defend what was hers. “Stop it. Stop saying that. You don’t know anything about us. You’re not here with us, Eliza. He’s not like that.”

“Eliza…” Y/N’s voice faltered as she struggled for words. Her heart ached, but there was a quiet certainty she couldn’t shake. “I… I’m not leaving him. I can’t.”

The silence between them stretched, heavy with the weight of unspoken things.

The corridors of Hogwarts were quiet, too quiet for this time of night. The soft, ghostly echo of their footsteps bounced off the stone walls as they moved deeper into the darkness. Tom’s hand was on the small of Y/N’s back, guiding her with a steady pressure that sent a rush of warmth through her despite the chill of the stone.

It had been days since Eliza’s warning, days since she’d let herself feel the sting of the truth, but none of it seemed to matter now. Eliza was gone. Tom was the one here. And in his presence, the world seemed to make sense again.

“You’re late,” Tom’s voice broke the silence, his words low and smooth, as though he were speaking to no one but her. He was leaning against the stone, his silhouette dark and almost sinister under the flickering torchlight. “I thought you might change your mind.”

Y/N bit her lip, a twinge of hesitation clawing at her chest, but she pushed it away. She had to be with him. She wanted to be.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered, her voice soft but filled with conviction.

He tilted his head slightly, a dark glint in his eyes. “Good. I knew you wouldn’t.”

Without another word, he pulled her forward, his grip tightening around her wrist. They moved through the forbidden corridor, past the doors and hidden alcoves, to a place Y/N had never been — a room so far down, the air felt different. He cast a spell, and the door creaked open with a groan. It was a room she’d never seen before, but it felt… familiar. Cold. Dark. Dangerous.

Inside, the space was filled with strange symbols and eerie candles, their flames flickering in a rhythm that didn’t feel quite natural. The air tasted of magic — heavy, oppressive, like the very walls were alive with power.

“What is this?” Y/N asked, her voice barely a whisper, as she stepped further into the room. The walls were lined with shelves, books and artifacts that seemed ancient. But it was the center of the room that caught her eye: an altar, carved with runes she couldn’t recognize, surrounded by more candles.

Tom’s hand slid down her arm, his fingers curling around hers, and he tugged her closer. “This is where we begin,” he said softly. “Where I show you everything you’ve been blind to.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. She wasn’t sure if it was the unease in her stomach or the thrill of knowing she was this close to something so powerful, so forbidden. But she didn’t pull away. She couldn’t.

“Tom…” she started, her voice trembling. “Isn’t this… too dangerous?”

Tom smirked, the darkness in his gaze deepening. “Dangerous?” He stepped closer, his lips brushing her ear as he spoke. “You’ve been with me for this long, and you still don’t understand. Power isn’t dangerous, Y/N. It’s everything.”

She shivered at his words, her heart pounding. She wanted to ask more questions, wanted to pull back and tell him this was too much. But his presence suffocated her, made her feel like she was drowning in him.

“You’ve always been special,” Tom continued, his fingers tracing along her jaw, lifting her chin so their eyes met. “But you’ll never understand just how much until you see this.”

Before she could speak, he stepped back and raised his wand. The air in the room thickened, humming with dark energy as he muttered incantations under his breath. She could feel the magic pulse around her, sharp and electric, vibrating through her body.

“Watch,” he said softly, his voice now a whisper of power. “Let me show you what you’re capable of.”

A shadow in the corner of the room shifted, and suddenly, a figure emerged — no, not a figure, but a creature. It was thin and tall, with sharp, bony limbs and hollow eyes. It moved with jerky, unnatural motions, like a puppet on invisible strings.

Y/N gasped, stepping back, a cold chill spreading down her spine. “What is that? What have you done?”

Tom’s expression remained cold and calculating as he turned to her. “I’ve done what you’ll understand soon enough,” he said. “That creature? It’s a result of the magic I’ve learned. And it’s just the beginning.”

She stared at him, horror creeping into her chest. “What are you trying to do? What do you want from me?”

His eyes darkened as he stepped closer, cupping her face with his cold hands. “I want you to understand, Y/N. I want you to understand what power truly is. I want you to stand by me, not as a bystander, but as my equal. As my partner.”

His words, so dark, so compelling, wrapped around her heart like chains, pulling her deeper into his world. She felt the pressure of them, the weight of them, and for a moment, she thought she might drown in the force of it.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Tom… I don’t know if I can…”

But before she could finish, he kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle. It was forceful, hungry, as if he were claiming her, taking what he believed was his. And she let him. She let herself melt into him, feeling the cold and heat mix together, swirling inside her chest. The danger. The desire. The darkness.

When they pulled apart, Tom’s eyes were darker than ever, and there was something possessive in them, a glint that said she was his now, and there was no going back.

“You can,” he said softly, his voice low with finality. “And you will.”

The soft flicker of candlelight cast long, trembling shadows across the walls of Y/N’s dormitory. Outside, the moonlight glowed faintly through the narrow windows, but inside, it was dark, except for the golden hue of the candles and the dim glow from the embers of the hearth. The quiet of the night wrapped around them like a heavy blanket, making the atmosphere feel more intimate — and more dangerous — than it ever had before.

Tom sat at the edge of her bed, his usual cold, calculating demeanor slightly softened by the secluded, private space. His eyes, always so sharp, had a certain heaviness to them tonight — something unspoken. His fingers, long and precise, brushed the edge of a book on her nightstand, but it was clear his mind wasn’t on the pages.

Y/N stood by the bed, the tension between them thick enough to choke. Her heart was hammering in her chest, nerves and anticipation coursing through her veins. She’d never felt more aware of every inch of herself — the way her hands trembled slightly, the heat of her breath, the way her body seemed to react to his mere presence.

“You seem… distracted,” Tom said quietly, his gaze sliding over her in a way that made her stomach flip. There was no malice in his tone, no usual command, just… something else. She could feel it, thick and suffocating in the space between them. It was as if he were waiting for something. A response. A sign.

Y/N swallowed, the words caught in her throat. She didn’t know how to respond to that. She didn’t know what was happening between them, but she felt the pull of him, like gravity itself was pushing her closer. She could barely breathe under the weight of it.

Tom noticed the subtle shift in her stance — the way she seemed to hesitate, even though her eyes locked with his. He didn’t move at first, just watched her. As though giving her space, or perhaps waiting for her to make the next move. His eyes were darker now, more intense, the usual self-assurance flickering with something deeper.

Y/N’s pulse quickened when he stood slowly, his movements languid but purposeful. He was closing the distance between them, each step heavy, as if his very presence was commanding her to remain still. The room felt impossibly small, the air thick, and she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to pull away or fall deeper into it.

Tom stopped just in front of her, so close now that she could feel the heat radiating off his body, his scent filling her senses — a mix of the ever-present hint of books and something deeper, darker. His eyes were locked on hers, his expression unreadable.

“You’re afraid,” he said softly, his voice low, almost a rasp, though there was no trace of mockery in it. He reached out, his fingers grazing her cheek. The touch was light at first, almost testing, like he was measuring her reaction. “You don’t have to be.”

She felt her breath catch in her throat at the feel of his touch, the way his fingers brushed her skin as if he were memorizing every detail. There was something about the way he looked at her, as though he were trying to figure her out — or maybe, trying to keep her from slipping away.

“I don’t know what this is,” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the quiet of the room. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.”

Tom’s hand slid down to her jaw, holding her there for a moment longer, his gaze hardening. “You don’t have to know. Just trust me.”

And with that, his lips were on hers.

It wasn’t like before — not the cold, controlled kisses that left her breathless, as if he were marking her territory. This time, his lips were softer, almost tentative, as though he were testing her, waiting to see if she’d pull away. But she didn’t. She leaned into him instead, her hands finding his chest, feeling the solid wall of muscle and something else — a heartbeat, a pulse that wasn’t as detached as she had come to expect.

The kiss deepened, and for the first time, she felt a shift. There was a tension there, thick and palpable, and it wasn’t just the physical closeness. It was something else — something unspoken. His hands slid around her waist, pulling her closer, his touch hungry but also possessive. His lips moved against hers more urgently now, as if he couldn’t control it anymore, as if the pull between them was something beyond either of them.

They stumbled back onto the bed in a tangled mess, the weight of his body pressing her down into the soft mattress. Y/N’s heart raced, her hands gripping his shoulders, unsure whether she was ready for this, whether she was prepared for the storm of emotions that had been swirling between them.

But there was no going back now.

Tom’s eyes locked onto hers for a moment as he hovered above her, his chest rising and falling with his breaths. There was something raw in his gaze now — something that almost frightened her. It was the first time she saw the cracks in his perfect control. For just a moment, his usual façade slipped, and what remained was just Tom, a person struggling with feelings he didn’t understand.

“You still don’t know, do you?” he said quietly, almost to himself, his thumb brushing the side of her cheek as if he were lost in thought. “What I feel.”

Y/N didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t sure if he meant it to be a question or a statement. But in that moment, as the tension between them reached its peak, she knew one thing: it wasn’t just about control. He wasn’t just using her. Not anymore.

Tom’s fingers traced down her side, his touch still possessive but now with a hint of something else — a tenderness she hadn’t expected. He kissed her again, slower this time, as if savoring it. And for the first time since they’d started this, Y/N could feel it — a flicker of something in him, something real. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was something deeper. But whatever it was, it was there, and it unsettled her more than anything.

He pulled back slightly, his breath ragged as he looked down at her. “Don’t ever doubt that you’re mine,” he whispered, his voice low but almost… vulnerable.

Y/N could feel the weight of his words, the tension in the room, and though she didn’t know how to respond, she didn’t need to. There was a moment of clarity in that instant, when everything shifted. The control, the manipulation — it all came crashing down in a wave of raw emotion.

And as their connection deepened, so did the realization; Tom Riddle wasn’t as untouchable as he thought.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

The low hum of the castle echoed in the quiet of Y/N’s dormitory. She sat at her desk, staring at an unfinished essay, but her thoughts weren’t on the words in front of her. They were on Tom. Lately, he had been distant, but there was a part of her that refused to believe it meant anything. She couldn’t. Not when he had been so kind to her in the past, when he had seemed to care. He had to care. She had to believe that.

Her breath hitched as the door to her dorm creaked open, and there he was. Tom Riddle. His presence filled the room immediately, like a storm rolling in. He didn’t need to say anything; his very being demanded attention.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice smooth, almost too calm, but she could still feel the weight of his words. “I need to talk to you.”

She stood up quickly, trying to push aside the nagging uncertainty gnawing at her. “Of course. What’s wrong?”

Tom’s lips curled into a slight, almost imperceptible smile. “It’s nothing, really. Just wanted to see you.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. He wanted to see her. That had to mean something. She pushed aside the doubt and smiled back, hoping he wouldn’t see the vulnerability she tried so hard to hide.

“I’ve missed you,” she said softly, taking a step toward him. “You’ve been distant lately…”

Tom’s gaze flickered, but there was no warmth in his eyes. Just a cool, calculating gleam that made her heart ache, though she couldn’t put her finger on why. “I’ve been busy,” he said, his voice low, almost dismissive, but he didn’t pull away.

Y/N took a small step closer to him, the heat between them undeniable. “I’ve missed being with you,” she admitted, the words coming out before she could stop them. She didn’t want to sound desperate, but she couldn’t help it. The connection they had once shared — it felt like it was slipping through her fingers. She needed him to care. To show her that he still cared.

Tom’s eyes softened for a moment, and she thought she saw something — something close to tenderness — before it was quickly masked by that distant, impassive mask he often wore. “You don’t have to miss me,” he said, his voice almost too casual. “You’re here. I’m here. Isn’t that enough?”

Y/N’s heart fluttered, and she nodded, almost eagerly. She couldn’t let herself think about the distance between them. Not when he was here now. Not when he was talking to her like this. It had to mean something. It had to.

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, as though the air in the room thickened with each movement he made. “I want you,” he said softly, his voice dropping lower, laced with an unfamiliar intensity. “I’ve always wanted you.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. It felt like the words were more than just a confession; they were a promise. The vulnerability in his voice — even if she didn’t fully understand it — made her stomach tighten. He had to feel something for her. She had to believe that.

Without thinking, she moved closer, closing the small gap between them. The moment their bodies touched, it was like everything in her fell away. She didn’t question it. She didn’t question him. She just wanted to feel that connection again, to feel something real in the midst of everything that had changed between them.

Tom didn’t pull back. Instead, his hands found their way to her waist, and for a brief second, Y/N thought she saw something flicker in his eyes — something that resembled the warmth they once shared. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he whispered, his lips brushing against her ear. “I know how you feel.”

She nodded, her breath coming quicker now, almost like a desperate plea. “I want you, Tom,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “I’ve always wanted you. I just… I thought you didn’t feel the same anymore.”

His lips brushed against hers in a soft, almost tender kiss. It wasn’t the urgency she had expected, but something more careful, more deliberate. “I do,” he said, his voice low. “I want you. I’ve always wanted you, Y/N.”

Y/N’s heart fluttered in her chest, and she didn’t hesitate. She kissed him back, slower now, giving herself to him entirely. She didn’t see the way his expression remained cold, calculating, or how he barely reacted to the kiss. She didn’t feel the distance he had built between them — not yet. All she could focus on was the way he made her feel, how he made her feel seen, even for just a moment.

When they finally pulled away, the air between them was thick with tension, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. She was sure of that. He wanted her. He had to. She could see it in the way his eyes lingered on her, in the way he spoke to her. She wasn’t just someone to him. She couldn’t be.

Tom’s hand slid down her arm, his fingers brushing lightly over her skin. “We can...if you want,” he whispered.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She trusted him. She trusted that he cared, even if he was distant. He was here now. He wanted her now. And that was enough for her.

As she undressed, her hands trembling slightly, Tom’s gaze followed her every movement. It was almost as if he were studying her, evaluating her, but she didn’t care. She was doing this for him, for the connection they shared. She couldn’t stop herself, not when she wanted him so badly, not when he had made her feel wanted again.

When they finally came together, it was slow. Tom’s touch was calculated, almost possessive, but there was no real tenderness behind it. Yet, for Y/N, it was enough. The way his body pressed against hers, the way he moved over her with a quiet urgency — it felt real to her. It felt like the Tom she had always known. She didn’t see the coldness in his eyes or the way he barely reacted to her touches. All she saw was him, all she felt was him.

When it was over, Tom didn’t stay. He never did anymore. He stood, dressing quickly, and Y/N couldn’t bring herself to ask him to stay. She was still too lost in the moment, still too certain that things were as they should be, that he cared, that he was being genuine.

“I’ll see you soon,” Tom said, his voice devoid of any real emotion, but there was a brief glance at her, a flicker of something she couldn’t quite place.

“Okay,” she replied softly, though her heart ached. “I’ll be waiting.”

And with that, he left.

Y/N lay in her bed, the quiet aftermath of the night settling over her like a heavy blanket. She wanted to believe it had meant something. She wanted to believe that Tom cared the way she did. She wanted to believe in their connection. But deep down, there was a voice telling her she was only fooling herself.

But for now, she pushed it away, letting herself believe in the feeling, in the words he had said. Because, despite everything, she wanted to believe that Tom Riddle wanted her — that he had always wanted her.

The quiet hum of the castle had become deafening as Y/N sat alone in her dormitory, staring at the empty space where Tom had been only hours ago. The moonlight streamed in through the window, casting soft shadows over the room, but the warmth she once felt when she thought of him was now gone, replaced by a suffocating emptiness.

She hugged her knees to her chest, her mind racing with everything that had happened. The nights spent together, the fleeting moments where she thought there was something real between them. But now, in the aftermath, everything felt hollow.

Why was she still here? Why was she still trying?

She had given herself to him—trusted him, even though she knew deep down he had never truly given her the same in return. Each time he left her, each time he pulled away without a word or a glance, she felt smaller, less significant. The warmth that used to fill her when he was near had been replaced with a gnawing emptiness, a coldness that she couldn’t ignore any longer.

She thought of all the times he had used her—used her, not loved her. The moments they shared now felt like hollow, rehearsed gestures. She wasn’t sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, she had stopped being a person to him. She had become a tool, a momentary distraction, something to fill the gaps in his carefully constructed world.

The realization hit her like a brick.

Why am I staying?

Her chest tightened as the weight of the question settled heavily in her heart. What had she been holding onto all this time? What was left? The pieces of herself she had given him, the trust, the love—none of it had been reciprocated. It was all a one-sided illusion, and it had been for far too long.

She stood up abruptly, her legs shaking as she moved to her wardrobe, pulling out a simple jacket and her shoes. She wasn’t sure where she was going, but it didn’t matter anymore. All she knew was that she needed to leave. She needed to stop pretending that Tom cared, that he ever would.

As she moved to the door, her hand paused on the knob, her mind racing. There had to be something better out there. She deserved better than this. Better than him.

The door to the dorm opened softly, and there he was. Tom. But his presence wasn’t warm like it once had been. No, it was cold now—clinical. He didn’t even look surprised to see her standing there, ready to leave. He seemed unfazed, as though it was just another night, just another moment in the routine he had long since set.

“Leaving so soon?” he asked, his voice flat, eyes cool, like he wasn’t even interested. Like he didn’t care that she was walking out the door. It was a question, but there was no real emotion behind it.

Y/N hesitated, her hand still on the doorknob, but her resolve was already firming up. This was it. She was done. She didn’t need to stay in a place that made her feel invisible, used, unimportant. She deserved someone who saw her, who valued her for more than her body, someone who wasn’t just using her as a means to an end.

She turned to face him. Her voice was quiet, but steady, the weight of everything she had been holding in coming to the surface. “I can’t do this anymore, Tom. I can’t keep pretending it’s okay. You don’t care. You’ve never cared. I’ve been fooling myself thinking you ever would.”

Tom didn’t react, not immediately. He just stood there, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as though he was observing her like a distant observer, not the person who had been with her just hours ago.

“You’re leaving,” he said, but it wasn’t a question. His voice had a hint of amusement now, as if he found her sudden change amusing. But there was no real surprise in his tone. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Her heart cracked at the realization that he hadn’t even tried to stop her. That he didn’t care enough to fight for her. There was no desperation, no apology. There was just that cold, calculating look in his eyes as if she was nothing more than a fleeting distraction.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore,” she said, her voice trembling but resolute. “You don’t need me, Tom. And I don’t need someone who doesn’t care about me.”

She took one last look at him, trying to find something in his eyes that would make her change her mind. But there was nothing. His expression was flat, uninterested. He was already moving past her, like she was nothing more than a fleeting thought.

“I’ll see you around, then,” he said, the words almost dismissive as he turned to walk away.

Y/N felt a lump form in her throat, but she didn’t stay. She didn’t wait for him to say anything more. Instead, she opened the door fully and stepped out, closing it behind her with a finality that made her heart ache.

She didn’t look back.

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#fanfiction #tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x y/n #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter

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babyscottoncandy · 3 months ago

Text

I Miss you, I'm sorry

Theodore Nott,, Harry Potter

Summary: Theodore Nott x Fem¡Reader,, Theodore Nott, the school's heart-throb finds himself falling for the maneater of Hogwarts. The two develop a rocky relationship that leads to a catastrophe.

TW: Angst,, Sexual Innuendos,, Toxic Relationships

Based off "I Miss You, I'm Sorry" by Gracie Abrams

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The first time Theodore Nott really notices her, it’s raining.

Not the dramatic kind of rain that demands attention—no thunder, no lightning, just a quiet, miserable drizzle that clings to everything like regret. He’s tucked under the awning outside the courtyard, flicking his wand at a damp cigarette he doesn’t even want to smoke, when she walks by with her hair soaked and a laugh on her lips that doesn’t belong in this kind of weather.

There’s a boy beside her. Of course there is. There’s always a boy beside her.

She’s wearing that short skirt she always gets away with, and her jumper’s slipping off one shoulder, collarbone peeking through like an invitation. She doesn’t care that she’s drenched. Doesn’t care that the boy is trying too hard or that her shoes are probably ruined. She’s glowing in the way girls like her do—burning just fast enough to take someone down with her.

Theodore watches her like someone watching a fire they can’t decide whether to run from or jump into.

He knows about her. Everyone does. She’s the reason three Hufflepuff boys don’t talk anymore. The girl who turned down an eighth-year’s love confession in front of the whole Great Hall. The one who once kissed a boy in the library and hexed him the next day for telling his friends about it. A hurricane with eyeliner wings and lips that taste like cherry gum and cruelty.

She’s everything he’s not supposed to want.

But he does.

Not in the way the others do. Not in the “I can fix her” or “I’ll be the one she keeps” kind of way.

He wants to understand her. To figure out why someone so loud can look so empty when she thinks no one’s watching. Why she always touches people like she’s trying to remember them but never lets them stay long enough to leave a mark.

He starts seeing her everywhere after that.

Not because she’s suddenly more present—she’s always been there, floating from group to group, owning rooms without trying—but because he starts paying attention. The way she always lingers behind after class, dragging her fingers along desks like they’ve wronged her. The way she hums songs under her breath when she’s bored, ones he doesn’t recognize. The way she locks eyes with people when she talks, like it’s a dare.

And then one day, she looks at him.

Just looks. A second too long, a flicker of something in her gaze that makes his breath hitch. Like she sees him. Like she’s known all along that he’s been watching.

She smirks.

Not a kind one.

Not a flirty one.

One that says finally.

The next day, she sits beside him in the library.

No words, no greeting. Just slides into the seat across from him, kicks her feet up on the chair beside his, and starts reading. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask why.

He just hands her the spare quill she forgot to bring, and pretends not to notice the way her fingers brush his a second too long.

He’s careful after that. Careful not to fall too fast. Careful not to make the mistake the others made—believing she could be caught. He doesn’t try to own her, or tame her, or ask her to be anything she’s not.

He just lets himself want her, quietly.

Even when it starts to hurt. Even when she disappears for days and comes back smelling like someone else’s cologne. Even when she kisses him in an empty corridor one night and says, “Don’t make this a thing,” before walking away like nothing happened.

He doesn’t stop. He’s already in too deep. And the worst part? He doesn’t even want to climb out.

She notices him before he notices her.

Well, before he lets himself notice her.

Theodore Nott is the kind of boy who pretends not to care about anything, and maybe that works on most people. But not her. She knows his type too well. The ones who wear detachment like armor and keep their secrets stitched into their collars.

He thinks he’s unreadable.

He’s not.

She sees it in the way he looks at her—like he’s trying not to. Like he’s doing her the favor of keeping his distance. But he watches her. She knows. Catches him sometimes in the corner of her eye, all brooding and beautiful and pretending it means nothing.

He’s a whore, too. Just quieter about it.

He doesn’t flirt loud like the Gryffindors do. He doesn’t brag. He doesn’t beg. He lets girls come to him—lets them fall for the mystery, the cheekbones, the dark eyes that don’t promise anything but feel like everything.

And he kisses like he’s doing you a favor.

Like you’re the lucky one.

It makes her want to ruin him.

Not because she hates him. No, that would be too simple.

She just wants to know what he looks like when he’s not in control.

Because he always is, isn’t he?

Leaning against walls like he owns gravity. Answering questions in class like he barely bothered to try. Speaking soft and slow like the world owes him silence so he can be heard.

She hates that she thinks about him.

Hates that one stupid glance in the corridor turned into weeks of wondering. Of remembering the way his fingers look stained with ink, the way he tilts his head when he’s trying not to laugh. She doesn’t even know what he’s laughing at, but she wants to be the reason for it.

She’s not supposed to want anyone.

She’s supposed to be untouchable, above it, untouched even if she’s been touched. That’s the game. Look, but don’t reach. Kiss, but don’t feel.

And yet—

The first time he kisses her, it’s not careful. It’s not slow. It’s not soft.

It’s messy. All teeth and hands and something desperate beneath the surface.

And he doesn’t say anything after. Just looks at her like he dares her to make it mean something.

She doesn’t. Not out loud.

But she can still feel him on her lips three days later.

So, yeah. Maybe she breaks hearts, and maybe they deserve it.

But he—he makes her want to stay.

Which is worse.

Because Theodore Nott?

He’s just like her. And she knows how the story ends when it’s people like them.

They don’t fall in love.

They fall apart. Loudly. Beautifully.

And they drag each other with them on the way down.

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It’s late.

The library’s empty, except for them, and she doesn’t even remember why she’s there anymore. Some essay due, some excuse to sit across from him like they’re not both pretending this isn’t a thing. He’s leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched out under the table, tapping his quill against the wood like he’s bored, or restless, or both.

She hates how beautiful he looks under this lighting. All shadows and indifference. Like he was drawn in charcoal and never meant to be touched.

They haven’t kissed in days. Haven’t said much either, which is worse.

He catches her staring.

She doesn’t look away.

Neither does he.

Then, casually, like it’s nothing—like he’s asking for a quill or what time it is—he says,

“So. Do you want to go out with me?”

She blinks.

That’s it. That’s the sentence. No grand speech. No emotion. Just that flat, half-lazy tone he uses when he doesn’t want to sound like he gives a shit.

She knows better.

She leans back in her chair, arms crossed, trying not to let her heart beat out of her goddamn chest.

“You mean, like… a date date?”

He shrugs.

“I mean, unless you’d rather sneak around and pretend we hate each other until one of us dies from repression.”

She hates how her lips twitch into a smile.

“That almost sounds romantic.”

“I’m nothing if not charming.”

She rolls her eyes, looks away for a second just to breathe. Because she hadn’t expected this. Not really. Not from him. She’d expected to keep dancing around each other until it imploded.

But this—this was worse. This was hope.

“You’re serious?” she asks, softer now. “You actually want this to be a thing?”

He tilts his head, and for once, there’s no smirk. No mask. Just him.

“I already like you,” he says simply. “Might as well make it hurt properly.”

She laughs, quick and surprised, and suddenly everything feels too bright. Too real.

She doesn’t say yes.

She just stands, grabs her bag, and pauses beside his chair long enough to lean down and kiss the corner of his mouth. Slow. Soft. The kind of kiss that means I’ll show up.

Then she pulls back, meets his eyes, and says,

“Pick me up at seven.”

And just like that, the game ends. Or maybe—it finally begins.

He’s on time.

That’s the first thing that shocks her. Not because she thought he’d be late—Theodore isn’t careless—but because he’s the kind of boy who’s always slightly out of reach. Always a few minutes too cool, too detached, too untouchable. But tonight, he’s waiting outside the Slytherin common room at exactly seven o’clock, dressed in all black with his hands in his pockets and that bored expression she’s come to realize means he’s nervous.

She likes that.

“You look like you’re going to a funeral,” she says as she approaches, smirking.

He looks her up and down slowly, eyes catching on her bare shoulders and the gloss on her lips. “If I die tonight, at least I’ll have seen that dress first.”

She hates how easily he makes her smile. Like it’s not dangerous. Like it doesn’t mean anything.

“Where are you taking me?” she asks, arms crossed.

He tilts his head. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

She rolls her eyes, but follows.

He leads her through a hidden passageway near the Charms corridor, and she’s already mocking him under her breath—how original, a secret tunnel—until they reach a rooftop above the greenhouses, spelled dry and warm despite the chill in the air.

There’s a blanket spread out, a floating lantern hovering nearby for light, and a little box of chocolate frogs and smuggled-in butterbeer between two glasses.

She blinks.

“Did you—did you plan this?”

He shrugs, looking anywhere but at her. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just like good views.”

“Mhm,” she says, sitting down beside him. “So this is a casual hangout. With chocolate. And lighting. And alcohol.”

“You’re the one who said you didn’t want anything serious,” he mutters, handing her a bottle.

“And you’re the one who asked me out.”

Silence.

Then he sighs, quiet, almost annoyed. “Fine. I planned it.”

She glances over at him.

He’s not looking at her, not yet. Just sipping his butterbeer and staring out across the dark lawn, like he’s waiting for her to ruin it.

And maybe she should. Maybe she will.

But not yet.

Because the view is nice.

Because he remembered she likes chocolate frogs.

Because his leg keeps brushing hers and he doesn’t pull away.

Because she’s never been on a real date, not one that felt like it was made just for her, not one that didn’t come with conditions.

And this? This doesn’t feel like a trap.

This feels like falling.

“You’re not as cool as you think you are,” she says after a while, tone light.

He finally glances at her. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

She smiles, smaller this time. Real.

They sit like that for a long time. Talking. Bickering. Telling stories they’ve never said out loud. He tells her about the time he accidentally blew up a cauldron and blamed Draco. She tells him about the first time she kissed someone and how she laughed halfway through it.

They laugh a lot, actually.

And it’s easy. For once, it’s easy.

Until it’s not.

Because at some point, the silence settles again, and they’re sitting too close, and his eyes flick down to her mouth just a second too long.

He kisses her slow. Like he’s figuring it out as he goes. Like he’s not sure if she’ll let him stay.

But she kisses him back, and when she pulls away, she doesn’t make a joke or throw up a wall.

She just says, softly, “Don’t make this a one-time thing.”

He looks at her like he’s surprised she’d admit that.

Then, even softer: “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She doesn’t change. Not for him. Not for anyone.

She still wears her skirts too short and her lips too red, still laughs too loud at things that aren’t funny just because it unnerves people. She still touches arms when she talks, still flirts without meaning to, still walks into rooms like she owns the air in them.

And Theo, gods, Theo hates how much he loves it.

Loves how she makes everyone turn their heads. Hates the knot it pulls tight in his chest. Hates how good she is at pretending none of it matters when she slides into his lap later, smelling like expensive perfume and attention.

Sometimes he thinks it’s all a game. That maybe she likes making him jealous just to feel wanted. Sometimes he thinks he’s the only one reading between the lines, while she’s still scribbling outside the margins.

But then there are moments.

Tiny ones. Half-second things.

Like when she reaches for his hand under the table and threads her fingers through his like she’s not even thinking about it. Like it’s natural. Like it’s theirs. Or when she’s laughing with someone else and looks over her shoulder—just to find him. Just to make sure he’s still watching.

He always is.

And sometimes, he swears she knows that.

They don’t talk about exclusivity. They don’t talk about love. There’s an understanding, unspoken and heavy, thick as fog between them. He doesn’t ask who she’s texting when she smirks at her phone. She doesn’t ask where he’s been when he shows up with a scratch down his neck and a bitter look in his eyes. But they always come back to each other. Always. Like orbiting stars caught in the same gravitational pull.

It gets worse before it gets better.

One night, she shows up at his door wearing someone else’s sweater, hair damp from rain, mascara smudged and unapologetic. He doesn’t say anything. Just steps aside and lets her in.

She drops the sweater on his floor like it means nothing. Like that boy didn’t touch her skin, didn’t maybe try to kiss her in the dark, didn’t try to reach places only Theo has ever seen.

He kisses her like a fight. Hands in her hair, mouth rough, like he’s trying to erase the memory of whoever she was with before. She lets him. Clings to him like she’s trying to be undone. There’s a desperation in the way she holds him that she never says out loud. A silent scream under every kiss.

After, they lie in his bed, tangled up in sheets and silence, the air between them thick and heavy.

She traces the freckles on his chest, eyes fixed on them like they’re a map out of this mess.

“I’m not good at this,” she whispers finally.

He doesn’t ask what this is. Doesn’t want to make her say it. “I know,” he says. And it’s enough. For now.

Because the thing is—she still flirts, and he still watches. She still breaks hearts, and he still hopes she never breaks his. She still burns too bright, and he still gets too close, every time.

But sometimes, when no one else is looking, she looks at him like he’s the only boy in the world.

And that? That’s the part he holds onto. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

It wasn’t supposed to get this far.

Theodore Nott was supposed to be just another name. Just another pair of hands, another mouth to kiss when the night felt too quiet. He was supposed to fall like the rest of them did—hard, fast, and foolish.

But he didn’t.

He was different from the start.

He didn’t chase her. Didn’t look at her like she was something to win or tame. He saw her, really saw her, in a way that made her skin crawl and settle all at once. And that scared her. Because when someone sees you like that—knows the mess beneath the lipstick and charm—what’s left to hide behind?

She hated how he made her feel safe.

Worse, she hated how she started to want that safety.

With Theo, everything is unspoken. Undefined. They orbit each other like something cosmic, magnetic. Some days, it’s perfect—effortless, electric. Other days, it’s war. Cold shoulders and sideways glances. Half-jealousy, half-pride.

She pretends she doesn’t notice when his jaw clenches at the way she talks to other boys. She notices. Of course she does.

Part of her even likes it. Not because she wants to hurt him, but because it proves he feels something.

And that’s what she’s afraid of the most—that they’re both feeling everything but too scared to say it first.

She tells herself she doesn’t care. That it’s casual. That they’re both just using each other to pass time. But then he touches her like she’s something fragile. Kisses her like she’s the last girl left on earth. Says her name like a promise and a prayer.

And she can’t lie to herself anymore.

She cares. More than she should. More than she knows how to handle.

But she doesn’t know how to do this. How to be soft for someone. How to need someone and not flinch from it.

So she keeps the game alive. She flirts. She lets the other boys look. Lets them lean in too close, laugh too long. Just to keep her armor intact. Just to prove to herself that she can still walk away if she needs to.

But every time, she comes back to him.

Always him.

The boy with the tired eyes and quiet fury. The boy who lets her in without asking for too much. The boy who holds her like he’s afraid she’ll disappear, but never tries to make her stay.

And maybe that’s what breaks her.

Because for the first time, she doesn’t want to leave. And she doesn’t know how to stay. Not without giving something up. Not without giving everything.

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It’s the kind of night that feels like it doesn’t belong to anyone.

The castle is asleep. The moon hangs heavy in the sky, casting pale ribbons of silver across the stone corridors, painting shadows that flicker with the low burn of dying torches. The silence is thick and sacred—broken only by the occasional creak of old wood or the far-off hoot of an owl. It’s the sort of hour that makes even the loudest hearts quiet.

She’s alone in the common room, curled into the old sofa by the fire. The flames snap lazily, casting her in flickering gold. Her legs are drawn up beneath her, a blanket draped haphazardly over one knee, a forgotten book facedown beside her. She isn’t reading. Not really. She’s just sitting. Breathing. Thinking too much and trying not to show it.

She’s wearing Theo’s jumper. It’s oversized, sleeves half-swallowing her hands, collar stretched wide so it slouches off one shoulder. It smells like him—cigarettes and cinnamon, leather and something cold like night air. She tells herself she grabbed it because hers was damp. Because it was convenient. But she knows that’s not true.

The truth is she misses him. Even when she won’t say it.

And as if summoned by the thought, the door creaks open.

Theo steps in like the dark was built to follow him. Hands in his pockets, hair tousled, eyes sleepy. He pauses when he sees her, and something in his posture softens—just a little. She watches him in the firelight, her chin tilted against the back of the couch, but she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

He walks over slowly, like he doesn’t want to disturb the hush between them, and sinks into the space beside her. Not too close. Not at first.

They sit there, quiet. Comfortable. The only sound is the pop of the fire and the whisper of fabric shifting as she reaches for her mug and brings it to her lips, letting the warmth bleed through her fingers.

“You’re up late,” he says finally, voice low and hoarse with sleep.

“So are you.”

A lazy smile tugs at his mouth. “Touché.”

She lets her head fall against the back of the couch and turns her face to him. He’s watching the fire like it’s holding a secret. Like it might say something if he waits long enough.

“You look tired,” she says softly.

He glances at her, eyes half-lidded. “You look dangerous.”

Her lips curve. “You always say that.”

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

There’s a beat, and then she laughs, quiet and genuine. The kind of laugh that only happens when she forgets to guard it.

“You’re the only one who thinks that and still sits this close.”

“I’m not scared of you.”

“You should be.”

He looks at her then. Really looks. And his gaze is warm and steady and maddening in the way it always is—like he sees through all the armor, all the smirks and sharp edges, and isn’t afraid of what’s underneath.

“I’m not,” he says again.

And for a second, the fire crackles a little louder. The air thickens. She forgets what she was going to say.

So instead, she shifts closer.

She rests her head against his shoulder, slow and deliberate. Her fingers brush his, hesitant, like they’re asking a question. He answers without words—threading his fingers through hers, hand warm and familiar. And for the first time all day, her chest feels quiet.

Safe.

And when he turns just enough to rest his chin on the top of her head, she closes her eyes.

Because she doesn’t have to perform. Doesn’t have to dazzle or destroy.

Not with him.

Not tonight.

And she thinks maybe—just maybe—this is what it feels like to belong. Not to the room. Not to the world. Just to this moment. Just to him.

And she thinks maybe that’s enough.

For now.

It starts with a whisper.

Someone says they saw her in the courtyard with a Ravenclaw boy—laughing, leaning too close, hand on his chest. Someone else says she was seen slipping out of the Astronomy Tower at dawn, shoes in hand, hair tousled, looking smug.

It’s nothing new.

She’s always been a wildfire of rumors and lipstick, known for leaving boys dizzy and half-ruined behind her. But this time—it sticks.

Because it’s her, and it’s now, and it’s him.

Theo doesn’t ask.

Of course he doesn’t. That’s not the kind of boy he is. He just looks at her a little less, talks a little quieter, keeps his distance like her skin’s turned to flame. Like the version of her he let into his arms has suddenly vanished.

She notices. She always does.

He avoids her for two days. She lets him. Pretends not to care even though her stomach feels like it’s full of glass every time he walks past without looking at her.

Then the storm breaks.

It’s late again—like it always is between them. No one else around. Just shadows and silence and a hallway thick with unspoken things.

He’s walking out of the library when she’s walking in, and for once, neither of them moves.

She stops. So does he.

And then it just—spills.

“You’re mad at me,” she says, arms crossed, mouth tugged into that defiant smirk she uses when she’s scared of being hurt.

“I’m not mad.” His voice is low. Flat.

“Then what?”

He looks at her. Really looks at her. “Nothing. Just realized I’m not special.”

Her heart thuds.

She scoffs, because that’s easier. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t change. Not for anyone.” He’s tired. Angry. Hurt in that quiet, careful way he always is. “One day you’re in my bed and the next you’re in someone else’s lap like it means nothing.”

“I wasn’t—” she stops herself. Exhales hard. “Is that what you think?”

“I think I’m the idiot who thought maybe you felt something.”

He moves to walk past her, but she catches his sleeve. Holds it tight.

“I do.”

It’s the first time she’s said it out loud. The words taste raw, like scraped knees and blood. She doesn’t know what’s more terrifying—admitting it, or meaning it.

Theo stills.

She steps closer, close enough to smell his cologne, to feel the tension vibrating off his skin.

“I didn’t flirt with anyone,” she says, voice low, steady. “I didn’t touch anyone. I didn’t even look at anyone else, Theo. Not since you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches her like he’s trying to decide if he can trust her. If he should.

“I’m not good at this,” she whispers. “I don’t know how to be soft. I don’t know how to show it without ruining everything. But I—” her voice catches. “I care about you. I don’t know what the hell that means yet, but I do.”

He kisses her like it’s the first time all over again.

Slow, aching, like he’s afraid to break her—or maybe afraid she’ll vanish if he opens his eyes. Her hands clutch at his jumper, holding on like gravity means nothing compared to him.

When they break apart, she doesn’t let go.

She keeps her forehead pressed to his, breath unsteady, heart pounding. There’s a tremble in her fingers, not from fear, but from the unbearable truth she’s been carrying for too long.

“I don’t want anyone else,” she whispers, voice cracked and fierce. “I know I act like I don’t care. Like I’m some walking storm who can’t be touched—but I do, Theo. I care so much it makes me sick.”

He doesn’t speak. Just looks at her like she’s the only person in the world.

She keeps going, because now that it’s started, she can’t stop.

“I look at you and I forget how to breathe. I hate how much I want to be around you. How much it hurts when you pull away. I’m scared out of my mind because I’ve never felt like this before and I don’t know how to be enough for you.”

He swallows hard, eyes burning.

“You are,” he says, hoarse. “You are enough. More than enough. You’re all I think about—every time you laugh, or walk into a room, or even look at me. I’ve been falling since the first time you smiled at me like you already knew I’d break.”

She exhales, a soft, choked sound that’s half-sob, half-laugh. “You did break.”

He nods. “And I’d do it again. Every time. If it’s you.”

And there it is.

All the bruised hearts and whispered fears. All the longing and the looks across crowded rooms. All the unfinished sentences and almost-confessions—they collapse between them like waves crashing after the storm.

He pulls her into his chest, and she lets him. Wraps her arms around his waist and buries her face in his neck, holding him like she’s terrified of letting go.

And maybe she is.

But maybe now, she won’t have to.

Because for the first time, there are no masks. No games. Just them—messy, real, and bleeding feelings all over the floor.

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It’s not a sudden thing.

There’s no grand declaration, no moment where she wakes up and decides to become someone softer. She doesn’t trade in her red lipstick or the way she walks like the hallway was built for her. She still laughs too loudly in the library and rolls her eyes when boys try to flirt with her. She still wears danger like perfume.

But Theo sees the shift in the quiet spaces.

It’s in the way she waits for him after class, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, pretending like she’s not waiting. In the way she reaches for his hand now without thinking, lacing their fingers together and tugging him along through the corridors like he belongs to her.

She still doesn’t say sweet things out loud, but she writes her name next to his in the margins of her textbooks. She steals his scarf when it’s cold and leaves half her things in his dorm. She texts him “you’re annoying” when she means “I miss you.”

And Theo—he notices everything.

The way her smile goes softer when it’s just the two of them. The way she pulls his head into her lap and runs her fingers through his hair while pretending to be bored. The way she leans into his side during movie nights and always, always finds him first in a crowded room.

She’s still a little reckless. Still a little wild. But there’s something gentler in the way she looks at him now—like she’s letting herself believe in this. In him. In them.

One night, they’re sitting by the window in his dorm, legs tangled up, the world outside dark and rainy. She’s wearing his hoodie, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, her fingers absently tracing circles on his knee.

He’s talking about something mundane—Potions or Quidditch, she doesn’t really know. She’s not listening.

She’s just looking at him.

And it hits her, all at once, like a punch to the ribs.

She feels it. Something. A heavy, weightless thing inside her chest that keeps her tethered to him. The way she can’t get enough of him. The way her mind always drifts back to him, like a magnet.

She doesn’t know how to say it. Doesn’t even have the words for it. But she knows—there’s no question.

So she says the closest thing she can muster.

“You’re different,” she murmurs, the words slipping out before she can stop them. “You make me feel—” She pauses, unsure. “Less… like I need to be someone else.”

Theo looks down at her, confusion flashing across his face. “What do you mean?”

She bites her lip, looking away. “Like… I don’t have to keep pretending when I’m with you. I don’t have to play the game.”

His chest tightens. His gaze softens. “You don’t have to, Y/N. Not with me.”

And for a moment, neither of them moves. There’s nothing but the sound of their breathing, the rhythm of their hearts syncing up. She feels exposed, but she doesn’t want to look away. She doesn’t want to break this. Not when it feels like the pieces are finally falling into place.

Her fingers curl around his hand, holding it a little tighter. “You make everything seem… easier,” she adds quietly. “Like maybe it’s okay to just be.”

He nods, eyes warm as he squeezes her hand. “Maybe that’s the best part about us.”

She wants to say more. Wants to tell him how much it means—how much he means. But she stops herself, because the words feel too big, too raw, to be spoken yet.

Instead, she presses her forehead to his shoulder, closing her eyes, feeling the steady pulse of him under her palm.

For the first time in a long while, she feels like maybe this is enough. Like they’re enough, even without those big declarations.

And for the first time in forever, she lets herself stay.

The night feels like it’s been drawn out forever. The tension between them is thick, suffocating, like a promise waiting to be kept. The soft murmur of voices in the background, the flickering light of the candle between them—it all feels distant now. All that matters is the space between their lips, the heat in their touches.

She’s lying next to him on his bed, the covers tangled around their legs. He’s close enough for her to feel his breath, for her pulse to race with every shift of his body. She can tell he’s waiting for her—waiting for something, but neither of them says a word. They don’t need to.

Theo’s fingers brush her cheek, just light enough to make her skin tingle. He traces a line from her jaw to her neck, the touch slow, deliberate, making her eyes flutter closed. Her breath catches in her throat, and for the first time, she feels everything. Every inch of him, the weight of his gaze, the way his thumb brushes over her lips like he’s studying her.

“Y/N…” His voice is rough, like he’s fighting something. Fighting himself. “Are you sure?”

It’s a question, but it’s not. She knows what he’s asking, and the answer is clear.

She pulls him closer, her fingers threading through his hair as she presses her lips to his, soft at first. But the moment their mouths meet, it’s like all the walls they’ve built come crumbling down. There’s no more hesitation, no more playing games. There’s only the need to be closer, to feel everything.

Theo deepens the kiss, his hands sliding down her back, pulling her into him like he can’t get close enough. She responds in kind, her hands roaming over his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat. The way he makes her feel alive, like nothing else matters but this moment.

Her hands slip under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin, and it makes her stomach tighten. She’s never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, but it’s different with him. It doesn’t scare her—not like it should. With him, it feels like she’s finally allowed to be herself, without the fear of losing control.

Theo breaks the kiss, his eyes dark and intense, searching hers for something. She doesn’t have to ask what—she knows.

He takes a breath, his hands sliding gently up her waist, and for a moment, it’s as if the world stands still. They’re both nervous—nervous in the way they’ve never allowed themselves to be before, but neither of them wants to back away now. Not when they’re this close. Not when the pull between them is undeniable.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper.

“You won’t,” she says, her fingers trailing down his chest to the hem of his shirt, tugging it off slowly. “We’ll be fine.”

And then, in a rush of anticipation, their lips meet again. The world fades into the background, and all that exists is the feeling of him against her, his hands gentle but insistent as they explore, as if this is the first time they’ve ever touched. The first time they’ve ever really been together.

Every touch is careful but hungry, as if they’ve been waiting for this, waiting for the permission to let go. Their movements are slow at first, unsure, but soon enough, they find a rhythm—a pulse that matches the beating of their hearts.

The night is quiet, save for the soft sounds of their breathing, the rustle of the sheets, and the occasional whispered name. There’s no rushing. No need for words, no need for anything other than the way they fit together.

In the end, they’re tangled in each other, breathless and spent, hearts racing in the quiet of the room. She buries her face in his chest, her fingers tracing the contours of his skin as if she wants to memorize every inch of him. His arm wraps around her, pulling her closer, holding her like she’s something fragile.

“You’re still you,” he says softly, his fingers running through her hair.

She smiles into his chest, feeling the weight of his words. It’s not a question anymore. Not for either of them. They’re both here, together, in a way they never were before.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, “I am.”

And maybe, just maybe, she’s starting to think that maybe—just maybe—being with him doesn’t have to mean losing herself. Maybe it means finding a version of herself she never knew existed.

And for once, she’s not scared.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

The rumors spread like wildfire.

Y/N wasn’t sure when it started—when the first whispers snaked their way through the halls, but it didn’t take long before she started hearing it. At first, it was just a casual comment here and there. Someone mentioning it at lunch. A passing joke in the corridors. It didn’t mean anything, right? Just noise. She could handle noise.

But then, there it was—clearer, louder, inescapable.

Theodore had told his friends.

No. Theodore had told everyone.

It wasn’t just that they had shared something—something personal, something private. No, it was the details. The fact that he’d made it sound like some sort of triumph, a notch on his belt. He’d told them the whole damn thing—everything—and somehow, it made it feel so… public.

The rumors spread, and soon enough, it wasn’t just the Hufflepuffs and the Ravenclaws gossiping behind their hands. Even the Slytherins—his own house, his friends—had joined in.

She tried to ignore it at first. She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter, that they had their own thing, and everyone else could stay out of it. But that didn’t last long.

Her temper flared when she overheard one of the girls from the year above her snickering in the library.

“I heard he told his mates. Said it was the best he ever had.”

Y/N couldn’t sit still. She felt the anger bubble up in her chest, hot and uncontrollable. Her hands were shaking, her breath coming faster.

Theo sat on the edge of his bed in the quiet of the common room, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress as his thoughts swirled around like a storm he couldn’t stop. He had always been reckless, always acted on impulse, but never had it come crashing down like this. Y/N had walked in, her eyes sharp, like daggers aimed directly at him, and before he knew it, they were at each other’s throats.

She stood in front of him now, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her face a mask of fury.

“You told them.” Her voice was low, controlled, but it only made him more nervous. The calm before the storm.

Theo’s throat tightened. He knew exactly what she was talking about, but he refused to admit it outright. “I didn’t mean for it to get out like that, Y/N. I didn’t think they’d—”

“Don’t you dare,” she cut him off, her eyes flashing. “Don’t you dare make it sound like it’s my fault. You went running to your little friends and told them everything. You—” Her breath hitched, frustration and hurt flooding her voice. “You couldn’t even keep it between us for one bloody day, could you?”

Theo’s jaw clenched, and he stood up, his movements sharp. “I didn’t tell everyone. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I thought… I thought maybe they’d understand.”

“Understand what?” she spat, taking a step forward. “That you’ve turned me into some sort of joke? Is that what you wanted? To make it sound like you’re some big man who bagged the untouchable girl? Is that what this was?”

His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist before she could take another step away from him. “You think that’s what this is?” His voice was strained, teeth gritted. “You think I’m proud of the way things turned out? You think I wanted anyone to know what happened? No, Y/N, that’s not what this is. But I couldn’t just—couldn’t hide it, okay?”

She jerked her wrist away from his grip, her breath quickening with anger. “You should have. You think just because we—because we’re together—because of what happened, it’s some sort of thing you can tell your friends and let them spread it around like some stupid rumor? You think that’s okay?”

“Why are you making this about me?” he growled, his eyes flashing dark. “Why is it always my fault? You’re the one who keeps everyone at arm’s length, Y/N! You flirt with anyone who looks at you, and then when I get close, you act like I’m the one who’s ruined everything! I tried, alright? I didn’t know how to handle you, how to make this—us—anything real!”

She stumbled back as if his words had slapped her across the face. “So that’s what this is about? You’re mad because I’m not perfect for you?” she scoffed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “You can’t stand the fact that I’m not just yours to control, Theo. You think you’re the only one with problems here? You think you’re the only one who’s trying?”

His face hardened, the words stuck in his throat. “I’m not trying to control you, Y/N. I’m trying to—” He cut himself off, shaking his head in frustration. “I don’t even know anymore. I don’t know how to deal with this. How to deal with you.”

She blinked, the pain showing in her eyes now. It wasn’t just anger anymore—it was something deeper. Something raw. “Maybe you don’t. Maybe you never will.”

The room seemed to shrink around them. The silence hung thick in the air between them, neither one willing to back down. He wanted to say something, wanted to reach out and fix it, but it felt like there was a wall between them, one she had built long before he ever stepped into her life.

Theo’s chest heaved as he took a step closer, his voice quieter now, but still fierce. “You don’t get it, do you? I don’t care about the stupid rumors. I don’t care about what anyone else thinks. I care about you.”

She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “If you cared about me, you wouldn’t have done this. You wouldn’t have put me in the position where I feel like I’m the one to blame.”

Theo’s hands trembled as he ran them through his hair, trying to find the words to fix it, to make her understand. “I’m not blaming you. I’m just… I just don’t know how to make this work. I don’t know what you want from me anymore.”

Her eyes softened for just a moment, but the guard went back up immediately, as though she couldn’t let herself be vulnerable in front of him. “Maybe I don’t know either,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. She stepped back, her hand resting against the doorframe, almost as if she was preparing to leave. “Maybe this was a mistake, Theo.”

His heart dropped at the finality in her tone, the way she made it sound like everything between them could be wiped away with just one more argument. “Don’t say that,” he pleaded, his voice rough. “Please.”

But she only looked at him for a long moment, her eyes unreadable, before turning and walking out of the room. The door clicked shut behind her, and Theo was left standing alone in the silence, the weight of the argument crashing down on him like a tidal wave.

The next few days felt like an eternity. Every glance from Theo sent a wave of guilt and confusion crashing over Y/N. She couldn’t escape him. He was everywhere—his eyes, his presence, the silence that filled the spaces between them when they passed each other in hallways, in the library, or across the courtyard. Every time their paths crossed, she felt the weight of the unsaid words, the unresolved anger, and the aching desire to fix everything.

It wasn’t until late one evening, when the castle had quieted down, that she found herself standing outside his dorm door. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, the nerves bubbling up in her stomach. She had no idea what she was going to say or how to even begin. But she knew one thing—she couldn’t let this hang between them any longer.

She knocked. Once. Twice. Her breath was shallow, a mix of anxiety and hope.

Theo opened the door slowly, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark. His hair was messy, like he’d been running his hands through it all day, and for a second, it felt like no time had passed at all. They were back in that same space—awkward, unsure—but neither of them willing to walk away.

“I…” Y/N started, but the words felt too heavy. She swallowed, her fingers playing with the hem of her sleeve. “I just… I’m sorry.”

Theo didn’t speak right away, his gaze flickering between her eyes and the floor, his jaw tight. But then he stepped aside, wordlessly inviting her in. The moment was so simple, so quietly tense, yet it felt like they were both holding their breath, waiting for something to happen.

She walked in, her boots clicking softly against the stone floor. She didn’t sit down. Instead, she stood there for a moment, watching him, hoping the silence between them would break, would give her some kind of answer.

Theo’s voice was low, almost hesitant. “I shouldn’t have told them, Y/N. I know that. I… I didn’t think it through.”

Her eyes met his, and for the first time in days, she didn’t see the frustration, the defensiveness. She saw regret. And something else—vulnerability, the kind he never showed. The kind he only let out when he was really, truly sorry.

“I shouldn’t have gotten so angry,” she murmured, her gaze softening. “I let my pride get in the way. But it’s not just about the rumors, Theo. It’s about what we were. What we are. And you’re right—I didn’t let you in. I never do. I’m sorry for that.”

Theo took a step forward, his eyes never leaving hers. His voice was steady now, but there was a tenderness in it that surprised her. “You think I didn’t know that? You think I didn’t feel the walls you put up? I was just trying to figure it out, Y/N. Trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make sense. And I messed it up.”

Y/N shook her head, her heart aching. “No. I messed it up too. I pushed you away. I didn’t want to let anyone in, not even you. But I care about you, Theo. And I’m not going to let this ruin what we have. I can’t.”

The words were a relief, almost like a weight had lifted off her shoulders. She was tired of fighting it, tired of pretending. She wanted to be soft with him, wanted to believe that they could be more than just a mistake, more than just a game.

Theo stepped closer, his hands reaching out tentatively, as if unsure of how far he could push her. But she met him halfway, letting him close the distance. She could feel the heat of his body, the rawness of the moment. His hands brushed her arms lightly, and his voice was barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to fight anymore. I just want you.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, the vulnerability in his words making her heart skip. She could feel everything she was too afraid to say, everything she had held back, swirling between them.

“I don’t want to fight either,” she whispered back, her fingers tracing the lines of his jaw. “But I don’t want to lose you, Theo. Not over something stupid.”

He smiled then, small and soft, the corners of his eyes crinkling like he was holding back something more. His hands cupped her face, gently, like she might break. “You won’t lose me, Y/N. I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Y/N let herself believe it. She closed her eyes, leaning into the warmth of his touch, the safety he provided. Maybe they didn’t have all the answers. Maybe they’d make mistakes along the way. But this—right now—was enough.

As his lips brushed against hers, slow and tentative, the world outside of this moment seemed to disappear. The argument, the hurt, the doubt—it all faded, leaving only the undeniable truth between them.

Theo’s jealousy had always been there—an undercurrent, something he could feel but not quite name. But lately, it was starting to bubble to the surface, darker and more unrelenting. It didn’t help that Y/N seemed oblivious to it, or maybe she just didn’t care, or maybe she didn’t notice how much it was eating at him.

He told himself it wasn’t a big deal—just her usual flirtations, her way of making everyone around her feel like they were the most important person in the room. But every time she laughed too easily at someone else’s joke, every time she touched another boy’s arm or leaned in a little too close, the knot in his chest tightened.

He wasn’t supposed to care. She wasn’t his. But it felt like she was slipping away. Slipping away, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. And the worst part was, he couldn’t even bring himself to say anything, because he didn’t want to sound possessive. But every time another guy looked at her like she was the sun, his hands curled into fists.

He was standing by the window one late afternoon when he saw her walking down the corridor, talking animatedly to some guy he didn’t even recognize. Theo’s gaze narrowed as the boy laughed, brushing his hand against her shoulder casually.

That familiar knot twisted in Theo’s stomach. His eyes followed them, unblinking, until they stopped near a set of classrooms, and the guy lingered too close. The way Y/N smiled up at him, that little tilt of her head—Theo felt the heat rise in his chest, a sharp and possessive burn that he couldn’t ignore.

She wasn’t his. But damn it, it felt like she was.

He stormed out of the room before he could think better of it. He found her a few moments later, still talking to the guy, laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world. She caught sight of him then, her eyes lighting up in that way she only did when she saw him.

“Hey!” she called, but Theo didn’t say anything. He just walked straight toward her, his steps quick, his jaw set tight.

“Hi,” she greeted, her smile faltering when she noticed the tension in his posture. “What’s up?”

“Who’s that?” Theo’s voice came out too harsh, too blunt. His eyes flickered to the boy beside her, who looked slightly uncomfortable now, clearly aware of the sudden shift in the atmosphere.

“Oh,” Y/N glanced at him and then back to Theo. “He’s just—”

“Just?” Theo repeated, his voice rising, frustration leaking through. “He’s just touching you, laughing with you, like everything’s fine. Like you’re—” He cut himself off, his words feeling too sharp, too jagged. He couldn’t make sense of it. “Why do you keep doing this?”

Y/N’s brow furrowed, and she stepped back slightly. “Theo, what the hell are you talking about?”

“You flirt with everyone, Y/N,” he shot back, taking a step closer, unable to stop himself. “You make them feel like they’re the only one in the room. And it drives me crazy.”

Y/N’s eyes widened at the intensity in his voice. She opened her mouth to respond but snapped it shut when she saw the way his chest was rising and falling, the raw emotion in his face. She had never seen him like this before—never seen him so… possessive.

“I’m not doing anything,” she said, her voice more careful now. “I’m just talking to people. You know that, right?”

“I don’t care,” Theo growled, running a hand through his messy hair in frustration. “I don’t care what you’re doing. It’s the way you do it. Like you don’t see me standing there. Like you don’t even care how it makes me feel.”

Y/N’s heart raced in her chest as she took a step back. His words stung more than she wanted to admit. She had never seen him so raw, so vulnerable in his anger. It terrified her, but she wasn’t sure if she was more scared of him or of herself.

“You’re being ridiculous, Theo,” she snapped, her voice quieter now, but still sharp. “You can’t just control who I talk to. I’m not your property, and I don’t answer to you. I’m not some trophy you can just—”

“I’m not trying to control you,” he interrupted, his eyes burning with intensity. “But you keep pushing me away, and then you flirt with everyone else, and then expect me to just—just sit there and watch? You don’t get to do that and then act like I’m the problem, Y/N.”

Her stomach twisted. She wanted to say something to make him understand. She wanted to tell him that she didn’t flirt because she wanted to hurt him, that she didn’t mean to make him feel insignificant. But every time she tried, the words tangled in her throat.

“I’m not doing this with you,” she said, her voice trembling slightly despite herself. She turned on her heel, heading in the opposite direction.

“Y/N,” Theo called after her, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t turn back. She couldn’t.

And so they both stood there, broken and confused, each one wrestling with their own insecurities and pride, neither knowing how to bridge the gap that had widened between them.

The knock came late.

Not late enough to be suspicious, but just past the hour when the castle had begun to quiet, when voices had faded to murmurs and footsteps grew rare in the corridors. The kind of hour when you could still pretend you weren’t waiting for someone, even if you were.

Y/N had been sitting cross-legged on her bed, pretending to read, the same paragraph re-read so many times the words didn’t even register anymore. She wasn’t expecting him. Not really. Not after everything.

But when she heard the soft, almost hesitant knock, her breath caught.

There was only one person it could be.

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the door like it might open on its own. Like maybe he’d get tired and go away, and she wouldn’t have to face whatever apology he’d strung together in his dorm, pacing with that anxious, unshakable frustration that only Theo Nott seemed capable of turning into silence.

But then his voice came, low and rough through the door.

“Y/N. Please.”

Something cracked open in her chest.

When she opened it, he looked… not broken, but worn. Hollowed out, like the anger had burnt itself out and left him standing in the ashes. His hands were shoved deep in the pockets of his jumper, his mouth pressed into a thin, unreadable line. There were shadows under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept.

Neither had she.

They stood there for a second. Two people who had once known how to touch each other without flinching, suddenly strangers in the quiet.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did,” he said. “Any of it.”

She stayed in the doorway, arms crossed tight over her chest, guarding herself from something she wasn’t sure would ever stop hurting. “You didn’t believe me.”

“I didn’t believe myself,” he admitted, gaze flicking to the floor. “It’s not you. It’s… me not knowing how to deal with the fact that I finally care about someone enough to lose them.”

The air between them felt fragile. Like if she moved too quickly, it might all collapse.

“I don’t know how to be that person, Y/N,” Theo added, more quietly. “The one who feels something real and doesn’t ruin it out of fear.”

She swallowed. “You made me feel small. Like I had to prove myself to you.”

“I know,” he said. “And I hate that I did that. Because if there’s anyone in the world who doesn’t need to prove a damn thing, it’s you.”

Her throat tightened. “Then why did you act like I wasn’t enough?”

“I was scared I wasn’t enough for you.” He looked up then, and there was no anger in his eyes anymore. Just regret. Exhaustion. Wanting. “You’re… everything, Y/N. You always have been.”

She exhaled, shaky. Still standing in the doorway, still unsure if she could let herself believe it.

“I’m still mad at you,” she said softly.

“That’s okay,” Theo replied. “I’ll still be here. Even if you are.”

It wasn’t a grand gesture. There were no flowers, no apologies scrawled in ink. Just Theo, standing there with his hands clenched in his sleeves, waiting for her to let him back in.

And she didn’t kiss him. She didn’t even touch him. But she opened the door a little wider. And that was enough.

It didn’t happen all at once.

There was no single moment where things magically fixed themselves, no sudden epiphany where they both swore off old habits and became the people they were meant to be. Instead, their healing came slowly—quietly. In pieces, in practice. Like learning how to breathe all over again.

They fought less.

Not because they stopped feeling things, but because they started learning how to say them before they festered. Before they turned into poison behind their teeth. Theo still had jealousy stitched into his ribs, but he started telling her when it hurt instead of pretending it didn’t. And Y/N—she stopped pretending she didn’t notice.

“I don’t want you to stop being you,” he told her once, the morning after a long night of tangled sheets and whispered apologies. “I just want to know you still choose me, even when everyone else wants you too.”

She didn’t answer with words. Just pressed her forehead to his and let her hands rest over his chest, where his heart beat fast and fragile beneath her touch. That was the thing about Theo—he wore his softness underneath all that sharpness. She was starting to learn how to hold it gently.

Y/N changed in little ways. Not because he asked her to, but because she wanted to. Not out of shame or pressure—but trust. She still wore her skirts too short and her eyeliner too bold, still walked into rooms like she owned the walls and the air inside them. But sometimes, now, she left her parties early. Chose to sit with him in quiet corners, their knees brushing under the table, fingers loosely intertwined. She didn’t flirt less, not really, but she made it clearer than ever that she was already spoken for—and not just in name.

And Theo—he softened. Slowly. Awkwardly. But it was real. He started bringing her coffee on the mornings he knew she hadn’t slept. Started rubbing small circles into her knee when she got anxious, even when she tried to hide it. He kissed her less like he was trying to brand her and more like he wanted to stay.

They still fought, sometimes.

But now, they always found their way back.

There were no ultimatums. No need to define every piece of what they were. But there was understanding. There was effort. There was trying, even when it was hard.

One night, while the rest of the castle slept, they lay side by side in Theo’s bed, the moonlight slipping between the curtains and painting pale lines across the blankets. Her head rested on his chest, and his arm was wrapped loosely around her waist. He wasn’t asleep—he never really slept when she was with him. Just listened to her breathing, steady and soft.

She whispered, barely loud enough to hear, “I think I’m better when I’m with you.”

And he, half-asleep and fully in love, murmured back, “Same.”

That was the thing about them.

They’d been fire and ice and chaos and ruin—but now, they were learning how to be quiet. How to stay. How to choose each other, again and again.

Even on the hard days.

Especially on the hard days.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

It wasn’t supposed to explode like this.

But it did—ugly and loud and too late to stop. The kind of argument that didn’t leave room for recovery, not without something breaking in the process.

She was pacing, arms crossed tight across her chest, jaw clenched so hard it ached. And Theo stood in the middle of the room like a storm bottled too long, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

“You told them?” she snapped, eyes blazing. “You told your friends about us—about me—like I’m some fucking trophy?”

Theo scoffed, voice laced with disbelief. “I didn’t tell them anything real. They guessed. It was a stupid conversation and I didn’t—”

“You didn’t what?” she cut in, bitter. “Didn’t think? Didn’t care? Do you know how it felt to walk into the Great Hall and hear my name being passed around like gossip? Like I’m just some story you get to brag about?”

He stepped toward her. “You think I wanted that? That I wanted everyone to know something that was just ours?”

“Then why didn’t you shut it down?” she hissed. “Why didn’t you defend me?”

“Because I was angry!” he shouted. “Because I thought maybe you didn’t care! You’ve been pulling away for weeks and I—” He stopped himself, dragging a hand down his face. “I felt like I was the only one who gave a shit anymore.”

Her expression crumpled for a second—just one—and then hardened again.

“You don’t get to spin this around on me. You don’t get to slut-shame me with your fucking silence and then cry about being insecure.”

“I didn’t slut-shame you!” he barked. “God, listen to yourself—this isn’t just about what happened. You’re pissed because I made you feel seen. Because I let people know that you’re not untouchable. That you let me in.”

Her eyes flashed. “That’s not yours to share, Theo. That’s me. My body. My trust. You don’t get to weaponize it just because you’re scared I don’t love you the way you love me.”

Silence.

And there it was—laid out like a raw nerve between them.

He stared at her. Broken open. Bleeding fury and guilt and longing.

“I don’t know how to love you,” he said lowly, voice cracking. “You make me feel like I’m drowning, Y/N. Every day. You flirt with people like I’m not there, you pull away when I get too close, and I still fucking chase after you like some idiot who thinks you’ll stay.”

“And maybe I would’ve,” she whispered, venom softening into something brittle. “If you hadn’t made me feel small the second things got real.”

He blinked.

“Do you know what it’s like to give a piece of yourself to someone you’re terrified of losing?” she said. “I did that. I gave you that. And you let it become a fucking joke.”

He stepped back like she’d slapped him.

The silence this time was unbearable.

Then she grabbed her bag—hands shaking, eyes wet but furious—and moved to the door.

“You broke this,” she said.

And then she was gone.

And Theo just stood there.

Staring at the space where she used to be.

Still reaching for her in the silence.

Still waiting for a door that wouldn’t open again.

The thing no one tells you about heartbreak is that it’s not loud. Not really. It’s a quiet unraveling. A hundred tiny aches instead of one clean break.

For Theo, the days bleed together. His friends notice the difference—he’s moodier, snappier, like a wire stretched too tight. He parties more now, but it doesn’t feel the same. The laughter never sticks. The girls don’t mean anything. He doesn’t even want them. Not really.

Because none of them touch him like she did. None of them look at him like they know every version of him—like they’ve seen the soft parts, the dark parts, the insecure, hollow parts—and stayed anyway.

He still walks past the library and sees her at their old table sometimes, hunched over parchment, twirling a quill between her fingers like she used to do while pretending not to smile at him. Only now there’s no smile. Just focus. Just distance.

Sometimes, she feels him watching her.

And sometimes she looks up.

But she always looks away first.

She still hears his voice in her head. Still reaches for her phone when something happens she knows he’d laugh at. Still dreams of his hand on the small of her back, guiding her through crowds like she was something precious.

But that’s the thing—he did treat her like she was precious. And somewhere along the way, she forgot how to believe that. She ruined it before he could decide to stop choosing her.

And she hates herself for that.

She tries to move on, too. Lets a boy from Ravenclaw walk her to class. Lets another one flirt with her in Potions. But none of it matters. None of them are him. They don’t make her stomach flip. They don’t make her feel seen and complicated and real.

And it’s not like she’s waiting.

But maybe, in some stupid part of her, she is.

Theo, meanwhile, still has nights where he wakes up thinking she’s next to him. Still flinches at the sound of her laugh across the hall. Still avoids places where her perfume lingers.

He keeps replaying their last argument in his head. Over and over. Wondering what he could’ve said differently. What she needed to hear. What he should’ve done instead of throwing his pride in her face.

Neither of them dates seriously. Everyone knows better than to ask. Hogwarts watches their unraveling like a slow-motion car crash—tragic, inevitable, impossible to look away from.

They’re both too proud. Too stubborn.

But the halls feel colder. The spaces between classes too long. The mornings too quiet. And neither of them has figured out how to breathe without the other yet. So they keep moving. Keep pretending. Keep aching.

Like two halves of a sentence that never got finished. It’s not like he moved on with someone else.

There’s no Ravenclaw girl, no blonde distraction, no new name whispered down corridors in place of hers. It’s worse than that.

He just stopped looking at her.

He stopped turning his head when she laughed too loud. Stopped lingering in doorways like maybe he was still waiting for her to follow. Stopped showing up late to class with his hair a mess and that tired, familiar look that said he hadn’t slept. That he’d been thinking of her.

He just—let go. Quietly. Without the dramatics, without the anger, without the messy in-between she always expected.

That’s what kills her the most. Because she’s still stuck. Still haunted by everything unsaid. Still dreaming about him showing up at her door, saying he couldn’t breathe without her. Still replaying every argument like she can undo it if she just remembers the right word, the right pause, the right way to ask him to stay.

He’s with his friends again. Laughing. Studying. Walking through the halls like nothing ever happened. Like she was a chapter already closed. Not a cliffhanger.

But she sees it, sometimes—just a flicker. The way his eyes find hers in a crowd, brief and unreadable. The way his hands twitch when they brush too close in Potions. The way he hesitates when he says her name like he’s trying not to choke on it.

It’s not enough.

She wonders if he still thinks of her at night. If he hears their song and skips it. If he keeps the bracelet she left behind. If he remembers the way she used to trace the veins in his hands like she was trying to memorize them. She doesn’t talk about him. Not to anyone. But she carries him everywhere.

In the way she walks, a little slower now. In the way she flirts, less carelessly. In the way she avoids their old spots, like they’re grave markers.

She misses him in quiet moments. The in-between ones. When the world slows down and her mask slips and no one’s looking. That’s when it hurts the most—because he was the only person who ever saw through the act.

And now he doesn’t even try. No new girl. No new love. Just distance. Just silence. Just the hollow where he used to be.

It’s been months, but it still feels like last week.

The exhaustion has piled up on top of her like too many bricks stacked high. She’s lost count of the nights she stayed up pretending to be fine. The ones she spent staring at the ceiling, replaying their last argument, feeling the weight of every word that came out of her mouth. The ones where she let herself drown in the silence, thinking she’d somehow be okay. But it catches up.

One moment she’s standing in the hallway, waiting for a professor to unlock the door to her next class, and the next, she’s sinking into a chair, hands pressed to her face, a sudden wave of grief that crashes through her like a tidal wave. She’s shaking, heart too loud in her chest. She doesn’t want to cry in front of anyone. Not again. So she bites her lip, forcing it back, but the tears—so stupid, so desperate—won’t stop.

She locks herself in the bathroom a few minutes later, pacing back and forth in the cramped space, hating how weak she feels. How broken. How she let everything slip away. And the worst part? The worst part is that she doesn’t even know how it got this bad.

She wants to fix it. She wants to find a way to go back to when they were okay, when they still had something real. When they were something more than a stupid, quiet mess of unresolved things.

Her phone buzzes on the sink counter, a constant reminder of how unheard she’s been. She almost ignores it, but then it’s there—his name, just sitting there like a weight on her chest. Theo. She’s seen it a hundred times, seen his name in the contact list for months and never had the guts to press it.

But today is different.

She doesn’t even think, just opens the message app, hands trembling as she types the words that feel like a confession, like an apology that’s been sitting too long. Her thumb hovers for a moment before hitting send.

“i miss u, i’m sorry.”

The night stretches on, and she’s still staring at the phone, willing it to light up. Every second that passes feels like hours. Every time it vibrates, her heart leaps, only to crash when she sees it’s not him.

But then, when she’s almost convinced she’s made a fool of herself, the screen flashes. Just one word.

“Y/N.”

It’s him.

She doesn’t move. Her fingers hover over the phone, not sure if she’s afraid to read it or if she’s just too scared to hope.

Y/N, he says again, almost like he’s trying to fill the silence between them. The emptiness that’s stretched for months. His next words come, quieter than she expected, as though he’s taking every syllable carefully.

“I miss you too.”

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#fanfiction #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott #lorenzo zurzolo #harry potter #angst

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babyscottoncandy · 3 months ago

Text

Night Shift

Art Donaldson, Challengers

Summary: Stanford¡Art Donaldson x Fem¡Music Artist Reader,, Art and (Y/n) were more than just a fun college "fling" - it was a real connection. (Y/n) writes the story of their ending love through music as he projects his aftermath of them in his tennis performances.

TW: Angst,, Sexual Innuendos,,

Based off the song "Night Shift" by Lucy Dacus

I do not own any of the songs mentioned, it's all for fanfic purposes :)

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Not just any party. One of those crowded, sweat-drenched, red-cup-in-hand frat disasters that reeks of beer and bad decisions. You’re there because your band’s bassist begged you to “get out of your own damn head” and Art is there because… well, he’s always there.

He spots you across the room after your half-drunk karaoke rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams.” And he’s grinning like he just won Wimbledon. That smug, golden-boy, tousled-blonde charm oozing off him like cologne.

“You know you sing like heartbreak in a leather jacket?” he tells you, a little too close, definitely too bold.

“You play tennis like you’ve got something to prove,” you shoot back.

You don’t sleep with him that night.

But you text him the next day.

It’s never serious.

Not really.

He shows up at your apartment at 2AM with a busted lip from practice and kisses you like the world’s ending. You play him your demos while lying on your back, legs tangled, wine-stained teeth, laughing at your own lyrics. You scribble his name in the margins of your notebook but cross it out twice. He brings you a guitar pick keychain from his first away match win. You joke that you’ll write a song called Boy with a Backhand.

Sometimes he disappears for days — training, tournaments, locked in with Tashi and Patrick. You don’t ask questions. You don’t have the right to.

But when he’s with you? It’s electric.

A storm bottled up in his grin, your voice, the tension of two people who almost fall in love every time they touch — but don’t. Not really.

The lamp is on — dim, warm. A Fleetwood Mac record crackles faintly from the dusty turntable in the corner. It smells like incense and sweat and sex in the air, and Art’s arm is slung across your stomach like it’s his birthright. You stare at the ceiling. He stares at you.

“Your ceiling needs work,” he says lazily. You snort. “So do your commitment issues.” That earns a sharp grin. He doesn’t deny it.

He shifts, half-draped across your body now, chin nudging your shoulder, voice low and boyish. “You’re meaner after sex. I kinda like it.”

“Shut up, Donaldson.”

You both fall into silence again — but it’s not uncomfortable. Not really. His thumb brushes slow, lazy circles into your hipbone. You can feel your heartbeat syncing to his without even meaning to.

“You ever think about it?” he murmurs, suddenly.

You blink. “About what?”

“If we weren’t just… whatever this is.”

You turn to look at him. “You mean if you weren’t busy being golden boy of the court and I wasn’t writing breakup songs about you before we’ve even broken up?”

His smile softens. “You’d write good ones.”

“You’d deserve them.” Another beat of silence.

He kisses your shoulder. Gentle this time. Not the frantic, breathless thing it usually is. Just soft, like he’s saying sorry without saying it out loud.

“I like this,” he says, and he means you. “Even if it’s messy.”

You should say something clever. You’re always quick with him. Always deflecting.

But instead, you just whisper, “Me too.”

You both lie there, knowing it won’t last — but pretending it could, just for a moment longer.

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The air is still except for the hum of her space heater and the soft creak of her guitar strap shifting against her shoulder. The room is low-lit, draped in shadows and string lights that cast a soft glow across her desk — cluttered with tea-stained mugs, scribbled notes, and last week’s setlist.

She’s in his hoodie. Of course. She didn’t mean to put it on, but it was the one closest to the bed, and it smells like him — like detergent and the faintest hint of sweat and something warm and sharp that always made her dizzy when he leaned too close.

Her notebook is a mess of half-finished thoughts. Lines crossed out. Words rewritten. Arrows pointing toward margins where she tried — and failed — to make sense of what she felt. Or maybe, what she wasn’t supposed to feel.

She strums absently. Slow. Thoughtful.

It’s not supposed to be a sad song, but everything comes out aching.

This wasn’t love. Not really. But it’s enough to keep her up at night. Enough to make her wonder what would happen if he ever looked at her the way he does when he talks about tennis. The way he does when he’s winning.

She hums a melody, soft and low, then catches the thread of something real. Something sharp and too honest. Her pen scratches the paper fast now, fingers trembling a little. The song takes shape like a bruise — slow to form, impossible to ignore.

It’s about him. Obviously.

But she doesn’t write his name. She never does.

The title comes last — written in all caps at the top of the page: LOVESICK.

She underlines it once. Then again. Then a third time, harder.

Her tea’s cold now. Her guitar is quiet in her lap. The song is finished, but the ache is still there.

And so is he. Even when he’s not.

It’s been a week since Art’s last message, a text that she’s still replaying in her head. She tries not to obsess over it, but it lingers, gnawing at her. The message was simple enough: “Busy. Catch up later.” But there’s something off about it. Something that feels like he’s already pulling away without saying it out loud. She knew he was distant, but this… this felt like an end without the finality.

She stares at her phone, at the little blinking cursor in the text box, but the words don’t come. It’s like she’s frozen in place, too afraid to write something too much or too little. So, she doesn’t write at all.

Instead, she taps out a half-hearted reply, hoping the weight of the last message doesn’t sit too heavily in her chest. “Alright, take care.” She sends it before she can second-guess herself, dropping the phone to the desk and forcing herself to look away.

She doesn’t reach for her guitar like she normally does when she’s trying to shake off an uncomfortable feeling. Instead, she leans back in her chair, staring out the window at the soft glow of campus lights. It’s hard to ignore the pit in her stomach. He hasn’t stopped texting her altogether — no, that would be too obvious. But it’s all become so… distant. His replies are shorter now, more detached, like he’s just going through the motions. The playful banter, the easy flow of their texts, it’s all gone. And she knows why. She knows it’s because he’s moving on — without saying it.

The next day, another message comes through from him. She jumps when she hears her phone buzz, reaching for it with a mix of hope and dread. It’s another simple message, but this time, it’s even more detached than the last. “Busy. Catch up later.”

She forces herself to breathe, pushing down the growing sense of disappointment. It’s not his fault, she tells herself. He’s a tennis player, he has a life outside of her. He has commitments. He’s just not her commitment. She can’t expect him to change. She’s been trying to convince herself of that for days now, but the more time passes, the more she can’t ignore the quiet ache that’s starting to settle into her chest.

The next few days pass in a blur. She goes through the motions — classes, rehearsals, writing, hanging out with Avalon — but every minute of it feels a little heavier without him. She can’t stop thinking about him, even though she’s telling herself it’s fine. She writes a few new songs, each one spiraling into something more raw, more real. She doesn’t mean for them to be about him. They never are, until they are.

One evening, she gets another text from him. She picks up her phone, her heart racing for a brief moment. This time, it’s a group chat. His name shows up among the list of students from their program, asking if anyone’s up for a game. It’s casual, nothing special, but it stings all the same. The absence of his personal messages — the ones that used to be just for her — feels like another goodbye.

She doesn’t respond. She just stares at the screen, fingers hovering over the keys. She wants to send something back, something that says I’m still here, still waiting, but she doesn’t. She won’t.

Days turn into weeks. The space between them becomes a void she can’t cross. She tries to fill the silence with music, with friends, with everything else, but it’s always there, looming.

Then, one night, after weeks of almost nothing, her phone buzzes again. She picks it up, her heart jumping into her throat when she sees his name.

It’s a simple text. “Yo, sorry I’ve been MIA. Let’s hang soon?”

It’s a text she would’ve expected to come a few days after that first one. Not now. Not after all this time. Her thumb hovers over the keyboard, but she doesn’t know how to respond. There’s too much between them now. Too much silence. Too many unspoken words.

Let’s hang soon? It’s so casual. So easy. And maybe that’s the problem.

She puts the phone down, staring at it for what feels like forever. He’s reaching out, but it’s like he doesn’t even realize how much he’s already pulled away.

She tries to tell herself that it’s fine. That this is what he does. That maybe he just doesn’t understand how much it hurts. But deep down, she knows the truth — he’s moved on. And part of her hates herself for still caring.

She never answers. She lets the message sit there, and in the quiet that follows, she finally admits something to herself: he’s gone. Not in the way she thought he would be, but in the way that leaves someone feeling hollow, like the absence of someone you thought was never going to leave.

It doesn’t feel like closure. It feels like a door quietly shutting. And there’s no way to open it again.

The quiet hum of the campus outside the dorm is drowned out by the muffled chatter of the other students in the hallway. Inside, the dim glow of string lights cast soft shadows across the room, her guitar leaning against the desk in the corner. The space is cozy, cluttered with books, scattered notes, and a few random items from various shows she’s played over the past few weeks. It’s a place she feels safe, but tonight, it feels different.

She sits on her bed, scrolling mindlessly through her phone. She hasn’t heard from Art in days, and she’s told herself she’s okay with it. He’s busy with his tennis, with his life — she can’t keep clinging to something that was never meant to last. But even as she tells herself that, she can’t shake the emptiness that settles in her chest when she realizes he hasn’t reached out. Not in the way he used to, not in a way that makes her feel like she matters.

And then, there’s the knock.

It’s quiet at first, just a faint sound against the door, but she knows exactly who it is. Her heart skips, a sudden, inexplicable rush of anticipation running through her. She doesn’t want to let him in. She knows what that would mean — the heat of it, the mess of everything they haven’t said yet. But she can’t ignore it. Not now. Not with him standing on the other side of that door.

She stands up and opens it, her breath catching in her throat as she comes face to face with him. Art. His tousled hair is messier than usual, his eyes tired, but the smile — that familiar, crooked grin — is there. He looks like he’s been thinking about this moment just as much as she has.

“Hey,” he says, his voice quiet, almost hesitant.

She crosses her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “What do you want?”

It’s a defensive tone, the kind she’s been using the past few weeks, but it’s hard to hide the way her body still responds to him. The way she’s never really been able to stop wanting him, even if she’s tried.

“I…” He hesitates for a moment, his eyes flickering to hers before dropping to the floor, like he doesn’t know what to say. He’s never been great with words when it comes to this. But he steps closer, closing the distance between them. “I miss you.”

There’s something raw in the way he says it. Not like the usual flippant way he says everything, but like he’s admitting something to himself too.

She looks up at him, her arms still crossed, but her walls feel thinner now, the anger from weeks of silence starting to crumble. “You’re only here because you need something, aren’t you?”

Art frowns, shaking his head. “No… not just that.” His hand brushes against hers, tentative at first. When she doesn’t pull away, he lets his fingers trace along her skin, sending a shiver down her spine. “I’m here because I want to fix this… whatever this is between us.”

She swallows, her pulse quickening despite herself. “And how do you plan on doing that?” She can’t help but sound sarcastic, the frustration bubbling up, but it’s mixed with something else. A quiet hope she’s been trying to bury for weeks now.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly, his voice a little rough. “But I want to try.”

The tension between them thickens, the air charged with something neither of them can ignore. She knows she should say something, tell him that this isn’t the way to fix things, that it can’t be that simple. But she doesn’t. Instead, she pulls him closer, hands tangling in the fabric of his shirt, and kisses him. It’s not slow or gentle. It’s all the frustration, all the confusion of the last few weeks, spilling out into a kiss that’s almost desperate.

Art responds immediately, his hands on her waist, pushing her back toward the bed, following her as she stumbles back, breaking the kiss only for a second to catch her breath. Her heart is hammering in her chest. She knows this isn’t the answer. She knows this won’t fix anything. But she doesn’t care. Not right now. Not when he’s here, this close, looking at her like maybe, just maybe, he feels the same way.

He kicks the door closed behind him, and the next few moments blur together — hands on skin, lips on necks, the frantic rush of bodies trying to reconnect in a way words never could.

She feels his breath against her skin, his hands tugging at her shirt, desperate and slow all at once. They fall onto the bed together, tangled in a mess of limbs, both of them moving like they don’t want to think about what this means, just feeling each other. His lips trace the line of her jaw, down her neck, and she shivers under the warmth of his touch.

For a moment, it feels like everything else doesn’t matter — not the silence, not the distance, not the way they both know this can’t last. She doesn’t want to think about the end. She doesn’t want to think about the mess they’ve made of things.

But when their lips meet again, slower this time, there’s something deeper in it. Something that feels less like a quick fix and more like something they’ve both been craving. He pulls back for a moment, looking down at her, his expression unreadable.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes searching hers.

For a second, she thinks about the mess they’ve made. About the silence. The distance. But then she looks up at him, her heart racing again, and she knows, without a doubt, what she wants.

“I don’t know,” she admits, her voice soft but honest. “But I want this. I want you.”

And in that moment, as their lips meet again, she forgets about the consequences. She forgets about the unspoken things. For now, all she wants is him. And for once, it feels like that’s enough.

The room is quiet now, save for the soft hum of the campus outside. The string lights that decorated the corners of the room cast a gentle glow, but the air between them feels thick with something unspoken.

She lies beside him on the bed, the weight of his arm still draped over her, his fingers lightly tracing circles on her skin. She’s staring up at the ceiling, her mind spinning as the quiet settles in. The adrenaline of their heated kiss, the rush of their bodies moving together, has faded into something deeper, something more confusing.

Art shifts beside her, his breath still coming a little faster than usual. He’s always been good at pretending like nothing matters, like everything’s just for fun, but there’s a tension in the air now, something new that wasn’t there before.

He doesn’t say anything at first, and she’s almost grateful for the silence. What can either of them say after this? What are they supposed to do with the tangled mess of feelings and broken boundaries they’ve just created?

She feels him shift again, this time sitting up slightly, his back against the headboard. He’s looking down at his hands, the momentarily post-coital bliss fading into a nervous tension. She can almost hear the wheels turning in his head, the weight of his usual detached mask starting to settle back into place.

“So…” he starts, his voice breaking the silence like he’s unsure of where to go next. “That was…”

She turns her head to look at him, her body still flush from the heat of their kiss. The space between them feels vast now, like they’re two people who’ve just shared something intimate but are no longer sure how to bridge the gap that’s still between them.

“Yeah,” she says softly, trying to keep the vulnerability from creeping into her voice. “It was.”

His gaze flits over to hers, lingering for a moment before quickly looking away. She sees the slight tension in his jaw, the way he seems to be avoiding the deeper implications of what they just did. It’s always been like this with him, hasn’t it? Everything’s a game until it gets too real.

She sighs, the weight of it all settling heavily on her chest. “I thought this was just… supposed to be a fling,” she says, testing the words on her tongue. She hadn’t expected it to feel so confusing, but now that it’s over, she can’t stop wondering if it was ever really just that.

“Yeah, me too,” he replies quickly, almost too quickly, as if trying to convince himself as much as her. He doesn’t look at her, his eyes still fixed on the space across the room. The cool detachment in his voice doesn’t match the warmth in his touch just moments ago, and that shift makes her heart ache in a way she didn’t expect.

The air between them grows colder, the tension thickening like a fog she can’t shake. She swallows, the words catching in her throat. “Art… why did we do this?” She’s not asking for an apology. She’s not even sure what she’s looking for. But she needs to understand.

He finally meets her eyes, and for a moment, it feels like he’s seeing her for the first time tonight — really seeing her. But the guard in his expression quickly returns.

“I don’t know,” he admits, his voice quieter this time. “I think we both know the answer. But neither of us is ready to say it.”

His honesty stings, but it also makes her heart ache even more. She wants to tell him that it’s okay, that they can just leave it behind them and pretend it was nothing, that they can go back to the way things were. But the truth is, she’s not sure she can do that anymore. She’s not sure she can pretend it didn’t matter.

Instead, she sits up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. “I don’t want to play games, Art,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to keep pretending that I don’t care, when I do.” Her heart races as she says it, the vulnerability slipping out before she can stop it. “I don’t want to keep doing this thing where we’re just… this. Where I’m just someone you see when it’s convenient.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and the silence stretches on. She can feel him pulling back again, the space between them growing even larger than before. She’s not sure if it’s the tension from their night together, or if it’s the realization that everything has shifted now, but the words he finally speaks make her heart drop.

“I told you,” he says, voice low, almost regretful. “I’m not good at this. At being… what you need. I don’t know how to be that for you.”

It’s a punch in the gut, hearing him say it out loud. She wants to argue, to tell him that he doesn’t have to be perfect. That she doesn’t need him to be anyone other than who he is. But she knows, deep down, that she can’t change him. She can’t make him want more if he’s not ready for it.

She swallows the lump in her throat, pulling her knees to her chest. “I know,” she says, her voice barely audible. “But I thought maybe… maybe there was more to us. Or at least, I hoped there was.”

Art looks at her for a moment, his eyes filled with something — guilt, maybe, or regret. But it’s too late for that now. He doesn’t know how to give her what she needs, and she can’t keep hoping he will.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s the first time she’s ever heard him sound so unsure. “I’m just not the guy you need, and I don’t know how to be him.”

She nods slowly, the weight of his words sinking in. “Yeah,” she says, voice cracking slightly. “I guess I knew that all along.”

He doesn’t say anything more after that, and neither of them moves. The space between them feels infinite now, and neither one of them knows how to bridge the gap.

After a long pause, Art gets up, his movements stiff and mechanical. He grabs his jacket from the chair, looking back at her for a brief moment before heading toward the door. “Take care,” he says, the words hollow in the air.

She watches him leave, the sound of the door clicking shut echoing through the room. For a long time, she just sits there, alone, letting the silence wash over her. She’s not sure what she expected, but she knows that whatever it was, it wasn’t this.

And now, all she has left is the emptiness.

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It starts slowly. A single uploaded clip from a smoky bar set. Her voice — smooth, aching — wraps itself around a melody she wrote on the floor of her college dorm the week after he stopped answering. People listen. Then they listen again.

Within a year, she’s playing sold-out shows in indie venues, her lyrics dissected on TikTok, fans crying in front rows to songs they don’t know are about him. About Art Donaldson, the boy who kissed her like a promise and left like a storm.

She never named him. She didn’t have to.

The songs said everything.

They weren’t angry songs — not all of them, at least. Some were soft. Remembering the way his laugh curled around the edges of her bed. The way he’d press his forehead to hers like he was trying to memorize her. But there were others, too. Bitten-off lyrics about unreturned texts, the silence that never came with closure, the way he made her feel like a question without an answer.

By the time her debut album dropped, it was clear: she had become something real. Something permanent. Critics called her “a poet with bite.” Rolling Stone named her the voice of heartbreak for a generation. Her second tour sold out in hours.

And Art?

He saw her name more often than he admitted. First on a playlist someone else was playing. Then in ESPN articles mentioning her in passing — Stanford alumna and rising artist (Y/N). The same girl who used to hum melodies under her breath while folding her legs into his lap. The same girl who asked him what they were and got silence in return.

He didn’t listen to the album at first.

Then one night, alone in his apartment, he played it. Track one to eleven. No skips. Her voice hit him like a bruise, familiar and unforgiving. She didn’t sound bitter. That’s what hurt most. She sounded… past him. Like she’d loved him deeply. And then learned how to leave.

He knew he had no right to feel hollow.

They hadn’t spoken since graduation. He hadn’t reached out. She hadn’t either.

But every time her voice floated through a store, or a girl he brought home played her music off her phone, he’d freeze. Because every line — every verse — was proof she remembered. That it had meant something. That he meant something.

And she was everywhere now.

He wondered if she knew how famous she’d become. If she remembered the way he used to tease her about singing too loudly in the shower, or how she once made him sit cross-legged on the floor of her dorm and listen to a half-finished song.

She used to look at him like he was the only thing in the world she couldn’t figure out.

Now, the whole world was listening to her trying to do just that.

He never reached out. He couldn’t. She had become something brilliant, untouchable. And he was still stuck at the edge of that memory, holding a version of her he no longer had any right to.

He had always been good at running from things.

But her voice was everywhere now. And no matter how far he went, he couldn’t outrun that.

The art gallery in Manhattan is small, tucked between a café and a bookstore, the kind of place where people sip free wine and pretend to care about the brush strokes. She’s only there because her label’s throwing a private event — “an intimate evening with taste-makers,” whatever that means — and she agreed because they promised her she wouldn’t have to perform.

She’s dressed in a dark silk slip, leather jacket hanging off her shoulders, a glass of red wine cradled in one hand. Her hair’s a little messy, her eyeliner smudged just enough to look intentional. She looks like success. She looks like a woman who’s healed.

But then she sees him.

Across the room, standing in front of an abstract painting he’s probably not even really looking at — Art.

It shouldn’t hit her so hard. But it does. That stupid familiar profile. The jaw she kissed at three in the morning, the curve of his shoulder she cried into once and pretended she didn’t. His hair’s shorter now. He’s wearing a button-down and dress shoes, like he might be here on behalf of some sponsor or charity tennis thing.

He looks… older. Like time’s touched him but hasn’t taken anything away. He still looks like Art.

And he sees her.

The moment hangs there — a quiet, invisible thread tugging across the gallery. His expression shifts, flickers. Not surprise. Not really. Just a kind of slow, dawning ache. Like he knew this would happen one day, and it still caught him off guard.

She doesn’t look away.

Instead, she downs the last of her wine, sets the glass down, and walks toward him — not slowly, not confidently. Just steadily. Like she’s been walking toward this for years.

“Didn’t think you were the art gallery type,” she says when she reaches him, her voice even.

Art breathes out a quiet laugh, but it’s tight, caught somewhere in his throat. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“Well.” She shrugs, glancing at the painting behind him. “Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

Silence stretches between them like a wire, thin and sharp. She can feel it — all the weight of what was left unsaid. The night in her dorm. The way he disappeared. The songs.

“You’re… everywhere now,” he says, voice low.

“Yeah. I know.” There’s no pride in it. No smugness. Just fact. It’s the one thing she has that he can’t run from — she made sure of that.

He clears his throat, eyes dropping for a second. “I heard… the first album. All of it.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You and everyone else.”

“No.” His eyes meet hers again, suddenly sharper. “I heard it. I knew it was me.”

She crosses her arms, leans against the wall beside him. “Took you long enough.”

His jaw tenses. “Why didn’t you reach out?”

She blinks. Laughs once, incredulously. “Are you serious? You disappeared, Art. You ghosted me, and then what — I’m supposed to chase you down and beg for closure?”

His face twists, regret creeping in. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“You didn’t have to say anything,” she snaps, voice quieter but harder now. “But you didn’t even try. You made me feel like I imagined the whole thing.”

He flinches. Just a little.

She sighs, shaking her head. “It’s fine. Really. I wrote songs, people listened, I moved on.”

“Did you?”

The question lands heavy. He doesn’t say it with cruelty — just curiosity. Honest, stupid, late curiosity.

She hesitates. Because part of her wants to lie. To say yes, of course, and mean it. But the truth is, a part of her still carries him in those lyrics. In the silences between chords. In the parts of herself that still ache when she thinks of what they almost were.

“I don’t know,” she says finally. “But I don’t write about you anymore. That’s gotta count for something.”

He nods slowly. Looks at her like he wants to say something else — I’m sorry. I wasn’t ready. You deserved better — but all of it would be too little, too late.

So instead, he just says, “You’re incredible, you know. You always were.”

She smiles, tired. “Yeah. I know.”

And then, she walks away.

She doesn’t look back.

And neither does he.

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#fanfiction #art donaldson #art donalson x reader #challengers #mike faist #mike faist x reader

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babyscottoncandy · 3 months ago

Text

The Only Exception,, Part Two

Theodore Nott,, Harry Potter

Summary: Theodore Nott x Class Clown-Fem¡Reader,, Theodore hates everyone but her, Theodore cannot stand hearing anyone ramble but her. She was the only exception, except she never knew.

Part One: https://www.tumblr.com/babyscottoncandy/779385722314653696/the-only-exception

TW: None

Based off "The Only Exception" by Paramore

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It had been a month.

A month of silence. A month of pretending. A month of trying to forget.

And yet, she was still there—lingering in the back of his mind, in the spaces between his thoughts, in the goddamn way his body still reacted whenever he caught sight of her across the Great Hall.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He drowned her out.

The first time, it was easy. A girl at a party—soft hands, pretty smile, giggling against his lips as he let her pull him into some dark corner. He kissed her hard, pressed her against the wall, let her tug at his collar like she actually meant something.

But she didn’t.

Because when he closed his eyes, she wasn’t her.

The second time, it was in the Astronomy Tower. A Ravenclaw girl—clever, biting in the way she spoke, eager in the way she touched him. He let it happen. Let her pull him in, let her teeth scrape against his jaw, let her hands roam his chest.

But when she moaned his name, something in his stomach twisted.

Because it wasn’t her voice.

So he did it again. And again. And again.

Different girls. Different places. Different everything.

But it didn’t work.

Because every time he walked out of a room, every time he straightened his shirt and ran a hand through his hair, he still felt her in his bones. It was infuriating. She was in the way he couldn’t enjoy the taste of someone else’s lips, in the way his body tensed when someone else laughed too loudly—because it wasn’t her laugh.

And the worst part? She didn’t even seem to care.

(Y/N) was still the same. Still laughing, still joking, still lighting up every room she walked into. She didn’t look at him like he was anything more than another face in the crowd.

And maybe that was what pissed him off the most.

Because here he was, trying to get her out of his system, and she—she was fine. She was untouched by whatever the hell had happened between them.

So he kissed another girl.

And another.

And he tried to convince himself that one of them—any of them—would make him forget.

But he was starting to realize that no matter how many lips he tasted, how many bodies he pressed against his own— None of them would ever be her.

You pretended it didn’t matter.

That was the easiest way to cope, wasn’t it? To act like that night with Theodore Nott had been just another fleeting moment, just another stupid decision made in the haze of firewhisky and bad judgment.

So you laughed.

You told your friends the same ridiculous stories, filled the spaces between classes with jokes, made sure your presence was just as loud, just as untouchable as it had always been.

Because if you let yourself stop—if you let yourself think—then you’d have to admit that it hurt.

That it stung every time you caught him in the corridors, leaning too close to another girl, his hand skimming her waist the way it had once skimmed yours. That something in your chest twisted every time you heard the whispers, the murmurs of how Theo was moving on, how he was burying himself in everyone but you.

But what did you expect?

He was Theodore Nott, after all. The boy who never let anyone in, the boy who never let anything stick. You had always known what kind of person he was.

So why did it still feel like he had reached inside you, carved his name into something vital, and left without a second glance?

You coped by pretending you didn’t care.

By dancing harder at parties. By flirting with boys you didn’t actually like. By making sure you were always laughing, because if you were laughing, no one would think to ask if you were okay.

And maybe, just maybe, if you did it enough—if you smiled enough, joked enough, pretended enough—

You’d start to believe it, too.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

The Slytherin common room was alive with conversation, filled with the usual mix of half-bored drawls and lazy insults thrown across the room. Theo sat in his usual chair, legs stretched out, absently spinning his wand between his fingers as he half-listened to whatever nonsense Mattheo and Draco were going on about.

It wasn’t until he heard your name that he actually started paying attention.

“She’s so bloody loud,” Draco scoffed, slumping further into the green leather couch. “It’s insufferable. Does she ever shut up?”

Mattheo chuckled, sipping from his glass of firewhisky. “You’re just mad because she roasted you in front of the whole Great Hall last week.”

Draco scowled. “That’s not the point. She just says whatever comes to her mind like anyone actually cares. And she’s not even funny—she just thinks she is.”

Theo felt something tighten in his jaw.

He kept his expression neutral, eyes fixed on the wand twirling between his fingers, but something about the way Draco spoke about you—so dismissively, so condescendingly—grated against his nerves.

“She’s just desperate for attention,” Draco continued, smirking. “It’s honestly pathetic. If she had any self-awareness, she’d—”

“She’s actually funny,” Theo interrupted, his voice even, casual.

Draco blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Theo finally looked up, expression unreadable. “You said she’s not funny. You’re wrong.” He shrugged. “Just because you don’t have a sense of humor doesn’t mean she doesn’t.”

Mattheo let out a low chuckle, clearly entertained by the shift in conversation. “Nott defending her? That’s new.”

“I’m not defending her,” Theo said smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “I just think it’s pathetic when people talk shit about someone just because they can’t handle being outwitted.” His gaze flicked to Draco, cool and unimpressed.

Draco’s expression twisted in irritation, but he said nothing. Instead, he rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath before turning the conversation elsewhere.

Theo didn’t say anything else, didn’t look like he cared in the slightest. But inside, he could still hear your laugh, still remember the way it felt to have you close, still feel the ghost of your lips against his.

And maybe he couldn’t have you. Maybe he had already ruined that chance.

But he sure as hell wasn’t going to sit here and let someone else tear you down.

You told yourself it didn’t matter.

That Draco Malfoy was an arrogant prick and nothing he said should have gotten under your skin. That you had heard worse, that you had laughed off worse.

But it was different when it was behind your back. When you weren’t there to defend yourself. When it wasn’t just some offhanded insult in a crowded hallway, but something deeper—something meant to tear you down.

And maybe it shouldn’t have hurt. Maybe you should have shrugged it off like you always did.

But you didn’t.

So you found an empty corridor, let yourself have a moment—just a moment—to let the tears burn hot in your eyes, to swallow down the lump in your throat, to breathe.

And then you wiped your face, straightened your uniform, and kept walking like nothing had happened.

Except you weren’t as alone as you thought.

Theo saw you before you saw him.

He had been heading to class, hands shoved in his pockets, mind preoccupied with anything but you, when he turned the corner and—

Stopped.

You were walking ahead of him, back rigid, head tilted just slightly downward. And maybe no one else would have noticed, but he did. The way your shoulders looked stiff, like you were holding yourself together with frayed string. The way your hands were clenched just a little too tight.

And then—just for a second—you turned your head, and the light from the stained-glass window hit your face at the perfect angle, revealing the telltale redness around your eyes.

Theo stilled.

He wasn’t sure what annoyed him more—the fact that you were crying, or the fact that it actually bothered him to see it.

He could have ignored it.

Could have kept walking. Could have let you pretend, like he was sure you wanted to, that everything was fine.

But something in his chest twisted.

So instead, he spoke.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see the day you ran out of jokes.”

You tensed immediately, whipping your head around, eyes wide and caught off guard. The moment you saw him, you masked it, covering up whatever raw emotion had been on your face just seconds before.

“Wow, Theodore Nott talking to me of his own free will,” you quipped, your voice light, effortless. But he heard the slight rasp in it, the evidence that you had been crying. “What’s next? A heartfelt confession? A public declaration of love?”

His lips twitched—almost—but he kept his face neutral. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, clown.”

You let out a short, dry laugh. “Right. Wouldn’t want to bruise your reputation by associating with me.”

He frowned slightly at that.

Something about the way you said it—something in your tone—sounded off. Not your usual playfulness, not your usual bite.

“What happened?” he asked.

You blinked at him.

For a second, you just stood there, eyes searching his face like you weren’t sure if he was serious. Then, just like that, you smiled. Too quick. Too bright.

“Nothing, Nott,” you said, brushing past him. “Why? Worried about me?”

He didn’t stop you as you walked away. Didn’t call after you.

But his jaw clenched as he watched you go.

Because he had a feeling he knew exactly what had happened. And suddenly, the conversation in the common room last night felt a whole lot heavier.

Theo didn’t go to class.

Not immediately, at least.

Instead, he turned on his heel and made his way straight to the Slytherin common room, his steps measured, his expression blank. But beneath the calm exterior, something simmered—low and sharp, pressing against his ribs like a blade.

He found Draco exactly where he expected him—lounging on the couch, flipping lazily through a textbook he probably wasn’t actually reading. Mattheo was beside him, half-asleep, boots kicked up onto the table.

Draco barely looked up when Theo approached. “Skipping class now, Nott? Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Theo ignored that. “What the fuck did you say to her?”

Draco blinked, clearly not expecting that. He tilted his head, smirking. “You’re going to have to be more specific. Who?”

Theo’s jaw tightened. “You know exactly who.”

Draco scoffed, leaning back against the couch. “Oh, her.” He exhaled dramatically, as if the mere mention of you was exhausting. “I didn’t say anything to her face, if that’s what you’re so worked up about. She wasn’t even there.”

Theo stared at him. “And?”

“And,” Draco said, rolling his eyes, “I simply pointed out that she’s annoying. Which, let’s be honest, she is. Loud, obnoxious, tries too hard to be funny. It’s desperate, really.”

Theo didn’t even think.

One second, Draco was talking, and the next—

CRACK.

Theo’s fist connected with Draco’s jaw before he even realized he’d moved.

Draco stumbled back, eyes blown wide in shock as his hand flew to his face. “What the fuck, Theo?!”

Mattheo straightened, suddenly much more awake, eyes darting between the two of them. “Shit.”

Theo flexed his hand, barely feeling the sting in his knuckles. His expression remained unreadable, his voice calm when he spoke.

“You run your mouth like it won’t get you hit, Malfoy.”

Draco’s shock quickly turned to anger, eyes narrowing. “All of this over her? Since when do you give a shit?”

Theo didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t know why he cared so much.

He didn’t know why seeing you cry had made something inside him snap, why hearing Draco talk about you like you were nothing had made his blood boil.

All he knew was that you had been hurt, and that didn’t sit right with him.

Draco scoffed, rubbing his jaw. “Didn’t realize you had such a soft spot for her. Is that why you’ve been fucking your way through half the school? Trying to forget that you actually like her?”

Theo went eerily still.

Mattheo muttered a low shit, but neither of them paid him any mind.

Draco smirked despite his split lip. “That’s it, isn’t it?” he mused, tilting his head. “You’re pissed because no matter how many girls you fuck, it’s still her you think about.”

Theo’s fingers twitched.

Draco chuckled. “Pathetic.”

Theo exhaled through his nose, jaw tight. Then he leaned in just slightly, voice low and sharp.

“You should shut the fuck up, Draco.”

Draco only smirked wider. “Or what? You’ll hit me again?”

Theo tilted his head. “Maybe.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, Draco huffed out a laugh, rolling his eyes. “You’re a fucking mess, Nott.” Theo didn’t disagree. But he didn’t say another word as he turned on his heel and walked out.

Weeks passed.

Weeks of nothing.

You barely saw him. And when you did, it was like you weren’t even there.

Theo went back to being exactly what he had been before that night at the party—silent, distant, unreadable. If he passed you in the halls, his gaze didn’t waver. If you laughed too loudly in class, he didn’t flinch. If someone mentioned your name, he gave no reaction.

It was like you had never even happened.

And maybe that was fine. Maybe that was for the best.

But then there were the moments where you swore—just for a second—you felt him. The weight of his stare when he thought you weren’t looking. The way his jaw tensed when someone else made you laugh. The flicker of something in his eyes when you spoke, like he wanted to say something but never would.

But those moments never lasted.

And he never said anything.

So you didn’t either.

You told yourself you didn’t care, that this was the outcome you should’ve expected. That Theodore Nott was nothing more than a fleeting mistake, a lesson learned.

So you did what you always did—you laughed, you made jokes, you filled the space with noise so you didn’t have to think about the silence he left behind.

But sometimes—when it was late, when everything was still, when there was nothing left to distract you—you wondered.

If he missed you.

If he regretted it.

If he felt it, too.

But you’d never know.

Because Theodore Nott wasn’t saying a damn thing.

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The night had gone completely to shit.

It had started with you minding your own business—okay, mostly minding your business—when you’d somehow gotten on Filch’s radar. Maybe it was the fact that you were out past curfew. Maybe it was the slight incident in the trophy room involving a charmed snitch that refused to stop dive-bombing the suits of armor.

Either way, Filch had been livid, and you had booked it.

Which was how you ended up barreling down an empty corridor, heartbeat hammering in your ears as you searched for an escape route.

Your gaze landed on a broom closet.

Perfect.

You yanked the door open and dove inside, pressing yourself against the wall just as hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway. You barely managed to catch your breath before the sound of voices approached—Filch, still muttering threats, and someone else—probably a prefect, if you had to guess.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, listening as they passed.

The moment the footsteps faded, you exhaled in relief—only to hear the very distinct sound of someone clearing their throat.

Your stomach dropped.

You weren’t alone.

Slowly—very slowly—you turned your head.

And there, standing rigidly against the opposite wall, looking deeply unamused, was Theodore Nott.

You stared. He stared back.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

Then, because your brain was completely incapable of shutting up, you blurted out, “Well. This is awkward.”

Theo exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was already regretting his life choices.

You squinted at him, now mildly distracted from your own crisis. “Wait. Why are you in here?”

Silence.

Then, after a long moment, he muttered, “Hiding.”

Your eyebrows shot up. Theodore Nott—stoic, unbothered, above-it-all Nott—was hiding?

The sheer potential for mockery was almost overwhelming.

“From what?” you asked, intrigued.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, it definitely matters,” you said, grinning. “What is it? Someone’s angry older brother? Angrier girlfriend?” Your eyes widened dramatically. “Oh my god, is it Pansy? Did you piss her off? Is she hunting you down as we speak—”

Theo gave you a flat look. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Nope.”

Silence again.

The closet wasn’t that small, but in the dim light, it felt closer somehow. More suffocating. You shifted, arms crossing as you tried to ignore the fact that you could smell him—clean, like cedar and something vaguely expensive.

You swallowed. “Well. If it makes you feel better, I’m hiding from Filch.”

He raised a brow. “Not surprising.”

You rolled your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you have a habit of attracting trouble.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Maybe I like trouble.”

His gaze flickered over you, unreadable. “Clearly.”

Something about the way he said it sent an odd little shiver down your spine.

You ignored it.

“Well,” you sighed, shifting your weight. “Looks like we’re stuck here for a bit.”

Theo didn’t respond. He just leaned against the wall, arms crossed, expression perfectly neutral—except for the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed against his sleeves like he was forcing himself to be still.

You tilted your head. “You really don’t want to be stuck here with me, huh?”

He said nothing.

And for some reason, that stung.

You swallowed, glancing away. “You know,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, “you could’ve just said you regretted it.”

At that, his entire body went rigid.

Your throat tightened, but you kept your tone casual. “Would’ve saved us both a lot of time.”

Still, nothing.

You huffed out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “Merlin. You really are a coward.”

That did it.

Theo’s jaw clenched, his eyes flashing as he finally looked at you. “What do you want me to say?”

You met his stare. “I don’t know. Maybe anything?”

His hands curled into fists. “It wouldn’t change anything.”

You exhaled sharply. “You don’t know that.”

Silence.

The tension in the air was suffocating.

Then, barely above a whisper, Theo muttered, “I don’t know how.”

Your breath caught. “How what?”

His gaze flickered away, like he hated even admitting it. “How to want something and not ruin it.”

Your chest ached.

You didn’t know what to say to that.

But before you could figure it out, the door burst open.

You and Theo barely had time to flinch before Peeves’ cackling voice rang through the corridor.

“Ohhh, what’s this?” the poltergeist cooed, floating overhead. “Little lovebirds sneaking away for a closet rendezvous?”

Your face flamed. “What—no—”

Theo groaned, already rubbing his temples.

Peeves ignored both of you. “Well, this has been fun, but I think I’ll be alerting the staff now!”

And with that, he vanished, disappearing down the corridor in a blur of laughter.

You and Theo exchanged a look. Then, at the exact same time, you both bolted.

You barely managed to duck out of the closet before Theo was already grabbing your wrist, dragging you into a sprint. Your feet pounded against the stone floor, adrenaline buzzing in your veins as Peeves’ gleeful cackling echoed behind you.

“RUN, RUN, LITTLE LOVEBIRDS!” he howled. “FILCH LOVES A SCANDAL—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Theo muttered, yanking you around a corner.

You giggled. Genuinely giggled, high on adrenaline and the sheer absurdity of the situation.

Theo shot you a look—part irritated, part incredulous. “Are you seriously laughing right now?”

You barely managed to suck in a breath, your face already aching from how hard you were grinning. “It’s—” you gasped between bursts of laughter, “—it’s the closet rendezvous—”

That almost got a smirk out of him. Almost.

You sprinted down another corridor, nearly colliding with a suit of armor in the process. Theo grabbed the back of your robes, stopping you before you could die via medieval weaponry.

“Careful, idiot,” he muttered, but there was no real bite to it.

You just grinned up at him, eyes still sparkling from laughter. “Aww, you do care.”

He rolled his eyes. “Shut up and keep running.”

The two of you rounded another corner, ducking into a hidden passage behind a tapestry. The moment you were safely out of sight, you collapsed against the stone wall, still breathless from running—and laughing.

Theo leaned against the wall beside you, head tilted back, chest rising and falling as he caught his breath.

And then—before he could stop himself—he huffed out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh.

Your eyes widened. “Was that—”

“No.”

You gasped dramatically. “Theodore Nott, did you just laugh?”

“Shut up.”

“Oh my god, you did.” You beamed at him. “It was a real one, too. Not just a condescending exhale—”

“Merlin, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are.”

He shook his head, but there was something different about his expression now. The usual sharpness, the rigid lines—softened. Like he wasn’t quite fighting it anymore.

Like maybe—just maybe—he didn’t mind being here with you.

A comfortable silence settled between you.

You let out one last breathless laugh, head falling back against the wall. “Well. That was fun.”

Theo snorted. “You have a twisted definition of fun.”

You glanced at him, eyes glimmering. “Yet you laughed.”

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t look away, either.

And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t run.

The air in the narrow passageway was thick with tension, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was charged, like the static before a storm, waiting to erupt. You and Theo stood in the dim light of the torches, your breath still coming in quick bursts from your earlier sprint. You hadn’t realized how badly you’d been holding your emotions in until this very moment.

Theo stood there, leaning against the stone wall, arms crossed, staring at you like he was waiting for something. The silence between you two stretched on longer than you wanted, but you couldn’t help it. There were too many feelings tangled up inside you, too many unspoken thoughts that you couldn’t keep burying.

“I hate this,” you muttered under your breath, more to yourself than to him.

Theo raised an eyebrow, his usual indifference flickering. “What, you hate running from Peeves?”

You looked up, meeting his gaze directly for the first time in what felt like forever. “No,” you said, shaking your head. “I hate this… whatever this is between us.”

He looked at you like you’d just thrown water in his face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you started, frustration creeping into your voice, “I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel something every time I see you. I can’t keep laughing it off, or brushing it aside like it doesn’t matter.”

Theo was quiet for a long time, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you thought he was just going to brush you off like he always did, to shut down the conversation before it could go anywhere. But this time, he didn’t.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he said softly. “You want me to admit it? That I feel the same way?”

Your heart skipped a beat. What did he mean by that?

“I don’t know what I want,” you said, almost helplessly. “I just… I’m tired of pretending it’s nothing.”

Theo pushed off the wall, stepping closer to you. The air between you two seemed to crackle with something unspoken.

“I never wanted to admit it either,” he said, his voice low and steady. “But the truth is, every time I see you, every time I hear you laugh or make one of your stupid jokes, I can’t stop thinking about how… ridiculous it is that I’m this caught up in you.”

Your breath hitched in your throat, and you swallowed hard. The words you’d been dying to hear, and yet, you still couldn’t fully believe them.

“I don’t want to be that guy,” he continued, his eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “The one who gets caught up in something that’s complicated. But when I’m around you, it’s like I can’t help myself.”

You were barely aware of the distance between you shrinking as he spoke, your heart pounding in your chest, your palms clammy.

“I didn’t want to fall for you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I have.”

You felt your pulse quicken. “Theo—”

“I’m not good at this,” he said, shaking his head as if trying to justify his words, to explain away the emotions that had been buried so long. “But I can’t stand the thought of not being able to… just be with you.”

You took a shaky step toward him. “So, you feel the same way?”

Theo’s lips curled into a small, uncertain smile. “I think it’s pretty obvious, don’t you?”

Your heart fluttered in your chest, and without thinking, you reached for him. This time, there was no hesitation—no walls between you two, no games or pretending. Just the truth, laid bare.

Theo’s hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. His lips were warm against yours, hesitant at first, like he was testing the waters, and then with more certainty as the kiss deepened.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, you couldn’t help but smile. “I hate that you make me feel like this,” you teased, voice soft and vulnerable.

Theo chuckled, his forehead resting against yours. “Yeah? Well, get used to it.”

You laughed, and for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t because you were trying to cover up your feelings. It was because, in that moment, it all felt right. You weren’t pretending anymore.

And that was the best feeling of all.

#fanfiction #harry potter #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott #slytherin boys #draco malfoy

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