#Currency Note Counting Machines

[notecountingmachine]

Elcons note counting machine High-Speed Note Counting: Efficiently counts up to 1000 notes per minute, ensuring quick and accurate processing for businesses, shops, and offices. LED Display & Dual Screen: Equipped with a clear LED display and secondary external display

[mrsirobin]

Money Counting Machine Price in Bangladesh – Why It Matters in 2025

Ever had to count stacks of cash late at night at your shop or office? You know that feeling — tired eyes, a wrong total, and the fear of fake notes slipping in. That’s where a good Money Counting Machine changes the game.

In this post, I’m breaking down everything you need to know about the Money Counting Machine price in Bangladesh, what features to look for, and how to pick the right one whether you're a small business owner, a bank employee, or just tired of hand-counting cash.

🚀 Why Use a Money Counting Machine?

Let’s face it: manual counting is slow, risky, and outdated. A Money Counting Machine saves time, cuts down errors, and even protects you from counterfeit notes.

If you're:

Running a retail shop,

Working in a bank or NGO, or

Dealing with cash regularly at a pharmacy, salon, or event, this tool is for you.

💸 What’s the Current Money Counting Machine Price in Bangladesh?

Prices vary depending on the features. On average:

Basic Models: ৳8,500 – ৳11,000

Mid-Range (with fake note detection): ৳12,000 – ৳15,000

Advanced Commercial Models: ৳16,000 – ৳25,000+

👉 For latest prices and verified suppliers, check Nobarun BD.

🧠 Features You Should Look For

Here’s what makes a Currency Counting Machine worth the money:

Fake Note Detection → Look for UV, MG (Magnetic), IR sensors

Speed → Should count at least 1000 notes/minute

Display → LED screen with error alerts is a must

Batch & Add Functions → Useful for organized counting

Note Size Compatibility → Some machines even support different currency sizes

Model Price Range (BDT) Fake Note Detection Best For

Turbo Count 3000 ৳13,500 UV + MG Shops, Pharmacies

CashGuard Pro X ৳19,800 UV + MG + IR Banks, NGOs

MiniNote Smart ৳9,500 UV Only Small Businesses

SecureCount Edge ৳15,200 UV + MG + IR + Voice High Volume Retail

📊 Quick Comparison of Popular Models

🛒 Who's Buying These in 2025?

Grocery store owners: To close counters faster

Bank tellers: For speed and precision

Event organizers: To count donations and ticket cash

General users: Yes, even for home use!

���� FAQs – You Asked, We Answered

Q: Can a money counter detect all fake notes?A: Most modern machines use UV, MG, and IR to detect counterfeits. Accuracy depends on quality.

Q: Will I need training to use one?A: Nope! They’re super user-friendly. Plug and play.

Q: Is it noisy or bulky?A: Many models are compact and operate quietly — perfect for small desks.

Q: Does it support new Bangladeshi currency?A: Yes, most recent models support updated note sizes and security marks.

🌟 Final Thoughts

Let’s be honest — we live in a time when accuracy, speed, and security matter. And for cash transactions, that means upgrading to a Money Counter Machine. Whether you want peace of mind or just more time back in your day, a fake note detector equipped machine is a smart investment.🚨 Don’t overpay. Get genuine devices from trusted sellers. Start here 👉 Money Counting Machine price in Bangladesh – Nobarun BD

[vmscareaid]

7 Essential Insights About Money Counting Machines

In today's fast-paced financial environments, efficiency and accuracy in handling cash are paramount. Businesses, whether large or small, rely on advanced tools to streamline operations, and a money counting machine is one such indispensable device. This article will delve into the key aspects of money counting machines, highlighting why they are crucial for businesses and how to choose the right one.

1. The Evolution of Money Counters

Money counters have come a long way from the simple mechanical devices of the past. Modern machines are equipped with advanced technologies, allowing them to handle large volumes of cash quickly and accurately. Today’s machines not only count notes but also detect counterfeit currency, making them essential tools in the retail and banking sectors. With the rise of digital transactions, the need for cash handling might seem reduced, but cash is still king in many parts of the world, making money counting machines relevant even today.

2. Types of Money Counting Machines

There are several types of money counting machines, each designed to meet different needs.

Basic Currency Counting Machines: These are straightforward devices that count the number of notes passed through them. They are ideal for businesses with a low risk of counterfeit currency and where speed is more important than accuracy.

Mix Value Counters: These advanced machines can count mixed denominations and calculate the total value of the notes. This feature is particularly useful for businesses that handle large amounts of cash in various denominations, ensuring that they don’t just count notes but also know their exact value.

Note Counting Machines with Counterfeit Detection: These machines not only count money but also check for counterfeit notes using UV, magnetic, or infrared technology. This is crucial for businesses in high-risk areas where counterfeit currency is more prevalent.

3. Why Businesses Need Currency Counting Machines

For any business handling cash transactions, time is money. Manually counting notes is not only time-consuming but also prone to human error. A money counting machine automates this process, significantly reducing the time spent on counting cash and minimizing errors. Moreover, the counterfeit detection feature in many machines ensures that businesses do not lose money by accepting fake notes.

4. Key Features to Look For

When choosing a money counting machine, there are several features to consider:

Counting Speed: Depending on the volume of cash handled daily, businesses should look for machines with varying counting speeds. High-speed machines are suitable for larger businesses, while smaller businesses may opt for slower, more affordable models.

Counterfeit Detection: As mentioned, this feature is crucial for businesses in areas where counterfeit currency is common. Ensure the machine uses multiple detection methods for the highest accuracy.

Hopper Capacity: This refers to the number of notes the machine can hold at once. Larger hoppers are better for businesses that need to count large amounts of cash quickly.

Noise Level: Some machines can be quite noisy, which can be a distraction in quieter office environments. Consider a machine with a lower noise output if this is a concern.

Portability: For businesses that require flexibility, portable money counting machines are available. These are lightweight and easy to transport, making them ideal for use at multiple locations.

5. The Cost Factor: What to Expect

The price of money counting machines varies significantly based on their features. Basic models can be quite affordable, but as you add more advanced features like counterfeit detection and mix value counting, the price increases. It's important to balance your budget with your needs, as investing in a more expensive machine can save you money in the long run by preventing losses from counterfeit notes and improving efficiency.

6. Maintenance and Durability

Money counting machines are robust devices, but like any equipment, they require regular maintenance to ensure longevity. Regular cleaning and calibration will keep your machine running smoothly and accurately. It's also wise to invest in a machine from a reputable brand that offers a good warranty and customer support.

7. Real-World Applications

In the retail sector, where cash transactions are frequent, a currency counting machine can save significant time during cash register closeouts. For banks and financial institutions, mix value counters ensure that large volumes of cash are processed accurately. Even small businesses can benefit, as these machines reduce the likelihood of errors and the labor costs associated with manual counting.

Conclusion Investing in a money counting machine is a smart move for any business that handles cash. With features like counterfeit detection, mix value counting, and high-speed processing, these machines streamline cash handling, improve accuracy, and protect your business from losses. Whether you run a small retail shop or a large financial institution, there's a currency counting machine tailored to your needs. By choosing the right machine, you can enhance efficiency and ensure the smooth operation of your cash-handling processes.

[marctekfakenotesolutions]

Top Benefits of Using a Currency Counting Machine with Fake Note Detector

1. Enhanced Accuracy

Counting large sums of money manually can lead to mistakes, especially when done under pressure. A currency counting machine ensures precision by accurately counting every note. This reduces the risk of human error and provides peace of mind that your cash tally is correct.

2. Time Efficiency

Manually counting money is a tedious and time-consuming process. A currency counting machine can count thousands of notes in minutes, significantly speeding up cash handling processes. This efficiency allows employees to focus on other important tasks, improving overall productivity.

3. Fake Note Detection

One of the standout features of modern currency counting machines is the integration of fake note detectors. These detectors use advanced technology to identify counterfeit notes, protecting your business from potential losses. With counterfeit currency becoming more sophisticated, this feature is essential for any business that handles cash regularly.

4. User-Friendly Operation

Most currency counting machines are designed with ease of use in mind. They come with intuitive interfaces and simple controls, making them accessible to all staff members with minimal training. This user-friendliness ensures that the machines can be quickly integrated into daily operations.

5. Improved Cash Flow Management

Using a currency counting machine helps businesses keep an accurate track of their cash flow. This accurate tracking aids in better financial management and planning. It also helps in maintaining transparent and accountable financial records, which is vital for audits and financial reporting.

6. Enhanced Security

In addition to detecting counterfeit notes, currency counting machines also improve security by reducing the amount of time cash is exposed. This minimizes the risk of theft and ensures that cash is handled securely and efficiently.

7. Versatility

Modern currency counting machines can handle multiple currencies and denominations, making them versatile tools for businesses operating in diverse markets. They are also capable of batching and sorting notes, adding further convenience and functionality.

Why Choose Marctek Fake Note Solutions?

When it comes to finding the best currency counting machine, Marctek Fake Note Solutions stands out as a trusted provider. Marctek offers a range of Indian currency counting machines equipped with advanced fake note detection technology. These machines are known for their reliability, accuracy, and ease of use.

Marctek Fake Note Solutions ensures that their machines meet the highest standards of quality and performance. Whether you’re a small business or a large corporation, Marctek’s currency counting machines are designed to cater to your specific needs, providing you with the best tools to manage your cash efficiently and securely.

Conclusion

Investing in a currency counting machine with a fake note detector is a smart decision for any business that handles cash transactions. The benefits of enhanced accuracy, time efficiency, fake note detection, and improved cash flow management make it an invaluable tool. For the best currency counting machine, look no further than Marctek Fake Note Solutions, where quality and reliability are guaranteed. Equip your business with the best tools to ensure smooth and secure cash handling operations. At Marctek Fake Note Solutions, we specialize in providing top-of-the-line Indian currency counting machines equipped with advanced fake note detectors. Our machines offer unmatched accuracy, speed, and security, making them the best choice for businesses of all sizes. Trust Marctek for reliable and efficient cash handling solutions tailored to meet your needs.

Explore our latest blog to discover how leveraging a fake note detection machine can enhance your currency conversion processes and safeguard your business. Learn the best practices and benefits of integrating advanced detection technology into your cash handling operations.

[alwaysdial]

Secure Your Business with CCTV Cameras in Gaya

In today's world, security is paramount, especially for businesses. Whether you run a small shop or a large enterprise, protecting your premises, assets, and employees should be a top priority. One of the most effective ways to enhance security is by installing Closed-Circuit Television (CCTV) cameras. CCTV cameras not only act as a deterrent to potential criminals but also provide valuable evidence in case of any untoward incidents. In Gaya, businesses are increasingly turning to CCTV cameras to safeguard their interests. Let's explore why CCTV cameras are essential for business security in Gaya and how you can benefit from them.

Deterrence of Criminal Activities

CCTV Camera Store in Gaya are an excellent deterrent against criminal activities such as theft, vandalism, and burglary. The mere presence of cameras can discourage potential criminals from targeting your business. Knowing that their actions are being recorded and monitored makes individuals think twice before committing a crime, thereby reducing the likelihood of incidents occurring on your premises.

Enhanced Monitoring and Surveillance

With CCTV cameras installed, you can monitor your business premises in real-time. This allows you to keep an eye on activities inside and outside your establishment, even when you're not physically present. Modern CCTV systems offer remote viewing capabilities, allowing you to access live footage from your smartphone or computer. This feature is particularly useful for business owners who travel frequently or have multiple locations.

Protection of Assets and Inventory

For businesses that deal with valuable assets or inventory, Camera Store In Gaya provide an added layer of protection. In the event of theft or damage, CCTV footage can serve as crucial evidence for insurance claims or police investigations. Additionally, by monitoring your inventory, you can prevent internal theft and ensure that your assets are secure at all times.

Employee Safety and Productivity

CCTV cameras can also contribute to the safety and productivity of your employees. By providing a secure work environment, you can boost employee morale and reduce the risk of workplace accidents or conflicts. Fire Extinguisher Store In Gaya can also help in monitoring employee performance and adherence to company policies, ensuring that everyone is on the same page.

Compliance with Regulations

In many jurisdictions, businesses are required to maintain a certain level of security, including the use of GPS Tracker system In Gaya. By installing CCTV cameras, you can ensure that your business complies with relevant regulations and avoid potential fines or penalties for non-compliance.

Cost-Effective Security Solution

Compared to other security measures, such as hiring security personnel, CCTV cameras offer a cost-effective solution for businesses of all sizes. Once installed, Automatic School bell Store In Gaya require minimal maintenance and can provide round-the-clock surveillance without the need for human intervention.

CCTV cameras are an indispensable tool for enhancing the security of your business in Gaya. By deterring criminal activities, monitoring your premises, protecting your assets, and ensuring employee safety, CCTV cameras offer a comprehensive security solution for businesses of all sizes. If you haven't already installed CCTV cameras in your establishment, now is the time to do so and secure your business against potential threats.

[marctekcashmachinedealers]

Currency Note Counting Machine Dealers in Chennai

Currency Counting Machine Dealers in Chennai

Cash Counting Machine Dealers in Chennai

Searching for the top Currency Counting Machine Dealers in Chennai? Marctek Fake Note Solutions, leading Currency Note Counting Machine Dealers in Chennai offers a top-notch Cash Counting Machine that counts 1000 notes per minute with superior detection technology that includes IR, UV, MT, and magnetic sensors. A 200-piece hobber consumes 80 W of power for its use. It detects double notes, torn notes, and even half notes.

marctekcashmachinedealers.in

[rileyslibrary]

Penny for your thoughts

Synopsis: You’ve recently been transferred to a UK base and struggle with British currency. Your lieutenant is mortified—and rightfully so.

Relationship: Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN!Reader

Word Count: 1,286 (approx. 5-6 mins reading time)

Notes:

I thought it was funny when I wrote it, okay? It’s a crackfic. There’s some teasing and playful banter in there, but I can’t label it as fluff.

Warnings: Profanity. Lots of it.

More A/N at the end.

———————————————————————

You’ve been trying to escape the lieutenant’s grip for the past two hours.

The upcoming mission requires close combat skills, he said. You’ll need to infiltrate a facility with minimum weapons and immobilise—but not kill—the targets for interrogation.

You admitted to him that you hadn’t practised in a long time and your combat skills were a little rusty. But Ghost assured you this wouldn’t be a problem and offered a refresher course in ground fighting and submission techniques.

You never imagined this would be an issue when you agreed to it. On the contrary, your lieutenant was an expert in combat, and training with him could be considered a masterclass.

Looking at it now, with your cheek pressed against the floor and your body twisted like a nautical knot, you wish you could take it back.

The mats have become your second skin. Ghost relentlessly pins you to the ground and immobilises your limbs while explaining the mechanics behind each hold. Sometimes you wonder why he gets into so much detail since you can’t hear shit and are practically knocked out.

Yet, he doesn’t give up on you. He advises you to feel the weight shift, urging you to exploit the slightest openings, encouraging you to break free. Whenever he sees you’re struggling or senses you’re uncertain, he taps your hand or leg, giving you clues to help you.

He immobilises you once more, but he pats your back this time.

“Alright,” he says, standing up, “that’s enough for today.”

He walks to the bench, picks up his towel, and pats his neck. You roll on your back and spread your arms.

“I feel like a pretzel.” You whisper.

“Yup,” he confirms, “that’s Jiu-Jitsu for ya.”

Drenched in sweat, you push yourself off the ground and slowly walk to your bag. You extract your towel and begin rummaging through your wallet to find spare coins for a water bottle. You manage to find one pound, but unfortunately, you fall short.

“Lt.?” You call out.

He turns halfway to give you his attention while tugging the velcro straps from his gloves.

“Do you have fifty pennises?”

He stops midway and lets go of the velcro strap. It can wait. His eyes have formed two thin lines, and his eyebrows almost touch each other.

“Do I have fifty what, soldier?”

“I need fifty pennises.” You reply, this time louder, “Do you have fifty pennises?”

His eyes have changed. They’re not squinting anymore. They are bulging. He frantically looks left and right, bringing his index finger to his mouth.

“Shhhh!” He whispers and runs towards you, waving his other hand in front of your face. “Shut your mouth!”

He closes the distance between you and looks behind him.

“What is wrong with you?” He whispers.

You raise your eyebrows and blink rapidly.

“No,” you reply, “what is wrong with you?”

He lets out a sigh and looks at his surroundings once again. He scratches the side of his chin and clasps his hands in prayer.

“Tell me exactly what you want,” he requests more calmly this time, almost begging you, “Make a sentence out of it.”

“I’m thirsty.” You explain.

“Obviously.”

He’s starting to get on your nerves. You open your palm and raise it to his eye level.

“Look,” you order and point at the coin, “I have one pound.”

“I can see that.” He replies and puts his hand on yours, pushing it down so he can look at you.

“The vending machine needs one pound and a half.”

“Say it.” He commands and swallows hard, “The vending machine needs one pound and fifty...”

You clench your jaw and look at him dead in the eyes.

“Pennises.”

He lets out a snort and clasps his hand at the bridge of his nose. He turns his back to you and takes a few steps away. His shoulders move up and down.

“Ah, soldier,” he replies, still looking the other way. “that’s a lot of pennises.”

You run a hand through your hair and sigh.

“I know my pronunciation is probably wrong,” you state and shut your eyes, “but I need them.”

“Don’t say that,” he says between gasps, “you don’t need that many.”

With your eyes still closed, you start babbling about how wrong he is and how you wish you had a million of them so you could escape this hellhole and retire on an island. He squats to the ground and covers his masked face with his hands.

He sounds like he’s whimpering. You might have assumed he was sobbing if you hadn’t known the cause of his stance. But you knew why he was half crying, half laughing. It sounded hideous. It was hideous. You just can’t remember the word.

What’s it called, what’s it called...

You open your eyes. Ghost is walking towards you, wiping away tears from his eyes. He retrieves a fist of coins from his pocket and, muttering something under his breath, chooses two. He pinches a silver hexagonal-shaped coin with his fingers and shows it to you.

“This,” he says, “is fifty pence, or 50p.”

“Pence or p.” You repeat.

“That’s right.” He confirms and pinches a smaller coin with his other hand. “Now, this little one is a penny. Fifty of these are called fifty pennies.”

“Pennies,” you echo and slap your thighs, “See? Was it that hard to explain?”

“Oh yes,” he replies and nods slowly, “yes, it was that fucking hard.”

You lift your palm. “Can I have the big one?” You ask.

“Say it first.” He commands you.

You roll your eyes. “Can I have the 50p, Lt.?”

“Of course, you may have the 50p.” He says and places the coin in your hand, “What you absolutely may not have is fifty….” He stops and lets a repressed chuckle out.

You press your lips together and bite your cheek to not respond to his teasing. But you can’t.

“…pennises, I presume?” You sneer.

“Yeah, no.” He says and vigorously shakes his head, “You don’t want that.”

You wince and rub the back of your neck. Ghost tries to comfort you, telling you it’s ok and you shouldn’t feel bad, but he doesn’t believe it himself. He’s smiling beneath that mask; you can tell by how the grimace alters his voice. You thank him for the coin and walk to the vending machine.

“Soldier,” he calls out, “how many times have you said that word since you came to the UK?”

You tilt your head and try to recall.

“I can’t remember.” You conclude.

“You can’t remember if you ever said it, or there were so many occasions that you can’t count them?” He asks with a trembling voice.

“No, Lt.,” you reply, defeated, “I don’t remember asking another person for that.”

He looks relieved. He lets out a long exhale and rubs his masked face with his palms.

“I never thought I’d ever say this,” he says, “but I’m glad I was the first one.”

———————————————————————

A/N: I wrote this in March, along with this story (yes, they’re very similar). Although I liked the idea and thought it was funny, I initially discarded it because it felt stupid, and chose to post the other one (not like the other one is pure genius). It remains as such, but as I said, it’s a crackfic. I’m not researching how to improve human welfare.

[allurer23]

TURN THE PAGE TO US

COLOR ME STUPID

In Focus: Art Major Renjun × Fashion major Reader

Genre: College AU · Slow Burn · Strangers to Lovers · Fluff · Humor ·

Warnings: mentions of toxic parenting, self-worth issues, mild emotional vulnerability, light angst, artistic frustration

Synopsis: Renjun sees beauty in everything—sunsets, spilled coffee, even a crumpled pizza box. The art room is his sanctuary until you accidentally turn his masterpiece into a modern art tragedy. Guilt pushes you to help fix the chaos, and between color debates and midnight ramen runs, you discover that maybe you’re not just each other’s mess... but each other’s muse.

Author's note:

This is the second footnote in TURN THE PAGE TO US — because nothing says emotional stability like falling for the boy whose painting you accidentally destroyed with iced coffee and rhinestones.

This is Part 1 of Color Me Stupid — and Part 2 will be up soon.

Her POV:

There’s a kind of magic in walking into a room and knowing everyone notices.

Not just the outfit — though today’s fit is a vintage corset top I nearly sold my soul for — but the effect. Like glitter in motion. Like caffeine come to life.

Some people live quietly. I prefer entrance music.

“Y/N, the show doesn’t start till Friday!” someone calls.

I throw a wink over my shoulder. “And yet I’m already stealing it. Love your shirt, by the way.”

I don’t wait for the reaction. Compliments are currency, and I spend generously — especially when I’m on a mission.

The sewing room’s down the hall, and I’m already striding there like my entire grade depends on it — which, honestly, it does.

My next project’s deadline is just days away, and the seam on the dress lining is off — a crooked line that’ll ruin the whole silhouette if I don’t fix it.

There’s no time for second guesses.

I have to get this right.

Fix the seam, press the fabric, double-check the fit — and hope the sewing machines aren’t already booked.

Okay. Of course it’s fully booked. My luck is so loud it should come with its own laugh track.

Fine. Breathe.

I can’t sew, but I can at least do something — maybe paint the back panel like I planned. Hand-painted detail. Statement moment. Something dramatic enough to distract from the crooked seam if I don’t fix it in time.

It’ll still count, right?

My fingers twitch around the folded fabric. I just need a flat surface. Quiet. Light. Paint.

And maybe a minor miracle.

“Hey babe.”

I spin on my heel — fabric in one hand, iced coffee in the other — as Karina walks up, paint smudged on her cheek like it’s blush. She’s my best friend, my roommate, and the reason I know what gesso even is.

“I’m spiraling,” I declare, dramatically waving the slightly-wrinkled dress piece like it's a white flag. “Like. Full-on creative breakdown. The sewing lab is a warzone. Machines booked. People breathing down necks. One girl was crying over thread tension.”

Karina snorts. “What about the design studio?”

“Also booked. And someone stole my pin cushion. I don’t even care about the cushion, it’s the principle."

She hums, thoughtful. “Okay. Go to Art Room 3. I just came from there — it’s empty, dusty, barely haunted. Perfect for your chaos.”

My eyes light up. “You’re an angel. No — a sexy, paint-smeared angel sent to save my grade.”

Karina grins. “I know. Go. Wreak beautiful havoc.”

“I’ll make you proud.” I blow her a kiss and take off, my coffee sloshing and fabric flapping behind me like I’m some kind of caffeinated, corset-wearing superhero on a mission.

Art Room 3 smells like turpentine and old stress. Perfect. Empty, echo-y — the kind of place that doesn’t care if you blast music or cry into your fabric. I could kiss Karina for this.

I clutch the back panel of my half-finished dress like it’s a wounded child.

“Okay, fine. Fine. We paint. We hand-paint. We survive. We slay.”

Karina’s voice echoes in my head: "Go to Art Room 3, it’s empty."

I push open the door with my hip, juggling fabric, coffee, my glitter-gel sketchbook, a paint tray, and, for reasons I’ll regret in 0.2 seconds, a bag of open rhinestones.

I step in.

I slip on literally nothing — air, maybe — and chaos begins.

Coffee goes flying.

The paint tray flips mid-air like it’s auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.

The back panel of my dress sails like a deflated parachute.

And my elbow?

My elbow slams into something tall, large, and definitely not mine.

The canvas.

A massive one. Propped up so gracefully. It wobbles.

“NO NO NO—”

I lunge. Miss. Watch it fall in slow motion.

BOOM.

Flat on the floor. Right into the artageddon.

My iced coffee is now a latte-wash across a once-beautiful sunset. Paint is smeared everywhere — the canvas, the floor, my arms, my precious corset. One of the rhinestones sticks perfectly on what looks like a person’s eye in the painting.

The silence after is so violent, I almost think the room’s empty.

Until I hear a breath.

Sharp. Controlled. Like someone just got stabbed in the soul.

I look up.

And he’s there. He’s standing just a few feet away. Silent. Still. Covered in paint in a way that looks intentional — like the universe decided to make an artwork out of him too.

Tall. Sleeves rolled. Expression: pure murder.

His jaw tightens. “Did you just… destroy my painting in under five seconds?”

“Okay, so. Define ‘destroy’—”

His eyes widen. “Do not play dictionary right now.”

“I’m just saying,” I gesture vaguely to the mess, “maybe it’s better now. Like, avant-garde. Postmodern disaster.”

“Postmodern—you splashed caramel frappé all over a war scene.”

“I thought it was a sunrise.”

“It was a burning city!”

We both stare at the ruined masterpiece.

“You know,” I say, dusting rhinestones off my corset, “we could call this ‘The Fall of Rome: With Oat Milk.’”

He blinks slowly. “You’re not real. You’re a fever dream that broke into the one place I find peace.”

I try to smile. “Hi. Fashion major. Expressive. Slightly cursed.”

“Clearly.”

He walks past me, squats next to the canvas, touches the edge of the now-soggy paper, and lets out a laugh — but not the fun kind. The I’m about to implode kind.

Then he stands. Looks me dead in the eyes.

“You’re lucky I’m too shocked to yell,” he says. “But I will remember this.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll let you forget it.”

He points to the door. “Go. Before you hand-paint on my soul too."

“Is it due tomorrow?”

“Obviously,” he snaps, eyes cold as ice. “Now please, walk off, human disaster, before I start digging a grave for you right here.”

He stand there, the ruined canvas, holding it like it weighs a ton.

I bite my lip. “I was thinking… maybe, just maybe, I could help you fix it.”

He looks me up and down — paint on my hands, the ruined corset — then smirks dryly.

“How? By sewing and stitching rhinestones to it?”

His POV:

It took me three weeks to paint this.

Three weeks of standing, hunched over, back aching, fingertips permanently stained.

Three weeks of skipping parties, dodging texts, pretending “I’m busy” meant something noble.

Three weeks of silence because music felt like too much stimulation — and now, it’s all over.

All because of one dramatic, overly perfumed hurricane in a corset.

The canvas lies in front of me like a corpse. Paint smudged beyond repair, warped from the frappuccino that had no right being in a damn studio. The colors are bleeding, lines melting into chaos.

I breathe in through my nose.

Be civil. Be calm. Don’t murder anyone in a university building.

She’s still standing there. Hands stained, corset splattered. Looking like a fashion editorial that tripped and fell into a Jackson Pollock. And yet—somehow—she’s not even running.

She’s biting her lip, hesitating, then says—

"I was thinking… maybe, just maybe, I could help you fix it.”

I stare.

Actually, stare. From her smeared eyeliner to her wrecked sketchbook hanging out of her tote bag like a forgotten thought.

“…How?” I deadpan. “You planning to stitch rhinestones over the chaos or just hope it becomes abstract enough to pass?”

Her lips twitch, like she almost wants to laugh.

“No,” she says. “I mean—unless glitter helps? No, sorry. I know this is bad. Worse than bad. Biblical.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re describing my academic funeral. Not comforting.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t leave. Just watches me cradle the painting like it’s a crime scene victim.

“You should go,” I mutter, teeth clenched. “Before I add accidental murder to your crimes.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The way she says it — loud, sure, like she owns the room she just ruined — makes me blink.

Who is this girl?

“I messed up,” she continues, eyes locked on the ruined canvas. “Like, colossally. I’m the villain in your tragic little artist arc. I get it. But I can’t just walk out.”

“You don’t even know me.” I’m not shouting. Yet. But it’s close.

“Exactly!” she says. “I don’t know you. You don’t know me. That means you don’t know I’m not usually a walking disaster—okay maybe I am—but I’m not heartless. I’ve had work ruined. And it eats you alive, especially when it’s something you need to get right. So, yeah, I want to help.”

I blink.

There’s real guilt in her voice now, underneath all that glitter and flair and bold energy.

And also determination. Like she’s decided I am today’s mission.

“So you feel bad and now you’re… what? On a redemption quest?” I ask flatly.

“Exactly.” She nods. “Let me be the redemption arc.”

“God, no. You’re more like the inciting incident in a Greek tragedy.”

“You’re welcome.”

And the worst part?

I almost laugh.

Just a little.

God help me.

She crosses her arms, which makes her corset creak a little — the thing’s probably stitched tighter than my sanity right now.

“I can’t bring the painting back,” she says, softer now. “But I can help with whatever comes next. Cleanup. Repainting. Emotional support in the form of sarcasm and snacks. Whatever.”

I eye her, skeptical. “You think snacks are going to make up for this?”

“That depends,” she smirks. “How do you feel about sour gummy worms and a 24-pack of apology Red Bulls?”

I exhale sharply. Not a laugh — I’m not giving her the satisfaction. But the edge in my shoulders loosens by half an inch. Maybe a quarter.

“Do you even paint?” I ask.

“No. I design clothes. But I do understand color theory, I have steady hands, and I once cried over a misaligned hem. We’re not so different.”

“We’re extremely different,” I mutter, glancing down at the ruined canvas. The damage is… bad. But not unrecoverable. Maybe. With time.

Which I don’t have.

I sigh again. “You do realize I hate this.”

“You’re allowed.”

“I’m not promising I won’t regret this.”

“Also allowed.”

“And I still think you’re a menace.”

She grins. “I accept that with pride.”

God. She’s like a tornado with a good eye for aesthetics. And for some reason, despite every logical bone in my body telling me to kick her out, I find myself shifting the canvas to the side and jerking my head toward the spare stool.

“Sit. Don’t talk too much.”

She squeals — actually squeals — and plops down like she owns the place after placing her things on the table. Paint-stained fingers poised, eyes sharp with new focus.

“I’m Y/N, by the way,” she says, grabbing a nearby rag and dabbing carefully at the wettest parts of the canvas.

“I didn’t ask.”

“Still. Kind of nice to know the name of the person whose life you’re going to be tolerating for the next few hours."

I mutter under my breath and grab a fresh palette.

God help me — I might actually be letting her help.

And worse?

A very, very small part of me doesn’t hate the idea.

I should’ve kicked her out.

That’s the only logical thing. But logic left the room the second she waltzed in like she owned the damn floor and turned my painting into an abstract crime scene.

Now she’s sitting next to me, sleeves rolled, paint-streaked hands moving like she’s done this before — not painting, but something. Precise, controlled, weirdly elegant in the way she handles the rag and dabs color like she’s tailoring a canvas instead of a dress.

“You know,” she says, breaking the silence I was starting to enjoy, “I may not be an art major, but I did take an elective in studio fundamentals.”

“Oh wow,” I deadpan. “You mean you took ‘Color Wheel for Beginners’ and now you’re Picasso.”

She shoots me a look, then smirks. “You wound me. But hey, I know burnt sienna from raw umber, and that’s already more than 80% of people walking into that art supply store.”

“That’s a lie. You picked up that brush backward five minutes ago.”

“I was testing your patience. For fun. You're failing, by the way.”

She grins, totally unbothered, like the chaos she caused is just part of her brand. And somehow, her being annoyingly confident makes her even more focused. She leans over the canvas — careful not to touch the worst parts — and starts blending the outer edge of the smudge with calculated, almost surprising precision.

I watch her for a beat too long.

“Why are you so invested in fixing this?” I ask, finally.

She doesn’t look up. “Because I ruined it. And because I know what it’s like to lose something you put your soul into. Once, I cried for two hours because someone accidentally threw my sketchbook into the laundry bin. It had a month of dress drafts.”

“…That’s tragic.”

“Exactly. So now I’m paying forward the universe’s debt to me. Plus, I told you, I’m great at damage control.”

“You’re the damage,” I mutter.

She beams. “And the control. A rare combo.”

I try not to smile. I fail. Slightly.

We settle into a rhythm — she fixes edges, I rework the details. We argue over tones, over brush size, over whether the new shadows match the original. She talks a mile a minute, about her design project, her professor who hates her, a guy who keeps stealing her bobbin thread. I grunt in response, maybe throw in a sarcastic quip here and there.

But what surprises me the most?

She listens. Not just talks — listens. Like she’s actually trying to match her pace to mine, even if she’s got caffeine and chaos pumping through her veins.

And for a moment, in the silence between our insults and corrections, we’re just two strangers trying to un-ruin a disaster together.

We work in a kind of messy silence.

Not quiet, exactly — she hums under her breath when she concentrates. Off-key. Some indie-pop thing that doesn’t match the disaster we’re fixing. But it’s... tolerable.

She shifts next to me, her shoulder accidentally brushing mine, and immediately apologizes with a whisper of a laugh, like even her sorrys come caffeinated.

“This section’s salvageable,” she murmurs, dabbing at a coffee stain like it’s enemy number one. “Or we just turn it into dramatic smoke.”

I glance at her brushstrokes. Light. Careful. She’s not guessing — she’s trying. For someone who’s all glitter and chaos, her hands are oddly gentle.

“You missed a spot,” I mutter.

“I missed a lot of spots. I spilled a Starbucks on your apocalypse.”

“Burning city,” I correct, and she grins.

“Right. Post-apocalyptic frappuccino. Got it.”

She pauses and looks over at me — really looks. Like she’s trying to read something written on my face in invisible ink.

“Do you always paint stuff like this?” she asks.

“Stuff like what?”

“Cities falling. War. Shadows. Trauma in brushstrokes.”

I shrug. “It’s a class series. Theme: ‘what keeps you up at night.’”

She blinks. “Damn. I just drew a bunch of dresses that looked like nightmares. You went full Doomsday Diaries.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I say that like I’m kind of impressed.”

I don’t answer. Mostly because I don’t know how.

___

An hour passes. Maybe more.

She talks a little less now. Her focus narrows. Occasionally she’ll ask for a color, hold up her palette, or argue about how “the blue is too moody.” (It’s supposed to be moody.) She catches herself touching her hair and mutters, “crap, paint fingers,” before swiping a streak of red across her already stained tote bag.

“It was ugly anyway,” she sighs, like that solves everything.

I watch her for a second too long.

“Stop staring,” she says without looking up.

“I’m making sure you don’t ruin the rest.”

“Liar. You’re wondering how I made a corset work at 9 a.m.”

I roll my eyes. “I was wondering if you ever stop talking.”

She smirks. “Only when I’m kissed.”

The brush slips in my hand.

She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does and lets me believe otherwise.

___

Later, when the studio is soaked in gold evening light and our hands are stiff with drying paint, she leans back with a groan.

“We need food. Or at least something with sugar.”

“I told you not to talk too much.”

“And I told you I’m great at snacks.” She digs into her oversized bag, pulls out a crushed pack of gummy worms, and tosses it toward me.

I catch it.

“Emergency stash,” she says, like it’s sacred.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet you’re still sitting here.”

I chew the candy slowly, eyes still on the painting. The damage is still visible — faint coffee tint, uneven blending, brushstrokes that don’t match the original style. But there’s something else now.

Something... new.

“Looks different,” she murmurs. “But not ruined.”

“It’s not the same.”

“No. But it’s not worse.”

I glance at her. She’s watching the painting, elbows on knees, smudges of color across her cheekbones like warpaint.

“You know,” she says softly, “sometimes the mess makes it better.”

I stare.

And for once, I don’t argue.

___

The gummy worms disappear somewhere between retouching the skyline and her conspiracy theory about bobbin thread theft. She’s quieter now, but not silent — just... dimmed. Like someone turned the chaos down to a simmer.

I glance at her.

She’s hunched forward, elbow streaked with charcoal, red paint swiped across her wrist like a war wound. Lips slightly parted, eyes sharp. Focused.

“It’s weird,” she says, half to herself, “how something can look totally fine from far away. But the second you’re up close, all you see is the mess.”

I pause. The brush stalls in my hand.

“You talking about the canvas or yourself?”

She snorts — but softly this time. “Both. Maybe.”

We don’t say anything after that. Not for a while.

And then, just when the silence starts to settle:

“Why were you even in the art studio?” I ask. “Seriously. You don’t belong here."

She raises a brow. “Rude."

“True.”

She sighs, dabs at a smudge with her pinky, and mutters, “I was trying to find a quiet place. Somewhere I could paint the back panel of my dress. Sewing lab was full. Design studio was chaos. I needed space. Light. A table. I wasn’t planning to crash into someone’s emotional apocalypse, thank you very much.”

“It’s not an apocalypse.”

“You painted literal flames.”

“It’s called symbolism.”

She grins. “So was my corset.”

"So when are you gonna complete your project since you are stuck helping me?"

"Probably soon."

___

We go back to painting.

She hums under her breath. Something slow and indie and off-key. Somehow, I don’t hate it.

“You don’t stop, do you?” I mutter.

“Stop what?”

“Trying. Fixing things.”

She tilts her head. “Maybe if I stop, the mess wins.”

I don’t answer.

Because I get it.

And I hate that I get it.

___

When the last layer dries enough to breathe, she leans back on her stool, stretching until her corset creaks.

“You know,” she says, “I didn’t think I’d end today elbow-deep in someone else’s ruined art.”

“I didn’t think I’d let someone fix it.”

We both go still.

The kind of still that has weight.

And then she shifts again — less dramatic this time — wiping her paint-streaked fingers on a napkin that says CAMPUS CAFÉ IS WATCHING YOU. The last drops of her iced coffee are basically cold caramel soup. She drinks it anyway.

“You should go,” I say finally.

“Should I?”

“Yeah. Before I decide you’re bearable.”

She grins. Stands. Swipes hair out of her face with the back of her hand, leaving a red streak across her cheekbone like unintentional warpaint.

Then she hesitates.

“I hated ruining it,” she says.

I glance up.

“I hated it because it made you look at me like I was just the mess I caused.”

I stare at her.

She stares at the canvas.

Then she grabs her bag, hoists it onto her shoulder, and says, “It’s okay. You don’t owe me anything.”

She turns.

And for a second, I let her leave.

Then—

“You want to see what it looked like before?”

She stops in the doorway.

Turns slowly.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’d like that.”

I dig into my folder, pull out the original sketch. Graphite lines. Smoky edges. The first version — raw and angry and still intact.

I hand it to her.

She takes it gently. Like she knows it matters.

“This was really good,” she murmurs.

“It still is. Just... different.”

She folds the paper carefully, like it might bruise.

Hands it back.

“Thanks for letting me help,” she says.

“You didn’t give me much choice.”

She smiles. Small. Real.

Then she walks out.

Paint-streaked. Corset-wearing. A glitter-coated hurricane who somehow made the wreckage matter again.

___

Her POV:

There’s something borderline pathetic about standing in front of a building you don’t belong to, holding two latte and hoping the caffeine gods reward your effort with answers.

But here I am.

Loitering like a lost freshman. Outside the Art Department. With a vanilla oat latte in each hand and a nervous twitch in my left eye.

The thing is — I’m not even in this department. I’m fashion. Thread and textiles, baby. My classes are two buildings over, next to the room where someone once set a serger on fire and blamed it on “creative vision.”

But this isn’t about that. This is about yesterday.

About the painting. About the ruined war scene, the shared brushstrokes, the sour gummy worms, and the fact that I spent five hours sitting next to a boy whose name I still don’t know.

Did I mention that part?

Because yeah. I don’t know his name.

Not even a clue. I know his face — sharp jaw, murder eyes, sleeves rolled like he’s auditioning for an indie art student magazine — but I never got his actual name.

Iconic behavior, really. Save someone’s project. Touch elbows. Emotionally bond over trauma and paint smudges. Don’t ask for a name. Peak socializing.

Karina told me their studio class was submitting this morning. Which means, by now, the verdict is in.

Was the painting salvageable?

Did it get accepted?

Is he still plotting my death via blunt object and an overturned easel?

Unclear.

I sip from one of the latte. The other’s for him — if I see him. Which, statistically speaking, I might not.

I mean, what are the chances?

___

And there he is.

Of course.

Like the universe said: “Here. Suffer.”

He walks out the double doors, looking somehow even more unfairly aesthetic than he did yesterday. White shirt. White jacket. Light blue pants like he’s starring in a minimalist fashion spread. His bag slung casually over one shoulder, and his expression says “don’t talk to me unless you have a death wish.”

Naturally, I wave at him like we’re besties.

“Hi!!”

His eyes narrow a little. Not in a mean way. More like he's bracing for impact. Probably smart of him.

Before he can speak — not that I think he was going to — I launch.

“How did it go?” I ask, stepping up to him, practically buzzing. “Was it okay? Did they like it? I’ve been thinking about it all morning — which is stupid, I know, it’s your project, not mine — but still! I was so anxious I almost skipped class, and I—”

“It went fine.”

Oh.

Blunt. As always. Like his words were cut with a scalpel.

“Seriously?” I blink. “Fine like… passing fine? Or fine like you’re emotionally repressing a meltdown and hiding it behind cool indifference?”

He stares at me. I stare back. He blinks.

“Fine.”

I nod like that settles it, even though I have no idea what that actually means.

“I brought you latte,” I say, thrusting the second cup at him.

He looks at it like I’m offering him a small animal.

“I didn’t ask.”

“I know. It’s still for you.”

He hesitates. Then — sighs. The deepest, most exhausted sigh I’ve ever heard, like this conversation is draining his life force one syllable at a time. He takes the latte anyway.

Victory.

He starts walking. I fall into step beside him like a shadow with better fashion sense.

“So,” I chirp, “now that your art apocalypse has been submitted and we’ve survived the emotional rollercoaster of shared trauma, I feel like I can finally ask you something.”

He sips his latte. Doesn’t look at me. Probably regrets all his life choices.

“It’s kind of funny,” I continue, “how we went from strangers to co-painting a visual metaphor for societal collapse, but I still don’t know your name.”

He glances at me then. Just briefly. Just enough.

“…When did we become friends?”

“Ouch,” I say, dramatically clutching my latte. “I acrificed my soul colored "Red bull" for you.”

He raises an eyebrow. I raise both of mine.

“You’re not denying it,” I add.

He exhales again. Resigned. Doomed. Beautifully grumpy.

“Huang Renjun.”

Pause.

I stop walking.

“Wait. What?”

He turns back, mildly confused. “What.”

“Huang Renjun?” I repeat, scandalized. “As in — the Huang Renjun? From the Golden Group of the university?”

Now he stops walking. His jaw tightens slightly.

“God,” I mutter, stunned. “No wonder you act like that. You’re him.”

He sips his coffee like this is a conversation he’s had a hundred times and never enjoyed once.

“Okay, but seriously,” I go on, because of course I do. “You’re that guy. The art prodigy. The one with the painting that got featured in the alumni show last year. The same guy who rejected like… six people in one semester? One of them wrote poetry about the rejection. Spoken word.”

He glares at me, quietly horrified.

“She said you told her, and I quote, ‘I don’t date people who can’t hold a paintbrush properly.’”

“I never said that.”

“Well, someone said it as you. Probably for the clout. You have clout. You’re the chill, mysterious, terrifying genius. I mean—” I gesture at him. “You’re dressed like an emotional ghost who gets straight A’s.”

He groans softly, head tilted back to the sky like he’s praying for divine intervention.

I beam.

“This is hilarious,” I say. “I hung out with Huang Renjun for five hours, argued about moody blues, and fed him gummy worms — and didn’t even know it.”

He glares at me again, but it’s softer this time. Maybe 10% less murdery.

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters.

“And yet you didn’t leave me behind.”

He doesn’t answer that.

Because I’m right.

____

His POV:

This is a mistake.

Letting her follow me. Letting her talk. Letting her exist within a five-foot radius of my sanity.

Mistake.

I should’ve walked away the second she waved. Pretended I didn’t see her. Claimed caffeine-induced blindness. Anything.

But no. I took the latte.

Now I’m stuck listening to her spiral through an entire personality quiz out loud while I try not to scream into my latte.

She’s still talking.

“You’re the chill, mysterious, terrifying genius,” she’s saying, eyes wide like she just discovered I’m a celebrity. “Like — you’re the guy. The guy people make Pinterest boards about.”

"What does that even mean?”

“It means you have a vibe. A haunted vibe. Like you wake up with artistic purpose and emotional damage.”

I groan.

Loudly.

She grins like she’s won a prize.

“I don’t have a vibe,” I mutter.

“You do. The rolled sleeves, the emotionally distant stare, the ‘I only speak in sarcasm and trauma’ energy. It’s textbook. Like if ‘tragic art boy’ was a minor.”

I take a long sip of my latte and consider walking into traffic.

“I hate that you know my name now,” I say.

“You’re just mad it took me this long.”

“Most people know it before I walk in the room.”

“Exactly. I’m not most people.”

Unfortunately.

I glance over at her. She’s walking beside me like she’s always been there — bag bouncing, no corset today, sewing thread all over her body like she bathed in it. Like yesterday never ended. Like she belongs here.

She doesn’t.

Not really.

She’s chaos. Unplanned. Loud. The kind of person who spills into your life and rearranges your furniture and emotions before you realize what’s happening. And definitely not the type of person you can befriend.

And the worst part?

I don’t hate it.

I should.

But I don’t.

Not when she looks at me like she’s not afraid of whatever storm lives behind my silence. Not when she listens. Not when she shows up the next day, holding latte like it’s a peace treaty.

“I can’t believe I helped you fix a painting without knowing who you were,” she says, mostly to herself.

I shrug. “You didn’t ask.”

“You didn’t offer.”

“Because I didn’t think you’d stick around long enough to matter.”

She doesn’t flinch.

She just hums, thoughtful. “But I did.”

Yeah.

She did.

I stop walking.

She does too, one step later. Turns to me, confused.

“What?”

I look at her. Really look.

The faint crease between her brows when she’s trying to read me. The way she holds her latte like she’s ready to use it as both fuel and weapon.

“You know they accepted the painting,” I say.

Her eyes light up.

I hate that I notice.

“They said it had… rawness,” I add. “That it felt more human than my usual work.”

She gasps — actually gasps — like I just announced her admission into art major royalty.

“See? What did I tell you? The mess made it better!”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you meant it.”

“I meant human, not better.”

“Same thing.”

God.

She’s impossible.

And — worse — she might be right.

I turn back to the sidewalk. Keep walking. I hear her fall back into step beside me.

“You’re thinking really loud,” she says, peering up at me.

“I don’t think loud.”

“You do. You’ve got that ‘artist contemplating the meaning of life’ look going on. It’s your brand.”

“Stop giving me a brand.”

“You already had one,” she says. “I just named it.”

I sigh. Again. For the third time in five minutes.

But this time, maybe it’s a little less annoyed.

Because when I glance at her again, she’s humming under her breath, sipping latte, and still somehow managing to look like she belongs next to me — even though nothing about us matches.

And i promise nothing matches.

____

She’s still here.

Ten minutes later. Two blocks later. A cup of latte and a string of unsolicited commentary later.

Still here.

Walking beside me like it’s scheduled. Like I invited her. Like we’re not fundamentally different species trying to pretend we share a timezone.

And now I’m heading toward the cafe near campus — the one with decent sandwiches and terrible lo-fi — and she’s just… coming with me.

Like this is a thing.

“Why are you following me?” I ask, finally.

She doesn’t even blink.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” she says, then sips her latte like she’s thinking about it. “Weird.”

I stare.

She grins.

“I guess I’m just committing to the bit,” she says. “We shared paint and trauma yesterday. That’s practically marriage in art school terms.”

“Tragedy bonding isn’t friendship.”

She gasps — actually gasps, hand over chest.

“Was that a joke, Renjun?”

“It was a boundary.”

She snorts. “Cute. Still walking with you, though.”

God. She’s exhausting.

And — worse — not boring.

“Don’t you have a project to finish?” I ask, because surely she has somewhere else to be. Anywhere else.

She shrugs, balancing her latte in one hand and spinning her keychain in the other like she’s got all the time in the world. “Sewing part’s done. My stitches are crisp. My professor might cry from joy. But I still need to hand-paint the back panel. Statement piece. Drama. Fire. You know the vibe.”

“Then go paint.”

“I would,” she says, “except the workroom’s fully booked. Again. Someone literally taped a sign to the door that says ‘abandon hope all you who enter.’ So unless I start painting in the hallway — which, to be honest, sounds iconic — I’m out of options.”

We reach the cafe. I push the door open, the little bell above jingling.

She follows me in like a curse.

I order my usual. She doesn’t. Just leans against the counter like she owns it and hums along to the off-key music.

It’s only once we sit — me with a sandwich and her still sipping her latte.

Quietly. Like the words are forcing their way out against better judgment.

“…You can work in Art Room 3.”

She stops mid-sip. Looks up at me like I’ve just offered her backstage passes to heaven.

“I’m going there tomorrow,” I add, eyes on my food. “You can join me. If you want.”

Pause.

Then: “So I don’t ruin anyone else’s project?”

I glance up. She’s smirking.

"You said it, not me.”

She beams like I just gave her a trophy.

“I accept this invitation with great honor,” she says, placing her cup down like it’s a ceremonial chalice. “I promise to only cause mild chaos and minimal property damage.”

“Can you be quiet for at least fifteen minutes while I eat?”

“No promises.”

Of course not.

His POV:

Chenle’s house isn’t just big — it’s obscene. Like “why does your garage have mood lighting” big. The back court is glowing under the evening sun, half-lit by gold and half-shadowed by Jaemin's tragic attempt to play DJ.

Basketball bounces on the concrete. Someone’s blasting music from a speaker shaped like a pineapple. There’s a grill smoking somewhere near the edge of the patio, probably abandoned halfway through because Haechan forgot what he was doing mid-flip.

Chaos. As always.

I step onto the court.

“Look who finally escaped the art dungeon,” Haechan calls, chucking the ball at me without warning.

I catch it. Barely. Toss it back like I’m allergic to effort.

“You disappear for a week,” he says, “and then reappear with existential bags under your eyes and vibes of romantic suffering. What happened? You fall into a painting and start dating your brush?”

“No,” I say flatly. “A girl destroyed my canvas. By accident. Mostly.”

That gets their attention.

The music clicks off. Even the grill seems to stop sizzling. Everyone turns to me like I just confessed to murder.

Mark looks up from his notebook. Lit Queen — perched beside him like a goddess who only descends for plot development — narrows her eyes slightly, interested.

Chenle squints. “Wait, destroyed? Like ruined?”

“Like iced coffee across a burning city. Rhinestones. Panic. Emotional carnage.”

“Oh my god.” Haechan’s already grinning. “Please tell me it was someone dramatic.”

“Fashion major,” I mutter. “Painted on it with me to help fix it.”

A pause.

A loaded, electric, “no way” kind of pause.

“…What was she wearing?” Lit Queen asks, suddenly laser-focused.

I blink. “Black corset. Vintage detailing. Combat boots. Paint-stained tote bag.”

Lit Queen grins like a cat with a secret. “Y/N.”

And then—

“Y/N?!” everyone explodes at once.

Chenle practically chokes on his drink. “Wait — THE Y/N?”

“Confident, pretty, terrifyingly good at dressing like a Vogue spread with unresolved emotional themes?” Jaemin adds, grinning.

“The one who helped me fix my literature board with a glue gun and glitter — unironically,” Mark says.

“She’s friends with you, right?” Jeno asks, surprised.

Lit Queen shrugs, sipping from her metal straw. “We’re not close. But she’s… nice. Surprisingly nice. Not fake nice — like, actually decent. Confident. Polite. Weirdly wholesome.”

“She complimented my hoodie once,” Jisung mumbles, barely audible.

Everyone turns to him in shock.

“You’re telling me,” Haechan says, pointing at me, “that you, Mr. ‘No One Touches My Canvas,’ let Y/N paint on your work?”

I drag a hand down my face. “She already destroyed it. It was either let her help or die slowly on the studio floor.”

“So you picked... bonding,” Jaemin says. “Crisis collaboration. Intimate teamwork. Flirting with paint.”

“I picked damage control.”

“She’s so out of your league,” Chenle adds, laughing. “She walks like the hallway’s her runway. Everyone knows her.”

“I didn’t.”

“That makes it better.”

“I didn’t even know her name until after she started fixing it.”

“Ohhh,” Haechan croons. “So she saved you, and you didn’t even know what to call her. That’s some Wattpad-level plot twist.”

“I hate all of you.”

“She’s really pretty,” Jeno says gently. “And she’s always nice to everyone. That’s rare.”

“She talks like someone put espresso in her bloodstream,” I mutter. “Nonstop. Just—words. Everywhere. Drowning in them.”

“You didn’t walk away though,” Lit Queen says, eyes sharp. “You let her stay.”

I pause.

That part’s harder to explain.

“She didn’t treat me like I was made of glass,” I say quietly. “She ruined something important to me — and stayed. Tried to fix it. Didn’t ask for credit. Just… sat with me.”

The silence after that is heavier.

Until Haechan breaks it, naturally.

“You’re in love.”

“Ew, she is not my type."

“Romantically.”

“Shut up.”

“She’s gonna paint near you again, isn’t she?” Jaemin grins.

“She needs space to hand-paint her dress panel,” I mutter. “Workroom’s booked. I told her she could come to Art Room 3.”

“She’s gonna show up,” Mark says, tapping his pen. “With coffee and chaos and probably a bag of rhinestones.”

“She already did that yesterday.”

“She’ll do it again. And you’ll let her. Again.”

I sigh. Long. Loud. Spiritually.

“I swear, the second she says something about brushstroke energy or vibes of trauma, I’m leaving.”

“Sure you are.”

“Totally believable,” Haechan smirks.

And all I can think about — despite their teasing, despite my denial — is how she said:

"I hated ruining it because it made you look at me like I was just the mess I caused.”

And I remember how she stood in the doorway.

Waiting to be forgiven.

Wearing paint like warpaint and honesty like armor.

I don't know what that means yet.

But I know she's coming back.

And for some reason, I’m not dreading it.

Not even a little.

___

Her POV:

I promised I’d be quiet.

Actually said the words: “I swear, silent as a stitched hem.” Hand on heart. Eyes wide. Pure drama. I think he almost believed me.

And so far?

I’m doing it.

No humming. No talking. No unsolicited fashion metaphors or tragic tales about the bobbin thief.

Just me. My fabric. My brushes. The back panel of the dress stretched out on the table like a silk crime scene.

I’ve already finished the sketch. Rough outlines in white across the black — sharp lines, geometric curves, dramatic tension tucked into folds of negative space. It’s loud without shouting. Complex without clutter. If I can pull this off, it’ll be the most striking piece I’ve ever done.

If.

Big if.

Because now I’m at the hard part. Color. Detail. The actual brush-to-fabric commitment. And I’ve been staring at the panel for the last full minute like it just personally insulted my bloodline.

I dab red paint on my palette. Try to match the tone I used in the underdrawing.

It’s off. Just a little.

I sigh. Quietly. Barely audible. Just frustration with a breath attached.

But apparently, it’s enough.

Because I hear movement.

Not the kind that says “he’s getting water” or “he’s shifting in his seat.”

The kind that says “he’s crossing the room.”

I blink, still not looking up.

And then he’s there.

Renjun.

Standing beside me like a silent, brooding art ghost — sleeves rolled, hair a little messy, eyes scanning the panel like he’s calculating the exact moment I lost control of the shading.

I don’t speak.

Mostly because I’m not sure what version of him I’m getting right now — Cold Glare 101? Studio Silence? Lowkey Murder Vibes?

But he just exhales through his nose. Barely.

Then he sits.

Right next to me.

Like it's nothing. Like he does this all the time.

Which he absolutely does not.

“Your lines are strong,” he says finally. Blunt. Like a critique, but also not.

“Thanks,” I whisper. “I practiced.”

He hums like he knows. Like he expected that answer.

His eyes flick to the color on my palette. “You’re blending too bright. The red’s popping too much on black. It needs depth. Lower tone. Less scarlet. More crimson.”

He reaches over. Picks up the extra brush I wasn’t using.

Just picks it up.

No gloves. No hesitation.

Renjun. The guy who doesn’t let anyone touch his stuff. The boy with the ‘no collaboration, no distractions, no help’ rulebook.

Painting.

On my fabric.

He tests a stroke in the corner. Just a blend — small, smooth, barely there. Then another. Then shifts to the edges of my design, filling in shadow like he’s sculpting the folds instead of painting them.

His expression doesn’t change.

Focused. Calm. Like this is an everyday thing.

I don’t breathe for a second too long.

“I thought you didn’t do joint projects,” I murmur, still watching his hand move like it knows more than I do.

“I don’t,” he says.

Beat.

“…Then why—”

“You looked stuck.”

Oh.

Simple. Plain. Delivered with zero embellishment.

But somehow, it lands heavier than it should.

“I was,” I admit softly.

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps painting.

His movements are exact. Controlled. But not stiff. Like he’s careful because he cares — not about me, maybe, but the work. The idea. The art.

He’s warming up.

Not dramatically. Not suddenly.

But undeniably.

The space between us feels different now. Not like yesterday’s apology. Not like strangers sharing panic. More like—

Like we’re working together.

Quiet. Balanced. Hands moving in sync over a dress panel that, for the first time, feels like it might be exactly what I imagined.

Maybe, just maybe I think he considers me a friend now.

____

Her POV:

I should be glowing right now.

No, like actually — full-body radiant, stage-light level glowing. Because Ms. Kim — Ms. Kim, Queen of Critique, Slayer of Dreams — looked at my dress panel this morning, raised one eyebrow, and said, “Impressive. Finally, something worth looking at.”

And then she nodded.

NODDED.

In front of the whole studio class. People gasped. One girl nearly fainted. Someone whispered that I’d unlocked a secret boss level.

And honestly? They weren’t wrong.

I submitted my piece with shaking hands and walked out like I was floating. Like all the stress, paint fumes, and lowkey breakdowns stitched themselves into something worth showing.

And now?

Now I’m in the cafe. My usual seat. A sandwich in front of me. I even bought a second one — his order, exactly. Tomato, no lettuce, extra pepper, slightly toasted. He doesn’t know I know that, but I do.

I’m not waiting for him.

Okay, I am. But not in a weird way.

It’s just… he eats here. Always has. It’s his thing. This corner, this time of day, like clockwork. So maybe I’m just hoping the clock ticks in my favor today.

And then —

The door opens. The bell rings.

And he walks in.

Renjun.

White shirt, headphones around his neck, expression like he just stepped out of a dream he didn’t ask to be in. His eyes scan the place like he’s expecting quiet.

And then they land on me.

I wave.

He freezes like I pulled a plot twist out of thin air.

Then — slowly, reluctantly, like he's being dragged by fate and also maybe caffeine — he walks over.

“Hi,” he says.

I grin. “Sit.”

He hesitates.

I push the second sandwich toward the empty chair across from me.

“I bought your sandwich.”

He just stares at me for a second. Not blinking. Like I handed him a confession instead of food.

“You bought that for me?” he asks, deadpan.

“Yeah.” I shrug, trying not to look like I care too much. “I was waiting. You always come here around this time.”

He looks at the sandwich. Then at me. Then back at the sandwich like it might explode.

“You could’ve let me know,” he mutters.

“How?” I raise an eyebrow. “I don’t even have your number.”

Pause.

“Right,” he says, almost to himself.

He finally — finally — sits down.

I watch as he unwraps the sandwich, takes a bite like it’s suspicious, and then eats it like it’s the only thing that’s made sense all day.

We don’t talk for a few minutes. Just sit in that kind of warm, stretched-out quiet that only exists when two people aren’t strangers anymore — but also aren’t sure what they are now.

Then he glances up.

“How’d it go?”

I blink. “My project?”

He nods.

I smile — slow, wide, real.

“She said it was worth looking at.”

His eyes widen — just slightly. “Ms. Kim said that?”

I nod. “With words. Full sentence. I swear the class stopped breathing.”

He huffs — not a laugh exactly, but close.

“You earned that,” he says.

“You helped.”

“You did most of it.”

“But you sat next to me and helped me.”

He doesn’t answer, just takes another bite and stares out the window like it says something profound.

We talk after that.

Not about anything major — just little things. About his friends like Jisung’s hoodie addiction. Haechan’s current gaming obsession. A professor who talks like he’s narrating a cooking show. My next design concept. His next canvas.

And somewhere in the middle of it — between shared silence and sandwich crumbs — I think:

We’re really friends now.

It’s not a big moment. No fireworks. Just… him. Here. Sitting across from me like it’s not a surprise anymore.

He finishes his sandwich, wipes his hands, and stands.

I start gathering my things too, expecting a goodbye, maybe a nod, but then—

“Hey.”

I glance up.

He holds out his phone.

“Give me your number.”

I blink. “Oh?”

“Just in case you randomly decide to buy me lunch again.”

I grin, trying not to look as giddy as I feel.

I take his phone, type in my number, and hand it back.

He taps something into his screen, then looks up.

“You’ll get a text.”

“From you?” I tease.

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t read too much into it.”

“Too late.”

He walks off with that usual calm, quiet energy — like he’s already halfway back in his head, probably thinking about brushstrokes and color palettes and why he let me into his life at all.

And me?

I sit back down. Smile at the table.

And wait for the text.

___

His POV:

I don’t remember agreeing to this.

The seminar, I mean.

I don’t usually go to them unless I’m forced. I especially don’t go with people. And yet—

Here I am.

Walking across campus beside her.

Y/N.

In boots that click like entrance music, carrying a glittery notebook, and talking at a speed that suggests she had at least two iced lattes this morning.

The worst part?

I’m not even annoyed.

I should be. A month and a half ago, she destroyed my painting with rhinestones and a Starbucks spill. Now she’s... everywhere.

Everywhere.

She’s joined me to three different gallery talks, two cafe-study sessions (I didn’t study), one accidental group lunch, and now this art seminar about “visual language in transitional spaces,” whatever that means.

I glance sideways.

She’s mid-sentence.

“—and I told him, no, I’m not adjusting the silhouette again, it’s meant to look asymmetrical—like, that’s the point, it’s intentional tension, not a mistake—anyway, I just needed to vent. You get it, right?”

I nod. I don’t get it. But I nod.

She continues, undeterred.

“And then I found the dress. The one I’ve been stalking online for three weeks. And they restocked it for like, five minutes. And I got it. And also—look—” she swings her bag around like it’s an award. “New Fendi. Finally came in.”

I blink. “You named your bag?”

“No,” she says, scandalized. “Fendi is the brand, Renjun.”

“Sounds like a pharmaceutical.”

She shoves my arm gently, which for her is the equivalent of silence and reverence.

And I realize—

Somehow, without my permission, she’s become a fixture in my life.

She brings me food between classes. My usual coffee without asking. She shows up in the art room just to sit beside me while I work. Sometimes she talks the whole time. Sometimes she doesn’t.

But she always shows up.

And I… let her.

God.

I even notice when she’s not around. Which is worse.

My friends love her. Like, actually like her. Even Lit Queen tolerates her. And that’s saying something, considering she once said “I don’t do small talk or small people.”

Y/N’s somehow neither.

She compliments everyone. Remembers everyone. Once she told Jisung she liked the way his hoodie matched his phone case and he almost cried. She brought Jaemin a weird indie lip balm because she said “your smile should have a brand.” It smells like cake and regret.

Haechan said it makes Jaemin's lips look like “greasy chicken skin.” Jaemin says it’s divine and refuses to share.

And now—now we’re walking together to this stupid seminar and every five steps I have to stop.

Because she talks to everyone.

“Hi Chloe—cute boots! Oh, Mia—love your new hair! Professor Kim, how’s your cat?!”

I stand next to her like an awkward bouncer while she spreads sunshine like a walking PR campaign.

And apparently... the campus has noticed.

I’ve heard the whispers.

“Are they dating?”

“No, they’re just friends.”

“Are you sure? I saw her bring him coffee twice.”

“He doesn’t even talk to anyone else that much.”

“Is she blackmailing him?”

Honestly, not the worst theory.

We finally reach the building.

She pulls open the door and pauses dramatically, halfway inside, eyes sparkling.

“Oh! Karina and I are having a party tomorrow night. Our place. You should come. Bring your friends. And please—please ask Lit Queen. I need to know how she and Mark got together. Like, was it hate-to-love? Was there a book involved? Did he quote Shakespeare?”

I stare at her.

“Do you just decide to adopt people?”

She shrugs. “No. They just end up being where I am.”

“Terrifying.”

“Inviting,” she corrects. “So you’re coming?”

“I hate parties.”

“I’ll have your drink ready.”

Pause.

She’s looking at me with that expression she does — not pushy. Just... expectant. Like she knows I’ll say yes eventually.

And I hate that she’s right.

“Fine,” I mutter.

She beams.

Like the sun just got upgraded.

“I’ll text you the time,” she chirps, and disappears into the seminar room like she owns it.

And me?

I follow.

I don’t know what we are.

But I know she’s here.

And for some reason, I’m still following.

His POV:

The first thing I notice when we get to her place is that it smells like expensive candles and something aggressively fruity.

The second thing is that I’m not getting out of this party alive.

Haechan's already halfway to the door before we even ring the bell. Jaemin’s holding a bottle of something suspicious and whispering about “party energy.” Jisung looks like he’s being marched to his own execution. Chenle’s wearing sunglasses like it’s not 8 p.m. and dark outside. Jeno is the only normal one, as usual. And Mark’s here, holding Lit Queen’s hand like she’ll bite someone if let loose. She might.

Then the door swings open.

And there she is.

Y/N.

Wearing a dress that sparkles like it was stitched from the concept of confidence itself. Hair perfect, smile wide, bracelets jingling with every excited hand-wave.

“You guys made it!!”

I blink.

Her eyes land on me and narrow. “Even you, Mr. Art Room 3. Shocking.”

Haechan whoops and sweeps past her like he lives here.

Jaemin bows dramatically. “Goddess of Glitter, I am ready for spiritual cleansing.”

Y/N cackles, already dragging them inside. “Drinks in the kitchen! Pizza’s in the back. If anything explodes, it wasn’t me!”

I step through the doorway and immediately get hit with fairy lights, wall collages, and the faint beat of a pop remix from the living room. It’s chaos — warm, curated chaos. Exactly her style.

“Wow,” Jeno mutters, eyes catching on the color-coded bookshelf and the sequin pillows shaped like paint palettes. “It’s like Pinterest had a baby with a design major.”

“It’s like she’s the baby of Pinterest and chaos,” I say.

Lit Queen nods. “Accurate."

___

The party’s alive within minutes.

Mark’s talking poetry with a philosophy major who’s definitely tipsy. Jisung is standing awkwardly near the snack table, eating chips like a survival strategy. Chenle found the aux and is alternating between K-hip hop and lo-fi girl study beats. Haechan and Jaemin are leading a chaotic game of “truth or dare but make it academic” in the living room.

Y/N floats between everyone like a well-dressed hurricane — complimenting shoes, adjusting playlists, fixing a crooked painting on the wall mid-conversation.

She passes me once with a tray of drinks and winks. “Try not to look like you're attending a funeral.”

“This is a funeral,” I reply. “For my social battery.”

She laughs, swats my arm, and disappears again.

___

An hour later, I’ve been forced into a team debate about whether mayonnaise counts as an art medium (it does not), got lectured by Lit Queen about proper citation formatting, and watched Jaemin apply lip balm while saying, “I was born for spotlight.”

Y/N dances between everyone like she’s hosting a talk show. Every time I look up, she’s with someone new — laughing, talking, listening like they’re the only person in the world.

And yet.

I keep noticing her looking at me.

Just a flash. Just a glance. Every now and then.

And then — she’s gone.

Mid-laugh, mid-game, mid-movement — and then nothing.

I frown. Scan the crowd. No glitter. No boots. No loud voice explaining why rhinestones are a form of artistic liberation.

Weird.

I check the kitchen. Nothing.

The hallway. Empty.

I walk upstairs

Her room door’s slightly open. I knock once.

Nothing.

So I push it open.

And there she is.

Not in the room.

But outside.

Sitting on the balcony. Alone. Wrapped in a blanket, knees tucked to her chest, cup still in her hand. Quiet. Still. Like someone turned the volume down on the entire world.

I pause in the doorway.

She doesn’t see me.

Not yet.

And in that moment, I realize something terrifying.

I miss the noise she makes.

I sit beside her.

For a few minutes, we sit with the cold air and the distant hum of bass shaking the floor beneath us. Her eyes flick toward me.

"Did you see Jaemin lip-sync to Britney Spears with a candle as a microphone?"

"Unfortunately."

"He said the lip balm he’s using gave him performance powers. I think he’s high on citrus oil."

I huff. It's almost a laugh. Almost.

She grins. "See? I made you laugh. Put it in the history books."

"Barely."

"Still counts."

Then she goes quiet again. Her fingers toy with the hem of the blanket. Her drink sits untouched.

"It’s weird," she says finally. "How sometimes you can be in a room full of people and still feel like you’re not really in it."

I glance at her.

She's not looking at me. Just out over the railing. Into the dark.

"You were glowing downstairs."

"Yeah," she says softly. "That’s the thing about glowing. It’s usually followed by burning out."

I don't know what to say to that.

So I stay quiet.

And she starts talking.

"My mom once burned a sketchbook of mine," she says. "Not like, metaphorically. She literally threw it into the fireplace. I was eleven. It had these ugly little designs in it that I thought were brilliant. I’d even taped a feather to one page. She didn’t even flip through it. Just... tossed it in. Said I was wasting my time."

I don’t move. I let her keep going.

"She hated everything I made. Dresses, sketches, moodboards. She’d rip the stitches out of pieces I spent hours on. Like, go in with scissors and cut the seams apart while I was sleeping. Then in the morning she’d smile and say, ‘Doctors don’t play with fabric.’"

She laughs, but it’s breathy. Hollow.

"When I got accepted here, she didn’t say congratulations. She said, ‘What a waste of a good brain.’ Like choosing art meant I threw the rest of myself away."

I glance at her. She’s still staring ahead.

"I only ever knew about my dad because I found a locked trunk in the attic when I was twelve. She never talked about him. Just said he was a dreamer who died broke. But the trunk was full of canvases. Paintings he made. Some signed, some not. All of them tucked away like they were secrets."

She swallows.

"When I moved here, I asked the landlord if I could convert the storage closet behind my bedroom. He said no at first. Then I made him a jacket. He changed his mind."

That gets a ghost of a smile out of her.

"I turned it into a store space. Painted the walls. Hung some of Dad’s pieces. Added my own things. It's small. Just enough for a rack and a table. But it's mine. And no one can burn it."

She finally turns to me.

"Wanna see his work?"

My chest tightens. I nod.

She leads me inside, barefoot and quiet. Pulls the closet door open.

And suddenly, I'm standing in a space that feels like someone’s memory made real.

Soft lights. Wooden easels. Her designs hanging beside oil landscapes that hum with warmth. Color everywhere. Sketchbooks. Fabric rolls. A stool in the corner, paint-smeared.

Her world. His, too.

She watches me.

And I say the only thing I can.

"It’s beautiful."

She smiles. Eyes glassy. Shoulders soft.

"Thanks. I think he’d like that you said that."

And I think — somehow, without asking, she just handed me a part of her heart.

Her POV:

It’s not even 9 a.m., and I already feel behind.

The sewing lab’s closed for fumigation (yes, really), my professor’s email was vaguely threatening, and I have exactly one Red Bull left in my fridge.

So when I step outside, arms full of coffee, bag, sketchbook, backup sketchbook, and three stray bobbins that somehow made it into my hoodie pocket — I do not expect to see him.

Renjun.

Just—there.

Standing by the design building like some ghost boy summoned by oat milk and quiet tension. Yellow shirt. Pale jeans. Hair fluffy from the wind. And in his hand?

A coffee cup.

My coffee order.

I actually stop walking. Blink. Check the sky for signs of end times. Nothing.

He notices. Of course he does. Renjun notices everything.

His hand extends wordlessly.

“Vanilla oat, no foam.”

I take it slowly, cautiously. Like it might explode into paint splatters.

“You… brought this for me?”

“I needed your help,” he says.

Flat. Casual. Like it’s not the first time he’s ever come to me. Like this isn’t already rearranging the furniture in my ribcage.

“That’s why I’m here,” he adds. “No other reason.”

Right.

Cool. Fine. Completely expected and definitely not disappointing in a weird, slow-burning way that tastes like too much foam on a latte.

I nod. Sip. It’s perfect.

Of course it is.

We start walking. No destination announced. No questions asked.

We just… fall into step.

Like this is a normal thing now.

Him and me. Morning air. Shared silence. The click of my boots and the occasional slosh of coffee between us.

And somehow — somehow — I like it.

___

We reach the edge of the parking lot behind the art building. The early sun catches on metal, bouncing off the roof of a white SUV. It’s too nice to be a student’s. Too clean to be coincidence.

Renjun angles toward it like it’s his destiny.

I squint.

There’s movement in the back seat. Small. Shifting.

I step closer.

There’s a kid.

Tiny. Curled up in the backseat like a rolled-up hoodie with legs. He’s got those squishy cheeks and sleepy eyes only toddlers can pull off without being judged.

I glance at Renjun. “Um. Explain?”

He opens the door like this is normal Tuesday behavior.

“That’s Haoran,” he says. “My cousin’s son.”

Haoran.

Of course he has a cute name. And a cuter face. And impossibly tiny sneakers with cartoon bears on the sides.

“We’re going to the amusement park,” Renjun adds, tossing his bag in like he didn’t just drop a full narrative twist on my morning.

“We?” I repeat, horrified.

“You, me, and him.”

I stare. Blink. Sip my coffee because it’s the only thing making sense right now.

“So this—” I gesture violently to the cup in my hand, “was a bribe?!”

Renjun doesn’t even blink. Just sips his drink and gives me a smug little half-smile.

“Obviously. What else did you think?”

I open my mouth. Close it. Curse him softly in five languages.

But I still get in the car.

Because I’m weak. Because he brought my favorite drink. Because there's a kid involved and he’s already peeking at me from under his hood like he’s assessing whether I’m cool or not.

Because… I want to go.

___

The amusement park is small.

It’s not Disney. Not even close.

More like faded pastel signs and popcorn carts and the smell of artificial cheese in the air. But there’s a charm to it — retro, familiar, like an old photograph someone tried to color in.

Haoran immediately demands cotton candy.

Renjun tries to reason with him. Fails. I buy it.

And that’s how I become the favorite.

The very obvious favorite.

Haoran walks between us at first — holding my hand like it’s policy, and Renjun’s like it’s emergency backup. But halfway to the mini bumper cars, he lets go of Renjun entirely and full-body leans into me like I’m his designated sidekick.

I glance at Renjun, smug. He glares at me over the kid’s head.

I grin.

____

The morning is all soft chaos.

Teacup rides. Carousel spins. Mini trains that go in literal circles and make choo-choo noises that are both adorable and soul-crushing.

Haoran screams in delight. Renjun flinches every time.

There’s a boat ride that moves at the speed of trauma healing and a mirror maze that Renjun refuses to enter because he once got lost in one as a kid and was “psychologically damaged for life.”

(I call him dramatic. He calls me annoying. Haoran calls me “cool.” I win.)

___

At lunch, we sit on a patch of shaded grass, fries in a cardboard tray between us.

Haoran munches like he’s never eaten before, ketchup on his nose, crumbs on his hoodie. Renjun wipes it off gently, like it’s a reflex.

And for a second — just a second — my chest does something weird.

It pulls.

Not in the panic-attack way. Not even in the crush way.

More like… a realization.

That I like this.

This weird little trio. This quiet, surprisingly soft version of Renjun who lets a tiny human sit on his lap and insists he eat all the fries with the bent ends. This kid who clings to me like I’ve always been part of his story.

____

Later, Haoran makes us go on the flying elephants.

He sits between us — one tiny hand on each of our legs. We rise into the air, slowly, like we’re ascending into a dream.

Renjun’s expression is unreadable. I’m grinning like a child.

Halfway up, Haoran tugs on my sleeve.

“You make Junjun laugh,” he whispers.

I blink. “I do?”

He nods, completely serious.

“Junjun never laughs when it’s just him.”

I look at Renjun.

He looks away.

My heart is definitely doing something now.

____

By the time we get back to the car, Haoran is barely upright. He climbs into the back seat, curls into a warm, sleepy ball, and leans his head on my arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I freeze.

Renjun glances back once. Then leans the seat back slightly and hands me a folded hoodie to tuck behind Haoran’s head.

“You’re good with him,” I whisper.

Renjun shrugs, staring out the windshield. “He’s easy to like.”

“He’s like you,” I say without thinking. “Grumpy. Quiet. Secretly sweet.”

He hums. Doesn’t deny it.

And then—

I glance down at Haoran. His breathing is slow. Even.

“I’ve never been to an amusement park before.”

Renjun turns to me. Frowns.

“Seriously?”

I nod. “My mom didn’t believe in distractions. She said fun was a privilege.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Just… watches me.

Like he’s trying to understand every version of me that led to this one.

And then, softly:

“I’m glad your first time was with us.”

With us.

Not me. Not him.

Us.

And that’s when I realize:

I’m not just falling for Renjun.

I already have.

Author's note:

And that’s Part 1 of Color Me Stupid — a story where iced coffee ends lives, rhinestones commit war crimes, and romantic tension is painted in 67 shades of emotional repression.

Part 2 is coming soon — after I recover from the emotional damage I caused myself while writing this.

Also — no, I’m not a fashion or art major. If something doesn’t make sense, just nod and pretend it was artsy and metaphorical. That’s what I’m doing too.

Stay tuned. Hydrate. Flirt with caution. And maybe don’t storm into an art room like you’re the main character... unless you are.

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The Ink Demonth 2023 - Day 23. Contraband

Day 23. Contraband Crossover: Craig of the Creek, Disenchantment Apparently Workshop toys are a pretty bad currency at least for the time being, but wait until you have some more of them, Kit, and you can make the best trade in your life: "limited edition toys from haunted studio, only from me!"

Kit, as well as the Trading Tree itself, come from the cartoon "Craig of the Creek" (I drew Craig once), which is an extremely nice Cartoon Network production showing kids playing on the titular Creek. I love it for many things - firstly, it brings back sentimental memories from my own childhood, secondly, it is a wonderful cross-section of different types of kids and their behavior, thirdly - it shows small problems in a completely different light. Every parent should watch this series to understand things better. I especially love the episodes that alternately show what the kids see - and what is really happening (e.g. during the game "the floor is lava"). My objection is the same as against Bluey: that it is a bit unrealistic that all the kids always take part in the games and accept the sometimes problematic rules (e.g. when playing hide and seek or being trapped in a maze) - that no one will say "ok, I've had enough, I'm not playing with you anymore". But apart from that - a wonderfully presented world of imagination, actually a mini-community. This series was also "nominated" for the City entry for a while, but I decided that I wouldn't find anything else for the Contraband (plus wanted to draw Kit).

I really like the character of Kit. This little, enterprising girl is something of a higher instance of the creek - thanks to her, kids (for a small fee) can eat their favorite sweets or snacks without having to leave their playground and go to the store, she also sells toys and gadgets. I ship her with Craig - all the episodes of them working together confirm in my eyes what a wonderful couple they'll be when they become teenagers. I'm honestly counting on it, because of all the girls hanging around Craig, Kit is the one who best suits him in terms of character and common interests.

More observant people may also notice a guest from another cartoon, this time absolutely not for children - the demon Luci from "Disenchantment" - a series by the creators of Futurama aimed at adult viewers, a somewhat modern fairy tale, and partly a parody of many well-known stories. If someone is an adult and doesn't know it, I recommend it. A wonderful story with a very good ending to the whole plot. Luci, the personal demon of the main character, Princess Bean, is undoubtedly my favourite character. I love his physical two-dimensionality, to his absolutely non-one-dimensional character. I love his texts and the fact that in all his participation in Bean's adventures, he never forgets for a moment that he is a hellish being, and his "do it, do it" is always wonderful. In his original storyline, Luci was considered a "weird cat" by those around him, hence Kit's text (while he's actually just another of Bendy's "cousins" that the ink demon is wandering around with).

As for the technical side... it took a lot of time to colour, but was surprisingly fun. It was the first time in a long time that I shaded in such a strange way. Oh, it's worth noting that the colours of Bendy's clothes were entirely developed by my daughter, Ursa. Kudos to her! By the way, I wonder who Bendy stole these clothes from X"D

Finally, I will just mention that the Contraband theme was originally associated with "The Owl House" and Eda's stall, but I moved it to another place with a better idea. And that's why Craig landed here.

PS. I don't like Kopiko, but I'm not crazy about avoiding showing existing products in my drawings. But seriously, I didn't feel like changing the name, so here you have it, a covert advertisement for the hideous Kopiko coffee candies. You're welcome, Kopiko.

Bendy and the Ink Machine (c) Joey Drew Studios Inc. Craig of the Creek (c) Cartoon Network Disenchantment (c) Matt Groening Sammy and the Ink Machine (c) Nayia Lovecat

[caeli0306]

chapter 7 of castles crumbling (aka Tales from the Airport Bathroom extended version) now posted!

Chapter 7: Tales from the Airport Bathroom is now up on AO3: READ HERE

I stg every time I say "haha I don't know when the next chapter will be out!" I end up posting a 10k behemoth within 24 hours. this doesn't really count since most of it was technically already written, but similar vibes.

ANYWAYS I hope you enjoy this fics version of ~the airport bathroom scene~. I know everyone loved the meet-and-make-out concept of TFTAB, but disclaimer: it's not like that in this fic! we will get there eventually tho I promise they will kiss kiss fall in love if its the last thing I do. enjoy the chapter!

Summary:

Violet should already be dead. People whispered about her weak body and how she would never live up to her family's martial accomplishments. Violet rose above them all, however, fighting and killing to survive the Navarrian Intelligence Agency's brutal BASGIATH training protocol. Now, people whisper about Violet's swift ascension through the NIA's ranks as one of its most valuable operatives and assassins. The whispers don't matter to Violet: She has her own agenda, and it's a dangerous one - finding out what happened to her father.

But one mission changes everything: Suddenly, Violet finds herself in the crosshairs when she stumbles on information Navarre wants buried, and the country she fought for begins to turn on her. Violet knows too much, but she's determined to do what she does best: Survive. Her only hope is the son of the man who they say killed her brother, but their partnership is far from assured. Some grudges run deep, and trust is a currency too valuable to give freely. Xaden realizes Violet may be the key to everything, but with enemies seen and unseen closing in on all sides, the consequences of failure are deadly.

===

"You're lying."

"Am I?" I ask again.

Sorrengail makes a sound of utter frustration, pushing away from the sink and putting distance between us again. I fight the urge to once again get up close to her.

"Control your hormones," SGAEYL snaps. Gods, do I wish I could.

"You are such an asshole," Violence spits.

"Duly noted," I reply instantly.

Her eyes blaze, and for a moment I think she's actually going to try to attack me. But then she deflates, and she just looks - tired. Like the weight of the world is on her shoulders, and she's slowly crumbling under the weight. It's a feeling I'm intimately familiar with. The somewhat homicidal urges I was feeling abate. I don't like how much I relate to her - Navarre's killing machine in the flesh.

[iviarellereads]

Artificial Condition, Chapter 1

(Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For the link index and a primer on The Murderbot Diaries, read this one! Like what you see? Send me a Ko-Fi.)

In which we catch up with our pal.

SecUnits don't care about the news.

Murderbot never paid much attention to it, even after hacking its governor module. Entertainment is less likely to ping alarms, while news is carried on channels closer to protected data.(1) And, of course, news is boring and it never cared.

Now, as it crosses a station, it skims a newsburst while mostly just trying to get through the crowd without attracting attention. Fortunately, the humans of all sorts are too busy with their own journeys to pay it any mind. It has worried a little about security drones scanning for SecUnit specs, since they're all identical, but they shouldn't unless instructed to do so specifically, and nothing's pinged MB yet.

MB is very pleased with how well it's navigated so far.

Then, in the newsfeed, it sees… itself.

It stops near a food court, so people will think it's deciding where to eat, and pays more attention to the news. The image it saw was from the lobby with Pin-Lee's comment to the reporters, and credits MB simply as "bodyguard". The story mentions Mensah buying the SecUnit who saved her(2), as a human interest note to soften the grisly details of the body count. But, the journalists are only used to seeing SecUnits in their assigned roles, and usually in armour, so they haven't yet connected the new augmented human in the Preservation team. Which is good, because it increases MB's confidence in going undetected as itself.

The rest of the story covers how the company, DeltFall, Preservation, and three other political entities are joining forces against DeltFall, even as they fight each other over bond guarantees and jurisdiction.

Still, the newsburst is days old, and now MB wonders if the official news channels will have anything more recent. But, the higher priority is keeping moving.

On that note, MB keeps moving toward the transit ring. It can't use the typical facilities to purchase passage, as weapons scans will reveal it immediately unless it hacks the scanners, and it has no currency so it would have to hack the payment machines as well, and that's just too much work.(3)

So, MB catches a bot transport to the bot-driven transport section of the ring, and downloads some new media, and thinks about why it left Mensah and what it might want out of its life and freedom. Though, before it can have any of that, it needs to answer one very important question, and to do that, it needs to go to a specific place, with only two bot-driven transports leaving in the next cycle. The one leaving later is the better option, as it gives MB more time to talk the bot around.

I could hack a transport if I tried, but I really preferred not to. Spending that much time with something that didn’t want you there, or that you had hacked to make it think it wanted you there, just seemed creepy.(4)

On the way to the cargo transport, it does have to hack an ID-screener and some weapon-scanning drones, as well as a bot guard, but it just deletes any record of its existence, which is downright easy compared to what it usually has to do to work with company equipment.

The first dock it tries, with the bot transport leaving later, has a bunch of humans there dealing with an accident. Reluctantly, because it shouldn't be here in the first place, it goes to the other bot transport. The newsburst has it rattled, and it wants to escape into its media ASAP.

The other transport is a long-range research vessel, currently assigned to an uncrewed cargo run that will stop at the place MB needs. It's owned by a university in this system, and the cargo runs pay for its upkeep between assignments. MB would really like the twenty-one gloriously isolated cycles between here and its destination.(5)

MB finds the research transport, and pings it, receiving a return ping almost immediately. It gives the same offer it gave the first transport: all its media, serials, books, music, and some new shows it picked up on this station, in trade for a ride where it's going.(6) It offers the same explanation for its presence, as well: a free bot making its way back to its human guardian.

There was a pause, then the research transport sent an acceptance and opened the lock for me.

=====

(1) I find this a little suspect, as far as explanations or worldbuilding choices go. I'm not an expert in any sort of communications methods, but I don't feel like this tracks with what I do know about broadcasts or feeds generally or how they'd logically be laid out if they did work this way. (2) That feels like a romance novel title. Technically, it's almost exactly a romance novella title: The A.I. Who Loved Me, book 1 in Alyssa Cole's The Hive series. (Book 2 has no info yet, but book 1 was really cute, I thought. In case anyone wondered.) (3) MB being relatable again. Why do all that work just to look respectable, when you can sneak around and get your real work done in peace? (4) Gotta agree. Even if they can't retaliate against you, either of those just sounds… awkward, at best. (5) Is it just me, or does that sound like the sort of phrase that would not come true when stated in chapter 1 of a book? (6) I could question why a bot transport couldn't download its own entertainment from the feed, but MB's explanation of the feeds possibly raising alarms about bot access have already more or less answered it. As a part-human construct, it probably has access that can look less suspicious.

[mangoslam]

Chrissy Ran Away - 3/3 - Fic

Chapter 3: On the wharf, I was caught in a tailspin

Eddie wasn’t being so friendly to her now. He’d barely spoken to her since she turned up covered in mud and leaves with a fucked up knee. He seemed to be doing his best to avoid her completely. What if Chrissy ran from Eddie after her vision? What if it pushed them apart? They share a joint and it gets much much worse. My take on 'Chrissy lives'.

Word Count: 10,188 (Oh god, I'm sorry)

Chapter: 3/3

Warning: some non-con touching about halfway through.

Also on Archive of Our Own.

Previous Chapter 1/3 here.

Previous Chapter 2/3 here.

(see end for notes)

------

Chrissy knew she was pretty. Knew she had a nice symmetrical face (according to a magazine quiz it was a ’heart-shape’) and people always remarked on her smile. Ever since middle school people had taken it upon themselves to comment on her looks as if she should be eternally grateful for their compliments and praise. She always pictured her mom’s screwed up face when she heard the word ugly - always saw the sewing machine she would bring out when she thought Chrissy looked heavy. The way she uttered the word ugly made it sound like the most awful thing that could ever happen. Forget about disease or poverty or mental illness. No no, being considered ugly was a sin in the Cunningham homestead. 

So Chrissy knew her appearance meant a lot. It held weight. It was the only real source of currency she owned and could trade off (you know - apart from actual currency). She had learned by the tender age of twelve (when her body started changing in funny new embarrassing ways) the impact her looks had on others and that other people felt good and treated her nice when she smiled and giggled and tried. 

Her mom would repeat over and over that appearance was everything. It didn’t matter how shitty you felt inside as long as you kept it to yourself. Chrissy’s mom was not a brilliant example of a good mom. Chrissy knew this. Her counsellor Ms Kelley knew this. Her father probably knew this though he would never lift a finger to help. Chrissy worried about turning into her mom one day but maybe the real worry was taking after her dad instead. Turning the cheek and ignoring what was right in front of you to keep up the facade of normal. Her parent’s greatest fear was to be abnormal and (God forbid) it tarnish their carefully curated reputation of a perfect upper-middle class wholesome family. Reagan’s wet dream, honestly. 

So even though Chrissy woke up the next morning feeling embarrassed and broken and totally called out, she could at least try not to look it. 

It was like when Jason asked about her headaches (which was weird in itself as he rarely noticed little things like that) and her automatic response had been to give him a pretty smile and lie and say they were probably due to her ‘monthly troubles’ instead. Jason had chuckled at that and rolled his eyes, appropriately (because society said it was okay) abashed. “Well take it easy, babe,” he’d said, pressing a distracted kiss to her cheek, his thoughts already turning to the big championship game coming up. “Have some candy or something.”

Because that’s what boyfriends did when you were unwell right? They’d buy flowers or chocolates or teddy bears with creepy stitched up mouths. 

Chrissy hadn’t really thought about Jason much over the last few days but instead of feeling guilty or worried she felt sort of…fine? In the films and TV shows she liked to watch, girls in trouble always went to their boyfriends first for comfort, but the idea of calling Jason now was just something she didn’t want to do. Was that unfair? Nancy’s boyfriend Jonathon (who she vaguely remembered from photography class) knew everything that was going on with Vecna and the upside-down world. She even caught the cute little looks Lucas and Max exchanged when they thought no one was watching, and Nancy’s brother Mike Wheeler was linked to this superhero El. They all seemed fine and even bolstered by sharing this madness with one another. 

She tried picturing Jason’s face if she told him about Vecna and nearly dying. Would he offer to come here and help Steve build up the defences? Show the freshmen how to shoot straight? Buy her candy? No, he’d probably get more angry at Eddie and the fact she was in his trailer, than her coming so close to having all her bones snapped and her eyes gouged out. He seemed so far removed from all this that she couldn’t fathom him beside her in this world of magic and hellfire. 

Eddie’s reproachful words from last night kept ringing in her ears… ‘did you hear what he did to that kid two weeks ago? Their parents had to pick them up’.

She was so ashamed. That poor kid. She was ashamed too that Eddie knew she had no idea about it. Like he assumed Jason would hide it from her and she would just go on with her little (sparkly pink bubble) life. ‘You just don’t know’.

Well she knew now, and she would not be like her father and ignore it. She was resolved to try and make things right at school even if it brought on Jason’s ire. The idea of him picking on Dustin or Mike Wheeler or any of them made her chest feel tight. 

Beep beep beep. 

Chrissy managed to get maybe two hours of sleep when the alarm on Steve’s watch went off and she groaned at the sudden rude awakening. She pushed her face deeper into the pillow, away from the sunshine beaming in through a blind. She tried to ignore that the pillow smelled like the eucalyptus shampoo Eddie used. There was also the unmistakable smell of cigarettes and weed but instead of being turned off she found it unexpectedly comforting. 

She felt Steve roll over and then there was a delicate pause. 

“Uh…Hi… Chrissy?”

“Hi Steve,” she mumbled. 

“Uh…there a reason you’re here and not Eddie? Not that I’m complaining, just a bit of a surprise first thing in the morning, is all.” 

Steve was peering over his pillow at her, bleary eyed and yawning. His hair was sticking up in all different directions and the sleepy hand he ran through it only made it worse. He still seemed half asleep. Chrissy might have giggled if she didn’t feel like total crap. 

“Couldn’t sleep so I took over the watch from Robin. Then Eddie came down and…well… he took over. Told me to come up here.” 

“Alright.”

“Steve?”

“Mhmm?”

“I heard the ticking noise again last night. Nothing floaty happened, but I thought you should know just in case. I think Nancy’s right. I think…I think it happens when I’m feeling really sad about something.”

“Damn.” She heard him swallow. “So I guess we’ve got to keep you and Max happy then. Happy thoughts an’ all. What got you so down?”

“I…I had a chat with Eddie and we kind of argued. We both said some really shitty things.” 

That was putting it mildly. 

She sighed and it seemed to reverberate down to her toes. She felt like the mattress might swallow her up whole. She eyed Eddie’s bag in the corner of the bedroom and the Hellfire Club T-shirt he so treasured screwed up beside it. His heavy belt was there too and the chains he clipped to the side of his jeans when he was trying to lean into the scary freaky look. 

“I think he hates me now.”

She wasn’t sure how to feel about someone hating her. It was a new. Everyone at school seemed to like her a lot and she never got into arguments or drama. Maybe some of the other cheerleaders were a bit put off when she beat them for the captain spot but they didn’t say anything mean. Her parents didn’t exactly treat her nice but that wasn’t out of hate. They said it was out of love. 

Steve’s voice noticeably softened. “Nah. He doesn’t hate you, Chrissy.  Far from it. The guy’s just…I don’t know…”

“Hanging on by a thread?”

“Exactly, yeah. He’s got a lot going on in that fucked up head of his…and he was a nutcase before all of this too, you know? We’re all trying our best but…it’s hard. He likes you though. Trust me.” 

Steve wouldn’t say that if he’d heard the way Eddie spoke to her last night…or this morning? Ugh. Or the way she spoke back to him. She tried not to linger on the awful expression on his face when she threw the words ‘hypocrite’ and ‘jealous’ at him like sharp darts. She’d meant every word - but she still felt bad. She wasn’t the kind of person to enjoy inflicting pain on others just because she was losing her mind, or punching down on someone who was already sinking. 

“We bought coffee, right?” Steve yawned again as he sat up and stretched, wisely changing the subject. “I can’t function without at least two cups in the morning. And Henderson has really been dialling up his attitude recently. The little shit.”

Chrissy sat up too and only then fully appreciated what an awkward situation they were both in. She’d deliberately not slipped under the sheets when she came to bed so they weren’t exactly side by side but it was still weird. She got out from under her borrowed blanket and wobbled to her feet. Christ, her head was reeling from the lack of sleep and food. And weed, probably, even though she barely had half. 

“I’m going to shower and I’ll make some. I think I spotted a coffee maker stashed in one of the cupboards.”

Steve hummed happily as Chrissy padded out the room barefoot. They had all agreed to keep the bedroom doors ajar last night so the person on guard duty could do their checks. Chrissy spotted a note tacked on their wood with what looked like gum. 

Gone to get milk - E.

The idea of Eddie coming up here while she was asleep and seeing her side by side with Steve made her feel odd, even if he’d been the one to suggest it. Another thought to push way down and ignore. 

She jumped in the shower before anyone else was up and washed and scrubbed her body thoroughly (who cared if her skin was pink and sore as a result?). She then scrubbed at her face and brushed her teeth. She applied her make up so well that you would never suspect she’d been awake all night crying over ticking and spiders and Eddie Munson telling her she was a sheep. She tossed her head side to side and smiled when the reflection met her approval. Once finished she towelled herself off and got dressed. 

She hadn’t been able to stuff much into her cheer bag but dug out an (admittedly wrinkled) flowery summer dress that would still look okay if she smoothed it down with her fingers. The thin straps showed off her slim shoulders but the skirts hid her knees. She decided to leave her hair down to dry as she hadn’t brought a hairdryer (though Steve probably had an emergency one stashed beside his hairspray). She very rarely wore her hair down because Jason said he preferred in a ponytail or in plaits. It felt different. New. She used her fingers to fluff out her bangs. 

Downstairs Dustin and Lucas were already awake and poking around the kitchen cupboards hopefully. Chrissy asked them to start up the coffee machine and found some breakfast stuff. By the time Robin and Steve came downstairs she was whisking pancake batter in one of Rick’s bowls. Robin said Max was still in the shower and Nancy was keeping an ear out. 

“You’re an angel, Chrissy,” Robin added gratefully, plonking herself down at the table. Her wet hair was still wrapped up in a towel. “Do we have syrup?”

“No way. Chocolate chips are the way to go,” Dustin corrected, still in his pyjamas. He reminded Chrissy of her little brother when he was still nice and occasionally an ally against their parents. 

Chrissy served up the pancakes as they debated the perfect pancake toppings. She never actually ate pancakes herself (far too many calories) but her grandma showed her how to do it when she was little and she could even do the perfect flip (naturally). While the others tucked into their food with thanks, she buttered some toast and nibbled it while leaning against the counter. 

She suddenly thought about those creepy lifeless women on the covers of Good Housekeeping. All made up with stiff fake smiles and with hair that looked totally pristine. She probably looked like one of them now. 

But no matter how pretty and composed she looked or how attentively she listened to Robin debate the virtues of pancakes versus crepes, Chrissy felt herself tense all over again when she heard the front door open. She turned at once to make herself a cup of coffee even though she hated it black. It would give her an excuse to do something with her hands besides wringing them together like a one dimensional damsel-in-distress character in their Dungeons and Dragons game (though Dustin, Lucas, and Eddie all seemed keen to them). 

“Daddy’s back safe and sound, kids, despite the looming threat of annihilation and bogus wizards that make even Saruman the White look like a pansy. Miss me?”

“You get milk?” Steve asked bluntly. 

“Yes dear. Got some more snacks too seeing as Lucas’ gone through like three bags of chips already.”

“Thanks man,” Lucas said, relieved. 

“I grabbed some gas too if you guys still want to hit up the War Zone?” Eddie added. “There’s plenty of room in the back of the van for guns, grenades, nunchucks…Could probably smuggle in some rocket launchers too.” 

“Flame throwers,” Nancy corrected him, walking into the kitchen. 

Chrissy didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know everyone was glancing at Nancy with a fair amount of respect (maybe a smidge of fear too). 

Hands wearing heavy silver rings placed shopping bags down onto the countertop beside her. A carton of milk appeared by the coffee pot but she ignored it stubbornly as she filled her mug to the brim. It took all her resolve not to shudder when the bitter liquid touched her tongue. Ew. 

“Can I grab a cup, ‘Rissy?” Nancy asked. 

‘Rissy? She liked that. “Sure, Nance.” 

Chrissy turned to see Nancy (followed by a clean and dressed Max) joining the others at the table. Eddie remained standing though as he slowly unpacked food into the cupboards.

Like her, he looked completely composed. He was wearing his usual ripped jeans but instead of a rock shirt he’d pulled on the black and red flannel that usually adorned his waist. Other than that though, the same Eddie; creepy rings that no store in Hawkins would surely sell, guitar pick around the neck, the now-familiar bat tattoo on his elbow (his sweet ol’ tatties, she remembered him saying). The only subtle tells that something may be amiss were the faint purple circles beneath his otherwise warm brown eyes and the fact he needed a shave (but saying that so did Steve). 

Eddie was putting away chips and soda and laughing at something Robin said. He even responded with a joke of his own in that flirty tone he seemed so comfortable using. Totally at ease. Totally in control. But it can’t be real, Chrissy thought, not after what he said this morning. He must be running on fumes. 

Which meant he had an excellent poker face. It almost rivalled her own. The others would observe them going out for milk, making breakfast, helping. Both of them seemingly fine. Christ, they could be her parents. 

Chrissy forced her shoulders to relax and flashed a blinding smile. When she spoke she made sure her voice was peppy and cheerful like she was getting ready for a cheer rally. Looking at her now you’d think she was running for the 1986 Miss America title and not miserable and sad and so fucking tired. Aren’t you proud of me, mom? 

“Want some pancakes too, Nance? Max?” she asked. “And you? How do you take your coffee, Munson?”

He almost - almost - cracked at that but caught himself just in time. She was nearly impressed.

“I can make it myself thanks,” he was all he said. 

–

They were indeed still going to the War Zone today. It was Nancy’s idea originally after spotting an advert in the paper but Eddie seemed to know about it too. It was about a two hour drive away and sounded like a Republican paradise. It would definitely have all the weapons and tools they needed until El and the others got there and they could regroup. Steve offered to drive but Eddie shut him down real quick. Only he drove his van, he explained. It wouldn’t run for anyone else. 

“Some of us should stay to guard this place,” Robin pointed out. “I don’t mind. I’m still sleepy from last night.”

Max and Lucas were quick to bow out too. Nancy was going to stay as well as she wanted to phone Jonathon again and check on his progress. Chrissy noticed her fingers twitching when she said this but didn’t make a deal of it. Nancy rarely spoke about Jonathon so maybe there was something not quite right there (though who was she to talk? Jason who?). She felt herself getting closer to Nancy every day but she still wasn’t sure they were in the boy-chat territory. Guns? End of the world? Sure. Heartbreak though? She felt herself growing closer to Robin too but there was something…different…about Robin she couldn’t quite place. It was like she belonged in a different era - one in the future maybe where they used flying cars and everyone was cool like her. She’d assumed at first she was Steve’s girlfriend but after only a millisecond it became abundantly clear they were just best of friends. 

Maybe one day after saving the world (they could do it) she and Nancy and Robin could crack out some wine coolers and discuss all the wonderful highs and tragic lows of being a teenage girl. Maybe even Max could join in. She’d like that a lot. 

So it was Eddie, Dustin, and Steve who got ready for the War Zone and then to everyone’s surprise Chrissy said she wanted to go too. She hurriedly retrieved her purse and opened it wide so they could see the large amount of cash wedged inside. 

“Woah!”

“Did you rob a bank?” Max said, eyeing her curiously, and Chrissy laughed.  

“It’s just my savings and what I could find in my dad’s office. Don’t worry, he’ll never notice it missing. He’s always leaving cash around the house. I brought some of my gold jewellery too in case we need to pawn it…though someone will have to help me. I’m not exactly sure how to pawn things,” she admitted. The words sounded unbelievably odd on her tongue. “I never wear any of it so I don’t mind. I only wear this one…” She gently flicked a nail against the ‘86’ at her neck. 

“We can’t accept your savings, Chrissy! You’ll need it for college, right?” Nancy pointed out. 

“Don’t worry, I have a separate college fund which is under lock and key. My dad won’t let me touch it until after I graduate. It’s his guarantee that…well, that I don’t drop out and do something to embarrass the family,” she said. “Please. I know you guys have all chipped in here and there and I wanna help too. Use this money to buy the…weapons…and food and things.”

“That’s really generous honestly but really we can manage if we stretch our money together. I think we’ll be okay if we’re careful.”

“But I don’t want you guys to be just okay. You’re so brave by doing all this - the least I can do is make sure money isn’t an issue, you know? This is something I can actually contribute to the group. Please just use it.”

She looked imploringly at Steve then. Steve came from a similar background to her own and must surely get it. Chrissy didn’t need this money and likely never would whereas she knew some of the others came from humble backgrounds and it just wasn’t fair. She found speaking about all of this uncomfortable - Jason and her other friends were just as privileged as her and her mom would rather die than discuss something as tacky as money - but Chrissy held fast because this gesture would alleviate some of the pressure from the others. It was her way of pulling her weight. 

“And…” she added brightly, smiling. “It would really annoy my mom if she ever knew and that thought makes me seriously happy. That’s got to be worth it, right?”

Steve laughed and she knew she’d won. “Alright, thanks Chriss. We’ll use the money today. Keep your jewellery though…we’ll only pawn that as a last resort, kay?”

Chrissy thought she saw a flash of relief cross both Steve and Nancy’s faces (they must have been worrying about this too) before they turned away and that made up for any embarrassment. 

Thankfully Dustin called shotgun in the van and the conversation shifted to a debate about what radio station to listen to. Chrissy collected her things - she borrowed a pair of Rick’s aviator sunglasses too as it was sunny (she hoped he wouldn’t mind) - and made to follow the others outside. 

But a touch to her elbow made her hesitate and Max was there looking awkward. “…I know we haven’t really spoken much before but I just wanted to say… that you do contribute to the group. Maybe you don’t feel that way, but it’s…nice…having you here.” Every nice word seemed to pain her but she held herself steady. She had a kind of intensity in her eyes which would surely make grown men tremble.  

She could be a governor or a DA, Chrissy thought, speechless. She finally choked out, “Thanks for saying that Max.”  

“Yeah whatever. Bring me back some peanut butter, ok? Smooth. I like that best on my pancakes.” 

Evidently dismissed, Chrissy jumped up onto the passenger seat beside Steve and Eddie started the engine. Eddie was the one to pick the music (“my van - my rules, Henderson”) and fiddled with the radio until some loud rock blasted out from the speakers. A few minutes later they were driving along the lake towards town. 

End of passion play, crumbling away

I'm your source of self-destruction

Veins that pump with fear, sucking darkest clear

Leading on your death's construction

Chrissy folded down the skirt of her summer dress so it lay neat against her thigh and settled back on the leather seat, doing her very best not to look ahead at the driver. She tried to ignore Dustin babbling about making  improvised weapons, or Steve complaining about the volume, or the thought of a certain pair of eyes watching her in the mirror. Instead she slipped on the too-big sunglasses, pulled out a shitty Capitalist magazine from her bag, and unfurled it resolutely. She would read it word to word like it was a textbook for class. No matter what anyone else thought. 

“Woah, what happened to your hand?” Dustin was saying. That did draw her attention. 

“Girls dig bruised knuckles, man, what can I say? They love that dangerous vigilante look. I caught it in the van door earlier, Henderson, I’m alright. It’s no biggie.” 

Did she imagine it or did Steve glance her way? She looked back at her magazine pointedly. 

Taste me, you will see

More is all you need

Dedicated to

How I'm killing you

“This music is killing me,” Steve grumbled. 

“It’s not so bad.” It wasn’t Chrissy’s style of music either but she liked the lyrics. “I think the band’s called metal something.” 

“Metallica,” Eddie corrected without looking round. 

She thought about the other time she’d taken a ride in Eddie’s van before her vision of Vecna. She’d met him in the car park after the championship game (ears still ringing from the cheers) so he could drive her back to his trailer for something stronger. He’d surprised her by holding the passenger door open like a gentleman from those old black and white movies. He’d even offered to let her pick the music though now it was his van, his rules. She’d been too nervous to suggest anything though. She remembered that whole journey being very very aware of just how bare her legs looked in her short cheerleading skirt. 

It was getting hot so she tried unrolling the window but the handle seemed to be busted. Eddie must have noticed because his window was suddenly down and a burst of cool air snaked around her shoulders and made her sigh. 

The War Zone was exactly as Nancy and Eddie described. Everything was made from lumber and it smelled strongly of polish and pine and oil. Testosterone in a bottle. There were rows and rows of clothing displays - hunting jackets, cargo pants, heavy work boots - as well as all the hunting and fishing equipment you could ever need. Behind the (again wooden) counters the guns and knives were locked away side by side in glass cabinets, and she thought they looked intimidating and scary. 

They let Steve take the lead inside. He seemed in his element and casually reeled off all the things they would need. He asked her and Dustin to go pick out some of the heavy duty coats and boots so Chrissy found herself ambling down the aisles with a heavily laden basket. She picked out a few things she thought might be helpful. She almost kissed Dustin on the cheek when he spotted a padded jacket he thought she might like (“There’s no pink, but it’s got little dots like your dress?”). It was so unbelievably cute that she thanked him and put it straight into the basket. They actually started having some fun picking bits out together (Dustin was going full Rambo with his own choices) - and inevitably their laughter started to draw stares. 

Not at Dustin though. At her. 

There were a few men openly staring at her now and she tried to ignore it like she always did when she drew unwanted attention. “Thank the heavens for that summer dress,” a man nearby drawled. He looked about the same age as her father. Maybe even older. “What’s a sweet girl like you doing here?”

She could hear Robin’s voice in her mind saying ‘buying a deadly weapon, dipshit, what’s it look like?’

Chrissy remained silent though. She knew that if she responded it would encourage them. It was a lesson that had been drummed into her ever since middle school. Don’t respond. Don’t be a tease. Don’t lead them on. Another voice behind her piped up. “Want a date, honey? Ditch the kid and come back to my van, eh? We can have ourselves a little party.” 

Dustin looked angry but was clearly out of his element and unsure how to best handle this sort of thing. “Let’s go back to Steve and Eddie, Chrissy. We’ve got enough stuff,” he said instead. His trust in the older guys seemed unshakeable. 

“Sure thing, Dustin. Everything’s cool, okay? Just ignore them.” 

They walked back over to the counter and waited. Steve was signing some paperwork and had four guns lined up on the counter in front of them. Chrissy stood as close to Steve’s side as she could and hoped that maybe those men would assume he was her boyfriend and leave her alone. They certainly looked like they could be a couple with their preppy clothes and looks. 

She saw Dustin whispering something into Eddie’s ear just as someone said loudly, “Want to come hold my gun, babe? I’ll let you polish it. Might even go off.” His friends seemed to think this was real funny because they began cracking up. 

Steve and Eddie heard that. She felt herself blush. “Sorry about this. Don’t worry, they’ll wind down in a little bit. Let’s just finish up and go…” 

“You can polish both our guns at the same time!”

“Shit,” Steve muttered. He was flushed too and she felt awful. “Sorry, Chriss. Just paying now. Won’t be long…Hey, can we speed this up please?”

She pressed closer to his side. Chrissy had this trick during times like this where she would try and physically make herself very small as a way of trying to hide. Her shoulders were already turning inwards and she crossed her arms over her chest. She tried to focus on what Steve was saying to the cashier but it was drowned out by a roaring noise in her ears. She wished Dustin would stop whispering to Eddie. She wished they would stop looking at her. 

But then someone brushed up close against her back. She felt a lingering hand on her hip. Her ass. She couldn’t stop herself from squeezing her eyes shut and grimacing. 

Here would be the part where someone should step in or where Chrissy finally told this jerk to get the fuck away from her (maybe even a tall body shielding her with his own, a gentle hand guiding her away) but this was 80’s Indiana and that shit didn’t happen just yet. The ideas of what to do when your customer or friend was being fucking manhandled in public just weren’t invented yet - and she could see her friends were pissed off but they hung back because they didn’t have the fucking right to get involved, you know? They weren’t her boyfriends or father or brother, they weren’t her. If she asked them to punch this guy's lights out they would in a heartbeat (and Eddie and Steve looked like they were gunning for it) but she didn’t. Chrissy just clenched her jaw and took it. 

They paid and left, and as soon as she slid onto the backseat she pushed on Rick’s sunglasses and stared out the window. She could feel the guys glancing at her (worried, angry, guilty) but they were following her lead and giving her some space. They made it a few miles before Steve reached out and turned the heavy rock music back on. 

“Did that asshole hurt you, Chrissy?” Dustin said at last and because it was Dustin she answered honestly. 

“No. He just touched my leg and my…” She shuddered at the memory and seemed to shrink even further back into the seat. “I’m sorry you had to see it. I swear I didn’t say a word to any of them or smile or even look at them. I didn’t…”

“You don’t have to be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

She could have told him about the lecture she got at church when one of the pastors touched her leg because she wore a dress that was one inch too short, but Dustin didn’t need to know about any of that crap. He was just a kid. “I should have just stayed in the car,” she sighed. 

“It’s just not…fair. You can’t just not exist, you know? I don’t know…it’s messed up.”

“Yeah, it is.”

He paused for such a long time that Chrissy thought he was done, but then he turned around properly and peered through the seats at her. “Chrissy? I’m sorry I didn’t…you know, defend you when that first creep said something. I didn’t know what to do and kind of freaked. Next time I’ll be better, though, I promise. I’ll look after you.” 

So this time Chrissy did lean forwards and press a kiss to his cheek. Dustin turned an alarming shade of red but he smiled. “You were perfect, Dustin. I promise. Never change, little guy, okay?”

She felt tears spring to her eyes so once again turned her head to the window. 

She didn’t notice Eddie pat Dustin on the shoulder. Or Steve messing up his hair. 

**

When they got back to Rick’s it was way past lunchtime but Nancy had left them some cheese sandwiches in the fridge. Chrissy took hers outside to eat in the back garden, along with a book she borrowed from Dustin. “Keep the door open though, yeah?” Steve had called. She promised she would. 

She dragged one of the wooden chairs from the circle towards the dock in what she considered was a perfect spot by the lake edge. Here she would be able to enjoy the last of the day’s sunshine and hear the gentle flow of the river in peace. She’d even borrowed one of Rick’s floppy fishing hats so the sun wouldn’t burn her nose again (poor Rick - she might as well try on his boots next). She’d thought about sitting in this spot last night - this morning - when she was out here sharing that joint with Eddie and thought it would be such a sweet place to relax and unwind. It was so quiet here. 

It was quiet back in the house too. Nancy and Robin were spending the afternoon researching the Creel family in the library archives and had taken Steve’s car. The others seemed happy enough to admire their new cache of weapons and gear and Steve was trying to get the TV to work so he could watch a sports game. 

There wasn’t much for Chrissy to do this afternoon except to stay quiet and not draw any more trouble. 

She could still feel those prickling eyes on her face and body and hear those vile comments at the War Zone. The laughter. They’d found it funny to make her uncomfortable and humiliate her. Like it was a game. And why hadn’t she spoken up? Why not answer like Robin or Max or Nancy might have? No, she’d just tried to ignore it and wait it out like a storm. Hadn’t she already made the decision not to end up like her parents? To challenge Jason? To stand up, to say something, to shout and make some fucking noise. She was off to a crap start. 

Christ, she was so weak. She couldn’t even go to a store with her friends without stirring up some kind of mess. She thought about Dustin’s helplessness when it first started to happen and Steve’s sympathetic (pitying, her dad’s voice corrected) smiles in the car after. She’d upset Eddie again. She should have just stayed in the damn car. 

She couldn’t focus on the book in her hands or even the sunshine. Everything suddenly felt so cold and dark. She hurled her sandwich into the lake. 

She made a noise that sounded like a whimper. Fuck fuck fuck. 

And just as she fell to her lowest - it happened. 

It started with a dark shape emerging beneath the surface of the lake. It was big - maybe the same size as a person - and way too big to be an eel or a fish. Maybe it was a body? Chrissy was suddenly standing and she peered over the edge and saw it was starting to move towards her. She stepped back (not noticing that the chair was no longer behind her). She began rubbing her eyes. She’d heard about people cracking up from stress and exhaustion. Maybe it was finally her time?

But then the ticking started and it filled her belly with an icy cold horror. Tick. Tick. Tick. 

She suddenly knew that whatever that thing in the water was, it was not something good and it was going to hurt her. She did not want that thing to come any closer! 

But it did. The top of its head broke the surface and she saw grey slimy flesh…

“No…” she moaned. “You’re not real. This isn’t real.”

Like a nightmare, Vecna’s face emerged inch by inch as he drew closer. His black lifeless eyes were staring at her and when she flinched back, he smiled. His teeth (black and sharp like fangs) twisted into a terrifying grin. “Chrissy…” he seemed to sing her name like it was a verse or a melody. “It’s time Chrissy.”

Chrissy shook her head as she took another step away from the water’s edge. She turned to run back to the house (to her friends and safety) but it was no longer daytime. Dark smoke caged her senses and the grass beneath her bare feet turned now to ash and soot. The smoke flooded her nose and mouth and she gagged on it. The sickening taste of death clawed at her throat making her eyes water. 

“You’ve been so clever trying to run away from me, Chrissy, but you knew I’d come back to claim you. You always knew, didn’t you? In the back of your mind. You knew that we needed each other. Poor Chrissy. You’re so tired, aren’t you? So exhausted. Let me help you…”

She couldn’t see the house or the dock or anything. Everything was so dark. 

“You don’t want to help me,” she cried. “You want to murder me.”

“No. I want to help you become something bigger than yourself. Something incredible and exciting. Chrissy…come to me. You’re so good at doing exactly what you’re told. Come to me now.”

He was rising out of the water and then - as sudden as a blink - he was standing before her, tall and threatening. She stumbled back against something hard and knew she could not run away. She felt her legs buckle beneath her and she fell to her knees. 

She was crying. She was terrified. “I don’t want to die. Please. I don’t want to die.” 

“Can you really call your miserable little existence living?” he asked cruelly. He bowed and curled one of his long fingers beneath her chin and forced her to look up at him. “You who are utterly without love. Not even for yourself. It is kinder to put you out of this misery, Chrissy. Believe me, you know that there’s nothing in this world for you. It won’t make the slightest bit of difference if you are alive or dead.”

His words seemed to pierce her heart like ice. Was he right? 

“You have a weapon - a gun - hidden upstairs. You’ve kept it so secret and safe but why do you have it, really? You and I both know why. You know that there will come a day when you finally snap and you want it all to end..”

“Oh god…” 

She couldn’t look away from his piercing eyes. He was cradling her face now and scratched his claws down her cheeks, tearing at her flesh. She felt no pain though. She was completely in his thrall. 

“Come with me….” 

“I…” 

Chrissy!

Someone was screaming her name, but no that was impossible. It was just her and Vecna and Vecna was going to murder her. 

But then there was music. Such loud ringing music that it seemed to shake the foundations of the world around her and flood it with a bright gold light. Its sparks gathered by the red vines twisted around her limbs (when had that happened) and seemed to rip them away. 

We are young

Heartache to heartache

We stand

No promises, no demands

Love is a battlefield

She remembered the first time she heard this song. One of her friends played it during cheer drills and they laughed themselves silly dancing along to it. She’d bought a tape herself and listened to it secretly at home using her headphones. 

We are strong

No one can tell us we're wrong

Searching our hearts for so long

And then she saw a swirling white light just behind Vecna. At the edge of the lake. Just like when Eddie saved her last time. 

Chrissy! That was Eddie’s voice calling her name. That sounded better than any cheering crowd, any morning birdsong, any fucking power ballad. 

She knew what she needed to do if she wanted to fight this but she didn’t know if she had the strength. Then she thought about Max telling her she belonged in the group. She thought about Nancy who was brilliant and badass and kept guns under her bed, and Lucas who was an athlete but also a total nerd. She thought about Steve who was a fucking hero and Robin who might be a timetraveller and who she wanted drink wine coolers with. She thought about Dustin who promised he’d fight for her even when he was scared. She thought about Eddie and the way he made her laugh in the woods and how he was hanging on by a fucking thread now because of Vecna. She owed it to Eddie to fight this. 

Vecna suddenly became those rednecks back at the War Zone with their creepy entitled eyes. He became her mom. Her dad. He became Jason and the way he and the team bullied the freshmen kids. He was a fucking asshole. 

She got to her feet with a whimper. 

Both of us knowing

Love is a battlefield

Chrissy! 

“LEAVE ME ALONE!”

She screamed and kicked Vecna right in the chest. All those years of cheerleading drills had made the muscles in her legs strong and the strength of that kick was just enough to surprise Vecna and give her a split second advantage. She ran towards the white light.

She jumped. 

–

And then she was underwater. She was being pulled down to the bottom of the lake and her lungs were empty and she was screaming but she had no voice. 

She couldn’t believe that this might be the end after all. Not when she’d jumped into that bright white light wanting to live and come home. 

But then hands were grasping hold of her and pulling her away from the darkness and up towards the surface. More hands dragged her out of the water and she sank, shivering and cold, onto the grass of the riverbank. She felt warm lips against her mouth and then she was choking and then she tasted gloriously sweet air. She gulped it down greedily and let it fill her lungs. The world seemed to clear and settle around her. 

It took a moment for her senses to catch up but when they finally did she could feel everything. She could hear someone crying and people shouting in hurried frantic voices. She could feel the way her lungs ached as her chest rose and fell. She could smell the coppery tang of blood. 

Her dress was clinging to her body like a second skin and she felt so achingly cold but she was alive. That was all that mattered. 

She opened her eyes and Eddie’s face was all she saw. He was kneeling in front of her, his hands still gripping her wrists, and he had tears running down his cheeks. He was soaking wet too. Chrissy raised a thumb and wiped at his cheek gently. 

“Are you here, Chrissy?” he was asking over and over. “Are you back with me?” 

“I’m here. Eddie, I’m here.”

He crushed her to his chest and she let him. Burying her face into the crook of his neck, she let her own tears come and she wept and wept. She let out every single tear and drop of fear into Eddie’s strong shoulder. His arms were tight around her back but she wanted the weight. It made her feel held. 

She might have cried for hours (it wouldn’t have mattered).

“Eddie? I need to look at her cheeks, man.”

Her cheek? She felt Eddie release her slowly and then Steve (also wet and shivering) was there inspecting her face. He was trying hard to keep calm so he could focus on whatever it was he was doing, but when she caught his eye he broke into a proud grin. “Hi Chrissy. Welcome back to Earth.”

“I can smell blood. Is it mine?” It was easier to breathe now. The smoke and ash and water were no longer in her lungs and throat. 

“You were floating in the air above the water,” it was Max speaking now. Chrissy’s gaze came to rest over Eddie’s shoulder and she saw Max and Lucas watching her closely. Max’s face was as white as a ghost. Dustin was kneeling at their side beaming though. All of these wonderful human beings who she had heard in her vision. Who brought her back. “And then your cheeks just slashed open. Like you were scratched either side by invisible claws. Was it Vecna?” 

“Yeah. I think so. I remember…he came out of the lake,” she murmured. She glanced back at the lake now and saw that it was still and calm. It looked beautiful again. “I knew I was having a vision but couldn’t stop it.”

Steve cleaned her up while she told them everything that happened. 

“...Then I heard my name…and I heard music…my favourite song. It made a bright light appear. As soon as I saw that I knew it was my way home.”

“It was Eddie’s idea!” Dustin said proudly. “He saw you from the window and grabbed Max’s walkman. He managed to cram the headphones over your ears just before you started floating up…but I guess it’s in the lake now though.”

“I’m just glad I had Pat Bentar on there,” Max mumbled.

Chrissy didn’t want to think about ‘what if’s’ right now. Instead she looked back at Eddie. His hands were still holding her waist. “How did you know that was my favourite? You’ve never asked.”

“Didn’t need to. You humm it sometimes.”

Chrissy smiled. She began to cry. 

She let Steve finish cleaning her wounds while Lucas grabbed them all warm blankets. Steve told her she had two large jagged scratches on either side of her face, running from the tips of her lips all the way to her eyes. “They aren’t deep enough to need stitches but I’ll get you something for the pain. I don’t think they’ll scar…” 

Chrissy found she didn’t care. She might’ve once. She was just thankful Vecna missed her eyes. 

“I can't believe you kicked Vecna,” Dustin was saying. “That’s so fucking cool.”

“Very metal,” Eddie agreed quietly. 

Eddie was still watching her closely. It was like he didn’t quite believe it was over and she wouldn’t start floating away again. She watched as two faint red patches started forming on his cheeks. It was like he was just now realising how close they were. 

“I need to sit down. Can I…?”

Steve immediately suggested she go upstairs to lay down on the bed but instead she asked them to help her back into the wooden chair she’d positioned so carefully before her vision. She wanted to stay outside and sit in the last remnants of the day’s sunshine. The sun would be starting to set soon and she wanted most of all in the world to sit out here on Rick’s dock and watch it. Like he did. She didn’t want to give Vecna the satisfaction of sending her to bed and having her miss out on something she damn wanted. “Can I have some alone time?” she asked. “I just want to…sit here.”

“I don’t think you should be left alone…” Max started but Eddie spoke up. 

“I’ll stay,” he said quietly. 

The others went back inside (though Steve brought her out the much-appreciated pain medication). Her hands were trembling too badly to take it alone so he helped her. She thanked him gratefully. 

“You’re one of the team now,” he said. “We look after our own. Eddie, bring her in if she starts turning blue, okay? Doc’s orders.” 

Chrissy sighed and she lay back in the chair. Her mind was swimming with Vecna and his soft velvety voice. He’d said he wanted her purposefully because she needed him to end her long drawn-out suffering. The most tragic and clever thing, she realised, was that his words had been sprinkled with seeds of truth. She was everything he’d said. He’d looked into her heart and only held up the cracked mirror. 

Chrissy was sad. She’d been sad for a long time. But did she really not want to be here anymore? Chrissy looked out towards the lake. The blue sky was gradually fading into pink. 

“Eddie?” she said softly. 

“I’m here.”

“Will you sit with me?”

She heard the sound of scraping wood as Eddie pulled over one of the chairs next to hers on the dock. He even readjusted the blanket around her shoulders before sitting down even though she was capable of doing it alone. It was just her face (and heart) that ached. 

They stared at one another, sizing each other up almost. She noticed for the first time that his eyes weren’t entirely brown. They had little flecks of gold in them too. She’d never thought of Eddie as pretty before but she did now. 

“So you jumped in the lake for me?”

“Didn’t even hesitate,” Eddie chuckled. “You can thank Steve for the lip service though. He just loves to be the hero and save the girl.” 

Chrissy was so tired but she didn’t dare close her eyes in case she fell asleep. She was happy sitting here on the dock with Eddie. She lifted her feet and curled them up beneath the blanket. 

“I thought I was a goner. Again. I almost gave up,” she said. “I know that’s such a pathetic thing to admit but when Vecna told me about wanting to put me out of my misery, a tiny part of me wanted to believe him. He knew about me being unhappy and sad all the time. Knew that I was shutting down inside, you know? He told me it wouldn’t make any difference to the world if I was alive or dead and I let myself believe him. Does that make me stupid?”

She saw Eddie swallow. “Look, I’m not gunna’ sit here and pretend to know what your life is like because I was dead wrong before. I know now it’s been… tough… and that asshole Vecna used that to try and manipulate you. But, Chrissy, it didn’t work. You chose to come back and you kicked him like some cheerleader warrior. It probably won’t mean much, but I’m fucking proud of you, kid.” 

Chrissy smiled despite herself. “As I live and breathe, scary Eddie Munson acknowledging cheerleaders might not just be some dumb stereotype. You’ve dropped Cunningham too. It sounds nice.”

“No turning back now. It felt like such a trip when you called me Munson during breakfast. Even if I totally deserved it.”

“You didn’t.” 

“No, I did. I was a complete asshole. Chrissy, look, I know you’ve been through a lot today and the kindest thing would be to leave you alone, but can you stay awake just a little longer to hear my shitty apology? After that I’ll give you some space or carry you up to bed or…whatever you want.”

“You don’t need to -”

“I do. Please. I need to apologise for everything. For the way I’ve been avoiding you and for every fucking crappy thing I said to you this morning. I would take it all back in a heartbeat because every word was total bullshit, Chrissy. I didn’t mean any of it. I was so angry and scared and worried and pathetic… and you were right when you called me out on it because I was taking it out on you.”

“But why me? Because I ran away?”

“No, Chrissy, please listen…” He moved his chair so close that his leg brushed against her knee. “It wasn’t anything you did or didn’t do, okay? You’ve been so fucking spectacular. The way you’ve been caring for everyone and helping out. It’s just…in my fucked up brain…every time I look at you I think of that Fred kid - but I see you like that and it just breaks me. Every time you flinch at the name Vecna or touch your jaw I die a little bit inside. I feel so guilty and scared that it could have so easily have been you. I still can’t believe tonight…seeing you floating like that above the water and seeing the blood when that fucker cut into your face…God, if Max hadn't had that stupid song on her walkman... Chrissy, I can’t deal with the thought of…you dying.”

Eddie had closed his eyes but when Chrissy lightly touched the back of his hand they flew open. 

“Eddie, I’m right here. I’m alright. Look at my neck. My wrists. My jaw. I’m not broken. Look at my eyes. I’m here.” 

She shrugged down her warm blanket and held out her arms, bared her neck, lifted her chin. She let him trace his fingers along her skin, reassuring himself that yes she was smooth. She was whole. His eyes searched her greedily. She might have found the idea of letting Eddie Munson do this to her odd once but now it only made her feel safe. 

Then his eyes came to rest on her face, on the deep scratches. “Steve’s done a good job and I don’t think they’ll leave any punk scars. We’ll have to think of an excuse for your folks though…and Jason. If I’d only put that music on sooner…”

“The important thing is you did. It was quick thinking.”

She let him trace his fingers over her face too. She could see it helped clear away some of the tightness on his face. 

“When I looked out the window and saw you go still…I’ve never felt so fucking scared, Chriss. And the last time in my trailer? I was so freaked out I nearly ran out of there myself. I thought I was used to horror and gore and monsters, but that was all pretend before. I don’t know jack shit about any of this or how I can help, and maybe I’m a coward but I think that just added to whatever sizable chip I’ve got growing on my shoulder right now. When I saw you again at the Wheeler’s you thanked me, Chrissy, and kept looking at me like I was some hero like Steve and I knew I wasn’t. You’re still looking at me like it even now…it’s like, what the fuck can I do?”

“But Eddie, don’t you remember that Twain quote in English class? About courage being resistance to fear? We had a test about him.” 

“You know I’m failing English, Chrissy.”

“Well that’s what he said. The fact is you’ve saved me three times now. Twice from Vecna and once from drowning, and you’ve been scared the whole time. I think that’s pretty courageous,” she added with a small smile. “So I do get to call you a hero. That’s my prerogative as the  crappy damsel.” 

Eddie’s lips twitched into a smile and it looked like he was blushing. 

“Well maybe I’m okay when Vecna comes calling… but I was too much of a coward to face you though. To give you what you wanted. What you needed…”

“What do you mean?” 

They were both still soaking wet although the blankets and sun were doing their damn best to dry them off. But when Eddie reached out and took her hand she felt like it was a summer day in July. He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. 

“By my count, we’ve shared two fucking terrifying moments together but instead of…I don’t know, bonding over it? Helping each other out?...I’ve been pushing you away like an asshole. I don’t know a damn about psychology or trauma or whatever…but what I do know is talking to you about it now feels really good. Like some of my damage has mended and I can breathe a little easier. That’s got to be a good thing, right?” he said. “So let me finally step up and be here for you. I want to. I want to hear everything that’s going on with you. No frills. No bullshit... Lay it on me, Chrissy. Please.” 

Chrissy met his eyes and saw such honest sincerity and warmth there she thought she might start crying again. He was putting down his shield and offering her his friendship and she wanted to take it so badly. 

This wasn’t an olive branch or a sledgehammer - this was a flamethrower - and they would burn the metaphoric wall down to the ground. Together. 

So Chrissy told him everything. She told him about her life before her visions - about cheerleading and her shitty parents and her miserable anxieties about food. She told him about Jason and how she was pretty sure she was going to break up with him because she hated bullies and didn’t want babies and a house and to be ignored for the rest of her life. She even told him about the incident at church and how it made her hate her body but at the same time she wanted to buy fucking silk pajamas too because she knew they would feel nice. She told him about college and how she wanted to take a year off and see some of the world. She was sure she’d love California and Rome and maybe even England so she could visit some real life castles. 

She told him about her first vision and why she’d come to him for drugs and about how crap she still felt about running away from him. She told him about this vision. About how Vecna made her feel so worthless and weak. She told him about the gun she had upstairs (this was the only time he interrupted her to say gently they would get it later and store it with the other weapons so it was safe). She told him about how much she liked her new friends and how thinking about them helped her find the strength to get away from Vecna. 

Eddie listened to it all and seemed to be drinking it in. With every word she felt a coil inside her begin to unwind a little. It was just like he said before about feeling mended. Like he was switching her up. 

“...And I thought about you,” Chrissy admitted at long last. “How I owed it to you to come back and be here for you. I didn’t want to leave you alone again.”

Eddie had tears in his eyes and so did she. 

“You weren’t totally wrong about me this morning. I have been ignoring some of the crap that goes on at school,” she admitted. He looked like he wanted to interrupt but she kept going. “I didn’t know how rough things were for you guys, but that’s no excuse now. I promise I’ll help from now on. No one should be treated that way.”

“Chrissy Cunningham, defender of the downtrodden misfits and freaks. Atta’ girl,” Eddie smiled. “But you don’t deserve to be treated that way either, you know? Not to be a dick again, I swear, but you kind of let people walk over you sometimes and you seriously don’t deserve it. You’re so cool and smart and really talented. You…you’re the real deal. You should own it.”

“…I’ll try.”

Loving oneselves was not easy and Chrissy had spent years putting herself down, but she knew Eddie was right and she should exercise more self-love like Ms Kelley said. She should try, at least. Baby steps. 

Behind them the sun was setting behind the trees and the sky was a colour palette of pink, yellow, and orange hues. She lay back against her chair and she let her eyes flutter close for just a minute. She could almost purr she felt so content right now. 

“The next day at the hour of sunset Aragorn walked alone in the woods, and his heart was high within him; and he sang, for he was full of hope and the world was fair…”

“Is that from…?” Chrissy clumsily scooped up Dustin’s book from where she must have dropped it before her vision. On seeing the cover, Eddie grinned and she found herself grinning back just as wide, though she didn’t know why they were both so happy. Eddie took it from her gently, seeing that she was at risk of dropping it again in her tiredness. 

“Same author but different book. If you like The Hobbit you can borrow my copy of Rings after. I promise you’ll love it. That’s a Munson guarantee.” 

“I’d really like that, Eddie.”

“And I’ll try and read Little Women…are they actually tiny women or…?”

Chrissy found herself giggling softly. “Maybe we can talk about them together? Start our own private ‘End of the World’ book club. I’d like to hear more about D&D too and what it all means. Maybe even watch a game sometime…if that’s okay?”

“It’s a deal.”

Chrissy found her eyes once again closing and she yawned. She thought she could sleep for a thousand years. She snuggled down further into her blanket. 

“Sleep Chrissy. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

She liked the sound of that. Her friends. Nancy and Robin would be home soon too. 

“Eddie?” she mumbled sleepily. 

“Mm?”

“So you really don’t hate me?”

“No way. Not possible.” 

“Can we…can we be friends? I’d really like to be your friend.”

There was a little pause and she just about heard him clear his throat. 

“Best of friends, Chriss. Best buddies.”

And her heart sang. 

---------------

A/N:

Annnnnnd we're done folks. Chrissy and Eddie can now look to the future and kick some Vecna butt as team mates (the best team mates). A few notes:

- Firstly, thank you so much for reading this crazy mess. I promise to go back at some point and edit and cut that word count down - but I'm already up to my eyeballs with others ideas for the two (maybe taking place in the same series as this one?) - I wanted to leave it as them friends but it's pretty clear they are going to be something more, you know? Plenty of hints scattered in that Eddie is crazy about Chrissy and she's starting to notice him too. - Eddie IS crazy about Chrissy throughout this fic though he might not feel like he can show it (she has Jason remember and as far as Eddie knows they're a couple couple until she admits it at the end). He's not treading on any toes. - Lyrics are from 'Master of Puppets' and 'Love Is a Battlefield'. I saw an interview where Chrissy's actor mentions this would be the song to pull Chrissy out. - Yeah the men at the War Zone suck balls, but it's something we read about every day right? I'd like to say things are better but fuck that. Make noise, people. I actually wrote Eddie stepping in and guiding her out initially (with Chrissy under his arm naturally) but it just didn't feel right. You can bet that both he and Steve wanted to kick ass though and Eddie was gritting his fucking teeth. - I love Dustin and Chrissy moments. I also love Steve and Chrissy moments. - Yeah sorry Steve gave her mouth to mouth because he actually knows what he's doing - being a lifeguard and all - but Eddie was first in the water. Steve helped pull her out. - The Rings quote Eddie says '...The next day at the hour of sunset Aragorn walked alone in the woods, and his heart was high within him; and he sang, for he was full of hope and the world was fair…” is about a sunset, yes, but also before Aragon meets the love of his fucking life and thinks he's stumbled into a dream. Nice work, Eddie, lay those seeds.

Love to you all - Hellcheer forever.

[mrsirobin]

What You Need to Know About Money Counting Machine Price in Bangladesh

If you manage cash transactions daily—whether you’re a shop owner, a banker, or even a general user—you know how important it is to count money accurately and efficiently. In Bangladesh, more businesses are investing in Money Counting Machines to speed up operations and avoid errors. To help you understand the best options and pricing, here’s everything you need to know about the Money Counting Machine price in Bangladesh.

Why Money Counting Machines Are a Must-Have in Bangladesh

Handling cash manually not only takes time but also leads to errors and fraud. A Money Counting Machine helps solve all these problems. With one machine, you can count thousands of notes in seconds. Plus, many modern machines come with built-in fake note detectors that help prevent financial loss.

In Bangladesh, from small retail shops to large banks, these machines are becoming essential tools. Given the convenience and security they provide, their popularity is increasing across the country.

Types of Money Counting Machines Available

Before discussing the Money Counting Machine price in bd, let’s look at the various types available. Choosing the right machine depends on your business type and the volume of cash you handle.

1. Standard Note Counters

These are basic machines that count how many notes are in a stack. They’re great for small businesses but may lack advanced security features like fake note detection.

2. Money Counting Machine with Fake Note Detector

These machines come with UV, MG (magnetic), and IR (infrared) sensors. They automatically identify counterfeit notes while counting. Ideal for high-volume businesses such as banks or wholesalers.

3. Mixed Denomination Machines

This type is more advanced. It can detect different denominations and calculate the total amount without sorting the notes manually. These are especially helpful in banks and corporate offices.

4. Portable Note Counters

Lightweight and compact, these machines are perfect for people who need to count cash on the go—such as mobile vendors or field officers.

Key Features to Look For

While browsing different models, here are some must-have features in a reliable Currency Counting Machine:

High Counting Speed: Most machines process 900 to 1500 notes per minute.

Fake Note Detection: UV, MG, and IR detection are essential to catch counterfeit money.

Auto Start and Stop: Makes operation smoother and faster.

Batch Counting: Helps in organizing money for deposits or safekeeping.

Clear Display Panel: A bright, user-friendly LED or LCD screen is always a plus.

Noise Level: Quieter machines are better suited for office environments.

Buying a Money Counter Machine with these features ensures you save time while maintaining accuracy and security.

Money Counting Machine Price in Bangladesh

Now let’s talk about the pricing. The Money Counting Machine price in Bangladesh depends on several factors like brand, features, and build quality.

Basic Machines:

Price Range: ৳5,000 – ৳8,000

Suitable for small retail stores or personal use.

Mid-Level Machines with Fake Note Detector:

Price Range: ৳10,000 – ৳18,000

Best for small-to-medium businesses with a moderate cash flow.

High-End Mixed Denomination Counters:

Price Range: ৳25,000 – ৳60,000

Perfect for banks, large retailers, or institutions.

Portable Money Counting Machines:

Price Range: ৳3,000 – ৳7,000

Great for vendors, collection agents, and NGO field staff.

For the best deals and quality after-sales service, you can trust reliable suppliers like Nobarun BD, who offer a wide range of products suited to all budgets.

Benefits for Different Users

For Shop Owners

Shopkeepers deal with cash throughout the day. A Money Counting Machine helps count cash quickly during shift changes or daily closures. Plus, the fake note detector gives peace of mind.

For Banks and Financial Institutions

Banks require high-speed, error-free operations. Machines that count mixed denominations and detect fakes are a must for their daily transactions.

For General Users

Even home users and community managers who handle cash collections benefit from compact, easy-to-use machines.

For Event Organizers & NGOs

If you're managing cash donations, ticket sales, or field collections, a portable Currency Counting Machine can save time and reduce errors.

How Does the Fake Note Detector Work?

The Money Counting Machine with fake note detector uses advanced technology to scan every note:

UV Detection: Scans for ultraviolet marks only present in real currency.

MG Detection: Detects magnetic ink used in original notes.

IR Detection: Checks for hidden threads and security features.

If a fake note is detected, the machine stops immediately and alerts the user. This prevents fraudulent transactions and helps maintain trust in your financial operations.

Tips for Choosing the Right Machine

Here’s how you can make the best buying decision:

Evaluate Cash Volume: Choose a faster machine if you handle lots of money daily.

Check for Detection Features: Always go for a machine that includes UV, MG, and IR detectors.

Look for Warranty: Machines from reputable sellers often include at least a 1-year warranty.

Read Reviews: Customer reviews can help identify the most reliable models.

Customer Service: Choose suppliers who offer local support and spare parts availability.

Again, platforms like Nobarun BD are trusted by thousands for these reasons.

Frequently Asked Questions

Q: Can these machines count both old and new Bangladeshi notes? Yes. Most updated machines can process both new and old notes without issue.

Q: Are they easy to maintain? Absolutely. Regular cleaning and occasional sensor checks are usually all that’s needed.

Q: Can I use one machine for multiple currencies? Some high-end models support multiple currencies, but for most users in Bangladesh, local BDT support is more than enough.

Q: Are portable machines reliable? Yes. For small volume tasks, portable models offer great performance and convenience.

Final Thoughts

A Money Counting Machine is more than just a tool—it’s a long-term investment in accuracy, efficiency, and security. With various models now available at competitive prices, there’s something for everyone—from small business owners to large banks.

If you're tired of wasting time or risking errors by counting money manually, now is the perfect time to upgrade. The Money Counting Machine price in bd is more affordable than ever, and the benefits far outweigh the cost.

For trusted options and reliable service, we highly recommend checking out Nobarun BD. They offer a great variety of models, expert support, and a reputation you can trust.

Make your work smarter, safer, and more professional—with the right Currency Counting Machine.