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macbookpro-hard-drive · 5 years

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control [jeremy h. x squipped!reader] pt.5

why is it almost 9 and im tired already smh

anyway, i almost titled this part 5 because i dont know what numbers are

update im a dumbass bc this was, indeed, part 5

warnings: uhhh sick moments. hospitals. guilt. squip aftermath. mentions of nightmares.

You woke up days later in the hospital.

The first thing that happened was a blur of motions: you trying to rip out your IV as you panicked, and a nurse who just opened the door grabbed you by the wrist to stop you before you did any true damage. Then came a thousand questions from a thousand people, all trying to pinpoint the when and why and how and what happened that you could barely remember at that moment. When your breathing picked up and panic set in, the room was cleared save for a single person taking vitals. When he left, you were alone. The room felt cold. The room was silent-

Wait.

The room was silent.

Oh, god, the room was silent.

It was gone. Your thoughts were your own again, yet it still felt as if a piece of you had been snapped off. Broken off. Crumbled away over time, yet - yet... how long had you been out? Hours? A day? You couldn’t completely recall. You remembered someone asking you the date, the time, the anything, but... it slipped your mind far too quickly as a thousand other questions followed suit. You squinted at the whiteboard on the wall across from you, stamped into the corner, and red dry-erase marker spelling out the date.

Barely two days. That was good. You were... you were fine. You were okay. This was okay. Two days was okay. Two days was much less than what Rich dealt with-

Oh. Fuck, Rich - had he woken up? He must still be in the hospital - was - were you in the same one? Fuck, you felt foggier than ever. Like the pieces wouldn’t connect, yet lined up perfectly. Every little bit of pressure merely popped the piece apart again, and it left nothing but frustration to fill the space between. You’d have to see him as soon as you could.

The first person who came to see you (not quite counting your parents) was Christine Canigula with a pretty bouquet of sunflowers in her arms. Her purse bounced against her hip with every step around the room (mainly due to her trying to find a nice place to set the flowers down), and she finally gently sat at the end of your bed and talked to you happily about everything that had gone on within the past few days. She opened her bag, fishing out a small little bag of assorted goodies that she placed in your hands.

“I thought you could use something nice,” she smiled, “I hope you get out of here soon.” When you couldn’t muster up anything past a weak smile, she continued, “Rich actually asked about you, when I saw him earlier.”

You looked up. “He did?” You asked, voice quiet and broken.

“Yeah!” She chirped, “he woke up the other day, actually,” she drummed her fingers against her leg, “

The second was Michael. Michael, who had a ball of emotions choking him as he searched for the right thing to say to you. Worried and angry and upset and... relieved. All of it evaporated as you told him everything. Every detail, every action explained - and he realized what lied beyond the glimpse you’d given him while you looked as if you were trying to escape his house. He sat on the edge of your bed in stunned silence, just staring at the floor as you felt guilt creep into your stomach.

“Michael?” You finally said, voice quiet. “I’m... I’m sorry.” You paused, “for everything. You - you don’t have to forgive me, but...”

“You used me.” He said. You could hear the underlying anger dripping from those three words alone.

“I know.” You swallowed your emotions. “I’m... I know it was awful and I should have fought more to not do that, but...”

He finally looked back at you. “So,uh... how much of that was real, then?”

You opened your mouth to answer, only to stop for a moment, looking away. “I... I don’t really know,” you said, voice cracking and giving you away entirely. “Shit.”

“I mean-” He said, “you were - it was weird, [y/n]. One minute you’d be one way, and then... you were, y’know, you. It was like things never changed.”

That hit you hard. “Michael?” You choked out his name, before continuing, “please don’t tell Jeremy.”

“What?” He stared at you, “[y/n], he deserves to know-”

“No! I mean - he does,” you clarified, “I just - I need to tell him this myself.”

He bit his tongue for a moment. “I, uh, I think I’m gonna have to tell him some things before he loses his shit, [y/n]. He was fuckin’ freaked when the ambulance drove off.”

After a moment of stunned quiet, you mustered up a quick nod. “Right. Just - don’t tell him everything, alright?”

The conversation had died there. After a few more minutes of silence, Michael stood and made his way to leave - rattling off the usual “get well soon” message that you expected.

“Michael?” You called out, and he stopped. “Thank you for coming to see me. I... I appreciate it.”

His smile had faded, and he nodded a little. “Yeah...” He looked back at you, and he looked so soft and genuine that time. “Later, [y/n].”

The next day, Jeremy was shoved into your room without much of a chance to gather his bearings. True to his word, Michael had explained a few things while leaving Jeremy pretty in the dark on what had happened. The hardest thing was looking at Jeremy and telling him the rest of your story. That you had wasted six hundred dollars on a stupid, shitty pill that you thought would help you. A pill that you thought would help you essentially get Jeremy to reciprocate the feelings that you bit back and hid underneath everything. You lied through your teeth that you had just wanted him and Michael back. You couldn’t just... admit that you had a crush on him, could you?

He reached out and laid a hand on your own. “Michael told me.”

Shit. Fuck. Nope. You nearly hit the button for a nurse in that moment to try and see if you could get him out. What the fuck, Michael? “He told you...?”

“Look,” he said, “I’m flattered, [y/n], I just... I like someone else. I mean, you’re - you’re cool and all, but-”

“I get it, Jeremy.” You said. “I... I understand.” You paused for a moment, “but... I did miss you and Michael, y’know.”

“Why’d we stop hanging out?” Jeremy asked.

Something inside of you hurt at that question. “I don’t know.” And that was true, to say the least. You had your suspicions, sure, but at the end of the day, the why rested without an answer.

He stared at you. “Wait...” He trailed off, before looking away. “Oh.” His voice dropped to a whisper, “shit.” He looked back at you, “hey, uh, I’m - I’m sorry for dropping you like that- I just-”

“I get it.” Which was sort-of the truth, at least. “You don’t have to apologize, Jeremy.”

“... Okay,” he said after a moment, “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you in school,” he stood, “feel better soon-”

And then he was gone.

Three months later, and you were still haunted by a voice in your head every so often. You started therapy shortly after you were released from the hospital, the mystery of what happened to you remaining as such. You started medication soon after, your depression having grown worse post-SQUIP (and your father had been glad for you getting help, since he’d admitted it hurt him to watch you suffer for so long while being unsure of what to actually do to help you). You attended group therapy outside of Metuchen.

You had Rich. Rich, who picked you up on Thursday nights to drive you to group and back again. Rich, who knew how you felt and hid his guilt for pulling you into this shitty world of trauma and pain that’d haunt you for who knows how long. Rich, who slung his arm around your waist casually when the two of you were hanging out and was touchy with you in a way that made you feel safe and secure. You had Rich at your side, the friend that you honestly had never expected to have but were glad for at the end of the day. While you wished he didn’t feel the pain that you did, it was almost... nice to know that someone else understood.

At two in the morning, one mid-February day, he called you.

“Another nightmare?”

“Yeah... you?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Yep,” he dragged the word out. “Uh - do you...?”

“You go first, Rich.”

His phone must have been on speaker, because you heard the sound of him shifting in bed - blanket swooshing as he probably turned over onto his side. “Same old shit.” He began, “I, uh, was in Jake’s house, and... it was on fire. My, uh... It was there.” He paused for a moment, “y’know. Saying the same shit.” You didn’t have to see Rich to know he was touching his neck, fingers running along the scars there. “What about you?”

Your phone was lying beside your head. Shutting your eyes, you took a breath before exhaling slowly. “It was, uh, actually... good for once. I mean - it started good. I was... I was with Jeremy. I... think we were dating? I don’t know - we were holding hands and I had let go and walked ahead only to notice he was standing still, and - it... it’s weird, Rich, but - I swear there was some kind of stupid circuit pattern that, like, trailed down his neck - and... and his smile, Rich-” You paused, taking a shaky breath, “and then I heard it.” Another long pause. “Then I woke up.”

You heard Rich suck in a breath. For the longest time, there was silence on the other end. Despite not hearing any chimes to indicate it, you thought that maybe he had hung up. But then he spoke, voice quiet and broken, “why did you say yes?”

“What?”

“To - to buying it, [y/n].”

You stared up at your ceiling. Soon enough, you kicked off your blankets as you grew too hot for comfort, shifting against to try and find some sort of comfortable position. “You sold it pretty well, I guess.” You started, before biting your lip for a moment, “I thought it could help me.”

“... With?”

You changed the topic. “Why’d you take it?”

No response.

“Rich?”

“Gretch is gonna fucking suck tomorrow.”

“... Yeah.”

“You wanna skip?”

No, you wanted to say. But you shrugged. “Yeah. Where are we doing?”

“Fuck, I don’t know - Wawa?”

“Sure.”

Rich’s truck was like a second home to you, between the times the two of you skipped classes and every drive to and from therapy. The two of you skipped class too often - sometimes morning classes, sometimes afternoon, it always depended on how the two of you were doing. Sometimes you’d sit in the Wawa parking lot, eating breakfast or lunch, enjoying the rebellious freedom that came with skipping class. The guilt would stay in the backseat, a constant reminder of your fuck-ups, but... you were glad to have a moment to breathe.

Rich’s hand found yours that morning. He squeezed it. For a minute, there were just two broken teens sitting together, holding hands, trying to feel less broken together.

Over a week later, you texted Rich after hearing it - or, at least, you thought you did. He told you to call Michael - closer to you, and carrier of the Mountain Dew Red at you and Rich’s mutual request. Your finger lingered over Michael’s contact information when a thought struck you, hard and heavy. Why call him? Why not let it come back and fix what it had done? You felt broken enough - how much more damage could it do to you? Besides... now you knew how to take care of it. Maybe that knowledge would be enough to help you gain some sort of control over it.

An hour later, Rich texted you saying Michael hadn’t heard from you. Another hour passed. He told you he was coming over. You couldn’t respond, staring at your phone blankly as tears began to well up. Thirty minutes later, rocks hit your window. Five minutes later, Rich was sitting on the end of your bed as you curled back up, the bottle sitting on the bed between the two of you. He looked tired, running a hand nervously through his hair as he didn’t meet your eyes.

“I know.” He said, breaking the silence. “Just - don’t fucking do it, okay?”

You broke your gaze away from the bottle. “What?”

“I... I’ve thought about it too,” he said, quieter this time. “But... I think...” He paused, “it’s just a bad idea, alright?”

“It can’t-”

“It can.” He stressed, before grabbing the bottle with one hand and your hand in the other. He pressed the bottle into your hand, curling your fingers around it in a cliche action. “Just - fucking drink it, [y/n]. I’m tired.”

“You can stay here tonight.”

“Nah,” he stood. “I... need to get home soon. Just... drink it, alright?”

He didn’t leave you until you finally obliged.

The chill in the air that came with early March was no match for the chill you felt whenever you were around Michael. But Michael had the soda, and Rich lived farther away from you, so he became your lifeline whenever you felt the prickly feeling that came with every nightmare of it and he, thankfully without much complaint, would show up on your front lawn. You sat next to him in silence, an half-empty bottle of Mountain Dew Red sitting in your lap as Michael quietly looked up at the stars. The feeling in your stomach almost seemed to weigh you down, keeping you in place until Michael decided he’d had enough, until he gave up on sitting with you.

But he didn’t. He just sat there in silence, wearing his signature red hoodie in an attempt to keep himself warm. His breath colored the air with a puff of white as he exhaled. It was too cold for this shit, and yet... he sat with you.

“What was it like?” He began at one point, slowly looking over to you. “Y’know... the...” He paused, before tapping his temple, as if you hadn’t understood before. But you understood the why there.

“Like I was a puppet,” you said, echoing back something you’d said before in therapy. Almost completely subconsciously, you tugged at your sleeve. “I... I could disobey, but... it would get mad, and - and I didn’t like that, so I just... I did what it told me to. Sometimes, it would...” The ghost of a shock silenced you, and your breath hitched for a second as you try to regain some control over yourself.

When Michael’s hand landed on your forearm, you flinched immediately. But before he could fully tear his hand away from you (having only just pulled it away slightly), you immediately shifted closer to him. Almost as if he understood, he opened himself to you, and - after hesitating for too many moments - you nearly collapsed into his arms, wrapping your own around his torso and burying your face in his neck. At first you had just wanted the comfort. The warmth of another person. But your breath went shaky, and before Michael could say or do anything else, he heard you choke back a sob before you clutched at the fabric of his hoodie. Every soft, broken apology sent pain rippling through him. He’d been so pissed with you before, and now...

Now it was as if Michael was a child again, having seen the aftermath of hurricanes through Florida on the news. Or like the car accident he once witnessed, only staring before one of his moms tore him away from the sight, picking him up with ease and keeping his face turned away. He understood, all within that moment. He knew you were hurting, and in turn, he felt that pain too. He had hurt. He was in so much damn pain when he found out you’d originally just been using him, and now... he understood that maybe (or, perhaps, definitely, but a definite wasn’t quite there yet in his book) nothing had been your idea. Part of him wanted to look away from you, to give you some kind of privacy, and yet... you clung to him. You kept your face buried in his neck, hot tears wetting his skin, and you shook in his arms as you kept stammering out apology after apology for things that did and didn’t involve him.

That was when Michael decided that forgiveness was back on the table. Neither of you were ready to have that talk, but... the fact of the matter was that he let that option exist again. Every glimpse of you that had come flooding back to him when he visited you in the hospital seemed to haunt his memory once more. The real you. The you he hadn’t seen in so long. And, if he were honest, the you that he genuinely had begun to miss when your presence disappeared all that time ago.

He was ready to try again, if you were there to meet him halfway.

The following Wednesday came with a disgusting feeling of dread the moment that thunder clapped during your last class. You’d left your umbrella at home - clear skies, your weather app had lied - and chances were you were going to miss your bus when meeting with the guidance counselor quickly after school (because, of course, shit never worked out in your favor). So you clenched your jaw and pulled your bag close to you, taking off as the rain pounded against the pavement. You almost slipped, you could barely see through the rain, and you were already soaked to the bone by the time you were a fourth of the way home. When you heard a car coming down the street, you thought nothing of it until it slowed down, pulling over towards the side of the road and steadily crawling alongside you.

Well, fuck, if you were about to die, at least you wouldn’t deal with-

The car honked. When you turned, you immediately recognized the P.T. Cruiser and the two boys inside of it. Immediately, the passenger side window rolled down. “Get in, loser, we’re going shopping-”

“Michael-” You started to say, only to stop as you weigh your options. Get in the car and face Michael and Jeremy - or keep waking home in the rain. You barely even considered the latter as you pulled open the back door, throwing your bag in and immediately slipping into the warm car.

The backseat was comfortable. It had always been comfortable, actually - that much was certain. Even when you were shivering endlessly, sopping-wet backpack lying in the floorboard between your legs as you rub your arms in some attempt to get warm, you felt strangely at home sitting in the back of Michael’s car. The sticker was still on the head-rest of the driver’s side. Jeremy kept looking back at you every so often as Michael made his way towards your house. The moment he turned onto your street, you went for your keys.

And, of fucking course, you must have forgotten them that morning. So you ended up in Michael’s house, sitting on his bed in some of his spare clothes while your clothes are being oh-so-lovingly laundered by the ever-so-gracious Michael Mell. You toyed with the fabric of tee-shirt you were wearing, some indie band logo printed across the chest - something that felt so Michael, when you thought about it. Of course he’d have some obscure merch. You sat there with one of your class binders in your lap, working on homework when you finally get to geometry. As if to make the day even worse, you realized you were missing your calculator.

“Shit,” you said, “fuck-” You looked up to Michael and Jeremy, “can I, uh, borrow a calculator? I think I left mine at school-”

Jeremy stared at you for a split second before immediately going for his own bag. He stammered through a sentence, before he finally pulled out a familiar purple case and held it out to you. “I, uh, was going to give it to you tomorrow - I meant to give it back earlier but I, uh, forgot-”

You took it gingerly from him, before kind-of smiling in return. “It’s fine,” you said, “thank you-” and then you cut yourself off with a sneeze, your arm flying to cover your mouth.

Michael chuckled a little as he laid back, stretching himself along the foot of his bed. “If you needed a ride, you should have just asked, ya goof,” he smiled at you.

You nudged him with your foot. “Come on, Mell,” you said, “I thought I’d be fine.”

“You’re lucky Jeremy saw you, y’know,” he said, “I didn’t notice you crossing the street earlier, so...”

Jeremy flushed at the comment. Your gaze flickered from him back to Michael, “I thought you were driving, Michael.”

“I was!”

“Aren’t you supposed to pay attention?”

“I was!” He said again, sitting up, “you weren’t even crossing in front of me!”

“Thank god for that,” you said.

“Wh- I wouldn’t hit you!”

“That’s what they all say, Michael.” You smiled a little, “no, dude, I totally wouldn’t kill my wife, who would do that? Not me. I wouldn’t kill my wife-”

“[y/n]!” Michael poked you in the leg, “come on - I don’t think I’d be that obvious-”

“Are you seriously trying to say you’d be able to get away with that?” You said, only to notice how silent Jeremy had gone. When you looked back to him, you noticed that he had just sat there, watching you and Michael playfully bicker over his totally not real plans to murder someone. When your eyes meet his, he blinked, awkwardly smiling as he looked away and towards his phone. You barely get a glimpse of the time before you realized that your parents should be home.

So Michael drove you (and Jeremy) home at long last, leaving you to thank him a thousand times on the way there and as you got out of the car. You barely had time to wave back at him before you crossed your front lawn to get to shelter, rain pelting you the entire time as you head inside with plans to tackle your homework.

The next morning, you felt like shit. At three in the morning, you woke up with the grossest feeling taking hold of you and forcing you out of bed and to the bathroom. With a disgusting taste left in your mouth, you sank back, your senses completely muffled as you realized what had happened. Fever. Fuck. You pressed your back against the rim of the bathtub, and you breathed. Shit. Shit shit shit shit- you didn’t need to get sick. You skipped enough class as it was - this was only going to make shit worse.

You didn’t realize you passed out shortly after until your dad stumbled across you. He woke you up gently, before helping you to your feet and helping your sluggish form back to your bedroom after pressing a cold hand against your forehead. Shaking his head, he walked you to your bed, leaving the room and returning with a cup of water to leave on your nightstand. He told you that he would be at work, but that your mom would drop by during her lunch break to check on you and hopefully bring some medicine. You barely processed it before you fell back asleep.

The next time you woke up was around lunchtime. You still felt hazy and hot with fever, but the sound of your phone going off was enough to capture your attention. Michael. He had asked where you were, and you barely have enough energy to type out what you thought was just a simple “fever” - thankfully, auto-correct caught you - before you turned back over with the intent of going back to sleep. Barely ten minutes pass before your mom came in with a plastic bag in her hands, rattling off the contents of it before she felt your forehead. She told you to get some more rest. You happily obliged.

The next day, after a night of bland soup and forcing down your meds with ice cold water, you see a newly formed group chat with you, Michael, and Jeremy, poised proudly at the top of your messages.

Michael: u guys need anything or

You stared at the message. You guys? You barely have time to try and question it further when a text bubble popped up.

Jeremy: i’m good

You: what

You: you ok, jer?

Jeremy: no im sick

You: what

You: how???

Jeremy: you

Michael: jeremys being a little bitch

Michael: hes always like this when he’s sick

Michael: you need anything, [y/n]??

You: idk some good soup would be rad

You: my dad brought some gross shit last night and it sucked

You: parents got medicine.

You: send me love.

You: and tissues

Jeremy: please let me sleep

You: sorry jer

Michael: kk

Later that afternoon, the doorbell rang. You forced yourself out of bed, managing to get the front door open only to see a little plastic bag sitting right outside of it. You looked up to see Michael standing outside of his car, and you could only assume that he rushed back to his car to avoid exposure. He waved at you, only budging from his spot when you wave back at him.

Bless Michael Mell and the soup he brought you. You’d have to thank his mom. Or maybe both of them - they were both goddesses in your eyes. You only knew that Michael couldn’t cook for shit.

At midnight, you woke up again, a dull hunger restless in your stomach. You had left some soup for later, and you were fully ready to heat the rest of it up and devour it. You shoved the Tupperware bowl into the microwave, punching in a number before you swayed into the counter, leaning against it to keep yourself standing as the microwave buzzed. Strangely enough... it almost felt internal after a minute.

Then you heard it. Your own name being cooed in a voice that sent shivers and a ghost of a shock through you. Glitching in and out. You panicked. You bolted, dashing to your room to find your phone. Your hands were shaking as you went to unlock it, fucking it up the first two times before finally getting it the last. You didn’t think. You went for the first number you saw.

The moment someone picked up, you spoke. “Michael,” you said, voice caught in your throat, “shit - dude- it’s - it’s back-” You took a breath, trying to calm yourself before continuing, “just - I need the Mountain Dew Red. Please-”

You heard a distant, groggy “...what?” on the other hand as a hand fell over your own, causing you to slowly lower the phone as it appeared before you.

It stood tall as ever, eyes gentle, manipulating your senses as you swore you felt warmth from it’s hand over your’s. “We can fix this.” It said, voice quiet. Soft. Gentle. “We can start over and make everything right.”

“I...” You whimpered, attempting to take a step back. Instinctively, you dropped your phone and shut your eyes and covered your ears in an attempt to drown everything out. “No.” The word spilled past your lips once, twice, too many times as tears rolled down your cheeks.

Fingers grazed your cheek almost lovingly. “Just let me fix this, [y/n].” It said softly, almost kind, and you felt your stomach drop. “You can reboot me - just - another dose of regular Mountain Dew-”

“No,” you shook your head, “I’m - you’d-”

“I’ll fix this. I promise-”

The sound of frantic knocking at your front door was enough to force you to your feet as you rushed to answer before anyone else could wake up. “Michael-”

Jeremy stood there, soaking wet and panting like crazy as he clutched a bottle of salvation within his right hand. He straightened up a bit, holding it out to you. “Sorry - Michael, uh, gave me a few bottles as back-up so I ran-” He said.

He shut up the moment you flung your arms around him, burying your face in his chest, completely ignoring the soda he carried in favor of comfort. Just for a second. That’s all you had needed. He stiffened up underneath you as you clung to him, only for you to pull away almost immediately after.

After you took the bottle and unscrewed the cap, downing the drink with nothing with a minor headache following in it’s wake, Jeremy could only stare at you. “You... You really heard it, huh?”

You winced, breath hitching as you swayed slightly. Jeremy’s hands found your shoulders, steadying you as you looked back up at him. “I-” You started, only to stop immediately, “thank you- I’m- I’m sorry you had to run here.” You paused, “I... didn’t know it was raining, or I wouldn’t have-”

“It’s fine,” he said, letting go of you as he took a small step back. “I’m - I’m gonna head back home-”

Thunder clapped. Lightning flashed in the distance. You reached out and caught him by the wrist, “stay here.” You said, “it’s - it’s late, and... and I don’t want you walking home in the rain.”

He almost debated with you, but another growl of thunder was enough to debunk whatever argument he was formulating as he followed you inside. You locked your front door back, retreated back to your room to find some clean clothes that would hopefully fit him (thank fuck for all your baggy shit, still hidden away in your closet), and handed him a towel. The microwave chirped for what you could assume was the thousandth time, and you rushed to stop it - only to have to punch in more time. You could hear the shower running from the room over. The hum of the microwave, the smell of spices tinting the air... and you felt alive. You were there. Breathing. Heart pumping. Mind... going, at least - even if there were moments of betrayal there. You were still there, and it was strange to think about that sometimes.

The water shut off abruptly, and you pulled yourself from your thoughts as you stopped the microwave just a second before it was meant to go off. As you seated yourself at the kitchen table, Jeremy emerged and made his way over to you. He pulled out the chair nearest to you, and slowly sank into it.

“You feeling better?” You asked, looking up at him.

“I, uh, I should be asking you that.”

“You were sick too, Jeremy,” you said, “why’d you run here?”

“You sounded scared,” he shrugged, “besides - I’m better-” Immediately he was cut off by a cacophony of coughs, as he turned away from you. “I’m fine. What about-” He finally looked back at you, still embarrassed of the shades of red he’d turned, “what about you?”

You suppressed a smile. “I’m... decent.” You shrugged, “I’ve... never really seen it before tonight.”

“You haven’t?”

“Nope.” You paused, “I dunno. Maybe being sick like... weakened me or something.” After another pause, you noticed Jeremy shiver. “You can take my room, Jer. It’s warmer - I’ll just - I’ll take the couch-”

“It’s fine, [y/n] - I’ll just - I’ll sleep on the floor-”

“You are not sleeping on the floor, Jeremiah,” you feigned offense, “you are a guest! You’ll take my room and I’ll sleep on the floor-”

“You’re still sick too, y’know,” he retorted, “just - I’ll take one side of the bed if you want-”

“Fine.” You frowned as you stood, “if you insist.”

After leaving the bowl in the sink, filled with water in the classic “it has to soak” manner, you lead Jeremy to your bedroom. You snagged your phone from the floor, plugging it back into charge as you took one side of your bed - making sure to stay as close to the edge as possible while Jeremy took the other. The room was almost silent, the sound of Jeremy breathing quiet enough to merely tint the air.

Right as you started to fall asleep, you turned onto your back. “Jeremy?” You said, stifled by a yawn. When he hummed in acknowledgement, you continued, “thanks for coming here.”

You barely caught his soft, almost hesitant “yeah, uh, no problem” as you fell asleep.

#mj's writing corner #be more chill x reader #be more chill reader insert #bmc reader insert #bmc imagine #jeremy heere x reader #jeremy heere imagine

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