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foxtrology · 2 days ago

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inertia (1)

reed richards x reader

star sailor series | ao3 link

notes: hi. so i’ve been writing this fic over the last three weeks (yes, three entire weeks, i know) and honestly it would not exist in its current form without my best friend, who is a literal physics major and walked me through so many of the equations and techy parts so reed didn’t sound like a fraud. i love her for that.

also, fun fact: reader is neurodivergent (i borrowed some of my own neurodivergent tendencies to shape her), so if you pick up on that... you’re right. thanks for being here!

word count: 12k

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You’ve always preferred rooms with humming machines to those filled with people.

It wasn’t shyness, not really.

Just an overwhelming awareness of your own rhythm, too far removed from the world’s noisy metronome. You knew early on you understood things differently—less about feeling out what someone meant, more about isolating the structure beneath their words, the pattern in their tone, the physics of an interaction.

Most people called it brilliance. You called it survival.

The Baxter Foundation didn’t feel like survival at first.

It felt like exile.

A postdoctoral placement handed to you like a sealed fate—"promising," "potential," "gifted." Euphemisms for "difficult," "obsessive," "odd."

They said Reed Richards might know what to do with you.

You assumed they'd meant “handle.”

But he didn’t handle you. He saw you.

Reed Richards wasn’t what you expected.

The name carried weight: prodigy, theorist, treasured in the scientific community. You imagined arrogance, an aging wunderkind with a room full of accolades and a voice like static.

But the man who stood waiting for you at the base of the Baxter Building's elevator looked almost misplaced—rumpled in a navy button up, absent-mindedly smearing graphite on the sleeve as he scribbled into the margin of a battered notepad.

He had those lines around his mouth—the kind that softened a face rather than hardened it. A sharp nose, brown eyes, and that unmistakable streak of grey curling through otherwise dark hair.

At first, you assumed it was dyed—it looked too perfect. But it was real. Of course it was.

You hadn’t realized you were staring until he tilted his head.

“You're early,” he’d said, voice warm and textured. Then, a smile that lit up his whole face—eyes first. “I like that.”

That was two years ago.

You’ve since learned Reed keeps a second toothbrush for you in his private quarters upstairs, though he’s never pointed it out.

You discovered it one night after a double shift, when he gently steered you towards the bed in his guest room instead of letting you fall asleep under your desk again. He didn’t say, “Stay with me.” He just adjusted the pillow, handed you a glass of water, and made sure the bathroom light stayed on.

It’s quiet love. A sustained frequency. A knowing.

On Tuesdays, you both eat lunch in the server room because it's the only place in the Baxter Building that maintains the kind of white noise you can disappear into.

Reed brings you a sandwich without tomato—he learned after the first week that you can’t stand the texture—and sets it beside your research without interrupting your thought process. You don’t thank him out loud. You just leave the crusts in the pattern he finds funny, concentric squares, always precise.

Sometimes, he laughs at that. Sometimes, he files it away like data.

Today, the two of you are working on a stabilization algorithm for experimental gravitational anchors—Reed's theory, your math. The simulation keeps failing, and Reed mutters something under his breath about quantum decay before turning to you.

“Show me again how you’re quantizing the drift interval,” he says, pushing his chair slightly closer to yours.

You don’t flinch. He always asks to see your work like this—not to correct, but to understand. He thinks your brain is a mystery worth mapping. And maybe it is.

You pull up your calculations, annotated with your usual shorthand that no one else in the lab pretends to follow. Reed doesn’t blink. He reads your annotations like they're a shared language.

“You inverted the modulus,” he says quietly, quite in awe. “God, that’s...elegant.”

You look down. Compliments still stick to you like static. You’ve never known what to do with them.

“It was obvious,” you murmur, tapping the screen once to clear the render.

“Not to me.”

His voice carries something like reverence. Not the kind people fake when they’re talking to someone younger, or different. His is heavier. Sincere. Measured.

You chew the inside of your cheek.

“Can I show you something?” you ask.

That’s how you always start, even though Reed never says no.

The observatory lab is empty when you both arrive.

He unlocks it with his palmprint, but you go in first, navigating in the dark by memory. You’ve had an idea simmering for days—a tweak in boundary calibration using harmonic frequency overlap, something even Reed dismissed initially as too unstable.

But last night, at 2:43 a.m., your model ran clean for the first time. No drift. No bleed. Pure coherence.

You bring it up on the projection wall, fingers moving fast. Words tumble when you’re excited—sharp, fast, too much for most people. Reed doesn’t interrupt. He never has.

When the model stabilizes on the fourth run, you glance over your shoulder.

Reed is watching you.

Not the simulation. Not the math. You.

You freeze.

He steps forward slowly, like if he moves too fast you might vanish.

“You didn’t sleep last night, did you?”

You look back to the projection. “No. But it was worth it.”

He exhales a soft breath, close enough now that you can feel the warmth of it on your temple.

“You can’t burn like this all the time,” he murmurs, but his voice doesn’t hold judgment—only concern.

“I can,” you reply simply. “And I do.”

He lets out a low laugh, almost involuntarily. Then, more gently, “Let me take care of you. A little.”

He says it like a hypothesis. Something untested.

You don’t answer. Not out loud. But you lean into his shoulder—not quite a nod, not quite an invitation—and he stays there. Long enough that the simulation cycles again, quiet and steady in the background.

Later, you’ll find that he’s updated the cafeteria schedule in your calendar to make sure no one disturbs you between 12 and 2 p.m. on Tuesdays. You’ll notice that he’s ordered extra noise-cancelling panels for the lab, without ever saying why. That the lights outside your lab space dim slightly when you stay past midnight.

All Reed’s doing.

He never says it out loud.

But this is how he shows you.

In recalibrated thermostats. In cups of tea left cooling on your desk. In letting you be silent when silence is the only thing that fits.

The world outside moves too fast. New York never sleeps, never softens. There’s always construction in the distance, always an ambulance shrieking down Fifth, always people spilling from cafés and rooftop bars like they’re late for something invisible.

But in the Baxter Building—six floors above the ghost of the old Avengers Tower—the hum of your controlled environment remains undisturbed.

For now.

It’s the kind of phrase that hangs in the air longer than it should, like steam after the kettle's been lifted, like the echo of a chord when your fingers already left the strings.

You don’t hear it, of course. Not consciously. But the sensation trails you anyway, ghost-like, as the day folds open and the building shifts around you.

You return to Lab B-3, where a data stream from the gravitational anchor prototype pulses in pale blue on the screen. You prefer this room to the others—less foot traffic, colder air, fewer variables. The walls are lined with the modular panels you installed yourself, after three months of fighting sensory burnout from the old fluorescents. The air purifier in the corner hums at a frequency you can tolerate.

It smells faintly of dust and ozone, like a server farm on a rainy day.

You’re cataloging the last ten hours of micro-interference logs when the door hisses open behind you.

“Hey.”

You don’t turn. It’s a mistake, maybe, but you assume whoever it is has entered the wrong lab.

You’ve put the sign up: DO NOT DISTURB — QUANTUM MODELING IN PROGRESS. A laminated shield between you and the rest of the building’s noise.

The voice cuts through again, sharper. Louder.

“Hey—don’t ignore me.”

You blink at the screen. Your heart doesn’t race. It clenches, tightens like your ribcage is shrinking inward. You turn slowly.

It’s Dr. Ian Delmont. One of the senior engineers. Jacket unzipped, badge swinging loose around his neck like a noose that can’t make up its mind. His face is already red, already pulled taut around the mouth.

You recognize the body language...shoulders set forward, hands ready to gesture. Angry people always move in patterns. You learned this years ago, the way some people learn fire drills.

“Why the hell did you rewrite my core schematic without logging the revision?”

You stare at him.

“I didn’t rewrite anything. I optimized the redundancy logic. It was bottlenecking the chain reaction model.”

“That’s rewriting.”

Your voice stays steady, your mouth forming the words in the exact order they should go. “No, it's not. It’s a correction. The existing code couldn’t handle parallel iteration under dual-load conditions.”

“You didn’t clear it with me.”

“It was a bottleneck,” you repeat.

Ian’s voice raises. “I don’t care if it was a goddamn chokehold, you don’t get to touch my work without authorization.”

He says it loud enough that it ricochets off the walls. Too loud.

Your neck goes hot. You feel it in your jaw, down your arms. Your hands twitch just enough to knock your stylus from the table and you bend down to retrieve it—too fast. You bump the corner of the desk, hard. The pain doesn’t register, but the sound does.

Too loud. Too loud.

Ian takes a step forward.

“Every time I turn around, you’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong—”

“I was fixing it.”

“You were showing off.”

That does it. You freeze.

This isn’t about the code.

You blink. You don’t blink. You can’t remember. You try to open your mouth, but your tongue sits wrong in it. The sound you try to make stalls halfway up your throat. Your hands curl into themselves like you could fold out of sight.

The lights feel wrong. The texture of your sleeves is wrong. The hum of the purifier is gone, replaced by the jagged, ugly timbre of yelling.

“I don’t care what Richards says about you,” Ian mutters. “You don’t run this place.”

“Hey.”

The sound comes from the door. Not a shout. Not sharp. But it cuts through everything like glass through butter.

You both turn.

Reed Richards steps into the room like he’s always belonged there, like his presence is not new or sudden or charged with a heat you’ve only ever felt in gamma pulses and untested energy chambers.

His mouth is tight, drawn. There’s nothing soft about his expression now.

“I suggest,” he says slowly, like each word has been smoothed against the edge of a scalpel, “you take your tone down. Immediately.”

Ian hesitates. Then his jaw sets. “With all due respect, Dr. Richards—”

“No,” Reed interrupts, walking further into the room, voice calm and sharp all at once. “Don’t. Don’t try to play seniority. This isn’t about protocol. This is about how you just cornered one of my lead researchers and yelled at her while she was running live code on a multivariable anchor model.”

“I was confronting—”

“You were posturing,” Reed cuts in. “And you were wrong.”

Ian blinks. Reed’s voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to.

“She didn’t rewrite your schematic. She corrected a critical flaw that should have been caught weeks ago.” He stops beside you. Not in front of you, not shielding—beside. “The only reason that anchor hasn’t destabilized is because she stepped in.”

Reed turns his head slightly, glancing down at you. His eyes soften, fractionally. He doesn’t touch you, but he lets the silence hang, as if waiting for you to reclaim your voice if you want to.

You don’t. Not yet.

“Ian,” he says without looking away, “I want you out of this lab. Now.”

Ian’s mouth opens, then shuts again.

Then he leaves.

You’re still breathing too fast. You know you are. You can feel the microtremors in your fingers, the irregular skip of your pulse. But the room feels real again. Your body is slowly remembering where it ends.

Reed waits until the door hisses shut.

Then, “Can I sit?”

You nod, once. He pulls a chair close—closer than he usually would in a shared lab space—and sits beside you with the kind of silence that doesn’t ask anything from you. His knees are angled toward yours. His forearms rest loosely on his thighs. His whole posture is a quiet question you don’t have to answer.

You stare at the screen.

“I wasn’t showing off.”

Reed lets out a sound between a sigh and a laugh. Not at you. With you. “I know,” he says gently.

“I just…saw the error. It was obvious.”

“I know.”

He pauses.

“You don’t need to explain yourself to anyone in this building. Least of all him.”

You press your thumbnail into the meat of your palm, grounding.

“I’m not good at…tone.”

“That’s not a flaw.”

“I always think I can just fix it quietly and not deal with the…other part. The confrontation.”

He nods once, his eyes still fixed on you. “The way the world expects communication isn’t the only valid way to exist in it.”

Something in your chest cracks open at that. Quietly. Invisibly.

You lean back against the chair, your breath finally settling into a rhythm.

Reed stays where he is. His presence doesn’t press against you—it anchors. He’s always been like that. Dense and still, like a planet with just enough gravity to make sense of things.

You glance over at him.

“Thank you,” you say finally.

He shrugs. “I don’t like mean people.”

You look down at the table. You trace a line in the condensation ring your tea left behind earlier.

“Are you going to fire him?”

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But I’m going to make it very, very clear who’s indispensable here.”

You don’t ask who he means.

You already know.

Later that night, you’re still in the lab, long after the rest of the building has gone dim.

Reed comes back with a takeout container—your favorite, though you don’t remember ever saying it aloud. He doesn’t mention the incident again. Just passes you the food, leans back in the corner chair, and starts updating his lab journal aloud, knowing you like to listen to the way he thinks.

Outside, New York glitters like a malfunctioning galaxy. Inside, the lights are low, the air quiet, the world small and manageable.

Just you, your notes, and the man with the grey streak in his hair who watches you like you built the constellations from scratch.

A quiet love, not yet named.

But it’s there.

Always has been.

It’s late now, nearly eleven, but the labs on the upper floors of the Baxter Building don’t abide by clocks. Here, time stretches. Pools. Slows down when the work is good. Speeds up when the math gets too beautiful to let go of.

You and Reed are the only ones left.

Everyone else has long since clocked out, their departure announced by the usual symphony of zipping backpacks and elevator chimes. The security team downstairs knows better than to check on you. You’re a known variable—an equation that balances best in silence, after dark, with only the man beside you and a cooling takeout container between you and the void.

Reed is sketching something in his notebook—a systems flowchart annotated with arrows that curve and overlap like a child’s drawing of a galaxy.

He’s humming, under his breath. Just a few bars of something he’s probably not even aware of. It’s familiar, not because you recognize the tune, but because you’ve heard him do it before, under the same kind of fluorescent moonlight and the same clean, ticking quiet.

You finish logging the day’s simulation data, close the terminal, and pull up your schedule for the upcoming weeks. The glowing display casts faint shadows over your face, which you don't notice but Reed glances at, once, over the edge of his notebook.

Monday. Field trip.

You hadn’t forgotten. Not exactly. It had just sat at the bottom of the week like a pebble in your shoe—felt but not seen.

You stare at the words for a beat too long.

VISITOR OUTREACH: 9:30–11:15 — RICHARDS / YOU

Group: PS 22 — Grade 2

Your fingers twitch at your side, a muscle memory of anxiety without the adrenaline to match. You don’t say anything, but your mind is already running the old loop, quiet and tight, like rewinding a tape you didn’t want to play in the first place.

You’d been paired with high school seniors last time.

They came in loud, late, and bored. One of them had a vape pen tucked into their hoodie drawstring.

You remember the boy in the back who asked if you “did anything real” or if you just “sat in rooms with graphs all day.” Another mimed falling asleep when you began explaining atmospheric coding inputs for small-scale gravitational fields.

You hadn’t raised your voice. You hadn’t snapped. You just shut down the projection early and handed the rest of the presentation off to the intern whose voice sounded like she smiled even when she didn’t mean it.

Afterward, you’d sat on the roof of the Baxter Building and stared at the clouds. Told yourself they were just kids. Told yourself they didn’t know.

But it stuck. The way they laughed when you said you worked on electromagnetic resonance feedback models. The way one of the girls whispered “so basically nothing” to the boy next to her like you weren’t even there.

They didn’t know.

That your work stabilized quantum harmonics in the kinds of silicon they tap on all day, every day.

That your programming makes the screen light up when their crush texts them back.

That the interface delay they complain about in video games used to be twenty seconds instead of two, and you helped design the equation that closed that gap.

They didn’t know you once pulled Reed out of a theoretical blind alley and into a breakthrough he’d later call elegant, a word he doesn’t use lightly.

They didn’t know how much you cared. That the caring was the point.

So after that, you asked to be reassigned.

“Elementary school kids,” you’d told Reed in his office one morning, already chewing at the inside of your cheek. “They’re too small to be cruel yet.”

He didn’t laugh, but you remember his eyes. How they softened. How he nodded and said simply, “Okay.”

And now here it was. Monday. Second graders. A classroom full of kids with juice boxes and velcro shoes and hands that still shoot up when they’re curious.

You can handle that. Probably.

You close the schedule tab. The screen goes dark.

Reed looks up from his notebook. “Everything okay?”

You nod once.

He doesn’t press. But he waits.

You speak without looking at him. “Monday's outreach.”

He leans back in his chair, notebook on his lap. “Right. You’re with me.”

You nod again.

“I asked for the younger group this time,” you add quietly, almost like you’re confessing something. “The older ones were…”

You trail off.

You don’t finish the sentence, but Reed catches the thread anyway. Of course he does.

He doesn’t say they were cruel. He doesn’t say you didn’t deserve that. He doesn’t fill the silence with anything easy.

Instead, he says, “You’ll be good with them.”

“Because they’re not old enough to be bored yet?”

“Because you care,” he says, looking directly at you. “And kids remember that. Even if they can’t say it.”

You pick at the corner of your sleeve. You’re still thinking about Monday. About the fear that your voice will tremble again. That the wrong word will come out. That your quiet will make them fidget and giggle and whisper.

But then you think about the last time a kid visited the Baxter—seven years old, wandered away from the main tour. Found his way into your lab by accident. You showed him how magnets repel in zero gravity fields and he tried to high five you with both hands at once.

You’d smiled for hours after that.

Maybe Reed is right.

Maybe caring is enough.

By the time you both shut down your stations and gather your coats, it’s nearly midnight. Reed holds the elevator for you without asking. It’s just the two of you, the soft gold of the lights reflecting off the brushed metal doors as they slide shut behind you.

You watch the numbers tick down.

Reed stands beside you, shoulder not quite brushing yours. Quiet, like always. Present, like always.

“Do you want me there?” he asks suddenly, softly, as the elevator hums downward. “Monday. With the kids.”

You blink. “You’re already scheduled for it.”

“I know,” he says. “But do you want me there?”

It feels like a trick question. But it’s not. It’s just Reed, offering steadiness in the places you don’t always know you need it.

You nod.

He nods too.

Outside, the city glows like it’s forgotten how to sleep. Yellow cabs streak past in lazy arcs. Rain clings to the pavement like it’s not ready to let go.

You stand under the awning of the Baxter Building, both of you half-heartedly pretending to check your phones, neither of you quite moving to go. It’s a ritual now—this lingering. Like the day doesn’t want to end, so you don’t let it.

Reed finally speaks, his voice low and near your ear.

“You know…you do more than keep this place running. You are this place.”

You glance at him. He’s looking at the sky like it might answer back.

“And if some bored teenager can’t see that, it’s only because they’re too young to understand the shape of things.”

You swallow. The city smells like damp concrete and neon and early summer.

You don’t reply. But the words lodge somewhere behind your ribs.

And they stay.

In the space between you and Reed, that sentence hums like background radiation—silent, but measurable.

He doesn’t look at you, not directly, but the softness in his posture says enough. The kind of softness he reserves only for you. For late nights and unsaid things. For quiet field trip fears and tired bones after thirty-seven straight hours in the lab.

You shift your weight from foot to foot under the awning, fingers fidgeting at the edge of your sleeve. The city is wet and warm and humming in that uniquely New York way—trash trucks groaning down Sixth Avenue, a taxi horn blaring three blocks over, the subway beneath your feet thrumming like some subterranean heartbeat.

Reed checks the time on his phone, but it’s performative. He’s not really looking at it.

“You can stay upstairs if you want,” he offers. Voice neutral, like he’s suggesting you borrow a pencil.

You know what he means.

His quarters above the Baxter labs—spare and quiet and clean, like an extension of his brain. You've stayed there before. Once after a storm knocked out the subway, once when you got a migraine so bad you couldn’t walk home without throwing up. The guest room is always ready, with a weighted blanket you know he ordered just for you. The lights dim at 30% automatically, and the fridge always has tea.

Still, you shake your head.

“I don’t want to bother you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

You shrug one shoulder.

“But I’d feel like I was bothering you.”

There’s no irritation in your voice. It’s just a fact. A line drawn lightly in pencil, not ink.

He doesn’t argue. Reed knows better than anyone that pushing you when you’re already overstimulated only drives you deeper into the quiet.

“I’ll walk you,” he says.

You almost tell him it’s not necessary.

That you’ve done the walk a hundred times alone. That it’s late and he must be exhausted too. But something in the way he says it—low, certain, without any edge—stills your protest before it can take shape.

You nod once.

The streets are emptier than usual, rain thinning to a mist that catches in your hair and softens the world around the edges. You button your coat up to your chin. Reed tucks his hands into his pockets, his long strides slowing instinctively to match yours.

You don’t speak for the first few blocks. You don’t need to. It’s not awkward—it’s companionable. Your silences have always been functional. Built like scaffolding. Structural.

You pass a late-night falafel cart and the warm, oily scent of fried chickpeas folds around you. Someone’s playing Miles Davis through a cracked open window above a bodega. A cab splashes through a puddle without slowing down.

You glance at Reed. His hair is slightly damp from the rain, curling a little at the edges. The grey streak catches in the streetlamp glow and glints like metal. He looks tired, but the good kind—brain-tired. Soul-deep contentment worn like a worn-in coat.

There’s something in the way he carries himself now that feels looser than it used to. Since you.

You think about that sometimes. The before of him.

You’ve seen the photos.

You’ve read the papers.

The man with ideas too big for gravity, with headlines like The Modern Da Vinci and Richards' Law stapled to his name before he was even out of his twenties.

You used to resent those profiles.

How they smoothed over the things that mattered.

How they all insisted on brilliance and ignored what he really was...careful. Constant. Gentle in ways that science rarely rewards.

He wasn’t always like this. He told you, once, in a rare moment of openness, that he used to believe love would only slow him down. That affection dulled the edge of genius.

He doesn’t say things like that anymore.

But he doesn’t say the other thing either.

You know what you are to him—friend, confidant, collaborator.

His mind matches yours, nearly. But not quite.

You run faster. Not always more elegantly. But faster.

You see the equations before he does.

You make intuitive leaps he can only reconstruct in hindsight.

He admires that. You see it in the way he watches you work, the way he lets you lead without hesitation.

And still, he hasn’t said the thing.

Because once it’s said, it can’t be unsaid. And Reed Richards has never risked a variable he couldn’t account for.

“You know,” he says softly as you cross Park, “when you rewrote that module today… I think that was the first time I felt—” He pauses. “Old.”

You glance at him. “You’re not old.”

He chuckles. “My knees would disagree.”

“That’s not science.”

He smiles. “No. But it is gravity.”

You snort.

He watches you carefully. Then says, “You don’t realize how good you are, do you?”

You look down at the sidewalk. The rain has turned the concrete slick and mottled.

“I do. I just don’t know how to be proud of it.”

He nods like he understands. “Because pride implies…audience.”

You don’t answer. But your silence agrees with him.

A block later, you say, “You’ve taught me how to be better without making me feel small.”

It slips out before you realize it. The kind of truth that rarely finds a voice.

Reed stops walking.

You look back at him. He’s staring at you like he’s memorizing the moment.

“You’ve done that for me too,” he says quietly.

It should be more than that.

But it isn’t. Not yet.

Your building is a brick structure tucked on a quieter side street. Sixth floor, walk-up. Rent-high, because New York is cruel and physics has been paying you back a lot recently.

Reed’s been here before—once when you locked yourself out, once when you were sick with a stomach bug and couldn’t get out of bed to pick up your prescription.

He always waits at the foot of the stairs.

Tonight is no different.

You fish out your keys and glance back at him.

“I’m okay,” you say.

He nods. “Text me when you’re in.”

You hesitate. Then, a beat later, “Thank you for walking with me.”

“Always.”

You step inside. The door swings shut behind you with a soft click.

Reed watches the rectangle of light shrink until it’s gone.

Only then does he turn.

He walks back slowly, hands deep in his coat pockets, rain heavier now. The city is hushed, its noise folded in on itself. His shoes splash through puddles he doesn’t try to avoid.

He thinks about you.

The way your voice tightens when you talk about the things you care about.

The way you never apologize for being brilliant, just for being visible.

The way you notice every small thing—every decimal, every gesture, every change in temperature—and store it away like evidence that the world can be read if only you learn its language.

Reed Richards has spent his life searching for patterns. For the math behind miracles. He’s found some. Lost others.

But you?

You remain his favorite unsolved equation.

He doesn’t say the thing. Not yet.

But it lives just under his tongue, waiting.

The next morning you wake up earlier than you meant to.

Not by choice. Not by discipline.

But because your upstairs neighbors, despite living in an apartment complex with allegedly soundproof walls, have spent the last six and a half hours making the most expressive use of their vocal cords.

Moans.

Laughter.

Something you’re fairly certain was a vase being knocked over around 3:12 a.m.

You’d counted.

You’d logged the minute it started—12:49 p.m.—and the moment it finally slowed to quiet again, or at least to something muffled enough that you could hear yourself think.

There was nothing logical about it, and therefore nothing you could fix. No formula to solve thin drywall. No algorithm to isolate human behavior into something quiet, contained, reasonable.

So you’d stared at the ceiling. Then at your wall. Then at your ceiling again.

And now it’s 5:47 a.m., and your alarm hasn’t even gone off yet.

You sit up.

The air in your apartment is slightly too warm—residual heat from the radiator you can’t adjust. Your mouth is dry. The muscles in your back ache in the specific way they do when your sleep’s been interrupted just enough to confuse your circadian rhythm but not enough to explain it to anyone else.

You don’t bother lying back down.

Your morning routine is exact. Not out of compulsion, but out of necessity. A lattice structure of steps that keep the rest of the day from collapsing.

Boil water. Black tea, no milk.

Brush teeth—no mint toothpaste, only the kind with baking soda, because you hate the artificial sweetness.

Shower. Warm, not hot. You step out and wrap the towel tightly around you like armor.

Dressing is harder. The shirt you wanted to wear feels off today—too scratchy, too bright. You change into the navy knit Reed once said brought out your eyes.

That memory shouldn’t matter, but it does. You feel steadier when you put it on.

Bag. Notebook. ID. Keycard. Noise-canceling headphones, just in case.

You skip breakfast.

You always do when you’ve been overstimulated. It makes your stomach feel like wires have been crossed.

The subway is half-empty this early. The kind of silence particular to Friday mornings—the city not quite buzzing yet, just flickering. You stand near the doors and stare at your reflection in the opposite window, your face hovering over the tunnel blur outside like a ghost.

You think about the model you left open in Lab B-3. About the field trip on Monday. About whether or not you remembered to reroute the final data loop in the harmonic anchor sequence.

You think about Reed, and then try not to.

By the time you arrive at the Baxter Building, it’s just before seven.

You enter through the side entrance, swiping your badge through the sensor and waiting for the familiar mechanical click. The lobby is dark except for the ambient lighting that glows along the baseboards. The city hasn’t reached in yet.

And then you see him.

Reed.

Sitting on the bench just inside the front hallway like someone who forgot what time it is—or didn’t care.

He’s wearing the same navy coat from the night before, his hair still slightly damp from whatever morning shower he took before stepping into the day. His notepad is on his lap, open, but untouched.

He looks up at the sound of the door.

“Hey.”

You blink.

“You’re early,” you say.

“So are you.”

“I didn’t sleep.”

He stands slowly. “Your neighbors again?”

You nod, already tugging your bag strap higher on your shoulder.

“I’m thinking of writing them a formal request to conduct their mating rituals at a lower decibel range.”

That makes you snort, despite yourself.

“They’d probably just find that hot.”

Reed’s laugh is soft. “You’re probably right.”

He falls into step beside you without needing to be asked. You head toward the elevators together.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” you say as you press the button. “You're never this early unless there’s a test run.”

“I was hoping you’d show up early,” he admits, sheepish but not apologetic. “You didn’t text last night.”

You look down. “I forgot.”

“Neighbors really did a run on you, huh?”

You ket out a breathy laugh meeting his eyes.

Soon the elevator arrives. You both step in.

He doesn’t say anything else, but the quiet settles around you like a blanket. You don’t have the words for it, but you know he does this often—positions himself near you, close but not invasive, like a planet finding the right orbit. Something about it always makes you feel tethered.

The elevator stops on your floor.

As you exit, he doesn’t turn toward his own lab. He follows you.

“I figured I’d sit with you for a bit,” he says simply, “if that’s okay.”

You nod. You don’t say thank you, but your body does—shoulders uncoiling, pace slowing, your breath evening out.

Your lab still smells faintly of ozone and the synthetic lemon Reed always insists on using in the electronics-safe cleaning spray. You flick on the under-lighting instead of the fluorescents. It’s quieter that way.

He watches you unpack, the same way he always does when he’s not pretending to be distracted by his own work. You can feel his gaze—clinical, affectionate, reverent.

You settle at your station and glance over.

“Did you get any sleep?”

“Some.”

He sits across from you at the small corner table, flipping open his notebook. “I kept thinking about the field trip Monday.”

You groan softly.

Reed smiles. “You’ll be fine.”

“They’re going to ask me if I built Fortnite.”

“Just say yes.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s unethical.”

He shrugs. “You do kind of power their world.”

You chew the inside of your cheek.

“I know you’re dreading it,” he adds, more gently. “But you’re going to surprise yourself. I’ve seen you explain quantum turbulence to a twelve year old. You used two chairs, a glass of water, and a slinky. It was borderline performance art.”

You allow yourself the smallest smile.

He studies you for a beat.

“I waited this morning,” he says, voice lower now. “Because I wanted to see you before the day started. I figured if you didn’t sleep, you’d need a buffer.”

You look up at him.

“A buffer?”

“For the noise. The world. Everything.”

You don’t answer for a long moment.

Then, “You’re good at buffering.”

Reed closes his notebook. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“Only for you.”

You look away too quickly. Your stomach flips, your thoughts scatter like dropped dice.

This happens sometimes.

The intimacy of Reed. The nearness of what he doesn’t say.

The feeling that he’s handing you something fragile and invisible, and asking you to decide whether to name it or leave it untouched.

You pull up your simulation model and begin reviewing last night’s logs.

He watches you for another minute, then opens his notebook again and starts annotating something beside you, close enough that your knees brush once, and neither of you moves.

The morning settles.

Quiet.

Unspoken.

Waiting.

The building wakes slowly, like a body stretching into motion. The light outside the lab windows tilts, warmer now, brushing across your workstation and catching on the rim of your teacup. You don’t drink it, but it’s there—heat fading, a symbol of routine more than comfort.

One by one, the others begin to arrive.

Keycards beep. Footsteps echo off tile. The rhythmic click of heels and the soft, buzzing shuffle of rubber soles on linoleum fill the air in the way only a scientific institution ever sounds. Conversations start up in clipped, caffeinated tones. Someone’s talking about a failed simulation in Lab A-2. Someone else is complaining about the elevator skipping floors again.

You don’t look up.

You’ve already built a wall of focus, exact and methodical—three simulations running in parallel, an error log cycling in your periphery, two graphs comparing harmonic distortion levels under varying environmental noise inputs.

Reed hasn’t moved far from you since you sat down.

Every now and then, he leans slightly over to ask a question—never invasive, always curious. He taps the edge of your screen to point out something and waits for you to explain it in full before speaking again. His voice stays low. His body language remains small.

He is very, very careful with your space.

At some point, you adjust the variables in one of the testing loops. Reed notices before you explain why.

“You brought down the feedback tolerance?”

You nod. “I think it’s overcompensating for impulse drift. If we calibrate to a slightly lower resilience threshold, we might expose the weak nodes in the structural harmonics.”

He lets out a low hum of appreciation.

“I wouldn’t have caught that.”

You glance at him.

“That’s because you were trained to trust the tolerances.”

Reed raises an eyebrow, amused. “And you weren’t?”

“I was trained to notice what doesn’t belong. Even if it doesn’t make sense yet.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you with something just shy of awe.

That’s when the others start to notice.

There’s no whispering. No gossip. That’s not the culture here. Baxter doesn’t reward spectacle.

But still, people look.

It’s subtle—an extra second of eye contact, a glance exchanged between postdocs in the corridor. Even in a building dedicated to research and theoretical physics, attention has a shape. You feel it.

You’re used to being watched when you speak, but this is different. They’re watching him.

They’re watching how Reed stays near.

How he lowers his voice when he speaks to you.

How he doesn’t interrupt when you’re mid-thought.

How he laughs at things you don’t mean to be funny.

How he tracks your gestures with the full, unguarded focus of a man trying to memorize not just the content of what you’re saying, but the rhythm of it, too.

You register the attention. You don’t engage with it. You would get too flustered.

Instead, you pull up a different dataset.

Across the room, someone’s looking at you over their glasses. You minimize the screen and adjust your chair slightly so your back is to the rest of the lab.

Ben Grimm arrives around 9:15, coffee in hand, hoodie pulled up like armor against the morning.

You like Ben.

You liked him even before you knew him—when all you had was a list of his mechanical engineering contributions and the curious note in his file that simply read “Reed’s oldest friend. Trustworthy. Not academically inclined. Smarter than he lets on.”

He sees you before you see him.

“Hey, Doc,” he calls out, his voice gravelly but warm.

You glance up and, for the first time since the building really began to fill, smile openly.

“Hi, Ben.”

He walks over slowly, avoiding the edge of the test rig you have set up. His eyes sweep the table, reading the mess of wires and calibration notes without actually processing them, which is part of his charm—he doesn’t pretend to understand your work. He respects it anyway.

“You eat today?”

You blink. “Not yet.”

“You want half my bagel?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“It’s everything seasoning.”

He grins. “You’re too sharp for your own good.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’m just observant.”

Reed, still beside you, chimes in dryly, “She’s also allergic to sesame.”

Ben winces. “Oh, right. My bad.”

You wave it off. “It’s not lethal.”

Ben hands you a sealed granola bar from his pocket instead. “From Alicia. She said you looked pale last week and told me to keep snacks on me in case I ran into you.”

Your mouth twitches.

“Tell her I said thank you.”

“Tell her yourself. She’s coming by Monday.”

You nod, then return to your screen, not rudely, just efficiently. Ben doesn’t take offense. He pats the table lightly and leaves you to your work.

Once he’s gone, Reed glances at you sidelong.

“You like Ben.”

“He doesn’t talk to hear himself speak,” you reply.

Reed smirks, folding his arms across his chest. “So I guess I should be worried.”

You don’t answer. But something in your cheek lifts. A small, unspoken response. Reed ntoices it. Files it away like he does everything about you.

By late morning, you’re too deep in the math to notice anything else.

Three out of five anchor simulations fail—but not catastrophically. The new feedback threshold is revealing the pattern you hoped it would. Reed asks if he can run his own version of the loop. You nod without turning, already exporting the baseline parameters to his terminal.

You hear someone outside the glass wall whisper, “Is Richards still in Lab B-3?”

And then, “I think he’s shadowing her today.”

“He shadows her every damn day.”

You pretend not to hear. You shrink slightly into your collar. Not from shame. Just to stay small.

Reed doesn’t respond to the comment. But you notice that he reaches over and very quietly pushes the door shut.

Not to hide.

But to give you quiet.

The rest of the morning passes like this—like a film spooling out in perfect rhythm. Reed occasionally types beside you. Sometimes you work in parallel, other times in sync. You don’t speak unless necessary, but the air between you is charged in a way you can’t name. Not love, not yet. But a proximity to it.

And even though others look—at him, at you, at the space between—you don’t notice anymore.

You’re too busy trying to catch the shape of something hidden in the data. Something just out of reach.

Like truth.

Or a confession.

Or gravity.

Fridays at the Baxter Building settle into their own kind of orbit.

Every lab has its rhythm—Lab A-2 always wraps their protein sequencing early, because Dr. Lyman likes to jog at 1:15 on the dot. Tech Ops syncs their systems for overnight updates before noon. Environmental Engineering runs its daily dehumidifier diagnostic with exaggerated ritual, a kind of inside joke no one explains to the interns.

It’s been that way since you arrived. It wasn’t written anywhere, but you learned it all the same.

And the unspoken tradition...Reed Richards forgets about time.

By now, everyone has made peace with it.

On Fridays, he’ll get caught chasing some quantum trajectory through a dozen notepads and open tabs, muttering to himself about temporal flux interactions or pattern resonance mismatches. If someone reminds him what time it is, he’ll blink, check his watch as though it’s betraying him, and then wave his hand vaguely in the air—“Take two hours, go. Ben, order something greasy.”

And everyone will. With relief. With a kind of reverent affection for their slightly scattered, brilliant leader.

Except you.

You stay.

Always.

It’s nearing 12:45 when the lab thins out. Ben claps his hands once, loudly, to announce, “Twenty-four-inch from Mario’s. I got half with olives, don’t fight me about it.” Someone cheers from the hallway.

You don’t look up.

The simulation in front of you is finally stabilizing under increased pressure loads, and Reed’s scribbling new hypotheses across his tablet at a manic pace—“If we compensate for decay acceleration by adjusting the sequence resolution window down to 10 seconds, the cross-bridging might resolve on its own—”

You hum without meaning to, fingers typing out the updated code.

“I’m serious,” he says, pushing his chair closer to yours, legs brushing under the desk. “We’re so close. This could finally solve the vibration decay issues in the dynamic anchor builds.”

“It won’t,” you reply calmly, running the next set. “Not unless you account for the spectral density shift around the 170 Hz mark. It’s going to collapse again.”

Reed pauses.

“You already ran this model.”

You nod.

“When?”

“Last weekend.”

He looks at you like you’ve handed him a paradox.

You let the silence stretch, then: “Try adjusting the constraint to reflect a Gaussian distribution, not linear. The peaks are too soft, and the algorithm’s compensating for noise that isn’t actually noise.”

Reed exhales slowly, reverent. “How does your brain do that?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have the words for how you see things. You just do.

He smiles like he’s in the presence of something sacred.

He leans in again, close enough that his shoulder presses lightly into yours. You shift slightly to give him access to your terminal, and he doesn’t pull away.

He’s always been tactile like this—with you, at least.

Hands brushing yours when you pass equipment.

A palm steadying your wrist when you’re assembling small, sensitive components.

Once, you found yourself gripping his forearm without realizing it during a particularly volatile magnetic resonance test. He didn’t mention it. Just let you hold.

But today, it’s different.

Today, something lingers.

You're both staring at the screen. The simulation is stabilizing now, running longer than it has all week. Your throat tightens with something like triumph, or relief, or maybe just fatigue disguised as euphoria.

Then, softly—soft enough that it catches you off guard—Reed reaches up and brushes his thumb across your cheek.

You freeze.

Out of disbelief. Out of awe.

His hand is warm. The pad of his thumb gentle.

The touch isn’t performative. It’s not even decisive.

It’s hesitant. Like he needed to check that you’re real.

That this moment isn’t just one of his half-formed ideas scrawled into the margins of a late-night notebook.

Your eyes flick toward him.

He’s already looking at you.

Something unspoken and heavy passes between you. It hums underneath the fluorescent buzz of the lab lights, underneath the whirring fans of the machinery, underneath the working theory you’ve spent days fine-tuning.

You don’t lean in.

But you don’t lean away.

He doesn’t move his hand.

You don’t say a word.

Ben opens the door a few feet down the hall, holding a pizza box in one hand, a Coke in the other.

He sees you.

Sees Reed.

The hand. The closeness. The moment.

And just as quietly as he entered, he steps back. Sets the pizza down on the nearest desk. Walks away without a word.

You and Reed don’t notice.

The simulation pings complete. For the first time in eleven models, it doesn’t fail.

You blink.

Then breathe.

Reed drops his hand, slowly, like it doesn’t want to leave but knows it has to.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

But something has shifted.

In the lab’s stale, climate-controlled air. In the simulation still pulsing faintly on your screen. In the trajectory of two minds moving dangerously close to each other’s center of gravity.

You get up first, walking to the sink in the corner to splash water on your face. The cold helps. Reed stays in his chair, scribbling, though you can tell his mind isn’t entirely on the notes.

You find the pizza box. It’s already cold. You bring two slices back to the workstation.

You don’t mention the moment. Neither does he.

But all through the second hour of your “break,” you work with that electric tension still threaded between you.

You pass him a slice. He accepts it.

He says your name, once, softly, like an answer to a question you haven’t asked yet.

And you don’t look up. Not yet.

You’re afraid that if you do, everything will change.

Or maybe—it already has.

“Hey,” Reed says again, this time your name folded into it, spoken low and careful, like he’s afraid of breaking it. Like he’s afraid of breaking you.

You don’t answer right away.

Because you know what he’s asking without asking.

And you know that if you answer—if you meet his gaze now, if you name the thing humming between you—it won’t go back in the box. It will take shape. It will have mass. It will alter the gravitational field between you forever.

You chew the edge of your lip and keep your eyes on the simulation results, blinking too fast.

He doesn’t push. Reed Richards never pushes.

But he stays there, watching you like a question he’s been trying to answer for years. Like a proof that’s always been just outside the edge of comprehension.

He wants you.

You can feel it in the heat of his gaze, in the way his hands twitch with unspent energy, in the way he shifts closer every time he speaks. He wants you the way he wants knowledge, reverently. With hunger and hesitation in equal parts.

But more than that—he respects you. And that respect builds a boundary he’s too careful to cross without your invitation.

So he doesn’t speak again. Not yet.

Instead, he clears his throat gently and leans back into the moment he knows how to inhabit best—the work.

“You were right about the Gaussian window,” he murmurs, eyes returning to the data on your screen. “The mean deviation narrowed just enough to stabilize the micro-vibrational bleed. Look.”

He tilts his tablet toward you.

You peer at it, grateful for the anchor. “The variance dropped below 0.0003. That’s lower than the threshold for secondary echo.”

Reed nods. “It’s still not perfect. But it’s holding. For now.”

You echo it before you can stop yourself. “For now.”

He smiles at that—soft, and only for you.

The tension doesn’t break. But it shifts. Warms.

You pull up the residual energy pattern charts and begin comparing them to your older models. Reed swivels his chair to face you fully, chin resting lightly on his knuckles as he watches you work.

Your voice steadies.

“I think we can reduce the decay rate even more by using a layered harmonic buffer. Not just a single envelope. Something like... like a tri-modal stabilization frame.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Using phase-offset looping?”

“Yes,” you say, eyes lighting up. “But slightly desynchronized. So each frequency compensates for the loss in another—like an algorithmic relay. Less like a barrier, more like... a conversation.”

You feel him watching you, not the charts.

There’s a kind of electricity in your blood now, not from caffeine or adrenaline but from being understood, seen at the level you need to be.

And for once, the way you talk—fast, disorganized, precise, too much—feels like the exact shape of something he’s been waiting to hear.

You meet his gaze finally.

He’s smiling.

That soft, quiet, wrecked smile of his. The one he only wears around you.

“You know,” he murmurs, “you say I taught you how to be better without making you feel small. But you make me feel like I don’t have to be better all the time. Like just being...with you is enough.”

You don’t know what to do with that sentence.

It sits too heavy in your chest. It rearranges your molecules.

Reed notices your hands twitch—how your fingers twitch at your sleeves when the air gets too loud inside you. He leans forward just slightly.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” you say too quickly. “You didn’t.”

Then, after a breath, “It’s just... I don’t know what to do when people say things like that.”

“Okay,” he says. “Then we don’t have to do anything. We can just stay here. With the work.”

But there’s softness in the offer. No withdrawal. No hurt.

Just the way he always gives you room.

It’s quiet again.

The others are still gone. Outside the lab, Friday spills forward in lazy arcs—someone arguing about where to eat next week, a song playing faintly from someone’s portable speaker. You can hear Ben laugh somewhere near the stairwell.

Inside, Reed starts sketching again. You realize, after a while, that it’s not a schematic. He’s drawing the harmonic layering you suggested, but not in code—in lines and waves, almost like music. It’s abstract and a little chaotic and not how he normally works.

It’s your method. Translated.

You watch him for a moment. Then you reach over and pick up a stylus of your own.

You add to it without asking. Adjust one arc. Shade one line.

He doesn’t flinch.

This is your intimacy. Shared language in waveform. A courtship of the mind.

The pizza gets cold. No one bothers you. Not even Ben, who peeks through the glass once more and then nods to himself like he's witnessing a rare solar event—better not to interfere.

And Reed…

Reed reaches over again at one point, softly, thumb brushing your cheek once more. This time he doesn’t look away when he does it. And you don’t freeze.

He doesn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

But you both feel it coming.

Not like a crash.

Like a calculation converging.

Like an inevitable, elegant solution.

Friday settles into its soft descent.

Outside, the city shifts into its end-of-week hum. That specific kind of tonal change—less frantic, more languid. Like the buildings are exhaling.

But in the lab, the world is still quiet, contained in the steady blinking of data streams and the near-inaudible whir of cooled processors.

You sit on the floor now, legs crossed beneath you, a cluster of components spread around you like offerings. The modeling station sits nearby, quietly compiling your last run.

Reed is at the console, sleeves rolled up, hair curling faintly at the temples from the humidity that’s crept in through the vents. He’s biting the corner of his thumbnail absently—thinking.

You watch him.

And then you remember.

“Did you finish the sensory-feedback demo for the field trip?” you ask, voice soft but cutting clean through the air between you.

He blinks up from the console, eyes going immediately bright.

“I did. Mostly. I was going to test it tonight.”

You tilt your head. “Can I see it?”

He smiles—a real one, unguarded and boyish. The kind he only wears with you.

“You can help me run it.”

He gets up, walking to the supply cabinet in the corner, pulling down a heavy black case the size of a carry-on. You follow, standing now, hands folding in the sleeves of your sweater as you watch him unlock the case with the smooth familiarity of a man who designs entire universes and still finds joy in the click of good mechanics.

Inside, a scatter of wires, motion sensors, a series of spherical objects that look like oversized ping pong balls, each one patterned with conductive filament and dotted with touch points. You recognize the layout—a modular, reprogrammable interface system with haptic feedback, originally built for mobility therapy.

“You modified the base algorithm,” you say, eyes narrowing with appreciation.

“For kids,” he replies. “It runs a simplified tactile-reward loop. Kind of like a visual puzzle—kinetic memory reinforcement. Color-coded neural feedback.”

“Accessible interface?”

He nods. “Built for neurodivergent learners. Adaptive texture mapping. It reacts to the user’s input in real time. No static pathways. No performance grading.”

Your chest tightens a little. Not painfully. Just precisely.

“You built a toy.”

Reed shrugs. “It teaches basic physics concepts. Friction, acceleration, force vectors. Just…disguised as fun.”

“That’s not just a toy,” you murmur.

He watches you closely.

“No,” he says. “It’s not.”

You set it up together on the floor of Lab B-3, moving the tables back, laying the tiles out in careful rows. The modular touch-nodes blink softly as they come to life—first red, then green, then a low, pulsing blue.

The algorithm kicks in after calibration. Reed holds the interface tablet, flipping through the menus. You hover close behind him, watching how he reprograms the environmental variables on the fly.

“Want to try it?” he asks.

You nod.

He sets it to manual mode. The first node lights up in your periphery. You move toward it, tap it lightly with your finger. It flashes yellow, then blue, and vibrates beneath your touch.

You laugh, just once—quick, surprised.

“Positive reinforcement,” Reed says softly. “Each node has a different tactile response depending on approach angle, velocity, and touch pressure.”

“So they learn physics by playing.”

He nods. “Exactly.”

You test the next one. And then another. As the nodes light up, the floor becomes a low-lit constellation, flickering gently around your movements. It’s beautiful. You crouch down near one, tracing your fingers across the filaments, letting the haptic buzz hum beneath your fingertips.

“Reed,” you say quietly. “This is... really, really good.”

He kneels down beside you.

“I just wanted to build something that made them feel like science was listening back.”

You look over at him.

That sentence hangs there, too delicate to touch.

Your hand moves before your brain registers the decision—slowly, instinctively—and you reach for him.

You had reached for his hand but landed on his thumb.

Just his thumb.

You wrap your small hand around it gently, like it’s the only part of him you can hold without consequence.

Reed freezes.

Not from discomfort. From something else.

He turns his head toward you, slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too quickly. His smile is soft, stunned. As if he can’t believe you’re doing this. As if he’s afraid that if he acknowledges it too directly, it might stop.

You don’t look at him. You just hold his thumb in both your hands, watching the floor blink beneath you.

It’s a strange gesture, almost childlike in its simplicity. But to you, it’s everything. It’s grounding. Permission. Trust.

Reed lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for years.

He doesn’t move his hand away.

Instead, he uses the other to reach forward and adjust a setting on the control interface without looking. The lights shift. The nodes pulse in a new pattern. You follow them without letting go of his thumb.

He’s smiling now, wide and quiet.

Completely and utterly gone for you.

You test every mode together—gravity simulation, frictionless slide, kinetic echo. Reed talks softly through each setting, explaining how he rewrote the original code to simulate Newton’s Laws in modular intervals, adjusting for sensor latency so kids could trigger reactions with slower or less precise movement.

You ask questions. Not because you don’t understand. But because you do. You want to understand it his way.

He answers everything.

By the time you’re done, the lights in the lab have dimmed into their evening cycle. Reed packs up the demo system slowly, like he’s folding something sacred.

You’re still holding his thumb.

Finally, gently, he uses it to tap the back of your hand.

“You know,” he says quietly, “you don’t have to hold back around me.”

You look at him, expression unreadable. You squeeze his thumb once, then let go.

“I’m not,” you say.

And you aren’t.

Not anymore.

The lab is dark when you both leave.

Outside, the city has begun to cool. You walk beside him in silence, shoulders brushing once, then again. Not by accident.

You don’t talk about the moment on the lab floor.

You don’t have to.

It happened.

It exists.

Like an inevitable, elegant solution.

The sky has turned the color of television static. Not black, not gray, just faded. Soft enough to feel unreal. Streetlights flicker on in stuttering intervals. A breeze curls up the avenue and catches at the hem of your coat.

You and Reed stand just outside the Baxter Building entrance, neither of you moving to leave, as if there’s some invisible membrane between the lab and the world you’re not quite ready to pierce.

You should go home.

That’s the next step, isn’t it?

That’s what people do when the day ends. They go back to the place with their name on the lease and try to remember who they are when no one’s asking them questions.

Except your place has neighbors.

And thin walls.

And you're too tired to pretend your own exhaustion doesn’t vibrate at the same frequency as their pleasure.

You shift your weight from foot to foot, knuckles tucked deep into your sleeves. You can feel the buzz of the day behind your eyes—not anxiety, not anymore. Just too many thoughts stacking on top of each other like tetris blocks, and you don’t have the energy to make them fit.

Reed stands beside you, hands in his coat pockets, quiet as ever. The edge of his sleeve brushes yours every so often, an unspoken rhythm that makes you feel here.

Not tolerated. Not managed.

Just here.

Ben soon exits the building. Hoodie zipped to his throat, a half-eaten brownie in one hand. He slows when he sees you both.

“Well, well,” Ben says, raising an eyebrow. “You two finally gonna leave the building or should we start paying you rent inside the lab?”

You glance at Reed.

He shrugs, noncommittal.

Ben smirks. “Alright. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Then he gives Reed a look. “Which ain’t much.”

Reed doesn’t respond, but his smile is quiet. Affectionate.

“Goodnight, Ben,” you say softly.

“Night, genius.”

He walks off into the dark.

You stay.

Reed doesn’t ask if you’re going home.

You don’t say anything for a while. You just look at the sidewalk. The cracks in it. The faint smudge of oil near the curb. The headlights of a cab bending light across Reed’s cheekbone, catching on the streak of gray in his hair.

Finally, you say, “Can I stay?”

You don’t explain. You don’t need to.

He doesn’t ask why.

He just turns to you, and for a split second, something in his expression softens so completely it’s almost painful. His eyes widen like he’s been caught off guard, but then his entire face warms, lips parting slightly, like you’ve just handed him something fragile and beautiful and unexpected.

“Yes,” he says immediately. “Yes, of course.”

You nod once, eyes down, and he opens the glass doors for you with his keycard.

Reed’s private quarters are located on the top floor, built into the architecture like a quiet secret.

The space is sparse but intentional. One long wall is lined with windows that overlook the city—lights shimmering like data points, static and alive at once.

You’ve been here before. The air smells like him. The surfaces are all smooth, clean, designed for function rather than comfort—except the guest bed, which he quietly upgraded after the second time you stayed, replacing the stiff mattress with something memory foam, orthopedic, weighted blankets in navy and grey.

He never mentioned it. But you noticed.

Now, you step out of your shoes and move instinctively toward the small kitchen alcove, placing your bag on the counter where you always do. You hear Reed behind you, taking off his coat, the soft clink of keys being set in the ceramic dish by the door.

“I didn’t want to go home,” you say, very quietly.

“I know,” he replies.

He fills the kettle without asking. He doesn’t ask if you want tea. He just knows that the ritual helps.

You settle on his couch while he prepares everything. There’s something deeply intimate about watching him move in this space—not as a scientist, but as a man who’s built a life designed for quiet. For stillness. For you.

“Did you finish that secondary circuit loop in the interface?” you ask, voice small.

“I did,” he says, turning toward you with two mugs. “Replaced the original buffer with a superconductive braid. Reduced the thermal variance by thirty percent.”

You take the mug with both hands.

“That’s going to make it more stable in hands-on mode.”

He nods. “Exactly.”

You sip the tea. It’s perfect. Rooibos, no caffeine. Subtle and warm.

You look down at your knees.

He sits beside you, not too close, not too far. Just right.

“I’m still thinking about that tri-modal stabilization relay you suggested,” he says. “It could actually be used in more than just the interface model. If we layer it into the resonance prototype, it could compensate for secondary harmonic bleed without adding mechanical dampeners.”

You glance at him. “It wouldn’t even need a power supply. It would just borrow from the existing vibrational field.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

You smile faintly. “We should test it this weekend.”

“We should,” he agrees.

But neither of you move.

You sit there in the dark, the city lights flickering behind the glass, the tea cooling slowly between your palms.

And then, Reed shifts slightly closer.

His fingers brush the side of your hand where it rests on the couch cushion.

You don’t pull away.

“I’m glad you asked to stay,” he says, quietly.

“I don’t always know what I need,” you admit.

“You don’t have to,” he says. “Not with me.”

You turn your hand palm-up.

He hesitates—barely a second—and then sets his own hand into yours. Warm. Long fingers. Calloused thumb.

You wrap your hand around his thumb again.

It’s small. Stupidly small. But it feels like precision.

Like the alignment of orbitals in a new chemical bond—unexpected, improbable, but somehow inevitable.

He stares at your hands like they’re a proof he’s just solved.

And you can feel it now, radiating off him.

That Reed Richards is completely, irrevocably in love with you.

It sits in his stillness.

In the way he lets you hold him without needing to be held back.

In the careful cadence of his breath next to yours.

In every half-finished sentence he doesn’t speak because he’s still calibrating the right moment to say it.

You close your eyes.

The lab can wait.

The world can wait.

Because here, in this quiet room on the top floor of the Baxter Building, the noise of the city fades into static, and two brilliant minds sit side by side, slowly, carefully falling into something that even physics doesn’t have language for.

Yet.

You’re still holding his thumb.

The weight of it feels small and ordinary and terrifying, in the way intimacy always is when it sneaks in sideways—quiet, soft, patient.

The tea between you has gone slightly cold, but neither of you moves.

Reed glances at your hand in his again like he’s not sure it’s real. Like he’s afraid any shift in air pressure might break whatever this is.

He doesn’t want to lose it. You can feel that. It lives in the quiet of his body. In the way he breathes more carefully now, like your closeness has changed the atmospheric composition of the room.

You can’t explain it.

Not exactly.

But you know the moment has arrived—like a threshold has been crossed without either of you noticing when.

You lift your eyes.

Reed is already watching you.

And then you kiss him.

There’s no warning. No lead-in. No poetic pause.

You just lurch forward and kiss him like your brain caught fire.

You cup his face with both hands—awkward, determined, imprecise. You feel the stubble on his jaw beneath your palms. You feel the soft surprised puff of his breath as you press your mouth against his with more force than you intended.

Reed makes a startled noise.

You pull back slightly, embarrassed, but he surges forward like a current finding its charge.

His hands find your waist, anchoring—not possessive, not demanding, just present. And then his mouth is on yours, properly this time. He kisses you with a slowness that makes your skin buzz, then deeper, until you forget how to think.

You chase it.

You chase it harder than you meant to.

You end up half in his lap, straddling his thigh on the couch. He grunts softly in surprise as you pull him closer by the collar of his shirt. Your hands roam. One settles in his hair, the other at the base of his neck, grounding yourself in the shape of him. His body is warm and solid and older than yours in a way that feels deeply comforting—experienced, steady.

“Wait—” he whispers into your mouth, breathless but laughing.

You pause.

“I—God, I didn’t think—” he tries to say, and then you kiss him again.

It’s clumsy and desperate and real. Your teeth bump once. Your nose is probably smushed too hard against his.

But Reed groans quietly like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Because it is.

Because it’s you.

Eventually, you slow. Not because you want to. Just because you run out of breath. You ease back a little, your forehead resting against his, both of you flushed and dazed.

His fingers trace up your spine, slow, careful, reverent.

You say nothing for a while.

Then, softly, eyes still closed, you murmur, “I need to take a shower.”

He blinks, dazed.

“Oh,” he says, voice rough. “Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

You make no move to get up.

He doesn’t push.

Then, without looking at him, you say, “Will you come with me?”

Reed stills.

It’s not a seductive invitation. Your voice is too quiet. Too vulnerable.

You mean with you. Not to see you.

There’s a difference.

A difference he understands immediately.

He exhales once, very slowly.

“Yes,” he says.

The bathroom in Reed’s quarters is clean and understated. No clutter. Neutral tones. A single towel folded perfectly on the heated rack. The kind of space made by someone who needs things to stay quiet, even in private.

You peel off your clothes with your back to him. You don’t ask him to turn away. You just move, deliberately, like someone trying to stay present in their own body. You don’t rush.

He undresses behind you.

You don’t look.

Not because you’re afraid.

Just because this isn’t about looking.

When you step under the water, he follows. The spray is warm. Steam begins to rise immediately, curling around your shoulders, softening the edges of the room.

You don’t speak for a long time.

He helps you rinse shampoo from your hair.

He rubs a towel gently across your upper back, washing you between passes of the water.

You stand in the quiet, eyes closed, while he reaches for the soap, his hands careful and broad. You’ve never felt so heldin a room without touch. Even when he does touch you, it’s so measured. Like he’s calibrating pressure in real time.

He never touches more than he needs to.

He never looks longer than you let him.

You begin to wash him in return—his arms, his back. Your fingers map the ridges of his shoulders. The plane of his chest.

He smiles at you when you look up at him.

You smile back.

Afterward, you towel off side by side. You slip into the oversized sleep shirt he keeps in the guest drawers—the one you claimed without asking the second time you stayed over. Reed pulls on a soft cotton shirt and gray sweatpants, hair still damp, curls a little unruly.

You both brush your teeth in silence. The kind of silence built on trust, not absence.

You spit and rinse and then, leaning over the sink, you say, “You’re not what I expected.”

Reed glances at you in the mirror.

“I’m not?” he asks, toothbrush in hand.

You shake your head. “You’re a better equation.”

He stares at you for a moment, then leans over, presses a kiss to your temple, and whispers, “So are you.”

You fall asleep in his bed, facing each other.

You don’t touch—not at first. But at some point, your foot slides across the sheet and brushes his calf.

He doesn’t bother to move.

You drift off like that.

And he stays awake for a while longer, just watching you breathe, memorizing the sound of it, calculating the half-life of the moment in real time.

He doesn't think there's a formula for this.

But if there were, he’d already be solving for you.

taglist: @totallynotshine @the-curator1 @christinamadsen @imaginemixedfandom @randomuserr330 @princess76179 @little--spring @mielsonrisa @he-is-the-destined @in-pedros-smile @aysilee2018 @stormseyer @or-was-it-just-a-dream @strawberrylemontart1 @lovetings @peelieblue @just-a-harmless-patato @lizziesfirstwife @princessnnylzays @stargirl-mayaa @vickie5446 @everandforeveryours @jxvipike @sukivenue @neenieweenie @i-wanna-be-your-muse @sonjajames2021 @fxxvz @indiegirlunited

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meadowfics · 7 hours ago

Text

cowardice truth

kang dae-ho x f!pregnant!reader

this chapter is a featured throwback for my 'kang family' series

synopsis: the only time where you've (almost) considered ending things with dae-ho. luckily, you never did. what happened though?

SPOILERS FOR SQUID GAME SEASON THREE BELOW -> DON'T CLICK 'KEEP READING' IF YOU DO NOT WANT SPOILERS!

the room was too quiet for what it held.

everyone here were just survivors now. the rebellion failed and gi hun being brought back from the coffin gave you a bad feeling.

the chances of survival were low.

inside of this strange room, filled with accents of yellow, everyone stood in a loose circle around the towering gumball machine in the center.

the floor was glossy and the silence from players sat heavy like wet clothes clinging to the skin.

dae-ho stood next to you, still.

he is not stiff and not poised... just… still.

gi-hun has been giving daeho crazy looks. you know those looks, its the same looks your mother used to give you.

it is a homicidal look.

you basically had to drag daeho, hand to hand, into this room. before, the guards hung the rebellion players in the huge stairwell room.

the sight nearly made dae-ho throw up.

you forced yourself to look away.

when you did, you saw gi-hun huff before running towards a horrified daeho.

oh no.

yes, what daeho did was wrong. however, it wasn't intentional.

you knew that gi-hun blamed daeho for the failure of the rebellion, and the death of jung-bae.

inside of this room... the gumball machine looked normal. you looked up at dae-ho, your hand unconsciously resting on the bump beneath your loose shirt.

you were still five months pregnant.

seo-ah was still small and still safe inside of you.

“daeho?” you whispered, barely audible.

he didn’t answer. the ex-marine's jaw was clenched so tight you swore it might snap. the man's eyes didn’t move.

they stayed locked on the machine like it had teeth.

daeho's breath was shallow. it was shallow as if he was forgetting to inhale altogether.

you blinked up at him again, confused.

you hadn’t seen him like this.

he was not like this in the beginning, not during the first few games. he was scared then, yes. this… this was something worse. a different kind of fear. a kind that swallowed a man whole from the inside.

it creates anger, an anger you knew belonged to gi-hun.

“participants,” the robotic voice crackled overhead.

you flinched.

dae-ho didn’t.

“the next game will require team assignments. these teams will be determined randomly, by color.”

you sighed.

“please approach the dispenser one by one. turn the handle. you will receive a colored ball. then, proceed to your designated area.”

you looked back at dae-ho.

he was shaking now but only slightly. however, it was enough that you could see it in his hands.

he was angry.

you reached out, gently touched his wrist.

“hey,” you whispered.

“it’s okay. we’re okay. i’m right here.”

at this point, many players were already stepping up and being assigned their colors. red or blue.

he finally looked at you.

your man's eyes...gosh, they looked like he was already mourning something.

maybe you. maybe himself. maybe both.

he opened his mouth, but nothing came out as he looked up past you.

"player 388," the guard calls out.

daeho only takes a heavy exhale through his nose, and then he stepped forward away from you.

the man's steps were reluctant and dragging. he approached the gumball machine like it was an execution block.

click. click. click.

he turned the handle.

a soft thud.

he reached into the compartment and pulled out the ball.

blue.

he stared at it for a moment too long. maybe if he blinked, it would turn into something else. anything else.

slowly, his eyes found yours again.

he didn’t speak, but you saw it in his face.

the panic. the helplessness. the apology.

you nodded at him, gently, trying to be strong. for him. for your baby. for yourself.

“go,” you mouthed.

daeho's lips pressed together.

he walked to the blue side, each step heavier than the last.

the next person went.

another blue.

the tension in your chest grew with each second.

suddenly, it was your turn.

your feet carried you toward the machine while your mind begged you to stop. everything in your body wanted to run and to scream.

you wanted to get back to dae-ho’s side and glue yourself there.

you couldn’t.

the guards could shoot, you knew they would since the players rebellion already has them being stricter than ever.

you placed your hand on the handle.

turned it.

click. click. click.

the thud sounded louder this time.

you reached in.

pulled it out.

red.

you stared at the ball in your palm, the color almost surreal under the fluorescent lights. red.

you had never hated a color more in your life.

your heart dropped.

you didn’t react outwardly and you didn’t flinch. your face did not show it.

however, your stomach churned and your eyes burned. your throat closed up, and for a second, you couldn’t breathe.

you turned your head slowly.

dae-ho was already looking at you.

horrified.

the man's expression broke you.

he took a step forward like he could protest, like he could say no, like maybe if he pleaded hard enough, someone would let you switch. the guards didn’t even have to lift their guns. the unspoken rules were already loud enough.

you forced yourself to walk.

one step.

another step.

you didn’t even feel your feet move. you only felt the growing weight of fear pressing against your chest.

you reached the red side, eyes locked on dae-ho until the very last second.

geum-ja was already there, arms crossed like she wanted to cry. she had to watch her son go over to the blue side. she watched you come by her side.

you stood beside her, but you didn’t speak.

you wanted to cry. gosh, you wanted to cry. your hands were on your belly now. your fingers shaking against the fabric as if holding yourself together physically would stop you from falling apart.

what if you never saw him again?

what if he died in this next game?

what if you did?

what if seo-ah never got to see the outside of this place?

unfortunately, daeho had enough of gi-hun's looks towards him.

when daeho bolted towards 456, mumbling a bunch of "fuck fuck fuck"s in the process.. you almost intervened but geum-ja held you back.

"don't." geum-ja said.

your throat nearly closed in as you watched dae-ho go animalistic on gi-hun. if looks could kill, daeho would've already died from gi-hun's stare.

a guard putting the gun up towards daeho's spine didn't make things better. you would've ran over if hyunju didn't force you still with her strong arms.

afterwards, when the guard announced that players could actually switch colors with someone on another team with mutual consent... you jogged towards dae-ho with an urgent plea.

"dae, we should switch." you pant.

your taller man looks down at you, as if you've grown two heads.

“i’m pregnant, daeho,” you whispered, your voice cracking as you gripped his hands, “I-i don't know if I can kill anybody and if gi-hun’s after you, let me take the risk. please.”

daeho’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes fierce with a protectiveness that made your heart ache.

“no way, y/n,” he said, his voice low and somewhat angry because of gi-hun's silent threats looming, "you’re carrying our baby. i’m not letting you be bait. if gi-hun wants me, he can come for me.”

you shook your head, tears stinging your eyes.

“no?! no! daeho, don’t say that--”

“participants,” the robotic voice cut you off.

you stiffened.

“the next game will now begin. red team, please head to the door on your left. blue team, please proceed to—”

the doors behind you hissed open.

you looked toward them.

dae-ho was still staring at you with the guard's gun at his back, his mouth parted like he was about to shout your name.

you blinked.

only one thought has entered your mind.

does it all end here?

ten minutes later...

as much as you were relieved about not being chased.. you hated that you were a red team seeker.

your heart a frantic drumbeat in your chest. seo-ah is still growing inside you and growing her has been taking some of your needed energy.

your hand instinctively rests on your small swollen belly. being five months pregnant, you were still small.

shoot, most people can't tell you're pregnant with the large 399 jacket you've always been wearing.

luckily there's a silent promise to the child you carry...daeho’s child.

you trusted your man, you love him more than anything.

daeho gave you the comfort you always craved throughout your whole life. you could go to him for anything.

if soulmates are real, you knew that he was yours.

now, that love feels like a fragile thread.

it is stretched to the breaking point by his lies that you have yet to figure out.

before the game began, you saw the way gi-hun’s eyes locked onto daeho, a predator sizing up his prey.

gi-hun blames daeho for the rebellion that went wrong, the one that cost lives and shattered your group’s fragile hope of escape.

you pleaded with daeho to switch teams with you, to let you be the blue team hider so he could wear the red vest and stay safe so gi-hun couldn't kill him.

“i’m pregnant, daeho,” you whispered, your voice cracking as you gripped his hands, “I-i don't know if I can kill anybody and if gi-hun’s after you, let me take the risk. please.”

daeho’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes fierce with a protectiveness that made your heart ache.

you shook your head, tears stinging your eyes.

“no?! no! daeho, don’t say that.”

he didn’t listen.

when dae-ho left with the other blues to go hide... you turned to gi-hun, desperation clawing at your chest since you were daeho's last hope.

or at least you hoped you were.

“please, gi-hun,” you begged, stepping in front of him as he adjusted his red vest, “daeho didn’t start the rebellion. it wasn’t his idea...it was yours! you know that.”

your voice trembled, but you held his gaze, willing him to listen.

gi-hun’s eyes were cold, distant, like he was already somewhere else, his mind set on blood.

he didn’t respond, just stared through you, and you knew your words were falling on deaf ears.

you walked away, your hands shaking, your heart heavy with dread.

player 124, approached you after. he is a player you've never spoken to before. the guy's eyes were widened, his grin predatory.

“looks like he's on another planet. I wonder if he took something out of this." 124 says, opening a cross necklace around his neck.

you gave 124 a dirty look, seeing a set of pills stacked inside of the necklace that the guy carried.

the guards can take my normal cotton clothes, but not this guys drugs? your mind spoke.

"great, he did not. crazy bastard. you know what else is crazy? we could take out half the blues before they even blink.” 124's eyes gleamed with a hunger for violence, and you glared at him, your stomach churning.

“i’m not here to slaughter people,” you snapped, your voice low but firm.

you knew you had to eliminate at least one blue player to survive, to keep yourself and your baby safe, but the thought made you sick.

you weren’t like 124.

you weren’t like gi-hun.

when the reds were released into the maze, you moved with purpose, your knife heavy in your hand.

the gravel crunched under your white blood stained shoes, the sound a constant reminder of the danger lurking in every shadow.

you ignored most of the blue players, their terrified faces blurring as they scrambled away from you.

your only goal was to find daeho, to make sure he was safe, and to eliminate one blue player...just one, as long as it wasn’t daeho or junhee, the other pregnant woman who was trapped in this hellhole with you.

you couldn’t bear the thought of harming her, not when you knew how she felt when it came to carrying a life in a place like this.

the maze was a labyrinth of despair, its brick walls cold and unyielding, the paths twisting into dead ends and sharp turns.

you moved silently, your senses heightened, every rustle of leaves or snap of a twig setting your nerves on edge. you heard whispers of movement, the faint cries and loud stabs of players caught by other reds, but you kept your focus.

daeho was out there, running from gi-hun, and you had to find him before it was too late.

you turned a corner and froze.

in a small, dimly lit room full of beautiful colors, junhee was crouched on the ground, her face contorted in pain as she started pushing out her baby.

hyunju, her friend, knelt beside her as geum-ja helped deliver junhee's baby.

120's eyes were blazing with protective fury as she glared at you.

junhee was giving birth, right there in the maze, her breaths ragged and desperate. your eyes widened, your heart lurching with a mix of fear and empathy.

you took a step back, raising your hands, your knife glinting but unthreatening.

“i’m not here to hurt you,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion, “you know i would never—”

“don’t even think about it,” hyunju spat, her body tense, ready to fight.

you shook your head, offended that they’d assume you’d harm a woman in labor, but you understood.

you were a red player, a hunter in their eyes.

without another word, you backed away, leaving them to their struggle, your heart heavy with the weight of this place.

you kept moving, your mind racing.

you needed to find daeho, but you also needed to survive.

the rules were clear for red players: eliminate a blue player or be eliminated yourself.

you rounded another corner and saw her.

a blue player, player 091, slumped against a wall.

she was young, barely five years older than you, her face pale and slick with sweat.

a pool of blood wasbeneath her, seeping from a wound in her side stomach. she was dying, her breaths ragged.

clearly, a red player did not finish her off.

you knelt beside her, your knife trembling in your hand.

“do it already,” 091 mumbled, her voice weak but resolute.

a tear slipped down your cheek as you whispered, “i’m sorry.”

your handsy were shaky as drove the knife into her carotid artery, quick and precise, ending her suffering as quickly as possible.

the audio blared overhead which scared the crap out of you as you ripped your knife out of the girl's neck. the woman's blood spraying on your own upper chest and neck.

“player 091 eliminated. player 399 passed.”

somewhere in the maze, daeho froze.

the man's heart stopping at the sound of your player number.

you’d killed someone.

he knew you had to, he knew the rules as well as you did, but the thought of you with blood on your hands made his chest ache.

dae ho was so focused on running from gi-hun, dodging through the maze’s twists and turns, that he hadn’t processed what it meant for you to be out there, hunting.

he shook his head, trying to convince himself he’d misheard, that it wasn’t you.

deep down, he knew.

you wiped the blood from your knife, your hands shaking as you stood. the blood was all over your face, neck, and arms.

the act had been merciful, but it left a stain on your soul.

you pushed forward, your focus shifting back to daeho. you had to find him. gi-hun was out there, and you knew he wouldn’t stop until he had daeho’s blood on his hands.

you climbed a set of crumbling stone stairs, the maze opening into a wider corridor.

below the next set of stairs, you saw them...gi-hun and daeho, facing off.

daeho’s back was to you, his shoulders tense, his voice rising in a panicked plea.

gi-hun loomed over him, his knife gleaming with intent.

you froze at the top of the stairs, your breath catching as daeho’s words reached you.

“i never served in the marines! i was actually a social service personnel!”

daeho shouted, his voice breaking.

“it was a lie! i didn’t even serve in the military. i’ve never held a gun!”

your heart stopped.

the world tilted, the maze blurring around you.

daeho had told you about his time in the marines since the first week he met you, about coming to seoul after serving near busan.

it was one of the most frequent stories he shared when you met him at the café, back when you were just a barista and he was a charming regular.

those stories had woven into the foundation of your love, a year and a half of trust built on what you thought was truth.

now, it was crumbling.

your hand gripped the railing, your knuckles nearly popped out of your skin as you listened, tears burning in your eyes.

“even my tattoo is fake,” daeho continued, his voice shaking with shame.

“i lied so i could feel better about myself. i’m a coward, gi-hun. a coward. I just wanted to apart of something! please brother, spare me. i’m begging you.”

you couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

the man you loved, the father of your unborn child, was a stranger.

every memory of him...his stories, his confidence, the way he promised to protect you...felt like a lie.

your lip quivered, tears streaming down your cheeks as you stood frozen, watching gi-hun’s face twist with a mix of disgust and pity.

daeho was hesitating now, his head bowed, his body trembling.

you wanted to scream, to run to him, to demand answers, but your body wouldn’t move.

when gi-hun lunged and shoved daeho to the ground, something snapped inside you. you bolted down the stairs, your fear and heartbreak fueling your speed.

you kicked gi-hun hard in the head, sending him stumbling back, his head hitting the ground with a thud.

you didn’t look at him, didn’t care.

you grabbed daeho’s arm, dragging him to his feet.

“get up,” you hissed, your voice raw with anger and pain.

you didn’t notice the blood seeping from his ankle, the wound he’d gotten in his struggle with another player a few minutes before this confrontation. you just pulled him along, your grip bruising as you ran.

you found a small, shadowed room, its walls damp and crumbling. you shoved daeho inside, slamming the door behind you.

he stumbled, catching himself against the wall, his eyes wide with relief at seeing you.

however, terror spreader along his features as he realized you’d heard everything he confessed to gihun.

you stood there, chest heaving, tears staining your face, your bloody knife still in your hand.

the silence was suffocating, broken only by the distant sounds of the maze...screams, footsteps, the relentless audio announcements.

“y/n,” daeho started, his voice soft and pleading, “i—”

“you really lied to me,” you cut him off, scoffing and trembling with rage. “all this time, daeho. a year and a half. you told me you were a marine. you told me you could protect us, that you knew what you were doing. it was all a lie?”

your voice rose, cracking with the weight of your betrayal.

“i’m carrying your child, daeho. our baby... and you built our life on a lie?”

he flinched, his face crumpling with guilt.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

“i didn’t want you to see me like this. i wanted to be someone you could depend on, someone strong. i thought… i thought if you knew the truth, you wouldn’t love me.”

“don’t you dare,” you snapped, stepping closer, your knife still clutched tightly.

“don’t you dare say that. you think i loved you because of some fake marine story? i loved you because i thought you were honest, because i thought you trusted me. you lied, daeho. you lied, and now we’re here, in this hell, and i don’t even know who the hell you are!”

he sank to his knees, his hands covering his face as he shook.

“i’m a coward,” he said with his voice muffled, “i’ve always been a coward. i made it all up because i was ashamed. i wanted to be more than what i am. for you. for our baby.”

your heart twisted, a war raging inside you.

you wanted to hate him, to scream at him for betraying you, for putting you and your child in danger.

you couldn’t.

not completely.

its bad.

you still saw the man you loved. the man who held you at night, who still wanted to protect you and your unborn child.

it didn't take long before you dropped to your knees in front of him, the knife falling to the ground with a dull clatter.

your hands reached for his, pulling them away from his face so you could see him.

“i’m so scared, daeho,” you whispered with your voice breaking, "i’m scared of losing you, of losing our baby. i killed someone out there because i had to, because i’m trying to keep us alive. now i find out the man i love isn’t who i thought he was. how am i supposed to do this?”

he looked at you, his eyes red and glistening with tears.

“i don’t know,” he admitted, “but i love you, y/n. I have never lied about anything else. I love you more than anything. i love our baby. i know i messed up, and i know i don’t deserve you, but i’m begging you...let me make this right. let me be the man you need me to be so we get out alive.”

you stared at him, your heart torn between anger and love.

the maze pressed in around you, a reminder of the danger still lurking, but in that moment, it was just you and daeho.

you reached out, your hand trembling as you touched his cheek, wiping away a tear.

“you don’t get to lie to me again,” you say, your voice firm despite the tears streaming down your own face.

your hand trembles against daeho’s cheek, the damp brick walls of the starry night maze pressing in around you. the distant sounds of the game...screams, footsteps, the cold voice of the audio system...fade to a dull hum as you stare into his eyes, searching for the man you still knew. despite his lies.

daeho nods, his expression heavy with guilt, his own tears mirroring yours.

“i know,” he whispers, his voice thick with regret, “i swear, y/n, no more lies. I'll die before I ever tell another one.”

you pull your hand back, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to hold together the pieces of your shattered trust.

your belly, swollen with seo-ah, feels like both a shield and a vulnerability.

“but why, daeho?” you ask, your voice breaking, “why did you lie to me? from the very beginning, at the café, when we were just… being us. why did you make up this whole story about being a marine?”

daeho exhales shakily, his hands clenched into fists as he sits back on his heels, the gravel crunching beneath him.

“i… i was estranged from my family for years before they started talking to me again just recently,” he starts, his voice low.

“they always saw me as weak. a coward. a pussy. sensitive. useless. when i told them i was joining the marines, they believed it. for the first time, they looked at me like i was someone. they praised me, y/n. they called me brave, strong. it was the first time they, especially my dad, didn’t tear me down.”

he pauses, his eyes distant, haunted.

“i got addicted to that feeling. so i kept the lie going. i told everyone i was a marine, because it made people see me differently. it made me feel different like i wasn’t just some failure.” he shakes his head, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“but i’m still a coward. i always have been.”

“stop it,” you snap.

your voice is rising, and desperate.

“stop calling yourself that, daeho. just stop.” you lean forward, grabbing his face with both hands, forcing him to meet your gaze.

“you lied to me, and it was a huge lie. it hurt me, it hurt us, and it put us in danger. but you don’t get to keep tearing yourself apart like this. you’re not a coward. a coward wouldn’t be here, in this hell, trying to protect their girlfriend and our baby.”

he stares at you, his lips trembling, but he doesn’t speak.

you take a deep breath, your anger still burning but tempered by the love that refuses to let go.

“you lied, daeho,” you continue, your voice softer but still firm.

“and it cost us. people died because of the rebellion, because we didn’t have the ammo, because things fell apart but you didn’t start that rebellion. gi-hun did. he knew it wouldn’t work, and he pushed it anyway. this is on him, not you.”

daeho’s eyes flicker with something...hope, maybe, or relief...but the guilt still clings to him.

he nods slowly, like he’s trying to believe you.

unfortunately, the weight of his shame is heavy.

“i thought you’d leave me,” he admits, his voice barely audible.

“when you heard the truth, i thought… i thought you’d take our baby and go. that you’d never want me near you again.”

the pain of his words cut deeper than you expected.

you’re still angry, the sting of his betrayal raw and aching, but the thought of him fearing you’d abandon him makes you want to cry all over again.

“i’m not leaving you,” you say, your voice steady despite the tears, “and i’m not taking our child away from you. i’m angry, daeho. i’m so angry I can barely see straight but I love you. I’ve loved you for over a year and a half, and that doesn’t just disappear because you messed up. it’s going to take time for me to trust you again, but I’m not giving up on us.”

he exhales, a shaky breath that sounds like a sob, and reaches for your hand. you let him take it, his fingers warm and trembling as they lace with yours.

“i don’t deserve you,” he whispers, but you shake your head.

“don’t say that,” you say, squeezing his hand, “just… be honest with me from now on. be the man I know you can be. for me. for our baby. you are not a coward, and you don't have to lie to me. I fell in love with you for who you are, not because of your fake military background.”

before daeho can respond, the audio system blares overhead, its cold, mechanical voice cutting through the moment.

“game over. all surviving players, please follow the nearest staff member and report to the main room.”

you both freeze.

the game is over.

you and daeho are alive.

you’ve passed, both of you spared from the deadly stakes of this round.

daeho stands up and pulls you into his arms, one hand firm on your back, the other resting gently on your belly, where your child grows.

the man's lips press against your forehead, warm and trembling, as tears slip from his eyes.

“we made it,” he whispers, his voice thick with relief, his embrace desperate.

you’re still angry, the sting of his lies burning in your chest, but you cling to him, your arms wrapping around his waist.

you’d rather be angry at him than grieving him.

the thought of losing him, of facing this nightmare alone with your baby, is too much to bear.

you bury your face in his chest, letting his warmth ground you.

the two of you make your way to the dorm room, your hand in his, his limp from the wound on his ankle slowing your pace.

the maze’s brick and gravel walls seem to close in around you and the starry night above a cruel mockery of freedom.

back in the dorms you and daeho find a corner to sit, your knees brushing, your hands still entwined.

the silence between you is heavy but not empty.

the next morning, you wake to a nightmare.

the dormitory is cold, the air thick with despair.

you’re curled against daeho, his arm draped protectively over you, his steady breathing a small comfort.

after you rub your tired eyes you hear the shuffle of boots, the low voices of the guards.

you sit up, your heart lurching as you see them carrying a coffin through the room.

your eyes follow the shape, and then you see her...geum-ja, her body being hanged by a blanket, the fabric knotted where she used it to end her life by hanging.

the sight hits you like a blade to the chest.

geum-ja was like your mother, her kind eyes and gentle hands a constant in your life since you arrived in this hell.

she was the only true mother figure you’ve had ever, the only older woman who held you in this short period of time.

you knew she’d killed her son, a sin that haunted her every step since, but seeing her like this...lifeless, taken by her own hand...sends you spiraling.

a sob tears from your throat, raw and jagged, and you collapse against the bed, your body shaking with a panic attack.

your vision blurs, your chest tightens, the world closing in as you gasp for air.

daeho is there in an instant, his arms around you, pulling your face gently away from the sight of geum-ja’s coffin.

“don’t look, y/n,” he whispers, his voice steady despite the tears you know are in his eyes too.

“i’m here. i’m so sorry.” he holds you close, his hand stroking your hair, his apologies soft and endless...not just for geum-ja, but for his lies, for the pain he’s caused.

he shields you from the horror, his body a barrier between you and the reality of her loss.

you can’t stay angry at him.

not when he’s here with you, loving you like this, his warmth and presence a lifeline in this place.

you forgive him in that moment, not because the hurt is gone, but because you need him, and he needs you.

you cling to him, your tears soaking his shirt, and he doesn’t let go.

“i’ve got you,” he murmurs, over and over, his hand resting on your belly.

“you’ll get through this. I put that on my own life.”

full series masterlist linked here

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dxmurewrites · 23 hours ago

Text

In the Dark

Part two of my lil two shot fic for our man Paddy! This one is just pure smut (with some fluff). Can be read by itself, as the first can be read as a standalone!

pairing: Paddy Mayne x Fem!Nurse!Reader

summary: Seeing you in his clothes made Paddy feel absolutely feral, and he hated himself for it. Finally, he realises you want him just as bad as he wants you.

word count: 4748

Part one is listed right here. No need to read it if you don't want any backstory.

unedited

warnings: language, mentions of war, blood, teasing, begging, oral (f!receiving) paddy gets pussy drunk, slight degradation, breast worship, possessive behaviour, bodily fluids, biting, mouth covering, unprotected sex but pullout method, aftercare, soft!dom paddy.

let me know what you think! I love feedback!

_________

"Paddy," You speak again, slowly this time, as if the very weight of his name on your tongue became a soft hymn. "Don't hide from me."

"M'not hiding," he attempted to argue, the words falling short as another sigh left his lips as you dragged your nails across his hips. He says your name again this time, half in warning, half in protest. "You're just playin' a very dangerous game here."

"So play with me then." Your voice sounded like warm honey, sweet despite the sinful desire that laced your words.

"Christ."

Paddy's eyes almost plead with you. The blues bearing into your darkened gaze, pleading to tell him to leave, that you're just not thinking straight. That maybe you didn't want him like he wanted you, merely toying with him like usual.

But you didn't.

The words never came.

There were no jest or taunts.

Instead your fingers continued dragging across the thin cotton of his tee, gliding dangerously close to the waistband of his pants. He watched through half lids, his breathing coming out laboured as he clenched his fists.

The veins in his arms looked even more prominent in his tense state, and you adjust the way you were laying, moving to sit on the haunch of your legs.

You didn't miss the way he eyed your thighs, the bare flesh screaming his name, begging to be seized.

Paddy looms over you, the low light from the lantern flickering just enough to see the water from his shower still drip from his hair.

His broad shoulders, scarred and bruised, the rise and fall of his chest as he attempted to steady his breathing.

"Careful now." His voice deepens as he says your name right after, his head tilted as his right hand reaches out, stopping yours from continuing its little journey.

His large hand encompasses yours, covering it entirely. He doesn't push you away, just keeping it still.

He looks over his shoulder, staring at the closed tent walls. His men lay ten tents down, the faint sound of their chatter greeting both of you.

You tilt your head, looking up at the man through your lashes.

God, the very sight of you alone could killed him.

No war necessary, just pretty eyes and lips to die for.

You say his name softly, a different tone to his. It was obvious he had a million thoughts running through his mind, some causing the tent in his pants to grow even more.

"We don't have to do anything," you continue, tugging his hand away from yours, entwining your fingers instead. "We can just go to sleep, I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"Uncomfortable?" He immediately looks back to you, his eyebrows furrowed, almost annoyed you could even think negatively about yourself. "Is that what ye think you're doing' to me? Making me uncomfortable?"

Your words stutter, worried you might dig yourself a deeper hole. Paddy however squeezes your hand tighter, not enough to hurt, but enough to make your breath hitch.

He says your name again, demanding you look at him properly.

"All I want to do is lay you down and go to fuckin' town," He says the words so casually, you couldn't help the way your lip quivered, the way his classy speech made the heat in your belly grow more per second. "But we can't - I can't, ye deserve better than some shite tent and a wire bed."

That's what he was worried about?

Lord.

"Paddy," You couldn't help but chuckle, using the grip on his hand to stand to your feet, your legs shaky from the awkward seating position you had been in. "I'm not worried about where we are, far from it." He helps you stand to your feet, once again eyeing your every move - almost afraid this was a hallucination from a concussion he wasn't aware he had. "Ye should be, sand can be a bastard."

"Noted," You laugh, the sound causing the tension in his body to ease just ever so slightly. "Paddy?"

He hums in response, his hands reaching down to rest on your waist, his fatigues feeling thin as they rest on your skin.

"I want you to touch me," You tell him, choosing to not beat around the bush any further. "I would like for you to touch me."

"Am touching you," He replies, his eyebrow raised as he steps closer, crowding you until your legs touch the edge of his bed once more. "S'that not good enough?"

Your eyes close, feeling the heat of his body pressed against yours. His erection strained against his pants, and you could feel the hardness rubbing against your front.

You trembled slightly, and Paddy noticed every little shake, smiling down at you.

"I-it is," You nod, but you reach for his hands, sliding them down your waist and under the fatigues until Paddy continues the movement himself. His rough hands felt surprisingly gentle as they glide across the bare flesh of your ass, his calloused hands kneading the skin. "Jesus."

"So soft, so fuckin' pretty," He mutters, continuing to run his hands over your behind, pressing himself further into you. "You take such good care of us all, y'know that right?"

Your head falls against his chest, his touch alone making you feel unbelievably hot. Nodding, your fingers bunch at his shirt, and you sigh, feeling Paddy press a kiss to your temple.

His lips stay close to your ear, one of his hands reaching up to cradle the back of your head.

"Don't think I've ever thanked ye properly," His fingers lingered in your hair, his grip tightening just slightly. "Bit rude of me, isn't it?" You shake your head. "Pad-"

"Lie down," He interrupts you, stepping back to let you move freely. You hesitate, his words causing your mind to whirl. "Go on girl."

Biting your lip, Paddy raises his eyebrow once more, watching you intently. "You refusing an order?"

If you weren't unbelievably turned on right now, you'd have half the mind to tell him he wasn't your boss, that he couldn't tell you what to do.

Truth be told, Paddy could tell you he was six feet tall, and you'd believe him, even though you had working eyes.

He eyed you like a man starved. Could he sense the ache that gnawed behind your chest every time he was near you? Could he feel the heat that bloomed low in your stomach with each touch?

He was far too observant for his own good, of course he could.

Paddy offers you a sheepish smile, and he watches as you lower yourself to his bed once more, lying back until your head rest against his pillow.

Clearing his throat, he kneels down on the bed once you're settled and his hands outstretch, flexing as they rest against your knees, shuffling until he kneels between your thighs comfortably.

His large hands part your thighs, an audible groan leaving his chest at what greeted him.

The two of you remained completely clothed, and it confused you. Sure, you weren't wearing any underwear beneath Paddy's shirt, but the man before you was covered, and you tapped his hand, pulling him out of his trance as he eyed your soaked pussy.

"What are you doing?" You whisper, feeling like your vocabulary was slowly but surely short-circuiting.

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. "What am I doing darlin'? Oh, nothin'."

Mother fucker. His knuckles brushed your skin, sliding up and over your legs. He was taking his time, observing the way you trembled beneath his every touch. Savouring it.

"You ever been touched like this?" he almost purrs, parting your legs even further. "You're always so headstrong, so sure of everything, 'specially when you're teasin' 'lil old me."

"Paddy I've fucked bef-"

"Shh," He cuts you off, a familiar smirk growing on his features. "Not talking 'bout that, I'm asking if you've been cared for, properly."

You didn't answer, looking down at where he rests between your legs. It was your turn for your breathing to quicken, your heart pounding against your chest, ready to burst at any given moment.

The silence was enough for him to gather an answer, and he chuckles to himself.

"That shut you up didn't it?" he continued, smug and confident. "About time."

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, but before you could respond, Paddy leans down, his head disappearing between your legs.

A gasp immediately leaves your lips as his hands slip up to grope at your ass, pulling you further down the bed and closer to his mouth.

The fatigues you wore had been bunched up awkwardly around your stomach, your lower half exposed to the air, to Paddy.

He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, then another, and another, letting his lips memorise ever little shiver you give beneath him.

He nuzzles against the top of your pussy with his nose, and he inhales, lifting slightly - just enough to poke his head up and look at you through your parted thighs. "You gonna be quiet f'me?"

Paddy could've laughed at how quickly you nodded, eager for him to continue. His head dips again, and although the words were muffled, you just managed to hear him mumble a good lass.

God.

He so badly wanted to comment on how wet you were for him, how much you had already leaked onto his sheets before he had even touched you, but he decided against it.

It was hot.

You were soaked.

He was relentless.

A cry left your lips, to which you immediately shoved one of your hands in your mouth, biting at the flesh to stop any further sound.

His tongue licks into you like a man starved, slow circles dancing beside quickened flicks, his lips pressed against your cunt as his nose rubbed against your clit.

Your other hand flies into his hair, gripping and tangling into the half dried strands as Paddy grins against you.

His tongue dips slowly between your lips, savouring the taste, groaning as you tugged at his hair tighter. With every stroke forward, he made sure to nudge at your swollen clit.

You'd think he had been deprived, starved, lapping at your pussy like it was his last meal on Earth.

With your toes curling, Paddy wrapped his arms under your thighs, shifting the way he laid so they rest against his broad shoulders.

The angle let him see you better as he gazed up, smiling to himself upon seeing your eyes closed, your hand between your lips and face contorted in bliss.

He couldn't help but grind his hips into the bed at the sight, chasing some friction as his cock strained harder against his pants. His fingers grip your soft skin tighter, almost as if he was scared you would disappear beneath his touch.

"Fuck, Paddy-- Oh god," your words came out muffled against your hand as you pulled it away from your mouth, the flesh covered in the indents of your teeth. "Fuck."

Your breathing was ragged, your lower half grinding against the lieutenants face as he groaned against you, the vibration shooting straight through your cunt.

Paddy's tongue slides down harder through the slick, dipping inside your hole before sliding back up, his lips sucking onto your clit with a sound so filthy, it made you grind harder.

He was never-ending, determined to feel you writher against his tongue. You were unraveling before him, it had been so long since you had even touched yourself, let alone let anyone make you feel like this.

It was the quietest Paddy had ever been, save for the little groans leaving his chest with every tug of his hair. You could feel your orgasm approach, and you were determined to drag it out as much as possible.

Your mind began to wonder, trying to think of anything but the man between your legs, devouring your pussy like it was his final day alive.

You wondered if it would feel different if he still had his beard, if the sensation would be the same.

Okay, you weren't trying hard enough to think of anything but Paddy.

"T-this shut you up, didn't it?" You repeat his words from just moments prior, surprised you could even muster up the strength to speak.

Your words were softer, sweeter, almost breathless and full of something he couldn't explain.

He moans again, and you half expected him to taunt you, tease you and make you beg, but he doubles down.

He was drowning in your taste.

Every lap of his tongue drove you closer and closer to seeing stars. You were barely holding it together, and you look down at the man between your legs, feeling the way his fingers gripped at your thighs tighter, almost pulling your ass off the bed and further into his mouth.

Every nerve was on fire. Your skin was hot, thighs shaking, your feet digging into Paddy's upper back.

"Paddy," you gasped, throwing your head back against his pillow. "I-I'm, I gonna-"

He speeds up, and it hit harder than you thought possible.

Hard. Blinding. You felt yourself shatter and your thighs close around his head as your back arched. Not wanting to pull his hair out, your hands reached for the sheets beneath you, grasping at them tightly.

Paddy didn't stop for a second, eager to draw it out as long as he could. Every little sound, every whimper and whisper of his name was like poetry to his ears, and he knew he was done for then and there.

He lapped at your release before kneeling back onto the haunches of his legs, wiping at his soaked mouth with the back of his hand with an audacious grin.

Your lips were parted, body shaking beneath him as you stared up at him through a lidded gaze, smiling at the smug grin he sports, some slick still glistening on his cheeks and down his neck.

"Thought I told ye to be quiet f'me," Paddy reaches down, grabbing the hem of his shirt and throwing it up and over his head.

The white vest falls to the ground, and he falls forwards once more, resting over you with one arm pressed to the side of your head, supporting his weight. "Didn't do a good job now, didya"?

He was so beautiful, his chest marred with various scarring. His shoulders tensed, the veins in his arms demanding attention.

Aftershocks still riddled your body, and you just shrugged the best you could, parting your thighs again to let him lay between them.

He was just inches from your swollen pussy, his clothed cock still unbelievably hard and twitching in his slacks.

He chuckles at your lack of words, his other hand coming down to stroke your cheek before it slides down your jaw, his touch tender.

His fingers glide down further, down your neck until they reach the top bottom on his fatigues.

"You look like a right beauty like this," it was as if he wasn't speaking directly to you, but to himself, reminding himself that you were real, here and beneath him. "Wearing my clothes, laying in my bed, s'good, s'right."

Paddy unbuttons his shirt slowly, revealing more of your skin to him with each passing second. As your breasts were freed from the cotton, he pushes the sleeves down, letting you slide the shirt off.

He helps you sit upright just a little, pulling the garment off your shoulders and you giggle, watching as he tosses it somewhere to the floor.

He inhales sharply as you lay completely bare. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't seen you naked before, truthfully having accidentally peaked when he babysat your showers.

It was different now, as your chest rose with every intake of air, your nipples hard and pebbled - he couldn't help but lean down, taking one in his mouth, and your head fell back once more, your hands pressed against his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh with each suckle.

You were so beautiful, even more so like this, falling apart underneath him. You were like an annoying little angel in his life.

Your breasts were the most soft and perfect mounds, and if it were up to him, he'd never have them hiding behind your nursing uniform.

Releasing your nipple with an audible pop, he turns his attention to the other, his hands reaching up to grasp both breasts, squeezing and pushing them together.

"Paddy," You whisper, your hand dragging up his neck to pull at his hair, causing his head to snap back. He releases your nipple, looking at you intently, his blue eyes dark. He hums your name, turning his head to press a kiss to your inner wrist. "Can I return the favour?"

He groans at the question, but he shakes his head. "I want nothin' more than to feel your smart mouth around me," he swallows, almost as if fighting something inward. "But I want to fuck ye, and I can't say I'm gonna last very long love."

The admission caused you to grin, laughing softly as his cheeks warmed. He kisses your wrist again, rolling his eyes at your giggles. "Yeah, keep laughin'," he pushes you back down to the mattress, sitting back to pull the waistband of his pants down, just enough to release his cock from its confines. "You're gonna make some more pretty noises real soon."

His cock stood tall, hard and leaking at the tip, swollen and no doubt aching. Paddy grabs his shaft, giving himself as few languid strokes before he once again settles between your legs.

Broad arms tense around you as he supports his weight, and your body shudders in anticipation.

Paddy cages you in, and you arch, desperate to have him closer.

"Please." you whisper, almost whimpering as he tuts.

He fists his cock once more, dragging the head of his weeping tip through your leaking cunt, still sensitive from his tongue just moments before.

"So fuckin' pretty." His accent sounded thicker now, a darker contrast to his normal tone. A rough groan leaves his lips again as he drags the thick head through your slick again, slow and deliberate, teasing in a way. His jaw clenches, his entire body tensing as he curses.

He felt like he was lost. Lost to the feel of your pussy as he glided his cock through your folds, lost to the taste of you that still lingered on his tongue, lost in the way his name left your lips like it was the only prayer you knew.

"I think you're gonna be the death of me," his voice sounded wrecked, a whisper. He makes a sound akin to a whimper, watching as your eyes flicked down to where he was gripping himself, noting the way your breath hitched ever so slightly. "And I don't think I mind very much either."

"Paddy," you murmur, dragging your hips up so his cock dipped further down, tilting your head as you bite your lip. "No more poetry, please just f-"

The bastard pushes forward before you can continue.

Your body instinctively clenches around him, a deep choked sound tearing from his throat as he pushed into you with a slow thrust, sinking in inch by inch until his hips were flushed with yours.

It burned, you weren't going to lie. It had been some time since you had been with anybody, let alone someone of Paddy's size. It was delicious, even with the orgasm he had brought out of you, your body still gasp, your fingers digging hard into his shoulders.

The two of you both swore at the same time, Paddy instantly praising you for taking him so well.

"Christ," He grunts, his head falling to your shoulder as his chest falls against yours, caging you in completely. His hands grip at your waist, his grasp so tight that you were sure you would be bruised by the time the sun came up. "Just as I imagined."

You moan at his words, at the stretch, at the way he felt so thick and warm inside you.

It was as if he had taken the air from your lungs, stolen your very breath as all you could do was cling to him as he set a mouth watering rhythm, his hips slamming into yours in a desperate rhythm.

Paddy's lips were on your neck, muttering sweet nothings and into your skin between his own ragged breathing.

He whispers your name, the very sound on his lips causing you to clench around him. He cries out at the action, his hips twitching, and before you knew it - he was sinking impossibly deeper, his cock pressing further into your tight hole.

A cry escapes you, and Paddy reaches up, covering your hand with his mouth as he thrusts harder. Muffled moans and choked sobs are hidden beneath his hand, and he presses a kiss to your shoulder as you cling to him.

The bed squeaked beneath, reminding the two of you of the flimsy state of it's frame and where exactly you two were.

He should've cared more.

He should've given you a proper room in a safer place.

But lord above if you didn't make the vast desert outside and this little tent feel like cloud nine.

You were being loud. Hell, he was being loud.

He didn't care at all.

Your nails raked down his back, your thighs wrapping around his hips as you whimpered his name from under his hand. Paddy revelled in the way you shook beneath him, the way you clenched around his throbbing cock and soaked his thighs.

The very way you squirmed, the way you moaned and marked his flesh with your nails felt like every poem he had ever read.

Unforgettable.

The hand over your mouth shifts, stroking at your cheek as he turns your head, finally pressing his lips against yours, swallowing every little moan you gave him.

His tongue parted your lips, moving with a steady purpose as he licked into your mouth, groaning, eyebrows furrowing as his thrusts grew rougher.

Utterly his.

Your taste, lingering from his moments between your thighs mixed with your spit. It felt filthy, an intimacy neither of you were used too.

You belonged to him.

Utterly yours.

Paddy moans into your mouth, his breathing sharp as your sinful cries fill his ears. "Beautiful," he stutters against your lips in-between kisses, pecking the corner of your mouth. "Ye feel so fuckin' good."

"P-Paddy," You whimper, and he coos, bringing his lips back to yours to muffle the loud noises once more. "F-fuck."

He belonged to you.

"I know darlin," He pulls away, still inside you as he adjusts the way he was resting between your legs. His arms cage the side of your head as you look up at him, a blissful and fucked out expression that no doubt mirrored his own. "I know."

You were a mess beneath him, hips lifting to meet every stroke, your nails digging into his arms now, breasts bouncing with every thrust. Paddy was unraveling with every sound you made, every little squeak and murmur of his name.

So tight, so warm, so wet and fluttering around him with every slow thrust of his hips. Each roll of his body drew a breathy moan from your lips, and he drank them down like they were keeping him alive.

He grins as he sees you arch against him. "Just like that," he rasps, his voice dripping with a sultry tone. "Look at ye."

Your head falls back against the pillow, eyes closing as the familiar build up of heat started forming in your lower stomach. Every time your hips rocked against his, he felt that pulsing clench of your cunt, squeezing him in, and he knew you were getting close.

Paddy was surprised he had even lasted this long, especially with how pretty you looked losing yourself under him, how fucked dumb you looked.

He was close too, his balls tightening as he grinded into you so deliciously, memorising the way your walls squeezed him.

Angling his hips, he chuckles as your head turns, gasping into his pillow. He tuts again, bringing his fingers to your jaw and forcing you to look into his eyes.

Your mouth opened in a sharp gasp as your orgasm hit you, body seizing under his as your eyes rolled back. With your thighs trembling and walls fluttering around him, your nails dug into his arms causing him to wince at the pain.

Gasping his name, Paddy groans, leaning down and swallowing your cries once more with his lips.

He kept moving, kept fucking you through it with a slow and steady thrusts. In true Paddy fashion, he wanted to tease you, mock you for how much you lost yourself because of him - but he couldn't, even if he tried.

With your pussy still clenching around him, warm and wet, his control lifted. He panted, pulling away from the kiss and shaking his head in an attempt to gather himself as his hips stuttered.

With punched-out gasps, Paddy pulled out, a whine and choked sob leaving the both of you as he reached down, stroking himself hard and fast.

His jaw clenches, his teeth pressed so tightly together as he looked you over, watching as you gazed up at him in a lovesick haze. He was in awe, continuing to fist his cock with earnest as you bit your lip, your left hand sliding over his chest.

Sweat clung to both of your bodies, the air hot and smelling of sex as Paddy grips your thigh with his other hand, thrusting into his hand one final time.

He cums hard, his hips shuddering as he spills across your stomach and breasts. His whole body shakes, his teeth gritted as he grunts your name, ropes shooting from his tip and painting your skin.

His head drops to his chest as he gathers his breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly as you begin to giggle beneath him once more.

Words escape him for a second, which was unusual, and he narrows his eyes at you as he peers down, his own smile growing on his handsome face.

"What's funny?"

"I'm going to need another shower," Grinning, the two of you looking down at his release on your front. You still shivered, your body twitching at the two orgasms he coaxed out of you. "Third one today too."

"I just fucked ye," Paddy shakes his head, running his hand over your hip as he moves to lay beside you. His cock softening between his legs as he shifts, making sure not to press on your hair as he lays down. "And you're thinkin' 'bout the shower?"

The two of you were beaming at each other, basking in the glow of the lantern lit tent. You both just lay there, eyeing each other with half-lidded gazes. His hand strokes at your cheek tenderly, and you lean into it, holding onto his wrist, gazing into his eyes as he leans forward again, pressing a softer kiss to your lips, pressing against the swollen pair.

"Love you." He mutters, his eyes closed in fear he'd see regret, in fear he'd see rejection.

He feels your hand on his cheek, mirroring him, and he slowly opens his eyes, seeing your adoring features, a gentle smile upon your heated skin. "I love you too," you tell him, and he exhales, nodding. "Idiot."

He kisses you again, and he goes to say something when loud and audacious moans and groans can be heard from outside. Grunts follow it, and Paddy sits upright immediately, shielding your frame from whoever may enter his tent.

Claps greet you both.

Another grunt can be heard, followed by multiple choruses of laughter. "You two done in there?" Someone laughs, smacking the side of the tent. "We need the nurse, Pat's awake."

Someone moans again, attempting to sound feminine as you bury your head in your hands. "Give us a minute," Paddy yells out, half embarrassed, half amused. "Bastards."

He gives you a nudge with his elbow, giving you a pointed look with a lopsided smile. "You did tell them to come find you if they needed it."

Your eyes widen as you smack his arm.

Bastard.

#paddy mayne smut #paddy mayne x reader #sas rogue heroes x reader #sas rogue heroes #dxmurewrites #paddy mayne

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mayshifting · 2 days ago

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That's so true. I'm just going to say more things about the different sentences you said because I want to and some people need to read this.

So the first thing, methods are tools to HELP, not to MAKE you shift. People need to stop saying or IMPLYING you need one to shift. It happens more than people think, even if it's not directly said.

Also, people need to answer the people who ask "which methods..." that the methods are not needed. Shifters are thinking more about the methods than the shift itself.

II.

Caring about what people do in their own DRs is completely stupid. I don't care what people do or don't do in their drs (like you said, except if you kill or hurt people.) And everyone should be the same, because why care about other people's lives? They are not hurting anyone (at least I hope.) So let them live, bro.

II + VI

And judging people because they DON'T script out imperfections is the same as caring about what people do in their DRs and it's the dumbest thing ever. I think imperfections make it more normal, y'know? Yes, we can live in the perfect world everyone wants but, we also need imperfections/problems too.

I'm shifting to MHA, so if there's no problem, heroes don't exist.

Or for someone who shifts in Marvel or another DR which we NEED problems to live what we want to live.

Having a bit of action makes it more fun, more thrilling. So judging people because they don't script out thing, this is low.

If you want to shift to a perfect world without flaws to not have any problems DO IT. You're so right about that. But yeah, don't judge the one who don't.

III.

About Kill DRs, they are genuinely terrifying, because you don't kill here but you CAN kill in another reality? You're just a psychopath who wants to have the right to act on their urge without repercussions. If you can kill in another reality, you can do it here too, and this is not something you can debate on.

I don't have much to say about this one because, yes, shifting is scientific. And like you said it got explained multiple times. For the people who think the opposite, I invite you to do your research, or ask at least someone who knows or has read the scientific evidence what the explanations are. (Don't ask me, I'm still waiting for the motivation to continue reading, I swear.)

Also, shifting has existed since forever. Experiences were made since 1983/and before. People in the past talked about it way before everything, but just they didn't use the term shift.

Because, no, shifting is not called shifting reality. People just started calling it that way. So don't stress if you don't say "I'm shifting." Or anything.

Here, for y'all.

VII.

The over-script or don't script at all. Again, minding other people's lives.

Who cares if they over-script or don't script? Is it going to kill you? To prevent you from shifting? No, so why judging about something so insignificant.

All you want is to force people to do what you think IS the right thing to do. But not everyone works the same

People prefer to over-script to be sure they have everything. And some don't script because it's not necessary and prefer doing other stuff than scripting. You can't just judge or force someone to think like you do or do what you do.

VIII.

The cheating problem, SO MANY people are fighting about this its crazy. For the shifter, you go to ANOTHER reality, even if you have another partner in here doesn't mean you're cheating because you're not dating the person you date here. So if you don't date this person, there's no cheating.

Of course, it's okay to question it. It important. But your feelings are different from one reality to another. And it's important to understand that.

For the PARTNER, please. You're jealous of a person who's not even in your reality.

I can understand why you guys feel like that, but you guys probably do the same or would do the same (if not a shifter.)

Your partner doesn't HAVE to date you in every reality. It doesn't mean they don't love you in this one, they do. But not in another one.

IX.

I have literally nothing to say, just that there's no original reality if we shift every everytime. We just shift in a reality very similar to the other that it's unnoticeable.

This one is angering me. Yes. You. Can. It's nothing religious, it's scientific. There's nothing wrong about that.

If you want to shift but you're religious, go! It's not a sin at all. And if people say otherwise don't listen to them, religion and science are 2 different things. It's sad to see someone want to shift but doesn't do it because of the fear of it being a sin because x said it was.

No, it's not. A lot of religious people shift, so do I.

𝑆𝐻𝐼𝐹𝑇𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝑃𝑅𝑂𝑃𝐴𝐺𝐴𝑁𝐷𝐴 𝐼𝑀 𝑵𝑶𝑻 𝐹𝐴𝐿𝐿𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝐹𝑂𝑅

i. “you have to use a method” sybau

ii. caring what other people do in their drs (idgaf unless you’re hurting people)

iii. kill drs

iv. “shifting isn’t scientific” there’s so many scientific explanations but ok

v. needing an s/o in every dr

vi. scripting out every imperfection (js a personal thing — i like flaws in my drs as it makes me enjoy the good even more)

vii. judging people who “over-script” or don’t script at all.

viii. thinking it’s cheating if your partner shifts for someone else … (get a grip)

ix. “original reality”

x. “you can’t be religious whilst also being a shifter”

#reality shifting #shiftblr #shifting community #shifting blog #shifters #shifting #shifting antis dni #desired reality #reality shift #shifting realities #shifter #shift

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patheticpoems · 2 days ago

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STOP STRESSING

you're getting wrinkles

some of you are stress addicts. you'll spend more time stressing about manifestation than you do actually committing to your desires. Aren't you sick of it? You've been nonstop overthinking, you're having doubts and even though you try to correct them they just won't won't away?

Well, I'm gonna tell you how to shut out all that stress; How to make it go away.

IDENTIFYING STRESS

Let's start here. Yes, you may already know what stress is but I didn't ask, I'm covering it regardless! Stress is that feeling you may get when your circumstances are clamping in on you, whether it be due to difficult treatment, responsibilities, time crunches, or perceiving the opposite occurring to you, it can cause you to start worrying, "am I doing this right?", "why isn't it working?" You wonder and you anxiously correct it because ack! God forbid you have a bad thought! You can't waver even though you only assume it's a thing because some blogger was sharing their own personal opinion!!!

I listed some causes for stress and maybe yours are different, however, what is important for us to do now is to identify where it stems from.

TREATING YOUR STRESS

METHOD I.

Knowing the cause of our stress means we can deal with the solution head-on. So, let us begin. Whenever you start stressing, I want you to STAR! Stop, Think, Act, Reaffirm! You will pause, ask yourself why do you think/feel the way you do? From one question ask another, keep digging deeper.

"I feel nervous > why? > because I don't know if things will work out > why wouldn't they? > because what if it just doesn't work for me specifically?"

And then, act accordingly! "

"> why wouldn't it work for me specifically if its a law? > maybe I'm exempt- > its a universal law, I can't be. I'm just stressing because I'm scared, there isn't any logic to it!"

Reaffirm that what you think doesn't hold power over you and doesn't hold any water. Remind yourself who you are.

"I'm the sole operant power and there is no such thing as not working because I already have it!"

Once you start getting used to treating your stress that way it helps you see the doubts you have as less serious.

METHOD II.

Now, another way to deal with stress is always remembering to think in despite (of). When you're having trouble with hard circumstances that you just can't ignore and are too overwhelming, this is a way to not let them get you down - a way to remind yourself you aren't tied to these circumstances and this life.

"Despite what I see in my circumstances, I'm still all powerful!"

"Despite how I overthink, everything stems from self!"

It helps to remind yourself that regardless of what you see it doesn't change that you're in power. Remember, everything is a reflection of you, it stems from you, there is no separation.

I'd like to say, it is also good to take a look at ways to cope with anxiety/stress, whether that be a specific activity that calms you down, music, or breathing exercises. It is always important to regulate your own emotions for YOUR well-being. Life is about fulfilling the egos desires and we need to be alright enough to do that!

Stress can be a difficult thing to handle that's why we need to remind ourselves that we have nothing to stress over, that by the end of the day it is our perception. I know that may not be appealing to some people or very difficult to do, but that's why you have to start somewhere to get comfortable with it.

#poems asks 🐈‍⬛️#loassblog #manifesting #manifesation #loa tumblr #loa blog #loassumption #law of assumption #loablr #loass

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fnzktn · 2 days ago

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remember forever

tvl!danielle x ict!reader

synopsis: one day, one folder, and one reminder that you've always been each other’s favorite memory.

includes: established relationship, childhood sweethearts, tooth-rotting fluff, amusement park date

word count: 13.4k

part of the shs!njz series

the first thing you notice is how the air outside smells different here.

not cold exactly, but quieter. like something is holding its breath. the kind of stillness only found in places far enough from the city, where mornings don’t rush to begin. you stand just outside the gate, fingers curled around the cool, mist-damp metal, the fog curled low around your ankles like it’s resting there with you. her house is the only one in sight that’s awake, and even then, it’s only just beginning to stir. the faintest sliver of yellow glows behind the kitchen curtains, soft and shy like candlelight behind a closed door. it doesn’t spill out — it barely reaches the windowsill.

you shift your weight slightly. your backpack slides down one shoulder and you tug it back up with a lazy shrug. your jacket sleeves have started to dampen from the air, but you don’t mind. you’ve been standing there for a few minutes now, doing nothing in particular — just watching the mist hover, tracing the slow breath of the garden’s silence, waiting without needing to be told to wait.

and then the front door creaks open.

danielle steps out with her hoodie zipped halfway and the sleeves bunching at her wrists. her hair’s pulled back in a loose twist, like she didn’t bother to check if it looked even, but it does — in that effortlessly soft way she always seems to manage. she’s barefoot, toes curling a little against the wooden threshold, and for a second she just stands there, blinking sleepily out into the fog until her eyes land on you.

her whole face lights up.

“you’re here,” she says, not surprised but delighted, like she had already imagined this exact moment but still felt her heart flutter when it came true. her voice is still husky with sleep, sweet and quiet. “i thought you’d come later.”

you tug your hood down and offer her a small smile. “i couldn’t stay in bed. kept checking the time.”

“because of me?” she teases, walking down the steps with slow, soft steps, arms crossed loosely over her chest. “you were that excited?”

you raise an eyebrow. “what if i said yes?”

“then i’d say you’re cute.” she reaches you and doesn’t hesitate — immediately slides her arms under yours, wrapping you up in a slow, sleepy hug that smells like vanilla and flour and a little bit of her shampoo. her cheek finds your shoulder, and she mumbles, “but also, you should’ve come in. you’re freezing.”

you wrap your arms around her and hold her close, grounding yourself in the weight of her, the realness of her. “you would’ve hated me for waking you up.”

she pulls back just enough to look up at you. “you’re right. i definitely would’ve.” she grins, then tugs your sleeve gently. “come inside.”

her kitchen smells like something golden.

the scent hits you the moment you step in — not sharp, not overwhelming, but warm in a way that feels intentional. behind the sweetness is a quiet depth. browned butter, maybe. something citrusy in the background. faint vanilla hanging in the air like a memory. the lights are soft and low, still dim enough that the fog outside slips its way in through the windows, casting a pale silver over the countertops.

danielle moves like she belongs to the space. not in an entitled way, but in that gentle, grounded rhythm of someone who grew up knowing where every cupboard creaks and where her favorite mug is even in the dark. she pads across the tile to the counter and picks up a small pastry with her fingers, inspecting it critically before turning to you.

“okay, don’t judge me,” she says, holding it out like a peace offering. “these weren’t meant to be pretty.”

you glance at the tray. some of the pastries have slightly burst at the sides. one has clearly been squished a little on one corner. you reach for it anyway.

“you made these today?”

“since five. couldn’t sleep either.” she hands you a warm mug from the counter — it’s mismatched with the others, hand-painted with little strawberries on the rim. the coffee inside smells like hers. sweetened, milky, soft.

you take a bite of the pastry. flaky, rich, something just slightly tart melting on your tongue. you chew slowly.

“what’s in this?”

she watches you expectantly. “guess.”

“cinnamon?”

she gasps. “it’s not cinnamon!”

you blink. “it tastes like cinnamon.”

“you always say that!” she laughs, half-exasperated, bumping your hip with hers. “i use orange zest one time and suddenly i’m a spice rack.”

you grin into your coffee and take another bite, and when she turns around to reach for something, you stare at her back for a moment. the curve of her spine under her hoodie. the way she taps the side of the kettle with her nail while waiting for it to cool. everything about her — this house, this moment, this tiny slice of morning — feels like a memory you don’t want to blink away from.

you watch her shoulders relax as she leans against the counter, sipping from her own mug. “this is nice,” she murmurs, not looking at you. “just… this.”

“yeah?”

she nods. “i didn’t want anything grand.”

you set your mug down slowly, meeting her gaze. “i know.”

she gives you a smile — one that doesn’t need to be bright to be full. it’s in her eyes, in the gentle scrunch of her nose, in the soft flush to her cheeks. “thank you. for showing up early. for remembering.”

you lean closer, bumping her mug lightly with yours. “i’ll always show up for you.”

she hums at that, pleased, and steps forward to press a light kiss to your cheek. it’s brief. warm. but it lingers longer than it lasts.

“i’ll go get dressed,” she says after a moment, voice featherlight. “you wait here. don’t eat everything.”

you sit down at the kitchen table, a little mug in your hand, crumbs still on your lip, and you think maybe this is what birthdays should feel like.

not loud. not decorated. just a quiet house and two hands full of warmth.

she disappears with a soft creak of the stairs, her footsteps trailing upward until the second floor returns to silence. you stay seated, fingers still curled around the warm ceramic of your mug. steam rises in gentle spirals, slow enough to watch. there’s nothing rushing you. nothing to do but sit in the softness she left behind.

the kitchen hums in its own quiet way — not with noise, but presence. the smell of her pastry dough still lingers thick in the air, buttery and bright, mingling with the faint vanilla that clings to the corners of the room. somewhere, a clock ticks — not loud, not pressing, just steady, like a heartbeat you’re not quite synced with yet. you glance toward the calendar by the fridge again. there’s a tiny sticker on today’s date, a smiling pink bear, slightly off-center, like it had been stuck there in a rush. you smile faintly.

beside it, a magnet shaped like a croissant holds up a childish drawing — crayon-sketched daisies in a field, with a yellow sun too big for the sky. it’s signed in loopy handwriting "to mama, from dani, age 6." the magnet next to it is shaped like a whisk.

you rise from your seat, slow and careful, and drift across the kitchen without thinking. it’s the kind of place that invites wandering. everything in it is hers — from the mismatched mugs to the tiny, clipped recipe notes stuck to the cabinet with tape. her handwriting is everywhere. looping cursive that dips low on the y’s, little hearts replacing dots in some of the older pages. one recipe reads “banana bread (double vanilla!!!)” with three exclamation marks and a smiley face squeezed in the margin.

a photo frame rests on the side counter, almost hidden behind the blender. it’s of her and her parents — her mom with flour streaking her cheek, her dad holding a cake in one hand and pretending to cry with pride. danielle stands between them in her school uniform, still in junior high, face flushed, clutching a tray of burnt cookies like they were gold medals.

you chuckle under your breath. she never told you she framed that one.

you return to your seat eventually, but your fingers don’t reach for your mug this time. instead, you rest your chin in your palm and listen — to the kettle ticking as it cools, to the distant creak of floorboards above, to the small, familiar house beginning to stretch its limbs.

and then, footsteps. soft at first, then more certain.

danielle appears again at the top of the stairs, then makes her way down slowly, hoodie exchanged for a light cream cardigan, still cozy but neater. her hair’s half-pinned back now, the strands looser at the front, the kind she lets fall over her cheeks just because she knows you like brushing them away. her eyes brighten when they meet yours.

“okay,” she says, reaching the last step. “i’m ready.”

you look her over without moving, letting your gaze trail from the cardigan to her soft gray pants, to the faint pink tint on her lips. not makeup — just warmth. something in your chest stretches quietly.

“you look cozy,” you say.

she twirls once, slow and silly, letting the hem of her cardigan float up around her. “cozy but cute?”

“always.”

she grins and crosses the kitchen toward you, the table creaking as she leans on it with both hands. “did you finish my not-cinnamon pastries?”

you raise your hands in mock defense. “i only had one. maybe two.”

“good,” she says, reaching out to fix your collar. her thumb brushes your neck lightly. “i made you a lunch box.”

you blink. “what?”

“for the ride.” she turns toward the fridge and pulls out a small box wrapped neatly in cloth. “just in case we get hungry on the way. and in case we get stuck in traffic.”

you take it from her with both hands. it’s still warm. “you’re spoiling me.”

“well, it’s my birthday.” she smiles, leaning into you. “i get to do whatever i want.”

her voice is syrup-sweet now, just a little smug, and you can’t help but smile back. she leans in close, arms sliding lazily around your waist, and presses a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, then your shoulder.

“and what i want,” she murmurs, “is to spend the entire day with my favorite person.”

you press your forehead against hers. “we should get going, then.”

“mm, not yet,” she hums, closing her eyes. “just a few more seconds.”

danielle doesn’t move right away.

her arms are still wrapped loosely around your waist, her cheek resting against your shoulder, and you can feel her smile even though she isn’t saying anything. the kitchen hums around you, steady and slow — the warm clink of mugs, the low tick of the stove cooling down, the soft rustle of her cardigan sleeve against your shirt as she shifts slightly, just to press in closer. her breath is even and gentle against your collarbone.

“we really should go,” you whisper eventually, voice barely above the quiet.

“i know,” she mumbles, still not moving. “but this is so nice.”

you let your hand settle on the back of her head, fingers brushing against the soft flyaways she always forgets to pin down. “we’ll have more time in the car.”

she makes a small sound — somewhere between a sigh and a hum — and finally straightens up, eyes half-lidded but warm.

“okay,” she says, stretching her arms over her head like a cat, her cardigan sleeves falling back. “but I’m gonna take forever putting on socks as protest.”

you laugh under your breath and watch her disappear around the corner into the living room. you gather your things slowly — your backpack, her lunchbox, your shared thermos now rinsed and drying by the sink. you wipe a stray crumb off the table and glance around the kitchen one last time, letting your gaze linger on the little things: the crooked recipe cards taped to the cupboard, the pastry scraps left in a covered bowl, the fog outside thinning a little more than earlier.

by the time you reach the entryway, danielle’s sitting cross-legged by the door, struggling to pull on one sock while the other already hangs loosely off her heel. her phone is wedged between her shoulder and ear as she speaks into it, muffled, distracted. probably her mom.

“yes, ma, i have everything,” she says, rolling her eyes at you playfully. “yes, jacket. yes, extra charger. i know, i know—yes, we’ll text when we get there.”

you crouch down beside her, offering her one of her sneakers without a word. she takes it and mouths a silent thank you while still listening to her mom on the other line.

once the call ends, she sets the phone down with a dramatic exhale and flops lightly onto your shoulder. “she wanted to make me a layered charcuterie cake for breakfast.”

you blink. “what is a charcuterie cake.”

“exactly,” she groans, laughing. “i told her no. told both of them no. just a normal day, please. just me and you.”

you squeeze her knee lightly. “you got your wish.”

“i always do when you’re involved.”

you help her with the second shoe, even though she can do it herself, and she lets you — not out of laziness, but out of affection, the kind of silent language you’ve both grown fluent in. you tie the laces for her, not too tight, not too loose, and she gives your cheek a quick kiss the second you finish, her grin all sunshine and mischief.

“ready?” you ask as you stand, brushing off your knees.

“almost,” she says, eyes darting around the living room. “wait—my charger!”

you watch as she sprints up the stairs again, muttering to herself, and while she’s gone, you take a small detour toward the entryway shelf. you pick up the disposable camera she left there yesterday — the one she’s been carrying around “just in case today feels important.”

you lift it, angle it toward the door just as she reappears at the top of the stairs, clutching her charger, hair slightly tousled from the rush.

“hey, dani.”

she stops mid-step and blinks. “huh?”

click.

the shutter snaps.

she gasps, grinning as she rushes the rest of the way down. “you thief! that was gonna be my birthday photo!”

“it still is,” you say, tossing the camera into your bag carefully. “but it’s better when you don’t pose.”

she slips her charger into your tote without asking and wraps her scarf loosely around her neck. then she lingers by the door, eyes soft again.

“this is already my favorite day,” she says.

you nod once, gently, reaching for the doorknob. “come on. we’ve got a sky to ride under.”

danielle links her fingers with yours, her hand already warm from the coffee, the kitchen, the way she lives. and just like that, you both step outside — into the light, into the thinning fog, into the morning that waits for you to begin.

the car pulls up just as you’re locking the front door, its engine low and steady, the kind of smooth hum that’s almost easy to miss until it’s right in front of you. it’s familiar — one of the family vans you’ve ridden in before, always spotless, always with the aircon already running, like it’s been expecting you. the driver steps out with a slight nod, dressed neatly in the standard navy jacket, and moves to open the door for danielle first before you can even offer. she thanks him softly, almost automatically, then climbs in and slides across the seat to make space.

you follow quietly after, setting your bags gently on the floor between your feet. danielle’s shoulder presses against yours the second you settle beside her, like she’s already trying to close any leftover distance. she holds onto the lunchbox on her lap like it’s something delicate, and her hand finds yours without looking.

“comfortable?” she murmurs, glancing up at you with that soft, sleep-warmed gaze.

you nod. “mhm. it’s nicer when you’re not the one driving.”

“right?” she leans her head against your shoulder, voice lighter now. “i didn’t want to think today. just wanted to sit and… be.”

you squeeze her hand gently. “you deserve to.”

the car eases into the road, and the world outside begins to unfurl. the houses pass slowly at first — familiar streets, quiet and still in the early light. the fog hasn’t quite lifted yet, so everything outside looks slightly faded, like the edges of a dream. power lines dip gently between posts. a dog sits perched on a neighbor’s gate. vendors begin to set up their stalls on the sidewalk — crates of fruit still wrapped in plastic, umbrellas still closed.

inside the car, it’s quiet but never silent. the driver knows better than to turn on the radio, and the aircon is soft enough not to interrupt. danielle shifts slightly beside you, curling her legs up onto the seat so her knees face you, and rests her cheek more comfortably against your upper arm. her cardigan sleeve brushes your elbow.

“remember when we used to talk about trips like this back in eighth grade?” she says quietly, her thumb stroking the back of your hand. “i used to imagine what kind of music we’d play.”

“and what did we end up with?” you smile.

she grins. “a playlist called ‘cloud snacks.’”

“in all lowercase.”

“obviously,” she says, giggling. “and it only has, like, seven songs.”

“all vibes. no skips.”

she fumbles for her phone in her pocket and connects it to the car’s bluetooth, the screen lighting up against her chest. a soft acoustic guitar fills the cabin, low and clean, and the first notes of a sleepy indie track drift gently into the space between you.

you don’t talk for a while after that. you just sit with her — the weight of her against your side, the soft tapping of her foot to the beat, her free hand occasionally lifting to point at things outside the window like they matter. a field of morning glories. a slow-moving tricycle carrying crates of eggs. a man balancing three long bamboo poles on one shoulder. the ordinary, seen through her eyes, becomes worth noticing.

and every now and then, she turns to look at you. not because you’re saying anything. just because she can.

three hours slips by the way it does on mornings like this — quietly, without drawing attention to itself. the hum of the van stays constant beneath you, and danielle barely moves except to tilt her face toward the window when the light changes. you watch the houses give way to fields, then hills, then patches of pine trees that start to thicken along the edges of the road. everything outside begins to tilt slightly, road sloping upward, fog trailing off in ribbons behind you.

danielle’s still pressed against your side, but now her head is resting on your shoulder, heavier than earlier — not fully asleep, just quiet in that soft, drifting way she gets when she’s warm and not in a hurry. one of her hands remains wrapped around your wrist, her thumb rubbing gentle, mindless circles there. her phone is still playing music in her lap, but you’re down to the last song in the playlist. she doesn’t seem to mind the loop.

you glance out the window as a gust of wind rushes past — the kind that whistles through the slightly cracked seal of the door. it smells different now. fresher. sharper. like pine and early sunlight. the ridgeline’s close. you see it cresting through the trees ahead — the stretch of lake and sky suddenly opening, wide and quiet and pale, the water below like glass.

danielle lifts her head slightly when the car turns right onto the familiar road that curves toward skyranch. she squints through the glass. “wait…”

you glance at her. “what?”

“that’s the main gate.”

you follow her gaze.

the driver pulls smoothly up to the entrance, where two guards are already standing off to the side. one of them gives a polite wave, and the other walks up to speak to the driver through the open window. after a brief exchange, the gate begins to roll open.

danielle leans forward, brows pinched. “wait. wait, why are we going in?”

“i thought you knew?” you say, barely holding back your smile.

“i thought we were parking near skyranch, not inside it.”

the car eases through the gate. the booths are unmanned. the entire lot is empty.

danielle looks around, eyes wide. “where are the crowds? where are the stalls?”

“i guess it’s not open yet,” you say, feigning innocence.

“but they… let us in?”

you shrug. “they did say your name at the gate.”

she turns to you slowly, suspicion blooming like a slow sunrise. “no. no way.”

you bite back your smile as the van stops in front of the main promenade. the entire stretch of skyranch is in front of you — the ferris wheel still, the stalls unopened, the wind pushing gently through the empty walkways. the only people in sight are two maintenance workers sweeping leaves near the food court.

the driver turns back with a soft smile. “we’re here, ma’am.”

danielle stares at him, then at you. “y/n.”

“hmm?”

“what. did. you. do.”

“nothing,” you say, voice syrupy.

“my parents?”

you nod slowly, grinning. “booked the whole place for you. well. for us.”

she covers her mouth with both hands. “they didn’t.”

“they did.”

danielle groans into her palms. “they are so dramatic. i told them i didn’t want anything!”

you reach over to gently pull her hands away. “you didn’t get a party. or banners. or press. just this.”

she stares out at the still, quiet park, wind rustling her hair, the sky turning a little bluer by the minute. “they… booked the whole skyranch so we could hang out.”

“so you could have your favorite corndog without a line.”

her laugh bursts out, full and surprised. “and ride the ferris wheel without strangers?”

“exactly. private birthday ferris wheel.”

she leans into you again, her whole body light, bright with that sunshine energy that makes you feel like the sky itself could tilt if she smiled big enough. “this is so stupidly romantic.”

you nudge her gently. “you love it.”

“i love you.”

the driver politely averts his eyes as she presses a kiss to your cheek — quick, full of laughter.

“come on,” she says, slipping out of the van and offering you her hand. “i want to run through the empty park like we’re in a cheesy teen movie.”

you take it, of course.

no music plays. no crowd noise, no shouting kids or vendors calling out for loose change. just the wind weaving between empty stalls, and the slow creak of metal as the ferris wheel turns once to test its rhythm. it’s all open space and still air, yet not eerie — not with danielle tugging your hand like a child at recess, her laughter ringing out as her sneakers hit the concrete walkway with soft, eager thuds.

“no lines!” she yells, spinning once with her arms flung out, cardigan sleeves flapping like wings. “this is so weird but i love it.”

you jog a little to catch up, fingers tightening around hers. “which one first?”

she skids to a playful halt near the first ride. “carousel,” she says with mock seriousness. “we start slow. ease into the chaos.”

you glance at the bright plastic horses frozen mid-prance, the whole ride silent except for the quiet churn of its motor warming up in the distance.

“carousel it is,” you say, and she’s already climbing the steps.

the carousel glides into life with a low hum, its music not loud, it’s soft, almost nostalgic, the kind of lullaby tune that blends easily with wind. the horses glint gently beneath the morning light, their chipped gold and faded pastels catching in soft flashes as the platform begins to rotate. it’s slower than you remember. slower than danielle expected, too, judging by the way she blinks, then smiles like the slowness is actually perfect.

you both climb aboard from the left side, your steps echoing faintly against the platform. the metal poles are cool to the touch, not icy, but enough to ground you. danielle walks a few paces ahead, scanning the row of painted horses before stopping in front of one that has a slightly dented ear. the paint’s worn off its mane in spots, and its saddle is scratched, but she beams like it’s exactly the one she’d been looking for.

“this one looks like he’s been through stuff,” she says, patting its flank fondly.

you settle on the horse beside hers — navy blue with a bright red ribbon that’s half faded into orange. danielle climbs onto hers with an exaggerated effort, swinging one leg over like she’s mounting a noble steed, then sits tall and proud, chin up, one hand clutching the pole like a queen surveying her kingdom.

“am i elegant?” she asks, already laughing.

you don’t respond. you just lift the disposable camera from your bag, squint slightly, and snap the photo.

click.

“hey!”

“perfect timing,” you murmur.

she rolls her eyes fondly and leans over the space between your horses to tap your nose. “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

the carousel begins to move. slow, circular, steady. the world tilts just a little, and the platform beneath your feet breathes into motion. there’s something deeply unreal about it — how quiet the park is around you, how the wind threads through the ride’s music like it’s part of the song, how danielle’s laughter folds into everything like sunlight.

she doesn’t ride like a tourist. she rides like someone revisiting an old memory — fingers loosely curled around the pole, torso swaying gently with the motion, eyes half-closed as if letting the breeze do the thinking for her. her smile softens as she turns to you, eyes catching the gold streak of light that filters in from above.

“this was always my favorite ride,” she says, not loudly. “even when i was a kid. i used to think the horses had names.”

“they don’t?”

“they probably do,” she says, tilting her head thoughtfully. “but i liked making up new ones each time. like… this guy.” she gestures to her horse. “this is jerry. he’s divorced and healing.”

you laugh — too loud, too full — and danielle beams at you like that was the point all along.

the ride circles slowly. twice. maybe three times. you don’t count. the breeze picks up around the third turn and carries danielle’s hair gently off her shoulders, some strands catching on her cheek. you reach out and brush it aside without thinking, fingers trailing a little slower than necessary.

her voice is quieter now. “this is already the best birthday i’ve ever had.”

you don’t answer, not with words. you just nod once, and she nods back — like a conversation already finished.

the carousel slows to a hush.

its music fades with the turn, growing fainter with each breath until all that’s left is the low click of the platform settling into stillness. danielle swings one leg down first, hopping off with a slight bounce and an amused “oof” as her sneakers hit the ground. you follow after, the soles of your shoes echoing gently across the wooden planks.

for a moment, neither of you speak.

you just stand there at the edge of the platform, hands in each other’s, watching the ride complete its slow return to silence. the wind moves again — stronger now, brushing against your backs and tugging lightly at danielle’s cardigan. she leans into you instinctively, her shoulder bumping yours, and you feel her sigh through the space between you.

“i like that one more now than when i was little,” she murmurs, like she’s realizing it mid-sentence.

“because of jerry?”

she grins, eyes squinting. “because it’s slower now. or maybe i’m just older. it feels… steadier. like it’s not in a rush to be fun.”

“like you,” you tease, nudging her lightly.

“shut up,” she laughs, but she’s still squeezing your hand.

the two of you step off the carousel ramp and onto the concrete, gravel crunching faintly under your feet. the sun has started to warm the pavement, but the wind stays cool — a soft balance between sleepy and awake. ahead, the park remains still. no music plays overhead, no chatter from nearby booths. the rides wait, suspended in calm like a photograph. and in the middle of it all, just a few steps away, stands the drop tower.

danielle stops walking.

“oh no,” she says flatly. “i forgot about that.”

you glance over. the tower stretches up into the sky, a pale yellow column with the ride’s seats still raised halfway up, idling in silence like it’s listening. the safety arms are open. the operator — a single staff member in a navy jacket — stands casually beside the console, pretending not to watch.

“you said you were ready earlier,” you remind her, mouth twitching.

“i was lying to look cool.”

you turn to face her. “you still look cool.”

“not when i scream like a banshee.”

“you look cool after.”

she groans dramatically, head tilting back. “you’re really gonna make me do it.”

“you said it’s your birthday.”

“it is!”

you raise an eyebrow. “so?”

she glares playfully, teeth biting back a grin. “so i get to pick.”

“then pick.”

she stares at the tower again, eyes narrowed, face unreadable.

then, “...fine.”

she pulls you by the hand again — not quickly, but with determination — and drags you toward the base of the tower. with every step, you feel her fingers tighten around yours, her grip firmer, less confident. her palm is warm. clammy, maybe. but she holds on like she’d rather face death than let go.

when you reach the platform, the operator greets her politely and motions to the seats. she swallows. sits down. adjusts the harness with stiff fingers.

you sit beside her.

“you okay?” you ask.

“yep,” she says immediately. too fast. “great. fantastic.”

you glance at her. “you’re shaking.”

“am not.”

“your leg is bouncing.”

“that’s just excitement.”

you reach over and take her hand again. “want me to hold it the whole ride?”

“...you’re gonna let go, aren’t you?”

“only if you scream first.”

“i will scream first.”

the operator presses the button.

you both shoot upward in one slow, even motion — the kind of ascent that builds anticipation like tension in a piano wire. the wind sharpens. the ground shrinks beneath your dangling feet. the sky stretches above in a wide, open blue, unbroken.

danielle grips your hand like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.

when you reach the very top, the seat stops abruptly. the pause is long. deliberate. the world feels too quiet up here. your hair lifts slightly in the breeze. the lake glimmers off in the distance.

“oh my god,” danielle whispers. “we’re so high.”

you glance over.

she’s not smiling.

not panicking either — just wide-eyed, still, her knuckles white around your fingers.

“you’re okay,” you say softly.

she looks at you — really looks — and her grip eases just a little.

“if i die—” she begins.

“you won’t.”

“—tell jerry i loved him.”

you snort.

and then the drop comes.

not all at once — it begins with a brief tug downward, a shift in gravity that tricks your stomach into rising. then silence. then — whoosh.

the wind rushes past your ears. your legs kick. the seats plummet.

danielle screams.

not a dramatic, playful yell. a real one — full-bodied, unfiltered, loud enough to echo against the empty food stalls.

you laugh through the fall.

you hit the ground a few seconds later — or maybe more, time folded on itself halfway down — and the seat jolts into its soft landing. danielle immediately sags forward, hair in her face, mouth open, shoulders trembling from breathless laughter.

“i hate you,” she says between gasps.

“you’re welcome.”

“i hate you.”

you brush the hair out of her face. her cheeks are pink. her eyes shine.

“that was the worst thing ever,” she says, leaning her entire weight into your side.

you nudge her temple with your nose. “you look amazing when you scream.”

“shut up—”

after the drop tower, your legs still feel like they haven’t caught up to gravity, so you let danielle lead the way this time. her fingers are warm again, looser now around yours, the nerves from earlier melting into that giddy high you only get after screaming your lungs out. she’s flushed — not just from the wind, but from laughing too hard, chest rising and falling with each leftover burst.

you point ahead. “next one’s calmer.”

danielle turns to look. her eyes widen slightly. “you think the tea cups are calm?”

“they’re not tall. that’s calm.”

“you’re underestimating how competitive i am.”

you blink. “what does that mean.”

but she’s already jogging toward the platform.

the ride itself is a soft palette of pastel blues and pale pinks, faded from years of sun. the cups are oversized and glossy, spaced evenly across a slow-turning base. they look harmless. like children’s toys. like nothing in the world could go wrong here.

“pick one,” she says, hands on her hips. “but just know — i will spin us so hard we forget our names.”

“so romantic,” you deadpan.

“hey, you got your drop tower,” she says, stepping into the nearest pink cup. “this one’s mine.”

you follow her in, settling onto the cushioned seat across from her. the interior smells faintly of sun-warmed plastic and powdered sugar. danielle grins like a menace, already grabbing the metal wheel at the center with both hands.

the platform jerks once, starting its slow rotation. the background begins to drift lazily around you — the park, the clouds, the hills in the distance. the cup itself hasn’t spun yet, but danielle’s eyes are gleaming with anticipation, fingers tightening around the wheel like it’s a game controller.

you raise an eyebrow. “you really gonna spin us?”

she smirks. “buckle up, loser.”

and then she twists.

hard.

the cup lurches into a tight spiral.

wind rushes across your face immediately, faster than you expected — the kind that pulls your laughter right out of your throat without warning. everything blurs. the horizon tips. your hands scramble for the side of the cup as danielle lets out a half-laugh, half-scream, her whole body thrown into the motion like a storm in a cardigan.

“you’re a menace,” you yell.

“you love me!” she cackles.

“i don’t even know who i am anymore—!”

she spins again.

the world swirls into colors — blue sky, white clouds, the pale yellow of the ride floor, her face flickering in and out of frame like some dizzy miracle. you shut your eyes for a second. not because you’re scared, but because it’s too much and too bright and too her. when you open them again, danielle is already laughing so hard she has to stop spinning just to breathe.

the cup slows. the world settles. your stomach tries to remember what direction is up.

danielle slumps back against the wall, hair a wind-tossed mess, eyes still sparkling. she reaches across the center and taps your knee.

“worth it?” she asks.

you stare at her.

her cheeks are pink. her lips are parted, still catching her breath. her cardigan sleeve is half-rolled up, and her hair’s sticking out in three directions. she looks ridiculous.

she looks beautiful.

you nod once. “worth it.”

she smiles — the quiet kind now, not the mischievous one. the kind that settles somewhere deep.

“good,” she says, reaching for your hand again. “i didn’t want to be dizzy alone.”

the ride comes to a full stop. the operator waves from the side of the platform, clearly amused.

danielle stumbles slightly as she steps down, and you catch her by the elbow without thinking.

“my brain’s still spinning,” she mutters.

“we can sit.”

“no way.” she grins, straightening up. “we’re on a roll.”

the building housing the bumper cars sits tucked beneath a shaded awning, its open sides letting the light spill through in soft patches. inside, the floor glints with that smooth, scuffed shine — the kind of dull silver that only exists under rubber wheels and years of crashes. a faint scent of ozone lingers in the air, that electric tang you always forget exists until you're near something powered by metal and friction. the poles and ceiling grid are all rigged with wires, the kind that hum faintly when you’re close enough to hear them.

danielle stops right at the entrance, eyes wide with excitement.

“i take it back,” she says, bouncing slightly on her heels. “this is my birthday ride.”

you tilt your head. “what happened to the tea cups?”

“that was for chaos,” she says, already ducking under the rail to pick a car. “this is for revenge.”

“for what?”

“for the drop tower. and because i know you’re smug about how dizzy i looked.”

you raise your hands. “i didn’t say anything.”

“your face said it.”

you laugh as she beelines for the baby-blue car in the back — a little banged-up at the corners, but still shiny. she throws herself into the seat like it’s a throne and immediately grabs the wheel with both hands, spinning it left to right, testing it.

you climb into a sleek silver one near hers, brushing off the seat before settling in. the vinyl sticks faintly to the backs of your legs. when you glance over, danielle is already leaning her chin on the steering wheel, eyes narrowed across the floor like a sniper lining up a shot.

“you ready?” you call.

“you’re going down,” she replies, deadpan.

the ride buzzes to life.

it’s a soft jolt — more vibration than sound — but enough to make both of your cars flicker to attention. your foot nudges the pedal, and you feel the slight, thrilling resistance of the motor humming beneath you.

danielle doesn’t wait.

she slams the pedal, wheels screeching, car lurching forward with a squeal of rubber.

“you’re not even subtle!” you yell, jerking your car to the side.

“why should i be? i’m vengeance!” she shouts, laughing wildly.

you dodge her first attempt — barely — and veer left, narrowly missing the railing. she spins her car in a tight half-circle, overcorrects, and crashes into the side wall with a soft thunk.

“oops,” she mutters.

“you good?”

“strategy.”

you take your chance, flooring it and colliding with her from behind. her car jolts forward. she lets out a half-gasp, half-laugh, her head bouncing lightly with the impact.

“that was rude,” she says, but she’s already turning to chase you.

what follows is five minutes of absolute chaos.

your cars chase and dodge, spin and collide. each bump sends shockwaves of laughter ricocheting across the space. danielle shouts dramatic threats at every turn — “this is for jerry!” — and yells “drift!” as she turns too sharply and crashes into a corner again. her hair is flying loose from its clip. your cheeks hurt from grinning.

at one point, she nearly T-bones you but hesitates at the last second, letting her car nudge yours instead of slamming it.

you look at her, breathless.

“why’d you stop?”

she shrugs. “i like your face.”

the ride slows as the power fades, the hum quieting.

both your cars roll gently to a stop, ending side by side. danielle pulls her feet up and sits cross-legged in the seat like she hasn’t just been slamming metal into metal for the past ten minutes.

“do you concede defeat?” she asks.

“i’ll consider it,” you say, “if i get a kiss.”

“negotiations accepted.”

she leans across the small space, balancing against the steering wheel, and presses a kiss to your lips — soft and quick and slightly breathless. her lips are warm. a little sweet.

you don’t need to say anything after that.

the quiet speaks for you.

the viking ride towers ahead like a relic from a dream — the massive boat suspended mid-air between two rust-colored arms, painted in worn-out gold and navy. the edges of it gleam where the sun hits, but it’s chipped in places, too, the metal dulled by years of wind, rain, and laughter. above it, thick chains creak quietly as the operators test a slow swing. it sways gently in place, empty, waiting.

danielle slows her steps as they near the entrance.

“oh my god,” she breathes, hands gripping your arm like she’s just seen an old enemy. “i forgot this was here.”

you glance at her, amused. “you said you wanted cinematic.”

“yeah, like... indie-film-on-a-carnival-date cinematic. not nearly-dying-on-a-metal-ship cinematic.”

you laugh. “you’ll survive.”

“you don’t know that.”

“if jerry survived the carousel—”

“don’t drag jerry into this!”

she’s already pulling you along.

you follow her up the steps, the metal groaning faintly beneath your feet. a breeze picks up — not cold, just enough to remind you how high this thing will go. the sky above is a clean, cloud-streaked blue, and the park below looks small from up here. the staff member guides you both toward the middle row of the boat, not too far back, not too far forward — the sweet spot, supposedly.

you settle in first, and danielle slides in beside you, hands already wrapped around the bar in front of her. her fingers are tense. her jaw’s clenched. she’s staring dead ahead like a soldier going into battle.

you nudge her knee.

“you good?”

“i’m great,” she replies, unblinking. “absolutely thriving. definitely not regretting this at all.”

“you sure?”

“no.”

you take her hand under the bar, thumb rubbing circles against her knuckles. she doesn’t let go. not even when the boat begins to move.

it starts slowly — a gentle swing forward, then back. like a lullaby. like the beginning of something deceptively tender.

danielle exhales.

“see?” she whispers. “not so bad.”

and then it swings higher.

and higher.

you feel the way gravity shifts — how it tugs at your shoulders and presses against your thighs, how the wind slides beneath the boat like it’s trying to lift it entirely from the tracks. the metal creaks louder now. your stomach dips.

danielle makes a sound — somewhere between a gasp and a wheeze.

“it’s fine,” she mutters. “this is fine. this is like a big rocking chair. a big metal rocking—”

the boat hits its peak, pauses mid-air, and drops.

she screams.

not the theatrical kind — it’s full and sharp and slightly cracked around the edges. your own laughter bursts out seconds later, completely uncontrollable.

she turns her head just enough to glare at you, eyes wide.

“you’re laughing?”

“you’re so dramatic!”

“i am fighting for my life!”

the boat swings again — higher, harder — and this time you feel your entire weight lift just slightly off the seat for a split second. danielle grips your hand like she’s going to snap bones, but she’s laughing too now, the sound half-lost in the wind, her whole body rising and falling with the motion.

“i hate this!” she shouts.

“you love this!”

“i hate you!”

but she’s smiling. wide and real and breathless. her hair is whipped across her face, her cardigan blown half open, and she’s shining in the late morning light like the very sun is cheering her on.

the ride swings again. and again.

your world keeps tilting — not just from the physics, but from her. from the way she squeezes your hand tighter on the way up, and lets go just enough on the way down to throw her arms out, yelling into the sky like she owns it.

you don’t realize you’re staring until the boat begins to slow.

each swing lowers by degrees — less height, less thrill, but more clarity. the wind eases. your breaths catch up to you.

danielle leans against you as the boat rocks through its final passes, her body pressed warm and trembling into your side.

“i can’t feel my soul,” she says, voice ragged from laughing.

“it’s probably in orbit.”

“good. tell it to bring back snacks.”

you kiss the side of her head, your lips catching the scent of sun, wind, and the faint sweetness of her conditioner.

“you did it,” you whisper.

she hums, content. “i’m never doing that again.”

you smile.

she will.

and you’ll ride with her every time.

the viking ride creaks to a full stop.

danielle doesn’t move at first — still hunched forward with her head tilted back, arms limp at her sides like she just stepped off a rollercoaster in a dream. her hair’s a mess. her cardigan’s halfway slipping from one shoulder. and yet her lips are still parted from laughter, flushed pink from the wind and the screaming.

you gently unbuckle the lap bar.

she lets out a deep, wheezy breath. “okay. i have no bones left. i’m just soup now.”

“you were soup the moment you started naming carousel horses.”

“jerry deserves rights.”

you take her hand, steadying her as she slides out of the seat. her steps wobble a little when you reach the ramp, like her legs forgot how to move without swinging forty feet into the sky.

you gently nudge her shoulder. “you alive?”

she turns toward you — hair windblown, cheeks pink, eyes still wide — and says, “i think my soul’s still up there.”

“i need something fried immediately.”

you grin. “come on.”

you lead her through one of the walkways near the center of the park, where the booths are spaced out between rides. a few have bright signs: hotdogs, buttered corn, cotton candy, fries. there’s a snack cart closer to the mini roller coaster, selling corndogs and bottled soft drinks. behind it, a plastic sign taped to the counter reads today’s combo: corndog + iced tea.

“say less,” danielle murmurs, beelining toward it.

you follow her to the counter, watching her scan the menu with the urgency of someone who just survived being launched into the sky.

“corn dog,” she says, pointing. “and iced tea. and also fries if they’re hot.”

you get the same.

you find a bench tucked behind the side of a nearby booth — slightly shaded, with a view of the ferris wheel turning slowly in the distance. the wind pulls gently at the foil of your corndog wrappers. danielle swings her feet a little as she eats, chewing in peaceful silence for a moment.

then, “this is the best thing i’ve ever eaten.”

you glance at her. “you said that about the popcorn last week.”

“yes, but that was last week. now this is the winner.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you’re not just saying that because you got emotionally wrecked on the viking ride?”

“i am absolutely saying that because i got emotionally wrecked on the viking ride.”

you snort. she smiles, nudging her foot against yours under the bench.

a few moments pass like that — small sounds, bigger silences. your hands brush over the shared tray of fries. the golden light catches in the strands of her hair, framing her face in a way that makes your chest feel just a little too full.

“hey,” she says suddenly, voice quieter. “thank you.”

you blink. “for what?”

“for this. for coming with me. for not making it weird when i said i didn’t want anything grand.”

you don’t say anything at first. you just look at her — her sun-pinked cheeks, her crumpled corndog wrapper in one hand, her other hand resting open on the bench beside yours.

you reach out. take it.

“danielle marsh,” you say, gentle, “you’re the only thing that matters today.”

she swallows, nods once, then hides her face behind the last fry like it’s a shield. “stop being so good to me.”

“never.”

she turns to face you again, lower lip caught between her teeth.

“can we ride the ferris wheel next?” she asks, softly this time. “i want to see everything from the top.”

you smile.

“yeah,” you say. “let’s go.”

the line to the ferris wheel is completely empty. not even the murmur of strangers to distract you — just the slow creak of the wheel overhead and the wind nudging through the wooden railings. it’s late afternoon now, and the sun has slipped into that hazy, golden stretch of time where everything looks softer. gentler. quieter. danielle doesn’t say much as you approach the gate, her hand still loosely wrapped around yours, thumb brushing slow arcs against your skin. she’s been like this since the viking ride — not tired, not sad. just full. like the day is sitting somewhere deep in her chest, still unfolding.

you glance at her and find her already looking up at the wheel, watching one of the empty gondolas sway at the peak. it’s painted sky blue, chipped at the edges, like all the color was drained by sunlight over the years. the sound of it moving is low, rhythmic — a creak, a hum, a breath. she leans slightly closer to you, shoulder brushing your arm. “last one?” she murmurs.

you nod. “last one.”

the staff member barely says a word, just opens the gate and gestures toward the next cart. you step in first and hold your hand out for her. she takes it, fingers squeezing yours for just a second longer than necessary before slipping into the seat beside you. the door swings shut with a soft clink. then the wheel shifts beneath you, and you begin to rise.

the cart rocks gently as it lifts. not jarring. just enough to remind you that you're in the air. the wind slips in through the thin openings in the glass, and it smells faintly of sugar and asphalt and distant pine — the scent of a place winding down. danielle doesn’t look out the window right away. she’s curled into the seat, her knees pulled slightly up, her cardigan bunched in her lap. you watch the way the light catches in her hair, brushing gold across her cheek, her neck, the line of her collarbone. she looks calm. but her fingers are fidgeting slightly at the edge of her sleeve.

you nudge her gently with your shoulder. “thinking again?”

she nods. her voice is soft when she answers, almost like she’s speaking more to herself. “just... taking it all in, i guess. everything feels so slow right now. but good slow.”

she glances at you, and her smile is quieter than before — not wide, not playful. just honest. “you ever get that feeling where it’s like... everything’s full? but not loud?” she pauses. “like nothing hurts, but your chest still feels like it’s overflowing?”

you hold her gaze for a second, then reach for her hand. her fingers thread through yours without hesitation this time. “yeah,” you say. “i feel it too.”

the cart keeps rising. the park begins to shrink below you — the teacups, the tower, the faint dots of food carts, all softened by distance. the sky outside is turning golden in that way that almost hurts to look at. you’re far enough up now that the wind feels different. thinner. cooler. like you’re a little closer to something you can’t name.

danielle leans into your side, her head tucked gently into the curve of your neck. her voice is low. “it doesn’t feel like a birthday.”

you glance down at her. “what do you mean?”

“it’s not like the ones we used to have,” she says. “no party. no banners. no one singing. but this...” her fingers tighten a little around yours. “this feels more real.”

you don’t answer right away. instead, you shift so she’s more fully against you — your arm around her shoulders, her hair brushing your jaw. she smells like the wind, a little sugar, and something warm — vanilla, maybe, faint but familiar. her body fits perfectly against yours, like this isn’t the first time you’ve done this. like it won’t be the last.

“i think,” you murmur, “real’s all i ever wanted to give you.”

she tilts her head up, her nose brushing your cheek. “you do. even when you don’t try.”

you turn to meet her eyes. they’re clear, a little glassy, not from tears, but from the light. the quiet. the way this whole day has been building to this one still, weightless moment in the sky.

and then you’re at the top.

the cart pauses — not long, just a breath — but long enough that you feel it. the air is thinner here, the silence more complete. below, the world is washed in golden light. above, the sky is so soft it looks like it could dissolve.

you look at her.

and she looks at you.

neither of you says anything this time.

she leans forward first — not rushed, not dramatic. just real. just close. her lips find yours in that slow, familiar way that doesn’t need anything flashy to feel like fireworks. it’s not your first kiss. but it feels new somehow. heavier. like it’s holding the whole day in it — the teacups, the screams, the laughter, the corn dogs, the quiet moments between all the noise. your fingers lift to cradle the side of her jaw, your thumb brushing gently across her cheek. she’s warm. impossibly warm. and she kisses you like she has nowhere else to be.

when she pulls away, she rests her forehead against yours, her breath still brushing your lips. “thank you,” she whispers again.

you smile. “for what?”

“for being here. with me. for making today... feel like mine.”

you press a kiss to her temple. “always.”

the cart shifts again — slowly descending now, the ride coming to its quiet end. she doesn’t move away. she just stays tucked in your arms, her fingers playing lazily with the edge of your sleeve, her breathing syncing with yours. the park returns below you. the noise comes back faintly. but up here — even for just a few more seconds — it still feels like the two of you are suspended in something outside of time.

and for now, that’s enough.

the car is already waiting when you both step out of the ferris wheel line, the engine idling low by the curb near the entrance gate. danielle’s family driver stands by the passenger side, offering a polite smile before pulling open the door for the two of you. he doesn’t ask questions. just nods slightly, as if he already knows to give you this moment.

danielle slides into the backseat first, peeling off her cardigan and folding it in her lap. her hair’s a little messy now, tousled by wind and sun, but she doesn’t fix it. she just leans back into the seat, the kind of tired that feels good in the bones. the kind that doesn’t need words. you follow quietly, settling beside her. the leather seats are warm, but the AC’s already humming softly — cool against your sun-warmed skin. the door closes with a gentle click, and within seconds, the driver shifts the gear and pulls the car smoothly onto the road.

the world outside rolls by in slow pieces. pine trees first — tall, thin silhouettes casting long shadows across the roadside — then the familiar stalls and corners of tagaytay’s ridge. some shops still glow with late-afternoon light. others are already half-closed, the day winding down just like you are.

danielle’s hand finds yours again in the space between. her fingers curl loosely around your palm, thumb brushing slow, sleepy lines across the back of your hand. she doesn’t speak. doesn’t need to. her head drifts toward your shoulder partway through the first few turns. you let it. the weight of her is light. grounding.

the car climbs the slight curves of the highway, the view of taal lake slipping in and out of frame through the window. even the wind outside feels quieter now, like the whole world is moving at half-speed just for her birthday.

“did you have fun?” you ask, your voice low, like even speaking too loudly might break the stillness.

she hums, soft and lazy. “yeah.” a pause. then she shifts a little, cheek pressing more fully into your shoulder. “like... real fun. not forced fun. not because-i-have-to-celebrate fun. just... me.”

you glance down at her. her lashes are low, almost closed. “you’ve always been enough as you are, you know.”

she smiles against your arm. “you always say stuff like that and then expect me not to fall in love with you again.”

you tilt your head slightly, resting your cheek against her hair. “maybe i want you to.”

she doesn’t answer. just squeezes your hand again, this time slower, steadier. the car turns, the road smoothing out, and the sunlight dips lower across the dashboard — golden streaks cutting through the tinted glass, painting everything in amber. ahead, the way winds past tall hedges and a cluster of vacation homes built into the hills. familiar ones. you’re almost there.

danielle exhales again, softer this time. “i could fall asleep right here.”

“you can, if you want.”

“no,” she says, lips curling at the edges. “i wanna stay up. wanna watch you cook.”

you smile at that.

“what?” she murmurs.

“nothing. just... you’re kind of everything, you know that?”

“mhm. and you’re gonna cry when you see the cake i baked this morning.”

your eyebrows lift. “you baked your own cake?”

“i wanted it to be mine. i even decorated it. no one helped.”

“should i be nervous?”

“you should be honored. it’s got our favorite colors on it. and it’s lowkey ugly. but in a cute way.”

you laugh, and she laughs too, both of you smiling like there’s no weight in the world. just light. just warmth. just the hum of tires against the road and the comfort of shared silence.

the car pulls into a narrow driveway framed by flowering vines and a half-open wooden gate. the summer house appears slowly — white stone walls glowing soft in the afternoon light, windows slightly cracked open, curtains fluttering inside. it smells faintly of the trees nearby. of something clean. familiar.

the driver parks beneath the shade.

danielle sits up, stretching her arms over her head, a soft groan escaping her lips. she blinks at the house through the window like she’s seeing it with new eyes. then she turns to you, smiling a little slower now. “ready to cook with me?”

you nod, fingers still laced with hers.

“of course.”

the front door gives way with a soft creak, the familiar scent of the summer house rushing to meet you — part fresh linen, part lavender air spray, part something older. wood, dust, sunlight filtered through old curtains. danielle steps in first, barefoot, shoes left by the door with a practiced kick. she stretches her arms overhead again, cardigan tied loosely around her waist now, and sighs like she just exhaled the entire day.

“welcome to my kitchen,” she says dramatically, turning to you with a grin. “please remove your shoes, your inhibitions, and your bad cooking habits.”

you snort, stepping inside. “i’ll have you know my spaghetti is undefeated.”

“spaghetti?” she perks up. “filipino kind?”

“with hotdogs. and sweet sauce.”

“you’re so serious about this,” she says, eyes twinkling, “i might cry.”

“it’s not a birthday without it.”

the kitchen is already half-prepped — her doing, clearly. a mixing bowl sits on the counter, its sides streaked with batter remnants. two round cake layers cool under a mesh dome, their tops uneven in that charming, hand-done way. a tub of buttercream rests beside them, dyed in uneven streaks of pale blue and lavender. the windows are cracked open to the breeze, the wooden blinds casting soft stripes of light across the floor.

you head to the fridge, checking the shelves. a pack of red hotdogs. ground beef thawing in a bowl. cheese. filipino-style sauce. spaghetti noodles still in their packaging, tucked beside a stack of eggs. she really did plan this.

“you were gonna make it yourself, huh?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder.

danielle’s standing by the stove now, already tying her apron behind her back. “i was hoping you’d offer.”

“so manipulative,” you tease, grabbing ingredients and setting them down on the counter. “you just wanted me in this apron.”

“maybe,” she hums, opening the utensil drawer and handing you a wooden spoon. “maybe i just wanted to watch you do your little ‘mixture’ face.”

“my what?”

“you know. that thing where you’re tasting sauce and then stare into the middle distance like you’re talking to your ancestors.”

you shake your head, biting back a laugh. “you’re so annoying.”

“and yet,” she says sweetly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as she passes by, “you love me.”

you do.

you love her more in this kitchen than anywhere else — barefoot on cool tiles, hair still messy from the wind, cake batter on her cheek, and all.

you fill the pot with water, drop in a bit of salt, and set it on the burner. the click of the stove igniting breaks the quiet with a soft snap. she sets up beside you, dragging her cake over to the far counter and carefully beginning to pipe a very wobbly border along the edge.

as the water heats, you start on the sauce. a little oil. garlic, minced fine. onion, chopped until your eyes sting. the smell hits the air immediately — warm and familiar. danielle turns slightly in your direction, distracted from her piping. “that’s it,” she says. “that’s the smell.”

“the one that means it’s someone’s birthday?”

“yep. that exact smell. garlic, onion, beef. followed by hotdogs and existential joy.”

you brown the beef slowly, stirring gently, letting it break down into the oil. the red hotdogs go in next, sliced thin and curling at the edges. the sauce — tomato sauce, a pinch of sugar, a dash of magic — blends in, simmering into that unmistakable sweet-savory scent that clings to memories and birthdays and kitchen tiles from childhood.

danielle moves behind you at some point, arms wrapping gently around your waist. she presses her cheek to your back.

“do you remember my 8th birthday?” she asks, voice barely above a murmur.

you nod, hand still stirring. “you cried because your mom forgot to put hotdogs in the spaghetti.”

“worst betrayal of my life.”

“so you made me promise i’d never forget.”

“and now here you are,” she whispers. “in my kitchen. on my birthday. making the world’s best spaghetti.”

you glance down at the pot. “it’s kind of ugly.”

“and kind of perfect.”

you set the spoon down, turn slightly in her arms. she looks up at you, cheeks warm, eyes soft.

“danielle june marsh,” you say solemnly, “will you do me the honor of sprinkling the cheese?”

“i thought you’d never ask.”

you pass her the pack of grated cheese. she dumps a generous amount on top of the sauce, then giggles when a few strands stick to her fingers. you lean down, kissing the tip of her nose.

“happy birthday,” you murmur.

she kisses you back, sweet and easy. “it really is.”

the spaghetti is done by the time the sky outside turns completely gold — not orange, not yellow, but that in-between hue that only ever shows up once a day, like the world’s been dipped in melted candlelight. the air in the kitchen is warm now, thick with the smell of simmered sauce, toasted garlic, and melting cheese. you’ve already set the table — simple, just two plates, two forks, two glasses of cold water beading with condensation. no fuss. just home.

danielle sets down the serving bowl in the center, careful not to spill anything. she’s still in her apron, still barefoot, cheeks a little pink from the heat of the kitchen and the tiny spark of excitement she never really hides when food’s involved.

“okay,” she says, dramatic again, like she’s about to present an award. “moment of truth.”

you grin and serve her first — a generous mound of sweet spaghetti, steam rising in curls as you ladle it onto her plate. then your own. you sit across from each other, legs brushing beneath the table. for a second, neither of you speak. the room has gone quiet in that familiar, gentle way houses do when they know they’re being loved in.

you lift your fork. she does too.

the first bite is instant comfort — soft noodles, the sweetness of banana ketchup, the saltiness of the cheese, the little bite of hotdog on the side. it’s not five-star restaurant perfect. it’s better.

danielle groans softly, eyes fluttering shut. “this,” she says, pointing her fork at you, “is what love tastes like.”

you laugh. “i think it just tastes like birthday.”

“same thing,” she says, already going for a second bite. “this is exactly what i wanted. no fancy dinner, no parents hovering over everything, no loud music. just...” she pauses, eyes meeting yours. “you.”

you look at her — really look — and it’s suddenly so easy to remember every birthday you’ve spent together since you were thirteen. that time you gave her a homemade paper rose. the year she baked a three-layer cake that collapsed in the car. all the ones in between. and now this — the warm kitchen, the messy cake on the counter, the pasta she’d waited all day for.

after the second plate — and half a third for her — you stand to grab the cake. it’s still on the counter, imperfect and sweet-looking in its pastel messiness. the buttercream is uneven, the writing on top slightly crooked, happy birthday dani with a tiny smiley face drawn in pink frosting. it’s adorable. it’s so her.

you light a single candle and carry it back slowly.

she looks up, eyes wide and shiny. not teary. just soft.

you set it in front of her and sit again.

“go on,” you say. “make a wish.”

she doesn’t close her eyes. doesn’t look away. instead, she leans her elbows onto the table, chin resting in her palms. “can i tell you what i’m wishing for?”

“that’s illegal,” you say.

“i’m breaking the rules.”

you smile. “okay, then. tell me.”

she leans forward, close enough for her voice to drop to a whisper. “i’m wishing i get to keep having birthdays with you.”

your chest tightens — the good kind, the kind that means you’re full of something too big to name.

“then blow it out,” you say. “because i’m not going anywhere.”

she does. the candle flickers once, then dies.

the room stays warm. the shadows grow longer. and the cake — frosting smeared, a little too sweet, and made with the clumsy precision only love can make — is cut into with the care of two people who already know: this is what forever starts like. not with fireworks. not with noise. but with spaghetti, candlelight, and a kitchen full of soft, quiet joy.

the house is quieter now.

the dishes are washed. the leftover cake is sealed in a container, tucked into the fridge. danielle is curled beside you on the couch, her feet under a throw blanket, hair damp from the quick shower she took while you finished cleaning up. she smells like soap and vanilla, like fresh pajamas and sleep. her body is warm against yours, and her head is tucked perfectly beneath your chin, her breathing slow and steady — not asleep, just content.

outside, the night has settled completely. no more streaks of sun through the windows. just the hum of cicadas, the gentle rustle of trees, the faintest echo of a world winding down.

you shift slightly, careful not to disturb her.

“hey,” you murmur, your hand brushing her arm.

she hums, sleepily. “hmm?”

“i have something for you.”

she doesn’t move right away. just blinks up at you, eyes lazy, lips twitching into a soft smile. “i thought we agreed. no gifts.”

“we didn’t agree. you declared.”

“same thing.”

you reach into the pocket of your hoodie and pull it out — a small USB, plain black, no stickers, no ribbon. just simple. quiet. like what it carries.

you hand it to her.

she blinks at it for a second, then sits up slowly, the blanket slipping from her legs. “what’s this?”

“your real gift,” you say. “i started putting it together months ago. it’s... everything. or at least, everything i could save.”

danielle turns it over in her hand, like it’s fragile. like it might dissolve if she touches it too hard. her voice is already soft. “what kind of everything?”

“you’ll see.”

you stand, opened your laptop, and gesture for her to follow. she moves quickly now, curiosity flickering behind her eyes as she slides beside you. the screen glows pale blue as it wakes. you insert the USB, and the folders pop up one by one — neatly labeled. clearly arranged. a tiny archive.

1 — how we met 2 — baby pictures 3 — middle school (chaos) 4 — high school 5 — all the birthdays 6 — things you forgot you sent me 7 — voice notes 8 — us

she presses her lips together, already a little teary-eyed. “you really did this.”

you look at her. “you really matter to me.”

and then, she clicks.

▸ 1 — how we met

the first image is a class list from eighth grade, scanned and circled, your names right beside each other under the same club, booth design. you both stare at it, and danielle lets out a laugh. “oh my god. this stupid list.”

“you volunteered to help with the layout,” you remind her. “then handed me a sketch of our banner on scratch paper five minutes later.”

“you kept that?”

you click to the next file, a photo of that exact paper, stained and folded, her handwriting still unmistakable. beneath it is a picture from the orientation fair — the two of you crouched side by side, painting on tarpaulin with cheap acrylics. you’re looking at the banner, focused. she’s looking at you.

“you smiled at me when we ran out of paint,” she murmurs.

“you offered me your donut.”

“you gave me yours without asking.”

“you finished it,” you tease.

“it was good!”

the third photo is a blurry shot taken from across the gym — danielle standing with a brush in her mouth, holding two cans of paint and arguing with someone while pointing at the ceiling decor. “i yelled at the teacher for ignoring your design.”

you laugh. “that’s when i knew you liked me.”

“i didn’t even know yet,” she admits, softly. “but i think my heart did.”

▸ 2 — baby pictures

the next folder opens to early selfies, awkward and grainy. one shows danielle holding up a cupcake with the word “sorry” written in icing. “you forgot our club meeting,” you say, nudging her.

“because i took a nap! and i woke up feeling so guilty i baked at 6am.”

you scroll to a photo of your binder — her doodles on the corner of your notes. tiny hearts, doodled flowers, a mini comic of her poking your shoulder repeatedly in class. “i got scolded for this,” she says, grinning.

“i never erased it.”

the last picture is from the school canteen. she’s mid-laugh, hair tied back, holding out a fork of spaghetti toward you. the photo’s blurry, but her eyes are unmistakably warm.

“this is before we even knew what we were doing,” you say.

danielle leans her head against your shoulder again. “we were already becoming us.”

▸ 3 — middle school (chaos)

she clicks, and the screen fills with chaos. a video of her dancing during nutrition month, you laughing in the background; an audio file of both of you reciting lines from a school play in terrible accents; a screenshot of her messaging you “if i fail math i’m becoming a barista.”

“you still hate math,” you say.

“but you tutored me,” she points out.

“you brought iced coffee to every session.”

“bribery works,” she says smugly.

the next item is a voice note of her panicking before a class report. “you held my hand under the table,” she whispers. “and i didn’t let go even when it was your turn.”

you click the last file — a drawing you made of the two of you standing under a school stage light. “for your birthday that year,” you say.

“i printed it,” danielle admits, softly. “it’s in a folder at home.”

▸ 4 — high school

this one opens slowly — like memory itself.

the first file is a screenshot from a group chat, where someone jokingly said “you two are basically married.” danielle replied, “don’t tempt me.” the date is marked two weeks before you started dating.

“i was not subtle,” she groans.

“i was pretending not to notice.”

“but you did.”

“i always did.”

the second file is a video. you seated at a table, sketching silently, and danielle in the frame, narrating like a documentarian. “subject is focused. hands steady. i’m in love.”

“you sent me that on valentine’s,” you say.

“because i couldn’t say it in person.”

the third, a blurry photo of you two at a quiz bee. you’d just won. danielle’s hugging you so tight your glasses are askew. you stare at the photo now. “you didn’t even compete.”

“i just wanted to be there when you did something amazing.”

▸ 5 — all the birthdays

the room grows warmer.

a picture of her thirteenth — cupcakes in a park, you holding the umbrella, her holding your hand under the table. “you made me a playlist that year,” she says.

the next file is from last year: a quiet shot of the two of you on a rooftop, lit only by fairy lights. “that was the night we talked about college,” you whisper.

“and you said you’d follow me anywhere.”

“still true.”

the third file is tonight: a short clip of her blowing out the candle on the lopsided cake. you can hear your voice offscreen, quiet and full. “happy birthday, love.”

▸ 6 — things you forgot you sent me

danielle scrolls, then gasps.

a recording of her singing at 1am, barely whispering into the mic. “i was so embarrassed.”

“you were beautiful.”

a screenshot of her saying “i wish i was as good as you.” your reply, “you already are. i’m just loud about it.”

a scanned page from a quiz where she doodled your initials in the margins. “you were watching me while i did this?”

“always.”

▸ 7 — voice notes

your voice. hers. short, clumsy, honest.

“good luck tomorrow.” “i miss you today.” “call me when you get home.” “you make me brave.”

the last one plays.

danielle, softly, “i don’t say it enough, but you’re my favorite part of everything.”

she doesn’t speak.

she just pulls your hand to her chest, holding it there.

▸ 8 — us

this folder is quiet.

one photo, your hands tangled under a cafe table.

a second, her hugging your back, her face pressed between your shoulder blades.

a third, your voice.

the video plays.

“is this me?”

“no,” you whisper. “it’s me.”

she clicks.

you appear on-screen, seated in the same couch, the same room — just earlier that week. you’re wearing your hoodie, hair a little messy, voice soft.

“hi, love. if you’re watching this, that means you finished the usb... or maybe you peeked early, i won’t judge.” you laugh lightly in the video. “i wasn't sure what to give you this year. you always say you don’t need anything, but you’ve given me everything. so this is what i could offer — all the pieces of us. because you’ve been my favorite story. from eighth grade to now.”

you pause.

“i don’t know where we’re going next. but i know i’ll go there with you. and i’ll keep saving everything. every laugh, every weird voice note, every version of you.”

video-you smiles.

“happy birthday, danielle. i love you. always have.”

the screen fades.

the room is silent.

real danielle is crying now — not sobbing, just tears slipping down, quiet and full. her hand finds yours, fingers tightening like she’s anchoring herself to this moment.

and then she speaks — not loudly. not dramatically.

just one soft sentence that you’ll carry with you for the rest of your life.

“thank you for loving me like this.”

and without needing a single word, she leans in and kisses you — slow and full, like every memory has brought her here.

“oh no.”

you glance at her. “what?”

“i forgot.”

“forgot what?”

“i didn’t take any photos earlier.”

you blink. then laugh. “what?”

she sits up straighter, brows furrowed. “i’m serious. not one. not even a selfie. not even a shot of the ferris wheel or the food or the bumper cars. i didn’t even record you laughing on the viking ride—oh my god—what was i doing?”

you bite into the muffin, unfazed. “having fun?”

“i mean, yeah,” she huffs, running a hand through her hair. “but it was Sky Ranch. i was supposed to be romantic and aesthetic and capture the moment, not just… lose my entire brain over you.”

you give her a look.

she sighs. “okay, that came out worse than i meant it.”

you nudge her gently. “you really don’t remember anything?”

“i remember it. i just—” she waves her hands, frustrated. “—forgot to document it. like, what if I forget what your face looked like when you tried to act tough before the ride started? or when you squinted at the coin machine like it insulted your honor?”

you lean forward, calmly sipping your juice.

then, “you don’t have to worry.”

she frowns. “what?”

“i asked one of the staff to follow us around.”

her mouth opens. “excuse me?”

“i paid them,” you say nonchalantly. “tipped them extra to be discreet. they had a camera and everything. mostly wide shots, candid stuff. probably some videos, too.”

her jaw drops.

“you’re kidding.”

you shrug.

danielle stares. “you—paid—a Sky Ranch staff member—to follow us around like a secret photographer?”

“i figured you’d forget,” you say, finally glancing up with a small smile. “or that you’d be too in the moment to remember. and i didn’t want you to regret anything.”

her hand flies to her mouth. “i’m going to cry.”

“you already cried.”

“well i’m gonna do it again.”

then, “do you think they got the shot of you panicking when the bumper cars started?”

“no,” you mutter, “but i bet they caught you throwing your hands up like you were on a rollercoaster.”

“it was a very aggressive ride!”

you both burst out laughing.

“you’re insane.”

you kiss her temple. “you’re welcome.”

“hey.”

you turn.

“can we… start a new folder?”

you pause.

then smile.

“yeah?”

she nods, already pushing the laptop toward the center of the table, her fingers tapping the trackpad with purpose now, the familiar rhythm of it grounding her.

“i want to add stuff. like now. before i forget how it all felt.”

“what are we calling it?”

danielle hesitates.

then types slowly,

tagaytay

april 11 subtitle: best birthday ever (don’t fight me on this)

you laugh under your breath.

“accurate,” you say.

she’s already dragging a few files into it — clips from the staff’s folder, a few videos you didn’t even know they caught. one of you two walking hand-in-hand toward the ferris wheel. another of danielle jumping slightly when the viking ride dipped for the first time. a shot of you, mid-laugh, your head thrown back, her hand around your wrist as you pull her away from the coin pusher machine.

danielle leans her head against your shoulder again as the files copy.

“i don’t think i’ve ever had that much fun.”

you glance down at her. “you say that like you weren’t terrified half the time.”

“i was, but you made it fun.”

you nudge her gently. “you make everything fun.”

she looks up at you, something soft flickering behind her eyes.

then, without ceremony, without drama, just like it’s the most natural thing in the world — she says it,

“i love you.”

the words land like a feather. not rushed. not dramatic. just honest.

your breath catches. not because it surprises you, but because it’s true. and even after all these years — all the benches and bumper cars and muffins and night drives — it still matters to hear it said out loud.

you reach up, cup her cheek.

and smile.

“i love you, too.”

no joke. no teasing.

just that.

she leans forward to kiss you again — slower now. more deliberate. like sealing something in place. like grounding everything you’ve both been feeling.

when you pull back, her forehead presses gently against yours.

“we’ll keep adding to the folder,” she murmurs. “and i’ll actually remember to take photos next time.”

“sure you will.”

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