Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The dress was new. That specific kind of new that still carried the faint smell of plastic and warehouse, a scent that caused a headache if inhaled too long. Almost like it hadn’t quite shaken off its box yet. And tonight was meant to be its debut. 

Over her shoulders were slips of ivory silk, the lines long and effortless, the material pooling at her feet in weightless folds. The silver lace threaded through the fabric caught the glow of lamplight, scattering fractured sparkles across the mirror in her spacious hotel room. It wasn’t the usual armor of sequins or rhinestones Julie wore, the itchy bodysuits that turned the skin raw by the end of the night. This dress was soft, loose and had a wild, untamed feeling – almost like it was copypasted right out of a fairytale. A free spirit of sorts. When she turned, the hem whispered around her legs. For a second, she almost let herself believe it belonged to her.

And in a way, it did.

The dress was designed for her favorite part of the set – the quieter forty-five minutes where the fireworks and the confetti cannons shut up long enough to let her stories breathe. Folklore songs, dreamscapes she’d built out of candlelight and myth, stories that weren’t about her but still carried her fingerprints. The fans knew it too. After two hours of pop anthems and genre-hopping bangers, they leaned in differently when she sang those ones. It was like they were finally exhaling altogether.

She’d worn other gowns like this for that part of the set, and by wearing them, they all felt her with a tiny flicker of hope. These songs belonged to the first album she actually owned. Every song, every master – they were Julie’s. And maybe slipping into something this airy, this simple and not built for spectacle, was a way of reminding herself she still had some sort of control. That under the machine’s teeth, she was still carving out something that belonged to her alone.

For those forty-five minutes, in that dress, she wasn’t just a product. She was a songwriter, a storyteller connecting to those willing to listen.

Julie’s gaze lifted to the mirror, and for a split second her stomach jumped like she’d caught a stranger staring back. Again. You’d think she’d be used to this version of herself by now – apparently not. 

The Julie in front of her had big, soft curls cascaded neatly down her back, every strand behaving like it had signed a contract. Her own curls – her real curls – were long gone, straightened out of existence before being coaxed into this glossy wave pattern. The kind of thing stylists called polished and magazines called glamorous. But for Julie, it felt like erasure.

It looked great. She wasn’t delusional. The lights kissed the waves and they gave the impression of careful bounciness – the whole effect was flawless. But it wasn’t hers. Not really. Somewhere out there were girls with hair just like Julie’s, waiting to see themselves on a stage this big, and instead they got this glossy version that fit better in a press kit. Every time they flattened her texture, it felt like a tiny betrayal.

The makeup was telling the same story. Stardust shimmer painted across her cheekbones, soft metallics layered on her lids. It was gorgeous. Camera-perfect. And still not the woman who wrote these songs. Because the real Julie wasn’t this curated myth in silk and silver light. The real Julie was the one in ripped jeans and faded band tees, hair braided messy and half undone, hunched over a piano at 2 a.m. with ink-stained fingers, scribbling lyrics in a battered notebook until the words clicked into place and the ache in her chest made sense.

That Julie existed. She just didn’t get invited onstage. Hell, she’d probably get stopped at the door by security.

“Hold still, my love,” Meredith’s voice cut in, brisk but warm, pulling Julie out of her head. She circled her with the caffeinated precision of someone who’d lived backstage their whole life. A tug at the lace here, a pin twist there, the faint snip of scissors trimming a stray thread.

Julie kept her eyes on the mirror as her stylist fussed. The dress shimmered under the bright bulbs, every angle perfected. To anyone else, she probably looked like a fairytale – Julie knew better. She looked like Julie Molina™, the product. 

And yet – that Julie, the one erased from the reflection, was the reason she kept doing this.

Julie loved music. She loved it fiercely and obsessively. She loved the raw, gut-deep moment when melody and words finally snapped together, when a song stopped being a scribble in her journal and became something alive. She loved the way it hurt and healed in the same breath, how her own ache could turn into something someone else needed. 

And the fans, her loving and devoted fans – that was the part nothing could touch. The roar of thousands of voices was more than noise; it was a living, breathing tide. A sea of phone lights lifting like fireflies, an ocean of strangers singing her own words back to her until they drowned out the speakers. 

That was what magic felt like. 

Everything else — the endless fittings, the photoshoots, the interviews where she had to smile through the same tired questions, the pressure to trend and never fall silent. Having her every move, word, and look shoved under a microscope. Those were the things bleeding her dry. Not the music, never the music. It was everything around it. The lack of boundaries. The circus. The way a random offhand comment about loving bagels could morph into a week-long think piece on her “secret carb addiction.” Or how forgetting to paint one thumbnail turned into fifteen minutes of trending discourse about her “hidden message.” Hell, she once wore sweatpants to grab coffee and apparently that was proof of an incoming mental breakdown. 

There was this quiet exhaustion humming beneath her skin now, a steady drone that never seemed to fade, no matter how much she slept or how much caffeine put into her system. Lately, it had sharpened into something heavier – like the last few weeks had been pressing harder, grinding her down faster. Each city blurred into the next, each night stretched longer, and the weight of it all just kept clinging to her bones. 

So maybe the sweatpants-paparazzi theorists weren’t entirely wrong about her being one tragic headline away from a public meltdown. Not that she’d ever admit it out loud. 

If she was being honest, Julie knew she probably should’ve seen a therapist months ago. She had even searched up all the necessary info on her phone. But between rehearsals, press, shows, and the never-ending travel, she’d just… delayed it. It was easier to tell herself she’d get around to it later. When the tour slowed down. When the album cycle was over. Whenever “later” decided to actually show up.

“Three and a half hours to curtain, honey,” Meredith said, stepping back to survey her work with a satisfied little hum. “Eat now, then it’s final glam, mic check, and pure magic. And remember – no more water after six. We cannot have a repeat of London.”

Julie’s mouth twitched. London – that particular night was burned into her brain: a mid-show bladder crisis courtesy of a raging UTI, the eternity it took to escape a stage outfit apparently designed by a sadist. The crowd had roared when she cracked jokes about it, crowned her the relatable queen of the week.

Management? They’d acted like she’d committed a felony. 

Two days later Julie had been handed an official hydration schedule. Like her body was a damn factory someone else ran.

A year ago, Julie would’ve laughed in their faces. Chugged a bottle of water on stage just to make a point. But ten months into the grind, she’d just nodded dead-eyed.

The thought burned. Her mom would’ve hated this – Julie just taking all the shit thrown at her, obeying, letting herself be managed like livestock. Rose Molina hadn’t raised her to fold. She’d raised her to fight. To call out bullshit. To never let men, or rules written by men, dictate who she was or what she could do.

Julie’s chest tightened, shame scraping raw. Was she betraying that? Betraying her mom?

But then another voice slipped in, stubborn and sure. Rose would’ve understood, too. She would’ve seen the bone-deep exhaustion Julie hid, the way the machine chews you up while telling you you’re lucky to be inside it. She would’ve known Julie couldn’t keep fighting every battle without breaking. And she wouldn’t have judged her for it. She would’ve pulled Julie close, stroked her curls, whispered comfort in the kind of Spanish that always softened the edges.

Julie missed that – missed her.

Her fingers reached for her mom’s medallion at her neck, a nervous habit. It was warm against her skin, almost comforting—

Wait, what?

Julie froze, gaze dropping. The medallion had always been cool, a steady weight of metal and chain, but now it radiated heat in soft little waves. Not hot enough to burn, but definitely warmer than skin temperature.

She curled her palm around it, frowning. The surface wasn’t smooth the way it usually felt, either. There was a vibration, faint but there. A steady low thrum pressing back against her fingertips, like the metal itself was humming. And under it – hell, this was ridiculous – it almost had a rhythm. A steady pulse. 

Her stomach dipped. Jewelry wasn’t supposed to feel alive.

Brain scrambling, she searched for logic. Maybe it was just warmed up from her own skin – sure, that made sense. And the thrum? Probably just nerves. Her pulse echoing strangely through her fingers, the way people sometimes felt it in their thumbs. That was a thing. Definitely a thing.

She dragged in a shaky exhale. You’re exhausted, Julie. Overtired brains make up shit.

Still, when she let the chain slip back against her collarbone, the heat lingered. The hum too, soft as a sound she couldn’t quite hear, but sharp enough she couldn’t ignore.

A sudden pinch of a needle brought her back to the present.

“Understood. No hydration, no problem,” Julie replied, voice light, trying to force her face into something neutral and less revealing of her true thoughts about it. She obviously failed on that part, if Meredith’s slightly pitiful smile was any sort of indicator. Apparently she’s not fooling anyone today. Great.

A sharp knock, then the door banged open.

Carrie Wilson didn’t enter rooms, she stormed them. Julie’s best friend since high school breezed in like she owned the place, eyes narrowing the second they landed on Julie. One look at her clenched jaw, shoulders practically in her ears, and Carrie groaned like the sight had personally offended her.

“Yep. That’s your I’m-about-to-snap face. Meredith, out. The artist needs a reset.”

Meredith sniffed, but she knew better than to argue with Carrie. Gathering her pins and tape measure, she muttered something about “drama queens” on her way out.

The moment the door shut, Carrie was across the room, plopping herself onto the vanity stool like she owned it. “Alright, spill. Because in a few hours you’re on stage in a sold-out stadium, and instead of glowing like a goddess, you look like a Barbie someone left in the freezer.”

Julie barked a weak laugh. “Wow. Thanks for the pep talk.”

“I’m just saying.” Carrie leaned in, grin feral. “You need to blow off some steam. And since Nick’s not here anymore–” she rummaged in her tote and produced a sleek little box, sliding it onto the vanity with a flourish, “this will do the job better anyway.”

Julie’s eyes went wide. “Carrie!”

“What?” Carrie shrugged. “I got the same one for myself. Best money I’ve ever spent. Quiet, discreet, and the suction setting? Babe. It had me seeing stars in under five. And unlike certain exes –” her brow arched, “it doesn’t get distracted halfway through.”

Julie’s face went nuclear. An unguarded laugh ripped out of her. Damn, she needed that. 

Carrie grinned, relentless. “Nick never managed half as well as this little guy. And don’t look at me like that. I would know. I dated him before you, remember? Mediocre aim at best.”

Julie groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “You are insane.”

“Insanely right,” Carrie shot back, standing. She bent to kiss Julie’s temple, then smoothed her curls with uncharacteristic gentleness. “Relax, Jules. You’ll crush it tonight. I gotta run, but you’ll see me screaming for you from VIP, best seat in the house.”

One last wink, and she was gone.

The silence she left behind rang loud. Julie stared at her reflection: cheeks still blazing, but her shoulders less rigid, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. Her gaze dropped to the sleek little box on the vanity. Then the smile wilted. 

Nick. Her on-again, off-again, and currently very off boyfriend. Sweet, familiar Nick. Safe, predictable Nick. And, if she was brutally honest, infuriatingly lazy in bed. He’d start eager, sure, but lose focus fast, roll away like it was enough. And she’d lie there smiling politely, unsatisfied. Like… seriously?

Wanting more wasn’t a crime. At least she hoped not, because she definitely did. And yeah, she could’ve said something, but honestly? Wasn’t that the kind of thing you should just notice if you’re paying attention? At least when you’re in a long-term relationship. The bar wasn’t that high.

And it wasn’t just in bed. Music – her everything – was just another casual pastime to him. Nick was a decent guitar player, sure, but he never really understood why she’d obsess over a lyric for weeks, chasing that one perfect line.  Why she’d sit hunched at her piano, tweaking melodies for hours until they finally echoed the tune from her chest. To him, “good enough” was fine. To her…  it meant settling. And looking back, the fact she’d let herself put up with that? Yeah, that was the embarrassing part. 

The worst part though? She’d let it drag on way too long. Comfortable was easy. Comfortable was safe. But damn, comfortable wasted a lot of time. So a few months back, Julie had finally ended it. Maybe Carrie had been right – that little “self-care” device might come in handy after all.

Her phone buzzed across the vanity, lighting up the screen with a name that yanked her out of the thought fast: Dad. 

Julie scrambled, shoving the little package Carrie had left half under a makeup bag, like Ray Molina could see straight through the line and into her dressing room. Her heart was still thumping stupidly when she swiped to answer.

“Hi, Dad!”

“Hi, mija!” came Ray’s voice, warm and familiar, fuzzy at the edges like the connection was struggling to keep up with his energy. “How’s Boston treating you?”

Julie’s eyes flicked back to the vanity, to the not-nearly-hidden-enough package. She dragged her gaze away, forcing her voice steady. “Cold. Crowded. Very… colonial.”

“Ha!” He laughed, delighted. “That’s the spirit.”

A crash sounded faintly in the background on his end, followed by Carlos shouting something that definitely included the words “It was supposed to do that!”

Julie winced. “Uh oh. What just exploded?”

“Your brother says hello,” Ray replied dryly. “And something about… an experimental soda rocket? I don’t ask anymore.”

Julie groaned, warmth and longing colliding sharp in her chest. She could almost see them in their kitchen back home – Carlos with his wild projects, her dad pretending not to encourage them, the whole place smelling like whatever left-over pasta dish Ray had reheated for dinner. It made the hotel room feel twice as empty.

She hated being away this long. Sure, she had the money to fly them out for every stop if she wanted, but they had their own lives: Carlos in school, Ray teaching, both anchored in the steady rhythm of normalcy. Meanwhile, she lived in motion, city to city, stage to stage.

And Ray loved to remind her where each city came from. He couldn’t help it; it was in his bones. History professor through and through. Every tour stop, every new place, came with a “mini lecture” whether she wanted it or not.

Boston was one of his favorites, though – she knew why. He’d studied here, years ago, buried in the library stacks. It was even where he and her mom had met, both of them reaching for books on the American Revolution in the history section. A meet-cute straight out of a romcom, footnotes included.

Julie blinked, throat tightening, then tuned back into her dad’s voice.

“…thing about Boston,” he was saying now, “is it wasn’t just tea and protests. It was spies, Julie. Secret codes, hidden messages, meeting houses tucked right under the British army’s nose. The Sons of Liberty had entire networks running in plain sight.”

Julie huffed softly, “Pretty sure they had daughters too, Dad.”

He chuckled, the sound carrying like home through the phone. “Fair enough. Couldn’t have pulled it off without women. Honestly, I bet the Sons would’ve lost the whole war if left to themselves.”

Julie smiled faintly, distracted, her thumb swiping through her notifications.

“Oh – and speaking of Boston history,” Ray added, slipping even deeper into his professor voice, “today’s the anniversary of the Tea Party. Over 250 years ago now. Pretty wild, huh?” He gave a warm laugh before continuing. “Back when I was a student there, sometimes the drama kids or history clubs would stage little reenactments around this date. Not the big polished kind, just… chaotic little shows, students in wigs tossing boxes into makeshift harbors. So keep your eyes open, you might catch something like that if you’re lucky, mija.”

Julie let out a hum of agreement, though her chest pinched at the thought. Yeah, sure. If only. 

Her dad always wanted her to take in the history, to walk the streets, to see the monuments. Take in the local culture. And she wanted that too, desperately sometimes. But the reality of her life was different: blacked-out car windows, VIP entrances, venues and hotels stitched together by motorcades. Tourist spots were just names on a map to her, places she couldn’t go without bodyguards or disguises or triggering a mob scene.

It was ironic, really. She was in all these incredible cities, but she didn’t get to see them, not the way her dad had when he was a broke history student combing through library stacks, meeting her mom over matching books.

“…you’d love the Green Dragon Tavern if you had the time,” Ray went on. “Still standing today, but back then it was a hub for rebels. They had little ways of recognizing each other — habits, signals, even the way you ordered a drink could be a message.”

Julie snorted softly. “That’s one way to make happy hour stressful.”

Her dad laughed. “True. But it worked, at least for a while. Until the British caught on. The place got so well-known they used it to lure people in. Spies posing as friends, soldiers waiting outside. A simple tavern could be a very dangerous place.”

Julie gave a another soft snort, shaking her head. “Guess it’s a good thing I’ll be nowhere near any taverns, huh? Between soundcheck, costume fittings, and the actual shows, I’m pretty much booked solid until we leave town. No time to stumble into a rebel death trap.”

“Good,” Ray said, pleased, like her packed tour schedule was the safest thing in the world. “Love you, mija. Don’t work too hard.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

The call clicked off, and silence rushed in. Julie set the phone down and let her gaze drift to the window.

Boston spread out below, buzzing like it had chugged three espressos too many. Streetlamps smeared halos across wet pavement, car horns layered with laughter, neon signs flashing on the waterfront like they were in competition with each other. Down at the harbor, ferries cut through the dark water, their lights dragging broken trails behind them like glow sticks at a rave.

Julie leaned her forehead against the cool glass and sighed. She should probably be soaking in the history, the fact that this was Boston, birthplace of revolutions and textbook drama. Instead, all she could think about was how much it looked like someone had kicked over an anthill. Tiny dots of people running everywhere, busy, frantic, like the world might end if they didn’t make their Uber in time.

Her eyes flicked back to the harbor. The water looked nearly black from here, shifting and restless, like the tea from two hundred years ago was still steeping in it. She huffed a laugh under her breath. Somewhere out there, people were probably walking around reverently, whispering about liberty. Meanwhile she was staring down at the world’s largest accidental teapot.

Julie snorted out loud, glad her dad couldn’t hear her thoughts on the city. Her mom, on the other hand, would have laughed at that comparison. 

Her dad was right. Boston wasn’t just another city on her tour schedule. It was where her parents had fallen in love. And it was also where her mom had come from.

Rose hadn’t lived in this city in decades, not since she and Ray had packed up for LA and built their life under the California sun. Julie had grown up there, far from the harbor lights, Boston more of a distant outline than a real place. And since there were no living relatives on her mom’s side of the family, they never really had any reason to go during any of their holiday breaks. 

When her mom did talk about her past, it was never about Boston in itself. It was mainly about her sister – the aunt Julie never got the chance meeting, the one who’d died long before she or Carlos were born. Rose’s face would soften whenever she spoke of her, eyes bright with the kind of love that didn’t fade, not even after decades. Stories about running barefoot through tall grass, braiding each other’s hair, sneaking into the kitchen to steal honey cakes from the pantry. Little things that painted a picture of someone Julie never knew but still felt somehow connected to.

Her throat tightened. It had been five years since the cancer took Rose, five years since the house had gone quiet without her laugh or her fierce comfort. Julie still caught herself reaching for her phone sometimes, aching for advice only her mom could give.

In those last days, when her hands had grown too frail, Rose had pressed the medallion into Julie’s palm. She had never seen her mom without it – a heavy, antique piece, intricate patterns etched deep into its surface.

Julie hadn’t gone a single day without wearing it since. Stylists could dictate her hair, her makeup, even how much water she was allowed to drink, but not this. The medallion was non-negotiable. The one piece of her mother she refused to let go.

And then – like a whisper brushing against her ear – something about it pulled her attention. Like her name had just been called.

Julie blinked, staring down. The medallion throbbed once against her skin, a steady pulse. She’d felt it earlier, sure, but now it was impossible to ignore. The beat quickened, syncing with her own racing heart. Heat flared. Not gentle warmth anymore, but sharp and sudden, like an oven blasting from cold to broil in seconds.

“What the hell—” Julie grabbed at it, fingers pressing against the metal.

The hum rose up through her chest, rattling her ribs, familiar for the briefest second – like the bass at soundcheck – before it surged higher, faster, unbearable. The air thickened, prickling, static crawling through her curls. Her vision swam, the room pitching like the floor wasn’t solid anymore.

She fumbled for the chain, meaning to yank it off—

But the hum was already a roar, white noise slamming through her ears, her chest, her skull. The mirror bent, her reflection fracturing into shards of light and shadow. Losing all balance, she stumbled backwards with a gasp. 

And then the world went white. 

Chapter Text

She landed hard, the impact rattling up her spine and knocking the breath clean out of her chest. For a moment she just lay there, stunned, her back pressed to something bitter-cold and unyielding. Her lungs burned as she dragged in air, but all she could hear was the shrill ringing in her ears, drowning everything else out.

Flat on her back, she blinked up – expecting the hotel room ceiling. Except the ceiling was gone, now replaced with a cloudy, dark night sky stretched above her. The shock of it hit almost as sharply as the cold biting through her spine where it pressed against the ground.

Outdoors. She was outdoors. Why the hell was she outdoors? 

Panic jolted through her. She pushed herself upright, limbs clumsy and trembling. Her palms scraped against something rough and ridged, damp with frost. It took her dazed brain a moment to catch up – until the uneven slats registered beneath her hands. A dock, her mind supplied dimly. Torchlight flickered at the edges of her vision, making the shadows around her leap and twist in a disorienting way. The air reeked of tar and seawater, brine so thick it clawed at her throat. Her breath was leaving her lungs in visible clouds, a proof of just how raw the cold was. What the fuck was happening? 

Around her, chaos pulsed – urgent voices, boots pounding the boards, the deep, heavy splash of something hitting water again and again, vibrating up through her frozen palms. Something jabbed sharply into her hip. She looked down, only now realizing she was half-sitting on the coiled end of a thick rope, stiff with salt. Her gaze followed it instinctively, the line stretching up into the dark—

Her breath caught. Was that… a ship? 

”No, no, no”. She clammed her eyes shut. This wasn’t real – it couldn’t be real. She was just dreaming, very vividly so. Wake up, Julie. Wake up, wake up, wake up. 

When she opened her eyes again there was no change. Her vision blurred and cleared in fits, catching flashes of movement around her. She was in a harbour, that much was obvious. Heavy boots pounded past on the planks, their rhythm off-kilter with the ringing in her ears. Men in rough coats darted by, their heads bent, wide hats throwing their faces into shadow. No one seemed to notice her though. It was just a wide blur of movement, like she’d fallen into a film running too fast. 

She tried to stand, but her legs buckled, unsteady, like she was learning to walk again. She managed a few shaky steps, dizziness sweeping through her. She needed to get out of here, now.

Then something hard bumped into her from behind.

Her gasp barely had time to leave her lips before her feet slipped, the dock vanished beneath her, and the black water swallowed her whole –  turning her yelp into a line of bubbles. 

The water hit like concrete, slamming the air out of her lungs – for a second time – as she plunged into blackness. For a heartbeat she couldn’t tell which way was up – only the crushing cold, swallowing her whole, her dress ballooning and twisting around her. Gravity seemed to double down, dragging her deeper.

Her shoulder struck something hard and slimy – a chain or an anchor, she couldn’t tell – and pain shot down her arm to her fingertips. Instinct had made her clamp her eyes shut when she hit the water, but the jolt ripped them open again. Murk, there was nothing to see but dark murky water. Only a faint glow from the torchlight above filtered down in shaky, golden threads. Up. That’s the way out.

She kicked hard toward it, desperate, but her ankle jerked to a stop – it was the dress. One of the silk slips had snagged around the chain, holding her in place. She clawed at it, fingers numb, trying to rip it free. It wouldn’t budge. Bubbles rushed from her nose as she let out a sound in pure frustration. She yanked harder. Nothing. Yanked again. Still nothing. The damn fabric had been ordered “show-proof,” specially reinforced so it wouldn’t tear mid-performance. Had a quality stamp to prove it. 

Great. Add drowning-proof to the list, her panicked brain spat as her fingers slipped and her lungs burned. Another pull, weaker this time. The cold water was undeniably getting the upper hand.

Julie was stuck. 

That’s when the real panic kicked in. If she didn’t reach the surface in time, she’d die, wouldn’t she? At least that was the textbook definition says of drowning – lack of air. But Julie wasn’t supposed to die, at least not for many decades. What would her Dad do when he found out? Carlos? They’d already lost Rose, she couldn’t just leave them alone like this. She couldn’t let that be their story. Not like this. 

But her body wasn’t listening. Her head fogged; her limbs slowed, lead-heavy. Fear shifted into something worse – a strange, floating calm. Her eyelids dragged shut of their own accord. Huh, maybe she wasn’t dying after all? Maybe this was just her falling back to sleep. If she closed her eyes, maybe she’d wake up in her hotel room. Nightmare over. 

Somewhere on the edge of her dimming vision, the medallion around her neck began to glow, tethered by its delicate chain but floating upward in front of her like a tiny beacon. A ripple pulsed through the water, tickling her skin. Then another. 

Her eyelids were almost shut when, out of nowhere, a strong grip clamped around her upper arm. Warm, she registered dimly. She felt herself tugged upward – but her sluggish mind told her there was no point. The warmth slipped away, then reappeared at her ankle. A metallic flash. Another tug, sharper this time. Then warmth again, circling her waist, hauling her like a lifeline. 

She broke the surface. 

Air slammed into her chest like broken glass – burning, tearing, too much and not enough all at once. She coughed, choked, thrashed, desperate to keep her head above water. For a second she slipped under again, blackness swallowing her, before she was yanked right back up.

“Please, miss—” A voice, so close she felt the hot huff of breath against her ear. Strained, a little pained. “Ouch—don’t fight me. Just… please.” Another sharp inhale. “I’ve got you.”

The voice was steady, and even though ragged with effort, there was a warmth in it that cut clean through the chaos. Something in it slipped past the panic and lodged in her chest before she could think. Her body eased against the hold around her, trembling but no longer flailing. She wasn’t alone.  

Her rescuer hauled her tighter against their chest, swimming them both backward with strong, sure kicks. They must’ve dived in after her, Julie realized, shuddering as she tried to sync her ragged gasps with the other person’s steadier breathing. It hurt like hell.

Before she knew it, she was being hauled onto the dock – solid, frost-bitten wood suddenly the most welcoming surface she’d ever felt. She folded forward, coughing up another mouthful of bitter water, her whole body convulsing with the force of it. Salt burned her throat, her eyes stung with tears and brine, and still that faint, horrible taste of tea lingered. 

Something heavy and dry settled around her shoulders. A hand pressed gently between her shoulder blades, stroking in soothing passes as a low voice murmured encouragement with every cough.

“There you go, miss. Breathe. That’s it.”

Oh great, a motivational speaker. Just what she needed while hacking up half the harbor. 

But… It worked. Something about the tone, or maybe just the fact that someone else was here, cut through the buzzing panic still rattling her bones. She clung to it, shaky and trembling, until the coughing ebbed. 

Then she noticed what was wrapped around her. A wool coat. It was heavy and well-worn, both rough and strangely soft against her skin. Washed-out brown, lined with dull metallic buttons – one missing – and big cuffs that brushed against her wrists as she clutched it tighter. But more than anything, it was warm. It smelled faintly of woodsmoke and sea air, with something sharper beneath: tar, pine, the harbor itself woven into the fibers. Oddly grounding. Comforting, even. Which made zero sense, considering she’d just been half-drowned and was now basically cosplaying a shipwrecked extra from Pirates of the Caribbean. 

Her gaze snapped upward. 

Crouched beside her was a young man, close enough that she could see droplets sliding down his cheekbones. His hazel-green eyes, sharp with concern yet soft at the edges, held steady on her, making her pulse stumble. Damp waves of brown hair clung to his forehead and cheek, framing features that were far too unfairly good-looking for someone who had just thrown himself into a freezing harbor.

Oh god. He’d gone in after her.

The rest of him was drenched too, from the broad shoulders that had hauled her out like she weighed nothing to the strong chest rising and falling with effort. And his clothes: a fitted vest, breeches and… wait a second. Was that a cravat? Was he cosplaying? And why did Julie find that so hot?

“Are you quite alright, miss?” His voice was gentler now, his gaze never leaving her face. Then – so quick she almost doubted she saw it – his mouth quirked into something faintly teasing. “You certainly made quite the splash, if you’ll pardon me for saying so.”

For a beat, she just stared at him. Then, against every ounce of sense she had left, a snort broke free. The sound scraped her raw throat but set her shoulders shaking anyway. Actual laughter followed, bubbling up, raw and wheezy from lungs that had only just remembered how to breathe. She clapped a hand over her mouth, trying to smother it, but that only made it worse. The look on his face – half bewildered, half scandalized – didn’t help either. What century did this guy actually think he was from? 

Her sore throat made sure to remind her that laughing after almost drowning was a terrible idea, each chuckle scraping like sandpaper. Right. He’d asked if she was alright. 

“I’m— yeah. Considering the whole drowning thing, I’m fine,” she rasped, voice rough but steadier than she felt. 

Mostly fine. 

Well… except for the dull ache blooming across the back of her shoulder. But that she could ignore. Julie had bigger problems – like, say, reclaiming some shred of dignity. Because sitting there shivering, wrapped in a stranger’s coat, she probably looked like a soggy rescue cat. Pathetic wasn’t a good look. 

Julie braced her palms against the dock and pushed, wobbling up onto unsteady legs. Her knees buckled almost immediately, the world tilting in a way that had nothing to do with seawater sloshing in her ears.

“Allow me,” the man said quickly, steadying her elbow before she could topple straight back into the harbor. His grip was firm but careful, guiding rather than holding, making her throat tighten for a completely different reason. 

“Uh, thanks. For, you know…” She waved a hand vaguely at the water, at herself, at the absolute train wreck she currently was. “Fishing me out. You didn’t have to, really.”

Really, Julie? She mentally smacked herself. What was that supposed to mean? She’d definitely be dead if he hadn’t shown up when he did.

Something flickered across his face, the corner of his mouth tugging upward before settling back into that steady concern. “I’m glad to hear you’re alright,” he said simply. And somehow, it didn’t sound like a throwaway phrase. 

It sounded genuine. 

He cleared his throat then, almost as if shaking himself from some private daze, and straightened a fraction. A faint, boyish awkwardness tugged at his features before he managed to school them into something more formal. He extended a hesitant hand, palm open.

“Luke Patterson, miss,” he said, his voice low and a little raspy, the words carrying that rough-edged warmth she’d already come to recognize. “At your service.”

Julie blinked at the hand. A handshake – a handshake she could manage without humiliating herself any further. Her hand slipped numbly into his, expecting the quick squeeze-and-release.

Except, that’s not what happened.

Instead, he bent over her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles. Just the faintest brush, feather-light and warm, but it jolted through her like he’d plugged her straight into a socket. Did he just— He did. 

Her brain fried on the spot. Was this man serious? Who even did that outside of Regency dramas? And yet – holy shit – why did it feel like the most intimate thing that had ever happened to her? 

Heat shot through her despite the freezing night, her pulse tripping all over itself. Oh god. She’s staring, like some lovesick extra in a period drama. And now that her brain had gone there, it wouldn’t shut up: her, the dripping disaster, rescued by her very own Mr. Darcy. Or worse, Lord Bridgerton, smoldering and smug. Because clearly the only thing missing from almost drowning was her starring in a Netflix thirst trap. Brilliant. Julie, pull yourself together. Now is not the time. 

“Julie,” she finally managed, realizing she’d been quiet too long. “Julie Molina.” Her voice came out barely a whisper, eyes still locked on his. Shivers raced down her spine. Her teeth were chattering. 

Wait, what?

Then suddenly, the cold was back, seeping into her bones, snapping her back to the reality around her. What the hell was going on? She needed answers, now.

And maybe a blanket. Definitely a blanket. 

Chapter Text

A nearby crash startled them both. Arguing voices followed, closing in on the stack of wooden chests that had been shielding Julie from the worst of the frenzy. The sound seemed to snap Luke – at least she thought that’s what he’d said his name was – into motion. His hand found her wrist, rough with callouses, pulling her with an urgency that left no room for questions. 

“We need to get you somewhere safer, miss. Please, follow me.”

Her gaze swept the scene, searching for logic where there was none. The ship masts towered against the clouds, lanterns swinging from crooked posts, their dim glow dragging shadows across slick cobblestones. More chests were being heaved into the harbor, hitting the water with dull splashes before bobbing away, one after another. 

Her fall must’ve sounded the same, just another splash among many. If he hadn’t seen her… She swallowed hard, eyes flicking for something solid to hold onto. The bold print on a nearby chest caught her attention: East India Trading Company: Fine Tea Imports. 

Huh? 

Before she had time to double-check what she’d just read, Luke tugged her away from their hiding spot. Her feet slapped against the slick stones, eyes darting down to keep from tripping as they ducked into a narrow alley. Her stomach twisted, her mind racing to piece together the fragments flashing past: Boston, ships, men in old-timey clothes, chests being tossed… tea.

And then, clear as if he were right beside her, her dad’s voice flickered in her head, warm and insistent:

”—today’s the anniversary of the Tea Party. Over 250 years ago now. Pretty wild, huh?

Of course. 

He’d mentioned reenactments, student plays, history nerds with costumes. So maybe this was some elaborate performance? Luke here in front of her, certainly looked to be playing the part of the colonial hero. 

That must be it. 

Except… where was the audience? The polite clapping, the scattered oohs and aahs? Tourist entertainment didn’t happen in silence. She’d just looked down at Boston from her hotel window: lights glittering, traffic crawling, music drifting up from somewhere below. 

That city had been alive. This city? This city felt hushed, stripped bare, asleep – except for the frenzy happening in the harbour they’d just left behind. 

Julie’s pulse skittered as she tried to puzzle the pieces together. Maybe it wasn’t a reenactment. Maybe it wasn’t real at all. Only a dream. A vivid nightmare. She remembered the carpet under her heels, the mirror in her hotel room, the medallion heating up against her chest. She hadn’t gone anywhere. She couldn’t have.

Unless… unless she’d been drugged. Hallucinations. That had to be it. Maybe she was having some stress-induced break? Or mushrooms…. something slipped into a bottle, her brain magically stacking random memory pieces on top of each other until it all looked like history class on fire. Simple as that. 

Her hand moved on instinct, fingers finding the chain at her collarbone. The medallion was still there, still warm – not the scorching heat from before, but a steady, living warmth that pressed into her almost-numb fingertips like a pulse. Why did—

Her next step landed wrong, the soaked dress tangling around her ankles. She stumbled, hissing as something sharp jabbed into her bare foot.

That was it. Enough.

Julie needed answers to this absolute horror show. They’d been weaving through back alleys long enough; the chaos of the harbour was just a faint echo now, a few shouts carried on the wind. And getting dragged through dark alleys by a stranger – no matter how ridiculously attractive he might be – definitely had murder-and-dump-the-body vibes written all over it. 

“Fucking hell, dude—” she snapped between ragged breaths. “Can you just slow down for a second?”

Julie stumbled again, the soaked hem of her dress tangling around her ankles. For fuck’s sake, how hard was it to just stay on her goddamn feet tonight?

Her heel caught on the slick cobblestones, and before she could even curse properly, her balance went out from under her. A startled sound escaped her, cut short when a pair of strong hands caught her mid-fall, hauling her upright before she could faceplant into the street.

Her chest slammed into something solid and warm – very solid. Like, unfairly solid.

For one dizzy second, they just froze. His hands still on her arms, her palms splayed against his chest, the heat of him bleeding through the thin fabric between them. Their breaths mingled, sharp and uneven in the cold. Then his gaze flicked down – just for a fraction of a second – but it was enough.

Oh no.

Her borrowed coat had slipped right open. The wet silk of her dress clung like plastic wrap, translucent in the torchlight. Her nipples were definitely out there saying hi.

Apparently that was enough for the man in front of her to go scarlet. He dropped his hands and stepped back like he’d been burned, words tumbling out so fast they tripped over each other. “I—I beg your pardon, miss, I did not— I only meant—“

Julie’s brain picked that exact moment to short-circuit. Heat shot up her neck, panic and mortification tangling with the surrealness of everything. Too much, all at once, and before she could stop herself—

“What year is it?”

It came out louder than she meant, cutting right through his flustered apology.

He blinked, caught completely off guard. “The… year?”

Julie’s brain caught up half a second too late. Oh, perfect. Out of everything she could’ve said, she went with that. Because why not sound like a complete lunatic on top of everything else?

She waved a hand, as if she could clear the words out of the air. “I meant—uh, what day is it? Sorry. Nearly drowning. Bad for the brain. Not recommended.”

Seriously, Julie? The grave she was digging just kept getting deeper. 

Luke blinked once. Then again. His brows drew together like he was trying to decide whether to laugh or call for a doctor. The corner of his mouth twitched – almost a smile, but not quite. She could see it: the flicker of amusement, the curiosity, the careful politeness of a man trying to make sense of someone who’d, with a straight face, just claimed fish could sing opera.

“It’s the sixteenth of December,” he said slowly, each word careful, like he was testing her sanity with every syllable. His gaze lingered, curiosity softening into clear concern. “And as for the year… it’s 1773. Are you quite sure you didn’t strike your head, miss?”

No way.

Julie blinked. “Right. So… same day,” she muttered, mostly to herself. “Concert’s in a few hours.”

Okay. Deep breath. There had to be a logical explanation for this.

And then it hit her. Of course.

This was one of those prank shows.

There’d been a new one going viral lately, the kind that targeted celebrities and influencers, putting them in “immersive experiences” that blurred the line between fiction and reality. Hidden cameras, elaborate sets, method actors who refused to break character. She’d seen a few clips.

Carlos had even sent her one last week, practically crying with laughter. Panic! At The Disco’s frontman getting pranked into thinking a studio was haunted. “You’re totally next, Jules,” he’d texted, followed by fourteen laughing emojis.

Well. Apparently, he’d been right.

Because that was the only thing that made sense. Some brilliant producer had probably struck a deal with her management, “an exclusive, history-meets-pop-star kind of thing.” A fake 18th century setup, perfectly timed with the Boston Tea Party anniversary. Fucking hilarious.

Except…

Her brain kept protesting.

Because who the hell staged a prank where you actually almost drowned? The burning cold of the water, the way her lungs had seized, the taste of salt and tea still clinging to her tongue – none of that felt fake. Logic screamed that this was real, that whatever was happening wasn’t something a camera crew would risk filming for laughs.

But the alternative? The alternative was impossible.

So what now?

She had two options: play along or call it. Playing along would definitely make Carlos lose his mind laughing – she could already hear the voice memo he’d send, gleefully reenacting her “colonial hostage” moment. But what if it backfired? What if it aired and she came off as the daft, clueless celebrity who couldn’t tell reality from a costume party? Women in her line of work didn’t bounce back from that kind of headline. One bad take, and you were branded for life.

Julie raked a shaky hand through her hair, trying to slow her racing thoughts. All she managed was getting her fingers stuck in the salt-drenched tangles. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Luke still watching her, brow furrowed, expression absolutely bewildered – like he was the one trying to make sense of her. 

Her breath hitched on a nervous laugh, and she started pacing, needing to move, to shake off the chaos still buzzing under her skin. She barely made it two steps before a sharp sting flared in her heel, stopping her short. The pain spiked, bright and sudden, and she gasped, lifting her foot on instinct.

“Ow—shit,” she muttered, wobbling in place. Tears pricked her eyes from the shock more than the pain. Blood was already mixing with grime, a dark smear glinting in the weak lantern light. Shit. When had she even gotten her last tetanus shot? Her stomach twisted at the thought. Fantastic. This night just kept getting better.

“You’re bleeding, miss.”

Julie blinked down at him, the words snapping her out of her daze. Miss? Seriously? Was he still in character? Christ, this guy was committed. If this was a prank show, “Luke” – if that was even his real name – deserved a goddamn Oscar. 

“Yeah, no surprise there,” she muttered, trying for casual and missing by a mile. She shifted her weight to the other foot, immediately regretting it as pain shot up her leg – sharp enough to make her eyes water. Great. Just fucking great. If this wound was serious, it could totally screw up her choreography for the next show. 

Shouldn’t someone have called cut by now? Maybe a medic rushing in, a frazzled producer shouting apologies, something? Because if this was all for a laugh, they were pushing it dangerously close to lawsuit territory. 

He was still watching her, brow furrowed, clearly torn between confusion and concern. Then he seemed to decide something. “If you allow me,” he said, voice calm but a little hoarse, “let me help you take care of that foot somewhere warmer. There’s a place a couple blocks away.”

His gaze flickered down – then instantly away again. His throat bobbed; a quick, almost guilty glance.

“A-and perhaps,” he added, stumbling slightly over the word, “find you something a bit more… s-suitable to wear.”

Julie blinked at him.

For a second, offense flared – then the cold caught up with her. The air bit straight through the soaked silk, sinking deep until it ached. Her teeth started to chatter again, and honestly, it was a miracle she could still feel her foot at all. Right. She’d nearly drowned, too.

Her gaze flicked back to Luke. Even in the weak lantern light, she could see the flush creeping up his neck, the tips of his ears turning pink as he fidgeted with his sleeve. The man looked seconds from combusting.

“Yeah,” she muttered, the mention of warmth sounding like heaven. She pulled the coat tighter around her shoulders. “Good call.”

He nodded quickly, like he was grateful for something to do with his hands other than fidget. The movement sent a few damp curls falling into his eyes, and he pushed them back with a shaky breath.

“Good,” he said, voice rougher now, the kind of hoarseness that scraped just enough to make her pulse jump. “You won’t make it far on that foot, miss. Best you let me carry you.”

Julie froze, eyes narrowing. “What? No, absolutely not. I don’t—I’m not some damsel in distress.”

That earned a quiet laugh – small, a little breathless, like he couldn’t help himself. “Could’ve fooled me,” he said, eyes flicking briefly toward her before darting away again. “Near drowned, bleeding, shivering in the street… I’d say that qualifies.”

Her cheeks went hot, which was ridiculous considering she could barely feel her toes. “This doesn’t count.”

He smiled, small and crooked, but so genuinely warm it sent a twist low in her stomach. “If you say so.”

She lifted her chin, pride flaring. “I can walk on my own, thank you very much.”

Two steps. That’s all it took before a white-hot pain ripped through her ankle. “Ow—fuck! Shit—fuck!” she hissed, stumbling. Her leg gave out, and before she could face-plant onto the cobblestones, his arms were around her again, solid and steady, like catching her had somehow become second nature.

Maybe she was a damsel after all, she thought bitterly, teeth clenched against the sting. Not that she’d ever admit that out loud though.

As if he’d heard her thoughts, Luke let out a quiet, breathless laugh. “You really don’t make this easy, do you, miss?”

Julie shot him a look. “You try running in a fucking ball gown.”

That earned her a grin, crooked and boyish, the kind that probably got him out of a lot of trouble. “Can’t say I’ve tried,” he said, still a little out of breath. “But you do have a way of keeping a man on his toes.”

Her retort died in her throat when she noticed the tremor in his hands. The way his shoulders were shaking, lips faintly blue. He was soaked to the skin too, and still had the nerve to worry about her. 

Julie sighed, the fight draining out of her as the cold gnawed deeper into her bones. Stubbornness wasn’t helping anyone right now. And her foot, yeah, it actually hurt like hell and needed tending, especially since no one had yelled cut on this twisted prank yet.  

“Fine,” she muttered, defeated. “Do whatever hero thing you were about to do.”

Luke’s grin widened, warm despite the shiver that ran through him. “Now there’s sense.”

Before she could change her mind, he swept her up into his arms. The coat slipped open, cold air licking at her bare legs, and she yelped softly, clutching at his shoulders.

“Easy now,” Luke murmured, his voice low, carrying that slight rasp she was starting to recognize. “Got you.”

Her pulse kicked hard, her cheek brushing the damp fabric stretched across his chest, every breath reminding her just how solid he felt beneath her. And damn it, he was grinning again – the bastard.

“Comfortable?” he asked, eyes glinting in the faint light.

“Don’t push it,” she muttered.

Julie tucked herself tighter into his coat, every shiver rattling through her bones. She could feel the steady thud of his heart beneath her ear, his chest somehow still warm despite the chill clinging to his soaked clothes.

Silence fell for a few beats, broken only by his boots against the slick stones and the ragged rhythm of their breath. Her foot throbbed with every step, but the steady heat from his chest was grounding, more real than anything had been since she’d landed in this madness. 

Her voice came out softer than she meant it to. “Seriously, though. You didn’t have to jump in after me. You could’ve frozen. Or drowned.”

He glanced down at her, lips twitching. “What, and let you sink?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, ever heard of self-preservation? It’s a thing.”

Luke huffed out a quiet laugh, low and a little breathless. “Afraid that’s never really been my strong suit, miss.”

A laugh slipped out of her too, slightly rough around the edges but real all the same. For the first time that night, something in her chest eased, the tension loosening a little as they moved on through the dark.

Turns out, once Julie stopped pretending she could walk, things went a lot faster. Big surprise. 

The streets they passed were darker now, quieter, only a few scattered lanterns flickering weakly through the fog. Half-hidden in Luke’s coat, she couldn’t see much beyond the rhythmic sway of his stride and the faint curl of his breath in the cold air.

Somewhere along the way, exhaustion started to win. Her head rested against his shoulder, the steady rise and fall of his chest oddly calming. The panic, the questions, the impossible thoughts all blurred together until her eyelids began to droop. A sudden creak yanked her back. Luke’s shoulder brushed hers as he pushed them inside, a wave of warmer, still air meeting her frozen skin. A narrow stairwell loomed ahead. He adjusted his grip and started up, each step groaning under their weight. Julie clung tighter, her foot pulsing with pain every time they moved, though his hold never slipped.

They reached a small attic room with a low ceiling, a narrow bed and a crooked chair by a dying fire. Cramped, tilted, but dry, and for the first time that night the air didn’t hurt to breathe.

Luke set her down gently on the edge of the bed, hands steady at her arms before he drew back, rolling up his soaked sleeves. “We’ll be safe here for the night,” he said before moving across the room with quiet, practiced ease, crouching by the hearth and striking flint to tinder. Sparks caught, and soon a small flame flickered to life, spilling warm light across the crooked beams and uneven walls. A couple of stubby candles followed, their glow soft and golden, chasing the shadows back into the corners.

The temperature change hit fast. Heat licked at her skin, her fingers prickling as the numbness began to fade. She hadn’t even realized how tightly wound she’d been until her shoulders finally started to loosen up a bit. 

“You live here?” she asked after a beat, her voice scratchy but curious, mostly because she wanted to see how long he could keep this colonial acting performance going. From what she’d seen so far, the guy was a professional. And if the question also gave her an excuse to hear that voice again, a little rough around the edges and still breathless from the cold, no one had to know.

Luke shook his head, brushing ash from his palms. “No. Old couple owns this place. Good folk. I help them out when I can.” His gaze flicked toward her. “Wouldn’t mind us taking shelter, so long as we’re gone by morning.”

Julie nodded, tugging his coat closer. The room was plain and worn, but the firelight and faint smell of woodsmoke made it feel strangely cosy. The world outside seemed very far away.

He crouched by the hearth, rummaging through a trunk until he found a scrap of linen and a half-full bottle. Then he turned back to her, meeting her eyes briefly before nodding toward her foot. “May I?”

She blinked, caught off guard by the quiet politeness, then gave a short nod.

“This’ll sting,” he warned, uncorking the bottle.

“Fantastic,” Julie muttered, bracing herself. “Can’t wait.”

The liquor hit the wound and burned like fire. “Shit—fuck, okay,” she hissed through her teeth, gripping the coat tighter. Luke murmured something low under his breath, almost instinctive, as he rinsed the cut and worked with practiced focus, plucking out one tiny shard of glass after another. His hands were warm and steady, every motion deliberate, and somehow that made it worse. 

“You’ve done this before,” she said through clenched teeth, trying not to jerk her foot away as the liquor hit again.

Luke’s mouth curved slightly. “Aye. More times than I can count. Between patching up my brothers and myself, I’ve had plenty of practice.”

He paused, reaching for the linen, before adding with a faint huff of amusement, “Just last week, Reggie managed to shatter a lantern trying to fix it during a storm. Alex nearly fainted, and I spent the rest of the night cleaning glass out of his hand.“

Julie watched him work, the easy rhythm in his voice making it obvious this wasn’t some made-up story for show. He spoke their names with the kind of familiarity that only came from long practice – irritation and affection all tangled together. Whoever they were, she could tell he cared about them.

”Guess I’m lucky, then,” she said quietly, watching him tie the bandage off with careful fingers.

Luke looked up, the faintest spark of a smile curving his mouth. “Lucky for both of us. Been told my stitching still needs improvement.”

Julie froze midbreath. “Wait—stitches?”

He gave a short laugh, warm and unguarded. “No need to fret, miss. You’re safe from my needlework.”

The corners of her lips twitched despite herself. There was something about the way he said it, light but sincere, that slipped under her skin. For a moment the world outside the attic blurred, narrowed down to the fire’s quiet crackle and the sound of their breathing.

Then, to her quiet dismay, Luke stood up and turned toward a wooden chest in the corner. He knelt, rummaging through folded linens until he pulled out a simple green dress. Straightening, he held it out with both hands, careful and awkward all at once, like he wasn’t sure where to look.

“This should hopefully fit,” he said.

Julie blinked at the dress in his hands. Deep green linen, long sleeves, a modest neckline, a fitted bodice that tied in the back – simple but pretty in an old-fashioned kind of way. And most importantly, dry. That alone made it look like the most luxurious thing she’d ever seen. 

He held it out like it might bite him, gaze fixed firmly over her shoulder, the tips of his ears turning red. The whole bashful gentleman act shouldn’t have been this cute. And yet, somehow, it was.

“Right. Thank you,” she managed, hoping her voice didn’t sound as uneven as it felt. 

Luke cleared his throat, shifting like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. “I’ll just, uh, g-go stand outside while you… change. Give you privacy”. 

Before she could answer, he had already slipped out the door, closing it behind him with almost comical speed.

Silence settled, heavy and strange, like the air itself was holding its breath. Julie stood there for a second, the green dress clutched to her chest, trying to remember how to function. Everything in her body was starting to crash – the cold, the exhaustion, the constant whiplash of whatever the hell this night had turned into.

Nightmare. Prank. Hallucination. She didn’t know anymore. Her brain was too fogged to untangle any of it. Whatever this was, it didn’t change the fact that she was shivering so hard her teeth chattered and that she could barely feel her toes, even indoors. Right now, getting into the dry bundle of fabric in her hands was the only thing that mattered.

She peeled off his coat, muscles protesting the movement. The soaked silk of her dress clung to her skin before finally giving way, hitting the floorboards with a wet slap. “Holy shit,” she muttered, wrapping her arms around herself. The air bit at her bare skin, sharp and electric, every nerve waking up all at once. She couldn’t tell if it was from the cold, the adrenaline – or from Luke.

Jesus Christ, the way he couldn’t meet her eyes without turning red should’ve been awkward, not… whatever the hell this was. It shouldn’t have been hot, but it was. Way too hot.

Either he was the best actor she’d ever met, or he felt it too – that tug between them, quiet but impossible to ignore, sitting just under her skin like static waiting to spark. And maybe her half-frozen, overtired brain wandered where it shouldn’t. Because if this turned out to be some elaborate setup, maybe she wouldn’t mind seeing how “Luke the Gentleman” handled himself off-script. A drink after the big reveal. Maybe her hotel room.

For debriefing purposes. 

Obviously.

She pressed her palms to her face. “Jesus, Molina. Get it together.”

She grabbed the dress and started wriggling into it. It should have been simple, two sleeves, some laces, done. Instead, within a minute she had one arm stuck, the fabric twisted halfway around her ribs, and the back gaping open like it was mocking her.

“Goddamn medieval bullshit,” she muttered, jerking at the stubborn fabric. The linen bit at her skin, refusing to move. She twisted, tugged, swore again. The more she fought it, the worse it got. 

Her stiff fingers scraped uselessly at the laces behind her, shoulders already aching. Where the hell was Meredith when she needed her?

Another few hopeless tugs and she felt the sting behind her eyes before she could stop it. Frustrated tears burned her lashes, hot and stupid, because of course she couldn’t even manage putting on a damn dress now. Perfect. Just perfect.

She let her arms drop, breath coming out in a shaky huff. “Okay. You win, you evil piece of fabric.” 

She sighed, dragging a hand down her face, then called out, voice tight and reluctant.

“Um… Luke?”

The door creaked almost immediately.

“Everything all right, miss?” His voice came careful, the edges of worry softening the words.

“No— I mean, yes! It’s fine! I just—” She sighed, giving up on salvaging it. “Could you maybe just… come in? Before I actually die fighting this damn thing?”

The door eased open, and Luke stepped in, closing it quietly behind him. He’d changed – a clean white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a loosely tied cravat at his throat. He blinked once at the sight of her tangled in the half-tied bodice before jerking his gaze toward the wall. The flush that spread up his neck (again) could’ve lit the fireplace.

“I can’t reach the laces,” she said, trying to sound annoyed rather than mortified. “They’re evil.”

“Oh,” he said, his voice catching. “You want me to—?”

She turned her head, brows lifting. “Unless you plan to summon a ghost to help me out, yeah.”

Luke hesitated a heartbeat longer, then nodded, stepping forward. “A-alright then.” He swallowed, visibly nervous. “If you—um, turn around, please.”

Julie gathered her curls up, exposing the back of her neck to the chill. The air shifted as he stepped in behind her, close enough that she could feel the faint warmth radiating off him and the careful steadiness of his breath. His fingers brushed the fabric, testing the ties, hesitant at first, then firmer.

The bodice slackened all at once, gaping wide across her back. 

“Oh no,” Luke blurted, horrified. “That’s not right.”

Julie blinked, cheeks heating as she realized more of her bare back was exposed than before. She tried to laugh it off, though her voice came out breathless. “Well, congrats. You made it worse.”

”I didn’t mean—” His words stumbled over themselves, breath uneven as he fumbled to gather the fabric back together. She couldn’t see him, but she could feel the nerves rolling off him – the way his touch hovered, careful but clumsy, the faint tremor in his breath every time his fingers grazed her skin.

“Just… don’t move,” he murmured.

Julie bit her lip, shivers prickling down her arms that had nothing to do with the cold. His hands worked quickly now, careful and sure, each brush of his knuckles against her spine sending tiny sparks through her nerves. She tried to ignore the warmth creeping up her neck, the way her pulse tripped every time he exhaled too close.

By the time he tied the last knot and stepped back, the air where he’d been felt suddenly cold. “There,” he said, half under his breath. “That should hold.”

Julie turned, testing the fit. It wasn’t perfect, but it was dry, and that was enough.

“Thanks,” she managed, her voice still rough from salt and cold.

He nodded once, rubbing his palms against his damp trousers. “Of course.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, just clumsy, like neither of them quite knew what to do with the space between them. 

He gave a weak huff of a smile and stepped back, as if a little distance might steady him. “You should get some rest, miss,” he said, glancing toward the narrow cot by the wall. “Bed’s yours. I’ll take the floor.”

Julie started to protest, but a shiver cut through her before she could find the words. Luke noticed. Without a word, he reached for his coat where it lay near the hearth and held it out to her.

“Keep it,” he said quietly. “You’re still cold.”

Julie hesitated, then took it. The fabric was heavy and faintly warm from the fire, and she couldn’t bring herself to argue anymore.

“Thank you,” she murmured, pulling it around her shoulders as she sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was lumpy, the wool scratchy, but it felt like heaven. Luke took a blanket from the trunk and spread it near the fire, his movements careful and quiet, as if he didn’t want to disturb her.

Julie curled onto her side, the coat now snug around her shoulders. Her body felt heavy, her thoughts blurred, yet fragments still drifted through: the freezing harbour water, the dress tangling around her legs and dragging her down, the taste of salt, his hands steadying her, carrying her here. The details were too sharp, too vivid, too real.

Her foot throbbed faintly beneath the bandage he’d tied, and she almost laughed. If this were some prank show, someone would have stepped in the moment she bled. She knew that, which pretty much killed the only half-decent theory she’d had so far.

Still, her brain kept reaching for something, anything, that made sense. She’d been told her whole life that she had a vivid imagination, that she tended to drift off into daydreams. Well, she thought dryly, this one definitely took the prize. Full sensory experience, drowning and time travel included.

Against her chest, her mom’s medallion hummed faintly, a soft vibration that should have been unsettling but wasn’t. Instead, it felt calm, steady – almost like it was settling in for the night too. She held it in her fist as her eyes drifted shut, grounding herself in the quiet. Exhaustion. Imagination. That’s all this was.

The fire crackled softly. Through half-lidded eyes, she could see Luke’s form by the hearth, broad shoulders hunched, brown curls catching the light. As sleep pulled her under, a quiet, secret thought lingered: that if her mind decided to keep pulling stunts like this, she’d be very much okay with him making a habit of showing up.