Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You don’t remember how you ended up with a knife in your hand. 

Hell, you don’t remember how you ended up in this room, in this house, or in this town. All you know is that you’re looking down at a cutting board piled high with diced carrots, and onions, and…

Blood. Thick, heavy droplets of blood. Dripping from your own hand.

The scariest part? You don’t even register the pain. Maybe it didn’t hurt at all. One of those odd wounds where you just happened to nick some free-flowing capillary by pure chance. 

You don’t know how you know to do it, but you press your other palm to the gash on your finger, hold it, and watch as it miraculously turns into a thin, waxy scar. Blood gone— from your hand. The dark red still splatters the kitchen counter. 

Healing powers. Something you wield. Right. 

You set the large knife down in the small pool of blood, and turn your head, taking in your surroundings. It’s a beautiful kitchen. Small, but purposefully decorated. There’s a sturdy, wooden table with a colorful bouquet of roses in a crystal vase in the middle, a large gas stove, lacy curtains adorning the windows, flowing in the breeze. The smell of fresh grass clippings wafts in, and you indulge yourself for a moment. You slip your eyes closed, and get a flash of some other world, shaking hands and blue eyes. But only a flash.

You open your eyes again, and stare at the fridge. Plastered with Christmas cards, magnets from far away vacation spots, and invitations to weddings, baptisms, retirement parties. 

You don’t know who any of these people are.

What do you know?

You hear the telltale sounds of a car engine rumbling closer to the house. The engine gets cut, and a door opens and closes. Footsteps approach the back door, and the figure is obfuscated by the lace curtains. They’re tall, with a strong build. They fuddle with their keys for a moment before successfully unlocking the door and stepping inside. They wipe their loafers off on the doormat before they look up, surprised to see you staring at them.

“Hi sweetheart,” he greets you, eyes lighting up like you’d hung the moon.

Oh, right , you think. 

Your husband.

Dark curls gelled back cleanly, tweed blazer, a crisp white button up, and a loose navy blue tie around his neck. Piercing blue eyes that don’t leave yours.

He crosses the kitchen with a bright, easy smile— briefcase forgotten behind him on the table— and leans in to kiss you. His hands settle gently on your hips, warm and grounding, as if you’re a lifeline he hasn’t seen in days.

His lips brush yours, soft and familiar. Your body knows him. You don’t flinch. But your brain is still a second behind, watching all this like it’s on TV.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His voice is warm honey, pouring into the quiet kitchen.

“ God , I missed you today,” he says, almost reverent, like he can’t believe he’s looking at you. It nearly gives you pause. But he keeps going, “Traffic was a nightmare, meetings ran late, and Phil broke the copier, so we had to do everything by hand, and there was this…” He tells you all about his day. 

Computational services , you think. That’s his job. 

He talks fast, lightly, like this is all normal. Like you didn’t just forget reality and stitch your skin back together with magic you didn’t even know you had. You blink at him, trying to keep up, nodding slowly, mechanically.

He doesn’t seem to notice the lag in your responses, still unwrapping himself from the day. He starts to shrug off his blazer, eyes flitting toward the stove. “You’re cooking? I thought I was on dinner duty tonight— what are we making?”

You blink at him. You were making something, weren’t you?

He follows your gaze to the cutting board. To the blood. He stops mid-step.

His expression shifts fast— joy to alarm, his brow knitting, eyes scanning your face and hands. “Woah, what happened?”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly. Your voice sounds too calm even to your own ears. “It was just a cut. I healed it.”

“You— you healed it,” he echoes, but not like it’s strange. Like it’s typical.

He walks to your side immediately, fingers brushing your arm, looking you over like he’s cataloging every inch of you. His hand finds yours and gently turns it palm-up, inspecting it with a furrowed brow. The gash is gone. Only the faintest trace of skin trauma remains, pale and shiny and already fading.

He exhales. A soft, shaky sound. “It’s not like you to be clumsy in the kitchen.”

That word again. You . Like you’re someone he knows. You smile faintly, but say nothing. Your throat is dry.

He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles. “Still, I’m sorry you hurt yourself. Even if you used your powers to fix it.”

“I’m fine,” you murmur.

“I know,” he says gently, cupping your cheek. “You’re always fine. You’d walk in with a broken leg and swear it was just stiff.”

There’s a knowing sadness in his tone. Like he’s used to worrying for you. Like there’s something more than just a bit of blood to worry about.

And you wish— god , you wish— you knew why.

He watches you for a moment longer. His hand lingers against your cheek, like he’s checking your temperature without admitting it. “You sure you’re okay? You seem a little… I dunno. Fuzzy.”

Fuzzy. That’s a word for it. Like your head’s stuffed with cotton. Like someone swapped out your brain for an echo chamber full of feelings you don’t understand.

“I’m just tired,” you say, not quite lying. You’re something more than tired. Something nameless and unsettling.

His thumb brushes your jaw. “Why don’t I take over dinner? You sit down. Relax. You’ve already bled for the carrots, seems unfair to make you do the potatoes too.”

You laugh, because it’s what he wants, and because something about his affection tugs at you. A string tied somewhere deep in your gut. You don’t remember him, but your body reacts to him like a well-worn favorite song.

And that scares you more than the blood.

He nudges you gently toward one of the kitchen chairs with a touch to your elbow, still watching you like you might dissolve if he blinks too long. You go because it’s easier than protesting, because you don’t know what else to do. You sit and fold your hands in your lap like a guest, watching him shed his button-up, leaving him in just his white t-shirt, stretching over his toned chest. He takes over where you left off— his movements practiced, easy, like he’s done this a hundred times before.

Maybe he has.

He glances over his shoulder at you. “You cut the carrots beautifully, by the way. Very symmetrical. I’m impressed.”

You let out a breath of a laugh. “Thanks. I think.”

“Can’t say the same for the blood splatter, but hey— there’s always room for artistic interpretation.”

He grins at you like he’s trying to make you smile, and it works. A little. Something about his presence eases the tightness in your chest. He hums as he chops, a tune you half-recognize, something from the radio maybe. Or… from somewhere older. A melody that tugs at the back of your brain and disappears just when you try to hold onto it.

Dinner is simple— some kind of creamy chicken dish, the carrots you chopped, potatoes he boils and mashes with an embarrassing amount of butter. It smells like comfort. Like home .

The sun finishes setting behind the curtains, casting everything in amber light. He sets the table with floral china, lights a candle in a little glass holder, and pours sweet tea into two matching tumblers. You sit across from each other at the table with the embroidered tablecloth, the lace trim brushing your skirt.

He talks while you eat, like the sound of his own voice might coax you into feeling normal again.

“I ran into Dottie today,” he says, spooning more potatoes onto your plate with a smile.

You smile faintly. “Dottie…”

“Mm. Dottie and Phil. You know,” he gestures with the spoon toward the front window. “Across the street with the wind chimes and the obnoxious manger setup every Christmas?”

You nod, though the image of what he’s described is blurry. He watches you carefully, even as he keeps the tone light.

“Dottie stopped me while I was getting the mail. Asked if we’d finally decided on our act for the Westview Talent Show.”

A small spark goes off in your chest. 

Westview . You know that name. You’re in Westview.

“That’s where we are,” you murmur without meaning to.

He turns, eyebrows raised, smile crooked. “Yeah. Our lovely little slice of the suburbs we swore we’d never live in.”

That’s… a joke. You think.

“We’re doing the talent show?” you ask.

“I told her no way, just like you told me to,” he says, tossing a sure smile in your direction, but does a double-take when he sees your confused expression. “Unless… unless you want to now?”

“No,” you assure him. “No, I don’t want to.” You look down at your plate, picking at your food. Something about this whole evening feels… curved. Not wrong , not exactly. But like you’re on a stage set of your life. Like you’re supposed to know your lines, but someone changed the script at the last minute.

His eyes search your face, and he nods softly. “Then we won’t,” he says simply. “We’ll just have to sit through Dottie singing Que Sera Sera widely out of tune and— and try not to let our ears bleed."

You laugh, quiet and small, and his eyes light up like you’ve handed him the sun. His voice is soothing. It’s warm and low and full of little pauses, like he’s memorized exactly how to make you smile. And you do smile. Even as your chest tightens and your stomach flips with something unnameable. Something underneath the surface of all this domestic warmth. Like a ripple in still water.

But in the middle of his story about Phil breaking the copier, he catches you staring somewhere past him, fork paused halfway to your mouth.

“Hey,” he says, quieter now. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?” He reaches across the table and takes your hand again, thumb smoothing gently over your knuckles. “If you… if you didn’t feel right?”

You nod. Too fast. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

He tilts his head, gentle. “You’ve just been… off. Since I got home. I want… I want to make sure you’re okay.”

You try to find an answer that won’t sound like a confession. You want to say I don’t remember this life. I don’t remember you. But he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters, and your throat closes around the words.

You hesitate. Then you say it, slowly. Like a memory peeled from the bottom of your soul.

“Bob.”

His fingers still on yours. He looks at you for a moment. Then smiles.

And oh , it’s softer than anything. So real. So proud. His eyes crinkle at the corners. He squeezes your hand, and it makes your chest ache.

“There you are,” he says.

And just like that, you feel it: warmth washing over you like soothing bathwater, like sunlight through the kitchen windows. The fuzziness is still there, but now it feels gentle, safe.

You don’t remember him, not exactly.

But you know you love him.

“Alright,” he decides, wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin, and tossing it onto the table. “No more fussing tonight. We’re gonna go to bed, and then we’re both sleeping in as late as you want.”

You blink, startled. “But don’t you have work?”

He stands, stretching a little as he carries both your plates to the sink. “I’ll call in first thing. Phil can handle a day without me— even though the copy room might not survive.”

You laugh softly. There’s something so absurd and comforting in the way he says it, like the world outside this house is something he only visits reluctantly.

He rinses the dishes with practiced ease, setting them in the drying rack. You watch his hands move, sure and steady, as though they know the rhythm even when your brain doesn’t. Like some part of your life does remember this man. The way his carefully gelled curls are falling into his face by the end of dinnertime. The way he hums Fly Me to the Moon under his breath while cleaning up. The way he glances back every few moments, just to make sure you’re still there.

He finishes up and offers you his hand. “C’mon. You’re done for the day. Doctor’s orders.”

There’s a flash in the back of your mind— a nervous jolt at the word “doctor”. You blink, brows knitting together for a fleeting moment, trying to grasp at the thread, but then it’s gone. You don’t think Bob notices.

You take his hand, because it feels right. Because even with the fuzziness still clouding the edges of your mind, he is the one thing that feels solid. His fingers are warm and calloused, and when he leads you through the house, it’s like you’ve followed this exact path a hundred times.

He flicks off lights as you go, humming again. The living room is dark, save for the soft orange glow of the reading lamp, and the tick of the grandfather clock in the corner. Your feet sink into plush yellow carpet that looks older than both of you, but well-loved. He glances down the hallway like he’s checking for ghosts, then nods to himself and guides you into the bedroom.

It’s cozy, with matching twin lamps on either nightstand and a patchwork quilt pulled taut over the bed. A framed photo sits on the dresser— a wedding picture, maybe? The figures are blurry from here, but they’re smiling.

He crosses the room and leans down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“I’ll take care of everything tomorrow. You just rest.”

You sink onto the edge of the bed, fingers brushing the hem of your skirt absently. You’re still in your day dress— pale blue with little embroidered flowers. Stockings. The faint scent of ivory soap clings to your wrists.

Bob kneels in front of you and helps you unbuckle your shoes. “You always take care of me,” you murmur.

He glances up at you. His eyes are warm and just a little sad. “Of course I do.”

A beat passes. He sets your shoes aside, then helps you slip into your nightdress. His touch lingers, lovingly and soft. Like he’s pressing sunlight into your skin. He climbs onto the bed and pulls back the quilt, patting the pillow beside him. “Come on, sweetheart.”

You lie down slowly. The sheets are cool, the pillow soft. And as he settles in beside you, arm curling gently around your waist, more little pieces start to trickle back in. The way he snores just barely when he first falls asleep. The way he always kisses your shoulder before turning off the lamp. The scent of his cologne— faint and woodsy, like cedar and something deeper.

As the light clicks off and his hand finds yours beneath the covers, the fuzziness begins to settle like dust. Quiet. Unthreatening. Just beneath the surface.

Chapter Text

The sun wakes you. It’s warm on your face, slipping through the lacy white curtains in golden threads. The birds are chirping somewhere just past the window, and there’s a distant mechanical hum. Maybe the neighbor mowing his lawn.

But the bed beside you is empty.

You sit up slowly. The pillow where Bob should be is still indented, faint traces of his scent lingering. A little cedar, a little shaving cream. The quilt is folded back neatly on his side, the edges tucked with care. Your fingers trace the seam of the blanket, and the quiet creeps in.

You pull on your robe— soft and floral, tied in a bow at your waist— and step into the hall. The floorboards creak, but the house is otherwise still.

The living room is exactly how you left it. Cushions fluffed. A magazine on the coffee table, Good Housekeeping, dated July 1963. On the far wall, a gallery of photographs in gold and walnut frames. You stop in front of them, tilting your head.

There’s a wedding photo. It’s black and white, slightly faded. You’re wearing a tea-length dress, smiling up at Bob like you’ve just heard the best joke in the world. He’s in a sharp suit with a thin tie, and he’s got his arm wrapped snug around your waist.

You stare at it for a long time.

You know this is you. And yet the memory doesn’t live in you.

Next to it is a photo of the two of you at the beach. He’s lifting you over his shoulder effortlessly, your swimsuit modest and polka-dotted, both of you laughing mid-motion. A birthday party. A Christmas morning. You in curlers, him with a goofy expression, holding up a pair of novelty socks.

And yet. In between the images, flashes ripple like lightning behind your eyes.

A sterile white room. Bright lights overhead. Cold metal beneath your back. You’re strapped to something. A voice murmurs numbers you don’t understand. There’s static in your ears. A piercing hum in your skull. You try to scream, but no sound comes out.

Then, it’s gone. You blink, and you’re back in the living room, staring at the floral wallpaper. You press your palm to your forehead, the edges of that memory already slipping away like water through a sieve.

You move to the kitchen window. Outside, the yard glows with golden morning light. The hedges are trimmed, the rose bushes blooming neatly by the white picket fence. A perfect scene.

And then you see it.

Something shifts in the corner of the yard. It’s not a person. It’s not anything you can name.

Just for a second, there’s a flicker of something dark. Not a shape, exactly. More like the absence of light. Inky blackness, reaching in tendrils through the edges of your vision. You move to the back door, open it carefully, barefoot on the warm concrete. The sun is soft against your face, the air smells like honeysuckle, and—

There. Again. At the edge of the yard, by the rose trellis. Shadow, curling unnaturally. They slither against the edge of the fence, almost… waiting. The grass around them wilts slightly, as though they leech the color from the world just by being in it.

And voices. Not quite audible, like a radio just slightly out of tune.

You take a step forward. And another.

The grass tickles your ankles as you walk through the yard, drawn toward that dark ripple like it’s calling your name. You feel your pulse quicken. Your body knows this sensation. Not fear. Not quite. Something deeper. The sunlight dims as you get closer. Or maybe the shadows grow. You’re not sure which.

“Sweetheart?”

Bob’s voice slices through the moment.

You whip around, breath coming too fast.

He’s stepping out of the car, brown paper grocery bag in one arm. His eyes land on you, then on the corner of the yard, and something changes.

He sees it. Just for a second. His expression tightens. The bag drops from his hand, eggs cracking against the driveway.

Then he’s moving. Before you can blink, he’s at your side. His arms scoop you up like you weigh nothing— like air— and suddenly the world is rushing past you. The breeze roars in your ears. The shadows vanish behind you in a blur.

Super strength. Super speed.

Of course. You remember now. Of course he has that.

You’re inside before you fully register it, the door shutting hard behind you and curtains drawing closed as Bob sets you gently on the couch, his hands moving over your arms, checking you, grounding you.

His eyes are wide. Alarmed.

“Are— are you okay?” he asks, voice low and urgent. He kneels in front of you. “What happened?”

You try to speak, but your voice shakes. “I— I saw something,” you whisper. “There was… something in the yard.”

His expression flickers for a split second before smoothing over into concern. He cups your elbows gently. “What kind of something?”

You gesture weakly behind you, to the now-empty fence line. “A shadow. It moved. It— there were voices. I think I saw someone.”

He glances toward the back window. His brow furrows just a little too tightly.

And then he smiles. Soft. Reassuring. Like honey over broken glass.

“You must’ve still been half-asleep,” he says, stroking your arms. “Dreams can hang around like cobwebs. I’ve seen you walk right into the closet thinking it was the bathroom, remember?"

You don’t. Not really. But you nod anyway.

“I was just worried,” you murmur.

“I know.” He pulls you in close, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. “You’ve been a little turned around lately. That’s all.”

You bury your face against his chest. His shirt smells like starch and aftershave and oranges. Solid. Warm.

Bob doesn’t leave your side after that.

He brings you water first. Cool, with lemon, just the way you apparently like it. Then he disappears for a few minutes and you hear the pipes groan and the sound of water running upstairs. When he comes back, he’s gentler than ever, hands brushing your hair from your forehead, like he’s memorizing the texture of it.

“Bath’s ready,” he says softly, offering his hand. “Lavender and that rose stuff you like. You always say it makes your skin soft.”

You blink at him. “I do?”

His smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, warm and wistful. “You do.”

You let him lead you upstairs, warm water waiting. He helps you in— delicately, respectfully, like he’s afraid you’ll break— and doesn’t leave the room until you’ve nodded that you’re okay.

When you come out, wrapped in the towel that smells faintly of fabric softener and home , he’s waiting on the bed with a book in his lap. One of your books, apparently; your name’s written on the inside cover in swooping cursive.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, patting the space beside him. “Let me read to you for a bit. You used to love this one.”

You climb onto the bed. His arm comes around you instinctively, pulling you into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He opens the book and starts to read, voice low and slow, each word deliberately gentle.

It’s a children’s story, something about a garden and a girl who talks to rabbits. You don’t recognize it, but the cadence of his voice settles into your bones like something ancient. You could almost fall asleep there, with your head on his chest, the scent of his cologne mixing with the steam still clinging to your skin.

You feel safe.

But the fuzziness hasn’t left. Not entirely. It’s still behind your eyes, lurking like static. And under it, something tightens. Something still isn’t right.

The afternoon drifts by like that. Bob bringing you tea in your favorite mug. Bob brushing your damp hair and smiling when you lean into his touch. Bob watching you like he’s trying to memorize every blink of your eyes.

You almost forget what you saw. Almost.

When the sun begins to set and shadows stretch long across the room, you stir beneath the blanket.

“Bob,” you say quietly.

He looks up from the page. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

You hesitate. Then: “The shadow. In the yard. You saw it too, didn’t you?”

For the briefest second, his eyes flicker. Then he closes the book and sets it aside.

“You were probably just seeing things,” he says softly, scooting closer. “Dreams bleed into the day sometimes. Especially when you’re not feeling like yourself.”

“But you dropped the groceries.”

He smiles. A little too quick. “Because I saw you standing in the middle of the yard looking like you were about to pass out.”

“I wasn’t—” you stop. You don’t know if you were. You don’t know what you were. “I just…” You curl your fingers into the blanket. “Something felt wrong. And I keep seeing things, like flashes.  Tables. Machines. People talking, and— and someone yelling. And—”

Bob’s hand finds yours. “Hey, hey. Breathe.”

You do. He watches you do it.

“I could take you to see the doctor,” he offers gently. “Just to be safe. Just to make sure everything’s alright up here.” He taps your temple softly.

“No.” The word is immediate, instinctive. Cold. “No doctor.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. You don’t know why the thought of a doctor fills you with dread, but it does. Like your body remembers something you can’t put words to. Steel tables. Lights too bright. Voices too sterile and probing.

Bob’s expression softens even further.

“Okay. No doctor,” he says quickly. Almost like he know you'd say that. “Not unless you want to.”

You nod, pulse still racing. He kisses your knuckles.

“Then I’ll just take care of you. Like always.”

You rest your head against his shoulder, letting him pull you close again.

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to you, Y/n,” he says, assuredly, steadily, but with the tiniest, near-imperceptible catch in his voice. “I promise.”

His promise settles over you like a blanket. Heavy. Warm. Maybe a little too warm.

You lift your head slowly from his shoulder. His hand lingers at your back, fingers spread wide like he’s grounding you— like he’s grounding himself.

His eyes meet yours.

And for a long second, neither of you moves. The air is thick with something else now. Something that hums beneath your skin. Familiar. Electric.

Then he kisses you. Soft at first. Like he’s afraid this might break you both.

His lips brush yours once, then again, slower this time, lingering at the edge of a breath. His hand cradles the back of your head, thumb stroking the curve of your cheek as though memorizing the shape of you. You press into it without thinking, your towel slipping slightly from your collarbone. Neither of you seems to notice.

Or maybe you both do.

The kiss deepens— not rushed, not frantic, but needy. A hunger, old and rooted, rising between you like it’s been waiting. Like he’s been waiting.

His hands find your waist, guiding you into his lap without pause. You feel the shift in him, the restraint behind his careful movements. He touches you like you’re fragile, like he doesn’t trust himself not to crush you. But beneath the gentleness is need. Undeniable. Starving.

Your towel falls completely away. He exhales like the sight knocks the wind out of him.

“You’re so…” he breathes, almost to himself. His voice catches again, and he swallows hard. “God, I missed you so much.”

You don’t think much about that admission, or what he means by it. He lays you back slowly, like every motion is a prayer, trailing his fingers down your arms, your ribs, your hips— like he needs to relearn every inch of you. And everywhere he touches, he makes you feel good. Like your body belongs to you again, like the static behind your eyes fades into something quieter, softer.

But even in the haze of heat and skin and the sound of your name on his tongue, flashes keep surfacing. A bright light overhead. A cold floor beneath your back. Wires. A voice calling out numbers like data points. Something sharp at your temple.

You gasp— not from the memory, but from him.

He stills, looking down at you, pupils blown wide, breathing heavy.

“You okay?” he whispers. “Too much?”

You shake your head. “Don’t stop.”

So he doesn’t. He thrusts into you like he’s afraid this is the last time. Like every second is something borrowed. Like he needs to feel you— to have you— just to be sure you’re really here.

And when you come apart in his arms, he holds you through it like he’s anchoring himself, forehead pressed to yours, your names tangled between soft kisses and whispered sighs.

Afterward, he pulls the blanket up around both of you, wrapping himself around you like armor.

“I love you, Y/n,” he breathes out. “You know that, right? I’d do anything for you.”

And in a time where there doesn’t seem to be much you do know… That , without a doubt, you do.

Chapter Text

Dinner is quiet.

Bob insists on cooking again, and you let him. You sit at the kitchen table, watching him move around like he’s done this a thousand times. Like he lives for it. For taking care of you.

He hums under his breath while he chops vegetables. Ground beef sizzles in a pan. He plates your meal carefully and places it in front of you with a proud little smile. He sits across from you, watching more than eating, fingers tapping absently near his glass. Every few minutes, his hand drifts across the table to brush yours. Like he’s making sure you’re still there. Still warm.

You don’t talk about the shadows. Or the flashes of some other world. You just eat. And let him look at you like you’re something holy.

After dinner, the two of you curl up on the couch. Some sitcom plays on the television in flickering color; studio audience laughing and applauding, bright, empty dialogue. Bob sits behind you, legs on either side of yours, arms wrapped around your middle. You let the flicker of the screen wash over you in soft, muted light.

After a couple episodes, Bob’s just barely started to nod off, his head slumping slightly against your shoulder. There’s a disarming sense of comfort, of normalcy that builds in you. It warms you up from the inside.

But then, suddenly, the picture cuts out. Just a flicker. A twitch of static.

Then a woman’s voice: grainy and warped like it’s coming from underwater.

“...And remember: the Starfish can heal itself, but it cannot change the past. Starfish, if you hear this— wake up. You have to let go.”

Your breath catches. 

On the screen, color bleeds into a strange image: an abstract shape twisting in slow motion. Purple-pink tendrils. A hazy, pulsing center.

The words aren’t familiar, not really, but your body reacts before your mind does. Your fingers twitch, your jaw tightens. You blink hard, heart stuttering.

Starfish . The name rings somewhere inside you, like a bell struck deep in a cave.

And then— clear as glass— a voice, echoing in your memory. A woman’s voice. Thickly accented. Dry and amused and fond all at once:

“Come on, Starfish. Don’t be a complete idiot. He's crazy about you.”

You sit up slightly.

The image is already starting to unravel back into static, but Bob shifts behind you. You feel his entire body stiffen.

Then, click . Just like that, it’s gone. Back to the sitcom. Too loud. Too bright. Too normal.

You snap your head back toward Bob.

“…What was that?” you ask.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. “Huh?”

“That thing. That… message. About the… the starfish?”

“Oh. It’s just… Just some emergency test pattern, probably,” he says. “They splice in weird ones sometimes. Must’ve been left in the signal. You know how the antennas can get—”

“But—” You hesitate. “Why’d you change it?”

His brow furrows. “Oh, I didn’t— Didn’t want it to ruin our night. You were relaxed. It sounded… creepy, didn’t it?” You keep staring at him. But he just presses a soft kiss to your temple and murmurs, “Forget it. Just noise.”

Your head tilts back toward the screen. His arms tighten around you again, like he’s afraid you might float away.

Eventually, the tension in your limbs gives out. You doze like that, pressed against him, his heartbeat slow and steady behind your back.

You still don’t talk about the shadows. You try not to even think about the shadows or the starfish. Try not to wonder if they’re just in your head. Try not to remember how real they looked.

When he lifts you in his arms and carries you back to bed, you don’t protest.

The next morning comes gently. You wake to warm light slipping through the curtains and Bob’s fingers tracing lazy lines across your back. You’re tangled in the sheets, legs hooked over his, chest to chest. It feels… safe. It feels like something earned.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss against your forehead.

You hum sleepily, eyes still half-lidded. His hands don’t stop moving. Palming your waist. Stroking the slope of your shoulder. His touch is tender, but there’s something deeper beneath it. A hunger that didn’t die with the night.

He looks at you like he needs to keep touching you. Like letting go would mean losing something vital.

“You sleep okay?” he asks, voice low and crunchy.

“Mmhm.” You lie.

He smiles anyway, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“Good.” A pause. “You were talkin’ in your sleep again.”

You stiffen. “What’d I say?”

“Didn’t catch much. Just my name. Couple things that didn’t make sense.”

You swallow, throat dry. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says, softly. “I like it when you say my name.”

He kisses you again— slower this time, languid and warm— and then nuzzles into your neck, like he could stay here forever.

Eventually, he speaks against your skin. “Phil’s coming by later,” he says. “Gonna help me with the car. The— the alternator’s acting up again.”

You nod, still foggy with sleep.

“And of course, the wives need to have their time to gossip,” he teases. “So she’s coming by too. Hope that’s alright.”

“Yelena, right?” you ask.

He freezes. His hands halt their patterns. He pulls himself from your neck.

“What— what did you just say?”

Your breath catches just slightly. 

“I… Phil’s wife. I said her name.”

The warmth that had been radiating off him seems to vanish all at once, leaving the sheets colder than they were a moment ago.

“You said…” He swallows, slowly, like his throat has gone dry. “You— you said Yelena.”

You blink. “Yeah.”

A pause stretches between you. Too long. Too quiet.

Then, carefully, he pulls back just enough to look at you. There’s something tight in his face now, something he’s trying to wrestle down behind his eyes.

“Honey,” he says, and there’s a hitch in his voice he doesn’t quite manage to hide, “Phil’s wife is Dottie.”

You blink again. “Oh.”

He forces a smile, but it’s brittle at the edges. “You must be… uh— thinking of something else. Maybe a movie we saw or… I dunno.”

But you don’t let it go. You watch him instead, your brow pulling together.

“Why did I say that?” you ask quietly.

He shifts beside you. Too fast. Too stiff.

“I don’t— I don’t know. Maybe it just popped in your head.”

You hesitate. “Do I… know someone named Yelena?”

His eyes flicker again. “No,” he says too quickly. “I— I mean— not that I know of.” He corrects himself with a nervous chuckle. “I don’t… I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

You shake your head, frowning. “Do you?”

For the briefest second, something sharp flashes in his eyes. Recognition. Pain. Maybe guilt. But then it’s gone, replaced by the same easy smile he gave you earlier.

“No,” he says, softer now. “No, honey. Just a weird… I don’t know. You’re probably just tired. Still worn out.”

Worn out from what? You wonder.

He leans in and kisses your temple, a little too fast. A little too eager to move on.

“How about I make us some coffee, yeah?” he says, already untangling himself from the blankets. “Get some food in you. Bet you’ll feel better.”

He disappears into the kitchen before you can ask anything else.

And you’re left alone in the quiet, trying to figure out why the name Yelena still rings in your ears like a bell someone meant for you to hear.

You don’t stay in bed for long. The silence starts to press too heavy around you, and the smell of coffee drifting in from the kitchen is warm and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. You wrap the blanket around your shoulders and pad barefoot down the hall, following the soft clatter of dishes and the low hum of Bob’s voice. He’s talking to himself, like he does when he thinks no one’s listening.

You pause halfway there. You zero in on the wedding photo. You close your eyes again for a moment, and try to conjure a memory— any singular memory— of that day. And you come up empty.

But it looks so real . And you look so happy . 

You step into the kitchen a moment later. He’s at the stove, frying something. Eggs, you think. There’s toast on a plate already, and the coffee pot burbles gently beside him.

He glances up when he hears your footsteps and smiles, visibly relaxing at the sight of you.

“Hey,” he says, quiet and warm. “You didn’t have to get up.”

You shrug. “Didn’t want to stay up there alone.”

Something flickers in his face. Relief, maybe. Gratitude. Like he’s happy you still want his company. Like part of him thought you wouldn’t come down at all.

“Well,” he says, turning back to the stove, “you’re just in time for the best overcooked breakfast this side of the county.”

“Bob?”

He pauses in his stirring. “Mm?”

“Can you…” You tilt your head toward the picture. “Tell me about our wedding day?”

There’s a beat of silence. When you glance over, he’s standing frozen, bowl in hand, whisk mid-air. Then his face softens, visibly, all at once, like someone let the light back in. His whole body seems to loosen. His cheeks pinken just slightly.

“You… you want to hear about that?” he asks, and there’s something tentative in his voice. Something hopeful.

You nod.

He sets the bowl down, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, uh. I mean— sure. Yeah.”

He walks over, standing beside you, looking up at the photo like it’s the first time he’s really allowed himself to look at it.

“It was in April,” he says after a moment. “We got lucky with the weather. I remember that— that it was supposed to rain, but it didn’t. Stayed sunny the whole afternoon.” He laughs a little under his breath, shaking his head. “You wore those little white shoes with the ribbons. The ones you said made your feet look like frosting. You kept calling yourself a cake.”

You smile, and his eyes catch the curve of your mouth. He stumbles a little over his next words.

“You, uh… you were beautiful,” he says, quietly. “You always are. But that day… I mean, you— you took my breath away.”

You look up at him. “Was my family there?”

His smile wobbles just slightly. “Uh— yeah.” He pauses. Clears his throat. Nods. “Yeah, of course. Your dad— uh… shook my hand.” His eyes search your face for any indication of memory. You’re not sure what you give him. “Your mom said it was lovely.”

Yes , you think. That sounds like your parents. Right?

“You danced with me in the kitchen that night,” he adds, softer now. “After the reception, when we got home. Just the two of us. You said the event hall was too loud and your heels hurt and we didn’t need a fancy floor to dance on.” He gestures vaguely to the floor where you’re standing. “Right here. You took my hand and hummed that... that Sinatra song you love, and we just swayed back and forth like a couple of— of lovesick teenagers. I remember feeling like… like the luckiest guy in the universe.”

There’s a beat. There are parts that feel familiar. So familiar, in fact, that your heart starts to ache.

“I still feel like I am,” he tells you, fondness crinkling the corners of his eyes.

Your chest tightens, painfully tender.

Bob looks over at you, eyes glinting a little in the morning light. “I remember everything about that day,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Every second. I’d tell it to you a hundred times if you wanted. A thousand.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you reach for his hand. He laces his fingers through yours, holding on like he’s afraid to let go. Behind you, the stovetop turns noisy, sizzling and popping.

Bob blinks. “I, uh— should get the eggs before they burn.”

He lets go, reluctantly, heading back to the stove. But he keeps glancing at you. Like he’s making sure you’re still there.

You sit at the table while he finishes cooking— scrambled eggs, pancakes, and sliced oranges. He brings you a cup of coffee, setting it down just right, like it matters. Like you matter.

He moves around the kitchen with quiet focus, occasionally flashing you a shy, sideways smile. The radio hums on in the background— light music, a bit of news, someone talking about a local bake sale. Nothing real. Nothing sharp.

You eat together in a kind of hush, broken only by soft laughter, murmured jokes. His hand grazes yours when he reaches for the juice jug, and you catch that flicker of awe again in his eyes— like he still can’t believe you’re real.

At one point, he gently brushes some sticky syrup from your cheek, thumb lingering a second too long.

And you want to believe in this. You do.

But the name Yelena and the image of a starfish still scratch at the base of your skull, and when you glance out the window, the shadows on the lawn feel just a little too dark for morning.

Chapter Text

Just before noon, the doorbell rings.

Bob straightens too quickly. His eyes flick toward you. “That’ll be Phil and Dottie,” he says, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “You stay here, sweetheart. I’ll get it.”

But you’re already rising to follow him. He doesn’t stop you, but his hand finds the small of your back— guiding, hovering— like he’s trying to shield you from something, even now.

Your heart rate starts to kick up at the potential for something familiar. You’re hopeful that once the door swings open, you’ll be met with faces you know. Friendly ones, that might make you feel more— well, at home.

When Bob opens the door, Phil’s already grinning, sleeves rolled and toolbox in hand. And beside him stands Dottie. 

You fight the small frown that tugs at your lips; you know immediately that this is not anyone you know. Perfectly coiffed hair. A lemon-yellow shift dress with a matching belt. Pearls. Gloves. Lipstick red and rich.

“Bobby,” she sings, kissing his cheek. “Aren’t you just the handsomest man on the block?”

“Hiya, Dot,” Bob mumbles, flushed. “Uh… come in. Please.”

Phil claps him on the back. “Let’s go have a look at that car, huh?”

Bob hesitates. He glances at you, then back at Dottie. “Maybe you two could… maybe I should stay—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Dottie cuts in, already sweeping past him. “Your wife and I will be perfectly fine, Bobby. You’re being ridiculous.”

Bob stiffens, jaw flexing. He looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Just gives you one last look before disappearing with Phil down the driveway. And then it’s just you and Dottie, standing in the doorway like two actresses on the wrong stage.

“Well,” she says, flashing you a gleaming smile. “Aren’t you just a picture. Come on, dear. Let’s sit and have a proper chat.”

You nod, a little dazed, and gesture toward the kitchen. “I— I’ll get us some tea.”

“Lovely,” she says, eyes already scanning the room. “You know I’ve always loved how sunny this place is in the morning.”

You busy yourself with the kettle, the mugs, the quiet clink of teaspoons and the sound of boiling water. Still, you feel her watching you. Watching everything .

You set the cups down and sit across from her at the kitchen table. She stirs hers gently, though she doesn’t take a sip.

“So,” she says, smiling over the rim of her cup, “how’s our little neighborhood treating you?”

You hesitate. “It’s… nice. Quiet.”

“Oh, it’s always quiet,” she says, too fast. “That’s what makes it so lovely. Just the same every day. Predictable. Peaceful. Perfect, really. Hard to imagine anyone leaving once they’ve settled in.”

Her smile twitches at the edges.

“I suppose it must be quite the change from before,” Dottie adds, watching you closely. “You and Bob, always on the move. So exciting. So… dramatic.”

You frown. “Before?”

She tilts her head, still smiling. “You know. Your old life. Before Westview. All that traveling you two did. That little apartment in Boston. Or was it D.C.? Chicago? Gosh, I can’t keep up. I swear, it’s like the story changes every time.”

You hesitate. Something tugs at you from deep inside. Distant. Slippery. You don’t think you’ve ever lived in any of those places. You did live in a big city, though. You’re sure of that.

“I—” You look down at your tea. “I don’t… Um…”

Dottie’s gaze sharpens almost imperceptibly. “Bobby said you’ve been having a hard time.”

You shake your head. “It’s been really cloudy. Since… everything.”

She hums softly, like that’s what she expected you to say. “Of course it has. Poor thing.”

You try to recover. “But Bob’s been great. He’s really… he’s been taking care of me.”

“Yes,” she says, her smile twitching. “He’s always been so devoted to you.”

You shift in your chair, uncomfortable. “We’re married,” you say, like that explains anything.

“Of course,” she replies, airily. Her tone is light, but her eyes aren’t. “How lovely. I didn’t get to attend the wedding. I’m sure it was just beautiful. Where was it again?”

You hesitate again. “Um…”

Another long pause. Your stomach knots. You shift in your seat.

“Well,” Dottie says, drawing out the word, “these things happen. A little confusion is natural after what you’ve been through.”

Your mouth opens, purses, then falls shut again embarrassingly. You clench your teeth. You weigh the idea of outright asking— of fishing for direct information. But before you can get the question out— what happened to me? — she moves.

Slowly, she reaches into her purse. Her hand emerges with something wrapped in tissue paper. Carefully, almost reverently, she peels it back and slides the object across the table between you. The shape of it is familiar before she even sets it down: small, curved, lumpy in its wrapping like a child’s craft project. With both hands, she places it gently in the middle of the table.

A ceramic starfish. 

She slides it toward you like it’s something sacred. Like it’s something dangerous.

“I was told to give this to you,” she says, voice low. Hollow.

You stare at it, not understanding. The soft pink glaze, the slightly uneven edges. You could swear there’s a fingerprint pressed into the clay, right in the center. Something in your stomach turns.

You frown. “Told by who?”

She doesn’t answer.

You glance back down at the starfish. Something twists in your chest. You don’t know why. You don’t remember why. But your throat goes tight. Your hand shakes a little on the spoon as you set it down.

Then: a laugh. A memory. High and teasing, sharp with an accent. “Starfish, if you’re not in the training gym in ten minutes, I’m taking the good treadmill.”

A blonde woman flashes in your mind. Combat boots. Eyes like razors. That laugh. That voice. You clutch at it— reach for the memory— but it slips away like water. Still. It’s something. And it connects two fragments for you.

“Who— who told you to give this to me?” you ask, sharper now.

Her expression shifts. She goes very still.

Then, voice barely audible: “I can’t say.”

“Why not?”

Her hand tightens around her purse, knuckles whitening.

“Please don’t ask me again.”

“Dottie, did Yelena—”

“Don’t!” she squeaks.

You flinch at her panic. “I don’t—”

“He sees everything,” she whispers.

You freeze. Her eyes are huge now. Shiny and strange. The smile she wore when she walked in is gone completely, hollowed out and warped like it was left too long in the sun.

“ He sees… Who are you—”

“I shouldn’t have come,” she says. Her hand shakes as she snaps her purse closed. “He’ll know. Every time he… He always knows.”

You rise halfway from your chair. “Who will?”

She just shakes her head.

“I’ve already said too much.”

“Dottie, please—”

“Sweetheart?” Bob’s voice rings out, too loud, too bright. “You doing alright?”

You whirl around.

He’s already striding into the house, golden light still faintly buzzing at his fingertips like static he forgot to switch off. His smile is wide. Too wide. And right behind him, Phil lingers awkwardly in the entryway, scratching the back of his neck like he just walked into the middle of a private argument.

Dottie freezes. You react faster. Your hand snaps out, snatching the ceramic starfish and shoving it into the pocket of your skirt just as Bob rounds the corner into the kitchen. The tissue paper trails like a ghost, caught on your knuckles before you stuff that away too.

He sees you standing, startled. He sees Dottie pale and trembling. His smile doesn’t falter. But his eyes flash. The golden light in his irises sharpens, thins.

“There she is,” he says, voice honey-sweet. “Everything alright in here?”

Phil’s head bobs behind him. “We just came back in to grab our things. Turns out we didn’t have the right part for the car.”

“Such a shame,” Bob says smoothly, already crossing the room and placing a warm hand on your lower back. “But no worries. You two can always come back another day.”

Dottie flinches under his gaze. Visibly.

Phil chuckles nervously. “Sure, maybe next weekend—”

“I think it’ll be a while, actually,” Bob cuts in. His hand tightens just slightly on your back. His other arm sweeps to the side, already ushering Phil toward the front door. “Busy season coming up, you know how it is. We’ll reach out when things settle.”

Dottie finally stands. Her hands tremble slightly as she clutches her purse. “Thank you for the tea,” she says, voice hollow. “I should be going.”

Bob steps aside just enough to guide them both toward the door, his other hand never leaving your back. “Bye now,” he says, too smoothly, jaw clenched. “And hey— maybe give the Missus a little space next time. She’s still recovering.”

Phil mumbles something polite, then they’re gone. The door shuts. The lock clicks.

Bob exhales. A long, slow breath through his nose. Then he turns back to you, still smiling, but the gold in his eyes is sharper now. Too bright. Too intent.

“Well,” he says lightly. “That was a lot, wasn’t it?”

You force a shaky smile. “She’s… intense.”

His brow furrows for half a second, like he’s calculating how much you mean by that. Then the smile returns.

“Yeah. Dottie’s always been a little off. Nothing to worry about. I just wouldn’t take anything she says seriously.”He turns toward you, brushing some imagined dust from your shoulder. “I thought maybe seeing her might help. Someone familiar. Someone normal. But… maybe that was too much for you.”

You flinch slightly. “What do you mean?"

“She tends to talk a lot,” he says, not quite answering. “Say things that don’t always make sense.” His eyes scan your face now, searching. “Did she… say anything strange?”

You shrug, trying to sound casual. “Not really.”

His gaze lingers on you. Too long.

“You sure?” he asks, protective edge creeping back into his voice.

You nod, keeping your hand curled protectively near your pocket. The starfish presses against your fingertips, cool and solid. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t quite believe you. You can tell. The air between you stretches thin.

Then he reaches for your cheek, stroking it lightly with his thumb. “I’m sorry if that upset you,” he says, quieter. “I just wanted to help.”

You manage a small nod.

He presses a kiss to your temple, and his breath lingers there. “You don’t have to worry about her anymore,” he murmurs. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Your stomach twists, but you smile and nod. You don’t ask him what he means.

The next morning, the house feels too quiet again. Too still. You wake in Bob’s arms, and for a moment— just a moment— you let yourself pretend it’s fine. That none of it’s fractured. That your life isn’t unraveling at the seams like thread pulled from the hem of something you didn’t sew.

But then the memory of Dottie’s face flickers behind your eyes.

“He sees everything.”

You lie still long after Bob stirs and kisses your hair and offers to make pancakes. Your fingers find the pocket of your nightdress when he’s not looking. The starfish is still there. Cool. Smooth. Heavy in a way that has nothing to do with its weight.

You watch Bob in the kitchen again, moving with that perfect ease— too perfect now. Too rehearsed. He hums under his breath as he flips pancakes, same song as yesterday. As the day before. He sets a plate down in front of you and kisses the top of your head, then sits beside you like everything is fine. Like yesterday never happened.

You stare at the plate.

“Hey,” he says lightly. “Do you… do you want something different?”

You snap your gaze up to him. You’re met with his worrying eyes, his mouth halfway to a frown.

You shake your head absently, pushing the food around with your fork. “No— no, this is… Thank you.”

His lips screw to the side, and his brow scrunches slightly, but he digs into the plate in front of him.

A long silence.

Then, carefully, you say, “I was thinking… maybe I should visit my friends today.”

Bob freezes, just slightly. A tick in his jaw. “Your friends?” he echoes.

You nod. “Yeah. I feel like… I’ve been home a lot lately. I should get out. Just for a little.”

He tilts his head. “Which friends?”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Something cold settles into your stomach.

“I don’t…” you shake your head. You can’t even conjure up a single name right now. Well, there’s one name you could say, but you’ve already seen how uneasy that makes him. “I just thought it might be nice to—”

“Sweetheart.” He’s watching you too closely now. His smile stretches, uneasy. “I don’t think you’re quite ready for any of that yet.”

“Why not?”

“I just— I think it’s better if we ease into things. Don’t want to overwhelm you. You’ve been through a lot.”

“Oh,” you say, trying to avoid his eyes. “Well… maybe I could just go for a walk, then. Clear my head.”

He tilts his head lower, meeting your gaze. His smile’s still there, but it’s a little too wide. “I could go with you.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s okay. I just… I think I need a little space.”

A beat. And then, soft, almost pained: “From me?”

Your stomach knots again.

“No,” you say quickly. “That’s not what I meant.”

He sighs, gripping his fork. “I don’t want you out alone, not when you’ve been feeling cloudy.” His lower eyelid twitches ever-so-slightly. “I mean, what if— what if something happens? What if you forget where you are? What if… what if you get hurt?”

“I was just thinking—”

“You’re not thinking, is the problem!” He slams the fork down on the counter with a sharp clang .

You flinch, then go still.

His chest rises and falls in short bursts. His eyes flare, golden and too bright. The air in the room is effectively sucked out.

“I’m sorry,” you say, small and soft.

Your intimidated tone draws his attention sharply. He sees your expression then. The fear. The way your shoulders tense. His face crumples.

“Oh no,” he breathes, his chair scraping against the linoleum as he backs it up slightly. “No, no, I didn’t mean to yell, I didn’t—”

You don’t say anything.

His hands tremble as he lifts them in surrender, eyes glassy and wet. “I just— God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Sweetheart, I—”

You still don’t speak. The lump in your throat is too heavy. He reaches across the table, holding your forearms tightly. 

“I just want to keep you safe,” he says again.

You nod, hollowly. “Right.”

He strokes your cheek with the back of his hand. His skin is warm. Too warm. “Tell you what— we’ll take a walk later. Together. Just us.”

“Okay,” you lie.

You never end up going on that walk. He doesn’t bring it up again, and you’re too afraid to. The rest of the day passes in a kind of hush. 

Bob never strays far from your side. He’s gentle— gentler than usual, even— his movements small and careful, like he’s afraid to spook you. He brings you tea in your favorite mug, sets out a blanket on the back porch so you can sit in the sun together, making sure to keep you away from the big shady tree. He doesn’t mention Dottie again. Or your request to see your friends.

But you feel the way he watches you. Not accusingly. Not quite. Just... nervously. Like he’s waiting for something to slip.

Still, he’s sweet. Overly so. He helps you into a sweater even though it’s barely chilly. He insists on rubbing your shoulders when you sigh. He tells you he’s making your favorite for dinner— though you can’t recall ever eating eggplant lasagna in your life.

You don’t protest. You eat. You smile when he wants you to.

Because something about this version of him, this hovering, doting Bob, is easier to sit with than the golden-eyed storm you saw in the kitchen that morning. And the truth is, you want to believe him. You want to believe in the warmth of his hand brushing yours, in the stories he tells as the sun dips low outside the window.

It’s during dinner that he starts in on them again. The stories.

“Do you remember our old neighbor in Boston? The one who swore her cat could talk?”

You blink. “Boston?”

He tilts his head, smile faltering just slightly. “You— you loved that place. With the reading nook? The little bookstore around the corner?”

“I… I think I do.” You want to. You want it to feel real. But it doesn’t.

He tries again, weaving another memory. “Or our first vacation together— God, that awful motel in Vermont? With the bees?”

You laugh politely. You nod. You say, “Right,” and “Oh, yeah,” when it feels like you should.

But it’s like listening to someone else’s story. Your smile fades. Your fork slows against the plate.

“Do… do you remember?” he asks gently.

You look down. “No. Not really.”

A beat of silence. His gaze is steady, but something behind his eyes flickers.

“Do you…” he starts, then stops. He swallows. He takes your hand in his. “Do you remember New York?”

And then, like a stone skipping across still water, something surfaces. You grasp at it.

“I remember… a rooftop,” you say slowly. “A highrise. In New York.”

“Yeah?” he asks, running his thumb across the back of your hand.

“It was summer,” you continue, brow furrowing. “Some kind of party. You were wearing that navy blue tie, and your hair was messy, and… and there were string lights strung across the railing.” It all spills out from your mouth before you even process it.

Bob stares at you, unmoving.

“Your boss was there,” you continue. “And you were nervous. They had just given you a promotion, or— or…” You pause, eyes narrowing as the shape of it forms. “Something big and— and exciting happened. And then you took me to the far side of the roof. And…”

Bob’s expression is unreadable. Like glass.

“And you asked me to marry you.” You blink, stunned by how vividly it plays in your mind. The rush of city sounds below. The soft breeze in your hair. The shaky way he held your hand. “You didn’t even kneel,” you say, breathless. “You just… asked.”

He still doesn’t speak.

“And I said yes,” you add, meeting his eyes. “I said yes, didn’t I?”

His mouth parts. A moment of silence stretches, too long.

Then he exhales, a shaky breath that turns into a laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sweetheart. You did.”

He leans forward, reaching for your face, and when his lips brush yours, there’s no light this time. Just warmth. Just a soft, trembling pressure.

You let him kiss you.

Because that memory felt real. Real in a way nothing else has lately. And for the first time in days, the knot of suspicion in your chest loosens. Just a little. Not all the way. But enough.

You don’t notice the faint ache in your thigh again until later, when you’re undressing for bed. The starfish is still tucked away in the pocket of your skirt, small and cold and silent.

Chapter Text

Later that night, after dinner and after Bob’s stories have faded into soft humming from downstairs, you find yourself alone for the first time in hours.

Bob had insisted on drawing you a bath— lavender and rose, like always. He’s so gentle about it. So proud of himself for remembering. He kisses your forehead before leaving you to it, saying, “Call me if you need anything, okay?” with that soft, hopeful smile like he still wasn’t sure if he’d earned the right to be needed.

Now the water is warm, nearly too warm, and the room is hushed with steam. Candlelight flickers against the tiled walls. The kind of ambiance you’re supposed to feel relaxed in.

But you’re not relaxed.

Once you hear his footsteps retreat down the hall and down the stairs, your hand moves to your robe hanging on the back of the door. You dig carefully into the lining of its pocket.

And there it is. The starfish.

Still wrapped in its crumpled tissue paper, just barely. You peel it back with trembling fingers. It’s so small. So unassuming. A faint pink glaze, a childish shape, its edges a little lopsided. Someone made this by hand.

You hold it up to the light. There, pressed into the clay, faint but real, is a fingerprint.

Your thumb runs over the tiny dimple, again and again. You don’t know why, but the touch makes something burn behind your eyes. It’s not the starfish itself. It’s the weight of it. Like it belongs somewhere else. Somewhere important.

You sink into the tub and close your eyes. Your mind flickers.

A large room, with foam padding along the floor and walls. Weighted bags strung up by chainlink from the ceiling, and dozens of gadgets scattered throughout that seemed much more technologically advanced compared to everything surrounding you in this world.

A voice, low and accented, cutting through your thoughts like a blade:

“No, no— keep your thumb outside your fist. You want to punch them, not break your own hand, Starfish.”

You inhale sharply.

A woman. She had short blonde hair, wild and messy. Striking blue eyeliner. Laugh lines that curved even when she wasn’t smiling. She smelled like leather and smoke. You remember her eyes. Clever. Kind. Tired.

Another flash: her knuckles tap your jaw. She rolls her eyes.

“You’re thinking about him again, aren’t you?”

Your heart jumps.

“You are so obvious.” A smirk. A nudge of her elbow into your ribs. “You gonna kiss him or keep writing bad poetry in your notebook like a sad little puppy?”

“Shut up,” you’d said back. You remember that. The warmth of it.

The air in the bathroom suddenly feels too thick.

You clutch the starfish tighter, water dripping from your fingers now, as your other hand lifts to cover your mouth. The memory is thin, gossamer, but it’s real. It feels real. This memory smells like metal and sweat and gunpowder. It feels fast. Alive. Dangerous. And safe, somehow. Like the truth.

It feels like the memory of New York. Of the rooftop, of being held by Bob. And that drives you even crazier. Because now it feels even more impossible to untangle fiction from reality.

But that woman. She knew you. You don’t know her name. But she knew you. She knew how you fought. How you thought. How you felt.

Not like Bob. Not in the gentle, doting way he looks at you across the dinner table. Not in the curated way he tells you stories, softly pressing them into your head like puzzle pieces he’s trying to make fit. This woman, the one with the fierce eyes and the teasing grin, she didn’t handle you like glass. She expected you to punch harder.

You feel dizzy.

The world tilts, just slightly, like a picture frame that’s come unhooked on one side. Your fingers slip on the slick surface of the starfish, and the pain hits, sharp and sudden, right at the base of your skull, blooming hot and tight along the left side of your neck.

You gasp, dropping the starfish into the water with a soft splash, clutching at your neck with one wet hand. The edges of your vision blur.

No, no, no.

You fumble, panic rising fast and cold in your throat. Your breath stutters. You fish the starfish out of the water and clutch it tight in your palm.

“Bob,” you whisper first, then louder, voice cracking, “Bob—!”

There’s no pause. No hesitation.

In less than a second, the bathroom door swings open with a gust of wind that blows out one of the candles. The air rushes in behind him. And he’s there, suddenly, beside you. All wide eyes and worry, glowing faintly at the edges.

“Hey— hey, what’s wrong?” He crouches beside the tub, already reaching for you. His hands are under your arms before you can answer. “Did something happen? What’s wrong?”

“I— I just got lightheaded,” you say quickly. Your voice wobbles. “My neck hurts. Just… all of a sudden.”

Something flashes across his face. It’s not panic. Not quite. It’s something scarier. Recognition.

His arms tighten as he lifts you out of the water with that easy, terrifying strength, effortless but gentle. One hand on your back, the other behind your knees. You clutch at his shoulder with the hand not clasped around the starfish as water drips from your skin and soaks into his white shirt.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He sets you down carefully on the bathmat, wraps a towel around your shoulders, another over your legs. His hands are everywhere at once, drying you off like you might fall apart if he’s not fast enough. He presses his forehead to yours for a moment, eyes squeezed shut.

“I’m okay,” you say, even though your neck still throbs dully.

“You’re not,” he says hoarsely. “Tell me what it felt like.”

You hesitate. “Just… pressure. At the base of my neck. But it’s already going away, I think. I probably just got overheated.”

He pulls back, wiping a bead of water off of your cheekbone. “Have you been… Has that been happening a lot?”

“No,” you say. “No, it… that was the first time.”

“You have to tell me when stuff like that happens, Y/n,” he says, near scolding tone.

“I just did,” you say, shrinking again.

“I know.” He exhales, tight and strained, like he’s holding something in. His fingers twitch slightly against your arm. “I know. Just… it’s— it’s feeling better now?”

You nod. And you keep your fist enclosed around the starfish.

He stares at you for a long moment, eyes flickering to your neck, then back to your face. That same look, like he knows something, but won’t say. You want to ask. You almost do.

“You need to rest,” he tells you.

He lifts you again, wrapped in towels now, and carries you to the bed like it’s second nature. You feel the slow hum of power beneath his skin as he holds you, settling you gently onto the mattress. He helps you dry off and then guides you into your pajamas, the silk cooling you.

His hands linger a little too long as he tucks the covers around your shoulders, and he kneels beside the bed, watching you with those piercing blue eyes.

You shift, turning toward him, still dazed from the heat and the pain and the weight of the memory you’re trying not to let yourself remember. Your fingers find his wrist and tug, just barely.

“Stay,” you murmur.

His whole body sags with relief.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Of course.”

He climbs in beside you slowly, careful not to jostle you. His body is warm, almost too warm again, but solid. Familiar. The bed dips slightly as he wraps an arm around your waist, sliding in close until your back is pressed to his chest and his breath is ghosting against your hair.

You close your eyes. But your thoughts don’t quiet. Not yet.

The image of the blonde woman flickers again, ghosting behind your eyelids: the smirk, the punch, the voice that said starfish with so much exasperated fondness. The heat of the memory lingers in your neck like phantom pain. You shift slightly, pressing your cheek into the pillow.

You feel his hand drift across your side, resting over your ribs. Protective. Anchoring.

“Still hurts?” he whispers.

You hesitate. Then, quietly, “No. Not anymore.”

“Good.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then another just behind your ear, lips soft and lingering. “Scared the hell out of me.”

You nod faintly. “Scared me too.”

“I’ve got you now,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to be scared. You don’t have to do anything . I’m here.”

He kisses your temple. His hand draws lazy, slow circles against your side like he’s trying to soothe you back into your body.

And slowly, you let him. You let his touch replace the strange pull behind your eyes. Let his voice anchor you in the now, not the then. Let his arms wind tighter around you, not like a trap, but like a promise.

You shift in the sheets until you’re facing him.

He’s watching you already, that soft worried furrow still between his brows. You reach up and brush it away with your thumb. His eyes flutter shut like even that little touch is too much. He leans forward instinctively, gently, and kisses you again. Just once, on the mouth. Tender and uncertain. Like he’s asking a question.

You answer him by kissing him back.

Your fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt. His hand cradles the back of your neck, warm and careful, as if afraid the pain might return. But it doesn’t.

You press your forehead to his and whisper, “I’m okay.”

His breath shudders. “Good.”

He pulls you in again. Wraps himself around you like armor.

The memories will still be there in the morning. The starfish, carefully tucked under your pillow. The questions still unanswered. But right now, his warmth surrounds you like a cocoon. His heartbeat thumps steady against your chest.

You’re not sure when you slipped under, or how long it’s been since. Only that you wake slowly, and warmly, and gently, to the soft press of lips at your neck.

Your eyes flutter open, but you don’t speak.

His mouth moves again, reverent and slow, brushing against the place just beneath your jaw. Then lower, to the hollow between your collarbones. His breath fans across your skin, and when he kisses you there, it’s with a kind of aching tenderness, like he’s rediscovering you.

You don’t stop him.

You tilt your head, offering more. His arm tightens around your waist, fingers drifting over your side, up your ribs, until he finds the line of your hip. His other hand slides up your back, drawing you in as he kisses your sternum, the edge of your shoulder, the place behind your ear. It’s worshipful, almost.

And it’s not just about your body. It’s the way he’s breathing. The way he’s shaking. The quiet, broken way he murmurs your name into your skin like he’s terrified he’ll lose it again.

You sigh into his touch. Your hand tangles in his hair. He groans softly at the feeling, and then he’s kissing you again. Deeper now, lips moving with more insistence, more need.

You arch into him. He shifts above you, his hand gliding beneath your shirt and up your side, leaving goosebumps in his wake. And when you gasp softly, he pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes search yours, stormy and dark and filled with something that makes your chest ache.

“I missed you,” he says, and it sounds like a confession.

“I’m right here,” you whisper.

His forehead rests against yours. You feel his whole body tremble.

Then— slowly, gently— he eases you back against the pillows. One hand on your hip. The other planted just above your head, tucked beneath the pillow as he leans over you, kissing you again.

But then, he freezes. Still as stone.

You blink. “What—?”

He doesn’t answer. Just stays there, barely breathing. Then he lifts the pillow. And pulls his hand back.

He’s holding the starfish.

“What’s this?” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

Your breath catches.

He holds it up to the light, and you see the expression on his face shift. Confusion first. Then something else. Dread. Just a second. Then he stills. Your heart stops. 

You both look at each other, caught red-handed. 

“Did you…” he starts, but he sees the panic on your face. “Where did you get this?” His voice is low. Tight. The question is sharp enough to slice through the quiet like a blade.

You prop yourself up on your elbows. “I— why? What is it?”

“Where did you get it?” he asks again, louder this time. More urgent. The softness in his voice is gone.

You blink at him. “Bob, what is it?”

He doesn’t answer. He just pulls himself away from you, sitting up, and stares at the starfish, his eyes glassy, wide, wild. His fingers are shaking. “This shouldn’t be here,” he whispers.

Something in your chest twists. “You know what it is.”

He shakes his head, too fast, then nods, then shakes it again like the truth is rattling around too loud inside his skull. “No. No, no. You— how— how— how did you— where did this come from?”

You say nothing.

His hands tremble. “Tell me.” His eye twitches again, and your heart rate spikes. “ Tell me .”

“I don’t remember,” you lie.

His jaw tightens. The golden halo returns to his eyes. “ Who gave this to you? ”

You swallow. “Why won’t you just tell me what it means?”

“Because it’s not supposed to be here!” he snaps, voice cracking. “It doesn’t belong here!”

You recoil. “Bob—”

He doesn’t look at you. He’s still staring at the thing in his hand. His fingers tighten around it slightly— not enough to break it, not yet, but enough to make your stomach twist.

“This,” he says, jaw tightening, “ this and that— that thing on the TV… They don’t belong here. They’re— they’re not supposed to be here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They’re making you worse,” he mutters, mostly to himself now. “That’s what— that’s what it is. That’s— that has to be what it is. It’s interfering. It’s— it’s her .”

Your breath catches. “Who?”

His gaze flicks up, sudden and sharp. There’s panic behind his eyes, masked by anger. Rage. But not at you.

You realize what it is, all at once. The memory. The voice. The laugh. The teasing accent.

“…Yelena,” you say.

Bob goes still. Color drains from his face like someone pulled the plug.  You sit up fully now, tugging the sheet with you, but his eyes don’t leave the ceramic in his hand. He’s clutching it tight.

“Bob,” you whisper. “What does this have to do with her?”

But he doesn’t hear you.

“She— she— she doesn’t get it,” he says, low and shaking. “She never got it. Keeps saying it’s— it’s broken, that it’s dangerous, that it’s— it’s— it’s not working the way it’s supposed to. But— but it is. It i s working. I’ve kept it… kept it stable. I’ve kept you stable.”

“Bob—”

“You don’t— you don’t understand,” he says quickly, turning toward you, eyes huge and bright and terrifying. “I’ve been doing everything right. I’ve kept them all away from you, I’ve— I’ve made the adjustments, I’ve kept everything… I’ve kept it all under control, I swear—”

“What are you talking about? Who? Adjustments to what?”

“I’m keeping you safe,” he says, breath hitching. “That’s what this is. All of it. The— the monitoring, the buffers, the— she keeps saying it’s a— it’s a containment issue, that the—” his breath catches again. “The Void is creeping back in, but that’s— that’s wrong. That’s not what this is. That’s not what you are.”

You feel your stomach bottom out.

“You’re scaring me,” you say softly. “Bob, you’re— what do you mean ‘the void’ is creeping back?”

He laughs. It's a horrible sound— thin and stretched and too loud for the small room. “You don’t see it? You don’t feel it?” His eyes flick wildly around the room like he half-expects shadows to start crawling out of the walls. “He’s in the shadows, Y/n! That’s— that’s him, outside, trying to come through. That’s—”

He cuts himself off. You see a tear start to form in the corner of one eye, but he blinks it away violently.

“I love you,” he says suddenly, like a lifeline. Like he’s trying to anchor himself. “I’m doing this for you. Everything, this— this whole thing… You are what keeps it together.”

“Bob, please,” you beg, “just tell me what’s happening. Let me help.”

“You can’t.” His voice breaks entirely now. “You’re the only reason it’s still holding, don’t you see? I— I— I can’t let her break that. I can’t… I can’t let her make you doubt it. Because if you doubt it— if— if— if you remember—”

His voice cuts off in a strangled sound.

You shake your head, heart pounding. “Bob, none of this makes sense. Why won’t you just talk to me?”

“I am talking to you!” His voice cracks again, desperate and wild. His hand not holding the starfish clutches at the sheet. “I’ve been trying to protect you! From her. From— from them. They don’t trust me. They don’t trust this place, but it’s you. And I’m not going to let them take that away.”

The starfish glows faintly in his palm.

“Bob—”

“I’m doing this for you,” he says, pushing off the bed and standing up, and there are tears in his eyes now. “Everything. Everything I’ve done— every override, every patch, every lie— it was for you . Because you don’t— you don’t understand what they tried to do to you. You don’t see how close you are to disappearing again.”

Your chest is heaving now. “What did you do?”

“I fixed it!” he shouts.

The starfish flashes white-hot.

You barely have time to cry out— “Bob, stop!” — before the thing in his hand shatters into a million pieces. You flinch away, shielding your face as shards fly. Heat scorches the edge of your arm.

A sharp cry tears from your throat before you even understand why. Not pain. Not fear. Something deeper. A piece of something ancient cracks inside you. Like a seam in your chest splits open and lets light bleed out.

He stares down at his palm, breathless, stunned.

“Bob?” Your voice is shaking.

He doesn’t answer.

And for the first time, you realize he’s not looking at his hand. He’s looking through it. Past it. Like something else just stepped into the room.

His glowing gold eyes snap to yours. You freeze. 

“Bob,” you whisper, but it comes out more like a question. “Bob…”

He blinks, slow and glassy. Then again. The glow dims just a fraction, but not enough. Not nearly enough. You don’t move. You don’t dare.

His jaw works, like he’s grinding his teeth down to dust. Like he’s trying to make a decision he never wanted to make. His hand is still outstretched, trembling, the remnants of the starfish glittering faintly on his palm. 

He swallows. And then he says it.

“I shouldn’t have done that.” It’s soft. Barely a breath. And it sounds like it kills him to admit.

You stare. “Bob…”

“I’m sorry.” He takes a step forward, and your heart jumps to your throat. “I didn’t want this. I just wanted more time.”

You inch back, just slightly, and he sees it. His face crumples.

“No, no— sweetheart, don’t— don’t do that, please. I’m not— I’m not gonna hurt you,” he stammers. “I could never hurt you. You— you trust me, right?”

His voice is shaking. His whole body is shaking.

“Bob, I’m really scared,” you whisper, your voice breaking.

“I know,” he whispers back, and it sounds like it guts him. “God, I know. But this is the only way. You have to trust me.”

He kneels in front of you like he’s praying. Like you’re something holy and he’s begging for forgiveness.

“I just need to hold you. That’s— that’s all. This won’t hurt. You won’t even feel it.” His hands reach out and hover, barely grazing your arms before rising up, slowly, to your face. “Just let me hold you for a second. Please.”

You flinch, but he cups your face anyway, gently, tenderly, like you’re glass and he’s afraid you’ll shatter.

“I love you,” he says again, and this time the words splinter. “I love you. I love you. You don’t remember, but I do. I remember everything. Every time you slipped away from me.”

You’re crying now, silently. Because you don’t know what’s happening. Because you don’t know if this is Bob anymore. Because some part of you, buried deep in your bones, does remember something. But it’s wrapped in shadow and pain and it hurts to reach for it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and his thumbs brush your cheeks like he’s wiping away more than tears; like he’s trying to take the fear out of you. “I’ll fix it. I promise.”

The shadows in the corners of the room ripple. They pull at the edges of your vision, and you feel like the walls are falling away, like the floor isn’t holding you anymore. A hum starts in your ears. The light overhead dims.

And then it creeps in. It slithers like smoke. Thick, dark tendrils crawling inward from every corner of the room, reaching for your legs, your arms, the base of your spine. Your body tenses, but Bob’s hands keep you still. He’s cradling your head like you’re already asleep.

“You’ll wake up again,” he whispers. “And this time it’ll be better. You won’t remember the cracks. You won’t hear the noise. You won’t feel the pull. You’ll— you’ll be safe. I won’t let her get to you. I won’t let anyone get to you.”

“Bob—” you try, but your voice is warping, slurring, like you’re falling underwater.

“Shh,” he says, stroking your hair. “Just let go. I’ve got you.”

The gold in his eyes flares one last time.

And then the shadows close in.

You gasp, and everything goes dark.

The world winks out, and you’re back in the white room. Metal against skin. Hands holding your face still. And light. So much light . Blinding and sterile, pouring down from fluorescent panels above. It burns your eyes, even though they’re barely open.

Voices pierce through the fog:

“Try again. Higher dose this time—”

“Her neural map’s degrading too fast.”

“You can’t keep resetting her like this— there’s going to be permanent consequences, not just for her, but for the entire—”

Then a sharp, searing pain lances through your neck.

You scream, or try to, but it catches in your throat, no sound coming out, just that breathless agony that pulses behind your eyes. Your body seizes. The world warps sideways.

“She’s slipping— give me more stabilizer—”

“Override protocol isn’t holding— she’s still tethered to the residual—”

“Do it,” a voice booms.

Louder than the others. Deeper. Familiar.

Everything stills. The pain halts. Just like that. Like someone threw a switch.

The air grows thicker, heavier, until you feel like you’re breathing through syrup. Your limbs stop responding. Your fingers go slack, your jaw hangs useless. You can’t move. You can’t blink. You can’t scream. But your mind—

Your mind is still awake. And it feels pain .

“If we do this,” one of the other voices hisses, softer now, afraid. “There’s no telling what—”

“I said do it.” That same voice. Bob’s voice.

But not like you’ve ever heard it before. Cold. Commanding. Distant. Like it doesn’t belong to him anymore.

You want to cry out. To reach for him. To ask why. But you can’t move. The pain is gone, but so is everything else. Your breath. Your thoughts. Your name.

“She’s stabilizing,” someone murmurs, awed. “Readings are clearing— no Void signature detected.”

“Bring her back under. Clean slate. No bleed-through.”

“But— her emotional continuity—”

“It’s already compromised. Just do it.”

There’s a sound like a vacuum being sealed. A soft hiss, like pressurized air escaping. The bright lights above you flare, sear, and then vanish behind your eyes as they close on their own.

No one touches you, but you feel yourself lowering. Like your consciousness is being folded into something smaller, more manageable.

Then you hear a voice, close to your ear. Gentle now. Loving. His voice again.

“I’m here. You’re safe. Just sleep, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Your lips move, but no sound escapes.

The last thing you know is the feeling of his hand in your hair. And the sound of your own scream, echoing in a place far behind your teeth, as everything fades to black again.

You’re in a kitchen, knife in hand.

You don’t remember how you ended up with a knife in your hand. 

Hell, you don’t remember how you ended up in this room, in this house, or in this town. All you know is that you’re looking down at a cutting board piled high with diced carrots, and onions, and…

Blood. Thick, heavy droplets of blood. Dripping from your own hand.

No, not dripping.

Spilling. Cascading, like a river.

Chapter Text

You don’t move. You don’t feel any pain. You stand there, watching the crimson rush down your fingers, splattering onto the counter. You hardly even blink.

You grip the knife harder.

You hear the telltale sounds of a car engine rumbling closer to the house. The engine gets cut, and a door opens and closes. Footsteps approach the back door, and the figure is obfuscated by the lace curtains. They’re tall, with a strong build. They fuddle with their keys for a moment before successfully unlocking the door and stepping inside. They wipe their loafers off on the doormat before they look up, surprised to see you staring at them.

Even more surprised to see the blood spurting from your hand, and dripping onto the linoleum. 

“Oh God—”

The keys hit the floor with a sharp clatter. His briefcase is abandoned on the floor. He’s across the room in two long strides. Maybe less.

“Hey, hey— hey, look at me,” he says, voice pitching high, frantic and thin and barely holding together. His hands flutter uselessly in the air for a moment before they land on yours— gentle, shaking. “You’re— shit— you’re bleeding, you’re— what happened?”

You stare at him, blank. Your breath comes short.

“Where… where am I?” you whisper.

His face crumples, just for a second, before he pulls it back into something calmer. Controlled.

“Okay,” he says, breathlessly. “Okay. That’s okay. It’s okay, my love.” His voice cracks around the word. “You’re okay. You’re okay, I promise. You’re safe now. Just— come here. Let me see your hand—”

You blink at him, confused, as he starts guiding you gently toward the sink. His touch is trembling and reverent, like you might disappear again if he moves too fast.

“Why isn’t it healing?” he mutters under his breath. “Why isn’t it— why didn’t you—”

He pauses. Looks at you fully.

“You haven’t healed it yet,” he says slowly. “Why haven’t you…? Wait— do you… do you remember how to—?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He stares at you like the world just fell out from under him.

“Okay,” he says, voice rough. “Alright. It’s okay. Just— just do what I say, alright?”

You’re still bleeding. Your knees are shaking. You feel dizzy. But his voice anchors you.

“You just need to focus. I know it’s weird, I— I know you don’t remember, but it’s still in you, I swear it is. You just have to… to tap into it, okay?”

You nod, faintly, unsure why you're trusting him, but you do.

He shifts closer, his palm trembling as he wraps both hands around your bleeding one. You can feel the warmth of his skin. The desperate care in his touch.

“Just— just close your eyes,” he murmurs. “Focus. You used to say it feels like… like heat in your chest. Like something blooming.”

You close your eyes. You don’t feel anything. Just the throb of the cut. The weight of his voice.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Please. Please try.”

You concentrate. You don’t know how. You just listen to him. Feel his hands wrapped around yours. And slowly, something flickers. Deep in your ribs. A warmth. A spark. A hum like static, like power.

You gasp, sharp and sudden. And when you open your eyes, your hand is whole. No blood. Just a thick, waxy scar where the wound was. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a century.

“Oh thank God,” he whispers, pulling you against his chest. He holds you like he’s been drowning. His whole body is shaking. “Why were you… why did you… You don’t remember how to—”

“I’m sorry,” you say, though you don’t know why.

“No, I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “You don’t even know what’s happening, and I’m— God, I’m not helping.”

You shake your head, dazed. “I don’t know. I didn’t— I didn’t mean to—”

“Shh,” he whispers. “I know. I know. It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then he kisses your forehead, so soft it almost doesn’t land.

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to you,” he says, and this time, there’s a hard edge to it. A promise. 

A vow .

“You’re…” You frown, looking up at him. “You’re my husband.”

His breath stutters. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

You nod, trying to make sense of the warmth pooling in your chest. The way your skin knows his touch. The way your body wants to lean into him like he’s home.

You feel… safe. Bone-deep safe. The kind of safety that can’t be faked.

He presses his forehead to yours, voice barely audible.

“I’ll fix this,” he says. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise, I swear, I’ll make it right. You just have to stay with me. Okay?”

You close your eyes and nod. He holds you tighter.

He doesn’t let go of you for a long time.

Even after the panic eases from your body and the warmth in your chest fades into a low, dull thrum, he still holds you, one hand gently cradling the back of your head, the other splayed across your back like he’s afraid you might float away again.

“Come on,” he murmurs after a while, voice soft and tight. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You have no idea what time it is, and you feel like someone should clean the blood off of the cabinets and the floor, but you don’t protest.

He leads you upstairs like you’re made of glass, touching your elbow, your back, guiding you through the hallway you still don’t recognize. The sheets smell like cedar and sun. The room is quiet, the walls pale and papered in soft florals. It looks… normal. Safe. Clean. The kind of room someone might actually live a whole life in.

He helps you into bed, smoothing the blanket over your shoulders, brushing your hair back from your face with fingers that still tremble.

“Are you— do you want me to stay?” he asks, voice breaking at the edge.

You nod. Immediately.

He nods. He climbs in slowly beside you, careful not to jostle you. And then, tentatively, he pulls you against his chest. You let yourself rest against him. His arms wrap around you tight. Protective. Solid. 

You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing. Steady. Rhythmic. Almost enough to convince you that everything will be fine.

But then the dreams come.

Not nightmares, not exactly. Not the kind with fangs or blood or falling. These are quieter. Stranger. 

You only catch fragments of them: a rooftop under starlight, being trained in hand-to-hand combat, a sense of purpose, of belonging. 

And underneath it all, there’s a current of something else. A voice. Low and rasping. Like wind clawing through cracks in the walls. You can’t see it but you feel it, like cold fingers brushing the back of your neck.

“He can’t protect you,” it murmurs.

You try to move, but your limbs are heavy. Caught in the half-dream haze, where everything is real and nothing is solid.

“He’s trying to hold together something that was never real.”

You try to call out— Bob’s name, a whisper— but it won’t form. The voice hums in amusement.

“You’re trapped in the cage. You know that, don’t you? It’s your fault. It’s his fault. And that’s why it hurts. That’s why the cracks bleed.”

You finally eke out a whimper, trying to get the voice to stop.

Then, the weight shifts beside you. You feel the rise and fall of his breath. Bob stirs, arms tightening instinctively around your body like he felt it too. One of his hands finds yours beneath the blanket and squeezes, firm and steady. His voice, half-awake and hoarse, slips through the fog.

“Hey. Shh. I’m here.”

You feel his lips against your temple. Another kiss at your hairline. His thumb brushes slowly over your knuckles.

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’m right here.”

The voice falters. The smoke recedes. And your body, once tense and chilled and bracing for something terrible, begins to unwind. You shift closer. Bob’s body is so solid, so warm, it makes the dream feel like a faraway room with the door finally closed.

You breathe in. And then the memories shift again.

You’re no longer in a strange bed or a room lined with shadows. You’re somewhere familiar, dim golden light spilling in through windows, Bob’s arms looped around you from behind as the two of you sway in the kitchen to a Sinatra tune. You can feel his stubble against your neck, his quiet laughter when you miss a step and step on his foot. You’re in a kitchen, but not the one downstairs.

You don’t remember this memory. Not fully. But your heart does. Your body leans into his the same way it always did.

And in the real bed, wrapped in his arms, you finally drift deeper into sleep. Still scared. Still uncertain. But no longer alone.

You dream the whole night of Bob caring for you, of loving you, of moments of your life together. You come close to identifying particular memories, but it’s all ripped from your grasp by the morning sun and the birdsong just through the window.

The days pass in sun-drenched stillness. Bob is there every second. Making tea. Fixing toast. Reading the paper aloud in the morning with a mild, bashful kind of humor. You notice the little things. How he always pours your drink first. How he hums old standards when he’s folding towels. How he touches your shoulder as he passes, as if needing to confirm you’re still there.

He fusses over you constantly (more than necessary, you think) but you don’t push him away. You can’t. His attention is a balm. Even if you’re still confused. Even if every corner of this picture-perfect house seems built on air.

You don’t remember the names of the neighbors. Or which drawer holds the forks. Or how the hell you got here in the first place.

But you remember him.

You remember the way your body relaxes when he enters the room. You remember how his voice smooths over the raw places in your chest like cool water. You remember his arms wrapped around you, and the fierce, frightened love in his eyes.

So you don’t ask questions. And he doesn’t offer answers.

He never lets you leave the house alone. You try once, just stepping out onto the front step to feel the sun, and he’s there in an instant, voice gentle but firm.

“Let’s not do that,” he says, with a soft, nervous laugh. “You’re still healing. You need rest. Just… stay close. Please?”

You nod. You go back inside.

You still don’t know what you’re healing from. But it must’ve been something serious.

You find yourself falling into the routine he creates around you. Breakfast at 8. Coffee by the window, but not too close. Reading and radio plays in the afternoon. Dinner at six sharp. A kiss on the cheek. A soft hand on your back.

It’s quiet. Idyllic. Dreamlike. Too dreamlike.

Sometimes you catch the tail end of something else, flickers of memory that vanish too fast to chase. A hallway that shouldn’t exist. A woman’s voice you almost remember, accent thick. A name that slips between your teeth before you can speak it.

But every time you open your mouth to ask, you see the look in his eyes.

The way he watches you, breath held. The way he holds your hand just a little tighter. The way he reaches into your pockets, searching for what exactly, you’re not sure. So you don’t ask.

Instead, you let him lead you through this life. You smile when he makes corny jokes. You sit on the couch while he reads to you from books you don’t remember owning. You kiss him goodnight and let him curl around you like armor.

The voice comes back at night. Always at night. When the house is quiet and the lights are low and Bob’s breathing steadies behind you like a tide pulling at the shore.

It doesn't come with thunder or lightning. No dream this time. Just the darkness pressing in, the gentle warmth of Bob's arm draped around your waist… and a whisper that makes your skin crawl.

“You’re not real.”

You stiffen. Your fingers twitch against the sheets. You stare into the shadows of the room, half-convinced there’s a shape of a person in them

“You think this is life? This is a story he wrote for you. A soft little lie so you wouldn’t fight.”

Your stomach turns. You squeeze your eyes shut, try to burrow deeper into Bob’s arms, but the voice curls behind your ear like smoke. You swear it almost sounds like Bob.

“You’re an echo. A glitch. He’s hiding you from the truth. Because if you saw it— if you remembered— he’d lose you.”

You press your hands to your face. Hard. Try to will it away. “Stop,” you whisper.

Bob stirs behind you.

“Sweetheart?” His voice is soft, thick with sleep. “You okay?”

You shake your head. He shifts closer. Wraps you in his arms again like a cocoon. His breath ghosts across your neck as he kisses your temple.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “You’re safe. I promise.”

You nod. But the voice doesn’t go.

“You really believe that?”

You try to drown it in Bob’s voice. In his touch. In the way he says he loves you over and over, like a mantra.

“I love you,” he whispers again now, cupping your cheek, voice thick with devotion. “So much. You don’t have to worry about anything. Just let me take care of you. Okay? That’s all I want. I just want to take care of you.”

“He says that,” the voice hisses, “but he makes everything worse.”

Those words in particular slice something open. And suddenly, you’re not in the bed anymore. Not in the house. Not in his arms. You’re somewhere else. 

Wind howls through the concrete canyons of New York. And you’re standing in the middle of a shattered avenue, boots on asphalt, back braced against falling rubble. Your hands are glowing, crackling with the same energy you felt in the kitchen, when you healed your hand. You’re holding onto someone’s shin, as your cosmic light stitches the large gash back together.

People are shouting, sprinting, running away from something. You’re flanked by a team of people, all as battered and bruised as you are. You recognize them deep down, but you can’t think of any of their names.

And in the center of it all, some thing — not a man, not a god, not anything you can name— floating above the ground, body rotted through with void-light, eyes like broken stars.

And if you didn’t know any better (which is up for debate; because what exactly do you know?), you’d say the silhouette looks exactly like Bob.

“If you want the truth…” it says to you, in that same voice you've been hearing at night. “You know where to find me.”

Chapter Text

You wake to Bob setting down a mug of coffee on the bedside table and smiling at you like he hasn’t slept either. The bags under his eyes are dark and defined. He’s gentle in that way he always is with you now, every motion slowed down and cushioned as though you’re made of glass.

But you’re not glass. You’re not broken. You’re not sure what you are, but you know you’re not crazy. Because you remember the voice. And you remember what it felt like. The way it slid under your ribs, dark and cold and familiar.

The Void. Not something outside Bob. Part of him .

You don’t know how you know. You just… do. Like the knowledge’s been sitting there all along, waiting for you to finally turn over the right stone.

And suddenly, the golden sheen around everything feels thinner. The edges of everything, walls, windows, even Bob himself, too sharp, too brittle, as though one wrong touch might tear the whole illusion apart.

Bob notices your silence over breakfast. He sets the paper aside, brushes crumbs from your cheek with a soft thumb. “You’re quiet this morning,” he says carefully. “Bad dream?”

You give him a smile you don’t feel. “Just tired.”

He studies your face a moment longer than necessary. Then nods and kisses your temple. “Rest today,” he says, like it’s an order wrapped in kindness. “I’ll take care of everything.”

And you let him. Because you’ve remembered enough to know Bob can be dangerous when cornered.

He makes good on his word. The days slide into each other, measured not in hours but in the gentle rhythm of his care. He makes you breakfast every morning, always exactly the way he says you like it, even if you can’t quite remember whether that’s true. He sits and watches you  while you eat, thumb brushing your cheek to wipe away crumbs, kissing your forehead before cleaning up the kitchen.

When you try to follow him, he waves you into the living room. “Rest,” he says softly, like it’s the most important thing in the world. “You’re still healing. Let me handle everything.”

At night, he cooks. Rosemary chicken, buttered potatoes, dishes that taste like comfort you didn’t know you missed. He sets the table for two, candles lit, hands brushing yours as he pours wine. After dinner, he reads to you in the soft lamplight of the living room. Sometimes novels, sometimes poetry. Sometimes he just talks, telling you about the weather or the neighbors or nothing at all, his voice low and steady as the house settles around you.

When the radio plays, he listens with his eyes half-shut, humming along, one hand finding yours automatically. Jazz in the afternoon, sometimes classical, always at a low volume. “Good for the nerves,” he says with a soft smile, though you catch the way his hand lingers near the dial whenever the announcer starts speaking, ready to cut the sound at a moment’s notice. You never hear the news. Just music.

And always, when you drink tea and watch TV together on the couch, his hand never leaves the remote. Not once. Not even when he’s holding you close, your head on his shoulder. His thumb hovers, always ready to switch the channel, to kill the sound mid-sentence if something comes on he doesn’t want you to see.

He never says that’s what he’s doing. But you see it. You feel it.

He holds you at night, too. Pulls you against his chest and doesn’t let go, even after you’ve fallen asleep. You wake to find his arm still tight around your waist, his breath warm against your hair.

It should feel safe. It almost does.

But sometimes, when Bob smiles at you across the dinner table, the corners of the room seem too dark, too deep. Like someone else is sitting just out of sight, watching you both with those broken-star eyes.

You start to notice the cracks. You broach the subject one morning, watching him wipe down the already-clean kitchen counter for the third time.

“You haven’t gone into work all week,” you say gently, trying to keep your tone casual.

Bob barely looks up. “I took some time off.”

“And they’re okay with that?”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “They understand. They know what happened.”

That stops you. “And… what—?”

“Y/n.” He glances at you, just a flick of his eyes, fast and unreadable. Then back to rinsing dishes. “You needed rest,” he says simply. “Okay?. And I needed to be here.”

You open your mouth to press him, to ask more. But his hand finds yours, and he smiles, small and reassuring, like he can already feel the tension gathering in your shoulders.

“C’mon,” he says, squeezing gently. “Let me run a bath for you.”

As he heads upstairs to the bathroom, you sit on the couch in the living room, peering out the front window. It’s barely dusk; the light slanting long and thin across the floor. And you swear—

The shadows outside start to move. You hear it again then, faint but insistent.

“I’m waiting.”

The voice slides under your skin. Your breath hitches. You glance toward the stairs— no sound of Bob coming back down yet— then take a step closer to the glass.

“Where are you?” you whisper.

“Everywhere he can’t control.”

The shadows stretch, curling like fingers across the lawn, and for just a second you swear you see him : a figure standing where the porch light would hit, edges blurred, eyes glinting like distant stars.

“You don’t belong here.”

Your heart hammers. You press your palm flat to the glass.

“What do you mean?”

“You think this is safety? This is a cage.”

“I’m not…” you whisper, but your voice shakes.

“He won’t let you remember. He’s afraid of what you’ll do when you do.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Don’t you?”

The front door is right there. One turn of the knob. One step outside. You could ask him yourself, this shadow, this voice, this thing that sounds so much like Bob. You could make him show you what’s real.

Your fingers curl around the doorknob. Cold metal under your palm. One twist—

“Hey.”

Bob’s voice, soft but sharp, right behind you. You flinch hard, snatching your hand back like you’ve been burned. He’s breathing a little too fast, like he ran down the stairs, or something even faster— impossibly so— but when you turn he’s wearing that soft, careful smile again.

“Cold out there,” he says lightly, though his hand closes over yours before you can pull the door open. His grip is gentle, but unmovable. “You’ll catch a chill.”

You try to laugh it off. “I just… thought I heard something.”

“Nothing out there,” he murmurs, but his eyes flick past you toward the darkness beyond the glass, and his jaw tightens before he smooths it over. “C’mon. Bath’s ready.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand until you’re halfway up the stairs.

In the bathroom, steam curls from the tub. The water is warm, scented faintly with lavender. Bob kneels to help you out of your sweater, his hands steady but his face just a touch too pale. He won’t meet your eyes for long.

“You scared me,” he says softly as he eases you into the water. Then, after a beat: “Don’t do that again, okay?”

“I’m fine—”

“You’re not fine.” His thumb strokes your shoulders like he’s soothing you, like you’re fragile. But his eyes are searching, frantic, as if you’ve already slipped somewhere he can’t reach. He tips your chin up, blocking your view of the small bathroom window, forcing you to look at him. His voice cracks, just barely: “Please. Let me take care of you. Don’t— don’t do this.”

Your throat goes dry. You force yourself to nod. “Okay.”

The relief in his face is instant, almost dizzying. He presses a kiss to your hair, murmuring something about how you need to rest. That seems to be every third sentence he says lately. 

You let him help you. Let him cup his hands and pour warm water over your shoulders like you’re a child. Let him tuck a towel under your head so you can lean back without strain.

But your eyes are still on the doorway, watching the way the shadows cling to the frame like they’re waiting for you to step through.

“Next time,” the voice promises, soft and sharp all at once. “Next time you won’t let him stop you.”

That night, you lie curled up beside him, head against his chest. His fingers trace circles on your shoulder. He smells like soap and earth and something warm, like cedar. You breathe him in.

He kisses your temple again and whispers, “I love you.”

You close your eyes. You feel safe. But something in your ribs won’t settle. You wonder— what is he so afraid of out there? And why does it feel like he’s keeping you safe… from something he won’t name?

The next morning, you’re sitting at the table with a mug of coffee gone cold in your hands when he notices.

“You didn’t sleep,” he says. It’s not a question. His brow furrows as he crouches down to look you in the eye. “Sweetheart, you’ve got circles under your eyes.”

“I’m fine,” you murmur, taking another sip of coffee you don’t even taste. You don’t mention the fact that he has matching bags under his blue eyes.

He shakes his head, standing from the table with a quiet scrape of chair legs. “You don’t have to do this to yourself. I’ll help.”

“Bob—”

But he’s already in the kitchen, opening cabinets. You hear the soft clatter of bottles, the squeak of a drawer. When he comes back, there’s a small amber pill bottle in his hand. The label’s worn blank.

“Just something to help you sleep.” His smile is warm, almost shy, but his eyes search yours like he’s checking for cracks. “One or two of these, you’ll actually get some rest. No more bad dreams.”

You take the bottle carefully. It feels heavier than it should. “Where did you get these?”

His brow furrows. “Does it matter?”

“It might.”

“They’re safe,” he insists, a little too quickly. Then he softens again, brushing your hair back from your face. “Sweetheart, I just… I hate seeing you so tired. You deserve to rest.”

Something cold twists in your stomach. You force a small smile. “Thanks. I’ll take them later.”

He kisses your forehead and seems satisfied with that. “Good girl,” he murmurs. “You’ll feel better tonight.”

But you don’t take them. You slip them into your pocket when he’s not looking.

The rest of the day, he’s relentless in his care, brushing your hair back from your face, fetching you tea, coaxing you to nap on the couch. He even reads aloud from a book you don’t recognize, voice warm and low, like he’s trying to lull you into trusting him.

But when night falls, the voice starts up again. It’s louder this time. Clearer.

“He’s afraid of you.”

You press your ear against Bob’s chest, trying to drown it out with his heartbeat. It works, until he finally falls asleep. The second his breathing evens out, the voice swells, filling every corner of the room.

“He’s not protecting you. He’s protecting himself. And every time he sleeps, you hear me louder.”

You glance at Bob’s sleeping face. Even in dreams he looks worried, brows pinched, lips parted on a soft exhale. Your chest aches.

But the voice is right. It’s clearer when he’s not awake.

“You want answers? Get him out of the way.”

You think of the pills tucked into the pocket of your skirt from today.

A plan begins to take shape, cold and sharp in your mind. Not because you want to hurt him. Because you need to know the truth. Because whatever’s out there, whatever’s in him, it’s not going away.

Tomorrow night, you’ll make sure he sleeps first. Then you’ll find out what’s waiting in the dark.

The next morning, you lock the bathroom door behind you and lean over the sink.

The mirror doesn’t lie.

Your eyes are ringed in bruised shadows, purple-blue half-moons carved deep into your skin. You look like you haven’t slept in weeks, which is true. But you can’t let Bob see that. Not after last night. Not when you need him to believe you took the pills.

You brace both palms on the porcelain, cold against your skin, and close your eyes. The memory comes sharp and sudden: the kitchen, the sting of a knife cut, blood bright against your palm. Bob’s hands trembling as he held yours. His voice breaking as he begged you to try.

Your throat goes tight. You remember how you wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, how stupid it felt— until it didn’t. Until it flickered. Until the wound sealed itself beneath your skin, leaving only a waxy scar.

You bring your fingertips to the hollows beneath your eyes. The skin there feels paper-thin, stretched over bone.

“Like heat,” you whisper. “Like blooming.”

At first, there’s nothing. Just the ache of fatigue. But you force yourself to remember his hands over yours, the warmth of his skin, the way he said please .

Something sparks. Low in your ribs. A hum, soft and unsteady, like the first surge of static before a storm. You draw it up, shakily, into your hands.

Your skin tingles under your fingertips. The ache dulls. When you open your eyes, the shadows are gone. The circles erased. Your face looks… fresh. Rested. Like someone who slept through the night without voices calling to her.

Your heart kicks hard against your ribs. You did it.

You splash water on your cheeks just to hide the glow of your skin, then unlock the door and step out into the hall.

Bob is waiting, leaning against the wall with a mug in his hands. The second his eyes find your face, his whole expression softens with relief.

“See?” he says warmly, almost smug, like this proves him right. “Told you they’d help. You look like you finally slept.”

You smile faintly, keeping the lie tucked safe behind your teeth. “Guess I just needed to let myself rest.”

He beams, stepping close to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s my girl.”

You let him believe it. Even as your stomach twists.

Bob hovers more than usual. His eyes track your movements like he’s afraid you’ll vanish into the walls. Every time you shift, he asks if you’re cold. If you’re tired. If you want anything.

You tell him no. Over and over. And still, he fusses. Drapes a cardigan over your shoulders. Fluffs the pillows behind your back. Brings you a second cup of tea even though you never finished the first.

Late-night TV hums in the background, all laugh tracks and low light. Bob sits close beside you on the couch, one arm slung along the back, fingers brushing your shoulder every few minutes as if to check you’re still there.

You lean against him, smiling faintly at the sitcom you’re not really watching, and wait for the moment.

When the next commercial break rolls, you yawn softly. You force your voice steady.

“Bob,” you murmur, tipping your head toward him, “would you mind grabbing my blanket from upstairs? The blue one. You know, the really soft one?”

His whole body stills for half a beat. It’s subtle, but you feel it.

“Sweetheart,” he says slowly, “we’re going to bed in, what, ten minutes?”

“I just…” You add a touch of sleepy pleading to your voice. “I’d really love it now. Please?”

His jaw tightens, but his smile stays in place, careful and patient. “Okay. Sure. Don’t move, alright?”

He presses a kiss to your hair and stands, heading for the stairs. You wait until you hear his footsteps fading, then grab his tea cup and slip off the couch as quietly as you can.

The kitchen is dark, except for the glow of the TV in the other room. You keep low, listening hard, as you pull the pill bottle from your pocket. Twist off the cap. Tap two tablets into your palm.

Hands shaking, you find a spoon, crush two tablets against the inside of a mug until they’re dust. Your heart hammers so loud you swear it’ll shake the walls. You dump the powder into Bob’s cup and stir fast, praying it’ll dissolve before he comes back down.

By the time Bob’s voice calls softly, “Found it,” you’re already back on the couch, mug innocently in hand.

He comes into the room holding your blanket, expression easing when he sees you exactly where he left you. “Still here,” you tease, keeping your voice calm.

Bob chuckles low in his chest and drapes the blanket around your shoulders before sinking down beside you again. He doesn’t notice a thing.

You tuck yourself closer under the blanket, letting your head rest against his shoulder. The mug is warm in your hands— too warm, almost scalding, but you welcome the sting. It steadies you.

Bob glances down at his cup in your hands.

“You barely drank any,” you tell him. “Do you… not like it?”

His eyes flick to yours immediately, wide and worried. “What? No, no, sweetheart, it’s perfect. I’ve just— I’ve been distracted.”

You let your lip wobble. Just a little. “I thought maybe I made it wrong.”

Bob’s whole face changes. Panicked, desperate to fix whatever he’s just broken. “No, honey, hey. It’s great.” He snatches up the mug quickly from your grasp. “See?”

He drains it in three long swallows. When he lowers the cup, his throat works hard, and you can see the faint tremor in his fingers. “Best tea I’ve ever had,” he says, forcing a smile, thumb brushing your shoulder. “Promise.”

Your heart is beating so fast it hurts.

The minutes crawl. Bob tries to keep up the conversation, but you can see the heaviness creeping into his eyelids, the way his words get softer around the edges. He pinches the bridge of his nose once, twice, as though sheer willpower could shove the fatigue away.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, voice already thick, “I— I was thinkin’— we should… should go somewhere. Just you and me. Somewhere sunny. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You always said you wanted to…”

You hum in agreement, but your pulse roars too loud to hear yourself.

“…maybe take the train down to—” He cuts off mid-thought, a faint frown creasing his face as if he’s trying to remember what he just said.

“Bob?” You keep your tone soft, careful.

“Mhm.” He forces his eyes open, blinking hard. “I’m fine, just—” His head tips a little toward your shoulder. “Just tired.”

He fights it. You feel the tiny jerks of resistance as he straightens up, tries to speak again, but the words never come.

A breath later, Bob goes utterly still, mug loose in his hand, eyes closed.

You watch him for a long moment, hardly daring to breathe. His lashes don’t flutter. His shoulders rise and fall in deep, even rhythm. You touch his arm— light, testing— and he doesn’t stir.

The silence presses in around you.

Then the voice comes.

“Good.”

It’s louder than it’s ever been, clear as if someone’s leaning right over your shoulder. You whip around, heart hammering, but the room is empty. Bob is still slumped against the cushions, head tipped slightly toward you, completely unaware.

“You’re learning.”

Your throat goes dry. “Who are you?” you whisper, too harsh, too shaky.

The voice almost laughs— Bob’s voice, but wrong. Rougher. Hollowed-out. Like someone took his voice and dragged it across broken glass. “You wanna know what I am? Come find me.”

The air feels charged, electric, as though the whole house is holding its breath. You glance toward the window. The night is black and still, except for the faint shimmer of movement. A ripple sliding through shadow like ink in water.

Your stomach turns cold.

“Come on,” it croons. “He can’t help you. He’s sleeping, thanks to you. Just us now. Just you and me.”

You stand up from the couch, stepping carefully so the floorboards don’t creak. Bob doesn’t move. He looks peaceful. Almost heartbreakingly so.

The ripple is clearer now, pooling just beyond the glass like a beckoning hand.

“Find me,” the voice says again, almost playful. “Or I’ll find you.”

Your heart’s in your throat as you ease the door open. Cold air spills inside, smelling of wet earth and asphalt. The shadows outside quiver as though they’re alive.

And it says your name. Whispers it.

“Y/n…”

You freeze.

“There you are.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Your breath sticks to your throat. The darkness ripples, pooling closer to your bare feet, edges licking toward your hand like they’ve smelled blood.

“You’re not real,” it says, in Bob’s voice— but not. “You’re a broken piece he keeps polishing.”

You flinch.

“He made this cage for you. Because he’s too weak to face what happened.”

The shadows thicken, taller now, stretched into spindly fingers reaching up the siding of the house. They drink in every bit of light, leaving only void behind.

“He can’t fix you. He never could.”

The voice gets lower now. More venom than sorrow. A tendril coils up from the soaked grass. Close, too close, only inches from your ankle. It doesn’t strike. It waits.

“You’re not strong. You’re not special. You’re just another thing he failed to save.”

Your stomach turns. You draw your hand back instinctively, but the shadow moves closer. It curls toward your ankle. 

“He’s soft,” it says. “Weak. You feel it, don’t you? All that strength and he still can’t keep you safe.”

And then the voice murmurs, closer now, almost coaxing:

“He’s not your protector. He’s your jailer. And he’s afraid. Of me. Of you. That’s why he lies.”

Your fingertips hover just above the surface. The air around you is deathly still. 

“Go ahead. Touch it. See what he’s hiding.”

Something deep in your chest tugs forward. Something older than you remember. Something that remembers you.

“You deserve the truth.”

Your hand hovers.

You reach out. The shadow meets you halfway. And the second your fingers graze its edge…

You’re gone.

Chapter Text

You wake to pain. But it isn’t yours.

It’s hers.

The girl on the table, small, trembling, maybe ten, maybe eleven, is you. You know it the way you know your own reflection. Same nose. Same stubborn set to her jaw, even as it quivers.

You’re not in her body, though. You’re standing three feet away, close enough to smell antiseptic and sweat, close enough to see the metal restraints biting into her thin wrists. You’re here, fully grown, fully aware, heart jackhammering in your chest.

“No,” you whisper. “No, no, no—”

Your voice doesn’t reach her.

A ring of lab techs moves around the table in crisp white coats, visors fogged with their own breath. One adjusts a dial, another scribbles something on a clipboard, as if a child writhing in restraints is no more important than calibrating an engine.

“She’s resisting,” one of the techs remarks, glancing down at a readout as though nothing’s happening. “Push the concentration higher.”

“No,” another argues sharply. “She’s past threshold. Look at her vitals. Her cells are breaking down faster than they’re repairing.”

“They’ll adapt,” the first voice says, clinical and detached. “They always do. Eventually.”

The girl on the table starts to nod off, the stress and pain too much to bear.

The woman with the clipboard doesn’t even look at your younger self as she speaks. “Keep her awake. You know the drill.”

One of the techs adjusts a dial, and a hiss of gas fills the room. Your younger self jolts back awake and sobs, a raw, animal sound. The sound punches straight through you, a memory you never knew you had until now.

You lunge forward, hands outstretched, desperate to rip the restraints free, to tear the machine apart with your bare hands—

But something stops you. A wall of bodies, faceless in their visors. They seize your arms, fingers like iron clamps, pinning you in place. You thrash, scream, curse at them, but no sound leaves your throat. You’re silent.

On the table, your younger self screams loud enough for both of you.

The injection comes next, a sharp plunge of something icy at the girl’s temple. She jerks violently, back arching, heels drumming the table. You can see it working under her skin, veins lighting up like molten threads as the serum forces itself into every cell.

Your younger self’s screams shred into gasps. You see her lips forming words— please, I swear, I’ll be good— but no one listens.

“She’s vocal today,” someone mutters with a chuckle, and the sound is so casual, so bored, that you feel bile rise in your throat.

“Please—” the girl gasps, voice shaking, too young to understand what’s happening but old enough to be terrified. “Please, stop— please—”

They turn the dial higher. The lights above you flare, blinding white. The restraints dig deeper into her thin wrists and ankles, cutting through skin that knits back together just fast enough to be torn again.

“She’ll make a difference in the world,” someone murmurs, almost wistful. It’s not one of the techs. It’s a man standing off to the side, out of the shadows. A man you recognize even though you can’t quite remember his name. A man who signed the paperwork because the money would keep the lights on.

Your father.

They lied to him. They told him his daughter was special. That she’d be helping people. That the pain was necessary.

But you can see the truth now. You can see what they were building: a living experiment designed to regenerate, but only when awake. Only while conscious. If she blacks out, her body won’t heal. So they make sure she never sleeps through the worst of it.

Your knees buckle as the girl screams until her voice shatters.

The lights flare brighter. Another dial turns. The straps bite deeper.

Regeneration at any cost.

And the last thing you hear before your younger self’s sobs turn to ragged, broken whimpers is the clipboard woman’s voice, calm and pleased:

“Good. She’s learning.”

And the world fractures again.

When it reforms, you’re not in the lab.

You’re older now— your younger body, maybe nineteen, maybe twenty. The softness of childhood is gone, your jawline sharper, your shoulders set. You’re wearing clothes too nice for you, clearly bought by someone else: a pressed black jacket, tailored slacks, shoes that pinch.

You stand outside yourself again, the third-party ghost forced to watch.

It’s a penthouse. Glass walls stretch floor to ceiling, showing the sprawl of a city bathed in midnight neon. Everything gleams: polished floors, imported marble, wine racks lined with bottles you can’t pronounce. The air smells of cigar smoke and expensive liquor.

And there, sprawled across a chaise, is your “client.” A man in his sixties, with liver spots and a paunch, but his suit is silk, his watch heavy gold. His lips are cracked, his cheeks sallow. He’s dying. You can see it in his eyes, the rheumy glassiness, the shallow way he breathes.

But he smiles when he sees you. Not kindly. Greedy.

“Ah,” he wheezes. “My miracle girl.”

Your younger self swallows hard, but doesn’t greet him. She doesn’t speak at all. 

“You’re a sight, aren’t you?” the man mutters, voice thick with smoke. “Worth every damn cent.”

Your younger self doesn’t answer. She pulls her chair closer. Places one hand against his chest. You can see it in her face: the shame. The exhaustion. The hatred of what she’s about to do.

Because healing takes something from you. Always has. You know the drain in your bones, the ache in your ribs. And here she is, using it not to save someone good, not to help someone who deserves it, but to prolong the life of a monster who bought her blood.

Heat blooms in her chest. You can see it ripple beneath her sternum, even from your vantage point outside. Her palm glows faintly, seeping light into his paper-thin skin. His breathing evens. His chest rises stronger. The cough rattling in his throat eases into a sigh of relief.

And then the door slams open.

Two men are dragged inside. One limping, blood streaming from a gash across his temple. The other coughing through broken ribs. Their hands are zip-tied behind them, their clothes torn and filthy.

You know their faces. Protestors. People who stood outside this tower last week with cardboard signs, shouting about the poison this billionaire pumped into their neighborhood.

The guards throw them down like trash, right in front of the chaise.

Your younger self flinches. Her hand trembles against the client’s chest.

“Sir—” she tries, her voice small, cracking.

“Keep working,” the billionaire snaps, already dismissing her. “If they’d kept their mouths shut, they wouldn’t be here.”

The man on the floor coughs, blood splattering against the pristine marble. “You’re—” He looks at your younger self. Not at the guards. Not at the monster on the chaise. At her. His eyes blaze through the pain. “You’re helping him. You’re keeping him alive. Do you know what he’s done to us? What he’s done to this city?”

Your younger self’s throat bobs. Tears shimmer in her lashes, but she doesn’t stop. She doesn’t let go.

Because she can’t.

Your— her— whole life was built for this. The lab. The conditioning. Her father’s desperate signature on the dotted line. The training to endure. The reminder, over and over, that her pain is what makes her valuable. That her body is worth more as a commodity than as a person.

The protestor keeps his eyes locked on her, even as blood trickles down into his mouth. His chest rises and falls with jagged desperation.

“You don’t have to do this,” he spits. “You could end it right now.”

Your younger self flinches, her palm faltering on the billionaire’s chest. For a split second, the light dims. His breath catches, thin and ragged again.

The protestor sees it. His gaze sharpens, desperate and wild. He lunges.

He can’t get far with his wrists bound, but he throws his weight hard against her chair. It topples. She crashes sideways, her temple cracking against the marble floor. You remember the way the pain bloomed, hot and wet, as she pushes herself up and her fingers come away red.

Blood. Her blood. Your blood.

The glow sputters out of her chest, her healing focus torn away.

The billionaire lets out a furious, wheezing snarl. “Get him out of here!”

The guards don’t hesitate. They drag the protestor by his collar across the marble, his heels squealing against the polished stone. He’s cursing, screaming that he won’t stop fighting, not ever.

“She could be free!” he yells, voice breaking. “She doesn’t have to serve you! You’re killing her—”

His words echo against the glass walls, until the doors slam shut and a single gunshot cuts him off.

Your younger self jumps. The sound cracks through her ribs. Her hands are shaking so hard now you can see the tremor from where you stand outside yourself.

The billionaire waves a dismissive hand, already turning back to her. His skin has gone pale again in the seconds without her touch. “Fix me,” he demands, voice hoarse but commanding. “Now.”

Your younger self’s lips part, a broken sound catching in her throat. She presses a palm against the side of her head, trying to knit the skin back together. The wound stings sharply, a reminder that she’s bleeding, vulnerable.

“Not yourself,” the billionaire snaps, eyes narrowing. His hand trembles as he clutches his chest. “Me. You heal me first. Always me.”

Her hand falls away from her own wound. Her whole body shakes, knees pressing into the cold marble, blood dripping steadily down her jaw. She doesn’t even try to wipe it away. She knows better.

Slowly, obediently, she crawls back to the chaise. She places her palm against his chest again. And even while her own blood stains her collar, while pain throbs hot behind her eye, she gives.

She gives to him.

The glow returns. His breath steadies. Color warms his skin. And with every ounce of strength she pours into him instead of herself, she feels smaller. Diminished. A tool that bleeds but is never allowed to break. A possession.

And she keeps her gaze down, because she doesn’t want him to see the tears streaking through the blood on her face.

The world shudders.

The sound of his breath deepening, the billionaire’s satisfied sigh, it all blurs, then seemingly resets. The marble floor is clean of any blood. The gunshot no longer rings in your ears. The protestor is whole again, dragged inside anew, shouting, struggling.

“No,” you whisper. Your voice shakes in your own ears. “No, not again—”

It plays anyway. The same lines. The same movements. Your younger self trembling, obeying. The protestor pleading with her to stop.

Your chest tightens. You can’t breathe. Your palms sweat, your throat closes.

“I don’t— I don’t want to do this again—”

But the memory doesn’t care what you want.

The protestor lunges. The chair crashes. Your younger self hits the floor again, blood painting her temple.

And you break.

“Stop it!” you cry, voice cracking. “Please, don’t— I can’t—”

You run. Anywhere, nowhere. The marble floor is slick beneath your shoes, the neon outside too bright. You slam shoulder-first into the glass wall, and it doesn’t stop you. It shatters.

You crash through the window. Shards explode around you, slicing your arms, your face, but you don’t fall. You tumble into blackness, weightless, until—

You’re in a different memory. 

You’re not strapped down to a table, and you’re not in the penthouse, but you’re still surrounded by medical equipment. It all comes back to you immediately. 

Val had promised you a new life. A clean slate. “You’ve been wasted,” she’d told you, in that dark alley. “All that potential. All that power. And for what? A dying rich man and his filthy little secrets?” She’d found you at your absolute lowest. Broken and beaten down, looking for any kind of meaning in your life. “No more shadows, no more hiding. Work that gives you a real purpose in the world. You want that, don’t you?”

Your silence said enough. And so did the tiny, desperate nod that followed.

That was all it took. Promises. A hand extended. A voice that sounded like salvation. Val recruited you, and for a time, you believed it. You’d completed her missions, did her dirty work masqueraded as global good. 

Then came the rumors of impeachment, the final mission she gave you, the vault…

Then came Bob. And the formation of the so-called New Avengers. You were healing heroes now, and saving lives. Innocent, everyday people who needed help.

And here you were, now in your own body, seeing it through your own eyes. You remembered this mission very well.

You’d stayed behind. Not because you’re weak; everyone knows you aren’t. But because healing requires presence, and the tower is the safest place to cast your net wide. It just makes sense to keep you there during the missions, ready to assist anyone who gets injured. 

“Starfish stays back to heal,” you had all decided. 

You remember the first time the word starfish hit your ears from someone who wasn’t an enemy, wasn’t a buyer, wasn’t spitting it like an insult. Like an inside joke that you weren’t a part of.

You’d hated it, once. That stupid black market codename, stamped on you without your choosing, the thing people whispered about like you were nothing more than an organ they could buy and sell. Starfish. A creature that regrows what’s lost. A commodity. A freak.

But the first time Yelena tossed it across the tower kitchen, half a bagel in her mouth, she said it with a teasing grin. “Starfish, I’m not sure if I want to teach you how to throw a punch. Don’t want your ego getting any bigger.”

The first time Ava said it, leaning against the wall after training, her tone sharp but proud, “We’d be dead without Starfish, don’t forget it.”

The first time Alexei bellowed it across the common room, mispronouncing it, drawing the syllables out too long because he thought it was funny, “Staaar-feesh! Come, we want to start movie!”

Even John, the last holdout, eventually used it with a crooked smile, like he finally realized you weren’t going anywhere.

It was strange, at first. Hearing the name you once wanted to tear from your skin, spoken with fondness. With respect. Like it belonged to you instead of to them. Like you belonged.

And suddenly, you didn’t mind when it stuck. Didn’t mind when it became more than a codename, when it became your name. Your place on the team. Starfish in the tower. Starfish saving lives.

You think of those nights in the tower, four in the morning in the kitchen with Yelena making something ridiculous with too much hot sauce; Ava falling asleep sitting up on the couch, the TV humming low; Alexei taking up all the oxygen in the room with his booming laugh; John grumbling but always fixing the coffee machine before anyone else woke.

It had been a family. A messy, loud, found family. Yours.

And you loved them for the way they made you forget what Starfish used to mean. You loved them for making it something better. Something proud.

For making you something better.

You’re perched on a stool in the medbay, surrounded by humming monitors, one hand always resting on the keyboard in case anyone’s vitals dip. Bob’s feed is in the top left— stuttery at times, the glow around him distorting the cameras— but you can see enough. His flight is shakier than the others, his movements a little over-eager.

You’re watching the tower’s main monitors: six massive displays glowing with live feeds from everyone’s POV, satellite imaging, and comms overlays. 

Low-level alien creatures, some interdimensional leak Val had spun into a photo op. Ugly little crab-like things with jagged legs and bulbous mouths that hiss more than they bite. No match for a full strike team. 

You had overheard John teasing Bob just before they left, “You’re lookin’ a little green around the gills, Bobby. Need another few months with your girlfriend playing video games?”

He’s only been cleared for missions a month. Val signed off on it herself, smiling tight-lipped in front of the cameras. “Carefully managed,” she’d told the team in private. “No solo ops. No civilians nearby. If he twitches wrong, I’m pulling him.”

Still, he wants to be here. Needs to be here. He wants to help. He wants to be good.

So when the creatures swarm the old subway tunnels near the river, he’s the first to launch into action, flying clumsily above the pavement, knocking them aside with superhuman strength. He’s a little reckless, a little over-eager, but he’s holding it together.

Val called it a show of strength. You called it reckless optimism. Still… it had started okay.

It should’ve been simple. It even feels simple, at first.

You’d admit, though, that you’re a little distracted. Looking back, maybe there were things you missed while you were watching Bob glide through Manhattan.

“Someone tell Val these roaches don’t count as a real mission,” John says through the comms, punctuating the complaint with the crack of his shield cleaving through a pair of chittering invaders.

Yelena snorts over the line. “Says the guy who almost got knocked on his ass by one.”

A snort from Ava, who phases up through the sewer grate just ahead of them. “Let us know if you need Bob to come save you, Walker.”

“Oh, now that’s just ridiculous,” John grumbles, hurling his shield through the air, slamming a skittering creature into the side of a delivery truck with a wet crunch. "If anyone is gonna need—"

“What is that noise?” Ava interrupts, annoyed, her voice tinny through the comms.

There’s a short silence. But you hear it too. A faint, melodic backing, creeping in through the line.

“Starfish, where’s that coming from?” Yelena’s voice hits your ears.

“Um…” you click through the comms interface, looking for the decibel counters that match with the noise you’re hearing. “Coming from Bob,” you relay to the team. And only once you say it, you realize what it is.

“…What is he humming?” Ava asks.

“I know this one,” Yelena says, too smugly. “It’s Sinatra. That one she keeps playing in the medbay. That lovey-dovey one.”

You feel heat rise to your cheeks.

“Oh my god,” Ava groans.

“Disgusting,” John adds. 

Bob’s voice crackles softly through the comms, sheepish. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t even notice— sorry—”

“Young love is beautiful,” Alexei announces warmly, crushing a crab-creature under his boot like it’s a soda can. “Let the boy sing. You should be ashamed of yourselves, mocking him like this.”

“Focus up, guys,” Bucky cuts in, his tone long-suffering. “We clear the tunnels, we do a sweep of the buildings on either side, and we head back. No distractions.”

You push down a fond grin and scan for the heat signatures on the monitors.

“You got eyes on them, Starfish?” Yelena asks.

“I do,” you answer, pulling your eyes from Bob’s screen, your fingers already moving over the keyboard. “Telemetry shows scattered clustering. All surface-level. No tunneling signatures. You’re clear to engage.”

“See?” John mutters. “Easy.”

“Wait.” Yelena’s voice comes through, quieter now. “Something feels wrong.”

A pause.

“Define wrong,” Bucky says.

“I don’t know<” she says. “It’s too easy. These things, they were spreading fast this morning. They should’ve moved by now. It feels… posed.”

Bob’s heart rate ticks upward on your screen. 

You sit forward. “Yelena, you picking up signs of concealment?”

“Negative. Just… gut,” she replies. “Like someone wanted us here.”

Bucky’s voice cuts in, low and commanding. “Everyone, fall back to the staging point. Bob, keep aerial cover—”

The lights above you flicker. Once. Twice. Then they die. The monitors go dark. For a split second, your blood runs cold. The backup power source kicks in quickly, but the lights flicker as it starts up.

“Tower systems just went offline,” you say sharply into the mic, fingers already flying across the backup keyboard. “We lost power for a second. This isn’t a surge; something’s hitting the generators.”

“Say again?” Bucky demands.

And then you hear it. A low, building hum under the tower. Not through comms, not through the feed. Under your feet.

“No—” You shove the stool back and sprint for the door, shouting into the comms. “It’s a distraction! The tower’s the target—”

The words barely leave your mouth before the world erupts.

A deafening crack. A white-hot bloom of pressure. Metal shrieks as the medbay wall explodes inward, hurling you across the room. You hit the far wall hard, pain spiking bright through every nerve. The last thing you see before the darkness creeps in is the medbay’s emergency lights flickering to life, red, flashing, stuttering like a pulse.

You don’t hear the panic in Bob’s voice as he screams your name through the comms. But you feel it, like a tether snapping loose from somewhere deep in your chest.

You come in and out of consciousness as if being dragged underwater.

“...incoming— she’s bleeding— watch the spine…”

You’re floating. That’s all you know.

Then: bright lights. The Watchtower medbay ceiling spinning overhead. Hands on your ribs. The bitter sting of antiseptic. Pain a dull roar now, not sharp anymore. Just… there.

“Her vitals are unstable—”

“She’s trying to shift— hold her still—”

The elevator dings open with a mechanical chirp.

Then a thunderclap.

“Where is she?!”

Bob’s voice. You feel it. The air pressure shifts. Power floods the room. He flies through the door, breath ragged, eyes alight like a star barely bottled.

“She’s coding—” someone says.

“What the hell happened?!” His voice rips through the room. “Why wasn’t anyone with her?!” He’s already shoving past a medtech. “I should’ve been here— if I’d been here this wouldn’t have—”

“Mr. Reynolds, you can’t be in here—”

“Why didn’t you keep her safe?!” His voice cracks, jagged with fury. “You’re supposed to protect her! That’s your job!”

You fade back out and in, and you feel his hands cupping your face. His palm over your heart. The air around him tastes like copper and ozone. Something’s building. Something dangerous.

You want to speak. You want to tell him you're okay. But all that comes is a strangled gasp.

“Sweetheart, please. Just breathe. Come on. You can fix this. You’ve healed worse—”

“She can’t,” Yelena says, voice harsh. She’s there too, somewhere to your left, jaw clenched, eyes wild. “She can’t heal if she’s not fully conscious—”

“You think I don’t know that?” he rasps. Golden light floods from him, pulsing in waves. The lights stutter. One of the medtechs backs away.

You try to lift your head. You want to say his name. You want him to stop looking at you like that, like you’re already gone. The pain’s everywhere now. Screaming down your spine, up through your skull. You can’t breathe. Can’t blink. Can’t even cry.

The heart monitor screams.

The fragments skip again, another blackout.

And now Bob’s crouched even closer, hands gripping the edge of the cot as though he could hold you to consciousness by sheer will. “Please, please, wake up—” His forehead is nearly touching yours. “You’re okay, sweetheart, just— just focus on me—”

“Barnes, pull him off,” a doctor mutters. “He’s making it worse.”

Yelena’s eyes go wide. Her panicked gaze shoots between Bucky and Bob. She knows how deep that sentiment cuts. What those words mean to him. And she knows what’s about to happen, maybe even before Bob knows.

But then, a long, loud, steady beep from your heart monitor. You hear it, distantly. You know what it means, but can’t react. Can’t scream. Can’t move.

You flatline. 

Bob does not.

The air explodes. A golden surge of energy detonates outward from him like a supernova. The windows crack. The lights above you flicker violently, then burst. Electricity buzzes through the walls, warping metal. Alarms scream. Glass shatters.

A doctor is thrown backward. Someone’s yelling his name. But it’s too late.

He’s gone.

Not physically, not yet, but in the way that matters. The dam has broken. The force he’s spent every day fighting back is spilling through the cracks. Not just Sentry. Not just Void. It’s everything.

You come to in the kitchen. Knife in hand. Blood everywhere.

Chapter Text

It’s exactly the same.The bright linoleum. The orange countertops. The ticking of the wall clock. Your dress sticking to your skin with sweat and… 

Blood. So much blood. You gasp and stagger backward, the blade clattering to the floor. Your hand pulses, pulsing in waves of pain, and your breath comes too fast, too shallow, because…

Because you remember. All of it. The lab. The experiments. The powers. Bob. Your Bob. Loving him. Finding him. The Void. Losing him. The mission. The attack. The snap of your neck. 

The moment you died.

And now? Now, you’re back here. In the house. Still bleeding. Still trapped. You stumble toward the counter, hand shaking, and that’s when the door bursts open.

“Y/n—!”

Bob’s voice, ragged, half-shouted. Desperate. He barrels into the kitchen, wide-eyed, golden energy crackling faintly around his skin. He sees the blood. He sees the knife. He sees you, and his knees nearly give out.

“No— no, no, no, please—” he’s already at your side, grabbing a dish towel, fumbling with your hand, trying to stem the bleeding. “Oh God, oh God, I thought— I thought you were gone again—”

You look at him. And now you see him clearly.

Not just the perfect suburban husband with the gentle hands and soft voice. But him. Bob Reynolds. The man who engulfed the entire city of New York in shadow. The man you so softly and severely fell in love with. The man who shattered reality to keep you. The man who couldn’t bear to let you go.

“Are— are you okay?” he stammers.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He cups your face with one bloodied hand, his eyes shimmering with something wild and broken and too much.

“You remember,” he whispers. It’s not a question.

You nod, just barely. Your lips tremble.

Your entire face creases in confusion, in pain. “I— I died,” you manage to get out, though it nearly cracks you in two.

He freezes. His eyes lock onto yours, wide and burning. And then his breath catches. His hands shake harder, pressing on your wound.

“Did you…” he says, brows furrowed, voice gone low and dangerous. “You— you slipped me the sleeping pills, didn’t you?” The question isn’t an accusation so much as a stunned breath. “You— you—” his face creases, hurt, almost betrayed. “You drugged me. You waited until I was asleep. You— you went to it. You let it show you.”

“Bob—”

“You remembered dy—” His voice breaks on it, but it’s loud, too loud, like thunder caught in his chest. He blinks like someone waking up. For a second the anger that climbed his face dissolves into something like shame. He presses his palm to his mouth and then pulls it away, fighting for control. “You let yourself feel all of— of it again. The pain, the— God—” His jaw clenches so hard you hear it grind. “Do you have any idea what— what you’ve done to yourself?”

The air hums around him. The lights overhead flicker.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says, more fiercely now, his face too close, golden static sparking across his arms. “You shouldn’t have…”

You stumble back a step, but he follows, blood dripping from the towel he’s still clutching around your hand. His voice drops, trembling, furious and pleading all at once. Your back hits the counter as you retreat. He follows without realizing, leaning in, trying to catch your gaze. His nearness is overwhelming, too much.

“I— I— I told you not to go out there,” he goes on, softer now, shaking. “I begged you not to. Because it doesn’t give you answers. It doesn’t heal you. It— it just hurts you. It kills you. Every time.”

Your throat feels raw. “I needed to know.”

“No. No,” he says, and this time it’s almost a sob. “You needed to trust me.”

His hands shake so much that they slip from yours, along with the towel, soaked crimson. The pain in your hand spikes, but it’s nothing compared to the panic in his voice. At first, he doesn’t notice the blood dripping onto the linoleum, only that you’re pulling further from him. But the steady stream becomes too hard to ignore. 

Bob’s eyes snap down to it, then back up to you. His panic sharpens, ragged at the edges.

“Heal it,” he says, quick and desperate. “Please, sweetheart, heal your hand.”

You shake your head, backing another step into the counter. “N— no.”

“Honey, please,” he begs, his hands hovering like he doesn’t know if he should reach for you again. “You’re bleeding out. Just— just fix it, just close it up—”

“St— stop!” you cry out, pulling your hand away from him. The blood streams down the front of your dress and paints your shoes deep and dark red. “I don’t care about my hand,” you choke out, tears burning hot in your eyes. “I care about what you’re not telling me.”

His breath stutters. Static flickers over his skin again, brighter this time, jittery arcs of gold snapping in the air. “I’m telling you everything that matters. Okay? I’m telling you I’m keeping you safe.”

You shake your head harder, voice rising. “Safe from what? From the truth? From what I already saw?” You press the injured hand against your chest like a shield. “I’m not a child,” you say, but your voice is smaller than you meant. “I need answers, Bob. I can’t—” Your words break on the memory, on the flash of the lab and the explosion and the tower. “I need to know what’s real.”

His fingers curl, then loosen. He takes another careful step forward, but he keeps his hands open at his sides, palms out like he’s trying to show you there’s nothing sharp in them. “I’m sorry.” He takes another tentative step, then another. His voice drops almost to a whisper. “I’m sorry. I should have been better. I should have—” Another shake. “I can’t— I can’t always make it right the way I want. But I swear to you, I’ve been trying. I’m doing everything I can.”

You can hear the tremor in his sentence; you can see it make his shoulders shake. It’s not performative. It’s the entire truth, ugly and plain. He hates what he’s become when fear gets tangled up with power. He hates that the thing everyone calls on him to hide— the glow of his eyes, the way the air tastes like metal when he’s close to breaking— comes out when he can’t hold himself together.

“How am I here?” you ask, lip trembling. You don’t understand why you need to keep choosing between fear and him. You don’t understand why he can’t just tell you what’s happening.

His face twists. You feel the heat coming off him, like he’s carrying the sun under his skin. 

“Heal your hand.”

You clutch it tighter against your chest, blood seeping through your shirt. “Not until you answer me.”

“Y/n—” His voice cracks, raw and pleading. “You don’t understand, I can’t— I can’t watch you bleed. I can’t—” He drags both hands down his face, almost tearing at his skin, before he drops them again and surges closer. “Please, Y/n. Just heal it. P— please, honey, please.”

You dodge him again, slipping away from the counter, toward the center of the room, and shrink further and further away. “Stop it! Just stop! Why won’t you tell me the truth?”

“Because I’m trying to protect you!” he roars, the words ripping out of him like something tearing free. “And you—” His breath hitches, tears starting to rim his lashes. “You think I’m the enemy. You think I’d lie to you. After everything, after—”

“You won’t—” Your voice cracks. You’re crying, too, though you don’t know when it started. “You  won’t let me see, won’t let me choose. You just keep holding me here—”

“Because if I let go, you die!” His roar rattles the glass in the cupboards. The air surges golden, harsh and hot. For a second you think the lightbulbs will burst. He’s close again, too close, the air buzzing around him. “I don’t understand why this— this isn’t enough for you,” he says. “I— I don’t get why you did that.”

You whisper, “I had to.”

He snaps his gaze back to you, and the force of it nearly pins you in place. For a moment, he’s not the soft-spoken man with trembling hands. He’s something bigger. Brighter. Terrifying in his devotion.

“You don’t have to do anything but stay alive.” His voice drops low, gravelled and dangerous, but the rawness underneath makes your chest ache. “That’s— that’s all I want from you. Do you understand? I’m— I’m trying— God, I’m trying so hard— to— to keep you here. To keep you— keep you safe. And you…” His voice cracks, his shoulders hitching. “…you don’t trust me enough to— to let me.”

“Bob—”

“No.” He shakes his head sharply, fists clenched so tightly the glow from his knuckles flares white-hot. He’s trembling, his whole body taut with something just shy of breaking. “You need to trust me. You— you have to. Because if you keep doing this— if— if you keep listening to it, touching it, letting it crawl inside you— it’s going to— to take you from me again. And I can’t—” His voice collapses into a ragged whisper. “I can’t lose you again.”

The silence that follows feels brittle, like one wrong breath could shatter it. The clock ticks, blood drips against the tile, and Bob’s golden aura flickers like a dying star.

You take a small step toward him, even as your knees threaten to give out. “I just wanted the truth.”

His laugh is hollow, broken, nothing like the sound you remember. “The truth?” He drags a hand over his face, and when he looks at you again, his expression is carved out of anguish. “The— the truth is I’m already breaking every law of reality to keep you here. The truth is that— that— that thing out there wants you because it knows I can’t let you go. And the truth, sweetheart…” His voice catches, low and trembling. “…is that every time you push for more, you’re ripping yourself further away from me.”

You’re not sure if you want to reach for him or run. His hand hovers in the air between you, fingers shaking like he’s begging for yours again. His eyes are ruined, red and wet and shining, but still that desperate gold hums just beneath them.

“Please,” he rasps, broken. “Don’t make me fight you too.”

For a long moment, he just stares at you. You want to pull away, but you can’t move. His eyes search yours, every ounce of sorrow and love and desperation spilling out all at once. His chest heaves, ragged, as though every breath might splinter him apart. Then, softer, hoarse from the roar still echoing in your ears:

“Y/n, please. Heal your hand.”

You clutch it tighter against your chest, shaking your head, hiccuping through your sobs, because you can’t let him just steer you away from this, not after what you’ve remembered. But the look on his face guts you. He looks wrecked, completely undone. Not the glowing, terrifying god, but Bob. Your Bob. The man who once held you through the night while you mended your friends with your gift. The man who pressed his lips to your temple like it was a prayer. The man who you loved, and who you loved back with everything you were.

You can’t stop the sob that shudders through you. The tears blur his face, but you can still see the pleading there, the trembling curve of his mouth, the panic in his eyes.

“I can’t— I can’t help you if you don’t— Please, honey, please. Just heal it.” His hand— still painted red— lifts, hovering near your face but not daring to touch, shaking with the effort of holding himself back. His eyes glisten, wet and ruined. “I swear I’ll give you whatever I can, but— I can’t until you’re whole. Please.”

Your tears fall faster. You choke on a sob, shaking your head even as your resolve wavers.

He steps closer, a breath away now, his voice nothing but a ruined whisper: “Please. I love you. Just heal it.”

Your heart twists, because no matter how many gaps there are in your memory, no matter how much terror hangs over your head, that— his love for you, your love for him— that was always real.

And in the blur of memory that still lingers behind your eyes, you remember how. You remember lying in the tower medbay with Ava watching from the door, urging you to focus, telling you she trusted you. You remember the warmth that pulsed in your palms when you stitched Yelena’s ribs back together after the rooftop mission in Bolivia. You remember the quiet pride in Bob’s voice when he whispered you were incredible.

So you close your eyes. And you clasp your hand around the other. It’s almost instinct, now that the memory is unlocked. The warmth flares, faint at first, then steady. It pours through your hand, burning and soothing all at once, and you watch as the torn flesh seals.

Bob lets out a sound that’s half a gasp, half a sob of relief. His shoulders slump forward, as though he might collapse. “Oh God… oh thank God…” He presses your healed hand to his chest, to the frantic pound of his heart, his tears dripping onto your knuckles. “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Your hand is whole again. Perfect. But the blood doesn’t vanish. It stays caked in thick streaks down your clothes, smeared across your skin, puddled on the floor in dark, sticky pools. The copper tang hangs heavy in the air, a reminder of the wound that isn’t there anymore.

“I love you,” he whispers. “So much. You know that, right?”

Then he wraps his arms around you before you can react, his power humming against your skin. You’re locked in, helpless, pressed against the tremor of his chest.

You shove at him, but it’s like trying to move stone. “Bob— let me go—”

“Shh,” he breathes into your hair. “I know. I know, sweetheart. It’s just too much. It’s too much, too fast.”

You twist in his grip, your healed hand pinned awkwardly between your bodies. The blood stains his shirt, seeps into the glow pulsing beneath his skin, and he groans like the sight of it is killing him.

“I didn’t want to do this,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “I didn’t want to, I swear, I just— I can’t lose you again. Not again. I love you so much, I—”

“Bob, please—”

“It won’t hurt,” he says fiercely, almost a growl, almost a prayer. “I— I promise. It won’t hurt. I’ll take it all away. You won’t remember.”

“N— no,” you cry, trying to wriggle free, your tears hot against his collar. “I don’t want to forget—”

You try to shove him away, but his arms are iron around you, crushing you to his chest. His heart’s beating too fast, pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to crawl out of his body. The hum of his power isn’t gentle anymore. It’s jagged, crackling, like before a storm.

“Bob, let go—” Your voice breaks on a sob. You can’t get enough air. Every nerve ending is raw, screaming. “You’re hurting me—”

“Don’t— don’t say that, sweetheart. I’m sorry, I— I— I don’t mean to—” His voice is shaking, ragged with panic. “Just stay still. P— please. Just stay with me.”

Your sob catches against his chest, and he rocks you like he can cradle the fight out of you. His lips brush your hair, fevered and frantic. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay, shhh. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you. You don’t have to do anything, don’t have to be anything, except here. Alive. With me.”

“No, I promise I won’t—” The words tear out of your throat, hoarse and desperate. You feel like that ten year old version of yourself, strapped down to the table. “I promise I’ll stop trying to— Bob, please, just let go!”

He shakes his head violently, almost like he can’t even hear you, like he’s arguing with someone only he can see. “No, no, no, no, not this time. Not again.”

His fingers slip into your hair, holding you in place as his forehead presses to yours. His eyes are glowing faintly now, not the comforting warmth you know— something hotter, unstable, too bright. The gold burns.

You don’t know what to say anymore.

“I don’t want you remembering the hurt.” His thumb swipes a tear from your cheek, smearing your own blood across your skin. “I don’t want you to ever feel that again.”

“Bob, please—” You’re sobbing now, shaking all over. You try to pry his hand off your face, but he’s too strong.

“I’m sorry.” His voice breaks on the words. “You’ll feel better once you forget.”

“No— no, no, Bob, don’t—”

But his hands are already glowing brighter, gold searing into white. The hum in the room swells, louder than your heartbeat, louder than your screams. The world tilts sideways as something pushes into your mind, flooding through every crack in your skull. You thrash, choking on your own sobs, but his grip doesn’t falter. 

“Shhh,” he murmurs against your temple, even as his tears fall hot against your skin. “Just let go. Just let it all go…”

And the last thing you see is his face, tear-streaked and apologizing as the light overtakes your vision.

Everything goes white. Then, you have flashes. Not of your childhood, of the past, of memory. But of right now, you think. Broken and bleeding through the cracks, too fast and too bright to make sense of.

You’re strapped down again. The table is cold beneath you. Metal cuffs dig into your wrists. Your skin is clammy. Your lungs won’t pull in enough air. You try to scream, but your throat only cracks open with static.

Sound comes to you like someone slipping a record into place, snagging at first, then the whole thing grinding into motion. A beep. A murmured name. A warm feeling at your temple. You’re not sure if you’re in the kitchen or a room full of glass and machines anymore; the edges of everything are soft and soggy.

“Mr. Reynolds, the scans show ongoing degradation. Repeated memory resets are eroding her neural map. We’re losing consolidation. Each wipe takes more than it gives back.”

Bob’s voice is low and anxious. “Then— then patch it. Do something. Don’t let her feel it. She can’t go through that again.”

“We can patch symptoms,” the other voice says. “But she’s been in direct contact with Void signatures. We can try targeted stabilization to slow the degradation, but if the Void’s imprint has integrated, erasing and rewriting will create new instabilities. Repeated resets will accelerate degradation. I mean, you’re not just overwriting trauma; you’re overwriting association nodes.” You hear the sound of marker on a whiteboard. “We’ll strip memory, yes, but we’ll also strip the networks that let those memories integrate. Long-term identity traces— personal narrative— will fade. At some point there won’t be a person left to receive the overwrite.”

The words land on you like icicles. There won’t be a person left.

“Not… not if I can stop it,” Bob says. His voice is small in the room, and then it isn’t. Then it’s filling the air, raw and too large for his body. “We don’t get a person again if— if— if she’s dead. I won’t— I won’t let that happen. Do— do you understand that?” You can hear the desperation in him, the way the syllables stumble. Something hums under his skin, low and animalistic. 

The other person— a doctor, or some kind of medic, you gather— lets out a dry breath. “Sir— Mr. Reynolds— we understand your— your fear, but we have to consider neurological viability. The longer she’s exposed to those signatures, the less likely she is to— to— to re-encode. Wiping her again is— is palliative, at best. It removes the pain from her experience, but it also removes the scaffolding of self. We can hold on to isolated functions— basic motor, basic reflex— but her narrative continuity will erode.”

“I can’t have her feeling it,” Bob says, voice shaking so hard it sounds like it could break. “She can’t remember it. She can’t— she can’t carry it.” His hands curl into fists. Gold flickers at his fingers and then subsides. “If we keep her here— if— if we keep her safe— she’s alive.”

The doctor exhales, frustration and pity in equal measure. “Alive in what sense, Mr. Reynolds? A body that breathes? Consciousness without history? We can’t ethically—”

“Ethics,” Bob spits, and there’s an edge to him that makes the techs glance at each other. “You want ethics? Nothing in her life has been about ethics. There were no ethics when they strapped her down as a kid and told her it was for the greater good. When she was forced into all of this. She didn’t even want… Don’t— don’t talk to me about ethics.” He sounds small and vicious at once.

Someone else— another tech, younger, voice tight— speaks up. “Mr. Reynolds, you’re asking us to perform repeated mnemonic resets on a subject whose neural integrity is compromised by…” she struggles to get the words out. “By— by the Void. Each overwrite increases the brain’s dysfunction. Functional recovery becomes exponentially less likely each time. This is not just ‘she’ll forget.’ At a point, there is no network left to—”

“Better than nothing!” Bob snaps. The sound is a fracture. Lamps flicker. A door downstairs slams. Somewhere beyond the room someone who might have tried to intervene beats against an impossible barrier, and the sound dies. “Better than her being gone. Better than— than her not existing.”

The argument continues to play out above you. “Mr. Reynolds. She’s not just at risk. Her contact with Void signatures has degraded reconsolidation capacity. If— if we force another reset now we’re likely to create permanent dissociation. Also—” her voice drops— “there could be wider systemic effects. You know as well as I do that we don’t fully understand what’s happening here. Doing this again might create cascading interference. We could cause network failures elsewhere.”

Bob stands at the foot of the table. His hands shake. “If we stop now, she’ll wake up in pain. She’ll remember everything.”

“She’ll remember who she is,” one of them argues, voice shaking. “Mr. Reynolds, you’re not exactly… You’re not giving us a choice—”

A hard thud echoes from somewhere outside. A door slams. Muffled shouting. You can’t tell if it’s in your head or the hall. Someone tries the lock. The lights flicker.

Bob’s voice cuts through the noise, soft and ragged. “I’m not letting anyone take her from me again.” He flattens his hand against your forehead. He swallows. “Wipe it. Please. Wipe anything that hurts her so— so she doesn’t have to feel it anymore.”

Someone else hesitates. “Full temporal dampening, then the memory suppression sequence. We warn again— severe degradation will occur.”

“Now,” Bob says. He doesn’t need to shout; his tone makes it final.

One of the medics flicks a switch. Machines hum. The room narrows to the sound of that hum and the rasp of breath. Pressure builds at the base of your skull like submerging underwater. The world tilts and folds inward.

Hands, Bob’s hands, are still holding you. His whisper keeps threading through the noise, a ragged promise that’s almost a plea. “I’m sorry. I’m— I’m sorry, Y/n. I’m doing everything I can. I’m doing this because I love you."

You try to hold on to his face, to the sound of him saying your name, but thoughts slide free of you like beads rolling off a string: the rooftop, the hospital room, a woman laughing with short hair. One by one your memories lift away until there’s nothing but the white hum and the warm weight of someone who won’t let go.