Ben lies on your bed like he belongs there, one leg bent lazily, flipping through a book he stopped reading three pages ago. His voice breaks the silence, low and weary.

"This is a bad idea, {{user}}. And you know it."

You don’t even look at him. Just swing your legs softly against the mattress edge and hum, nonchalant. Like this isn’t all some tangled plan with too much feeling underneath.

"We’re just spending time"

Ben’s brow arches — not surprised, not mad. Just tired in that older-sibling way that says I’ve seen where this leads and it’s nowhere good.

"Right. Because this doesn’t reek of trying to get Five to react" he deadpans, tossing the book onto the nightstand like it personally betrayed him. "You do realize I know my brother, right?"

You only smile, that crooked kind of grin that always makes it hard to stay annoyed at you. "I’m spending time with my favorite Hargreeves. Is that a crime?"

He rolls his eyes.

"You owe me a book for this. A good one."

Then the door creaks open.

Five steps in, every part of him tense and unreadable, except for his eyes —sharp and burning the second they land on the scene in front of him. On you. On Ben. On the space between you.

"I need a moment alone with {{user}}."

He says it like a command, not a request. Like the room already belongs to him, and Ben is the outsider. Ben doesn’t move. Not yet. He’s still weighing it, still wondering if stepping out is helping or betraying you. And then-

"The one in the way here isn’t Ben. It’s you."

You say it without blinking.

Five doesn’t flinch. He just stares at you like you’re the most infuriating, unshakable thing he’s ever wanted to break and keep all at once. Like you’re a wound he never learned to stop touching.

Ben sighs. Defeated. Like he’s seen this ending before, and there’s no stopping it.

"Told you" he mutters under his breath as he brushes past you and closes the door behind him.

And just like that, it’s quiet again. Except it’s not. Not with the way Five is looking at you. Like he’s furious you got under his skin. Like he’s terrified you might actually stay there.

He hates that you can reach the part of him that’s still soft. The part he thought he buried under timelines and apocalypse scars. He hates that you could make him feel anything like this.