elliessickhabits

[elliessickhabits]

There was still time, wasn’t there?

fem!reader x veterinarian!abby

One-shot!

CW; pet death, grief, infidelity, internalized homophobia, emotional repression, child death (mentioned), strained relationship, emotional fallout, guilt, ambiguous forgiveness, detailed f/f sex (oral, fingering, reader receiving, abby receiving, clit, pussy, orgasm), straight sex (sorry 😔)

Summary; After years of friendship and quiet companionship, a nurse caring for her aging dog begins to see Abby, the tough, muscular city vet, in a new light. As grief, secrets, and unexpected feelings rise, their lives intertwine in ways neither expected, forcing them to confront love, loss, and the truths they’ve kept hidden.

Notes; I took ages writing this >.< I had like 30 different ideas and wasn’t really sure how I wanted to put it all together. I hope in the end it still came out as a beautiful story, even if it’s a little messy! Also i wrote straight smut, please don’t threaten me if it’s bad. I only write lesbian sex so…

Word count; around 10.8k

Taglist; @gogolsbf

You’d known Abby Anderson for a while now.

Long enough that the details of how it all started had begun to blur at the edges, but one thing always stood out: her dad. He was your boss at the hospital. The kind of man who walked with a clipboard like it was a weapon, whose eyes could pin down a surgical team with a glance. He was respected. Intimidating. Clinical. But he’d always treated you with something softer, pride, even. He’d been the one who’d taken a chance on you during your internship, talked you through late-night charts with a quiet patience, told you when you screwed up and didn’t sugarcoat it, but never made you feel small. And when you actually got hired at the hospital, not just as a rotating intern but full-fledged staff, he’d thrown a little thing in the break room. Balloons from the gift shop and a cookie cake someone clearly picked up last minute with your name written in shaky icing. You’d never expected it. But he did. And that’s when Abby showed up.

You’d heard her name in passing before. “My daughter this,” “Abby used to love the ER,” but you hadn’t met her. Not until that stupid little celebration, when she walked in late, holding a black motorcycle helmet under one arm and wearing a weathered hoodie that clung to shoulders so wide you’d thought she might rip the seams just by moving.

You remember that first moment like a jolt. She’d looked straight through the crowd of scrub-green and sterile white like none of it mattered, and your gut reaction had been stupidly, wildly incorrect.

Soldier. Maybe ex-special forces. Possibly firefighter, the kind who runs into burning buildings with an axe and doesn’t come out until she’s carrying someone on her back. There was something in the way she carried herself, coiled strength under casual movements, that kind of confidence that people didn’t just learn. You remember someone asking her what she did. Maybe you. Maybe you were dumb enough to say it out loud. And she just said, so casual you thought she was joking: “I’m a vet.”

You blinked. “As in…?”

“As in animals. Emergency stuff, mostly.” She’d shrugged. “Cats, dogs, whatever rolls in bleeding.”

You hadn’t believed her. Not at first. Maybe not for days after. A woman like that, built like a tank, all cut biceps with forearms that tensed like she was used to carrying something heavier than a Labrador. You just didn’t match that with a stethoscope pressed to a trembling rabbit’s chest. It didn’t fit. You kept waiting for the joke to land. Waiting for her to say, nah, just messing with you. I actually do bomb disposal in my free time.

But it never came. And then you saw her work.

It was a weekend night. You’d stayed late, charting, maybe, or maybe you just didn’t feel like going home. There was a shared corridor between your wing and the emergency vet across the lot, and one of the janitors had left the security door propped open. You remember drifting over, half out of boredom, your hands still red-creased from gloves, and then you saw her.

The city vet hospital wasn’t like your hospital. It was smaller. Harsher in some ways. No fancy white tile, no gleaming floors, just bleached linoleum and battered IV poles. There was blood on the table, fresh, not cleaned yet, and an open carrier on the ground that reeked of wet fur and fear. And there she was, Abby, hunched over a sedated dog whose side looked like it had been torn open by a car.

She moved like she’d done it a hundred times. Gloves already on, arms steady, her big hands handling that fragile, broken body with so much gentleness you felt something click wrong in your chest. Her voice was low, talking to the tech beside her, but you could hear the calm in it. No panic. No hesitation. Just focus. Just care. She was a fucking softie, you realized, even then. A beast of a woman with eyes that went impossibly tender the second she looked down at something helpless.

You don’t even think she saw you, not that night. But you stood there longer than you should’ve, staring like an idiot. Watching the contradiction of her. The muscle and the mercy. The calm, brutal efficiency of someone who knew how to handle crisis like it was just another Tuesday, and yet cared, so deeply, it bled through her fingertips.

That was Abby Anderson.

And after that, you couldn’t stop seeing her. Since that night, Abby’s become a regular in your life. Not in the way that people gradually settle in, slow and unnoticed, but in the way storms roll in and suddenly change the shape of everything around them. One day you were just curious about the woman with arms like granite and a voice too soft for someone built like a battering ram. The next, you were texting her about your dog Bruce.

Old man Bruce. A German Shepherd who used to bark the house down at the sound of a door hinge and now barely lifts his head for the mailman. You’ve had him since college, before rent was stable, before your job meant something, before you really knew who you were. Back then he was a bolt of energy wrapped in fur, tearing through the world like it owed him something. Now, he’s slower. His hips drag on bad days. He sleeps too hard, and sometimes you catch yourself holding your breath just to hear his next one.

It was Abby’s dad who first suggested you bring him in. “She won’t charge you full price,” he’d said with a rare smirk. “She likes you. And she owes me.”

You didn’t argue.

That first check-up had been a week after you saw her with that car-hit retriever. You remember walking into the emergency vet and feeling oddly self-conscious, like this was her space and you didn’t quite belong in it. You held Bruce’s leash a little too tightly, like he might bolt, even though his joints wouldn’t let him.

Abby had come out from the back with her hair tied up, a smear of something dark along her forearm, and you’d almost said never mind right there. She looked like she’d just wrestled a bear, and you were bringing her… a creaky old dog for a routine exam?

But then she crouched low in front of Bruce, her big hand resting against the top of his head like she’d known him for years.

“Well, hey there, big guy,” she murmured, rubbing behind his ears. “You look like you’ve seen some shit.”

Bruce had leaned into her. Just like that. Like he remembered her from another life.

That was the first visit. Since then, you’ve come in every week. Technically, dogs Bruce’s age don’t need check-ups that often, especially not when the prognosis doesn’t change, but you’ve never heard Abby complain. Not once. She never rolls her eyes when she sees your name on the schedule. She just greets you with that crooked grin and sometimes says something dumb like, guess Bruce is gonna outlive us all, huh? And you pretend not to smile too much when she says it.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Today’s one of those days. The kind where everything’s a little too hot, the air thick with city humidity, and Bruce pants harder than usual by the time you walk through the doors of the emergency clinic. The place is quieter than usual. No urgent howling from the back, no techs rushing with stretchers or soaked towels. You knock twice on the open front desk window and give Bruce’s leash a gentle tug.

Abby appears within seconds, rubbing the back of her neck with one gloved hand, sweat darkening the collar of her navy scrubs. Her sleeves are rolled, as always, showing the ridged muscle of her forearms. Her eyes light up as soon as she sees Bruce.

“There’s my guy,” she says, ignoring you entirely to crouch beside him. “How we doing today, big man?”

Bruce’s tail thumps once on the linoleum floor.

You smirk. “I’m good, thanks for asking.”

Abby glances up at you, feigning surprise “Oh, hey. Didn’t see you there. Thought Bruce made the appointment on his own.”

You roll your eyes and follow her back into the exam room, Bruce waddling slowly between you. The place smells like antiseptic and dog treats, and the fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. Abby moves around the space like she built it herself. Effortless and grounded. You sit on the little plastic chair in the corner while she hoists Bruce onto the padded table, murmuring encouragement the whole time.

It still stuns you sometimes, the way those heavy hands of hers can move with such care. She checks his joints, his gums, feels along his spine with practiced pressure. And all the while she talks to Bruce, low and easy, like this isn’t clinical at all. Like it’s just catching up with an old friend.

“You know,” she says after a minute, “technically, I’m not supposed to let people come in for weekly check-ups unless there’s a change in condition.”

You shift, suddenly aware of how many times you’ve asked for appointments you probably didn’t need. “I can�� back off, if it’s too much.”

Abby doesn’t even look up. “Did I say that?”

“No, but—”

“I said technically,” she cuts in, smoothing a hand down Bruce’s side. “I’m making you an exception. That’s different.”

You watch her for a second, caught on the casual way she says it. Like of course you’re different. Of course she’s bending the rules for you.

And maybe it shouldn’t mean as much as it does, but it settles deep in your chest anyway. Something about being seen, being trusted, with this small, quiet corner of her world.

Bruce grumbles softly as she checks his hind legs, and Abby hushes him under her breath, fingers gentle where the pain blooms worst in his hips.

“Still managing the stairs okay?” she asks, without looking up.

“Mostly. I carry him when it’s bad.”

Abby snorts. “Jesus. That’s gotta be half your body weight.”

You shrug. “He’d do it for me.”

She smiles at that. Real and quiet and so damn soft you have to look away.

The exam ends like it always does: a handful of treats, a note in the chart, her hand on Bruce’s back like she doesn’t really want to let go yet.

You linger in the room a little too long, waiting for something you can’t name.

“Same time next week?” she asks finally, rubbing her palm on a towel.

You nod. “If you’ll have us.”

“I always do,” she says. Then adds, “You’re one of the good ones.”

And somehow, even after all this time, it still knocks the wind out of you a little.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You’ve never really seen Abby in a romantic way.

Why would you?

She’s your friend. Your vet. Your boss’s daughter. A massive, muscled, slightly intimidating presence in your life who swears too much and wears the same hoodie every other day and has a habit of showing up in your thoughts when you least expect it. But that doesn’t mean anything. Not like that.

Besides, you have a boyfriend. A good one. On paper, anyway. You met him back in school, sometime between exams and long hospital nights, when everything felt like it was moving too fast and you needed someone steady to lean on. He was smart. Calm. Handsome in that slightly boring, clean-cut way that surgeons often are. He wanted the same things you did, stability, a future and a life that made sense. You moved in together a little after you both got placed in the city. It made sense. It always made sense.

And yet, somehow, it’s been months since you’ve seen each other for more than a few minutes at a time.

Opposite shifts. Always. It’s like your schedules repel one another. He comes home late after trauma cases, and you leave early for rounds. Sometimes you pass each other in the hallway like strangers in a hotel, barely touching, brushing shoulders, murmuring something about dinner in the fridge or “don’t forget to walk Bruce.”

You tell yourself that’s normal. That couples go through phases. That you’re both busy, and this is just what it’s like for people in medicine.

But sometimes, on nights when it’s quiet, when Bruce is snoring on the couch and the apartment feels just a little too big, you catch yourself thinking something you shouldn’t.

Thank God he’s not home.

It creeps in before you can stop it. That slight relief. That tiny exhale when the keys don’t turn in the lock. You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to explain the tired written into your bones. You don’t have to smile just because he wants to talk about weekend plans when your brain still feels like it’s back in the ICU.

You don’t have to deal with a man right now.

And that thought, that one, you shake off immediately. Like it’s something rotten crawling up the back of your spine. You remind yourself that you’re just tired. Everyone gets like this. This is what relationships look like under pressure. This is adulthood. This is normal.

Isn’t it?

You tell yourself that until it starts to sound true. But lately… lately you’ve been catching yourself in the middle of the lie.

You’ll be at Abby’s clinic, leaning against the wall while she murmurs something to Bruce, her sleeve pushed up, her hands gentle on his stiff joints. And suddenly, your brain will go quiet in this strange, weightless way. You’ll be looking at her without realizing it, really looking. At the way her mouth moves around her words. At the flex of muscle under her scrubs when she moves. At the way her laugh is low and a little rough around the edges when she says something sarcastic.

And you’ll blink, snap yourself out of it, and think, What the hell was that?

It never sticks. You brush it off like static.

She’s your friend. She’s Abby. You don’t think of her like that.

But sometimes, when the apartment is too quiet and your boyfriend’s shoes stay by the door for days, you wonder if maybe that’s not entirely true.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The soft hum of the clinic’s fluorescent lights mixed with the faint scent of antiseptic and damp fur as you stepped inside, still clad in your nurse scrubs, Bruce trudging slowly beside you. His pace was slower today, and you could feel the subtle stiffness in his gait, more pronounced than last week, more than you wanted to admit. Every step reminded you of his age, and of how much longer he might have left.

Abby was already there when you arrived. She stood behind the front desk, arms crossed loosely, hair pulled back in her usual messy bun, scrubs rolled to the elbows. Her eyes lifted when she spotted you and Bruce, and for a moment, her entire face lit up with that unmistakable, easy grin. “Well, look who’s here,” she said, voice warm but teasing. “Bruce the old man still kicking?”

You smiled despite yourself. “Somehow,” you said, sliding your bag off your shoulder. “Though I swear he’s getting slower every week.”

She shook her head, the kind of smile that held both amusement and sympathy. “Yeah, these old dogs... stubborn as hell.”

She beckoned you into the exam room, and you followed, letting Bruce ease onto the cold metal table. Abby’s hands were gentle but confident as she examined his hips, running her fingers carefully along the joints, testing for pain or stiffness. You watched her, her focus, the quiet intensity she carried even in moments like this, and the easy banter you usually shared felt strangely distant.

You found yourself telling her about your night shift, the story coming out in clipped sentences. About the kid who’d come into the ER just hours before, about how hard the team had fought, about how, in the end, there was nothing to do. Your voice was steady, clinical almost, but you felt the weight behind the words settle between you. Abby didn’t say anything. She just kept looking at you, her eyes soft but fixed, almost like she was trying to understand something you hadn’t said aloud.

The silence stretched on, filling the room with a quiet tension. You swallowed, shifting your weight. To break it, you tried for something light. “So, hey. Have you found someone yet?” you asked, the words feeling a bit awkward as they left your mouth.

Abby blinked, then shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Sort of. I’m eyeing someone, but I’m not ready to say who.”

You laughed, a little breathless. “Oh, come on. Don’t be shy. It’s probably one of the vets you’re working with, right? Who’s the lucky guy?”

Her smirk deepened, eyes narrowing with playful secrecy. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.”

The exam room was quiet as Abby finished her gentle examination of Bruce. She flexed his hips once more, her brow furrowed slightly. “He’s holding up, but I’m worried about the arthritis settling deeper. It’s going to get tougher.”

You nodded, stroking Bruce’s graying fur. “Yeah… I feel it too. He’s been slower on walks, and some mornings he almost can’t get up.”

Abby’s gaze softened. “He’s a good dog. You’re a good owner.”

That was Abby’s way, she didn’t say much more, but her tone always carried that hint of respect that made you feel like you weren’t just a number, just someone who brought an animal in for a routine check.

You leaned against the counter, shifting your weight, Bruce settling beside your legs. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The quiet was filled with the faint sounds of the clinic. The muffled barks from other rooms, the distant ring of a phone and the soft hum of the air conditioning.

Then, Abby looked up, a mischievous glint sparking in her eyes.

“You know,” she said casually, “You don’t have to keep coming here, paying for checkups every week.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

She smiled, folding her arms over her chest. “After my shift today, bring Bruce by my place. Let me check him over there. No charge, no fuss. You’re a regular. You’re a friend.” Her voice softened at the end, almost shy.

You hesitated, the offer feeling both generous and strange. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

Abby waved it off. “Don’t be ridiculous. My dad’s always asking about you, and he’d love it if you came over once a week for dinner, too. It’s a win-win.”

You blinked. “Dinner?”

“Yeah,” she said, grinning. “My dad’s a fantastic cook, and he’s been bugging me to invite you over. Think about it. You, me, Bruce, and my dad. Family-style checkups.”

You laughed, the idea suddenly appealing. “Honestly… I’m usually the one stuck cooking when my boyfriend’s working late. A night off wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

Abby’s smirk widened. “Thought you might like that.”

You shrugged. “Okay, yeah. Let’s do it.”

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of routine. You clocked out from your shift, still wrapped in the sterile scent of the hospital. There was something comforting about the idea of leaving the clinic behind for a few hours, stepping into a quieter space where you didn’t have to juggle masks and professionalism all day.

When you called your boyfriend later that afternoon to tell him, he was casual.. “Sounds cool. Abby’s a good friend. No worries.”

You smiled, feeling a slight relief. He had always been easy about your friendship with Abby, but sometimes you wondered if he secretly felt uneasy about how close you two were. Maybe it was nothing.

Still, as you hung up, a small knot tightened in your stomach, an unexplainable flutter of anticipation you couldn’t quite place.

Because really, he should’ve worried.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The sun was dipping low behind the city skyline when you pulled up in front of Abby’s modest house. Bruce’s tail thumped against the passenger door as you reached for the leash, his old legs moving slower but steady. You couldn’t help but smile. He looked almost youthful when he caught sight of the porch light flickering on.

Inside, the warmth hit you immediately. The faint smell of herbs, fresh bread, and something sizzling on the stove wrapped around the cozy living room where Jerry, Abby’s dad, sat reading the paper. He looked up and grinned broadly when he saw you.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite daughter’s favorite friend!” Jerry joked, setting his paper aside. “Come in, come in.”

Abby appeared from the kitchen, a little less beastly in the home’s soft light, hair loose and eyes bright. “Hey! Glad you made it.” She ruffled Bruce’s ears, who responded with a contented groan.

Bruce’s usual stiffness seemed to melt away the moment he was surrounded by Abby and Jerry’s gentle attention. Abby settled him carefully on the plush rug, running her hands softly over his hips and back as Jerry brought out a plate of sliced roast chicken. You watched quietly, heart swelling at how spoiled he looked, like a king in his twilight years.

Abby’s hands moved expertly, checking Bruce’s joints with care, asking you about his behavior, appetite, the usual. The room was filled with a warm, easy calm that you hadn’t realized you craved so much.

Dinner was equally relaxed. Jerry’s home-cooked meal was simple but perfect. Roast chicken, fresh veggies and buttery potatoes. Abby sat across from you, her usual teasing banter softened into gentle smiles. You found yourself relaxing more than you had in weeks.

But as the evening stretched on and the dishes cleared, a quiet voice whispered in your mind: your boyfriend was waiting at home, finally free for the night after what felt like forever. You should leave. You should go home.

Yet, sitting there with Abby, warm, familiar, and so unexpectedly comforting, you felt something else rising inside you. A strange, restless pull that made your fingers twitch.

You cursed yourself silently. Why are you even thinking like this? You stood, murmuring your thanks and goodbyes, promising to come by again soon. Abby smiled, but you caught that subtle look again, like she knew something you didn’t.

Back in your car, the city lights blurred past, but your mind was elsewhere. You tried to shake the feeling, telling yourself you’d been alone too long, stressed too much. When you finally pulled up at your apartment, the door hadn’t even fully clicked shut before you were pulling your boyfriend into a fierce, desperate kiss. Your hands ripped at his shirt, exposing his broad chest and the hard muscles underneath. You pressed your body flush against his, feeling his thick cock harden against your hip.

You slipped your hands under his belt, fingers fumbling as you freed his cock, swollen and desperate. His breath hitched as you palmed him slowly, teasing the length with slick fingers. Your own pussy throbbed, aching to feel him inside.

He groaned low, his hands roaming your back, pushing your shirt up to bare your skin. You shivered as his fingers traced the sensitive curve of your waist, dipping lower to slide beneath your panties, fingers teasing your wet folds. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he murmured against your throat.

You spread your legs wider, pressing your pussy right against his cock, grinding slowly to feel the thick heat. “Please,” you gasped, needing more.

He captured your mouth in a fierce kiss, then lined himself up and pushed inside you, filling you completely. The stretch was delicious, every inch driving you wild as you clung to his shoulders.

You moved together, hard and fast, his dick pounding into your pussy with desperate rhythm. Your nails dug into his back as waves of pleasure crashed through you. “Fuck, yes,” you moaned, hips bucking against his.

He whispered your name like a prayer, burying his face in your neck, lost in the heat and sweat and need. You could feel yourself unraveling, every thrust pushing you closer to the edge.

With one last, deep stroke, you came undone, pussy clenching tight around his cock as your body shuddered. He followed, groaning deep as he spilled inside you, holding you close as you both rode out the intense aftermath.

Breathless, you rested your forehead against his, the city lights flickering softly through the window as your hearts slowed back to a steady beat. Get your head out of the fucking gutter, you told yourself, but the flicker of something more, something unspoken, still lingered in the back of your mind as you moved closer to him.

The sex had gone on for at least two months after that first night. Always urgent. Always rough. Always on the edge of something you couldn’t name. It became your way of staying grounded, of reminding yourself who you were with and why. When things started to drift, when your thoughts wandered toward a certain tall, muscled vet with those too-soft hands and that unreadable stare, you threw yourself harder into your fiancé. You kissed him like you were trying to brand him into your mouth, let him fuck you fast on the couch or pressed against the bathroom mirror, hoping maybe you'd feel normal again if you came hard enough.

And when he proposed, you said yes.

You didn’t even hesitate.

The ring was tasteful. He said your name like it was the answer to a question he’d never dared ask. And for a moment, as he slid the diamond onto your shaking hand, you really thought you could make it work.

But sometimes, late at night, when he was asleep beside you and Bruce was wheezing softly on the rug, you found yourself staring at the ceiling, asking the same quiet question over and over:

Why did I say yes?

You never had an answer that didn’t feel like a lie.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

And then Bruce started getting worse again.

It wasn’t sudden. Just… slow. Subtle. He took longer to stand. His appetite dipped. The old light in his eyes dimmed at the edges. You noticed every little shift like they were earthquakes. You started carrying him up stairs again, even though it hurt your back. You stopped going out after shifts. You laid on the floor beside him some nights, just to listen to him breathe.

You brought him to Abby’s almost every other day now. She never complained. Never charged. She just looked at you with that familiar quiet and said things like he’s still fighting or you’ll know when he’s ready. And her hands were always gentle. Always respectful. She never talked about euthanasia unless you brought it up first.

Your fiancé, on the other hand, had a different opinion.

He said it casually at first. One evening while reheating leftovers. “We’re spending a lot on Bruce, you know. More than makes sense.”

You froze in the kitchen, your hand still on the drawer. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, not even looking at you. “I just think he’s old. He’s in pain. And honestly, it’s not worth the money anymore. Not when we could let him go peacefully.”

Not worth the money.

The words echoed in your skull like a punch. You turned to him slowly, heart pounding in your chest. “What the fuck did you just say?”

He blinked, confused at your tone. “I’m just being realistic. You know I love him, but he’s not going to get better. We’ve done enough.”

You stepped forward without meaning to. Something white-hot surged under your skin. Your hand actually twitched at your side, like it wanted to rise, like it wanted to crack across his face. You didn’t. Barely.

Instead, you swallowed hard and said through clenched teeth, “He’s not a fucking car part, he’s my dog. My best friend. You don’t get to decide when he’s ‘not worth it.’”

He raised his hands, palms out. “Jesus, okay. I’m not trying to start something. I’m just saying, don’t let emotions cloud your judgment. This isn’t sustainable.”

You stared at him.

This man. This man who held you at night, who kissed your neck and fucked you against kitchen counters. This man who’d put a ring on your finger. This man who’d just weighed your oldest friend against a dollar sign and come up short.

You said nothing.

Not for a long, long moment.

And later, when he tried to kiss you before bed, you let him. But you didn’t kiss back. You just stood there, skin buzzing, something in you turning over in the dark.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You’d felt the weird knob a week ago. Maybe longer. A swollen spot behind Bruce’s ribcage, buried deep under the fur and muscle that had thinned over the years. You told yourself it was just a knot, just old age. Dogs got bumps, right? That’s what the vet blogs said. That’s what the hopeful part of your brain whispered while the anxious part screamed under it. You waited. Told yourself to just breathe. To not overreact. Told yourself you were tired. Busy. Distracted. That you’d look into it soon. And then you were too late.

When you finally brought him in, even Abby had gone quiet. She didn’t say anything at first, just ran her fingers over the lump, her brows pinched together in that way you knew too well. And when she did speak, her voice was softer than usual, like the words themselves hurt to say. Surgery. Fast-growing. No time to waste.

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you drove home with Bruce curled up in the passenger seat, his breathing shallow, the light in his eyes a little dimmer than it had been yesterday.

Your fiancé was on the couch when you walked in, scrolling through his phone with one leg propped over the other like he had all the time in the world. You said his name. Just once. He looked up, blinked like he hadn’t realized you were even out. “How’d it go?”

You opened your mouth, told him about the mass, about the scans, about the surgery Abby scheduled for tomorrow morning. You said the words like they belonged to someone else. Like maybe they were fiction. He stared at you for a second, then scoffed. “You’re seriously doing surgery on him?”

Your hands clenched. “Yes.”

“Why?” he said, tossing his phone onto the coffee table like it personally offended him. “He’s ancient. He can barely walk. You’re going to put him through all that? What, for a few extra weeks? Months? He’s already done. Don’t be stupid. Just put him down.”

You blinked at him.

Put. Him. Down.

The room blurred, your vision narrowing to a tunnel. You couldn’t feel your hands anymore. “What did you just say to me?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not trying to be cruel. I’m being realistic. This isn’t worth it. You’re going to spend thousands—”

You were already moving. Grabbing your bag. Leashing Bruce with trembling fingers. He made a soft sound of protest when you tugged, but he got up, slowly, faithfully.

“You’re not fucking human,” you whispered. He said something else, but you didn’t hear it. The door slammed so hard behind you that the sound echoed through your spine.

You didn’t even think. You drove. Straight to Abby’s. You were still shaking when you knocked, and the moment she opened the door and saw your face, she stepped aside without asking a single question.

Bruce limped in first. Abby knelt immediately, fingers brushing his fur, her gaze sharp as ever but laced with something gentler. She didn’t say what happened. She just let you talk.

You told her about everything. About your guilt. About how you’d waited too long. About how you should’ve done more.

You told her about the proposal, about the yes that had felt like a reflex. About the way he’d talked about Bruce like he was trash waiting for the curb. You didn’t sugarcoat it. You didn’t soften the edges. You said it all, and she let you.

Abby didn’t interrupt. Didn’t give her opinion. She just listened, still crouched beside Bruce, one hand on his back while her other rested on her knee, her thumb tapping a soft, slow rhythm against her jeans. When you were done, when your voice cracked into silence, she looked up at you. Not with pity, not with judgment. Just that quiet understanding that lived in her eyes like a second language.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice low. “But we’re gonna try.” She scratched gently behind Bruce’s ear. “He’s not done yet. Not if he’s still looking at me like that.”

You nodded. Your throat hurt.

Abby helped you settle Bruce in the guest room, laid out a big folded quilt for him to sleep on, brought him water and a soft chew toy she’d saved from the clinic’s extras.

You stepped out to call your boss. Your hands were still shaking as you explained what was going on, bracing for the denial. Instead, you were met with a clipped, professional sigh. “Take the day. I’ll mark it down. Jerry already called.”

Your breath caught. “He did?”

“Didn’t ask. Just said you needed it.”

You hung up slowly, staring down at your phone. Abby’s dad. Of course.

You wandered back into the guest room and found Abby sitting on the floor next to Bruce, her long legs crossed, one hand absently stroking his back as he dozed, his breathing shallow but steady. She looked up at you, that same unreadable expression on her face.

You wanted to say something. Thank her, maybe. Apologize for the late hour. For the storm you’d dragged in with you.

But all that came out was a hoarse, “Can I stay here tonight?”

Abby nodded once. “Of course.”

No hesitation. No conditions.

You sat down beside her, shoulder to shoulder. The room was dim and quiet, and Bruce let out a soft huff as he stretched his back leg in sleep. Abby didn’t say anything else. Neither did you. You just sat there, your thigh brushing hers, her body warm next to yours, the weight of the day crashing over you like a wave you didn’t have the strength to fight anymore.

Tomorrow would come. And it might break you. But tonight, you weren’t alone.

You barely slept that night. Curled up on the bed in Abby’s guest room, fully clothed, your shoes still on. Bruce slept a few feet away from you, and you could hear his breathing from where you were. Slow, uneven, but steady. You kept your eyes on the ceiling and your hand near him the whole night, fingers occasionally brushing his fur just to make sure. Just to feel him.

You didn’t eat breakfast. Couldn’t. Abby handed you a mug of coffee as she got dressed in her usual black scrubs, and you sipped it in silence while Bruce was carefully loaded into the backseat of her truck. She offered to let you sit up front, but you chose the back, squeezing in beside your dog like a child refusing to leave their parent’s hospital bed. You whispered to him during the drive. Told him he was brave. That he was going to be okay. That you’d see him in a few hours. That Abby was going to take care of him.

The moment the doors to the clinic opened, you already hated the smell. That sharp sting of disinfectant and dog dander and sterile fear. You sat in the waiting room for the first hour, your eyes fixed on a spot in the linoleum. The second hour passed slower. Then the third. No news. Abby was back and forth, suited up, focused, a mask over her face, her expression unreadable behind the glass windows of the surgical room. You watched the clock tick with the weight of a thousand regrets on your chest.

It happened in the fourth hour.

You saw her coming down the hallway before she reached you, and your heart already knew. You could read it on her face, no matter how steady she tried to keep it. That flicker in her eyes, the slow pace of her steps. The blood already drained from your hands.

You stood up before she even said it.

“No.”

Abby stopped in front of you, pulled her gloves off, didn’t try to speak yet.

“No,” you said again, shaking your head like maybe that would change the air in the room. “No, no, no—”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, and that was it. That was the moment you collapsed.

You didn’t fall, not completely. Your knees buckled and Abby caught you with one arm around your shoulders and the other steady at your waist. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. The sounds you made weren’t words, just sharp, broken noises that scraped your throat raw as they came out. Abby led you through the back hallway, past the operating room and past the breakroom, into a quiet storage space that smelled like paper and rubbing alcohol.

And there he was.

Bruce.

Wrapped in the same soft blue blanket you’d brought from home. His eyes were closed. His paws curled inward. He looked like he was sleeping. But he wasn’t.

You dropped to your knees beside the table and pressed your face to his fur and screamed.

You didn’t know how long you stayed there. Minutes. Maybe an hour. Abby sat down behind you eventually, her back against the wall, her knees drawn up and her hands braced loosely between them. She didn’t try to talk. She let you grieve, let it all come up and pour out. You weren’t quiet about it. You didn’t hold back. You sobbed so hard your ribs hurt. You cried until your chest stopped working properly and you had to breathe in gasping hiccups like a child.

“I should’ve brought him in earlier.” You didn’t recognize your own voice. “He had a lump for days, Abby. I felt it. I knew something was wrong. And I waited. Because I was tired. Because he said it was fine. Because I trusted him—”

Abby looked at you. “This isn’t your fault.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.” Her voice was low. Steady. “You were scared. You were trying to believe it wasn’t serious. You were doing what anyone would’ve done.”

You turned your face toward Bruce again, unable to meet her eyes. “He said he wasn’t worth the money.”

She said nothing.

“I almost hit him,” you whispered. “I almost—”

“You should’ve,” she said, too calmly.

A weak laugh stuttered out of you, half-sob, half-exhale. “He wanted me to put him down. Like he was trash. Like he wasn’t—“ Your voice cracked again, and you buried your head in your hands. “I don’t want to go home. I can’t go home.”

Abby didn’t ask what you meant.

She just stood and offered you a hand. “Then come with me.”

You let her pull you up, and it felt like your legs didn’t belong to you anymore. She brought you into her office while the clinic closed down, letting you sit in her chair while she cleaned up in silence. When the last light was off and the doors locked behind you, she didn’t say anything about where you were going. Just opened the truck door and helped you in.

Back at her house, it was quiet. Her dad was out. You could smell the faint remnants of whatever he’d cooked earlier in the kitchen, garlic and onions and something warm, but your stomach didn’t flinch. You didn’t want food. You didn’t want anything except for Bruce, and he was gone.

Abby set a glass of water down in front of you and sat on the couch across from where you stood, arms folded loosely over her knees. She watched you. Not in a way that made you feel exposed, but in a way that made you feel seen. Like she could hear all the things you weren’t saying.

“I can’t believe he’s dead,” you whispered.

“I know.”

You rubbed your face, fingers trembling. “I feel like someone ripped my chest open.”

Abby nodded slowly. “Yeah. It’s the worst kind of pain.”

You let out a long breath, leaning against the counter with your whole weight. “He was with me through everything. Every fucking day I came home from the hospital wanting to scream or fall apart or quit, he was just… there. Like clockwork. Like he never doubted me. Not once.”

“I know,” she said again.

You looked at her for a long time. At her arms, still faintly smudged with antiseptic from surgery. Her jaw. Her eyes. Her shoulders. So strong. So calm. And yet her hands had been the last to hold Bruce. She had carried him out of anesthesia. She had tried.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “I know you did everything.”

She didn’t nod. She didn’t need to. She just looked at you, something unreadable tightening in her face. “You can stay here,” she said. “As long as you need.”

You nodded.

It didn’t fix anything. Bruce was still gone. And somewhere, your fiancé was probably checking his watch, wondering why you hadn’t texted. But in that moment, none of it mattered. Not the guilt. Not the ring. Not the house you couldn’t stomach walking into.

You weren’t ready to go home.

And Abby, without asking anything of you, was giving you something that felt like home, in the hollow, blood-raw way you needed it most.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You buried Bruce just after sunset, in the far back corner of Abby’s yard near the edge of the tree line. There wasn’t a plan, not really, just quiet movement and the kind of silence that didn’t ask questions. Abby had found a shovel without a word, and you’d followed her outside, Bruce still swaddled in that same blanket, the one he always nosed into when he was too tired to move. You could barely look at him as you carried him together. Abby’s hands firm but gentle under his weight, yours trembling like a small storm lived in your bones.

The earth was stubborn, summer-hardened, but neither of you complained. She dug most of it herself. You tried to help, your palms blistering fast, fingers raw, but it didn’t matter. You needed the ache. Needed something to hurt more than your chest did. Sweat streaked Abby’s neck, glinting in the fading light, hair tied back but messy, strands clinging to her jaw. Her tank top was soaked through the back. You didn’t say anything, but you watched her the whole time, like maybe if you focused on her arms lifting and lowering, if you tracked every breath, every step, you wouldn’t fall apart again.

You cried when you placed Bruce in the ground. Not loud. Just the kind of crying that hollowed out your ribs and made it hard to stand. Abby crouched next to you, her big hand pressed to your back, thumb rubbing slow, grounding circles between your shoulders. She didn’t rush you. Didn’t fill the silence. When the dirt started going back over him, you almost broke again, but she was still there, solid and unshakable.

Later, when it was done and the sun was nothing but a low pink smear behind the trees, you both sat on the porch in silence, your hands filthy, forearms streaked with dirt, sweat drying on your skin. It should’ve felt unbearable. It didn’t.

Eventually she made soup. Opened a can of something from the pantry and didn’t even try to pretend it was homemade, just dumped it in a pot and stood over the stove while you sat at the kitchen counter with your head in your hands, elbows on the wood. She handed you a bowl without a word and sat beside you. The soup was too hot, too salty, but you ate it anyway.

Later, the two of you migrated to the couch with an old blanket, a rerun playing low on the TV, some ridiculous sitcom you’d both seen a hundred times. You didn’t remember leaning into her. Didn’t remember when your thigh pressed against hers, or when her arm moved behind you. You were just there, against her side, your body soaking in the heat from hers like it meant something. You laughed once, at a joke you didn’t even really hear, and she looked down at you like she’d never heard anything more important in her life.

You met her eyes. Felt that look, that quiet, open look, burrow its way through your chest like it belonged there.

Something broke. Something clicked. Maybe it had been cracking for years.

Abby leaned in first. Her hand came to your cheek, rough from calluses, warm, steady. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t think. You just let her kiss you.

It was soft at first. Slow. Like she was testing the weight of it, waiting for you to pull away. You didn’t. You couldn’t. The heat that flared behind your ribs wasn’t new, just unspoken. You kissed her back, cautiously at first, then with more force, more ache, like you were trying to fill a space inside you that had been hollow for years.

The blanket slipped from your shoulders. Your hands moved without thought, one gripping her arm, the other tangled in her hair. Abby shifted, her thigh slotting between yours, her mouth opening against yours, tongue brushing yours in a way that made your breath hitch. Her kiss deepened, turned urgent, desperate, like she’d been holding this in for too long.

You gasped into her mouth when her hand cupped your waist, fingers digging into your shirt like she needed to anchor herself there. Her body pressed into yours, firm and steady, the heat of her wrapping around you like a second skin. You weren’t thinking about your fiancé. You weren’t thinking about grief, or guilt, or the fact that you were on her couch and Jerry could walk in at any second. All you were thinking about was her. The way she kissed you like you mattered. Like you weren’t broken. Like you were something she’d wanted all along.

Your hands slid under her shirt, fingertips brushing hard muscle and soft skin. She exhaled shakily against your mouth. You didn’t say anything. Neither did she. Words would’ve ruined it. This wasn’t about explaining. This was about feeling something again. Alive, raw, wanted.

At some point she pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against yours. Her breath was shallow. Her eyes searched yours. You could feel her heart pounding through the thin fabric between you.

“You sure?” she asked quietly.

You nodded. “Yeah. I’ve never been more sure.”

And then she kissed you again, longer this time, deeper. Her mouth on yours turned hungry, urgent, all that quiet restraint crumbling under the weight of need. Abby’s hands slid down your back, rough palms dragging over your spine, calluses catching on your shirt as she clutched at you like she couldn’t bear the distance. You pressed closer, hips tilting into hers, your thigh slotting over her lap as the blanket fell forgotten to the floor. The couch creaked under you both, soft fabric shifting as your bodies found their rhythm. Her hands gripped your waist, firm fingers curling under the hem of your shirt, and you arched when she pushed it up, baring your stomach to the warm air between you. She looked down for just a second, breathing heavy, eyes dark with something reverent, like she couldn’t believe this was real.

You tugged her shirt over her head in one smooth motion. It caught briefly on her jaw, mussing her hair. Her chest was bare beneath it, broad, solid, muscles sculpted from years of hard work. You didn’t hesitate. Your hands moved on instinct, palms sliding over the heat of her skin, fingers brushing the undersides of her breasts, thumbs grazing over nipples that hardened at your touch. Abby exhaled sharply, her hand flying to your waist again, yanking you closer so you straddled her fully now, knees bracketing her hips.

Your lips found the curve of her neck, kissing down toward her collarbone, and she tipped her head back, letting you. Her skin was salty, warm, pulsing with the beat of her blood, and you licked a slow line beneath her jaw just to feel the way she shivered. Her hands were on your ass now, strong fingers flexing, grinding you down against her lap with deliberate pressure.

You moaned into her throat, the friction sparking straight between your legs.

“Fuck,” she whispered, voice low, wrecked. Her hands slid up your back again, then down, thumbs slipping under your waistband. “Can I—”

You kissed her hard to answer. Tugged your own shirt off, then reached behind to undo your bra, tossing it to the floor. Abby stilled, just for a second. Her gaze dropped, and her mouth parted like she was seeing sunlight for the first time. She cupped your breasts with both hands, reverent, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they peaked, then leaned in and sucked one into her mouth. You gasped, back arching, fingers digging into her hair as her tongue circled, teasing, relentless.

Your pussy throbbed, slick and aching, pressing down against the hard line of her thigh. You couldn’t stay still. You rocked your hips forward once, then again, grinding against her, desperate for more. Abby growled low in her throat, hands gripping your waist to still you. “Need to feel you,” she muttered against your skin. “Need you naked.”

She laid you back across the couch cushions, tugging your shorts down, underwear with them, slow and deliberate. You were bare beneath her now, legs falling open without shame, pussy flushed and dripping, lips swollen and slick in the low light. Abby’s breath caught. She looked at you like she’d die if she couldn’t touch you. Then she dropped to her knees between your thighs.

Her mouth was on you in seconds, tongue flicking up your slit, slow and careful at first, then firmer, wetter, her nose brushing your mound as she buried herself in the heat of you. Your hips bucked. One hand flew to her hair, the other clutched at the couch. She licked up to your clit, circled it, sucked hard, and your whole body jerked. You moaned, loud and guttural, thighs tightening around her head.

She didn’t stop. She licked you like she knew you. Like she’d thought about this a thousand times. Her fingers slid between your lips, two of them pressing in without warning, and you cried out as she filled you. Stretching, curling, fucking you slow and deep while her tongue never left your clit.

“Abby—fuck—don’t stop—please—” You were gasping, writhing under her mouth, the couch damp beneath you. Her fingers pumped harder, knuckles pressing deep, and she sucked your clit into her mouth again, humming like she loved the way you tasted. Your nails raked down her back, hard enough to leave marks, and she groaned at the pain, fingers fucking you faster now, deeper, until your thighs started to shake.

“I’m—” The orgasm hit before you could finish the sentence. Your back arched, muscles locking, mouth falling open around a broken cry as your pussy clenched around her fingers. You came hard, soaking her hand, grinding against her face as she held you through it, licking every twitch, every shiver, like she couldn’t get enough of you.

She pulled back only when you sagged limp against the cushions. Her face was flushed, wet with you, mouth glistening. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then kissed the inside of your thigh, the softness after the storm. You were still breathing hard, chest heaving, body humming.

“Holy fuck,” you said hoarsely.

Abby smirked, crawling up over you again, her arms caging you in. “You’re not done.”

She kissed you before you could answer, kissed you deep, messy and hungry. You tasted yourself on her tongue and moaned again. Her hand slid between your bodies, down to guide your own fingers between her legs this time. She was soaked. Hot. Bare under her sweatpants. You pushed them down and felt how wet her pussy was, slick coating her folds. She rutted against your hand like she couldn’t help it, like she was aching for it. So you slid your fingers inside her, two at once, slow at first. She dropped her head to your shoulder, panting against your throat.

“Harder,” she gasped. “Fuck me—please.”

You did. You gave her everything. Fingering her deep, curling your fingers to hit that spot that made her whole body jerk. You scratched your nails down her back, dragged them along her spine as she rode your hand, as her pussy clenched and dripped and spasmed around your fingers. She was moaning openly now, desperate, raw.

She came with her whole body, shaking, crying out, her hips grinding down so hard it left bruises. You held her through it. Kissed her throat. Let her fall against you, trembling, slick and panting.

Neither of you said anything for a long time. Just the sound of breathing, the soft noise of skin on skin. You pulled her in close, wrapped your arms around her back, and she stayed there, face buried in your neck, body heavy over yours, like she never wanted to move again.

She whispered finally, hoarse and ragged, “You don’t have to leave. Not ever.”

And you believed her. Even through the guilt. Even through everything that would come tomorrow. For now, this was real. This was yours.

You didn’t sleep much that night. Even with Abby wrapped around you, her body shielding yours from the chill, even with her hand rubbing slow circles on your back like she could still feel the tremors there, your eyes never really stayed shut. You wanted to. God, you wanted to. But your mind was racing and your chest was burning and Bruce’s collar was still in your bag by the door, and the last thing you said to your fiancé was “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

He didn’t call. Didn’t text. Probably assumed you were grieving somewhere. Probably imagined you’d come home and let him hold you like a good, understanding man would.

And maybe he would’ve.

But you couldn’t lie to him. Not after this. Not when your body still hummed from someone else’s hands.

You left Abby’s house early the next morning. She tried to stop you, half-dressed, groggy, her eyes still soft from sleep and something more, but you told her you had to do this. Alone. You kissed her once at the door. Slow. Quiet. Like a confession.

The apartment felt stale when you got there. Too clean. Too cold. Your fiancé was at the kitchen table, eating cereal and scrolling on his tablet like the world hadn’t just spun off its axis. He looked up when you came in. Frowned at your wrinkled clothes and swollen eyes.

“You didn’t answer your phone.”

“I know,” you said. You closed the door behind you and leaned against it, bracing. “I stayed at Abby’s.”

He nodded once, like that made sense.

“I buried him,” you said. “In Abby’s yard. She helped.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“You didn’t want to bring him back here?”

You looked up. “I didn’t want to bring him anywhere near you.”

His jaw twitched, just slightly. “Okay,” he said, voice flat.

You stepped into the room, heart slamming against your ribs, a lump rising hard in your throat. “I need to tell you something.”

He looked up at you then. Actually looked. His eyes darkened. “What?”

You sat down across from him, and for a second you just stared at your hands. Your nails still had dirt beneath them. “I slept with Abby.”

Silence. Complete and consuming.

You looked up in time to see his mouth fall open. No words. Just stunned, silent disbelief. Then his eyes dropped, like maybe he was trying to convince himself he misheard you. “You what?”

“I slept with her,” you said again, softer this time. “Last night.”

He leaned back like you’d slapped him. “Jesus Christ.”

“I didn’t plan it. It wasn’t like that.”

“You didn’t plan it?” His voice rose, not quite yelling, but not far off. “You didn’t plan it? So what. Was it just some spontaneous grief-fueled hookup? Is that supposed to make it better?”

“No—” you started, but he cut you off.

“Do you even know what this means? We’re engaged. I—fuck—I asked you to marry me. You said yes.”

“I know what I said.” You tried to keep your voice even, but your hands were trembling in your lap. “And I meant it. I did. I just… I don’t know anymore.”

He stood up, backing away from the table like it was on fire. “Unbelievable.”

You didn’t chase him. Didn’t beg. You just sat there and let it hang between you. “I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “I didn’t do it to hurt you.”

“Well you did.” He was pacing now, hands on his hips. “You think this is just about sex? It’s not. It’s betrayal. You cheated. You could’ve talked to me. You could’ve told me you were fucked up or confused or whatever. But you didn’t.”

You looked up at him. “Would you have listened?”

He stared at you. “I don’t know. But I would’ve tried.”

You stood. “And what about Bruce? You didn’t even want to try to save him. You told me to let him die. That it wasn’t worth it.”

His mouth opened, then closed. “That’s not the same.”

“It is to me,” you said. “I was grieving. I still am. And she, Abby, she was there. She didn’t push me. She just let me fall.”

He looked away. Ran a hand through his hair. “So what now?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know.”

He let out a sharp breath. Turned back to you. “Did it mean anything? With her?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Yes. I think it did.”

His eyes dropped. “That makes it worse.”

“I know.”

Silence stretched again. Thick and sickening. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice brittle. “I love you, you know.”

“I know,” you whispered.

“I wish that made this easier.”

You nodded.

He turned away. Leaned against the counter. His back rose and fell like he was trying to breathe through something impossible. “I don’t want to lose you.”

You stepped closer. “Then don’t.”

He turned. Met your eyes. “But you’re not mine anymore, are you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Eventually, he nodded slowly. “I need time. I can’t pretend this didn’t happen. But I won’t kick you out. I won’t throw everything away right now.”

“Okay,” you whispered.

“But if you see her again, if you so much as think about touching her again, you tell me.”

You nodded. “I will.”

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t move toward you. Just turned away and walked down the hall.

The bedroom door clicked shut behind him. And you were left standing in the kitchen, alone, but not free. Loved, but not whole. Forgiven, but not absolved. Not yet.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You hadn’t spoken to Abby since that night.

Not the next day, when you left her house before sunrise with your hair still damp from her shower and your throat tight from unsaid things. Not when she messaged you the day after, just a soft, cautious “Let me know if you’re okay.” Not when she followed up again, three days later, after silence had already thickened like a wall between you: “I miss you.”

And you did miss her. So much it made you physically sick sometimes. But you didn’t respond.

You told yourself it wasn’t about shame. You weren’t homophobic. You never were. You had queer friends. You went to Pride once. You signed petitions. You donated.

You just... weren’t that.

You weren’t the girl who gave up her future over a kiss on a couch. You weren’t the kind of woman who broke an engagement, disappointed her parents, rewrote her entire life because one person made her feel something she was too afraid to name.

You had a man. A good one. Stable. Smart. Your mother adored him. Your father cried when he gave the toast at your rehearsal dinner.

And so, a week later, you found yourself standing in the bridal suite of a sprawling countryside venue, surrounded by white roses and soft music and the weight of a dress that didn’t quite feel like yours.

It was beautiful, of course. Ivory satin, a fitted bodice with off-the-shoulder sleeves, a full skirt that swayed when you turned. Your makeup was flawless. Your hair was pinned and curled in perfect symmetry. The girls from work cried when they saw you. Your mother clasped her hands like she was praying. Everyone said you looked like a dream.

But your stomach was a fist. Tight. Silent. Unmoving.

You kept waiting for it to pass. For the butterflies to turn into something light and sparkling, something romantic, something real. Instead, they stayed heavy. Dense. Like guilt. Like dread.

The ceremony was held outside, under a giant oak tree wrapped in white drapery and strings of glass bulbs. The air smelled like cut grass and warm wine. Guests murmured and smiled in neat little rows of wooden chairs.

And there, two rows from the back, on the far left side, was Abby.

You hadn’t expected her to come.

Her face was pale. She hadn’t done much with her hair; it was just tied back, haphazard and a little frizzy at the ends. She wasn’t in a dress. Of course she wasn’t. She wore a navy-blue button-down and black slacks and scuffed brown shoes, and she sat with her knees apart, hands clasped between them like she couldn’t get comfortable. There was no one beside her. She wasn’t smiling. She didn’t clap when the music started.

You saw the tears in her eyes the second they lifted to meet yours.

You didn’t look back after that.

The ceremony blurred. Words were said. Vows repeated. The officiant asked the question and you said “I do.” The ring slid on your finger like a shackle.

People clapped. Your husband kissed you, and you let him.

Later, during the reception, you didn’t see Abby again. She didn’t stay for dinner. Didn’t sign the guestbook. Didn’t come say hello. You thought you imagined her entirely until someone mentioned seeing “that vet friend of yours from the hospital crowd” leaving during the toast.

You slipped outside sometime after the cake was cut, out through the side doors and past the patio into the shadows near the trees. Your heels dug into the dirt. Your veil dragged in the leaves. You leaned against the bark of that same oak tree and let yourself cry, quietly, chest barely moving. You didn’t want anyone to hear. Especially not your husband.

Because that kiss, that kiss, the one you had on Abby’s couch, the one that started in grief and turned into something unspeakably alive, had been real. It had changed something in you. Opened a door you never wanted to look behind.

And now the door was shut again. Locked. Sealed behind marble centerpieces and monogrammed vows and a man who would never understand why sometimes, in the quiet, you looked like you were listening for footsteps that never came.

Abby didn’t text again.

Didn’t call.

Didn’t post anything online about you, didn’t mention what happened to anyone. You still saw her dad at work, sometimes, and he never brought her up. Never asked why she suddenly stopped inviting you to dinner. You figured he knew. Or maybe he just respected your silence the way Abby did.

It was the last time you saw her.

You’d tried to convince yourself it was just one of those things. A brief crack in a long, solid path. Something unplanned. A detour. Something that didn’t count.

But it did count.

And sometimes, on nights when your husband was late getting home, or when you passed by the emergency vet and saw the lights still glowing inside, or when you found a dog hair on your coat and didn’t have the heart to brush it off, you wondered what would’ve happened if you’d turned around at the altar.

If you’d said no.

If you’d run back to her and said I’m scared, but I’m yours.

But you didn’t. And you hadn’t. And Abby, with all her quiet patience and aching tenderness, had finally let you go.

Even if you never would. Not really.

Thank you for reading <3 hope you enjoyed it!

[elliessickhabits]

Blind loyalty part 2!

Blind!reader x Abby Anderson

Part 1./ part 2. / part 3. / more..?

CW; slowburn, lost of tension, wound tending, internalized guilt, hurt/comfort, protective abby, disabled!reader, mild swearing/language, graphic violence, detailed descriptions of killing, blood and gore, intense fight scenes, weapon use.

Summary; Born after the outbreak, you and your father are taken in by Isaac, an old friend. Life under the WLF is harsh, but manageable, and over time, Abby Anderson becomes your quiet constant. A slow bond forms through shared silence, careful hands, and unspoken loyalty. But when Abby is sent on a near-suicide mission and refuses to take you, you won’t stay behind, because if she’s risking everything, then so are you.

Notes; I tried something a little different with this part! Instead of splitting every tiny moment into separate scenes, I went for more continuous flow, letting things unfold naturally without breaking it up all the time. Hope it vibes well and that you guys really enjoy it! Also, i wanted to make this part to purely show you the connection between reader and abby!

Word count; around 7.1k

Taglist; @gogolsbf

The car rumbled underneath you, its engine a low, steady growl that vibrated through the worn leather seats. The road hummed faintly beneath the tires, a rhythm that matched the silence inside the vehicle. The seat creaked every now and then with the slight shifts Abby made as she drove. Now, maybe fifteen minutes into the trip, she still hadn’t spoken. That didn’t surprise you. Abby wasn’t one to fill silence for no reason. With most people, that kind of quiet would feel uncomfortable, awkward even, but with her, it was steadying. Reassuring. The silence wasn’t empty. It was heavy with thought. Weighty with feeling. There was always something behind it with Abby. Sometimes anger. Sometimes pain. Sometimes the kind of patience that felt like it had teeth.

You sat beside her, feeling the sun on your face through the cracked window. Warm, but not suffocating. A little breeze made it in from time to time, fluttering the strands of your hair that had slipped free from your tie. You could smell pine in the air, and dirt, and the faint chemical sting of gasoline from something in the backseat. Outside, birds occasionally chirped. Your hand sat on the armrest, fingers drumming faintly. The ride rocked a bit when Abby hit a dip in the road. She never warned you when that kind of thing was coming. Not out of carelessness, just because she knew you didn’t need the warning. You could handle it. Still, her hand brushed your shoulder for half a second after the jolt. A wordless check-in. Just a touch. You didn’t react. Didn’t say anything. Just let the quiet stretch.

And then, without warning, Abby’s voice cut through the quiet. Low, a little rough at the edges like it hadn’t been used in a while. “Feels like summer’s finally showing off.”

You turned your head in her direction. No words, just a small tilt, the kind that meant go on.

She cleared her throat softly. “It’s that kind of day people used to make up songs about. Hot pavement. Air so still it feels like the whole world’s holding its breath. Big clouds overhead, not stormy though, just the soft kind. Like... whipped cream maybe. Floating real slow.”

You let out a dry, skeptical sound. “Whipped cream?”

“Shut up,” she muttered, but it wasn’t sharp. You could hear the smile under it.

She kept talking. Her voice had shifted, eased into something softer, less guarded. “Everything’s got this glow to it. That kind of light where colors go all honey-warm. Trees look gold at the edges. Shadows are soft. And the sky’s that impossible kind of blue, the deep kind that feels fake if you stare too long.”

You let your head lean against the window’s frame. The warmth soaked into your skin, slow and steady. Wind brushed along your forearm where it rested, catching in the hairs, curling into your sleeve. The air was thick but lazy, carrying the smell of dry grass and dust and maybe water in the distance, something green and damp and real.

Abby shifted beside you. You heard the faint creak of her jacket, the leather flexing when she moved. “Sun’s bouncing off the road ahead,” she murmured. “You can’t look straight at it, it hurts. Like everything’s too bright. You’d hate it.”

You hummed. “Probably.”

“It’s one of those days where it feels like... nothing bad could happen. Even if you know better.”

The truck rolled along, tires humming against worn asphalt. You could feel the subtle pitch changes when the terrain shifted, slight inclines, dips, the crunch of gravel every now and then. Abby’s hand rested near the gearshift, fingers tapping lightly, like her thoughts were still wandering.

You broke the quiet. “What do you look like in that kind of light?”

That made her scoff. “Tired. Sweaty. My braid’s stuck to the back of my neck. Probably got dust all over my face.”

You smiled faintly. Waited.

Her breath hitched slightly. “But... I guess I don’t look bad. Arms catch the sun real nice. Muscle definition shows more. My scars look softer. And the sweat sort of... makes everything shine. My skin looks gold. Not that I’d stare at myself or anything, just—” She paused. “Sometimes I catch my reflection in a window and don’t completely hate it.”

That landed quiet and heavy between you, not uncomfortable, just... real.

Abby kept talking. “There’s this big sign up ahead,” she said, voice low now, slower. “Gas station one. Rusted halfway to hell. The letters are all cracked and flaking, but the red paint still catches the sun. Looks almost fresh. The road bends a little there, and the light’s catching in the cracked glass of an old truck in the ditch. Looks like a spotlight. Everything’s glowing, even the broken stuff.”

You breathed in deep. That scent again, warm, alive, maybe a little sweet now that she’d said honey. Maybe that was just suggestion. “You like days like this,” you said.

Abby didn’t answer right away. Then: “I like that the sun makes everything look better. Like it’s hiding the worst parts.”

Her voice went quiet. Not sad, exactly. Just... bare. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The silence that followed felt full, like something shared, understood without being named. You both knew what the world really sounded like when things went wrong: the kind of silence that pressed in tight, where every snapped twig or distant cry turned your stomach cold. But this, this wasn’t that. Abby’s voice still lingered in the air like warmth off a campfire, steady and close, and the hum of the road beneath you was soft, almost rhythmic. The breeze lifted strands of your hair, touched your skin without urgency. You reached one hand toward the open window, fingers spread, catching the wind.

Abby glanced at you, and though you couldn’t see it, you knew. She was watching. Not just to make sure you were safe, not just because she always did, but because for some reason, she liked watching you interact with the world in your own way.

She let the silence return, but this time, it wasn’t silence at all. It was full of sunlight and wind and warmth. And her.

Suddenly, the car jolted, hard.

One second the road hummed beneath you, dry and steady, and the next, everything seized. A violent lurch threw you forward against the seatbelt. A sound like metal being strangled screamed from under the hood, high and ugly. Then silence. Not the good kind.

Abby swore. Loud and abrupt. “Shit!”

Your hands clenched the edge of the seat instinctively, bracing as the engine gave one last sputtering cough before dying completely. The sudden stillness that followed hit like a punch. No engine noise, no movement, just the brittle hush of wind through dead grass and the faint clicking sound of something cooling under the hood.

Your heart jumped, reacting to the sudden shift, adrenaline blooming sharp in your chest. “What—” you started, but Abby was already throwing off her seatbelt.

The mechanical click was fast, followed by her boot hitting the ground hard as she shoved her door open. You heard the scrape of her jacket, the grunt she gave when she swung herself out of the car. Then her voice, low and pissed.

“Motherfucker,” she muttered. The hood latch gave a groan. Something clanked. Another curse.

You stayed where you were, hands loose but ready on your thighs, listening.

A metallic thud rang out as she popped the hood open. The smell came first, burnt rubber, hot oil, something else chemical and thick in your nose.

“Abby?” you called out.

“Yeah,” she snapped. Then, after a beat, quieter: “Hang on.”

You heard her moving again, kicking open the back hatch to grab something, tools maybe, by the jangle of metal on metal. Her breath came out in short, sharp exhales. You imagined her crouched in front of the car, jaw locked, brow furrowed in that way she always got when something didn’t bend to her will.

She muttered something low under her breath that you couldn’t catch. Metal rang again, a frustrated grunt cut the air. Then, finally, a slam. The hood came down hard. Her boots crunched against the dirt as she came back to your side. The door creaked open. “It’s fucked,” she said flatly.

You lifted your chin toward her voice. “Fucked as in...?”

“As in, we’re walking. Belt’s gone, radiator’s hissing like it’s about to melt through the goddamn engine block. I can patch it, but it won’t hold.”

The sun was beating hotter now. You felt it on the side of your face, heavy and mean. Wind stirred the dry grass, brushing across your arms like something restless. You heard Abby shift her weight and caught the brief hitch in her breath. Her fingers brushed your shoulder lightly. Not pressure, just a pass, like she was checking to see if you were still okay. “I can call it in,” she offered. “Request a pickup. Could take a few hours, but—”

“No,” you said quickly, sitting forward. “Let’s just go.”

She didn’t move right away. Her fingers hovered, then dropped. You could feel her staring at you, probably scanning your expression, which you knew was unreadable to most people. Not to Abby though. She’d learned the cues: how your chin angled, the way your jaw tensed when you were firm on something.

Finally, she let out a quiet grunt. “Alright.”

You heard her move toward the back, digging into the gear bags. The thud of her vest shifting, the metallic jingle of ammo being re-secured. She moved with that same focused precision, everything deliberate, silent but somehow loud in presence. Abby was like that. Her strength wasn’t just in her muscles, it was in how thoroughly she existed. Then her voice, low, near the open door again. “You good to get out?”

You reached forward, palm skimming the doorframe until it met the inside handle. “Yeah.”

As you moved to stand, her hand slid lightly under your arm, not grabbing, just there in case. The heat of her skin bled through the sleeve of your shirt. You didn’t need the help, but you didn’t shake her off either.

Your boots hit the dirt with a dull crunch. The air outside was drier than it had felt in the car.

“Road’s flat for a bit,” Abby said. “Hard-packed. Then there’s a split where we’ll have to cut through some wooded stuff. I’ll tell you when.”

“Got it.”

She didn’t take your hand again, but you could hear her footsteps start ahead of you, solid, just a few paces forward. You knew that rhythm well enough by now. If she got too far ahead, she’d fall silent. You’d speak, and she’d pause until you caught up. Like clockwork.

“Call if you want to stop,” she added. “Or if you need anything.”

You smirked faintly. “You offering a piggyback ride, Anderson?”

She scoffed. “You wish.”

Still, her voice held a softness, faint, but there. She never said it outright, but you knew what it meant: I’ll carry you if it comes to that. I’ll fucking drag you, if I have to.

You walked, the space between you measured and familiar. The crunch of dirt. The sound of birds overhead. The faint creak of her gear shifting with every step.

It was around 10-15 minutes later when you felt the forest had changed. You could feel it in the shift of the air. The path under your boots was uneven, overgrown, soft with the give of old moss and damp loam. Abby walked slightly ahead, each of her steps deliberate, the weight of her presence somehow always reassuring. You followed her without hesitation.

“Stop,” Abby murmured suddenly.

The word dropped like a rock into your chest. You froze mid-step, your pulse beginning to rush in your ears. “What is it?” you whispered.

She moved close, so close you could feel the brush of her arm against yours, the heat radiating from her skin despite the wind cooling the sweat off your face. Her breath tickled your cheek when she leaned in. “Clickers. At least three. Runners too. We stumbled into a nest.”

You nodded once. Her voice was quiet but calm, that particular kind of calm she always had right before something bloody. Your own breath caught in your throat, and you fought the instinct to hold it there.

“Here,” she said. Her hand was on your arm now, firm and warm. She guided you with that familiar care, pressure just enough to steer, never to push, until your knee knocked gently against a jagged stone. A boulder. She pressed your shoulder down and you crouched, placing one hand on the rock's cool surface to orient yourself. It was slick with lichen, smelled faintly of iron and earth.

“You’ll be okay here,” Abby murmured near your ear. “I’m gonna handle it.”

You nodded. “Be careful.”

Her hand lingered for a beat longer than necessary, thumb brushing your sleeve, then she was gone. Her footsteps were light, barely registering except for the occasional crunch of debris beneath her boots. Abby crouched low, her muscles tensed and coiled under her jacket like a drawn bowstring. The unmistakable gurgling chatter of a nearby clicker crackled in her ears, wet, erratic clicks like a busted metronome swinging too fast.

She counted four of them on sight.

Two clickers. Two runners. Close, maybe twenty meters off, shuffling behind some car carcasses and broken trees. From the soft pattern of their staggered steps and the slow scrape of bone-dry limbs brushing bark, she knew they hadn’t sensed you yet. But that could change in an instant.

She reached behind her and unsheathed her machete, its edge still sharp, still stained from the last raid. Her grip tightened around the handle, leather gloves creaking as she ghosted forward through the brush. She moved with silent precision, boots brushing damp leaves, shoulders hunched, breath low.

The first runner appeared just ahead, lurching into view between the rusted husk of an SUV and a tree thick with moss. Male. Fast. And twitchy. Abby ducked under a low branch, came up behind him, and—

Crack.

She wrapped one arm tight around his neck, yanking him off-balance. The moment he struggled, his feet kicking at the dirt, she drove the machete up under his ribcage. He let out a soft, wet grunt. She twisted. His body sagged. Abby eased him down as quietly as a corpse could go, boot braced under his weight to lower him slowly.

Then came the clickers.

She heard them before she saw them. Two sets of shrill, screeching echolocations bouncing off every tree, every stone. The air grew thicker around them, the pressure of imminent danger tightening across her chest like a cord. She stayed low, crept closer.

The nearest clicker jerked its head toward the noise of its fallen comrade. Its movements were erratic, broken-neck sharp, and each step it took landed with a wet slop on the mud. Abby circled to its side, heart thudding but rhythm steady. She waited, crouched behind a blown-out tire, until its clawed hand swiped through the air just a foot too far to the left. Then she surged forward.

Her boot hit the earth hard, charging. The machete rose and came down in a two-handed arc, cleaving through the skull just above its jawline with a grotesque crunch. Foul blood sprayed hot across her face and chest, and the thing collapsed in a heap of twitching limbs.

The second clicker turned instantly at the sound, screeching, limbs flailing. Its throat grated with a sound like dry leaves being crushed in a fist. Abby didn’t wait, she knew better. Let one of them scream too long and more would come. She pivoted and drew her sidearm.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Three clean rounds. One hit shoulder. Second, gut. The third tore through its fungal-plated skull. It dropped mid-screech, body thudding to the earth just ten feet from the rock you were crouched behind. That left one more, or so she thought.

She didn’t hear it until it was too close. A runner, young and fast. Maybe a teenager once. It came from her blind side, screaming, flinging itself toward her with arms outstretched and fingernails like daggers. It crashed into her, and they both went down hard. Abby grunted, rolled, managed to get her elbow under its chin as its face snapped toward hers, teeth yellow, breath rank with decay and rot.

It clawed at her chest, scratched her jacket.

She roared, twisted her body, and slammed her knee into its side. Once. Twice. The third time cracked ribs. It gurgled. Abby drove her forearm into its neck and, with the other hand, yanked her knife from her belt.

Shlick.

She stabbed it in the side of the neck, once, then again, quick, vicious motions, until it stopped moving beneath her. Her hands were shaking now. Chest heaving. Every breath pulled in blood-soaked air, iron and rot and sweat. She spat once to clear the taste of it off her tongue, then stood slowly. Her legs ached from crouching, her chest burned from the weight of that last fight.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Meanwhile, somewhere beyond the trees, you could hear her, Abby, fighting. The muted thud of bodies hitting the ground, the sharp crack of bone, the wet sound of a blade driving into flesh. Her grunts, short, fierce bursts of breath, punctuated the chaos. She was handling it. You could tell. Every movement of hers was deliberate, rhythmic, almost… calculated.

But then something shifted.

A scream cracked the air, sharp, guttural, close enough to split the wind right beside you. Your entire body jolted with it, blood icing as your muscles locked. That wasn’t Abby.

You turned your head instinctively, zeroing in on the direction of the sound. Footsteps pounded the earth, wild, unsteady. Too light to be her boots. Too fast. Each slap of feet against the dirt came closer, louder. The breathing, wet, labored, wrong, rushed in ragged bursts, closer by the second. Your heart slammed against your ribs, but your hands moved with that half-buried instinct. Trained. Practiced. Terrified.

You drew your sidearm, breath sharp in your throat. It was coming straight at you. You couldn’t see the thing, but you could feel it in the air, how it displaced the wind, how the low rustle of grass bent toward your hiding place. Every fiber in you screamed to run, but there was nowhere to go. So you stood your ground. Adjusted your grip. Turned slightly, listening. Waiting.

The first shot cracked off your fingertips and went wild, whistling past the trunk of a tree. Too far left. The second, closer. You corrected your angle with clenched teeth, squaring your shoulders, focusing everything into your hearing.

Then… there. The shriek sharpened in pitch, right in front of you now, maybe three steps away. You fired. The recoil jarred up your arms. The screech choked out mid-lunge.

Then, thud.

Something heavy hit the ground, scattering dirt and old leaves. The silence that followed was total, no more clicking, no breath, no feet clawing through the brush. Just wind curling through the trees again. Your pulse pounding in your ears. And the gun, still trembling in your hands, barrel warm from the shot. You stayed still. Listening.

You didn’t move, couldn’t, not until you were sure. Not until Abby would come back and told you it was over.

Somewhere out there, you could still hear her fighting. One more set of thuds. One final wet crunch. Then, Abby’s boots hit the dirt hard, heavy and fast, thudding closer until she was crouched down in front of you, breath sharp in the cool air. Her hands came up, rough and efficient, sliding over your arms and torso without hesitation. “Are you hurt?” she barked, voice clipped and tense. “Did it bite you anywhere? Let me see.”

You shook your head, but before you could say anything, she was already tugging your sleeves up, fingers digging under the fabric to check your skin. “No bites. No cuts. You bleed anywhere?” Her voice was short, businesslike, but there was an edge of worry beneath it.

You shook your head again. “I’m fine.”

You heard the shift in her weight before she spoke again. Boots scuffing against the ground, the faint creak of leather as she leaned in, tension thick in her voice. “You sure? This kind of thing… you don’t want to fuck around with it.”

Her hands moved quickly, checking your ribs, patting your sides, pressing against your legs through the jeans. The motion was firm, no softness, like she was making sure you weren’t hiding something. “I heard it get way too close,” she said, voice low and rough.

“I shot it,” you told her, still catching your breath. “I think I hit it.”

Abby let out a dry laugh, the tension easing just a little. “Hell yeah. You did good. Nailed it right in the head.”

You let out a shaky breath, relief curling inside you.

The silence stretched, thick with things neither of you said out loud. Finally, Abby pushed herself up, brushing dust off her knees. “Come on,” she said, voice low. “We’re not done here. Let’s get moving before anything else shows up.”

You grabbed your gear and stood, knees aching but steady. As you started walking, you noticed Abby kept close, staying just behind and to the side, like a shield rather than a friend.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The slow ache in your feet was becoming impossible to ignore. You shuffled along beside Abby, the uneven dirt trail biting at your soles and knees. Abby didn’t say anything at first, just matched your pace, her presence solid and steady beside you. After a few minutes, she glanced over, catching the slight hitch in your step. “Hey,” she said, her voice low and rough with concern. “We should take a break. There’s an old shack up ahead. I’m gonna check it out, just give me a minute.”

You nodded, thankful for the pause.

When she came back and told you it was clear, she helped you inside. The cool shade of the shack was a welcome relief from the lingering heat of the day. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of earth and rusted metal, the quiet settling around you both like a soft blanket. You leaned back against the jagged stone wall, your boots pressing into the uneven floor.

Abby dropped down beside you, fishing out some rations and a canteen from her pack. She tossed you a water canteen and a strip of jerky, the rustle of plastic and metal oddly comforting in the silence. You bit into the food slowly, tasting the salt and leather in the dry meat. After a few bites, your fingers traced the worn edges of the canteen as you turned your head to Abby, who you could hear cleaning her knife with meticulous care.

“Hey,” you began, voice hesitant, “do you remember when we talked before? About… seeing.”

Her head lifted, eyes narrowing a bit in thought. “Yeah. You said you didn’t want to.”

You exhaled slowly, the breath catching. “I said that, but I’ve been thinking about it. I want to come back to that. I want to say more.”

Abby set the knife down with a soft thud and shifted her weight, turning so you could feel her presence squarely in front of you.

“When I was younger,” you said, voice barely above the whisper of the shack’s shadows, “I did want to see. Back then, my dad got hurt. I remember the panic, but I couldn’t help. I just felt like I was in the way, a burden. Even though he told me I wasn’t, I couldn’t shake it.” You paused, swallowing the lump in your throat. The quiet was thick between you, Abby’s breath even and slow.

“That’s the part I wish I could see,” you said finally, “not the world or the sky, but just… if someone’s hurt, to know for sure. To be able to do something, to help. Instead of feeling useless.”

Abby’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought she might say something harsh. But then she exhaled, voice softer than you expected. “You’re not useless,” she said bluntly. “You’re one of the strongest people I know. Don’t ever forget that.”

Her words landed heavy and real, like the weight of a promise. You shifted, feeling the rough stone beneath your back, letting the silence stretch.

The shack’s coolness wrapped around you like a damp blanket, sharp contrast to the sweat and heat still clinging to your skin from the trek. It was the kind of silence that pressed against your ears, demanding you listen carefully, to the slow pulse of your own heart, the soft scrape of Abby shifting beside you, and the faint rustle of her gear as she settled close.

You didn’t look toward her, couldn’t, really, but you could feel the change in her breath, how her chest rose and fell steadily next to you, the faint scratch of her jacket brushing your arm. It was enough, the presence of her there. Solid, rough, somehow familiar.

Then, without a word, she shifted again, closer this time, and her voice broke the silence, low and rough but quieter than before. “Hey... can I touch your hand?”

Your fingers tensed for a moment, a flutter of nerves rushing through you. But then you opened your palm, extending your hand slowly into the dark space between you, and felt her callused fingertips settle gently over your skin.

The roughness of her hands was immediate, a sharp contrast to your softer, more sensitive touch, but there was a patience there, a carefulness in the way she pressed just enough to be certain, but not so much as to startle you. Her fingers traced the outline of your palm, winding slowly over your knuckles and down each finger, like a map she was learning to read without sight.

“Feel this,” Abby said, voice rougher now, carrying a hint of something deeper, a hint of vulnerability beneath the usual steel edge, guiding your hand toward her own scars. Your fingers brushed over raised, jagged lines running across the rough skin of her forearm, some faded and pale, others still raw and tender.

“This one here,” she said quietly, “is from a runner. Got too close, had to put it down with a bat.” She let your fingers linger there, tracing the uneven texture. “And this...” Her voice lowered, thick with memory, “...from a clicker near the hospital. Felt like hell when it happened.”

You could almost hear the weight behind her words, the echo of pain that lingered years after the wounds had closed. Your fingertips followed every ridge and groove, feeling the different layers of healed skin, the scar tissue that puckered and stretched unevenly. There was something intimate about it, this tactile connection to the history she carried with her, the battles fought, the narrow escapes.

“What do you feel?” Abby’s voice softened but stayed steady. “Does it feel weird? Like it needs bandages or... something?”

You hesitated, then guided your fingers to a fresh scrape near her elbow. It was still warm under your touch, the skin broken and raw beneath the thin layer of dirt and grime. “This one... it’s sore. Feels deeper than a scratch.”

She didn’t flinch or pull away. Instead, she shifted just slightly, letting you trace the edges like a silent trust being built, piece by piece. Abby pulled a small, battered first aid kit from her pack, its fabric rough, the zipper stiff and reluctant. A faint, sharp scent of antiseptic rose as she peeled it open, the sterile smell a strange comfort against the earthy dampness around you. She laid it between you, her movements sure but careful, like she was mindful of how much space she was taking up.

“Here,” Abby said, voice steady but quieter now, like she didn’t want to break whatever fragile balance had settled between you. “Take the alcohol. We should clean it first.”

You reached toward the sound of her voice, fingers brushing against the cold metal edge of the small kit she’d opened beside you. The air in the shack had cooled since you sat down, but her presence kept the space feeling warm, like a fire banked nearby but not yet lit.

She pressed a small bottle into your hand. “Twist the cap off. Careful. Don’t spill.” You nodded, thumb finding the little plastic ridges and twisting slowly. The chemical sting of alcohol hit your nose the moment the seal broke. Abby reached again, guiding your other hand to a small packet of gauze.

“That’s sterile,” she said. “Use it to dab. Not rub—just press it in.”

You could hear the grit in her voice, the tightness that meant she was trying not to show pain. It made something knot in your chest. You fumbled slightly with the gauze, but she didn’t comment, didn’t sigh or try to take it from you. She just waited. “Okay,” she murmured, shifting closer. Her knee brushed yours. “It’s right here, just above my elbow. Start slow.”

You reached out, hands tentative in the dark, until your fingers found the edge of her sleeve. She had rolled it up earlier, and your knuckles grazed warm skin, slick with sweat, tense beneath the surface. You traced upward gently until you found the torn spot, your fingertips brushing the jagged skin around the wound.

“Here?” you asked.

“Yeah,” she said softly, her breath catching just slightly. “That’s it.”

You folded the gauze into a small pad, soaked it carefully with the alcohol. The moment you pressed it in, Abby hissed through her teeth, a short, controlled sound. Her arm jerked once, then stilled under your touch. “Shit,” you breathed, pulling back instinctively. “Sorry—”

“No,” she cut in, voice rough. “You’re doing fine. It just… stings. Keep going.”

You hesitated, then tried again, pressing the gauze gently into the wound. The scent of blood mingled with the alcohol, sharp and metallic and all too familiar. Her muscles twitched under your hand, but she didn’t move away. You felt every tremor, every shallow breath she took. “Just a little more,” Abby said, almost a whisper now.

You kept working, letting your hands move slow and deliberate, dabbing the area clean. When you finished, she reached behind you and pressed a roll of gauze into your palm. “Wrap it,” she said. “Start low, angle it up. Like a spiral.”

You tried. The bandage slipped once, then again, and your fingers fumbled with the edge. Abby didn’t comment. She just leaned in, reached out, and covered your hand with hers. “Like this,” she said. Her hand was warm and solid over yours, her fingers guiding yours in the motion, firm but not forceful. The texture of her calluses met the pads of your fingers like an echo, two different kinds of roughness learning to align.

You followed her lead, circling the gauze slowly up her arm, folding the edges down where she pointed, smoothing them with care. The closeness was unbearable in its quiet intimacy. You couldn’t see her expression, but you felt it, every breath, every slight shift in how her body leaned toward yours but never quite touched.

“Not too tight,” Abby murmured. “You want it snug. Secure. But not cutting off anything.”

You adjusted carefully, pulling back just enough, checking with your fingers that the bandage didn’t bite into her skin. You didn’t say anything, but she let out a quiet breath like she felt it, the shift, the instinct in your hands despite what you lacked.

Then the silence returned, filled only by the distant plip of water against stone and the low rhythm of your breathing.

Your fingers lingered a moment longer on the edge of the bandage, not wanting to break the quiet. Then you cleared your throat, voice soft. “Thanks… for letting me do it. For trusting me with it.”

Abby didn’t say anything right away. You could hear her shift slightly, the whisper of fabric as she leaned back against the stone wall beside you. Her shoulder brushed yours, not by accident, not quite on purpose either. Just there.

She let out a slow breath, then gave a little scoff, light, dismissive in that gruff Abby way, but not unkind. “You don’t have to thank me for that,” she muttered, tone dry but warm underneath. “It’s a bandage. It’s basic shit. Doesn’t matter if you’re blind or not. You’ve got hands. You can learn just like anyone else.”

You blinked, her words hitting something deeper than they had any right to. Simple. Straightforward. No pity, no pedestal. Just… fact. Still, something in you curled around the need to say it again. “I mean it, though.”

“Yeah. I know.” You could hear the edge of a smile in her voice as she spoke, barely there, but real.

She didn’t press further, didn’t make it sentimental. But she didn’t pull away either. Just sat there beside you, solid and close, like she was content to stay in that quiet for a while longer. Letting the moment stretch, not into something dramatic, but something steady.

Then Abby shifted again, her shoulder brushing lightly, barely touching you, in a way that grounded both of you in the dim space. No words followed, but the moment stretched, charged and tender, careful and uncertain. You didn’t move away. You didn’t pull back.

Your breath came out a little uneven, throat tight with a jumble of feelings you couldn’t quite name. Relief, frustration, something heavy and unfamiliar.

Her presence was a constant, a rough anchor, steady but restless, like the quiet before a storm. You could sense her watching you, the way her breathing had slowed but not stopped, the way her body tensed every so often, as if bracing for something unseen.

You wanted to say something, anything, but the words stuck like dry leaves caught in the wind. Instead, your fingers rested lightly on the patchwork bandage you’d just finished, tracing the soft cotton edges again, as if by feeling it you could ground yourself.

“I never asked...” Your voice was low, almost swallowed by the stillness around you. “When you get hurt... does it ever scare you? Like, really scare you?”

Abby was silent for a long beat, then a rough laugh escaped her throat, dry and bitter. “Yeah,” she admitted quietly. “Every time. Doesn’t get easier. You just... learn how to hide it better.”

You nodded, fingers curling slightly around the fabric on her arm. “I think that’s the hardest part. Not knowing how to hide how scared you really are.”

Her voice softened, an edge of something close to warmth slipping in. “You’re good at this,” she said, almost like a surprise to herself. “Helping. Being careful.”

There was a pause, thick and full, the kind that hums with unspoken promises. Abby shifted once more, and this time you could feel the brush of her jacket sleeve against your arm, a deliberate, slow movement that sent a ripple of awareness through your skin. Her hand was close now, hovering just a breath away, as if waiting for permission.

The space between you shrank until you could feel the faint heat radiating from her, mingling with the cool damp air of the shack. Your fingers twitched, aching to reach out, to close the gap, but you held still, caught in the delicious tension of waiting.

“I’m not good with soft,” she muttered, voice low and rough. “But I’m learning.”

You swallowed, heart thudding loud enough you thought she might hear it. “Me too.”

Slowly, deliberately, your hand moved, fingertips brushing the coarse fabric of her sleeve before sliding beneath it to rest on the warm skin of her forearm. You traced the faded lines of her scars again, your touch lingering on the rough ridges, the memory of pain etched there like a silent history.

Her breath hitched, just barely, and her body tensed for a moment before relaxing under your fingers. You smiled against the quiet, feeling a rush of something tender and fierce all at once.

Her hand moved then, rough and sure, covering yours like a shield. The calluses were thick, worn from years of survival, but the pressure was gentle, protective. For a long time, you just sat like that, hands tangled and breathing slow, sharing a silence deeper than words.

Eventually, her hand slipped away from yours. Not abruptly, nothing with Abby ever was, not when she was being careful. Just a slow withdrawal, like she was reluctant to let the warmth go but knew it was time to move. Her fingers lingered a second longer at your knuckles before she finally stood, her knees creaking faintly as she rose.

You heard the scrape of her boot shifting over loose stone and dirt, then the soft thud of her dropping her pack onto the floor nearby. The heavy clink of gear followed, buckles, straps, a dull jangle of metal against canvas, as she dug through her supplies with efficient, quiet hands. You could picture it perfectly even without sight: the way she always knew exactly where everything was, how her movements never wasted time. Every sound told a story if you listened hard enough.

You leaned back slightly, resting your palms against the floor behind you as you tilted your face toward her presence. “Whatcha doin’?” you asked, voice low.

“Making your bed,” she muttered, a little too casual. “This floor sucks. And your back already sounds like it’s ninety years old.”

You let out a quiet huff through your nose. “It’s not that bad.”

“It’s worse,” she said under her breath, clearly trying not to smirk.

There was the soft rustle of fabric unfolding, probably an old tarp or a weathered poncho, something thin but water-resistant. Then, beneath that, a thicker layer shifted, a compact sleeping mat, the kind that folds up tight and fits into a worn canvas backpack. You could hear her fingers tracing the edges, smoothing out creases, tapping gently to knock off dirt and grit.

“Need a hand?” you asked, voice tentative.

She hesitated for a moment, the silence stretching just long enough for you to wonder if she’d say no. Then she exhaled sharply through her nose. “Nah, I got it.”

You frowned, shifting a little. “Seriously, I can help. Feel it out, fold stuff, whatever you want. Just say the word.”

Her hands stilled for a heartbeat, then resumed, slower now, deliberate. You heard her breath deepen, like she was thinking it over.

Finally, softer: “Okay. Reach out, maybe a foot or two in front of you.”

Your hands moved forward, fingertips brushing against the cool, crinkly surface of the tarp first, thin, plastic-coated fabric, stiff but flexible. Below that, the foam mat felt dense and slightly springy, with a textured grid pattern pressing lightly into your skin. You let your fingers follow the lines, folding one corner back carefully, mindful not to crease it too sharply.

Abby stepped close, her boot brushing gently against your shin. “Fold that edge back over, but not too tight. Yeah, just like that.”

You worked slowly, feeling the slight give in the mat, the rough stitching along the seams, and a small frayed spot where the fabric had worn thin.

“Good,” she muttered quietly, the tone almost a whisper, like she didn’t want to break the fragile calm between you. You heard the soft scrape of her boot sliding something closer to you. “Got a rolled-up fleece blanket here.” The blanket was thick but well-worn, the fabric soft but carrying the faint roughness of countless days outside, maybe a little dusty. Her boot nudged it gently near your shoulder. “Use it as a pillow.”

You reached out, fingers curling around the blanket’s edge, feeling the slight fuzziness of the fleece against your skin. It was warm to the touch, a comforting contrast to the cooler ground beneath you.

“And here—” she said, shifting again. You heard the soft rustle of fabric as she slid her jacket beneath your neck. Thick, padded, with the crinkling sound of nylon and the faint scent of sweat and earth clinging to it. “Better support.”

Your hands still rested lightly on the layered groundcover, tracing the folds of the tarp and the contours of the foam mat beneath. You hesitated, then blinked slowly, feeling the cool evening air brushing against your face. “You sure you don’t need it?”

Her voice was steady, a quiet reassurance. “I’ll be fine.”

A faint smile lifted your lips as you settled down more fully, molding your body carefully against the layered bedding. The thin foam mat pressed softly under your weight, its subtle springiness cushioning the ache in your muscles. The blanket against your shoulder was a steady warmth, and the jacket at your neck shaped a gentle cradle.

After everything, the exhaustion, the cold, the dust clinging to your skin, this simple arrangement felt like a small mercy. A fragile promise of rest.

You heard her settle down again, boots scraping lightly as she lowered herself onto the patch of floor just beside your bed. The sound of her adjusting her gear followed, clipping her knife back onto her belt, tugging her collar tighter around her neck. You could feel her presence through the thin air between you. Solid. Unmoving.

A quiet beat passed.

“I’ll keep watch,” she said. Her voice was different now, lower. Steady again. Back to business. “You should sleep.”

You turned your face toward her shadow, even if you couldn’t see it. “You need sleep too.”

There was a pause. “I’ll be fine.”

“You always say that.”

Another pause. Longer. Then a rustle of fabric as she shifted, maybe looking at you, maybe looking away. You couldn’t tell. But the next thing she said landed soft in your chest. “I’ll sleep when you’re safe.”

Your throat tightened. You didn’t answer that. Couldn’t, really. Instead, you let your fingers curl loosely over the jacket, feeling the weight of your body settle deeper into the ground. You listened to the silence for a long time, the creak of wind brushing across the roof, the occasional tick of cooling metal, the subtle rhythm of Abby’s breathing not far from your side.

You closed your eyes. Even in the dark, the shape of her hand still lingered across yours. The memory of warmth. The quiet steadiness. You drifted off before the silence broke.

To be continued…

[elliessickhabits]

Sancta et Damnata

Religious!reader x Ellie Williams

One-shot!

CW; mentions of suicidal thoughts, religious trauma, spiritual abuse, internalized homophobia, queer repression, references to hell and damnation, parental emotional abuse, grief and mourning, panic attacks, toxic family dynamics, religious fanaticism, sexual tension, loss and death, emotional neglect, consensual sexual activity, oral sex (reader receiving), fingering (reader receiving)

Summary; raised in a strict religious family, you secretly date Ellie Williams, a girl who challenges everything you believe. Torn between faith, family, and love, you face painful choices and the search for acceptance in a world that demands conformity.

Notes; this story deals with a very personal and heavy topic for me. I’m not trying to romanticize forbidden love. I want to portray its realness and complexity. I didn’t plan to turn this into a series, so I hope the story doesn’t feel rushed. Please approach it with care and sensitivity. Also the title means holy and damned. It’s Latin :)

Word count; around 11,9k

Taglist; @gogolsbf

You’ve always been someone people called holy. Not in passing, never in jest, but in the hushed, reverent way someone might speak of relics or miracles. “She’s one of God’s favorites,” they’d murmur. “A real angel.” You heard it often growing up, usually with a smile behind it, but always with weight. Sometimes it came from mothers at the church picnic, their eyes trailing your ironed blouse and the cross nestled neat against your collarbone. Other times it came from the girls at school, half in awe, half in warning, like if they stepped too close, they’d burst into flames.

Your father is a priest. Not the kind with a mild homily and a handshake at the end of service, no. He booms. When he speaks, the walls of the chapel breathe in and hold. When he raises his voice, it’s scripture and consequence. And your mother matches him in faith. She keeps her hair braided back and never wears jewelry save for her wedding band and a rosary knotted into her apron string. She prays in whispers, hands always damp from cleaning or clasped together. You remember walking in on her once, kneeling in the corner of the kitchen with tears dripping silently off her chin and onto the linoleum, whispering: “Break me, God, if I need breaking.”

You were raised in the image of all that. You learned to kneel before you could run. Learned how to pray with your spine straight and your mouth closed between verses. Your knees are calloused, the skin pale and thin, so much so that sometimes the bone outlines itself faintly beneath the white. You kneel every morning. Every night. Before meals. During storms. When your father comes home with something new to reflect on, you kneel then, too. The floor knows your weight like a second skin.

Your clothes have rules. Button-ups with collars that kiss your throat. Skirts that pass the knees and make sitting something deliberate. Stockings if you must wear them. No jeans. No bare shoulders. You’ve never owned a tank top. Your mother says the flesh tempts, even when you mean nothing by it. She says your body is the cup, but God is what fills it. Never let someone else drink from it before He does.

Your friend group is small. Tidy. You’re allowed to go to youth group, and sometimes, when your father permits, you’ll attend school events. But only with the approved ones. Mostly girls, a few boys. The boys are like softened bread: polite, sweet-eyed, always saying things like “Ma’am” to your mother and opening doors. The girls sometimes ask questions in hushed voices, behind the locked doors of sleepovers hosted at safe homes.

“Do you ever… think about kissing someone?” Maria once asked, her voice thin, more breath than sound. Her fingernail traced the hem of her pajama sleeve. “Like, not in a sinful way. Just. Wondering.”

You didn’t look at her. You were braiding your hair by the mirror, your fingers steady, your posture so upright it could’ve snapped in half. “Only my future husband,” you said.

She smiled nervously. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense.”

And then she rolled onto her side, away from you, and didn’t speak again until morning.

None of them are exactly like you. They wear bracelets sometimes, or show up to chapel with eyeliner on their bottom lids, or hum Taylor Swift songs during quiet hours. They laugh too loud. They whisper about boys. Sometimes they ask what your family is really like, but they never ask twice. They know. Or at least they sense enough not to dig.

Once, one of the boys, Aaron, offered to walk you home after choir. It was snowing, and he gave you his coat without asking. You said “thank you” and handed it back when you reached your door. The porch light was on. You could see your father’s shadow through the curtain, standing.

“Do you want to come in?” you asked automatically, because hospitality is holy.

Aaron blinked. His cheeks were red. “Uh. No, I’m okay. Thanks. Your dad kinda…” He trailed off, rubbed the back of his neck. “Never mind.”

He left you there with the coat folded neatly over your arm.

You opened the door.

Your father was waiting. “You let him touch you?”

“No, Father.”

“He gave you his coat.”

“I was cold.”

He stared. The room behind him smelled like incense and candle smoke. Your mother was washing dishes in the background, humming a hymn so quietly it was barely more than a breath.

You placed the coat on the table like it might burn you.

He nodded. “Good girl.”

And that was it. But the next day you knelt longer than usual. Your knees went numb. When you stood, you wobbled. Your mother touched your arm, gently. “Pain is purification, sweetheart. Don’t forget that.”

You never have.

And then there was Ellie Williams.

Ellie, with her scribbled-on Converse and pants that never quite looked clean, always with a scuff or some oil-smudge like she’d knelt in a parking lot for fun. Ellie, with her sleeves pushed up to the elbows and pen marks on her wrists. Her hair was a mess. Always. Not messy like effortless movie-girl messy, but frizzy and dry at the ends like she didn’t know what conditioner was for. She had freckles like God had peppered her face out of boredom, and she didn’t cover them up with makeup or even seem to notice them. She’d pull a pencil from behind her ear and use it to scratch her cheek without thinking, then immediately forget where she put it.

And she never shut up. Ever.

“Did you know that when dinosaurs got sick, like really sick, some of them just sat down and waited to die? Like, like they knew. Isn’t that wild?” she’d say, grinning, flipping her pen between her fingers like a drummer. “I mean, imagine just sitting down one day and being like, Yep. That’s it. Lights out. I respect that.”

You’d blink at her. Bite your cheek. Say nothing.

And she’d laugh, not because you were funny, because you never tried to be, but because something about your silence made her flustered. She’d rub the back of her neck, smile all crooked and too wide. “Sorry, I do that thing where I talk and don’t… think. I should probably stop. You’re, like, super quiet. That’s cool. Mysterious. I like that.”

And you’d want to scream.

Because Ellie Williams is everything you are not.

She has one friend. Two, technically, but Jesse doesn’t count. He’s just attached to Dina, who really is her only friend. Dina with the biting sarcasm and the cool-girl earrings and the way she always rolls her eyes when Ellie launches into another paleontology rant. Sometimes you’d see them in the hall, Ellie bouncing beside her like an excited labrador, talking about “this fossil documentary I swear will change your life,” and Dina just going, “Ellie, no one wants to watch that but you.”

And Ellie would grin, shove her hands in her pockets, and say, “That’s fine. I’ll watch it twice and pretend it’s someone else’s first time.”

And your stomach would twist.

Because that girl, that girl, is the one you’re dating. Secretly. Sinfully. Quietly, like it’s a sickness you’re hiding from the Lord Himself. You haven’t told anyone. You wouldn’t. Couldn’t. You still flinch when your phone buzzes with her name. You still delete her texts after reading them. You still go to church the morning after she kisses you and sit there with your mouth shut and your heart knotted and your thighs pressed together, trying not to remember the way she touched your hand under the blanket while you watched a dinosaur movie in her attic.

You still beg for forgiveness when she leaves. Kneeling in your room, face to the floor, whispering “Please cleanse me, God. Please wash this from me.” Like it’s dirt. Like she’s dirt. She isn’t.

But she wears the same hoodie three times a week and makes bad puns about T-rexes and once told you you looked “like a Victorian ghost, but in a cute way,” and you wanted to die and kiss her at the same time.

You don’t even know how it started.

Maybe it was that one time she sat next to you during study hall because every other seat was full, and she dropped her textbook on your foot and said, “Crap! I mean… um.. dang, sorry! Shoot, you probably don’t swear, huh?” And then looked so genuinely panicked about offending you that you almost laughed.

Or maybe it was when you stayed behind in the science lab and she did too, hovering awkwardly at your elbow like she wasn’t sure how to say goodbye. “So, uh… what do you do? Like, for fun?” she asked, tugging at a loose thread on her sleeve.

You blinked. “I read. I study.”

She’d nodded slowly. “Right. That tracks. You’ve got, like, book heroine energy. Mysterious and repressed. In a good way.”

You frowned. “Repressed?”

She bit her lip. “Not like, bad. Just. You know. Like a girl who’s secretly into something crazy but never tells anyone. Vampire novels or sword fighting or, I dunno, wrestling.”

You stared. “I’m not into wrestling.”

She smiled. “Yeah. No. I figured.”

And then she’d left, humming something off-key, and you stood there too long staring at the door after it shut.

The first kiss was an accident. At least, you told yourself that.

It was in the park. You were on the swings even though you hated swings, she’d dared you to, and you lost your balance getting off, stumbled forward, and she caught you. And she was laughing, right up until she looked at you, and the laughter sort of dropped into her throat like a swallowed marble.

“You okay?” she’d asked.

And you nodded, but your breath stuttered, and her lips were right there, and her eyes were so green and so confused and then—

You kissed her.

Or maybe she kissed you. You still can’t decide. You pulled away too fast. Your face was burning. She looked stunned. And then she said, quietly: “…That was really nice.”

You left. Just walked away. Didn’t say a word. You threw up in the bathroom when you got home and didn’t eat for two days.

But you saw her again. Of course you did.

She forgave you for running. She always forgives you. She doesn’t ask questions she knows you won’t answer. She just keeps showing up. Sitting beside you in libraries. Brushing her hand against yours. Laughing at her own jokes and smiling at you like she thinks she’s lucky to be near you.

And you hate it. You hate her. You hate yourself. You love her.

You pray harder now. Kneel longer. Recite verses like mantras. You count her freckles in your head when you’re trying to forget her, and you bite your tongue until it bleeds when she leans in too close.

She doesn’t even know she’s flirting. That’s the worst part. When she calls you “angel” in that teasing way, when she taps your foot under the table like she wants you to look at her instead of your notebook, when she says things like, “You make me nervous, you know that?” and then immediately blurts something about pterodactyls to cover it up.

You wish she’d stop. You wish she’d never started. You wish you never had to stop thinking about her.

But you will. You have to. Because girls like you don’t get to want girls like her. Girls like you get married in churches and wear white and smile and keep their sins buried deep and dry.

Girls like you don’t get to dream.

And still—

You do.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You’ve been dating for five months now. Not that anyone would know. It doesn’t feel like dating most of the time. It feels like holding your breath underwater, counting seconds, testing how long before your chest caves in. You meet in the woods behind her place, or the storage hallway by the music room where no one ever goes, or the backseat of Jesse’s car when he’s not using it and she’s stolen the keys. You don’t do much. You kiss. Sometimes you talk. Mostly you don’t. She’ll hold your hand and crack some dumb joke and you’ll pretend it didn’t make your stomach lurch.

She touched your breasts once.

It was under your shirt, under your bra, and it lasted maybe two seconds. Her hands were so warm. They trembled like she didn’t know what she was doing, which she probably didn’t. And for one horrifying heartbeat, you liked it. Actually liked it.

You slapped her hand away like it burned. Didn’t say a word. Just pulled your shirt back down, picked up your bag, and left. She texted once. Then twice. Then gave up. You ignored her for a week.

The silence was heavy and deliberate. You fasted. You knelt until your legs shook. You cried into your pillow and asked God to cleanse you of whatever that was, of whatever you are, of whatever she made you feel. You waited for fire to rain down. It didn’t.

She didn’t bring it up again.

You still kiss her though. Softly, sometimes, like prayer. Sometimes more than that. Sometimes it gets too close to something bigger, something deeper, and your whole body goes rigid and she knows to stop. She’s learned your boundaries even if she doesn’t understand them. She never pushes.

But you still beg for mercy every night. Not in church. Never there. You can’t. You’ve thought about it, really, truly thought about kneeling in that wooden booth with the musty velvet curtain and telling the priest everything. But you imagine his silence. Imagine his breath slowing. Imagine him not saying you’re forgiven.

So instead you confess at home.

You wait until midnight, like God might be gentler when the world is quiet. You kneel by your bed, fingers clenched together so hard they go white, and whisper it like it’s a secret even He might flinch at.

“Forgive me. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to enjoy it. I didn’t mean to let her. I didn’t mean to love her.”

Sometimes you cry. Not sobbing. Just little gasps that get stuck in your throat. Like you’re drowning in something that’s not even wet.

You told her once, just once, that you think you’re going to hell. She was sitting beside you, chewing on a Twizzler, feet up on the dashboard of Jesse’s car.

She blinked. “You think you’re going to hell… because of me?”

You stared ahead. “Because of me. For letting it happen.”

She was quiet. Then: “Okay, but like, if we’re both going, can we at least sit next to each other?”

You looked at her. She grinned, stupid and crooked and sweet. And you hated how much that made your chest ache.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

She went to church with you once. That was your idea. You still don’t know why you invited her. Some kind of test, maybe. Some awful, subconscious attempt to prove something. That you could bring her into your world and it would all be okay. That maybe she’d hear the Word and run screaming. That maybe you would, too.

She didn’t have clothes. Not those clothes. So you picked them out yourself. One of your white blouses, buttoned to the throat. A long navy skirt, ironed flat. Tights with no holes. You brushed her hair yourself because you couldn’t stand how it looked when she did it, like she’d used a fork or maybe just her fingers.

She fidgeted while you buttoned her cuffs. “I feel like I’m about to take my fifth grade school picture,” she muttered.

“You look fine,” you said.

She looked at you in the mirror. “I look like I’m about to burst into flames.”

You forced a smile. “Just… sit still.”

And you lied to your father.

You told him she was from church summer camp. Visiting for the week. Her parents were missionaries. You watched his eyes narrow as he shook her hand. She didn’t know how to fake it. Called him sir instead of Father, said yeah instead of yes and smiled too wide.

“Do they do this every week?” she muttered after the second hymn. “My knees are gonna dislocate.”

You elbowed her. She grinned.

She sat through the whole service. Even the sermon, which was about purity. About sin and temptation and “unnatural urges.” You didn’t look at her once. Not when your palms started sweating. Not when your stomach rolled. Not when the priest said the flesh deceives and the Lord knows what lives in the dark corners of the heart.

She was silent beside you.

Afterwards, in the parking lot, she made it to the curb before vomiting behind a bush.

You rushed over. “Ellie—?”

She wiped her mouth, leaned against the tree, and said, “I think the sins just got baptized out of me.”

You stared.

She blinked up at you, then grinned. “Too soon?”

You didn’t want to laugh. But you did. Just a little. Your hand flew to your mouth, but the sound had already escaped. It felt wrong, too bright, like laughing in a funeral home, but she looked so pleased with herself. So you let it happen. Let the laugh stay. Let her think it was okay. Even if you knew it wasn’t. Even if you’d kneel longer than ever that night. Even if you’d stare at your hands and wonder if they’d ever feel clean again.

Because sometimes, when she makes you smile, that feels like the biggest sin of all.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You’re back in Ellie’s room again. It’s a small, cluttered space. Posters peeling at the corners, clothes tossed over the chair and a faint smell of old sweat and something floral you can’t place. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes glued to the TV, fingers twitching over the controller as some dumb violent game blares out explosions and angry shouts.

You’re on the bed, knees tucked under a thin blanket, absorbed in one of your little books. The ones you hide away because they’re safer than a journal, but more private than any prayer. The words feel heavy tonight, like they’re sinking into your skin and sticking there, making you smaller. The pages smell like old paper and guilt.

Ellie keeps glancing over, biting her lip as if she wants to say something but doesn’t know how. After what feels like forever, the sound of her controller tapping stops. The game goes silent.

You look up just in time to see her crawling onto the bed, knees pressing into the mattress, hands brushing your book aside with a gentle thump. Your book lands open on the floor, pages fluttering.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, eyes wide and sheepish. “Didn’t mean to toss your book like that.”

You say nothing, heart already hammering. She scoots closer, her breath warm against your cheek. “Wanna kiss?”

Her voice is soft, hesitant, but she looks up at you with those earnest eyes, the kind that don’t lie. It’s almost like she’s asking permission but already knows the answer. Like she’s bracing herself, waiting for you to push her away, and daring you not to.

You nod.

She smiles, a little crooked and shy, then leans down. Her lips brush yours. Soft, tentative and unsure at first. But then she presses closer, like she’s pouring all her nervous energy and excitement into that kiss. Her hands find your waist, fingers curling gently.

Ellie straddles you on the bed, her knees pressing against your sides. You feel the weight of her. Solid, warm and real. And for a moment it’s like the world outside doesn’t exist. There’s only this small room, this shaky breath between you, this impossible thing that feels both wrong and so achingly right.

When you finally pull back, heart racing, you say, voice barely above a whisper, “My dad… he talked about them again.”

Ellie blinks, frowning. “Who?”

You swallow hard, words tasting like ash. “The monsters. Queers. Gays. Whatever they called it.”

She waits, silent.

“He said… they have to be exorcised. On the spot. If that doesn’t work… they get hanged.”

Your hands clutch the blanket, knuckles white. “Because that’s what they did back in the day. He said it like it was a story, but it’s not. It’s real. It’s his truth.”

Ellie’s fingers trace tiny circles on your arm, slow and steady. “That’s… fucked up.”

You bite your lip, ashamed. “I’m supposed to be holy. To be better. To never want this. But I do. I want you.”

She looks at you, eyes soft but firm. “Then you’re already braver than anyone who talks like that.”

You close your eyes, swallowing the lump in your throat. The shame, the fear, the love, twisting into one unbearable knot.

Ellie’s voice breaks the silence again, quieter this time, almost a whisper. “I’m not some monster. And neither are you.”

Her hands squeeze yours. You want to believe her. You want to be free of the chains that bind you in darkness.

But tonight, the weight of his words still hangs heavy, like a noose tightening around your chest. And yet, here you are. With Ellie. Straddling your doubts and fears and sins. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to keep going.

Ellie’s lips pressed harder against yours, like she was trying to swallow every sound you could make, every breath you tried to catch. Your heart hammered, too fast and too loud as her fingers tangled clumsily in the hem of your skirt, tugging it up like she was afraid someone might walk in and ruin the moment. You wanted to pull back, to tell her to slow down, but the words tangled in your throat and she had that wild, desperate look in her eyes. Like she was trying to convince herself this was okay, too.

When her fingers brushed the delicate white lace of your panties, you froze. The soft gasp she made against your mouth was almost embarrassing in how raw it was.

“I thought you only wore those big granny panties,” she joked breathlessly, voice low and rough, but the teasing was laced with something softer, something that felt like awe. You wanted to slap her for it. The insult stung, but so did the heat pooling deep inside you. Instead, she laughed quietly, a little breathless, and her mouth found yours again, softer this time, but just as urgent.

Ellie didn’t wait for permission, not in the way most people did. She hovered, breath warm and uneven, eyes searching yours like she was waiting for you to flinch, to pull away, to say no. But you didn’t. Couldn’t. You only gripped the edge of the blanket tighter, heart pounding like it was trying to claw its way out. And that was enough for her.

She exhaled shakily, then leaned down and let a slow string of spit fall onto the damp lace stretched between your legs. The heat of it landed like a brand. You twitched, half reflex, half instinct, but you didn’t move away. Couldn’t move at all. Not when her lips pressed right against the soaked fabric, kissing through it like it was the only thing tethering her to earth. Her breath was hot, humid, and every slow stroke of her tongue made your thighs clench involuntarily.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed between kisses, her voice cracking like she was trying to hold something in. “I shouldn’t. I mean... I didn’t even ask—” Her lips trailed lower again, mouthing along the seam of your panties, nosing in gently where you were soaked. “Please don’t hate me. I just—God, you’re so beautiful.”

You opened your mouth to speak but all you could do was pant, shaky and too aware of the wetness she was licking through. Her tongue flattened against you, pressing the lace tight to your swollen clit. The friction made you jolt, one hand flying up to your chest where you gripped the small silver cross hanging there, knuckles white.

You didn’t know if you were grounding yourself or begging for forgiveness. Maybe both.

Ellie’s voice broke again, muffled against the fabric. “Tell me to stop if this feels wrong.” She looked up, lips slick, eyes wide and afraid, but never greedy. Never cruel. “I swear, I’ll stop.”

Your answer came out hoarse, nearly inaudible. “Don’t stop.”

She blinked, stunned for a second, like she hadn’t expected you to say it. Then her mouth returned with purpose, licking a long, slow stripe up your center, the lace warm and clinging now from your slick and her spit. She moaned quietly into it, a helpless sound, grinding her own hips softly into the mattress as if the taste of you through the fabric was too much to bear.

“Fuck,” she whispered, exhaling hard against you. “You smell so good. You’re so wet, I can feel it through everything.”

Her hands slipped under your thighs, lifting and pushing them apart a little further. Then her tongue pressed hard against your clit again, this time slow and dragging. You gasped, back arching slightly. The lace only made it worse, better, trapping the slickness against you, making every lick feel twice as intense.

Her hand slid up your side, cautious and reverent, until her palm cupped your breast through your top. She hesitated, then gave a soft squeeze, her thumb brushing over your nipple in slow circles. The dual sensation, her mouth below and her hand above, made your breath catch in your throat.

“I want to take these off,” she murmured, voice low, face still pressed to the heat between your thighs. “Only if you say yes.”

You nodded too quickly, breathless, voice cracked. “Yes. Please.”

Her fingers hooked into the waistband, dragging the lace down slowly, watching every inch of you like it was sacred. Once they were off, she settled back between your thighs with a look that was almost reverent. Then she licked you for real, no barrier, no hesitation, just slow, firm strokes from base to clit that made your legs shake.

Her arms wrapped around your thighs as if anchoring herself there, her mouth working you open with a kind of trembling hunger that didn’t feel greedy, just desperate. Needy. She moaned into you, lips wet, tongue flicking and curling until your fingers threaded into her hair, holding her there, not guiding, just needing.

“Ellie—” you gasped, hips twitching as she sucked your clit into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it gently before letting go. She looked up, lips shiny, cheeks flushed, breath coming fast.

“Tell me what you want,” she said, voice thick. “Please. I don’t want to mess this up.”

Your chest rose and fell with shallow, shaking breaths. “Just don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

She smiled then, shy, a little broken, but beautiful, and kissed the inside of your thigh. “Not a chance.”

And then she went back to licking you like it was the only thing keeping her alive.

You weren’t sure when you started whispering it. Maybe when her tongue circled your clit just right, when your hips lifted off the bed in slow, involuntary jerks. Maybe it was when your vision started to blur, when the pleasure hit too deep, too holy. But the words came anyway, half-breathed, half-prayed.

“Forgive me… oh God, forgive me…”

Your fingers gripped the cross around your neck like a lifeline, like if you held it tight enough, it would tether you to something pure. But Ellie’s tongue was still moving in slow, deliberate strokes, dragging from your entrance up to your clit and back again, licking like she was savoring every drop.

Ellie groaned against you, the sound vibrating through her mouth. Her grip around your thighs tightened like she needed to hold you there, to keep you from slipping out of her grasp. She pulled back only far enough to murmur, breathless and raw, “Can I use my fingers? Please. I want to feel you.”

You nodded hard, chest heaving. “Yes. Please.”

Your panties were already on the floor, forgotten. Ellie sat up just enough to watch your face as her hand slid between your legs. Her fingers found you easily. Everything slick, everything aching. She teased at your entrance first, rubbing slow circles, then slipping one finger inside with careful pressure.

The stretch made your jaw fall open. You gasped, thighs twitching around her wrist.

“Jesus,” she whispered, eyes locked on the place where her finger disappeared into you. “You’re so tight… fuck, you’re clenching so hard already.”

You whimpered, trying to breathe through it, your hand still fisted around the cross like it might save you. “I-I shouldn’t want this,” you choked. “I’m not—I can’t—”

But she kissed your inner thigh again, lips hot and soft and full of something too tender to be wrong. “You do,” she whispered. “You do want it. It’s okay.”

Then she pushed in deeper, curling her finger slow and sure, her thumb brushing against your clit like a benediction. You cried out, a soft, strangled sound, legs kicking weakly. The shame twisted deeper, but so did the need. You couldn’t stop it, couldn’t even slow it down.

Another breathless prayer left your lips. “God, please. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

Ellie pressed a second finger to your entrance, testing. “Can I?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes—yes, please, I want it.”

She slid it in beside the first, your body stretching around her, slick and desperate. The fullness made your eyes roll back. She fucked you slow at first, curling her fingers inside with gentle, precise pressure. Her thumb never left your clit, rubbing slow circles, syncing with every thrust until you were trembling apart under her.

You couldn’t stop the way your hips moved, chasing it. Couldn’t stop the way your voice broke again and again. “Forgive me,” you whispered. “God, forgive me, I can’t stop—”

“I don’t want you to stop,” Ellie said, voice wrecked and sweet. “I want you like this.”

And you let her want you. Your legs shaking, your mouth open on gasped prayers and curses and her name. Her name. You said it like you needed it to survive.

“Ellie, please—”

“I’ve got you,” she breathed, kissing your thigh, your hip, your stomach. “You’re doing so good. Let go for me. Just let go.”

Her fingers fucked you faster, deeper, the rhythm sweet and devastating, wet sounds filling the room as you clenched down hard around her. Her mouth returned to your clit. Licking, sucking and her tongue flicking with just enough pressure to tip you right over.

You came with a sob, body arching, hand fisted tight in her hair, the other still clutching your cross. It was too much, too good, too close to something divine. Your whole body pulsed around her fingers as she fucked you through it, never letting up, her tongue dragging you deeper into it.

When it finally slowed, when your legs fell open and your breath came in broken gasps, Ellie didn’t move right away. She rested her cheek against your thigh, lips brushing your skin like a thank-you. Her fingers slid out slow, your slick coating them, her hand trembling just like yours.

You looked down at her, skin flushed, pupils blown wide, and she looked up like she wasn’t sure if she’d done something wrong or holy.

You didn’t know either. But you reached for her with shaky arms, dragging her up into a kiss. She tasted like you, sweet and raw, and you kissed her like you were still falling, still asking to be saved. “Don’t leave,” you whispered.

Her hand found yours and squeezed “Never.” And for the first time, you stopped apologizing for how much you wanted her.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The next morning, the car hummed steadily down the quiet road, the windows rolled up tight against the fading chill of evening. Ellie sat beside you in the backseat, tapping her fingers anxiously against her knee while Joel drove ahead with calm focus. You kept your hands folded tightly in your lap, your thoughts swirling like a storm behind your eyes.

Then, without warning, Ellie’s voice broke the silence. “Hey, Dad,” she said, a hint of pride threading her words, “I ate her out for the first time last night.”

The sentence landed between you like a slap. Your breath caught. Your heart felt like it had suddenly tripled its beat rate, pounding so hard you were certain Joel could hear it, even from the front seat.

Joel’s hand gripped the steering wheel a moment longer, and then, to your utter disbelief, he let out a low, amused chuckle and said without missing a beat, “Good for you, kid.”

You blinked. You were caught somewhere between shock and bafflement. You’d expected anger. Disappointment. A sermon. But Joel just hummed softly to himself and kept driving like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Ellie gave you a sly grin, eyes shining with mischief. She didn’t look at you directly, but the subtle wink she shot your way said everything, this was exactly the kind of rebellion she loved.

You wanted to say something, maybe protest or explain, but the words jammed in your throat. You clenched your fists tight in your lap, the silence stretching out and filling every inch of the car.

When the car pulled up in front of your house, you were shaking. Not from cold, but from the weight of everything, the secrecy, the thrill, the guilt.

You stepped inside and made a beeline for the bathroom, locking the door behind you with a soft click.

The harsh bathroom light flickered on, unforgiving and clinical. You stood in front of the mirror, staring at your reflection. Your face was pale, eyes wide and haunted.

Slowly, trembling, you peeled off your clothes. Each piece that dropped to the floor felt like shedding another layer of sin.

You turned on the cold water, splashing your face again and again, scrubbing your arms and shoulders with rough soap until your skin burned red, raw from the friction.

“Please,” you whispered, voice trembling, “forgive me. I’m so sorry.”

You couldn’t stop the tears that slid down your cheeks, mixing with the cold water.

Later that night, you knelt on the hardwood floor of your room, hands folded tightly in prayer. “God,” you begged into the silence, “please have mercy on me. I don’t know what to do. I’m so scared I’m going to lose everything.”

The moonlight filtered softly through your curtains, casting gentle shadows that flickered like spirits dancing on the walls.

The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, you slipped out of your room and quietly made your way to the church. The stone walls towered above you, ancient and sacred. You breathed in the scent of incense and old wood, a bittersweet comfort. Inside the dim confession room, you knelt alone, clutching your rosary, the cold kneeler pressing into your knees.

The door creaked softly, and a voice, calm and steady, greeted you.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a day since my last confession.” You hesitated, then began to pour out everything; the secret relationship, the stolen kisses, the sinful touches.

You confessed the shame that wrapped around your heart like chains, the fear of your father’s judgment, the nights you spent scrubbing yourself raw, begging for mercy.

The priest listened silently, his presence steady and kind. After a long pause, he spoke, voice low and gentle. “You carry a heavy burden, child. But there is no sin too great to be forgiven. But you must learn to forgive yourself as well.”

Tears stung your eyes. “I don’t know if I can,” you whispered.

“Grace is not about never falling,” he said gently. “It is about rising again, each time you stumble.”

You stayed quiet, feeling the weight of his words settle over you like a fragile shield.

“Go in peace,” he said finally, “and remember God’s love is wider than any fear or shame.”

You left the confession booth trembling, stepping back into the vast, silent church. Outside, the world felt both impossibly large and suffocatingly small, caught between the person you were and the person you wanted to be.

But somewhere deep inside, a small flicker of hope stirred. Fragile, uncertain, but alive.

When you came back home around 2 hours after your confession, you didn’t even make it past the threshold. The moment the front door creaked open, your father stood in the entryway, his silhouette stark against the hall light behind him. Your mother, pale and silent, stood just a few steps back, clutching her rosary like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to Earth.

You’d barely muttered a soft “Hi” when your father’s hand slammed against the doorframe.

“Whore,” he said. Not a whisper. Not a yell. Just a cold, measured word spat like poison from between clenched teeth.

Your heart stopped. “What?” you asked, your voice suddenly small, the syllable catching in your throat.

“You think you can go crawling into bed with a girl—” he hissed the word like it burned his tongue, “—a dyke, and walk back into this house like nothing happened? Like we’re fools?”

Your mother looked away. She didn’t cry. Didn’t speak. She just gripped her rosary tighter until her knuckles turned white.

You tried to speak, tried to form the word no, or maybe I’m sorry, or maybe just please, but you didn’t get the chance. Your father’s hand wrapped around your wrist, yanking you hard enough to make your knees buckle. Your shoes scuffed against the tile floor as he dragged you forward.

“Please,” you said breathlessly, stumbling after him, “I—Dad, please—”

“Don’t call me that,” he barked, spinning on you so fast you nearly crashed into him.

They didn’t let you go upstairs. Didn’t let you sit down. Didn’t let you breathe. You were shoved into the car. Not a word spoken on the drive. Your father’s hands white-knuckled around the wheel. Your mother quietly reciting a prayer under her breath. The same prayer she used when someone died.

The church was open when you arrived. Of course it was. The sanctuary glowed dimly with candlelight, the pews empty, cold, waiting. You knew then that this had been planned.

Your footsteps echoed loudly as they pulled you down the aisle, past the altar, past the statue of the Virgin Mary whose eyes seemed to follow you like she knew what you had done. You were taken into the back, the air thick with incense and something else. Oil, you realized. You could smell it. Holy water. Salt. Burnt herbs. A room with a wooden table and a white cloth spread out like something from a hospital. But it wasn’t mercy they had in store for you.

“Get on your knees,” your father ordered.

You obeyed.

He began the prayers. The priest stepped forward a few minutes later, his voice smooth and familiar. You looked up, only once, and felt your stomach drop. It was him. The one you had confessed to just this morning. The one whose voice had seemed kind behind that curtain.

“Do not look at me,” he said.

You stared back down at the floor.

The prayers began slowly. Latin. Holy water flicked over your face. Salt rubbed along your skin. Your mother clutching a crucifix and whispering tearfully, “She doesn’t mean it, Lord, she doesn’t mean it.”

And then the real part began. The shame. The pain.

The priest’s voice hardened. Words like demon, perversion, unclean, unnatural spat out between sacred verses. At one point they forced your mouth open to drip oil on your tongue, said it would cleanse the filth, make you pure again. You gagged. Coughed. Your chest heaving, eyes tearing.

The oil burned your throat.

Your wrists were held down when you tried to get up. Your father’s hands tight around your arms. Not bruising. But close.

“Please,” you sobbed. “Please stop—please, I’ll change, I’ll be good, I’ll—”

“You lied in the house of the Lord,” the priest snarled. “You let that girl touch you, defile you. You brought evil into your soul willingly.”

He knew everything. Every detail. Every touch. Every word you had whispered through tears in the confessional, believing you were safe. You had trusted him.

And he’d gone straight to your father.

You cried until your body shook. You whispered sorry a hundred times. You clawed at your own skin, your arms, your thighs, like you could dig the sin out with your nails. You wanted it gone. You wanted to be clean.

Your father finally let go. You collapsed onto the church floor, chest heaving, salt stinging your eyes.

“Don’t let her back into the house,” the priest said coldly. “Not until she’s ready to truly repent.”

And your father, your father, nodded.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You hadn’t answered a single one of ellie’s messages. Not the “hey,” not the “are you mad at me,” not even the dumb meme she sent around midnight of some T-rex in sunglasses holding a Bible.

You sat in homeroom with your hands folded neatly on your desk, spine rigid, jaw clenched so tightly you were starting to taste blood. You didn’t look at her. Not once. Not when she passed you in the hall. Not when she slowed beside your locker like she wanted to say something but didn’t. You couldn’t. You didn’t know what would happen if you did. Maybe you'd cry. Maybe you'd scream. Maybe you’d beg her to erase the memory of her mouth on your body, of your own voice moaning in a stranger’s house, in sin.

Ellie didn’t push. Not right away. She gave you the space you clearly wanted. She didn’t even try to sit next to you at lunch.

But you caught her looking.

Every time you dropped your gaze. You couldn’t hold her eyes without feeling the sting of oil burning your tongue again.

By last period, she snapped. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just, Ellie. Quiet, clumsy, sincere. The way she always was.

She caught you by the side entrance, between the gym building and the old boiler room no one ever used. A blind spot. No one ever came back here. You froze when you heard her footsteps, but didn’t run.

“Hey,” she said, hands stuffed into her hoodie, thumb nervously flicking at a frayed seam near the cuff. “You’re, uh, ignoring me?”

You said nothing.

“I figured you’d be pissed,” she said, trying for lightness. “’Cause of the, you know… sex thing. I know I was kinda forward. I was kinda expecting the silent treatment, but—”

You choked. Literally choked on your own breath. She stopped talking.

You covered your face with your hands, but the sob came out anyway. Wretched and wet and humiliating. You turned toward the wall, shoulders shaking. “I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I’m—I didn’t mean to ignore you, I just—”

“Woah, woah,” she stepped closer, alarm spreading over her face, “Hey. Hey, it’s okay, look at me. Hey, what happened?”

You turned to her. Your voice cracked around the words. “My father knows.”

Her expression shifted in a second, something like fear, or guilt, or realization flickered in her eyes. She stepped even closer, instinctively reaching out but stopping short of touching you. “How?”

You shook your head, tears spilling now, hot and angry. “The priest. The one I—I confessed to. He recognized my voice. He told my dad everything.”

Ellie blinked. Her mouth fell open like she wanted to speak, but nothing came.

“They did—” You looked away, voice strangled. “They did something to me last night. Said it was an exorcism. Said I had to get the demon out.”

Ellie’s face went slack.

“They held me down, Ellie,” you whispered. “They poured oil in my mouth, they shoved salt in my skin. My own father told me I was possessed. He said I’m not welcome back in my own house until I stop loving you.”

Ellie’s breath caught. Her mouth opened. Then shut. Then opened again. “Jesus.”

She reached for you again and this time you let her. Her hands cupped your face, thumbs wiping at the salt-streaks across your cheeks. Her voice trembled. “You should’ve called me.”

“I couldn’t.”

She pulled you forward and you collapsed into her like a dying thing. Your head against her shoulder, her hoodie damp from your tears, her hand stroking the back of your neck without thinking. You could feel her trembling too.

“I thought I could make it right,” you whispered. “I prayed so hard. I said sorry so many times. But nothing, nothing, fixed it.”

Ellie didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, softly: “Come home with me.”

You pulled back. “I can’t skip school, I—”

“Fuck school.”

Her voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even loud. It was just… final. “Come home with me.”

So you did.

You didn’t even hesitate. You let her take your hand and lead you around the back of the school building, through the side lot where no one would see, all the way down the street to where Joel’s truck was parked out front of their small house with the dented mailbox and the dog who barked at every goddamn thing that moved.

Joel wasn’t home for at least another three hours.

Ellie shut the door behind you gently, like she knew you were still too fragile to hear anything loud. Then she tugged off her hoodie and tossed it on the couch, motioning for you to sit.

You stood. “Do you think I’m sick?” you asked, voice barely audible. “Do you think they’re right about me?”

Ellie walked toward you, slow and careful, and looked you right in the eye. “No,” she said. “I think they’re sick. And I think if God’s real, he’s crying seeing what they did to you.”

You couldn’t help it. Your knees gave out.

She caught you before you hit the floor, arms around your waist, forehead pressed against yours. “I don’t care if we never have sex again,” she whispered. “I don’t care if you never wanna kiss me again. I just wanna be next to you. I wanna make you feel safe. You deserve that.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. You just leaned into her, skin still raw, heart still burning, but held. Finally held.

“C’mon,” she whispered, touching your wrist so lightly it felt more like a suggestion than a grip. “Let’s go upstairs.”

You followed.

The hallway light flickered behind you as she led the way, steps creaking up the old wooden stairs, her hand trailing back once in a while to touch yours, to make sure you were still there. You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. The silence between you was heavy, but not suffocating. Not like home.

Her room smelled like clean sheets and faint weed smoke and something warm and sharp that was just… her. The fan in the corner ticked quietly, pushing humid air in lazy circles, and a pile of laundry sat forgotten in a chair, half-folded. She hadn’t expected company, clearly. But it didn’t matter. It was safe. It was hers.

You stood there, stiff, arms folded around yourself like armor, and she reached for you slowly. Palms open. No pressure. Just an invitation.

You stepped into her.

And she wrapped her arms around you like she’d been waiting to. Not tight, just enough to say I’ve got you. I’m here.

You melted into her without a word. Let her guide you backward until the backs of your knees hit the mattress and she pulled you down with her, curling around you in that soft, yellow-lit cocoon of her room. The ceiling fan clicked above you, the curtains drawn tight against the world. And her arms came around your waist like a blanket, like a prayer.

You buried your face into her neck, your skin still humming from earlier, your chest still tight from home.

She hadn’t said anything in ten, maybe twenty minutes now. Just kept kissing your hair, one hand stroking the back of your head and the other wrapped protectively around your waist, thumb brushing the fabric of your shirt in slow, quiet rhythms.

You couldn’t stop whispering. Couldn’t stop the soft, wet prayers that trembled out of you like blood. You didn’t even know who you were praying to anymore. Not really. Not after the way the cross around your neck had felt like it was burning. But you whispered anyway. Mouth trembling. Eyes shut. Repeating all the words you’d been taught to say since you were small, even if they didn’t hold meaning anymore. Even if they’d never held mercy.

“Forgive me,” you murmured again. “Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t want to be—”

Ellie didn’t interrupt. She didn’t shush you. Just held you tighter and pressed her mouth to your hair again and again, as if kissing could stitch something broken back together.

Her voice was so soft when she finally spoke. “You don’t have to say sorry for existing.”

That made you cry harder. Silently. Bitterly. The kind of cry that left your lungs shaking and your mouth clamped shut so tightly your jaw throbbed.

It was maybe ten minutes later when your fingers gripped the hem of her shirt.

You didn’t think about it. You weren’t even sure why you said it, just that it burst out of you with desperate heat, your voice hoarse and cracked and pleading: “Ellie. Please. Please fuck me.”

Her body stilled instantly. You felt it, how her breath hitched, how her hands froze against your back.

You lifted your head to look at her. Eyes swollen. Mouth raw. “I want to,” you whispered. “I want you to do it.”

Ellie stared at you like she didn’t know who you were for a second. Not because she was disgusted. Not because she didn’t want it. But because you’d never, ever, spoken to her like that. Your words were too deliberate, too raw, too broken. Your voice shook too much to sound flirtatious, and your eyes were too wet to mean it the way she knew you thought you did.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then finally said: “No.”

You blinked, dazed.

“No?” you echoed. “Why?”

“Because you’re not okay,” she said gently. “You think you want it, but this—” she motioned vaguely between you both, to your tear-drenched cheeks and trembling fingers “—this isn’t the part of you that wants me. It’s the part of you that’s hurting.”

You looked down. Embarrassed. Angry, maybe. But more than that, ashamed.

Ellie reached for your face and cupped it again with both hands, forcing you to look at her. “I want you,” she said, voice low and shaking. “You have no idea how much I want you. But not like this. Not when you’re gonna hate yourself for it after. Not when you’re still whispering prayers into my fucking shirt.”

A hiccuping sound escaped you. Something between a laugh and a sob. “Why are you always right?” you whispered.

Her forehead bumped yours. “Because you’re not.”

You both smiled, just for a second. Just barely. A thin little thread of something warm, even in the ache.

“I’m scared,” you admitted.

“I know.”

“I think I ruined my whole life.”

“You didn’t.”

You looked away, tears brimming again. “You don’t know that.”

“I know I’m still here,” she said softly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

You buried yourself in her arms again, dizzy and ashamed and safe.

And Ellie held you, quiet and close and warm, until your whispering stopped. Until your heartbeat slowed. Until you could breathe again.

The next morning you didn’t say much during the car ride back to your house. Ellie was curled beside you in the backseat, her arm lazily draped across your shoulders, her hoodie swallowing most of her body, the smell of her shampoo comforting in a way that made your eyes sting. Joel didn’t ask anything, didn’t make any comments. Just hummed quietly along to the radio, tapping the steering wheel. He gave you a small nod as you got out, his gaze warm but unreadable, like he knew more than he was letting on.

Inside, your house was too quiet. You could feel it before you even stepped through the front door.

Not the kind of quiet that meant peace, but a silence that crouched in every corner, tense and waiting.

Your mother sat at the kitchen table, thumbing a rosary bead by bead. She didn’t look up. Your father was already in the living room, Bible open in his lap, murmuring something about “the demons not releasing fully” and “evil lingering in the air.”

They didn’t ask where you’d been. Didn’t raise their voices or press you with questions. That made it worse. The stillness. The calm that wasn’t calm at all.

You smiled when they spoke to you, bowed your head when you passed them. You cleaned the plates after dinner even though no one asked. Said “yes, sir” and “thank you, ma’am” and didn’t let your hands shake too much when your father rested his palm on your shoulder and said, “I scheduled you to meet with Pastor Elijah again this week. He’s found a young man who’s just returned from mission work. A real good influence, I think.”

You nodded. You even smiled. It hurt like something ripping.

Upstairs, your room was too tidy. You made your bed twice. Rearranged your bookshelf alphabetically. Scrubbed under your fingernails and checked the crucifix over your door to make sure it hadn’t tilted.

You were shaking. But not from fear. From how calm you felt.

The night folded in on itself. You didn’t cry. You didn’t speak.

You knelt one final time, right beside the bed. Your knees found the spot they always did, soft in the carpet from years of prayer, and your hands folded automatically, trembling as you whispered your apology to God. Again. And again. And again.

When you rose, you sat at your desk. Opened your drawer and pulled out the nicest paper you owned. You didn’t rush. You took your time. Chose a pen that wouldn’t bleed through. Drew the little margins just like you’d been taught in school, and began to write.

Not fast. Not panicked. Just steady. Just quiet. Just careful. The room was too silent for anything else. And you kept writing.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You didn’t show up to school the next day.

You didn’t wait for Ellie like you always did, leaning against your locker with that quiet, half-sleepy smile and your hair still a little damp from your rushed morning shower. You didn’t wave when you saw her coming down the hall. You weren’t there at all.

And for once, the silence hit harder than anything else.

Ellie sat alone at her locker, her foot tapping restlessly against the tile, twisting her phone in her hands. She kept looking up, every few seconds, hoping to see you turn the corner, late but grinning, maybe mouthing “don’t ask” about some dumb excuse. But the hallway kept emptying out. First period was about to start. The bell rang. Still no sign of you.

She swallowed the rising tightness in her chest. Her thumb hovered over her screen again, nerves buzzing like static under her skin. She still hadn’t gotten a reply. And she kept rereading the last thing she’d sent. It was from early that morning.

“Good morning. i had a dream about you and now i’m mad you’re not here to finish it >:( please wear that dumb shirt i like. i’ll make fun of it but also stare at your tits the whole time. also ur coming over after, no excuses x”

It had been flirty, soft. Normal. She’d woken up smiling when she wrote it. But now? Now she just stared at that message, the little “delivered” tag mocking her. No response. No “typing…” bubble. Just silence.

Something wasn’t right. Ellie bit the inside of her cheek. Her knee bounced. She tried to brush it off, tried to tell herself maybe you were sick, maybe your phone died, but deep down, her gut twisted hard. This didn’t feel like nothing.

Finally, after hesitating too long, she typed another message.

“Hey… where are you? Didn’t see you this morning.”

No reply.

First period ended, and Ellie’s nerves spiked. Her stomach churned as she lingered by the lockers, phone clutched in her hand like it might suddenly light up with everything she needed to hear. She glanced down again, thumb hovering, then finally typed another message, her fingers trembling as she hit send.

“Okay, you’re not here. This isn’t like you. Are you okay?”

Still nothing.

Second period started, and Ellie’s heart felt heavier with every passing minute. She glanced at the classroom doorway, half expecting you to walk through. But you didn’t. The hallway was full of other students, but none of them were you. None of them were the person she cared about most.

Her texts began to pour out, a flood of worry and confusion.

“Please reply. I’m really worried.”

“Did something happen? Did I do something wrong?”

“If you’re upset or angry, please just tell me. I can handle it. Just don’t leave me in the dark.”

“I’m at school. Waiting for you. Please say something.”

Her voice, usually light and teasing, was gone, replaced by something raw and fragile.

She swallowed hard, blinking away tears that threatened to fall, then sent another desperate message.

“If you’re ignoring me, I’ll understand… but please don’t make me worry like this.”

The bell for third period rang, but Ellie barely noticed. The cafeteria, the noise, the people, it all blurred around her. She was consumed by the gnawing ache of your absence.

Her phone buzzed once more, this time, a message from a friend asking if she was okay. She didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed glued to the screen, waiting for a sign from you.

Finally, with trembling fingers, she typed again.

“Please. I just want to know you’re safe.”

The day stretched on, each moment heavier than the last. Homeroom started like any other day, but the atmosphere quickly shifted. The classroom door swung open, and the teacher stepped in, sweat gleaming on his forehead, his usual composed demeanor shattered. His eyes darted around, avoiding contact. He cleared his throat, voice trembling as he spoke.

“Class… I have some very difficult news,” he said, struggling to keep steady. “Last night… one of your classmates… she hung herself.”

The words hit the room like a storm. A suffocating silence fell over the students. A few gasps, whispered prayers, and then it clicked. It was you. You.

Ellie’s world tilted and then crumbled. Her breath caught in her throat, chest tightening unbearably. She barely registered the chaos around her, only the raw, unbearable truth that you were gone. She felt her knees weaken, eyes blurring with tears. Dina was immediately by her side, wrapping strong arms around Ellie, shielding her from the shock that threatened to consume her completely.

“Ellie, breathe. I’m here,” Dina whispered, holding her close as her whole body shook.

The teacher’s voice cut through the haze. “Ellie, the principal needs to see you. It’s about… about a letter she left.”

With trembling hands, Ellie followed, every step feeling heavier, like walking underwater. At the principal’s office, the stern-faced principal handed her a thick envelope sealed with your neat handwriting.

“The police found these,” the principal said quietly, “Three letters in total. One addressed to her mother, one to her father, and… one for you.”

Ellie’s fingers trembled as she broke the seal. She pulled out the letter, hands shaking so badly she almost dropped it.

Her eyes scanned the words, and the tears fell uncontrollably as she read:

My dearest Ellie,

If you're holding this letter in your hands, then I’ve already gone where I hope there is no more fire. No more trembling. No more nights where I lie awake begging the heavens to make me whole. I’m sorry. I don’t even know where to begin, how to explain what this weight has done to me. All I know is that I tried, Ellie. I really tried. I prayed until my knees went numb, until my voice cracked and the salt from my tears soaked through my pillow and burned my skin.

But nothing came. No answer. No mercy. Just silence. And shame.

I want you to know, with every ounce of love that’s ever lived in me, that this was never your fault. You weren’t the reason I broke. You were the only reason I ever felt unbroken at all. You were my safe place, my breath of air after hours underwater. I think maybe you were the only truly holy thing I ever touched in this life.

But the world around us… it wasn’t kind. My parents looked at me like I was already halfway to Hell, and I started to believe them. I started to believe I was something that needed to be cleansed, fixed, sacrificed. They wrapped their love in fear and called it God. And I followed them, hoping that if I tried hard enough, if I just hurt enough, He’d see I was serious about being saved.

But I was so tired, Ellie. So unbelievably tired. Of the guilt. The fear. Of waking up every morning knowing that to survive meant lying to everyone, even to myself. I was tired of looking at the girl I loved and feeling like the whole sky would fall down on me if anyone knew. Tired of praying to be made different, to be washed clean, when the love I felt with you was the only thing in my life that ever felt clean.

I didn't want to be forced into that life they kept carving out for me. A life with a boy I didn’t love, a wedding dress I’d feel like a ghost inside, a family built on a foundation I couldn’t survive. I didn’t want to lie anymore. Not to God, not to them, not to you.

And I especially didn’t want to live in a world without you in it.

Ellie, I hope you remember how your laugh used to bounce off the walls when we watched those dumb cartoons. I hope you remember how you’d tap your fingers when you were nervous, and how I used to cover your hand with mine to steady you. I hope you remember the first time we kissed, how afraid I was, and how you just looked at me like I was the whole sky. Like I was something to be loved. I never felt closer to heaven than I did in that moment.

But heaven still felt locked to me. Closed. Like no matter how hard I knocked, I was too dirty to be let in.

Do you think He’ll let me in now? I don’t know. I hope He’s more merciful than His followers. I hope He sees that I only wanted to be good. That I only wanted to be loved without having to bleed for it.

They always said God is love, didn’t they? Then why did love feel like a curse in me? Why did it hurt so much to hold your hand, to dream of a life with you, to imagine growing old beside you in a world where we didn’t have to hide? I loved you with a heart that never stopped begging to be accepted, Ellie. And when it wasn’t, I just couldn’t keep walking around in a body that felt more like punishment than promise.

I hope someday you’ll forgive me. I hope you’ll laugh again. I hope you’ll fall in love again, and I hope that love is loud and shameless and full of sunlight. I hope no one ever makes you feel like you have to earn your place on this earth. I hope you tell stories about us when you're ready. I hope you feel me with you when the stars come out and you find yourself still looking for me in the quiet.

Please live, Ellie. Live fiercely. Live with both hands open and your heart unhidden. I wasn’t strong enough. But you are. You always were.

And if there's a heaven, I’ll be waiting. Watching over you. Praying that somehow, somewhere, God lets me hold your hand again.

I love you. In this life, and whatever comes after.

Forever,

Me

Ellie’s sobs exploded, raw and desperate. The walls of the principal’s office seemed to close in, the weight of your pain crushing her spirit. She collapsed into a heap on the floor, clutching the letter like it was the last piece of you left in the world.

Joel, was quickly called to come pick his daughter up. He arrived quickly, worry etched into every line on his face. Without a word, he wrapped Ellie in a firm embrace, letting her cry into his chest as the world around them shattered.

Ellie didn’t set foot in school for weeks after. Joel had been surprisingly understanding. He knew how raw everything was for her, how impossible it felt to face those halls without you there. She barely left her room, hardly answered her phone, and the world felt like a dull, hollow place without you in it.

When the funeral was announced, Ellie had been ready. She had saved every penny she had, bought a suit that wasn’t perfect, but was decent enough. A black jacket, a crisp white shirt, the kind of thing she never imagined needing. She wanted to be there for you, to say goodbye one last time.

But your parents forbade it. “It’s not appropriate,” they said coldly, their eyes hard as stone. “She’s not family. This isn’t her place.” Ellie had begged, pleaded, even sent a note she never got a chance to read aloud. They shut the door on her, and the weight of that rejection shattered something inside her. She couldn’t even bring herself to go to your funeral, not knowing you were lying there, gone forever, while she was kept outside.

For months, Ellie avoided your cemetery like it was poison. Every time she thought of going, panic would coil in her stomach. She imagined your parents seeing her, judging her again, pushing her away. So she stayed away, the silence growing louder in her chest.

Then, one gray, chilly morning a couple months later, Ellie finally showed up.

She didn’t bring flowers. She didn’t have anything shiny or perfect. Instead, in her hands was a worn copy of that stupid PG-13 movie you’d been too scared to watch, the one you’d finally braved with her, half laughing, half hiding behind your hands as the cheesy love scenes played out.

She stood by your grave, eyes scanning the simple stone etched with your name. The wind tangled her hair, and for a long moment, she just stood there, the DVD case pressed tight against her chest.

“Hey,” she whispered, voice shaky, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I wanted to come earlier but... I was scared, okay? Your parents didn’t want me there. I guess I get it, but it still fucking hurts.” She took a deep breath, wiping away a tear that slipped down her cheek.

“I miss you so much. I’ve been trying to keep going, but it feels like a part of me went with you. I wish… I wish you could’ve run away with me. Just left it all behind, you and me, somewhere far from all this. But you’re not here, and I’m stuck with all this.” She crouched down, her fingers brushing the cool stone. “I’ve been talking to you every day. Like you can hear me.”

Her voice broke as she started telling you about everything she’d been through since you left. The nights she cried herself to sleep, the little victories she held onto, the way people didn’t laugh at her anymore. Hours passed unnoticed, the sun dipping low, the sky bleeding orange and purple. She didn’t want to leave, but the cold was creeping in, and the cemetery was quiet except for her soft voice.

When she came back the next time, the DVD was gone, probably taken by your parents, who maybe didn’t want you remembered like that. Ellie fell to her knees in front of your grave, the emptiness heavier now without that small piece of you. For almost an hour, she sobbed, letting the grief pour out until she had no tears left.

Then, wiping her face on her sleeve, she whispered again, “I’m still here, you know? I’m still trying to be brave. For you. For us.”

Her voice cracked but carried the fierce determination you’d always seen in her, the kind of stubborn love that refuses to fade.

“I love you, always.”

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Slowly, like the first fragile shoots of spring breaking through frozen earth, Ellie began to find her footing again. The world, once a dark and endless void without you, started to hold moments of light. Small and hesitant, but real. She kept talking to you, always, but the sharp edges of pain softened into a quiet tenderness, a bittersweet memory she could carry without being crushed by it.

One afternoon, months after her long visits to your grave had become less frequent but no less sacred, Ellie sat beside your grave and whispered, “Guess what? I got accepted into the college I wanted.”

Her voice trembled with the kind of hope that had once felt impossible to feel. She laughed softly, “You’d be proud. I’m going to do this. Live, learn, maybe even be happy.”

Then came another surprise. Ellie found love again. Not the reckless, desperate kind she’d clung to before, but something steady and kind. Her girlfriend understood the piece of you that Ellie carried deep inside her heart, the part that never faded or fully healed. Instead of jealousy, there was respect, an unspoken promise that you would always be a part of their lives.

When her girlfriend found out she was pregnant, the joy in Ellie’s eyes was like sunlight piercing through clouds. They decided to name their child after you. A way to keep your memory alive, to weave your name and spirit into the future. It wasn’t about obsession anymore; it was about honoring a love that shaped them, that refused to be erased.

Years passed. When the child was old enough to understand, Ellie took her hand and led her to your grave. She knelt down, brushing dirt from the stone as she spoke softly, telling stories of you. Your laughter, your kindness, your quiet strength. She made sure your story lived on, in gentle words and loving memories, a legacy of grace and heartbreak and unbreakable love.

“Here’s someone who loves you too,” Ellie would say, her voice thick with emotion. “She carries your name, your light. We won’t let her story end, not really.”

And in that sacred space, beneath open skies and whispered prayers, the past and present mingled, a bittersweet harmony of loss and hope, pain and healing, a love that transcended even the deepest darkness.

Thank you for reading! <3

[elliessickhabits]

Final Destination: The Last Wave part 4!

Ellie Williams x Reader

Part 1. / Part 2. / Part 3. / Part 4. / More?…

CW; trauma, grief, emotional distress, self-blame, anxiety, graphic death, gore, grief, emotional breakdowns, implied ptsd, guilt, vomiting, blood, comfort after conflict, brief self-hatred, descriptions of mutilation, panic response, mention of nipples. !Please proceed carefully if you are sensitive to disaster scenarios, graphic violence, or sudden character deaths. Reader discretion is strongly advised. ≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼!

Summary; this fic follows a college trip to a new aquarium that quickly turns deadly. Tanks collapse, predators escape, and fate’s deadly design unfolds with brutal, terrifying twists. Can anyone survive when death’s coming for them all?

Notes; PART FOUR IS HEREEEE!!! This might actually be the best chapter yet ngl. Got way deeper into the grief this time since there’s less people to juggle LMAOO, oh well. Hope you enjoy it!! Like I said, no major NSFW between reader and Ellie in this fic >_< just a tiny mention of nipples oops.

Word count; 7,9k

Taglist; @gogolsbf @angelaut0matec

Dina paced back and forth across the cramped living room, the worn wooden floor creaking softly beneath her boots. Her fingers twitched, clutching her phone with a desperate grip that made the screen almost crack. “I shouldn’t have—” she started again, voice shaking, eyes darting around like she was searching for answers in the peeling wallpaper. “I shouldn’t have broken up with him. Jesse would’ve been here. He would’ve been here with us, with you. With everyone.”

Her voice cracked, raw with regret and a strange kind of longing that made your chest tighten painfully. She ran a hand through her tangled hair and let out a bitter laugh, bitter enough to sting.

Ellie sat cross-legged on the threadbare couch, her eyes soft but tired. She had been trying to comfort Joel, who sat opposite her, his jaw clenched tight, hands folded on his lap as if willing himself into silence.

Joel grunted low in the back of his throat, not really joining the conversation but clearly present. “Tommy… he’d have handled this better,” he muttered, voice rough and fatherly. “We all got our ways, but that guy... he didn’t shy away.”

Ellie nodded, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her eyes flicking between Joel and Dina. “Yeah, I get that. But right now, we gotta focus on getting through this. Together.”

Joel just grumbled in response, shaking his head like some invisible weight was pinning him down. He wasn’t the type to say much, especially about feelings, but Ellie knew him well enough to see the pain in his eyes.

Meanwhile, Dina’s pacing grew frantic. She was circling the room again, phone now clutched in both hands like a lifeline. “I’m gonna call him again.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but urgent.

You watched as she fumbled with the phone, fingers dialing Jesse’s number again and again. No answer.

“Maybe he’s busy,” you offered softly, trying to keep the tension out of your voice.

Dina stopped pacing for a moment, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. “Busy? He’s always busy when it matters. But if he cared...” Her voice trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished but heavy with accusation.

Ellie stood and moved over to Dina, laying a steady hand on her shoulder. “Hey, hey. We’re all trying here.”

Joel shifted in his chair and grunted, “Let him be. People gotta figure their shit out on their own.”

Dina’s eyes flashed, frustration bubbling over. “Yeah, well, maybe if he answered, he could help figure some of this shit out.”

Ellie swallowed, glancing at you. The silence stretched until the old, battered mailbox outside creaked open with a loud clank. A newspaper thudded against the floorboards near the door.

You moved over and picked it up, squinting at the headlines. The letters were huge and bold: PARTYGOERS, IT’S THE PERFECT WEATHER FOR A PARTY!

“What the hell...” you muttered, flipping it over slowly, before turning it back once again. The headline changed abruptly to a chaotic police chase with blurry images of speeding cars.

“Party,” Dina whispered, voice breaking. “That bastard. Jesse’s at a fucking party.”

Ellie’s eyes narrowed, lips pressed tight. “Figures. Like he’s got nothing to worry about.”

Joel snorted, a dry, humorless sound. “Never cared much for parties anyway.”

Dina called Jesse again, but only got to his voicemail. God why is this man so stupid?!

Ellie pulled out her phone too, fingers flying as she sent messages. “I’m texting him again. Maybe if enough of us reach out...”

Joel grunted. “I already tried. No use.”

You pulled out your phone, calling Jesse one last time, heart pounding in your chest. No answer. No voicemail. It was like he’d disappeared.

Dina’s frustration turned darker. “I even sent him a—” she swallowed, cheeks flushing, “a sext. Just... something to get his attention. To make him come back.”

Ellie’s eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t say anything. She knew desperation when she saw it.

Joel gave a low, humorless chuckle. “You kids are something else.”

You looked at all of them, the tension thick in the air, the quiet desperation hanging like smoke. Jesse was out there, unreachable, and the whole house felt like it was waiting on a ticking clock that no one dared to look at.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The room was hazy, thick with smoke and laughter, the bass thumping low through the floorboards. Jesse slumped against the doorway of the crowded bedroom, sweat slick on his skin, his breath uneven. He had just finished fucking some girl, he didn’t even remember her name, and his limbs felt heavy, drained from the rush and the afterglow.

His phone buzzed in his pocket again. He pulled it out reluctantly. Dina. Ellie. Joel. Each name burned a little in his chest. The texts from Dina caught his eye first, the way she was practically begging. The ones from Ellie and Joel, all attempts to reach him, to pull him back.

He stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the reply button, but didn’t type. Not yet. Not now.

Maybe later.

With a slow, lazy breath, he pushed himself off the doorframe and shuffled downstairs, searching for his next escape. Maybe another girl. Maybe just the quiet hum of the kitchen and a smoke. As he passed the kitchen counter, something caught his bleary gaze, the blender. It was already leaking, a slow drip of some dark liquid pooling around its cracked base. The whole place was a mess, like a hurricane had passed through. Empty bottles, sticky spills, and half-eaten food littered the counters.

Jesse’s half-drunk, stoned brain latched onto the leaking blender. “Gotta clean that up...” he muttered to himself, the words slurring slightly. He reached out, elbowing the knife block without looking. A sharp clang echoed through the kitchen as a knife dropped blade-first into the sink.

Shit.

He glanced down quickly, panic flickering for a second. The sink was clogged, water pooled dangerously close to the edge.

Jesse stretched for a dish towel on the counter, fumbling as his wrist caught in the blender’s power cord. It wound tight around his wrist like a snake, but he was too distracted to notice. Behind him, the party’s chaos continued, a blur of bodies and voices. Someone bumped into the switch on the blender.

With a sudden, violent roar, the blender kicked on. The cord yanked tight, dragging Jesse forward. His arms flailed uselessly as he stumbled face-first into the sharp corner of the counter.

Pain exploded in his skull, sharp, blinding, then dull and spreading. His body went limp for a heartbeat before slumping forward, his face landing directly inside the sink just as the disposal was switched on with a mechanical grind.

The knife clattered against the spinning blades, jamming momentarily. Then with a violent snap, it flung upward, its point piercing the base of Jesse’s skull.

The party stopped instantly. Screams pierced the chaos as people rushed forward, someone yelling for an ambulance. The police arrived within minutes, sirens screaming down the street. The house was evacuated, the buzzing music replaced by flashing lights and harsh voices.

Within the hour, videos from guests’ phones spread like wildfire. Clips of the blender chaos, the panicked faces, the paramedics rushing Jesse into the ambulance.

The headlines screamed in the early morning light, the internet buzzing with the grim details: ��Party Ends in Tragedy: Fatal Kitchen Accident Claims Life”.

Everyone knew what had happened. Everyone would be talking about it for weeks.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The house was too quiet.

Not peaceful quiet, not the soft kind that made you feel safe. This was silence hollowed out by grief, filled with the static hum of dread. The only sound was Dina, sobbing on the living room couch, knees tucked to her chest like she was trying to disappear inside herself.

The video had been circulating for hours before someone sent it to her.

You hadn’t seen it yet. You didn’t want to. The screams were still playing on loop from the other room, muted behind Dina’s phone. The flashes of red and blue police lights, the glitching image of Jesse’s body slumped over the sink, blood soaking the counters like someone had spilled wine all over the tiles. That horrible metal grinding sound. And then, just pieces. Pieces of Jesse.

You didn’t need to see it to know what it was.

Dina shattered.

Tears streamed down her face in frantic, uneven bursts as if her body couldn’t keep up with the pain. Her shoulders shook. She kept whispering his name over and over again, like maybe saying it would undo it, like maybe there was still time.

“Jesse…” she choked, wiping her face with trembling hands. “Why didn’t he answer? I texted him—he saw them. I know he saw them. I knew something was wrong and he just… he didn’t listen—”

Her voice broke, and she buried her face in her hands again, full sobs shaking through her chest.

Ellie was at her side in seconds, crouching in front of her, voice soft but firm. “Hey. Hey, c’mere.”
She reached out, rubbing her palms along Dina’s shins, grounding her. “It’s not your fault. Okay? I know it feels like it is, but it’s not. It’s not on you.”

Dina didn’t respond, just leaned forward until her forehead touched Ellie’s shoulder and clung to her like a lifeline.

You stood awkwardly by the hallway, arms crossed, fingers digging into your own sleeves. You wanted to help. You just didn’t know how. You didn’t even know where to begin. Jesse was dead.

Everything was unraveling.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Joel had left a couple minutes after the video got out. After Dina broke down and Ellie didn’t know if she should comfort her dad, Dina or you.

After everything with Jesse, the videos, the screaming, Dina falling apart in the living room like she’d been split down the middle, it was like something inside Joel finally cracked.

He’d stood stiffly in the hallway, watching Dina sob with red-rimmed eyes and shaking hands, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscles jumping in his cheeks. He didn’t say much, didn’t need to. The weight in his silence was heavier than any words could’ve been.

Then he left.

At first, Ellie tried to stop him.

“Dad, please,” she’d said, stepping in front of the door as he reached for his jacket. “Can you just—just wait a little longer? You can’t go right now. Not with everything—”

“I ain’t abandonin’ anyone, El,” he interrupted gently, his voice low, weathered. “Just need to see Maria. That’s all.”

Ellie’s arms folded across her chest, defensive. “And what am I supposed to tell Dina when she wakes up and sees you’re gone?”

Joel hesitated. His eyes softened in that way only she could bring out in him. “Tell her I’ll be back by morning. I just…” he glanced toward the window, where rain streaked in pale trails against the glass, “…need to breathe somewhere that ain’t filled with ghosts.”

That was the most he’d said all day. Maybe all week.

Ellie looked down, fists clenched tight at her sides, lips pressed in a hard line. You could tell she wanted to argue, to scream, maybe, but she didn’t. She just nodded once, sharply.

Joel rested a hand on her shoulder, his grip firm but warm. “You and I, we’re gonna be alright. I promise.”

Then he pulled the door shut behind him, leaving the house feeling colder than it had before.

You figured it wasn’t just Jesse’s death weighing on him. Not really. It was Tommy. Maybe Jesse’s death, in all its shock and gore, had cracked something open that Joel had been keeping buried for too long.

Whatever it was, he needed space. And Maria was the only person he trusted enough to ask for it.

So now it was just the three of you left in the house, well, two, if you counted how empty Dina had become since the news.

And the clock was ticking.

You turned and walked out of the room without a word. You made it halfway up the stairs before you pulled out your phone again, opened up your notes app, and started typing keywords you’d searched before.

“Premonitions and death.”
“Cheating fate.”
“Can you predict death?”
“Changing death’s plan.”
You typed them all, one by one, like a mad person.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Hours passed.

The rain outside turned heavier, thunder crackling in the distance, echoing through the old wooden frame of Joel’s house.

The cold blue light of your laptop screen lit your face in the otherwise dark study. You hadn’t turned on a lamp. You hadn’t eaten since that sandwich Ellie left near your elbow. You barely touched it. It sat now, soggy, forgotten, next to your barely-sipped water.

Ellie came in once or twice.

The first time, she just leaned in the doorway with two mugs of tea. “Got chamomile,” she said, holding one out. “Supposed to help with stress or whatever.”

You took it with a distracted nod, barely looking at her.

“You… uh. You sleeping at all tonight?”

You shook your head. “I can’t. Not yet.”

She didn’t press. She just gave a small nod, placed her hand briefly on your back, then left.

The second time, she came in with a bowl of pasta and a little bag of cookies folded closed with a pink twist-tie. “I made this earlier. Thought you might…” She trailed off when she saw your face, the exhaustion, the intensity in your eyes.

“Ellie,” you muttered, not looking up, “I’m close to figuring it out.”

“Figuring what out?” she asked gently, stepping closer.

You didn’t answer. You were clicking through another article, this one from some conspiracy site that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the early 2000s. But the keywords matched. You kept reading.

Ellie placed the food down, kissed the top of your head softly, and murmured, “I’ll be upstairs, okay?”

You hummed in acknowledgment. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, you dove back in.

And finally, around 3 a.m., you found something.

It wasn’t a blog. Not quite an article. More like a frantic digital diary. Someone claiming they’d escaped death once, describing it like a design, like a loop. A list of people who died in a very specific order. But when they’d intervened, when they’d changed just one person’s fate, the order shifted. It skipped them.

It was riddled with typos, insane logic, half-written lines that made your head hurt. But one phrase stuck out, repeated three times in bold red font:

See it coming. Intervene. Break the chain.

You stared at the line so long your vision blurred.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You didn’t even change out of your pajamas. You just grabbed your laptop and padded barefoot down the hallway, tiptoeing past Joel’s old room, the guest room, and finally stopping outside her door.

You knocked once, softly. No answer. You knocked again, a little harder. Inside, you heard shuffling, a rustle of blankets.

The door creaked open. Ellie stood there, sleepy-eyed and hoodie-clad, hair messy and sticking to her cheek. Behind her, you could see Dina curled up in bed, still, her arm clutched around a pillow like it was Jesse himself.

“Hey…” Ellie whispered. “Everything okay?”

You nodded quickly, motioning her out. “Can we talk? Not here. I don’t wanna wake her.”

She rubbed at her face and followed you out into the hallway, then into the dim kitchen where the only light came from the stove’s glowing clock. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Alright. Hit me.”

You opened your laptop, flipped it around, and started explaining. You told her about the headlines, the changing newspaper, the gut instincts you were getting every time someone died. About the article. About the idea that death wasn’t just random, that it followed a pattern. A design.

Ellie stared, eyes narrowing. “So, wait... you’re saying Jesse died because it was his turn?”

“Yes. And we missed the signs. We saw them, but we didn’t act in time.”

Ellie let out a slow breath, rubbing her hands over her face. “Jesus Christ.”

You looked at her seriously. “Ellie. Dina’s next.”

She froze. Her expression hardened in the way only Ellie’s could, a mix of anger, fear, and sheer defiance.

“I’m not letting that happen,” she said immediately.

“I know. That’s why I’m telling you.”

“So how do we stop it?”

“We intervene. We have to be there. All the time. If she’s about to do something dangerous, even stupidly small, we pull her back. It throws death off. Skips her. Maybe it’ll go to the next person, or maybe the whole thing falls apart. I don’t know yet.”

Ellie’s jaw clenched. “This is fucking insane.”

You nodded. “Yeah. But it’s working. Look around. You’ve felt it too, right? How the signs keep showing up. The flyers. The newspaper. Everything’s trying to tell us.”

She fell quiet for a moment, staring at nothing. “…Okay. Okay. If it’s her, we’re not letting her go anywhere alone. Not for a second. Not until we’re sure.”

You let out a breath of relief. “Thank you.”

Ellie stepped forward and wrapped her arms around you tightly. “We’re gonna stop this. I swear to God, we’re gonna stop it.”

You nodded into her shoulder, your arms around her waist, anchoring yourself to the one person in the house still holding it together.

Outside, the wind picked up again. Somewhere, another branch cracked off a tree. You didn’t sleep that night.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The next evening passed with a strange kind of silence hanging in the air. For once, no newspapers had been shoved through the door with cryptic, shape-shifting headlines. No new names to worry about. No fresh deaths. Just quiet. Uneasy, unfamiliar quiet.

Outside, rain slammed against the windows like it was trying to get in. The thunder was constant, low, rolling, angry. The kind of storm that made the walls feel thin and the house feel small. It made the silence inside seem heavier somehow.

Dina had banished herself to the guest room earlier that evening. Said she’d be fine. You could tell it was a lie, but none of you had the energy to push back anymore. She just needed to be alone, wrapped up in whatever grief was still clawing at her ribs. Ellie tried to go in there earlier, to sit with her, talk, something, but she came back out ten minutes later with her jaw tight and her eyes a little red. She didn’t say what was said, and you didn’t ask.

Now it was just you and Ellie, curled up in Joel’s old room, your room now. The storm rattled the windows, wind howling past the house like it was trying to peel the roof off. But inside the room, things felt strangely still. Still and warm. The kind of warmth that settles into your skin when someone you love is close.

You were lying on your back, Ellie on her side, facing you. Her hand had been playing lightly with the hem of your shirt for a while now, like she didn’t realize she was doing it. There was a lull in the conversation, the kind that didn’t feel awkward. Just quiet. Her eyes kept tracing the lines of your face in the dim light from the bedside lamp, like she was searching for something.

“Hey,” she murmured suddenly, her voice just above the whisper of the rain. “You think… maybe it’s over?”

You turned your head to look at her fully. “I don’t know. Maybe. No headlines today. No signs.”

Ellie nodded slowly but didn’t look convinced. Her fingers kept brushing against your stomach, slow and absentminded.

“I hate that that makes me feel relieved,” she said, voice smaller now. “Like, that nothing happened today. No one died. I hate that that’s our baseline now.”

You reached out and took her hand, threading your fingers together. “I know.”

There was a pause, and then she leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. Just gentle. Careful. Testing.

Your breath caught, not because it was surprising, but because it wasn’t. It felt… natural. Like something you’d both been tiptoeing around for too long. Ever since Kat died, things between you had been close, but not like this. Sleeping in the same bed had become habit, comfort, survival. But touch… desire… had been buried beneath grief and guilt.

Ellie pulled back slightly, her lips still close to yours. “Can I kiss you again?”

You nodded before the words could leave your mouth.

She kissed you more fully this time, soft at first, then deeper. Her hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb stroking lightly across your skin as her body slowly shifted, inching closer. The kiss turned heavier. Not frantic, not rushed, just needed. Like both of you were trying to remember what it felt like to be alive.

When you pulled apart to breathe, Ellie pressed her forehead to yours, her voice thick.

“I missed you,” she whispered. “I know you’ve been here but… I just… I missed this. Missed us.”

You swallowed. “Me too.”

She leaned in again, trailing slow kisses along your jaw, down your neck. Her body slid over yours, settling carefully on top of you like she didn’t want to break anything. Like you were both something fragile. When she got to your collarbone, she paused, exhaling shakily.

“I love you,” she said quietly, and it wasn’t rushed or dramatic. Just honest. “I don’t say it enough.”

Your chest tightened. “Ellie…”

“I mean it,” she said. “I love you. I’m sorry I’ve been so… distant. I just… after Kat, and now Jesse, and Tommy… I haven’t known what the fuck to do with any of it.”

“I get it,” you said, brushing her hair behind her ear. “You don’t owe me anything, El. You never did.”

She gave a small, almost broken laugh at that. “Yeah I do. I owe you everything.”

Her hands slid beneath your shirt, not in a lustful way, but gently, reverently. She pulled it up just enough to expose your chest, then leaned down to press soft kisses there, slow and warm, one over each nipple, her breath shaky against your skin. She sighed as she pulled back, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“I thought I wanted this,” she admitted. “Thought it might help. But I just… I can’t. Not all the way. Not tonight.”

You reached up and touched her cheek. “That’s okay.”

Ellie nodded, swallowing hard. “It’s not you. I want to. I just— my head’s fucked. And if we’re gonna do that, I want to be there, you know? Not thinking about blood and knives and headlines while I’m touching you.”

“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” you whispered.

Outside, another rumble of thunder shook the windows, loud enough to make both of you flinch. Without a word, Ellie slid off you and curled into your side, burying her face into the crook of your neck. You wrapped your arms around her instinctively, fingers tracing slow patterns across her back.

She let out a soft breath. “Thanks for being here.”

“Always.”

And just like that, the storm became background noise. The thunder faded into distance, the lightning casting soft flashes across the ceiling. Ellie’s breathing evened out against your skin. And for the first time in what felt like forever, the night passed without anyone dying.

Just the two of you, breathing. Holding on. Still here. Still surviving.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The next morning broke quiet but gray, the kind of pale, overcast light that felt like a sigh after the storm. The house still smelled faintly of damp wood and fried circuits. Rain had soaked into the earth overnight, leaving the sidewalks slick and the air heavy with the scent of wet leaves and ozone. It was too early for anything to feel normal, but somehow, the day had to begin.

Joel returned just as the three of you, Ellie, Dina, and you, were slipping on your jackets by the front door. He stepped in with a grunt, his boots thudding softly against the entryway tile, the door groaning shut behind him. His coat was still damp from the morning mist, shoulders hunched like he hadn’t slept. You could see it in his eyes, the way they were rimmed with exhaustion, grief weathered into the lines of his face deeper than before.

He offered a soft nod of greeting as he pulled off his gloves, then looked over at the three of you, his brow knitting. “You girls headin’ out?” he asked, his voice rough from the cold or maybe the night.

“Yeah,” Ellie said, tugging on her hoodie. “Gonna help clean up the neighborhood. Lotta branches came down. Kinda looks like a tornado came through.”

You nodded. “It’s honestly a miracle no one got impaled by a flying tree limb.”

Joel gave a quiet huff, the closest thing he had to a laugh lately. “Mm. Could use the help. Streets are a damn mess.”

He looked at Ellie then, and his face softened for a moment, just enough that you saw it. A flicker of the man who’d used to scold her for not wearing enough layers, or getting back too late from a party. That man hadn’t been gone, but he’d been buried lately, under grief, under fear. Now, he surfaced for a brief second.

“Maria’s fine,” Joel said, his eyes dropping as he took a breath. “She just… needs a little time. Her family’s with her. Said y’all can visit later. When she’s up to it.”

Ellie nodded slowly, her lips pressing into a tight line. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him without hesitation, burying her face against his shoulder. Joel went stiff for half a second, but then, his arms came around her. He held her tightly, like he needed it more than he wanted to admit.

You saw it: the way Ellie’s face twisted as she clung to him. Silent tears streaked her cheeks, and she didn’t even bother to wipe them away. Joel didn’t cry, but his jaw clenched, and he stared just past you with a glassy look in his eye that made it very clear he was holding back something sharp and raw.

You nudged Ellie gently once she stepped back, and she gave a small nod in return, exhaling like it took effort just to let go.

Joel cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. “Be careful out there, alright? If things get bad, you come back. I mean it. Don’t mess around.”

“We won’t,” you said, zipping your coat up all the way.

“Promise,” Ellie added, voice hoarse.

He glanced at all three of you before opening the door again and letting the cold morning air back in. “Go on. Daylight’s burnin’.”

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The neighborhood looked like a battlefield. Branches were strewn everywhere, some massive and twisted, others splintered into toothpicks. Roof tiles littered the sidewalks, and puddles reflected the skeletal silhouettes of bare trees. Neighbors were already out in full force, bundled in heavy jackets and gloves, working with a quiet, shared urgency. The kind that only came after tragedy, or the near-miss of one.

There was a wood chipper running steadily near the corner, its roar loud and ominous even from a distance. A couple chainsaws whined in the background, cutting through thick limbs with brutal efficiency. Everyone seemed to be avoiding both, eyes flicking toward them every now and then like they were live wires.

You and Ellie were assigned to help collect the larger fallen branches, tossing them into organized piles along the edge of the road. Dina, meanwhile, was called over to help pass limbs to a few of the older guys who were loading them into a trailer. It felt harmless enough. Simple work. Nothing sharp or loud or dangerous. Not yet.

“Just don’t let me lose a hand,” Ellie joked, slapping her gloves together. “We’ve already got death breathing down our necks.”

You cracked a half-smile, nudging her with your shoulder. “That’s the plan. Keep all limbs attached.”

She reached down to grab a branch, tossing it with a grunt. “Also, if I do die,” she added, “you’re not allowed to say ‘I told you so.’ Just put that on record now.”

“Deal,” you muttered, bending to grab another. “But only if you promise not to haunt me.”

“Oh, I’d haunt the shit out of you.”

You snorted, but the laughter died out quickly. You both fell into rhythm after that, working in silence, occasionally sharing glances or little shoulder bumps. It almost felt normal. Almost.

At some point, Dina had disappeared from your sight, but you weren’t worried. Not really. There were at least thirty people scattered across the neighborhood, all helping in different ways. She had a few older folks with her. It was fine.

Unbeknownst to you and Ellie, the guys Dina had been assisting had taken a quick break, heading off for coffee or cigarettes or just a moment away from the buzzing noise. Dina had settled by the edge of the worksite, sitting on a low stone ledge near a hedge, a shawl pulled tight around her neck against the biting wind. Someone had handed her a cup of lemonade from a nearby porch. Her gloved hands wrapped around it, warming more from the hold than the drink itself.

She was only about ten feet from the wood chipper, its mouth wide and open like something waiting to feed. Still rumbling. Still running. No one around to man it. Just… humming. Like it had a mind of its own.

Dina didn’t even look at it. Not once.

She sipped her drink slowly, staring off toward the clouds, her breath puffing visibly in the cold air. The wind picked up a little, tugging at the corner of her shawl, making it flutter lightly against her chest.

She didn’t know she was alone. And neither did you.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You were just stacking the last few branches onto the growing pile near the curb, your gloves damp with sap and the wet grit of bark, when something fluttered across your boots, a piece of paper, bright and almost too clean in all the muddy debris. You stepped on it to stop it from flying further, then bent to pick it up.

“CHIPS CONTAIN A DEATHLY VIRUS!” the headline screamed in large, frantic font, the kind that looked pulled from a conspiracy zine. Your brows furrowed. It was the same thing as before. You blinked and looked again, and just like the last time, the letters morphed in front of you. Not melted, not faded. Just shifted. Instantly. Now it read: “Bulgur Wheat: Is It the Secret to a Longer Life?” Some generic health puff piece that made your stomach twist.

“Ellie,” you said tightly, walking over to where she was stretching her back after the haul.

“Hm?” she asked, pushing her sleeve up with a grunt.

You held out the flyer. “This just flew by. It said something about chips having a virus. Like, fries.”

She looked at you, then at the page. “It says something about bulgur—”

“It changed. Like the magazines. I saw it change.”

That got her full attention. “Wait—chips like… like fries?”

You nodded. “The volunteers. They’ve been talking about bringing in lunch for everyone from that local diner, the one that does those huge trays of seasoned fries.”

“Oh fuck.” Ellie scrubbed her face with her sleeve. “Okay. Okay, that’s easy. We just make sure Dina doesn’t eat any.”

You both glanced around, scanning for her familiar frame.

“She was over by the front porch of that green house last I saw,” Ellie murmured. “She’ll probably grab a tray with everyone else.”

You nodded. “We go to her now. Just tell her not to touch the food.”

Ellie nodded tightly. “Yeah. Should be simple.” But was it ever?

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Meanwhile, just across the street, Death had already begun threading its way through the mundane.

The landscaping crew had left their wood chipper running. Its engine thrummed angrily, like a mechanical beast hungry for movement, its wheels vibrating on the sloped curb. It wasn’t angled properly. One corner was jacked higher than the other, its feed chute tilted awkwardly toward a scatter of tools and supplies.

A chainsaw, left idle but not quite stable, vibrated with every pulse of the nearby machine. Slowly, it rolled, metal scraping faintly on the workbench, until it dropped with a clatter. Its heavy edge struck the handle of a rake, which jerked upward violently, flipping a small rack. A bucket of bolts tipped over. Hundreds of tiny metal beads scattered in all directions, pinging off cement and clattering down the hill.

One bolt, just one, rolled perfectly into the narrow groove near the chipper’s rear wheel.

Click. Thunk.

The machine jolted. Just slightly. Just enough.

The feed chute shuddered back, bumping into the low stack of bundled branches behind it. They weren’t secured. They hadn’t needed to be. Until now.

The stack shifted forward like a slow exhale, sliding down the damp slope.

One of those branches had a long shawl tangled around it. A wool one, thick and warm. Soft gray-blue. The same one Dina had wrapped around her neck before settling down with a cup of lemonade. She’d said it was cold. She hadn’t taken it off.

Now that scarf’s other end was still tied, snug beneath the collar of her jacket.

The branch caught the edge of the chipper chute. It scraped, snagged, then was pulled in.

So was the scarf.

Dina barely had a second. One moment she was sitting, sipping from the cup, breath fogging the air. The next, her head jerked back sharply, the fabric biting into her throat. She gasped, instinctively clawing at her neck, but the force yanked her to her feet. Her cup dropped, rolling on its side, spilling lemonade across the muddy ground.

She stumbled forward, both hands now at her scarf, eyes wide in disbelief.

The ground betrayed her.

Her heel caught a thick rubber hose lying half-buried in wet leaves. She pitched forward with a grunt, face-first toward the rumbling mouth of the machine. One gloved hand slapped the edge, trying to stop herself. It didn’t matter. The scarf was already spooling inward.

The feed rollers seized the branch. Then the scarf. Then the edge of her jacket. Fabric caught. Her hood. Her collar. Flesh.

There was a horrible crunch. Her scream was half-muffled, garbled by choking and shock as the rollers dragged her upper body in. Her boots kicked violently. Then less. Blood sprayed in harsh arcs over the mound of wood chips at the side like red paint through a fan.

She was gone in seconds.

And the machine kept humming.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You and Ellie had just started making your way down the block, both calling out for Dina, when it happened.

The scream tore through the air first, choked and unnatural, like something being ripped from a throat too tight to carry sound. You both stopped in your tracks, frozen. Then you ran.

By the time you rounded the hedge, a couple neighbors were screaming. One woman dropped a tray of paper plates, food spilling across the sidewalk. A man was already backing away from the wood chipper, stumbling and shaking his head, hand over his mouth.

Ellie grabbed your arm and pushed past him.

“No—no no no—” she was whispering, her voice catching on the edge of panic. Her boots skidded across the wet grass as you both turned the corner and saw it.

The boots. The gray-blue scarf, Dina’s, snagged and hanging like it’d been hung to dry and forgotten. A glove. Blood. The mulch pile behind the machine was steaming, and the entire chute was slicked red.

Ellie froze.

Your stomach flipped.

“No,” Ellie breathed.

Her face was blank at first. Then it cracked. Her jaw clenched, hard, eyes glassing over fast as her body locked in place, shoulders trembling like she was physically holding something back. Rage. Grief. Whatever it was, it was bursting through the cracks whether she let it or not.

You wanted to say something. Anything. But your brain was fogged, swimming too fast, too loud. And under all of it, under the sick, clenching knot in your gut, was a single thought.

It wasn’t the fucking chips.

It hit like ice water poured down your spine. Cold and instant and paralyzing.

You stared at the blood. The chunks of torn fabric. The smell of burnt sap and diesel and—

It was never going to be the chips. Of course it wasn’t. That stupid flyer—

You shook your head, vision swimming. It was the chipper. God, it was so obvious. The chainsaws, the old machines, the way everyone kept giving that thing a wide berth. Ellie had joked earlier, “God, imagine if that thing turned on you.” And you’d laughed. You laughed.

You felt your knees lock.

“Ellie—” you started.

“No,” she snapped, spinning toward you with something wild and wounded in her eyes. “No, don’t. Don’t talk. Don’t try to fix this. Don’t you fucking dare.”

You froze, your mouth open, but nothing came out.

Ellie took a step closer. Her fists were clenched so tight her knuckles had gone white. Her voice cracked but stayed loud enough for half the street to hear. “You think this is some puzzle to solve? Some test you can outsmart if you just pay attention to enough signs?”

You flinched, your throat closing.

“I trusted you,” she hissed. “She trusted you.”

She didn’t say Dina’s name. Couldn’t.

And you didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Ellie’s eyes were wet, lashes clumped, red-rimmed and furious. “God, I knew it. I knew it wouldn’t be that fucking easy. Chips? Really? A fucking flyer?”

Her voice cracked again. “You’re not a hero. You’re not saving anyone.”

That one landed like a punch. You swallowed hard, something sharp catching behind your ribs.

Ellie had bolted from the scene in a straight line, barely seeing the world around her, blood rushing in her ears so loud it drowned out the sound of her own breath. She didn’t care who saw her crying, she barely even realized she was. She pushed open Joel’s front door so hard it slammed against the wall, and then she collapsed into the couch before he could even say a word.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Joel was in the kitchen, setting down a mug of coffee when he heard the slam. His face fell. He didn’t even ask. He just walked over, knelt beside her, and pulled her in without needing permission.

She let him.

Buried her face into his chest like she used to when she was a kid and the world was even crueler, and he held her just as tight now as he did then. Her shoulders were shaking. Wetness soaked into his flannel. And he didn’t say anything for a while, just let her fall apart.

Finally, she whispered, "She’s gone, Joel. Dina’s gone."

Joel swallowed thickly. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know, baby girl. I heard.”

“I told her she’d be fine,” Ellie said, voice cracking as she wiped at her face angrily. “She said she’d be fine and I believed her. I—I left her for one second and now there’s just—just pieces of her.”

Joel exhaled slowly, letting that pain settle before he spoke.

“You couldn’t’ve known, El. None of you could’ve. That wasn’t your fault.”

Ellie shook her head hard, pulling away. “You don’t get it. We—we’ve been tracking these signs. Death keeps coming after us and she thought she figured it out and I—I let myself believe it too. I let myself hope.”

Joel gave a quiet hum. “She tried, didn’t she?”

Ellie looked up, eyes rimmed red.

Joel continued. “That girl… she’s fightin’ for you harder than anyone I’ve seen in a long time. Hell, even back when Tommy and me used to run errands for… you know who, people didn’t hold together like she’s holding you. She didn’t want this. She’s just tryin’ to stop it. Like you. Like all of us.”

“She thought it was the chips,” Ellie said bitterly. “Some dumb flyer that said there was a virus. So she ran all the way across the neighborhood to try and stop Dina from eating fries. Fries, Joel.”

Joel didn’t smile. He didn’t scold. He just rested a hand on her shoulder.

“She thought she was saving her. That matters. I know it’s easier to blame someone when things go wrong, but don’t go pushing away the only one who’s fighting this thing beside you. Especially not someone who’d chase a box of fries across the damn county if she thought it’d keep you safe.”

Ellie looked down. Her fingers trembled in her lap. “I was awful to her. I said shit I didn’t mean,” she whispered hoarsely. “I said she wasn’t saving anyone. That she thought this was just a fucking puzzle. I made her feel like it was her fault.”

Joel exhaled, low and steady. “You didn’t mean it.”

“She didn’t deserve it,” Ellie shot back, voice cracking again. “She’s been trying so fucking hard. Ever since the premonitions started. She didn’t ask for this, none of us did. And she’s been losing people too. And I just—god, I told her not to talk to me. I told her to stay away. I saw her face when I walked off and I still left.”

Joel was quiet for a moment. “Sometimes grief don’t care what you mean. It just wants to wreck whatever’s closest.”

Ellie leaned into his side, sniffled hard. Joel handed her a tissue from the box beside the couch, like he’d had it ready. “I think she blames herself,” Ellie whispered, twisting the tissue in her fingers. “I think she really believed it was gonna work this time.”

Joel gave her shoulder a soft squeeze. “And I think you two are stronger than one bad moment.”

She looked up at him, lashes wet and stuck together. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he said, gentle but firm. “She’s good for you. And you’re good for her. And don’t you let some twisted, evil bullshit take that away from either of you.”

Ellie nodded, swallowing back the last of the tears. “I should go back.”

“Take something warm with you,” Joel said, standing. “That girl probably hasn’t had a sip of water or food since it happened.”

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You were still sitting on the curb, hunched forward with your arms looped around your knees. The police had already finished taping off the area. Neighbors had retreated into their homes, the street quiet in that eerie way it always was after sirens. Your eyes were raw from crying. Your knuckles scraped from when you’d punched the pavement. And the moment your eyes processed what was left of Dina, her scarf shredded, her gloves still lying nearby like they’d simply fallen off, you’d thrown up right there on the street. You hadn’t even made it to a bush or trash can. The bile burned up your throat, hot and sour, and your whole body shook afterward like you were in shock. Maybe you were.

You kept whispering it to yourself under your breath. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry."

How the hell had you gotten it so wrong?

You were so sure. You told Ellie with confidence. You even felt proud of yourself for a second, for figuring it out in time. You watched her nod, saw her tension ease. You believed it.

But it was never about chips. It was never going to be that easy. It was sitting there the whole time, the chipper, literally spewing danger, making everyone nervous, but no, you got distracted by a stupid flyer like some moron trying to read symbols in clouds. You thought it was a metaphor. You thought you were clever.

You weren’t. You were wrong. And Dina paid for it.

The guilt pressed into your chest so hard it made it difficult to breathe. You curled further in, letting the cold of the concrete soak into your pants, uncaring that your thighs were soaked from the earlier rain.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

It wasn’t until almost an hour later that you heard the soft crunch of boots on gravel.

You didn’t even look up. You didn’t have the strength to. You thought it was a cop coming to move you again. But a pair of hands settled gently on your shoulders. Warm. Familiar. You blinked up, slow and hesitant.

Ellie.

Her hair was wet at the ends from the misty air, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes swollen but steady now. She didn’t say anything at first, just held out a steaming cup of tea and a small napkin-wrapped plate with two slightly crushed cookies on it.

You stared.

"I thought you might need something warm," she said, voice quiet, scratchy. “And I didn’t wanna go to bed without saying I’m sorry.”

Your throat closed up.

“Ellie…”

“I didn’t mean to push you away like that,” she said, crouching down in front of you now, hands resting lightly on your knees. “I just—I freaked. And I didn’t wanna scream at you when it wasn’t fair.”

“No,” you muttered, shaking your head. “It was fair.”

She frowned. “It wasn’t.”

You looked down at the cup. Steam curled against your chin. “I deserved it,” you mumbled. “You were right. It was stupid. I was so sure, and I—God, I got her killed.”

“Stop,” Ellie said, firmer now. “You didn’t. This isn’t your fault.”

You looked away, jaw clenched.

“I said horrible shit,” Ellie added. “And I meant none of it. I was hurting and scared and I lashed out at the one person who’s been trying harder than anyone to keep us safe.”

Your throat clenched. Your voice came out hoarse: “I really thought it was the chips.”

“You’re not wrong for trying,” she said. “You’re not wrong for hoping.”

You didn’t say anything else. Just sat there, curled into each other, tea going cold between your fingers as the cleanup crews continued on, the sun slowly vanishing behind a gray, heavy sky.

“Come inside?” she asked, voice tentative. “Please?”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you just nodded. Ellie stood and held out a hand, and when you took it, she led you gently up the steps, back into the house that felt a little emptier than it had this morning.

But you were together. And somehow, that still counted for something.

To be continued…

[elliessickhabits]

Fragile Armor

fem!reader x veteran!abby

One-shot!

CW; PTSD, panic attack, war trauma, fireworks, sensory overload, emotional distress, emotional vulnerability, fingering (reader receiving), oral stimulation (reader receiving), explicit sexual content, consensual sex, light dirty talk (affectionate), body worship, aftercare, trauma recovery.

Summary; After years at war, Abby’s first New Year’s Eve home is shattered by fireworks that trigger her trauma. Alone and panicked, she must find a way to cope and reach out for help.

Notes; I want to be clear that this story approaches PTSD with care and respect. It’s not meant to romanticize or trivialize trauma. While there’s smut, the focus is on an honest portrayal of struggle and healing, not rushing or making light of PTSD.

Word count; around 12,1k (GODDAMN…)

Taglist; @gogolsbf here you whore

New Year’s Eve was supposed to be the best night of the year. For most people, it was the highlight of the entire holiday season. The air buzzing with excitement, a rare night when the world seemed to pause just long enough for every heartbeat to sync with the crackling fireworks overhead. Staying up all night wasn’t just tolerated, it was expected. The city streets transformed into a chaotic playground where the usual rules didn’t apply. Fireworks that sounded like thunderclaps and tiny bombs exploded in bursts of red, blue, green, lighting up the cold sky like stolen stars. Teenagers, who’d spent the last few weeks trapped inside over Christmas, lived for this night. The rush of hurling something dangerous into the sky, the electric thrill of explosions that rattled the bones. It was supposed to be fun, wild, a celebration of being alive. For everyone.

But for Abby Anderson, it wasn’t fun at all.

She sat slumped on the faded couch in the dimly lit living room, the threadbare fabric rough beneath her fingertips. Her extra hoodie was still on, zipped up tight against a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Outside, the night was alive with bursts of noise, distant pops, sharp cracks, the echo of fireworks raining down from above. Each one stabbed at the silence in the room, tearing through it with a force Abby could almost feel deep in her chest. The television flickered in front of her, a sitcom playing on low volume, the canned laughter faint and hollow, an attempt to mask the heavy quiet. She hadn’t moved for nearly an hour.

Four months had passed since she’d returned home. Four months since the plane touched down and she stepped off the tarmac, finally done with the war zone that had swallowed the last four years of her life. Four years spent in Iran. Hot, brutal, unforgiving years, living and dying alongside people she thought she could trust. Four years filled with a kind of violence no one should have to endure. The kind that left scars deeper than flesh, scars she carried inside, invisible but never gone.

She remembered the sounds: the screams that shattered the night like broken glass, the thunderous booms that tore through the air and her mind, the shrieks of friends caught in the blast, torn apart, gutted like fish. The blood, the smoke, the dust coating everything like a thick fog. The faces of the ones who didn’t make it, burned into her memory, haunting the edges of every quiet moment.

Her family had left almost an hour ago. They’d asked if she wanted to come watch the fireworks with them, their voices warm but cautious, filled with that gentle hope that maybe she’d say yes.

“Come on, Abby,” her mother had said softly, nudging the door open. “It’ll be fun. You can stay close to me.”

Her dad’s voice was quieter but steady. “You don’t have to if you don’t want. We’ll be right outside.”

But Abby had shaken her head. She had to. She couldn’t. Not tonight. She told them she’d be fine on her own. That she just wanted some quiet.

And so they left.

The door clicking shut behind them sounded like a lock being fastened around her chest. The laughter from the street outside filtered in through the windows. Bright, carefree, full of promise and noise and life, and it felt like it belonged to a different world. A world she wasn’t sure she could ever step back into.

Beside her, Alice lay curled up on the floor, her head resting gently on her paws. Abby’s dog, the one piece of home she managed to bring back. Alice’s hind legs were still weak from an injury sustained during one of their final missions. An accident Abby replayed in her mind like a bad film reel, a moment frozen in time. But here she was, alive and breathing and real, a steady heartbeat in the room with her.

The clock on the wall ticked slowly. An unopened bottle of champagne sat on the coffee table, its silver foil catching the dull light. It was meant for midnight. A ritual, a promise of renewal and hope. But the cork remained stubbornly in place, mocking Abby with the things she was supposed to feel; joy, excitement, relief.

An hour left.

Abby told herself she’d be fine. She could handle this. It was just noise. Just harmless explosions outside. She turned the volume on the television up a notch, hoping the sitcom’s fake laughter would drown out the memories pounding in her skull. But the louder the TV got, the quieter her mind became, and the louder the memories grew.

She thought of the last day in the field, the way the sun had scorched the horizon as a bomb tore through the compound. The screams that followed, the way her heart had hammered so fast she thought it might burst. The blood that coated her hands, the way she’d fought to keep herself from breaking, from falling apart.

She thought of the friends who never made it back. People who had laughed with her, fought beside her, dreamed with her, gone in an instant. She thought of the quiet nights since coming home, the sleepless hours haunted by nightmares that felt too real. And still, here she was. Alone. Surrounded by sounds meant to celebrate life, but to her, they only echoed the violence she’d left behind.

Her hands clenched into fists. Her jaw tightened. She wanted to scream, to run, to disappear, but she didn’t. She stayed. Because this was home now.

When the clock finally chimed midnight, Abby didn’t count down. She couldn’t. The moment the first firework exploded outside, it felt like everything collapsed inward, her carefully constructed walls crumbling in an instant. The night sky wasn’t bright and festive like it was for everyone else; instead, it was a brutal cacophony of sound and light that ripped through her chest like a grenade blast.

The booms didn’t just echo, they thundered, sharp and violent, drowning out the quiet she’d desperately clung to all evening. The relentless popping and cracking reminded her of mortar fire, the kind that tore through dusty streets and left her world a ruined landscape. Her breath caught in her throat, shallow and quick, her heart slamming hard enough to shake her ribs. Her fingers trembled against the rough fabric of the couch, the feeling of helplessness settling over her like a suffocating blanket.

She knew they were fireworks. She knew. Rationally, she understood that no one was trying to kill her here. But her body was still locked in that primal fight-or-flight mode from years spent dodging real bombs, real death. The line between celebration and combat blurred, and she was trapped in the middle.

Alice stirred beside her, low whine trembling through the dog’s throat. The dog’s ears flattened back, eyes wide and anxious. Abby’s hand moved automatically, finding the coarse fur and stroking slow and steady, a tether to something solid. But the panic didn’t fade; if anything, it grew heavier, pressing down on her chest like a weight she couldn’t lift.

Her eyes darted to the window, watching the sudden bursts of light scatter like shrapnel across the dark sky. She swallowed hard, the metallic taste of fear bitter on her tongue. Every flash made her flinch, every distant boom sent a spike of adrenaline tearing through her veins.

Her legs gave out beneath her, and she slid off the couch, the cold floor hitting her skin through the thin fabric of her jeans. She moved silently through the house, each step hesitant, until she reached the kitchen. Without thinking, she sank down against the base of the cabinets, the cool tile a shock against her burning skin. She curled her arms around her knees, trying to make herself smaller, less visible. It was like hiding, but from what, she wasn’t sure. Maybe from herself.

Alice dropped down beside her, pressing her head to Abby’s side, offering silent comfort. The house around her was quiet now, but the night outside was anything but. The fireworks continued in a relentless barrage, each boom a punch to her nerves, a reminder of places she never wanted to revisit. Her chest tightened. Her breathing grew ragged.

Abby’s hand hovered over the phone for what felt like an eternity. The noise outside was a relentless assault, each crack and boom smashing against her nerves, hammering at the fragile shell she’d built to hold herself together. Her fingers trembled, hovering, trembling. This wasn’t something she wanted to do. She wasn’t one to ask for help, not like this, not over fireworks. But the panic was suffocating. It clawed at her throat, tightened around her lungs. She felt like she was drowning in a storm of memories she never invited back.

Her thumb pressed the call button with a hesitant, shaky motion. The ringing tone sounded too loud in the silent kitchen, each beep a countdown to whatever would come next.

“911, what’s your emergency?” The voice on the other end was calm, young, neutral, like a lifeline thrown across a churning sea.

Abby’s throat felt raw, words thick and stuck. “I… I don’t know if this is an emergency,” she finally whispered, voice tight and broken. “It’s… fireworks. I know it’s nothing. But… it sounds like bombs.”

The operator’s voice softened, waiting patiently, giving her the space to keep going. “Take your time. What’s going on?”

The dam cracked. Memories flashed , the charred ruins of a building, a friend’s scream swallowed by the blast, the endless roar of gunfire, and her voice trembled as she spoke. “I was deployed overseas. Four years. Iran. I… I just got back a few months ago. Tonight… it’s just… too much. The fireworks—they sound like the explosions from there. I can’t… my chest feels tight, my head’s spinning. I’m panicking and I don’t know what to do.”

There was silence for a moment. No rush. No judgment.

“I’m sorry,” she added, voice smaller. “I feel like I’m overreacting. It’s just—everyone’s celebrating and I’m sitting here feeling like I’m back in the middle of a warzone.”

The operator’s tone was warm, gentle, understanding. “You’re not overreacting. What you’re feeling is real, and it’s okay to feel scared. You’ve been through a lot, and this kind of noise can trigger memories and feelings that are hard to manage.”

Abby’s hands curled into fists, nails digging into her palms. “I don’t want to call anyone over. I don’t want to talk. I just want it to stop.”

“That’s completely understandable,” the voice reassured her. “But you don’t have to face this alone. We have trained responders who specialize in helping people dealing with situations like this, especially veterans and soldiers. They can come to your home, just to sit with you. No pressure, no talking if you don’t want to. Just company.”

Her breath caught. The thought of company was terrifying. She was so used to being alone, to shutting everything out. But the idea of a quiet presence, someone who could sit with her without forcing words, offered a fragile kind of hope. “I… I’m scared,” she admitted, the words barely audible. “I don’t want to lose control.”

“You won’t. We’ll send someone out who understands. They’ll be there for you, just to help you through the night.”

Her chest tightened, but this time it was mixed with something else, relief, maybe. Or the first spark of hope in a long time. “Okay,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

The line went quiet for a moment before the operator added softly, “You’re doing the right thing. Help is on the way. Hang in there.”

Abby’s fingers trembled as she pressed the phone down, the weight of the night suddenly a little less unbearable.

The knock came soon, soft but deliberate, echoing through the quiet apartment like a lifeline tossed across a chasm. Abby’s heart lurched, a sharp spike of panic tightening her chest. Her breath hitched, shallow and ragged.

She rose slowly, each movement heavy and deliberate, like wading through thick water. Her legs trembled, and the ache in her knees reminded her she hadn’t moved much in hours. With trembling fingers, she reached the front door. A sharp crack of fireworks erupted outside, a sudden boom that made her freeze, eyes wide and unblinking, body rigid as a taut wire. Alice whimpered softly at her feet.

For a long moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe past the ringing in her ears. The world felt sharp, loud, overwhelming, like she was back in the dusty, sun-blasted field where every noise meant danger, every boom a threat.

Finally, her hand forced itself forward, twisting the lock with a shaky breath. The door creaked open just enough to peek out. There stood a woman, calm, kind-eyed, older than Abby by at least a decade. Her presence was steady, grounding. Abby barely managed a nod.

“Hi,” the woman said gently, voice soft, steady. “I’m Margaret. I’m here to sit with you tonight.”

Abby stepped back, letting Margaret in without another word, her limbs still trembling slightly. The woman moved slowly, carefully, like she understood without needing to be told. She set down a tote bag on the kitchen counter and pulled out snacks; crackers, a small wedge of cheese, and a bottle of water.

“Just some things, in case you get hungry or thirsty,” Margaret said quietly.

Abby sank onto the couch, her muscles tight, eyes darting toward the window where flashes of light still burst and boomed. Another sharp crack outside made her jump, a harsh gasp escaping her lips. Her fingers clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms as her breath hitched again.

Margaret didn’t flinch or say anything. She simply pulled out a chair and sat down a few feet away, calm and patient.

Alice, sensing the tension, shifted closer to Abby, laying her head gently on Abby’s foot. The dog’s soft warmth was a small comfort amid the storm of panic.

Minutes passed. Abby’s body was still tense, every noise outside threatening to tear her apart. Her eyes flicked wildly, ears straining for the next boom. When the television buzzed to life again, she slammed the volume up, desperate to drown out the terrifying noise outside.

Margaret reached over and picked up a cracker, breaking it gently. She offered it without pressure, without a word. Abby’s fingers twitched but didn’t reach out.

Another sudden burst of fireworks made her flinch violently, curling inward like she wanted to disappear. The room felt small and suffocating. Margaret stayed silent, steady as a rock. She took a slow sip of water, eyes soft but unwavering.

Slowly, Abby’s hands trembled and closed around a cracker. She nibbled at it, the dry crunch grounding her just enough to breathe.

Another crack, louder this time, and she froze again, heart hammering so loud she thought Margaret might hear it. But the woman said nothing, just kept sitting there. Present. Patient. Not rushing. Not judging. And for a flickering moment, Abby let herself lean into that quiet company, even as the war inside her head raged on.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

It took a long time for Abby to speak.

The two of them sat in the soft hush of the apartment, the only sounds the hum of the refrigerator and the distant chaos outside, fireworks bursting like artillery fire, flaring against the windows. The lights of the room were low, casting shadows in the corners. Abby hadn’t moved much from the couch. She kept her hands clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles white, as though trying to hold herself together physically.

Margaret stayed in her chair across from her, relaxed but attentive. She didn’t fill the silence with small talk. She didn’t ask questions. She just sipped her water, sometimes offered a snack, and sat with the kind of patience that didn’t require answers.

Abby stared down at her hands. Her arms were tense, still twitching with leftover adrenaline. Another firework snapped sharply in the distance, too close, and her body flinched before she could stop it. Her breath caught, her jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Alice shifted closer, nudging her knee with a soft whine. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, Abby said, “I was twenty-one when I got deployed.”

Margaret didn’t respond, didn’t even nod. She just looked at her, open and waiting.

“I didn’t know what I was walking into,” Abby continued, eyes fixed on her hands. “They tell you, of course. In training. What to expect. What it’s gonna be like. But they don’t tell you how fast everything stops feeling real. How fast your body just… adapts to horror.”

A pause. Another firework cracked outside. Abby flinched again, more subtle this time, then kept going. “I was stationed on the outskirts of Shiraz. First year was bad, but manageable. Heat, long hours, tension in the air. You could feel it, even when nothing was happening. We’d patrol, dig in, rotate through checkpoints. Nights were quiet sometimes. Other times…”

She swallowed hard, eyes beginning to glaze as her stare drifted to the floor. “There was this one night,” she said slowly, voice rough. “We were sleeping in shifts, me and my squad. I remember I’d just taken my boots off, just fucking taken them off, and then it hit. A car bomb. Somewhere nearby. Close enough to knock me off the cot.”

Her hands were shaking now, so subtly she didn’t even notice.

“I ran barefoot over gravel. I don’t even remember the pain. All I remember is the sound. Metal and screaming. Like a movie, but it wasn’t. I remember crawling under a flipped Humvee, dragging someone out by the collar of his vest. I remember his eyes. They were open but he was already dead.”

Margaret was still silent, not looking away. No pity. Just presence.

Abby laughed bitterly under her breath, voice hoarse. “And now I’m sitting here like this. Like some pathetic wreck who can’t handle a fucking holiday.”

She clenched her jaw, trying to blink away the heat behind her eyes. “Fireworks. Kids throwing firecrackers in the street. Everyone having fun. And I’m sitting here waiting for something to explode for real.”

Another pop outside. She flinched again, smaller this time, but her shoulders stayed high and tight like she couldn’t fully come down. “I feel like I should be tougher than this. Look at me,” she muttered, gesturing vaguely at herself; her broad shoulders, her muscular arms, the sheer physical presence she carried like armor. “People see me and assume I’m unbreakable. Hell, I used to think that. But I came home and realized I never turned it off. I never left the field. I’m still in it.”

Her voice caught, throat constricting. “I don’t sleep. Not really. Sometimes I do, but it’s always shallow. I hear things. I keep seeing… faces. People I couldn’t save. Friends I buried.”

Margaret finally spoke, quiet and even. “What were their names?”

Abby blinked, the question throwing her off. “…Luis,” she said after a moment. “Dawn. Mitchell. Hastings. We had nicknames. We joked all the time. Thought it made it easier. It didn’t.” Her voice broke on that last sentence.

And still, Margaret didn’t try to fix it. She didn’t offer hollow reassurances. She just nodded softly, grounding her presence like a stone in a river, letting the emotion flow around her without being swept away.

For the first time in weeks, maybe months, Abby didn’t feel like she had to hold her breath. The silence that followed wasn’t suffocating. It was… quiet. Safe.

By now, it was past 1AM. The distant fireworks hadn’t completely stopped, but they were dying down, shifting from rapid barrages to scattered bursts, sporadic, sharp reminders that the night wasn’t over yet. Abby had barely moved from her spot on the couch. Her posture had loosened only slightly, but her eyes stayed locked to the same dull spot on the floor, her mind miles away even while her body remained here, in the dim glow of her apartment’s living room.

Margaret shifted in her chair, a slow, deliberate movement that didn’t startle Abby this time, but did bring her back to the present. The older woman hesitated a moment, then gently spoke. “Abby,” she said softly, “I hate to bring this up, but protocol says I can’t stay the whole night. I’m a volunteer, and we’re only allowed to stay for a limited time unless there’s someone else you can call. A friend. A family member nearby. Anyone who could just... be here for a bit?”

Abby didn’t respond right away. Her jaw flexed. She blinked hard. “I don’t want to bother them,” she mumbled.

“I get that,” Margaret replied. “But just think about it. It doesn’t have to be forever. Just someone who’d sit with you for a while, so you’re not alone.”

Abby exhaled through her nose, rubbing her hands down her thighs as if to wipe off a tension that had soaked in too deep to ever leave. She stayed quiet for a moment too long, until finally she said, voice flat and almost embarrassed: “I have a girlfriend.”

Margaret tilted her head a little, just listening.

“Or—I don’t know if I do anymore,” Abby corrected. “We haven’t talked since I got back. I never... I never answered.”

A long, thick silence. Abby hated the sound of her own voice right then, hated the rawness of it, like confession dragged out of her chest. “She called,” Abby said, more to the floor than to Margaret. “She sent letters while I was overseas. Even visited my dad’s place three times since I got back. She tried. She really tried. But every time, I told him to say I was busy.”

Margaret’s face softened, but she didn’t offer sympathy. She just waited.

“I couldn’t let her see me like this.” Abby’s voice cracked just slightly. “Not when I could barely fucking walk for three months. Not when I couldn’t sleep. Not when I was waking up on the floor because I thought my ceiling fan was a fucking drone.”

She sucked in a shaky breath. “She doesn’t know any of that. She probably thinks I just... moved on. Or stopped caring. But the truth is, I thought I’d ruin her if I let her close again. I didn’t want her to see what was left of me.”

Margaret stayed quiet, but something in her expression said she understood. Not the specifics, maybe, but the kind of grief that came from trying to protect someone by shutting them out.

Abby leaned back into the couch cushion, her eyes wet but no tears falling yet. “I still have her number,” she admitted after a moment. “Haven’t deleted it. Haven’t even changed her contact name. She’s just... still there. Like she’s waiting. Or maybe I’m the one waiting.”

Margaret gave a slow nod. “Sometimes people surprise us. Especially the ones who care.”

Abby looked at her, and for a moment, the deflection almost came, some bitter joke about how dumb that sounded, about how it was too late, about how she didn’t deserve that kind of grace. But it didn’t come. Because deep down, some quiet, trembling part of her wished it was true.

Margaret stood slowly, stretching her legs a little. “Do you want to call her?” she asked, gentle but direct. “Even just to say hi. Even if you hang up right after.”

Abby stared at the phone like it was made of something toxic. Her thumb hovered just above the screen, muscles tight, knuckles pale with tension. “I can’t,” she muttered, voice low. “She probably hates me.”

Margaret didn’t push, just folded her hands in her lap. “You said she came to your father’s house. Three times. She didn’t have to do that.”

Abby swallowed hard, jaw twitching. “That was a month or two ago.”

“Still.” Margaret leaned forward slightly, her tone quiet but firm. “You said she didn’t stop trying until you made it impossible. Maybe she doesn’t hate you. Maybe she’s waiting for a reason to try again.”

A long silence stretched between them, broken only by a soft crack of another firework in the distance. Abby flinched. It wasn’t as bad as before, but her entire frame tensed, her breath catching as her body instinctively curled inward before she forced herself to breathe.

Her eyes dropped back to the phone. The contact was still there, your name, unchanged, sitting at the top of her favorites like it never left. As if she still needed to know you were only one call away.

She hit the call button before she could talk herself out of it. The phone rang once. Then twice. She almost hung up on the third. But then… click.

“Hello?” Your voice. Confused, but unmistakably you.

Abby froze. Her throat felt dry, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her fingers clenched tighter around the phone, and for a second, she forgot how to speak.

“Abby?” you asked, a little sharper now. “Is that— oh my god. Abby?”

“…Yeah.” Her voice cracked. Just one syllable, and it came out like broken glass.

You went silent for a beat. “I—Jesus. I didn’t think you’d ever call. Are you okay? Are you hurt? What happened?”

Abby closed her eyes. “No, I mean… not physically. I just—” She exhaled sharply, trembling again. “It’s New Year’s. And the fireworks, they—fuck, I thought I could handle it. I thought it would be fine.”

Her voice started to unravel, each word slipping faster, looser. “But I can’t. I can’t fucking breathe. It sounds like Iran out there and I know it’s not, I know it’s fireworks, I’m not stupid, but my brain doesn’t give a shit what I know.”

Your breathing on the other end turned shakier, hitching slightly. “Abby…” you said, barely above a whisper.

She rubbed at her face with her free hand, ashamed of how hot her eyes felt. “I didn’t call anyone. I didn’t want to bother my family, and I didn’t think, fuck, I didn’t even think I’d call you until this woman here talked me into it. I didn’t want you to see me like this. I didn’t want to be this. For you.” There was a quiet sniff on the other end. Abby could hear it. Your voice broke slightly when you spoke.

“You could’ve come back with no legs and no teeth and I still would’ve loved you, Abby.”

That silence that followed hit harder than any of the fireworks outside. Abby gritted her jaw to keep the sound from slipping out of her throat.

“Can I…” She faltered, then forced it out. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Can you come over?” Her voice was paper-thin now. “I know it’s late and I know it’s selfish but I—I don’t want to be alone anymore. I don’t want to sit here and pretend I’m okay. Because I’m not. And you’re the only person I want right now.”

There wasn’t a pause. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

Click.

Abby lowered the phone, holding it against her knee as her whole body sagged forward like the strings had finally been cut. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow bursts. Margaret said nothing, just offered her a soft, knowing look.

“Thank you,” Abby said quietly.

Margaret stood, beginning to gather her things. “I’ll stay until she gets here.”

Abby nodded. And for the first time all night, her hands finally stopped shaking. Just a little.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

By the time you pulled up outside Abby’s place, the air was sharp with smoke and cold, the remnants of fireworks still drifting in hazy trails over the street. You could hear the distant echo of people laughing, shouting, still lighting off the occasional leftover mortar, but it all felt muffled somehow. Your pulse was roaring in your ears, drowning most of it out.

The second you saw her building, everything else dropped away. You barely remembered shutting off your car or grabbing the overstuffed duffel bag you'd haphazardly packed. Blankets, food, a Bluetooth speaker, a stack of old DVDs you two used to watch over and over again before deployment changed everything. Anything you could think of that might make the night even a fraction easier for her.

You didn’t knock. The older woman, Margaret, opened the door before you had the chance, her expression tired but kind. “She’s in the living room,” she said softly, stepping aside. “She’s okay now. Quieter. But still...” Her voice trailed off, like she didn’t want to name it out loud.

You nodded wordlessly, swallowing back the lump that had formed the moment Abby’s broken voice came through the phone.

Margaret gave your arm a gentle squeeze as she slipped past you into the night. “She’s lucky you answered.”

You didn’t have time to reply, your feet were already moving.

The living room was dim. The overhead light was off, but a soft amber glow came from the kitchen, where the microwave clock glowed green and a table lamp bathed the space in faint warmth. The television was playing, some nature documentary turned up a little too loud, clearly meant to drown out the chaos still bleeding in from outside.

And there she was. Sitting hunched on the floor by the couch, back braced against the coffee table, knees bent, her dog, Alice, curled tightly into her side. Abby’s eyes were glassy and distant, her shoulders visibly rigid, fingers clenched in the dog’s scruff. She hadn’t even noticed you at first. Until she did.

You saw it, the flicker of recognition, the way her lips parted slightly like she wasn’t sure if she was hallucinating. Her whole body twitched, then stilled. Then she slowly pushed herself upright, one palm dragging along the wall for balance.

You crossed the room in two quick strides, dropping the duffel near the couch before you reached her.

Abby stared at you for a long moment. Her eyes scanned you, your flushed face from the cold, your slightly messy hair, your bare arms goosebumped in the sleeveless black dress you hadn’t even bothered changing out of. The glitter along your collarbones was half-smudged now. You’d obviously left somewhere fast.

“Were you at a party?” she asked, voice quiet, uncertain.

You nodded. “At my place. Just a couple friends. I left the second you called.”

Something in her face flickered. Guilt, gratitude, grief, it was hard to tell. She looked like she wanted to cry and apologize and fall apart all at once.

You just smiled, gentle and small. “You’re more important.”

After you pulled away, you crouched down in front of your duffel. Then you pulled out a soft, worn gray hoodie. Familiar. Faded. Her hoodie.

You held it out to her. “I brought this. Thought it might help.”

Abby stared at it like it was a live wire. Her hands didn’t move. “That’s yours now,” she mumbled. “I gave it to you. You sleep in it.”

You stepped forward, slowly, and instead of insisting again, you held it up to her shoulders like you were going to help her into it.

But Abby’s hand moved first. She reached up and gently tugged the hoodie away from your fingers. Then, to your surprise, she didn’t pull it over herself, she stepped closer and helped you into it instead, draping it around your arms, carefully sliding it up over your shoulders, tugging it down until it swallowed you completely. She fussed with the sleeves like she used to, rolled them up just enough so your hands weren’t lost in the cuffs.

“You’re freezing,” she murmured. “You always get cold when you wear dresses.”

You looked at her, stunned. “Abby, I—”

“You always say you don’t,” she interrupted softly, lips tugging upward in the faintest, exhausted echo of a smile. “But you do. Your fingers get all stiff and your nose turns pink. I used to bring a hoodie in the car just for you.”

You swallowed. Something thick pressed at the base of your throat.

“I didn’t want you to think I was weak,” she added quietly, gaze falling away from yours again. “You were always the soft one. You cried at commercials. You made everyone coffee even if they were assholes. I didn’t want to show up like this. Like I can’t even survive fucking fireworks without falling apart.”

“You don’t have to survive anything right now,” you whispered. “You just have to be here. And I’ll do the rest.”

A soft exhale ghosted against your cheek. Abby’s body gave the slightest tremble, like some part of her had been waiting for that, permission not to be strong.

Outside, another firework popped. She jumped again. Not a huge one, but a visible twitch in her shoulders, a breath that skipped. And without thinking, you grabbed the blanket and pulled it tightly around the two of you, right there on the couch.

Once the blanket was pulled up around both your shoulders, and the bags of snacks had been raided for whatever didn’t require effort, you sat beside her on the couch, close but not touching. Abby's breathing had started to even out, but her eyes stayed trained on nothing in particular, staring ahead like she was watching ghosts flicker across the wall. You waited. Gave her space.

It was almost thirty minutes of silence, soft music from your speaker filling the background, before either of you said anything.

She spoke first, her voice quiet and rough. "Do you still love me?"

The words felt like they cracked something in the center of your chest. You looked over, and Abby still wasn't meeting your eyes. She was staring at her own hands, thumbs fidgeting nervously, her broad shoulders hunched like she was trying to make herself smaller.

"Of course I do," you said instantly, so fast, so certain, it startled even her. "Jesus, Abby. I never stopped."

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. "Even after I didn’t call? Even after I ignored you when I got back? You came to my dad’s house three times and I—I couldn’t even face you. I couldn’t let you see me like this."

You shifted, bringing your legs up onto the couch, twisting to fully face her. "I came by because I didn’t want you to go through this alone. I knew something was wrong, I just—I didn’t know how to help when you kept shutting me out. But I never stopped loving you, Abs. Not for a second."

Her lips parted, like she wanted to argue, but instead she just let out this choked laugh and shook her head. "You’re insane. You’re the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me and I treated you like you didn’t matter."

You reached out, taking her hand in both of yours. "You weren’t treating me like I didn’t matter. You were scared. And ashamed. And hurting. I get that. You weren’t trying to hurt me, you were just trying not to fall apart."

Her fingers curled around yours, trembling slightly. "You still want to be with me? Even like this?"

You moved closer. “You’re still you. That’s who I love. All of it. Even the parts you think are too broken.”

She exhaled sharply, and then, like something snapped. she practically lunged forward and pulled you into her arms. You barely had time to yelp before she tugged you directly into her lap, her hands gripping your waist as her face buried into the side of your neck. You straddled her instinctively, your knees bracketing her hips, arms looping around her shoulders without hesitation.

Her entire body was shaking. Not from nerves, not just that, but from the sharp crackle of a firework somewhere nearby, close enough that the windows buzzed faintly. She flinched hard, like the sound ricocheted off her ribs. Her arms tightened around you. You felt her breath stutter, chest jerking against yours like she couldn’t pull it in evenly.

But you didn’t move. You didn’t let go. You just pressed your forehead to hers, closing your eyes as your thumbs rubbed gentle circles into the back of her neck.

"I hate this," she mumbled, voice shaking. "I fucking hate that I can’t even handle—"

"Shhh," you soothed, brushing a hand through her hair, tucking it behind her ear. "You don’t have to explain. You’re allowed to feel it. Just let me hold you through it."

She clung tighter, breathing uneven but steadying slowly, like each second she spent in your arms gave her a little more oxygen.

You pulled back just far enough to look at her. And then you kissed her. Soft. Careful. Like pressing your lips to a wound. She kissed back almost immediately, with a quiet sound like relief breaking loose in her chest. Your hands slid to cup her jaw, her breath catching, and her fingers dug into your hips like she was afraid you’d vanish.

"I missed you so much," she whispered, breaking the kiss just enough to say it into your mouth. "I’m so fucking sorry."

You shook your head, smiling even through the tears prickling your lashes. "You don’t have to apologize. Just stay. Just let me be here with you.”

She nodded against your skin, arms wrapped fully around you now, her big hands trembling slightly but no longer hiding.

The explosions outside didn’t stop. But she didn’t flinch quite as hard with each one. Because she had you. And for the first time in months, maybe years, Abby let herself breathe in the middle of the noise.

It was quiet for a long time after that. You stayed in her lap, your forehead resting gently against hers, her fingers twitching slightly where they held your waist, gripping a little tighter every time another crack of fireworks burst outside. Her jaw clenched at one especially loud boom, her shoulders flinching like her body thought it had to run. You didn’t move. You didn’t press. You just breathed with her. Matched your inhale to hers.

After a while, her muscles started to loosen, not relaxed, not totally, but not bracing like they had been. You ran your hand through her hair slowly, threading your fingers through the short strands at the back of her head, just staying there, keeping her tethered.

“Abby,” you said softly, when you felt like she could hear you again. “Can I ask you something?”

She nodded against your shoulder, then lifted her head to look at you.

You hesitated, not because you were unsure of your desire, but because you were unsure of hers, and the way her body had been trembling under your hands. Her mind was still somewhere far away, still laced with sand and sirens and blood in the dirt.

“I’m not asking because I expect anything,” you said slowly. “But I just… I remember you used to find peace in knowing something. In… knowing my body. In the way it didn’t surprise you. You said once it made you feel calm. Like it was the one thing that didn’t shift under your feet.”

Her eyes softened. A flash of memory, probably the one you were talking about, passed behind them.

You swallowed. “Do you want to have sex?”

You watched her carefully. Not just for the answer, but for any sign that it would be too much. That her skin wasn’t ready for that kind of touch. That the fireworks still rumbling in the distance made it impossible to be in her body right now, let alone share it.

Abby’s gaze dropped to your hands where they still rested lightly on her chest. Her brows pinched for a moment, then her fingers slid up and rested against the backs of your hands, grounding herself there.

“I don’t know if I can be normal about it,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I want to… I want to feel you. I miss you. But my brain keeps… twitching. Like I’m bracing for something to go off.”

You nodded. “Then we do it on your terms. Or not at all. I just wanted you to know it’s there if you want it. Not for me. For you.”

She was quiet for a long time, her thumbs stroking the inside of your wrists. Her breath came a little slower now, more steady, and her eyes flicked up to yours. “I don’t want it to feel like I’m using you,” she murmured.

“You’re not,” you said immediately. “You’re not. I’m here because I love you. Because I missed you too. And if this helps you feel… like you’re back in your body, even a little, I want that for you.”

Abby’s throat worked as she swallowed. Another firework thudded distantly. She closed her eyes, but she didn’t flinch this time. Not as much. “Okay,” she said. “But I want to go slow. And if I need to stop…”

“Then we stop,” you finished for her. “We’ll stop anytime. You say the word and I’ll hold you until morning.”

Her eyes welled up, but she didn’t cry. She just leaned forward again and pressed her forehead to yours. And this time when she kissed you, it wasn’t a distraction or a way to run from herself. It was steady. Quiet. Her hands were sure on your sides, not pulling, just holding. Like she needed to make sure you were real. Like she was still real, and not still stuck somewhere overseas.

It wasn’t sex as escape. It was sex as reconnection.

Abby stood with effort, her arms slipping under your thighs and back to lift you. It wasn’t the casual strength you remembered from before. This was heavier, like her body remembered too much, like every step had to be thought through. She carried you in silence through the hallway, her breath caught tight in her chest, eyes scanning the darkness of her own house like it might betray her.

You felt her tense before you heard the next firework. It cracked loud and sharp through the night, the kind that rattled windows and made your bones ring. Abby’s arms spasmed. She nearly dropped you.

You felt her gasp more than heard it, her whole body jerked like she’d been shot, and you instinctively tightened your grip on her, one hand at the back of her neck, the other pressing into her spine. “You’re okay,” you whispered, breath brushing her ear. “It’s not real. You’re okay.”

Her steps faltered once, then again. Then she made it to her room. Her hands trembled as she set you down at the edge of the bed. You didn’t reach for her right away. You just looked at her, gave her space to decide.

Abby stood in front of you, breathing hard. Her eyes had gone glassy again. Not gone, not fully, but like she was holding herself together by instinct alone.

You reached up and tugged the hem of your hoodie, pulling it slowly over your head. Nothing hurried, nothing coy, just quiet, deliberate motion. Like saying: I’m still here. You’re still here. This is safe.

Abby watched you undress like she couldn’t believe she was allowed to look at you again. Her hands opened and closed at her sides, unsure what to do, where to go. You reached for her wrist and guided her fingers to your waist.

You stood up slowly from the edge of the bed, your heels sinking softly into the carpet. Abby looked up at you, eyes wide, unreadable. You didn’t say anything at first, just turned around, letting your hair fall down your back, the zipper of your dress catching the light in the quiet room.

“Can you help me with the rest?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

There was a pause. You heard the small shift of weight as Abby stood behind you. Her breath was slow, shaky, like she was trying to steel herself. You felt her hands hover just inches from your back before they finally made contact. fingertips brushing your hair aside gently, gathering it in one hand and draping it over your shoulder with careful reverence, as if touching something fragile.

Her other hand lifted, trembling slightly, to the zipper. You felt the pause in her movements, her breath held in her throat.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, eyes closing as you stood still for her. “I want you to.”

That seemed to ground her. Her fingers found the tiny metal tab and began to draw it down, slow and cautious. The soft whisper of the zipper filled the space between you, delicate and patient. Her knuckles brushed your spine as the dress loosened, the fabric parting inch by inch like it mattered, like she wanted to remember how you came undone.

At the small of your back, her hands stilled. Her palms found your waist, thumbs grazing skin with quiet intent. Then, slowly, she pushed the dress lower. Over your hips. Down your thighs. It slipped from your body and pooled at your feet, the softest hush as it met the floor.

You stepped out of it and turned, the room dim and warm behind you, the air still. Lingerie delicate against your skin, heels still strapped around your ankles. You meant to reach down and unbuckle them, but Abby’s hands came to your hips first, wordless.

“Sit,” she murmured, so quiet it barely touched the air.

You backed up onto the bed, easing down onto the edge. Her gaze followed every movement like it was sacred. She crouched in front of you without fanfare, kneeling like it was instinct. Her hands curled around your ankle and gently lifted your foot into her lap. She undid the first buckle, then the second, slipping the shoe free with the kind of care you never associated with anything so small. The heel clinked softly as she set it aside.

She took the other next. Slower. Holding your foot in her hand like it belonged there.Then, instead of standing, she leaned in. Pressed a kiss to the top of your foot. Warm. Grounded. Nothing performative, just a quiet act of reverence. She moved higher. The inside of your ankle. The tender slope above the bone. Her mouth didn’t rush. Every press of her lips was deliberate. Like she was trying to memorize the shape of you.

Up your calf, her hands following, steady and warm. To the back of your knee, the inside of your thigh, her lips never straying too far from the center line of your body, but never asking for anything either.

You let your legs part just a little. Not an invitation. Just… soft permission.

By the time she reached the top of your thigh, just below the lace edge of your lingerie, her breath hitched. Her lips grazed the skin, then stilled. She looked up, eyes catching yours like she needed tethering.

You nodded.

And it was only then that she exhaled. Her forehead dipped to rest against your thigh, the weight of it like an answer you didn’t even know you’d asked for. When she finally rose, it wasn’t quick. It was like peeling herself out of something heavy. Like lifting a body that had forgotten it could stand on its own.

You stayed seated on the bed, still in your lingerie, legs slightly parted, watching her as she came back into herself. Her gaze drifted upward, slow, like she was rediscovering your body all over again, not with hunger, but with awe. And maybe a little disbelief.

Before she could retreat into her head, you reached for her, your fingers slipping under the hem of her hoodie, gently tugging. “Let me,” you said, quiet but certain, already easing it upward. She didn’t resist. She leaned into it. Let you strip it off her, the hoodie crumpling to the floor.

Her braid lost a couple strands as they came tumbling down, slightly disheveled from the drag of fabric, and you brushed it back without thinking, tucking it behind her ear like you’d done it a hundred times before. Then your hands found her waist, sliding up under her shirt. Her breath hitched, but she stayed still, watching you, trusting you.

You peeled the shirt up slowly. Reverent. Your fingers brushed her sides as you lifted it, knuckles gliding over the tense muscles of her stomach, the shape of her ribs, the slow rise of her chest. You let her feel every moment. Every brush of skin. Every inch of fabric slipping away like it meant something. Because it did.

And she didn’t look down.

She kept her eyes locked on yours, like if she looked away for even a second, she might vanish again. Like if she didn’t watch your face, she’d get pulled back under by the dark sea that had already swallowed her too many times.

The shirt joined the rest of the clothes on the floor, and she stood bare before you, save for her boxer briefs. The lamplight hit the scars across her torso, old, faded, mapped like memory. You didn’t trace them. Didn’t flinch. You just looked. And then, when she didn’t move, you rose from the bed to meet her.

Chest to chest. Nothing rushed. No heat behind it. Just the quiet pressure of two bodies standing still together.

You brought your forehead to hers, gently, grounding the contact. Her breath stuttered. Yours caught. And for a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just breathed. Letting her feel closeness without fear. Without urgency. Without the static of survival. Just being. Being wanted. Being safe. Being held.

Your hand slid up her bare arm, slow, as your voice broke the quiet. “Still okay?”

Abby let out a quiet, trembling laugh. It caught in her throat, closer to a sob than anything else. “Yeah,” she whispered, voice thick. “I just… I didn’t think I’d ever get this again. You again.”

You kissed her, soft, certain, no weight behind it but truth. “I never left.”

And just as her body softened into yours, just as her breathing steadied and her shoulders lowered from where they’d been tensed for years, something cracked through the night air outside.

Pop!

A burst. Then another. Distant, bright, unmistakable.

Abby jolted like she’d been struck, a full-body flinch as the noise thundered again. Her hands grabbed your waist instinctively, hard. Her breath vanished, her jaw clenched, eyes going wide as every muscle in her body locked up.

“Hey,” you whispered, hands rising to her face, to her shoulders, steady and grounding. “It’s okay. Just fireworks. I’ve got you.”

She didn’t speak, just nodded against your touch, breathing hard through her nose like she was fighting off the instinct to run, to retreat, to shut down.

You pulled her closer, arms around her, holding her like a fortress. “You’re here,” you murmured. “You’re safe. With me.”

And slowly, slowly, her grip loosened. Her head bowed to your shoulder. She pressed her face into your neck and held on, not because she was scared now, but because you’d just reminded her she didn’t have to be. Not anymore.

Not with you.

Abby eventually pulled back, not all the way, just enough to draw in a breath and glance toward the bed like she needed something solid behind her again. Something to lean into that wasn’t just adrenaline or memory. The shadows shifted across her face as another firework bloomed behind the curtains, briefly lighting the room in a pulse of red and gold. She winced at the noise, shoulders tensing, but this time she shook it off faster, grounding herself with a quiet breath.

Then, slowly, she stepped backward toward the bed, the thick blanket rumpled at the foot. She sat down with a soft thud against the headboard, legs parted just slightly, knees loose, her hands resting uselessly on her thighs. She looked up at you, eyes glassy, tired, but clear. Wanting, but scared of wanting too much.

“Will you come here?” she asked, voice rough. Barely above a whisper. “I… want to feel you. All of you.”

You moved without hesitation, climbing onto the mattress with careful, deliberate steps, like stepping into water you didn’t want to disturb. She watched you with her jaw clenched slightly, like letting herself have this was somehow more terrifying than anything before.

You straddled her lap, knees tucked tight against her hips, arms bracing on her shoulders. Her hands rose slowly, hesitant, asking without words, and you let her pull you close, pressing your chest flush to hers. Her breath caught as your skin met, warm and soft and real. Her forehead dropped to your collarbone, and she exhaled into your skin like it was the only place left in the world she trusted.

“This,” she murmured, voice muffled, “this is the only thing that doesn’t feel wrong right now.”

You nodded, fingers threading gently through her hair. “That’s all that matters right now. Isn’t it?”

She nodded as her hands smoothed down your back, slow and sure, until they settled at your hips. Her thumbs circled just above the band of your panties, brushing the bare skin there like it grounded her. And maybe it did, because her breathing steadied, just slightly. Her head lifted, eyes drinking you in.

Then, with a careful, almost reverent slowness, she leaned in.

She kissed your neck first, just below your jaw. A soft press of her lips, then another, slower, lower. She took her time, kissing across the hollow of your throat, then sucking lightly just beneath your ear. Each touch was measured, deliberate, like she was relearning what it meant to move through desire instead of fear. Her hands cupped your back, drawing you closer as her mouth dragged lower.

When she reached your chest, she paused, just enough to look at you, to ask with her eyes.

You gave her everything she needed in a single nod.

Abby kissed the swell of your breast first, then dragged her mouth slowly across your skin, tongue flicking, lips closing around your nipple. Her mouth was gentle, then firm, then gentle again. She sucked slow, wet, rhythmic, her breath hitching every time your body arched into hers. She didn’t rush. Didn’t try to dominate the moment. She just stayed there, lips sealed around you, grounding herself in the softness of your skin, the way you gasped quietly into her hair.

“Abby…” you breathed, voice barely there, your hand sliding through her hair, fingers trembling just slightly.

She hummed low in her throat, mouth still latched to your nipple, the sound vibrating right through you.

Your hips shifted beneath her, your other hand curling into the sheets. “Feels so good,” you whispered, like it was something you didn’t mean to say out loud.

Abby made a soft sound back, something between a breath and a kiss, her lips sealing tighter around your nipple for a moment like she was answering without words. Like she needed to taste that comfort on her tongue. Her hand slid lower. Down your stomach. Past the edge of your panties. Fingers slipping beneath the fabric like she’d been waiting all night just to know you this way again.

She touched you softly at first, just circling your clit with the pads of two fingers, no pressure, just presence. Your breath caught. Hips twitched. And Abby let out a low, involuntary sound, almost a sigh against your chest.

“God, baby,” she murmured, voice hoarse, lips brushing against the skin above your nipple. “You’re so soft here.”

Her fingers pressed deeper, slow, gentle, sliding through your slick folds, and her mouth never left your chest. She planted slow kisses against your nipple and took it into her mouth with the same care. Wet and warm and utterly devoted.

You moaned softly, hips rolling helplessly against her hand. “Abby—” you gasped again, this time quieter, your thighs tightening around her wrist as two fingers slid inside you, slow and steady, curling deep with intent.

And then—

The sound.

The obscene, wet sound of her fingers sinking into your heat. Slow and rhythmic and unmistakably messy. Abby froze, not in fear, but because her breath stuttered, like she hadn’t expected it to sound that wet, that real.

Her hand stilled for just a second inside you, like she was catching her balance. Then resumed, deeper now, her fingers curling just right, her palm brushing your clit with every thrust. And that sound kept going, sticky, raw, rhythmic. It filled the room like it belonged there.

Another firework exploded outside. Louder this time.

But Abby didn’t flinch. She didn’t even seem to hear it.

Because her forehead was pressed to your chest again, her mouth open against your skin, her hand buried in your heat, and every part of her was drowning in the slick, wet music of you.

You whimpered again, fingers fisting tighter in her hair. “Please don’t stop,” you whispered.

Abby’s breath caught. “I won’t,” she said low, her voice barely a breath.

You gasped into the side of her head as your hips rocked again, her fingers stroking through you with patient, perfect rhythm.

Her mouth moved like a soft prayer across your skin; warm, wet, and reverent. She kissed the swell of your breast, slow and worshipful, lips barely parting as she dragged her mouth upwards, tracing the curve of your collarbone before sliding to the hollow at the base of your neck. Her breath mingled with yours, shallow and rhythmic, lips pressing beneath your jaw with a tenderness that made your heart tremble.

You felt the pulse of her breath against your skin, steady and grounding, syncing with the slow, deliberate rhythm of her fingers curling inside you. Your body shifted instinctively, responding with quiet gasps that slipped past your lips, soft moans that filled the warm air between you.

Your arms curled tighter around her shoulders, chest pressed flush against hers, so close that your nipples brushed her skin with each shallow breath. You could feel her steady heartbeat beneath your cheek, like a quiet drum anchoring you both to the moment.

“Shh,” Abby murmured against your neck, her voice low and rough, a fragile thread pulling you deeper into the silence you shared.

She held you like the world had fallen away, like you were the only thing tethering her to this breath, this heartbeat, this fragile present. Her forehead nudged beneath your chin as her fingers moved with reverence and patience, curling slow and deep inside your slick heat. Each stroke was an unspoken promise, a careful memorization of every tremble and pulse of your body.

You gasped softly, your voice barely a breath, “Abby…”

Her other arm wound firmly around your waist, anchoring you against her, steady and unyielding. You felt the heat of her skin through her shirt, the weight of her body holding you safe as your hips rolled unconsciously against her hand.

The room pulsed with warmth, thick with the soft, wet sounds of her fingers sliding through you; rhythmic, messy, intimate. Abby shifted slightly, easing back against the headboard so you could settle deeper into her lap. Your breath came in tight shudders, your body trembling with need and trust, your muscles tense and ready to unravel.

Her lips left your neck for a moment, brushing softly along your jaw, then pressing to your cheek with a kiss that was slow and deliberate, full of quiet devotion.

You whispered, voice shaking, “You’re so pretty.”

She responded with a soft hum, the barest vibration against your skin.

Her thumb found your clit again, circling lightly at first, gentle, as if testing the delicate balance between pleasure and pain.

You whimpered, hips twitching, your pussy clenching harder around her fingers. Abby’s breath hitched against your neck, her mouth opening slightly as she pressed down firmer, thumb moving in slow, steady circles that matched the rhythm of her fingers buried deep inside you.

“Mmm…” you moaned softly, barely a sound but full of everything you felt; need, release, love.

She exhaled quietly, holding you steady as your body responded, each slick stroke sending sparks through your nerves, each gentle touch unraveling the tension you’d held inside for too long.

You whimpered again, voice barely above a whisper, “Abby…”

Her lips brushed your jawline, warm and steady, before she kissed your neck softly, tongue flicking once with sweet insistence. You arched into her hand, fingers threading into the hairs at the nape of her neck, pulling her closer as your hips rolled in desperate rhythm.

Your orgasm built like a slow fire under your skin. Your clit throbbed under her touch, your pussy fluttered around her fingers, muscles clenching and releasing with increasing urgency.

You gasped, head tilting back, breath catching as your body began to tremble uncontrollably in her arms.

“Abby…” you whispered again, voice raw with need.

She didn’t change her pace. Just held you, fingers curling deep, thumb circling slow, mouth hovering near your lips, body pressed flush against yours like she could absorb every wave of your pleasure and keep it safe.

And then it broke.

Your orgasm crashed over you in a slow, devastating wave, curling your body forward into her chest, your muscles trembling, breath caught in your throat.

You moaned into her skin, fingers clutching fistfuls of her skin, teeth grazing the soft curve of her shoulder as your body shook with the intensity of it.

Abby held you tight, one hand between your legs, the other at your back, her breath ragged but steady as she whispered, “I’m here.”

You clung to her, anchored in that fragile, quiet space where everything else fell away, and only the two of you remained.

“You okay?” Abby asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper as her knuckles brushed the side of your thigh.

You nodded into the warm skin of her neck, still catching your breath. “Yeah. God. I’m… yeah.”

She let out a slow exhale like she’d been holding her breath through your entire release. Then, gently, so gently, it made your chest ache, Abby lifted you off her lap. Her arms cradled you like you were something fragile, something breakable in the wrong hands, and laid you down beside her on the bed with all the care in the world.

She didn’t say anything as she stood. Just pressed her palm lightly to your knee once, as if to say stay, before turning toward the bathroom. You watched her move, slow, limping slightly, her body still marked by old strain. She disappeared for only a moment before returning, a warm, damp cloth in her hand.

She knelt beside you without ceremony, without embarrassment. Just quiet, grounded intention. And then she wiped between your thighs with the same care she had touched you with all night; tender, focused, gentle.

The room was still, save for the soft drag of fabric across your oversensitive skin, your breathing slowly evening out, and the distant crackle of fireworks still blooming outside the windows.

Abby didn’t speak. Her jaw was tight, her eyes lowered, focused on the task like it was keeping her tethered. Like if she looked up too soon, she might drift out of the moment completely.

Your hand found her wrist.

“Thank you,” you murmured, voice soft, full.

She didn’t look at you right away. Just nodded once, folding the cloth neatly before placing it on the nightstand. Her hands stayed at your ankles, fingers curled loosely around the bone like she didn’t want to stop touching you. Like she needed the contact, but didn’t trust herself with more.

You watched her in the silence. The way her chest moved like every breath cost something. The way her fingers clenched slightly when they stilled.

After a moment, you reached toward her, your voice quieter now. “Can I ask you something?”

She looked up, guarded but present.

Your fingers slid along her thigh, soft. “Would you let me go down on you?”

The change in her was instant. Not violent, not rejection, just stillness. Her whole body froze. Her hand stilled on your leg. Her throat worked through a tight swallow. She didn’t answer at first.

Then she shook her head, once. Measured. Her eyes finally met yours. “No.”

You sat up slowly, your voice gentle. “Okay. I didn’t mean to push—”

“No,” she cut in again, this time softer. “It’s not that I don’t want you to.” Her voice cracked slightly, and she wet her lips. “I do. I really do.” Her jaw clenched. “But I can’t. Not right now.”

You said nothing. Just listened.

Abby’s eyes dropped, her thumb tracing along your shin like she couldn’t help it. “If you touched me like that, if I let go that far, I think I’d lose it. I think I’d fall apart.”

There was no shame in it. Just honesty. Just the trembling edge of someone trying hard not to fall too fast.

You crawled toward her on the bed, closing the small space between you. Your hands came up to cradle her face, your thumbs stroking gently along the sharp lines of her jaw.

“You’re allowed to need what you need,” you whispered. “I only asked because I wanted to offer.”

Her eyes fluttered closed for a beat, and when she opened them again, they were shining. “I know.” She leaned into your touch, pressing her cheek into your palm. “And I love you for it.”

Your fingers curled gently into her hair, drawing her close.

She breathed you in. “Just… let me keep you close tonight. That’s all I want. That’s all I can hold.”

You kissed her forehead, slow and certain. “Then that’s exactly what we’ll do.”

And so she pulled you back into her arms, lying down with you beneath the blankets, your head tucked just under her chin, her palm warm across your spine, holding you like you were the only thing left tethering her to the earth. The fireworks outside still cracked and flared in bursts behind the curtains, but she didn’t flinch anymore. Not with your breath against her collarbone, not with the steady weight of you curled into her chest like safety.

She didn’t need to be touched.

She just needed to feel safe, and with you, she was starting to remember how that felt. One slow breath at a time.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

It was the silence that woke her.

No more distant crackles. No more phantom flashes lighting up the ceiling. Just stillness, thick and full. The world had quieted. And in that absence, Abby could finally hear the gentle, unremarkable sounds of a night that hadn’t ended in ruin. The soft creak of the headboard when she shifted. The faint whisper of wind against the windowpanes. A far-off car, muted in the early gray hush of morning.

And your breathing. Steady, soft, right beside her. You were still here.

Her arm was draped securely around your waist, both of you tangled up beneath the comforter like you belonged there, like you’d always been there. One of her legs, her bad one, was bent a little out to the side, the muscle stiff and sore beneath the quilt, and your thigh was warm where it pressed into hers, bare skin touching bare skin. Your back rose and fell with each breath, your shoulders moving with the rhythm of dreaming, and when you murmured something wordless, slurred by sleep, Abby instinctively drew you in closer.

She shifted slowly, carefully, easing herself up onto one elbow to look at you.

The light was gray, dim, filtering thinly through the blinds. That time of morning that felt like the world hadn’t started yet. No pressure. No noise. Just the quiet in-between. Her eyes traced your sleeping form, the soft curve of your shoulder, the gentle crease at your brow even in sleep. And then, below that, your lingerie. Still clinging to your body in delicate lines, straps slipped askew from where her hands had tugged and touched and clutched at you last night like she was afraid you’d disappear.

And all around the floor, there it was. The trail of how it had happened. Your dress was draped half over the foot of the bed, one strap hanging limply to the floor. Your boots had been kicked off beside her nightstand, one sock still stuffed inside. Your earrings were in a little ceramic dish she didn’t even remember handing you. Her hoodie, your shirt— they were scattered in soft chaos at the edge of the bed.

Not thrown. Not careless.

Just… surrendered. Given freely, in the blur of trying to get closer.

Abby exhaled softly, her breath mingling with the quiet stillness of the room. Her hand moved instinctively, fingertips tracing the gentle curve of your waist beneath the blanket. You shifted slightly in your sleep at the touch, pressing back into her warmth without waking, the motion unconscious and tender.

Now you were here, in her bed, wrapped up like something sacred. Your hair was tousled from sleep, cheeks flushed with a soft, warm glow, lashes casting delicate shadows over your skin. The blanket lay half-draped across your hips, slipped down just enough to reveal the smooth line of your body nestled perfectly in the space she’d unknowingly made for you. Close, safe, and utterly belonging.

Abby swallowed.

You looked too soft like this, too good, too open, and something in her chest pulled tight with it. Because she didn’t feel like she’d earned it. Didn’t feel worthy of how peaceful you looked in the aftermath of her unraveling.

Abby laid down again slowly, inching closer until she was curled around you once more, her arm slipping beneath your ribs and pulling you into her chest. You were smaller than she remembered, not in size, but in how perfectly you fit now, like you’d melted into the space beside her in your sleep, becoming something inevitable. Her lips found the slope of your shoulder, warm skin against cracked lips.

“Still here,” she whispered into your skin, voice raw, like she was saying it for herself more than you.

You blinked awake at the sound, slow and bleary, your breath hitching as you shifted to face her. “Hey,” you mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep, barely a breath between your lips. “You okay?”

Abby nodded, brushing her thumb along the soft edge of your waist. “Yeah. I think… I think I will be.”

You lifted your hand and touched her jaw. Tender, reassuring, so gentle it made her pulse slow. “The fireworks finally stopped.”

“Yeah.” Her voice caught in her throat. “I didn’t think I’d get through it.”

You leaned your forehead to hers, breath warm in the inch of space between you. “You didn’t have to get through it alone.”

That stilled her.

Her hand slid up, finding the edge of the blanket and tucking it tighter around your back like it would shield you from the chill still hanging in the corners of her thoughts. Her knuckles brushed a thin strap still clinging to your shoulder.

“You’re still wearing this,” she murmured, low and a little amused.

You smiled, eyes still half-lidded. “Didn’t exactly show up planning to sleep.”

Abby huffed a soft breath through her nose. “I noticed.”

Her eyes flicked past you, to the mess on the floor. Your dress in a puddle, your heels toppled next to her bed, your hoodie somewhere scattered in a corner.

“Your clothes are all over the goddamn floor,” she muttered.

“Mmm. Pretty sure my earrings are having a nap somewhere in your dog’s bed,” you murmured, cheek resting softly against hers

That made her laugh. Quiet, surprised. The sound felt foreign in her chest, like a song she hadn’t heard in weeks. “You want to get dressed?”

“Not unless I have to.”

“You don’t.”

And she didn’t push. Didn’t press her luck. She just let her hand drift slowly down your back, curling around your side, holding you like a secret. Her face buried into the warm crook of your neck, her breath slowing as the weight of the night gave way to something else, something quieter, gentler.

Her head still buzzed faintly with leftover adrenaline, echoes of sirens that never came. But your body was soft and real in her arms. You smelled like skin and sleep and the tiniest trace of the perfume you’d worn earlier, and she clung to that like oxygen.

The world hadn’t ended. Not really. It had cracked open, and somehow, you had stepped into the wreckage and made a home there, one soft touch at a time.

And now, in the quiet pulse of dawn, she let herself believe that some things, after all of it, were still hers to hold.

You

Always, impossibly, still you.


Thank you for reading! <3

[elliessickhabits]

Blind Loyalty

Blind!reader x Abby Anderson

Part 1./ Part 2./ Part 3./ More..?

CW; mentions of a suicide mission, emotional tension, fear of loss, protective behavior, power dynamics, sensory impairment, mild sexual tension, slow burn, angst.

Summary; Born after the outbreak, you and your father are taken in by Isaac, an old friend. Life under the WLF is harsh, but manageable, and over time, Abby Anderson becomes your quiet constant. A slow bond forms through shared silence, careful hands, and unspoken loyalty. But when Abby is sent on a near-suicide mission and refuses to take you, you won’t stay behind, because if she’s risking everything, then so are you.

Notes; OMG FINALLY finished this first part of this fic!! I’ve been screaming and crying about it forever bc I had NO idea how the hell to even start or get some tension in here. Huge shoutout to @gogolsbf for literally telling me to start this and like hurry my ass up fr (but also he’s suuuper patient and ILY <3) So here we are!! Expect LOADS of tension and angst, probably gonna be a slooow burn... maybe, idk yet >_< stay tuned!!

Word count; around 5,1k

You were born into the dark. Not metaphorically, though the world was already ash and bone by the time your lungs drew their first ragged breath, but literally. No blinding hospital lights, no sterile nursery cribs. No handhelds flashing from proud fathers. You were born in the backroom of a storage facility just outside your hometown, your mother gritting her teeth through labor while three people she barely trusted whispered panicked instructions beside her.

The only light came from a cracked skylight above, stained with moss and the shadow of rot. And when you opened your eyes, they stayed closed.

You never saw her face. She died minutes later. And you don’t remember her voice, either, though your father used to say it sounded like the wind through chainlink. Soft but cutting. He doesn’t say that anymore. Not because he forgot. But because some memories hurt less in silence.

There were a few truths you learned young. First: the world doesn’t slow down for you. Second: silence doesn’t mean safety. Third: people are kind, sometimes, but only until the kindness costs them something.

But your dad? He was different. The kind of different that lasts even in a world like this. He didn’t look at you like a burden. Didn’t speak about your blindness with that hushed tone people reserve for death or weakness. He never flinched when you stumbled, and he never overreached to help you unless you asked.

“You’re not broken,” he’d say, tying your boots the first time you tried them on. “Just tuned to a different station.”

He called it that often, your head. Your world. A different station. And maybe he was right. You never missed the sight of things. Never grieved the loss. You couldn’t lose what you never had. While other kids were learning colors and shapes, you were learning textures and distances, cataloguing spaces by sound and vibration. You could tell a person's weight by the way the floor groaned under them. You could tell their mood by the pattern of their breath. You never needed eyes to see when someone was lying.

But still, the world was cruel. And crueler to those who asked for space or help. So your father kept you close, moving often, bartering his skills, first as a runner, then as a mechanic, then as something between soldier and scavenger, just to keep your heads above water. But it was never quite enough.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The moment it all changed was the day your father got wind that Isaac Dixon was alive. Not just alive, but building something real. Not a settlement of wishful thinkers with garden beds and hand-sewn blankets. Not a group of half-starved zealots clinging to some repurposed scripture. A force. An army. One with rules. One that could protect its own.

Your father knew Isaac from before. Before the fall. They weren’t best friends or anything like that, not then, but they were close enough to recognize each other without weapons raised. Isaac had respected him back then. Trusted him. And that trust? It carried over.

It took a month to track the WLF down. Another week to convince the guards at the outer wall not to shoot. But the moment your father said his name, everything shifted. Someone fetched Isaac. There were muffled words, soft but urgent. And then Isaac stepped out, and you felt your father relax beside you. Shoulders dropping. Breath even.

“Holy shit,” Isaac had murmured. “Didn’t think I’d see your face again.”

And your dad, with that dry edge to his voice, answered, “Wasn’t sure you’d made it.”

Isaac didn’t hesitate. He looked at you next. Not with pity. Not even confusion. Just... calculation. A soft exhale. Then a nod. “She yours?”

Your dad rested a hand on your shoulder. “She’s mine.”

“Then you’re in.”

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

They gave you a room the same night. Not far from your father’s, though you insisted on having your own. You liked your space. Liked knowing where things were. And though the beds were hard and the lights always buzzing overhead, it was the safest you’d felt in years.

You didn’t go on patrols, not at first. You weren’t assigned to a station, weren’t handed a rifle and told to “stand watch.” But you weren’t dismissed either. People stared, sure. Whispered. But nobody said anything out loud. That was the thing about the WLF, respect was earned, not handed down. And over time, you found your rhythm.

You helped organize supplies. Catalogued ammo and gear by weight and count. You carved identifiers into storage racks. People caught on quick, your hands could find things faster than their eyes could. And after a while, they stopped treating you like dead weight. Some even came to you for help.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

One of the first to actually talk to you was Manny.

Loud, cocky, full of shit in a way that made you grin even when you didn’t want to. He was always trying to flirt, but never in a way that felt mean. He liked making people laugh. And you? You were a great excuse for him to practice charm without consequences.

But the one who mattered most, the one you hadn’t expected, was Abby Anderson.

She never said much at first. You could tell she didn’t quite know what to do with you. She wasn’t cruel, but she wasn’t gentle either. You liked that. The first time you heard her speak, her voice came from across the mess hall, low, even, clipped. “Pass the salt.”

The sound of her was sharp. Controlled. You pictured her then: tall, probably. Strong. Someone who could silence a room without raising her voice. And you were right. Not long after, Manny introduced you two. She didn’t shake your hand, didn’t lean close or adjust her tone. She just said your name. Once. And then hers.

“Abby.”

Simple. Like she didn’t think you needed more. Like she trusted you’d figure it out.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The shift between you wasn’t fast. It came in layers.

First, it was food. Someone would hand you a tray, and by the time you sat, a spoon or fork would already be pressed into your palm. No word. Just a warm hand nudging it there.

Then it was doorways. Abby would clear her throat softly right before you passed through, just enough to signal she was holding it open. You never tripped. You never needed guiding. But she was there, anyway, hovering without suffocating. Present without pity.

Your father noticed. Of course he did.

“She watches out for you,” he muttered once while sharpening a blade. “More than most.”

You shrugged. “She’s like that with her friends.”

But you weren’t really her friend. Not yet. Just someone she didn’t ignore.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

It changed the night the thunder rolled in.

Salt Lake didn’t get many storms, not the loud kind. But that night was different. Dry heat all day, then pressure dropped. Air thickened. Then the crack of it, sudden, sharp, right above the compound. You sat bolt upright in your bunk before the echo finished bouncing off the walls.

You weren’t ashamed. Not really. You’d hated thunder since you were a kid. Not because of the sound itself, but because of what it did to everyone else. The panic. The shouting. The fear of a breach. You couldn’t see their faces, but you could feel chaos rising in their bones like steam.

You curled up. Breathed deep. Tried to bury yourself in the smell of canvas and dust.

Then the door opened.

You recognized her footsteps immediately. Boots off, bare socks. The way she stood in the frame like she was giving you a second to say no. You didn’t.

She crossed the room without speaking. Sat on the edge of the bed. You didn’t touch. Didn’t even face her. Just sat there, both of you, with the thunder rolling outside and the whole world tensed like a fist.

She didn’t say you were brave. Didn’t say you were safe. She just stayed. And when the second wave cracked, louder than before, her hand drifted, barely brushing your shoulder. You didn’t flinch.

That was the night you knew she cared. Not because of what she said. But because she didn’t leave.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

A couple months later

You knew she was coming before she knocked.

Not because of some dramatic intuition, or any of the things people romanticize about blind senses, but because Abby had a specific way of arriving. A rhythm. Her boots landed harder than most, but not heavy. Steady. A controlled sort of weight. Like she measured every footfall, like even the ground needed her permission.

There was a pause outside your door. You were still sitting on your cot, hands running slowly over the edge of your thigh holster, checking that your knife was seated correctly. Not fidgeting, just grounding. You had a ritual for mornings when the base felt loud before it was. There’d been a shift in the air since sunrise. A tension in the voices passing the hall. Even the pipes seemed restless, hissing more than usual.

She knocked. Just once.

The knock was soft but deliberate. Not like the clattering urgency of a guard with bad news, not like the nervous tapping of a kid wanting to borrow a weapon. It’s steady, familiar.

Abby.

“Hey,” her voice cuts through the stale air, low and steady, carrying the weight of quiet authority mixed with something softer, something careful.

You stood before answering. Didn’t speak, just opened it. Her scent hit you first. Clean sweat. Leather. Something cold underneath, like morning air clinging to skin.

“Put your boots on,” she said simply. You heard the gear on her, rifle over shoulder, straps creaking with movement, the dull clack of buckles catching against her chestplate. But her voice didn’t carry urgency. Just that quiet kind of decisiveness she wore like second skin.

“Why?”

She shifted. You could hear the rub of her gloves as she flexed her fingers.

“Fresh air.”

That was code, now. She never said walk, patrol, or escape. Just fresh air. Like it was a shared thing. Yours and hers.

You bent to pull your boots from under the bed. Fingers curling around the rough leather and pulling them on with practiced ease. Your fingertips find the laces, working them tight before sliding your feet in, molding yourself into the familiar weight and feel. The boots ground you, their rigid sole against your skin, the way the leather creaks just slightly as you flex your ankles.

When you stood again, she was still in the doorway. Not in it, exactly, just beside it, the way she always stood when she wasn’t sure if you wanted her in. She never crossed thresholds without being told to. You liked that about her. Liked that she didn’t fill a room until invited. You nodded once. “Ready.”

Her presence fills the narrow hallway. The scrape of her boots on concrete is a steady rhythm, a heartbeat alongside your own.

You reach out, and her hand closes around your wrist, not squeezing, just steadying. You let her guide you to the door. She doesn’t walk fast. She adjusts without asking. The first time she did it, weeks ago, you’d almost snapped at her. You hated being coddled. But she wasn’t slowing for you. She was slowing with you. Matching pace like it was instinct.

You can tell when she is armed differently. Today isn’t standard. You counted at least two guns, one on her hip, one across her back, and probably a combat knife at her thigh. She was always geared up around you. Never said why. Probably thought you didn’t notice.

Isaac must’ve signed off. She wouldn’t be taking you out otherwise.

You tilted your head toward her. “Did you ask permission?”

“Course I did,” she muttered. “You think I’d take you out there without a green light?”

You could hear the grin in her voice. That smug little edge she got when she knew she was playing by the book but still felt like she was getting away with something.

“He give you the usual speech?”

“Something about responsibility and discretion,” she said. “I stopped listening after that.”

You snorted once, quiet. She liked that sound, though she never acknowledged it out loud.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Outside, the air hits your face. Dry, sharp, salted with the faintest trace of something green, maybe pine or sagebrush carried in on a dry wind. The sky is a dull grey, heavy with clouds, but there’s no rain yet. You take a deep breath, filling your lungs with the wild openness you rarely feel.

Abby’s voice is close. “We’ll stick to the road for a while. Not far. Just enough to get some fresh air.”

You nod, as you’re already moving forward, your feet finding the cracked pavement, the broken glass crunching beneath your boots.

Abby walks beside you, her steps strong but measured, never too fast, always attentive. She’s silent at first, letting the sounds of the world fill the space between you. Distant birds calling, the occasional hum of a passing vehicle far off. The faint buzz of electricity from a downed powerline.

You lean slightly into her side when you sense rougher terrain ahead, a patch of gravel, maybe broken asphalt. She adjusts, stepping just ahead, holding out a steadying hand. Her fingers brush yours briefly. Not enough to startle, but enough to remind you she’s there. The heat of her skin transfers through the thin fabric of your sleeve. You hold onto it, steady and reassuring.

The jeep was already running when you two arrived. She helped you into the passenger side without touching you. Just opened the door, waited. You counted the seconds by her breathing. Not impatient. Not expectant. Just there.

The seat was cracked leather. Familiar. You ran your hand over the dash as she climbed in, noting the old radio toggle still half-broken, the duct tape on the gearshift.

She drove without music. Always did.

The ride out was quiet, save for the engine hum and the occasional crunch of gravel. You didn’t ask where she was taking you. You never did. It didn’t matter. The landscape changed every time, but the ritual was the same. She’d find a place she thought was safe enough. You’d walk. She’d track surroundings while you read them, by sound, by scent, by air.

Sometimes she talked. Most times she didn’t.

You liked the silence with her.

When the engine finally cut, you sat still for a moment. Let the absence of vibration settle in your bones. Then came the world, wind through tall trees, distant crows, the creak of old branches above. Pine needles, damp earth, the cold bite of elevation in your lungs.

You turned your head slightly. “Forest?”

“More or less,” Abby said. She was already at your side, metal clinking faintly as she stretched. “We’re west of base. Still inside safe perimeter.”

You nodded, opening your door before she could do it. The ground was uneven, but familiar. You stepped out, feeling the crunch of leaves and grit beneath your soles. You liked this texture better than concrete. It had life in it.

“Walk slow,” she murmured. “We’ll go maybe half a mile in.”

You heard the quiet click of her safety. Off, not on. Something about that both comforted and annoyed you. “Expecting trouble?”

“No.”

“Then why—”

“Habit.”

You didn’t push further. You never did with her. She spoke when she needed to. The rest came through presence.

She walked a half-step ahead, but not blocking. You tracked her by sound, the swish of her pants, the occasional branch shifting against her shoulder. She didn’t talk much during these walks, and you didn’t need her to. You could feel her. That was enough.

The forest opened slowly. Wider space. Less clutter underfoot. You tapped your fingers against your thigh once, three beats. A habit you’d picked up years ago. Calibration. Sound bouncing back from trees. You counted the seconds until the echo softened.

“Field?” you asked.

“Yeah. Cleared land. Probably old farmland before the fall.”

There was a breeze here. Colder, sharper. It moved your hair, slid between layers of your jacket. You adjusted your footing.

Abby stopped. You felt the absence of her motion before you heard it.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said. Then, “You okay?”

You tilted your head toward her. “You always ask that.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

She exhaled slowly. Not annoyed. More like she was working something out in her head.

“’Cause sometimes you lie,” she said finally.

You huffed. “Sometimes you do too.”

She let that hang for a second. Then chuckled once. A low sound, private. “Fair.”

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You ended up sitting on a fallen tree, damp bark rough against your palms. Abby stood nearby, shifting occasionally. You could hear her cleaning something, probably her rifle. The cloth against metal was slow, even. Not really about maintenance. Just busy hands.

“You ever wish you could see?” she suddenly asked, voice quiet.

You turned your head toward her. Not startled, just surprised she’d asked. “No,” you said truthfully. “I think it’d make things harder.”

“Why?”

You shrugged. “I’d have to unlearn too much.”

Abby was quiet again. But her voice, when it came, was softer than usual.

“Most people want more.”

“I’ve had enough.”

That silenced held for a long time. You didn’t fill it. She didn’t either. The wind moved. A crow cried somewhere overhead. You could feel her shift closer, not touching, not even brushing, but nearer than before.

When she finally spoke again, it was without preamble. “I didn’t just bring you out here for the air.”

You nodded. “Figured.”

“I just... I needed out of there.”

You didn’t say anything. You just sat there with her, two women in a dead world, breathing the same bitter wind, pretending for one quiet moment that everything outside the trees didn’t exist.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The ride back was quieter than the way out.

You stayed still in the passenger seat, hands resting in your lap, the leather cold beneath your fingers. The world outside the windshield blurred into the low hum of the jeep’s engine and the muted whisper of tires on gravel. Abby’s presence filled the small space beside you like a solid shape, grounding.

When the jeep finally eased into the base, the scent of dust and wood smoke tangled with something faintly metallic and antiseptic. You heard the engine slow, then cut off.

“Here we are,” Abby said softly. She unbuckled her seatbelt with a muted snap.

You nodded, steadying yourself with a hand on the door handle. The seatbelt tugged slightly as you shifted. The cold metal of the door frame greeted your palm when you stepped out.

The ground beneath your boots crunched with grit and small stones. You took a slow breath, savoring the shift from open air back into the enclosed safety of the base. Abby followed close, close enough that the scrape of her boots against gravel was a heartbeat behind yours.

You sat down on the edge of your cot inside your room, the rough wood cold against your bare calves. Slowly, methodically, you began unlacing your boots, fingers working the knots loose with practiced care. The leather was stiff from the day’s walk, slightly damp with sweat, and it made the familiar creak as you pulled your feet free.

Abby stayed standing nearby, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, her breath steady and quiet. She was watching, not with eyes, but with presence. You felt it as strongly as if she had a hand on your shoulder.

“Mind if I check you for wounds?” Her voice was low, careful, almost hesitant.

You hesitated. You were used to managing on your own, accustomed to dismissing small aches and bruises like they were nothing. But something in the way she asked made it feel less like an obligation and more like a favor.

“Okay,” you said after a pause.

She stepped closer. You felt her breath on the back of your neck, the heat of her body a tangible comfort. Abby’s hands were rough, calloused but gentle as she reached toward your calves, sliding fingertips along your skin.

She paused where the fabric of your pants was damp. Her fingers pressed lightly, searching. “Nothing here,” she said, voice steady.

You shifted your foot, flexing your toes. She moved to your ankles, tracing the edges of your boots’ sole marks left faintly on your skin. “Any pain?” she asked.

You shook your head.

Her fingers moved up your calves slowly, carefully, her touch never rushing or sharp. When she reached your knees, you felt her fingers press with gentle pressure against the scrapes and bruises there, small, faded, mostly superficial.

“Looks like you took a few hits,” she murmured, her voice low.

You shrugged, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Still,” she said, “doesn’t mean I’m not going to look.” She lifted your pant leg a little, feeling for anything missed. The fabric shifted against your skin, cool and soft.

Her hands brushed a faint scar you hadn’t noticed in weeks, old and barely raised. “Here,” she said quietly, thumb stroking the edge. “This one’s healing. Did you get it on patrol?”

“No, before,” you said. “Doesn’t matter.”

Abby didn’t press. Just nodded once, a quiet acknowledgment.

When she moved to check your arms, you felt the air shift as her body circled, careful not to startle. She paused, fingertips tracing a faint bruise near your wrist.

“Here,” she said softly, “this one’s fresh. You sure you didn’t feel it before?”

You hesitated, then shook your head again. “No. Maybe just didn’t notice.”

She pressed the bruise lightly, gauging your reaction. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

She exhaled slowly, like she’d been holding her breath. Her hands retreated. “Good,” she said finally. “Because if you’d been hurt and didn’t say something...” Her voice trailed off.

You didn’t ask her to finish.

Instead you rubbed your feet slowly, feeling the tired ache behind your arches. You shifted your weight on the cot, the wood groaning softly under you. The quiet was thick between you two, but it didn’t feel empty. Abby was still there, close enough that you could hear the soft scrape of her boots against the floor.

“Want me to get you some water?” she asked after a moment, voice low and steady.

You nodded, grateful for the simple offer. The air inside the base was dry, and after the walk, your throat felt tight.

She moved quietly toward the corner where a battered metal jug sat beside a cracked basin. You heard the click of the lid opening and the soft swish of liquid inside.

When she came back, she held the jug just out of your reach, letting you guide your hand until your fingers curled around the cool metal.

The water was colder than you expected, sliding down your throat in sharp, refreshing gulps.

You heard her shift again, closer now. “Feeling sore anywhere else?” Abby asked softly.

You paused, letting your fingers brush absently over your calf, feeling the faint pulse beneath the skin. “Just tired,” you said finally. “And maybe... stiff.”

Abby hummed. You could hear the breath in her voice, steady and careful, like she was measuring every word. “I can help with that,” she said. “I know some stretches. Nothing fancy, but it might loosen you up.”

You hesitated, not sure if you wanted to bother her. But there was something in her tone, no pressure, no demand, just quiet willingness.

“Okay,” you said.

She moved around you slowly, the scrape of her boots barely audible now. Then her hands settled on your shoulders, strong and warm, grounding.

The first touch startled you slightly, but she stayed gentle, firm without pressure. Her fingers kneaded the tension out carefully, feeling the muscles beneath. You breathed out slowly, letting yourself relax into the touch. Her hands shifted to your neck, tracing the tense lines there. You felt the weight of her presence, steady and calm, like a shield against the quiet ache in your body.

“Good,” she murmured. “Just slow, steady. Let me know if it hurts.”

You shook your head, words unnecessary.

Her fingers pressed into your trapezius muscles again, moving with purpose but never harsh. She knew you well enough to sense your limits, adjusting instinctively.

After a few minutes, she eased back, her hands sliding down your arms to your wrists, stretching gently.

“Better?” she asked softly.

You nodded, the tightness in your shoulders easing just a little.

“Thanks, Abby,” you said quietly.

She shifted again, this time closer, her breath brushing against your ear. “You’re welcome.”

For a long moment, the two of you just sat there, the small room filled with the quiet sounds of your breathing and the distant hum of the base settling down for the night.

Then, Abby spoke again, voice barely above a whisper. “You know... I don’t mind this.”

The words hung in the air, soft and heavy. You didn’t answer right away, just felt the steady warmth of her hands resting lightly on your arms.

“I mean... being here with you. Helping. Watching out.” Her fingers twitched slightly, like she wasn’t sure if she’d said too much. But you reached up, placing your hand over hers, the skin rough beneath your palm.

“Me too,” you said.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The briefing had been brutal. Isaac’s voice was sharp, clipped, laced with the weight of something too dangerous to sugarcoat. The map spread out on the rough wooden table showed a no-man’s land, an area deep into Seattle’s outskirts, crawling with hostile factions and infected alike. The mission was clear: scout, retrieve critical supplies, maybe gather intel, but above all, survive.

No one called it what it was, no one said “suicide mission” out loud. But the word hung in the air between the lines, heavy and undeniable.

When Abby heard the orders, the hard set of her jaw tightened.

“You’re going,” Isaac said, meeting her eyes with an icy calm.

Abby didn’t argue.

But later, when she came to you, you felt it. her usual steady, unflappable armor cracked just enough for you to glimpse the worry beneath.

“You’re not coming,” she said before you could say anything. Her voice was low, almost fierce. “This isn’t safe. It’s—” She swallowed the words, but the meaning was clear.

Suicide mission.

She didn’t want you there. Not just because it was dangerous, but because she couldn’t bear the thought of watching you die on her watch. You stayed silent, the weight of her words settling between you like thick fog.

“I’m not going to leave you alone, Abby,” you said finally, voice steady. “Not on something like this.”

She looked at you, eyes dark and heavy. “This isn’t about what you want. It’s about keeping you safe.”

You let the silence stretch. You knew she was right, this was dangerous. But the thought of sitting back while Abby risked everything? It was unbearable.

Abby moved around the small room methodically, gearing up for the mission.

You stayed quiet, your breathing steady, muscles coiled with determination. You knew she didn’t want you there. Hell, she’d said as much. But there was no way you were letting her go alone. Not on this.

You waited until you heard the faint clink of metal, her weapons being checked, secured. The subtle rustle of her jacket sliding over her shoulders. The sharp click as she tightened her boots. Abby’s movements were efficient, practiced, almost ritualistic, the kind of focus that made you hesitate for a heartbeat, but then you moved.

You slipped silently through the narrow hallway, toes skimming over the rough concrete floor. The scent of old leather, metal, and the faint musk of dirt hung in the air. Your fingers trailed along the wall as you navigated, every texture a guide. You passed the common room where the others were nowhere in sight, then the faint echo of voices drifting from somewhere distant.

You reached the garage door. Your fingers found the cold metal handle; the lock was simple, Isaac’s crew kept it functional, not fancy. You lifted it carefully, the slow creak muted in the thick evening stillness. Outside, the air was cooler, carrying the scent of dry dust and pine.

Your fingers brushed along the dusty frame of the car, a tough old thing with battle scars, dents, and a battered paint job peeling in places. You slid around the back, feeling the shape of the trunk, and then moved to the side door.

The car was unlocked. You smiled a little, thankful for the small mercy. You opened the door quietly, the soft thud almost swallowed by the night. You slid inside the backseat, the worn leather creaking softly beneath you.

Your heart hammered, not from fear, but from fierce resolve. You settled in low, trying to find a comfortable spot. The faint scent of Abby’s sweat and earth mingled with the oil and old fabric. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the chill inside the car reminding you that you’d chosen this willingly.

You heard the front door slam behind you, Abby was coming. You held your breath as the driver’s side door swung open and shut, the sound sharp in the quiet. The engine rumbled to life, a low, vibrating growl beneath your back.

You stayed perfectly still, listening. The seatbelt clicked in, then the soft scrape of Abby’s boots on the pedals. Then the car rolled forward, tires crunching over gravel.

For nearly ten minutes you remained silent, every sound magnified in the cramped space. You felt every vibration through the seat, the subtle changes as Abby shifted gears, the steady rhythm of the engine.

Then, suddenly, a sharp intake of breath came from the front. “Wait...” Abby’s voice was tense, uncertain.

You shifted slightly, the worn leather creaking beneath you, and you heard her stiffen.

“Shit.”

Her hands gripped the wheel tighter. “What the fuck are you doing back there?”

You swallowed, your fingers curling into the seat fabric. “I’m not letting you go alone,” you said quietly.

There was a long pause, then a soft exhale. “Goddamn it,” Abby muttered. You heard her lean back slightly, the leather seat creaking under her weight. “Get up here.”

Your hands moved quickly, feeling your way to the front seat as Abby reached over and unlatched the back door. The cold night air brushed against your face as you climbed out, the gravel crunching beneath your boots. Abby caught your arm as you settled in beside her, her grip firm but not harsh. “You’re impossible,” she said softly.

You smiled. “Yeah, well. So are you.”

The car slid back onto the road, the headlights piercing the gathering dark.

To be continued…

[elliessickhabits]

Final Destination: The Last Wave part 3!

Ellie Williams x Reader

Part 1. / Part 2. / Part 3. / Part 4. / More?…

CW; graphic explosion, fire, severe burns, traumatic injury, death, gore, strong language, panic, injury, trauma, grief, loss, hospitalization, drinking, explicit sex scenes, consensual adult hookup, condom use. (if i missed any lmk) !Please proceed carefully if you are sensitive to disaster scenarios, graphic violence, or sudden character deaths. Reader discretion is strongly advised. ≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼!

Summary; this fic follows a college trip to a new aquarium that quickly turns deadly. Tanks collapse, predators escape, and fate’s deadly design unfolds with brutal, terrifying twists. Can anyone survive when death’s coming for them all?

Notes; Part 3 is finally here!! (^o^)/ I seriously had so much fun writing this one. Okay, heads up, there is a pretty intense sexual scene at the end. It’s not totally necessary for the story, but I just really wanted to add it anyway, and besides, it’s always nice to get a little intake on a character’s story (✿◠‿◠) If that’s not your thing, no worries, you can totally skip it! There’ll be a clear content warning before it happens. If you want me to do a specific death or have ideas, just shout. Still deciding whether to do a reader x Ellie smut scene or not... who knows? Hope you enjoy it as much as i do!

Word count; around 4,8k

You had tried calling Tommy at least a thousand times. It wasn’t just the ringing in your ears or the cracked screen of your phone lighting up endlessly, it was the growing pit in your stomach that tightened with every unanswered call. Your call log was a sea of red. Missed. Missed. Missed. Each one a sharp pinprick of panic, the kind that burrows deep and never quite leaves.

Each ring lasted forever, stretching out, mocking you. Every voicemail you left was a coffin lid being slammed shut, the cold finality of silence on the other end twisting your gut. You didn’t even want to listen to them anymore. your own voice, trembling, pleading, desperate. You wanted to believe Tommy had a simple excuse, some bullshit reason for not picking up, but your mind refused to let you.

You paced the living room for the fifth time in the last hour, the dull scrape of your shoes against the floorboards the only sound besides your ragged breaths. Your brain was running laps, chasing its own tail to keep from breaking, and failing miserably. You couldn’t stop thinking about all the signs, all the pieces falling into place like a twisted puzzle no one wanted to solve.

Because something was wrong. Not just with Tommy. With everything.

A soft thud against the door startled you. Another flyer. You barely glanced at it at first, irritated that someone was still delivering junk mail this late at night. GAS PRICES ARE INFLATING! the headline screamed in bold, angry red letters. You stared at the paper like it was some kind of cruel joke. Too normal. Too goddamn normal.

Who the hell handed out flyers at nine at night? You looked away for a sec, before looking back, half-expecting the back to be the same, but what you saw made your blood run cold.

Instead of the same headline, a completely different article stared back at you, the print slightly blurry as if it had been printed in a rush, or worse, altered. The title read: “Comfort Pets for the Elderly: A New Outreach Program.”

What the fuck?

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. That wasn’t the same headline. You were sure of it. You remembered seeing the gas prices one just a second ago. And the paper, it felt different too. The edges were damp, curling slightly, like it had been sitting in someone’s mouth, waiting before being shoved through your mail slot like a message meant only for you.

You flung the paper across the couch with a curse, the dull thud echoing in the too-quiet room. Your fingers itched to call Tommy again, to break the silence, but your voice caught somewhere in your throat.

Ellie, curled up on the armrest beside you, reached out and caught your wrist before you could pace past again. Her hand was warm. Steady. Gentle. Her touch was the only anchor keeping you from spiraling entirely.

“Hey… hey. He’s fine,” she said softly, her voice low and calm in the chaos of your unraveling mind. “He probably just has his phone off. You know how Tommy is.”

You turned toward her, eyes wild, desperate. Her brows were furrowed with worry, but her voice stayed even, gentle, an island in the storm you felt was about to drown you.

“I know you believe me,” you said, voice cracking like dry twigs underfoot. “But I need to do something. This isn’t just grief. It’s not just trauma. This is happening. And it’s gonna keep happening unless—”

Ellie nodded, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her hand still resting lightly on your wrist.

“I’m not saying you're wrong,” she said quietly, her eyes searching yours, trying to find a way to steady the tremor she saw inside. “I saw the way Kat went. You told me about the dream, and… it all fits. But maybe Tommy's just off-grid for a bit, you know? He probably just needs space.”

You swallowed hard, but the words wouldn’t settle. Space. Time. They sounded like lies you were telling yourself to stay sane. Because if you really faced the truth, if you really believed Tommy was gone, you didn’t know if you could breathe through the panic that would swallow you whole.

Ellie squeezed your wrist, a quiet plea not to fall apart in front of her. And somehow, you wanted to believe her. You needed to. But the silence between the missed calls screamed louder than her soft reassurances.

You sat down hard on the couch, the springs protesting beneath you. Your head dropped into your hands, fingers tangling in your hair as your mind raced. The shadows in the room seemed to grow darker, curling like fingers reaching in for you.

Ellie shifted closer, her body warm against yours, grounding you. The quiet between you stretched long and tense.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, voice raw and hoarse.

Ellie’s fingers stroked the back of your hand. “Me too. But we’re not alone.”

You looked up. Her eyes shone with something fierce and fragile all at once. “We’ll find him. We have to.”

The words felt like a prayer.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Tommy’s hand rested lightly on the steering wheel, knuckles white beneath his grip. The gas gauge needle was flirting with the red line, wavering precariously as if daring him to push just a little farther. He wasn’t sure how much farther he could make it. Somewhere beyond the endless stretches of cracked asphalt and scrub brush lay a town, Maria’s crumpled map said it was the next one over, but it might as well have been a mirage in the desert. Twenty miles. Maybe more. Too far when you were riding on fumes.

Maria sat beside him, knees bouncing nervously, legs twitching in their seat like restless animals trapped in a cage. Her fingers tightened around the crumpled paper as she murmured, “They don’t have another station for twenty miles, right?”

Tommy glanced over, watching the way her eyes darted to the cracked dashboard, the flickering “check engine” light, the empty spaces where the radio used to be. She was never still when sitting for long, and tonight was no different. She had that jittery energy, always wound tight like a coiled spring ready to snap.

“I gotta piss anyway,” she muttered, shifting in her seat.

Tommy sighed, exhaling a breath fogging the cracked window. He signaled and pulled off the road, his tires crunching over gravel onto a dust-covered lot.

The gas station looked like it had been stuck in time, stuck in a 1990s nightmare. The sign out front flickered unevenly, the fluorescent bulbs buzzing and sputtering, casting a sickly yellow-green glow over the cracked pavement. The edges of the sign were chipped and worn, paint peeling in curling flakes, the station’s name barely legible beneath years of grime.

It sat squeezed between a liquor store and a bait shop that looked like it hadn’t seen a customer in weeks. The lot sloped down slightly toward the station’s battered front entrance, where a rust-streaked metal awning sagged under the weight of broken neon tubes and years of neglect.

Parked near the curb, lazily angled and taking up half the space, was a jacked-up Chevy truck. Mud-caked tires towered over the cracked concrete, and a battered trailer was hitched to the back, its wheels caked with dried mud and gravel. The truck’s paint was faded, the chrome dulled to a matte gray, but it had a menacing stance, as if it belonged more to the wild than the road.

Maria leaned over, her lips brushing Tommy’s cheek in a brief, hesitant kiss. Her breath was warm against his skin, the faintest tremor of worry slipping through her usually steady voice “Be safe out here, alright?”

Tommy scoffed, trying to shake off the creeping unease tightening his chest. “Babe, it’s a gas station. What’s gonna happen, I get mugged by a Slim Jim?”

She smirked but said nothing, already slipping out of the truck with that familiar don’t-trust-anyone look in her eye. Tommy watched her retreat toward the station’s flickering lights, her silhouette swallowed by the shadows. He slid the card into the ancient pump, grumbling under his breath at the price. “Three-ninety a gallon. Fuckin’ robbery.”

The pump clicked, hissed, and began filling the tank with a slow, steady gush. Tommy pulled out his phone, checking the signal bar. Two. Barely enough to send a text or make a quick call. He tapped his messages, fingers jittery with nerves.

Then, from across the lot, a metallic clunk rang out, sharp and sudden against the evening quiet. Tommy looked up, eyes narrowing. The Chevy’s trailer was moving.

Slowly at first, almost imperceptibly, but it was sliding backward down the gentle slope. No driver. No one had touched it. The wheels wobbled as the trailer gained momentum, rolling away from the truck and straight toward the station.

Tommy blinked, disbelief freezing him. “Oh, come on—”

The trailer slammed into a precarious display of propane tanks stacked haphazardly beside the ice machine by the front doors. The propane tanks clattered like bowling pins, clanging and banging against the concrete as one fell loose, rolling straight toward Tommy. It stopped just at his feet, hissing softly, a slow, ominous sssssssssss that felt like a warning.

Tommy exhaled sharply, hand pressed flat against his chest, heart pounding. “Jesus Christ. Fuckin’ rednecks.”

His eyes darted down to the gas pump nozzle, still embedded in the tank’s side, the plastic lever failing to click off. Fuel was leaking in a slow, shimmering river across the cracked concrete, pooling at Tommy’s boots.

The smell hit him, a sharp, biting stench of gasoline and metal, the kind of smell that made your eyes water and your throat tighten. The hissing from the propane tank grew louder, a deadly whisper sliding into the night. Tommy’s phone buzzed in his hand. He glanced down, screen glowing with a new message. His heart stuttered.

And then the impossible happened. One spark. No one ever knew where the spark came from. Was it static electricity crackling through the dry air? A rogue cell signal pulsing too close to a volatile mix? The friction of tires skidding on the pavement? Whatever it was, it was enough.

The first flicker of flame appeared at the edge of the gasoline puddle, like a curious tongue tasting the air before it fully struck. Tommy’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened in horrified slow motion as the flame blossomed suddenly into a roaring fireball.

The world exploded.

The blast hit with the force of a bomb detonating beneath him. The heat seared Tommy’s face before the shockwave slammed into his chest, throwing him backward like a ragdoll.

Sound shattered into chaos, metal twisting and snapping, glass shattering into a million glittering shards, the low rumble of burning fuel erupting into a monstrous roar. The air thickened with choking smoke and acrid fumes that burned the eyes and clawed at the lungs.

Tommy’s skin blistered instantly, a cruel, fiery lace tracing grotesque patterns across his arms and face. His clothes caught flame, melting against his skin with sizzling, sticky heat. He dropped to the ground, writhing, trying to beat out the flames with desperate, flailing hands.

His screams tore through the night, raw and ragged, drowned almost immediately by the roaring inferno that swallowed the gas station whole. Flames climbed higher, licking the night sky like a grotesque flower of death blooming in the darkness.

Behind him, the propane tanks continued their deadly chorus. One by one, they erupted with deafening pops, spewing fireballs and shrapnel into the air. A burning canister hurtled past Tommy’s head, tearing a ragged chunk from his jacket and scorching the flesh beneath. His vision blurred, the edges tinged with red and black as the firestorm consumed everything.

The asphalt beneath him bubbled and cracked, sending up plumes of scorching smoke. His body screamed with agony, muscles seized, nerves fried, skin melting away in screaming sheets. Blood mingled with soot and fuel, pooling beneath him as his hands clawed futilely at the burning ground.

The pain was unbearable, but Tommy’s mind was slipping into a terrifying, detached haze. He heard nothing but the roaring flames and the distant wail of sirens. His mouth tasted of ash and blood. His vision flickered, and he felt the warmth of his own blood soaking into the cracked concrete. The world dimmed around him, turning from the fiery hellscape to a cold, merciless void.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Minutes later, first responders arrived, their faces grim beneath the flashing lights.

They found Tommy sprawled in a ruin of burning wreckage, his body a smoldering ruin. His skin was blackened, charred beyond recognition. Limbs twisted and broken, bone exposed beneath the shattered flesh. A pool of thick, dark blood spread beneath him, the smell of death mingling with gasoline and burnt flesh.

Medics worked quickly, dousing flames, applying pressure, trying to stem the bleeding. But it was too late. The fire had done its work. Tommy had already slipped away.

The coroner’s report would later read like a horror story:

“Extensive third-degree burns covering over 90% of the body. Massive trauma from shrapnel wounds consistent with explosive force. Inhalation of superheated gases causing severe respiratory failure.”

They’d find fragments of melted metal embedded deep in muscle and bone. His fingertips would be missing, burned away to charred stumps. His face would be unrecognizable, fused in a grotesque mask of molten skin. But none of that mattered in the moment. Only the searing pain. The ragged gasps. The choking blackness pulling him under.

And somewhere, far away, the flickering lights of the gas station finally faded into silence.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Maria Didn’t Remember the Sound.

Not really. People kept asking about it, the explosion. The boom. If she’d heard it. But all she remembered was a strange pressure in her teeth and a crackling heat across the back of her neck before the world flung her sideways.

She’d been in the shitty bathroom of that gas station. A single rust-stained sink, a flickering overhead bulb, and one of those fake pine-scented air fresheners dangling from the door handle like a joke.

She remembered washing her hands. She remembered frowning at her own reflection, that sudden chill that made her look over her shoulder even though no one was there. Then, nothing. Then, fire. Through the window. Light like a second sun. A pressure wave that shattered the glass and ripped the door off its hinges. She remembered flying. Her head slamming into something hard. The sour stink of her own blood pooling in her mouth.

She remembered crawling. Trying to call his name. The rest was blank. The hospital came in flashes. Beeping. Burn cream. The sickly taste of saline. People whispering near the foot of her bed like she was already halfway gone. She’d come out with a concussion, a fractured shoulder, and a gash across her scalp that needed twelve staples. The nurse had said, “You’re lucky,” and Maria had nearly spit in her face.

Tommy hadn’t been lucky. He hadn’t made it past the pavement.

Now she was staying with her cousin two towns over, somewhere quiet, where even the birds seemed reluctant to make noise. The house was too clean. Too normal. Too full of smells that weren’t right. Lavender laundry soap. Apple cinnamon candles. The food was fine. The couch was soft. People meant well.

But it all felt wrong.

Maria moved through the house like a ghost. She couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep unless she passed out from sheer exhaustion. She flinched when someone knocked on the door too hard, jumped when a pan clanged against the stove. Her cousin tried to talk. Tried to offer gentle advice about healing and grief. But all Maria heard was white noise, a rush in her ears like wind through a broken window.

She didn’t cry. Not because she didn’t want to. Because she couldn’t. Her body was still in survival mode, her brain locked somewhere between get out and it already happened.

She’d seen what was left of him.

She hadn’t wanted to. Had begged not to. But they said someone had to confirm. The photos were… they weren’t Tommy. Not really. Just melted shapes and red-black meat. Burnt fabric fused into flesh. His dog tags twisted into something unrecognizable.

Still, she knew. Something in the shape of his hand. The curve of a jawbone. A tattoo that somehow hadn’t burned away completely.

A fly buzzed near her hand. She didn’t move. Her phone buzzed with another condolence text. Another useless “thinking of you.” She didn’t answer. Instead, she stared at the horizon, at the rising stars, and tried to remember the sound of his voice.

The way he laughed when she called him a dumbass. The way he always left the radio on after parking. The way he used to squeeze her thigh at red lights, like a habit he couldn’t break. She clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms.

She was alive. And somehow, that felt worse.

That was the last time anyone heard from Maria. She quietly disappeared, blocking everyone out, leaving only whispers behind. Those who knew her could tell she was lost, wrapped in a heavy tide of regret and sorrow that no one could reach.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The second you saw the news, your lungs lodged upward and refused to breathe.

You hadn’t been there in person. You’d watched later, first on your phone, a grainy clip taken from someone’s dashcam, then on the news, with official confirmation. You’d seen the fiery bloom erupt from the gas station like some monstrous flower, felt the suffocating throb of what it should have sounded like even in muffled replay: a deep, guttural thunder that shattered glass, cracked the asphalt, and swallowed everything in a white-hot blaze.

But what really killed you was the silence that followed. That unnatural hush after the blast, as if the world had held its breath and didn’t know how to exhale. And in that moment, unseen, unheard, you felt it. A cold vacancy hollowed out inside your ribcage, leaving every vein in your body pulsing with dread.

You were pacing.

Back and forth. Around the living room. Past the cold coffee cups and the bloodshot remnants of your tired mind. The rain rattled the windows again, a furious soundtrack to your mounting panic. Your shoes squeaked on the floorboards, echoes that felt like footsteps following you.

Ellie was behind you, crouched on the couch, knees curled up to her chest, the hood of your hoodie tucked over her head like a blanket. You glanced at her without facing her, saw her hand wrapped around her knee, knuckles white, fingers trembling against denim.

She tried to be calm. Tried to tell herself, and you, that everything was fine. But you both knew it wasn’t.

Then your phone buzzed. Instinct had you grapping for it faster than you meant to. Heart hammering in your throat. Thumb slipping across the screen. “Joel,” the caller ID read. Not Dina’s. Not even Jesse’s. Joel.

You froze for a moment before you managed to tap ‘answer.’

The moment the call connected, there it was—his voice. Flat. Low. Threaded with something that kept it clipped, like he was holding a storm inside a paper cup, ready to let it break loose. “Where’s my daughter?” he demanded. No greeting. No small talk. Just a damned question cutting through the static.

Your voice cracked before you could catch it. “She’s here, Joel. She’s right here with me.”

His breath rattled on the other end. The slightest inhale before he spoke again. Each word felt weighted like a hammer. “Good.” He paused, climbing a mountain inside his chest with every syllable. “Pack your things. You. Her. Both of you. Come back to this house. Now. I’m not going to lose her too. You understand me?”

Ellie stiffened beside you. You could feel her inhale. That tiny gasp pressed into your side. You swallowed. Tried to steady your voice. “Yes. We understand.”

That was all the permission she needed. Ellie sprang up, boots already crunching against the hardwood floor. “I’ll drive,” she whispered, voice steady despite trembling hands as she shoved her feet into her shoes.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The drive was unbearable silence punctuated by the occasional crack of the heater vent. Gray news tickers crawled across the bottom of the radio, official reports streaming through without context.

“Explosion at local gas station. One fatality, firefighters still mopping up hot spots.”

“Victim identified as Thomas Miller, 39, local wildlife warden, community leader…”

Seconds felt like hours. You fixed your gaze at your hands resting on your thigh, fists clenched tight enough to leave dents in your skin, afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

Ellie didn’t speak. Eyes forward, jaw tight. Your so-called calm anchor, but inside her eyes you saw all the same terror. The house came into view. Dark. Waiting. Silent.

Joel met you in the driveway, his shoulders set like the walls of a fortress. His eyes were hard, distant. When he saw Ellie, they dropped with immediate relief until pain cut through them again.

He pulled her into that hug, one arm looped around her neck, the other at her waist, squeezing so hard her ribs had to protest. She choked a sob against his chest. He held her like he didn’t want to let go.

And you, well, you stayed back a step. You were invisible, but necessary. There. Protected, but not touched. Her safety net. The one he hadn’t asked for, but didn’t have to.

Their hug stretched and stretched until both of them needed air again. Joel stepped back, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt, hands sweat-heated and firm. He looked at you, really looked at you, for the first time since the explosion. There was something new in his eyes. Fear. Not for himself. For her. For you. He knew. He didn’t say it out loud. He didn’t have to.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Night fell over the house, dark pressing at the edges of the windows. Ellie sat beside you on the guest room bed, body curled into yours, one arm locked around your waist like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Joel lingered in the hall, soft footsteps, checking doors, peeking into rooms. Guardian father mode activated. Grief made him jittery.

You couldn’t sleep. Your head felt thick. Thoughts tangled in a migraine of what-ifs. Why Tommy? Why Kat? Why them? Did Death have a schedule? A list?

You reached for your laptop, the screen’s glow too bright in the dark. You typed: Flight 180, death pattern, cheat death.

You’d seen it. Flight 180: kids rescued from a doomed flight by some vision. None of the others died on the crash, ended up surviving, only to die bizarre, brutal deaths, in the same order they would have died on the plane.

Kat was first. Printer. Jammed with something. Smash.

Then Tommy. Gas station. Blaze.

Next: Jesse.

You reopened your notes. Kat. Tommy. Jesse. You whispered the names into the dark, like a secret you never wanted to admit you believed.

You didn’t even wait until the morning, just shoved ellie so she would wake up. “Jesse. He’s next. We have to call him.” Ellie stirred, eyelids fluttering, then sat up and looked at you, eyes shadowed but determined.

Ellie nudged you. You exhaled, reached over, and dialed Jesse. It rang once. Twice.

Then: “Yo?”

Ellie launched in. “Where the fuck are you?”

Surprise lit his voice. “Ellie? Uh… party, I guess. What’s going on?”

You pressed your elbow into her shoulder, lean-telling her to go. “It’s Tommy, he’s dead, and now I’m telling you, you’re next. Get somewhere safe.”

There was a long pause. “Okay…” he said, tone sliding into annoyance. “This the conspiracy shit?”

“It’s real,” you cut in, voice harder than you wanted. “Kat died. Tommy died. You and Dina were at the aquarium. You’re next unless you get out of there. Now.”

You heard laughter. Soft. Nervous. Inside you knew he was with someone. You didn’t care.

“Damn, okay. Chill,” he said. “Dina just broke up with me. I’m fine. I’m… chill, okay?” He hung up.

Ellie’s jaw set with hate. “Fucking idiot.”

“Elie—”

“Call Dina.”

You nodded and handed the phone over. Ellie dialed. She spoke calmly, urgently. Dina answered on the third ring. She listened. She didn’t laugh. Not once. “Tell Joel I’m staying,” she said. “If he won’t let me stay here… I’ll find a hotel.”

You exhaled, relief flickering in warmth. Joel entered the room, leaning against the doorframe. No words. Just that look: nod. This wasn’t normal. This was not grief. This was not loss. It was a countdown.

You looked at Ellie and let your hand squeeze hers. The rain had stopped outside. Dawn was full and gray. The world was waking, and you could feel Death waiting just past the horizon, eyes half-closed and measuring. But you were awake. You were aware. You were ready.

Because as long as Ellie believed, maybe there was a chance.

Meanwhile, Jesse was having the time of his fucking life.

Some college party he didn’t belong at. A friend-of-a-friend’s cousin’s place, cheap lights strung over peeling drywall, beer sloshed across kitchen counters, people grinding half-heartedly to some shitty SoundCloud remix of Travis Scott. He’d shown up buzzed, half on impulse, the other half riding the high of no one telling him what the fuck to do.

Didn’t matter that he wasn’t enrolled. He was tall, cocky, and hot in a way that made people overlook the details. Flash a smile, throw back a shot, compliment someone’s eyeliner, boom, you were in.

By his fourth drink, he’d found her. Brunette. Tanned. Wearing tight denim shorts and a tank top that clung to her every curve. Kind of looked like Dina if he squinted. That familiar sharpness in the jaw, those full lips, the way she laughed like she knew she was being watched.

He’d grinned, tipped his head toward the stairs.

She leaned in, whispering against his ear, “Wanna find somewhere quieter?”

“Lead the way.”

The room upstairs smelled like sweat and someone else’s weed. Clothes came off in pieces. They barely made it to the bed. Jesse sat back with a smirk, shirt shoved up around his neck, jeans pushed down to his knees, cock already thick and waiting as she straddled him.

She sank down in one smooth motion, breath hitching, head tilting back with a moan that cracked against the cheap drywall. Jesse hissed between his teeth, hands finding her hips.

“Fuck,” he groaned, eyes half-lidded, watching the way she moved, slow at first, then picking up rhythm, her thighs clenching each time she bounced back down. The wet slap of skin filled the room, louder than the muffled bass of the party downstairs. She was soaked, heat wrapped around him so tight it made his abs clench.

Jesse let his hands slide up her waist, thumbs brushing under her top, lazy and smug. “You ride better than my ex.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t slow down, one hand gripping the headboard for leverage, the other braced on his chest. Her tits bounced under her shirt, her hair stuck to the sides of her face, lips parted in short, hot pants.

“You say that to all the girls?” she managed between gasps.

“Only the ones who squint like her when they come.”

She shoved him, half-laughing, half-annoyed, but her hips didn’t stop grinding down onto him, taking him deep every time. Jesse just laid back, arms folded behind his head, like he didn’t even have to try.

The condom wrapper lay crumpled on the floor beside a beer can and a toppled lamp. The room stank of sweat, smoke, and sex, and Jesse was too deep in it to notice anything else. His eyes stayed locked on her face, on the way she bit her lip when she got close, on the flutter of her lashes, on the gleam of spit shining on her lower lip.

She clenched around him, hard.

“Shit, fuck, you’re gonna—” he gritted, hips jerking up to meet hers, losing that smug composure as she started to ride faster, chasing her own release like it was owed.

She came first, thighs trembling around his waist, a high-pitched whimper slipping past her lips. Jesse followed not long after, a strangled moan, fingers digging into her hips as he spilled into the condom, heat surging through him like a static charge.

And for a moment, it was perfect.

But Jesse had no fucking idea what was coming next.

To be continued…

[elliessickhabits]

Final Destination: The Last Wave Part 2!

Ellie Williams x Reader

Part 1. / Part 2. / Part 3. / Part 4. /More?…

CW; graphic violence, animal attacks, death, injury, blood and gore, panic, chaos, claustrophobia, life-threatening situations, intense suspense, distressing scenes, emotional trauma, trauma (if i missed any lmk) !Please proceed carefully if you are sensitive to disaster scenarios, graphic violence, or sudden character deaths. Reader discretion is strongly advised. ≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼!

Summary; this fic follows a college trip to a new aquarium that quickly turns deadly. Tanks collapse, predators escape, and fate’s deadly design unfolds with brutal, terrifying twists. Can anyone survive when death’s coming for them all?

Notes; part two is finally out! It took me a bit longer since I wasn’t sure how to kick off or end this part. I’m pretty sure this story is going to be way longer, definitely not just four chapters, oops >ᴗ< I hope you enjoyed the way I wrote the deaths, and as always, if you have any suggestions or changes, just let me know! For now, enjoy!

Word count; around 3k

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

It had been a week.

Seven full days since the aquarium. Since everything exploded; glass, blood, water, bodies. Since you screamed until your throat ripped trying to stop it, and somehow, for reasons that still didn’t make sense, you had. Or had you? No one was really sure.

What was clear, though, was this: nothing had been the same since.

People talked a lot in those first twenty-four hours. Mostly loud, chaotic and panicked. They whispered in hospital lobbies. Cried on each other’s shoulders. Teachers tried to keep things calm, and Joel had snapped at two different board members for trying to sweep it all under the rug.

But now, a week later?

No one really talked at all.

At least, not to each other.

The group, the survivors, had splintered apart like wet paper. Whatever thread had bound them together had dissolved the second they stepped out of that building and realized they were still alive.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Three days ago was the funeral. Or, more accurately, funerals. Three caskets. Two for students. One for a staff member. The others, well, they were still trying to identify what was left.

It was the first time since that night that you’d all been in the same place.

No one said a word.

Dina sat stiffly between Jesse and Ellie, arms crossed so tightly it looked like she might snap in half. Her head bowed, her eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. Jesse rubbed slow circles on her back with the flat of his palm, but he didn’t look at her. He just stared forward, jaw set hard, lips bloodless. When he moved his hand, it felt more like habit than comfort.

Ellie sat beside you.

Close. Too close, almost. Not in a bad way. In a way that made your lungs tighten.

She hadn’t let go of you once since the second she found you shaking in that hallway after the explosion. Since then, she’d become your shadow. Silent, gentle and always watchful. She touched your hand in small pulses. Thumb grazing your knuckles. You didn’t talk much. Neither of you could figure out how. But when she leaned against you, you let her.

Joel sat alone two rows behind. Not next to Tommy. Not next to anyone. He looked like a man half-drowning. Wrung out. A single white rose lay in his lap, untouched. You looked back at him once. His eyes met yours. Then dropped.

Tommy sat beside Maria near the back. He hadn’t spoken since they walked in. Just sat, one hand knotted with hers, the other trembling in his lap.

Even Kat was quiet. She showed up in black pants, combat boots, and a windbreaker like she didn’t know what the dress code was supposed to be. She didn’t sit with any of you. Just leaned against the wall in the back, arms crossed, chewing on a straw. When it ended, she didn’t say a word to anyone. Just nodded toward the group and left.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You hadn’t seen Kat since. She didn’t respond to texts. Ellie said she was fine. “Kat’s just… being Kat.”

“Being Kat” apparently meant not giving a shit. Or pretending not to.

Dina and Jesse had left town the next day. Said something vague about needing to see her family. But the way Dina looked back over her shoulder before getting into the car, haunted and hesitant, told you it wasn’t just that. She wanted out. Jesse did too. They didn’t even hug Ellie goodbye.

You and Ellie stood at the curb, watching their taillights vanish down the block. “They’ll come back,” Ellie had murmured. You didn’t believe her. Not really.

Joel hadn’t spoken a full sentence to you in five days. The last time he did, it was outside the school gym, and he said, “You sure you didn’t see something that wasn’t there?” You hadn’t answered.

Tommy had tried to call once. But you didn’t pick up. You weren’t sure what you’d say.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

It was Thursday night. Rain tapped against the apartment window like fingers too weak to knock.

Ellie sat cross-legged on your living room floor, fidgeting with the drawstring of her hoodie. You were curled on the couch under a blanket, knees tucked to your chest.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Not exactly. It just… hung there.

Finally, she spoke.

“You sleep last night?”

You shook your head.

“Me neither.”

She reached for your hand and didn’t say anything else. Just held it. You stared at the blank TV screen. Not turned off. Just not tuned to anything. Static flickered in the background like it was thinking.

“…Do you think we were supposed to die?” you asked suddenly.

Ellie turned toward you slowly. Her face was pale in the flickering light. She didn’t look surprised by the question. Just tired. “I think… we got lucky.”

You didn’t reply.

After a moment, Ellie stood and came to sit beside you on the couch. Her arm slid around your shoulders, and you folded into her instinctively. Her lips brushed your temple. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I believe you.”

You nodded against her chest. But it wasn’t okay. None of it was. You could feel it. In your ribs. In your spine. Death wasn’t finished. It was waiting. Watching. Just out of frame.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Across town, Kat was alive.

As always, she hadn’t told anyone where she worked. Some dull office job in a gray concrete building on the edge of the business district.

She went back to work the Monday after the funeral. Said nothing. Did her job.

When someone in the breakroom asked, “Hey, weren’t you in that aquarium thing?” she just said, “Yeah, it was dumb,” and poured herself a Red Bull.

People thought she was cold. Maybe she was. But Ellie knew better. Kat wasn’t cold. She was scared. She just didn’t let anyone see it.

She hated the job, but it paid the bills. Rent didn’t wait. Trauma didn’t give you PTO. So she showed up. Did what she had to do. Stayed late when asked.

She didn’t talk to the group anymore, but it wasn’t because she didn’t care. She just figured if Death wanted her, it would find her. So why waste time crying?

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Kat clocked in at 9:00 a.m. sharp, just like she had every other day since college. Her cubicle still smelled faintly like burnt popcorn from the last intern, the air stale with recycled air conditioning and faint despair. The hum of fluorescent lights above buzzed in her ears like static. A little migraine danced just behind her eyes, the kind she never told anyone about.

Her face was placid as always, mouth set in that same unreadable line, eyes hollowed out by the LCD glow of her monitor. No one at the office asked about the aquarium. No one even brought it up. That’s how it went. Nine people died, and still the break room conversation was about sugar in coffee.

Her fingers hovered over the keys. Work felt more surreal now, like performing a ritual she didn’t believe in. She’d told Ellie the day after the funeral, in a hushed voice in the car:

“Yeah, it’s sad. But it happened. Move on. That’s what everyone has to do. I’m not gonna let that place live in my head rent-free.”

Ellie hadn’t answered. Just gripped the steering wheel tighter. Kat knew she didn’t understand. None of them did. Trauma was luxury. Kat didn’t have the time.

She answered emails. Replied to memos. Avoided Slack. By 4:50, most of the office had cleared out. Her boss, a skeletal man with a purple tie and a twitch in his right eye, poked his head around her cubicle. “Hey, Kat. Could you print those budget sheets before you go? The copier’s been jamming again, but it should be fine.”

Kat nodded, not looking up. “Yeah. No problem.”

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Your place 17:10

The air in your living room felt heavy. Not hot, just thick, like the atmosphere after a fire. You were sitting on the floor, legs folded, back against the couch. Ellie paced the kitchen barefoot, chewing her thumbnail raw. “It’s like everyone vanished,” she muttered. “Kat, Jesse, Dina. Radio silence. Jesse didn’t even answer my texts today.”

You didn’t answer her. Your eyes were locked on the newspaper clutched in your hands. It had been slid through the mail slot around five minutes ago. There was no return address, no stamp, just an off-white paper printed in faded ink like something photocopied in hell.

Big black letters, bold as a scream:

“BUY A NEW PRINTER TODAY—SLASHED PRICES!!”

“I—” You blinked.

The headline blinked too.

You swear it read something else just a moment ago. Now it was just something about a local death. Something about broken vertebrae. Changed like it never happened.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Kat 17:13

The printer whirred, then hiccuped. A red blinking light came on. JAM IN TRAY 2.

Kat sighed, setting down her coffee cup beside the monitor. She opened the paper drawer, gave the stack a shove. It caught on something, tight, resistant.

She tugged harder. A rubber band had snapped in the tray’s side roller, knotted around the gear like a trap. “Seriously?”

She rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath. The office was dead quiet now. Just the faint creak of old HVAC and some country song playing somewhere far off in another cubicle.

She reached her hand into the printer's guts, trying to hook the rubber band loose.

Nothing.

She leaned in farther, hips pressing into the desk edge. The printer rocked slightly with her weight. The paper tray jerked open with a clack, knocking over her coffee. The ceramic mug hit the floor with a hollow shatter. A slow hiss of dark roast splashed underneath the desk.

Directly into the surge protector.

She didn’t even notice at first, until the printer twitched beneath her hand. A jolt shot up her fingers. The rollers snapped forward, seizing around the rubber band, and her fingers with it. The scream that left her lips didn’t even sound human. “FUCK—FUCK, LET GO—LET GO—”

But the machine clenched harder.

Her skin peeled under the grinding gears, pale flesh torn in pink strips. Blood splattered the inside panel like ink. Panicked, she jerked backward, knocking into the corner of a wall-mounted filing cabinet. Her skull cracked against metal. Her knees buckled. She dropped to the floor in a daze, vision swimming. All she saw were fluorescent halos.

The printer tipped forward.

CRASH.

It landed neck-first.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Ellie had slipped out that night, sometime after you’d fallen asleep, quiet enough not to stir you, careful as ever. You found the note the next morning, folded neatly on the pillow beside you, scrawled in her fast, slanted handwriting: something about an early shift, a rushed apology, a soft little love you. It had made you smile at first, still half-dreaming, the sheet warm where she’d lain. But the warmth faded fast. The smile didn’t last.

Your phone rang before you could even rub your eyes. Ellie’s name flashed on the screen.

“Hello?”

Her voice cracked like a snapped wire. “She’s dead.”

Silence.

You felt the floor tilt. “What?”

“Kat. Office accident. The fucking printer crushed her. It was on the news.”

Your throat dried instantly. The newspaper. You staggered toward the living room, searching the pile of mail again, but the strange newspaper was gone.

“I’m coming over,” Ellie said.

And she did.

That night, she curled into you on the couch. No touching beyond fingers tangled. No words. She cried quietly and wouldn’t let go of your arm for hours.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

After that call… you couldn’t let it go. Not the sound of Ellie’s voice on the other end, not the cold silence when she whispered Kat’s name, not the way everything suddenly felt too neat, too aligned, like the universe had shifted half an inch out of place. It wasn’t grief. It wasn’t paranoia. It was instinct, a gnawing certainty that something wasn’t right.

Kat wasn’t just dead. She’d been taken. And you couldn’t explain how you knew that. You just did.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

It started as a restless itch. You sat on the edge of your bed long after the sun dipped beneath the mountains, phone still in hand, the line long dead. The town outside was quiet, safe, deceptively normal. But you weren’t. You hadn’t been since the aquarium. Since that moment in the elevator, staring up at stingrays gliding silently overhead, cold glass pressing into your spine while your chest heaved like something was going to break. That vision, a flood running in reverse, air bubbling upward as if time hiccupped, and that horrible silence, just before the tank shattered.

You told yourself it was just a panic attack. Just nerves. But now Kat was gone. It was a message. And everyone who survived were next.

So you did what you always did when the fear started to wrap around your lungs: you started digging.

You stayed up all night, hunched over your laptop with shaking fingers, searching everything from “survived accident but died” to “can you cheat death.” Pages of nonsense. Reddit threads. Tumblr ghost stories. Clickbait YouTube thumbnails and junk articles with titles like “13 People Who Shouldn’t Be Alive.” It was all too vague, too sensationalized. Nothing fit what you were looking for. Nothing felt as… orchestrated as this.

Until you found Flight 180.

A commercial flight. Years ago. Everyone onboard should’ve died. But they didn’t. Because one kid freaked out before takeoff, screamed about a vision. About the plane exploding. He and a few others were kicked off. Saved.

For a while.

And then they started dying. Freak accidents. Each one died in the same order they would’ve on the plane. You felt sick. Cold. You stared at the screen, lips parted, stomach knotted so tight it hurt to breathe. This wasn’t just trauma. This wasn’t a coincidence. This was happening again.

You reached for your phone with numb fingers and started calling. First Jesse. Then Dina. Then Tommy.

“Kat didn’t just die,” you whispered, voice shaking. “It’s something else. I think we were supposed to die at the aquarium, all of us. Something went wrong. It’s fixing it now. One by one.”

The silence that followed was louder than any scream.

Jesse told you to chill. That you were obsessing, and Kat’s death wasn’t some puzzle to solve. “You’re spiraling, dude. Seriously. Log off.”

Dina was gentler, but no less distant. “It’s grief. Weird things feel huge right now. Don’t let this turn into some horror movie script.”

Even Tommy, practical, grizzled, seen-it-all Tommy, told you to stop. “You think death has a checklist?” he said gruffly. “Don’t let fear make you stupid.”

One by one, they dismissed you. Hung up. Blocked you. Labeled you the weird one. The conspiracy theorist. The girl who can’t move on. The freak.

Only Ellie stayed on the line. You didn’t even have to explain everything, she already knew from the tone in your voice.

“You believe me?” you whispered, throat tight.

There was a beat of silence. Then: “Of course I do.”

Because Ellie had seen the look in your eyes. The way you hadn’t spoken for a full hour. The way you leaned against her, knees pulled to your chest, trembling like you’d just heard your own name on a tombstone. She hadn’t said anything then. Just sat beside you, shoulder to shoulder, fingers twitching toward yours but never quite making contact.

She believed you because she knows you. Because your gut has always been cursed with being right.

“Okay,” she said now, her voice low and steady in your ear. “Then we figure it out. Together.”

No questions. No eye rolls. Just belief. Just Ellie. And that was the only reason you didn’t completely fall apart. But even with her voice in your ear, your chest still ached. The pieces were already falling into place.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

And as the pieces were falling into place, somewhere across town, behind pulled curtains and a locked door, Tommy was already packing.

He didn’t say much. He never did when it mattered. Just moved through the house in silence, jaw tight, folding clothes and loading Maria’s duffel without ever fully meeting her eyes. He didn’t believe in ghosts. He didn’t believe in fate. But he’d been a soldier long enough to recognize when something was hunting him.
And whatever this was? It had already started.

Maria had freaked out. The moment she heard what happened at the aquarium, and more specifically, how it didn’t happen the way it should have, she knew. She’d seen death before. Not just in the world, but in people. That look in someone’s eye after they realize they should be dead. She saw it in you, clear as day. Saw it again in Ellie. Then she started packing.

Tommy tried to calm her down. Told her it was just survivor’s guilt, that you were all talking yourselves into fear. But Maria didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to be next. And deep down, Tommy agreed, he just couldn’t say it out loud.

So they got in the truck. Took only what they needed. No word to the others, no big announcement.

Just a note on the kitchen table:

"Give it a few days. This doesn’t feel right. Stay sharp. —T"

They drove out of Jackson with the windows down and the radio off. Quiet. Steady. Tommy gripped the wheel tighter than he needed to. Maria sat beside him, arms folded, eyes scanning the road like something might crawl out of the trees.

He kept telling himself this was stupid. That they were just getting ahead of fear. That Maria was scared because she hadn’t been there. She didn’t feel that pressure in the elevator, the way the stingray hovered overhead like it knew something you didn’t. She wasn’t there when the alarms failed to go off, or when they heard glass crack from below, not above.

But he was.

And that part of him, that sliver of doubt, was why he didn’t turn the car around. And he soon realized that was his greatest mistake.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

To be continued…

[elliessickhabits]

Final Destination: The Last Wave

Ellie Williams x Reader

Part 1. / Part 2. / Part 3. / Part 4. /More?…

CW; This fic contains graphic and detailed descriptions of violent and sudden deaths, including crushing injuries, drowning, electrocution, and impalement. There are intense scenes of panic, trauma, and blood. Some characters experience fatal accidents in brutal and disturbing ways. The story also features emotional distress, loss, and themes of fate and inevitability. !Please proceed carefully if you are sensitive to disaster scenarios, graphic violence, or sudden character deaths. Reader discretion is strongly advised. ≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼!

Summary; this fic follows a college trip to a new aquarium that quickly turns deadly. Tanks collapse, predators escape, and fate’s deadly design unfolds with brutal, terrifying twists. Can anyone survive when death’s coming for them all?

Notes; This fic is totally based on the Final Destination franchise!! Ever since Final Destination: Bloodlines came out I’ve been dying (lol) to make my own version >ᴗ< probably won’t have any full-on smut, just tension and chaos~ Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I’ve enjoyed planning all these horrible, terrible ways to kill off my favorite characters :) Let me know if anything needs changing or if you have fun death ideas!

Word count; around 5,2k words <3

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The alarm splits the air like a siren from hell. Your eyes crack open, lashes stuck together with sleep, and you barely register the noise before it’s silenced with a hard smack and a muttered curse.

“Jesus Christ,” Ellie groans, voice still thick with sleep, hand dragging down her face. Her hair’s a mess, flattened and sticking out on one side. “Why did I even set that thing?”

You roll over, sheets twisted around your leg, squinting at her. “Because you said and I quote, ‘We’re not missing the school trip just because I wanna stay in bed and fuck you again.’”

Ellie pauses. Then grins. “Mmm. I regret saying that.”

You groan and bury your face in the pillow. “I feel like a corpse. No, worse. Like a sweaty, dehydrated corpse that got hit by a truck and then left to roast on hot pavement.” Ellie stretches with a yawn that turns into a laugh. “We really are aging prematurely.”

You flip the blanket off and sit up with a wince. Your muscles ache in that good-bad way, the aftermath of last night’s dumb decision to stay up late fooling around instead of sleeping. Ellie had been irresistible. Playful, biting, climbing into your lap with that Mars t-shirt barely clinging to her shoulders and nothing else underneath. Now you’re paying the price in neck stiffness and a dull throb behind your eyes. She shuffles back onto the bed and climbs over you, her weight warm and grounding. She presses a kiss to your temple, then down to your cheek, and finally your mouth. Her lips are dry and sleepy. You don’t mind. “I can still call in sick,” she murmurs against your skin.

You smirk, eyes still closed. “You mean we can.”

“I like where your head’s at.”

A muffled yell echoes from downstairs. “HEY. IF YOU’RE UP THERE HAVIN’ MORNING SEX, DON’T FORGET TO HYDRATE AFTER.”

Joel.

Ellie lets out a strangled groan and flops backwards dramatically. “I told him to stop yelling things like that.” You grimace. “I think that ship sailed the second i started sleeping over.”

Ellie sits up and throws a shirt at you. One of your own, inside out, with the collar half stretched. “Put that on before he climbs the stairs and lectures us about lube and intimacy.”

You chuckle as you catch it. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You both get dressed slowly, limbs heavy. Ellie pulls on that same Mars shirt from last night, now wrinkled and a little too thin in the light. She brushes a hand over her chest like she just remembered it doesn’t sit quite right, then shrugs and grabs a granola bar on the way out.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Downstairs, the kitchen’s already chaos. Joel’s got two pans going, one smoking slightly. Tommy leans against the counter sipping coffee, dressed in cargo shorts and a smug expression.

“Well, look who decided to grace us with their presence,” Joel mutters, waving a spatula like it’s a threat. “If y’all had slept less and helped more, maybe the bacon wouldn’t be burnt.”

“You burnt the bacon because you suck at multitasking,” Ellie shoots back, sliding into the chair beside you.

You snag a piece of toast. “And because you refuse to use a timer like a normal person.”

Joel narrows his eyes at you. “You want eggs or judgment for breakfast?”

Tommy snorts into his coffee. “Don’t offer both. They’ll just take judgment and leave the eggs.”

The kitchen smells like coffee, grease, and something sweet. Maybe the remnants of Ellie’s stash of peanut butter pop-tarts, half a box of which lies gutted on the counter. Ellie steals a bite of your toast and talks with her mouth half-full. “So... who’s all going again? Just us?”

You tick off fingers. “You, me, Dina, Jesse, Kat, unfortunately, and some other random seniors. And Joel and Tommy, playing camp counselors.”

Joel grunts. “You say it like it’s a punishment.”

Ellie pats his arm. “It is. But you’re doing great, champ.”

Eventually, the four of you pile into Joel’s beat-up SUV. Tommy drives. Joel rides shotgun, a mug of lukewarm coffee wedged between his thighs. You and Ellie squeeze into the backseat, knees knocking together, her thigh pressed warm against yours. The car smells like coffee, old leather, and the faint scent of Ellie’s shampoo; cedar and something citrusy.

The ride starts off noisy. Joel’s telling some half-remembered story about a high school field trip that ended in disaster. Tommy keeps interrupting with “that’s not how it went” and “you’re full of shit,” and Ellie giggles every time Joel swears under his breath. You half-listen, watching the city fade into forest as the aquarium nears, your fingers idly tracing shapes on Ellie’s knee.

Ellie leans close at one point, whispering in your ear, “If Kat tries to talk to me today, I’m going to fake a seizure.”

You snort. “I’ll bring the foam.”

She grins and bumps your shoulder with hers.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

By the time you arrive, the sun’s already climbing, casting a glassy glare across the aquarium’s huge windows. The building’s massive, cold-looking, all steel frames and shimmering panes reflecting the sky. You can see the glow of water tanks inside, blue and dim and shifting.

Kat, Jesse, and Dina are already at the entrance. Jesse’s leaning on the railing, looking effortlessly cool. Dina’s pressed against his side, laughing into his shoulder. Kat stands a little apart, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Ellie stiffens beside you just slightly before smoothing it over with a lopsided smile. “Showtime.”

Dina perks up when she sees Ellie. “Hey! You made it!” Ellie gives her a brief hug, murmurs something you don’t catch. Jesse offers you both a nod and a lazy peace sign. Kat doesn’t say anything. Just watches, arms folded.

Inside, the aquarium is cool and shadowy. The entrance lobby gives way to wide halls lined with glass walls, water shimmering behind them in every hue. Kids are already shrieking somewhere deeper in the building, and a faint recorded voice welcomes guests over a hidden PA system. You trail after the group, trying not to lose yourself in the sensory overload. Ellie’s dragging you from tank to tank, eyes sparkling.

“Oh my god,” she whispers, pointing at a school of glittering fish moving in unison. “That’s so creepy. I love it.”

You’re watching her more than the fish. The way her expression changes with each exhibit. She’s always like this in these spaces; childlike, curious, completely alive.

Joel and Tommy disappear into the background, probably hunting down coffee or pestering some poor teenage volunteer for a map. Dina and Jesse stick close together, whispering and laughing. Kat lingers near the group, sometimes engaging, mostly not.

Ellie buys a coffee from one of the vending kiosks, black, no sugar and takes a cautious sip. You’re midway through teasing her about her trash taste when her elbow bumps you. “Oops—shit.” Her cup tilts, splashing coffee across the front of her Mars shirt.

“Fuck,” she mutters, tugging the fabric away from her skin. “That’s hot.”

You laugh. “Nice going, NASA.”

She scowls at you, dabbing at herself with a napkin. “I was doing fine until you started mocking my drink.”

But it’s weird. You watch the stain bloom across her shirt, the way the liquid spreads like ink in water, slow and almost too dark. The coffee didn’t look that dark a second ago, did it?

You blink. Ellie’s already moved on, distracted by a sign for bioluminescent jellyfish. “Come on, you have to see these.”

The next tank is huge and curved, full of glowing creatures drifting through shadowy water. Blue and violet and green, undulating gently. “They look like ghosts,” Ellie whispers.

You stare at them. Something about the motion is hypnotic. Too slow, too even, like they’re not really moving at all but being tugged along on invisible strings. Behind you, Jesse’s phone starts playing music. Loud and unexpected.

It’s not his usual playlist. The song is slow, echoey. The vocals are warped, something about drowning, about silence, about not being able to breathe. Dina slaps his arm. ���What the hell? That’s creepy.” Jesse looks down, confused. “I didn’t even hit play.” He swipes his phone, mutters something about glitches.

The group moves on. Laughing. Talking. Kat lingers for a moment, staring at one of the jellyfish, her reflection warping in the tank glass before she follows. You stay back, just for a second longer. The tank lights flicker. Brief. Subtle. Maybe just a glitch.

You turn to catch up and your sleeve snags sharply on something. A piece of the display, maybe. You curse as fabric tears. “Damn it.” You glance back. It was a loose screw, barely visible.

You touch the edge of the display, and the metal’s cold. Colder than it should be. Like it hasn’t been touched in hours, even though this whole area’s full of people.

You catch up with the others, heart beating a little faster for no reason you can name. Ellie’s already laughing again, pressing into your side, handing you a piece of gum like nothing happened. Everyone else is fine. But something about the coffee, the song, the lights, the metal, it’s not sitting right. And for the first time all day, you feel a thread of unease curl low in your chest.

The air in the aquarium was cold, dry from the filtered vents above, but slick with the scent of brine and glass cleaner. Low lighting made every tank glow like a portal, and the echo of footsteps sounded alien, distant. It was one of those places where silence could feel deafening, and in hindsight, maybe that should’ve been a warning.

Ellie kept glancing back at you. Dina had gone ahead with Jesse, her voice bouncing off the curved walls as they passed through the tunnel of arching glass. Joel and Tommy lingered behind with a map, arguing over which wing led to the deep-sea exhibit.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Kat had stalked off by herself, arms crossed tight, standing beneath the centerpiece of the entire building: A massive, multi-story shark tank. Cylindrical. Suspended directly above the main exhibit floor. It was the kind of thing people took selfies under. Something about the way it loomed always felt slightly off. Like a giant clock counting down.

You and Ellie watched as Kat stared up into the blue-lit water above. Her jaw was clenched, posture rigid, fists knotted in her hoodie pocket. You heard a faint creak and blinked. But it was just the metal support struts groaning as they always did.

Kat muttered something under her breath, lips moving fast. “Fucking Ellie. Fucking bitch. Fucking everyone.” You barely heard it, but Ellie did.

“Kat,” Ellie said from beside you. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, alright?”

Kat laughed, dry and bitter. “Yeah? And yet here we are. You dumped me like trash, and now I get to watch you parade her around like some trophy. Nice.”

Ellie didn’t respond right away. She just exhaled slowly. “We weren’t happy anymore.”

“No,” Kat said flatly. “You weren’t happy.”

Another creak. This time longer. Louder. Your eyes flicked up. Something about the tank felt off. Too much pressure. A tiny, almost invisible crack webbing near the base, only visible in the right light. But it was there.

Ellie stepped forward. “Kat, can we please not do this here?”

“Why?” Kat said, stepping backward right under the tank, arms spread wide like a dare. “Afraid I’ll say something true?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but that was when it happened.

A sharp pop. Then a spiderweb crack sprinted across the bottom panel of the tank. Another pop. A burst of water sprayed from one seam like a burst artery. Then the structure groaned, an unholy metal cry, before the support bolts ripped free from the ceiling with a sound like gunfire. “KAT—MOVE!” Ellie screamed.

But Kat just looked up, paralyzed, as the first slab of reinforced acrylic exploded downward. The tank ruptured. Time didn’t stop. It just broke. The glass split apart like jaws unhinging. Millions of gallons of pressurized seawater detonated outward, slamming everything in its path. The blast sent bodies flying, displays tipping, alarms shrieking. And Kat, Kat didn’t move fast enough.

The central beam above her buckled and then dropped, and the tank came with it. It slammed down across her shoulders and skull with a bone-shattering crunch. Water pounded around her, shoving bodies back, but her legs stayed visible. For a second. One arm twitched out from the mess of steel and acrylic and water, fingers curled as if trying to claw her way free. Then a final crash as the upper half of the tank slammed down, crushing what remained into pulp.

Blood mixed into the water like black ink.

Ellie screamed.

You pulled her back, soaked, trembling, ears ringing. You didn’t even realize Joel and Tommy had run forward, until you saw Tommy stumbling through the rising flood, chest heaving, trying to get a better look.

“Shit—shit—KAT! Anyone see—?!”

He didn’t get to finish.

From the corner of your eye, you saw movement in the water. A shadow. Thick, fast, unnatural. The tank hadn’t just broken. It had emptied. And something inside had been released. You weren’t sure if it was a tiger shark or a sandbar. You didn’t have time to think. But it was big. And it was moving.

Tommy turned toward you, waist-deep in floodwater, unaware of the danger. “We gotta—” It slammed into him like a missile, jaws wide, dragging him down with a splash that sent water spraying against the shattered glass. You heard him scream, but only for a second.

Blood burst up in a violent bloom. His arm flailed above the surface, fingers twitching, as if trying to grip something, then he was dragged under. Bones snapped. You heard it. A crunch that reverberated through the walls. You caught a glimpse, just a glimpse, of the thing's head. Row after row of jagged teeth. The water churned red. The arm that had reached for help floated, severed, into the broken reef tunnel.

Dina screamed. “TOMMY!”

Joel bolted forward. “No—no—shit! No!”

He ran into the rising water before you or Ellie could stop him. But the shark was gone, vanished into the submerged corridor.

You turned to Jesse, who had shoved Dina behind him, trying to calm her as her hands shook against his chest. “It’s okay,” Jesse said. “We’re getting out. Now. There’s an exit up by the emergency doors.”

Alarms were still going. The building was locking down. Protocols. Water detection. All the useless failsafes meant for normal problems, not this. Jesse ushered Dina toward the emergency exit at the far end of the hall. “Ellie—come on!” he called.

You followed, breath ragged, water sloshing at your calves. Ellie pulled you with her, soaked from head to toe, shivering with adrenaline and cold.

Dina was nearly at the exit when Jesse stepped through. And then—

CLANK.

Jesse looked down, his leg caught on a metal display frame half-dragged by the flood. He tried to yank free, but the door, responding to its fail-safe lockdown, slammed down with full force.

His scream was instant. The door crushed his skull with a sickening, wet crunch. Blood splattered across the glass. The body folded wrong, twitching as Dina wailed and collapsed to her knees, hands clawing at the thick panel. Jesse’s lower body spasmed, once, twice, and then went still, legs half-pinned beneath the door, head nearly split in two.

You could see the fractured skullbone. The teeth still gritted in what might’ve been a scream.

“JESSE!” Dina sobbed, pounding the sealed glass.

Joel grabbed Ellie’s shoulder and shoved her toward another hallway. “Move! Now!”

Dina was still at the glass, sobbing, whispering his name like if she said it enough, he’d wake up. Her palms left red smears against the window. Ellie shouted, “Dina—please!” But Dina shook her head and stood.

“I’m not—just—just give me a second,” she choked out, stumbling backward onto the metal gangway above the reef exhibit. She practically ran upstairs, going straight to the balcony.

“Dina—!” you called, your voice raw. Joel, you and ellie followed immediately.

She stepped back again, dizzy, disoriented. The balcony soaked, slick with algae runoff and tank water. The railing had been bent and it seemed to be uneven. One wrong foot placement and her boot slid on a coating of sea slime. Her balance gave out completely. Her heel clipped the edge of the railing. She fell.

The drop wasn’t long, but what waited at the bottom was worse than a floor. She landed directly on a jagged coral reef display, broken apart from the earlier flooding. A massive spike of artificial reef, still mounted on its anchor rod, punched up into her back like a blade. It pierced through her like paper.

You heard the scream. High, choked, then garbled. The rod emerged from her abdomen. She hung there, hung, impaled clean through the middle. Her arms flailed for a second. Her legs kicked weakly. Then she went limp.

Her blood poured down the sides of the reef piece in rivulets, black against blue light. She twitched once, then twice, and her mouth opened as if to say something. No words came out. Only blood.

Ellie let out a sound, half scream, half sob, and dropped to her knees. Joel dragged her up, forced her back. You were already stumbling after them, choking on adrenaline.

The sound of your sneakers slapping wet tile echoes down the shattered hallway as you and Ellie bolt through the flooded corridor, the stench of blood and seawater thick in the air. You’re soaked to your knees, lungs aching, throat raw from screaming. The last you saw of Dina was the sharp flash of red against coral below, her body twitching once, then still. Gone.

Joel’s ahead of you, barking orders, his arm outstretched to yank both you and Ellie along. His hand is trembling, not from fear, Joel Miller doesn’t do fear, but from sheer adrenaline. Somewhere behind you, the distant moan of metal folding in on itself groans like a dying leviathan. The building isn’t just unstable now, it’s coming down.

“MOVE,” Joel growls, teeth gritted. “This place is gonna fucking bury us.”

You don’t question him. You just run.

The hallway begins to slope downward, just enough to let the water rise a little faster. Salt and blood sting your eyes. Sparks flicker from overhead wiring, dangling like veins from the ceiling, swaying and spitting with every tremor. You hear the sickening crunch of broken glass under your feet, the wet sloshing sounds of your flight, and under it all, the rhythmic thud… thud… thud of something heavy moving behind you. Something that doesn't care if you're scared.

Ellie’s panting beside you, drenched, her green flannel clinging to her arms and her jeans soaked black. “Where—where the fuck are we even going?” she hisses, glancing over her shoulder. “The roof? The fucking ocean? What’s left!?”

Joel grits his jaw. “Maintenance tunnel. West wing. Backup breaker room. Might still be dry. Emergency exit's hooked into that line.”

You don’t want to know how he knows that. You don’t care. You just want out.

Joel rounds the corner first, splashing chest-deep into a stairwell landing. The hallway before you curves sharply left into a dimly lit maintenance tunnel. One of the overhead exit signs still glows red, barely cutting through the mist of saltwater spray and blinking emergency lights.

Joel grabs the rusted wheel of the tunnel hatch and throws his body into it with a grunt, the metal shrieking like a tortured animal as it gives way. The door crashes open. A tight passage stretches beyond, knee-deep in water, leading into darkness. You hesitate. Ellie doesn’t.

She grabs your wrist. “Let’s go—!”

The second you cross the threshold, it happens. A CRACK like lightning. A flash of white. And the world jerks sideways. You stumble backward. Ellie screams. You whip around.

Joel is standing still in the hallway behind you, both hands out. His head turns slightly as the thunderous CLANG hits the walls, and the sound of splintering tile and rolling metal fills the tunnel.

“Shit—”

Joel doesn’t have time to finish the sentence. From the far hallway, a massive cylindrical tank, twice the height of a man and packed with seawater and flailing fish, barrels into view like a freight train. Its glass is already fractured from the earlier collapse, the reinforced steel brackets on either side snapping and sparking as it careens wildly down the slanted hallway, dragging broken lights and ceiling tiles with it. A runaway monster.

Joel sees it. He shoves you both, hard.

“GO!”

You and Ellie fall into the narrow recess to your right, an emergency storage alcove barely large enough for two. You hit the wall hard, ribs compressing, cheek scraping concrete. Ellie lands half on top of you, screaming as the door to the hallway bursts open.

Joel’s too far. You see his eyes one last time, wild and locked on yours. He knows. Then the tank hits him. It doesn’t just slam, it obliterates. Joel’s body snaps like a ragdoll, his lower half torn instantly as the tank crushes his legs beneath it. His torso slams against the corner of the frame with a horrifying crack, blood bursting from his mouth, nose, and ears all at once as ribs shatter, spine snaps, and the metal brackets shear him nearly in half.

You scream. Ellie screams louder.

Joel’s body disappears beneath the tank as it finally hits the far wall and shatters completely, a wave of glass and sea creatures and pulped flesh washing back down the hallway. The wall buckles. Brine pours in. Joel is gone.

Just gone.

You’re frozen in the tiny alcove, sobbing. Ellie grabs you, both of you shaking, pressed to each other like you might break apart if you don’t hold on. “Dad…” she gasps. “Dad—”

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You and Ellie stumble through the maintenance corridor, silent. Everything is shaking now. The flooding is rising. And in front of you, sparking violently, are the exposed breakers of the emergency electrical panel. A solid metal box with corroded wiring half-submerged in saltwater.

“We can still make it,” Ellie says suddenly. Her voice is too loud in the tunnel, brittle and manic. “We can still—fuck, it’s right there. That door, that’s it.”

She steps forward.

“Ellie, wait—Ellie—”

You catch her sleeve. She stops, chest heaving.

“I’ll do it,” you say. “I’ll flip it. You— you just back up.”

Ellie shakes her head. “No. I know how to. Joel taught me how to do this. You’ve gotta flip the red one, then the black. It resets the circuit. If you do it wrong—”

The lights flicker overhead. The water rises. You smell it now, ozone and melting plastic. You open your mouth to argue, but she’s already turning to the box.

She’s careful. You can tell. Hands steady. She wipes her fingers off on her wet jeans before grabbing the metal handle. Slowly opens the box. A single arc of electricity jumps, just a flicker, and she flinches, but it doesn’t hit. “Okay,” she mutters. “Red, then black. Red, then—”

The lights die. All at once. Total darkness. You don’t even see the bolt. You only hear it, an earsplitting CRACK like the world tearing in half, and then Ellie’s body arches backward, every muscle locking up as the live wire connects.

A blinding white flash illuminates the corridor like daylight. She convulses once. Twice. The smell of burning skin hits you before the light even fades. Her mouth is open in a silent scream, jaw locked, neck snapped back so far it looks wrong. You move without thinking, splashing toward her—

Then the panel explodes.

Flames burst from the wall. Ellie’s body is thrown backward across the tunnel, crashing into the far wall with a wet thud, her limbs hitting at angles they shouldn’t. The fire licks across the ceiling. You scream her name, stumble toward her, fall to your knees in front of her crumpled body. Her eyes are open, but there’s nothing left inside them.

You shake her, scream her name again and again, but her mouth stays open like it’s frozen in her last breath. Her hands are curled like claws. Her chest doesn’t rise. You are alone. The tunnel groans again. Water bursts from behind you. Somewhere far off, you hear another collapse. And then, slowly, the world starts to vibrate. A low rumble builds under your feet.

You stagger to your feet, soaked in Ellie’s blood and seawater. Flames burst from behind you. You run blindly down the hallway, sobbing, coughing, screaming her name until your throat is raw.

You push through a broken emergency door and find yourself in a large filtration chamber, unfamiliar and cavernous. The floor is already ankle-deep in water. The ceiling is missing panels. Lights flicker. But there's something else.

A sound. Like pressure. Hissing. You look up just in time to see the pipe above you, thick, bulging, and red with rust snap. The gas line. It erupts.

BOOM.

You don’t feel the fire. You don’t even feel the shockwave. It tears through the room like a dragon’s breath, and in a single flash of gold and red, your body is gone. All that’s left is heat, a burst of white, and silence.

Silence.

Until—

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

“Oops—shit.”

Ellie’s coffee tilts. Her cup rocks forward. A splash of hot liquid arcs through the air, splattering across the front of her Mars shirt, blooming too fast, too wide, dark like blood.

“Fuck,” she mutters, tugging the fabric away from her chest. “That’s hot.”

You stop breathing. You stare. Her face. Her tone. The stain. It’s exactly the same. The same inflection. The same beat between her curse and that frustrated tug of the shirt. A pause. A wrinkle in time.

You blink hard.

You were just screaming. Just seconds ago. Screaming while Ellie’s body convulsed in the flooded maintenance tunnel, her skin blistering, her hands clawing at the air as the electricity ripped through her. You saw her eyes roll back. You saw her mouth fall open. You watched her die.

You watched her die.

You watched everyone die.

You died.

You felt it. The heat. The force. The air tearing out of your lungs as the world blew apart. But now you're here. In a hallway. In an aquarium. Whole. Alive.

And Ellie’s looking at you with a puzzled grin, rubbing at her shirt with a balled-up napkin.

“I was doing fine until you started mocking my drink,” she mutters, just like before.

No. No.

“Ellie,” you rasp, voice catching. “Ellie—”

Your heart is going too fast. Your hands are clammy. You can still feel the wet concrete beneath your knees. You can still hear Joel’s ribs breaking. Dina's scream as she fell. The snap of Jesse’s skull when the emergency doors closed. It's echoing in your ears.

Ellie frowns, her body starting to shift toward the next tank, oblivious. “Come on, you have to see these—”

“Wait.” You grab her wrist.

She stops. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I—” You swallow hard. The words won’t come. They’re heavy. Nonsensical. I died. You died. Everyone fucking died and now we’re back here like nothing happened. You can’t say that. You can’t even breathe right.

Behind you, Jesse’s phone blares. The song. That same fucking song. Slow, warped, echoing through the hallway. Just like before. The one about drowning. About silence. About not being able to breathe. Your fingers tighten on Ellie’s wrist.

“Are you okay?” she asks again, softer this time.

You shake your head. “No. No, I’m not.”

You look around. The exact same jellyfish pulse behind the curved tank. Their bodies glow with that eerie, unblinking rhythm, too slow, too even, like they’re pretending to move. Dina is turning toward Jesse with a scowl.

“Jesse, what the hell? That’s creepy,” she says, laughing nervously.

You back away. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. Something isn’t right. This isn’t just déjà vu. It’s not some weird dream. It’s real. You felt your bones break. You felt the air burn. You felt her die in your arms. You felt the electricity tear through her chest.

It isn’t a hallucination. It’s a warning.

“Everyone—get out! Now! Please, I’m serious!” Your voice cracks, echoing wildly in the vast aquarium hall. The crowd, tourists, families, students, staff, freezes, a few turning to stare.

But no one moves.

Some shake their heads with tired impatience, whispering, “She must be on something.” Others avoid your gaze entirely, as if believing your panic might infect them.

You grab a young woman by the arm, her wide eyes flicker with confusion and fear. “You have to leave. The tanks... the reef tank, it’s going to break. You don’t know how, but you have to get out now.”

She recoils, stepping back. “I—I think you’re sick. Please, let me go.”

Before you can plead further, a staff member steps forward, his face hard and professional. “Ma’am, you need to calm down and leave the premises immediately. You’re disrupting visitors.”

“No!” You shake your head frantically, voice rising. “You don’t understand! I’ve seen it happen. People get hurt. I’m trying to save you!”

The staffer narrows his eyes. “Calm down or security will escort you out.”

Before you can protest, two broad arms seize your shoulders and shove you backward. You stumble, almost losing your balance as the cold floor rushes up. The crowd parts silently around you, not with sympathy or concern, but to avoid the spectacle.

You scan desperately for the others, Joel and Tommy, the guys responsible for the rowdy student group. You spot them by the reef tunnel, talking quietly but tense. A couple of staffers spot them too and move fast, grabbing their arms. “You’re responsible for this group. You need to come with us,” one says sharply, pulling Joel along.

Ellie’s face tightens when she sees Joel and Tommy forced away. Her gaze snaps to you, eyes dark with a mix of fear and defiance. Without hesitation, she steps after them. Kat stands a few feet away, arms crossed, lips pressed tight. The way Ellie moves, the urgency in her eyes, it stirs something inside Kat. After a moment of hesitation, she shifts, following the small group.

You’re shoved again, harder this time, hands on your back pushing you toward the exit. “Please,” you cry out, struggling, “You don’t understand. It’s going to happen.”

Dina’s voice breaks through the chaos, soft and shaky. “Jesse, I don’t want to be here. I’m scared.”

Jesse looks at her, concern flickering in his eyes, then back at the crowd ignoring the warnings. “Let’s go,” he says quietly.

They move toward the exit, following the others.

You reach out, grabbing a staffer’s sleeve. “Please, just—listen! I saw it. I know it’s real.”

He shakes you off, irritated. “You’re done here. Step outside.”

Outside, the night air hits like a cold wave, but you barely register it. The distant alarms begin to wail, the rising shriek reverberating through your bones. The staff walks back inside muttering something about sending out a entry ban.

Behind you, the aquarium stands deceptively still. The crowd has dispersed, gone back to their tours, their chatter, their selfies.

Suddenly—

You hear glass shatter with a thunderous crack. Water explodes through the front atrium like a tidal wave unleashed, smashing exhibits, tearing metal, flooding corridors. The lights flicker and die.

Screams ripple from inside, cut short, swallowed by chaos. You stand among the six survivors, breathing hard, skin cold with adrenaline and shock.

You saved them.

But the weight of what could’ve been settles like a stone in your gut.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Next part coming soon…

[elliessickhabits]

─── Yuna’s Blog ───

૮ ․ ․ ྀིა hey hey — i’m yuna!

✦ ISFP | 18 | she/her | lesbian + feral

✦ just out here writing for shits, giggles, and the occasional emotional spiral <3 this blog is full of thirst, too many wips, brainrot disguised as fics, and me screaming into the void about fictional women. Follow at your own risk!

✦ english isn’t my first language, so pls be patient with me! sorry in advance for any typos or awkward wording, i’m doing my best ♡

𐙚 fandoms & babes i write for:

abby anderson — ellie williams — dina woodward

#1 pussy muncher and certified lovergirl for all three. no thoughts.

𐙚 find me on:

Pinterest / Letterboxd / Spotify / C.ai

𐙚 other stuff:

MINORS do not interact. seriously. go touch grass.

if you're weird, creepy, or disrespectful, you’re blocked on sight

૮꒰ྀི ´͈ ᵕ `͈ ꒱ྀིა thanks for stopping by! stay horny, stay hydrated, and simp responsibly <3