Reader X Hermitcraft (Requests Open)

Flinching (Etho)

Y/n and Etho were arguing about something stupid—she couldn't even remember what started it anymore. Redstone timings, resource allocation, something that shouldn't have mattered this much. Voices rose, words clipped and sharp, frustration crackling between them like static.

Etho exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair. "That's not what I meant," he said, louder than he intended.

Y/n crossed her arms, shaking her head. "It's always what you meant, Etho. It's never what actually happens."

He turned away, jaw tight, and slammed his fist down on the table.

The sound echoed through the room.

The second Etho's hand lifted again—whether to gesture or pull away—Y/n flinched violently. She stepped back, instinct taking over before her brain could catch up, both hands flying to her face as if to shield herself from a blow that never came.

"—Y/n?"

Too late.

Her back hit the wall, and she slid sideways until there was nowhere left to go. She sank down into the corner, knees pulled to her chest, shoulders caving inward. Her breathing went shallow and fast.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. Then again, softer. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

Etho froze.

The anger drained out of him in an instant, replaced by something cold and heavy in his chest. He hadn't meant to scare her. He hadn't meant—anything like this.

"Hey," he said quietly, taking a careful step back instead of forward. "Hey, it's okay. I'm not mad. I won't— I'm not going to hurt you."

Y/n shook her head, eyes squeezed shut, hands still locked over her face. The apologies kept spilling out, automatic, desperate, like if she said them enough times it would make everything stop.

Etho slowly lowered himself to the floor a few feet away, making sure to stay in her line of sight. He rested his hands flat on his knees, deliberately still.

"Y/n," he said gently. "Can I... can I touch you?"

She hesitated. Her breathing stuttered, but after a long moment, she gave a small nod.

Etho shifted closer, slow and careful, and sat beside her. He didn't grab her, didn't pull—he simply wrapped one arm around her shoulders, loose enough that she could pull away if she wanted.

She leaned into him anyway.

The shaking came then, full-body and silent, her forehead pressing into his shoulder. Etho stayed where he was, grounding and steady, his hand rubbing slow circles against her arm.

"You don't have to apologize," he murmured. "Not to me. Not for this."

For a long while, neither of them spoke. The argument didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was the quiet, and the fact that she wasn't alone in it.

And this time, when Etho held her, she didn't flinch.