Metallica one shots and headcannons

We fell in love in November🍂❤ (Cliff Burton one shot)

November has always been my month. The city seems to slow down, as if it's taking a deep breath before the winter chill settles in. There's something about the way the air feels—cold, crisp, and just a little sharp—that makes it the perfect time to write. I often think of it as the "writer's month," and every year, I pour myself into my work, letting the quiet of the season inspire me.

That morning, I found myself waiting for a train at the station, a cup of coffee in my hands, my notebook open in front of me. I was trying to focus on the words, trying to let the rhythm of the world around me spark something new, but my mind kept wandering. The trains came and went, their loud, rumbling sound vibrating through the platform, but it was the stillness between the arrivals—the way people's movements seemed suspended in time—that I found most intriguing.

I was scribbling the last few words of a sentence when I noticed him.

He was rushing across the platform, looking frantically at his watch, his dark hair falling messily over his forehead. His jacket was slightly askew, and I could see the tension in his body as he quickened his pace, clearly worried about missing the train.

I didn't know why, but I found myself watching him. I was always fascinated by the way people moved, by the subtle things that told a story without any words. And there he was, a stranger, in such a hurry that he almost missed the fact that the train wasn't leaving yet.

I looked back at my notebook, trying to focus, but something about him kept pulling my attention. He was pacing now, clearly trying to figure out if he was too late.

And then, he stopped. Right in front of me.

His eyes met mine, and for a moment, we just stood there in that fleeting, quiet space—two strangers in a crowded place, both suspended in time. I could feel the question in his eyes, the uncertainty, as if he was about to apologize for something, though I wasn't sure what.

"Uh... is the train late?" he asked, his voice low but urgent.

I blinked, still caught in the rhythm of the moment. "No, it's just running on time. You're not late."

He looked at me like I'd just answered a riddle for him, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. "Thank God," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. He looked a little embarrassed, and I couldn't help but smile.

"That's a relief," I said, setting my coffee down and turning my attention back to him. "I'm Y/N, by the way."

"Cliff," he replied, his voice warmer now, more at ease. "I was starting to panic there."

I laughed softly, not really expecting him to be so relatable. "I get that. Waiting for trains can do that to you. I always feel like the world's about to fall apart just because the train's a few minutes late."

"Yeah, but it's not just about the train, is it?" he said, his tone thoughtful, almost philosophical. "It's about everything else that's going wrong. You just don't want to be late for the one thing that's supposed to help you escape."

His words hit me like a wave, and I realized I was already thinking about him more than I should be. He wasn't just some stranger waiting for a train. There was something about him—the way he saw the world, his openness, his honesty—that intrigued me.

"I think I know what you mean," I said quietly, my fingers instinctively flipping open my notebook. "I write. And sometimes, when things feel like they're falling apart, I just write them down. It helps me make sense of everything."

Cliff nodded, his expression distant for a moment, as if he were thinking about something. Then he turned back to me with a smile. "That's cool. What do you write about?"

I hesitated for a moment, unsure how much I wanted to share. But there was something about the way he was looking at me, like he actually wanted to know. "Stories. Mostly about people who get caught up in things they didn't expect—like life, love, or just... trying to find their place."

Cliff smiled softly. "Sounds like a good way to make sense of everything. I play bass in a band, so I kind of get that. It's like... we create something out of all the noise."

I smiled, suddenly feeling a connection with him, something familiar. "I bet. Music must be like writing, but with more... feeling. I can't play an instrument, but I can imagine what it's like."

We continued talking as the train arrived, and we boarded together, each of us finding a place to sit near the windows. The moment the train began moving, there was a sudden, unspoken quiet between us. It wasn't awkward; it was more like we had found something in each other's presence that made the world outside fade.

I kept sneaking glances at him, my heart fluttering a little each time our eyes met. His gaze would shift back to me, a knowing look in his eyes that sent a rush of warmth through me. It wasn't just the way his eyes lingered, or the way the dim train lights caught the soft curve of his smile—it was that feeling, that quiet hum, that told me we were both feeling it. There was something there, something unspoken, that was slowly building between us.

The rest of the ride passed in that quiet, comfortable exchange of glances, the silence between us filled with the kind of soft, electric energy that comes with meeting someone who makes your heart beat a little faster. It wasn't like love at first sight—but it was something close to it, a pull that neither of us could deny.

When we reached the station, we both stood, walking side by side toward the exit. Neither of us seemed in a hurry to say goodbye, so we stood there for a moment, waiting for the others to pass, the hum of the station around us.

"Well, I guess this is where we part ways," I said, suddenly feeling nervous. "It was nice meeting you, Cliff."

His gaze softened. "Yeah, it was. Maybe we should... do this again sometime?"

I smiled, my heart skipping a beat. "I'd like that."

He gave me his number, and I gave him mine, and with one last look, we parted ways.

A few months later, we were a couple.

Cliff and I spent the rest of November getting to know each other—talking about our passions, our dreams, and everything in between. We were both lost in the world in different ways, but we had found something in each other that felt like it could make everything right again. Every moment with him felt like a page of a story I hadn't known I was writing.

I'd never expected that a chance meeting at the train station, in the middle of November, would lead to this. But here we were. And I couldn't stop thinking about how perfect it all felt—the way we had come together so quietly, like the perfect sentence that appeared on the page without warning.

As I sat down to write, the words flowed more easily than they ever had before. I didn't even have to search for the story—it was already right there, in front of me.

The story of us.