Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

IT HAD STARTED AS A QUIET MORNING, just you, the sink full of dishes, and the hum of the house stretching itself awake.

"Daisuke," you giggled, squirming as a cold hand brushed the exposed skin just beneath your shirt hem. "Stooop—I’m trying to give the dishes a bath."

You were elbow-deep in suds, fighting a hardened chunk of rice that refused to let go of the ceramic plate. The faucet hissed, warm steam curling around your face. But even through that, through the clatter of dishes and the citrus scent of dish soap, you felt him before you heard him. He pressed in behind you, quiet as always, but present. The faint scent of warm porcelain and stainless steel polish clung to him like cologne.

"And yet," he murmured, voice low and smooth like ceramic, "you neglect me."

His breath was cool against your nape, sending goosebumps scattering across your spine.

You laughed as you squirted soap onto a plate. "You are not one of the dishes."

"Is that so?" he replied softly. 

One hand slid past your waist, plucking a mug from the drying rack. His fingers, pale and long, traced the rim as if it were a sacred object. "A forgotten favorite. Used, scrubbed, and left to dry without affection."

"Oh my god," you muttered, trying and failing to hide your smile. "You are so dramatic."

He said nothing, but you could feel the ripple of amusement beneath his stillness. A moment later, both hands returned to settle at your waist.

"You’ve been standing for too long."

You blinked. "I’m fine?"

"Your back will ache. Again." He paused, gaze dropping deliberately down the line of your spine, as though mentally cataloging every knot of tension waiting to bloom. "Sit. I’ll handle the rest."

You turned to face him, suds clinging to your forearms, a soft frown tugging at your brow. "You’re such a worrywart."

Daisuke’s expression barely shifted, but you caught it. That tiny pull at the corner of his mouth. 

"You exhaust yourself," he said, voice low and clipped. "Running about this house, tending to everyone but yourself. It has been less than twenty-four hours since your last injury, and already you are moving."

Your breath caught at the softness buried beneath his deadpan delivery.

"…You’re such a dork," you whispered.

He leaned in, tapping his forehead gently to yours.

"And you are a menace to dishware. The plate you’re holding is from my spring collection. Irreplaceable."

"Then don’t leave it where I can touch it," you challenged, even as you let him pluck it gently from your hands.

"Exactly my point."

You rolled your eyes and huffed, but didn’t protest when he dried your hands with a towel, fingers brushing yours with infuriating tenderness. He guided you away from the sink with a hand at the small of your back, leading you toward the dining table.

When he pulled out a chair and sat down, you didn’t bother with the other seat. Instead, you just flopped sideways across his lap, limbs loose, arms slung around his neck like it was your throne by birthright. Daisuke let out a quiet, almost exasperated sigh, but his hand came up without hesitation to steady you, palm resting warm and certain against your back.

You tilted your head toward the other end of the dining table, where Timothy sat primly on one of the chairs. Legs crossed, clipboard angled just-so, and his sleek golden timepiece cradled delicately in his gloved hand.

His ears twitched once. Tail flicked twice.

Without glancing up, he announced in his smooth, static-laced cadence, "Thirty minutes, thirty-nine seconds until the next schhhhedule."

You leaned over Daisuke’s arm to reach Timothy, your hand settling between his twitching ears. His fur bristled beneath your touch, but he let out a soft, involuntary purr as he leaned into your palm.

"Morning, baby," you cooed, scratching gently behind one velvety ear. "What schhhhedule?"

Timothy rolled his eyes at your teasing but didn’t dignify it with a response, not right away. He just exhaled, slow and pointed, then flipped the clipboard toward you with a flat glare.

"The one you instructed me to note." His ears twitched. "Precisely thirty minutes from now. A meeting schhhheduled to take place here, in your residence."

It hit you all at once, like a cold glass of water hurled in your face.

Your brain stalled. It completely locked up. You could practically hear the internal hard drive spinning, whirring uselessly in search of a backup you never bothered to make. The rest of the room blurred into background static. All you could see was the clipboard in Timothy’s hands… and the slip of paper pinned dead center like a death warrant.

Your handwriting. Your pink gel pen. That dumb, cheerful to-do list, scrawled.

Pick-up for clothes – 7:00 AM. Don’t let it get weird.

It was already weird.

Your chest tightened, and then you launched off Daisuke’s lap. The chair leg caught your ankle mid-motion, nearly sending you sprawling face-first into the hardwood. You caught yourself just in time, one hand gripping the back of another chair, breath coming fast and uneven.

The living room snapped into focus, and now that you were seeing it, really seeing it, every flaw screamed at you.

No vacuuming. Of course there wasn’t! Why would you think ahead like that? A fine layer of dust still clung to the side table, right where you’d been chatting with Dolly last night.

Three jackets were flung over the coat rack, thanks to Dirk. Sock ropes, actual tied-up sock ropes, dangled off the couch, remnants of the "couch climbing" the Hanks did two nights ago.

The coffee table was a disaster zone from your last drink experiments with Kopi and Beverly. Powdered creamer clung to the surface like a dusting of snow, several half-empty cocktail glasses were scattered across limp napkins, and one mug of oat milk sat forgotten, slowly spoiling, still bearing a lipstick stain on the rim.

No coaster, of course.

And worst of all, you hadn’t told anyone your ex was coming over.

"Tim!" you finally choked out. "Why didn’t you remind me earlier?!"

Timothy, unfazed by your panic, tilted his head and reached calmly into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small black cube, thumbed the side, and clicked it once. Your own voice crackled out in tinny audio:

"If I forget, that’s a sign from the universe that I wasn’t meant to remember."

You stared at him, jaw open. "You’re supposed to override me when I’m being stupid!"

Timothy sniffed, flipping the clipboard closed with a tidy little snap. "Beloved, if I overrode you every time you were being stupid, I wouldn’t have time to wind myself."

You nearly screamed.

Behind you, Daisuke shifted in his chair. You heard the quiet rustle of fabric, followed by the soft clink of a plate being set down on the counter with care.

"Who’s coming?" Daisuke’s voice came from behind you, but you couldn’t get a word out. Just stood there like an idiot, mouth working uselessly, opening and closing like a fish pulled out of water.

Timothy, sensing the spike in tension like a radar ping, clicked his stopwatch again. The sound was sharper this time, more clipped.

"Twenty-nine minutes, seventeen seconds," Timothy murmured. His ears flattened, and unease flickered in his eyes as he shot you a quick glance from the corner of his vision. "You’re unraveling? You are never this worried over your schhhedules."

You let out a shaky, half-laugh of a breath and dug your fingers into your hair, close to spiraling.

"Oh my god," you rasped. "Oh my god, I gotta—I have to shower. I have to get ready. My ex is coming over here!"

The silence that followed hit like a dropped weight.

Timothy froze, every line of his body drawn tight and still. Similarly, Daisuke’s hand slipped slightly, fingers curling hard around the edge of the chair like he’d just remembered it was there. Neither said a word, but something bristled in the air.

You didn’t stick around to explain. Your heart was already thundering in your chest as you turned on your heel and bolted up the stairs, two at a time.

As your footsteps faded up the stairs, Timothy’s expression soured. He stared down at his clipboard, ears still flat against his skull. The pen in his hand clicked once, twice, three times. Each press sharper than the last until he slashed angry lines of ink across the scheduled meeting on the page.

Daisuke glanced over, brow raised, but said nothing. 

Timothy’s tail gave a single flick behind him. 

"Well," he muttered, voice clipped and cool, almost mechanical in its precision, "perhaps I ought to have let them forget."

You burst into the laundry room mid-strip, breath coming fast, one arm still jammed halfway through your shirt sleeve. A towel dangled from your teeth, and your socks made a pitiful slap-slap against the tile as you skidded to a halt. 

"Hey," Dirk said casually, without even glancing up. He had a hip propped up against Drysdale, folding a towel one-handed.

You made a sound that was meant to be words but came out closer to a dying goose. Then, in your frantic tangle of limbs and laundry, one of your socks decided to fling itself from your foot and strike Dirk squarely in the chest.

"Wow," Dirk said flatly, holding the sock between two fingers. He held it between two fingers, arm fully extended as if the thing might bite him. His nose wrinkled ever so slightly in mock disgust, and he gave you a look. "Bold choice. Weaponizing laundry."

"Emergency," you wheezed, still halfway trapped in your shirt like it was trying to strangle you. "Defcon Five. Incoming Ex-Situation. Shower critical."

Dirk quirked a brow. "Oh, so we’re panicking."

"I’m not panicking!" You finally yanked the shirt off, hair sticking up like static. You flung the shirt towards Harper. It missed. Badly.

With a frustrated groan, you started unzipping your pants with one hand while rummaging through a pile of your towels with the other. "Okay, I didn’t plan for this. Obviously. I forgot. I forgot on purpose. And now I have to de-gremlin myself in under twenty minutes before they walk in and think I’ve been living in a hoarder den slash emotional bunker!"

Dirk raised both hands in a slow, exaggerated shrug. "So... Thursday."

"Dirk."

"I’m just saying, baby," he said, completely unbothered, swinging one leg over the edge of Drysdale. "You keep describing your normal day and calling it an emergency."

Before you could throw a quip back, you tripped over your half-peeled jeans and slammed shoulder-first into the open dryer door with a loud thunk.

Dirk cringed. He straightened immediately, legs dropping to the floor as his relaxed posture vanished in an instant. 

"Okay," he said slowly, "let’s not concuss ourselves in a towel. That’s a very unsexy way to die."

You groaned, wincing as you pressed a hand to your shoulder and used the washer to keep from sliding straight to the floor. "Fantastic. Just kill me. Honestly. I’d prefer that to facing my ex."

"Don’t say that." His voice cut in fast, sharper than he meant it to be. He paused, then sighed through his nose, arms folding. "You know I hate it when you make jokes like that."

There was a beat of silence. Then, like flipping a switch, he looked away and rolled his eyes.

"Anyway," he muttered, "if you do keel over, I’m not dragging your corpse upstairs. I’ll throw a blanket over you and call Farya. Let her deal with it."

"I’m fine," you groaned, "Look. If they get here before I’m out of the shower… stall them, okay?"

"Define stall," Dirk said blandly. "I’m literally a pile of clothes."

You let out a strangled noise and buried your face in your hands, palms digging hard into your eyes. "Oh my god. This is such a mess!"

Dirk’s smirk cracked just slightly. He crossed the room and slung an arm around your waist, draping himself over your barely-toweled form. He pressed a kiss to your cheek. Then another, soft and slow on your jaw. Then lower, trailing warm across your neck.

"Does he really have to come get those clothes?" Dirk murmured, low and careful, like he didn’t want to startle the moment. "I mean… we could throw them in Cam. Or leave them in the front yard. Let him fetch. Like the dog he is."

You turned to glare at him, but your breath hitched before you could speak because his lips brushed under your ear again.

"You could stay," he said, quieter now, fingers tightening at your waist. "Forget the damn guy. Stay here. With me."

Then his mouth dragged slowly along your jaw, the scrape of his teeth light. His next kiss landed just below your ear, then lower. He sucked a mark into the soft skin at the curve of your neck, and the sound that left your throat wasn’t voluntary.

Your hand shot out to grip the edge of the dryer, knuckles white. Your knees barely held.

"Maybe bring the Hanks in," Dirk added, his breath hot where it ghosted across your skin. "Make it a whole event. Let them watch while I remind you how his name hasn’t come out of your mouth once while you were under me."

You swallowed hard, mind blanking. The tension between your bodies was molten, heavy. The towel was barely staying on.

"Are you—" you tried, throat dry, "—are you seriously seducing me out of taking a shower?"

Dirk just smiled. That crooked, lazy smirk of his that always spelled danger. His thigh slid between yours, hand still low on your towel, thumb brushing the dip of your spine.

"Wouldn’t be the first time," he said smoothly, tilting your chin so you met his eyes. They were dark now, full of unspoken things. "And honestly? If it keeps him from seeing you like this… I’ll do a hell of a lot more than kiss your neck."

Your breath stuttered. Every nerve in your body seemed tuned to his touch.

Dirk leaned in, mouth brushing just below your collarbone now. "Why should he get a version of you I have to live without?"

You exhaled hard, arms crossing over your towel. 

"Dirk…"

"I know," he snapped. "I know. You’re not going back to him. You’re just... doing the responsible thing. Tying up loose ends."

You nodded, barely.

Dirk’s jaw clenched. "Still feels like hell."

You reached up, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing the skin just beneath his eye. "It’s not about him," you murmured. "You know that, right?"

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you a moment longer, then finally stepped back.

"Fine. Whatever. Go on," he said, voice flatter now, retreating into something colder. "Get cleaned up."

You hesitated. Then kissed him on the corner of his mouth. "No loose ends."

And then you turned and disappeared down the hall. Behind you, Dirk stayed rooted in place. He dragged a hand through his hair and let out a low, shaky breath.

"Don’t take too long."

The shower was already running, the room thick with steam and the scent of soap clinging to the air like a second skin. You barely managed to close the door behind you before the heat kissed your cheeks, curling the edges of your hair and drawing sweat from your skin. You tossed the towel aside and stepped in without ceremony, urgency buzzing under your skin.

"Well, well," came that slow, familiar drawl. Slick as honey over warm porcelain. "Ain’t you just the prettiest little storm I ever did see?"

Johnny stood inside, already half-formed from mist and heat, one hip propped against the fogged glass wall like he’d been expecting you. His eyes swept over your naked form with zero shame.

"Thought maybe you were ignorin’ me today, darlin’," he went on, voice slow and syrup-thick. "But here you are. Lookin’ like heaven and hell got together and made a mess just for me."

"Johnny," you groaned, stepping in and letting the spray slam against your shoulders. You tipped your head forward, water tracing down your spine. "This is not the time. I am officially spiraling."

"Mm," he hummed, unconcerned. "And you spiral so pretty. Plus, that’s cruel, baby. Walkin’ in here all glistening and flushed and expectin’ me to act like a gentleman."

"My ex is on the way," you hissed, yanking open the shampoo. "I forgot. I literally blocked it out. And now I have—" You stopped mid-sentence, scrambling through your mental schedule with wild-eyed dread. "—Five minutes. Maybe."

Johnny let out a low whistle, folding his arms across his chest. "Mmm. Sounds like you need a deep soak and a whole lotta Johnny love." 

Then, stepping in a little closer, eyes gleaming with mischief. "But I s’pose I can work with five."

You gave him a flat look. "Johnny. I am naked. In you. That does not mean this is a flirt window."

He raised both hands in mock surrender. "What? You always look like you got it together, sweetheart."

Johnny’s voice dropped, warm and low like the water wrapping around your shoulders. "Even when you’re fallin’ apart, you shine. Makes me wanna hold you ’til the world forgets how to hurt ya."

You blinked up at him, just for a second. Just long enough to feel your pulse slow beneath the heat and the quiet care in his gaze.

"Johnny…"

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"Ain’t gonna stop ya from washin’, baby," he murmured. "But don’t you go thinkin’ you gotta face that fool out there without knowin’ there’s a whole mess’a people in this house who already worship the ground you trip over."

You sighed, letting your shoulders relax. "Thanks, Johnny."

He hummed softly, then slipped into one of his off-key tunes—just for you. The melody wobbled all over the place, a half-sung mess, but it made everything feel a little less frantic.

A few minutes later, you stepped out of the shower, towel cinched tight around your body. Your hair dripped steadily onto the tile, and water still clung to your arms and shoulders. You were halfway to the sink, reaching for your toothbrush, when Johnny’s fingers brushed across your collarbone.

"Hold up, sugar," he said, stepping into your space. "You got somethin’ right here…"

He tapped just below your neck with the back of his knuckle, casual as anything. "Little love bite, bloomin’ like spring."

You froze. Then turned sharply on your heel, bare feet squeaking slightly on the tiled floor as you leaned in toward the mirror. The glass was fogged up, but not enough to hide the purpling splotch on the side of your neck. It was front and center, impossible to miss.

Your jaw dropped. "DIRK!" you shrieked, voice bouncing off the walls. "I swear to God!"

Right on cue, Barry’s voice drifted in, light and sing-song. "Darling, breathe. Stress gives you texture."

You spun toward him, panicking. "Barry, I have four minutes and a full-on hickey on my neck!"

"Four minutes? Four? Hun, that is nothing. Right, then! Let's start moving. We are focused and we’re fabulous under pressure!" He was already hovering near the vanity, makeup brushes orbiting his shoulders like tiny satellites. 

"Brush... where’s your brush? No, not that one, that one—!" He snatched a toothbrush from the cup, passed it to you, then shoved a bottle of foundation into your palm in one seamless motion. "Toothpaste. Yes. Open—mouth, not complaints."

You blinked. Then sighed through your nose and obeyed as he popped the toothbrush between your lips.

Mouth full of foam, you grumbled around the bristles, "I hate this."

"Oh, I know, darling, and I cherish you for it," he said breezily, already rearranging his brush set. "Hate gives you an edge. Very retro."

After brushing, you leaned over the sink and spat, then wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. When you looked up, your eyes went straight to the blotchy mark blooming across your neck.

You jabbed a finger at your reflection. "When this is over," you said flatly, "I’m slapping Dirk’s smug little grin clean off his face."

Barry didn’t even blink. "He’ll love that. Start with the left cheek. It’s his better side. You’ll get a cleaner echo on the second slap."

You just shook your head and started fumbling with the bottle of foundation, the cap already halfway off, ready to slap some dignity back onto your neck. But before you could even squeeze a drop, the weight disappeared from your hand.

You blinked. "Huh?"

Your eyes darted to the counter just in time to catch Barry sliding the bottle back into the drawer. The soft click of it closing felt louder than it should have. His fingers lingered on the handle, but his gaze was fixed on Amir.

"…Did you just take that away from me?"

He didn’t flinch. "Mm. Yep."

"Why?!"

"I changed my mind, darling."

"I need that."

"No, no, no—no," Barry said, swatting the air like your argument was a mosquito. "You want that, but what you actually need, boo boo bear, is to strut out that door in the next sixty seconds with your chin high, your energy radiant, and that bite on full, glorious display."

You pointed wildly at your own reflection. "My ex is going to see the mark!"

Barry turned, squinted at your neck, and made a thoughtful noise. "Mmm… yes! Bold placement. Strong colour story. Bit messy around the edges, but honestly? I’ve seen worse lining."

"You’ve lost your mind," you groaned, dragging a hand down your face. "New plan! After I slap Dirk, I’m slapping you."

"Ooh, spicy," he chirped, already spinning you toward the door by the shoulders. "Just use the wrist, not the elbow. Now go! Shoo! Time is ticking!"

With a groan and a muttered curse, you bolted from the room, towel flapping around your legs, damp footprints chasing behind you.

The moment the door clicked shut, Johnny let out a low whistle, his grin already stretching ear to ear.

"Damn thing’s redder’n a fox in a henhouse," he drawled, arms folded across his chest. "Plain as day. Lookin’ like it was hand-delivered. Hoo—their ex’s gon’ take one look and forget his damn name."

Barry didn’t even glance up. He just gave a hum of satisfaction as he tidied the counter. "Good. I hope he chokes on it. I hope it’s the first thing he sees, and I hope it haunts him in every mirror for the rest of his sad little life."

He reached for a lipstick tube, uncapped it with a satisfying click, and held it up to the light, eyeing the color. "Mm. Should’ve outlined it. Crimson would’ve been stunning. Maybe a little shimmer. No... black. Black with a gloss finish. Or! Oooh! Ombre. Scarlet fading to wine. Very femme fatale, very sexy, very fabulous. Honestly, missed opportunity."

Johnny let out a low whistle, amused. "You’re cold, sugar. Still. Gotta admit. I like the bite. Looks real fine on them. Real fine."

You trudged up the stairs, one hand gripping your towel, the other clutching the banister. Your fingers were damp, still a little pruny from the shower, but it wasn’t the water making them shake.

The railing slipped a little under your palm. Your breath caught.

"Get it together," you muttered under your breath.

At the top landing, you slipped into your room and shut the door behind you, careful not to let the knob click too loudly. Then you just stood there, forehead resting against the wood, letting the silence wrap around you.

Your hair clung to the back of your neck, still wet. Your skin, warm from the steam, prickled in the sudden cool. The air in your room felt sharper than it should have. Colder.

It was stupid. You knew that. Just a box of clothes. Just a simple, civil drop-off. He was coming to get the last of his things. Some stuff you’d forgotten was even his. A hoodie, maybe a book. Socks. Nothing that should’ve been heavy. Nothing that should’ve made you feel like your spine was caving in.

And yet, the thought of hearing his voice again. Of opening the door and seeing him standing there, same face, same tone, that awful familiar pause before he said your name, tightened your throat like a noose. 

You didn’t notice the shift in front of you until your balance tilted just slightly. The door didn’t feel like a door anymore. It was warmer now. Solid in a different way.

You blinked and looked up to see Dorian.

"Hey, love," he murmured, arm already wrapped securely around your waist. And then, gently, the fingers of his other hand slipped into your damp hair, slow and careful, and pressed to the back of your head in the lightest cradle. His thumb moved once behind your ear, and for some reason, that was the thing that unspooled your chest.

"You don’t have to open the door," he said simply. Like he was stating a fact. 

"He’s just coming to pick up his stuff," you said, the words small in your mouth.

Dorian was quiet for a moment. Like he was weighing something he didn’t want to press you with. Then, without shifting his grip, he drew his palm slowly down your back, letting it settle against the middle of your spine. His touch was warm. Centering.

"He’s not coming in," he said finally, like he'd already decided it, and the world would bend to that decision.

You swallowed hard. Your hands were still gripping the towel too tight.

"I can handle it," you said, barely louder than before.

He sighed and just raised one hand and brushed your hair back behind your ear, knuckles trailing lightly along your temple, then let his fingers rest for half a second more before they dropped.

"Fine. Get dressed," he said gently. "You know where I’ll be, love."

With a final kiss to your forehead, Dorian vanished out through the door.

You stood there for a moment, the ghost of his touch still lingering. Then, smiling faintly to yourself, you crossed the room and reached for the closet handle.

But when you opened the door, instead of seeing your closet, you blinked against a sudden change in light.

The soft creak of the door gave way to a humid wave of warm air, thick with the scent of eucalyptus muscle balm, energy drinks, and the faint tang of sweat. The floor beneath your bare feet was no longer the cool wood of your bedroom, but the familiar give of rubber matting. A thunk-thunk of someone hitting a punching bag echoed from somewhere deeper in the room.

"HOUSE BABE!"

A blur shot out from behind the squat rack. Hank 4 practically flung himself across the floor like a golden retriever let off leash. His curls were an unruly tangle of sweat, his tank top clinging to his muscles like second skin, and his grin stretched so wide it nearly split his face.

"You’re in a towel!"

You didn’t break stride. You stepped into the converted closet gym like it was any other day. "Closet gym day again?"

"EVERY day is gym day," Hank 4 declared, sweeping his arms wide. "But now it’s the best gym day! Because you—" He gestured up and down at the towel. "—are here. In that!"

Hank 2 raised a brow from the pull-up bar. "Please tell me they’re not still dripping wet. You’re gonna catch a cold, babe. Seriously. Where are your socks? Did you at least dry your hair a little?"

"Oh, they’re dripping," Hank 3 purred, already sprawled out sideways across the weight bench. His shirt was off and he was grinning wide at you. "Drippin’ like they’ve been marinating in sin. Babe, you step in here glistening like that again, I’m gonna start conducting research."

You raised an eyebrow. "Research?"

"Yeah," he said with a wicked grin. "Wanna come here and find out my methodology, baby? Real handy stuff."

"You’re so cringe bro," groaned Hank 2, letting go of the pull-up bar and dropping to the floor. "You need a muzzle."

Hank 4 cackled, clutching his side. "Lowkey embarrassing, bro! But let him cook! He’s spittin’ truth, no cap!"

From the back of the room, Hank 5 stepped into view with a roll of wrist wraps. "Ignore him," he said simply. His gaze swept over you. "You walk in like that, the whole room tilts, babe."

"All right," came Hank 1’s voice. He clapped once, loud enough to snap everyone’s attention back to center. "Five-minute timeout. Let our baby breathe. Hydrate. Focus up."

Across the room, Hank 3 purred, "Hydrate them, maybe."

"Bro!" Hank 2 hissed, scandalized. "Stop talking!"

You couldn’t help but laugh as you shook your head. "Thanks for the group thirst. That’s… very affirming. Really. But I’m just here for clothes."

You padded barefoot toward the corner of the room, past tangled resistance bands and tubs of protein powder stacked like bricks. A pair of laundry baskets waited near the wall. You crouched beside them, fingers curling around familiar fabric. Your voice dropped, quieter now. 

"My ex is here."

Hank 1’s posture straightened. "Wait. Here here?"

You nodded, trying to make it casual and failing. "Just to pick up some stuff. It’s not a big deal. I just need to change. And maybe not cry. Or puke. But mostly get dressed."

Silence settled, the weighty kind that only falls when a room full of idiots collectively decides they’re about to become dangerous.

"Or," Hank 3 said suddenly, voice smooth as ever but with something darker under it, "you cry, puke, and get dressed. At the same time, we go out there and break every bone in his body. Alphabetically."

"Yup," Hank 2 said.

"Sounds fair," added Hank 5, who had already begun rolling up his sleeves. "Honestly. I’ve been itching to hit something."

"These muscles ain’t for nothing, baby!" Hank 4 shouted, flexing both arms. "Let me at him! I’ll fold that man like a gym towel and wring him out!"

"Guys," you started, but your voice cracked halfway through, and you swallowed hard before trying again. "Guys, no fighting. I don’t think he’s here for a brawl. I just… I need to change. Please."

You turned back to the laundry basket, but your hands didn’t quite work right. You reached for a hoodie and dropped it. Picked it up again, fumbled the sleeve. Your fingers were shaking.

Hank 1 crossed the room without a word and knelt behind you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. His chin came to rest gently on the top of your head, and for a long, quiet moment, there was nothing but the steady rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his body pressed against your back, shielding you from the rest of the world like a wall.

"We got you, baby," he murmured into your hair, his voice low and sure. "You’re safe."

"Yeah!" Hank 4 chimed in, softer than usual but still bright. "Like, for real. Why’d he even come back after fumbling a ten outta ten? Peak dumbass behavior."

You let out a shaky breath, the corners of your mouth twitching. "I just feel stupid."

"Hey," Hank 1 said, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. "Nah. Don’t. Don’t ever feel dumb for caring. That’s not weakness, babe! That’s heart. And you’ve got the biggest one in this whole damn house. Fo’ real."

He gave your arms a little squeeze. "Dude was just too mid to handle it."

"Certified goober," Hank 3 muttered, throwing an arm over his eyes like he couldn’t bear to witness the stupidity of it all.

"No, seriously," Hank 2 said, spinning in a short frustrated circle before planting his hands on his hips. "I straight-up can’t even believe the guy. Who fumbles someone like that? You break up with us and I’d like… stop going out Hank gliding, brah."

Hank 4 reeled back, hands in his hair. "Not the Hank-gliding!"

"You know I only glide when I’m at peace, brah," Hank 2 said solemnly, placing a hand over his heart. "That’s sacred."

A wet snort slipped out before you could stop it, and you wiped your eyes with the edge of your towel. "God. You guys are the worst," you mumbled. "But seriously... thanks. I should get dressed."

"You got it, baby!" Hank 1 said, already backing up with a grin.

And just like that, the room broke back into chaos. Foam rollers hit the floor. Someone stubbed their toe on a kettlebell. Hank 3 tripped over Hank 4, who was trying to dive behind the bench like it was cover fire.

"Go! Go! They need pants!" Hank 4 shouted.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help your smile as you slipped past them toward the back of the gym where your actual clothes, mercifully, were still neatly folded on the shelf.

You dropped the towel and stepped into your pants, pulling them up quick. You grabbed a tank top next and pulled it over your head, smoothing it down over your ribs. As you bent to adjust the hem, you heard the soft shuffle of movement behind you.

You turned, instinctively bracing for another Hank being Hank, but stopped short when you saw Hank 5 standing quietly in the doorway. One hand rested against the frame, light and hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to step further in.

"Hey, babe," he said, his voice quiet and easy in that way only he ever managed.

"Hey," you breathed, surprised but not startled. You offered a small smile, a tilt of your head. "Wanna come here?"

He didn’t answer right away, just stepped forward, slow and steady. Like he was checking in with every step, making sure you were still okay with it. You stayed put, arms loose at your sides, breath coming a little too fast for no clear reason.

A few more steps and he was in front of you, a crooked smile tugging at his lips before he leaned in and kissed you.

His hand hovered for a moment, like he was still giving you the chance to say no, then settled gently at your hip. The kiss deepened, slow and unhurried, and when you gasped softly against his mouth, he chuckled, tilting his head to press in a little more.

You hadn’t even realized how tense your shoulders were until they started to drop, your body slowly remembering how to breathe.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far, just enough to speak near your face, his breath still warm against your cheek.

"Thought you might wanna wear this," he murmured, and lifted a familiar jacket between you.

It was his letterman jacket. Green and white, worn at the sleeves, soft in the places where it had been handled a hundred times. The stitched H on the breast was unmistakable, and your stomach did that stupid swoop it always did.

Without saying a word, you stepped into the space between you and let him guide the jacket onto your shoulders. His hands were gentle as he helped you into the sleeves, tugging them down and smoothing the fabric. His fingers hovered for a second longer at the back of your neck, brushing lightly at the edge of your damp hair.

"It looks better on you," he said, barely above a whisper. "No cap."

You huffed out a breath that might’ve been a laugh, the jacket already warm against your skin. "You’re such a dork."

He leaned in again, voice dropping low near your ear, the words brushing over you like static. "Still better than your ex."

You snorted, shaking your head, but the smile that curled your mouth was real this time. "Not exactly a high bar."

His grin curved in reply, but he didn’t press it.

It was already past the time you were supposed to meet your ex, but he hadn’t shown up yet. So instead of waiting around like a chump, you holed up in the gym closet with the Hanks, letting the himbo hive distract you with whatever nonsense they were on about now. 

"You’re wrong," Hank 4 was saying. "Protein powder totally counts as soup."

"It’s not soup!" Hank 2 snapped. "It’s not liquid. It’s dust. You’re drinking wet dust."

"Wet dust in water," Hank 4 argued, throwing his hands up like that settled it. "What the hell do you think soup is, bro? Broth is just seasoned water, brah."

"That’s not—" Hank 2 made a strangled sound and pointed to Hank 3. "Back me up. You meal-prep for us. Is protein powder soup?"

Hank 3 didn’t even bother to open his eyes. He was laid out across your lap like a cat, your fingers moving absently through his hair as his arms curled tighter around your waist. 

"Soup’s a state of mind," he mumbled, voice lazy and content. "’S long as you can chew it, brah."

"You’re not supposed to chew soup!" Hank 2 barked. "If you have to chew it, it’s stew!"

"You’re just scared to think outside the bowl," Hank 4 shot back. "Soup can be thick. Soup can be chunky. Soup can have macros, bro."

Before Hank 2 could explode again, the doorbell rang.

Your chest clenched instantly, and before your brain could catch up, your body had already gone still. Hank 3 stopped drawing absent circles on your thigh. Hank 1 looked up from where he’d been sorting weights, head tilted like he was already listening for movement down the hall. 

You inhaled and slid out from Hank 3’s arms, pushing yourself upright with careful hands as you moved toward the back shelf where you’d stashed his box. 

The worn cardboard felt lighter than it should’ve when you picked it up, like the contents had evaporated into meaninglessness but still managed to drag at your chest all the same. Just a few leftovers: his hoodie, still clinging to that cologne he always overused; the beanie he never washed, soft from wear; socks rolled the way he liked them, even though he probably wouldn’t notice. You’d folded everything too carefully, like maybe if it looked clean and orderly, it wouldn’t sting so much. Like presentation could make any of it easier.

Behind you, the silence stretched like the whole room was holding its breath right alongside you.

Then, after a beat too long, Hank 3 muttered, "…Can we still hit him?"

"No," you said firmly, not slowing your pace as you walked toward the closet door, the box steady in your grip.

"Throw something at him?" Hank 4 asked, hopeful as ever.

"..." You paused. "We’ll talk about it."

"Fuck yeah!" someone whispered, triumphant.

You tugged Hank 5’s jacket a little tighter around your shoulders and turned just enough to flash them a crooked smile. "I’ll see you guys later."

Without saying much, you stepped out of the closet and headed down the stairs. The wooden floor was cool under your bare feet, the letterman jacket heavy around your shoulders. Each step echoed down the hall, louder than it needed to be.

But just before you reached the corner, Dorian stepped clean into your path.

You nearly walked straight into him at the foot of the stairs. "Tryin’ to stop me again?" you muttered, already bracing for whatever speech he had locked and loaded.

He didn’t move. Just looked at you, one brow arched slowly like it was doing all the talking for him.

"Not tryin’, love," he said, dry as old stone. "Just thought I’d head off the trainwreck before it makes it to the bloody doorstep."

You grimaced. "Again. He’s just here to pick up his things. He's been asking for it all week."

"Mm," Dorian hummed, unimpressed. "I liked Dirk’s plan better. Chuck it all on the lawn, let the twat fetch it. Bit of exercise might do him good."

You rolled your eyes, but the box in your arms suddenly felt heavier. "I just want it over with."

His gaze dropped to the box, then up to your face. He let out a slow breath through his nose, then stepped aside.

"You’re stronger than ’im on your worst day, yeah?" he said, voice low, almost a murmur now. "Just don’t let the bastard see you flinch."

You gave a small, wobbly breath and nodded once.

As you walked past, Dorian added. light, but not joking, "I’ll be nearby. Just in case he gets clever. Been dyin’ to see if this umbrella can crack a skull."

You huffed a laugh, and the box in your arms shifted slightly as you adjusted your grip. The doorknob was cold under your fingers. You took one last breath, steadied yourself, and turned it.

The front door opened with a soft creak.

Chapter Text

"…Who is that," Curt muttered, the curtain rods creaking as he leaned forward, squinting through the window glass. "Tell me that is not who I think it is."

There was a lazy shuffle from the sun-warmed ledge, where Rod was curled. He cracked one eye open, lifted the curtain with two fingers, and blinked slowly.

"Who we peepin’?"

Curt’s arms folded tight. "That dude."

Rod didn’t even lift his head. "What dude."

"Him!" Curt flailed a hand toward the street. "Tall, dark, emotionally constipated. That one."

Rod tilted his head, squinted. "Man…Nah. Noooope."

Curt thumped the windowsill with his palm. "Ain’t no way. That ain’t him… Oh, hell no! Not the motorcycle. He still riding that loud-ass tin can like it don’t got three recalls and a damn parking ticket?"

Rod finally leaned in, catching sight of the figure. A wheezy laugh escaped as he shook his head. "And look! He still got them damn glasses!"

Curt frowned, leaning closer for confirmation. "Them glasses ain’t even prescription. Man out here choosing to see blurry. Blind to red flags, blind to closure, blind to everything but his own bullshit."

Rod kept watching, head tilted. "I still don’t get how he pulled them."

"I know, right?" Curt threw his hands up. "Our baby. Sweet, hot, emotionally competent baby. And him ?"

Rod snorted. "Still managed to score. Got more game than you, apparently."

Curt turned with mock offense. "Wow. So I’m catching strays now?"

Rod raised both brows. "If the shoe fits, Casanova."

Curt glared at him, then looked back out the window with narrowed eyes. "But come on. You think it’s the cheekbones?"

Rod huffed. "Fuck no."

“Yeah, me neither.” Curt’s grin spread slow, mischievous. He gave his turquoise drapes a flick. “Think if I whip these open fast enough, I could smack him with ’em? Like—shmack! Right across the nose?”

Rod grinned too—lazy, mean. "You try it, I’ll drop the curtain rod. Straight to the dome. He won’t even know what hit him. We’ll blame it on Hector. Say it was a gust of fall air, tragic freak accident."

Curt opened his mouth to reply—then yelped.

"OW—hey! Buddy, off!"

Curt glanced down, already wincing, just in time to catch the culprit red-pawed—Sprite. Mateo’s little wire-made cat was pawing mercilessly at the hem of his beloved drapes, one thread already snagged and dangling loose.

Rod barked out a laugh and bent down, scooping up the wiry little menace like it weighed nothing. Sprite’s legs wiggled in the air, metal paws still swiping at the fabric like it had unfinished business.

Holding the squirming cat midair, Rod called over his shoulder, “Hey, Mat! One of your little goblins is acting up again!”

In the living room, Mateo didn’t look up. He was still kneeling by the couch, a folded blanket resting across his arms.

"Sorry, guys! I’ll come get her in a bit. She’s just exploring."

Mateo stayed focused, quiet in that way he always was when he was being careful. He folded the softest blanket twice over, smoothing it across the couch, checking the corners and tugging it gently into place.

He didn’t say much, but it was obvious what he was doing. He was getting the space ready, just in case your ex ended up coming inside.

Because if that happened, if you were going to feel even a little shaken, or small, or cold, Mateo wanted comfort to be waiting for you.

So he placed the blanket exactly where he wanted you to sit, right between Dante and Hector. 

Dante was busy flickering softly behind the grate, nudging at his logs with gentle warmth. Hector hummed low from the vent in the wall, sending out soft, warm air. Together, they made a quiet pocket of comfort at the edge of fall.

He wasn’t the only one moving around the house. It didn’t take long after that. With your hurried footsteps and rushed breathing echoing through the house, the others caught on quickly.

Needless to say, news of your ex’s impending arrival spread fast. And they were worried.

You hadn’t told them everything. You didn’t need to. They saw it in the way your voice dipped when you said his name, in the way your shoulders flinched at sudden footsteps, in the tension that never really left your body. 

Of course they noticed! They were made for you, after all.

That was the thing about being objects, they weren’t just things. They were yours. Your comfort, your routines, your love made real in whatever shape they could take.

Strange, not-quite-human companions tucked into the bones of your home. They’d long since adapted to their in-between state; Half here, half not, bound to objects. Not human, no. But still able to do things for you. 

They could still offer what they were made for.

Mateo’s blanket is never far, always finding its way over your knees the moment the room begins to chill.

Daisuke’s cup seems to know when you're reaching for it, the handle quietly turning to meet your hand, like it’s been waiting all morning.

Timothy’s alarm softens on the mornings after a hard night, letting you wake slow and safe instead of startled. 

Dorian opens a little wider when you come home late. He once told you that he can’t sleep until you’re inside.

Cabrizzio never lets you eat alone if he can help it. Even leftovers end up plated like fine dining.

Skips draws shadows across your room when it’s time for bed, like hands pulling sleep around your shoulders.

Volt and Eddie give the faintest zaps to your fingers when you get too close to the fuse box. Just enough to make you stop and think twice before you hurt yourself. 

Cam rarely moves through the house, but he always manages to tidy up after you. Wrappers, receipts, stray socks, all scooped away before you even notice they’re gone.

Hector leaves notes near every vent, tiny curls of paper with scrawled affirmations or half-written love stories just for you.

They all move with the house’s old bones, like ghosts with warm hands. 

They’d been shaped by you. By your routines, your comfort, your heart. Everything you needed, they became. And right now, what you needed was someone watching your back. 

They couldn’t touch your ex. Couldn’t throw him out or bar the door, (though Dorian would’ve loved to try), but they were there. 

You open the door slower than you mean to.

That early morning hush hangs thick in the air, the sky behind is still washed in that gray-blue blur just before the day begins. It’s the kind of hour where everything feels half-formed. 

And Iseul is standing exactly where you hoped he wouldn’t be.

You look up, and for a breathless second, the sight of his face catches you off guard.

He’s too tall for your porch. Too sharply dressed for the quiet of your street. Too much, always too much. 

And for a moment, all you can do is stare.

God—He’s still beautiful. Devastatingly so. Dark hair, darker eyes, and a jaw cut from diamond. 

He hasn’t changed much. Or maybe that’s the problem. That same impossible elegance, untouched by time, untouched by your heartbreak.

Iseul smiles. Like your stunned silence is something he’d been waiting to hear.

"Oh," he says softly, like your appearance surprises him, even though it obviously doesn’t. "There you are. Finally, I was beginning to think I hallucinated the whole agreement."

You blink, voice dry in your throat. "You’re the one who scheduled this. For seven."

He grimaces in mock offense, placing a hand lightly over his chest like you’ve said something terribly cruel. "And already, I’m being punished. Deservedly, of course. Don’t worry. I’m not here to fight." A beat. "Well. Not with you, anyway."

You don’t respond to his joke. Just shift slightly, the weight of the box in your arms suddenly awkward.

He watches you, eyes dragging slowly across your face, over your hair, your clothes, your bare feet in the doorway. There’s nothing lewd in it, not exactly, but the weight of it lingers.

Then he exhales, soft and low. "You didn’t even get a chance to wake up properly. God, look at me, barging in like this. I’m such an ass."

You shake your head before you even mean to. "No, it’s… really, it’s fine."

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just shifts his weight, adjusts the set of his shoulders like he’s trying to make himself look smaller, even though his presence is anything but. 

‘"I didn’t sleep either," he says, almost thoughtful. "Kept thinking about how I left things. How I left you. Which…" He trails off, glancing down at the wood beneath his feet. A bitter little laugh escapes him. "Yeah. Not exactly my proudest exit."

You press your lips together, not trusting your voice. Because he’s right, and you hate how your chest tightens in response. How the ache of it feels familiar. 

He looks back up, and his expression is so gentle it’s almost cruel. "I’ll be quick. You don’t even have to let me in. I just…" He hesitates. "God… Baby, I wanted to see you. That’s selfish. I know."

He reaches for the box, hands brushing against yours as he takes it from you. His fingers are ice-cold, visibly raw at the knuckles, skin flushed deep red from the cold and chapped enough to crack. 

His hands, gloveless, tremble just faintly as he shifts the box under his arm. He says nothing about it. But he watches your face as you notice, his eyes catching the flicker of concern that passes through you like wind through a curtain.

A part of you wonders, not for the first time, if he did it on purpose.

That’s all he needs.

"…Unless you’d rather I wait out here," he says, adjusting the box slightly. Iseul makes sure to exaggerate the shaking of his hands. "I’d understand. Honestly. I mean—Look at me. Such a fucking mess."

He smiles, and it’s perfect. Crooked and bashful. His box of things is tucked neatly beneath one arm, but he makes no move to leave.

From the edge of your vision, you catch the faintest movement. Dorian’s hand settles slowly on the back of the door, his brows drawn in tight concern. Everything in him pleads for you not to let your ex in.

But then your gaze falls again to Iseul’s hands.

Skin too pale in the joints where circulation’s gone slack. He hadn’t even worn gloves. The sight of it hits you in the gut. That familiar, terrible pang, sharp and hot and blooming just beneath your ribs.

You know it’s a trap. You know how this goes. But guilt is already slipping past your guard, whispering that you can’t just leave him like this, not in the cold.

"…Okay," you murmur. "I’ll make you some coffee. But then…" your voice falters. "Then you have to go."

For a split second, Iseul’s mask slips. You catch the flicker of something triumphant just beneath the surface, just behind his eyes.

Then his smile spreads, slow and easy, all teeth and charm like a wolf who knows exactly where your throat is.

"Of course," he says brightly, as though your offer were the most natural thing in the world. "Lead the way."

You step back, and he follows, footsteps soundless. The second Iseul crosses the threshold, the front door slams shut behind him with a sharp, echoing crack that rings through the house like a warning.

You flinch, the sound jolting straight through your spine, but you don’t turn around. You can feel the heat of Dorian’s anger behind you.

Iseul glances over his shoulder at the door, his expression soft with confusion that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, lips curving into something light, almost amused, as if none of it touches him at all.

 "Huh," he says, the laugh he lets out thin and breathy. "Strong winds around here, I guess."

"Yeah," you say quickly, the words tumbling out as you turn on your heel and head for the kitchen. "I’ll, um—I’ll make you something to drink. You can warm up by Dan —by the fireplace!"

You nearly fumble, the syllables wobbling on your tongue before you smother them in motion, moving too fast and speaking too brightly. "Won’t be long!"

As your footsteps vanish down the hall, Iseul lets the act go.

The pleasant curve of his mouth disappears like mist in the cold. His shoulders settle, not from exhaustion, but from relief. 

That mask, the careful arrangement of charm and softness, the version of himself that you could still stomach, takes effort to maintain. Even now, after all the wreckage he left in his wake, you still need him to be palatable.

He exhales through his nose and drops the box of old things to the floor with a dull thud, not sparing it a glance. His gaze drifts across the room, slow and feline. He doesn’t expect to find much. You were never good at hiding the things that mattered.

His gaze lands on the blanket that Mateo draped across the back of the couch, something heavy and hand-knit, worn soft with use. He steps closer and lets his fingers trail across the weave, the faintest grimace tugging at his mouth. 

The fabric is wrong. The texture, the color, the way it slumps, this wasn’t chosen with him in mind.

From the far end of the room, just past the curve of the armchair, Mateo stands still as stone, cradling Davi against his chest.

You told Mateo once, in the lull between conversations, when you still couldn’t quite meet your own eyes in the mirror, that Iseul had hated soft things. Fuzzy blankets, plush rugs, anything that looked too lived-in or too comforting. He said they made your apartment feel cheap. You’d stopped buying soft things after that. Stopped keeping anything cozy within reach. Curated your home to keep him calm, polished it smooth so nothing could catch and spark.

That blanket, the one in Iseul’s hands now, doesn’t belong to that past. You bought it the week after the breakup. You wrapped yourself in it that first night alone and wept into its threads until the shape of you pressed into the fibers. 

And that’s why Mateo loves it. Because it loves you back. 

Davi shifts faintly in his arms as if the little creature can already sense the air turning heavier. Mateo sighs and soothes a hand along the top of his head. 

"Stay calm, cariño," he whispers, voice warm with love and low with knowing. "Don’t worry. They’ve been through worse than this… and they’re not alone anymore."

Iseul continues to drift through the space, his gaze sweeping lazily over the familiar angles of the room. When he reaches the coffee table, he pauses. 

A tea set rests there, simple and carefully arranged. Two handmade teacups sit side by side, slightly uneven, imperfect in shape. They’re not expensive, not delicate bone china, but they carry a quiet kind of care.

He lifts one cup between his fingers, turning it toward the light. The surface is smooth with no cracks and no chips. It’s beautiful, he can’t deny that. And maybe that’s why it irritates him.

His grip tightens, just slightly.

CRACK.

A hairline fracture splits along the handle. A satisfied smile creeps on his lips and he sets it back down too gently, like nothing happened.

From across the room, Daisuke flinches. His hand lifts to his upper arm, where a thin line now splits the surface of his form. He draws in a sharp breath but doesn’t cry out. Instead, his eyes snap to Iseul, dark with something quieter than fury. It isn’t the pain that gets to him. It’s the intent. 

The cups hadn’t been expensive. They weren’t part of some matching set. Just a pair of handmade pieces from a pottery class you took during one of the rougher months. One handle sat crooked, the glaze had pooled too thick at the base. But Daisuke had loved it from the moment you handed it to him.

On the mantle, Dante watches closely as Daisuke retreats into the kitchen, his posture rigid, every movement clipped with restrained anger. The faint clink of a glass being set down echoes from beyond the doorway.

Iseul shifts a step closer to the fire and Dante’s eyes narrow. A low, warning scoff crackles in his chest, the sound dry and sharp as ember-crushed charcoal. No warmth rises to meet the man. The flames in the hearth flicker once, then shrink, curling in on themselves. 

Iseul pauses in front of the fireplace, head tilted slightly. His eyes narrow as he watches the way the flames flicker and pull away from him, guttering low. For a moment, one flame flares sharp and fast. It looked almost like a face, twisted and bared.

Dante feels the heat surge, that old instinct to lunge, to reach out and scorch the skin clean off the man who once hollowed you out. But he pulls it back, swallows it down, chains it to the pit of his fire. 

The flames gutter. Iseul blinks, and the snarling flare is gone.

"Right," he mutters to no one. "Losing it already."

He assumes the fireplace simply hasn’t been stocked and turns to look for a heater, anything that might explain the biting chill still hanging in the air. His gaze catches on a vent tucked high near the ceiling, and just below it, three sticky notes cling to the wall. The edges are curled, the paper yellowing slightly, as if they’ve been left there long enough to become part of the room.

Without thinking, he reaches out and peels one free. The handwriting is careful, pressed deep into the paper like the words had weight.

"If I am to haunt this world, let it be only in your shadow. Let me linger on your skin, let me rot behind your walls so long as I am near you still."

—H.

Iseul’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t mean to pick up the next one, but his fingers move before the thought can catch up.

"I loved you before I had the words for it. I will love you long after language or the air I give you to breathe fails me."

—H.

His lips curl, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. 

Of course. You already had someone else.

You always were starved for affection. The kind of person who’d fall in love with anything that looked at you too long. A sad little sponge, he thinks, soaking up the first drop of attention like it was holy.

Another note waits beneath the vent, edges folded inward, like it wanted to stay hidden. He unfolds it anyway.

"You are my first thought. The one I bleed into morning, still tasting you on the cusp of sleep. And my final sin at night, when the vents groan and the air turns too still with the silence thick with the ghost of your warmth. I ache where you once pressed your name into me. A lie I forgive with trembling hands, because I cannot bear the truth of a house where even the air refuses to forget you."

—H.

This one, Iseul crumples.

Behind him, unseen, Héctor grips the edge of the vent with both hands. His knuckles bleach bone-white from fury held tight beneath his skin. The metal groans in protest like it might tear away from Wallace just to mirror the rage building in him.

Frost begins to spread across the grille in delicate, violent veins, blooming outward like rot in reverse. A sudden current tears through the room and hits Iseul square in the back.

The man shudders at the sudden drop in temperature but doesn’t turn around. Instead, his eyes fall to the space beside the armrest of the couch. An open book lies face down, its spine creased with use. 

A romance novel. Its title in Italian, the cover soft and worn at the edges. He picks it up slowly, brows drawing together in mild confusion. You never liked this genre.

But as he flips through the pages, he finds margin notes scribbled in looping cursive. Passages are underlined. Tiny hearts, faintly highlighted, bloom in the corners of certain lines. The handwriting isn’t yours. The language isn’t one you speak.

His lips twitch into a humorless smile. "Some European lover boy, huh?"

He lingers on the page, thumb digging into the spine. “You always did bend yourself into whatever shape someone else found beautiful. Guess it only took the loudest voice to drown out the rest of you.”

Before he can read any further, a cabinet door slams somewhere in the kitchen. Iseul lifts a brow, head tilting just slightly as he sees you shuffle past the doorway, heading toward the sound. You disappear from view, but your voice carries low. It sounds like you're comforting someone.

Interesting.

With a hum, he slides the book back into place, just slightly off-center from the pillow beside it. Then he straightens his coat, adjusts the lay of his collar, and exhales through his nose.

So your new boyfriend is hiding in the kitchen. 

Noted. 

He’ll be sure to pay a visit later.

Cabrizzio was still buzzing, tight and coiled like a kettle seconds from screaming. His hip slammed against the counter as he helped Daisuke ease into the chair.

“Che bastardo,” he spat, teeth clenched. “Breaks you like you’re nothing.”

Cam rolled in from the sink, arms folded like steel. “Please. You know him. Give that guy anything good, and he ruins it—just to see what crawls out of the wreckage.”

Daisuke said nothing at first. He sat motionless, the fine crack down his arm gleaming like a scar etched in porcelain. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm as ever yet edged.

“He has not changed. Still rot beneath a fresh coat of paint. Still, I am… displeased he laid a hand on me.”

“Displeased?” Cam’s brow shot up. “Displeased is what you say when someone scuffs your finish. This?” He scoffed. “If I had fists, I’d be swinging.”

Cabrizzio circled behind Daisuke, movements gentler now. “Coward with a poet’s mouth and a spine made of string. Twists words into honey, then watches you choke on it. That’s why they stayed. That’s why they still tremble.”

The soft scuff of feet drew their attention. You stood at the threshold, teetering. Red-eyed, hollowed, holding yourself like something fragile. And tucked just behind you, Tony, carrying a repair kit in one hand, a bottle of ceramic-safe glue in the other.

"Don’ you worry, baby," Tony said, one gloved hand running firm and slow down your back. "I’m gonna get him fixed up real nice. Betta than new, eh? You’ll see. Like he never even chipped."

You opened your mouth, but no words came. Just that look. That quiet guilt spilling out of your posture, pooling in the space between you and Daisuke.

Cam clocked it instantly and made a sharp, disgusted sound in the back of his throat. "Oh, for fuck’s sake. Don’t. Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. If you apologize for that shitstain’s tantrum, I swear."

"I should’ve—" you tried, voice cracking.

"No."

Daisuke’s tone was soft but absolute. "You should not have had to."

Tony pressed a kiss to your head as he passed, then knelt beside Daisuke with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. He set the repair kit down and began sorting through his tools.

" Hey. This ain’t on you, alright ? You didn’t break nothin’. You just—" he gave a sharp sniff, working the cap off the glue, "—got stuck cleanin’ up after a stronzo who ain’t got the balls to own what he ruins."

Daisuke inclined his chipped side slightly toward you. "I am fine. Please. Let us not make too much of a fuss about this. You are already shaken as it is. There is no need to add to the pile."

You opened your mouth to protest, but Cabrizzio was already stepping in, holding a tray in both hands. His eyes found yours gently, earnest and sure.

"Here," he said. "Vai, amore. You have what it takes to get him out of here. Of this, we are certain."

"The blue mug, it is yours," he continued, gesturing lightly. "The other…" He gave a little, almost theatrical shrug. "That one is for him . It’s one of Kopi’s—how you say—special blends. Very strong. Very… unique."

You arched a brow, glancing over his shoulder to see Kopi stifling a laugh, steam coiling up around her like a mischievous spirit.

"What?" she said, grinning. "You think I wouldn’t doctor the brew? Please. That man needs something stronger than coffee."

Cam muttered from the corner, dry as ever. "And maybe a boot to the head."

Tony, still crouched by Daisuke’s side, didn’t look up. "Save the boot. I need both hands for the glue."

The tension, brittle just moments ago, had begun to thaw. Cabrizzio shifted closer and gently set the tray into your hands. His voice dropped, sincere beneath all its velvet.

"Va bene," he said. "We hold the line here. But you… you go face your ghost, tesoro."

By the time you return, the tray balanced carefully in your hands and the mugs of coffee cradled in both palms, your expression is already betraying you. There’s guilt in your eyes poorly hidden beneath the thin mask of a smile.

"Sorry," you say, voice too light, too rushed, as you set the mugs down on the coffee table. "The coffee machine was acting up. Took forever to heat."

Iseul nods, faintly, but his attention isn’t on your words. He’s watching you. The twitch in your fingers. The way your shoulders won’t quite relax. The way you avoid his eyes.

He hums like he’s listening, but he’s not.

His gaze drifts, catches on the mark just beneath your jaw. A bruise, dark and fresh, blooming where someone else had their mouth on you. It lingers there a moment, unreadable, but too still to be nothing.

Last night. Maybe this morning. Someone else got close. Close enough to touch, to make you laugh. The way you used to laugh for him.

Then his eyes land on the jacket draped around your shoulders. Oversized, deep green, a bold stitched H on the chest.

His jaw shifts.

In his pocket, his fingers close around the crumpled love note he swiped earlier. He doesn’t need to unfold it—he remembers the signature.

H.

His eyes narrow. He feels it now, that familiar heat building in the back of his throat. A greedy kind of ache. The sick, sour taste of something being taken from him. 

"Iseul…?"

He blinks slowly, shoulders rolling back as he forces out a breath and smooths over his reaction with something charming, almost bashful.

"Trouble with the machine, huh?" he says, eyes still locked on the bruise like it’s the only thing in the room. "That happens. You always did have a complicated relationship with appliances."

You can’t see many of them right now — the dateables. Not fully. Some seem to be giving you space, hiding just outside your field of vision, not wanting to crowd you. But their presence is still here. 

You laugh, awkward and light, trying to fill the space. "Yeah… never really did get along with them." 

You hear the soft rustle of a curtain shifting in offense, the faint clink of a teacup being set a little too hard on wood. You catch low murmurs, indistinct but annoyed, a collective grumble of affectionate protest.

You bite back a smile. They heard that. They didn’t like your little self-drag. And as always, they’ve got your back.

After handing Iseul his mug, you sink into the spot Mateo so clearly prepared for you, the cushion still warm, the blanket tucked and draped just right, soft as breath against your skin. 

Kopi’s coffee steams gently in your hands. You take a slow sip and exhale through your nose. It’s perfect, of course. She always knows exactly how you take it.

Isuel takes a sip of his own drink, eyes still fastened to your throat like he’s trying to memorize the bruised skin. His expression twitches, the blend clearly not to his taste. The bitterness punches through first, and his lips pull into a faint grimace.

You giggle at the look on his face, and almost on cue, the room begins to warm.

A quiet hum stirs from above, followed by the low, comforting sigh of heat drifting from the vents — Héctor. At the same time, the fireplace flickers to life, a lazy, gentle flame rising without fanfare. Dante, as always, never needing to be asked.

Only then do you realize how cold the room had been when you first came in.

You glance toward the hearth, searching for answers, but Dante pointedly avoids your gaze. You hide a small smile behind your mug.

Yeah. They don’t like him. Not one bit.

It’s been thirty whole damn minutes.

You’re tense, shoulders tight, knees drawn close, as you watch Iseul take his goddamn time with the coffee. He swirls it like a food critic, savoring it as if it’s aged wine and not a rushed brew from a coffee machine.

He glances over the rim of his mug at you.

"So," he starts, voice low and falsely casual, like this is just any other day. "Still living on your own?" 

He takes another sip before setting the cup down with deliberate slowness. Shifts on the couch. Something about it clearly doesn’t sit right with him. After a beat, he stands.

A slow step forward.

“You always said you liked the quiet,” he murmurs.

You don’t answer. Your lips part slightly, but nothing comes out. Your grip on your mug tightens.

He steps even closer, and the heat of him creeps into your space. "But too much quiet? That starts to feel lonely."

Your body pulls back before you even realize it. Your spine presses deeper into the couch, legs curling tighter, breath caught in your throat. The moment’s too close, too familiar. His words feel like fingers trying to pick a lock in your chest. You wrap the blanket tighter around your shoulders, wishing you could disappear into the fabric.

Then the window slams open.

BANG.

A gust of wind bursts through the room like a thrown punch. Curt’s turquoise curtains fly up, sharp and sudden, catching the draft like sails in a storm. They whip straight into Iseul’s face with the kind of precision that feels personal.

"Ow—what the hell?" He stumbles back, arm flailing, mug sloshing dangerously. The curtains wrap and slap around his head like they’ve got a score to settle.

You jolt upright, clutching your own mug as you watch the scene unfold. Just as Iseul manages to peel one curtain away, the rod above gives up entirely. It tears loose from the wall and crashes down with a sharp, metallic thunk.

Right on his head.

He yelps again, the sound half-muffled by fabric, as the rod bounces off his shoulder and clatters to the floor. 

Silence follows. 

You glance over at Curt and Rod. Rod was still sprawled out on the floor, and Curt was still draped over Iseul, both of them laughing like idiots. Clearly proud of what they just caused.

And even with the knot still tight in your chest, their laughter is infectious. You feel it bubbling up before you can stop it. You duck your head behind your mug, trying to swallow it down. But it’s there, warm and bright at the back of your throat. You laugh. Loudly.

Iseul hears it.

“For fuck’s sake, I’ve had it!”

His mug slams down on the table, coffee sloshing out in a sharp arc. The crack of ceramic on wood snaps. Then he’s moving, crossing the space with all the weight of a storm breaking loose.

You barely set your cup aside before he’s on you.

Strong fingers twist into the front of your tank top. He yanks hard, dragging you upright. Your spine jars against the couch. Your breath catches. And suddenly, he’s right there. Face contorted, jaw clenched, eyes no longer pretending.

“You think you’re better than me now?” he snarls, voice rising. “That what this is? One taste of someone giving a damn and suddenly I’m beneath you?”

“Iseul—” Your voice trembles. “You’re hurting me.”

He leans in. Sneering.

Your hands push against his chest, trying to create space, but he doesn’t budge. His grip only tightens.

"Only thing you were ever good for was serving someone else . Smiling real nice, keeping quiet, doing what you were told. That’s what he likes, right?" His gaze drops to your neck, to the bruise there. His mouth curls. "Bet you make it easy for him. Real easy."

His grip tightens again, and you cry out, short and sharp.

"You think you’ve got power now? You think this is yours ? You think this quiet little house makes you strong?"

The light above flickers once. Then again. Then again.

The air shifts. Thickens. The hairs along your arms stand up. The room hums in energy. But Iseul doesn’t notice.

"I fucking built you!" he shouts, spit flying. "I was the only one who saw you when you were nothing! You’re useful. That’s all you are. And when he’s done using you, you’ll come crawling back just like you always do—"

SNAP.

The lamp beside you explodes in a shower of sparks.

A searing bolt of electricity arcs from the socket and strikes Iseul directly in the shoulder. The sound is blinding, a sizzling pop followed by the sharp smell of burning fabric and ozone.

Iseul screams, a real scream this time as his body jerks from the force. His hand rips from your shirt and he stumbles backward.

Smoke curls from the seams of his jacket. His fingers twitch, convulsing slightly. His mouth works soundlessly for a second before breath finally claws its way out of him.

You're frozen, heartbeat hammering in your ears, until you feel a hand, Mateo’s, press gently against your back. A blanket falls over your shoulders, warm and grounding, as he eases you away from the couch. His voice is quiet in your ear, his hands snaking up to cover your eyes.

He guides you out of the living room just as Curt and Rod snap the blinds shut, one after the other. A moment later, Dorian turns the lock on the front door with a click.

Iseul’s head snaps upward.

His eyes flick wildly across the room, darting from shadow to shadow, searching for something that makes sense of what just happened. But nothing answers. 

From the corners of the room, shadowed tendrils begin to unfurl along the walls, crawling slowly. Electricity crackles wildly through the air, lightbulbs pulsing in rapid flickers. The vents scream to life, spewing blasts of blistering heat. At the same time, the fireplace surges upward, flames roaring with such intensity they seem desperate to claw their way free from the stone.

Then the voice comes. One thAT does not belong in any human throat.

It is low and massive as if spoken through bone and ash. The sound slithers through the room with a crushing weight that makes the walls creak.

"You dare lay hands on my penumbra?"

The words strike Iseul like a blow. His chest seizes. His breath falters. His feet scramble for purchase, slipping on his spilled coffee and the mess of his own panic.

From the darkest stretch of shadow near the hearth, something begins to rise.

Claws drag against the floorboards as the figure pulls itself upright. It straightens slowly, body is nothing but thick, writhing shadow, built like smoke given mass, trembling at the edges where reality tries and fails to reject it.

Horns curve back from its head, the bone chipped and darkened with time. The creature’s jaw hangs open in a twisted grin, and beyond it lies nothing but blackness, cavernous and unnatural, rimmed with glinting teeth that don’t belong to any animal that ever walked this earth.

It steps forward once.

Iseul stumbles backward, mouth open, lips shaping a scream that never comes. It dies somewhere in his throat, strangled by fear. 

The voice returns, softer now.

"You think this house is yours to haunt?" it rasps, almost gently, though the fury hasn’t left. "You think they are yours to hurt?"

Then, from somewhere else, a second voice cuts in. “Oh, dear… you’ve really done it now.”

A crack of blue light splits the ceiling, blinding as a camera flash. Electricity tears through the air, hissing like a live wire. It strikes without warning, snapping at Iseul’s feet, then coiling up his limbs in spiraling arcs of white-blue light.

Then the shadows come. They pour in fast, fluid and wrong, slithering out from corners, crawling from beneath furniture. One clamps tight around his ankle. Another coils around his wrist, then his throat, then his chest—Iseul is yanked upward an inch from the floor. 

Then, everything goes black.

You’re nestled in Mateo’s arms, wrapped in the soft cocoon of blankets and his warmth. He holds you close, his chest rising and falling against your back, and every now and then he leans down to press gentle kisses to your cheek.

Betty and Dirk are curled up beside you, equally content. Betty snores lightly at your other side, her arm twitching every so often in some lazy dream, while Dirk is sprawled across your stomach. He lets out a little grunt when you shift but doesn’t move.

The Hanks have claimed every inch of your room that isn’t bed. The boys are stretched across the floor, perched on chairs, hanging off the dresser. At least two of them are attempting to build a fort using your laundry. 

They’re loud and ridiculous and refuse to let the heaviness settle too deep. Jokes fly across the room. Laughter spills over itself.

Downstairs, the sounds change. You hear Volt’s low, crackling growl, Eddie’s deeper rumble, Skip’s voice cutting through every now and then, and under it all, Dorian’s voice echoes.

A sudden shout erupts and you flinch before you can stop yourself. Mateo notices and pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he presses a kiss to your temple. 

His voice is soft in your ear. "Don’t worry, mi vida. They’ve got it."

You just nod and let your head rest back against Mateo’s shoulder, the warmth of him grounding you in a way that nothing else can right now.

"Babe, watch this!" one of the Hanks calls out and when you glance over, you see Hank 4 trying to do a handstand in the narrow space between the dresser and the door.

He manages to hold it for maybe two seconds before toppling over in a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter, knocking into Hank 2 on the way down.

"Bro!"

You shake your head with a quiet smile, the corner of your mouth tugging up despite everything. Absolute idiots.

You must have drifted off at some point, but when you wake, there’s a stillness to the house. There are no more raised voices echoing from downstairs. No snarls. No low growls vibrating through the floorboards. 

Then, the door creaks open, quiet and cautious.

You lift your head from Mateo’s shoulder to see Curt and Rod stepping in. They hover in the doorway for a moment like they’re not sure if they’re allowed. Curt offers a small, tentative smile as he approaches.

"Hey, baby," he murmurs. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your temple, lingering there for a second longer than usual.

Rod trails behind him, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. His shoulders are hunched, his jaw set tight.

“We just came to say that we screwed up,” Curt says at last, his voice barely more than a whisper. “We never meant for it to get that far.”

Rod nods, stepping forward slowly. "We thought pissing him off would throw him. Knock him off balance so he wouldn’t try anything. But it backfired. He zeroed in on you." His voice wavers. "And you got hurt. Because of us."

Curt sits on the edge of the bed beside you and gently brushes his knuckles across the back of your hand. "We love you, okay? We were trying to protect you — in our own dumb way. We didn’t think he’d snap like that."

You shake your head, not in anger but in exhaustion. "Guys, it’s okay. Really. I’m just glad it’s over. Iseul has a temper — you didn’t make him like that."

"You’re too good to us, baby," Rod says quietly, a guilty smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He lets out a slow breath, then tilts his head toward the hallway, listening. 

"Um. So... what’s going on down there?" you ask, hesitant, a twist of anxiety in your stomach.

Rod’s lips twitch into a smirk. "Oh, they’re jumping him."

“ Were jumping him,” Curt mutters, elbowing Rod sharply before glancing at you with a flash of guilt.

“It’s fine now, though!” he adds quickly, trying to sound reassuring. “They’re just doing cleanup. Hoove, Kopi, Wyndolyn—everyone’s on it. They’ve got it handled.”

“And he is not coming back here again, baby,” Curt says firmly as he strides across the room. With a little flourish, he yanks open the bedroom curtain. “See for yourself.”

You twist in Mateo’s arms and peer out the window. Down on the street, Iseul is scrambling across the lawn, blood on his collar and panic in his step. He throws one last look over his shoulder before kicking his motorcycle into gear. The engine screams as he peels away, tires skidding across the pavement before disappearing into the night.

Behind you, Curt mutters, "That’s what I thought," under his breath.

You exhale, slowly, like the last of the tension is finally allowed to leave your body.

Rod flops down onto the foot of the bed with a familiar, lazy grin. "Anyway, there’s a lot of people asking for you."

You groan, burying your face deeper into Mateo’s arms. "Let me guess. House meeting?"

"You bet," Rod says. "Mayor Celia’s already planning it. Full agenda and everything."

You sigh again. "Everyone’s going to treat me like I’m made of glass."

"Well, duh, babe," Hank 5 says, raising his eyebrows like it’s obvious. "You almost got hit by your nerd ex. We’re not just gonna not worry."

"Facts," Hank 1 calls from the closet, digging through a pile of hoodies. "You're the house baby now. Minimum of five check-ins a day from us!"

"They're already our baby," Hank 3 grins, popping his head up from behind the couch. "I’ve just been waiting for everyone else to catch up."

You roll your eyes. "You’re all idiots."

Curt smirks, flopping beside Rod. "Certified, baby. But we’re your idiots."

Mateo chuckles and nuzzles your cheek. "I swear this is all coming from a place of love. You’re not alone in this. Not for a second."

From your stomach, Dirk snores loudly.

"See? Even he agrees, babe." 

Chapter Text

EVERYONE WAS ACTING STRANGE. 

It had been two days since the incident with Iseul. Two whole days since your ex had shown up uninvited, run his mouth one too many times, and gotten himself kicked out by your boyfriends. Whatever they did to him… it wasn’t normal. Paranormal was probably the better word. You still couldn’t explain how they managed to shift the energy in the house like that, how they’d interacted with him. Skylar hadn’t had a clue either, which was somehow both reassuring and unnerving.

Thankfully, Iseul hadn’t gone to the cops. Well, not that he really could have…

Even if he’d tried, who would’ve believed him? "The haunted furniture ganged up on me?" Yeah, good luck getting that into a police report.

No, the real problem was here, now, inside the house. Everyone was acting weird. Like… weird-weird. The kind of over-the-top, too-sweet weird that made your skin prickle.

For starters, the entire house felt suspiciously baby-proofed. You weren’t allowed to so much as reach for a glass of water before someone had already pressed it into your hand. Doors you swore used to creak open easily now seemed to stay shut until Dorian offered to open them for you. And your favorite hoodie had mysteriously gone missing, which you were ninety percent sure had something to do with Dirk’s sudden newfound interest in "spring cleaning."

And no one said a word. Not about Iseul, not about the strange energy in the house, not about why everyone hovered like you might break at any moment.

It was like the house had collectively decided you needed round-the-clock supervision, and no one was willing to admit it out loud.

You yawned as you padded toward the stairs, arms stretching high over your head until your spine gave a satisfying crack. The grit of sleep still clung to the corners of your eyes, and all you wanted was coffee. Black. Scalding. Now.

But you didn’t even make it to the first step. Heavy, quick footsteps pounded toward you, so familiar you didn’t even have to look. You let out a long-suffering sigh.

"Tony, don’t—"

Too late.

"Hey, snookums," he crooned, and suddenly you were off your feet, swept into his arms as if you weighed no more than a pillow. He looked down at you with a grin so wide it should’ve been blinding.

"Look at you. All warm, all soft. You’re lucky I didn’t march in with a tray of eggs and espresso like those corny movies Cabrizzio watches."

"For the love of—Tony!" you groaned, flopping uselessly against his chest. "I can walk."

"Eh, I know, I know," he said with a shrug, voice thick with that rolling, sing-song lilt you knew too well. Already, he was heading down the stairs with you in tow like it was the easiest thing in the world. "But should you? Nah… not a chance."

"Tony."

"No fightin’ me this early, okay?" His grip tightened just a little, warm and firm. "C’mon… you know I’ve been missin’ you."

You narrowed your eyes. "You saw me five hours ago."

"Eh, five hours, baby… longest five hours of my life, I swear." He let out a dramatic sigh that made your chest hum with warmth. "You got any idea how much I worry when you ain’t around? Breaks my heart."

"Tragic," you deadpanned, but your head tipped against his shoulder just a little, tired enough to let him have this small victory.

He chuckled low and pleased, a rumble vibrating through his chest against your cheek. Then he leaned in, voice dipping smooth and velvet, impossible to resist. "Aw, come on… don’t be like that. Gimme a kiss, just a little sugar for Papa, hm?"

You squinted up at him. "You’re ridiculous."

"And handsome," he added without missing a beat.

You groaned, but your hand came up anyway, palm warm against his cheek, thumb brushing the scruff along his jaw. You leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth. It was warm, familiar, and a little too much for how early it was, but you let it linger long enough to feel the hitch of his breath.

"There. Happy?" you muttered against his lips.

His grin went wicked. "Oh, sweetheart, I’m ecstatic."

By the time your feet touched the floor again, you’d already been carried straight into the kitchen. The place was alive with motion: pots clanging, voices overlapping, the smell of eggs and coffee hanging thick in the air. It was a rhythm, the house waking up with half a dozen people all moving at once.

" Buongiorno, amore ," Cabrizzio greeted the moment he saw you. His voice was warm, low with fondness, and before you could answer, he had crossed the room in a few easy strides. He drew you into his arms, his embrace carrying the comfort of basil and olive oil, of home and hearth.

"Look at you," he murmured against your temple. "You’re glowing today. A vision."

Your scowl faltered, melting away beneath the soft press of his words, the tender brush of his lips at your hairline.

"I am making you breakfast," he said, guiding you toward a chair. "Siediti, per favore. Let me take care of you."

Flustered, you let yourself be guided to the chair, sinking into it with a dramatic little huff. You folded your arms in a half-hearted attempt at indifference, but the pretense fell apart the instant your eyes landed on Daisuke.

He was tucked into the farthest corner of the kitchen, one leg curled beneath him, shoulders drawn inward as if trying to take up less space. His quiet presence, usually steady and unshakable, felt muted, subdued. In his good hand, he cradled a mug of black tea. Plain, unsweetened, just the way he liked it. Even from across the room, you noticed how deliberately he held it, as if any sudden movement might topple it. His other arm rested in its sling, pressed close against his chest, guarded and still.

Something tightened in your chest.

Without thinking, you stood and crossed the distance, crouching beside him. "Hey," you said softly, your voice low enough to match the gentle rhythm of his movements. "Can I check it again?"

Daisuke’s gaze lifted, steady and calm, yet softened by something almost like an apology.

"You do not need to," he said quietly, carefully measured.

"I want to."

He paused, the tension in his shoulders flickering as he hesitated. Slowly, the stiffness eased, just enough to give you the faintest sense of surrender, as though he were letting you in despite himself.

"I have already received too much attention," he murmured. "It is not fair to trouble you with this as well."

Your chest pinched. "It’s too late for that. I’m already worried again."

Your hand drifted toward the sling before you even realized it. But the second Daisuke shifted, you froze. He didn’t reject your touch. It was just his body guarding the hurt. Still, the sight made guilt stab through you, and you snatched your hand back as if you’d crossed a line.

"…I’m sorry."

But he moved first. Slowly, carefully, he reached for you, catching your fingers and folding them into his palm.

"No. Do not apologize. It is all right, teacup," he said softly.

You touched him again, like he might shatter under the lightest press of your fingers. The carefulness of it made something twist inside him.

Last night replayed behind his eyes: your face buried in his chest, your body trembling, guilt wracking you until exhaustion claimed you. He had said almost nothing, had only held you, let your tears soak his shirt, wishing he could take it all from you. Even now, he could feel the faint imprint of your grief against him, as real as if it were still there.

"It looks better," you murmured, glancing down at the sling.

He inclined his head, slow, measured. "It hurts less." Then, softer, quieter, almost like a question: "And still… you worry, don’t you?"

Your lips pressed together. "…Of course I do."

Something inside him eased, a small weight lifted, and for the first time that morning, a faint smile brushed his mouth. He nudged your knee lightly with his own, a small, boyish gesture amidst all the tension.

"Then I will do my best to heal quickly. So you won’t have to carry this weight for long."

Your vision blurred, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Before they could spill, a hand brushed against your cheek. You blinked, startled, and turned to see Cameron holding a crumpled tissue.

"It’s clean, don’t worry," he muttered, tone gruff as he swiped carefully at the dampness beneath your eyes. When he was done, he shoved the tissue into his pocket like it was nothing.

"I already threw out all his crap, so… you can quit crying like a baby now." You stared at him, caught between offense and disbelief. He avoided your gaze, rubbing the back of his neck.

"…Now go eat," he added.

You sniffed, trying to hold yourself together, but the effort broke apart in an instant. The tears spilled hot and fast, streaking down your cheeks until your whole face blurred, shoulders jerking with every uneven breath.

The men around you jolted as one. Hands hovered midair, unsure whether to pat your back or steady your arms; voices overlapped in half-formed questions, worried and fumbling. They meant well, but the noise only pressed tighter against your chest. You shook your head hard through the blur, lifting a trembling hand as if to push them all away.

Cameron didn’t hesitate. He caught you before you could retreat into yourself, tugging you firmly against him. One big hand came to rest at the back of your head, fingers spread steady in your hair, while the other wrapped securely around your shoulders.

"Hey—hey. Easy," he muttered, his voice low, a steady anchor that didn’t quite match the sharp scowl still carved across his face. "You’re alright. I’ve got you."

Your fingers bunched tight in his shirt, knuckles whitening as you clung to the fabric. You pressed closer, cheek pressed to his chest, and the solid weight of him was the only thing keeping you upright. His heartbeat thudded steadily under your ear, a rhythm you could finally breathe to.

That bastard’s gone, Cameron thought, jaw grinding. Every last piece of his crap went up in Dante last night. Ash and smoke—that’s all that’s left. Best damn use that junk ever had. He almost huffed at the memory, a grim satisfaction curling under the heat of his anger.

His palm moved in slow, hesitant circles between your shoulder blades. It was awkward at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was doing it right. He only knew to try because he’d felt you do the same for him before—those absentminded little gestures you gave when he was the one wound tight. So he copied it now, rough hands gentler than he thought they could be, tracing the rhythm he remembered.

Your weight leaned heavier into him, trusting, unguarded. And even with the ache of anger still stiff in his chest, something in him softened at the sight.

"…You’re safe, baby."

If you thought things had been strange before, after your kitchen breakdown, the house went full-on bizarre. Everyone had started orbiting you like satellites, their movements timed to your moods, their eyes darting whenever you shifted too suddenly. And at the center of this strange gravity was Timothy.

Timothy had taken over the living room like it was a personal war council. Your coffee table had been stripped bare. The remote, coasters, even the candle you liked… all gone. In their place: a laptop, a stack of printouts, and a terrifyingly neat schedule printed on cardstock.

You slouched deeper into the couch, knees tucked up, watching as Timothy positioned himself by the projector wheeled in from God-knows-where. One hand folded neatly behind the back, the other fussing with cufflinks.

"Let me be perfectly clear," he announced. "Left to your own devices, you are a disaster. Therefore, you will no longer be left to your own devices."

Click. The projector blinked awake, washing the wall with its first slide: HEALING PROGRAM™.

A laser pointer flicked on, the red dot circling the title. "Slide one: daily structure. You will rise at seven o’clock sharp. No snoozing alarms, no lying about in bed pretending you’ve died. I will be there to confirm you’re vertical."

You groaned into your knees. "That’s cruel and unusual punishment."

"It’s accountability," he shot back, already clicking to the next slide. "Between seven and nine, you will hydrate, eat a balanced breakfast prepared by the kitchen staff, and complete one page of journaling with Daisuke. I will review it for legibility and, most likely, grammar."

You shot upright. "Grammar?! Timmy, I’m not turning in homework!"

"You are if you want clearance past nine p.m.," he said flatly.

"Clearance?!"

Click. Click. A color-coded grid replaced the bullet points. "At nine, the Hanks take over. And they want you to—" Timothy squinted at the notes, face twisting as if the words physically offended him. " ‘Hankglide .’ Whatever that means. Frankly, it sounds like a broken bone waiting to happen."

You snorted, then broke into helpless laughter. That earned you a scowl sharp enough to cut glass.

"Do not laugh. This is serious. Your physical fitness is clearly lacking and if it takes… ‘Hankgliding’ to ensure cardiovascular improvement, then so be it."

He ignored your wheezing and clicked again. "Slide four: relaxation. Mateo will facilitate puppy exposure between the hours of two and four. Limited sessions. Any attempts to overindulge will result in revoked privileges."

You rolled your eyes, leaning back into the couch cushions. "Revoked privileges? What am I, twelve?"

Timothy didn’t even glance at you. His hand moved, clicking the next slide into view. Click. The words exploded across the wall in bold, black letters: FAILURE TO COMPLY = INTERVENTION LEVEL TWO.

You squinted, leaning forward. "…What’s Level Two?"

Slowly, he turned his head toward you, the angle catching the sharp line of his jaw in the projector light. "Therapy."

Something in the way he said it, without any trace of a joke, cracked you. A soft laugh slipped out, shaking with relief. You sighed, letting your body rise from the couch, feet shuffling toward him.

Without thinking, you wrapped your arms around him. At first, he tensed, shoulders stiff, a low murmur escaping him, but as you pressed closer, he slowly relaxed, one hand coming up to rest against the small of your back, the other hovering for just a moment before settling gently over your hair.

"You gave us all quite a fright," he murmured, voice lower now, almost fragile. "I refuse to stand by and let you unravel further."

Your chest tightened at the sincerity of it. You leaned into him, feeling the firmness of his stance under your weight, the subtle warmth of his body seeping through your clothes. His thumb brushed absentmindedly along the nape of your neck.

"I may come off… severe," he said quietly, "but understand this: you matter to me. To us. If a regimented schedule is what keeps you standing, then I will fashion one. If what you need is order where there is none, I will provide it. Because the alternative—" His gaze flickered down for just a second, lashes dark against his cheek. "…is losing you. And that is not acceptable."

Your throat tightened. "Oh, Timmy… thank you," you whispered, voice small, breath warm against him.

"Of course," he muttered, still stiff in posture but undeniably softened in presence.

You paused, a quiet silence stretching between you. "...Do I really still have to follow the program?"

"Yes."

And so, despite your protests, the schedule had been followed to the letter, which meant it was now time for the "afternoon pampering" session Barry had penciled in on Timothy’s cardstock.

Barry had you trapped in front of your vanity again; his very own war zone of powders, palettes, and lipsticks, half uncapped and rolling like colorful landmines across the table.

You caught your reflection as he smoothed foundation across your cheek and frowned at the uneven blotches on your skin. The words slipped out before you could stop them. "God, I look like shit."

Barry made a sound so dramatic it nearly rattled the mirror, a gasp-shriek hybrid that came from deep in his chest. His whole body snapped toward you, eyes wide with outrage.

"Excuse me?" His voice cracked sharply, like you’d just told him you drove into a Sephora with your car. His hands shot to your shoulders, pinning you back. "Did you just insult my masterpiece? My canvas? The literal face I’ve been dedicating my artistry to?"

You barely got your mouth open before he was moving. A lipstick was uncapped in one hand, swiped across your lips in a clean motion, then onto his own like he was prepping for war.

And then he attacked.

Not with one kiss, but with dozens. Quick, relentless pecks rained down on your cheeks, your jaw, the tip of your nose. Each came with a loud, ridiculous "mwah," leaving a pink stamp in its wake. He pulled back after every few, inspecting his work with the grave focus of a general surveying a battlefield, only to swoop in again twice as fast.

You squeaked when he caught the corner of your mouth, a sound that made his grin sharpen with victory. "There it is. Evidence. Proof. You’re gorgeous and kissable and tragically, tragically wrong about yourself. Case closed, hun."

You tried to keep still when he finally slowed, lips brushing yours properly now. But then his tongue flicked against the seam of your mouth, slipping in with a slow suck that made your whole body jolt. The sound that escaped you was helpless, high, and humiliatingly small.

Both of you froze.

Then Barry leaned back, eyes lighting up like he’d struck gold. His grin spread slow, feral.

"Ohhh," he sang, drawing the word out. "Was that a squeak? A little squeak?" His teeth tugged your bottom lip just to feel the twitch it dragged out of you.

He chuckled as he finally pulled away, thumb brushing a smear of lipstick from your cheek. His voice dropped softer, steadier.

"No more self-dragging," he said, almost a purr. "You’re way too cute to get away with it."

Your knees were jelly by the time you stumbled out of Barry’s orbit. The mirror had betrayed you: cheeks kissed raw, neck and chest marked in a chaotic pattern only Barry could leave. You pressed your fingers to your lips, still tingling, thinking maybe a hot shower would wash the heat away.

But when you pushed open the bathroom door, steam rolled out, thick and clinging. Heat kissed your skin and made the air shimmer.

Johnny was already there. When he turned, his gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, lingering over every mark Barry had left. Collarbone, chest, the curve of your hip, then up again. The heat coiled in your stomach before the water even touched you.

"Well," he drawled, "you’re shakin’ like a willow in the wind."

Your robe slipped from your shoulders as if on its own, and your bare skin met the warm spray. Johnny shifted, creating space between you, his hand brushing the small of your back, then pressing firmly, drawing you closer. Without a word, you stepped in beside him.

The water hit you like a sigh, washing away the leftover tremor from Barry’s relentless affection. Johnny’s hands followed, big and steady, sliding over your shoulders, pressing in firm circles. He kneaded tension out of your muscles as if it were clay, fingers working, thumbs brushing along bone and sinew until your body relaxed against him.

"That’s it, sugar," he murmured, voice rough velvet, whispering against your ear. "All this tension sittin’ up here like you’re carryin’ the weight of the whole dang world. You gonna give yourself a hump before you even hit fifty."

He leaned in, forehead grazing yours as the water traced down both your backs. His hands slid lower, palms bracing at your hips, thumbs stroking small circles. Then he sank to his knees, water splashing around him, hair plastered to his jawline. From down there, his eyes looked up at you, reverent and impossibly tender, and your stomach flipped.

"Any person’d be blessed just to stand where I’m standin’," he said softly, letting his hands linger against your thighs. "But me? I get to touch you, to hold you…Sugar, I think about that and I feel like I oughta thank somebody every day for lettin’ me."

Your breath caught, cheeks burning. "Johnny—"

"You hush now." He grinned, letting the water drip off his eyelashes, voice low, coaxing. "Let me have my moment, would ya? Don’t get many chances to be poetic in the shower."

You laughed weakly, breathless, letting him guide your legs apart slightly so his hands could massage the trembling in your thighs, kneading it away. You leaned a little, letting your torso press against his chest, feeling his weight anchored beneath the cascade of water.

"You’re such a loser," you muttered, lips twitching despite the heat.

He tilted his head, grin mischievous, eyes soft with devotion. "Yeah, baby. But I’m your loser."

 After your shower, you finished a few more errands from Tim’s list, until the clock struck four in the afternoon. Puppy exposure time. Exactly as scheduled. And honestly? You needed it.

Your nerves were taut, fraying at the edges like old rope. Lately, after the visit, they seemed to ignite faster than ever, and Mateo always noticed first. He didn’t ask; he didn’t need to. The shallow hitch of your breath, the restless grind of your fingers until nails scraped skin. He read it all before you even had a chance to spiral.

"Hey," he said, voice soft and steady, already tugging you down onto the rug with him. Before you realized, a blanket was draped over your shoulders, its weight grounding you like a familiar anchor.

The inanimals immediately picked up on the shift. Paws skittered against the hardwood, tails thumping, noses sniffing the air as the pack swarmed closer. But this time, there was a newcomer slinking along with the familiar group. You blinked. Something stitched together from scraps of telephone wire, copper, and black cords, had been twisted into the rough shape of a pup. Its tiny paws clicked lightly as it trotted forward, its head tilting curiously at you, a faint hum resonating through the wires.

You froze. Mateo chuckled, low and warm, pressing gently against the back of your shoulder. "Don’t worry. She’s friendly. Found her following me this morning." His fingers scratched under the little wire pup’s chin. It tilted into the touch, the cords shifting with a soft static fizz.

Before you could second-guess the moment, Mateo’s arms wrapped tighter around you, pulling you half into his lap. His chest pressed firmly against your back, warm and steady, grounding you. One hand combed gently through your hair, untangling the tension as if it were a stubborn knot.

"See?" he murmured, cheek brushing against yours, breath warm and sure. "Nothing can touch you here. Not when I’ve got you."

The inanimals began their gentle chaos. One pup wriggled onto your stomach with a satisfied grunt, pressing close. Another pawed at your hands, nudging them toward Mateo. The wire pup clambered awkwardly over your legs, cords dragging with a faint electrical hiss. Mateo smiled as you let out a small laugh.

"Better?" he asked. You nodded, feeling it. The way your body softened, shoulders releasing, tension melting into the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back. His smile pressed to your temple, soft and certain, as if he’d known all along that you’d surrender to this comfort eventually.

One of the inanimals pawed at your hand, insisting on attention. Mateo guided your fingers to scratch behind its ears, and it immediately flopped onto its side, tail thumping. Another nudged your cheek with wet warmth, eliciting a soft chuckle from you. The wire pup’s hum shifted slightly under your touch, vibrating faintly as if approving.

"See?" Mateo murmured again, holding your hand over the little wire pup’s head. "You’re safe. You’re home."

You let yourself sink fully into him, closing your eyes. The chaos of the inanimals, the warm weight of the blanket, Mateo’s grounding presence, it all stitched you back together, thread by thread. Paws tapped and tails wagged, little bodies pressing against yours, and the wire pup traced gentle arcs across your knees, buzzing faintly. Mateo’s hands remained steady on your back and in your hair, fingers kneading gently, smoothing out every last knot of anxiety.

When your eyes opened, you caught his gaze, soft and certain, a quiet promise in the curve of his smile. 

"We’ll always be here," he murmured.

Night had already fallen, shadows pooling along the baseboards, when you finally wriggled out of Tim’s meticulously plotted schedule. Freedom tasted sweeter than it should have, like you’d cheated the system and won.

The victory lasted all of three steps down the hall before your nose twitched. Smoke. Not thick, but sharp enough to sting the back of your throat. You slowed, blinking, and followed the scent trail to the living room.

Dirk stood rigid at the hearth, one of your ex’s old hoodies dangling from his hand. He hurled it into the fire with a flick of his wrist. Flames, fed and coaxed by Dante’s outstretched palms, flickered and hissed, devouring the cotton in a shower of sparks. The air smelled of burning detergent and something far more acrid, like... anger.

"Bad memories don’t belong here," Dirk muttered, every word sharp. His jaw was tight, shoulders tensed like he was holding something in.

Dante glanced at him, hands steady, palms glowing faintly in the firelight. He didn’t argue, just fed the blaze quietly, perfectly complicit.

Then, as if on cue, both of them noticed you.

Dirk froze mid-throw, half a sleeve dangling from his grip. Dante’s fire guttered, shrinking as if ashamed. Slowly, they turned toward you.

You raised your brows. "...What exactly am I walking in on?"

Dirk cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. "Spring cleaning," he offered, but the words came out flat.

"Bit late in the year for that," you said, folding your arms and smirking. "And you used that excuse days ago."

Dante’s lips twitched, and the heat at his palms flickered down to the soft, steady glow of the fireplace. "We were just… helping," he admitted, sheepish, like a kid caught sneaking cookies from the jar.

"Helping," you repeated, deadpan. "By turning my living room into a bonfire?"

Dirk dropped the sleeve into the flames anyway, muttering something you couldn’t catch. When he looked back at you, the bravado was gone, replaced by that sheepish grin. "They didn’t deserve to sit in your drawers anymore," he said finally. "Not after what they put you through."

The room fell silent except for the soft crackle of burning fabric.

You just stared at them. Your ridiculous, overprotective idiots, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the fire like some sacred burning had been staged in your honor. And for some reason, your chest warmed, despite the smoke.

You stepped closer, taking in the way Dirk’s shoulders were still tense, the small twitch of his fingers as he flexed them. You reached out, letting your hand hover for a heartbeat before brushing against his arm. Dirk stiffened at first, then relaxed ever so slightly under the touch.

Dante’s eyes followed, softening as he watched your movements. You leaned down, pressing a careful hand to his forearm, letting your fingers trail over the slight warmth from his earlier firework. He let out a small breath, one that sounded like relief, and his posture slackened a touch.

"Alright," you said, voice gentle, teasing. "You’re both insane. But…" You exhaled, tilting your head to catch Dirk’s gaze. "My heart is safe now… can’t say the same for my old hoodies."

Both of them perked up, expressions shifting into that familiar mix of protectiveness, mischief, and quiet pride.

You couldn’t resist. Leaning up, you pressed a soft kiss to Dirk’s cheek. Then you moved to Dante, letting your lips brush his temple. 

"They’re gone," you murmured, tracing the air just above the fire grate. "All of it."

Dirk leaned closer. "You really don’t know how much you’re worth to us, do you?"

Dante’s chuckle joined in, quiet but warm. "Worth more than anything we could ever let harm you."

"I know that," you murmured, pressing your forehead against Dirk’s shoulder for a moment, letting the warmth seep in, mingling with the faint trace of smoke still lingering in the room. 

"Oh. And just to be clear," you said, teasing yet soft, letting a small smile tug at your lips, "I forgive you for the mini inferno."

Dirk snorted, rolling his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifted into a sly grin. "Next time, we’ll make it a proper barbecue."

The house was quiet, almost too quiet. You wandered down the hall, drawn by a faint electric hum that made the air tingle against your skin. Your steps slowed as the sound grew stronger, pulling you toward the breaker box.

And there he was. Volt, leaning casually against the wall, half in shadow, the subtle bluish shimmer of his skin catching the dim light. His posture was relaxed, but the tension in his shoulders, the tight set of his jaw... it all said he was holding back.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You stopped a few feet away, noticing the way the hum of electricity seemed to pulse in time with your own racing heartbeat. Volt’s eyes met yours, lingering longer than usual. You could feel the weight of days unspoken hanging between you.

He lifted a hand, almost like testing the waters, and held it out. You stepped closer, each movement measured. When your fingers brushed his, he pressed a soft, deliberate kiss to the back of your hand. The touch was slow, intentional, a bridge across the silence of the last few days.

"My dear," he murmured, voice low and warm, silk over steel, carrying a weight you hadn’t heard in a long time.

You studied him, thumb gliding over his knuckles, taking in the subtle tension in his frame, the way his eyes flicked to yours and away, then back. "Hey," you said finally, voice soft, careful. "I… saw what happened. You really wore yourself out back then."

Volt’s grin was slow to form, almost shy, the mischief tempered by exhaustion and relief. His eyes flashed that familiar spark, tempered now by something gentler, more vulnerable. "Angry? Maybe. Protective? Definitely. Worth it? Always. If it keeps you safe," he said, voice low, letting each word linger in the space between you.

"Anyone who even thinks of hurting you…" His voice dropped to a low rumble, sending a spike through your chest. "…they will regret it."

The silence stretched again after that, not uncomfortable, but heavy with things unsaid. You shifted slightly, letting your hand stay in his, feeling the subtle charge beneath his skin. Every small movement, every blink, every pause seemed loaded, as if the two of you were reacquainting yourselves with each other in the quiet of the night.

Your hand pressed to his chest, feeling the faint warmth beneath the subtle current. "Never seen you like that before," you murmured.

Volt’s grin shifted. "Ah… but how would you like me then?" Without waiting, he took your hand, guiding you toward the empty bar. His cheek brushed yours, breath warm, hands steady at your waist. Every movement was teasing, measured, yet intimate, sending a warmth through your chest that made your pulse hitch.

"You feel that?" he murmured near your ear. "Just us. No distractions. Nothing else matters. Just you… and me."

You shivered, heart racing, trying to match his calm confidence. "Volt…"

He laughed softly, rich and teasing, and dipped his head to press a lingering kiss to your temple. "Shh… no words. Just this. Let me hold you."

You melted into him, letting the warmth carry you. He swayed you gently, one hand gliding along your back, the other at your waist, fingers curling around yours when you fidgeted.

"Always," he murmured, voice honeyed, cheek brushing yours, gaze soft and unwavering. "Always for you, my dear."

You pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the pulse beneath his skin, and let a soft, genuine smile spread across your face. "Always," you echoed, closing your eyes and letting the warmth settle through every nerve.

Tuckered out from dancing with Volt, you decided to stay the night near the breaker box. The soft hum of electricity became a steady, oddly comforting rhythm, filling the quiet corners of the room. Volt curled nearby, finally at rest, his bluish tint fading as he relaxed under your presence. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the gentle twitch of a fingertip now free of tension, drew your gaze, and you let yourself trace the curve of his jaw, memorizing the familiar lines.

You weren’t asleep, though. Instead, you found yourself lying face-to-face with Eddie. Somehow, without words, you’d drifted here together. 

Slowly, carefully, he guided your trembling fingers over the map of scars etched across his skin: jagged burns, rough edges, the fingerprints of lightning.

"This one…" he murmured, voice low, deliberate, "a short circuit…almost had me. But I made it." His thumb brushed along one of the deeper, more jagged marks, and your hand followed, tracing the contours, learning his story through touch.

Gradually, his shoulders softened, tension sliding out like smoke through an open window. The tight lines of worry eased, and for a fleeting moment, he seemed lighter, almost fragile in the most human, honest way.

By the time your fingers returned to rest in his, your chest tightened. Not from fear, but from a sudden, overwhelming realization. Every person in this house, every "intervention," every chaotic touch, every gentle hand guiding you, every meticulously crafted schedule, every puppy pile, they had all been for you. The sheer magnitude of it pressed on your heart, swelling warmth through your ribs.

"Your brain is thinking too much again." Eddie’s voice cut through the soft hum of the room.

"You know… I hate it when you don’t get it," he continued, low and careful. "How much… how much every single one of us loves you. But I can’t make you understand. I just… want you to know. Truly know."

You swallowed, fingers tracing idle patterns against the fabric beneath you. "I… I do get it," you whispered, voice trembling despite yourself.

He shook his head slightly, a faint, exasperated smile tugging at his lips. "You think you do. But sometimes, seeing it, feeling it… maybe then it’ll stick. Because you are loved. Every single one of us. More than you even imagine."

Eddie’s words had hit harder than you thought, echoing in your chest long after he’d whispered them. Even after hours of tossing and turning, your mind refused to quiet. Eventually, you found yourself up again, moving through the quiet house, letting your feet carry you wherever they pleased.

The hallway was dim, shadows pooling along the walls. Your fingers traced the doorframes, half-worried, half-relieved that nobody had followed you… until a curl of darkness slid up behind you, warm and fluid, wrapping around your silhouette like ink in water. Skips.

He didn’t say anything at first, letting you notice him slowly. Shadows pooled at his feet and curled lightly around your legs as he stepped closer. His eyes met yours, dark and intent, and the rest of the world seemed to shrink away.

"I…" you started, voice small. Then you laughed a little at yourself, embarrassed. "I don’t even know what to say. I… I don’t know what I did to deserve all of this… you all… this love."

Skips' lips curved faintly, almost amused, though his eyes stayed serious. Shadows drifted up to brush your shoulders gently. 

"Dragged?" he murmured, voice low and quiet, teasing even. "No. You didn’t drag anyone, Penumbra. You… saved us. Don’t twist it into something it isn’t."

You swallowed, tugging at your sleeve. "But… maybe I’m not… I don’t know… I’m scared I’m the reason things warp. What if I ruin it?"

He shook his head slowly. "No. You gave us something real… something worth holding onto. Everything we feel—it’s because of you. Not in spite of you. Got it?"

"I… I don’t know if I’m worthy," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Skips' shadows shifted, wrapping around you protectively, cocoon-like. He reached up, pressing a hand gently to your cheek, tilting your face toward his. 

"Baby," he murmured, voice trembling slightly. "Penumbra… you’re more than worthy. You don’t earn this. You are it. And if you ever doubt that…" He leaned closer, shadows curling around you tenderly. "…we’ll spend every second proving it to you. Every. Single. Second."

You blinked, heart hammering. "Even… if it’s too much?"

"Never too much," he said softly, exhaling a shaky laugh. "Not with me. Not with any of us. You’re ours… all of you. And I…" He hesitated, voice thick with emotion. "…I am completely yours. I’ll keep you, love you, protect you. If I have to whisper it a thousand times, I will. If I have to grovel, I will. You’re worth it. You always have been."

You let your forehead rest against his, breathing him in. The warmth, the shadows, the careful weight of his presence pressing around you. "You really mean that?"

He brushed your hair back with one hand, shadows lingering softly around your form. "Every word," he said quietly, almost shyly. "Even the ones that make me sound insane. You… you make me feel steady. Alive. And if you ever doubt it, I’ll murmur it into your ear until you do."

You let out a shaky laugh, curling your fingers into his shirt. "You’re ridiculous."

"Maybe," he whispered, softer now, shadowed grin tugging at his lips. "But you… you’re mine. And I’ll spend every quiet second reminding you of that."

Your chest swelled, warmth spreading through your body. After hours of lying awake, letting his presence anchor you, you lifted your gaze slowly, meeting his again. The house was still, the night stretching endlessly around you, the intimacy of this quiet moment wrapping tighter around your chest than any schedule or intervention ever could.

"See…?" he murmured, voice dropping low, brushing against your ear. "You feel that? The world’s quiet. Just us. And it’s all for you. Just you."

You let yourself lean closer, letting the words, the care, the quiet devotion settle into your chest. Then, instinctively, you tilted your face toward his, pressing your lips against his. The kiss started soft, teasing, but as soon as your lips met his, it deepened, urgent and hungry. His lip piercing brushed against yours with every movement, a spark of sensation that made your knees weaken and your pulse spike. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles, while his other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

The shadows around him pulsed, alive and protective, echoing the heat that pooled between you. Every shuddered breath, every tilt of his head, every slick, teasing press of his pierced lip against yours sent shivers through you. It was messy, breathless, and consuming. 

When you finally pulled back, lips glistening, breath uneven, and hearts hammering, his eyes glimmered in the dim light, dark and molten, full of mischief, tenderness, and that dangerous edge that always left you weak.

"Ours," he whispered, voice low and tender. "You’re ours. All of you."

And in that moment, you believed it.