Metallica one shots and headcannons

You're still the one- (James Hetfield one shot)

I knew it was a bad idea the moment I answered the door. James was standing there, looking like hell, his hair a mess and that sadness in his eyes so deep I could feel it tugging on me like a tide. I could smell the alcohol on him as he stumbled inside, muttering something about his ex and how he couldn't sleep. The words were barely out of his mouth before his arms were around me, pulling me against his chest like I was some kind of lifeline.

It was strange to feel his hands tracing my skin as he murmured apologies—stranger still because I'd dreamt of this closeness for so long. But I wasn't naive; I knew he wasn't here for me. Not really. This was just a game he didn't realize he was playing, a way for him to keep from feeling the loss that had gutted him. I kept telling myself that it was okay, that I could handle being his comfort, even if it hurt. Because, God, I loved him. I had loved him for as long as I could remember.

But then he whispered her name.

It tore through me like glass, and for a moment, I froze. I tried to tell myself it was just a slip, a mistake anyone could make. And yet, there it was again, slipping out in his broken voice, his fingers gripping me a little too tightly, as if clinging to someone who wasn't really there.

The days turned into weeks, and each night was the same—a blur of need and heartache. He'd reach for me, whispering things he'd never say when he was sober. But when dawn came, he was always a little colder, a little more distant, his words laced with comparisons I could never live up to.

"You know, she would've laughed at that," he'd say, or, "She wouldn't have been this clingy." Little remarks that chipped away at what was left of my pride. Each word was a reminder that I wasn't her. That I was just the one holding his hand while he waited for something—or someone—else.

Finally, one night, as he slept beside me, I knew I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't keep waiting for him to see me, to realize that I was here, that I loved him enough to endure every little slice he carved into me. So I left. Quietly, I packed my bags, leaving behind only the memories of us that I knew he'd forget by morning.

Moving to another city wasn't easy, but in time, I found my own footing. I let the silence between us grow, hoping it would make him realize that I was gone. Maybe, just maybe, it would make him miss me the way I had missed him.

But then one evening, I heard a knock on my door, and my heart stuttered. Because I knew—somehow, I just knew—it was him.

The knock came again, sharp and insistent. My hand hovered on the doorknob, my heart pounding as if it already knew who was on the other side. I took a breath, steadying myself before I finally opened it.

James stood there, looking wrecked, shadows under his eyes and that familiar sadness in his gaze. The same one that used to pull me in, that kept me coming back no matter how many pieces he broke me into. But this time, something was different. I felt anger simmering under my skin, an ache I'd carried since the day I'd left.

He looked at me like he'd forgotten how to speak. "Hey," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"James," I replied, holding the door just wide enough to let him see me. I wanted to shut it in his face, to make him feel even a sliver of the emptiness he'd left in me. But that look in his eyes stopped me cold, and I hated that part of me still softened, still wanted to reach for him.