Thunderbolts X Reader - Blog Posts

Bob and the Superhero Love Story Arc

Masterlist

Pairing: Bob Reynolds/sentry x (f)reader

Tags: fluff, feelings, kissing, comfort, learning disabilities, childhood friends, found family (thunderbolts), some nice times because Bob deserves it

You were ten years old.

You were both in the same special needs class in elementary school.

Even if your needs were different.

It was your first day at a new school after you and your older sister had just moved to a new town. It was a small suburban town, with a small school at its center and small classrooms. Your sister had registered you at the main office, quietly informing the principal that you had a learning disability. He nodded and got up to exchange some husged wispers with the front desk lady. A moment later, the woman offered a soft smile before motioning for you to follow. "Come with me, hun."

Down the hallway, she led you into a quiet classroom where about ten students your age sat. The teacher paused mid-lesson as the door opened, and everyone turned to look at you next to the front desk lady.

"Miss Brown, please welcome your newest student," the secretary said.

The teacher, an older woman with kind eyes and a denim vest, nodded. "Good morning, why don't you come up here and introduce yourself."

You walked up to the front of the class, slightly fidgeting with the hem of your dress and told everyone your name.

Ms. Brown smiled. "It's very nice to meet you, y/n. We don't get new students often around here."

Gesturing to a boy at the far end of the room, she said. "You can have a seat next to Robert."

He sat alone, half-curled into his hoodie, shaggy brown hair hanging over blue eyes. The desk beside him was empty. You crossed the room with your backpack slung awkwardly over your shoulders, pulled the chair back, and sat down. Your hands were slow as you arranged your notebook and pencils.

"Hi," he wispered, looking up for only a second.

You smiled. "Hi. I’m Y/N."

He nodded. "You said that."

"Right," you chuckled, feeling your cheeks heat. You sometimes blabbed when you were nervous. "You have a nice name, Robert."

"Bob’s okay," he murmured, opening his notebook and scribbling the date in the corner.

Feeling like you somehow said the wrong thing, you turned to your desk and did the same, copying down the teacher’s notes. Your grip tightened on your pencil as the words blurred. Like they always did.

At lunch, a few of your classmates came over, smiling and curious.

"Hey, I’m Alex," a boy said.

"I’m Kate. I like your dress," added a girl sitting beside him.

A few more names followed. A boy named Timothy and a girl named Gillian.

"So, what do you have?" Timothy asked plainly.

You blinked. "What do you mean?"

He motioned vaguely around the room. "Everyone's got something in this class. I have ADD. Alex is on the spectrum... what about you?"

"Oh," you understood now, swallowing. "I’m dyslexic," you said quietly, pressing your lips together the way you always did when explaining it.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Bob glance up from his desk, eyes flicking to your notebook before returning to his.

"What’s that?" Kate asked.

"I... I have difficulty reading," you explained.

They gave you a variety of looks. Some curious, others sympathetic.

"I’ve never heard of that," Gillian said. "Sounds awful."

"Gillian," Bob said, without looking up.

Gillian grimaced, giving you an apologetic look.

"It's okay," You smiled, grateful even for that brief defense. “It’s not too bad,” you said, even if you didn’t always believe it.

The truth was that the school didn’t have the resources to distinguish between different types of needs. So, they grouped everyone together. And in time, you all became something like friends.

But Bob was still... distant. When you all tried to include him in group games or projects, he’d just shake his head, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on his desk.

Until one day.

Your sister was late picking you up, and most of the others had already gone home. You sat on the curb, arms wrapped around your backpack, and then noticed Bob lingering nearby.

You plopped down next to him, your leggings brushing against his scraped-up knees poking through wrinkled cargo shorts.

"Your parents not picking you up?" you asked.

He flinched slightly, then glanced over. His hair was a mess and falling into his eyes. You had the sudden urge to brush it away.

"Sometimes they’re late. Or they forget," he said with a sad little smile, eyes fixed on his shoes. "It’s alright."

You frowned. He smiled, but he clearly wasnt happy. You looked around, trying to come up with something to change his mood.

You froze when your gaze landed on the school playground. "Wanna go on the swings?"

He looked at you, uncertain.

You offered your hand. "Come on. It’ll be fun."

He hesitated. Then, slowly, his hand met yours. It trembled slightly in your grip.

It was that day you first felt it. A little flutter in your chest came with holding his hand. A crush.

From then on, you watched him more closely. How he always sat in the back. How he flinched at loud noises. How his eyes lit up when a teacher asked a question about science, or outer space, or machines.

It was during a group project—the group being your entire class— that you realized how sharp he was.

You and your classmates were brainstorming ideas for a model bridge, and Bob sat at his desk and mumbled something about tensile strength and suspension systems.

Kate blinked. "How’d you know that?"

He shrugged. "It was in one of Ms. Brown’s books."

"Huh. That sounds smart. Let me write it down for the presentation," Alex said, scribbling it down. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bob smiled a small smile. "Sure thing."

And that smile stuck with you longer than it should have.

You enjoyed math's and sciences enough, but your favorite subjects were history and literature. The ones that ironically required a LOT of reading and writing. After your sister showed you a movie about a pair of journalists who uncover a major political conspiracy, you had your goals set on becoming a journalist. And for that, you'd have to ace the humanities.

One afternoon, you were hunched over your history book you were researching for an assignment, frustrated nearly to tears. The letters wouldn’t sit still.

"Can I?" Someone asked softly. You looked up and saw Bob, taking a seat next to you, motioning toward the book.

You nodded, swallowing hard and handing it to him. Afraid that if you'd open your mouth, you'd might let out a sob.

He read aloud, voice low and steady. Something about the way he spoke made it all easier. You could’ve listened to him for hours.

You never told him how grateful you were. How safe you felt in that moment.

By the time you both turned sixteen, Bob had started to withdraw even more. You still waved in the halls. Sometimes he waved back, sometimes he didn’t. He was absent more often than not. But somehow, his name always showed up on the academic distinction list that was plastered on the wall at the end of each term.

The crush still lingered, quiet and patient.

He didn’t come to graduation.

And you wouldn’t see him again for a long, long time.

You were twenty-two now.

The surprise press conference was in full swing. Cameras flashed as Valentina stood at the podium, parading the new Avengers. The memory of the recent disaster still lingered in the air.

You’d been on the opposite end of New York during the Void attack, but the moment authorities announced it was safe to return, you were assigned to cover the story. So you rushed to the scene with your press badge and your crew.

You were just an intern at The Washington Post, clutching your phone as you tried to keep up, typing every word Valentina said with great effort. Your brows knit in concentration. This could be your big story. You didn't want to mess it up.

You looked up off your screen to take a brief look at the new Avengers.

Then your eyes caught on him.

One of the team members was clapping awkwardly with the crowd, standing a little behind the others like he didn’t quite belong.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

Oh my God.

"What is it?" Your co-worker, Anthony, asked while snapping pictures with his professional camera.

"Uhm, nothing. I'm just excited about the story." You mumbled, your eyes glued to Bob.

He’d changed.

He used to hunch over like he was trying to disappear into a desk. Now he stood tall—broad-shouldered, navy sweater tight across his chest. His curly brown hair was longer and messier, but it still fell into his blue eyes when he looked down.

But his smile—shy, unsure—was exactly like you remembered.

Your old classmate, Bob. Your first crush... was an Avenger. A superhero!

"Stand back," he said flatly.

After the conference, you circled the venue until you found him, chatting with the Avengers. You made your way over.

Only to be stopped by a stone-faced agent.

"Right. Sorry." You lifted your badge. "I’m with The Washington Post."

He gave you a once-over. "Interns don’t get access to the Avengers."

The comment was meant as a dig, but it didn't work. By now, you were used to being overlooked and underestimated. And you knew you could deal with it with sass when the time was right. You raised a brow. "You’re gonna regret that when I’m head writer someday."

He snorted. "Come back when that happens."

"Come on," you said, trying not to sound desperate. "I just want one statement from the team."

"No—"

"I give statement to nice young lady," came a booming voice behind him.

You turned to see the Red Guardian looming like a wall of muscle, casting a long shadow over the both of you.

"We have orders—" the agent began.

"Davai, Shoo, little man. I get brand deal now," Alexei said, swatting him away like a fly.

You blinked, feeling starstruck. "You're the Red Guardian. From the Soviet Union."

You read a lot about him in your history of the Cold War 101, a required course in your journalism program. Alexei was truly a fascinating figure, a warrior. A spy. A soldier. A human experiemnt. There was so much about him still unknown to the public. And he stood in front of you in the flesh.

"Im him, yes." He grinned a bearded, gold-toothed grin. "Washington Post, you said, da? I enjoy watching senators play... what you call... football. Ridiculous game. The name makes no sense. It's called football, but they hold it in their hands—ne vazhno. it's very violent. Entertaining."

"Uhhh..." Before you could say more, a quiet voice spoke up.

"Y/n?"

Bob had stepped beside Alexei, eyes wide with recognition. Your heart skipped. His voice was deeper now, steadier.

You smiled, a little breathless. "You remember me?"

He nodded, warm and surprised. "Of course I remember you." His gaze roamed down your body, and a pink coloring appeared on his cheek. He'd changed since you were kids, and so had you.

Recovering, he turned to the others, gesturing to you. "Guys… this is a friend from back home."

They all gave you the once-over, some more skeptical than others. You offered a sheepish smile and wave.

Bob glanced at your badge. His brows lifted. "You’re with The Post? That’s amazing!"

There was genuine pride in his voice.

You smiled back, feeling something catch in your throat. "Well… interning for now. But yeah. It’s a dream come true." You hesitated, then added, "And you’re an Avenger!"

According to Valentina, he was one of the strongest beings alive.

He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "You probably don’t remember me that well. I mostly—"

"I remember you, Bob."

He blinked. Swallowed. Opened his mouth—and couldn’t find the words.

The agent came back, signaling to you to wrap things up.

You cleared your throat and lifted your recorder. "Sentry, can I get a statement on this exciting new team-up?"

Bob opened his mouth, then closed it without saying anything. He did this a couple of times.

John Walker elbowed him. "Say something before you embarrass yourself."

Bob coughed. "C-can I see you again?"

Walker winced, shaking his head. Alexei let out a deep chuckle, rubbing his belly as he looked between you and Bob.

You froze, lowering the recorder. Then let out a small, surprised laugh.

"I mean, we don’t have to—" Bob backtracked.

"How’s next Monday?" You cut in.

His eyes lit up. "I’d… I’d like that."

You tore a page from your notebook and scribbled your number. When you handed it to him, he looked at it like it was something rare.

"I don’t like her," Yelena muttered, pacing the lounge.

Ava rolled her eyes from where she was sprawled on the couch. "What now?"

"She’s too pretty."

"I know," Bob mumbled sat in a chair, eyes on the floor. "Why would someone like her want to be with someone like me?"

Walker chuckled, chips halfway to his mouth from the bowl he held in his hand. "Nice going, Yelena."

"What?! No—," Yelena exclaimed, then turned to Bob. "I just don’t want you to get hurt, okay?"

"You can’t protect Bobby from everything, docha," Alexei said with a shrug, stretching out over the other leather sofa. "Even heartbreak is part of manhood."

Bob frowned. "Heartbreak...?"

"Oh my God," Bucky groaned, rubbing his temples. "Can you all shut up? They haven’t even gone on one date yet."

He clapped a hand on Bob’s shoulder. "Relax, son. It’ll be okay."

New tech filled the lab at Stark Tower. Bob was tucked into the far corner, flipping through the worn, half-burned files from Valentina’s vault.

Equations lined the whiteboard in his handwriting. On the table beside him lay pages from Tony Stark’s notebooks, dog-eared and annotated with scribbled notes. Every so often, he muttered to himself, tapping a finger on a page.

"Hydrogen density ratios don’t match…" he murmured, then sighed. "Unless the pressure chamber’s offset by six degrees…"

You smiled at the door. Sentry—the mighty Avenger—looked like a very tired, very nerdy engineering student.

You cleared your throat.

He looked up, startled, then grinned sheepishly. "Oh. Hey. Sorry, I was just… working on something for the team."

"It’s okay. Your friend Walker let me in." You stepped closer, glancing over the papers. "Anything interesting?"

"Sam’s flight suit overheats at high altitudes. I thought Stark’s insulation algorithm might be adaptable."

You nodded slowly. "Wow. That sounded really smart. I wish I understood half of it." You chuckled.

"I can explain it to you," he offered, shrugging. "If… that’s something you want to hear."

"Yeah. Definitely." You bit your lip. "Maybe over pizza, though?" You raised your brow in emphasis.

His eyes lit up as he remembered your date. He shoved away at the papers.

"I didn't forget." He rushed out. "I just got carried—"

You let out a soft chuckle. "Its fine, Bob. You don't have to apologize."

His shoulders dropped with a sigh of relief.

You licked tomato sauce off your fingers. "So, you’re solving cooling issues while the Red Guardian is learning how to post on Instagram?"

"He is?" Bob asked across the table from you before taking a bite of his peperoni and mushroom slice.

You held out your phone. "He’s live right now. Doing a Q&A."

Bob raised a brow. "Wow. Twenty thousand viewers?"

"They mostly ask him about his workout regimen."

He snorted.

The two of you walked side by side down a quiet Midtown street, the city’s hum distant behind you. Hands jammed into his jeans pockets, he nudged a pebble with the toe of his sneaker now and then. No godly aura. Just… a guy.

You laughed softly as you reached your building. "You’re still the same, you know."

Bob looked down. "I don’t feel the same."

You watched him—how his jaw flexed when he was deep in thought, how his brow furrowed like it always had. "You are. Just taller."

At the door, you turned your key. "Thanks for walking me home."

"Anytime." He lingered, hands still in his pockets. "Can I see you again?"

"I’m heading to D.C. next week for a press conference," you said, before joking. "Wanna fly down to meet me, Sentry?"

He smiled. "I might stop by if I’m in the area." Then he leaned in and kissed your cheek before wishing you a good night.

A knock came at your hotel window.

Sunset spilled across the National Mall in orange, blue, and soft pink. Stepping away from your papers and notes you've collected from the day, you walked over, heart skipping as you spotted him hovering over the balcony, wind in his hair, a shy grin on his face.

You threw open the window. "Oh my god!"

"How was work?" he asked.

Shaking your head, you laughed. "This isn’t real."

"I want to show you something." He held out his hand.

"…Are you serious?"

"Trust me."

You hesitated, then pulled on a jacket and boots before coming back and placing your hand in his.

"If you drop me—"

"I won’t."

With a gust of air, you lifted into the sky, wrapped in his hold. The city dropped away beneath you, a sea of lights and honking horns. Your stomach tensed as your hands gripped his shoulders.

"Don’t let go!"

He laughed above you, the sound vibrating agains your ear, and tightened his hold.

"I won’t, I promise." he said quietly.

He brought you to a rooftop that overlooked the Potomac, the city was wide and glittering in the distance. Wind woodshed around as Bob touched down, setting you down gently.

You whispered. "This is… amazing."

By a rusted AC unit, a picnic blanket was laid out with a paper bag and two bottles of Coke.

"Did you do this?" you asked, sitting beside him, knees brushing.

"Do you like it?"

You peeked into the bag and gasped. "Burgers? This is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to anyone."

He chuckled. "What can I say? I’m setting the bar high."

You took a bite of your burger and moaned. “God, this is good. All i had to eat today was a croissant for breakfast." You turned to him. "You really are a hero."

He looked out at the horizon. "Still doesn’t feel real."

You wiped around your mouth, lowering the burger in your hand. "Must’ve been a massive adjustment, huh?"

"Sometimes, when everyone’s asleep, I just sit there… waiting to wake up. Like this is a dream."

You blinked, unsure what to say.

"You remember everything now?" You asked.

He nodded. "Bits. Enough. Mostly the bad parts."

You placed a hand on his. "Wanna to talk about it?"

"I should." He hesitated. "My therapist says it’s healthy. But maybe not right now."

You nodded. "Whenever youre ready."

He glanced at you. "I was wondering… when we were kids, how did you handle your dyslexia?"

You leaned back on your palms. "It was hard. People often thought I was lazy. Until I finally went to a school that recognized what having a learning disability means."

His jaw tensed. "Thats not fair. Im sorry."

"It's not so bad." You shrugged with an easy-going smile. "I got creative. Audiobooks helped a lot. Or people reading to me. Like you used to."

He looked at you, something tender in his eyes.

You asked gently, "Where did you disappear to after high school?"

His gaze drifted. "Nowhere good. I tried to… change. To fix myself. But Sentry—he wasnt a good solution. I couldn’t stop the—"

He stopped talking when he realized he was about to say "void" and possibly reveal his dangerous alter ego to you. He wasnt sure how youd react.

"I couldn’t stop the bad times. Until the Avengers helped me claw my way out."

"Its good you have them," you said softly. "And that you’re here."

He finally looked at you. His eyes were glassy, filled with something wounded and ancient.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess it is."

The two of you sat like that. Talking and watching the city light up the night.

After he flew you gently back to your balcony, Bob touched down with barely a sound, the soles of his sneakers brushing against the floor. The wind tugged at his hoodie, making his hair tousled from the flight.

He stepped back, motioning for you to go inside. But you lingered in the doorway.

"Thanks for tonight," you said, your voice low, carried barely above the breeze.

He smiled, looking down at his shoes. "Anytime."

You hesitated.

Then stepped toward him.

Before he could say another word, you leaned up and kissed him softly.

He froze for a second. His breath caught, sharp and startled.

You wondered if it was a good surprise or a bad one.

But before you could pull away, his hand lifted, finding the small of your back, pulling you gently but firmly closer.

His fingers rose to your jaw, warm against the curve of your neck. His lips softened into yours, gradually going deeper, more certain.

You gasped softly against his mouth as his his thumb traced the edge of your cheekbone. The scent of him, laundry detergent and wind, filled your senses. Your hands found his chest, feeling the muscles and ribs underneath his hoodie.

His hand shot out, bracing against the wall beside your head with a solid thud, his body crowding yours back into the doorway. Your blood roared in your ears.

And then you heard a crack.

You pulled back slightly, breathless. "What was that?"

He glanced at his hand, still pressed to the wall… or rather, into the wall.

A small hand shaped hole had formed beneath his palm—brick flaked and splintered, dust crumbling down.

Bob blinked. "…Shit."

You burst out laughing.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Great. Smooth. Way to go, Bob."

"You dented my wall," you teased, poking his chest.

"Yeah, well, you kissed me!"

You stared at each other. Then you were both laughing.

You grinned. "Goodnight, Bob."

He stepped back, hovering just off the balcony, the night air catching the hem of his hoodie like wings. His eyes never left yours.

"Goodnight, y/n" he said, voice low and happy.

And then he rose into the sky.

Bob came back to Avengers tower at around two in the morning.

"Where have you been?!" Yelena ran to him in a range, then pulled him into a hug. "Don't just walk off like that without telling us where you're going!"

Bucky leaned against the wall behind her, his face a mixture of disinterest and worry. "Shes right. You could have been hurt."

Bob wanted to laugh, he felt like a kid being lectured by his parents, but in a good way. He's never experienced that before.

"Did everyone forget the part where I'm invincible and have superstrength?" Bob patted Yelena on the back as she hugged him, muttering angrily that if she had to tie him to herself, again, she'll do it.

"Yeah, and what about your other version of pops by to say hello again?" Ava walked up to the living room with her hands folded.

His smile dropped. Ava was right. He slowly relearned to control Sentry's powers, but he never learned to control the Void. Hell, he barely understood what the Void even was, and thanks to Valentina, any scientist who may be able to clear that up was dead.

He didn't feel the void resurface as much since becoming an avenger. Even forgetting about him—especially since things were going so well with you.

"Ah, relax and let the kid have some fun, would ya?" Walker strolled out of the kitchen in bunny slippers and civilian clothing, his presence a welcome disruption of the tension. "You did have fun, didn't you, Bobby?"

Bob nodded eagerly, then slowed his movement when he saw Yelena's narrowed eyes. Now was probably not a good time to mention the fact that he got so excited from your kiss that he broke a brick wall with his hand.

"You be careful of pretty girls." She pointed a finger at him, then turned towards the hallway. "Hooligan, you nearly gave me a heart attack."

As his team all dispersed into their rooms, Bob plopped down on the couch. Instead of trying to wake up from a dream, he played with the strings of his hoodie, smiling as he thought of your laugh.

The ghost I left behind - II

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

Words: 7,03k

Chapter I , III

--

18 months ago

The dinner rush had slowed to a crawl.

It was one of those mid-week slumps where time dragged its feet, and the only people who came in were either regulars who knew the staff by name or wanderers with nowhere better to be. Y/N moved between tables with practiced rhythm, balancing plates and coffee refills like second nature, her back sore and her feet aching in shoes she’d long worn past comfort.

The little bell above the entrance jingled.

A man walked in—mid-fifties, pinched face, suit slightly wrinkled like it had seen better years. He looked around with thinly veiled disgust before huffing and plopping himself into the booth by the window—Table 9. The corner one. The one nobody liked serving because the light always flickered overhead and the booth’s cushion was partially split.

Y/N forced a smile and approached, flipping open her notepad.

“Good evening, sir. Welcome to Cluckin’ Bucket. Can I start you off with something to drink?”

He didn’t look up. Just waved his hand in the air like she was a gnat.

“Coffee. Black. And make sure it’s fresh.”

“Of course,” she said gently, tucking the pen behind her ear.

A few minutes later, she returned with a mug, carefully setting it in front of him.

“I’ll give you a moment with the menu—”

He cut her off without lifting his eyes. “Jesus, you’re slow. Do you people even train here, or just pick up anyone who needs cigarette money?”

She blinked, caught off guard.

“I… I’m sorry?”

He finally looked at her, and his smile wasn’t kind. “You should be. You’re lucky anyone even eats here with the way this place is run. What are you, twenty? You going to be slinging grease until you hit thirty? Classy.”

She stiffened, drawing a steadying breath. Her fingers clenched slightly around her notepad.

“Sir, I’m doing my best. If there’s something wrong with the service, I can ask someone else to take your—”

“Don’t get huffy with me, sweetheart. Just bring me a two-piece meal. And none of that soggy crap you people usually serve. If I find a hair in it again like last time, I swear to God…”

Y/N’s jaw tightened, and something heavy pulled at her chest.

“I’ll put in your order,” she said, voice quiet, calm—but the burn in her throat was rising fast.

As she turned, he muttered just loud enough to hear, “No wonder your kind ends up in jobs like this.”

She froze, mid-step.

No scene. No yelling. Just a single breath, then another. Her hands were shaking now, and she didn’t want to let them see.

“I’m taking five,” she murmured to the shift manager, barely audible as she walked past the kitchen.

She pushed through the back door that led into the alley behind the restaurant, where the dumpster smell mixed with exhaust and the quiet hum of city traffic. The cold air hit her like a slap. She pressed her back to the brick wall, closed her eyes, and finally let out the breath she’d been holding.

The burn in her chest wouldn’t go away.

She hated how easily people like that could unravel you. How fast kindness could be swallowed up by cruelty. She’d been so tired lately. Not just in her body but deep in her bones.

She wiped her eyes quickly. No tears, not here, not for that man. Just five minutes. That’s all she needed.

Then, just as she stepped away from the wall, she heard movement.

Around the corner of the building—behind the employee entrance—was a dim alcove where the employees usually went to smoke or cool off in costume. She walked quietly toward the sound, expecting maybe someone to be hiding out like her.

Then she saw him.

Bobby.

Still half in his chicken suit, the headpiece sitting on the crate beside him. His back was to her, hunched over something in his hands. The foil glinted faintly. A tiny click. The smell hit her first, acrid and chemical and sharp. The pipe. The lighter. The slow drag.

She stopped cold.

He turned his head slightly—just enough to catch her from the corner of his eye.

And froze.

They didn’t speak.

He looked at her like a child caught red-handed—eyes wide, mouth parting with some silent, unspoken apology already dying in his throat. His shoulders drooped, the weight of shame dragging him down like a stone.

Y/N didn’t move. She just stood there, staring at him. Everything in her face was quiet—but inside, it cracked.

She had always known, somewhere. The strange mood swings. The occasional vacant look in his eyes. The way he’d sometimes vanish after work and come back different.

But she told herself it wasn’t often. That he was better now. That he was trying.

And now, here it was. Not suspicion. Not a maybe. A truth, in sharp relief.

She blinked slowly. Her chest rising and falling like she’d just been punched there.

Bob didn’t speak. He didn’t run. He didn’t even look away.

She did.

Y/N turned and walked back inside without a word, the door swinging shut behind her.

She didn’t cry. She didn't say anything. Not yet.

She had a shift to finish.

The conversation would come later.

But in that moment, something inside her was already breaking.

--

The walk back to her place was drowned in silence.

The city buzzed around them — car horns, laughter, the occasional bark of a street vendor — but between Y/N and Bob, there was a vacuum. Her steps were steady, controlled, but her jaw was tight, eyes forward. Bob trailed a little behind, hands buried in his jacket pockets, shrinking into himself like a child expecting punishment. Shame clung to him like smoke.

They reached her apartment. It had become a second home to him — familiar, warm, soft in the corners where his own life was harsh. He’d left extra clothes in her drawers, knew how her kitchen light flickered when the microwave was running, had memorized the scent of her shampoo from the pillowcases.

He watched her unlock the door. She didn’t speak, just moved to the bathroom, turned the shower on. Steam soon crept under the crack in the door.

Bob stood there, frozen. A picture frame on the wall caught his eye — the two of them at the park, that first sunny date. She was kissing his cheek, laughing. He looked dazed, goofy, stunned by her affection. He still felt like that. Always stunned.

The door to the bathroom opened a while later. She came out in clean clothes, her damp hair pulled back in a loose bun. Wordlessly, she moved to the kitchen, pulling out ingredients like muscle memory. The rhythm of chopping vegetables, setting the water to boil, flipping something in a pan — it was too normal. Too quiet. It was the kind of silence that screamed.

Bob sat on the couch. His leg bounced. His palms were sweaty. The sound of a spoon clinking against a pan made his chest tighten.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

"Y/N," he croaked.

She didn’t turn.

He stood up slowly, walked a few steps toward the kitchen. "Please. Just say something."

The chopping stopped. She placed the knife down and leaned her hands on the counter, head bowed.

“Why?” she asked, barely above a whisper. “Why do you do it?”

Her voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t accusing. It was sad. It was tired.

Bob swallowed hard. His throat burned. He opened his mouth, but for a moment, nothing came out.

Then he spoke, slowly, quietly. A confession years in the making.

“I was sixteen the first time I tried it,” he said. “It was just supposed to be for fun. Some kids in my neighborhood — we were bored, angry, messed up. I didn’t think it’d be a thing. But it stuck.”

He looked down at his hands like they weren’t his own.

“My brain… it’s not right. Hasn’t been for a long time. There’s this weight I carry every day. Like the world is pressing down on my chest, and everyone’s expecting me to breathe like it’s nothing. Some mornings I don’t even want to get up. Some nights I wish I wouldn’t wake up.”

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing now.

“The meth — it made it quiet. Just for a while. It made me feel like I could do things. Like I wasn’t a loser, a disappointment. It tricked me into thinking I was normal.”

He stopped and turned to face her. His eyes were glassy, his voice breaking.

“But then I met you. And for the first time, I didn’t need it to feel okay. You made me want to stay clean. You made me believe I could. And I was trying, I swear, I was trying so fucking hard.”

He stepped closer, his voice desperate.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that. I didn’t want to lose this — lose you. You’re the only good thing that’s ever really been mine.”

His knees buckled slightly as he dropped down to them in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry. I hate that I messed this up. I hate that I let you down. Please… please don’t give up on me. I swear I’ll get clean. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll go to meetings, therapy, rehab — anything. Just don’t walk away.”

Tears streamed down his face now, dripping onto the floor.

“I know I’ve got a thousand reasons to hate myself. I know I’m broken and messy and hard to love. But you… you make me want to be better. And I will. I promise. Just… don’t let this be the end.”

Y/N stood still for a moment, frozen, her hands still gripping the counter behind her.

And the only sound in the room was his quiet, wracked sobbing, and the distant clatter of boiling water on the stove, as dinner burned, untouched.

Bob stayed on his knees, eyes red and rimmed with shame, when his voice returned — quieter now, like a wound being exposed.

“My dad used to hit me,” he said. “Not just when he was mad — sometimes, I think, just because he didn’t know how else to talk. Or maybe he did, and he just liked watching me flinch.”

His eyes weren’t focused on her now. They stared past her, through her, into a corner of memory he rarely let himself go back to.

“He was a drunk. A real mean one. He’d come home and if the dishes weren’t done, or the TV was too loud, or I looked at him the wrong way — that was it. And my mom… she didn’t stop him. She just… endured. Like it was normal. Like it was just what families were.”

Y/N’s hands had gone still behind her on the countertop.

“I used to hide under my bed, back when I was little. I’d count the cracks in the floorboards, try to breathe as quietly as I could so he wouldn’t hear me. I remember thinking if I could just disappear for long enough, maybe he’d forget I existed.”

He laughed once — a low, broken sound that barely resembled laughter. “I used to wish I could disappear entirely.”

A tear slipped down Y/N’s cheek, but she said nothing yet. Let him speak.

“When I got older, I fought back. Not well. But I tried. And when I was seventeen, I left. Packed a trash bag with clothes and took a bus out. Thought I’d figure it out. Be free.”

He looked up at her then — just barely.

“But the thing is… when someone teaches you your whole life that you’re worthless, it doesn’t go away just because you leave the house. It follows you. It lives in you.”

His hands shook now, resting on his knees.

“I’ve spent my whole life feeling like I’m seconds away from falling apart. Like no matter how good something feels, I’m gonna ruin it. And I thought— I thought maybe if I numbed it, if I buried it, I could be normal.”

He exhaled, tears slipping freely now.

“But then you showed up. You, with your stupid coffee orders and your sweet laugh and the way you looked at me like I wasn’t a fucking disaster.”

His voice cracked, almost too much to continue.

“And now you know. Everything. The drugs. The lies. The damage. You know it all. So if you want me to leave, I will. I won’t fight it.”

Y/N moved then, slowly, quietly kneeling down in front of him. She reached for his face — her touch soft, careful — and wiped the tears from his cheeks, her own still silently falling.

“You’re not leaving,” she whispered, her voice firm despite its softness. “You don’t get to push me away, Bobby. Not tonight.”

He blinked at her like he couldn’t believe she was real.

“I’m gonna help you,” she said. “Not because I think I can fix you, or save you, or any of that hero complex bullshit. But because I see you. I see who you really are underneath all of it.”

She gave him a small, fragile smile. “And I know what it’s like. To fight temptation. To almost fall. You think I don’t get it? That I didn’t come close to things I don’t even like to think about now?”

Her thumb stroked his cheekbone, gently.

“The only difference is, I didn’t fall. Not back then. But you— Bobby, you got up. You got up today. You came home. That counts for something.”

She leaned in and kissed him, soft, slow — not fiery or frantic, but grounding. A tether to the world he was convinced he didn’t deserve.

And when she pulled back, his arms wrapped around her like a man clinging to the last piece of a life raft. His grip was tight, desperate. His body trembled against hers.

“Why…” he whispered, breath shaky against her shoulder. “Why do you love me?”

She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. Her own were glassy, full of heartbreak and something stronger — belief.

“Because I see the man you’re trying to be,” she said. “Because even when you’re at your lowest, you still try to protect me. Because you never looked at me like I was broken, even when I told you all the reasons I could be.”

He shook his head slightly, disbelief etched across every inch of his face.

“How…” he whispered. “How can someone have so much love for me?”

And she didn’t answer right away. She just kissed his forehead, brushing the damp hair from his face, and pulled him close again.

In the quiet of that little apartment — with the burnt dinner on the stove, with their photograph still crooked on the wall — Bob let himself cry like a child for the first time in years.

They forgot about their surroundings and just laid against the couch, and Y/N held him through it all, her love a quiet, unshakeable force wrapped around him like armor.

Still. Steady. Like she wasn’t afraid of what he’d just shown her.

He couldn’t even look at her when she said, softly, “You’re not the only one with ghosts, Bobby.”

He glanced at her. She wasn’t looking for sympathy — just understanding. Her voice didn’t shake. It was tired, but honest. Worn down from years of holding things in.

“I’ve never told anyone everything. Not like this,” she said. “But… did I ever mentioned to you about Jordan? He was my first love.”

Bob turned toward her, the lump in his throat tightening again.

“I wasn’t always like this. Quiet. Careful,” she said, a hollow laugh passing her lips. “I used to be… wild. Not in the good way.”

She looked down at her hands. Her fingers were shaking.

“My mom — she’s the kind of woman who never wanted a daughter. Especially not one who reminded her how much time she’d lost. She was beautiful once. And she hated that I got told the same thing. She treated me like I was competition in her own house. Constantly picking at me. My clothes. My body. My laugh. Everything I was, she hated. It’s like I walked into a room and reminded her of all the choices she didn’t make.”

Bob’s brows drew in, his mouth a tight line of hurt on her behalf.

“And my dad?” she scoffed. “He was a college professor. Brilliant. Poised. Married to appearances. When I turned twelve, he started spending more nights in his office than at home. Eventually, he ran off with one of his grad students. Left a sticky note on the fridge. ‘Don’t let your mother go crazy.’ That was it.”

She blinked hard, not wanting to cry again. Not for them.

“I became the adult in the house before I hit puberty. My mom drank. Screamed. Slept through entire weekends. I cleaned. I cooked. I learned how to smile and make it look real. I still loved her tho, I never really blamed her for being the way she was, maybe she had reasons and I just… came in the wrong timing.”

She leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling like it might hold something safer than the past.

“By the time I was sixteen, I was going out every night with older friends. We used fake IDs, got into clubs. I was… reckless. Desperate to feel like someone wanted me. Like I wasn’t invisible unless I was being yelled at.”

She turned to Bob, finally, her eyes watery.

“That’s how I met Jordan.”

Even saying his name made her stomach twist.

“He owned the club. Rich. Handsome. Wore these stupid expensive suits like he was always playing dress-up for some fantasy life. And he noticed me. Like… noticed me.”

She laughed bitterly. “I thought I’d won the lottery. I was seventeen, and he was thirty-two, and I felt like I was starring in some tragic love song. He gave me everything. Drove me around in his sports car. Bought me designer dresses. Called me ‘his girl’ in front of everyone.”

Bob stayed completely still, listening with his whole soul.

“But it wasn’t love,” she said. “It was manipulation. Control. He liked that I was pretty and broken. Liked that I thought being chosen by him meant I was worth something.”

Her hands tightened in her lap.

“Then one night… he took me home after a club party. I’d said no. I remember saying it. I was tired. I didn’t want to stay over. He gave me a drink, just so “ we could relax”— I didn’t know something was in it. I passed out in his bed.”

Her voice cracked then, finally.

“When I woke up, I wasn’t wearing my dress anymore. Just a sheet. He was in the kitchen making coffee like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.”

She looked at Bob, her voice hoarse.

“I didn’t do anything. I just… laid there. Crying. Because I realized right then — I wasn’t looking for love. I was looking for someone to lie to me sweetly enough that I could pretend it was real.”

A long pause followed. Bob’s hand found hers, trembling but firm.

“He never went to jail. Of course not. I didn’t tell anyone. Who was gonna believe me? I was just some ‘party girl’ sneaking into clubs with an older man.”

Tears finally spilled down her cheeks.

“So I went numb. For a time, I just thought that dating would lead me to the same path my mother went into. I told myself I deserved it for being stupid. For needing love too much. Life stopped being colorfull, and just went with the whatever the wind took me, and it was not far. I got out of the house, never truly cared to repair the relationship with my parents, but going with no money wasn't very smart, didn't even got the education I desired, got away from my friends. And when I realized I was stuck in a loop, always stagnant, never really improving, and I just accepted it.”

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her shirt, breath shaky.

“But then… you.”

Bob’s eyes locked with hers, wide and wet and full of disbelief.

“You came into that stupid fast food place in a chicken suit. Nervous. Sad. So fucking awkward. But you were kind. And you made me feel… safe.”

She smiled through the tears.

“And every day, even on your worst days, you looked at me like I was something worth staying sober for. And that meant everything, Bobby. It still does.”

She moved closer to him, took his face gently in her hands.

“I know what it’s like to carry pain that eats at you. I know what it’s like to feel like your story’s already been written — and it ends with you broken. I don’t judge for the path you took, sometimes I…I thought about it, I hang out with the wrong people, of course I have done it before, I didn’t rely on it but…I just I don’t know, I was lucky I guess.”

Bob was crying now, hard, his face buried against her shoulder.

“But it’s not over,” she whispered. “We’re not done.”

He looked up, shaking.

She brushed a tear from his cheek and smiled through her own.

"I see you. Not the addiction. Not the mistakes. You. And I love you… even the parts you hide.”

Bob let out a trembling breath and held her tighter, like he’d never let go again.

And in that moment — surrounded by all the wreckage, the shadows of what they'd both survived — two broken souls found something whole.

--

Present day

The days bled into each other now.

She moved like a shadow through the fluorescent-lit diner, apron tied tight around her waist, sneakers dragging just a little more than usual. The name tag still read Y/N, though the letters were beginning to smudge. No one commented. No one really looked.

“Welcome to Cluckin’ Bucket. What can I get you?” “Refill’s free. I’ll be right back.” “Fries come with that. You want ranch or ketchup?”

Her voice didn’t change. Not cheerful, not cold—just flat. A practiced cadence with just enough inflection to pass as human. The kind of tone that no one questioned. That no one cared enough to dig beneath.

Her coworkers passed by in a quiet shuffle. No jokes. No checking in. Just nods and tray exchanges. Maybe they could sense it—the weight around her like a storm cloud that never lifted. Or maybe they were used to it by now.

She stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom during her ten-minute break and didn’t recognize her own face. The bump beneath her uniform was unmistakable now. She didn’t bother trying to hide it anymore. There was nothing left to hide behind. No more stories. No more pretending that he might show up mid-shift and scoop her into his arms like it was all some misunderstanding.

The clock ticked by. Her shift ended without fanfare.

She changed in the back room, put on her coat, wrapped her scarf around her neck. No goodbyes. Just the squeak of the door as it closed behind her.

The night was cold but clear. A rare calm in the chaos of the city.

She walked with her earbuds in, phone buried deep in her coat pocket, letting the random shuffle take over. Whatever came on, came on. She didn’t care anymore. She didn’t have preferences. She just needed something to drown out the silence.

Halfway home, her feet started to ache. She spotted a bench tucked beside an empty bus stop, under a flickering streetlight. It wasn’t much, but it was empty. And it was still.

She sat down slowly, one hand instinctively resting on her stomach.

The music kept playing.

And then, like fate—like punishment—their song came on. That stupid song, that she could not stop listenning. "Yours" - maye.

That one he used to hum under his breath while frying chicken in the kitchen. The one they danced to once in the middle of their living room at midnight, barefoot and grinning, cheap wine on the counter and nothing but love between them.

Her throat tightened.

She stared down at the cracked pavement beneath her feet, the light above humming faintly as it flickered.

He loved me, she thought. He really did.

That was the cruelest part. He hadn’t been faking it. She’d felt it in his touch, in the way he held her in the mornings, the way he kissed her forehead when she cried after a long shift. It wasn’t pretend. He loved her.

But he left anyway.

He loved her, and he left.

The thought came like a stormcloud, suffocating the warmth before it could grow.

He had made a choice. She knew that now. The police confirmed it. He had planned it. Saved up. Booked a ticket. Crossed oceans not to be found. She spent her free time removing the flyers she had put up for him.

She wanted to scream at him. Why wasn’t I enough? Why wasn’t the baby enough? But screaming wouldn't help. It never did. It only made her feel hollow afterward.

Still, her mind wandered—always back to him.

Maybe he regrets it, she thought. Maybe he’s out there, wishing he could come back. Maybe he thinks about her. About this child.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Every hopeful thought fought against the brutal weight of reality like a war inside her skull.

She was tired of the battle. Hope hurt almost as much as the truth.

She lowered her head into her hands and let the music keep playing. The baby shifted inside her, a small, fluttering reminder that she wasn’t completely alone.

But she felt like she was.

She lived in limbo now. Between memory and disappointment. Between what they had and what was left behind.

The bench was cold. The city was loud. But she stayed there for a long time, because going home meant facing the silence of their apartment again.

And she wasn’t ready for that yet.

--

Meanwhile, in Malaysia- 2 months ago

The air in Malaysia was thick — not just with humidity, but with something heavier. Guilt didn’t have a scent, but if it did, Bob imagined it would smell like the sweat-drenched room he was holed up in. Ceiling fan rattling overhead. One bare light bulb swaying from a cracked ceiling. A single mattress on the floor. A half-empty bottle of water at his feet.

He hadn't spoken more than a few words to anyone in days.

The job they’d given him was temporary, meaningless. He moved crates from one side of a warehouse to the other. A ghost with hands. No one asked his name. He didn’t offer it.

Every night, he collapsed onto the mattress like a dying star — heavy, slow, and silent. And every night, her face found him again.

Y/N.

He could still see the way her hair fell across her face in the morning when she leaned over the stove, cooking eggs in his worn-out T-shirt. The way she would hum softly under her breath while drying dishes. The way her fingers curled instinctively over the swell of her belly the day she told him they were going to be parents.

He had kissed that hand.

And then he left.

Because he was a coward. Because the drugs were easier. Because he’d convinced himself she was better off without him.

But the truth was uglier than that.

He missed her so much it made him physically ache. Not just her body, her warmth — but the space she created around him. Safe, forgiving, real. She was the first person in his life who hadn’t looked at him like a lost cause.

And he’d proven them all right.

He rubbed at his face, scrubbing tears away before they could fall. But it was useless. They came anyway.

He reached under the mattress and pulled out the photo.

It was wrinkled, faded from being handled so many times. It showed the two of them sitting in the park on their first date — the one where she packed the entire meal and insisted he try her potato salad. He hated eggs, but he ate it anyway because she’d made it with so much love.

She was laughing in the photo. He remembered that moment. He'd just made some dumb joke about the squirrel trying to steal her sandwich. She had leaned into him, eyes crinkling, and he thought, I’m never letting go of this.

He traced the edge of her face with his finger.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

He’d whispered it every night since he left. Sometimes louder. Sometimes choked out between sobs. But she couldn’t hear him. She would never hear him.

He imagined her now — back in that little apartment. Alone. Tired. Maybe crying. Maybe angry. Maybe both. Maybe she hated him. He wouldn’t blame her.

But maybe… just maybe, some part of her still believed in him.

And that was the cruelest hope of all.

Because he didn’t deserve it.

He stared at the ceiling, hands trembling. The meth wasn’t hitting like it used to. The numbness didn’t come fast enough anymore.

And still, in his mind, her voice lingered.

"You’re stronger than this, Bobby. You’re not your worst day."

He closed his eyes and clutched the photo to his chest.

But in this place, across oceans and guilt, those words felt like they belonged to someone else. Someone better than him.

Still, he held onto them.

Because it was all he had left.

--

Night came early in this part of the city.

Not because the sun set any quicker — but because the shadows here swallowed light before it could settle. The alleyways twisted like veins, pulsing with neon flickers and muffled shouting from nearby vendors. The street smelled like oil and rot and burning sugar. Bob barely noticed anymore.

He hadn’t slept. Not really. Just nodded off in strange places — under stairwells, on benches, wherever his body finally gave in. He was five days clean and forty-eight hours high. Maybe more. Time didn't work right anymore.

His hands shook as he walked. Sweat stuck his shirt to his back. His mouth was dry. Eyes too wide. He was running low — the last dose hadn’t been enough. Not by a long shot. The pain crept in again. The ache behind his eyes, the guilt in his ribs. Her voice in his head.

"Bobby, don’t lie to me." "We can get through this." "I love you, even when you don’t love yourself."

He gritted his teeth and shoved her voice aside.

She wasn’t here. She wasn’t real anymore.

He needed to make her go away.

He ducked down a narrow side street, where dealers sometimes drifted like ghosts, offering plastic baggies with eyes too old for their faces. But tonight, no one was there. Just the hum of faulty streetlights and the sting of desperation in his chest.

“Looking for something?”

Bob stopped.

The voice was smooth — too smooth. Like glass over ice. It came from a man leaning against a rusted metal door, half-shrouded in shadow. White shirt, dark blazer, not a bead of sweat on him despite the thick air. He looked out of place here. Clean. Controlled. Dangerous.

Bob didn’t answer. Just stared with hollow, half-blown pupils.

The man stepped forward slowly, like he already knew the answer.

“You’re not from here. You don’t belong. You’re just trying to disappear, aren’t you?” His smile was thin. “I know that look. Like you’re trying to burn every part of yourself out so there’s nothing left.”

Bob blinked, confused. Agitated. “You got something or not?”

“I have something,” the man said. “But it’s not what you’re expecting.”

That should’ve been a red flag. Maybe it was. But Bob had walked past every red flag he’d ever seen without blinking. His curiosity was frayed, his caution dulled. The man held out a card.

“Come with me. Right now. We’re looking for volunteers. People like you — no strings, no questions. You let us do what we need, and in return...you won’t feel a thing ever again.”

Bob stared at the card. It was black. No writing. Just a silver symbol — something sharp and angular, like a thunderbolt wrapped in a serpent. "O.X.E"

“What is this?”

“A way out,” the man said simply. “You’ve tried everything else. Let this be your last door.”

Bob hesitated.

His skin itched. His teeth clenched. His knees ached. His chest hurt. Not from withdrawal — but from remembering her. From remembering what he left behind. The girl with stars in her eyes who made him believe, for a little while, that he could be worth something. That he could be whole.

He swallowed hard.

“Will it make me better? Like... a better person? Useful?” he whispered.

The man’s smile didn’t change. “Eventually.”

Bob nodded once.

That’s all it took.

And just like that, he followed the man into the dark, down a corridor lined with flickering lights and metal doors — unaware that the choice he just made wouldn’t numb his pain.

It would unleash it.

--

Present day, 7a.m- New York

The weak morning sun slanted through the café windows in narrow ribbons, cutting through the steam rising from two mismatched coffee mugs. The air smelled faintly of burnt toast and the overworked espresso machine. It was too early for the place to be busy, and too quiet for comfort. A tiny bell chimed each time the door opened, but no one came in. Not yet.

Y/N sat across from Officer Cooper, her hands wrapped tightly around a chipped mug like it was the only thing anchoring her in place. Her eyes were tired. Dark crescents hung beneath them, untouched by makeup. Her hair was tied back in a messy bun, a few strands falling loose across her face. She looked thin — too thin — except for the roundness of her belly, which pushed gently against the edge of the table.

She stirred her coffee slowly, even though she hadn’t added sugar. Or cream. Just for something to do with her hands.

“I’m sorry I called,” she said, her voice quiet. “I just didn’t know who else…”

Cooper, across from her, shook his head. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. I told you before — if you need something, you call. That wasn’t just some empty promise.”

She offered him a small, broken smile. It didn’t last.

“I didn’t sleep last night,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. “Been thinking about things I shouldn’t. Options.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What kind of options?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers moved to the base of her belly, holding it gently, protectively. Her gaze dropped to the table, then shifted to the window. She didn’t want to see his face when she said it.

“I’ve been looking into adoption,” she said finally. “Private. Families who… who can’t have kids. People who want this. Who have homes. Stability. Money. Things I don’t.”

Cooper leaned back, visibly stunned. His coffee mug clinked softly against the table as he set it down, forgotten. “That’s a serious thing to say, Y/N.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m saying it.”

He studied her. The deep-set sadness in her eyes. The stiffness in her shoulders. The fragility in her voice that she was trying so hard to hide.

“Do you want to give the baby up,” he asked gently, “or is this the last thing on a long list of desperate maybes?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Her lips trembled, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek to stop it. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back. She turned her face toward the window, where early morning joggers passed by, carefree. Laughing. Living.

“I love this baby,” she said, her voice breaking. “So much it makes me sick. But I don’t know how to do this. I don’t even have enough money for rent next month. My job’s cutting my hours ‘cause I’m showing too much. I can't stand on my feet that long anymore. I’ve sold half our stuff just to make it through. And every time I think I’m crawling forward, I just— I slide back.”

Cooper reached across the table and placed a weathered hand over hers. It was warm. Solid. Like a rock in a storm.

“You’re not alone,” he said quietly. “Not anymore.”

She laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. “Feels like I am.”

“You don’t have to make this decision today. Or alone. There’s help out there. I can pull some strings — get you in touch with someone who can offer a better job. Something safer, something that won’t drain the life out of you. Hell, I’ll drive you myself if I have to. In the meantime, I can help, I told you I'm a grandfather, I can give you stuff for the baby, stuff that my granddaughter outgrown, I don't know, I can give you some money, help you get on you feet.”

She finally looked at him, eyes shimmering.

“You’d do that?”

He nodded, serious. “I would. I told you I have a daughter like you, I know my help would be for a good outcome.” He let out a deep breath. "I know you're just a good person with unresolved past damaged, and I could I look at someone who resembles my babygirl and let them suffer the consequences of other people's actions Y/N."

Y/N looked back out the window, her shoulders shaking slightly as the tears finally came. But she didn’t sob. She cried quietly, like she’d gotten good at it. Like it was part of her morning routine.

“I keep thinking about him,” she whispered. “Not the one that left. The one before. The one who came home with flowers after a long shift. The one who said I made him feel like maybe he wasn’t broken.”

She wiped her cheeks, her hand trembling.

“I have the photos. And this baby. And some dumb song we used to play every Sunday morning while cooking pancakes. That’s all I have left of him.”

She exhaled shakily, resting a hand over her bump again.

Cooper was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, but firm.

“What was it about him, Y/N?” he asked. “What made him worth all this pain?”

She looked at him, startled.

“I mean it,” he said. “You’re holding onto something that’s dragging you down so far, I’m afraid you’ll never come back up. What was so special about Bob Reynolds that even your love for this baby’s not enough to let him go? You spent months knocking at my door every single day, demading those lazy bastards to do something, persisting, looking for him. Losing yourself for a guy who planned leaving while sleeping by your side.”

Y/N didn’t answer, not right away.

Y/N didn’t look at Cooper when she spoke.

Her gaze stayed pinned to the window, as if the right answer might walk by, wearing Bobby’s face.

“I know him,” she said quietly. “That’s why I can’t let go. Not because I’m stupid or weak or in denial. I know Bobby.”

Cooper leaned forward slightly, listening.

“I know how dark his thoughts can get. How he used to wake up some mornings and just… sit there. Quiet. Staring at the floor like the weight of being alive was too much. And he’d smile at me, pretend everything was okay, but I could see it. That hollow look in his eyes. I know how much he hated himself for the things he did. How ashamed he was of the drugs. Of needing them.”

Her voice cracked, but she pushed through.

“He thought I didn’t know how deep it went. But I did. I always did. And I never once judged him. I just wanted him to stop because I loved him. Not because I was angry. Not because I wanted to fix him. Because I wanted him alive. And he tried, God, he tried. Even when he failed, he tried again.”

She paused, drawing a shaky breath.

“You’re asking me why I can’t let him go?” she said, finally turning to Cooper, eyes brimming with exhausted pain. “Because he never let go of me. Even when he was breaking, even when the drugs were louder than my voice — he’d still look at me like I was the only good thing he had left. He knew everything about me, Cooper. The ugly things. The things I never told anyone.”

She looked down at her hands, as if the secrets were written in her palms.

“I told him how I used to be, I was really a bad person for myself, specially in my teeangers years. God... So much shit that I don't even understand how I let all of it happen, but you know what?”

Her voice softened to a whisper.

“He kissed me. Just kissed me, and said, ‘That doesn’t change a thing.’ Like none of it made me less. And I know it did, that's how I ended up here, not pregnant and alone, but here. And was doomed before him, anyway, we were eachothers only light.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks now, freely, silently.

“I didn’t have to pretend with him. I didn’t have to be strong every second of the day. He’d remind me — every single day — how far I’d come. Even on the days I couldn’t see it. Even when he couldn’t see it in himself.”

She pressed a hand to her belly, as if grounding herself.

“That’s why I can’t stop loving him. That’s why I keep hoping. Because the man I knew wasn’t just an addict. He was kind. And scared. And trying. And maybe… maybe he left because he thought I deserved better. Maybe he thought disappearing was mercy.”

Her voice was almost gone now. Just a whisper, like she was talking more to herself than to Cooper.

“But I didn’t need better. I just needed him.”

The silence between them settled like dust.

Cooper said nothing. What could he say? There was no law or logic that could dismantle the truth of what she'd just laid bare. No policy, no report, no advice to hold against the unshakable bond she'd painted with her words.

So he just sat there, eyes on her, while she stared through the glass at a world that kept moving without her.

I love this so much

Patron Saints of Nightmares

Summary : Bucky needs to go on a mission, so he asks the rest of the team to take care of his girl.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) / Platonic!Thunderbolts x reader

Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers!!!!!!! Established Relationship. TOWER FIC!!! Fluff, angst. Cursing. trauma. Death, nightmares, sleepwalking, hurt/comfort. Sam and Bucky aren’t mad at each other in this one (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 4.1k 

Note : This story is based on my own experiences with sleepwalking. If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

The New Avengers weren't as polished as their predecessors. You weren’t even close to the universal beacon of hope they used to be — you flickered and survived.

This team was a patchwork of second chances and shattered pasts, proof that good people came with scars — that good people might have done things that kept you all up at night. It was a miracle anyone got any sleep at all. 

Least of all you. 

Ever since your first kill, you barely got a full night’s rest.

By the time you joined the team, it had already been years of fragmented rest— twenty-minute naps stolen on ships here, an hour of sleep on dirty cots there. And when sleep did finally drag you under, it was rarely ever peaceful.

Sometimes, the worst part wasn’t even the nightmares. Sometimes it was waking up in the living room, not even in control, your feet bare and your skin clammy from a sleepwalk you didn’t remember beginning.

You’d warned Bucky when you started dating him. 

One night, you sat him down while your fingers nervously pulled at the threads on your sleeve and handed him a list. Not a literal one, but it felt like that—“If I start talking in my sleep, don’t wake me up too fast. If I’m not in bed, check the bathtub or the closet. Don’t try to hold me down if I fight in my sleep. Only wake me if it becomes dangerous. But most of the time, it passes. I promise.” And worst of all, “Don’t be scared of me.”

You’d braced yourself for rejection then, for an excuse or another that said “you’re too much.” But Bucky had only taken your hand in his, metal fingers brushing gently against your palm like he understood in a way that no one else ever had.

One night, after you’d had a particularly brutal episode—screaming in your sleep, flinching from his touch even though he’d tried to soothe you—he didn’t say a word. 

He just pulled you close once you’d woken, let you curl into his chest with your face pressed against his skin.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he whispered into your hair.

That night, you cried into him until your breathing slowed, and for the first time in a long, long while, you stayed asleep.

Over time, you found a kind of peace with him that you’d never had before. It didn’t fix everything— Bucky would be the first to admit— but it eased your nights. You rested better because he made you feel safe. 

On bad days, he’d lie beside you, his arm around your waist, his thumb brushing circles into your side.

And sometimes, when sleep came like a gentle tide instead of a crashing wave, you’d open your eyes in the morning light and find him already awake, watching you protectively. 

“You slept,” he’d say with a proud smile, as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

For a while, things almost felt normal again. Maybe not perfect, but better— until you and Bucky got dragged to be part of the New Avengers. And just like that, for convenience's sake, you both moved in the Watchtower.

It wasn’t awful. There was always someone around, always laughter coming from the common room. But adjusting was hard. 

The bedroom felt too large, the ceilings too high, the Watchtower too big. It was… unfamiliar. Uneasy. Still, with Bucky lying beside you, it was manageable.

But some nights… some nights were worse than others. You’d still find yourself drifting barefoot through the corridors, your eyes glassy, your fingers twitching restlessly. You’d pull open drawers, rearrange cabinets, and unconsciously line pens up in perfect gradients. Once, Bucky found you curled in the closet with a granola bar clutched to your chest. You didn’t remember getting there. You only remembered waking up in his arms, sobbing so hard even though you couldn’t explain why you were upset.

That night, when Yelena peeked out of her room to see what all the commotion was about, Bucky smiled and said, “She’ll be okay, Lena. She just needs some peace and quiet, right, baby?”

You gave a small, hopeful smile. “Y-yeah.”

Because with him there… it really was easier to breathe.

—

The next morning, you asked Bucky to tell the rest of the team of your condition, and he waited until you were in the shower to gather the team in the kitchen. Ava leaned against the counter with her arms crossed, John was already halfway through his second cup of coffee, Bob dropped his book, Alexei was drinking a glass of milk, and Yelena sat on the counter with a knowing look in her eyes.

Bucky didn’t pace or shift or stall. He just said it.

“She sleepwalks, sometimes. Worse when I’m gone. It’s not… always random. It’s tied to stress. Or nightmares.” His voice was gentle. “You might hear her moving around at night, maybe see her organizing weird stuff or… I don’t know, in a closet. Don’t freak out. Don’t wake her up unless she's in danger, Don’t make it a thing.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was understanding.

Yelena gave a small nod and muttered, “I’ve done weirder.” John just said, “Got it, man,” and reached for another coffee pod.

Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He didn’t want pity for you. He didn’t want tiptoes or whispers. He just wanted you to have a little space to exist without explaining yourself.

And when you wandered into the room an hour later, eyes still a little hazy, no one stared. No one asked questions.

They just said “Hey,” like it was any other morning.

And somehow, that made all the difference.

—

Still, no one got involved... yet.

Bucky was the only one who knew how to reach you. The only person who could read your silences like sentences, who knew exactly when to speak, and when to hold you so tightly the pieces couldn’t fall apart again.

So when Sam reached out to Bucky for help with an intel recovery mission in Madripoor, your heart dropped. You didn’t tell him not to go, but Bucky saw the way your hands twisted in the hem of your sweater, the way your mouth stayed open like you were trying to find a reason to make him stay.

He found you in the kitchen the night before he left, staring blankly into a cup of tea you hadn’t touched.

“Sweetheart,” he said, stepping behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. “Look at me.”

Your eyes slowly found his, and he knew. 

“I hate this,” you whispered, the words brittle.

“I know,” he said, cupping your face in his hands. “I’ll be gone for two days. Three, tops. I swear.”

You leaned into him, “I sleep better when you’re here.”

“I know, honey,” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “I hate leaving you. But he needs me just for this one thing. And I promise I wouldn’t go unless I knew you’d be taken care of.”

You looked up at him, “I don’t want to be a burden to the team.”

“You are never a burden,” he said firmly, his voice a low rasp. “Never. And while I’m gone, they’ll keep you safe because they want to, not because they have to.”

Before he left, he gathered the others in the main room.

“Keep an eye on her,” Bucky said quietly. “She’s strong — don’t let her tell you otherwise — but she doesn’t always ask for help.”

They all nodded, some more solemn than others.

“If she does, don’t wake her unless you have to. It can be… disorienting. But if she’s not safe — if she’s near stairs or rooftops or anything like that — then wake her up gently. No yelling. No shaking her. It’ll only make it worse.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow. “What if we throw a blanket on her and pretend she’s a ghost?”

Bucky gave her a pointed look.

She raised her hand in defeat. “Fine. No blankets. Understood.”

“Thank you,” Bucky said, quieter now, looking over each of them. “Just… She means everything to me.”

They nodded again. Even John offered a pat in the back, and Ava gave a flickering smile.

That night, he kissed you once more at the door. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

But time always moved slower without him. And sleep — if it came at all — would bring with it the ghosts you couldn’t outrun.

—

The first night without Bucky was the worst.

You didn’t sleep. Not even for a minute. You paced the compound like a spectre, wearing one of his oversized Henleys and a pair of mismatched socks. The halls were quiet but your mind was unbearably loud.

What if something happened to him? What if this was the one time he didn’t come back?

You were awake in the kitchen at 2 a.m., your fingers trailing along the countertops. You made tea and forgot it on the counter. You folded a blanket you didn’t remember picking up. You stood in front of the window for forty-five minutes, watching shadows move across the landing pad like you were trying to count sheep.

Yelena followed you silently, not intruding. She was nearby, perched on the kitchen island, tossing a grape between her fingers.

She didn’t ask you to sit down. She didn’t ask what you were thinking. She just waited.

“Can’t sleep?” she finally said casually.

You shook your head. “If I try, I’ll just end up with a bad dream.”

“Then don’t try. Come,” she said, patting the spot beside her. “Sit. Eat terrible snacks with me. I stole jerky from John .”

You offered a smile, and for a moment, it felt almost normal — like you were just friends pulling a late night, instead of trauma survivors outrunning your past. 

—

The second night was harder in a different way.

Your body gave in, just barely, around 3 a.m. 

You collapsed on the couch in the common room and curled into yourself. The others left you be — glad to see you resting at all.

But two hours later, you screamed in your sleep.

Bob got there first.

He found you thrashing in, tangled in the blanket like it was strangling you. Tears streamed down your face, and your hands clawed at the air as you whimpered words no one could quite make out.

“No—please—don’t take him—don’t—!”

Bob dropped to his knees beside you. He didn’t try to wake you — remembered Bucky’s warning — but he said your name softly, voice like pattering rain on glass.

“It’s okay. You’re safe,” he whispered, over and over. “You’re not alone.”

Eventually, your screams died into sobs. Still asleep, you curled toward him, burying your face in his shoulders. Bob let you cry against him.

He didn’t know if you’d remember any of it. 

John had stood nearby the whole time, sleepy when he was woken up by the noise. When Bob looked up at him with tired eyes, he invited John to sit next to you both. 

He did, because perhaps he thought he could help keep you both safe.

—

The third night was deceptively calm.

You seemed better. You’d eaten half a piece of toast that morning. You’d even made a small joke at Alexei’s expense, and everyone had taken that as a good sign.

Still, the team took care of you closely.

That night, after the motion sensors in the living room went off because you started sleepwalking, Alexei, Ava, and John took the unofficial nightwatch duty— all of them too alert to sleep anyway. You shuffled into the hallway around 1 a.m., eyes half-lidded. You looked straight through Alexei, who had been sitting on the floor playing chess against himself. 

He didn’t say a word, just stood up and followed you at a distance.

You wandered into the kitchen and opened the same drawer four times in a row. Flipped the light switch on and off, on and off. Then you just… stood there, staring at the fridge.

John found you a little while later, drifting into the laundry room. He didn’t panic. 

“Hey,” he said, blocking the doorway, “this isn’t your bedroom.”

You blinked slowly with foggy eyes, but didn’t respond.

“Come on, let’s go back,” he said, not touching you, just using the calm voice he’d been practicing since Bucky left. 

“Couch sounds better than tile, right?”

You followed him without protest, your feet shuffling over the floor. He guided you gently to the common room and helped you sit on the couch, draping a blanket over your shoulders.

Ava came to relieve him an hour later.

No one told the others to watch you. No one needed to. It had simply become understood — an agreement among people who’d known isolation too well to let anyone else suffer it.

You were never left alone for long.

—

The fourth night, things only got worse.

Bucky's message came in just past midday — the mission was running longer than planned. What was supposed to be three days had stretched to four, maybe more. They were holed up in a safe house, radio silent except for brief check-ins. Your already-bad anxiety only spiked.

So, of course, it manifested in your sleeping habits.

You were beyond exhausted, though. Somewhere between 2 and 4 a.m., your body gave out before your mind could. And that's when the sleepwalking started again. 

Yelena noticed first when the motion sensor on the jet landing pad pinged, lighting up the communicator on her bedside table. Her eyes snapped open in panic. 

One glance at the screen by her bed and—

Oh.

Oh no.

“Blyat,” she cursed, already half out of bed.

The security feed showed you barefoot and draped in one of Bucky’s shirts that hung past your thighs, drifting forward in a dreamy gait.

You were headed straight for the edge of the roof.

“Ava!” Yelena barked into the intercom by her door. “She’s up—she’s on the roof!”

Ava didn’t even answer. She was already phasing halfway through her bedroom door before the words had finished transmitting. 

Her molecules blurred as she sprinted through walls and the glass doors leading to the edge. 

She found you on the rooftop, barely more than a silhouette, the wind tugging at your hair and the cold bit at your bare feet.

You were standing at the edge. Right at the ledge.

The skyline sparkled as your fingers trembled to reach for something invisible in the air in front of you.

“He’s gone,” you mumbled into the wind. “I have to find him…”

Ava didn’t shout your name. She didn’t touch you too fast. She knew better.

She forced herself to become solid again and circled herself around your torso from behind.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

You didn’t react — not really. Your muscles twitched, but you didn’t pull away.

John was next, thundering up the stairs with bare feet and wide eyes, stopping short the moment he saw you on the ledge. 

His instincts wanted him to act, to tackle you into safety, but he didn’t. Not when he saw how still you were. Not when he saw how gently Ava held you. He lifted both hands, palms out, staying back, like he might catch you if anything went wrong.

“Easy…” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. 

Alexei arrived just after. One look at the scene stopped him in his tracks. “Bozhe moi…” he whispered. He took a cautious step forward and dropped to his knees, trying to be less threatening.

“Druga,” he said gently, kneeling just to your side. “You’re dreaming, okay? Just a dream. We’re here. No need to find anyone — you’re already home.”

Bob drifted up moments later. He didn’t say a word. He just hovered nearby.

And then Yelena burst through the door, breath hitching as her eyes scanned the perimeter.

“Is she—?”

“She’s okay,” Bob answered quietly, “We’ve got her.”

Yelena let out a shaky breath and moved closer.

You whimpered softly, your whole body trembling in Ava’s arms. Your hands curled into fists, then relaxed again. Tears slid down your cheeks even as your eyes stayed closed. Even asleep, you were breaking.

You were inching closer to the ledge, your toes just brushing the edge of now.

“I have to find him,” you mumbled again, voice cracking. “He’s not safe. I have to find him.”

Alexei looked at Ava. At Yelena.

“She’s not coming out of it,” Yelena whispered. “She’s too far under.”

“Do it,” John said, tense. “Now. Before she—”

Alexei nodded once, then reached forward, placing one palm on your shoulders. It was him who finally made the call. “Time to wake up now. You’re safe. You’re dreaming.”

Your body stiffened immediately. The moment your nervous system registered something was wrong, your fight-or-flight instincts kicked in.

And they kicked hard.

Coming back into consciousness in panic, you bolted— or tried to.

Ava held you still, even as your eyes snapped open, and you screamed.

“No! No, no, no! Let go of me! Let go—“

“It’s okay, it’s okay—” Ava said, tightening her grip, keeping you away from the ledge.

You thrashed. Alexei backed off, hands up, trying not to crowd you.

Yelena stepped forward and crouched, her voice firmer than the others. “Look at me. You’re here. You’re home. We have you.”

But your body didn’t believe her. Your eyes were darting wildly, trying to make sense of noise and faces, adrenaline pumping so hard it made your vision blur.

John, who managed to grab a blanket, wrapped it over your shoulders while muttering, “It’s okay, you’re okay,” on repeat like a prayer, even though your eyes weren’t processing him yet.

Bob moved in slowly, hoping just being there would help.

Eventually—eventually—your eyes found something familiar.

The logo on the roof. 

The view on the edge. 

The ledge.

Your legs buckled the moment your body remembered gravity.

Ava and Alexei caught you instantly — Ava’s arms looping under your shoulders, Alexei scooping beneath your knees, reminding yourself he was a man who once threw tanks for fun.

“I—I didn’t mean to—” your voice broke, and you curled in on yourself, clutching the sides of Bucky’s shirt like it could protect you from your own confusion. “I don’t remember what I was dreaming. I didn’t mean to come up here. I didn’t mean—”

“We know,” Yelena said firmly. “It’s okay.”

“No one’s mad,” John reassured, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You swallowed, and with a shaky breath, nodded once.

You weren’t fully okay — not even close — but you were with them.

“Let’s get you out of the cold, druga,” Alexei said. 

You didn’t fight the suggestion.

The rooftop door swung behind you as Bob pushed it open. 

All of you managed to walk back in. 

No one said the obvious — how close you’d come to falling.

No one had to.

You reached the common room without question, because none of them wanted to put you back in your room alone. You wouldn’t sleep, and none of them would, either.

They laid you gently down on the oversized couch in the center of the room. You blinked up at the ceiling, eyes still dazed, until Bob appeared beside you with a warm cup of tea. He placed it in your hands.

You didn’t drink it. You just held it, palms wrapped tight around the mug, as if the warmth alone was enough to anchor you.

“I’m sorry,” you said, finally

“You don’t have to be,” Ava replied immediately, sitting beside you on the couches.

John sat on the floor in front of you, back against the coffee table, hands dangling over his knees. “We’ve all had bad nights. This just happened to be one of yours.”

Alexei brought in two more pillows and tossed one over your legs. He tucked the second by Yelena, who tried to wave him off before giving up with a sigh and letting him fuss.

Bob curled into an armchair nearby. “We’ll keep watch,” he said. “We always do.”

And then, something remarkable happened.

The exhaustion hit all of you at once.

One by one, you all stopped pretending you weren’t tired.

Yelena curled up beside you, legs tangled with yours, chin resting on the pillow between you.

John slid down to lie on the carpet, arms crossed over his chest like a soldier who could still sleep with one eye open.

Ava stretched out beside the couch, back against it as she put a hand over yours.

Alexei lowered himself onto the other couch with a dramatic groan, mumbling something about “too old for this” as he tucked a pillow behind his head.

Bob’s head tilted back and his breathing evened out.

And just like that, the common room became a patchwork nest of sleep. And it was some of the best sleep every one of you have had in a while. 

—

An hour, maybe two, slipped by. Then, the elevator dinged.

You stirred, still in a haze, but some part of you registered the familiar sound of heavy boots followed by a duffel bag hitting the floor with a gentle thump, carefully placed rather than dropped.

“Hey, sweetheart,” came Bucky’s voice.

Your eyes blinked open, just enough to catch a glimpse of him standing in the spill of hallway light. His hair was damp, rain clinging to the ends. His jacket bore flecks of concrete dust and char near the seams. 

He looked like a man who hadn’t stopped running home since he left.

“Bucky…” you whispered, the name tangled in a yawn. “Baby… you came back…”

Your words were fragile, barely more than breath, and already fading into the fog of dreams again.

Bucky stepped over John — who was still passed out on the floor, snoring like a freight train — and made his way to you without a sound. He crouched down by the couch and wrapped his hands around yours — the one not held by Ava— and brought it to his lips to kiss your knuckles. 

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice cracking at the seam. “I’m so sorry I left.”

You made a nonsensical sound in response — half a word, maybe a memory. Something about rooftops, tea, jerky, his shirt. Nothing coherent, just the drift of half-dreams spilling from your lips. He knew you wouldn’t remember any of this come morning.

But still, Bucky leaned in and kissed your forehead, letting his lips linger there. For the first time in days, he let himself breathe.

Then he looked up — and finally took the full picture in. 

They were all there. The whole team, scattered in sleep around the living room like an improvised fortress. His girl — you — nestled safely in the center of it, wrapped in the arms of friends who had clearly refused to leave your side.

They looked worn down, but peaceful and content. Like being here, with each other, was exactly where they wanted to be.

So he moved quietly around the tower, opting for a quick shower and change of clothes. Then he walked to the hallway closet and gathered every spare blanket he could find.

One by one, he tucked them in.

He threw a thick crocheted navy blue throw over John, who mumbled something but didn’t wake. A quilt draped gently across Yelena and Ava. One across Alexei’s legs, already half off the couch,

Bob didn’t even stir — just sighed, as Bucky knelt, and carefully tugged a fluffy yellow blanket under his chin. It was like Bob somehow knew Bucky was there.

On the coffee table, Bucky found a scrap of paper and scrawled a quick note, placing it where they would see it in the morning.

Thank you for taking care of my girl. – J.B.B

Then he returned to you.

He stood there for a moment, watching you sleep — curled up in the middle of everyone who had held the line while he was gone. 

He was so in love with you — god help him — because all he could think about after the long mission was taking you back, holding you close, and not sharing you with anyone tonight.

So he picked you up in his arms effortlessly, like you belonged there, like he’d done it a thousand times and could do it a thousand more.

You stirred just a little, your cheek pressing into his chest.

“You’re home…” you murmured again, barely awake.

“I am,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to your temple. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

He carried you back to your shared room, the weight of the world finally lifting from his shoulders.

There, he laid you down and pulled the covers up over you both, sliding in with one arm around your waist, the other across your chest like a shield.

You were finally asleep in his arms, and he wasn’t about to give the world a single piece of you until morning.

-end.

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