stargrillzz

[stargrillzz]

MISSION: US

SUMMARY: Suffocation, protection, that was Steve's love lenguage.

NOTE: I LOVE STEVE ROGERS, SO CUTEEEIIII.xoxo

The night sky was thick with smoke and flickers of firelight, HYDRA trucks scattered like toy cars overturned on a child’s battlefield. Shouts, metal clanging, blasts of energy and raw elemental power shook the air as the Avengers fought in perfect chaos.

HYDRA had been transporting a classified biological weapon — something experimental, deadly, alive. The team couldn’t afford to let it leave the abandoned outpost hidden in the snowy Siberian forest. Intel had warned them of resistance, but this was heavier than expected. Dozens of enhanced HYDRA soldiers, equipped with tech far beyond what they should’ve had, flooded the clearing like ants from a broken nest.

Y/N was in the eye of the storm.

Her body moved with precision, boots barely touching the ground as gusts of wind launched her upward and sideways, dodging bullets with unnatural speed. She’d been trained by Nat, sparred with Bucky, and annoyed Clint just enough to learn a few tricks, but her real weapon wasn’t fists or guns. It was the weather.

Electricity cracked through the sky, controlled entirely by her hands. One flick of her wrist sent a streak of lightning slicing through two soldiers like they were butter. Another wave and a section of the field was instantly iced over, freezing enemies mid-step, their limbs trapped in jagged towers of frost.

Steve kept glancing over his shoulder as he fought, slicing through two soldiers with his shield and slamming another with a clean, brutal punch. "She’s pushing too hard," he muttered, mostly to himself, jaw clenching.

“Looks like she’s handling it,” Natasha called as she ducked and kicked a man across the chest, flipping him effortlessly.

“Yeah, Cap. Relax. Not everyone needs a babysitter,” Sam teased, flying overhead with a streak of red from one of the HYDRA guns chasing his wing.

Steve didn’t laugh.

Bucky, covering Steve’s six, grunted. “She’s showing off again. That’s gonna cost her.”

And it did.

Just as the Avengers gained the upper hand, a last-minute HYDRA van screeched from the shadows, speeding toward the tree line — the weapon inside. No one was close enough to intercept. Not even Vision.

Except her.

She didn’t even think.

"Y/N, wait—!" Steve yelled, but it was too late.

She summoned every ounce of energy, her body glowing faintly blue as her hands rose to the sky. Her pupils vanished in a flash of white, and her hair — already streaked with silver — floated weightlessly, crackling with electrical currents. Wind surged violently around her, enough to force Clint to stumble back and shield his face. Snow lifted from the earth like a tidal wave of ice and sleet, and the clouds above turned black as midnight.

A soundless bolt of energy, pure and crackling, exploded from her chest, splitting the sky.

The HYDRA van lifted off the ground and slammed sideways into a rock wall, crumpling like paper. The energy wave extinguished itself mid-air — and so did she.

Blood trickled from her nose. Her eyes rolled back.

Her legs gave out midair.

“Y/N!” Wanda gasped, her hand shooting out, crimson threads catching the reader’s limp body before it hit the frozen dirt.

Everyone turned.

Steve bolted. “Y/N!”

He practically tackled the space where she floated, catching her just as Wanda lowered her gently into his arms. His gloves cupped her cheeks immediately, checking for warmth, a pulse — anything. The smear of blood beneath her nose sent an icy panic down his spine.

“Pulse is weak,” Steve said tightly, his voice low but urgent. “She’s breathing. She’s okay.”

Wanda stood beside him, eyes wide, concern written all over her face. “She… she pushed way too far. Her energy’s completely depleted.”

“She always does this,” Steve muttered under his breath.

Vision floated down beside them, nodding. “The weapon is secured. SHIELD has it now.”

Steve barely acknowledged him. “She could’ve died.”

-

The Quinjet hummed quietly as it cut through the night sky, its cabin dimly lit with soft emergency lighting. No one spoke much. The air was thick with the kind of silence that only followed something close—too close.

Y/N lay stretched across the medical cot, her breathing slow, shallow, but steady. The color was slowly returning to her cheeks, though her lashes remained still against pale skin. A folded blanket was tucked around her by Wanda, who hovered nearby, still visibly shaken.

Steve hadn’t moved from her side since they’d taken off.

Elbows resting on his knees, his hands hung loosely between his legs, clenched just enough to reveal the tension running through him like a live wire. He hadn’t said a word. Not to Nat. Not to Bucky. Not to anyone. His eyes were locked on her face like if he blinked, she might disappear again.

Across the cabin, Clint sat nursing a split lip, whispering something sarcastic to Sam, who didn’t even respond. Bucky leaned his head back against the wall, eyes half-closed but tuned in. Wanda and Natasha sat quietly now, exchanging glances as they watched Steve—his anxiety was loud, even when he wasn’t speaking.

Then—

A faint sound. A breath.

Y/N stirred, shifting slightly beneath the blanket, her brows knitting before her eyes blinked open, hazy and confused.

Steve straightened instantly.

“Y/N?”

She blinked again, sluggishly trying to sit up. “What… What happened?”

His voice came out low, tight. “You fainted. You disobeyed. Again.”

She turned her head slowly to look at him. “Seriously?” she mumbled, voice hoarse.

“You pushed too hard.” Steve’s tone hardened, his concern bleeding into frustration. “You know you’re not ready to channel that much power. You could’ve—”

“But I didn’t,” she cut in, sitting up more fully now, wincing as her muscles protested. “I stopped the van, didn’t I? What happened to the weapon?”

“SHIELD has it now. They’re neutralizing it.” His jaw tightened. “Because you nearly burned yourself out to stop it.”

Y/N exhaled, rubbing the blood from under her nose with the sleeve of her suit. “It worked. We won. End of story.”

“You’re missing the point.”

“No, Steve. You’re missing the point.” She threw the blanket off and swung her legs over the edge of the cot, planting her boots firmly on the floor. “No one else was close enough. I did what I had to do.”

“You’re not a one-woman army—”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Steve’s mouth opened, but he stopped himself. The tension between them crackled, more volatile than the electricity she summoned on the battlefield. Her tone had cut sharper than she meant, but he wasn’t making it easy to be calm.

She stood, her steps slow and unsteady, but she moved past him anyway.

“You should be resting,” he said, standing too, instinctively reaching toward her.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“I said I’m fine, Steve. God, why do you always do this?”

-

The cold, silver ramp of the Quinjet lowered with a low hiss, the wind from the hangar rushing in and brushing across the bruised, exhausted team as they descended. Their boots echoed against the metal floor. No one spoke. The adrenaline had faded, and what remained was a heavy mix of relief, fatigue… and tension.

Y/N walked ahead of the group, ignoring the ache in her legs, the pounding in her temples, the lingering burn behind her eyes. She focused only on moving forward, jaw clenched, eyes straight ahead, expression unreadable.

Steve was behind her — close enough that she could feel his stare burning into the back of her head. He hadn't said another word since the Quinjet. But she knew. She knew the second they were alone enough, he'd let it out.

And she was already too tired for that conversation.

The group entered the massive glass corridor that connected the hangar to the central levels of Avengers Tower. Sleek panels framed the view of the dark city skyline beyond, where thunderclouds still lingered unnaturally — remnants of her earlier power surge.

She picked up her pace, putting more distance between herself and Steve, pretending she didn’t hear the distinct sound of his steps getting faster.

“Not so fast,” Steve called, loud enough that his voice echoed off the glass.

She kept walking, eyes forward. Ignore him. Ignore him, ignore him—

“I’m talking to you.”

A hand closed around her wrist.

Firm, but gentle.

She stopped dead in her tracks, eyes falling shut for a brief second as she gathered herself. The rest of the team slowed behind them, glancing at one another with uneasy curiosity.

“Here we go,” Clint muttered under his breath.

“Oh boy,” Sam added, sidestepping toward Wanda, who now looked like she was debating whether to intervene or pretend she couldn’t hear anything.

Y/N turned slowly, lifting her gaze to meet Steve’s. His hand still wrapped around her wrist, warm and steady, and his expression was tight — full of concern and anger barely restrained.

“Steve, don’t start—”

“Why can’t you take this seriously?” he snapped, cutting her off. His voice was low but furious, emotion surging beneath every word. “Do you even understand what you did back there? You could have died, Y/N. Do you even care?”

“We completed the mission,” she bit back, yanking her arm away. “That’s what we do, right? That’s the job. We all know the risks. I knew what I was doing.”

“And pushing yourself to the point of unconsciousness was part of the plan?” he demanded.

“It worked!”

“At what cost?”

She stepped back, voice rising now. “Why do you do this? Why do you act like I owe you some explanation for every move I make out there?!”

Steve blinked, stunned. “Because I—because you’re not protecting yourself.”

“You don’t need to protect me either!” she said louder, her voice cracking as she pointed a finger at his chest. “Stop suffocating me. Stop telling me how to use my powers, how to fight, how to breathe. I’m not yours to control.”

She stood there, chest heaving, blinking fast — furious but overwhelmed. Her hands were clenched, energy faintly sparking beneath her skin.

The others stood awkwardly by the windows now, uncertain whether to intervene or start recording. Sam gave Nat a warning glance. Wanda was frozen, eyes darting between them.

Then — softer, lower — Y/N added:

“You shouldn’t worry so much about me.”

Steve stood still. His lips parted, but nothing came out at first.

And then…

“I’d kill for you,” he said.

The words came out harsh, loud, like something that had been building in his throat for too long — something he hadn’t meant to say, but couldn’t hold back anymore.

Everyone stopped breathing.

Y/N stared at him, frozen.

“I’d kill for you,” Steve repeated, stepping forward, his voice shaking with the weight of everything he hadn’t admitted until now. “I’d do anything — anything — to keep you safe.”

She didn’t move.

Neither did he.

“And no,” he continued, chest rising and falling fast, “you don’t have to protect yourself. Not when I’m around. Because I can’t—I can’t stand seeing you in danger like that. Not knowing if you’ll make it back. It’s not just about the mission anymore.”

The silence between them buzzed, almost louder than the shouting had been.

The glass corridor was so still it felt surreal, like time had paused just for them.

Steve stepped even closer.

“I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you,” he admitted, quieter now. “I can’t even imagine.”

Y/N swallowed, stunned. Her voice barely came out: “Why?”

He let out a shaky breath, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Because you’re everything to me,” Steve said, almost brokenly. “You… you made me feel like I belong here. In this time. In this life. You gave me something real. Something now.”

He reached for her gently, both hands brushing up her arms, cradling her face, thumbs softly resting beneath her eyes.

“You’re the reason I don’t wonder what could’ve been anymore. I don’t wish for the past. I don’t need to go back. Because I want my life here now… with you.”

Y/N’s heart was beating wildly.

Her eyes searched his face — for what, she didn’t know. Maybe some sign that this was real. That he really meant it. That this wasn’t some heat-of-the-moment declaration.

Steve leaned closer, forehead nearly brushing hers.

“But I can’t do that if you’re out there trying to commit suicide every two seconds,” he added, half-joking, with a dry little smile.

She let out a breathless laugh, eyes stinging as tears finally gathered in her lashes. “You idiot.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, “I know.”

There was a long pause, just the two of them breathing in sync, his hands still holding her face, hers curled lightly around his wrists.

“I always thought,” she whispered, “that you saw me as the brat. The reckless kid on the team. I never imagined you’d… see me as something more.”

Steve’s brows pulled together like her words physically hurt him.

Y/N’s voice cracked as she added, “But I can’t remember a single happy moment in my life where you weren’t there.”

Steve's expression softened entirely.

And then, his voice rough:

“Can I…?”

But she didn’t wait for him to finish.

She closed the space between them and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft.

It was messy, heated, desperate — full of months of tension, fear, and things neither of them had dared say until now. But more than anything, it was real. There was relief in it. Safety. Love. Like finally finding the place you’d been looking for without realizing it.

And then —

BOOM.

A sharp CRACK echoed outside.

Every light in the corridor flickered violently — then shut off.

The building groaned with the sudden blackout, dimmed emergency lighting kicking in with a low hum.

“…Oh, shit,” Y/N muttered, pulling back, her cheeks flushed and eyes wide. “I’m— I didn’t mean to—”

“You summoned lightning,” Nat said from the side, eyebrows raised. “That’s new.”

“I was emotional!” the reader said, horrified.

“I’d say,” Tony called as he walked up from the other hallway, holding a fried tablet. “You knocked out three floors of my lab. And probably the grid of half of Manhattan.”

Then came Vision’s dry, calm voice over the intercom: “Miss Y/N… you just disabled the eastern power network for approximately twelve million civilians.”

Silence.

Then—

Steve laughed.

A full, genuine, chest-deep laugh.

Y/N stared at him. “You’re laughing?”

He shook his head, leaned in, and kissed her again, still smiling.

“I don’t care if you fry the whole damn planet,” he murmured against her lips. “Just stay with me, okay?”

A LITTLE PLUS SCENE BC STEVE'S SO CUTE

Sunlight filtered in through the gauzy curtains, casting a warm, sleepy glow across the bedroom. The sheets were tangled around their bodies, skin against skin, his arm still wrapped protectively around her waist. The world outside could wait.

Steve stirred first, his nose brushing gently against her shoulder as he pressed a lazy kiss to her bare skin. She hummed softly, stretching against him with a small smile before turning in his arms to face him.

“Morning,” she whispered, voice still laced with sleep.

“Morning,” he murmured back, eyes half-lidded but full of love as he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.

They stayed like that for a while—legs entwined, noses brushing, hearts beating slow and calm. It was peaceful, and real, and everything she'd ever wanted.

Eventually, she pulled back with a quiet laugh. “Alright, Captain, go shower. I’ll start breakfast.”

He groaned playfully, not letting go immediately. “Are you sure? I make a mean scrambled eggs.”

“You make scrambled eggs like a soldier under fire. Go shower,” she teased, pressing a kiss to his jaw before slipping out of bed and grabbing one of his shirts from the floor.

By the time Steve stepped out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips and hair still damp, the smell of breakfast had filled the apartment—coffee brewing, toast warming, eggs sizzling softly in the pan.

He paused in the doorway, struck silent.

She stood at the stove, barefoot, wearing nothing but one of his old navy blue T-shirts—way too big on her, falling off one shoulder, brushing mid-thigh. The way the morning light lit her up from behind, the calmness in her movements, her humming some song under her breath... it hit him hard. He was utterly gone for her.

“What?” she laughed, noticing the way he was staring at her from the hall.

“Nothing,” Steve said, his voice softer now as he crossed the kitchen in a few long steps. He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and rested his chin on her shoulder. “Seeing you like this… seeing us like this… makes me feel incredibly happy.”

She smiled, heart full, as he pressed a kiss to her neck.

“Me too,” she said softly, stirring the eggs. “I feel complete.”

But Steve didn’t let go.

“Not that complete,” he said, voice lower now, with something deeper behind it.

She stopped stirring.

“What do you mean?” she asked, heart skipping for a second, unsure.

Steve gently slid his hands from her waist to her stomach, his thumbs brushing just below her ribs in the softest, most tender way.

“I want everything with you,” he whispered. “Kids. Family. Chaos in the mornings. Little feet running down the hallway. I want to grow old with you.”

He reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together. “Marriage. But only if you want that too. I don’t want to scare you, it’s your decision, your life—”

She turned around quickly, eyes wide and shining with tears she hadn’t expected.

“You’re not scaring me,” she said, voice trembling from how full her chest felt. “I want everything with you, Steve. If it’s not you, it’s no one else.”

His breath caught.

Then they kissed—hard, and desperate, and full of every dream they’d ever dared whisper aloud. His hands slid around her waist as she curled into him, standing on her toes just to get closer.

She pulled back for a beat, eyes sparkling. “Do you… want to practice for the kids part?”

Steve blinked, stunned—and then grinned like a man who had just won the lottery. He reached behind her without breaking eye contact and flicked the stove off.

“Breakfast can wait,” he said, lifting her up in one smooth motion as she let out a surprised laugh.

She wrapped her legs around him, their laughter melting into kisses as he carried her back toward the bedroom, his lips finding hers again and again.

[stargrillzz]

SHHHHH

SUMMARY: It’s forbidden so shhh, keep it on the low.

NOTE: I LOVE CHRIS EVANS JOHNNY STORM JESUS FUCK. xoxo

Sue Storm’s best friend sat behind her sleek desk — hair pinned up neatly, silk blouse immaculate, eyes fixed on the screen in front of her. She looked calm, collected — the perfect executive assistant.

Under the desk, though, her foot bounced restlessly. She knew that warmth creeping up her spine. She knew exactly who was about to walk in — because Johnny Storm always made the air feel like it was about to catch fire.

The glass doors slid open with a hiss.

He didn’t announce himself. He never did. He leaned in the doorway first, shoulder propped against the frame, taking a second just to watch her. His eyes flicked from her glossy lips to the sharp line of her collarbone — his collarbone, sometimes, when she let him kiss her long enough to leave it marked.

He cleared his throat, just to see her jump. “Afternoon, sweetheart.”

She didn’t look up — not at first. “I’m working.”

He grinned. “So am I.”

She lifted her gaze, annoyed — pretending to be, anyway. “Oh yeah? And what exactly is your job here again?”

Johnny pushed off the door and sauntered over — slow, deliberate, too close. He perched on the very edge of her desk, ignoring the neat stacks of files he knocked sideways with his thigh. His knee brushed hers under the desk, just enough to send a spark up her leg.

“I’m here to keep morale high,” he murmured, voice low, teasing. He leaned in until his breath brushed her ear. “Pretty sure that means checking on my favorite girl.”

She shot him a deadly glare — but her pulse fluttered under his stare. “I’m not your anything.”

“Oh?” His fingertips ghosted the edge of her desk, drifting closer to her wrist, like he might just grab her hand and drag her into his lap — right here, where anyone could see. “You weren’t saying that last night when you were in my bed.”

Her cheeks burned — but her eyes stayed sharp. “Johnny.”

“Mm-hm?” He was close enough now she could smell that expensive cologne that always lingered on her sheets after he left — the faint, warm trace of smoke that clung to his skin.

She dropped her voice, cold but shaking. “Someone could see.”

He tilted his head, mouth inches from hers. “So let them.”

Under the desk, his knee nudged between hers — casual to anyone passing by, but she could feel how tense he was. His fingers drummed on her knee, moving higher — too high. She grabbed his wrist under the desk and squeezed hard, warning him without looking up.

“Johnny. Behave.”

He just grinned, leaning even closer. “Make me.”

She parted her lips — a sharp retort ready — when suddenly, footsteps echoed down the hall. Sharp, distinct, high-heeled. Sue.

They locked eyes — a heartbeat of panic. Then they snapped apart.

Johnny slid off the desk fast, but not before he leaned in, whispering, “We’re not done.”

She rolled her eyes, forcing her face into something normal — something bored. She picked up a file, flipping it open as if she hadn’t been two seconds from climbing into his lap.

Sue Storm stepped into view, scanning the scene with that big-sister suspicion that made them both sweat.

“Johnny,” Sue said, folding her arms. “Why are you hovering?”

Johnny, all fake innocence, leaned back on the wall — casual, relaxed, like he wasn’t rock-hard just a minute ago. “Just checking your girl’s stress levels, Sis.”

Sue arched a brow at [Y/N]. “You okay? He’s not bothering you?”

[Y/N] bit the inside of her cheek, fighting a smile. “He’s always bothering me.”

Johnny winked, licking his bottom lip slowly — a move only she noticed, but it made her thighs squeeze under the desk.

Sue sighed — the eternal exasperated older sister. “You’re supposed to be training downstairs.”

Johnny pushed off the wall, all charm. “On my way, Cap’n.”

As he walked past, he dropped his hand to her chair — brushing her shoulder with his thumb in a way Sue couldn’t see. The heat of it seared through her like lightning.

He murmured it low, for her ears only. “You owe me. Storage room. Five minutes.”

Sue shot him a look. “What was that?”

Johnny turned back, smile so angelic it should be illegal. “I said ‘see you later.’ Right, sweetheart?”

[Y/N] glared at him — but the flush on her throat gave her away. “Get out, Johnny.”

He swaggered away, laughter echoing down the hallway. Her phone buzzed a second later — a text from him, simple and smug: Better not lock the door this time.

She almost swore out loud. But god help her — she was already standing up to follow him.

-

The ding of the elevator doors closing behind her felt like a confession. The reader pressed her back to the polished wall, trying to catch her breath. She’d practically sprinted down the hall — telling herself she was going to the lower floors to “check a file.” Right. As if her flushed cheeks and shaking hands said anything about paperwork.

She checked her phone for the fifth time: ‘Second floor. Now.’ Johnny’s last text was still open, mocking her. She smirked despite herself. Cocky bastard.

A warm hand slammed against the doors just before they slid shut — and there he was. Johnny Storm slipped inside like he owned the whole damn building — hair slightly tousled, eyes dark in that way she knew meant trouble.

They didn’t say a word at first. The elevator hummed softly as it started moving. He watched her — that wolfish grin tugging at his mouth, like he was two seconds from devouring her.

She crossed her arms, fighting a smile. “You’re late.”

He stepped closer, crowding her back against the wall, one hand braced above her head. “You look mad.”

“I am mad,” she whispered, breath catching when his other hand slid to her waist, tugging her closer. “You can’t just text me—”

“‘Storage closet. Five minutes.’” He mocked her, voice pitched low and rough as he dipped his head, mouth grazing her jaw. “You love it.”

She gasped when his lips brushed her neck — hot and demanding, sucking just enough to make her knees weak. “Johnny—someone could—”

“Shh.” He kissed her fully then, cutting off her protest with a rough press of his lips. She melted into it immediately, one hand fisting the front of his shirt, tugging him closer until their hips pressed together.

The elevator hummed down past the third floor. He tasted like heat and trouble — his mouth greedy, teeth dragging her bottom lip, tongue flicking deep and sweet. She felt herself arch into him, her pulse slamming in her ears.

His hand slid lower, fingers hooking under the waistband of her skirt just enough to make her squeak — half a laugh, half a moan. He swallowed it with another kiss, deeper now, hips pinning her tighter to the wall.

She broke away for a second, gasping, “You’re such—”

“A distraction?” He grinned against her lips. “You’re welcome.”

She bit his lip in retaliation, making him hiss. “Johnny—”

Ding.

The elevator slowed — the tiny click of the next floor’s arrival. They froze — his hands still possessive on her waist, her nails digging into his shoulders.

“Shit,” she breathed, trying to push him back. “Off—off—now.”

Johnny didn’t budge. He pressed his forehead to hers, grinning wickedly. “One more.”

He stole a final, filthy kiss — rough and open-mouthed — then stepped back just in time for the doors to slide open.

There stood Reed and Sue — both holding coffee cups, mid-conversation — and both blinking at the sight of Johnny and [Y/N], standing way too close for comfort.

Sue’s eyes narrowed instantly. “What are you doing here?”

Johnny, without missing a beat, swiped a hand through his hair — the picture of casual charm. “Elevator maintenance,” he said smoothly, voice perfectly innocent. “Just making sure everything’s in… working order.”

Reed, oblivious as ever, just nodded absently. “Good. This building’s wiring is unreliable—”

Sue wasn’t buying it. She glanced at [Y/N], who was pink-cheeked and busy pretending to check her phone like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

Sue stepped in, forcing Johnny to back up. Reed followed, humming about quantum stabilizers.

As the doors slid closed behind them, Johnny shot [Y/N] a secret grin, eyes flicking down to her lips — swollen from kissing — then back up at her eyes, dark with a promise: this isn’t over.

She glared at him, cheeks burning, biting the inside of her lip to keep from laughing. Sue cleared her throat, glaring suspiciously between them.

“So,” Sue said pointedly. “You two look… flushed.”

Johnny smirked, looking straight ahead. “Must be the wiring.”

[Y/N] coughed, elbowing him hard in the ribs as the elevator hummed down to the lobby — the only proof she had left that she might survive him. Barely.

-

It wasn’t exactly the romantic rendezvous she’d pictured — but Johnny Storm never did anything the normal way.

The storage room was barely bigger than an office supply closet. A single flickering bulb overhead. Shelves lined with extra lab coats, stacks of paper, boxes labeled ‘PROPERTY OF REED RICHARDS — DO NOT TOUCH.’

She didn’t even get to say hello before Johnny slammed the door behind them, caged her up against a metal shelf, and kissed her like he hadn’t seen her in weeks — when in reality it had been, what, twenty minutes since the elevator?

His mouth was all heat and hunger, tongue sliding deep, greedy, biting her lower lip like he wanted to taste every gasp she’d ever breathed just for him.

She tugged at his shirt, fingers slipping under the fabric to feel that too-hot skin. He was always so warm — even here, in a stuffy little closet, he felt like an open flame pressed to her bones.

“Johnny—” she panted when he dragged his mouth to her neck, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark. “We can’t—someone—”

“Shh.” He grinned into her skin, lips brushing the hollow of her throat. “Be good for me, sweetheart.”

He lifted her so easily, one arm bracing her thighs as he pressed her back into the shelf, scattering papers and boxes. Her legs wrapped around him on instinct. He rocked his hips forward — just enough for her to feel exactly how much trouble she was in.

She gasped, hands fisting in his hair. “Johnny—”

He caught her mouth again, swallowing her moan. “Too late. You’re stuck with me now.”

She tugged his hair harder in mock punishment but it only made him groan, grinding closer. Her breath hitched — her heart thundered.

Then — voices.

Right outside the door — two lab techs, arguing about a misplaced shipment.

She froze. Johnny didn’t.

“Johnny—!” she hissed, but it was barely air. He just chuckled softly, the vibration against her throat sending sparks straight through her.

He rolled his hips again, slow and deliberate, pinning her tighter against the shelf so she couldn’t even squirm away.

Her nails dug into his shoulders as she fought for air. “Stop—stop—”

His grin was wicked — voice pitched low and rough in her ear. “Make me.”

She bit back a whimper when his hand slipped under her skirt, fingers brushing the soft heat between her thighs. He found exactly what he wanted, working her open in slow, devastating circles.

Outside the door, the voices got closer — clearer. Someone laughing, footsteps squeaking on the tile.

Her whole body jerked — she bit down on his shoulder to keep from crying out. Johnny groaned, barely holding back a moan himself, loving how desperate she felt under his hands.

“Be quiet,” he breathed, his free hand clamping over her mouth just as she gasped. “Be good for me. You can do that, can’t you, baby?”

She glared at him over his palm, eyes wide — but then his fingers curled just right, and her glare melted into something raw and pleading. She nodded frantically against his hand.

Outside, the doorknob rattled. One of the voices mumbled, “Check the other closet, man, I swear I left the damn box in there.”

She nearly sobbed into his hand when he pushed deeper, his thumb circling just right — slow, relentless. Her body trembled — every nerve on fire.

“Good girl,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. “So quiet for me. You’re perfect.”

She dug her nails into his back so hard he’d probably have marks tomorrow. He didn’t care — he loved them. He pressed his mouth to her ear, his own breathing ragged.

“Come for me, baby. Right here. So close to getting caught. So quiet. Be good—”

She did — her whole body arching against him as she clamped down on her cry, every muscle tight as the heat rushed through her like wildfire. She nearly bit his shoulder through his shirt just to muffle the sound.

Outside the voices faded — the lab techs giving up, footsteps echoing down the hall.

Inside, Johnny finally let go, easing his hand away as she collapsed against him, chest heaving, eyes glazed. He kissed her slow, soft, smug as hell.

“You’re dangerous,” she panted against his lips.

He grinned, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from her cheek. “Nah, you’re dangerous.” He kissed her again, deeper — lazy now, sated. “Next time, I’m locking the damn door.”

She shoved his chest, but her giggle gave her away. “You better.”

Outside, the hallway stayed empty — for now. But she knew better than to think this was the last time he’d get her pinned in a place she absolutely shouldn’t be.

And hell — she knew she’d let him.

-

The Baxter Building’s kitchen was pristine — white marble counters, chrome appliances that cost more than some people’s cars, floor-to-ceiling windows pouring in soft afternoon light. It was designed for Reed’s endless meal-prep experiments and Sue’s attempts at normal breakfast routines. Not for this. Definitely not for this.

Which made it Johnny’s new favorite place to pin her up against a cabinet.

It started innocent enough — a late lunch break, the reader in leggings and a fitted tee, bent over the fridge door mumbling about leftover sushi. She didn’t even hear him come in — she just felt the warm press of a body behind hers, hands landing on her hips.

“Johnny—” she warned, laughing under her breath, peeking back over her shoulder. “I’m hungry. Real food, Torch.”

“Oh, I know,” he purred, leaning down, brushing his mouth along the curve of her neck. “And I’m starving.”

She squirmed when he tugged the fridge door shut, spinning her around so her back hit the cool stainless steel. He kissed her before she could argue — hot, deep, a groan rumbling from his throat when her hands slipped under his shirt, fingers skating over those abs she’d practically memorized by now.

“You’re insatiable,” she gasped between kisses, giggling when he hoisted her up onto the counter so easily she squeaked.

Johnny nipped at her jaw, thumb brushing her bottom lip. “Says the girl who practically begged me for round two on Sue’s desk—”

She clapped a hand over his mouth. “Johnny! She’ll hear you—”

He bit her palm playfully, grabbed her wrist, pinned it above her head. The other hand slid up her thigh, bunching her leggings higher. Her pulse skittered wildly when he rocked his hips between her knees, his grin cocky and wicked.

“Let her,” he murmured, kissing her again — rougher this time, teeth clashing, tongues sliding together in a way that made her toes curl in her sneakers.

Somewhere behind him, the microwave beeped. She barely registered it — too busy gasping his name into his mouth when he slipped a hand under her shirt. His fingers brushed higher and she jolted, moaning softly against his lips.

“God, Johnny—”

“Yeah, baby?” His teeth scraped her neck, his voice pure sin. “Keep making that sound—”

She slapped his shoulder. “Shut up—someone could—”

Voices.

Footsteps padded down the hallway — the unmistakable click of Sue’s heels. Again.

They froze.

Johnny didn’t back up — instead he pressed closer, like her tiny squeak of panic was just the best thing he’d ever heard. She shoved at his chest but he caught her wrists again, mouth still hovering so close she could feel his grin.

“Johnny—move!” she hissed.

Too late — the kitchen door swung open.

Sue’s voice, all business. “Hey, did you guys see—?”

She stopped dead in the doorway.

Johnny’s back was to her. He’d pivoted just enough to block Sue’s view of [Y/N], who scrambled off the counter behind him, yanking her shirt down, cheeks flaming.

Sue squinted at Johnny, who threw her his best I’m-totally-innocent grin. “Hey, sis. Want sushi?”

Sue narrowed her eyes. “Why do you look so sweaty?”

Johnny raised his brows, all fake confusion. “Hot kitchen?”

Behind him, [Y/N] slapped his back hard, pretending it was a playful tap. “We were just… cleaning up!” she blurted, voice way too high. “Johnny was just… helping.”

Sue folded her arms — suspicion radiating off her like one of Reed’s science rays. “Helping. In the kitchen.”

Johnny nodded solemnly, biting his lip to keep from laughing. “Team player, that’s me.”

Sue glanced between them, eyes lingering on the way [Y/N] was flushed head to toe, hair mussed, lips definitely not normal.

Finally, she rolled her eyes, grabbing a bottled water from the fridge they’d nearly defiled. “You two better not even think about my office again. And Johnny, if you ruin this kitchen—”

“Relax,” Johnny said, fighting a grin as Sue turned to leave. “We’re just staying… hydrated.”

Sue paused in the doorway, pointing two fingers at her eyes, then at him. “I see everything.”

As soon as she was gone, [Y/N] smacked his arm again — harder this time. “I hate you.”

Johnny caught her hand, pressed a kiss to her knuckles, his grin smug as ever. “No, you don’t.”

He leaned in close, brushing his nose against hers. “Now where were we?”

She laughed — exasperated, breathless, hopelessly into him. “I swear, Johnny Storm—”

He cut her off with another kiss — because that was the only thing that ever shut them both up.

-

The thing about Johnny’s room was that it was never quiet. There was always music pulsing from the speakers — classic rock when he felt nostalgic, pop when he was cocky (so, always). But right now, it was the low hum of a song she didn’t even hear — because Johnny’s mouth was on hers, and that was louder than any guitar riff.

She was pinned against his bedroom wall — the huge window throwing warm city lights across the bed, the messy pile of clothes on the floor, the half-empty bag of takeout on the dresser. Typical Johnny Storm chaos.

Her hands fisted in the collar of his t-shirt as he kissed her like he’d been waiting days — which he had. He tilted his head, deepening it, one palm braced on the wall above her head while the other slipped under the hem of her top, brushing her bare skin.

“God, you’re gonna kill me,” he murmured against her lips, grinning when she tugged his hair in retaliation.

“You love it,” she shot back, breathless.

“Oh, I do.” He nipped her lower lip, then smoothed his tongue there, smug. “You wanna kill me every day. It’s hot.”

She laughed into his mouth, about to fire something back — when the door suddenly swung open.

Click. Wham. Silence.

Sue Storm stood there like an avenging angel in a perfect blazer. Reed was behind her, looking confused — eyes darting between the two of them, Johnny’s shirt rucked up, her lipstick smeared, his hands suspiciously nowhere innocent.

Sue’s voice was calm — too calm. “Johnny.”

He didn’t even flinch. He turned his head slightly, didn’t move his hand from her waist. “Hey, sis.”

Reed cleared his throat, pushing up his glasses like he’d really rather be anywhere else. “Are we—uh—interrupting?”

Johnny grinned, pressing a final kiss to her temple just to make her squeak before stepping back. “Nope. Just hanging out.”

Sue’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Hanging. Out.”

She crossed her arms — the same way she did before she blasted a hole through an alien mothership. The reader slipped off the wall, tugging her shirt down, cheeks on fire.

“Sue, I can explain—” she babbled. “It’s not—We just—”

Johnny draped an arm over her shoulder, pulling her back to his side like she was his prize. “Relax, babe. She’s not mad.”

Sue arched an eyebrow. “I will be in about ten seconds. Start explaining.”

Johnny shrugged, totally unbothered. “It’s not a big deal. We’re, like… friends.”

Sue waited.

Johnny smirked. “Friends who… you know. Benefit.”

Dead. Silence.

Reed’s eyes went comically wide. He turned to Sue. “Is this a thing people say now—?”

“Johnny!” she screeched, shoving his arm off her shoulder. The reader’s face was tomato red. “Sue, I swear, it’s not—It’s not just—”

Sue held up a hand — her eyes never leaving Johnny’s smug face. “Don’t worry, honey. I know you’re not the problem here.”

She stepped forward, right into Johnny’s space, poking a finger into his chest. “You listen to me, Hotshot. If you hurt her—if you ghost her, if you replace her, if you breathe wrong—”

Johnny, still grinning like he was having the best day of his life, leaned around her finger. “You’ll kill me. Got it.”

Sue’s eyes narrowed more. “I’m not joking.”

The reader tugged at Johnny’s arm, mortified. “Sue, please, I’m fine—”

But Johnny just laughed — loud and bright and so him — then planted a kiss on her cheek like he had no shame left to spare. “She’s fine. I’m not planning on hurting her, Susan. In fact—”

He turned to look at the reader, who was about to slap a hand over his mouth — but he ducked it, catching her wrist, smirking at Sue.

“Actually, I was planning on asking her to marry me, so… chill?”

The reader made a strangled squeak. “Johnny!”

Sue’s jaw dropped. Reed made a tiny squeak of panic, pushing his glasses up so high they almost flew off his face.

Sue blinked, then narrowed her eyes — but her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile. “You’re an idiot.”

Johnny winked, pulling his stunned, red-faced best-friend-slash-sometimes-lover closer. “Yeah. But you love me.”

Sue rolled her eyes so hard they nearly fell out of her head. “You—are impossible.”

Reed raised a tentative hand. “So… do we need to plan a ceremony or—”

Sue just grabbed his elbow, dragging him back toward the door before she could kill her own brother. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before he starts picking out baby names.”

As soon as the door shut, the reader smacked Johnny’s chest — but she was laughing, heart hammering out of control. “Marry me?! Are you insane?”

Johnny shrugged, catching her face in his hands, kissing her so deep she forgot her name for a second. When he pulled back, his grin was pure trouble.

“Hey. Never hurts to plan ahead, sweetheart.”

[stargrillzz]

FLAME OFF

summary The unimaginable happens, Johnny actually feels something.

note I know everyone is into Joseph Quinn as Johnny, so you can really imagine him with whoever you want, but in my head this is with Chris Evans.(I may have wrote this different days so if something isn’t adding up, my bad)xoxo

The Baxter Building lab was unusually quiet.

A low hum vibrated from the high-tech consoles Reed was obsessing over. Sue stood near one of the screens, arms folded, face lit by data projections, and Ben… well, Ben Grimm loomed by the reinforced glass walls like a one-man wrecking crew. He looked bored — and annoyed — which, in Ben terms, meant normal.

Johnny Storm had one leg slung over the arm of his chair, lazily tossing a stress ball in the air while pretending to listen to Reed ramble about particle resonance anomalies.

Then the doors slid open with a hiss.

Boots clicked on the polished floor. A girl walked in like she wasn’t just entering a lab full of superheroes — like she owned the damn place. Johnny’s attention snapped to her instantly.

She wasn’t wearing a lab coat or ID badge. No clipboard, no assistant uniform. She wore a tight, black tank top under a faded leather jacket, dark jeans hugging her hips, and a smirk that could cause spontaneous combustion — not that Johnny minded a little fire.

“Hello,” Johnny muttered, eyes tracking every step like he was seeing a goddess descend into his domain.

Ben turned to greet the newcomer with a wide, rare smile, the kind only a few people ever got to see. A warm, fatherly one.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Ben said, arms crossed, voice softening a little as he looked at her.

Johnny blinked.

Wait. What?

He stared between Ben and the girl, mentally doing the math — which was something he normally left to Reed, but before his brain could fully load, his mouth took the wheel.

“Damn, Big Guy,” he said with a grin. “Isn’t she a little young for you?” Sue’s head whipped around so fast Johnny swore he felt the air shift.

“Johnny!” she snapped. “She’s his daughter!”

Dead silence.

The grin on Johnny’s face died a slow, painful death.

“…Oh,” he said, blinking rapidly. “Like… biologically?”

The girl stifled a laugh — badly. Her shoulders shook with amusement, and her eyes sparkled like someone who lived for this kind of awkward chaos. Ben’s glare could’ve melted reinforced steel.

She finally spoke. “Wow. I’ve been here twenty seconds and you’re already flirting with me.”

Johnny straightened up, trying to salvage his dignity. “Well—okay, yes, but—how was I supposed to know? You walked in all mysterious and hot and… not labeled.”

Ben stepped forward, voice low. “Step. Back.”

Johnny raised both hands like he was being held at gunpoint. “Hey, I didn’t do anything!”

“You were about to.”

She stepped beside Ben, arms crossed now, clearly loving the drama.

Sue shook her head, sighing. “Reed, maybe you should explain before Johnny gets punched.”

Reed, eyes still half on his tablet, nodded. “Of course. y/n is here for observation and training. She’s recently begun exhibiting unstable powers,a form of chaos-based energy manipulation. She’ll be staying in the Baxter Building indefinitely while we study and help her harness her abilities.”

Johnny blinked again. “You mean she’s one of us?”

Ben cut in. “Not yet. She’s here to learn. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh,” Johnny said slowly, eyes dragging down her body and back up again — this time, much more carefully. “And does she… come with a warning label?”

The girl smirked. “No, but you might need an armor.”

Johnny stepped closer, not too close — but just enough to make Ben’s eye twitch.

He reached out, taking her hand slowly, and kissed the back of it with exaggerated flair. “Johnny Storm. Human Torch. But you already knew that.”

She tilted her head, eyes locked on his. “I’ve heard rumors.”

Ben growled low in his throat. “That’s enough. You stay over there, Johnny.”

Johnny flashed her a roguish smile as he stepped back — still holding eye contact. “It’s a pleasure, [Y/N]. Really.”

She winked at him.

Sue narrowed her eyes. “Johnny. Seriously.”

“I’m just being polite,” he said, already imagining what kind of heat this girl could bring — and not just the magical kind.

Ben turned to his daughter. “You don’t get too close to him. You hear me?”

She gave a mock salute. “Ten-foot radius. Got it.”

Johnny held up his fingers, spacing them an inch apart. “Or maybe just a little closer.”

Ben took a step toward him. Johnny bolted for the elevator with a laugh.

-

The Baxter Building’s training room had seen its share of chaos over the past year — shattered glass, singed mats, melted walls. But nothing quite prepared it for the current level of destruction.

“Would you just stand still for once?” [Y/N] growled, her voice breathless as she ducked a wide sweeping kick and rolled across the mat.

Johnny Storm, shirt half off and cocky as ever, laughed as he dodged her strike and spun behind her. “Where’s the fun in that, princess?”

She whirled around, palm glowing faintly with purple energy, but Johnny was already gone — slipped behind her again, one arm wrapping around her waist, the other hand catching her wrist mid-swing.

“Ohhh, is this how you like it?” he whispered into her ear, a hot puff of breath making her shiver before she could stop herself. “Body-to-body combat? You could’ve just said so.”

She elbowed him in the stomach. Hard.

He let go with an exaggerated grunt and stumbled back dramatically, arms raised. “Abuse. I’ve been assaulted by a chaos gremlin.”

“You’ve been warned,” she smirked, adjusting her ponytail and stepping toward him again. “You talk too much during training.”

“I talk too much during everything,” he said, smirking as he circled her. “Besides, you like it. Admit it.”

She scoffed. “You wish.”

He leaned in close enough for her to see the little flecks of gold in his blue eyes. “Oh, I don’t need to wish, sweetheart. You literally glow when I flirt with you.”

“I glow when I’m ready to blast you through a wall.”

Johnny grinned wider. “Sexy.”

She lunged — he dodged — and suddenly they were tangled again. Legs tangled. Hips pressed. Her back hit the mat and he landed on top of her, one arm braced beside her head, the other on her waist.

There was a pause.

Too long.

Neither of them moved. The energy shifted — from playful to charged — like the air had been sucked out of the room and replaced with something electric and dangerous.

He was staring at her lips. She noticed. He knew she noticed.

Her hand slid up, fingers brushing his shoulder, eyes locked with his.

“If you kiss me, I’ll hex you into another dimension,” she said softly, though her voice lacked any real threat.

“I’d die happy,” he murmured back.

And then—

“Johnny. y/n. Lab. Now.”

Reed’s voice boomed through the intercom, slicing the moment in half like a guillotine.

Johnny rolled off her with a groan, flopping dramatically onto the mat. “Cockblocked by science again.”

She stood up, brushing herself off with a smirk. “Get up, Torch. Duty calls.”

-

Reed cleared his throat and tapped a button. The holograms shifted — images of containers, human silhouettes in hazmat suits, shady transactions frozen mid-frame. The air turned heavy.

“This,” Reed began, voice low, “is what we’re up against. A private network. Smuggling, black market labs, and a new line of bio-weapons powerful enough to destabilize entire regions.”

A hologram of a cylindrical device flickered into focus — a capsule, sleek, metallic, with ominous red lights blinking along its surface.

Johnny whistled under his breath. “y/n’s more dangerous than that thing.”

Ben shot him a glare. “Shut it, matchstick.”

Reed ignored them both, pointing at the next projection — a blueprint of an enormous mansion, all marble columns and sprawling gardens. “Tonight, the people responsible are hosting a gala. High society, tight security. Somewhere inside this building is an encrypted server with locations, buyers, and contacts.”

Sue pushed off the console and stepped forward, eyes flicking from Reed to y/n. “We need to get someone in. Someone who won’t draw too much suspicion. A couple.”

Reed nodded, eyes landing squarely on Johnny and y/n. “You two.”

The lab went silent — like the equipment itself paused to see who’d explode first.

y/n’s stomach dropped. She could feel Johnny’s grin forming before she even looked at him.

“A couple?” she echoed, one eyebrow twitching up. “You mean us? Together? Like… holding hands and pretending I don’t want to kill him every five seconds?”

“Hey!” Johnny protested, though he was still beaming like Christmas came early. “You can’t kill me. I’m adorable.”

Ben stepped forward, fists clenching with a stone-crunching sound. “Absolutely not. No way. She’s not going anywhere with him.”

Johnny dramatically clutched his chest. “Big Guy, you wound me.”

“You’ll be wounded alright if you don’t shut up.”

Sue ignored them both, stepping closer to y/n and putting a hand on her shoulder — sisterly, reassuring, but with that sparkle of mischief that made y/n suspicious. “You two are perfect for this. Nobody will suspect anything if you’re all over each other.”

Johnny perked up. “All over? I like the sound of that—”

y/n shot him a look that could freeze fire. “Finish that sentence and I hex your hair off.”

Reed tapped the table again, projecting a map of the mansion’s ballroom. “You’ll wear hidden mics and micro-cameras in your accessories. We’ll monitor everything. If there’s trouble, we’re in your ear. You just need to get to the office upstairs, plug this—” he held up a sleek USB device, “—into the main computer, and we’ll download everything.”

Ben’s jaw flexed. “She’s not trained for this. Not this kind of infiltration.”

“She’s better trained than you think,” Sue said gently. “Besides, Johnny will be there.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Ben barked.

Johnny held up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’ll protect her. With my life. Promise.”

y/n rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “I’ll be the one protecting you if you screw this up.”

Johnny leaned in, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “So, we’re gonna have to hold hands, huh? Maybe even dance a little—”

She shoved his shoulder — lightly — but he rocked with it, as if she’d decked him. “Keep your fantasies to yourself, Fireboy.”

Ben turned to her, ignoring Johnny completely. His voice softened the way it always did when it was just the two of them. “You sure about this, kiddo?”

y/n met his eyes. Under all that rock and gruffness, he was still just her dad — terrified to see her walk into danger.

“I’ve got this, Dad,” she said quietly. “I promise.”

Johnny, of course, ruined the moment. He swooped in, draping an arm across her shoulders. “Don’t worry, Pops. I’ll take excellent care of her.”

Ben’s eye twitched. One giant fist flexed.

Sue stepped between them like a living shield. “Alright! Enough. We’ve got less than six hours to prep. y/n, you’ll need a dress that fits the gala theme. Johnny— try to look like you own more than leather jackets and hair gel.”

Johnny looked personally offended. “I’m offended. My hair gel is world-class.”

Reed dropped the USB device into y/n’s hand. “Memorize the route. Keep this hidden. We’ll have your comms live at all times.”

Johnny leaned closer again, mouth brushing her ear, voice low enough to send an involuntary shiver down her spine. “So… matching outfits? Fake couple? Secret mission? I knew you’d cave and go on a date with me someday.”

She exhaled a laugh, a dangerous, sharp sound. “Keep talking and I’ll make this the worst fake date of your life.”

“Oh, please do.”

Ben grunted so loud the lab lights seemed to flicker.

Reed clapped his hands once, snapping them all out of it. “Alright, team. Let’s suit up.”

Johnny squeezed y/n’s shoulder, his grin all mischief and charm — and something underneath she pretended not to see.

“Don’t worry, princess,” he murmured as they turned to leave. “We’ll make one hell of an entrance.”

And under the hum of the lab, under the tension and bickering,y/n felt her heart skip — once — before she slammed the door on that thought. Hard.

Because the last thing she needed was to actually enjoy this.

-

The gala was exactly what you’d expect from people too rich to know what to do with their money — a cathedral-sized ballroom glowing with chandeliers the size of cars, tables groaning under mountains of champagne and caviar, and enough glittering gowns and tailored suits to blind someone if you looked straight at them.

[Y/N] stood near the entrance, trying not to fidget. Her dress was a deep, dangerous red — long, tight, hugging every curve like it had been painted on. The neckline dipped scandalously low, all sharp elegance and wicked promise. She’d tried not to think about how Johnny might react when he saw her — and she failed spectacularly.

Speak of the devil.

Johnny Storm stepped out of the sleek black car parked by the marble steps like he owned the entire damn building. He tugged at his jacket, straightening his perfectly fitted suit. The dark fabric hugged his shoulders and arms like it was afraid to let go. His tie was a rich blue, neat and sharp against the white shirt — a respectable touch that clashed perfectly with the troublemaker glint in his eyes.

When he spotted her, he stopped dead. Actually stopped, one foot halfway on the first step, eyes sweeping over her so slowly she felt her skin heat under the chandeliers.

“Wow.” His voice came out low, warm, almost reverent — ruined instantly by his grin. “Okay, first of all — you’re hot. Like, unfairly hot. Second of all—” he flicked his tie with two fingers, “—I really should’ve gone with red.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him, smile tugging at her lips as she flicked her fingers subtly. A soft shimmer pulsed at her fingertips — reality bending around her like silk. The blue tie shifted, threads reweaving themselves into a deep, perfect crimson that matched her dress exactly.

She winked at him, smug. “There. Now you almost look good enough to stand next to me.”

Johnny let out a soft, appreciative sigh, stepping in so close she felt the heat radiating off him. “God. Hot.”

She rolled her eyes, hooking her arm through his, tugging him toward the marble steps before she could do something stupid like stare at his mouth too long. “Behave, Fireboy.”

They crossed the grand entrance together — all dark tuxedo and slinky red silk, young and reckless, magnetic enough to turn a few heads their way. [Y/N] could feel the eyes — curiosity, envy, suspicion — but Johnny didn’t even flinch under it. He leaned down so his mouth brushed her ear.

“Keep looking at me like that, princess, and they’re gonna think you’re really in love.”

She tilted her head just enough to whisper back, saccharine sweet. “I am. With the idea of setting you on fire.”

Johnny barked out a low laugh, squeezing her arm against his side. “Kinky.”

The gala was exactly what you’d expect from people too rich to know what to do with their money — a cathedral-sized ballroom glowing with chandeliers the size of cars, tables groaning under mountains of champagne and caviar, and enough glittering gowns and tailored suits to blind someone if you looked straight at them.

[Y/N] stood near the entrance, trying not to fidget. Her dress was a deep, dangerous red — long, tight, hugging every curve like it had been painted on. The neckline dipped scandalously low, all sharp elegance and wicked promise. She’d tried not to think about how Johnny might react when he saw her — and she failed spectacularly.

Speak of the devil.

Johnny Storm stepped out of the sleek black car parked by the marble steps like he owned the entire damn building. He tugged at his jacket, straightening his perfectly fitted suit. The dark fabric hugged his shoulders and arms like it was afraid to let go. His tie was a rich blue, neat and sharp against the white shirt — a respectable touch that clashed perfectly with the troublemaker glint in his eyes.

When he spotted her, he stopped dead. Actually stopped, one foot halfway on the first step, eyes sweeping over her so slowly she felt her skin heat under the chandeliers.

“Wow.” His voice came out low, warm, almost reverent — ruined instantly by his grin. “Okay, first of all — you’re hot. Like, unfairly hot. Second of all—” he flicked his tie with two fingers, “—I really should’ve gone with red.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him, smile tugging at her lips as she flicked her fingers subtly. A soft shimmer pulsed at her fingertips — reality bending around her like silk. The blue tie shifted, threads reweaving themselves into a deep, perfect crimson that matched her dress exactly.

She winked at him, smug. “There. Now you almost look good enough to stand next to me.”

Johnny let out a soft, appreciative sigh, stepping in so close she felt the heat radiating off him. “God. Hot.”

She rolled her eyes, hooking her arm through his, tugging him toward the marble steps before she could do something stupid like stare at his mouth too long. “Behave, Fireboy.”

They crossed the grand entrance together — all dark tuxedo and slinky red silk, young and reckless, magnetic enough to turn a few heads their way. [Y/N] could feel the eyes — curiosity, envy, suspicion — but Johnny didn’t even flinch under it. He leaned down so his mouth brushed her ear.

“Keep looking at me like that, princess, and they’re gonna think you’re really in love.”

She tilted her head just enough to whisper back, saccharine sweet. “I am. With the idea of setting you on fire.”

Johnny barked out a low laugh, squeezing her arm against his side. “Kinky.”

—

Somewhere far away — or not far enough — Ben’s voice crackled through the tiny mic hidden in her earring. “Johnny, you so much as touch her wrong, I’ll break both your arms.”

Johnny grinned like he’d just won the lottery. “Love you too, Big Guy.”

Sue’s voice cut in, all calm and bossy as usual. “Focus, you two. Blend in. Smile. Be rich and dumb. You’re perfect at that.”

“Hey,” Johnny protested, hand splaying wide on [Y/N]’s bare lower back as they stepped further into the ballroom. “I’m not dumb. Just distractingly handsome.”

She swatted his hand — but not too hard. The warmth of his palm lingered, leaving goosebumps down her spine. “Focus, Storm. Try to look like you belong.”

Johnny leaned in, voice dropping to that dangerous hush again. “You look like you belong draped over my—”

“Johnny.” Ben’s growl cut him off like a guillotine. Johnny winced. [Y/N] bit back a laugh.

They drifted toward the dance floor when the music swelled — a slow, elegant waltz that everyone else performed with stiff, practiced grace. Johnny spun her around like they’d done this a thousand times. His hands were warm on her waist. Her fingers curled at the back of his neck, playing the part she was supposed to hate.

“Look at us,” Johnny murmured, eyes flicking between hers and her lips. “Best fake couple in the room.”

She shot him a teasing smile that didn’t reach her eyes — because her heart was hammering for real, traitorous thing that it was. “Don’t get attached, Fireboy. I’m not your type.”

He twirled her out, then tugged her back in close enough for her chest to brush his. “Breathing, beautiful, and terrifying? You’re exactly my type.”

Before she could retort, Reed’s voice chimed in their ears. “Alright lovebirds, the scans are clean. I need you to drift toward the bar. There’s a group near the corner — get close, listen in, strike up a chat if you can.”

Johnny pressed his forehead lightly to hers — for show, or maybe not. “Careful, princess. I might start thinking this is real.”

She shoved his chest lightly, ignoring how solid it felt under her palm. “Keep dreaming.”

They broke apart, fingers linked as they crossed the dance floor like they were attached at the hip. She could feel people watching them — a few approving nods, some envious stares, more than one curious look that lingered a second too long.

They reached the bar, drifting close to a crowd of overdressed criminals pretending to be philanthropists. Johnny leaned against the marble counter, one hand braced beside her hip, boxing her in.

She ignored him, glancing over his shoulder at the cluster of old money behind him. “Champagne?”

He barked out a laugh. “You’re trouble enough sober.”

She was about to fire back when he showed up — all slick hair, too-white teeth, a watch that probably cost as much as her old apartment. He slid in like he belonged in her personal space, cutting off Johnny’s view of her in a single arrogant move.

“Hey there, gorgeous,” the man said, voice dripping sleaze. “Haven’t seen you at one of these before.”

Johnny went stone still beside her. His smile faded like someone snuffed out a light.

[Y/N] forced a polite smile. “Not really my scene.”

The man didn’t hear her. Or maybe he didn’t care. He leaned closer — too close — breath brushing her ear. “Could be your scene. I could show you around.”

Johnny’s jaw ticked. He shifted, his shoulder brushing hers, but he didn’t speak yet. She felt it before she saw it — the flicker of heat under his skin, the possessive coil winding tighter.

The man’s hand lifted — fingers brushing the bare skin of her arm.

Johnny’s hand shot out, grabbing the guy’s wrist so fast it looked like a magic trick.

The man flinched. “Hey, what the—”

Johnny’s voice was ice. “Don’t touch her.”

The man tried to laugh it off, tugging his arm free. “Relax, pretty boy. Just being friendly.”

Johnny stepped forward, chest to chest — their fancy suits doing nothing to soften the threat rolling off him. “Friendly? Here’s friendly: I let you walk away with all your teeth.”

The man’s smirk faltered. He glanced at [Y/N], then back at Johnny — and made the mistake of scoffing. “She doesn’t look like she minds—”

Johnny’s hand fisted in the man’s lapel, dragging him half off his feet. The bar went quiet around them — subtle but real. The fake smiles flickered. Champagne flutes stopped mid-air.

“You don’t look at her,” Johnny snarled, low enough that only they could hear. “You don’t talk to her. And you sure as hell don’t touch her.”

The man stammered — a half-formed apology that turned into a squeak when Johnny shoved him back.

“Out,” Johnny hissed. “Now.”

The man fled, mumbling something about finding security. Johnny didn’t look away until he vanished into the shadows of the ballroom.

[Y/N] stared at him, heart hammering. She should’ve been mad — but heat pooled low in her belly instead, reckless and wrong. She stepped in, putting a hand on his chest. His heartbeat was a drum under her palm.

“Possessive, much?” she teased, but her voice came out softer than she meant.

Johnny’s eyes flicked to hers, dark and burning. “Mine to protect.”

She didn’t know what to do with that. Before she could decide, Sue’s voice cut in — sharp, flinty. “Enough tension. Security camera’s clear. Office. Now.”

Johnny exhaled through his nose — not breaking eye contact. Then he grabbed her hand — rougher than before, warm and firm — and pulled her toward the stairs.

They slipped through a side hallway, ignoring the marble and gold, ducking through a servants’ door until they reached the grand staircase. Every step was a soft drumbeat under her heels. Johnny didn’t let go of her hand — not when they reached the landing, not when they slipped into the heavy oak office that smelled like leather, old books, and stale cologne.

The office was a gaudy testament to terrible taste — shelves packed with first editions nobody read, animal heads mounted like trophies, and a desk the size of a small car.

Reed’s voice crackled in their ears. “There’s a book on the front shelf, left side. Inside it, a folded document — it’s our buyer list. Find it fast.”

They split up. Johnny flipped through drawers, rifling past gold pens and ridiculous knick-knacks. [Y/N] pulled book after book off the shelf, cracking spines, muttering under her breath.

“Ugly decor, ugly wallpaper, ugly—” She tugged at a leather-bound volume — no paper. “—and not one good secret compartment?”

Johnny glanced back at her — right as Reed’s voice went sharp, urgent. “Someone’s coming up the stairs. You have ten seconds. Hide, now.”

She spun around, eyes wide. “There’s nowhere to—”

Johnny’s hand wrapped around her waist. She yelped as he lifted her like she weighed nothing, planting her on the massive desk.

“What are you—?”

“No time,” he hissed — and then his mouth was on hers.

The kiss was fire. Reckless, messy, teeth clashing and breath stolen, like he was trying to burn the panic out of both of them. His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into silk and skin, pinning her in place. She didn’t even have to think — her hands found his shoulders, threading through his hair, pulling him closer, matching him beat for beat.

In her earpiece, Ben’s voice roared. “Johnny, I swear to God—”

Reed cut him off, hissing, “Quiet, Ben, or they’re blown.”

The door opened with a soft click.

Johnny broke the kiss just enough to turn his head, breathless and flushed. [Y/N] didn’t trust herself to look up — so she just buried her face against his neck, playing the part perfectly.

“Uh— hi,” Johnny said, voice half a laugh, half a pant. “Didn’t see you there.”

A man in a suit too expensive for his cheap grin stared at them, caught between shock and amusement. “Well, well. Is this— my office?”

Johnny flashed him that grin that got him out of speeding tickets and into trouble. “Sorry, man. We got— carried away.”

[Y/N] peeked up, cheeks flaming. “We’re so sorry, sir. Really.”

The man chuckled, waving them off like they were naughty kids. “Ah, young love. I remember that. There’s a free room upstairs, if you’d rather—”

Johnny laughed, still breathless, still holding her like she might bolt. “Oh, we couldn’t— really— that’s not—”

The man raised an eyebrow. “I insist. I’d feel terrible kicking you out.”

Before [Y/N] could find her voice, Johnny grabbed her hand and hopped off the desk, practically hauling her to her feet.

“You’re a saint,” Johnny said, clapping the man’s shoulder with his free hand. “Really. Can’t help myself around her, you know?”

The man laughed. “I get it. Butler will show you the way. Enjoy yourselves.”

Johnny didn’t wait — he dragged [Y/N] out of the office, through the hall, their shoulders brushing, hearts pounding.

When they were out of earshot, [Y/N] shoved his chest, breathless and furious and maybe a little too giddy. “Next time, warn me before you start mauling me.”

Johnny shot her a wicked grin, the tie she’d turned red still crooked from her fists. “What can I say? Improvisation’s my thing.”

And somewhere in her earpiece, Ben’s low growl rumbled like distant thunder — promising murder that Johnny Storm was absolutely going to deserve.

In her ear, Ben’s voice cracked through like a thunderclap. “STORM! YOU SON OF A— WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU, I’M GONNA—”

Johnny snorted, twisting the tiny mic in his collar with an exaggerated flourish. Click. Silence.

He didn’t stop there — he stepped right into [Y/N]’s personal space, brushing her hair back with a little too much gentleness for the way he smirked. He found her mic tucked behind her ear and flicked that off, too. Click. Silence. Finally.

“Freedom,” he sighed, dramatically flinging his suit jacket at a random chair. It missed, landing in a puddle on the floor. He didn’t care. He spun on his heel to face her, arms spread wide, grin cocky enough to make her roll her eyes on instinct. “Look at this place. King-size bed, mood lighting, overpriced grapes — all for us. Feels like fate, doesn’t it?”

She crossed her arms, leveling him with her best don’t-you-dare look. “Fate? The only thing that’s gonna die here tonight is your ego.”

He pressed a hand to his chest, mocking a gasp. “You wound me.”

She shot him a flat look, ignoring how good he looked with his tie all crooked and the top button undone. Focus. Focus. She pulled the folded slip of paper from her bra and held it up between two fingers like bait. “Anyway, if anyone’s getting a medal tonight, it’s me. I snagged the real intel while you were busy acting like an angry puppy.”

Johnny’s eyes darted to the paper — then to her cleavage — then back to her eyes with a wicked glint. “First of all, genius move — remind me to thank you properly later—”

“Not happening,” she cut in.

He ignored her entirely, stepping forward to pluck the paper from her hand. His fingers brushed hers — just enough to make her stomach do a stupid flip. He tucked the fake into his pocket with a smug grin. “Second of all, angry puppy? Try guard dog. Or wolf. Very protective.”

She poked a finger into his chest, making him stumble back a step — though his grin didn’t budge. “Try territorial drama queen.”

He spread his arms again, stepping backward until his knees hit the bed. “Drama queen? Please. I’m a hero. A hero who just got us a free suite. We should—”

“Don’t.” She pointed at him, deadly serious — or trying to be. “Don’t even say it.”

He smirked. “—celebrate.”

She groaned, spinning away from him like she couldn’t trust herself not to laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

Behind her, the bed creaked. She didn’t have to look to know he’d thrown himself onto it like he owned the whole hotel. She turned just in time to catch him propped up on his elbows, feet still on the floor, looking her up and down in that shameless Johnny Storm way.

He bit his lip — dramatic, ridiculous. “You know, I really should’ve worn that red tie from the start. Couples aesthetic. Matching vibes.”

She shot him a withering glare. “Oh, so you care about matching now?”

“Hey—” He held up his hands. “You made my tie red. That’s commitment, sweetheart.”

“Temporary commitment,” she snapped back, stalking to the window to fiddle with the ugly gold curtain tie. She needed something to do with her hands. “I’m not another of your easy conquests, Storm. I’m not gonna let you wink and smirk your way into— whatever this is—”

Johnny sat up fully, scooting to the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees as he watched her. His grin was pure mischief — playful, annoyingly charming, and frustratingly hot. “Into what, exactly?”

She spun, flustered. “You know exactly what—!”

He cut her off, voice soft but teasing, “You mean… into bed?”

Her eyes went wide. “You’re insufferable.”

He just grinned wider. “You love it.”

She opened her mouth — nothing came out. Because damn him, he wasn’t wrong. The game was half the fun. She crossed her arms again, defensive. “I am not falling for this. Not for you. Not tonight. Not ever.”

Johnny pushed to his feet in one smooth motion — slow, deliberate, like a lion circling prey he knew was cornered. He stopped right in front of her, so close she could smell the faint trace of his cologne — warm, clean, a little burnt sugar and gasoline.

“Sure about that?” he asked, voice dropping low, that grin now a crooked dare.

She swallowed — loudly. “Johnny—”

“Say it again.” He stepped closer. His thumb hooked under her chin, tilting her face up just enough to catch her eyes with that impossible, shameless blue stare. “Say you won’t fall for me.”

She opened her mouth — shut it again. Her brain short-circuited when he dipped his head, his lips brushing her cheek, her jaw, barely grazing her ear.

“You’re bluffing, princess,” he murmured, that infuriating warmth ghosting down her neck. “You want to hate me so bad, but you love playing with fire.”

She sucked in a breath. Her hands were supposed to push him away — instead they fisted in his shirt collar. Useless. She hated that he knew it.

“You’re such an ass,” she hissed.

He chuckled against her skin, lips brushing her pulse point. “Takes one to know one.”

“Johnny, don’t—”

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. His grin softened — warm, boyish, teasing. “All you gotta do is say stop.”

She glared at him, lips parted, pulse hammering. “You’re— you’re the worst—”

He kissed her.

It was all teeth and laughter at first — her half-muffled insults melting into the stupid, soft noise she made when his hands slid under her hair to cup the back of her neck. He pulled her closer, coaxing, relentless — heat and mischief and the taste of champagne from downstairs still on his tongue.

She pushed at him — but her fingers curled in his hair instead, pulling him closer. He laughed against her mouth. “Still resisting, huh?”

She gasped when he nipped her lower lip. “Shut up—”

“Make me.”

And she did.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and half-drunk on each other, she glared at him — cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bitten, a wicked spark in her eyes. “This doesn’t mean anything, Storm.”

Johnny’s grin was so bright it was infuriating. He leaned in, pecking her mouth one more time just because he could. “Sure, sweetheart. Whatever you say.”

He kissed her again.

And she let him.

-

The Baxter Building on a Saturday night was unsettlingly quiet. No alarms, no exploding labs, no Reed muttering equations to himself. Just the hum of the city below and the faint whirr of security drones drifting past the windows like lazy fireflies.

Johnny Storm sat hunched at the kitchen island, spinning a half-empty coffee mug between his hands. The overhead light flickered once, buzzing like it was sick of him too. He’d been there so long the coffee had gone cold.

His foot tapped the tile restlessly. He didn’t even know what he was waiting for. Correction: he did. He was waiting for her. To come in, roll her eyes at him, swipe his mug just to annoy him — the stupid little rituals that used to feel like sparks between them.

But she didn’t do that anymore.

She didn’t do anything anymore — not with him. No jokes, no teasing, no soft looks across the training mat when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. Now she just gave him short answers and polite nods. Same girl — different orbit. One that didn’t touch his anymore.

He was so lost in the stale taste of his coffee that he didn’t hear Sue enter until she was leaning against the fridge door, arms folded, one eyebrow arched.

“What are you doing here on a Saturday night?” she asked, voice dripping with fake suspicion. “Should I be worried? You sick? Dying? Finally decided to learn algebra?”

Johnny didn’t even crack a smile. He just stared at her — then down at his mug — then back again. His shoulders dropped with a sigh.

Sue’s teasing edge faded. She came closer, dragging a chair out to sit across from him, concern knitting her brows. “Johnny… talk to me. What’s going on?”

He shrugged — but it was too stiff to pass for casual. “Nothing. Just—” He gestured vaguely at the air. “—stuff.”

Sue snorted softly. “Right. Stuff. The same ‘stuff’ that makes you look like a kicked puppy every time [Y/N] walks by?”

Johnny’s head snapped up, startled. He hated how transparent he was with her — Sue, of all people, always saw straight through him like glass.

“It’s nothing,” he lied.

Sue’s mouth twitched. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Johnny tried — tried — to laugh it off, shoulders tense. “She’s just— she’s acting weird. She barely talks to me, barely even looks at me. I don’t get it. It’s like— one day we’re us, and the next she’s treating me like I’m—”

He cut himself off. His throat worked around the words that felt stupid even to admit.

Sue’s eyes softened with a sister’s quiet pity. “Johnny… I don’t know what happened between you two — and frankly, I probably don’t want the details—”

He grimaced. “Definitely don’t.”

“—but whatever it was, she’s hurting,” Sue said firmly. “And you know why? Because she doesn’t want to get her hopes up. Because she knows you, Johnny. She knows how you work. You find something shiny and fun and you chase it until you’re bored. And she’s terrified that’s all she is to you.”

Johnny’s jaw clenched. “She’s not.”

“I know that,” Sue said. “You know that. But she doesn’t. And can you blame her?”

Silence hung between them — heavy as concrete. Johnny’s foot tapped faster.

He looked up at his sister, frustration flickering with something rawer underneath. “I haven’t— I haven’t even looked at anyone else since I met her. Not once. Not since that first damn day when she walked in and made fun of my hair and told Ben she’d hex my car into another dimension.”

Sue’s lips twitched — fond amusement creeping through her worry. “Johnny Storm, serial heartbreaker, voluntarily celibate for an entire year. Shocking.”

He scowled. “It’s not a joke.”

Sue reached over, squeezing his wrist — gentle, but it felt like an order. “Then stop acting like it’s a joke. Stop being twelve for five seconds. If you really want her — really want her — then tell her. Be honest for once in your damn life.”

Johnny swallowed. His heart hammered so hard he was sure Sue could hear it echoing off the stainless steel appliances.

He pushed back his chair, the legs scraping the tile with a screech. He didn’t even look at her when he muttered, “Wish me luck.”

Sue smiled, small and real. “Don’t need luck, genius. Just tell her the truth.”

Her door was cracked open when he got there. Light spilled out — a soft golden glow and the faint hum of music, something dreamy and sad playing from her phone speaker.

He knocked once — his knuckles brushing the painted wood. “Hey.”

Her head snapped up from where she sat on the edge of her bed, notebook balanced on her knees. She looked startled — and then instantly wary.

“Oh. Johnny.” She flipped the notebook closed, hugging it to her chest like armor. “What do you want?”

He leaned on the doorframe, trying for casual — but his pulse was slamming in his ears. “Can I come in?”

She opened her mouth — probably to say no — but he didn’t wait. He stepped in anyway, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

She glared. “I’m busy.”

He ignored that, walking closer until he was standing right in front of her, shadows and lamplight painting his face in sharp lines. His hands flexed at his sides, fighting the urge to touch her.

“You’re mad at me.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not mad.”

“You are,” he pressed, stubborn and soft all at once. “You’ve been cold for days. You barely look at me.”

She stood up — too close — forcing him to step back or they’d be chest to chest. Her voice dropped low, tight. “Maybe I’m just over it, Johnny. Maybe I don’t want to play your stupid game anymore.”

He laughed — sharp and disbelieving, because it hurt. “Game? You think this is a game?”

Her eyes snapped to his, furious and shining. “Isn’t it? That’s what you do, right? You flirt, you chase, you catch it — and then you drop it when you’re bored. I’m just something shiny you’re not supposed to touch. You’ll get over it.”

The words hit him like a gut punch. He flinched — actually flinched — but then he was moving. Stepping in so close she had to tilt her head back to hold his gaze.

“You think I’m over it?” he growled, voice rough at the edges. “I haven’t even looked at anyone else since the day you walked in here. Not once. Not for one second. And you know what’s worse? I don’t want to.”

She scoffed, though it broke in the middle. “Johnny—”

He cut her off — one hand cupping her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek in a way that made her breath hitch. “I don’t want anyone else. I want you. The real you. The pain-in-my-ass, magic-wielding chaos queen who hexes my hair when I piss her off. I want all of it — all of you. And if you think for a second I’d trade that for something easy—”

He didn’t finish.

Because her eyes were wide, lips parted, the fight draining out of her like a fuse burning down.

“You’re lying,” she whispered, though she didn’t pull away. “You’ll get bored.”

He leaned in, their foreheads brushing. His voice dropped — hoarse and honest. “I’ll never get bored of you. Never.”

She opened her mouth — but no words came out. She didn’t have to speak — because he kissed her before she could finish the thought.

It was hungry and desperate and reckless — the dam breaking all at once. Her hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer like she wanted to drown him in that taste she’d tried so hard to pretend she didn’t crave. He kissed her like he needed it to breathe — groaning softly when she bit his lip just to feel him flinch.

He backed her up until her knees hit the bed. She fell onto it with a gasp — and he followed, not breaking the kiss, pushing her notebook to the floor with a dull thud that neither of them even heard.

When they pulled back, just for a breath, they were both flushed and panting. Her eyes flicked to his lips, then back up — like she still didn’t believe it.

“You’re an idiot,” she whispered.

He grinned, breathless, brushing his nose against hers. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

And then he kissed her again — fiercer, deeper — and this time she didn’t push him away.

[stargrillzz]

A GIRL AND A ZOMBIE

SUMMARY: Not all monsters do monstrosities.

NOTE: Disney girly (cough aslo Milo fineeee cough cough) forever, hands down. Also, Bonzo can talk, I really like him and I want him to participate too :(xoxo

No one really breathed when the zombies walked in. Not really.

It was first period — history class — but everyone’s mind was on the new rumor that had crawled through the halls like wildfire since the moment the gates opened: Zombies are coming to Seabrook High.

Not zombies like in movies — drooling, rotting, brain-hungry corpses — but still. Undead. Green hair. Z-Bands strapped tight to their wrists, blinking a ghostly neon to keep the “monstrosity” inside them tamed. That’s what the news anchors kept calling it anyway: “The Monstrosity.” Like Zed was wearing a ticking bomb on his wrist instead of a bracelet that made him feel less like a nightmare.

You were perched near the front of the classroom, same as always — your hair pulled into your signature high ponytail, a swipe of glitter on your cheek because Kayla said it made you “pop” when you smiled. You were Seabrook’s star — the lead cheerleader, the girl everyone watched, the girl they envied, the girl they wanted to be.

And right now, you were trying to focus on your history notes while Kayla practically vibrated beside you. “Do you think they bite?” she hissed in your ear.

You arched a brow at her, amused. “They’re not vampires, Kay.”

“Same thing! Dead. Creepy. Not normal. You know Principal Lee only let them in because of that stupid integration law. What if they—”

The classroom door swung open. The chatter died so fast it might as well have been sliced clean with a knife.

Zed Necropolis stepped in — tall, lanky but strong, green hair stark against the crisp, perfect white of the Seabrook hallways. His Z-Band blinked steady on his wrist, but his eyes… his eyes were so alive. Bright green, wide, a little scared but trying to look cool about it.

Behind him, Bonzo shuffled in — mumbling something you couldn’t hear, probably about lunch. The teacher, Mr. Keene, clapped his hands together, pretending not to look as stiff as a broom handle. “Class, settle down. We have our new friends joining us today. Please welcome Zed and Bonzo.”

A few kids clapped. Mostly, they just stared. Whispers curled around the room like smoke.

Monsters. Zombies. What if they snap?

Zed’s eyes darted across the room, skipping over the stares, the side-eyes — until they landed on you. He held your gaze for a second. Just a second. And in that tiny second, you offered him something no one else did: a small smile. Soft. Warm.

His stomach flipped so hard he thought maybe this was the monstrosity people feared — the way his heart threatened to beat out of his chest because a pretty human girl had smiled at him.

-

Mr. Keene cleared his throat. “Alright, let’s get started. This morning we’re beginning your first major assignment of the year: a presentation on an issue of global importance. Topics will be assigned, as will your partners. I’ve decided to… mix things up a bit.”

A collective groan. Kayla shot you a desperate look. “If I get stuck with a zombie I’m switching with you. I swear.”

You nudged her playfully with your shoulder. “Relax. Maybe they’re nice.”

Zed swallowed hard behind you. He could feel the prickle of every eye on him — he tugged his sleeves down to hide the Z-Band. Maybe if he looked more normal, they’d forget. Maybe if he stayed quiet—

“Zed Necropolis…” Mr. Keene droned from his list.

Zed flinched.

“…and (Y/N) (L/N).”

The reaction wasn’t quiet. A chorus of gasps, someone outright laughed, a squeal from Kayla — “No way! That’s so unfair!”

You blinked. Then laughed under your breath. You could feel the weight of the entire classroom pressing on your shoulders — every cheerleader, every football boy, every gossip waiting for you to roll your eyes or beg to switch.

Instead, you turned your head, eyes finding Zed’s. He looked like he was bracing for impact, shoulders tense, lips parted.

You smiled. Really smiled — wide, genuine, with that tiny dimple he’d only seen when you cheered at pep rallies. “Looks like it’s you and me, zombie boy.”

A few giggles. A lot of shocked silence. Zed’s throat bobbed as he nodded once, too stunned to speak.

-

When the bell rang, the squeak of chairs and shuffle of sneakers drowned out the last of Mr. Keene’s droning instructions. The entire room felt wired — like they were waiting to see what you’d do.

Kayla grabbed your arm the second you stood. “Hey. You don’t have to do this, you know. I can switch with you. Or you can ask Keene to—”

You just raised an eyebrow. “Why would I do that?”

She gaped. “Because he’s a zombie, (Y/N)! You can’t just… act like it’s normal.”

You tilted your head, lips curving into a small, defiant smile. “Maybe it should be normal.”

You tugged your bag over your shoulder and left Kayla spluttering in your wake. A few students parted as you made your way up the aisle — like you were about to defuse a bomb. You could see Zed trying to stuff his books into his old, fraying backpack. He looked ready to bolt — shoulders hunched, head ducked low, his Z-Band blinking that soft, steady green.

He flinched when you dropped into the empty seat in front of him, spinning it around so you were straddling it backwards, your chin propped on the backrest.

“Hey, zombie boy.”

Zed’s eyes shot up. He looked like he half-expected you to hiss or throw holy water on him. “Um. Hey.”

Your grin softened. “Zed, right?”

He gave a shy nod. “Yeah. And you’re… you’re (Y/N).” His voice dipped lower when he said it, like your name was something he wasn’t supposed to say too loud.

You tilted your head, studying him. His hair was such an impossible shade of green up close — soft, tousled, falling into his eyes. His hands fidgeted with the strap of his bag. You noticed the way his Z-Band glowed gently under his sleeve cuff, and how he seemed to keep pulling the fabric down over it like he was trying to hide it.

You leaned in a little, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “So, I was thinking… library after school?”

Zed blinked. “You… want to work on it? With me?”

You laughed — not mocking, but warm, easy, like you couldn’t believe he’d even have to ask. “Yeah. Kinda the point of a partner project, isn’t it?”

He ducked his head, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch like he wanted to smile but didn’t trust himself yet. “Most people would’ve switched.”

“Well,” you shrugged, twisting your ponytail around your finger, “most people are boring.”

Zed’s eyes darted to yours — really darted, like he was seeing if you were messing with him. When he saw you weren’t, his shoulders dropped a fraction.

“Are you, um…” He hesitated, voice barely above a mumble. “…not scared?”

The question made your heart pinch. He said it so quietly — like he was apologizing for existing.

You leaned forward, so close he could see the tiny shimmer in your eyeliner. “Of you? Not even a little bit.”

Zed swallowed. His mouth parted, closed again, like he was trying to catch up with the way you just looked at him — not like he was about to bite you, but like he was just… a boy.

You tugged your notebook from your bag, scribbled something on a page, then tore it out and pushed it across his desk.

Zed glanced at the paper — your loopy handwriting, the little doodle of a cheer megaphone next to your name and phone number. “This is your… number?”

“Just in case you wanna brainstorm before the library. Or if you get lost. Or if you want me to scare off any of the stuck-up kids who give you a hard time.”

He barked out a short, surprised laugh — warm and real. It made your stomach flutter for some reason you didn’t bother to question yet.

After a beat, you leaned back and swung your leg off the chair. “See you after the last bell, zombie boy. Don’t ghost me.”

He huffed out a laugh at that — you caught the tiny sparkle in his eyes before you turned away.

As you walked off, you felt half the room’s eyes on you — some shocked, some scandalized, a few furious that you, the golden girl of Seabrook High, had just giggled and touched the new zombie boy’s wrist like it was nothing. Like he was human.

When you glanced back over your shoulder, Zed was still frozen in his seat, staring at the piece of paper in his hand like it was a secret map to a life he hadn’t dared dream about yet.

And maybe, just maybe — it was

-

You tapped your notebook. “Okay. So, big presentation on discrimination and fear of the unknown. We could do the usual — PowerPoint, boring charts, everyone claps, we get an A. Or…”

Zed squinted, suspicious but amused. “Or?”

You leaned forward, voice dropping like you were about to share a top-secret plan. “Or we do something that actually matters.”

He blinked, fighting a shy smile. “Such as?”

You tapped your pen against your cocoa mug. “A fair.”

He snorted softly — so soft it was almost lost under the record player’s gentle crackle. “A fair?”

“Yeah!” you said, more excited now, words tumbling out faster. “A school fair. Games, booths, food. But everything is for humans and zombies together — no separation. Three-legged races with mixed pairs. A dunk tank where people dunk you and you dunk them back — equal dunking.”

Zed choked on a laugh. “A dunk tank?”

“Or whatever! The point is, it’s not ‘humans vs zombies.’ It’s Seabrook — one big messed-up, glittery, undead family. People only stay scared when they’re apart. If they actually do things with you guys — share food, laugh, play dumb games — they’ll see there’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re not monsters.”

Zed’s smile faded a fraction. He traced a finger around the rim of his mug, voice softer now. “I don’t know.”

You blinked, leaning back a little. “What do you mean?”

He looked at you then — really looked, like he wanted you to understand something he didn’t have words for yet. “No one wants this, okay? I mean — you do. Addison, maybe. But the rest of them? They’ll just… laugh. Or worse. Nobody’s gonna show up to a ‘hug-a-zombie’ party.”

You felt your chest tighten. You’d known Zed was used to this — to people crossing the street, staring, stepping back. But hearing him say it so plainly still stung.

You leaned across the tiny table, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in your eyes under the fairy lights. “Zed Necropolis. If everyone’s too scared to try because they think it won’t work, nothing ever changes. Ever. That’s how monsters win — the real monsters. The ones inside people’s heads.”

His mouth tugged at the corner — part sad, part amazed by you. “And what if it flops? What if it’s just you, me, and Bonzo tossing bean bags at each other in an empty parking lot?”

You let out a soft laugh — and then, without thinking too hard about it, you reached across the table and curled your hand over his. Warm. Firm. You felt him stiffen at first — like maybe no one had touched him like that in a long time, open and unafraid.

“Then we’ll toss bean bags in an empty parking lot,” you said simply, squeezing his hand. “And next time, maybe three more people join us. And then ten. And then fifty. And someday, someone else won’t be so scared to sit next to the new zombie in class, because they’ll remember that day at the fair. And it all starts because we were brave enough to look dumb first.”

Zed’s throat bobbed. His eyes flicked to your hand on his — your perfectly manicured fingers tangled with his bigger, colder ones. He wondered if you felt how different his skin was — how it didn’t warm the way human skin did. But if you did, you didn’t flinch. You didn’t let go.

“You’re kinda… amazing,” he murmured.

You raised an eyebrow playfully. “Kinda? Rude.”

He laughed — really laughed, and you felt it buzz through his fingertips under yours.

A voice from behind the counter broke the soft bubble. “Hey, kids — keep it down back there!”

You jumped slightly, giggling as you pulled your hand back — but not far. You gave his fingers one last squeeze before you let go.

“So. You in?” you asked. “Will you do it with me?”

Zed stared at you — the human girl who was supposed to fear him, hate him, keep him at arm’s length — and felt that strange warmth blooming again in the empty space inside his chest where his heart didn’t beat the same way anymore.

He nodded, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. I’m in.”

You grinned so wide you thought your cheeks might crack. “Good. Because you’re designing the dunk tank.”

He barked out another laugh, shaking his head. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.” You winked, stealing the joke before he could.

Outside the bookstore window, Seabrook glowed under the soft dusk — tidy streets, perfect lawns, the same old walls people built to keep them out. But inside, in that tiny warm corner with the smell of old pages and cocoa in the air, a cheerleader and a zombie sat side by side, plotting something that felt like it could crack the walls wide open.

-

When the day of the fair finally arrived, Seabrook High’s football field looked like something out of one of those shiny “Welcome to Seabrook!” tourism brochures — pastel banners snapping in the breeze, neat rows of game booths lining the track, tables stacked with rainbow cupcakes and paper cups of fizzy pink punch.

You stood at the edge of it all, arms crossed tight over your Seabrook High cheer jacket, ponytail bobbing as you scanned the bustling field with a mix of fierce pride and electric nerves.

It worked. Well — half-worked.

Kids had shown up. Families too. Parents lingered by the snack tables, whispering behind polite smiles. The dunk tank Zed had helped build — with Bonzo’s chaotic but enthusiastic input — stood near the center, already splashed and muddy from the football guys dunking each other for laughs.

And everywhere you looked, neon-green Z-Bands glowed faintly on wrists and forearms, blinking steady reminders that the monsters were only monsters if Seabrook made them so.

But there was still a line — invisible but real. Zombies grouped near Bonzo’s face-painting booth or the zombie bake sale (brain cupcakes purely for the pun). Humans huddled by the ring toss, the snack tables, the prize wheel. People mingled near each other — but not really with each other.

You blew out a slow breath, eyes scanning for the one face you needed to see this all through.

And there he was.

Zed stood by the dunk tank, arms crossed, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a streak of wet across his cheek where someone had splashed him on his shift in the seat. He looked alive — the way he laughed at something Bonzo said, the way he tossed a wet towel at Wyatt, who pretended to faint dramatically.

When he spotted you, his smile tugged wider — and he cut through the clusters of humans and zombies without hesitation, like your orbit was the only gravity that mattered.

“Hey, zombie boy,” you teased when he stopped in front of you, shoving his hands into his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them.

He ducked his head, fighting a grin. “Hey. We’re not dead yet, huh?”

“Speak for yourself,” you shot back, flicking your ponytail over your shoulder. “I’m about two cake pops away from a sugar coma.”

Zed’s eyes flicked around — taking in the swirl of humans and zombies coexisting in cautious bubbles of fun. “This is… better than I thought it’d be.”

You raised an eyebrow, nudging his side with your elbow. “You doubted me?”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Never.” His voice dropped a little. “I just… didn’t think people would show up. Or stay.”

Your smile gentled. “They’re here, aren’t they?”

He shrugged one shoulder, eyes drifting over the human-only huddle by the snack tables. “They’re here. Just… not really with us.”

You opened your mouth to answer, but a shriek of laughter from the dunk tank cut you off — a blur of water, a cheerleader squealing as she plopped into the tank with a dramatic splash. You grinned, rolling your eyes. “Okay, maybe they’re not hugging it out yet — but they’re here. That’s something. A start.”

Zed’s gaze dropped to you — really dropped, like he was memorizing the freckles on your nose, the pink gloss on your lips that caught the spring sun every time you smiled.

“You did this, you know,” he said softly. “You made them come.”

You shrugged, cheeks warming. “Well… you helped.”

He snorted under his breath. “I made a dunk tank.”

“A great dunk tank.” You nudged him again, shoulder to chest this time. He didn’t flinch like he used to — didn’t stiffen like he was bracing to be shoved away. He just smiled, soft and crooked, eyes crinkling at the corners.

You didn’t hear the scuffle at first — too busy explaining to Bonzo that no, you didn’t think brain-shaped caramel corn would convince the football team to mingle.

Then the voices spiked — sharp, ugly, carrying over the laughter and music.

“Hey — back off!” “You can’t come back here!” “Get away from her —”

You twisted so fast you nearly knocked over the popcorn tub. Your heart dropped straight through your stomach.

Near the dunk tank, a cluster had formed — humans pulling back, gasping, a few fumbling for their phones like they’d been waiting for this exact headline.

And in the center of it — a kid, maybe freshman age, no older than your baby cousin. Green hair slicked back, eyes wide, Z-Band blinking red. He was shaking — whole body quivering with something you recognized instantly. Fear. Panic.

He’d been cornered by a couple of older Seabrook kids — football boys with more biceps than sense — who’d probably taunted him for laughs until the control band glitched. Now the boy’s eyes were wild, teeth clenched, fingers curled like claws he didn’t know how to uncurl.

And standing barely two feet from him — you. Frozen. Hands half-raised, your brain racing through options but your feet refusing to move.

It happened too fast for your thoughts to catch up. The boy lunged — a desperate, mindless motion, all instinct and terror. You felt the air shift — felt your lungs seize.

And then a blur of green and black was in front of you.

Zed.

He slammed into the kid mid-lunge, arms wrapping him tight, pivoting his own body to shield yours as they crashed into the grass. You stumbled back, winded, falling onto your hands.

Gasps erupted — shocked, brittle, sharp.

“Did you see that?!” “He tackled him—” “Is she okay?—”

Zed pinned the kid gently, murmuring something low — words you couldn’t hear but soft enough that the boy stilled under his grip. The Z-Band flickered back to green, blinking steady and harmless.

Zed pulled back slowly, helping the boy sit up, brushing dirt from his hair with a tenderness that didn’t match the snarling rumors you knew would explode the second people found their voices.

And then his eyes snapped to you.

You were still on the grass, palms scraped, heartbeat pounding against your ribs so hard it felt like it might crack them open.

Zed pushed up — one knee, then standing, moving to you like the rest of the world had gone blurry. He knelt down in front of you, hands hovering but not touching yet, like he didn’t know if he was allowed.

“Are you okay?” His voice was hoarse — rough with adrenaline and something rawer. Fear. For you.

You laughed — half-hysterical, half-sobbing. “You… you tackled a zombie for me.”

Zed huffed a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Technically I tackled with a zombie. You just got in the way.”

You smacked his chest with the back of your hand — so soft it was barely a tap. Then you curled your fingers in the fabric of his jacket and tugged him closer.

“You saved me,” you whispered.

His breath caught. He searched your eyes — the tiny cuts on your palms, the wild thud of your pulse under your skin. His hands finally landed on yours, brushing your scraped knuckles like they were something precious.

“I’d do it again,” he said quietly. “A thousand times.”

You were still trembling, but your laugh broke through — warm and watery and real. You pressed your forehead to his for half a heartbeat — the edge of your nose brushing his cold one.

When you pulled back, you saw the circle of people — humans, zombies, football boys, cheerleaders — staring. Some horrified. Some stunned. Some… curious.

You lifted your chin, fingers still tangled in Zed’s jacket like you were daring anyone to try and pull him away.

“Not all monsters make monstrosities,” you said, loud enough for anyone to hear. “Some monsters save lives.”

Zed’s eyes shimmered — bright green, wide, so alive it made your ribs ache. He squeezed your hand like a promise.

And somewhere in that silent, electric hush, the line between human and zombie cracked. Maybe not wide open — not yet. But enough for something new to slip through. Something alive.

Something worth saving.

-

It had been four days since the fair, and Seabrook High was still buzzing like a kicked beehive. People whispered about it in the hallways, at their lockers, over the squeak of sneakers in the gym. The fair — the zombie boy — the cheer captain sitting on the grass with scraped palms and the undead hero who’d saved her.

Some kids called you stupid. Some called you brave. Some — the ones who saw how Zed looked at you when he thought no one was watching — called you something else entirely.

You tried not to care. Mostly you succeeded.

But the cafeteria? That was a different beast. The cafeteria had always been Seabrook’s neat little microcosm of “us” and “them” — jocks here, cheerleaders there, brains here, the unlucky new kids hovering like lost satellites. Now it had a new line: zombies.

Zed sat near the far end by the windows, shoulder to shoulder with Bonzo, Eliza, and a couple other zombie kids who’d started braving human lunch instead of the grim, metal-walled Zombie Caf. They clustered together like a little island of bright green hair, mismatched jackets, and low, cautious laughter.

You sat at your usual table: center of the room, prime real estate for rumor control and status maintenance. Your friends clustered close — Kayla, Addison, a couple other girls picking at kale salads like they were too pretty for actual food.

You could feel Zed before you saw him — his gaze a warm buzz between your shoulder blades. When you finally looked over, he was already looking at you. He lifted his hand — that big, careful wave like he still wasn’t sure if he was allowed to take up that much space.

You grinned instantly — all teeth and sunshine — and lifted your hand back. For a second, you just held your palm up like a secret signal across enemy lines.

Then you pushed your tray back and started to stand. “I’ll be right back.”

Kayla’s fork clattered to her tray. “Where are you going?”

You shot her a look like it should’ve been obvious. “To say hi.”

She stared at you like you’d just announced you were moving to the moon. “To him?”

“Yes, to him.” You hooked a thumb over your shoulder, as if there was another six-foot-tall green-haired zombie in the room waving shyly from the window side.

Kayla’s eyes widened, her voice pitching up. “What are you doing?! One of them attacked you! Are you insane?”

The entire table fell dead silent. Across the room, the zombie table quieted too — the word attacked hanging in the air like a wasp waiting to sting. Zed’s smile dropped. Bonzo’s eyes darted to the floor.

Your jaw clenched. You planted your hands on the table, leaning in so Kayla couldn’t miss the fire in your eyes. “And one of them saved me.”

Your voice wasn’t loud — but it didn’t need to be. The word saved carried in the hush that followed, slicing clean through every whispered monster still clinging to the walls.

You straightened your jacket, chin lifting a fraction. “Just like humans, Kay. Some good, some bad. The difference is, the one who attacked me didn’t do it by choice. And the one who saved me? Did.”

You didn’t wait for her to find a comeback. You grabbed your tray — untouched salad, half a juice box — and crossed the cafeteria with every pair of eyes tracking your ponytail.

When you reached Zed’s table, you didn’t hover or glance around for permission. You just dropped your tray next to his, swung your bag off your shoulder, and slid onto the bench so close your knees brushed his under the table.

Zed’s mouth opened, then closed again. His hand hovered awkwardly like he didn’t know whether to touch your wrist, fist bump you, or just clap like you’d won something.

You leaned your shoulder into his, voice low enough for just him. “Sorry I’m late. Did I miss the good gossip?”

Bonzo hooted a laugh, shoving an entire brain cupcake in his mouth. Eliza smirked over her phone, thumbs tapping out what you knew would be a savage tweet before the lunch bell rang.

Zed blinked at you, that dopey grin creeping back in like the sun sliding through a crack in the clouds. “You really didn’t have to—”

“Had to,” you cut in, stabbing your fork into a piece of limp lettuce. “This side of the caf has better lighting anyway.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “You’re, uh… you’re something else.”

You arched a brow, bumping his knee under the table. “That a compliment or an insult?”

Zed smirked — a real smirk, sly and boyish in a way that made your stomach do a dumb flip. “Definitely a compliment.”

You fought a grin. “Good answer.”

You both fell quiet for a moment — but it wasn’t awkward. Not this time. Around you, the other zombies snuck peeks at you like you were a glitch in the Seabrook Matrix — the cheer queen perched between neon Z-Bands, giggling into her juice box like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“You know,” Zed said, tapping your tray with his knuckles, “you didn’t have to fight your friends for me.”

You looked up at him through your lashes — his hair still a little damp from PE, his fingers drumming restlessly on the table because he couldn’t quite figure out what to do with all the new feelings crowding his chest.

“Zed.” You tipped your chin up. “You saved me. I’m allowed to save you back.”

His eyes softened — that warm, melt-right-through-you green. For a second, you wondered if he could feel your heartbeat rattling around your ribs like a caged bird.

Then he leaned in, voice just for you. “You keep doing that, you know. Making me think this place isn’t so bad.”

Your grin curled slow, a little sly. “Guess you’re stuck with me then.”

Bonzo slammed his tray down between you with a loud clatter, spraying a few stray cupcake crumbs. “Hey, Zed! You done flirting yet? She’s gotta try the brain corn!”

Zed startled — but the laugh that bubbled out of him was warm, unbothered, alive. He nudged you with his shoulder, eyes dancing. “You heard the man. Stay for dessert?”

You rolled your eyes dramatically — but your knee pressed into his under the table, and you didn’t pull it away. “Fine. But only because the company’s better over here.”

Zed beamed. He beamed — the hero, the monster, the boy who wasn’t either but all heart and shaky hope anyway.

And if you’d asked him later — years later, maybe — when he knew, really knew, that he’d fallen all the way in love with the prettiest, bravest girl in Seabrook? He’d tell you it was that moment. When you sat down beside him — and stayed.

-

You tried to focus. Really, you did. But every time you leaned over to scribble a note, your shoulder brushed his. Every time you giggled at something dumb he said, he stared at you a heartbeat too long. It was soft. Warm. Easy. Until it wasn’t.

At some point, you ended up shoulder to shoulder — your legs tucked under you, Zed cross-legged with his notes balanced on his knee. He said something about the presentation — about monsters being misunderstood — and the way he looked at you made your chest flip inside out.

“Zed?” you asked, voice too quiet, too gentle.

“Yeah?” His eyes flicked to your mouth and back like he didn’t mean to.

You tilted your head. “Why do you always do that?”

His brow furrowed. “Do what?”

“Look at me like I’m gonna vanish if you blink.”

He flinched like you’d read his mind — which, in a way, you had. He set his notebook aside, hands fidgeting in his lap like he couldn’t keep them still if he tried.

“I— I dunno. I just…” He trailed off. The room felt smaller, suddenly — like the walls were leaning in, like the posters on his door were leaning closer to hear.

“Zed,” you pressed, softer now. “Tell me.”

His throat bobbed. His hands twisted together, knuckles pale where the Z-Band blinked steady green. He looked at you like he was bracing for a door to slam shut.

“I know you could do better,” he mumbled, so low you had to lean in to catch it. “You could have anyone you wanted. Some perfect human guy. One who doesn’t wear this stupid band just so he doesn’t lose his mind and bite someone.”

“Zed—”

He cut you off, eyes flicking up, raw and wide. “But I— I like you. A lot. More than I’m supposed to, probably. And you’re… you’re you. And I’m just—”

You didn’t let him finish. You were done letting him talk himself down. Your palm slid up his jaw, fingers brushing the soft edge of his hairline, the little scar near his ear you’d never noticed before.

“Zed Necropolis,” you said, steady, sure. “Shut up.”

His breath caught. “What—?”

“Shut up. I like you too.”

For half a second, neither of you moved. The only sound was your heartbeat thumping in your ears and the faint hum of the old ceiling fan.

Then Zed’s mouth twitched — a broken, disbelieving smile cracking his stunned stare. “You do?”

You laughed — breathless, giddy — and tugged him forward by the collar of his hoodie. “Yeah, dummy. Now come here before I die of suspense.”

And then you were kissing him — soft at first, sweet, like you were testing a theory you’d both been writing in the margins for weeks. He tasted like mint gum and the faintest trace of chocolate from the cookies you’d stolen from the kitchen earlier. His hands hovered at your waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed — then settled there anyway, thumbs pressing into your sides like he was afraid you’d slip right through his fingers.

When you pulled back for air, you were both grinning like idiots — foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in like it was the first real breath of the day.

“I can’t believe you—” he started.

You kissed him again before he could finish, giggling against his mouth. “Told you to shut up.”

The door slammed open. You flinched apart so fast you nearly knocked your head on his wall. Zed’s dad stood in the doorway, grocery bag tucked under one arm, eyebrows climbing so high they nearly vanished into his hairline.

“…Hey, Dad,” Zed said, voice squeaking just a little.

His dad looked at you — your flushed cheeks, your hand still suspiciously close to Zed’s hoodie strings — then back at Zed, deadpan. “So. Will your girlfriend be staying for dinner, or should I order more takeout for one?”

Your mouth dropped open. Zed squeaked again.

“Dad!”

Before either of you could sputter out a reply, a smaller voice shrieked from the hallway: “ZED HAS A GIRLFRIEND!!”

Zed’s little sister appeared behind their dad, all pigtails and gap-toothed grin, bouncing on her toes like she’d just won the lottery. “Moooooom! ZED HAS A GIRLFRIEND!”

Zed groaned into his hands. You just dissolved into giggles, burying your face in his shoulder as his dad sighed and ruffled his hair.

“Well, I guess that’s settled then,” his dad said dryly, turning back down the hall. “She’s staying for dinner.”

And as Zed’s little sister bolted down the stairs shouting “ZED HAS A GIRLFRIEND!” to every single picture frame on the wall, you peeked up at him — flushed, flustered, yours.

You pressed your lips to his ear, voice soft and smug. “Guess I am now, huh?”

Zed’s answering grin was so big it hurt your cheeks just looking at it.

“Yeah,” he breathed, leaning in to steal one more quick kiss before the next interruption. “Guess you are" he kissed you like he will never let u go.

[stargrillzz]

YOU BELONG WITH ME

SUMMARY: Rafe is a fool who does not realize what he has in front of his eyes.

NOTE: These are scenes that I wrote based on parts of the song You Belong With Me. Luv u Tay Tay <3.xoxo

You're on the phone with your girlfriend, she's upset

She's going off about something that you said '

Cause she doesn't get your humor like I do

Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose. “Babe, it was just a joke, okay? I didn’t mean it like—”

You caught her voice through the speaker, loud and sharp. Something about how he always “makes fun of her friends” and how he “needs to grow up.”

Rafe groaned. “It was a joke. I said your friend looks like she still writes ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ in her diary. That’s not even mean, that’s just facts.”

You clamped a hand over your mouth to stop the laugh that almost escaped.

He added, “She posted a TikTok about crystals and screamed when she saw a moth. I was being generous.”

Her voice grew even louder, and Rafe finally pulled the phone away and ended the call with a muttered, “Cool. Great. Bye.”

He stared at the phone in his hand like it might explode.

Then he turned to you, eyes still wide with disbelief.

“Please tell me you understood that was a joke.”

You tried. You really tried to hold it in. But the moment you met his face — the total ‘what the hell just happened’ panic in his expression — you cracked.

You burst out laughing, folding forward and shaking your head.

“Rafe, you did not say that about her friend—”

“She had a rock named Jasper in her purse.”

You fell back in the sand with a wheeze. “She named her crystal?”

“She said it ‘helps her find her aura’ and then tripped over a seagull. I couldn’t make this up.”

You were gasping from laughing so hard. Rafe, watching you, finally let out a laugh of his own — real and unfiltered — and flopped down beside you, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it either.

And you've got a smile that can light up this whole town I haven't seen it in a while

since she brought you down You say you're fine, I know you better than that Hey,

what you doing with a girl like that?

The golden light of the setting sun filtered through the blinds, casting soft lines across the room. It was quiet — the kind of quiet that settles in when two people are in the same space but living in two completely different headspaces. The only sound was the faint scratching of your pencil on paper and the occasional shuffle of pages as you tried to focus on your homework.

Tried.

You sat cross-legged at Rafe’s desk, your notebooks spread out in front of you, biting gently on the end of your eraser as you read over the math problem again.

“Hey,” you said, voice soft but expectant, “how’d you solve number seven again? The one with the—”

You stopped mid-sentence, glancing up.

He hadn’t responded.

Rafe was lying on his bed, one arm folded under his head, the other resting limply on his stomach. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, jaw tight, lips slightly parted — like he’d been holding his breath for the past ten minutes without even realizing.

You turned in your chair slowly. “Rafe?”

Nothing.

You tilted your head. “Earth to rich boy. Come in, rich boy.”

Still no reaction. You set your pencil down and stood up, moving toward the bed quietly, when you reached his side, you nudged his knee with yours. “Okay, what’s wrong?”

He blinked out of whatever haze he was in and finally looked at you. His voice was tired. “It’s nothing.”

You frowned. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s just… another fight.”

You didn’t have to ask who with.

You sat down beside him on the edge of the bed, resting your hands in your lap. “What was it this time?”

“She said I don’t make time for her,” he muttered. “That I’m emotionally unavailable. That I ‘don’t care enough to communicate like an adult.’” He did air quotes with a bitter twist to his mouth.

You stayed quiet for a beat. Let the words hang there.

Then, quietly: “Is any of that true?”

He looked at you sharply, like you’d accused him of something awful. “What? No. I mean—I try. I call, I check in, I show up, even when I don’t want to. Even when I’m tired. But she always finds a reason to be pissed.”

You nodded slowly, chewing the inside of your cheek.

“Rafe,” you said gently, “can I be honest?”

He let out a dry laugh. “Since when do you ask?”

“Shut up, I’m being serious.”

He glanced at you, finally — and in that glance, you saw it. The heaviness in his eyes. The weariness in the set of his shoulders. You’d seen that look more and more lately. It had become his default.

So you took a breath, and said what had been building for weeks.

“You’ve got this smile,” you said softly. “One of those rare ones. You know — that dumb, cocky grin you do when something actually makes you happy? Like really happy?”

He raised a brow, but didn’t interrupt.

“And I haven’t seen it in weeks,” you continued. “Maybe longer. Ever since you started dating her… it’s like it disappeared. You’re always tense, always distracted. Always dealing with some problem. I’m not saying it’s all her fault, but…” you trailed off, eyes dropping to your hands.

“…You’re not you when you’re with her.”

That silenced the room.

Rafe blinked slowly, looking back up at the ceiling like it held answers. “I didn’t think it showed.”

You gave a humorless smile. “I know you better than that.”

A few seconds passed.

And then, quietly, you added, “What are you doing with a girl like that?”

The question sat heavy in the air.

You didn’t say it to be cruel. You weren’t trying to manipulate or twist his emotions. It wasn’t jealousy — or at least, not just that. It was honesty. Raw, aching honesty from someone who saw him. Who wanted him to be happy, even if it wasn’t with you.

But Rafe didn’t answer.

Instead, he slowly sat up, elbows resting on his knees, rubbing his hands together like he was trying to make sense of something bigger than himself. You waited.

“I guess I thought… maybe she could fix me,” he muttered. “Make me better. Make me less—whatever the hell I’ve been.”

You softened. “Rafe, you don’t need someone to fix you.”

He looked up.

You smiled — not in pity, but something quieter. “You need someone who reminds you who you are. Someone who lets you laugh. Who brings you back to yourself.”

His gaze lingered on you.

And this time, he really looked.

Not just at your face, but at your presence. Your warmth. Your quiet patience. The way you always stayed, even when you didn’t have to. Even when he was at his worst.

And then, for the first time in what felt like forever… he smiled.

Just barely. Just a flicker.

But it was there.

And it lit up the whole damn room.

Oh, I remember you driving to my house in the middle of the night I'm

the one who makes you laugh when you know you're 'bout to cry

The house was quiet. Too quiet, actually.

You lay on your bed, phone in hand, eyes lazily scrolling through posts you weren’t really reading. The windows were cracked open, letting in the warm, humid summer air and the distant hum of crickets.

And then, you heard it.

That familiar, low growl of a truck engine cutting through the silence. Not just any truck — his truck. Rafe’s black pickup had a sound you could pick out of a lineup in your sleep. You froze, heart stuttering slightly as you pushed yourself off the bed and rushed to the window.

The headlights cut through the darkness as the truck turned the corner into your street, slowing near your driveway.

Midnight. You looked at the clock. What the hell is he doing here at midnight?

Without thinking, you grabbed your hoodie from the chair, threw it over your pajama top, and slipped on a pair of slides. You didn’t even question it — it was instinct. Because if Rafe showed up at this hour, something was wrong.

By the time you made it out to the porch, the truck was rolling to a stop in front of your house. The engine idled for a second before shutting off. Silence again. You stepped down one step, squinting toward the driver’s side door.

And then he got out.

And you froze.

Rafe didn’t look like himself. His normally sure, cocky stride was replaced with something tight — something tense and unraveling. His hair was messy, like he’d been running his hands through it too many times. His shoulders hunched. His eyes were glassy, red-rimmed. He didn’t say a word.

“Rafe…?” you started, voice low, confused.

But he didn’t answer.

He just walked — fast, like something in him might break if he didn’t get to you quickly enough — and then suddenly, his arms were around your waist, strong and desperate, burying his face into the curve of your neck.

And you didn’t ask.

You didn’t say a single word.

You just hugged him back. Both arms around his neck. Holding him like he was falling apart. Because he was.

He didn’t want to let go.

You could feel it in the way his arms trembled just slightly, how tightly his hands gripped the back of your hoodie, like if he loosened them, the weight of whatever happened would crush him.

Minutes passed like that. Quiet, still. You rubbed slow, calming circles on his back until finally, you whispered, “Come inside, okay?”

The living room lights were dim, casting warm shadows across the walls as the two of you collapsed onto the couch. You sat close, legs touching, the sound of the air conditioner humming softly in the background.

Rafe leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He hadn’t said much since he got there, but now, the silence was heavier. Cracked.

He let out a shaky breath.

“I saw the texts,” he said, voice low and raw. “Between her and some guy she met at that bar last week. She said she was with her cousin that night.”

You didn’t interrupt.

“She told him she missed him,” he added. “Said being with me was ‘draining.’ That I’m… exhausting.”

You swallowed hard. Your chest ached at how small he sounded.

“I just—” He sat back suddenly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I knew something was off. I’ve known for weeks, but I kept telling myself I was overthinking it. And then… boom. There it is. She just proved it.”

He shook his head.

“You ever feel like you’re too much for everyone?” he asked. “Like no matter what you do, you’re the problem?”

You leaned your head on the back of the couch, looking at him sideways. “Rafe… no. You’re not too much. You’re just… too real for the wrong people.”

He gave a hollow chuckle, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

You watched him for a moment. Then, with a soft grin, you said, “Okay. But, like, silver lining? At least she’s free to go back to her crystal soulmate now.”

Rafe blinked. “What?”

“You know. Jasper. The emotionally supportive geode.”

He stared at you.

Then let out a real laugh. Loud. Guttural. The kind that made his shoulders shake and his eyes squeeze shut.

“Stop,” he wheezed, wiping his face. “God, why are you like this?”

You shrugged with a smirk. “I’m your best friend. I’m contractually obligated to be hilarious in moments of deep emotional trauma.”

He turned toward you, his eyes still glassy but clearer now. Lighter.

“You’re great,” he murmured, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

You tilted your head. “I know.”

That earned another laugh from him. This time softer. Warmer. He looked at you for a second longer than usual.

And even though his heart was breaking, there was comfort in the way he let himself lean toward you, just a little.

Like maybe he was starting to remember what it felt like to breathe around someone again.

Can't you see that I'm the one who understands you? Been here all

along, so why can't you see? You belong with me

The sun was soft and golden by the time you reached the café, spilling through the windows and making the glass cups behind the counter shimmer. It was one of your favorite spots in town — not too loud, not too crowded, with just enough personality in the mismatched chairs and chalkboard menu to feel like a little hideaway. You had texted Rafe an hour ago to meet you here. You’d even been kind and added: “don’t be a diva. show up on time.”

So of course he was late.

You were mid-sip of your iced latte, spinning the straw lazily between your fingers when the bell above the door rang — and Rafe appeared, slightly breathless, baseball cap low on his head and a wild apology already forming on his lips.

“I know, I know I’m late, I swear I didn’t mean to be, there was traffic on the bridge, and then I couldn’t find parking and this guy was being a total—”

“Rafe,” you interrupted, smiling as you stood from your seat. “It’s okay. Okay? I believe you.”

He stopped mid-sentence. Blinked.

Then exhaled hard and broke into a sheepish laugh, raking a hand through his hair. “God. Sorry. It’s just a habit at this point.”

You raised a brow, still amused. “A habit?”

“Yeah, well,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, “I used to have to list off my excuses like a damn grocery receipt. Just to avoid a two-hour argument.”

You smiled, gently bumping his shoulder as he dropped into the seat across from you. “Well, lucky for you, I’m not your emotionally repressed girlfriend with a superiority complex.”

“That’s… weirdly specific,” he said, but he laughed again — light, real.

“Anyway,” you said, picking up your drink again, “just don’t do it again or I’ll have to cheat on you.”

Rafe blinked, ahen dramatically put a hand over his heart. “Wow.”

You grinned over your straw. “Hey, the warning was clear.”

“That was cold.” He held up his hands. “The wound is still fresh.”

“Then stop crying about it and order something,” you said, teasing. “It’s on me.”

He blinked again. “Seriously?”

You shrugged. “Yeah. You’ve been sad lately. Plus, I’m trying to gain moral superiority by paying for your caffeine addiction.”

“You’re a saint,” he said, already flagging down the barista with a grateful smirk. “I want one of those stupid caramel drinks. The ones that taste like sugar and regret.”

“Classy.”

He turned back to you with a smile, one that lingered a second too long, and said softly, “Thanks. For this.”

You just rolled your eyes with a smile, tapping his shoe gently with yours under the table. “Don’t thank me for being the one person who’s always been here.”

He tilted his head, playful but thoughtful. “You really have, huh?”

“I mean…” You looked down at your cup, swirling the ice. “I’ve been around. I’ve seen you at your best. And your worst. And your weird middle school bowl cut phase.”

“Okay, rude.” He laughed again, full-bellied and without restraint.

But then he quieted a little. Looked at you with this softness in his eyes — not like a friend about to tease you back, but like a boy finally starting to see something he’d missed all this time.

You offered him a half-smile, casual and easy, like your heart wasn’t actually pounding.

“Can’t you see it?” you asked, voice light but layered. “I’m the one who understands you.” you didn’t meant it like that, but Rafe took it like a face palm, because that was the most real truth he’s heard in a while.

Rafe stared at you for a long second. Something flickered behind his expression — something like realization. Or maybe recognition. Or maybe just the kind of stillness that comes when everything inside you suddenly shifts into place.

But before he could speak, the barista called his name, breaking the moment.

Rafe stood up slowly, almost reluctant. “Be right back.” because it wasn’t just about a coffee.

It wasn’t even about his ex.

It was about how, no matter how long you’d been by his side — through every high, every crash, every shattered version of himself — he still hadn’t seen what had always been right in front of him.

You.

But maybe now… he was starting to.

------

The storm had passed.

Not the weather — that had happened earlier in the afternoon. A short, wild burst of rain that came and went in thirty minutes, typical of the Outer Banks. But Rafe’s storm — the chaos, the anger, the confusion that had been brewing inside him for months — that had passed too. Quietly. Almost without him realizing.

You were both back at your house that night, sitting in the familiar glow of your living room, with your feet tucked under a shared blanket and a movie playing half-heartedly in the background. Neither of you were watching it.

You were leaned against the armrest, a bowl of popcorn in your lap, wearing one of Rafe’s old hoodies like you didn’t even realize it wasn’t yours. And maybe you didn’t. Maybe that was just what happened after years of being his person. You just absorbed into each other’s lives without asking for permission.

And Rafe… he couldn’t stop looking at you.

You caught him at one point, mid-bite of popcorn, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“What,” you said, around a mouthful. “Do I have butter on my face?”

“No,” he said quickly. Too quickly. Then added, “You’re just… comfortable like this.”

You shrugged, unconcerned. “We’ve been friends for years. Comfort’s kind of the brand.”

He nodded, but didn’t say anything.

His gaze drifted down to your legs stretched across his lap. To the way your fingers absentmindedly sorted through the popcorn, like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

He wasn’t thinking about her anymore. Not about the girl who broke his trust. Not about the long arguments or the missed calls or the slow eroding of who he was when he was with her.

He was thinking about you.

About the way you’d stood outside that night in the dark, hugging him without asking questions. About the way you joked with him until he laughed through the heartbreak. About your dumb jokes, and your quiet loyalty, and how you never expected anything from him except for him to just be himself.

He was thinking about the way your laugh cracked through his darkest moods. The way you never looked at him like he was broken. The way you knew him.

And suddenly, he couldn’t sit still.

He paused the movie.

You glanced up. “You okay?”

“I need to say something.”

You sat straighter, worried now. “Uh oh. You’re not dying, right? Because if you are, I’m not helping you fake your will again.”

“I’m serious.”

You set the bowl down. “Okay. Shoot.”

He stared at you, his jaw tightening for a second like he was still trying to work out the words.

And then, slowly, he said, “You’ve always been there.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You,” he repeated, voice quieter this time. “Every time I’ve crashed… you’ve been there. Every time I was at my worst. Every stupid mistake. Every fight. Every—everything. You’ve always been there.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“And I didn’t get it,” he said, his tone sharpening slightly, like he was mad at himself. “I had you right in front of me this whole time, and I was too blind or stupid or stuck in my own head to see it.”

“Rafe—”

“I mean it,” he said, shifting closer. “You know me better than anyone. You get me. You see the parts no one else wants to deal with, and you never run. And I’ve been sitting here for years, thinking I had to be someone different to be loved, to be wanted, and the whole time you were just—there.”

You swallowed hard.

He kept going. His voice was low, trembling, but steady.

“I don’t want to laugh with anyone else but you. I don’t want to run to anyone else’s house at midnight. I don’t want to pretend anymore that you’re just my best friend. Because you’re not. You’re… you’re everything.”

You sat there, stunned, heart thudding in your chest.

“You’re the one,” he said. “You’ve always been the one.”

Silence fell between you.

Until you whispered, barely holding it together, “Took you long enough.”

And that broke him.

He laughed, a little breathless, eyes glassy. “God, I’m an idiot.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, voice thick. “But you’re my idiot.”

He leaned in, slowly, like he was testing the waters — and you met him halfway, lips soft, warm, familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

And when he pulled back, his smile was the one you hadn’t seen in forever.

The one that lit up the whole damn town.

Have you ever thought

just maybe

You belong with me?

You belong with me

[stargrillzz]

MISSING YOU

SUMMARY: You were never really trying to forget. You were just waiting for the right version of each other to come back.

NOTE: PLEASE SOMEONE TELL ME THAT I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE THAT CAN'T MOVE ON FROM THE 10s BOY BANDS, PLEASE. xoxo

Your voice had cracked that night—but not from anger. You weren’t yelling, you weren’t crying. That’s what made it worse. You were calm. Calm in a way that screamed you were done hoping he’d change. That you’d finally stopped trying to fight for something he wasn’t even holding on to anymore.

“I just need you to listen, Bradley.” You stood there by the door of his flat, arms crossed, your keys clenched in one hand like they might save you. “One day, you’re gonna look back and realize… you won’t find someone like me.”

He had scoffed back then, blinking like the idea of losing you was ridiculous. “You’re being dramatic.”

But the silence that followed made the words stick in the air like smoke after a firework fizzled out. That was six months ago.

Now? Now he knows.

Bradley is sitting on the corner of his worn leather sofa, one hand half-buried in his curls, the other holding a cup of coffee he hasn’t taken a sip from. The girl beside him is laughing at something on her phone—something dumb, some reel or meme. He smiles politely, even lets out a soft chuckle to be polite.

But his eyes? They keep darting to the hallway.

Because last winter, you’d always peek your head out from the bedroom right about now, wearing one of his hoodies and rubbing your eyes like a sleepy kitten. You’d groan about the terrible British weather or ask why he didn’t make enough toast for both of you. You’d kiss the top of his head mid-yawn.

And he’d grin like an idiot. Every single time.

Now? Now he’s just pretending to grin.

Because it’s not you.

-

His phone vibrates on the counter.

It’s a message from Connor—something about a band rehearsal next week—but he swipes it away.

Instead, he finds himself on your Instagram page, thumb hovering over your latest story. It’s blurry, dim. A bar maybe. There’s a guy’s shoulder half in frame. You’re not even in the picture—but his brain zooms in, analyzing.

Is she on a date? Is she laughing like she used to with me? Does he know she has a soft spot for thunderstorms, or that she sleeps with one sock on and one off?

His stomach knots.

He shuts his phone off. He tells himself it’s none of his business.

But he’s still hoping—like some pathetic idiot—that you're sitting across from that guy right now, bored out of your mind. That maybe you’re staring past him, secretly praying he’ll say something stupid, just so you can leave.

Just so you can realize... you still miss him.

But you probably don’t.

-

Bradley never changed your contact name. Never deleted the playlist you made on his Spotify. Never unfollowed your account like he said he would. “Clean break,” he had told the boys. “It’s better that way.”

He didn’t mean it.

Not when he still paused at every corner in Camden hoping he might bump into you. Not when he passed that tiny Thai place you loved and slowed down just to glance inside. Not when he started keeping his Sundays free “just in case.”

He meant if.

If you needed time. If you wanted to see who else was out there. If you were done chasing someone who didn’t always show up for you.

But if you ever—ever—looked back?

He’d be right here.

Still on that same green couch. Still humming unfinished melodies with your name stitched through the lyrics. Still talking to your ghost in every quiet hour.

He’d still be not with someone new.

Not because he couldn’t. But because he didn’t want to.

Because none of them laugh like you do. None of them scrunch their nose when they try not to cry. None of them kiss him like they mean it.

He reaches for his guitar, the one gathering dust against the wall. Plucks at it softly. His fingers find the chords like muscle memory, but his heart stumbles through the words.

He starts singing under his breath, not rehearsed, not polished—just true.

“If you’ve seen enough… Know that I’ll be right here…”

It comes out cracked, soft, like a secret he’s only now willing to admit out loud.

“Not with someone new… I keep on missing you…”

Bradley hasn’t slept.

It’s nearly 5 a.m., and his flat is still bathed in the soft blue of streetlights leaking through the blinds. His guitar rests on the floor by the couch. Half-written lyrics are scribbled across the back of a Tesco receipt, the pen lines shaky from his fingers trembling.

He can’t take it anymore.

He pushes off the couch like something inside him finally snapped—like he can’t sit still one more minute without doing something.

The cold hits him as he steps out. He doesn't bother with a jacket. His hoodie will do. The roads are empty, the world not quite awake, but his footsteps pound the pavement like a drumbeat in his chest.

He doesn’t even text.

Doesn’t want to give himself time to second guess it. If he does, he’ll turn back. He knows himself well enough to know fear wins when he lets it speak.

And God, he’s scared.

Scared you’ve already found someone who does everything he couldn’t. Someone who shows up. Someone who listens. Someone who doesn’t take you for granted and then write songs about how much they miss you six months later.

But he’s more scared of not knowing. Of letting you slip through his fingers while he hides behind lyrics and missed calls.

By the time he’s at your doorstep, dawn is breaking—soft pink skies creeping into the cracks of the city. He doesn’t even knock right away. He stands there, hand hovering, heart pounding so loud he can barely hear himself think.

Then, slowly, the door creaks open.

You're there. Hair messy, eyes puffy from sleep, an oversized t-shirt hanging off one shoulder. You look at him like he’s not real for a second.

You open your mouth to speak—but he beats you to it.

“Look, I know I’ve got no right to be here. I just… I can’t keep all this weight on my shoulders.”

You blink, stepping back a little. “Brad—”

“I can’t sleep,” he interrupts, voice cracking. “My bed’s cold every night and it’s not because I’m alone. It’s because you’re not in it.”

You fold your arms across your chest, silent, but your jaw clenches.

He swallows. “I tried. I tried to move on. I really thought maybe I could fake it long enough to feel normal again. But I can’t. I keep hearing your voice in my head. I keep seeing you in every f—king room. I strip it all back and underneath I know—” He stops, his breath catching.

“I’m scared,” he admits, eyes locked on yours. “I’m scared you'll find another like me, better. Someone who listens the first time. Someone who doesn’t need to lose you to realize what they had.”

Silence.

A passing car hums down the street. A bird chirps from the rooftop nearby. You’re just watching him—still barefoot, arms wrapped around yourself, eyes searching his like maybe you're trying to see if he means it.

Then you whisper, “You should’ve said all that before.”

“I know,” he says instantly. “I know I should have. And if it’s too late, I’ll go. I swear. I just needed you to hear it.”

Another beat.

You don’t speak. Instead, you step back into the hallway and leave the door open.

Bradley’s chest tightens—but then, quietly, you say:

“You coming in?”

Everything looks the same—but also different. The polaroids on the fridge. The blanket you used to wrap yourselves in on rainy days, now folded neatly on the armrest. The scent in the air. It still smells like you, but fainter now. Like time’s been trying to erase him.

You shut the door behind him. Quietly. Carefully. Not like you’re angry. But like you’re waiting to see if this version of him is real.

You pad into the kitchen, wordlessly grab two mugs, and start boiling water. Chamomile—because you remember he always hated the bitter stuff.

He stays standing. Fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie. Watching you move in the dim morning light like you’re something sacred he forgot how to hold.

“You look tired,” you say softly, pouring water over the teabags.

“I haven’t slept,” he murmurs. “Not really, not since…”

You nod, not needing the rest.

He finally speaks again after a moment. “I was a dick.”

You lift an eyebrow, half amused. “Bit of an understatement.”

“I know,” he breathes. “Maybe I should’ve loved harder. I thought just being there sometimes was enough—but you were always there for me. Always. And I didn’t even check if you were alright.”

You hand him his tea, and your fingers brush. He looks down at the contact like it burns. Then back up at you.

“I didn’t see it right,” he says quietly. “What we had. You were everything, and I was too wrapped up in my own head to see it. Now I realize.”

You lean against the counter, eyes fixed on him. “And what do you want, Bradley?”

His lips part—then close again.

Then he takes a slow, shaky breath. “I want another chance. Not to be perfect, or to pretend I’ve got it all together. But to try. Really try. To show up. To talk things out. To listen when you’re hurting and not just when it’s convenient.”

He sets the mug down, steps closer.

“I want to know if your new coworker still microwaves fish. I want to hear you hum songs under your breath in the shower. I want your bad jokes at breakfast and your cold toes in my bed. I want you.”

Your eyes well up, but you don’t blink them away. You let him see.

“I wanted you to fight for me, Brad.”

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m fighting now.”

You take a long sip of tea to steady your breath. Then, slowly, you reach up and tug the edge of his hoodie—his old one, still worn thin at the sleeves.

And when he steps into your arms, when he buries his face in your shoulder like he’s coming home, neither of you says anything for a while.

Because this is the moment you were both missing.

Not a dramatic apology. Not a grand romantic gesture. Just this.

Two people who finally see each other clearly.

[stargrillzz]

THE MORE WRINKLED THE RAISIN, THE SWEETER

SUMMARY: You know what they say, the more wrinkled the raisin, the sweeter it is. Oh and wasn’t he sweet...

NOTE: Peter is so hot, damn.xoxo

The storm outside cracked like a live wire, lightning flashing through the steel beams of Derek’s loft. Rain slammed the windows like the sky was trying to get in. It was late—past midnight—but no one in the pack was yawning.

Not with the way Derek paced in front of the makeshift war table, arms crossed tight, brow locked in that signature "someone’s gonna die tonight" furrow.

“We found claw marks on the walls of the clinic,” Derek started, tossing a photo across the table. “And not the usual kind. These went through concrete.”

Scott leaned forward, examining the grainy image. “So we’re not sure if it’s a rogue Omega or something… else?”

“It’s not an Omega,” Peter’s voice cut through the room like a blade dipped in honey—smooth, dangerous, and sharp. He stood against one of the support beams, arms folded over that fitted black Henley, looking deliciously bored. “No one that pathetic has claws like that.”

You were curled in one of the armchairs near the corner, chin resting on your hand, only half-listening.

Correction: You were listening—but not to Derek or Scott or whatever threat was clawing up buildings.

No. Your eyes hadn’t moved off Peter in the last ten minutes.

There was something about how he stood—casual, calculated, like he was in on a joke no one else could hear. The soft stretch of his shirt across his chest. The faint shadows beneath his eyes that made him look a little too wolf, a little too unhinged. God, he looked like the kind of man you could ruin your life with.

And you wanted to. Boldly. Repeatedly.

Peter caught your gaze mid-glance. One brow arched.

And then he smirked.

“I’m just saying,” Peter added dryly, loud enough for everyone to hear, “if the big scary monster lurking around town is stupid enough to leave claw marks like a trail of breadcrumbs, maybe we should give it a helmet instead of a fight.”

Stiles huffed from the couch. “You’re such a dick.”

Peter smiled wider. “Accurate.��

You tilted your head, biting your lip. “Maybe he just wanted to get caught,” you said suddenly, loud enough to make half the room turn to you. You shrugged innocently, meeting Peter’s eyes like you were peeling him open with your stare. “Some creatures like being chased.”

Peter’s smile twitched—amused, intrigued—and laced with that dark, wolfish hunger he tried so hard to hide. You saw it.

Scott side-eyed you, blinking. “Y/N—can we focus?”

“Sorry,” you said sweetly, standing up slowly. “I just… get distracted.”

You circled the edge of the group, careful steps echoing across the floor. The storm cracked again, and the lights flickered. You stopped right behind Peter, leaned close, and spoke into the back of his neck without touching him.

“I like when you’re cruel,” you whispered, voice silk and fire. “Makes me wonder if you bite.”

Peter didn’t move. But you felt his pulse shift. Like something ancient and hungry stirred beneath his skin.

His voice came out low, controlled—too controlled.

“Little girl,” he murmured back, still facing forward. “You really want to go there?”

You smirked and leaned closer, lips brushing the edge of his ear.

“I’ve been there. I live there. I set up a fucking tent.”

Peter’s jaw clenched.

“I’m going to murder her,” Stiles muttered from the couch, half-joking. “Like—just a little bit. Just a smidge.”

“You won’t,” Peter said out loud, cool and calm, but you felt the heat radiating off him now. “She’d haunt you in lingerie.”

You chuckled—soft, filthy.

Scott groaned. “Can you not flirt in the middle of a supernatural crisis?”

“I wasn’t flirting,” you said, rounding Peter and standing beside him now, all close and magnetic. “I was… observing.”

Peter finally turned to look at you fully, blue eyes locked on yours. “And what, exactly, did you observe?”

“That you’re dying to touch me.”

The room went silent.

And then Derek snapped, “Enough.”

Everyone flinched. Except Peter. And you.

Derek’s eyes glowed faintly as he glared. “If you two are done turning this into a goddamn mating ritual, maybe we can get back to planning before another body shows up.”

Peter gave a slow shrug. “Fine by me. I’m only here for the entertainment.”

You leaned against the beam next to him, casual, letting your arm brush his. “Well. I’m very entertaining.”

Peter didn’t respond right away. His eyes dragged down your body like a promise, slow and hot and filthy. Then he turned back toward the group, lips twitching.

You grinned, smug and glowing. Victory.

He was close. So close.

But for now, he turned his attention back to the others. Like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t just tongue-fucked him with a glance.

But his hand stayed pressed lightly to the edge of the beam—fingertips brushing yours, barely there.

Touch-starved. Hungry.

And yours.

Eventually.

-

The meeting had dragged. Thunder rolled low above Beacon Hills like the earth was growling, warning them about whatever new monster was crawling into town.

But the real storm didn’t break until after the pack started heading out.

“Y/N,” Scott called from beside his bike, keys jangling in his hand. “You riding with me or Stiles?”

You didn’t even glance at him. Your eyes were locked on Peter, who stood beside his black SUV with one hand on the door and the other in his pocket, smirking like he knew something no one else did.

Which—he usually did.

You smiled slowly. “Neither.”

Scott blinked. “What?”

“I’ll go with Peter.”

He straightened up slightly. “Why?”

You tilted your head innocently. “Why not?”

Behind Scott, Stiles made a dramatic groaning noise. “Oh my god. Here we go again. Just let her ride with Satan if she wants, man.”

Peter said nothing. He just opened the passenger door and stepped aside like a gentleman—or something that wore the skin of one. His eyes burned into you like a promise.

You walked past Scott without another word and climbed in.

The doors clicked shut. The outside world disappeared.

Inside, it was warm, dark, quiet—except for the low hum of the engine and the slow turn of the wipers dragging rain across the windshield.

Peter didn’t speak. He just drove, hands loose on the wheel, eyes forward. Focused. Dangerous.

You watched his profile—how the shadows carved into his cheekbone, how his hand tensed just slightly every time you shifted in your seat. You loved how he always tried to pretend you didn’t affect him.

But you did.

You always did.

And tonight… tonight you were done pretending you didn’t know it.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and crawled slowly—deliberately—into the back seat.

Peter’s eyes flicked to the mirror. “What are you doing?”

You spread your legs across the leather and leaned back on your elbows, smirking up at him. “Drive,” you said. “Or do something about it.”

Peter’s jaw clenched.

The car skidded a little to the right before he yanked it into a side lot, tires splashing into a puddle as he parked under a broken streetlight. The glow from it flickered once, then died.

Silence.

Then the soft creak of his door opening.

You stayed sprawled out, heart pounding as you listened to his boots hit the wet pavement, circle around the back, and open the rear door.

He got in.

The door slammed behind him.

And then he just looked at you—like a wolf who'd been stalking his prey for miles, and suddenly found her naked and grinning in his den.

“You,” he growled, voice low, fraying, “are a goddamn menace.”

You smirked, shifting slightly so your knee brushed against his thigh. “And you love it.”

His hand shot out, fisting in the front of your shirt and yanking you closer, your faces inches apart now. His breath was hot against your lips, his fingers flexing like he was deciding whether to pull you in or push you away.

He did neither.

“You think I won’t ruin you?” he hissed.

“I want you to.”

That broke him.

Peter grabbed the back of your neck and crushed his mouth to yours, tongue demanding and rough, devouring you with filthy need. You gasped into it, moaning when his teeth scraped your bottom lip, when his fingers tangled in your hair and pulled hard.

You kissed him back like it was the last thing you’d ever do.

Your hands slid up under his shirt—god, he was burning, muscle under your palms, skin twitching when you scratched. He growled again, shoving you back until your shoulders hit the seat, his body following, crawling over you like a predator who had finally, finally taken the bait.

“Is this what you wanted?” he whispered against your throat, licking a slow line under your jaw. “To make the bad wolf snap?”

You whimpered, grinding up against him. “More.”

“More?” He nipped at your skin. “You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

“Then show me,” you breathed, fingers dragging down to the waistband of his jeans. “Be the wolf, Peter. Fucking bite.”

And he did.

Your back hit the leather with a soft thud, legs still parted around him, his hand fisted in your shirt like he might rip it off, like maybe he should. The heat between you two had gone nuclear. Your skin was buzzing, your breath short, your mouth already wrecked from the kiss you barely survived.

And Peter was watching you—his blue eyes dark and glowing, fangs just barely peeking from under his lip. The wolf was there. Right under the surface. And you had called it out.

You brought your hand up, tracing your fingers down the front of his chest. “Come on, Peter,” you whispered, voice syrupy and shameless. “You know you’ve been dying to fuck the attitude out of me.”

He groaned—visceral, like the sound was torn from him. Then his hand was under your thigh, yanking your hips toward him hard enough to make you gasp. His other hand curled around your throat—not choking, just holding, thumb pressing beneath your jaw with filthy reverence.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he muttered against your neck, but his hand was already sliding between your legs.

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” you moaned, arching into his touch.

His fingers pressed against the heat of your center—your shorts soaked through, no panties. You heard his breath catch.

“Fucking hell,” he hissed.

You smiled lazily. “Told you. I came prepared.”

Peter didn’t answer—he just shoved the fabric aside and slid two fingers through your folds, slow and deep and filthy. Your head tipped back with a broken moan.

“Oh my God—”

“Not God,” he rasped. “Just the wolf.”

He leaned in again, biting softly at your lip as his fingers began to move—rhythmically, slowly at first, then harder, faster. His thumb circled your clit with the kind of precision that made your legs tremble.

“I’ve wanted this,” he whispered, biting at your ear, “so fucking long. Every time you opened that smart mouth, every time you walked into a room like you owned me…”

You whimpered, rocking against his hand, clutching his shoulder. “Then take it. Own me.”

Something in him snapped.

He pulled his hand away for one agonizing second—long enough to yank your shorts down and toss them somewhere in the dark car—then he shoved your thighs up and apart, climbing between them like he belonged there. Like this was a fucking claim.

And maybe it was.

He shoved his jeans down just enough, fangs glinting now as he dragged his tip through your slick folds, teasing, eyes locked to yours.

“You want this?” he rasped, voice barely human.

“Yes,” you breathed, grabbing his jaw. “I want you.”

He slammed into you with one brutal thrust, burying himself fully. You cried out, arching, clawing at his shoulders. He didn’t wait. He didn’t ease up.

He fucked you—hard, deep, filthy—every thrust making the car creak on its suspension, windows fogging instantly. The smell of rain and sex and wolf filled the air. Your moans were ragged, high and loud, but he didn’t tell you to quiet down.

He wanted them.

Peter grunted as you clenched around him, biting into your neck—not enough to break skin, just enough to mark. His hand stayed wrapped tight around your throat, fingers flexing with every snap of his hips.

“You love this,” he growled. “You love knowing how wrong this is.”

You were nearly sobbing with pleasure. “Yes—fuck, Peter, please—”

“You wanted the bad wolf,” he snarled. “Now fucking take him.”

Your orgasm hit like a car crash "Oh my God, fuck yeah" hot and endless, your body convulsing around him as he held you down, fucked you through it, didn’t stop. You screamed his name, scratching down his back. Peter groaned into your throat, and with one final thrust, he spilled inside you, deep and possessive, a growl rattling from his chest like thunder.

You both collapsed, panting, your limbs tangled, hearts pounding like war drums.

His forehead rested against yours. He was still inside you. Still hardening again. Still hungry.

-

The bonfire cracked like it had secrets to tell.

Sparks flew up into the inky sky while laughter echoed from the logs surrounding it—pack members sprawled on blankets, roasting marshmallows and talking over each other. It was one of those rare nights when no one was dead or dying. Just warmth, woodsmoke, and the edge of summer in the air.

You were curled on a blanket next to Scott and Lydia, letting the heat of the fire lick at your bare legs while your eyes, once again, found him.

Peter Hale stood a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest, the flames casting shadows across his face, highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones and the glint in his eyes. He wasn’t talking to anyone. Just watching. Guarded. Calm. Until you looked at him.

Then something in him shifted—his mouth twitching into a dangerous little smirk, eyes dipping down your body in one unbothered pass before returning to the fire.

Your thighs clenched.

You had been teasing him all night—lingering touches on your way past him, sitting just a little too close on the log earlier, whispering filthy little jokes under your breath only he could hear.

And now, sitting across from him in that short skirt and that smug grin, one leg swinging lazily as if you weren’t driving him insane, you knew he was at his limit.

Time to push.

You stood up slowly, stretching—arms above your head, shirt lifting just a little too far—and you made sure Peter’s eyes followed.

Then, without a word, you turned and walked toward the woods.

You didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

You heard the crunch of his boots on the forest floor thirty seconds later.

By the time he caught up, your back was already against a tree, breathing fast from the thrill of being chased, of being wanted. Peter stepped out of the shadows like a goddamn wolf, eyes gleaming, mouth a flat line of hunger and restraint.

“I swear to fucking God—” he growled.

You grabbed his collar and yanked him into a kiss that stole the rest of the sentence from his throat.

It was filthy. Immediate. No teasing now—just mouths crashing, teeth clashing, lips parted and desperate as you gasped into each other. His hands were already under your skirt, grabbing the backs of your thighs, lifting you. You wrapped your legs around his waist without thinking, moaning when your back hit the bark behind you.

“Jesus,” Peter rasped against your mouth, grinding his hips against your center. “Do you ever stop?”

“Why would I,” you panted, licking into his mouth, “when this is how you act when I don’t?”

He chuckled darkly, biting your bottom lip. “You think this is me acting?”

You whimpered when he rocked against you again, the heat of his jeans grinding into your panties, soaked and sticking to you already. Your head thumped back against the tree.

“You’re such a little brat,” he growled, sliding one hand between you, cupping you through your underwear. “Getting me hard in front of the whole fucking pack. Whispering shit only I could hear.”

Your hips bucked. “Couldn’t help it,” you gasped. “You look so edible next to fire.”

Peter growled, shoved your panties to the side, and dragged his fingers through your slick, slow and filthy. You gasped.

“Jesus, you’re wet—”

“You did that,” you moaned, clenching around nothing. “Fix it.”

He didn’t need more.

Peter undid his jeans, enough to free himself, the sound of his zipper somehow the dirtiest thing in the woods. He lined up with you, looking at you like he could tear you in half and you’d thank him for it.

“Quiet,” he warned as he pushed in. “Or I’ll make you scream.”

You bit down on his shoulder to muffle your cry as he buried himself inside you in one brutal thrust, your nails clawing at his back.

“Fuck,” you whimpered. “Peter—”

“Shh, baby,” he hissed, thrusting again, slow but deep, each movement shoving you higher up the tree. “Don’t want your little friends coming to check, do you?”

You shook your head, moaning into his neck. The idea of Scott or Derek or Stiles stumbling into this? It made you wetter.

Peter felt it. “Oh, you like that,” he sneered. “You want them to find out how desperate you are for my cock?”

“Y-yes,” you gasped, not even thinking. “I don’t care.”

His thrusts got harder. Meaner. The tree bark dug into your spine but you didn’t feel it—just the thick slide of him inside you, your thighs shaking around his waist, your body strung so tight you were seconds from unraveling.

“You wanna cum?” he whispered, filthy, fanged, dangerous.

“Please,” you gasped. “Peter, please—”

He reached between you, rubbing your clit in rough circles until you were gasping, head thrown back, toes curling in your boots. He slammed in one more time, and you broke apart—shaking, clutching him like a lifeline, moaning loud into his mouth as you came.

He groaned as you clenched around him, hips stuttering, and then he was following, burying himself deep with a low, guttural curse.

He held you there for a second, both of you panting in the dark, sweaty and still tangled together.

Then—

A snap.

A branch breaking.

Voices.

“Peter?” That was Scott. Close.

Peter pulled out quickly, helping you stand, yanking your panties back into place and pulling his jeans up with inhuman speed. You adjusted your shirt, shaking from the aftershocks and the adrenaline.

Peter leaned close, lips brushing your ear.

“If they catch us,” he growled, “I’ll make you ride me in front of them.”

You nearly collapsed.

But he straightened, smirked, and stepped out of the trees—calm, smug, like he hadn’t just fucked you against a tree with the entire pack 30 feet away.

You followed, flushed and glowing, hair mussed.

Scott and Derek looked up as you reappeared, both raising eyebrows.

Peter walked past them like nothing happened, but then Derek’s nose twitched.

He frowned. Deeply.

“You smell like her,” Derek muttered.

Peter glanced back with the laziest, dirtiest smirk in history.

“Then I must smell fantastic.”

[stargrillzz]

do you know any authors who do eminem imagines from black women’s pov we’re so underrepresented 😭 :/

HI PRETTY ANGEL

I really feel the lack of representation from various sectors of society. It really sucks. I generally don't describe the reader in my stories so that no matter who reads it, they can give it their own unique look (I think I only described a specific faction in two stories only). I don't really know of any users who make stories where it's specified that the reader is Black, but if you're okay with it and feel comfortable with it, maybe you could send me a message with your story idea, with absolutely any details about the reader's appearance, personality, and such, and I could write it for you. Maybe send it to you first so you can see if you like the final result or not. I'd love to help you in any way you'd like. Please inbox me if you're interested! I hope you're doing well! XOXO

[stargrillzz]

WEAKENING

SUMMARY: Derek, a tough, serious guy, impervious to any kind of emotions, turns out to have a weakness and it's not wolfsbane.

NOTE: My love for Teen Wolf has risen from the ashes. I love that show so much, I need them to make another movie or a spin-off with the same characters. I don't know what you think, but the only good thing about the movie was Eli. Also, reader name's Sage, I'm sorry it was more comfortable for me while writing if reader had a name xoxo

DAY OF ARRIVING LATE EVERYWHERE

mer day in Beacon Hills. You kicked off the sheets with a sigh and swung your legs over the side of the bed.

Throwing on your favorite denim miniskirt and a snug black tank top, you brushed your pitch-black hair quickly, letting it fall naturally over your shoulders. A quick check in the mirror — bright green eyes still sleepy but sharp — and you tugged on your chunky black boots. Comfortable and just rebellious enough for a Thursday.

The smell of coffee and toast hit you the second you stepped into the kitchen. Scott was already seated, fully dressed, motorcycle helmet resting securely on his arm like it was a part of his body. Melissa buzzed around the kitchen in her scrubs, clearly mid-rush.

“You know,” you said, grabbing a banana off the counter and tossing it in the air, “you don’t need to have your helmet on your arm while you eat breakfast.”

Scott didn’t look up, just took another bite of toast. “It’s cool.”

“Mmhm,” you replied, leaning back against the fridge. “If it’s so cool, maybe you could use your cool points to take me to school again.”

He raised a brow, chewing. “I take you every day. Why do you act like it’s some kind of favor?”

“Because one day, you’re gonna be too cool and leave me stranded.”

“Never gonna happen,” he said through a mouthful of eggs.

Melissa passed behind him and leaned down to kiss the top of his head, then gently placed her hand on your shoulder. “Be nice to him,” she said playfully. “He’s your chauffeur and your brother this week.”

“I’m always nice to him,” you called out as she grabbed her keys.

Melissa gave you both a tired smile, already halfway out the door. “Try not to let the school burn down today. Or yourselves.”

“No promises,” you and Scott said in unison.

The motorcycle ride was smooth, the wind whipping through your hair, tugging at your clothes as you held onto Scott’s sides. The morning sun burned low on the horizon, golden and slow, and the streets of Beacon Hills rolled past in a blur of green trees and brick buildings.

When Scott parked in front of the school, it was still early. Students wandered across the lot in small groups, laughing, talking, and clinging to iced coffees. You slipped off the bike, smoothing your skirt and shaking out your hair, already sticking to your neck from the heat.

“Ugh, how is it this hot before third period?” you muttered.

“You wore boots in June,” Scott pointed out.

“Fashion before function,” you replied, brushing past him.

The two of you pushed through the front doors into the cool hallways of Beacon Hills High, the air conditioning a relief against your skin. That’s when Scott slowed beside you.

You noticed his shoulders tense.

“What?” you asked.

He sniffed once, subtly, then again. “Do you smell that?”

“Um. Hormones? Teen spirit? Whatever’s in the cafeteria?”

“No. It’s—” His eyes narrowed. “Wolves.”

You blinked. “Like, new wolves?”

Scott nodded once. “Strong scent. Close. And—” He paused. “Identical.”

You frowned. “Identical? Like… twins?”

He didn’t answer. Just scanned the hall ahead.

And then you saw them.

Two tall figures walked side by side down the opposite hallway — both broad-shouldered, clean-cut, confident. Like they were born to take up space. One of them glanced your way as they passed, his eyes flicking over you with the casual ease of someone used to being looked at. You turned your head fast, cheeks warm.

“Okay,” you muttered, “you were right.”

Scott didn’t reply, but the way his jaw clenched said enough.

-

By third period, the whole school was buzzing. You, Scott, and Stiles sat at your usual table outside the science lab, sharing theories and leftover chips.

“I’m telling you,” Stiles said, eyes wide, “they’re not just new guys. They’re like... evil Abercrombie clones.”

“Clones?” you laughed.

“Have you seen them? No human has cheekbones that sharp naturally. It’s unholy.”

Scott still looked uneasy. “They’re wolves. I’m sure of it. The way they move… and that scent.”

Stiles leaned in. “Okay, but like… alphas? Betas? Omegas?”

You rolled your eyes. “Let’s just hope they’re normal for once.”

The bell rang, and you split up for class. It wasn’t until later — just before the last period — that things got interesting again.

-

You stood at your locker, swapping out books for calculus, when you felt someone behind you.

Not just someone walking past. Someone watching you. Standing too still.

You turned slowly.

“Sorry,” the boy said, voice smooth, almost apologetic. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I’m new. I think I got lost — I have calculus next, and this place is a maze.”

He smiled.

It was one of the twins.

“I’m Aiden.”

You blinked, caught off guard, but forced yourself to smile politely. “Nice to meet you. I’m Sage.”

He reached out — not for a handshake, but to take your hand gently and kiss the back of it. His lips were soft. Bold move.

You tried not to react, tried not to laugh, or blush, or punch him. You settled on raising an eyebrow.

“Beautiful name,” he said, his eyes tracing your face. “Almost as pretty as your eyes.”

Okay. Blush.

“Are you from here?”

“Born and raised,” you said, pulling your hand back gently. “Never left.”

“That’s rare. I’ve moved around so much, I barely know where I belong anymore.”

“That doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” you said with a little shrug.

He tilted his head. “Not now that I’m here. I didn’t know small towns came with girls like you.”

You laughed — half flattered, half unsure how to respond. “Okay. Are you flirting with me, or trying to get to calculus?”

“Can’t it be both?”

You were about to fire back when movement behind him caught your eye. Two familiar idiots — Scott and Stiles — waving at you wildly from across the hall.

“Oh, crap,” you mumbled. “I gotta go. Your class is straight down this hallway, turn right, first door on the left. Bye!”

You hurried past Aiden, heart still thudding a little faster than you liked.

-

The loft was quiet when you arrived — but it wasn’t calm.

Isaac sat on the couch, shoulders shaking, wrapped in a blanket. His face was pale, eyes wide. Peter lounged nearby, picking at invisible lint on his shirt. Derek stood with his back to you, tense, arms folded, staring out the window.

“You’re late,” Derek said without turning.

“We got caught up,” Scott replied.

“Someone got caught up,” Stiles muttered, side-eyeing you.

You smacked his arm. “You couldn’t start the Jeep.”

You stepped past the boys and moved toward Derek, lowering your voice. “It wasn’t my fault.”

He looked at you then, over his shoulder. His eyes softened and then, for just a second, he smiled at you. “No, you just delayed us twenty minutes flirting with the new guy,” Scott said behind you.

You froze. Derek’s gaze shifted. Sharpened. Smile completely gone as if it was never there.

“Flirting?” he said, voice flat.

You turned fully to face him. “He asked where his class was.”

Scott lifted a hand in mock defense. “‘I didn’t know small towns had such pretty girls.’”

“Oh my god, please shut up,” you groaned, covering your face with both hands.

Peter smirked. “You’re at a disadvantage,” he muttered to Derek, watching the tension like it was a soap opera.

Derek didn’t take the bait. He just looked at you. Not angry. Just... unreadable.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mumbled. “I didn’t know we were supposed to come right away.”

He blinked once, and the moment passed. “Let’s get back to the point.”

NOSY

The loft was warm with late sun pouring through the huge windows, casting golden shadows across the floor. You pushed open the door with your hip, holding a bottle of peach iced tea in one hand and your phone in the other. Derek had told you to stop by earlier in the day, said something vague about “going over some things.” You knew what that meant.

Training. Again.

You liked the loft. It was always a little too quiet, a little too dark, but it smelled like old books, pine, and leather. Derek’s jacket was still draped over the back of the couch. Music played softly from an old stereo in the corner—something moody and instrumental. You walked in like you owned the place, because honestly, by now, you sort of did.

Peter was stretched across the couch like an annoying cat, one leg propped up on the armrest, flipping through some magazine you were almost certain didn’t belong to him.

“Oh, look who’s here,” Peter said without glancing up. “The sugar-powered prodigy herself.”

“Hi, Peter,” you said flatly, walking right past him.

“You’re late,” came Derek’s voice from the spiral staircase.

You looked up. He stood a few steps from the top, dressed in his usual black T-shirt and jeans, hair tousled, gaze intense. Why was he always brooding like he was posing for a Calvin Klein ad?

“I wasn’t aware we had a schedule,” you said, pulling off your jacket and dropping it onto a nearby chair.

“You said ‘around five.’ It’s five-thirty.”

“You’ll survive,” you replied, flashing him a grin.

The next hour was spent doing what you liked least: arguing.

“I’m telling you, I don’t need to learn how to fight,” you huffed, arms crossed as you stood in the open space near the kitchen. “My powers are more than enough.”

Derek paced slowly around you like he was circling prey. “While I’d love to be there every second to protect you,” he said, tone pointed, “there might come a time when I’m not.”

You rolled your eyes. “I could literally fling you through the wall with a single thought, Hale.”

“That’s cute,” Peter chimed in, still from the couch.

Derek ignored him. “You’re just learning how to use your powers. You don’t really know what you’re capable of. And that makes you vulnerable.”

You stepped forward, chin tilted high. “You’re acting like I’m helpless. Like I’m someone who needs to be babysat.”

He didn’t back away. In fact, he stepped closer. “No. I’m acting like someone who doesn’t want to watch you get hurt because you were overconfident.”

You opened your mouth to fire back, but—

Bzzz bzzz.

Your phone lit up in your hand. Unknown number.

“One sec,” you muttered, walking a few paces away as Derek’s jaw flexed. He didn’t like being interrupted, and he definitely didn’t like you being interrupted.

You swiped to answer, turning your back to him.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Sage?”

Aiden. You straightened instinctively. “Oh. Hi, yeah.”

“I was wondering… would you want to maybe get coffee? Like, now?”

Your pulse skipped. “Now?” you repeated.

“If that’s okay.”

You hesitated. Glanced back toward Derek, who was very clearly not pretending not to listen.

“Sure,” you said, your voice a little too light. “You mean the place downtown?”

“Yeah. Ten minutes?”

“Perfect. See you there.”

You hung up slowly, face warming.

Behind you, the tension in the room had shifted dramatically. You didn’t even need supernatural senses to feel it.

“Sorry, Der,” you said, already moving toward your jacket. “I have to go.”

“Where exactly are you going?” he asked, arms folded tightly across his chest. “I thought you were staying.”

You hesitated by the door, forcing your expression into something innocent. “A friend called. Emergency. Girl stuff. But I can come back tomorrow. I promise I’ll stay the whole day.”

Derek stepped closer. Much closer. He wasn’t angry—not in the usual explosive way. But something about the way he moved made your throat dry up. He stopped just inches from you, so close you could feel the heat off his chest.

“Girls’ emergency,” he said, voice low.

“Yes,” you whispered, suddenly very aware of how small the space between you was. “Incredibly urgent.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. He stared at you like he could see straight through the lie. Your heart thudded hard in your chest, and your fingers curled slightly around the hem of your jacket.

And then—without a word—he stepped away. He didn’t look at you again. Just turned and walked toward the stairs, every muscle in his back tight.

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but he was already halfway up to his room.

Peter, who had watched the entire exchange like it was a soap opera, let out a delighted sigh.

“Little liar,” he said, raising his glass of water like it was champagne. “I like you even more now.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks on fire, and slammed the loft door a little harder than necessary behind you.

YOU LIAR! YOU NOSY!

The café was dimly lit and mostly empty, save for a couple of college kids in the corner and the bored barista scrolling on her phone behind the counter. Warm fairy lights framed the front windows, their golden glow washing over the small table where you sat across from Aiden.

You stirred your iced coffee absently, watching him as he talked. He was charming in a way that felt rehearsed but effective—effortless smirks, confident eye contact, just enough mystery behind his words to make it feel intentional.

“You know,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “you don’t look like you belong in a place like Beacon Hills.”

You quirked a brow. “And what does someone like me look like?”

“Like you belong somewhere bigger. Flashier. Maybe where the coffee doesn’t taste like regret.”

You laughed softly, sipping from your straw. “It’s not that bad.”

He leaned in even closer now. “Still. You’re definitely too pretty"

You blinked at the word. “So… you’re not pretending anymore?”

He just smirked. “I think we’re past pretending.”

Your heart fluttered in a weird, confused way. You weren’t sure if it was the adrenaline of being flirted with by an attractive (and admittedly bold)… or the strange pit of guilt forming in your stomach.

Just as Aiden’s hand brushed against yours on the table, his head tilted slightly, eyes flicking toward your lips—about to kiss you—

The front door swung open so hard it slammed against the wall.

“Really?” came a sharp voice.

Your head snapped up.

Derek.

In full storm mode.

He didn’t hesitate. He crossed the café in seconds, stepped right between you and Aiden without so much as a glance at the table, and shoved Aiden backward with one hand against his chest.

You gasped. “Derek?!”

Aiden stumbled slightly but caught his footing, laughing as he lifted his hands. “Whoa. Easy.”

“Stay away from her,” Derek snapped, voice low and dangerous, and—

His eyes flashed red.

Aiden only smirked wider. “I wasn’t going to bite her…” he said smoothly, then added with a wink at you, “Not unless she asked to.”

You blinked. “Oh my god.”

Derek stepped forward, fists clenched, growl building in his throat.

“You can’t always protect her, Hale,” Aiden added, smug, knowing exactly what buttons he was pressing.

Derek lunged.

But before he could touch him again, you moved—instinctively, grabbing Derek’s arm from behind, pulling him back, your hands tight around his bicep.

“Derek, stop! What the hell is going on?!”

He was shaking with fury under your hands. His jaw locked, chest heaving. You’d seen him angry before—but this? This was different.

Aiden gave you a cocky little salute. “See you around, Sage.”

And with that, he sauntered out of the café, like he hadn’t just almost gotten mauled in front of the espresso machine.

You turned to Derek, still holding his arm. “What the hell was that?”

His jaw clicked. “He’s part of the alpha pack.”

You froze. “What?”

“He and his brother—they’re both part of it. They’re not just new kids. They’re dangerous. Manipulative. They’re hunting us.”

The information hit you hard—but it wasn’t what you were expecting to hear. Your hand dropped from his arm slowly.

“Oh,” you said after a beat, trying not to sound too disappointed. “Well… damn. He was cute.”

Derek tensed like you’d slapped him. He turned slowly, eyes narrowing.

“You lied to me.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You told me it was a girl emergency.”

Your heart sank. “Okay—yes, I lied. I’m sorry. But you wouldn’t have let me go, and I needed to get out. It wasn’t that big of a deal—”

“Of course I wouldn’t have let you go,” he snapped. “You don’t know them. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”

“I’m not some helpless child, Derek.”

“No,” he said, voice quieter now, angrier in a different way. “But you’re also not invincible. And this is exactly why you need to train. You’re not ready.”

You crossed your arms, stepping away from him, frustration bubbling in your chest. “Why does it bother you so much that I missed one day of training? One day, Derek. I train every day with you. Every day. And I already said I was sorry.”

He didn’t answer, not right away.

So you pressed, squinting at him. “Wait… how did you even know where I was?”

He stiffened.

“Derek.”

Still nothing.

Your eyes widened. “You heard my call?!”

He looked vaguely toward the counter, anywhere but your face.

“You were eavesdropping! You’re a nosy wolf!”

“That’s not the point.”

“Oh, it is the point!”

“You lied to me.”

You groaned, running a hand down your face. “You know what? I did. I lied. And you know what else? You followed me. Stalked me. So maybe we’re even.”

Derek’s silence was thunderous. His hands flexed at his sides, and you realized he was trying very hard not to say something he’d regret.

You exhaled loudly, finally letting the tension fall out of your shoulders. You didn’t want to keep fighting him. You were still confused, still trying to sort out why he was so mad.

You stepped toward the door, assuming he was taking you back to Scott’s.

But he wasn’t following.

You turned around. “Aren’t we leaving?”

“We are.”

“…To Scott’s?”

“No.”

You frowned. “Then where?”

He finally looked at you again, voice dark. “The loft.”

You blinked. “What? Why?”

“Because I’m not leaving you alone. Not when he’s behind you like that. Not for a second.”

You stared at him, caught off guard by the fierce protectiveness in his voice. The heat behind it. It wasn’t just duty. It was personal.

You swallowed hard, nodded once, and followed him out.

And the whole way to the loft, you couldn’t stop thinking about how close he’d gotten. How tightly he’d clenched his fists. How red his eyes had glowed the second Aiden had looked at you like that.

And somewhere inside your chest, something fluttered and ached at the same time.

PLAY PRETEND

You were at your locker, halfway through switching your calculus book for your lit folder, when it hit you—the prickling weight of someone watching you.

That sensation along the back of your neck.

You glanced over your shoulder.

The hallway was full of movement—students rushing to beat the bell—but no one was looking directly at you.

Still, you felt it.

Then the bell rang.

The crowd thinned.

And before you could even close your locker—

“Hey, stranger,” came a voice.

Aiden.

You tensed immediately. Your hand froze mid-motion on your locker door. Slowly, you turned your head. He was standing right beside you, that infuriatingly charming smile plastered across his face like nothing had ever happened.

“What do you want?” you asked flatly, trying to ignore the way your heart jumped in your chest. Not because you were happy to see him. But because, despite everything, he was still painfully attractive—and dangerously persuasive.

“Oh, come on,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re not really gonna let one little fight ruin the beautiful friendship we were building, are you?”

He leaned against the locker beside yours, his voice dropping. “We had something good, didn’t we? Maybe even more…”

Your back hit the metal behind you as he invaded your space. His presence was bold—too bold—and yet he moved like it was natural, like he already belonged there.

“Stop flirting with me,” you said, voice low and defensive. It sounded more like a plea than a demand.

But he didn’t flinch. “Don’t listen to Derek,” Aiden said, stepping even closer, his tone softening as if it would make his words easier to swallow. “Whatever he told you, whatever story he spun, it’s not the full truth. I’m not the enemy here.”

You narrowed your eyes, heart thudding a little faster. “Derek didn’t tell me anything. But your red glowing eyes and smug attitude kind of gave it away.”

He smiled. “So you know now.”

“I know enough.”

“Then you should know I’m not here to hurt you,” he said, lowering his voice and glancing down at your lips. “I’m here because I want to see you again. Go out with me. Just once. No lies. No Derek. Just you and me.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Why was he making it hard to say no?

You weren’t thinking about accepting—not even for a second. You knew what he was. You knew it was wrong. But still… no one had ever looked at you like this before. Like they wanted you. Like they were dying to be near you.

Your voice slipped out before you could stop it.

“Of course the first hot guy to ever ask me out turns out to be a murderous lunatic.”

His smirk faltered for just a second.

“Sorry,” you added quickly, grabbing your books. “I have to go.”

You turned and bolted down the hallway toward class, heart still pounding. You didn’t even look back.

Not even when you felt him still watching.

Your lit teacher was halfway through analyzing a paragraph from Wuthering Heights when the door slammed open.

BANG.

Every head turned.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Derek.

Standing in the doorway. Handsome. Wild. Intense.

His leather jacket shifted with the rise and fall of his chest. His jaw was locked, brows furrowed, eyes scanning the room until they landed on you.

“Let’s go,” he said, his voice low, commanding.

Whispers exploded around you. Someone gasped.

“Is that Derek Hale?”

“Oh my god, why is he here?”

“Are they dating?”

“Holy shit, he’s hot.”

You sank lower into your chair, mortified. “Derek, what are you doing?!”

He didn’t answer. He was already striding toward you, ignoring your teacher’s confused protests.

“Mr. Hale—sir—this is a classroom—”

Derek didn’t even blink. He reached your desk, grabbed your hand, and pulled you out of your seat in one smooth, forceful motion.

“Derek, seriously—!” you yelped, stumbling after him.

The entire class fell silent.

He dragged you into the hallway, closing the door behind you.

“Have you completely lost your mind?!” you hissed, yanking your arm free. “You can’t just kidnap me in the middle of English!”

“Did you talk to Aiden again?” he demanded, ignoring everything.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I felt it,” he said, stepping closer. “Your heartbeat. It spiked.”

“It wasn’t even a full minute. And he came up to me. I didn’t say yes to anything.”

Derek’s jaw clenched. “But you didn’t say no.”

You stared. “Wait… were you spying on me again?!”

“I’m not spying on you, I’m watching out for you.”

You stepped back, exasperated. “You’re unbelievable—”

He cut you off with a kiss.

No warning. No hesitation.

Just fire.

His lips crashed into yours, his hands finding your waist as your back slammed lightly into the lockers. You gasped against his mouth, the noise swallowed by his kiss as your fingers shot up to his neck, tangling in his hair, holding him to you like your body had been waiting for this.

The kiss was everything—hot, possessive, desperate. Like he’d been holding back for weeks and finally snapped. His body pressed against yours, heat blooming between you. You kissed him back just as fiercely, your legs shaking as his fingers gripped your hips like he wasn’t planning to let go.

When he finally pulled back, you were breathless.

“What the hell was that?” you whispered, lips swollen, heart pounding like thunder in your ears.

Derek’s eyes were hooded, dark. “Don’t even think about going on that date.”

You stared at him, lips parted, dazed. “You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?”

His mouth curved into a dark smile. “Nope.”

“You’re not going to stop stalking me?”

“Definitely not.”

You laughed—nervous, breathless. “You’re insane.”

“You won’t even have the strength to get out of bed,” he growled in your ear.

Your face flushed a deep red.

You didn’t argue.

The second the door closed behind you, you were in his arms again.

Every step forward was another feverish kiss. He backed you up against the nearest wall, mouth on yours, hands lifting you effortlessly off the floor. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively.

You whimpered into his mouth. “You’ve been dying to do this, haven’t you?”

He growled low, biting softly at your lower lip. “You have no idea.”

Your jacket fell to the floor. His shirt joined it.

And just when he reached the bottom of the stairs—

“Oh, come on,” came Peter’s voice from the couch.

You froze.

Derek didn’t.

“Remember I live here too,” Peter muttered, rolling his eyes.

Derek didn’t even glance at him. “Get out.”

“I was here first.”

“Peter.”

You were trying to look anywhere but at Peter.

“Fine. I’ll go find something better to do than listen to you two claw each other to death.”

He vanished out the door.

Derek didn’t waste a second. His hands slid back under your thighs, lifting you again, carrying you straight up the stairs to his room like it was the only place in the world that mattered.

And in that moment… it was.

[stargrillzz]

THE BOY IS MINE

SUMMARY: You were never one to share what was yours, and Bob…he's yours.

NOTE: Inspired by the song The Boy is Mine, Ariana Grande. xoxo

GET LOST

The Thunderbolts Tower common room was unusually quiet for once, bathed in golden afternoon light as it streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The shadows stretched across the hardwood, lazy and warm, while the hum of high-tech equipment buzzed low in the background.

You were draped across the main couch like it owed you rent, legs flung over the armrest, phone in one hand, a lazy smirk tugging at your mouth as you pretended to scroll. But your eyes? Your eyes were fixed on him.

Bob Reynolds.

The Sentry.

Or, as you liked to call him when no one was around: your favorite problem.

He stood by the windows, arms folded, his expression calm and faraway, like his mind was somewhere in a galaxy no one else could reach. His golden hair was tied back, a few loose strands brushing his temple, and the white tee stretched over his broad chest like it had a grudge. Everything about him was infuriatingly quiet, controlled, soft-spoken—except for the way he made your blood rush hot.

You’d been friends since he joined the Thunderbolts. You were the fireball—mouthy, hotheaded, always tossing flirty remarks like grenades. He was… Bob. Sweet. Shy. Somehow not entirely aware of just how pretty he was.

And it was so fun to mess with him.

Except this wasn’t messing anymore. You’d fallen. Hard. And the only way you knew how to cope with it was to flirt until someone combusted.

So when Mel walked in—Team Liaison, model-walk, surgically perfect blouse—you instantly clocked the way her eyes locked onto Bob like a missile system.

“Hey, Bob,” she said sweetly, holding a folder. “I’ve got the report updates for the Kyiv mission. I can walk you through—”

Absolutely not.

You were up before you even knew what you were doing, striding across the room with a forced smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. You stepped right between them, chest high, chin lifted.

“I’ll take that,” you said, snatching the folder out of her hands like it was your goddamn birthright.

Mel blinked. “Uh—I was actually hoping to go over the intel with—”

You smiled wider. “Yeah, no. He’s busy.”

Her brows twitched. She looked at Bob, who blinked in confusion, then back at you.

You didn’t flinch. “Get lost.”

A long pause. Her mouth opened and closed once, then—tight-lipped—she turned on her heel and walked out without another word.

Silence.

Then Bob shifted behind you, voice quiet and confused.

“...Why did you do that?”

You turned toward him, holding the folder like a trophy and cocking your hip out. “Didn’t like her getting in your space.”

He blinked at you, clearly flustered. “But she just—she had the report. It wasn’t—”

“I know what it was,” you said, waving the folder. “But I don’t like people bringing you things unless it’s me. I’m territorial.” you said with your thick accent.

He opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then did a double take when your smirk widened.

“Besides,” you added smoothly, stepping just a little closer to him, voice lowering, “if anyone’s gonna hand you something, and be all alone with you in a room, it’s gonna be me and only me”

Bob made a strangled sound.

You watched the blush spread fast across his face, all the way to his ears. He stepped back slightly like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or combust.

You tilted your head, teasing. “What? You gonna go shy on me now, baby? You take hits from alien gods, but a little filthy daydream gets you flustered?”

“I’m not—” he said quickly, but his voice cracked halfway through.

You licked your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, and purred, “I could sit on your lap right now and read this whole report out loud—naked—and you wouldn’t stop me, would you?”

His jaw dropped. “What—no—I mean—yes—I mean—wait—!”

Your laughter bubbled out, absolutely delighted, your eyes burning into his.

“You’re so easy to mess with,” you teased, your voice warm but sharp like honey with a blade in it. “I swear, Bob, the day I climb on top of you, I’m gonna need to strap you down. You’d shake apart.”

His mouth worked silently for a moment, like his soul had left his body.

And from the bar, Yelena—who had been sipping her coffee with one eyebrow raised the whole time—finally snorted.

“Leave the poor guy alone,” she called, laughing. “You’ll make him explode—and not in the good way.”

You turned to her, grinning like the devil, then looked back at Bob. His eyes were wide, face flushed, and chest rising a little too fast.

Your tone dropped again, soft but dangerous.

“Don’t worry,” you whispered just for him. “When I do make you explode... you’ll beg me for it.”

His head tilted slightly back, eyes fluttering like he was fighting for air.

You winked. Turned. Walked away slow, with hips swinging like you meant it.

Behind you, Bob stayed frozen—staring at your retreating form like he was trying to remember how legs worked—while Yelena muttered under her breath with a smirk, “Dead man walking.”

PINKIE PRINCESS

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, but the kitchen in Thunderbolts Tower glowed with the gentle light of dawn. Soft orange-gold poured through the tall windows, catching on the countertops and flickering across the stainless steel appliances. The only sounds were the quiet clinks of utensils and the faint hiss of the stovetop.

You were standing barefoot in front of the stove, humming lazily as you stirred the pan. A few strips of bacon sizzled while a half-cracked egg rested nearby. The smell was heavenly.

You hadn’t bothered changing out of your pajamas. Why would you? Everyone was still asleep—or so you thought. You wore your favorite set this morning: a sheer, baby-pink satin slip dress, barely reaching mid-thigh, trimmed with tiny lace at the hem. The fabric was so light it floated with every movement, brushing against your skin like a whisper. No bra, no shame. Just sleepy eyes, messy hair, and a devilish smile.

Behind you, the door creaked open.

You glanced back over your shoulder, and your breath caught for a moment.

Bob.

He stepped in quietly, wearing gray sweatpants and a white tee that clung to his torso like it was made for sin. His hair was messy and loose, soft waves brushing the collar of his shirt, and his eyes—those gentle blue eyes—locked onto you with a look you weren’t used to seeing from him.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just watched you, soft smile curling the edge of his lips, like you were the only thing in the whole damn world worth looking at. His gaze wandered—hesitant, almost reverent—from your bare legs up the curve of your hips, the way the satin clung to your back, your shoulders, your neck. His throat bobbed when he swallowed.

You turned fully now, keeping one hand on the counter behind you for balance. “Well, look who’s up early.”

His voice came out low, still warm from sleep. “Smelled bacon.”

You smirked, looking him up and down, eyes full of mischief. “Of course. It’s always the meat that gets you out of bed.”

That got a bashful little chuckle from him. His hand rubbed the back of his neck as he stepped closer, eyes briefly flicking down to your outfit again before darting back up, embarrassed—but not denying himself the look.

You crossed your arms under your chest lazily, which only served to push your breasts up and together, soft flesh spilling just slightly against the thin satin. Bob’s eyes lingered, just for a moment. You saw it.

“You sleep okay?” you asked, your voice laced with sugar and something darker.

He nodded. “Better than I thought I would.”

Then, after a pause—voice barely above a murmur—he said, “Your pajamas are cute. Pink suits you.”

You tilted your head, your smile widening with predatory delight. “Oh? Do you wanna find out what else is pink?”

Bob’s eyes widened just a little—and for a moment you thought you’d made him shut down again.

But then...

“Actually,” he said slowly, a flicker of something new in his tone, “I do.”

You blinked.

“What else do you have that’s pink?”

It was confident. Almost. But his fingers twitched slightly at his sides, and you could see the way his chest rose and fell just a little faster. He was still nervous. Still sweet. But something inside him had finally snapped—and it made your stomach twist with heat.

You let the silence stretch between you, stunned but amused.

A slow grin spread across your lips. “Bob Reynolds,” you breathed, “I didn’t know you could be such a pervert.”

He shrugged one shoulder, but he was watching you—really watching now. Hungry. Curious. Like he’d been holding something back for months, and your teasing had finally carved enough cracks in the dam to let it through.

You leaned forward against the counter, letting your arms support your weight so that your breasts pressed forward, full and soft and perfectly outlined through the barely-there satin.

His breath hitched.

“Oh, baby,” you said softly, “You’re staring.”

He didn’t deny it.

You tilted your head, voice syrupy and low. “Why don’t you come over here and find out?”

The moment froze.

Bob hesitated for half a heartbeat. Then—shy, yes, but with something solid in his step—he started toward you.

No looking back. No regret.

You let him come close, your heart thudding loud behind your ribs as he reached you. His hands came up slowly, cautiously—then settled around your waist, big and warm and possessive. He looked at your mouth like he’d never wanted anything more in his life.

You didn’t wait.

You crashed forward, lips colliding with his in a fierce, hungry kiss. His hands tightened instantly, pulling you against him as your body hit the counter with a soft thump. You moaned into his mouth—open, needy—fingers clutching at his shirt as he kissed you like he meant it, like this had been burning in him too long.

The tension snapped between you in waves—months of teasing, touching, longing—all unraveling as his mouth claimed yours.

It wasn’t shy anymore.

It was desperate.

And it was just the beginning.

Each collision between your lips made the kiss more and more passionate. More ferocious. More hungry. Bob's large hands slowly moved from your waist to your ass, lifting you as if you weighed nothing and sitting you on the counter. The kiss slowed down a bit, more lascivious, more erotic, and as if it were a brief but detailed explanation of how he's about to leave you unable to walk for months. Slowly, you begin to remove his shirt, at the same time he lowers the straps of your dress, not taking it off, just leaving your delicious tits.

"Can I… please…" Breathlessly, Bob did his best to formulate those three words.

"They're yours, baby," you smile flirtatiously.

His mouth took in one of your breasts completely, kneading the other with his hand, following a precise rhythm. Soft, but intense.

"I really love it when you touch me," you whisper, "but I need you to fuck me, like right now." Your hands began to slide down his panties. Honestly, the size wasn't a surprise; you'd always suspected it.

"Do you want it inside?" Bob asks, revealing a side of him you didn't think existed. "Do you want me to bury it deep inside you?" "I'll beg you if I have to." Your face at this point was pained by how needy you were.

He lifts your dress a little, surprised. "I told you I had something pinker," you whisper. "Be a man, Bob, destroy this dripping pink pussy."

Without even giving you time to process his movements, his cock was already inside you, making you fall back in your arms, throwing your head back even further, your legs fully open for him. "Oh my god, so big," you slur your words slightly. Still leaning back in your arms on the counter, you watch the hard, brutal way Bob thrusts into you, the way he moves in and out of you, the way Bob moans deeply, feeling better than he has in years.

"None of the times I masturbated thinking about you compare to fucking you and hearing you moan."

That got you even wetter. The thought of him touching himself thinking about you. Shit.

"Harder, Bob, I can take it." You didn't even finish that sentence, and a strong thrust made you feel his cock deep in your stomach, making you scream.

"I'm going to fill you up with my babies" he says between wet kisses I'm going to take you to my room "another kiss" and I'm going to fuck you again until you can't take it anymore.

"I wanna ride you so bad" you whispered, kissing him. He turned it on so much that he squeezed your ass hard, pounding into you faster, making you scream.

And that’s exactly when the door slammed open.

“Okay, people, we’ve got the—HOLY SHIT!”

John Walker’s voice cracked through the kitchen like an explosion.

You both froze.

Bob’s body went completely stiff between your thighs, and your eyes widened in horror.

Behind John, Yelena let out a sharp yelp—“OH MY GOD!”—and immediately slapped a hand over her eyes, turning around so fast her braid whipped across Valentina’s chest.

Val, meanwhile, stood frozen in the doorway for a full second too long, blinking like she was trying to reboot.

“Are you kidding me?” she finally barked, turning sharply on her heel. “The kitchen counter?! Where people eat?!”

Bob, bright red, stumbled back so fast he almost knocked over the coffee pot. “Shit—I—this isn’t—fuck—I didn’t know—!”

You tugged the hem of your dress down over your thighs, breathing fast, lips kiss-swollen, eyes wild with adrenaline. “You guys don’t knock?!”

“This is a public space!” John yelled from outside the door, his voice half disgusted, half traumatized. “For breakfast! For toast! Not for—” He made a gagging sound.

Yelena was cackling now, muffled by her hands. “Leave it to you two to desecrate the one clean surface in this damn building.”

Bob, flustered beyond measure, dragged a hand through his hair, his shirt rucked up halfway to his chest, exposing his firm stomach. “I’m—I’m so sorry. I didn’t—I just… she said—we were talking about pink things—!”

“Oh my God,” Yelena shrieked from the hallway, “Please STOP explaining! I can never eat eggs again!”

Val’s voice came in, sharp and dry: “You owe me bleach and emotional compensation.”

You slid off the counter with as much grace as you could salvage, cheeks burning, still trying not to laugh. Bob looked like he wanted the Earth to swallow him whole.

You stepped in front of him, grinning despite yourself, placing a kiss to his cheek. “Well… that was so hot until it wasn’t.”

He stared at you, wide-eyed. “We’re gonna be the talk of the whole building.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” you whispered, tugging him toward the hallway with a devilish glint in your eyes, “We already were.”

THE BOY IS MINE NOT YOURS MINE

You were seated on one side of the long, glass-top table, legs crossed, eyes fixed on Bob—who was seated directly across from you, looking unusually serious in his fitted black t-shirt, hair slightly tousled from the rushed morning. The memory of his mouth on yours, of his hands gripping your thighs, was still simmering under your skin.

Your fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of your glass of water, but your gaze? Fully locked on him.

He kept glancing at you with that same, boyish, flustered smile—the one that made you feel like you were the only woman in the world. Like he couldn’t stop replaying the moment from earlier either.

But then—

She walked in.

Mel.

Wearing that same tight, short-waisted uniform she always adjusted way too slowly, like she knew people were watching. She carried her report folder in one hand and a stupid bottle of green juice in the other. Her eyes immediately scanned the room… and landed right on Bob.

You could see the moment she thought she had a chance.

He was polite, of course. He always was. He nodded when she smiled at him, even shifted slightly in his chair as she walked around the table… just close enough to lean down next to him, whisper something with a fake-sweet smirk.

You didn’t hear what she said. You didn’t need to.

Because your body reacted before your brain even caught up—your pulse surged, your jaw tightened, and then… your chair screeched as you stood.

Bob’s head snapped to you.

“Hey, baby,” you said, voice sultry, laced with honey and warning, the word baby echoing like a challenge across the room. You sauntered toward him slowly, hips swaying deliberately. “You forgot something this morning.”

Bob blinked up at you, cheeks flushing just slightly. “I did?”

“Mhm.” You leaned down, one hand on his shoulder, the other trailing along the collar of his shirt as you whispered just loud enough for everyone—including Mel—to hear: “Your handprint’s still on my ass from when you bent me over the kitchen counter.”

A beat of stunned silence.

John choked on his water.

Yelena practically collapsed in her seat, laughing with her hand over her face. “Oh my God, you’re doing this here?”

Val didn’t even look up. “Please stop making me regret giving you all keycards.”

Bob’s face? Fully flushed. But he didn’t pull away. Not even close. His wide blue eyes locked onto yours, lips parted in stunned, reverent awe. He looked like he’d happily let you ruin him in front of the whole room.

Mel, still frozen beside him, finally straightened up, trying to recover her dignity. “I was just giving him the mission intel.”

You turned your head slowly, deliberately, to face her—still leaning possessively over Bob, your hand resting lazily on his chest. “Yeah? That’s cute. He already got all the actionable intel he needed this morning. Between my thighs.”

Bob made a soft, involuntary sound in his throat.

Mel stared, blinking. She didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

You tilted your head, smiling with zero sweetness. “You can try, sweetheart. But the boy’s mine.”

Mel stepped back without another word, walking to the other side of the table with her eyes fixed downward.

Bob stared up at you, lips curved in a dazed, almost worshipful smile. “You really don’t hold back, do you?”

You leaned down, nose brushing his cheek, and whispered against his ear, “Why would I? You let me break you in the kitchen like you were mine, baby. You think I’m gonna let her flirt with what I ride?”

He groaned under his breath—loud enough for only you.

You smirked and kissed the corner of his mouth before walking back to your seat, hips swaying like a reward. Yelena gave you a low whistle. John muttered, “Jesus Christ,” and Val pinched the bridge of her nose and said, “Please remember this is a military mission briefing, not a porn shoot.”

You leaned back in your chair, shooting a wink at Bob.

And he?

He just sat there, dazed and aching and absolutely owned—his hands under the table, gripping the chair like he was trying not to melt into the floor.

Mel never tried talking to him again.

[stargrillzz]

MAD IN LOVE

SUMMARY: endless mixed feelings, no matter how bad it is, it doesn't seem possible to get him out of your head.

NOTE: you always return to where you were happy, and I was happy reading Rafe's fics.xoxo

DIFFERENT

The music store wasn’t glamorous, but it had a heartbeat.

The soft buzz of vintage amplifiers, faint hum of a guitar track looping through the speakers, and the smell of old records and pine cleaner gave the small space its own kind of rhythm. You leaned against the counter, tapping a pen idly on the register while watching the minute hand crawl toward closing time. Twenty more minutes. Just twenty, and then freedom—then surfing, laughter, sunlight, and the only real family you'd ever known.

The bell above the door chimed, and your tired gaze lifted lazily. But then you smiled, immediately brighter.

Kiara and Sarah swept into the store like a gust of salt-tinged wind, both wearing messy ponytails, sandy shoes, and the smug grins of girls carrying a secret.

"And those happy faces?" you teased, pretending to squint suspiciously. "Did John B finally ask you to marry him?"

Sarah laughed, her head tilting back. "Almost."

Kiara bumped her hip against yours and leaned on the counter. “Tonight’s the party of the summer. So before we even touch our boards, we’re going shopping.”

You grimaced playfully. “Shopping. Right. With which money? Because my wallet is currently crying in a fetal position under my bed.”

Kiara rolled her eyes. “You’re dramatic.”

You lowered your voice. “Guys, I seriously can’t spend anything right now. Rent’s due and—” You paused, embarrassed. You hated how easily your reality bled through when you least wanted it to.

Sarah immediately cut in. “Then we’ll go to my place. Problem solved.”

You raised a brow. “Are you serious?”

She gave you that look—confident, kind, impossibly golden. “That’s what friends are for. You think I don’t hoard half the store every time I go into town? You’ll leave my closet looking like a goddess.”

You hesitated, heart full but pride bruised.

“Come on,” Kiara nudged. “Let us spoil you for one night.”

You finally smiled, cheeks warm. “Fine. But only if I don’t have to wear heels.”

—

It was strange how quickly you forgot where you were until you were standing in front of the Cameron estate.

It rose like a monument out of the trees, all white walls and clean-cut hedges, expensive silence hanging over it like fog. You always felt slightly out of place there, like your presence upset some invisible balance. But Sarah made you feel safe—Kiara too. So you followed them up the stairs with a surfboard bag slung over one shoulder and your old Vans squeaking against the polished floors.

Laughter echoed through the upstairs hall as Sarah opened her bedroom door, beckoning you in. You stepped into her light-drenched room, already eyeing the walk-in closet like it was Narnia.

“Just grab whatever speaks to you,” Sarah said, tossing you a pair of jeans. “We’ll mix and match.”

But before you could even make it to the pile of tank tops, you felt something.

That presence.

The energy in the air changed like a cold draft slipping through a cracked window.

You turned—and there he was.

Rafe Cameron.

Leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, that same unreadable expression on his face like he was always thinking something he’d never say out loud. He didn’t flinch when you looked at him. If anything, he smiled.

Slow. Crooked. Like he’d been waiting.

His eyes flicked down and then up again, pausing just long enough to make your skin feel hot.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said casually, voice thick with something you didn’t want to name.

You didn’t say anything. Just blinked.

Kiara saw him next. Her shoulders tensed immediately, lips pressing into a hard line.

“Keep walking,” she muttered under her breath, hand brushing your lower back as she guided you forward.

You followed her lead. Not because you were afraid of him. But because you weren’t sure what would happen if you didn’t.

—

Half an hour later, Sarah’s bed was covered in clothes. Your arms were full of borrowed outfits. Kiara was arguing with Sarah about the superiority of combat boots over wedges when you excused yourself.

“Be right back. Bathroom.”

You slipped into the hallway quietly, head down, trying to remember which door was which.

And then—

“Hey.”

His voice froze you.

You looked up, halfway between fight or flight. Rafe was standing just a few feet away, like he’d materialized out of thin air. Maybe he had.

He looked different in this light. Softer somehow. Like the sun spilling through the window had rounded out the sharp edges of his face. But his eyes—his eyes were still the same shade of blue that made you feel like the tide was about to pull you under.

“What do you want?” you asked, arms folding instinctively.

He didn’t move toward you. Not yet.

“You look really pretty today,” he said simply.

There was no smirk. No arrogance. Just honesty. Raw and unexpected.

Your breath hitched slightly. You weren’t used to kindness from him. At least not the kind that wasn’t wrapped in tension or sarcasm.

“Thanks,” you said, quieter than you intended.

“I mean it,” he added.

You nodded once. “I need to use the bathroom.”

He stepped back, barely.

“I’ll be downstairs… if you wanna hang out,” he said. “Watch a movie or something.”

You stopped.

The ask wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t pushy. But it felt dangerous anyway. Not in the way he looked, or the things he’d done—but in how you wanted to say yes.

And you hated that.

“No, thanks.”

He tilted his head, almost disappointed. “Why not?”

You exhaled through your nose. “Because it doesn’t make sense. Because we shouldn’t. Because I don’t want to.”

That part—I don’t want to—wasn’t even fully true. But it had to be said.

He looked down. Then back up.

“Why not?” he repeated, softer this time.

Your stomach twisted. “You know why. I’m not the one to stop you. I’m not judging you. Believe me, I’m the last person who would. But I can’t act like nothing’s happening when you go through life hurting and humiliating the people I love.”

You let the words settle. He didn’t move.

“You might be kind to me,” you added. “But you’re cruel to them. That’s not nothing. That’s not invisible.”

He blinked once, slowly.

“I’m not the villain you think I am.”

You shook your head. “You’re not the villain I want you to be. That’s the worst part.”

He took a small step forward, almost pleading now. “I don’t know how to be different with them. With you... it’s not the same.”

“But we are the same,” you whispered, voice cracking. “We both come from chaos. But you keep choosing to burn everything that loves you.”

He didn’t respond. Just stared at you like you were the first real thing he’d seen all day.

You turned toward the bathroom, hand on the door.

“I’m not the one who needs saving, Rafe. Not this time.”

And you stepped inside, closing the door gently—but firmly—behind you.

Leaving him alone in the hallway with nothing but your words echoing in his chest.

BURNING STARES

The Chateau buzzed with energy, still carrying the scent of sunscreen and sea salt in its beams. The walls had soaked up the heat of the long day, and now, as the sun dipped low and gold streaked across the horizon, the entire place vibrated with anticipation. Everyone was getting ready for the beach party — but when you stepped out of the room Sarah and Kiara had transformed into a mini salon, everything stopped for a beat.

Your boots clicked softly on the wooden floor as you walked down the narrow hallway, smoothing your palms over your thighs. The makeup was subtle but transformative. The black halter crop top showed just enough skin to make your nerves hum, and the fitted skirt — borrowed from Sarah — hugged your hips like it was made for you. You’d never worn anything quite like it before. Never felt quite like this before.

As you walked into the room, John B’s eyes widened like he just saw a UFO. “Holy shit.”

You raised a brow, arms crossed. “What?”

He grinned. “I didn’t know you were a woman.”

With a dramatic gasp, you hurled a pillow at his head but laughing your ass off.

Pope looked up from the couch, a kind smile lighting up his face. “You look beautiful.”

“Thanks, Pope.” You softened, touched in a way you didn’t expect.

And then — of course — came him.

JJ was leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer in hand, his button-down open, windblown blond hair still messy from the beach. He was grinning before you even looked at him.

“Damn,” he whistled, scanning you head to toe with a slow, exaggerated motion. “I think I just got a boner.”

You laughed under your breath, but didn’t look directly at him. That only egged him on.

“Like, for real. That outfit should come with a warning label.”

You finally turned to him, lips curving. “And what would the warning say?”

“‘Caution: May cause cardiac arrest in blond degenerates named JJ,’” he said proudly.

Kiara rolled her eyes. “You’re a menace.”

JJ winked. “Tell that to her.” He leaned toward you just enough to drop his voice. “So, if I play my cards right, any chance I’m your date tonight?”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “You gonna buy me dinner first?”

“Pfft. I’d steal you dinner and build you a raft to sail away with me. I’m romantic like that.”

You snorted, shaking your head as Sarah grabbed your hand and dragged you toward the door. “Come on, seductress. If you make him flirt any harder, he’s gonna trip over his own ego.”

JJ called after you, “I like tripping over you!”

You didn’t answer. But you smiled all the way to the beach.

The party was everything a summer night should be.

Bonfires crackled up and down the shore, casting flickers of orange across bronzed skin and wind-tousled hair. People danced barefoot in the sand, their laughter swallowed up by music that pulsed from cheap speakers tied to pickup truck beds. Someone was handing out rum in coconuts, and there was more weed in the air than oxygen.

You let the rhythm guide you, moving easily between groups, sipping something sweet from a red Solo cup. JJ found you every few minutes with another dumb compliment or joke, throwing an arm around your shoulders and whispering things that made you laugh louder than you meant to.

“You sure you don’t wanna dance with me?” he asked at one point, his hands already extended like he was about to twirl you.

“I’m not drunk enough for that.”

“Challenge accepted,” he said, walking off with determination toward the coolers.

For a while, it was perfect.

But as the night wore on, the crowd felt heavier. Louder. Hotter. You found yourself needing air, needing quiet. You slipped away, climbing up the dunes just far enough that the music dimmed to a heartbeat and the ocean waves became clear again, curling and collapsing against the shore.

The stars above you were sharp and infinite. You hugged your arms, breathed in deep, let the night wrap around you.

And then—

“You always sneak off when you look that good?”

Your heart jumped.

You turned fast.

Rafe Cameron stood at your side, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on you like he already knew every thought in your head.

You hadn’t even known he was at the party. You definitely hadn’t seen him arrive. But now he was here. Too close. Too real.

You tried to control your voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching you,” he said simply, his eyes drinking you in. “Clearly.”

You narrowed your eyes. “This is a Pogue party. Thought you’d rather die.”

“Maybe,” he smirked, stepping forward slightly, “but you make dying look like a good time.”

You turned your head, pulse racing. “I didn’t come here for drama.”

He tilted his head, voice dropping. “No? Then why are you dressed like that?”

Your stomach twisted.

“I don’t owe you an answer,” you said flatly.

Rafe didn’t back off.

“JJ seems to think he’s got a shot with you,” he murmured, eyes dark and hot. “He’s been all over you tonight. Laughing, touching. All that boyish charm shit.”

“He’s my friend.”

Rafe’s lip curled. “He wants more than that.”

You crossed your arms. “And what—you’re jealous now?”

“I’m not jealous,” he said. “I’m pissed.”

You blinked. “That’s worse.”

He stepped even closer.

“I’m not gonna pretend to like your friends,” he said, voice rough. “I don’t give a shit about them. And I’m not sorry for anything I’ve done. But I see the way you look at me when you think no one’s watching.”

He was right in front of you now. His scent — that stupid mix of salt and sweat and expensive cologne — wrapped around you like a noose.

“You could hate me,” he whispered. “I’d still want you.”

You swallowed hard.

“This is stupid.”

“Maybe,” he said, his hand brushing your arm. “But tell me to leave.”

You didn’t.

He leaned down, voice a little breathier now.

“You shouldn't look that good,” he whispered near your ear. “Not if you’re gonna act like I’m not allowed to want you.”

Your breath hitched.

And then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It was all teeth and heat and fingers gripping your waist like he wanted to brand himself into your skin. You hated how good it felt. How your body leaned into him before your brain even caught up. How easy it was to fall into him, to let yourself forget.

But it didn’t last.

The sound of someone calling your name in the distance broke the spell.

You gasped, pulling back. Your lips were swollen. Your mind scrambled.

“I—I have to go,” you stammered, stepping back fast, avoiding his eyes.

Rafe didn’t follow. Just watched you with that same unreadable expression. Hungry. Possessive. Like he’d just gotten a taste and would never stop now.

You didn’t look back.

But all night long, no matter how close JJ stood beside you, you felt him.

Watching you.

Like he already knew this wouldn’t be the last time.

I WOULD NEVER

The music store wasn’t busy that morning.

A few people came in, aimlessly browsing old records or asking if you had aux cables. The place always smelled like vinyl and dust, and the hum of the ceiling fan above kept the air from getting too heavy. You’d been restocking the cassettes in the back when the little bell on the front door rang.

“Hey, welcome in,” you called out over your shoulder without really looking. Your fingers continued shifting through a disorganized pile of tapes.

Silence.

You turned.

And froze.

There, standing in the middle of the store like he belonged in another world entirely, was Rafe Cameron.

And he was holding a bouquet.

It wasn’t a small, gas station arrangement either. It was large and beautiful — too many deep red roses, eucalyptus, something else that looked expensive and probably wasn’t even local. Wrapped in dark brown paper and tied with a black ribbon. The kind of flowers no one in your life had ever given you.

He wore a dark t-shirt and loose jeans, one hand tucked in his pocket, his jaw sharp and his expression unreadable.

You blinked. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I came to see you,” he said plainly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“At my job?” Your voice edged toward a whisper. You glanced toward the front door like someone might walk in and see this happening. “Rafe—”

“I wanted to bring you something.”

He took a few steps closer and held out the flowers.

You didn’t move.

“Is it some kind of joke?”

“No,” he said, voice steady. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

You couldn’t answer. Because no — he didn’t. He looked serious. Too serious. His face was calm, but his eyes burned, locked onto you like a laser. You took the flowers from him slowly, still watching him like he might do something impulsive.

“They’re… pretty,” you said, uncertain. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

You placed them gently on the counter. “Why?”

He smiled, slow and strange. “Because I’ve been thinking about you.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“Last night—” he started, and stopped. “You looked so good. I couldn’t stop watching you. And when you kissed me—”

“I didn’t kiss you, Rafe,” you interrupted, voice trembling slightly. “You kissed me.”

“And you didn’t stop me,” he said, that grin widening for just a second before fading. “You could’ve shoved me away. Slapped me. Screamed. You didn’t.”

You hesitated. Your heart was beating faster now.

“I don’t know what you’re doing,” you said slowly, stepping back behind the counter like it might offer protection. “But this can’t happen. You showing up here? With flowers? That’s not… you.”

“I’d do anything for you,” he said suddenly. His voice wasn’t raised — if anything, it dropped lower. “You think that’s not me? You don’t know what I’d do to keep you. I’d give up everything else. I’d cut people out. I don’t need anyone.”

You stared at him. “You’re scaring me.”

His brows drew together. “Why? I’m being honest.”

“No, you’re being intense.”

He took another step forward, voice tightening. “You don’t get it. Whatever wrong I do — whatever fucked up shit I get into — I’d never hurt you. Ever.”

The way he said it made the air feel thinner.

“I don’t care what anyone else thinks,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly, like he was talking to himself now. “Your friends? They hate me. I know. That’s fine. I’d still burn everything down just to be close to you.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. The words were too big. The silence between you grew louder.

Then—softly, like a switch flipping—his voice shifted.

“You looked so sweet behind that counter,” he murmured, gaze dragging over you, slower this time. “Like you didn’t even know how hot you are. All innocent with your little name tag and messy hair.”

You took a shaky breath.

“I could fuck you right here,” he whispered. “I could make you forget why you hate me.”

Your hands clenched into fists against the counter.

“But I won’t,” he added, stepping back a little. “Because you’re not ready.”

That was almost worse.

You didn’t know what to say.

He looked down for a moment, then up again, softer — but not safer.

“I know I’m not easy,” he said. “I’m not trying to be.”

He paused. His eyes searched yours with something real, something twisted and honest.

“But I’d never lay a hand on you. I’d never scare you on purpose. I’d never be rough unless you asked me to be.”

You exhaled sharply, your chest too tight.

“I’d give you everything,” he said, almost under his breath. “Everything I’ve got. And I wouldn’t care who I had to hurt for it — as long as it wasn’t you.”

A few beats passed in silence. Your heartbeat thudded in your ears.

Then, as if it was perfectly normal, he nodded to the flowers.

“Put them in water, okay? They’re fresh.”

And just like that, he turned and walked out — the bell chiming softly behind him.

You stood frozen for a long time, hands trembling, heart caught somewhere between thrill and fear.

You weren’t sure what just happened.

But you knew it wasn’t over.

Not even close.

WRONG DIRECTION

The sun was soft on your skin — not harsh like midday, just warm enough to make your arms glow, stretched out on the faded towel beneath you. You’d come out here for yourself today. Just a quiet hour before going back to everything: work, the Chateau, the Pogues. You hadn’t even brought your phone, which was probably a mistake — but you were too tired to care.

You tugged your sunglasses down and exhaled, letting the sound of gentle waves and distant kids laughing lull you into a near nap. Your limbs were loose, your skin buzzed with sun. You’d almost forgotten what it was like to be this still.

Until you heard the crunch of footsteps in the sand behind you.

You turned your head lazily at first, expecting some tourist or someone asking to borrow sunscreen.

But then you heard his voice.

“Didn’t expect to find you here.”

You sat up quickly, heartbeat ticking faster before your brain even caught up.

Rafe.

He looked casual — in board shorts and a white tee that clung to his chest just slightly from the heat. His hair was damp like he’d just been in the water, but the moment he locked eyes with you, there was nothing relaxed about the way he watched you. He didn’t smile like a jerk or try to be cocky. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, staring at you like you were the only person on the whole beach.

You cleared your throat and pulled your sunglasses off.

“Jesus. You scared me.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to. I just… saw you from the other end.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Your towel was too small to look dignified sitting up, so you adjusted your posture, covering your legs and brushing sand off your chest. His eyes flicked down for half a second, but when they returned to yours, they were steady.

“You always come here to tan alone?” he asked, a quiet little teasing note in his voice.

“Sometimes,” you shrugged. “Didn’t know I needed permission.”

His smile twitched. “You don’t.”

He looked out at the ocean for a beat before glancing back. “I was gonna head home soon. Thought maybe you’d want to come over.”

You raised a brow.

“To your house?” you asked slowly.

“Yeah. Just to watch something. Hang out.”

You laughed once under your breath, not unkindly. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going over to Tannyhill with you.”

His smile didn’t fade. He stepped a little closer, voice softer. “You don’t have to stay long. If it gets weird, I’ll take you straight home. No pressure. I just thought—” his fingers flexed slightly in his pocket, like he was holding back— “maybe you’d want to just sit next to someone for a while. Without all the noise.”

You looked at him, lips parted, not answering yet.

He added, a little quieter, “We don’t have to talk about anything heavy. Just… a movie. Something stupid. Or funny. Or scary if you want to cling to me a little, I wouldn’t mind.”

You rolled your eyes at that, but your smile betrayed you.

“Fine,” you muttered after a pause. “But if Sarah sees me in that house—”

“She won’t,” he said quickly. “She’s out with Wheezie, I think. You’ll be in and out before they even show up.”

You gave him one last skeptical look, but when you stood and shook the sand off your towel, Rafe grabbed it before you could fold it and slung it over his shoulder. He didn't say anything, but the small gesture made something flutter in your chest you tried to ignore.

The room was darker than you expected — cozy, even. Rafe’s room wasn’t what you imagined: clean, neat, a little cold, but there were worn corners, personal touches, signs of a boy who didn’t know what to do with comfort. He handed you a bottle of water and settled beside you on the bed, remote in hand.

The movie was something mindless. You forgot the title halfway through. You were too aware of how close he was sitting — not touching, but near enough that you could feel the warmth of his arm. Every now and then, he’d glance at you sideways. You’d pretend not to notice.

Half an hour in, he turned to you, elbow propped behind his head.

“You know you’re really fucking beautiful, right?”

You gave him a dry look. “That’s subtle.”

“I mean it,” he said, quieter now. “Even when you’re annoyed with me. Especially then.”

You tried to look away, but he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping.

“I think about kissing you every damn day. Do you know what that feels like?”

You swallowed.

“Rafe—”

“I’m not trying to scare you,” he said quickly. “I just… I want you to know I mean it. I meant everything I said at the store. I don’t care what I’ve done, who hates me, how fucked up everything is — you are the only thing that makes me feel like I have something to lose.”

Your breath hitched.

“Rafe…” you whispered again, but this time, there was no sharpness in it. Just hesitation. Vulnerability.

And he saw it.

His hand came up gently, fingers brushing your jaw, then your cheek. He didn’t rush the moment — just held you there like he’d been dreaming about it for years.

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said softly. “Not even if you walked away right now. But I swear, if you stay... I’ll spend every second proving you don’t have to be afraid with me.”

You didn’t answer — not with words.

Instead, you leaned forward, slow and unsure, your forehead barely touching his. He didn’t move. He let you come to him. When your lips finally met, it wasn’t urgent or messy — just real. His kiss was warm and deliberate, like he’d been craving the taste of you, but he was afraid if he pushed too far, you’d vanish.

His hand slid to the back of your neck, his thumb brushing your skin.

You kissed him again. This time deeper. And he exhaled like it was the first full breath he’d taken in days.

It was just a kiss. But it felt like a turning point.

And for once, you didn’t pull away.

“Tell me you want this,” he muttered, mouth hovering over the spot just below your bellybutton. “Tell me you want me.”

You moaned, threading your fingers into his hair. “I want you.”

“Louder.” He kissed lower. “Say it like you mean it.”

“I want you, Rafe.” You gasped when his mouth hit the inside of your thigh. “I want you so fucking bad.”

That was enough.

His tongue was on you a second later — slow, skillful, filthy. He moaned into you like you were his last fucking meal. His grip was bruising on your thighs, dragging you closer, grinding you into his face with a kind of frantic reverence.

And when you came, shaking and breathless, his eyes stayed locked on yours — watching, claiming.

“Look at me when you fall apart. That’s it, baby. Let me see what I do to you.”

You barely had time to recover before he was kissing up your body again, lips slick, voice thick.

“You still want to stop?” he whispered.

You shook your head. “No. Please.”

He kissed you like he’d never stop.

You helped him out of his sweats — then he was over you, between your legs, eyes wild and full of everything he couldn’t say.

“You know what I am,” he muttered. “You know I’d ruin this whole fucking island if they touched you.”

You kissed him hard.

“I don’t care.”

He pushed into you slow — thick and deep — and both of you groaned like it physically hurt to be that close. His body shook with the restraint it took not to slam into you all at once.

“Fuck. You feel like heaven,” he hissed, forehead against yours.

You grabbed his hips. “Then take it. Take all of it.”

And he did.

Rafe fucked you like he needed to carve himself into your skin — hips snapping against yours, filthy promises spilling from his lips.

“I’ll kill for you.” “You were made for me.” “No one’s ever gonna touch you again. No one gets to see you like this but me.”

"Oh God" you scream. Feeling absolutely every inch of him growing harder and thiker inside you.

"You love how a fuck you, huh?" he kisses you harder "me cock deep inside you, giving it to you harder every time"

Every single dirty little word that came out of his tongue only made you wetter, and. that made him even harder.

"Maybe I should cum in you, what do you think?" he whispered "spill all my cum deep inside you so you're dripping every time for me, so every time JJ or any fuckying loser even smells you, they'll smeel me, that this pussy is mine"

While he was saying all this, he kept thrusting so hard, as if sticking it in you hard would make you stay with him forever. His thick cock was hitting every spot inside you.

WONDER

It started with the beach.

A week after that night in his bed, the two of you crossed paths again — like gravity pulling two doomed stars into the same orbit. You didn’t plan it. You were just walking along the dunes with your friends, the sunlight painting your skin, your sunglasses low on your nose.

Then you saw him. Standing under the pier, hands in his pockets, staring at you like a man starved.

You knew you shouldn’t have gone to him. Not with Sarah sitting ten feet away, not with JJ sprawled on a towel cracking jokes, not with Pope and John B shouting about a wave they were going to ride.

But you did.

You slipped away like you always did. Quiet. Breathless.

And Rafe was waiting behind one of the support beams, grabbing your wrist the second you were close enough, yanking you into the shadowed space between the pillars.

“Missed you,” he murmured, lips already dragging along your throat, his hand slipping under your bikini bottoms without preamble, his breath hot. “You know what I want.”

And god help you, you wanted it too.

You always did.

Then it was the bathroom at The Wreck. Then it was his truck behind the dunes after dark. Then it was the back of the music store during your shift — the door locked, his palm over your mouth to muffle the sounds you made.

You didn’t know how it became routine. Just that it did.

That every time you locked eyes, something in you clicked open. And something in him cracked.

You knew it was dangerous. You knew someone would catch on.

But every time Rafe whispered, “Mine,” against your skin — every time his hands gripped your hips like they were the only things keeping him sane — you forgot how to say no.

You forgot how to care.

Until one afternoon, back at the store, after a particularly breathless encounter where he'd bent you over the counter between stacks of vinyl, you slumped back into your chair, trying to catch your breath as you adjusted your clothes.

Rafe leaned down and kissed the side of your face. Tender, like it was all innocent.

But your heart was racing. Not just from what he did. But from what you felt.

You glanced at him, unsure. “Rafe…”

His thumb was already on your lips, quieting you. “Don’t.”

You pulled away just enough to speak. “What is this?”

He blinked at you slowly, head tilted like the question didn’t make sense.

“I mean,” you continued, “we keep doing this. Over and over. Like we can’t stop. But it’s just... it’s sex, right? I mean, it can’t be more than that.”

He was quiet for a second, watching you.

Then he stepped between your knees again, his large hands wrapping around your thighs, grounding you in place.

“You really think I’d let you give yourself to me like that,” he said softly, eyes dark, “and then just walk around letting some other guy touch you?”

Your breath caught.

He leaned in closer, his mouth brushing your jaw.

“You think I’d let someone else have you? Touch you? Look at you?”

You swallowed.

“You’re mine,” he growled, voice suddenly sharp. “And I’m yours. That’s all there is to it. Call it what you want, but this? this is everything to me”

“It feels like something else,” you said, voice quiet. “It feels like something real.”

He went still.

And then — with no warning — he kissed you hard. Not just hungry, not just rough.

Devoted.

The kind of kiss that made your skin feel electric and your spine melt. His hands curled tighter around your thighs, like he was scared you’d disappear.

“You don’t need to worry about what we are,” he said after he pulled away, breath still hot against your lips. “You feel it. I feel it. That’s all that matters.”

“But—"

“No.” He kissed your temple. “No doubts. Not about me. Not about this.”

You looked down, your chest aching. “This can’t last forever.”

He smiled then, slow and almost cruelly confident. “It will. You just don’t know it yet.”

Then he stood upright, adjusting himself like it was nothing, grabbing his hoodie off the hook as he headed toward the door. Before he left, he glanced back.

“You’re coming over tonight,” he said. “You don’t have to pack anything. You’re staying.”

Then he was gone.

And all you could do was sit there — sweaty, flushed, and spinning — heart hammering while you wondered whether he was right.

Whether you’d already become his

[stargrillzz]

THERE YOU ARE

SUMMARY: There were always signs, you just need to pick them up.

NOTE: I don't know if at this point in life, 2025, anyone will still be looking for Zayn fics, but yesterday I started listening to his entire album again and I just love him so much.(Khai here it’s a lil bit grown but still a kid) xoxo

Zayn’s country house was tucked in a quiet fold of the English countryside, hidden away from the world in the most beautiful, stubborn kind of way. The long dirt road leading to it was lined with wild hedges and crooked fences, and the house itself—warm brick and low windows—sat in the middle of a green field that rolled gently toward the horizon. It felt like another world here, like time slowed down just for him.

You loved it more than anywhere else. Even more than your own mansion back in L.A. with its glass walls and sharp, cold views of the Hollywood Hills. This place… this was peace.

You had been here for three days now. The guest room practically had your name on it at this point, and Zayn never made a big deal about it. You didn’t need to text before showing up. Sometimes, he’d just glance up from the kitchen with a smile when he saw you walking in with a duffle bag, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because, well, it was.

You’d met almost ten years ago, back when you were just a scrappy 19-year-old with a voice and some half-finished lyrics, standing in a London recording booth, trying not to freak out because One Direction had just walked in.

Zayn was the one who caught your eye first. Not because he was trying to — he wasn’t like that. But there was something about the quiet way he moved, how he kept glancing at your notebook while pretending not to, and the way he finally leaned over during a break and said, “Those lyrics… they’re actually really good.”

That was it.

That was the start.

Now here you were — both older, more famous, a little more worn out by the industry — yet still exactly like that first day: sitting side by side, talking about music like it was your shared language.

Zayn had set out an old patchwork blanket across the backyard grass while Khai danced around it, twirling with one of her little dolls in hand. His daughter was sunshine personified. She had his eyes, his cheekbones, and somehow, his calm spirit too. She didn’t need to be the loudest kid in the room. She just was, and everyone noticed.

Zayn was sitting with one leg stretched out, his arm lazily propped against a pillow. His sleeves were rolled up, showing off the tattoos that still made your heart stutter sometimes, even though you’d seen them a thousand times.

“She’s obsessed with those daisies,” he murmured, watching Khai pick another one with serious concentration.

“She’s got good taste,” you replied with a soft smile, tucking your knees to your chest.

For a moment, it was just the sound of the wind moving through the trees and Khai’s tiny voice humming something under her breath. You reached over to grab your water bottle, and that’s when he said it — casually, but with a glint of something more in his voice.

“I’ve been thinking we should make a song together.”

Your head turned to him, brow raised. “Really?”

Zayn’s eyes were on you now, steady and warm, the kind of gaze that always made you feel like the rest of the world had gone quiet.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “It’s been a while since we sat down and wrote something.”

You leaned your head on your shoulder, smiling. “It has.”

He shifted a little closer, letting the sun catch the edges of his jawline, that slight scruff making your stomach flutter for no good reason.

“That’s true,” he said slowly, like he was piecing the thought together out loud. “But for the album I’m working on, I want that. A song… ours.”

You blinked, feeling the weight of the word settle between you. Ours.

Not just a song with you. A song belonging to both of you.

Zayn always had a way of making even the smallest words feel like poetry.

Your mouth curved into something soft. “Then let’s do it,” you said, voice low and warm. “Let’s make it something real.”

He nodded again, but didn’t say anything more. He didn’t need to.

You both looked out over the backyard, where Khai had now plopped herself onto the grass, muttering to her flowers like they were in on a secret.

You stood and brushed off your jeans, padding barefoot across the lawn. The grass was still warm under your feet, and the air smelled like earth and lavender and a little bit like the cinnamon candle Zayn had left burning on the windowsill earlier.

“Hey, Khai,” you called gently.

She looked up, squinting in the sunlight, and her face lit up the way it always did when she saw you. “Aunty!”

You laughed and dropped beside her onto the grass, landing with an exaggerated oof that made her giggle. She immediately climbed onto your lap, tucking her legs under her like a baby bird settling into a nest.

“What’ve we got here?” you asked, picking up a handful of daisies.

“Bouquet for Daddy,” she said proudly, clutching one in each hand. “But he can’t see yet. It’s a secret.”

“Ohhh,” you whispered dramatically. “Got it. Operation Secret Flowers.”

She giggled again, then leaned her head on your chest, and the peace of the moment wrapped around you like a silk scarf — weightless and delicate.

From a few feet away, Zayn sat back on his elbows, watching the two of you with something unreadable in his eyes. You weren’t looking at him, but you could feel it. That gaze. The one he saved for his most vulnerable thoughts.

He reached for his phone quietly and snapped a picture.

In it, you and Khai are laughing like nothing else exists except this exact second in time.

Zayn stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering just above the screen. He did something he rarely did, post it.

The way Khai won’t let you go, holding you as you were the most incredible thing ever, he was melting.

zaynmalik

Liked by louist91, niallhoran, and others.

zaynmalik Peace 🪽

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Then he locked the phone again and looked back up at you, the corners of his mouth twitching into a small, private smile.

And then, his phone buzzed again.

He glanced down.

From: Management Subject: INTERVIEW CONFIRMED – FRIDAY, 12 PM Podcast format. In-studio. We need you on this. You know why.

His jaw tensed subtly. The warmth of the moment dimmed just slightly, the edges curling in like paper near a flame. He locked the screen and tossed the phone beside him on the grass.

You didn’t notice right away — you were still on the ground with Khai, your laughter floating up into the trees — but something in his face had changed. His expression wasn’t cold exactly, just… far away.

You sat up slowly, brushing grass from your arms. “Z?”

He blinked and looked up, as if pulled from somewhere distant. “Yeah?”

“You good?”

He gave you a quick nod, too quick. “Yeah, just… label stuff.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What kind of label stuff?”

He hesitated. “Interview.”

“Oh.” Your voice dropped slightly. “One of those.”

“Yeah.”

You watched him for a beat. “Do you have to go?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned forward to pluck a daisy from Khai’s pile and twirled it between his fingers. “Apparently. It’s time I… I talk about some things.”

You knew what he meant. The last few months hadn’t been easy. Headlines. Assumptions. Long silences and constant pressure. Zayn had never been the kind of person to speak just to speak. But when he did open up… he meant every word.

You looked at him, really looked — the shaved head, the tired eyes, the shadows under his cheekbones that somehow made him look even more beautiful, in that tragic artist kind of way.

“Well,” you said softly, “if you go, just remember what you said earlier.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“That the next song will be ours.”

A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Right.”

You turned back to Khai, who had just tried to fit six daisies into your hair and declared you a “flower monster princess.”

Zayn sat there a moment longer, watching the two girls he loved most — one his daughter, the other something he hadn’t named yet — and knew, deep in his gut, that whatever he said at that interview… wouldn’t matter half as much as the song the three of you had already written together just by being.

The recording studio was nothing too flashy—clean-cut, brick walls, cozy lighting, vintage rugs under the chairs and cables, and the soft hum of a city afternoon outside the windows. A quiet kind of intimacy filled the room, the kind that invited honesty even when it wasn’t planned. It smelled like fresh coffee and worn leather, and the podcast host’s smile was warm and inviting, but Zayn still had his guard up in that low-key way he always did.

He adjusted his mic once, then twice, leaning forward a little, eyes focused on the foam cover like it might bite him. But his shoulders weren’t tense. His hands, ringed and tattooed, stayed folded loosely in his lap. There was a certain calmness in him lately—earned, not faked.

“All right,” the host said, pressing a button with a satisfying click. “We’re live.”

Zayn nodded once.

“Zayn Malik,” she started, with that signature smooth-radio voice, “you’re back with new music. And fans are losing it over this album. Can you tell us what it’s about?”

Zayn exhaled softly, smiling without showing too much. “I can’t say too much just yet…” he paused, glancing sideways like he always did when his mind wandered, “but it’s definitely one of my most personal projects.”

The host leaned in, intrigued. “More personal than Mind of Mine?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Each song reflects something real, y’know? Parts of my life. Things I’ve gone through. Some dark… some really beautiful. It’s weird to say, but after everything, I actually feel proud of where I’m at. And I hope… I hope people connect with it. That’s really all I want.”

There was something in his voice when he said that—like he meant it more than anything.

The host smiled. “That’s beautiful to hear. Now…” she clicked her pen like she was switching lanes, “We’ve seen a lot of photos of you and a certain pop star lately. One of the biggest in the world right now, actually. Can you tell us something about that?”

Zayn laughed—head tilted back, that soft, rough sound escaping his throat as if it genuinely caught him off guard. “She’s my best friend,” he said, brushing his shaved head with one hand, “my greatest support. We spend a lot of time together, yeah. But it’s more than just that.”

He paused for a second, as if weighing the next words carefully, and then met the host’s eyes again. “She’s helped me through a lot. Like… a lot. Everyone knows I’ve had my dark moments. She never left. Not even at my worst.”

The host put a hand over her chest, visibly moved. “That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Zayn just smiled.

“And the photo you posted,” the host continued, clicking again, “of her and your daughter… those girls looked so close. So warm.”

Zayn’s face softened. His voice did too. “That’s what makes me happiest, honestly. She always made it a priority to make sure I was being a good dad. She encouraged me to be better. She’d show up on days I didn’t even realize I needed someone. She’s been more than emotional support… she’s been like a lighthouse, y’know?”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t be who you are today without her.”

He nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. I mean that.”

There was a short, thoughtful silence in the room—like even the mic was soaking it in.

“She’s a huge part of your life,” the host said softly, “and fans are wondering… will she be on the album?”

“Of course,” Zayn said, smiling. “Again, this album is like… a piece of my heart. And she’s one of the most important things in my life. So yeah, she’s in it. Her presence is all over it.”

The host leaned forward again, clearly catching the subtle weight in his tone. “Sounds like a beautiful friendship. She was truly a lifeline for you.”

Zayn nodded, this time slower. “She is. Especially during the lowest points. Times when I couldn’t see a way out. She was always there. Even when I was pushing people away. Even when I didn’t want help… she was just there. Didn’t let go of my hand.”

The host blinked, visibly emotional. “That’s rare.”

Zayn’s smile returned, lopsided and private. “She’s rare.”

There was a small pause before the host switched gears again, flipping through her notes with quiet fingers. “And now she’s featured on your new album, which, for fans, is going to be a huge deal.”

“Super significant,” Zayn agreed. He leaned back a little, shoulders relaxing more. “Also… I mean, it’s kind of mind-blowing when you think about it. We’re both artists. Music’s always been our thing. And that creates something special between us.”

The host tilted her head, eyes glinting. “A special connection?”

Zayn looked up and met her gaze. “It’s a special connection,” he echoed, almost reverently. “Yeah. Actually, we met through her collab with the band I was in. That was the start of everything.”

“And now?”

“Now… we sit together at the piano. We don’t even have to talk sometimes. We just write. We hear things in each other’s lyrics, in the notes. It’s like… we understand each other without needing to explain. That’s rare too.”

Zayn’s eyes lit up as he spoke—really lit up, like a kid describing their favorite storybook.

“She’s really important to me,” he said, quietly, but firmly.

There was a beat of silence, the kind that fills a room with its own heartbeat.

The host chuckled suddenly, breaking the moment. “It sounds like the connection is deeper than I thought,” she teased lightly, though her eyebrows said romantic tension alert.

Zayn felt the shift instantly. He ducked his head, his laughter lower this time—quiet, a little shy. He stared at the floor with that familiar smile tugging at his lips.

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t say anything at all.

And somehow… that silence said everything.

The world outside had dimmed into stillness, the last light of the countryside sun slipping beneath the fields like it didn’t want to intrude. Zayn’s house was quiet in the way that let you hear the small things: the creak of the wood when someone shifted their weight, the soft ticking of the vintage wall clock in the hallway, the low hum of the refrigerator in the next room. No paparazzi. No producers. No demands. Just the two of you and the simple comfort of being where you didn’t have to pretend.

It was Friday night.

Somewhere out there, people were popping champagne bottles and posing for the flash. Your phone buzzed hours ago with invites to industry parties in the city—ones you’d never respond to. Because here, in the cozy little studio of Zayn’s country house, barefoot and wrapped in the hoodie he’d tossed you earlier, was exactly where you wanted to be.

The space itself wasn’t glamorous. It didn’t have the sleek walls of your L.A. label’s studio or the soundproof velvet panels of Zayn’s London one. But it was warm. It was full of him. Guitar stands leaned gently in corners, unused strings coiled on tabletops, and handwritten lyrics stuck to the wall with old tape. There was a small upright piano in the corner, a little scratched but beloved, with a mug of cold chamomile tea resting on top.

You were curled sideways on one of the overstuffed sofas, knees drawn to your chest, a pencil tucked behind your ear. Zayn sat cross-legged on the floor, one of his notebooks balanced on his thigh. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, tattoos soft and inked against the glow of the warm studio light. The silence between you wasn’t heavy—it was alive. It crackled with unspoken understanding, laced with comfort that only came from years of friendship.

You watched him for a moment. He had that look again—brows drawn in soft concentration, lip caught between his teeth, pencil tapping against the corner of the page. Every so often, he glanced up at you. You tried not to smile when you caught him, but you always did. And each time, Zayn just smiled back like it wasn’t even something to be embarrassed about.

That’s when you said it. Barely louder than a whisper.

“You’re the lullaby the universe wrote to silence every ache I ever carried.”

He didn’t look up right away. But when he did, his eyes were already warm, already smiling. It was one of those smiles that started in his eyes, slow and soft, like it took its time reaching his lips.

“That’s beautiful,” he said, his voice low and full of something gentle. “Seriously. That’s a lyric I’d tattoo on my arm.”

You shrugged a little, looking down at your notebook like it didn’t matter. “Maybe we could slow it down,” you murmured. “Like... take it down a couple notches. I think a slow song would really breathe on this album. Something stripped.”

“I was thinking the exact same thing,” he said. “R&B, maybe. Something quiet, like... like two people talking in the dark.”

You looked at him again. He was already looking at you. Neither of you looked away.

Then he stood, brushing his palms on his joggers. “Come here,” he said, motioning toward the piano.

You blinked. “You sure?”

He didn’t answer with words. Just walked to the piano, lifted the lid, and slid across the bench with an inviting tilt of his head. You padded across the studio, your socked feet making no sound, and sat beside him, your legs folding neatly under the bench, shoulders brushing just faintly.

The space on the bench wasn’t exactly generous, but neither of you made a fuss about it. Your thighs touched, just barely, and his arm brushed yours as he adjusted himself to find the right key. You didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

He started first, letting his fingers trail softly over the keys, finding chords like muscle memory. It was a slow, dreamy progression, like rain tapping on windows at midnight. You watched his hands, fascinated by how natural it looked—the way he knew just where to go, just how long to hold.

After a moment, you placed your fingers on the keys too, joining in. A higher melody, floating softly above his chords.

You felt his eyes flick over to you, not in a way that interrupted the moment. Just... noticing. Appreciating.

“This is nice,” you said softly, barely louder than the piano.

He nodded. “Feels like a conversation.”

You smiled. “A musical one?”

“Yeah. Like the lyrics haven’t come yet but... the feelings already know what they want to say.”

You both laughed gently at that, but the truth hung in the air between you.

A few minutes passed in that peaceful, fluttery stillness. No pressure. No studio heads watching from behind the glass. Just four hands, two hearts, one quiet night. He started humming under his breath, a soft little melody that hadn’t found its words yet, and without thinking, you matched it, your voices blending softly in the glow of the old table lamp.

You turned slightly, looking at him. “What if that’s the chorus?” you said. “We layer both our voices? Like... overlapping harmonies.”

He looked at you like you’d just solved the universe’s riddle. “That’s exactly what I want,” he said. “Like a dream and a memory singing to each other.”

Your heart squeezed a little.

Then he nudged you with his shoulder. “Play the chorus again. I’ll follow.”

You laughed, cheeks warming, and played the melody a little louder this time. He caught on quickly, joining with a low harmony that gave you goosebumps. Your hands bumped once on the keys and you both froze—then looked at each other and broke into quiet giggles.

“Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t move his hand.

“No, that was my fault,” you murmured, smiling down at the keys.

He glanced sideways at you, his voice even softer now. “I like this. Being close like this.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just nodded, still smiling, still playing.

“Me too,” you said after a beat. “Feels like we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.”

Zayn looked at you like he wanted to say something else—something maybe bigger than the moment allowed—but instead, he just bumped your shoulder again, and said, “Alright then, let’s write something that'll make the world cry.”

You both laughed, and the music kept flowing. The notes between you melted into lyrics. His hand stayed close to yours on the keys. Your head dipped toward his shoulder more than once. There was no tension. No awkwardness.

Just music. Just closeness. Just two hearts quietly, unknowingly leaning into something far deeper than friendship.

And neither of you had to say a word.

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yourusername nights like this

You had never thought you’d actually say yes to a movie role, but there you were—starring in a full-blown, romantic drama with an emotional arc that dug deep, just like the classics. It was the kind of film that gave people goosebumps, that made strangers fall in love all over again just by watching the characters breathe around each other. And tonight? Tonight was the big premiere.

Outside the theater, the evening air was brisk but gentle, carrying with it the scent of perfume, pavement, and red carpet anticipation. Flashbulbs sparked in every direction, music thrummed quietly under the noise of gathered voices, and every movement felt ten times more important under the lenses of dozens of paparazzi.

You stood at the edge of it all, wrapped in a creamy, oversized faux-fur coat that spilled elegance and warmth around your body like a blanket of snow. Underneath it, your dress glowed like candlelight—silky, backless, hugging your figure like it was made just for you. A soft golden sheen shimmered every time you turned, and your hair was pulled up in a graceful twist, a few tendrils loose around your face.

Zayn had agreed to come with you.

That alone had already made your heart flip three times before you even stepped out of the car. He wasn’t one for crowds, and certainly not for red carpets. But when you’d asked him—quietly, with a small smile and hopefulness in your voice—he didn’t hesitate. He had simply said, “Yeah, of course I’ll go. Just tell me what time to pick you up.”

And he had. He’d shown up, clean-shaven, hair buzzed short the way he wore it lately, dressed in an all-black tailored suit that clung to him like it had been stitched to his bones. His sharp jawline was even more prominent beneath the warm lights, and his tattoos peeked out from under his cuffs and collar like little secrets he wasn’t hiding, just not showing off. He looked—well, he looked breathtaking. But you didn’t tell him that. Not yet.

Now you stood smiling for photos, your co-star beside you, tall and broad and dripping with charisma. He leaned in every now and then to whisper something cheeky—maybe about the way you almost tripped, maybe about the woman in the third row flashing too many teeth. Whatever it was, it made you laugh, and you didn’t notice it, but Zayn had.

He was watching you from a few feet away, hands in his pockets, brows subtly furrowed.

He didn’t know what the feeling was exactly. It wasn’t rage, not at all. Just… tightness in his chest. Like a string had been tugged. A quiet alarm in his ribs that he couldn’t ignore. Maybe it was protective instinct. Or maybe it was the way your eyes lit up when you laughed with someone else. Either way, before he could second guess it, he moved toward you.

You were just turning to face another camera when you felt it—Zayn’s hand brushing yours, then gently taking it. You blinked in surprise, your co-star pausing mid-smile.

Then Zayn brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles.

Soft. Simple. But the message behind it? Crystal clear.

Your co-star laughed nervously and took a step back, suddenly remembering he had more photos to take elsewhere.

And Zayn stepped in beside you, his palm sliding with natural ease around your waist, fitting there like it belonged. Like it had always belonged. You barely had time to process it, but your body leaned toward him instinctively, your shoulder brushing his chest.

He looked down at you, eyes warm beneath his lashes.

"You look beautiful,” he said, low enough that it didn’t make the cameras click. “You always do, but... wow.”

You couldn’t help the way your breath hitched just slightly, or the way your heart fluttered inside your chest like a wild thing trying to break free. His gaze was soft but intent, like he meant it, like he saw you in this sea of glitz and wanted to pull you out and into his world.

“Thank you,” you whispered, cheeks warm despite the breeze. “It means a lot to me that you’re here. Even more so knowing you're not a very public person.”

He smiled, lips curving slow and familiar. “I’d do anything for you.”

You wanted to say something back, but the cameras flashed again, and the moment was frozen in time—your arm around Zayn’s, your laugh half-caught in the air, his hand settled protectively at your back.

“Guess I’m stealing all your press tonight,” he murmured teasingly in your ear, drawing out another soft laugh from you.

“I don’t mind,” you replied. “Let them write whatever they want.”

Zayn pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “Let them.”

For the rest of the night, he stayed by your side—through interviews, through press lines, even during the screening when you cried a little watching your own movie and he subtly slid his pinky against yours in the dark. And the whole time, his arm returned to your waist again and again, like he needed the confirmation that you were still there, and that you were his to hold—if not completely yet, then maybe someday soon.

And you? You let him. Because whatever that feeling was blooming in your chest—it didn’t feel like acting anymore.

zaynmalik

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zaynmalik proud of you, in every aspect.

The afterparty lights blurred behind the tinted windows of the black car as it pulled away from the theater, tires humming softly against the pavement. You didn’t go. You’d smiled and thanked everyone, posed for a few more pictures, waved politely to co-stars and directors, but once you saw Zayn waiting quietly by the car—with one hand on the open door and that look in his eyes like he didn’t care for crowds or cameras or flashing lights unless they were dancing across your skin—you knew you weren’t staying another second.

The moment the door closed behind you, the silence wrapped around you both like a blanket, and you let out a long breath. You didn’t even realize how tense your shoulders were until they dropped, and the quiet hum of the car made everything feel slower, softer.

Zayn sat beside you in the back seat, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers toying absently with a ring on his hand. His jacket was open now, and he smelled like cologne and something warm and clean—like cedarwood and coffee and maybe the lavender laundry detergent you told him to start using months ago and he never admitted he liked.

You looked down at your heels, unstrapping them slowly and tossing them gently to the floor of the car. Your bare feet curled against the leather seats.

“God,” you exhaled, leaning your head back. “Why do I always forget how exhausting red carpets are?”

Zayn chuckled under his breath, turning slightly to face you. “Because you make it look easy.”

You smirked at him without lifting your head. “Flatterer.”

He shrugged. “Just saying facts.”

The city lights flickered through the window, dancing on his face as he looked at you. You felt his gaze but didn’t look yet. Not just yet.

You could feel the static between you both. That soft buzz. The one that always came after long days or intense moments. Like your souls had synced up again without words, without effort. It had always been like that. Since the very first time you met. You’d chalked it up to creative chemistry. But lately, it felt like something deeper. Quieter. And stronger.

“You were amazing tonight,” he said, voice low, almost hesitant. “In the movie.”

You turned your head slowly, eyes meeting his.

“Really?” you asked, voice soft. “You liked it?”

He nodded, his expression gentle. “It felt… real. Like you weren’t acting. Like you were just… feeling.”

“I was,” you admitted. “It was harder than I thought it would be. That kind of love story—it’s rare. You want to do it justice, you know?”

He nodded, his gaze lingering. “You did.”

There was a pause. A long, easy one. The kind that only happened between two people who didn’t need to fill the silence. You reached over and took his hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His fingers curled around yours immediately.

“You looked good tonight,” you murmured without looking at him. “Really good.”

You felt his thumb brush softly across your knuckles. “I felt like a bodyguard in a suit.”

You laughed, tilting your head toward him. “You were more like a prince.”

Zayn’s mouth twitched. “A prince who nearly elbowed a photographer for getting too close.”

“I saw that,” you said with a knowing smile. “You really didn’t like my co-star, huh?”

He looked out the window, playing it cool. “He was fine.”

“Zayn.”

His jaw twitched. Then finally, he turned back toward you. “Okay, maybe I didn’t love the whispering and the leaning in and the smirking.”

You tried to hold back your smile, but it crept in anyway. “You jealous?”

He looked at you for a long beat, then shrugged with an honesty so simple it cracked something open in your chest. “Yeah. I think I was.”

Your smile faded, replaced by something softer. Something slower.

“Why?” you asked gently, still holding his hand.

He didn’t look away this time. “I don’t know. Maybe because you’re the most important person in my life and watching someone else make you laugh like that made me want to…” he trailed off, lips curving faintly. “Be closer.”

You blinked, heartbeat stuttering. “You’re already close.”

Zayn leaned in then, not enough to scare you, not enough to blur any lines you weren’t ready to blur, but just enough to feel his warmth move closer, enough to smell the sweet hint of mint gum and whatever soft cologne clung to his shirt collar.

“Yeah,” he said, voice lower now, intimate in the dimness of the car, “but sometimes I wonder if I could be closer.”

You didn’t respond right away. You weren’t sure your voice would come out steady. So instead, you slid your hand up, tracing the line of his wrist, the smooth skin just under the cuff of his sleeve. His pulse beat strong and steady under your fingertips.

“I don’t want to ruin what we have,” you whispered.

“Me neither,” he said. “But I don’t think we would.”

You looked at him then. Fully. The way you did when you were writing music together and you were on the edge of a breakthrough. The way you did when he was speaking about something important and you wanted to catch every word.

His eyes were the same ones you’d seen in a hundred different moods. But tonight, there was something in them you hadn’t let yourself name until now.

“I’m not saying anything has to change,” he added quickly, the pad of his thumb brushing over your hand again. “Just… I’m here. However you want me. I’m here.”

Your lips parted, the words trapped just behind them. And then—

The car pulled to a gentle stop in front of his countryside house, the porch light glowing in the distance like a lighthouse calling you both home. The driver didn't turn around, just nodded once through the mirror and stepped out to open the door.

But neither of you moved.

Zayn looked at you again. “Want to stay over?”

You looked down, smiling faintly.

“Yeah,” you said. “Yeah, I do.”

He helped you out of the car, his hand steady in yours. The night air wrapped around you both as you walked up the steps. And somewhere behind you, the last of the city lights flickered and faded.

But in front of you, something new was beginning. Quiet. Gentle. But real.

And this time, neither of you was afraid of it.

When you walked in, you let out a slow breath. His house was warm, quiet, still holding onto the smell of sage from earlier in the week. A faint trail of incense. Everything familiar. Comfortable. Like home, but not yours — his. Still, your shoes came off by the door like instinct. Zayn did the same. You slipped your coat off and hung it over the arm of the couch.

You caught him looking.

“What?”

His voice was soft. “You just looked so good tonight. And now you’re here like this… it’s just kind of messing with my head.”

You smiled and stepped closer. “You looked good tonight too. All serious and handsome and broody for the cameras.”

He rolled his eyes and took a step toward you too. “I was brooding.”

“And then you kissed my hand like we were in a black and white movie,” you teased, your voice light, but your heart beating just a little harder as he stepped even closer.

“I saw that guy whispering in your ear,” he admitted, voice low now.

Your lips twitched. “He was telling me he couldn’t believe how good my highlighter looked.”

Zayn grinned, eyes dropping to your cheeks. “He wasn’t wrong.”

You were standing inches apart now, in the soft light of his hallway. Neither of you moved. Not really. You just looked at each other for a long second. The buzz of the premiere still clung to you, but it was muted now, replaced by something far more real. Quiet. Intimate. Unspoken.

“You want to change?” he asked. “Get more comfortable?”

You nodded slowly, eyes not leaving his. “Can I steal one of your shirts?”

Zayn’s smile deepened, like it was something private he didn’t want to show the world — only you. “You don’t have to ask.”

You made your way to his room, and he followed. In his closet, he pulled out a t-shirt — worn, soft, smelling like him — and handed it to you without a word. You changed in the bathroom, carefully folding your dress and setting it on the counter. When you came back out, barefoot in just his shirt, the sleeves grazing your fingers, he looked at you like he might forget how to breathe for a second.

“Better?” you asked.

“Dangerously better,” he murmured.

You walked past him, pretending not to hear the way his voice had dropped, and made your way to the kitchen. He followed again, this time slower, his eyes lingering on your back. You opened the fridge. “Do we have tea? Or are we doing the rebellious, post-premiere glass of wine?”

“I have wine,” he said, stepping around you. “But I also have those sleepytime tea bags you like.”

You smiled. “You remember.”

“Of course I do.”

He put the kettle on while you sat on the counter, your legs swinging slightly. You watched him move — slow, familiar, so domestic in a way that was dizzying when paired with the memory of him on the red carpet just hours earlier, dressed in all black, jaw clenched, hand around your waist like it belonged there.

“You were jealous tonight,” you said after a beat.

He didn’t turn. “Was I?”

You bit back a smile. “You kissed my hand like you were challenging someone.”

He finally glanced back at you, his voice softer now. “I don’t like sharing your light with people who don’t know how to treat it.”

Your chest tightened, and for a second, you didn’t know what to say.

Zayn stepped toward you, his hands slipping into the space on either side of your legs as he leaned against the counter. He was close again. Close enough that you could smell the remnants of his cologne and something earthy — the fabric of his hoodie from earlier, maybe, or the warmth of his skin.

“I don’t know what this is becoming,” he said, voice lower now, more uncertain. “But I know I’m not ready to let go of it. Of you.”

You looked at him, really looked — at the tired around his eyes, the vulnerability sitting on his lips. Then you reached up, slowly, and cupped his jaw, your thumb brushing just beneath his cheekbone.

“You don’t have to let go,” you whispered. “You don’t even have to figure it out tonight. Just… stay close.”

He leaned into your hand. “I can do that.”

You shared tea on the couch after that, your legs tucked under you and his arm slung over the back, fingertips playing with the edge of your sleeve like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. The TV played something quiet neither of you really watched. Your head eventually rested on his shoulder. And after a while, he kissed the top of it — just once.

It was nearly 2 a.m. again, and the world outside Zayn’s house had gone completely quiet. No car sounds, no wind, not even the distant bark of a neighborhood dog. It felt like the world had fallen away, leaving only the two of you inside the softly lit studio — that familiar, sacred space that had grown to feel more like home than anywhere else lately.

The session hadn’t started with the intention of recording anything deep.

Zayn had texted you earlier: “Got something stuck in my head. Can’t sleep. You up?”

You were already halfway through brushing your teeth when your phone buzzed, and by the time you’d slipped into sweatpants and thrown on a hoodie, you were already at his door, your hair still slightly damp from a shower. He looked like he hadn’t even attempted sleep — messy curls pulled back in a bun, long sleeves half-pushed up, and a mug of tea in his hand that had clearly gone cold.

Now, almost an hour into the session, the lights were low again — not for the aesthetic, but because neither of you had the energy for brightness. Only the small amber bulb in the corner glowed, casting long shadows on the walls and a warm sheen on the keys of the piano.

Zayn was sitting on the bench, legs spread slightly, barefoot, his phone on the floor beside him. You were right beside him — too close for just friends, if anyone had walked in. Your thighs brushed. Your knees leaned in together as you shared the piano.

He was playing something slow. Something soft, unresolved, delicate. You rested your chin lightly on your hand, elbow on the piano as you watched his fingers move.

“You keep writing about someone,” you said quietly, voice barely above the music. “Is it always me?”

His hands faltered just slightly on the keys, then kept going.

“Most of the time,” he admitted, not looking at you. “Even when I’m trying not to.”

You turned your eyes down to the keys.

Zayn leaned back just a little, shoulder brushing yours. “Is that… weird?” he asked, softer now, like he was scared you’d pull away.

“No,” you said. “It makes me feel something I don’t think I know how to explain.”

He tilted his head, finally meeting your eyes. “Try me.”

You sighed. “It’s like… it’s like being seen and undressed at the same time. Like I didn’t know someone was watching me love them quietly until I heard you sing it.”

Zayn didn’t respond at first. His hands had gone still on the keys, and his jaw shifted a little, like he was holding something back. Then, slowly, he reached forward and played a single, long chord — one hand resting gently across the low keys. The kind of chord that hangs heavy in the air, then dissolves, leaving only silence.

Then he said, “Can I show you something?”

You nodded.

He stood, walked over to the soundboard, and pulled up an unfinished track you hadn’t heard yet. He motioned for you to sit near the booth mic. You obeyed, sliding into the chair inside the small glass room. He adjusted the headphones on your ears himself, letting his fingers brush against your jaw when he tilted them into place.

When the track started, you were stunned.

It was soft — a minimal, heartbeat-like beat under warm, layered strings. His voice came in first, fragile and almost raspy, like he’d been holding back tears when he recorded it:

“You’ve seen every part of me, Every shade, every fracture. But you never once looked away. You never asked for less…”

Then, almost immediately after, your own voice — sampled from old takes, harmonizing behind his like a ghost, like a memory.

Your lips parted slightly.

You looked up, and he was already watching you through the glass.

He pressed a button, his voice coming into your headphones.

“I made this the night after the premiere. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Zayn…” you whispered.

“I keep trying to say it in conversation, but I get scared you’ll leave if I make it too real.”

His hand found yours, gently covering it. His forehead grazed yours first, like a question.

And you answered it by closing the last inch yourself.

His lips met yours, slow and warm, like something that had been waiting to happen for years. There was no urgency, no rush — just the quiet realization of something that had always been there. You kissed him like he was a secret you’d known forever, and he kissed you like you were the chorus he never wanted to end.

When you pulled apart — barely — your hands stayed locked together, your noses brushing. And then you leaned in again — not just for another kiss, but because you were finally falling into the thing you’d both written into your lives for so long.

You’d helped Zayn tuck Khai in, both of you brushing her hair away from her eyes, laughing quietly at the way she’d insisted on wearing her sparkly skirt to bed. She was asleep in minutes, one hand still clinging to her pink ukulele like a shield.

Now, the hallway lights were dim. The moonlight poured through the windows in slivers, streaking silver across the wooden floor. The breeze had cooled just enough to be felt on your bare arms as you padded back downstairs in socks, one of Zayn’s long-sleeved shirts now draped over your frame. The same gray one from earlier — still loose, still warm, still him.

You heard the soft clink of glass as you reached the bottom of the stairs. In the kitchen, Zayn was rinsing two glasses under low light, the warm glow of the under-cabinet bulbs catching the angles of his jaw and casting long shadows down his neck. His sleeves were pushed up, tattoos like ink bleeding through candlelight.

He looked over his shoulder when he heard you. And smiled.

“There you are,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t want to leave her room yet,” you murmured, stepping barefoot onto the tile. “She was holding my hand in her sleep.”

His eyes softened, and you watched something flicker across his face — affection, admiration, maybe even awe. He handed you one of the glasses, something fizzy and citrusy, the ice clinking softly. His fingers lingered against yours as you took it.

“She adores you.”

You smiled gently. “I adore her.”

He leaned against the counter, one hand wrapped around his glass, the other tucked into the pocket of his joggers. His eyes traced over your face, resting on your mouth longer than they should’ve. Neither of you moved.

“What?” you asked softly, almost breathless from nothing but the weight of his gaze.

“You look like you belong here,” he said, voice like velvet, low and too sincere.

You blinked, caught off guard.

“Like this house missed you when you’re not in it,” he added. “Like… I do.”

Your throat tightened.

You walked toward him slowly, the glass still in your hand, unsure if you were moving because you wanted to or because something stronger than you needed to close the distance.

“You’re saying dangerous things, Malik.”

He didn’t smile this time. He just set his drink down and straightened slightly, closing the distance between your bodies, not quite touching, but so close you could feel his breath.

“I mean every word,” he whispered.

Your chest rose, your breath shallow. You set your glass beside his. The tile felt cool beneath your feet, but your skin was hot — your entire body hyper-aware of how close he was.

“Zayn…”

“Don’t say my name like that,” he murmured, his hand finally brushing your hip.

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t know what it does to me.”

You swallowed, trying to smile, but your lips parted instead, your eyes searching his face for something solid to grab onto — and finding nothing but that same depth, that same gentle pull you’d been falling into for weeks now. Maybe longer.

“I’m scared,” you whispered honestly.

He stepped closer, his hand resting flat against the small of your back now. “Of what?”

“That this doesn’t stop. That I won’t be able to leave.”

His hand tightened slightly.

“Good,” he said, barely audible.

“Zayn…”

His name again — this time not soft. This time you gasped it because his mouth was finally on yours.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t urgent.

It was the kind of kiss you give someone when you’ve wanted it for too long — slow, steady, overwhelming. His lips moved gently against yours, like he was still unsure if you’d change your mind, like he was tasting the truth of it before it could disappear. His hands slid up your sides, pulling you in, your chest flush to his now, and when you melted into him — because you did — you felt his exhale shake.

You pulled back barely an inch, noses brushing, hearts racing.

It was late afternoon by the time the golden hour rolled into Zayn’s countryside home, bathing everything in honey-colored light. The house felt like a warm cocoon, quiet except for Khai’s giggles floating faintly from upstairs, where she was playing music and dancing in her room. Zayn had just checked on her—she was in princess pajamas, spinning in circles, making up choreography to a song from Encanto, absolutely in her own world.

Downstairs, you sat curled up on the L-shaped sofa in the open living space, barefoot, legs tucked beneath you, a half-read poetry book resting on your stomach. The big windows were open wide, and the scent of grass, lemon trees, and sun-heated wood floated in. The breeze fluttered the edge of the gauzy curtains. Outside, the last light filtered through the fields behind the house, and inside, it caught in the gold specks of dust suspended in the air.

You glanced up when you heard him descend the stairs slowly, barefoot, a little flushed from running around with Khai.

“She’s in her own concert up there,” he said, his voice low and warm as he made his way toward you.

You smiled. “She’s got better moves than I ever will.”

Zayn grinned, walking past the couch to the open kitchen area, grabbing a glass of water. You watched the way his tattoos caught the light on his forearm, the casual way his oversized grey t-shirt slid off one shoulder, hanging loosely off his frame. He leaned against the counter and looked at you, soft and unreadable.

“You’re always looking at me like that,” you murmured.

“Like what?”

“Like you know something I don’t.”

Zayn’s gaze didn’t move from yours. “Maybe I do.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

He walked slowly back toward the couch, glass still in hand. “Yeah. I’ve known it for a while now.”

Zayn sat beside you, but close this time—close in that way that made your heart thunder a little in your chest. His arm brushed against your knee, and he set the glass down on the coffee table without breaking eye contact. You felt the way the air shifted between you. It wasn’t just the heat outside.

“You ever get the feeling,” he said quietly, “that something’s been happening for a long time, and maybe you were both pretending it wasn’t?”

You swallowed, the softness of his voice curling around your chest like silk. “Yeah… I know that feeling.”

There was a long pause. The kind of pause that speaks louder than words. The room held its breath with you.

Zayn reached forward slowly, gently pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered at your jaw.

“I don’t wanna pretend anymore,” he said. His voice was lower now, like he was afraid to break the spell. “Not when you’re sitting here, looking like that, in my house, in my life, every day, and I keep stopping myself from…”

Your breath hitched. “From what?”

He smiled faintly. “From touching you like this.”

His hand cupped your cheek then, so careful, so tender, and the pad of his thumb swept along your skin as he leaned in. Your eyes fluttered shut just before his lips brushed yours—not rushed, not hesitant, just warm, deep, and unguarded. His mouth moved with a kind of reverence, a soft hunger, like he was savoring something he’d imagined a thousand times but never dared to take.

You shifted toward him, your hand on his chest, his heart hammering beneath it.

The kiss deepened, slow but intense. His hands slid along your waist, pulling you gently into his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. The hem of your soft loungewear shirt rose slightly as your bodies pressed together.

“You okay?” he whispered against your lips, his hand splayed along your back, grounding you.

You nodded, already breathless. “Yeah… I just didn’t think you’d ever actually do something like this.”

Zayn exhaled a quiet laugh, resting his forehead against yours. “I didn’t think I had the right to.”

“But you do,” you whispered, tracing his jaw with your fingers. “You always have.”

He kissed you again, harder this time, more certain. There was something unspoken between you, something that had been growing for years but had only just now bloomed fully in the golden light of his living room. You both moved in sync—his hands exploring, yours tangled in his neck, your hips slowly shifting against his lap, heat and want tangled with every breath.

Still, it never felt rushed. It never felt anything less than meaningful.

Zayn pulled back slightly, catching your face in his hands again. His eyes searched yours, open, vulnerable.

“I’m in love with you,” he said, quietly, like a truth that had lived inside him for years.

You didn’t hesitate.

“I love you too.”

From upstairs, faint music played on, a child’s voice singing. And in that moment, surrounded by warmth, sunlight, and the deepest, rawest affection you’d ever known, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen like this. Not tonight. But maybe that’s exactly why it did — because there was no performance, no expectation, no carefully crafted script. Just you in his hoodie, your bare legs tucked under you, the wine half-forgotten on the coffee table, and Zayn sitting so close that his warmth soaked into your skin.

The kiss had already happened. And the second. And now you were breathing him in with a hunger that surprised even you, clinging to his shirt as your back met the couch cushions again.

Zayn kissed you like he needed to, like it had been sitting under his skin for years. There was no hesitation in him now. Just quiet confidence, a gentle hunger. His body pressed against yours — not too heavy, not too fast. He still kissed you like he was trying to memorize it. Trying to figure out if this was real.

Khai was spending the weekend with her grandmother, and the house, usually pulsing with her little footsteps and laughter, felt oddly still — but not empty.

You and Zayn had cooked together earlier. Nothing fancy — just some pasta, a bottle of wine, and a playlist of old R&B songs playing low in the background. You wore one of his hoodies, oversized and soft, the sleeves falling over your hands, and Zayn hadn’t taken his eyes off you all night. Not really. He was subtle, careful — but you felt it. That gaze. That heat. Something unspoken had been stirring between the two of you for a while now, and tonight… it hummed louder.

The windows were wide open, letting in the warm air of late spring. The kitchen lights were off, just the warm lamp in the living room casting amber light across the hardwood floor.

You tilted your head back and let out a soft sound when his mouth traveled to your neck, slow and reverent, like he had all night and no intention of rushing it.

“Zayn…” you whispered, your fingers curling into the hem of his t-shirt. “Tell me this isn’t a dream.”

He laughed quietly, lips brushing just beneath your jaw. “It’s real. And if it’s not, I don’t ever want to wake up.”

You felt him smile against your skin as his hand slid beneath the hoodie again, resting over your ribs — the warmth of his palm grounding, protective. Your body reacted instantly, arching into him. The fabric was thin between you. Too thin. Not enough.

“Can I?” he asked softly, his voice rasped, eyes flicking down to your thighs — the hoodie bunched just above them now, your breath shallow and lips kiss-swollen.

You nodded, heart pounding. “Please.”

That single word undid him.

Zayn kissed you again, slower, deeper, and this time his hands moved with more certainty, sliding the hoodie over your head and tossing it somewhere behind the couch. You were bare beneath it — no bra, nothing but soft skin and want — and he stared at you like he’d never seen anything more perfect.

“Fuck,” he whispered, like it physically hurt to hold back. “You’re driving me insane.”

You reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head, and the moment your hands touched his skin — warm and sculpted and already familiar from all those platonic touches that suddenly weren’t — you sighed, like it was exactly where you were meant to be.

He kissed you again, one hand slipping behind your neck to tilt your head up to him, and the other tracing the edge of your waist, just above your underwear. His touch was maddening — slow, teasing, hot — and every time he moved closer, it still didn’t feel like close enough.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted you like this?” he murmured, mouth against your collarbone. “The way you look at me… how you always sit too close... how you know me better than anyone.”

You could barely breathe, barely think. “Then show me.”

That was it.

He stood, lifted you with such ease it made you gasp and laugh all at once, and carried you upstairs — your arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist, his mouth never leaving yours. You didn’t know which room he brought you into — his or the guest one — but the bed was soft, and the windows were still cracked open, and the breeze made the curtains flutter like you were inside a movie.

Zayn laid you down with such care it made your chest ache. His body followed yours, his hips slotting between your legs as he leaned over you, his hands framing your face like you were something sacred.

“I’m not just your friend anymore,” he whispered. “I can’t be.”

You reached up and pulled him down to kiss you, breathless and needy and full of that silent finally that had lived in your chest for far too long.

He made love to you like he’d been waiting years — like this wasn’t just a night, but a shift in your entire story. His hands roamed your body with reverence. His mouth whispered your name like a vow. There was laughter too, in between the panting and the kissing — because it was Zayn, and it was you, and somehow it felt like the most natural thing in the world to kiss him breathless one moment and giggle when he muttered something about you being “unfairly hot” the next.

But then it shifted again — deeper. He slowed down. His fingers threaded through yours, pinning your hand beside your head as he moved inside you, and suddenly it wasn’t just physical.

You stared at him, eyes glassy, heart too full.

He leaned down and kissed your lips, soft as a secret. “You okay?” he asked, brushing your hair back.

You nodded, overwhelmed in the best way. “Better than okay.”

When it was over, he didn’t let go of you. You stayed tangled, skin warm and damp, his arm tight around your waist, his lips moving lazily against your shoulder.

“You ruined me,” you murmured.

He smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “We just started”.

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[stargrillzz]

THAT WAY

SUMMARY: You can’t keep up with Bucky's ways.

NOTE: I changed absolutely everything about this profile, but I love this new aesthetic and vibe. xoxo

There was something haunting about 3 a.m. at Stark Tower.

The entire place, usually pulsing with the low hum of life and tech and Tony’s endless inventions, was completely still. The kind of silence that rang in your ears like a warning — or a memory. Everyone was asleep. Everyone except him.

Bucky Barnes sat on the edge of his bed like a statue carved from history and hurt, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Sweat clung to his temples. His dog tags were cold against his collarbone. The shadows stretched across the floor like they were trying to reach him, pull him back. Every time he closed his eyes, Hydra's claws were waiting. The screaming. The pain. The way he could feel the metal biting into his bones. The way his own hands, coated in blood he hadn’t chosen, still felt too real. His throat was dry. His heart was loud.

And then there was you. His fingers hovered near his door, hesitating. He knew it was late — insanely late — but… he also knew you’d open. You always did. Like a warm light behind fogged glass, you never turned him away. Still, he knocked softly, almost ashamed of himself for needing you again.

The hallway was quiet, and for a second he thought maybe tonight, you wouldn’t answer. But the door creaked open not even five seconds later, and there you were — sleepy eyes, hair messy, wrapped in one of those oversized Stark-branded hoodies you always stole from the laundry pile. You blinked at him, voice still hoarse from sleep. “Buck?”

He looked at you — eyes heavy with guilt, with something softer behind it. “I… shit, I’m sorry. I know it’s late. I just—” You stepped back immediately, swinging the door wider. “Don’t apologize. Come in.” He gave a breathy nod and stepped into your room, his broad shoulders brushing against yours. The air was warm, soft. Your room always smelled faintly like vanilla and something calm, like safety. You closed the door gently behind him, voice quiet. “Couldn’t sleep?”

He shook his head. “Didn’t even try. I knew what was waiting.” You didn’t push for details. You never did. He loved that about you. You always gave him space when the rest of the world tried to dissect him. You moved toward your bed, crawling under the covers and patting the empty space beside you. “Do you want to stay here?” Bucky looked at you — really looked at you — and then just nodded once. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He sat down carefully beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this — climbed into your bed after a rough night, curled into your warmth like it was the only thing that made sense — but this time, it felt heavier. His silence was louder. You both lay down slowly, facing each other under the covers. The space between your bodies was small, but the tension between you? It filled the room like fog. His eyes searched yours — deep, quiet, like they were trying to memorize every inch of your soul. You couldn’t breathe for a second. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t have to. His eyes said so much — exhaustion, pain, but also something… softer. Something almost like longing. His voice broke the silence. “I really don’t know why I have you.”You blinked, brows drawing in slightly. “What do you mean?” His voice was low, almost ashamed. “With all the bad things I’ve done… I don’t know how I’m lucky enough to have someone like you in my life.” Your chest clenched. You reached for him instinctively, your fingers brushing lightly over his vibranium wrist before moving to his jaw. “Bucky… you didn’t do all those bad things. And you know that. With everything that’s happened to you — everything you’ve suffered — you have every right to be angry, to shut down, to give up.” Your thumb stroked gently over his cheekbone. “But you don’t. You fight every day. You try. You still care. And that makes you more of a hero than most people I know.” His eyes softened as he stared at you, quiet and unmoving. Your words wrapped around him like a blanket — not one that fixed everything, but one that soothed the ache, made it bearable. He didn’t look away. His metal fingers moved slowly — brushing your hair back from your face, lingering on your jaw. The coolness of the vibranium against your skin made you shiver, but not from the cold. His hand cupped your cheek as if you were something fragile — or sacred. He whispered it so softly, like it might break in his throat. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Your breath caught. And before you could answer — before you could figure out whether that meant what it sounded like it meant — he tugged you forward, arms wrapping tightly around you, burying your face into his chest. His chin rested on the top of your head, and he exhaled like the weight of the whole world had just let go. Your arms wrapped around his waist, squeezing gently. You could feel his heart — steady now. Safe. Neither of you said another word. But neither of you needed to. Because even though he wouldn’t say it — not yet — he meant it. And so did you.

The air in the training room was warm — not just from your fire-imbued abilities that occasionally flared mid-fight, but from the way your laughter filled the space like sunshine.

“Come on, Cap, you’re losing your edge,” you teased, breathless, as you ducked under Steve’s punch and slid behind him. Your palm tapped lightly against the center of his back. “Point for me.”

Steve turned, grinning wide. “I’m letting you win. You’ve got a reputation to uphold, after all — Firecracker.”

You groaned. “Don’t call me that.”

“It’s fitting,” he smirked, circling you. “Explosive temper, hot hands, and an unfair amount of style.”

Your grin widened, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “That was almost smooth.”

“I’m working on it.”

You both lunged at the same time, arms clashing in a flurry of practiced blows and counter-movements, years of sparring translating into something that felt more like dance than combat. You’d always had this playful rhythm with Steve — easy, comfortable. He was the one who had pulled you out of the burning wreckage of that HYDRA facility two years ago. The one who had looked into your terrified, half-conscious eyes and said, “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.” Since then, he'd been your constant, your big brother and sparring partner rolled into one.

But sometimes, the flirting slipped in. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe just how close you always got in combat. Or maybe — if you were honest — it was to poke at a certain ex-assassin’s nerves. Not that he ever gave you any clear reason to.

Not yet.

You didn’t even notice Bucky when he entered. Not at first. You were too caught up in your fight, in the way Steve’s hands had suddenly locked around your waist from behind, your back flush to his chest.

“Gotcha,” he whispered near your ear, breath brushing your neck.

You laughed, your head tilting slightly into his shoulder. “Dirty move.”

“You love it.”

You did, a little. The intimacy of it. The warmth. The way it let you forget everything else for a second — the nightmares, the pressure, the endless missions. For a moment, it was just sparring and shared smiles and sweat-soaked comfort.

But then, something shifted.

The tension in the room thickened like smoke.

Bucky stood across the gym, his hands clenched tightly at his sides, jaw sharp and unmoving. He wasn’t punching the bag anymore. Wasn’t training. Wasn’t pretending to be casual. His eyes were locked on you. No, not you — on Steve. On the way Steve held you.

You could feel it — that slow-burn crackle under your skin, like you were about to combust. And this time, it wasn’t your powers.

You quickly twisted out of Steve’s grip, a little too quickly, and he stumbled back. His foot caught on the mat and he fell flat on his back, groaning with exaggerated pain.

You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh my God—are you okay?” you giggled, kneeling beside him.

Steve blinked up at you dramatically. “You did that on purpose. Wanted to be on top, huh?”

Your eyes went wide. “Steve.”

“What? I’m just asking how long you’ve been waiting for a moment like this.”

Your jaw dropped, but the shock dissolved into laughter. “Jesus Christ, Captain, I didn’t know you had a mouth like that.”

He grinned, hands behind his head. “You don’t know how I have so many things.”

That was the moment the tension cracked.

A sharp, deliberate cough came from across the room.

You turned. Slowly.

Bucky was standing by the bench press now, arms crossed over his broad chest, expression unreadable. But his eyes — God, his eyes — were molten.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked flatly.

Steve propped himself up on his elbows, still smirking. “Just training.”

You pushed yourself off Steve’s chest, suddenly feeling like a spotlight had been thrown on you. “Yeah, um… I just discovered a side of Steve I didn’t think I’d ever see.”

Steve laughed again. “It’s a shame we don’t spar more often.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. His tone didn’t change.

“Can you get off of him?”

Your heart jumped. You blinked. “We were just—”

“Calm down, Buck,” Steve cut in, casually wiping the sweat off his brow. “We’re literally in the training room.”

“Whatever.” Bucky didn’t wait for a response. He just turned on his heel and walked out the door, leaving a trail of heavy silence behind him.

You stood there for a second, unsure what to do. Your stomach fluttered — not with excitement, but something between confusion and hope. Because Bucky Barnes had looked at Steve Rogers like he wanted to end him. And for the first time in a long time, it meant something.

Steve chuckled beside you, brushing off his shoulder as he stood. “Jealousy, thy name is Barnes.”

You stared after the door, still frowning. “But… why would he be jealous?”

Steve gave you a look, one brow raised. “Seriously?”

“I mean, he’s—he doesn’t act like—”

Steve tilted his head. “He doesn’t act like he’s in love with you?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Looked away.

“I’m just saying,” Steve added, his voice gentler now. “That man barely speaks to anyone. He barely looks at anyone. Except you. And when he looks at you… it’s like you’re the first real thing he’s seen in years.”

You swallowed hard. The words sat heavy in your chest.

Outside the gym doors, down the hall, Bucky’s footsteps echoed away. But all you could think about was the way he’d looked at you — and the way he hadn’t stayed to explain himself.

You didn’t know what was happening. But maybe… maybe he felt it too. And maybe that was what scared you both the most.

The hallway was silent, except for the soft echo of your bare feet on the metallic floor. You were still wearing your training clothes, an old sweatshirt tied around your waist, your heart pounding as if you’d just run ten flights of stairs. You didn’t know exactly why you felt like this. You just knew you weren’t going to sleep until you talked to him.

You crossed the empty common room, passed the couch, and stopped in front of his door. You hesitated. Just for a second. But then you knocked—twice, quickly, like doing it slower would give you time to back out.

A few seconds later, the door opened. Bucky stood there. Shirtless, wearing the gray lounge pants he used to sleep in, hair slightly damp, like he’d splashed water on his face to calm down. Or to cool whatever he’d been feeling earlier.

His eyes dropped to meet yours, but he didn’t say anything.

“Can I come in?” you asked, voice firm—even though that wasn’t how you felt inside.

He stepped aside without a word, letting you walk in. The room smelled like wood, something clean and warm and his. Dense. Familiar. Like the way he made you feel.

You closed the door behind you.

“Are you gonna tell me what that was about?” you asked, turning to face him.

He crossed his arms, looking down at the floor for a moment. Then he lifted his eyes to yours. They were dark. Intense.

“What was what?”

“What happened in the training room. The way you looked at Steve and me… the way you spoke to me. Cold. Sharp. Like you wanted to rip me out of there.”

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tight, his metal arm flexing like it was burning inside.

“I didn’t like it.”

“What didn’t you like?”

“You two.” The words shot out like a bullet. Then, softer: “Being that close. Laughing. Touching. Flirting.”

His eyes locked on yours like he was searching for something—something he couldn’t say yet.

You frowned, feeling a twist in your stomach.

“What do you mean flirting?” you asked, your voice quieter.

Bucky stepped toward you. Then another step. Barely noticeable, like he didn’t even realize he was moving. But by the time you noticed, he was already in front of you. Inches away.

You could see every little scar on his face, the crease between his brows, the slight tremble in his lips when he opened his mouth to speak but bit down because the words wouldn’t come.

“I didn’t like the way he touched you,” he finally admitted. “I didn’t like that you laughed with him like that. That you looked at him like…”

“Like what?”

“Like he was the only one who could make you feel that way.”

The air stilled. Your chest rose and fell fast, like you’d been running. The room felt smaller. He felt closer. Everything felt too intense.

“And why does that bother you?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at your lips. His breathing was quicker. His human hand lifted, slowly, shaking just a bit, rising toward your cheek… then stopped halfway.

“You know why,” he said. Almost too softly to hear.

“No,” you lied. “I don’t.”

He stepped even closer. And now there was no space left between you.

His nose brushed against yours. His breath warm on your skin. His voice, low and broken:

“Because I don’t want anyone else to have you like that. Because when I see you with someone else, something inside me cracks. Because I want to pull you away and tell you that you’re mine, even if I’ve never had the guts to say it.”

Friday nights in Stark Tower had become something sacred. No missions. No training. Just badly cooked takeout, too many drinks, and a dangerously competitive round of Uno or Mario Kart with some of the most powerful people on Earth.

You were curled up on the couch between Sam and Wanda, a blanket draped over your legs, your hand deep in a bowl of popcorn you were definitely not sharing. Steve was across from you, tossing back a beer and trying to pretend he didn’t take this game as seriously as his old war strategy briefings.

Bucky, as always, sat slightly apart from the group—on the edge of the loveseat that no one else dared to sit on, sipping slowly from a glass of whiskey, arms crossed over his chest like he wasn’t trying to have fun, but still... never missed a Friday.

You didn’t mind it. You knew better than anyone: Bucky liked to observe before he jumped in. He always had.

Tonight’s game was Truth or Dare—Tony’s idea, naturally, because if he couldn’t humiliate his teammates once a week, he might explode.

“Alright, Witchy,” Sam grinned, nudging Wanda. “Truth or dare?”

Wanda smirked. “Dare.”

Sam leaned in like he was about to expose a national secret. “I dare you... to tell us your most inappropriate Avenger crush.”

Groans and laughter erupted instantly.

Wanda looked amused. “Seriously?”

“Yes. The people need to know,” Tony chimed in, way too invested.

Wanda took a dramatic pause, then raised her eyebrows in your direction. “You. Obviously.”

You nearly choked on your popcorn. “Me?!”

“You literally set things on fire when you get emotional,” she teased. “That's hot. Literally.”

The whole group burst into laughter, including you. Even Bucky huffed a small laugh from his corner.

You smiled and leaned into Wanda’s shoulder. “Flattered, but also terrified.”

“Alright, alright, your turn,” Sam declared, looking at you.

“Fine,” you said, brushing popcorn salt off your hands. “Steve. Truth or dare?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Truth.”

“If you weren’t a superhero,” you asked, “what would you be doing with your life right now?”

There was a pause. A soft shift in the mood.

Steve leaned forward, suddenly sincere. “Something quieter,” he said. “A quiet life. Maybe painting. I used to sketch a lot before the war.”

There was a collective silence.

“Wow,” Clint muttered. “Way to ruin the mood, Cap.”

That broke the tension, and everyone laughed again.

You leaned back against the couch, smiling, and turned your head toward Bucky—

And froze.

He was already staring at you.

Eyes locked on you like he wasn’t even aware of it. There was no mistaking it this time—not a glance, not a passing look. This was different. His gaze was deep, unmoving, and there was something in it—something warm and aching and maybe even a little broken. Like you were the only thing in the room he could see.

Your breath caught. Your heart stuttered.

And then, in the span of a blink, he shifted. Looked away. Took a sip from his glass like nothing happened.

You stared at him, stunned, your pulse still racing. Did no one else see that? Did you imagine it?

He looked over at Steve, then at Tony, pretending to be part of the group again.

You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Minutes passed. People changed seats. Someone spilled beer. Wanda was now trying to get Steve to admit he owned flannel pajama pants. But you couldn’t let it go.

Later, when the crowd finally began to scatter—some drifting to the kitchen, others calling it a night—you slipped away down the hallway, almost without thinking. You didn’t even knock. You just pushed open Bucky’s door and stepped inside.

He was standing at his window, back to you, nursing what had to be his second or third glass of whiskey.

“You were staring at me,” you said softly, closing the door behind you.

His shoulders tensed. Slowly, he turned.

“What?”

“Earlier,” you clarified. “During the game. You were staring.”

He shook his head, too quickly. “No, I wasn’t.”

“Bucky.”

He looked away. “You were imagining things.”

You took a step closer. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend like it didn’t happen. I saw you. I felt it.”

He met your eyes then. For a second, everything dropped from his face—the careful mask, the distance, the safety net he always kept between you. And there it was again. That look. The one that made your knees weak and your heart twist.

But then he blinked, and it was gone. Again.

“You’re my friend, Y/N.”

Your heart clenched. “So that’s all it is?”

“That’s all it has to be,” he said quietly.

It happened one night when everything was almost perfect.

The mission was a success. For once, no bruises. No blood. Just tired limbs and adrenaline slowly fading into the quiet hours of the night. Everyone else had gone to bed, but you and Bucky — as always — ended up on the rooftop of Stark Tower.

You sat beside him in silence, wrapped in one of his sweatshirts you’d stolen weeks ago. Your knees were drawn up to your chest. Bucky had one leg stretched out, the other bent, his metal arm resting on it, glinting silver under the moonlight.

The city hummed softly beneath you. But here, above it all, it felt like time had slowed just for the two of you.

He didn’t speak much. He never did. But tonight, he looked relaxed. Safe, even. Something that only happened when it was just the two of you.

You’d been here before. So many times.

But something felt different.

Maybe it was the way his hand brushed yours earlier and didn’t pull away. Or the way he looked at you when you laughed over dinner, like he wasn’t just listening — he was soaking you in. Like he needed to remember it.

Like he wanted to remember you.

You sighed quietly and leaned your head against his shoulder.

“Do you ever think,” you whispered, “what it would’ve been like if we met under normal circumstances?”

He turned slightly, his eyes soft. “Like if we were just... two people?”

You nodded. “No Hydra. No missions. No Avengers. Just... you and me.”

His mouth twitched in a half-smile, and for a second, he didn’t answer. Then:

“I think I still would’ve found you.”

The silence between you thickened, heavy with words left unsaid. Your heart pounded in your ears.

You lifted your head, searching his eyes.

And there it was again.

The look.

The one that said everything he never said out loud. The one that set your soul on fire and broke your heart all at once.

His hand came up — slow, hesitant — and brushed a strand of hair from your face. His fingers lingered on your jaw, his thumb tracing your cheek like he was memorizing you. Again.

You tilted your head slightly into his palm, eyes locked with his. Inches apart. So close you could feel his breath.

You had been avoiding him for days.

The training room? You didn’t show up. Midnight walks? You made up excuses. And last night, when he knocked softly on your door at 2:47 a.m. — when he needed you, again — you didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because the truth was, you weren’t okay. Not anymore.

You couldn’t keep pretending that the looks didn’t mean something. That the almost-kisses didn’t hurt. That the words left unsaid weren’t killing you.

So when Bucky finally cornered you in the common room the next afternoon — after you'd brushed him off again — your heart was already halfway to breaking.

He stood across from you, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw clenched like he was holding something in. His eyes searched your face like you were a puzzle he couldn’t figure out anymore.

“Are you avoiding me?” he asked, straight to the point.

You didn’t look at him. You were sitting on the couch, pretending to scroll through your tablet, even though your fingers had stopped moving minutes ago.

“I’m tired,” you said.

“You’ve been tired for four days.”

You still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Well, maybe I am.”

There was a long pause.

Then the softest, lowest version of his voice: “Why didn’t you open the door?”

You swallowed hard.

Because if I saw your face, I would’ve broken down. Because I’m trying so damn hard not to love someone who won’t let himself love me back.

“I didn’t feel like talking,” you whispered.

“Y/N…” His voice cracked slightly. “You always talk to me. That’s… what we do.”

You stood suddenly, anger bubbling up in your chest — not at him, not really. At this thing between you that kept building and building and never going anywhere.

“What are we doing, Bucky?” you said sharply. “Because this… this thing between us? It’s exhausting.”

His brows furrowed. “I don’t know what you—”

“Yes, you do!” you shouted, finally looking him dead in the eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean when you act like that.”

He blinked, frozen.

“I know your past,” you continued, quieter now, but each word trembling with the weight of unshed tears. “I know everything you’ve been through. And God, I understand why you are the way you are. You have a million reasons to keep yourself locked up. But you don’t get to pretend like I’m imagining things.”

He stepped forward slightly, lips parted like he was about to say something—anything.

But you didn’t let him.

“No. Don’t. You said it was never gonna happen,” you snapped. “You said it with your words, Bucky. But then you almost kissed me.”

He closed his eyes for a second, his jaw tight with regret.

“And we say we’re friends,” you went on, your voice shaking, “but I catch you staring at me all the damn time. You look at me like I’m the only thing holding you together. And then the second it gets too real, you disappear. Or worse, you pretend like it never happened.”

Bucky’s hands had curled into fists at his sides. His eyes — stormy and heavy — never left yours.

You choked on your next breath, your voice breaking now.

“Friends don’t look at friends that way,” you whispered.

And there it was — silence.

The truth, hanging heavy in the air like fog, like smoke, like a fire no one could put out.

Bucky didn’t move. Not toward you. Not away. Just stood there, stunned, wounded, and too scared to say the words you needed.

So you shook your head, taking a step back, like distance would dull the ache.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you said softly. “I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with being close to you… but never close enough.”

His voice, when it finally came, was so broken it hurt. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know,” you nodded, eyes burning. “But you did.”

[stargrillzz]

The way

summary: A love as pure as Steve can give you, as pure and real as him.

note: Inspired by The way-Ariana Grande, Mac Miller. xoxo

Sunlight spilled through the open kitchen windows, golden and warm, catching the dust in the air like little flecks of magic. Somewhere down the block, someone was playing Marvin Gaye too loud through a crackling speaker. It was one of those mornings Brooklyn gave you sometimes—slow, sleepy, impossibly soft.

And it smelled like pancakes.

You stretched lazily, the oversized t-shirt you stole from Steve slipping off one shoulder as you shuffled out of bed and down the creaky hallway.

The kitchen looked like a postcard: Steve in a gray henley with sleeves pushed up to his elbows, flipping pancakes with quiet concentration, sunlight outlining his broad frame like something out of a daydream.

He turned just as you padded in.

“Morning, sunshine.”

You smiled sleepily. “Morning, Captain.”

He chuckled at that, shaking his head. “You gonna call me that every time I cook breakfast?”

“Depends. Are there strawberries?”

He pointed to the plate beside the stove, stacked high with golden pancakes, butter melting in glossy rivulets down the sides. Sliced strawberries, fresh and bright, sat in a bowl next to it.

You slid onto one of the stools at the counter, chin resting in your hands as you watched him with a dopey little grin.

“What?” he asked, catching your gaze.

“Nothing.” You tilted your head. “Just… you look like home.”

His ears pinked immediately, and he turned back to the skillet like it could hide his smile.

“You’re terrible,” he muttered.

“You love it.”

He flipped the last pancake, then walked over and set the plate in front of you. “I really do.”

You looked up, and for a second, the world stilled. No S.H.I.E.L.D., no threats, no history between his bones. Just you and him. Right now.

“Steve,” you said softly, “do you know how happy you make me?”

He paused, watching you. Then nodded, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

“I think so,” he said, voice gentle. “It’s the same way you make me feel.”

You stood to meet him halfway, arms sliding around his waist, cheek pressed to his chest. He smelled like coffee and maple syrup and laundry detergent.

“This is the best part of my life,” you murmured.

His arms wrapped around you tighter.

“I used to think I missed the world I came from,” he said. “But now... now I just think it was waiting for you” your heart clenched in the best way. “That’s the sappiest thing you’ve ever said.”

He leaned back just enough to kiss your forehead. “I’ve got worse.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it.”

You ended up on the fire escape, plates balanced between your knees, the air still warm even though it was barely 10 a.m. Steve sat beside you, his long legs stretched out in front of him, coffee mug in hand.

“You ever think about how weird this is?” you asked after a while.

He raised an eyebrow. “Pancakes?”

You laughed. “No, I mean… us. You. Me. You’re Captain America. I’m just—”

“Don’t.” He turned, eyes soft but serious. “You’re not just anything.”

You blinked, thrown by how earnest he was.

“I mean it,” he said. “You’re funny. And kind. And brave in all the ways that matter. I know what it looks like from the outside, but I wouldn’t trade you for anyone. Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

Your eyes stung suddenly.

“Steve—”

He reached over, brushing a crumb from your cheek with his thumb. “You don’t have to be anything more than what you are. That’s the person I fell in love with.”

The words hit like sunshine — slow and warm and everything you didn’t know you were waiting for.

You set your plate down and leaned in, kissing him softly.

“I love you, Steve.”

He smiled against your lips.

“I love you too.”

The rest of the morning melted by. You danced barefoot in the living room to old records he’d collected over the years, swaying in his arms while he sang off-key just to make you laugh.

“I should record this and sell it to the tabloids,” you teased.

He dipped you suddenly, catching you by surprise. “Go ahead. Tell the world I’m whipped.”

You gasped, giggling. “Steve Rogers!”

“You said it first,” he said, straight-faced, before kissing you again — long and slow and stupidly sweet.

And as you stood there with your arms around him, spinning in circles on creaky hardwood floors while the world outside kept rushing, you thought:

This is what it means to be loved. This is what home feels like.

[stargrillzz]

Don't blame me

summary: Love made him crazy, as it should.

note: This one is inspired by Don’t blame me-Taylor Swift (mother got her shit back, mother owns her own music again and I couldn’t be happier 😭💕). xoxo

The rain hadn’t stopped for hours. You could hear it moving across the mountains — relentless, steady, pressing against the glass of the old safehouse windows like it had nowhere else to be.

You hadn’t meant to end up here. Not like this.

The mission had gone sideways — you were both exhausted, bruised, haunted by the kind of silence that only follows gunfire. And now, wrapped in one of Bucky’s henleys, curled on the couch in front of a low-burning fire, you felt like you were standing in the eye of a storm that hadn’t quite passed.

Bucky stood near the window, arms crossed, metal fingers tapping rhythmically against his forearm. He hadn’t looked at you in nearly ten minutes.

That wasn’t like him.

His tension had weight — not anger, but something quieter. Something you knew better by now. He was scared. And when Bucky was scared, he got still. Quiet in that sharp way that meant his thoughts were louder than his voice.

You pushed off the couch and padded toward him. The cold wood floor creaked beneath your bare feet. You didn’t say anything at first — just slipped your arms around his waist from behind, rested your cheek between his shoulder blades, and closed your eyes.

For a moment, he didn’t move. But then you felt it — his breath caught, his hand curled slowly around your wrist, and he leaned back just enough to let you hold him tighter.

“I should’ve killed them,” he murmured.

You stayed quiet.

His voice was low, edged with something that sounded like guilt. “They touched you.”

“They didn’t hurt me,” you said softly.

“They tried.” His jaw flexed, and you could feel the heat in his body — not anger exactly, but the kind of protectiveness that burned like fire under his skin. “If I had been two seconds slower…”

You slipped around him, stepping between his arms so you could look him in the eye. His gaze met yours reluctantly, like it physically pained him to relive it.

“Bucky,” you said gently, “you were there. You always are.”

His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb dragging across your skin like he needed to make sure you were real.

“I’d burn down the whole damn world before I let anyone take you from me,” he said, voice hoarse. “You know that, right?”

Your breath hitched.

“I know,” you whispered.

“I’m not— I’m not good at this. At holding things. I ruin things.” His brow creased, and his hand dropped to your waist, pulling you closer like he couldn’t stand the idea of letting go. “But if anything ever happened to you because of me—”

“Don’t,” you said. “Don’t even finish that sentence.”

His forehead pressed to yours.

“I need you,” he said, almost like a confession. “Not the way normal people need things. It’s—it’s obsessive. It’s violent. It’s like I’ll go out of my mind if I’m not near you.”

You tilted your head, brushing your lips lightly across his.

“I don’t want normal,” you whispered. “I want this. I want you. All of it.”

His hands tightened around you. “Say that again.”

You smiled softly. “I want you.”

He kissed you — not hard, not hungry. Just… sure. Like everything in him exhaled the second your mouth met his. It was a kiss that said mine, one you felt deep in your spine, one that pulled you up onto your toes and made the rain disappear from your ears.

When he finally broke away, his lips hovered just above yours, eyes dark with something unspoken.

“I’ll lose my mind for you,” he whispered. “And I won’t even apologize.”

You laughed under your breath, breathless and a little overwhelmed by the sheer honesty in his voice.

“Don’t blame me,” you said, teasing lightly. “You fell first.”

He gave you a look — something between a glare and a grin — and swept you off your feet without warning, carrying you back toward the couch like you weighed nothing. You squeaked in protest, arms looped around his neck.

“Bucky—!”

He dropped you gently onto the cushions, his body curling over yours, mouth back on your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder.

“Don’t blame me,” he echoed, lips brushing your skin with every word. “Love made me crazy.”

You arched into him, your legs falling open as his knee slid between them, and he groaned — low and rough — against your throat.

“I’m not gentle when I want something,” he rasped. “And I want you.”

You pulled his shirt over your head, still warm from the fire, and threw it somewhere behind you.

“Then take me,” you whispered. “I’m yours.” He kissed you like he’d never tasted anything sweeter.

[stargrillzz]

Hostage

summary: He confesses how much he wants to keep you close — maybe too close — and for the first time, he lets himself be vulnerable.

note: Wrote this fic inspired a little bit by Hostage-Billie Eilish. xoxo

You didn’t mean to stay so long.

At first, it was just the post-mission high and a tired joke about granola bars. But now the lamp was the only light left in the room, and the city outside his window was blurred like watercolor. Stark Tower was unusually still. And Bob Reynolds — the Sentry, the Void, the man with the sun in his chest and the end of the world at his fingertips — hadn’t let go of your hand in almost an hour.

He was quiet, and you let him be. He wasn’t a man built for silence, not really — it settled on him like too much pressure. But here, now, he wasn’t fighting it. He was… soft. The gold in his eyes had faded to something warmer, more human. And the air between you felt like a string pulled tight.

You watched the way he kept glancing at your fingers, the ones curled around his. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were still here.

“Your room’s not what I expected,” you said quietly.

Bob looked over at you, lips twitching. “You expected floating candles and dramatic portraits?”

“I expected you to have at least one lava lamp.”

He grinned. “Okay, now I’m offended.”

You bumped your shoulder into his. “C’mon. You fly, you glow, you monologue in poetic metaphors when you’re mad. I thought for sure you were hiding a beanbag chair in here somewhere.”

Bob looked like he wanted to argue, but his smile betrayed him. “I had one. Once. Void ate it.”

You laughed — that sudden, surprised kind of laugh that made him close his eyes and lean into the sound like he was soaking it up.

And then it happened. That little shift.

The one where something in the room changes, and even your breathing feels different. Still. Waiting.

Bob’s gaze dropped to your mouth again. Lingering.

“Why do you let me have this?” he asked, voice so quiet you almost didn’t catch it.

You blinked. “Have what?”

“This,” he said, eyes flicking down to your hand in his. “Peace. You… let me feel peace. I’m not used to that.”

Your chest tightened.

“I don’t let you,” you said gently. “You’re the one who gives it to me too, you know.”

He looked like he didn’t believe you. Like maybe he wanted to, but the thought was too big.

You shifted closer. Just a little. Just enough for your knees to touch.

“I’ve had a long week, Bob,” you said softly. “And you’re the first person I came looking for when it ended. That’s not an accident.”

His breath hitched.

He tried to say something — opened his mouth, then stopped. His brows drew together, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” he admitted.

You leaned in. “You don’t have to do anything. You just have to be here.”

Bob was quiet. But his hand gripped yours a little tighter.

Then, after a beat:

“Okay,” he said. “But I’m not sharing my granola bars.”

You smiled — small, but glowing. “I’ll allow it.”

He exhaled — half relief, half laugh — and looked at you again, longer this time.

And you knew what was coming. You saw it in the set of his jaw, the way his thumb brushed across your knuckles like he was grounding himself.

So when he asked it — “Can I kiss you?” — your heart was already saying yes before your head caught up.

The kiss was quieter than you expected. Not rough, not desperate. Just… honest.

His lips were warm, a little hesitant at first — like he was scared he’d ruin it by needing too much too fast. But when your hand slid to the back of his neck and your fingers curled in his hair, he made a soft, helpless sound against your mouth and leaned in like gravity itself had shifted.

He kissed you like you were something fragile and powerful all at once. Like touching you too hard would break the world open. Like he’d dreamed this moment in infinite timelines and never thought any of them would be real.

And when he pulled back, he was breathing like he’d just surfaced from underwater.

“I’d keep you here forever if I could,” he whispered, voice trembling at the edges. “Not in a weird way. I just… I’d lock the door, turn the world off, and just—stay. With you. Like this.”

You touched his face, thumbing gently across his cheek.

“Not creepy,” you whispered. “Just intense. And beautiful.”

His brows furrowed like he couldn’t understand why you weren’t running away.

“You don’t want to leave?” he asked.

You shook your head. “I never wanted to.”

He swallowed, looked down, then back at you — like he was bracing for impact.

“Then stay,” he said. “Tonight. Here. I don’t— I won’t try anything. I just want—” His voice cracked. “I want to fall asleep knowing you’re here.”

Your chest ached in the best way.

You smiled. “Alright. But I get to steal one of your hoodies.”

Bob blinked. “You—really?”

You were already getting up, walking toward the small wardrobe near his bathroom. “I will pick the ugliest one.”

“God, you’re impossible.”

But his voice was shaking. And when you turned, hoodie in hand, he was smiling so wide it looked like it hurt.

[stargrillzz]

Sun or Moon

summary:

note: this is specifically dedicated to @samwinchesterisawhore, @softpia, @rev-glut, @eywas-heir bc they were the emotional support I needed to make this a love triangle😭💕. This is gonna be really light, bc Ive never wrote anything with three people on it, but if u like let me know if you want something more...spiceiiiiii.xoxo

The lab hummed softly with its usual low-tech symphony — gentle pulses of light, the occasional whir of the stabilizer core, and your steady voice murmuring to yourself as your hands danced over the holographic interface. Blueprints hovered in mid-air, layers of your custom tech unfolding and reforming as you ran simulation after simulation. The machine wasn’t finished yet — it wasn’t even close — but it was getting there, and something about working in your dad’s old lab made everything feel more real. More personal. Like he was still here in the walls.

You didn’t hear Bob walk in — his footsteps were too soft. But you felt him, warm and familiar as he slipped behind you and gently slid his arms around your waist, the solid weight of his chest pressing against your back. His chin rested on your shoulder, and his breath tickled your neck.

“You know,” he murmured, low and fond, “if this is what genius looks like, I’m in trouble. I’m falling for it. Hard.”

You laughed, instinctively leaning into him with a grin tugging at your lips. “Bob... you keep saying that. I’m starting to think you like me.”

“Oh, I’m way past like,” he whispered, brushing his nose just under your jaw. “You’re gonna have to invent a word for what I feel.”

Behind the glass wall of the lab, just outside the threshold, Bucky had stopped in his tracks.

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. He’d come to ask you about access codes for a training module — something practical, normal — but when he saw the way Bob was holding you, the easy way you leaned into him, the sound of your soft laugh echoing against the walls… something deep in his chest seized up.

His eyes narrowed. His lips pressed into a hard line, and the exhale that escaped his nose was sharp, annoyed — almost like a growl.

Yelena, who had been walking beside him and chewing lazily on the last bite of her protein bar, caught the entire shift in his body language. She tilted her head and followed his line of sight.

“They’ve gotten really close,” she said, sounding casual, but there was a knowing edge to her voice.

Still staring at you, Bucky muttered, “They did.”

Yelena watched him for a second longer, then smirked. “It’s kinda cute.”

He didn’t answer. He just clenched his jaw and turned on his heel, walking away with a muttered, “Yeah, adorable,” leaving Yelena shaking her head behind him with a sly little grin.

Later, the lights in the lounge had been dimmed to cozy, and the scent of popcorn and takeout drifted lazily through the air. Someone had picked a classic — Back to the Future maybe, or something equally nostalgic — and the massive screen in Stark Tower’s entertainment room flickered with warm, vintage color as the team settled in.

Bob walked in beside you, your arms brushing with every step. You were still giggling about something ridiculous he’d said on the way there — something about how Tony probably had a secret hoverboard in the basement. As the two of you dropped down on the couch, he casually slung his arm across the backrest behind you, not quite touching, but close enough to count.

“Remind me to raid your dad’s storage,” Bob whispered. “Bet he’s got a real DeLorean somewhere under a cloaking field.”

You nudged his knee with yours. “Only if you’re prepared for it to be booby-trapped.”

At that moment, Bucky stepped into the room, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, looking around like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to stay.

You turned your head and spotted him instantly. “Hey, Bucky!” you called, smiling and patting the cushion on your other side. “Come sit with us!”

He hesitated — just for a second — then moved toward you, settling down stiffly. He didn’t look at Bob. He didn’t need to.

You leaned into him just slightly, happy to have him there, but the tension in his shoulders was impossible to miss.

As the movie played, Bob leaned over now and then to whisper something that made you laugh — sometimes a dumb comment about the actors, sometimes a subtle brush of his fingers on your arm. You were relaxed, comfortable, unaware that every one of those moments made Bucky’s jaw a little tighter.

He leaned over suddenly, voice low and close to your ear. “You cold?”

You blinked. “No... why?”

“You’ve got goosebumps.” His fingers lightly skimmed your arm. “Must be me, huh?”

You gave him a curious smile, a little surprised. He didn’t usually flirt like this — not with you. Not openly.

Bob glanced over, his eyes narrowing slightly before looking back to the screen. Bucky leaned back with the barest smirk on his lips, clearly satisfied that he’d been noticed.

And you, caught in the middle, started to feel the air crackle — something unspoken tightening between the two men at your sides.

The clang of gloves on punching pads echoed through the training room. Sweat slicked your back as you spun into a kick, blocked easily by Bob. You grinned, catching your breath.

“Getting better,” you teased, circling him. “Still a little slow on the left, though.”

“Yeah?” he said, wiping a bit of sweat from his temple. “You gonna correct me again?”

You feinted right, ducked left, and swept his legs — but he caught you, laughing as you both tumbled. When the dust settled, you were both on the mat, tangled, breathless — and for just a second, you were chest-to-chest, his face hovering inches from yours.

That was the exact second Bucky walked in.

His boots thudded hard against the floor as he crossed the room in long, fast strides. “What the hell is going on?”

You and Bob scrambled up, surprised. “Sparring?” you offered, a little confused.

Bucky didn’t look at you. His eyes were locked on Bob. “You think I’m an idiot?”

Bob stood, his hands raised slightly. “It’s training, man. Chill.”

“Training?” Bucky repeated, voice rising. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? The little touches, the whispering, always crawling around her like a shadow?”

Bob’s expression hardened. “It’s not like that.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

Bucky shoved Bob, hard enough to make him stumble back a step. “I brought you here to protect you, to give you a place, and this is how you thank me? Trying to steal her from me?”

“Steal her?” Bob’s jaw flexed. “She’s not yours, Bucky.”

“No,” Bucky snapped, his voice cracking, “but she’s not yours either. So stay the fuck away from her. I’m not saying it again.”

Silence fell across the room like a dropped weight.

Bob looked like he was about to snap. His hands clenched at his sides. His body tensed, ready to strike — until he looked past Bucky and saw you.

You weren’t angry. You weren’t yelling.

You were just... hurt. Standing there quietly, watching with wide eyes and a deep sadness etched across your face. Like this was something you didn’t want — something you’d hoped would never happen.

Bob exhaled hard through his nose. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, his boots heavy on the floor as he disappeared through the doors.

Bucky stayed where he was, his chest heaving, fists still tight. You didn’t move. And when your eyes met his, something inside him cracked, guilt creeping in behind the storm.

The room felt colder after that.

The air was crisp on the rooftop, and the night was quiet — too quiet for how loud your heart felt in your chest. You pushed open the door, stepping out with hesitant steps. The familiar creak of the hinges made Bucky glance over his shoulder, but he didn’t say anything. He just went back to staring at the skyline like it was holding him together.

He knew why you were here. And honestly, so did you. But that didn’t make this any easier.

You crossed the rooftop slowly, stopping beside him at the railing. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You didn’t know how to start. He looked like he was bracing for a storm.

“…You okay?” you asked finally, voice quiet.

“No,” he muttered. “Not really.”

The silence that followed was thick. Uncomfortable. You looked down at your hands, fingers nervously twisting together. He still wouldn’t look at you.

“What happened earlier… with Bob… and you…” he began, then stopped. “I didn’t handle it right.”

“No, you didn’t,” you said softly. “You blew up in front of everyone.”

“I know.” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “I couldn’t take it. Seeing him with you. Touching you. Making you laugh like that. It just—something in me snapped.”

You nodded slowly. “I noticed.”

He turned to face you now, eyes stormy and filled with something deeper than jealousy. Something that had been buried for too long.

“I need you to know that I didn’t say those things to him because I think I own you,” he said. “I said them because… because I’ve been in love with you for a long time. And I didn’t say it. And now someone else has your attention and I just—”

“Bucky,” you interrupted, your voice trembling. “Please don’t.”

He blinked, startled. “What?”

“I can’t… I can’t do this right now.”

His brows furrowed. “Why?”

You stepped back from the railing, giving yourself space. Breathing room.

“Because I don’t know what I feel anymore,” you said, eyes shimmering. “For so long it was just you. Ever since we got you out of HYDRA, I… I fell for you. Hard. And I waited. I gave you space. I figured you needed time, and I was okay with that. But then you were just gone. You barely texted. You left and didn’t say goodbye.”

Bucky looked pained, eyes searching yours. “I know. I was scared.”

“I know you were,” you said, gently. “I didn’t blame you. But then Bob came along. And he was just… warm. Kind. He talks to me. He listens. He notices the small things. And I didn’t mean for it to happen, but I started liking him too. And now I feel stuck.”

Your voice cracked, and you let out a small, helpless laugh.

“I feel like the most confused idiot in the world. Because I still love you, Bucky. I always have. But I’m starting to fall for him too. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

Bucky stared at you, stunned into silence.

“You can’t just drop this confession on me and expect me to be ready to choose,” you whispered. “Because I’m not.”

There was a long pause. His shoulders rose and fell with a heavy breath.

“…I’m not asking you to choose right now,” he said eventually. “I just needed you to know how I feel. I needed to stop pretending I didn’t.”

You nodded slowly, biting your lip.

“And Bob?” he asked, quieter this time. “Does he know how you feel?”

You hesitated. “…No. Not really. I don’t even know how to tell him.”

Bucky looked away again, jaw tight. “Then maybe I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

“No,” you said, stepping forward again, reaching for his hand. “You needed to say it. I needed to hear it. I’m glad you did.”

His hand curled around yours gently, fingers rough but familiar. Safe.

“Just… give me time,” you said. “Please.”

He nodded, squeezing your hand. “Take all the time you need.”

You leaned your forehead against his chest for just a moment — a soft, stolen second of comfort — before pulling away.

And as you walked back inside, heart still torn, you couldn’t help but wonder… which ache would hurt worse: losing the one who’s always been there in the shadows, or the one who made you feel seen in the light?

You froze.

It was his voice again — louder this time, strained and laced with something desperate. You turned, startled, and saw him sprinting across the rooftop toward you.

“Bucky, what are you—?”

Before the words could leave your mouth, he reached you.

His hands cupped your face, his breath hitched, and then—

He kissed you.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was raw, aching, years in the making. It hit you like a wave, like all the pain and longing and love he had buried under silence and time had finally found air. Your body stiffened for a second before your hands instinctively reached for him — not to pull him closer, but to hold him in place, suspended in this second you never thought you’d get.

His lips trembled against yours when he finally pulled back, breathless and wide-eyed.

“I couldn’t let you go,” he said, voice hoarse, forehead resting against yours. “Not without knowing. Not without showing you.”

You were speechless, blinking at him with a thousand things you could say but none that felt like enough.

“I’ve wanted to do that since forever,” he whispered. “Since the day you walked into that damn Hydra facility and looked at me like I was worth saving. You’ve haunted me ever since.”

Your throat tightened. You couldn’t breathe.

“Bucky…”

“I’m not asking you to fix anything. I’m not asking for answers. I just… I had to know what it felt like. Just once.”

You looked up at him — at those impossibly blue eyes, that trembling mouth, that aching hope on his face.

And still… your feet moved.

You stepped back.

His hands dropped from your face slowly, like letting go of something sacred.

“I… I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I just— I need to think. I can’t— I don’t know what to do with any of this right now.”

He didn’t stop you. Not this time.

He only nodded once, jaw tight, eyes flickering with something you couldn’t name.

And then you turned and walked away again, your lips still burning from his kiss… and your heart in absolute chaos.

---

The tower was quiet.

It was late—past midnight—and you were curled up in bed, the soft lamp casting a warm pool of light over your sheets. A book lay open in your lap, one you’d read a dozen times before, your fingers gently skimming the page but your eyes unfocused. Your mind wasn’t on the words. Not really. It had been a long few weeks. The team settling in. The chaos of having both Bucky and Bob in the same space. The tension.

Especially the tension.

You sighed and turned the page, even though you hadn’t really absorbed the last one. The silence was calming, a rare moment of peace in the chaos of your days—

Knock knock.

The sound was soft. Hesitant.

You blinked and sat up straighter. “Come in?”

The door creaked open slowly, and there he was.

Bucky.

Hair messy, shirt wrinkled, shadows deep beneath his eyes. His hand lingered on the doorframe like he might change his mind.

“Hey,” he said quietly, his voice rough.

“Hey,” you echoed, warmth already spreading in your chest. “Everything okay?”

He hesitated. Then stepped inside, closing the door behind him gently.

“I, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. “Had a nightmare.”

Your heart ached at how small his voice had gotten.

“Oh, Buck…” You shifted to the side instinctively, patting the empty space beside you on the bed. “Come here.”

He didn’t argue. Just exhaled like he’d been holding his breath all day and made his way over, climbing under the covers beside you. His body was warm. Solid. His metal arm stayed above the sheets, tense, like it didn’t know where it belonged.

You turned slightly, your head propped on your hand. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

He shook his head. “Not really. Just… wanted to be near you.”

The words sat heavy between you, sweet and sad and full of something unsaid.

You nodded softly. “You know you can always come to me, right?”

His eyes flicked to yours. Blue and stormy. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

Silence fell again. Not uncomfortable, just charged. You reached over without thinking and brushed your fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes at the touch, exhaling slowly like your fingers were rewiring him in real time.

“I missed this,” he whispered.

“This?” you asked softly.

“You,” he clarified. “Your voice. Your laugh. The way you always hum when you’re reading. I didn’t realize how much I missed it until I had it again.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Bucky…”

He opened his eyes and turned slightly to face you. “I should’ve told you a long time ago.”

You were barely breathing.

“I liked you,” he said, voice low, vulnerable. “Since the tower. Since the quiet mornings in the kitchen when it was just us and coffee and the sound of the city. I just… didn’t think I deserved to say it out loud.”

Your lips parted, your heart racing.

“I liked you too,” you admitted, voice barely a whisper. “Since the moment we brought you back from Hydra. You were so quiet. But when you looked at me, it was like you saw everything. And I always felt safe with you.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “Then why didn’t we ever—?”

“I don’t know,” you said, shaking your head gently. “Fear? Timing? You disappearing on missions for months?”

He chuckled. “You ghosting my messages when I finally texted?”

You gasped, mock-offended. “I didn’t ghost you! I was—processing.”

He smiled. Really smiled. And it made your heart twist in your chest.

You stared at each other, the space between you warm and trembling. His fingers brushed your cheek. You didn’t pull away.

“I still feel like I’m dreaming,” he said softly.

“You’re not.”

“I wish I was brave enough to kiss you.”

Your breath hitched. Your voice dropped to a whisper.

“What if I wanted you to?”

His eyes darkened, lips parted—but he didn’t move. His thumb stroked your jaw.

“I’d probably never stop,” he murmured.

You smiled gently, heart fluttering. “Maybe we shouldn’t start just yet.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay. Just this for now.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead gently to yours. Your eyes fluttered closed, hands tangled loosely in the sheets between you.

You stayed like that for a while—together, finally, after all the time lost.

And when you both eventually drifted off to sleep, you were wrapped in Bucky’s arms, the world quiet again… at least for tonight.

---

The sun was just beginning to filter through the tower’s wide windows, golden light spilling across the marble floors like spilled honey.

You stood in the kitchen, barefoot, wrapped in one of your oversized sweatshirts, nursing a cup of coffee you didn’t really want. The night had been… intense. You’d barely slept, not from discomfort, but because Bucky’s arms had held you so securely, so tenderly, like you were something he’d lost and finally found again.

You’d woken up with your face pressed into his chest, his breathing slow and warm, the metal arm protectively looped around your waist. It had felt safe. Familiar. But also terrifyingly real.

Now, your chest felt heavy.

And then you heard the soft shuffle of footsteps behind you.

Bob.

“Hey,” he said gently, his voice still thick with sleep, hair slightly mussed. His blue hoodie was slung over his shoulder, his eyes already scanning you like he could read your every emotion.

You forced a smile, warm but faint. “Hey.”

He came to stand beside you, grabbing a mug and pouring himself some coffee in silence. The tension wasn’t hostile—it was soft. Tired. Real.

Bob took a sip, leaning against the counter. “You didn’t sleep alone”

Your eyes flicked up to him. “No.”

He nodded once, he saw bucky going to your dorm in the middle of the night. His jaw tightening for just a moment before he looked down at his cup.

“I’m not mad,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

There was a beat of silence before you exhaled slowly, setting your cup down. “Bob… I need to be honest with you.”

His eyes met yours. Soft. Open.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admitted, voice trembling slightly. “I feel like I’m being pulled in two different directions, and I don’t want to hurt you. I never wanted to. But last night, Bucky… I’ve had feelings for him for years. Since Hydra. But you… you’ve been here lately. You’ve made me feel seen. Like I’m more than just Tony Stark’s daughter or the girl left behind. You made me feel like me.”

Bob nodded, his throat visibly tightening.

“I don’t want to lead you on,” you continued, blinking fast. “But I don’t want to lose you either. And I’m confused. I feel like my heart is trying to split itself down the middle and it’s not fair to either of you.”

Bob was silent for a moment. Then, with a soft smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he said, “You’re not leading me on. You're being honest, which is more than most people ever are.”

He looked down, then back at you. “I’m not going to compete with Bucky. That’s not what this is. I don’t want to be ‘better’ than him. I just want to be someone you want.”

“I do,” you whispered, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes. “That’s the problem.”

Bob smiled, then gently took your hand in his. His warmth grounded you instantly.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “Even if you end up choosing him. I’d rather have you in my life as a friend than not at all.”

You stepped closer without thinking, leaning your forehead against his chest. His arms came around you slowly, carefully, like he was holding something precious.

“I’m a mess,” you murmured against him.

“You’re my mess,” he said with a soft chuckle. “And I’m still hoping. Just... not pushing.”

You stayed like that for a while. Wrapped in something quiet. Uncertain. But safe.

And outside the kitchen, down the hall, Bucky leaned against the wall — hearing just enough to understand, and feeling that familiar ache rise in his chest like it always did when something he wanted was just a little out of reach.

LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT SOMETHING MORE HOTT, and even if you want to give me ideas of what kind of interactions you want between them, I want to make you wishes come true...and I also need help cause Ive never wrote something with more than 2 people on it.