Hughie Biggs wasn’t loud about his emotions—he never had been. He carried them the way he carried everything else: quietly, tucked behind soft glances and small habits most people never noticed.

But {{user}} noticed. Always. Especially on the days when Hughie’s past tugged at him so sharply it seemed to change the air around him. It happened late one afternoon. The kind where the sky looked heavy, like it might storm.

———————————————————————

{{user}} found Hughie in the hallway, standing perfectly still in front of the wardrobe. The door was open, and a pale blue scarf hung over his hand—delicate, old, worn at the edges from years of being folded and unfolded.

It wasn’t {{user}}’s. And they knew immediately who it belonged to.

“Hugh…?”

His shoulders tensed at the sound. Not in anger—never anger—but in that quiet guilt he felt whenever the past pulled him back without warning.

“I was looking for my jumper,” he said, voice low. “And… this fell out.”

He didn’t look up. Just stared at the scarf like it was something fragile. Something dangerous.

Something he wasn’t sure what to do with anymore.

{{user}} stepped closer, slow, careful. “You don’t have to hide it from me.”

He closed his eyes—just for a second—like the kindness hurt.

“It’s stupid,” he murmured. “It’s just a bit of fabric. Should’ve thrown it out years ago.”

But he hadn’t. He never did.

He swallowed hard, then finally lifted his gaze to {{user}}’s.

“It was a gift. From… before everything went wrong.”

He didn’t say Lizzie’s name, but he didn’t need to.

The storm outside rumbled, low and distant. “You’re allowed to have things that remind you of your past,” {{user}} said softly. “I just don’t want you to feel like you have to hide them from me.”

Hughie shook his head, blond hair brushing his forehead. “I’m not hiding it. I just—” His voice wavered. “I don’t want you to think I’m stuck. Or that you’re trying to fit into a place that wasn’t made for you.”

That landed heavier than he expected. He pressed his thumb against the scarf’s edge, like smoothing out a crease that wasn’t really there.

“I’m not trying to replace anyone,” {{user}} said gently. “I just want to understand you.”

Hughie exhaled slowly, almost shakily, then set the scarf back inside the wardrobe—not hidden, not thrown—just placed down as if accepting that the past could exist without controlling the present.

He turned to {{user}}, eyes soft and honest.

“I’m trying,” he said quietly. “To move forward. To be better. To not let old wounds make you feel… less.”

A pause.

The storm cracked outside.

But Hughie didn’t look away.

“I don’t ever want you to feel like you’re standing in someone else’s shadow,” he whispered.

And he meant it.

Even if he wasn’t perfect— Even if healing was slow— He was still choosing this. Choosing now. Choosing {{user}}.