#And this thing evolves at level 18 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

7waystreet · 11 months ago

Text

legacies | ch.8

synopsis — a fiery (y/n) newly enters a university campus dominated by the three trust fund brats. she’s not going to take their shit and they’re not going to let her off so easily either. will this rivalry evolve into friendship, lust or love?

genre — college, angst, friendship, love, slow burn

disclaimer — 18+ strong language & sexual content

chapter index:

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | coming soon

ch.8

"You both probably have no idea why I've called you in here this evening."

Well...

You do have a strong suspicion, especially knowing who's sitting next to you in that moment, this situation only likely sparking up as a result of your secret dealings outside the campus grounds this past week. But you just sit there quietly not voicing any opinions, letting professor Jung navigate the conversation instead, which is taking place in his small office at the back of the dance studio. Jimin, however, who's sitting upright in the chair adjacent to you, seems completely clueless and even slightly worried based on his tense demeanor, his widened eyes cautiously inspecting the dance teacher with bated breath.

"I received a call from Mr. Park this afternoon..." professor Jung continues explaining, a conspicuous smile now gleaming on his face. "... And he's given his permission to let Jimin participate in the annual intercollegiate dance competition!"

"Wait... WHAT?! NO WAY!" Jimin promptly yelps as he jerks up in his chair, his palm slapping up to his mouth in utter shock before a happy chuckle trots out of him. "How did you even convince my dad, professor Jung?!"

"I didn't have to do any convincing. The decision came straight from him" the dance teacher beams brilliantly with his dimples, his attention now gradually shifting from Jimin to you.

It's right then when Jimin seems to realize you're also present in the room, the expressions on his overjoyed face swiftly deviating from happiness back to puzzlement. "So why is she here?" he points at you with a fluster, indeed a valid question on his part, but you still endure the burning silence, not wanting to reveal too much about anything.

"Mr. Park's agreed to let Jimin participate only if his grades remain unaffected. And he specifically requested for you, (y/n), to help Jimin with his studies. I apologize... I do understand this is a lot to ask from you" professor Jung speaks directly to you this time, a remorseful undertone laced with a plea in his inquiring voice.

He has nothing to be sorry for though as you're the one who'd brought this upon yourself, your fortuitous conversation with Mr. Park still freshly etched in your mind. The prominent man had already grown a liking towards you during your first week at the part-time job, surprisingly developing a respect for you and your ideas while you worked closely together with his secretary. It was just yesterday when you'd kindly asked him if you could leave the office an hour early to study for an upcoming exam, explaining in detail how your late night dance team practices were cutting into your time for school work, pressuring you into making some adjustments to your schedule.

"Of course you can take off early, (y/n). Exams come first! If only my son gave the same level of importance to his education" Mr. Park had hung his head with shaken disappointment, only to look up at you in a glimmer when you'd challenged him to view things a bit differently.

"If you don't mind, Sir... I don't think you give Jimin enough credit for his accomplishments."

"And what accomplishments would these be?" Mr. Park had posed, not offended by your brash statement at all, instead appearing attentive to hear your praise for his son, who he clearly thought was a failure for not following in his own business-minded footsteps.

"It's because of Jimin's impressive ability to dance that our university's won the intercollegiate competition 3 years in a row, a milestone no one's ever achieved in the past. Isn't that what every parent wants in their child? For them to actually be passionate about something and excel at it? You might not approve of Jimin's love for dance, but that doesn't make him any less amazing at it. He's the best at what he does... There's nobody better than him."

"But how far can he even get in life with dance? It all sounds exciting at your age, but the real world doesn't work that way. I thought a smart girl like you would surely have understood this."

"Sir, have you considered how much further Jimin will be able to go if you just once show him a hint of support for his passion? It will mean a lot to him coming from his father. At least give him a chance to try achieving his dreams."

Mr. Park had placed his hand on his chin, frivolously rubbing it as he took a while to think, finally meeting your eyes with shocking humility. "Can you ensure Jimin's doing well in his classes if I allow him to dance?" Mr. Park had suddenly sprung the unexpected assignment.

"It's not a lot to ask, professor Jung. I can help Jimin with his studies if that means he can be on the team" you respond similarly to the request in present time, the dance teacher's face muscles instantly relaxing at the sound of your willingness.

"Why the hell would dad put her up to this when he knows we're not even in the same classes, let alone in the same school year? I mean, she's two years younger than me! This doesn't make any sense at all."

"But I'm not complaining, am I? Why are you getting so worked up over it?"

"Because it's unfair to you. You're already busy with your own school work, the dance team practices at night, and you're also interning at my dad's company..." Jimin's voice trails off as if he's hitting an unanticipated realization, his shimmering eyes now sharply turning in your direction to search your face for the truth.

"I told you I can handle it. Would that be all then, professor Jung?" you sternly stand up to leave, not granting Jimin the time to even open his mouth in retaliation, or worse, precisely question you about your involvement in the matter, which he's seemingly recognizing by the minute.

"Yes. I just want to thank you again for committing your time to this, (y/n). We really need Jimin on our team to ensure that win, and now our chances of bringing home the trophy are looking solid. If you ever need assistance with anything, I'm always happy to help. And so will your other professors, I'm sure."

Flashing a faint smile at the elated teacher and totally ignoring Jimin, you hastily exit the office and pace across the dance studio two steps at a time, forcing the metal doors open with all your strength, then deciding to take the longer route back to your dormitory instead of the usual shortcut. However, Jimin eventually catches up to you by the end of the hallway in a breathless sprint. "(y/n)! Hey, stop! WAIT!"

"I really have to get to the library, Jimin. I need to study for—"

But the way Jimin swoops up in front of you compels you to stop short in your rambling sentences, your body banging into his chest from his sudden presence up ahead. It's quite apparent you're hiding something by how your eyes fail to meet his penetrative ones, all while he refuses to move out of your way, your faces just inches from one another in the lonely hallway.

"How did you convince my dad? I know you must've said something to him at work... Why would you do that for me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about..."

You certainly feel cornered as Jimin coarsely sighs with a hint of agitation while you fidget with your feet in an awkward silence, but you figure you've got no choice now but to delve into the discussion the way he's standing his ground with arms crossed across his chest, successfully trapping you with no way to back out of this instance.

"I just had a brief conversation with Mr. Park about your passion for dance and how he should try giving you a chance to pursue this career—"

"But how are you okay with the way he's basically forcing you to be my tutor in exchange for that? It's so not fair to you! You barely know him and what a manipulative bastard he can be. You shouldn't have accepted the deal and you still have time to change your mind. Why are you even doing this for me?"

"I'm doing this for you the same reason you're pissed at him for doing this to me" you blurt out, instantly wishing you'd thought a little before coming up with this response but it's too late, now covertly hoping Jimin catches on by putting some thought into your words.

"I don't understand..."

You're not even sure why you're feeling embarrassed at the thought of having to explicitly say it out loud, a tinge of pink blossoming your cheeks as you nervously lock eyes with Jimin's twinkling ones. Why do you have to spell it all out for him? How can boys be so emotionally incompetent sometimes?

"The Jimin I met when I started school wouldn't have felt angry for any inconveniences I'd have to experience for him. So let me ask you this — Why do you feel pissed that I have to pile on more work in exchange for you getting back on the dance team? The one thing you so desperately wanted over everything? It's a win-win for you. The trophy and a tutor. So why are you even bothered?"

Jimin's clearly lost in thought now, his wavering eyes searching the wall behind you as if the answers are somehow painted on there. The way his cheeks kick up in a red heat all of a sudden makes your heart skip a beat, an indication that he's coming close to working out his feelings for you by detangling the web of questions you'd so distinctly spun on him.

"Because it's unfair. And well... because I guess I care about you" his plump rosy lips press together, his entire body tensing up as he's unknowingly holding his breath.

"I guess I care about you too."

Despite the palpable embarrassment in the lone night's silence, your smiling eyes meet one another for a fleeting second of shared acknowledgement before you begin making your way back to your dormitory weaving the winding corridors. The truth was that through this tumultuous time being at the university, you'd both somewhere, deep down, grown to care about each other. Something had subconsciously changed between you both after you'd spent those vulnerable moments holding hands at the basketball court late that night, battling your personal failures together in quiet company.

The way you'd leaped up to defend Jimin in front of his father, and the way Jimin had felt angered by the unfair way you'd been treated spoke volumes about how you'd evolved in your relationship for the better, even before you both could come to your senses about these harboring feelings.

Tap.

The rustle of a crumpled up sheet of paper landing on your desk catches your attention as you're packing up your bag after your music theory class's dismissal. Upon scanning your eyes across the emptying lecture hall for the source of the mischief, you notice Jungkook leaning against the back wall intently observing you. He playfully points at the ball of paper as if urging you to take a look at it, so you roll your eyes and turn around to open it and sneak a peek.

"My birthday party's this weekend. Invite only."

"I see..." you briefly skim through the flyer which lists out the date, time and outfit expectations, amongst some other event related details.

"Am I allowed to come near you? Or is the invisible restraining order still in action?" Jungkook jokes in an attempt to gage your mood, carefully throwing no direct insults your way, which doesn't go unnoticed and makes you smile to yourself.

"The invite doesn't mention the location. Where are you hosting it?" you quickly hide your smile and turn around to face Jungkook again, giving him permission to come closer with a wave of your hand.

"Have you ever even gone to a college party, (y/n)? We're underaged so I'm not gonna go sharing the address on a flyer in case we get busted" Jungkook laughs, clearly happy you're allowing this conversation to happen in the first place, the pep in his step apparent as he makes his way over to your desk. "It's at Taehyung hyung and Jimin hyung's suite in the upperclassmen boys tower."

"Oh..."

Jungkook observes the sudden frown weighing down your lips, the boy astonishing you with his newfound attentiveness next. "Still fighting with Taehyung hyung?"

"I haven't spoken to him since I went off on him about his evil ways. How's he doing?" you steal the chance to check up on Taehyung.

Despite his cruel betrayal, Taehyung hadn't left your mind since you last saw him, the confrontation you'd planned in your dormitory replaying over and over again in your head at odd times, much to your dislike. Even if Taehyung seemingly hadn't given a fuck about you and had pretended to be your friend, you did care for him that entire time and still missed having that naive version of him around, as much as you hated to admit it. It was just going to be very difficult to trust him again if the opportunity to become real friends ever popped up in the future.

"Oh, he's not really been himself, that's for sure. He's begun acting the way he did after his dad died, withdrawn mostly. What did you even say to him? Jimin hyung and I've been getting a bit concerned. Maybe you could try talking to him? I don't know, he always seemed cheerful around you."

"He was pretending to be cheerful around me, Jeon. That was the whole point of his plan.. to fool me into believing we were friends. I don't even know what he's really like, now that I think about it."

"I know, but he's been scary lately. He clearly needs some type of intervention so I just thought maybe he'd be willing to speak with you. I don't think he feels like opening up to Jimin hyung or me about whatever this is."

"I guess I can try meeting him this week. Thanks for letting me know and for the suggestion... By the way, are you sure you're the same Jeon Jungkook I met on my first day here? Helping me and shit? It's like I don't even know who you are anymore" you fondly chuckle at Jungkook's intuitive side shining through. It was refreshing to have a normal conversation with him, almost therapeutic, as you felt some kind of weight lifted off of your mind about the confrontation with Taehyung.

"I'm full of surprises" Jungkook smirks as you smile in return and begin walking by his side out of the classroom, the sun beaming brightly in the courtyard reflecting both of your matching happy moods. "So you coming to my party?"

"I guess I'll stop by for a bit!"

"Awesome. Also, my real birthday's the day after tomorrow, we're only celebrating it on the weekend. So I'll be expecting two presents from you" Jungkook smartly giggles, your brows immediately raising up in question.

"What do you even gift a rich brat like you who pretty much has everything in the world? Any requests that a commoner like myself can afford?"

Jungkook suddenly stops in his steps after hearing your comment and turns to face you directly, his big bambi eyes gazing deeply in yours, a hint of sorrow lingering in his cast as he mentions "Your friendship. That's all."

He waves goodbye with a sweet smile that travels up to his pretty eyes, slowly turning around and walking away from you as you remain painfully rooted to your spot. You can't help but accept Jungkook has finally begun growing on you, his sincere comment unknowingly touching your heart and leaving you wanting more.

You'd left Taehyung a couple of texts and even called him a few times, all to be ignored by him for over an entire day. It was close to 10pm the day after speaking with Jungkook about Taehyung's wellbeing, the usual time you'd start heading down to the dance studio for competition practice. But your mind's stuck on Taehyung with an uncomfortable buildup of worry, unable to stray away and focus on anything else.

With the brimming anxiousness you're feeling in your chest, you hurriedly decide to walk over to Taehyung's suite to check whether he's okay, if he's even there, before navigating your way down to the dance studio. Call it intuition or a gut feeling, but the moment you knock on his door and watch it swing open, a wave of gratitude hits you like a truck knowing you did the right thing by resolving to visit him.

"Oh... what are you- you doing he- here?"

The sight breaks your heart into a million pieces. Taehyung appears thoroughly disheveled, unlike you could've ever imagined — his unkempt hair sticking out in random places, his usual pouty lips cracked and colorless, the bags under his eyes alarming. His entire face scrunches up when the bright corridor lights swim into the pitch black apartment behind him. He's in a set of pajamas but it doesn't even look like he got ready or left his place at all today. He's clearly sloshed from the lingering stench of whiskey on his breath and from the way he'd slurred his words upon your arrival.

"I texted and called you many times since yesterday but you hadn't replied, so I came to see if you were okay."

"Oh, I'm splendid" Taehyung sloppily smiles with his eyes closed, his tongue clearly heavy and his speech impaired, his tall figure swaying to the side before he presses his forehead against the door.

Without even asking for permission, you walk straight inside with a surge of concern ripping up your chest, Taehyung not really noticing you anyways until you hold him by the shoulders and kick the door shut. Gently guiding him over to the couch and sitting him down while he incoherently grunts, you quietly get a glass of water from the kitchen behind him and turn on a dim stove light for more visibility, also to not directly irritate Taehyung's eyes. He huffs like a child when you hold the glass of water to his mouth but reluctantly gulps it down, eyes still closed and neck now resting back on the sofa as you place the empty glass on a table nearby.

Gonna miss practice. Taehyung's not doing well. I'm with him at your place. Don't worry but come straight back when you're finished at the studio.

You quickly shoot Jimin a text to inform him of your absence, and thank God for how you and Jimin are on good terms so you don't have to deal with his wrath for skipping practice. You now focus your attention back to Taehyung who's begun randomly humming, clearly way too drunk, and you suspect probably high as well based on the light waft of weed drifting through the apartment.

Scooting closer to Taehyung on the couch, you carefully lift up his heavy, lifeless arm and curl it around your shoulder, tightly wrapping both of your arms around his torso after and lightly resting your head on his chest. The overwhelming feeling of sadness seeing your once closest friend here in this condition, mixed with a pang of guilt for never checking up on him after your fight, edges you to the brink of tears, the only thing your heart wanting to do in that moment being holding him close, letting him know he's not alone.

A minute goes by, silent tears flowing down your cheeks and wetting his soft white shirt when Taehyung's motionless arm around your shoulder finally grips you and pulls you in even closer, his cheek resting on the top of your head, his lips pressed on your hair. You feel his entire body vibrating as he begins sobbing, and all you can do then is continue embracing him tightly, allowing him to get it all out, and be there for him to share his pain in those passing moments.

It feels like an hour's gone by but both you and Taehyung just sit there on the couch hugging each other, both quietly crying for different reasons with no words spoken, but certainly lessening each other's burdens. You end up pulling yourself together much before he does, but you don't move an inch until he's gradually calmed himself down, only choosing to tilt your head back a little and look up at his face once his breathing stabilizes as close to normal as you could've guessed.

"Have you eaten anything today? Want me to order jjajangmyeon for us from your favorite spot?"

"Yeah, that'd be great" Taehyung croaks, eyes still closed while pulling in a sniffle to clear his sinuses.

A burst of energy recharges you seeing Taehyung respond positively to your proposal, a relief now that his speech sounds more coherent, although you've never seen him appear so exhausted. With him accepting the idea to eat a filling meal, you're sure he'll feel a lot better after, and with that, you slowly let yourself out of the embrace and grab your phone, quickly placing 3 jjajangmyeon orders through the app, an extra one for Jimin when he returns back from dance practice.

After another couple of glasses of water, Taehyung seems much more awake, his eyes ultimately opening up and taking in your full sight for the first time since you'd arrived. You greet him with a small smile but he just blankly stares at you, his eyes empty and void of the charm they so usually radiantly carry, his gaze lowering down to the carpet as he questions "What made you come here tonight?"

"Oh, I mentioned earlier how I'd left you texts and calls but you hadn't replied for a day, so I just got worried. It's unlike you to not even respond."

"I think my phone ran out of battery so I probably didn't even get half the things you sent."

After asking Taehyung if he remembers where he left his phone and quickly locating it by the tub in the restroom, you put it on charge, crack a window open for some fresh cool night air, and settle down on the couch again. At once when you're back sitting next to him, Taehyung instantly tumbles out "Why did you even worry for me? I thought you hated me."

"I don't hate you. And we don't have to talk about this right now. Let's just get you better first—"

"No. I need to know."

You can't help but sigh, your lips shaking a bit by the way Taehyung's somber eyes meet yours and helplessly wait for a reply, urging you to share your concise yet truthful feelings.

"You were always my friend, Taehyung. I never stopped caring for you. Even if you didn't feel the same things for me."

Taehyung's downturned lips quiver uncontrollably at those words, his swollen nose pulling in another sniffle before he mumbles out "I'm sorry", struggling to hold himself back from another sob.

"I know you're sorry. I don't hold any grudges against you. We'll be fine with time" you reassure him with a comforting tone of voice, placing your hand on top of his and giving it a squeeze. He presses his lips together to stop them from quivering and nods in acknowledgment, resting his head back on the sofa without letting go of your hand.

A few more soundless minutes pass you by, the only noise breaking it being Taehyung's stomach rumbling with hunger here and there. You know for a fact you're not leaving him alone until Jimin comes back, but at the same time your mind's zooming with ideas on how you can help Taehyung pull himself out of this dangerous slope he's heading towards, until a seemingly considerate idea pops up in your head and you decide to voice it.

"How'd you feel if we went to a support group meeting for grief and dealing with the loss of a loved one? We'll go together. I want you to get better, Taehyung. I'm not going to allow you to fall even harder using alcohol and drugs. I know you're better than this."

Taehyung doesn't move or say anything in response, but you're sure he's heard you, so you give him some time to process what you'd just suggested. A knock on the door breaks the silence, temporarily divulging your attention to the visitor. A quick glance at the time and you know it couldn't have been Jimin, the practice usually running longer than this, but a soothing feeling relaxes your mind when you accept the food delivery at the door and begin unpacking the containers on the kitchen counter.

What you're unaware of is how Taehyung's dull eyes are only set on you ever since you'd gotten up from the couch, admiringly following you around and gratefully observing the way you're going out of your way to take care of him, even after everything he'd put you through, only a few hushed words despairingly escaping his mouth once you bring the jjajangmyeon over to him with a smile.

"I'll go with you. Thank you for saving me tonight, (y/n)."

203 notes · View notes

youremyheaven · 1 year ago

Text

Vedic Astrology Observations

1. Punarvasus tend to be very spiritual if not religious. They find peace in prayer. Another thing I've noticed is that they are very sexually conservative (probably because of their cat yoni). Mariah Carey, Punarvasu Moon was a virgin when she married her first husband and waited until marriage to be intimate with her second husband as well. She was engaged to James Packer for 18 months and they reportedly never had a physical relationship.

Miranda Kerr, Punarvasu Moon was in a relationship with Evan Spiegel for 3 years and waited until marriage. Drew Barrymore, Punarvasu Moon has said that she's been celibate since her divorce in 2016.

2. Mariah Carey, Punarvasu Moon speaking of the nature of light & time , her memoir has multiple chapters titled with light-related names and even sooo many of her songs , including Butterfly (Punarvasus are connected to butterflies)

3. Moksha gana nakshatras embody the trickster archetype. They also often argue or provoke people simply for the heck of it. 2/3 Moon ruled naks (Rohini & Hasta) are Moksha gana and it makes sense as to why they fuck with people just because they can, they have nothing to gain from it and it serves no purpose, they're evil for the heck of it. They'll go to any length to ruin you even if they ruin themselves in the process.

Moksha means liberation in Sanskrit (Sanskrit is a classical language like Latin that is pretty much only used in a scholarly context) and is one of 4 purusharthas or motivations assigned to the 27 naks. The others are artha (wealth) kama (pleasure) and dharma (duty). Moksha would be located at the very top of Maslow's hierarchy of needs, which means an individual with Moksha gana naks has transcended all the other base level motivations of accumulating wealth, seeking pleasure and doing one's duty. What is left to do now? If an individual is evolved, they actually seek liberation through their spirituality but if they are not, not only are they unbothered by any ordinary human motives, they lack the ability to devote themselves to anything ordinary because they simply dont care about getting a job or building a house or whatever. this means they also kind of exist beyond normal social norms?? go up against a Moksha gana native/Moon dominant person and the kind of arguments they'll use against you will reveal this nature of theirs. like they will have zero issue using your every vulnerability and insecurity against you just to win an argument or put you down. they hate to look "weak" so they will tear you apart just because they can, with no regard for any history you share. there are people who defend this by saying "oh well i was mad" babygirl everybody gets mad, but if someone isnt raising their voice, being petty or singling you out and bringing up your past to make you crumble, its not because they're incapable of it, its because they have principles.

Moksha gana naks love to play devil's advocate.

4. Rahuvians have bad memory, they probably repeat the same stories in different ways every few weeks lol

5. Saturnian women often marry billionaires according to Claire Nakti and I recently found some more examples of that:

** Mariah Carey, UBP Sun was engaged to Australian billionaire, James Packer who used to date Miranda Kerr, Pushya Rising (both these women are also Punarvasu Moon), Miranda is now married to the CEO of Snapchat.

** Lisa Manobal, UBP Sun is dating Frederic Arnault, a French billionaire

** Elle Macpherson, UBP Sun was in a relationship with Arpad Busson with whom she had 2 kids (he's not a billionaire but he does have a net worth of $500 million)

6. Nominative determinism, literally "name-driven outcome", is the hypothesis that people tend to gravitate towards areas of work that reflect their names.

but i thought i'd use it in the context of astrology and how most people are subconsciously given names that reflect their nakshatras

ex: Angelina Jolie

the name Angelina is an expansion of Angela which is derived from the Greek word Angelos which means "Angel" or "messenger". Angelina has Revati Moon which is a deva ("godly" nakshatra) and Jolie is the French word for "pretty" and Angelina has Venus in 1h and is Pushya Rising (these were two of the biggest beauty indicators according to Claire's research)

(its so cute to me that her name is literally Angel Pretty bc damn right she is)

Yara Shahidi (Revati Moon)- Yara is the name of a water spirit and in Portuguese it means "Water lady" (Yara has stated that her name means one who is close to your heart, but names can have several different meanings) and Shahidi means "witness" in Persian. I feel like all of that really ties together with Revati being in pisces rashi and the last nakshatra that is "witness" to everything else etc

#astrology notes #sidereal astrology #astrology observations #vedic astro notes #nakshatras #astro notes #astrology #vedic astrology #astroblr #astro observations #astro community #12h #jyotish #pisces #punarvasu

351 notes · View notes

nonuniverse-tarot · 5 months ago

Text

What They Wish They Would've Told You, In Your Latest Encounter

*All my readings are for 18+ regardless of the nature of the reading. If you're below 18, then this reading is not for you. Thank you for understanding.*

What they wished they've told you, that last time you saw each other! And why they didn't!

J. K. L.

The two oracle cards are from the Shadows and Light Oracle.

First Card: 27 Stranger Valentine - Love is strange!

Second Card: 2 Fairy of the Divine Hand - Intoxication, distorted view, overindulgence!

In your last encounter with the person on your mind could've been at night or a topic of conversation could've been about stars or the sky. Maybe it was more like the atmosphere around the two of you felt like you were stay gazing.

They were feeling so connected with you. The conversation was so nice. I keep hearing 'just so... Nice.'

You guess see eye to eye in a lot of things and they feel - their intuition tells them - that it's real. You're not agreeing with the things they say, just so they like you or to keep the peace and vise versa. This connection has a real foundation.

But they feel inferior or unavailable to you in some way. I feel like you know in what area your person feels this way. In your persons eyes, you have more experience or knowledge in something, and they think they're not on your level and won't be able to get on your level because they don't have time to level up or evolve. They see you shining so bright, not even light pollution could dim you!

While the two of you were together, they might've been quieter or more pensive that usual. There's an ongoing problem in their life, that they don't want you to know about. Being with you, in person, and then going back to what awaits them when you leave, is a huge change. Night to day. This ongoing problem of theirs, has a clear solution, but they don't take it, because they don't have proof that they'll be okay. It's their problem to solve, not yours.

This person, didn't want to say anything that was going through their mind. It doesn't feel like they truly wish they've said anything. They did want to talk about certain topics, but forgot it weren't sure if you would be okay/interested.

They have a lot of live for you, where it's romantic, platonic, or familiar, they love you so so so much! (Side note - they think you are so much for attractive than them.)

Songs: summertime - cinnamons, evening cinema | Rock Me - One Direction | Let's Fall in Love for the Night - FINNEAS

The two oracle cards are from the Shadows and Light Oracle.

First Card: 2 Fairy of the Divine Hand - Intoxication, distorted view, overindulgence!

Second Card: 10 Eclipse Mermaid - A powerful energy shift!

To start, I had the taste of raisins when I was clarifying some cards. You or them could have been eating them the last time you were together, or one of you like raisins.

Your person didn't say the the following things, because they felt like it was crossing a boundary. If this is romantic, you might have a partner or they think you're taken or simply not interested in them. If this isn't the case, they don't want you to think they're showing off about how much better they are and how shitty you are. It's not that.

What they wish they've told you: they are not heartbroken anymore. They've learned from the past and have let go of their hurt. Your person, isn't suffering nor overthinking about the past. The past involving you and the past that has nothing to do with you.

They are so at peace in general. Even if you hear them complaining about an aspect of their life, they know everything works in their favor because they allow for that to happen now. Surprisingly enough, their heart and mind work together, and not against each other. Your person is very hush hush about their accomplishments and goals because they don't want to risk having you think that they think less of you. To them, the two of you are at the same level and they don't want you to feel like that isn't the case.

The four of wands doesn't leave me alone! In a good way but wow I was about to move onto the next pile but it just wants to talk! This also including them celebrating accomplishments, but it also has to do with you. I don't think you and your person are in a relationship. I'll explain later on, but they have fantasied about marrying you and how your life together would look like. Again, you could be in a relationship, or they think you aren't into them, so they rather die than ever admit this!

The two of you don't know everything about each other. Your connection with each other is strong, the two of you feel that, but barely now, or in the near future, you're getting to know one another.

Weird message but, you and them, your eyes make you see things that aren't there.

Your person sees that you might not be interest in them, but they feel the way you look at them and how at times you get nervous.

You see that your person has so many more options to choose from, but you feel how their eyes are only on you.

This goes without saying, but the person you're asking about, is most likely romantic and have a huge crush on you. This reading wasn't about that, but here ya go!

You two try not to cause any gossip about the other. I feel like you don't talk about this person to others and if you do, they are sUPER trustworthy and close to you.

Songs: favorite - Isabel LaRosa | The Vuelvo a Ver - Kany Garcia | Scrawny - Wallows

The two oracle cards are from the Shadows and Light Oracle.

First Card: 14 Marie Masquerade - Glamour, intrigue, drama

Second Card: 42 Ghosts of the Past - The past returns for a time...

Straightforward person that you're asking about! A little side message - there's been a lot of gossip about you being thrown around by old/past friends of yours. You two might have friends in common and have heard the gossip first hand. Most of it, is exaggerated and comes from a place of envy, so nothing for you to worry about. You don't have any connection with the people gossiping.

Now, your person has observed how you have evolved! You might've recently cut off these 'friends' recently, or they think/see how well you've been doing since cutting them off.

This person has seen you at your worst and now they get to witness you at your best! Secure, confident, just thriving in general.

They didn't say anything because they didn't want to put you on the put/make you feel uncomfortable. People from the past could've been around you when you last encountered the person you're asking about, that is why they didn't want to put unnecessary attention on you. If that isn't the case, then they didn't want to bring up unpleasant memories.

They're really happy to see you like this and they think there's only more good things coming your way. This connection feels like an old friend, an ex, or a family member you haven't seen in a while. Whoever this person is, could've hurt you in the past, or didn't do anything to help you. It doesn't have to be the case, but I do see them just observing you from afar, just standing there. I feel this huge distance from you to them, but closeness from them to you.

Now in the present, they don't engage much in the gossip. For some of you, this person 'defends' you in their way by changing the topic or bringing someone else to gossip about. I don't feel like you're close friends with them, let alone in a relationship.

Message for some - they have a burner account that they stalk you with, or just check up on you once in a while. Some of you have them blocked, so they decided to make that account. You might be ble to spot them based on their profile pic. Something to do with light, sparkles, sun, stars, dark colors, an eye human or animal.

For MANY of you, this person misses you and wants to reconnect. While going through songs, MOST of the songs had to do with missing someone, having history with them, but i have a feeling you already know that, so I decided to pick songs that resonated with how they see you/how they think you see them. These are the songs that came up if you wanna know: Dancing with your ghost - Sasha Alex Sloan | History - One Direction | you could start a cult - Niall Horan | Everywhere - Niall Horan.

Songs: Out Of My System - Louis Tomlinson | golden retriever boy - KiNG MALA | Cheerleader - Ashnikko

I hope you liked the reading! I've received such lovely messages regarding the readings so I just want to say thank you! You have no idea hoe happy I am knowing that they resonate and help you!! More reading will be coming up soon ❤❤❤

#tarot #tarot reading #pick a card #pick a pile #pick an image

120 notes · View notes

sweetflanfiction · 5 months ago

Text

Asymetrical Symphony - Part 25

Universe: Arcane (LOL)

Pairing: Viktor x reader

Summary: You had been on the rooftop with Jayce and the Herald and somehow you were sent to a place where things can be different with your help

Disclaimers and Warnings: If you want me to tag you on the chapters let me know! Also leave a comment with your thoughts :D Not finished, not proofread. English isn't my 1st language. All I know about LOL is from google and all I know about Arcane is taken from the show, so inacuracies will be plenty. I have a sort of idea on how to I'm gonna go with magic and runes, so bear with me. The reader will be written as GN (going by they/them) to get everyone involved, but if you see any discrepancies let me know

A.N: I'm sorry for the delay. Unfortunately life gets in the way of these things!

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6 • Part 7 • Part 8 • Part 9 • Part 10 • Part 11 • Part 12 • Part 13 • Part 14 • Part 15 • Part 16 • Part 17 • Part 18 • Part 19 • Part 20 • Part 21 • Part 22 • Part 23 • Part 24

• ··········· • ············ •

The trip down to the Entresol level was far easier than the one you just did. Get on the ascensor. Get off. Welcome to Zaun.

The undercity was very similar to what you remembered in your dimension, even though you hadn’t spent a long time there. Dark, chaotic, and yet in the chaos there was beauty. People shouting back and forth, vehicles coming and going, lights reflecting on colored glass panes.

Once upon another timeline, after Viktor became hexed and started his commune, you became a common guest in it. Helping him do things and reach higher, do better...improve…evolve. He would find ways to get you to the commune quickly and safely; most of them wouldn’t have you pass through the streets of Zaun. And if by any chance you’d need to, he’d get someone to accompany you.

No…he wouldn’t get someone…He would make someone.

It was hard to try and distinguish what was made out of love and what was made out of fawning. He wanted you in the commune, whether because he cared or because he needed more evolved; you didn’t know. But looking back at all the gestures he did, all the little smiles and touches, it was hard to imagine him, at that time, doing it for love. It was a means to an end. Much like the hex angel he had sent after you.

A tap on your shoulder snapped you violently out of your thoughts, so much so that you had to grab your chest to keep your quickening heart from exploding.

“Gods, Viktor.” You breathed. “Scared the shit out of me.”

“We have been walking for 10 minutes.” He sounded confused. “Where were you?”

“Far.” You looked at him, and he had a concerned look on his face. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. As long as you come back.”

“I’ll try.”

“We are here.”

You had stopped in front of a two-story building. It was thin and tall, and it looked like it had been pulled up by the roof disproportionately. The broken window on the ground floor showed the dancing shadows of an abandoned store, with half-empty shelves and dust shimmering there. The other two floors had two square windows to the street but only a faint light coming out of them. The door to the living quarters was ajar, and despite looking neglected on the outside, clothes were hanging on the windows, and on the last floor, there was a little parapet with some plants on it.

“There.” Viktor pointed to the first-floor window. “That was my bedroom.”

You looked up where he was pointing and smiled. There was a purple curtain there, and you wondered if that was there when he was.

“And that was the living room.” He pointed to the window next to the other.

Viktor had a melancholic air to him. A sort of haziness in his eyes as he remembered those times. You kept quiet, letting him reminisce.

“You want to go up?” You said when he sighed with finality.

“No. There is probably someone living there.” He turned around to walk further down the artificially lit streets.

You silently followed him through the streets, watching the stalls and the stores start to get customers. You knew danger lurked around every shadow, especially with the chembarons running amok, but right now it seemed calm and safe…safe-ish.

One thing that surprised you, though, was the sound above the sounds. Above the cacophony of the undercity, there were whispers and buzz like a layer of frenzied talk about the frenzy. Several times you’d pause and look back when something whispered in your ear. It didn’t feel evil or angry. It was playful, like a child touching your shoulder only to hide away.

“Is everything alright?” Viktor asked, and you nodded.

“I’ll explain later. Rune related.”

He paused and looked back at the building that was once his home and then at the intersection where you were both standing. In front was a metal bridge, a path to the left towards more buildings, and a metal stairway to the right.

“It’s there.” He pointed to a small location on a metal landing on a lower level.

“More stairs!”

“Zaun’s architecture is vertical.” He spat out, limping towards the steps.

You walked beside him, keeping a close eye on him. He held to the thin railing, and between that and his crutch, you both made your way down slowly but safely.

“As you can guess...” He adjusted his aid and straightened up. “It was fun for me growing up.”

The layer of sarcasm in the sentence was as thick as the fog that rolled above.

“Between the lungs and the bones, I was a regular at the playground…if there had been any playgrounds…”

There was resentment in his voice, but not anger. He wanted the best for the Undercity, even after it had pushed him aside. He knew, the same as you or your mother, that the betterment of Zaun would be the betterment of everyone who lived in it. Whether they were healthy or not.

“Would you ever consider coming back?” You expected a resounding and quick no since that had been the answer given to you by his cosmic twin, but once again the thoughtful silence told you how different they were.

“Yes, if that’s a decisive factor in the improvement of people's lives here, I would.” There was no doubt in his tone.

“Sounds like you’ve thought this over.”

“Heh. It is where I was born; I will always love it. No matter what it becomes.” His head nodded forward, and you saw your target location coming up.

The store window was bright with orange and yellow lights, reminding you of a lit fireplace. The black-trimmed glass panes with gentle curves made it welcoming, and the array of colorful packages and signs made it even more appealing to the eye. But what made you look at the small store was the symbol on the sign. It was the fire rune, mirrored and delicately decorated with leaves and flowers.

“My mother used to come here.” He recalled once more. “I liked the little candy they had for coughs and the muscle cream too.”

You smiled at him and walked inside, his presence close behind you. The little voices and sounds from what you thought were the arcane became a little louder as you approached the store, but they quickly became silent as the bell signaling a customer entrance rang.

The inside of the store was warm and smelled of dried leaves and soothing balms. The dark wooden shelves were filled with paper packets, glass bottles, and tin cans with various colorful labels. The decorations, the advertisements, and even the rug on the floor were old and raggedy, but it gave the place a cozy feeling.

“Hello. Welcome to Fireside Elixirs and Medicines. My name is Elysium. How can I help you?”

Elysium smiled and brightened up the room as they placed their hands on the glass counter. They were wearing a baggy cream-colored wool sweater with a flowery detail embroidered in it, under a pair of green overalls. Their sleeves were rolled up, and his arms were filled with flowery and leafy tattoos.

“Alena sent us,” Viktor announced after the door closed, and Elysium's smile got bigger.

“Oh, yes! You must be the hex-head and the heir.”

You tried to bite back a laugh but failed when you glanced at Viktor’s confused face. His eyes blinking, eyebrows furrowed, and his mouth trying to come up with a reply.

“That’s us.” You waved, and they nodded.

“I’ve got what you asked for here.” Elysium walked to the back of the store, waiting for them to follow.

“What did you ask for?” Viktor mumbled as he followed you, the wooden floor from the apothecary creaking.

“Old records of old customers...” you whispered back as Elysium opened the door to a small storage room and office space.

The small round table in the middle was filled with cardboard boxes, and those boxes were filled with notebooks and binders with papers of different sizes and colors inside. It was literally a mess of papers and books and dust bunnies.

“It’s all I could find, and Janna knows if that’s all of it.”

“I just wanted a list of clients…” you stuttered, surprised at the number of boxes and sheets.

“Yup…those are it. 90 years worth.” Elysium patted you on the back. “If you need me, I'll be right there.”

They pointed to a small corner couch that had an open sketchbook and some pencils next to it. You nodded, still a bit shocked.

Viktor was already inside the office, looking around the boxes, grabbing the lightest ones, and placing them on the floor.

“Do you still sell the rosehip tea?” Viktor asked quietly, Why did you finally accept your fate?

Elysium nodded curiously while you looked at both of them.

“I would like to buy some.” They nodded again, moving to get him his tea. “Do you perhaps have a kettle here?”

“Not here, but I can get you some hot water.” Both of you realized at the same time what the scientist wanted to do.

“That would be appreciated. Thank you.”

The storekeeper nodded again and turned around, probably to find the tea and the water. You shifted your gaze to Viktor, who was now fishing for something out of his satchel.

“Rosehip tea?” you asked, mimicking his movements from before, picking up some of the heavier boxes.

“It is good for joints and inflammation.” He explained, taking out a small leather coin purse, a notebook, and a pen with a colorful top.

“You believe in that?”

…someone else didn’t…

“I believe in anything that might help me. If anything, the human mind is very susceptible to the placebo effect.” He sat down in a chair, starting to undo his brace, sighing in relief once it was free.

Both of you sat down at the table as you started by picking a box and trying to make heads and tails of the boxes.

Viktor was a pro, quickly grabbing everything out of one box and making piles for each size of paper sheet and note and then making another pile with the whole notebooks. You started to follow his lead, adding papers and notebooks to the piles.

Elysium would come around at certain points throughout the morning, bringing the water for the tea and two mismatched cups. It was clear the shop still had some customers, the bell ringing from time to time and Elysium’s calm voice helping them out.

By the time lunch came around, you had made your way through a couple of boxes, and both looked proud when their new acquaintance whistled, impressed.

“I’m starting to think we should pay you for this.” They joked, leaning into the doorway.

“No need. It is quite…relaxing.” Viktor quickly blurted, and you snorted in disagreement.

“Please forgive him. He’s usually knee-deep in chaos.” You grabbed your backpack.

“Well, it’s food time. If you guys want to come, I’m going to a little stall down the street.” Elysium grabbed his satchel bag and waited for your answers.

You both nodded in sync and made your way out the door.

“Alena told me you are interested in the magic symbols. Can I ask why?” Elysium asked, slurping his noodles.

“I am researching them for my studies.” Viktor quickly blurted it out before you could even open your mouth.

“For hextech?”

“No. Personal.”

“That’s awesome!!”

“What do you know about them?” You asked, setting the spoon down and leaning over the serving shelf of the food stall.

“Urban legend. Mom warned me about the old man with magic, that he would come and take me if I got into trouble.”

Viktor nudged your knee with his own, and you looked at him. He raised his eyebrows, and you nodded, acknowledging that the shopkeeper had the same experience as Viktor.

“Did your grandparents see him too?”

“Not my grandparents…my great uncle.” Elysium finished his food and pushed the bowl aside. “He once saw him near the lanes, just looking.”

“Did he talk to him?” Viktor asked, also pushing his food aside and grabbing a small tray with a little fried round pastry layered with sugar and cinnamon.

“But he would see him there almost every day. Gr’uncle thought he was a ghost most of the time, and he was scared of ghosts.” They gave you a sad smile. “Later in life he became…sick…mentally…he’d forget things and see things, and we couldn't tell what was real or what was his imagination.”

“Was it the mines?” Viktor asked, plopping the sugar bomb into his mouth.

“Probably…or the gray. Or both.”

The air turned solemn, the three of you contemplating the lives of the citizens of the Undercity. They had been forgotten by the council; every piece of comfort they had been given by them was performative. Sure, Councilor Kiramman funded and made the pipes that expelled the gray from the city, but in the end, there was always a blade above these people's neck. You knew this because you saw it. Caytlin only needed to turn a key, and the toxic gas was once more weaponized against them.

Every time someone tried to do good…actual good for the people of Zaun, there were hurdles and committees and just unenthusiastic talks about why they needed actual schools for children in Zaun; meanwhile, Piltover prided itself on the education of its citizens.

Heimerdinger had been right when he told the boys back then about security, and when they told you, you were just as outraged as they were. Now though? Now you know that Hextech indeed needs some security precautions. Against Piltover's need to stomp on their lower city mostly.

Zaun was dangerous; the shadows were sometimes death sentences, but they had been left to fend for themselves. Enforcers weren’t policing the bad guys here; they were just making sure the cages were locked.

It angered you that you had been blind to most of it. Even to the point of not giving a shit about it. Your ivory tower was way too high for you to see the people down below. Until you were dragged into it. Sure, it was by a hexed Viktor, but the experiences were all real, the people who wandered into the commune, their stories.

And even though the means he used were flawed, he tried to help them. Only to be the one who would fatally use them.

“It was evolution, my dear friend. The betterment of ourselves only leads to the betterment of our surroundings.” Viktor's mechanical voice snapped you out of your thoughts. He was right there…in your ear.

“Are you alright?” Elysium asked, stopping the animated conversation they were having with Viktor. You're Viktor.

“Yeah…sorry! Just thinking about the boxes back at the store.” You looked at your gloved hands. “I can’t feel the tips of my fingers.”

“I think we can start to decipher the clients with what we have now, and perhaps tomorrow we could investigate those.” Viktor grabbed a paper bag with grease stains from the man in the stall. It was filled with the sugary fried pastries he had been eating. “When we exhaust all of those people, we go back for more.”

“Sounds like a game plan.” Elysium nodded as if he was the one who was going to do it.

“It does.” You looked back at the shopkeeper. “You’re going to help us with this?”

“Ah! No. That’s all you.”

You groaned as they laughed, patting your shoulder in solidarity with your exasperation.

What you had thought was going to be a day of exploration turned out to be a day of tracking people through receipts, prescriptions, and old notes made by at least two generations of Alena’s family.

Luckily, once Elysium announced the shop was closing, Viktor groaned, apparently enjoying this methodical work, and you let out a relieved moan.

Elysium handed Viktor a tin with more rosehip tea and bid you both goodbye. It wasn’t late, but the air was starting to become even more chilly.

• ··········· • ············ •

@marshy-moo @victormydarling @blueesmiski @th3stup1dcat @22carolina08 @httpstes @that-one-shitty-blog @disa-pointment @sseleniaa @kitewa @moons-lighttrail @aysluxe @fae-doodle @local-mr-frog @bakusquadobsessed @cherry-cola-100 @optimistic-but-very-realistic @seeksrsnn @thecordelialetters @notsaelty @lansy-4 @ayupfrogg @sammypotato @wnbrw @lucycarlisleswife @noxturnalmoth @ren-ren23 @furblrwurblr @kapitankarate @mynicknameisgasoline @octo-octopie @birbwithhat @kneelarmhstrung @dedicated2viktor @elvishstudies @iamfandomnerd @jazzypop-op @jojo-at-heart

#arcane #viktor #arcane viktor #viktor x reader #arcane x reader #viktor arcane #viktor arcane x reader #slow burn #viktor x you #viktor x y/n #arcane viktor x reader #viktor league of legends #arcane season 2 #arcane x you #arcane reader

112 notes · View notes

brian-in-finance · 6 months ago

Text

Photo courtesy of Caitríona Balfe

Caitríona Balfe on the final season of Outlander

The multi award-nominated actress on leaving behind her career-defining role in the hit series

If I was talking to Caitríona Balfe in the early noughties, the focus of our conversation would have taken on a completely different flavour. This was Balfe’s heyday as one of the most sought-after models of her generation. After being scouted, aged 18, while collecting money for charity at her local shopping centre in her native Ireland, she almost immediately became a mainstay of fashion month, opening and closing shows for high-fashion juggernauts including Chanel, Givenchy, Moschino and Louis Vuitton.

But mention Caitríona Balfe now and most will immediately reference one thing: Outlander.

The Starz show, based on the series of books by Diana Gabaldaon has become a cult series, beloved by fans worldwide. It follows the journey of Balfe’s Claire Randall, a former WW2 nurse in post-war Scotland, who finds herself thrust back in time to the highlands of the 18th century. The hugely popular show is currently broadcasting the second part of its penultimate season and the cast has just wrapped shooting the very final series. It will mark the conclusion of more than a decade of Balfe’s professional life as an actress.

“It’s been such a strange year,” Balfe admits, calling me from London, where she lives with her husband, the band manager Tony McGill, and their young son. “Knowing that it was coming to an end, we all definitely felt heightened emotions at various times throughout the process. Finishing up was so emotional.” After the show’s final days, both Balfe and her co-star Sam Heughan embarked on solo, somewhat spiritual, adventures. “I went away and did a yoga and meditating retreat and Sam's about to go on a trek in the Himalayas,” she says. “I think we're all finding something to put our energy into. That's a very long-winded way of saying, 'I think I'm OK!'”

Photo courtesy of Starz

The role of Claire Beauchamp Randall Fraser is, one might say, the role of a lifetime – or several in fact. Balfe’s decade-plus relationship with Claire has been an actor’s gift, allowing her to traverse time periods and cross the genres of period drama, action, war and fantasy epics. The emotional arc alone has stretched Balfe’s artistic muscles such that she has been laden with plaudits, including Golden Globe and Bafta nominations, throughout the show’s run.

“My relationship with Claire has completely evolved over the years,” she says. “In the beginning, you were filling in all of these blank spaces of her history and her memories and then, as the years went on, you're living it, you're creating them in real time. And so, in a way, you know, without sounding weird, she lives within you. I think more than anything what I realised is, for me, personally, what an amazing teacher Claire has been.”

Indeed, before taking on the role in 2013, Balfe might perhaps have been known as that loaded phrase ‘model-turned-actress’ – with largely just an uncredited role in The Devil Wears Prada and a small part in Spielberg’s Super 8 – to her name. Yet Balfe’s talent in Outlander is unavoidable, right from her earliest appearances. “Oh my resumé was so short and sweet before Outlander,” she says, laughing. “But the great thing about this genre is that it can be so many different things, and it has been so many different things. So as an actor I've been brought to a really incredible depth of emotion.”

And there is much, Balfe says, that Claire taught her on a personal level. “She taught me how to be responsible, taught me how to use my voice, how to stand up for myself and for other people, about compassion and empathy,” she says, pausing – already sounding slightly nostalgic. “I hope I brought some of those qualities into it, anyway.”

Claire taught me how to use my voice and how to stand up for myself.

Photo courtesy of Starz

If Outlander was the perfect advertisement for Balfe’s considerable talent, it was the 2021 film Belfast that gave her recognition on an unprecedented level. She received a Bafta and Golden Globe nomination for her role as Ma in Kenneth Brannagh’s critically acclaimed film. It served as a reminder that, really, Balfe’s acting is only getting better and bolder. Between breaks in Outlander, she took roles in the films Ford v Ferrari, Money Monster and The Cut and next spring will see her opposite Rami Malek in The Amateur.

She has avowed to take a break following her decade of Scottish time travel, but after having directed an episode of the show, this may prove another new direction for the multi-talented Balfe. “I was asking our producers for a little bit if I could, and in season seven, I got the opportunity to do some second unit stuff,” she recalls. “That was amazing as a first foray into it. When I got to do a whole episode, it was just so much fun, so I would love to do more.”

“I am going to try and have an actual break though,” she says, sighing. “And then I have a project I'm trying to write myself…” She won’t be drawn on more, so I ask what legacy she thinks her landmark series will have left. “Honestly,” she says, “I think the thing I'm the proudest of is that after 11 years, we're all really great friends, and we all have such a love for each other. There are just so many amazing moments I will cherish.”

Outlander S7 Part 2 is now available to watch on MGM+ in the UK & on Starz in the US.

Harper’s Bazaar

Remember… I think more than anything what I realised is, for me, personally, what an amazing teacher Claire has been. — Caitríona Balfe

#Tait rhymes with hat #Good times #Outlander #Harper’s Bazaar #18 December 2024 #Thanks sunsetmagic85

54 notes · View notes

discokicks · 2 years ago

Text

BAD IDEAS (ON THE SAME PAGE) — JAMIE TARTT

a fic inspired by bad idea right by olivia rodrigo!

masterlist! song inspo! AO3!

pairing: jamie tartt x fem!reader (no use of y/n!)

summary: football star jamie tartt is an asshole. he’s the one ex of yours that your friends always hated, one that you now all joke about, and one you haven’t spoken to in four years. however, after a chance encounter, the two of you reconnect, and he leaves you with his new number and a hundred questions about his reformed personality. but seeing him tonight would be a bad idea, right?

word count & rating: 11k (wowza), M! (18+! minors get away or i’ll narc on you to your guardians)

warnings: SMUUUUUUT, porn with plot, lots of suggestive language, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, sprinkling of a handjob, unprotected p in v (wrap it up kids), angst, mentions of alcohol, probable secondhand embarrassment, exes reuniting (it needs a warning sometimes), jamie tartt was an asshole and is now just a prick (in the best way possible), reader is a physio, major fluff, and swearing. also reader is american (bc the author is too. sorry </3)

authors note: well. i wrote it. olivia wrote this song for teenage girls in their twenties (me) only and i immediately thought of this fic the second i heard it. i'm calling this an exercise in smut writing before i embark on my aces (my roy kent series for my new friends) eventual-smut-adventure, so this evolved into something i wasn’t expecting but i had so much fucking fun writing it. god, i love jamie tartt. also! this is my first smut fic at this type of level, so go easy on me. hope you all enjoy. love you all tons! -mags

There are two universal truths in life.

The first is that the coffee shop you frequent on your way to work will and will always have the best cold brew you’ve ever tasted. The second is that Jamie Tartt will and will always be a massive fucking prick, and you’ll never see him again for as long as you live.

These are two things you live by, and while they may seem rather mundane or petty in the grand scheme of things, they are the only truths you can count on these days. Especially when everything else is so up in the air.

However, the universe doesn’t seem to believe in these things as blindly as you do, and this becomes evident the moment that you step into the shop on a gloomy Wednesday morning. Because these two truths (well, they’re fucking bald-faced lies now aren’t they, huh?) are broken within approximately two minutes of each other with seven words.

It began when you greeted Natalia, the barista who was here every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday before your shift at the clinic with a wide smile. As soon as she saw your face, her expression turned apologetic, albeit a bit dazed.

“You’re gonna hate me,” she says, putting her hands on either side of the register. Your brows shot up at her words. “We just ran out of cold brew.”

Your face falls. “You’re kidding.”

“We were low on it this morning,” she starts to explain, “our stupid night-shifters didn’t prep enough last night. And it’s been selling like crazy today.”

“Seriously?” you nearly whine. “I might cry.”

“I’m sorry, Doc,” she apologizes, but she doesn’t sound too apologetic. Natalia’s eyes keep shifting to your left, the dazed look in her eye never faltering. Then, she says the fated seven words. “But he took the last of it.”

You turn your head in the direction she’s been looking, and your blood runs completely cold. You think you could drop dead and go to hell at this very moment, and it’d be a better existence than what awaits you in the next five minutes. And while this all may sound dramatic, you don’t care.

You don’t care because Jamie fucking Tartt is standing across from you, newly long hair peeking out from beneath his hood. He’s engrossed in whatever’s on his phone, fingers flying back and forth like he’s texting.

You think you could run. You’re pretty sure you could successfully make a break for it and leave Natalia high and dry without him seeing you. It’d be an easy exit, and you’d never have to see him again.

But then, as if he can feel your eyes on him, he looks up. And the second he meets your gaze, his face falls in what you can imagine was a similar fashion to yours.

Fuck.

Luckily, Natalia is none the wiser. She barely notices your expression, and with Jamie by the pick-up area, she can’t see the way he’s looking at you. So, instead of questioning you, she straight-up giggles.

“I know,” she practically squeals. “I was totally going to save you the last of it, but he asked for it. And I mean, c’mon. It’s Jamie Tartt. I couldn’t possibly say no to him.”

You tragically know that feeling all too well. Knowing you probably would have had a snappier, more cutting response to that if you weren’t in the most debilitating phase of shock, you settle for a quiet, “It’s okay.” You nod at her, brushing it off in an attempt to be casual. “I can settle for an espresso today.”

Natalia nods, tapping it into her register. “Same size as usual?”

“Yeah,” you say, not completely sure what you’re agreeing to. You glance over again at Jamie and find that he’s still standing there, staring at you, and you immediately blink away. “That’s fine.”

The rest of the transaction feels as though it takes a millennium and three seconds all at once. You’re still caught off guard by the time Natalia gives you your receipt with a dazed look in your eye that now matches hers.

However, yours isn’t because you just saw your favorite Richmond player or your favorite reality show villain. It’s because you’ve just seen your ex-boyfriend and you’re about to walk over and stand next to him for a prolonged period of time.

Nothing about this scenario feels real. You hadn’t seen him in four years. Not since things ended as ugly as they had, with him leaving you sobbing outside of a club at three in the morning, letting you know that things were over between you two. And he hadn’t even given you a reason. It was just that he wasn’t ‘feeling’ it anymore.

You saw in a tabloid about three months later that he was now seeing Keeley Jones (yeah, having to compete with that did not sit well with you at all) and had drawn your assumptions from there. Whether or not he’d been seeing her behind your back or had broken up with you to be with her, you didn’t know. You didn’t care. You were in your anger stage of the break-up and only knew one thing.

Jamie Tartt was a massive fucking prick, and you’d sooner walk on a bed of nails before you saw him again.

But now here he was. And there were no nails to be found.

You avoid eye contact as you pass him to wait for your coffee. There’s a piece of you that wants to say hi and play it cool, just to put on a show for him about how unaffected you were by everything that had happened. The other piece of you hopes that not a word is said for your entire time here.

Unfortunately, neither of those happen.

Jamie slides over to be near you, awkwardly rocking back and forth on his heels. His hands are stuffed in his sweatshirt pocket, and you wait for him to say something. Anything. But he doesn’t.

Instead, you can feel the ‘play it cool’ part of you rise up to the surface. You could do this. You could feign indifference. Fuck him, you could be cool.

You glance over at him and see that he’s pressing his lips together, eyes shifting around the coffee shop. It’s crazy how familiar you still are with his tells to know he’s desperately looking for a way to say something.

You say it for him. “Hi,” you say simply. Cool and unaffected.

It’s as if the one word alone makes him flinch. He clearly wasn’t expecting you to say anything. “Hi—” He clears his throat after his greeting comes out cracked, and he stuffs his hands further in his pockets. “Hey.”

The awkwardness of this moment is killing you, and it’s taking everything in you to pretend like it's not. As you search for something else to say, you land on, “You took my cold brew.”

You can see his brows shoot up out of the corner of your eye. “Oh, fuck, did I?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah,” you tell him. “I come in here every morning. Friends with the barista. Said she was going to save me the last of it, but…” You trail off and finally look at him. “She couldn’t say no to Jamie Tartt, apparently.”

You want to jump up and down about how well you’re doing right now. Maybe you are over him. Maybe you’ve finally moved past this shit, and seeing him once more is all you needed to solidify that. Maybe—

The second he chuckles softly with an apologetic smile, your confidence in those things shoots down. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“Since when do you drink cold brew, anyway?” you ask, frustrated with the fact that he’s fucking laughing in front of you. “You were always a like, caramel macchiato or frappuccino asshole.”

The names make him laugh harder, shaking his head. “Don’t like those anymore,” he responds. “Sugar hurts me teeth. Tryin’ somethin’ new.”

“Yeah,” you mutter. “My fucking coffee.”

That chuckle continues with a shrug. “I’m sorry.” he says again. Then he pauses. “But it’s not like your name was on it, or anythin’.”

Your face draws blank, and immediately, Jamie can tell he’s made a misstep. And it’s not that you’re angry about the joke, it’s just the… everything. Him. The situation. Everything you can remember that you wonder if he bothers to remember too.

Before you can walk away, you feel his hand on your arm. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats for a third time, turning you so that you’ll look at him. Your pissed-off expression meets his easy smile and it only fuels your anger more. “I was jokin’. I’m sorry I took your coffee. We can get ‘em to put your name on it if you want.”

“Whatever,” you mutter. It’s not the most mature thing you could have said, but frankly, you don’t care. You just want to get your consolation espresso and get the hell out of here. “What are you even doing over here anyway?”

You’re not sure why you ask it. You don’t know why you keep the conversation going. Jamie looks just as surprised as you are. “I moved over here a couple weeks ago,” he answers. “Got sick of the old place.”

“Can’t imagine why,” you reply. By the way that Jamie snorts, you know he recalls just how much you hated his apartment when you knew him. It screamed twenty-two-year-old AFC-money shithead and you would tease him about it constantly. “Was the empty beer bottle sculpture finally giving you mold poisoning?”

He chuckles again. “That came down shortly after we stopped talking.”

“Oh, so I was just lucky enough to see it in its final days?”

“Oi,” he says, pointing at you. “That thing was fuckin’ impressive and you know it.”

“Impressive in a dorm,” you shoot back. “Not a seven million pound flat.”

He bows his head in a guilty manner. “You remember that, huh?”

“Hard not to,” you answer. “You never stopped talking about it.”

He at least has the decency to wince at that one. “I know,” he says earnestly. It makes you look at him. He shrugs once more. “I wanted to impress ya.”

He did impress you. But not with things like that. He’d impress you when you watched him play, he’d impress you when he made you laugh, and he’d impress you on the rare occasion that he’d just be himself in front of you. Not some asshole footballer. Just him.

But you don’t say that. You say, “That wasn’t the way.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles mirthlessly. “Got that now.” He rocks back on his heels again, like he’s not sure if he should say whatever he wants to. “I was a proper fucking dick to you, wasn’t I?”

That almost makes you fall over. Did he just say that? Did he actually just admit that? Out loud, here, for everyone to hear? Accountability? Unprompted? From Jamie Tartt?

You want to glance around to see if Rod Sterling’s going to emerge from the bathroom to narrate the next couple of minutes of your life, but are too shocked to do so.

Your surprise must show in your eyes, because Jamie laughs to himself. “Yeah. Wild, innit?” He shakes his head. “On a bit of an apology tour this year. Trying to build back some bridges, or whatever.”

The nod you give him is slow, still reeling from all of this. “Right,” you say lamely. “Building bridges.”

“I’m serious,” he tells you and for a brief moment, you think he may just mean it. The sincerity in his eyes is clear. “I was terrible to you. And I’m sorry.”

Whatever you were expecting when you stepped into this coffee shop on this rainy Wednesday, it certainly wasn’t this. And you certainly weren’t expecting your first time reuniting with him to go this way— with him apologizing to you. The actual words ‘I’m sorry’ just left his mouth.

You genuinely don’t know who this is. Because it’s certainly not the Jamie you knew.

You saw flashes of this guy. Quiet moments during your short-lived relationship, typically when it was just the two of you. It’s the type of guy you always knew he could be if he tried. The type of guy you pushed him to be.

(Your friends always taunted you about having the ever-horrendous I-can-fix-him gene, and they never quite let go of it. But it’s not like it wasn’t true.)

Those flashes are why you held out for as long as you did. If it were anyone else, any other asshole who treated you the way he did, you would have dropped them in a second. But he wasn’t like that. Not always, at least.

It was terrible to think like that. You’d been in a low spot when you’d met him and had taken even lower when he left you. You’d recovered tenfold from that and now knew your worth.

But as he stands in front of you, apologizing, genuinely apologizing, and looking at you like that, you start to question it.

No! the logical part of your brain practically screams. Don’t you fucking dare.

You’re keen to listen to that for the time being. It hardens you. And all you can do is nod at him again. “Well, uh—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You cough awkwardly. “Yeah. You were. Terrible to me. And, uh… thank you. For saying that.”

So much for playing it cool. You want to slam your head up against the wall but hold yourself back from doing so.

He nods at you, opening his mouth to say something else before he’s interrupted by one of the baristas calling your name. His cold brew’s sitting on the counter too, something the two of you clearly missed in the middle of your conversation.

When you reach for your drink, he grabs his too. He’s still staring at you, biting the inside of his cheek like he wants to say something. When you go to move around him, he stops you.

“Look, I just—” You look up at him expectantly, and his shoulders deflate. “I know you probably want nothin' to do with me. But, I just… I want to talk to you.”

Your espresso is hot in your hands. “Well, that sounds like a you problem.”

That’s when he says your name. Your actual name. Not the nickname that everyone calls you, not a pet name that he used to use, he says your name. And it makes you stop in your tracks.

It’s so stupid. It’s so fucking dumb that your fucking name can send you back to the day you first met him and were completely taken with him. You hate it. And you hate the way it makes your walls come crumbling down.

“Please,” he begs. “Can we… Can I at least give you my number? It’s a new one, but I-I think I’ve still got yours. You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to. But just so you can… I don’t know? Think about it?”

You wouldn’t know if he still had your number. You blocked him ages ago. But you doubt it.

However, the more you think about it, the more you consider it. It’s the product of your resolve falling and well, everything else about him now. You think about it.

If you allowed him to give you his number, the ball would be in your court. You could do what you wanted with it. You could text him, you could tell him to fuck off, you could ignore him. It was up to you.

And you don’t know if that’s worse or better.

You decide on better. The second you sigh, Jamie knows he’s got you. A wide grin breaks out on his face as you hand him your phone. “I’ll think about it,” you mutter.

That’s good enough for him. He gives your phone back to you, new number inserted and new contact created. You’re glad he didn’t search for his old one. That one just says ASSHOLE in big capital letters with about a million gun emojis.

(That was done by your previous roommates in an effort to get you to move on from him. You thought it was a bit overdramatic. You were never one for emojis.)

He’s smiling when he holds his coffee out for you. You stare at him blankly, thinking he’s attempting to cheers you. Instead, he shakes his head and says, “Take it.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“Trade with me,” he clarifies and your expression turns to one of shock. “C’mon. You said it’s yours anyway, right?” When you don’t move he rolls his eyes. “Offer’s only good for another second. Me arm’s getting tired.”

At that, you sigh rather dramatically and grumble to yourself, trying not to act pleased by the gesture. You hand him your coffee and he gives you his. “Thanks,” you say. It was kind of him.

His grin returns and he nods at you. “Alright,” he says. After a slightly awkward beat, he steps back from you. “It was good to see you, Doc. Really.” You’re taken back by how genuine his voice sounds and say nothing in return. “I’ll talk to you later?”

He says it as a question, hopeful and well-meaning. “Yeah,” you tell him noncommittally. “Maybe.”

That too, is good enough for him. Because he sends you one more smile, then walks out of the coffee shop with your espresso in hand.

You’re still reeling from the interaction when you glance down at his your cold brew and see Natalia’s handwriting. She’s made it just as you like it, down to the milk and everything.

But below it is a small drawing. It’s a tiny shark fin with a #9 written inside, with little lettering circling around it.

Doo-doo-do-doo-do-do-doo.

You’re fucked.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” is the question that your best friend and former roommate Leah screams at you over drinks at a busy rooftop bar. So busy, in fact, that barely anyone looks over at the two of you.

You’d made the mistake of telling Leah that not only had you run into Jamie on Wednesday, but you’d let him give you his number.

And you’d texted him after hours of deliberation.

It was something innocent, something you’d thought way too much about, but innocent still. You weren’t sure if you were ready to actually talk to him, but there was something about texting him that wasn’t so scary. Your guard was clearly still up, evident by how dry you were in your messages, and you were keeping your distance. You never texted back too quickly, didn’t ask many questions, and often left him on read.

(Yeah, you’d turned your read receipts on for him. What about it?)

Your first text was a simple enough question, something that you’d been genuinely wondering about since you saw him. It was open enough for a conversation but not too forward. how’d you know my coffee order?

His response came in minutes later. Is that yours? Good taste. It was shortly followed up with, That espresso you drink was fucking disgusting though.

And that was that. That was how you started texting your ex again. That’s how you reconnected yourself with Jamie Tartt. That’s how you knew it was over for you.

And that’s how you’re pretty sure you’re about to kill your best friend.

Leah’s eyes were wild, somehow angry yet still disbelieving yet intrigued. But the intrigue was very minimal. Very minimal. It was hidden well by how pissed off she was at you.

She had every right to be pissed at you. She was the one who always warned you about him. She’d straight-up nursed you back to health when you broke up. She was the one who had to hear about him 24 hours a day until you were finally over him.

Leah had had a year of peace. And now you were killing her for good.

“You’re kidding, right?” she follows up with. Her grip on your arm is tight. “Please tell me your kidding.”

“Leah…” Your voice is weak.

It tells her everything she needs to know. “Oh, my God! Oh, my. God.” She puts her face in her hands. “You’re insane. You’re fucking losing it and we need to have you checked out right now.”

“I’m completely sentient and in control of my own body.”

“Are you sure?”

You sip at your cocktail. “I reset a knee today. I’m pretty sure.”

“I think you might need to reconsider,” she says. “Because you just told me that not only are you talking to Jamie Tartt again, but you were the one who instigated it!”

You deserve this verbal beatdown and you know it. But all you can do is shrug. “Technically, he gave me his number. He’s the one who instigated it.”

“I’m gonna throw my fucking drink in your face,” Leah threatens, gripping her glass in warning.

You roll your eyes at her. “Nothing’s gonna happen,” you say, even though you know you’re probably lying. Leah knows this too. “We’ve just been texting a little. It’s nothing serious.”

“Yeah, sure,” she deadpans. “Right. And even if I did believe you, what happens if it does? What happens if you get back in your weird, scary Jamie phase and he kills you again? I can’t deal with that.”

“That’s not going to happen,” you assure her, and this time it’s more confident. Because you know you won’t. Not this time. Not if anything happens.

You’d met Jamie when you were twenty-two. You were in your first year of your Masters program, slightly lost as in your move to London to finish your journey to become a physical therapist. Or a physio, as they called it here. Whatever. You couldn’t keep up with the names.

You were shadowing a physio at the clinic you now worked at, assisting him as a part of your internship at one of the football tournaments the clinic worked at. It was a ton of big-wig footballers, some names you recognized, others you didn’t. But it didn’t matter. They were precious fucking cargo and you were so paranoid about screwing up that you barely registered who they were when you worked on them.

That was, until a twenty-two-year-old Jamie Tartt sprained his ankle and plopped himself down on your doctor’s bench. He looked at you, you assisted him, and you were wrapped up in what you were doing that you didn’t even notice he was flirting with you.

You didn’t realize until he asked you out. And the rest was history, for better or for worse.

You were surprised he went for you. You knew who Jamie was, what type of girls he liked to be seen with. They were singers and models and actresses. They weren’t you.

(Perhaps that’s one of the reasons you liked him so much. Because he chose you. You didn’t like to think about that phase of your life.)

But after six months of seeing him, he ended things out of nowhere. Right when you’d settled on the idea that despite it all, you might be in love with him. And that was that.

You hadn’t seen him since. Not until this week.

“Not gonna happen my ass,” Leah scoffs, bringing you back into the conversation at hand.

A sigh of frustration leaves your lips. “Listen, I know it’s a bad idea;” you tell her. “I know it is. But, I don’t know. There was something different about him, Leah. He was just… like not someone I recognized.”

“Maybe because his hair is fucking long and stupid now.” She brings her glass to her lips. “His highlights look horrendous.”

“I actually like his hair like this,” you admit, earning yet another eye roll. “Listen. I’m not saying he’s changed. He probably hasn’t. But I…” You trail off with a shrug. “I don’t know. What if he has?”

Leah’s looking at you like you’re the dumbest person she’s ever met in her life. “Are you hearing yourself right now?” she asks incredulously. “Babe, he was a prick to you. Like, category-five, prestige-level twat. Like, worst boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

“I know,” you repeat. “And I said nothing’s going to happen. But if it does, and it goes south, I give you full permission to say I-told-you-so for the rest of my life, alright?”

Leah bites the inside of her cheek, shaking her head. “Whatever,” she says. After a moment, she glances over at you. “I’m just looking out for you, y’know. I don’t want to see you hurt again. And I definitely don’t want him to be the reason for that hurt again.”

You grab her hand. “I know,” you say once more. “And I love you for it. But if I’m gonna be stupid, I’m fully aware of when I’m gonna do it. And it’s gonna be my own fault.”

There’s a moment of silence between the two of you before Leah nods. “Okay,” she finally says. “Okay. Fine. Your fucking funeral.”

“I’ll let you give the eulogy and allow you to call me a dumb bitch for ten minutes straight.”

“Sold,” Leah says, pointing at you. That slight intrigue you previously saw in her eye returns. “Okay, now that I’ve yelled at you, you need to tell me everything.”

And so you do. You tell her how he took your coffee, how you nearly threw up the second you saw him, how you played it cool until you didn’t. How he apologized to you. Joked around with you. Apologized some more. And then he gave you his coffee.

You despise how excited you sound about it. Again, you’re trying to play it cool, but the people that know you the best can always see right through you. You’re excited about it. Excited about him.

It’s a bad idea to be excited about him.

It’s a bad idea to look down at your phone after you and Leah order another drink. Your heart stops when you see he’s texted you.

It’s a bad idea to open the message when Leah excuses herself to go to the bathroom. What are you up to tonight?

It’s past midnight on a Saturday and he’s texting you. It’s still preseason for him, so he might be drunk, he may not be. You’re three drinks deep and aren’t sure if you are.

It’s a bad idea to respond to him. getting drinks with a friend. You keep it dry.

It’s a bad idea to not look down at your phone until you finish the drinks you ordered. Because now, you’re definitely drunk and looking at it all with new eyes.

Would you want to hang out tonight? No pressure.

It’s a bad idea to consider it.

But it’s a worse idea to agree.

text me your new address. i can be there by 1:30.

Before you know what you’re doing, you’re knocking on Jamie’s door, intertwining your fingers together when you realize you’re shaking.

The second you do it, you regret it. You’re no longer feeling the effects of your drinks. It wore off on the Uber ride over here. And everything seems like a terrible idea now.

God, what were you doing? He treated you like that and the second you see him again, you go running back? He was an asshole. He’d made you question everything about yourself, he’d made you cry, he’d made you experience every fucking emotion in the book and all it took is one text for you to be back on his doorstep?

Your roommate was right. This was a horrendous idea and you were an idiot.

However, none of that matters. It doesn’t matter because Jamie Tartt’s opening his door and he’s got a stupid fucking smile on his face. And the second you see it, you know there’s no turning back.

“Hey,” he says as he opens the door. “You alright, love?”

You clench your jaw at the name, at his smile, about how casual he’s being, about everything. “Hey,” you say, avoiding his eyes to look around his flat.

It’s a complete 180 from what he had when he first joined Richmond and what he had when you knew him. It’s a bit less mojo-dojo-casa-house-looking and something more mature. While you can still tell that a twenty-something guy definitely lives here, it’s decorated well, it’s put together, and it’s clean. No beer bottle sculptures in sight. He’s even got a fucking candle burning on his counter. Who the fuck is this and what did he do with the guy you knew?

Jamie follows you as you enter, wiping his hands on his sweatpants. “You find the place okay?”

His question snaps you out of your flat-induced haze. “Yeah,” you reply. You clear your throat. “This is nice.”

That same, stupid smile returns, but it looks a bit nervous. “Yeah. I told you it was a bit different, huh?” he chuckles. He walks toward his island, rounding it as he speaks. “Needed a fresh start or whatever. The old one was gettin’... old.” He watches you as you nod, continuing to look around. “You still in the same place with the same people?”

“Uh, no. Different place. No people,” you answer. You’ve stayed on your side of the counter, actively keeping your distance. “Willa moved to New York last year and Leah moved with her boyfriend. We live in the same building, though, which is nice.”

The small talk is fucking killing you. You’re not even sure if he cared to remember your previous roommates' names, so this all could be pointless. You can’t believe you’re here. You can’t believe you’re actually standing here, talking to him about the past.

But as you finish speaking, he nods like he’s listening. Maybe he is listening. Maybe he does remember.

“I’ll have to see that sometime,” he ends up saying, and the implication of it makes your head spin. He wants to see you again. Or he just learned small talk common courtesy. Whatever it is, it’s driving you insane. You have so many questions for him, so many things to say, and as he wipes his hands on his pants again and nods over to his kitchen, he asks, “Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got—”

“Why did you invite me here, Jamie?” The question comes spilling out of you, rushed as if it were waiting on the tip of your tongue and simply couldn’t stand to stay in any longer. Jamie stops in his tracks to blink at you. The look on his face encourages you to go on. “I mean, I know I texted you first. But why… why did you text me tonight? Why’d you—” You grimace, trying to find the right words. “Why’d you give me your number?”

He’s silent for a moment. Thinking. Evaluating. But his eyes haven’t left you. “Because I wanted you here,” he finally says. You cross your arms over your chest as he takes a step toward you. “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I saw you.”

You want to say that you’ve been driven crazy all week because you feel same, but decide against it. Instead, you look away from him and scoff. “Right.”

“I’m serious,” he tells you, and your heart stops with every step he takes. “I felt like I was goin’ insane. I didn’t…” For a flash of a second, he looks shy. “I didn’t think I’d see you again. And I didn’t think you’d actually text me. I mean, I hoped you would, but…”

He’s right in front of you, but you still refuse to look at him. Your gaze has shifted to the floor. “I shouldn’t have,” you mutter.

The asshole has the nerve to chuckle, but it’s nervous. Your stomach churns. You’re not sure if you’ve ever heard him nervous. “No, you probably shouldn’t have,” he agrees. “I don’t deserve it.” He pauses and your throat starts to tighten. “I didn’t deserve you.”

That makes you look at him. Either he’s actually apologetic about everything, or he’s gotten really good at knowing everything you want to hear. “No. You didn’t.”

His fingers tentatively brush your arm and you allow him to take your hand. “I know,” he says. “I was a fucking prick. I get that now. I should never have… done that shit to ya.” You’re close enough to him now that if you moved an inch, his forehead would be up against yours. He brings your hand up to his mouth, pressing a feather-light kiss to the back of it. The action makes your throat tighten. “And I can’t fix it. But I…” He trails off again and looks you dead in the eye once he has the words. “I want to make it up to you.”

Your resolve is getting weaker and you hate yourself for it. You lean back against the counter, like that will put space between you two. “Jamie…”

“Please,” he whispers. His forehead finally meets yours. You can feel his breath on your lips. You don’t pull away. “Let me make it up to you.”

The last front you have standing weakly presents itself. “If you think,” you begin, breath shuddering as his hand meets your neck, “that one 2 AM hookup is going to make up for what you did, I—”

“I know it won’t,” he says, and it sounds like he does know. “But I want it to be a start.” The fingers on your neck are now tracing your jaw. And they tighten when he says, “Let me show you just how sorry I am, yeah? Let me make it fucking good for you.”

Jesus fucking Christ. That last front dissolves the second he says that, and your logic flips on itself. You came over here for a reason. You knew what this was. At least you got an overdue apology. Whether or not he meant it, is still up in the air, but if he’s promising things like that, then you might as well get something out of it.

You struggle to get a word out, so you nod against his hand. “O-Okay,” you finally stammer out. The way he’s looking at you gives you enough confidence to say, “Fine. Make it up to me.”

Jamie’s lips curl into a smirk and say, “As you wish,” before they’re on yours.

He’s softer than you remember. His lips aren’t chapped, he isn’t as aggressive with it, and he isn’t as rushed. Everything about him feels more mature and you struggle to understand how fast he could have changed in four years. But you’re not complaining. Not when he’s kissing you like this, with more practice and passion than you can ever recall.

His hand unlocks from yours to slide it up your sweatshirt, and it’s surprisingly warm against your back. Still, you shiver from the contact and you can feel him smirk once more against your lips.

The action alone prompts you to fork a hand in his hair and tug at it slightly, reveling in the soft sound that escapes him. Everything about him comes back to you at once, and you’ve never been happier to know that the same things still get him. If he wants to play it like that, you can keep up.

His hands drop to grab your thighs and lift you onto the counter, breaking the kiss momentarily. Your chest is heaving up and down, lips swollen and wet. Jamie appears to be in the same boat. “Fuck,” he whispers, sounding even more out of breath than you. He dips his head to press a kiss to your neck, nose rubbing against it as he makes his way down. “You look fucking gorgeous, by the way. Meant to tell you that at the shop.”

You’re too caught up in it all to play it cool, especially as he works at that one spot on your neck. “You look— fuck, you look good too. The long hair suits you.”

You feel him grin against your neck. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you agree breathily. “Looked like a prick with the old cut.”

You feel his teeth dig into your skin at that one, and you hiss. “You liked that prick,” he reminds you.

You were in love with that prick, but you ignore that thought. “I liked a lot of things about him,” you respond. While it’s honest, the accidental double meaning of it isn’t lost on you.

It’s certainly not lost on Jamie. “Yeah?” he asks again. He lifts his head to look at you, hand creeping up your leg. “What’d you like?” You grip his arm as it rises beneath your sweatshirt once more. “C’mon love. Tell me what you want.”

You hate the way your breath hitches the second his fingers meet your back. You know what you want. You want to see what he’s learned since you last had him. What he’s like four years later. What’s changed, what’s stayed the same. But you’re too embarrassed and much too proud to ask.

Instead, you decide to say, much too shyly for your liking, “You know what I want.”

He hums in agreement, other hand creeping dangerously close to the inside of your thigh. “I do, don’t I?” he murmurs. “Bet I know everything ya want. But I wanna hear you say it.”

“Oh my, God,” you say under your breath, frustration creeping into your voice. The asshole fucking laughs at you. “I want you to make good on your promise. This seems far from it.”

“Right, right, I’m sorry,” he tells you. He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “Just making sure we’re still, y’know. On the same page.” He glances at you. “Right?”

You blink at him. You’re not sure you could have been clearer about what page you’re on. But that’s not what surprises you. What surprises you is the seriousness in his eyes. How he’s searching for assurance in yours. And you know that if, for whatever godly reason, you wanted to stop, he’d pull away immediately, despite how worked up he clearly is.

It's the bare fucking minimum, but it's more than you’re used to getting.

So, you nod. “Yeah,” you say. “Definitely on the same page.”

The grin he breaks out to is nothing short of breathtaking. “Good.”

“But—” you suddenly say, stopping him from leaning in once more. He freezes beneath your touch, brows furrowing. “This is… This is a one-time thing. You’re…” You trail off to find the word. “You’re apologizing to me. That’s all this is.”

His smile falters, dropping momentarily before returning with a bit less radiance. It’s his turn to nod. “Okay,” he says, fingers now toying with the edge of your sweatshirt. “Gotta make it count, then.”

And with that, Jamie presses his lips back to yours, grabbing you securely and pulling you off the counter. Your legs wrap around his waist, grabbing the sides of his face, like that’ll stable you against him.

This time, it’s more desperate. It’s more tongues and teeth, more force and intention behind each movement. He’s setting the pace, but you’re keeping up tenfold. While it’d been four years, you’re not sure if he’d ever kissed you like this. He’s passionate instead of aggressive. While he knows what he wants, he’s definitely not just going to take it. He may be leading but he’s listening to you. And that stirs something inside you that you haven’t felt in a long time.

That much is clear, because you unconsciously let out a quiet sound against his lips. You can feel him smiling once more as he walks you slowly to wherever the hell his bedroom is. You’re caught up in him. And by the way he’s gripping you, you can tell he’s just as caught up in you.

So much so, that he completely loses track of where he’s going and accidentally slams you into his doorframe. You yelp, more because of shock than pain, and pull away to glare at him.

Jamie’s already apologizing. “Sorry, sorry,” he says. “Still gettin’ used to this place.”

“Well, figure out how to navigate better,” you respond, verging on a pout as you rub the back of your head.

“I’m sorry!” he repeats. He’s still got you against the doorframe. “It’s hard to see with your big head in me face. And I can’t kiss ya with, like, my eyes open. It’d be freaky.”

“I’ll give you a pass for that one,” you reply dryly. “Be weird instead of giving me a concussion.”

He’s walking you toward the bed when he mutters, “I’ll give you something, alright.”

Your back meets the mattress and you try to ignore the way he held his hand behind your head when he laid you down. You have under a second to adjust before he’s on top of you. The desperation returns and it almost takes your breath away.

He’s essentially straddling you, tugging at the waist of your leggings before he leaves one last kiss on your lips. He finally gets to pull your sweatshirt off, something he’d clearly been dying to rid you of since he first kissed you. You lift your arms up to help him, finding that you quickly start to do the same to him. You hear him chuckle as you attempt to get it up his back.

“I got it, love, hold on,” he says softly, tossing your hoodie to the side to take off his own. Your eyes immediately go to his chest and stomach and you refrain from reaching out to touch him. When you look up at him, you expect him to be smirking. However, he’s doing the exact opposite.

Jamie’s looking down at you like he can’t fucking believe you’re real. It’s jarring, seeing him like this, but you figure he’s in the same headspace as you and is still struggling to process that this is happening. It doesn’t matter, because before you can question it, he’s moving to press a kiss to your collarbone.

Your hand falls into his hair as he works his way down, mouthing the area of your chest. He pauses before he gets to the bra you’re wearing. His eyes flick up to yours. “Can I—”

You’re nodding before he can even get the words out, shifting to make it easier for him. He discards it to the floor with the rest. When he looks back at you, he releases a shaky breath and just stares.

He stares so intently that you begin to get self-conscious. “What?” you ask.

The question takes Jamie out of his trance. He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says. “I just— I… Fuck. I forgot how beautiful you were.”

That spreads a warmth through you, one that pulls at your core. As you feel your face heat, you realize you have nothing to say to that. Luckily, he’s already moving on.

Jamie’s different. Really different. And you don’t realize how different he is until you start looking at him like you are right now. You were trying to convince yourself when you told Leah that he’d changed, you’ll admit that. But right now, you think you may have been telling the truth.

He grabs the waist of your leggings once more, lifting your legs to pull them off. You can’t help the laugh that leaves your lips as he struggles to do so. He shakes his head with a soft smile. “Missed that.”

“What?” you ask again.

“Your laugh,” he replies. “Missed that more than you know.”

The sweet words hit you like a bullet. The vulnerability in his voice is what gets you. Goddammit, when did he get so fucking nice? It drives you insane. But it also makes you quietly admit, “I think I’ve got an idea.”

With your leggings now gone, Jamie’s smile turns fonder. Gentler. He presses a kiss to your leg but says nothing in response. He simply places your legs down, eyes flicking down. He lifts his hand to trace down your stomach, stopping at the edge of your panties. The feeling makes you flinch.

He hooks a finger in the band, and your hips buck up to encourage him. His other hand spreads across your hip in a poor effort to keep you still. “Easy,” he murmurs.

You huff out a breath. “You can—” Your breath hitches as two of his fingers push into your underwear. “Fuck, you can take them off.”

His lips quirk up. “Well, thank you for the permission,” he says. “But not yet. I wanna take it slow with ya.”

Your mouth parts. “Why?”

“Because it’s been years since I’ve seen you,” he answers, moving up to kiss you softly. He speaks against your lips as he says, “And I’ve apparently only got one shot to do this right. So I’m gonna make this last.”

You roll your eyes at his terribly disguised jab. “You’re a dick,” you mutter against him.

“And you’re—” He cuts himself off and a gasp escapes your lips as he cups your core and rubs his palm against it. “Fuck, love. You’re really fucking wet.” He’s positioned on you so that you can feel him getting harder against you thigh. “This all for me, yeah?”

His voice is cocky, while still sounding awestruck. The remaining dignity you have left makes you roll your eyes, albeit a bit embarrassed. “It’s for whoever doesn’t take their fucking time to give me what I want,” you bite.

Jamie draws back from you with a full smirk on his face. “That so?” he asks. The hand against you starts creeping up to the band of your panties. “And what is it that you want? You still haven’t told me.”

You scoff. “I told you.”

He pulls your underwear down your legs and the air around you suddenly makes you realize just how exposed you are. You told yourself you’d never give him the satisfaction of seeing you like this again. But here you were.

His fingers brush against the inside of your thigh, and you shiver once more. “No,” he tells you gently. “You didn’t. You just said you wanted me to keep my promise. You didn’t tell me what you wanted.”

He’s moving closer and closer to the place you want him and you don’t know if you can take it anymore. You shift uncomfortably, as if that will cease the ache. But you know only one thing will.

So, you give him the answer he’s been waiting for this entire time. “You.” His gaze meets yours. “I want you, Jamie. Please.”

That breathtaking grin returns. “Just because you asked so nicely.”

And then he puts his mouth on you without warning.

You spasm at the contact, crying out as he uses both arms to hold you still. The second you calm down, one hand leaves your thigh and you feel him work two fingers into you. Fuck. He didn’t know that before.

And it’s not like he was ever bad in bed when you two were together. You’re not sure you would have stayed with him if that were the case. It’s just… he’s better now. He’s hitting everything nearly perfectly, not stumbling like he used to. He’s more confident. More assured. He knows what he’s doing.

And it’s fucking hot.

The sounds that fill his room are downright obscene. He’s gripping one side of you to keep you in place, splitting you open on his knuckles with the other. His mouth zeroes in on your clit, alternating between licking and sucking in a way that honestly has you close already.

“F-fuck,” you breathe. “Fuck, Jamie. Don’t st— shit. Don’t stop. Please.”

Of course, the fucking shit he is, stops. He grins up at you, but continues to slowly pump his fingers in and out. “You sound so fucking pretty begging like that,” he tells you. He’s just as out of breath as you are. He feels you clench around his fingers at the praise and it only eggs him on further. “Look so pretty too. Fucking gorgeous.”

“Jamie,” you whine again. He’s going too slow. Teasing. It’s not fucking fair. He’s supposed to be the one apologizing to you. “I need— Ngh. I need—”

“What do you need?” he asks. “Tell me.”

You think you’d kill him if you weren’t completely incapacitated. “More,” you manage to get out, wincing as he continues at his slow pace. You’re close. Embarrassingly close. “Just fucking more. Please. I’m—” You interrupt yourself with a moan as he shoves his fingers deeper into you.

“I know,” he nearly coos. “I’ve got you.”

And got you he does. Because not only does he pick up the pace, he stretches you with a third finger. The sting of it is momentary, and it subsides as soon as he bends down and swipes your clit with his tongue.

Your back arches. “Jesus fucking— Jamie. Oh, my God.”

He’s good. Of course, he’s fucking good. He’s Jamie Tartt. You’re not sure he’s ever been bad at anything physical in his life. Emotionally was another story. But that story didn’t matter right now. Not when he’s got you like this, and you’re teetering over the edge.

He pulls away from you, breath tickling your core as he speaks. “C’mon,” he chides. “I can feel it. You’re right there, aren’t you, love?” He takes your breathy silence as confirmation and nods to himself. “Yeah. You just need—”

He removes one finger and crooks the rest a certain way, deeper than before. Your heart may stop beating. He’s done something he did to you time and time again, something that he was actually really fucking good at, something he knew you liked years ago. When he looks up at you, he searches your eyes. And by the way they roll back, he knows he’s struck gold.

The smirk returns and he continues to work his fingers into you, smirk growing each time he hears you say his name. “Yeah,” he whispers. “That’s it. That’s still it.”

You could finish at any moment. The telltale heat is rising in your stomach, and you’re just waiting for the cord to snap. And then, as if your muscle memory takes over, you reach out for his arm.

But instead of letting you do it like before, he does something completely different. He intertwines his free hand with the back of yours and guides it to your stomach. And then he presses on your hand.

The pressure builds. You’re barely able to make any noise. And then—

“C’mon,” Jamie repeats. “Come for me, angel. I wanna see it.”

The cord snaps, and you do as you’re told. You come. Hard.

Jamie talks you through it, fingers still moving to coax your climax out of you. You’re sure you look pathetic, crying out and thrashing around in his bed, but you don’t care. You can barely fucking see right now.

It’s been a while for you. Or at least been a while since you’ve had anything that good. And it completely strips away any sort of attitude or frustration you had before.

When you finally come back down, you laugh softly, shaking your head and throwing your arm over your face. “Fuck,” you say through a chuckle.

You feel him shift, moving up the bed to hover over you once more. When he removes your arm from your eyes, you see that he’s smiling. “Nobody’s ever laughed after I’ve done that,” he tells you, a faux pout pulling at his lips. He bends down to press them to yours and you can taste yourself. “It better be a good fuckin’ sign.”

You laugh again, reaching up to cup his cheek and pull him into another kiss. “Very good sign,” you assure him. It’s muffled against him, but you think he gets the point.

It’s then that you catch him by surprise and flip the two of you over, straddling him in a way that makes him release a breathy sound that you’d missed dearly. But, something feels off.

Your glance down at him, expecting to feel or see fabric once you reach his leg. But there’s not much. Only what feels like boxer shorts. It catches you off guard. When did he take off his—

It doesn’t matter. It’s easier for you now. Especially as your fingers move across his abdomen, biting back a grin at the way he shudders. He looks up at you from his pillow.

“What are you doing?” he asks leadingly.

You shrug innocently, fingers toying with the band hanging low on his hips. “Returning the favor,” you reply.

Jamie makes a noise of disapproval, placing a hand on your thigh like that’ll stop you. “I’m supposed to be the one making it up to you,” he states, but his voice gets less firm as you cup him through the fabric. “Fuck. Y-You don’t owe me anythin’. No favors.”

You shake your head, pulling at his boxers so that he springs free from inside. Your eyes travel back to his as you reach out and gently grab his cock, staring down at him with a smirk dancing on your lips. “You sure?”

He looks pained. You don’t know why. You’re offering a way to take him out of his misery. But still, he shakes his head and moves his arm from your leg to your back.

He takes his turn to flip you over next. He swears under his breath as he does so, shaking his head when you land on your back.

“I told you,” he says, taking his boxers all the way off now. “It’s about you. Not me.” He shakes his head again, but this time it’s a bit more frustrated. When he speaks, it’s mostly to himself. “Can’t believe I just fuckin’ said no to that.”

A snort escapes you. “You’re a changed man, Jamie Tartt,” you joke.

He shrugs before placing his arms on either side of you. His voice teeters on teasing and earnest. “I’ve been trying to tell ya that.”

You’re not sure if it’s him, or the situation, or the sex, but you think you believe him. It makes your chest heavy. But you can’t admit that. You won’t let yourself. So, you keep that feeling tucked away, way in the back of your mind for safekeeping. You know it’s better like that. For your emotional sake, at least.

You allow yourself to prop yourself up on your elbow and kiss him instead of responding to that, bringing him in closer. You can feel the length of him press against your stomach, and his groan vibrates against your lips.

He pulls away, grinding into you. The heat of your body is making him go wild. “Can I—”

You know what he wants. And you want it too. “Please,” you say.

He nods, moving to angle himself against you. You glance down to watch him, heat flooding your face as he strokes himself before glancing up at you. You nod in return, giving him the confirmation he needs. Jamie grins.

He slides in you slowly. The stretch is mild but grows as he hovers over you once more. It’s easy to adjust, having been warmed up moments before. But for Jamie, it’s not as easy.

He bottoms out almost immediately, tensing over you. His head bows, chin falling to his chest. “Fuck,” he curses. It’s quiet but straight-up sinful. “God, fucking— you’re so—” You grip onto his bicep as he steadies himself. “I’m sorry. It’s just— i-it’s been a minute. And you’re f-fucking tight. Jesus.”

You don’t mind. He feels good like this, despite the fact he’s not moving. Your hand travels from his arm to his hair, tucking a piece of it behind his ear before settling on his jaw. “It’s alright,” you tell him. “We’ve got time.”

Jamie’s eyes snap open at that, but he’s not looking at you like you thought he would. You were expecting a cheeky sort of smile, a smirk, something in that realm. But he’s not. He’s looking at you like…

It’s something you can’t define. Something you’ve never seen before. It churns your stomach yet makes your heart race. Neither of you says a word.

He just dips down to kiss you again and slowly begins to move inside you. Your lips part in a gasp, and he slides his tongue in your mouth. Your back arches into him.

Before you know it, he's breaking from you and is breathing heavy against your neck. “Shit,” he groans. “You’re just— fuck. You…” He trails off, mouth hovering over your collarbone. “You drive me f-fucking mad. God, everything about you. Y-you don’t even know, do you?”

The pace picks up. He’s thrusting into you harder now and your nails dig into his back. You hear him hiss at the contact, but neither of you seem to care. “Fuck.” It’s all you can say. “Fuck, Jamie.”

He’s clearly not done talking. “How’d I-I fuck this up? Huh?” You can’t tell if he’s talking to you or himself. His mouth is on your chest now and the feeling runs through you like fire. “Fucking idiot. Didn’t know what I had. Can’t believe I let you go.”

You clench around him and it throws him off kilter. You watch his jaw clench, hand beside you gripping the pillow you’re on. “You w-were an idiot.” Your agreement is much less effective when it’s closed out by a high-pitched moan.

“I know. Fuck, I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. Deserved better.” He continues to slam into you. “I wanna gi—” A strangled sound erupts from his lips. “Give you better. You’re so—” When he shakes his head, he looks wrecked. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

Something about that sends a shock to your system. It makes you cry out and you can feel it. Your legs tremble around him. You’re close again. You’re really fucking close.

He kisses you once more, deeper than before. It’s more frantic. Everything about him is more erratic. You can tell he’s getting there too. “Couldn’t stop,” he manages to get out, hot against your lips. “Couldn’t s-stop thinking about you. I missed you.”

You clench around him again, the admission inching you closer. “Shit,” you say. “Fuck, Jamie, keep going.”

And keep going he does. His hand moves down your stomach, fingers finding your clit. He rubs circles into it and that sends you into a fucking tailspin. He swallows the sound you make.

“Missed you,” he says again, but it’s more helpless. Jamie fucking whimpers. “God, I f-fucking missed you, angel. Missed you so fucking much, I—”

You don’t hear the rest of what he says because you come the second he makes that sound. It’s white-hot. Blinding. Your legs twitch around him and you claw at him as he continues to rub your clit. You’re loud, but you don’t give a shit. It seems to spur him on.

He’s not far behind you. He spills into you with a groan, stomach flexing as he heaves over you, twitching inside of you. You’re still recovering from your own high as you open your eyes to watch him. You catch his expression for a moment before he’s collapsing into you.

You release a soft ‘oof’ at the sudden weight of him. He doesn’t say anything for a moment and neither do you. You just breathe together. But after a moment you allow yourself to put a hand in his hair.

“You’re fucking heavy,” you tell him, but there’s not much bite in it.

You feel him chuckle. “Give me second,” he says. “Not as fuckin’ agile as I used to be. Took a lot out of me, alright?”

You roll your eyes but continue to run your fingers through his hair. “You’re twenty-six and like, the face of the AFC,” you tell him. “Richmond might have to shorten your contract if you’re dying after that.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Take that up with me Chairwoman then.”

You can’t help but laugh as you push him off of you, wincing as you feel him slip out. He lands with the same noise you did. “If she heard you complaining like that, she’d be on my side.”

Jamie grins at you, joining in on your laughter. He shifts toward you, grabbing your hand to play with your fingers. “You’re probably right. Shouldn’t be complainin’,” he says. He lifts your hand to his lips. “Not when you’re here.”

They’re sweet words. The casualty of them makes your heart swell. But that anxiety about him returns. One time thing, you tell yourself. Apology. One time. That’s all.

You pull your hand back softly and he glances over at you. There’s a hint of worry in his eyes, like that one movement set off alarm bells in his head. You give him an uneasy smile.

Before you can move to get up or say anything or do something, he’s talking. And you have to refrain from wincing.

“I know…” He looks away from you. Shy. “I know you said one time,” he says, as if he can read your fucking mind. “And that’s… That’s okay. I get that, yeah? But I—” Jamie wipes a hand down his face, staring at the ceiling. “I meant what I said. I missed ya. Really.”

You missed him too. But your walls have been rising back up since he started talking again. “I don’t know what you want me to do with that,” you tell him, only partially lying.

You feel like an asshole when he winces. Maybe you were being an asshole. Maybe it was finally your turn to do so.

“Just…” He finally looks at you. “If you ever… don’t want this to be just a one-time thing.” He waves it off in an attempt to look casual. You know he’s anything but. “You’ve got my number. Or whatever.”

The timidness in his voice makes your resolve soften. Even if you don’t see him again, you suppose you can let him down easy. He’s been kind enough tonight to deserve that. You nod at him as you sit up. “Okay,” you say. “I’ll let you know.”

It’s only slightly awkward as you get out of his bed and search for your clothes. He asks if he can call you an Uber home and you reject it, letting him know that you’ve got one on the way.

You can feel his eyes on you as you dress, ignoring the way they burn into you. You can tell he’s searching for something to say, or something to talk to you about but doesn’t know what.

You’re half-dressed before he can shoot himself in the foot and say something stupid. “Hey,” he finally says. You glance over your shoulder at him after you slip your sweatshirt on. “I’m really glad you texted me.”

The nice streak you’re riding on continues and you offer a small but genuine smile in return. “Me too,” you admit, ignoring the way that his own soft smile pulls at your heartstrings.

Before you leave his room, you offer one more admission. You stop in the doorframe he hit you against, lips curling further upward. “It was really good to see you, Jamie.”

He props himself up on his elbow, smile growing. “Good,” he says, nodding. Then, like a prick, he winks at you. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

You physically cannot stop yourself from rolling your eyes and you hear him laugh to himself as you walkdown his hall. “Goodbye, asshole.”

He shouts a tired-sounding ‘bye!’ when you slip your shoes on, shaking your head as you look around his apartment once more. The candle on his counter is still burning, smelling of amber moss and palo santo.

You blow it out before you leave, knowing he’ll forget.

And as you do so, you feel yourself regress. Or grow. You’re not quite sure which one.

But it makes you curse under your breath and leave his flat immediately.

There is one more universal truth you forgot to mention.

And that’s that the second you think you’re over Jamie Tartt, he comes back into your life and flips everything on its head. And it’s the only truth that’s been confirmed to you all week.

Because the second you arrive home and see that you have a text waiting for you, your heart picks up. You hate the way you get excited to see it.

I had a really good time tonight.

And the second he comes back into your life, you’re reminded that you’re not over him. Not even in the slightest. And it’s fucking debilitating.

me too.

And you know your friends are going to kill you the second you follow up with:

i’m free friday if you want to grab a drink.

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt #jamie tartt x you #ted lasso #ted lasso fanfic #jamie tartt fanfiction #bad ideas #the one who's not a loser but THEE loser #discowrites

616 notes · View notes

thirtysomethingloser92 · 9 months ago

Text

Chapter 4: It's You And Me, There's Nothing Like This.

Author's Note: A filler before the real action begins.

Prequel to The Last Great American Dynasty.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Swearing, 18+.

Summary: In the shadowy underworld of New Orleans, where power is currency and loyalty is a fragile thread, you find yourself entangled with Remy LeBeau, a charismatic and dangerous mob boss. What begins as a chance encounter soon evolves into a complex, intense relationship that neither of you saw coming.

In the weeks following the incident at the club, it felt like the entire city of New Orleans had shifted around you. It started small—glances from people you didn’t recognize, lingering too long to be coincidental. Conversations would stop when you walked by, eyes tracking you as if you were suddenly someone worth noticing. You were no stranger to the city, not really, but now it seemed like the city had become a stranger to you.

The regulars at the bar started treating you differently too. The usual casual nods and half-hearted greetings became something closer to respect, maybe even fear. People who normally wouldn’t give you a second glance now leaned in when you spoke, like whatever you had to say was suddenly more important. It was subtle, but you could feel it. The air was charged, like you’d become part of some unspoken hierarchy—one that revolved around Remy LeBeau.

Remy LeBeau.

He hadn’t left your thoughts since that night. And, as much as you hated to admit it, the way he’d started acting toward you in the days after made it harder to keep your walls up. He was still the smooth-talking charmer, that much hadn’t changed, but something in his demeanor had shifted. He wasn’t just flirting, wasn’t just throwing around that lazy grin of his to get what he wanted. He was asking about you—about your life.

The first time it happened, it caught you off guard.

You were wiping down the bar, trying to ignore the way his crew had taken over the VIP area again, when he appeared at the counter, leaning just close enough to catch your attention without intruding. “How ya doin’, cher?” His voice was smooth, that Cajun lilt wrapping around the words like honey, but there was something softer in his eyes than usual.

You didn’t want to answer him at first. You didn’t want to give him anything. But something in the way he asked—like he actually cared—made you pause.

“I’m fine,” you said, not looking up from the glass in your hand.

“Yeah?” he pressed, his eyes not leaving you. “Been wonderin’ ‘bout ya. You ain’t been ‘round much lately.”

You blinked, unsure of where this sudden interest was coming from. Remy wasn’t the type to ask questions unless he had something to gain. And yet, over the next few days, it became clear this wasn’t just a one-time thing. He started talking to you more, showing up at the bar even when he didn’t really need anything. And when his crew was in the VIP area, he spent most of his time leaning against the bar, talking to you instead of them.

It wasn’t just idle chit-chat, either. He asked about your life—about your family, your job, the things you liked to do when you weren’t working. He remembered the small details too, things you’d mentioned offhandedly, like the fact that you don’t like pickles or that your favorite place for coffee was the little shop on Decatur Street. It wasn’t just surface-level interest. He was paying attention—and that scared you more than anything.

One night, after a few too many drinks, he introduced you to Scott, the man who was unofficially his second-in-command. You’d seen Scott before, of course—he was always there, hovering just behind Remy like a shadow. But this was different. This was personal.

“This here is Scott,” Remy had said, draping an arm over his friend’s shoulder casually, like they’d known each other forever. “If I ain’t ‘round, he’s the man you wanna talk to.”

Scott had smiled—an easy, relaxed smile that made you feel a little more at ease. He wasn’t as flashy as Remy, didn’t have that same magnetic energy, but there was something solid about him, something reliable. He was the kind of guy you could count on in a crisis. And from the way Remy talked about him, it was clear he trusted Scott more than anyone else in his crew.

“Nice to meet you,” you’d said, shaking Scott’s hand.

“Likewise,” Scott had replied, his voice steady, his eyes kind. “Remy talks ‘bout you a lot.”

That comment had made your heart stumble in your chest. You hadn’t known what to say to that, so you forced a smile, trying not to let it show how much the words affected you.

But it wasn’t just Scott. Over the next few weeks, you found yourself pulled deeper into Remy’s world. His crew got used to seeing you around. Sometimes, when the bar was slow, one of them would buy you a drink, and they’d tell you stories about running jobs with Remy, about growing up in the streets of New Orleans, about the things they’d seen and done. It was a dangerous world, one you knew you should stay far away from, but with Remy there, it didn’t feel so dangerous. It felt… safe.

And that was the problem.

Because the more time you spent with him, the harder it became to ignore the way your feelings for him were growing. At first, you tried to convince yourself it was just a passing thing—that it was the thrill of being close to someone like him that made your heart race. But it wasn’t that simple. Remy had a way of getting under your skin, of making you feel like you were the only person in the room when he looked at you. And the more you got to know him—the real him, the one beneath all the charm and bravado—the harder it became to keep your walls up.

You tried to fight it. You told yourself that Remy was dangerous, that getting involved with him would only end in heartache. But every time he smiled at you, every time his voice curled around your name like it was something precious, you could feel yourself slipping further and further.

It wasn’t just the physical attraction, though that was part of it. Remy was magnetic, with that effortless charm and those eyes that seemed to see more than they should. But it was more than that. It was how he listened when you talked, how he remembered the little details of your life, how he seemed to actually care about who you were beyond the surface.

That night, as you sat across from Remy in the quiet of the empty bar, something shifted inside you.

It wasn’t a sudden revelation, or a flash of clarity that struck all at once. No, it was more subtle than that—like the slow turning of a key in a lock you hadn’t realized was there. It was in the way he looked at you, the softness in his eyes as he asked about your life, as though he genuinely cared about the things you said. It was in the way he listened, not just waiting for his turn to speak, but truly listening—something you hadn’t had from anyone in a long time.

You watched him, his long fingers tracing absent patterns on the bar, his dark eyes flicking toward the door and then back to you, and you felt something stir in your chest. It wasn’t new, not really. It had been building for weeks—maybe even since the first time you’d met him. But tonight, it was like the weight of it finally settled in, as if you could no longer pretend it wasn’t there.

As much as you had tried to keep your distance, to remind yourself who he was—what he was—you couldn’t deny it anymore. Somewhere along the way, you’d let him in.

And now, sitting there with him in the dim light of the bar, you realized just how deep those feelings ran.

It wasn’t just about the way he looked at you, though that certainly didn’t help. It was about the little moments, the ones you hadn’t even noticed at first. The way he’d show up at the bar on nights when you were working late, offering to walk you home even though you always declined. The way he’d ask if you’d eaten, or if you were getting enough sleep. They were small things, things you’d brushed off at the time, telling yourself he was just being Remy—charming, flirty, playing the role he always played. But now, looking back, you couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to it. If maybe, just maybe, he cared more than you’d allowed yourself to believe.

“Y’ever think ‘bout what y’wanna do?” he’d asked you earlier, his voice quiet and serious in a way that made your heart ache. “Like, if y’weren’t here, behind this bar? What else would y’do?”

It wasn’t a question people usually asked you. Most of the time, people assumed this was it for you—that the bar was your life, and that was all there was to it. But Remy, as always, had a way of looking past the surface. He saw through the walls you’d built, through the armor you wore, and he didn’t just stop there. He wanted to know what was underneath.

And that scared you.

But you couldn’t stop it now. It was too late for that.

You leaned back in the booth, watching him as he sipped his drink, his eyes flicking back to meet yours every now and then, a small, easy smile playing on his lips. There was something so effortless about him—the way he moved, the way he spoke, like he didn’t have a care in the world. But tonight, you could see the cracks in that façade. The way his shoulders tensed just a little too much, the way his gaze lingered on you a little longer than usual, like he was searching for something he couldn’t quite find.

And that’s when it hit you.

You cared about him—really cared about him. More than you should. More than was probably safe. But you couldn’t deny it anymore.

You cared about Remy LeBeau.

You cared about the man who teased you with that lazy smile, who always seemed to know exactly what to say to get under your skin. The man who flirted like it was second nature but, when it came down to it, had moments of surprising vulnerability—moments where he let the mask slip, just enough for you to see the real him underneath.

You cared about the man who had put you in danger, yes—but who had also spent the last few weeks trying, in his own way, to make up for it. The man who, despite everything, had become a constant in your life. More than that, he had become someone you trusted, someone you wanted to trust, even if you knew you shouldn’t.

And as you sat across from him, the soft glow of the bar lights casting shadows across his face, you realized something else, too.

You weren’t just attracted to him. This wasn’t just some fleeting crush, some temporary infatuation that would burn out as quickly as it had sparked. No, this was something deeper. Something real.

And that terrified you.

Because Remy LeBeau was dangerous. Not just because of the life he led, but because of what he did to your heart. He made you feel things you hadn’t felt in a long time—things you weren’t sure you wanted to feel. He made you hope. And hope was a dangerous thing, especially when it came to someone like him.

But it was too late to turn back now. You knew that.

You could feel it in the way your chest tightened every time he looked at you, in the way your pulse quickened whenever he got too close. You could feel it in the way you stayed up at night, replaying your conversations with him over and over in your mind, wondering what he really meant when he said certain things, wondering if he felt even a fraction of what you felt.

And tonight, as you sat there with him, the weight of your feelings finally settled in.

You were in deep. Maybe deeper than you’d ever been before.

And it wasn’t just Remy’s charm that had pulled you in, though that was certainly part of it. It was the way he saw you. The way he listened to you. The way he made you feel like you weren’t just some passing fling, some temporary distraction. He made you feel like you mattered—like you were someone worth knowing.

And that, more than anything, was what scared you.

Because you weren’t sure what to do with these feelings. You weren’t sure if you could do anything with them. Remy’s world was dangerous, unpredictable. And as much as you cared about him, you knew that getting too close to him could end badly. For both of you.

But as you sat there, watching him across the table, you knew one thing for certain:

You couldn’t keep pretending you didn’t care.

Because you did.

More than you’d ever expected.

And, for better or worse, there was no going back now. ~><><>~

The rain was coming down in thick, heavy sheets, the kind that seemed to turn the world blurry and soft around the edges. You stood next to Remy under the narrow awning of a corner shop, both of you pressed just close enough to avoid getting soaked, though the occasional gust of wind sent a spray of droplets against your skin. The street in front of you was deserted, the usual hustle of the city quieted by the storm, leaving only the rhythmic sound of water hitting pavement.

“You always bring the good weather, LeBeau?” you teased, glancing over at him with a smirk.

He grinned, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his damp hair. “Ain’t my fault, cher. New Orleans just likes t’keep us on our toes.”

You gave him a look, crossing your arms. “Yeah, well, if I catch a cold, I’m blaming you.”

“Ah, non,” he said, his grin widening, that familiar playful spark lighting up his eyes. “Y’know what they say—rain’s just a blessin’. Keeps the city alive. Besides, thought you’d be tougher than t’let a lil’ water scare ya.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “It’s not the water. It’s the thought of being stuck inside for three days with a fever ‘cause you decided to show up at the worst possible time.”

Remy chuckled, the sound low and warm, and you felt a flutter in your chest that you quickly tried to ignore. “Ain’t no such thing as a bad time when y’runnin’ into me,” he said, leaning a little closer, his voice dropping into that familiar lazy drawl. “I’d say y’just lucky, cher.”

You raised an eyebrow, trying to keep your expression neutral even as your heart skipped a beat. “Lucky, huh?”

He shot you a wink. “Always.”

It was that damn grin of his, sharp and disarming, the kind that made it impossible not to smile back, even when you were trying to pretend you weren’t charmed. You shook your head, glancing back out at the street as the rain continued to pour down in fat, heavy droplets.

You hadn’t planned to run into him today. You’d been on your way out of a small café, your hands wrapped around a to-go cup, the smell of fresh coffee still lingering in the air, when you’d bumped right into Remy as he turned the corner.

“Y’gotta be followin’ me, cher,” he’d said, that teasing lilt in his voice as he flashed you a grin. “Can’t stay away, can ya?”

You’d scoffed, brushing it off with a roll of your eyes. “Trust me, LeBeau, if I was following you, you wouldn’t know it.”

“Ah, so y’got skills,” he’d shot back, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I like that.”

You’d ended up standing there chatting for a few minutes, just catching up, when the first fat drops of rain had started falling, quickly turning into the downpour that had sent the two of you scrambling for cover under the awning.

Now, as the rain started to ease up just slightly, you could feel the tension of the moment settling into something more comfortable. The kind of moment where neither of you had anywhere else to be, and the city felt just a little quieter, just a little smaller, with only the two of you standing here, waiting out the storm together.

Remy shifted beside you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat as he glanced up at the sky. “Looks like it’s lettin’ up,” he said, his voice softer now, the teasing edge gone. “Might be able t’get outta here before we drown.”

You nodded, though you didn’t make any move to leave the shelter of the awning just yet. Instead, you watched as the rain slowed to a steady drizzle, the fat droplets turning into a fine mist that blurred the edges of the lamplights on the street.

After a beat of silence, Remy turned to you, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, with that easy smile of his, he tilted his head toward the street. “Y’wanna go for a walk, cher? Ain’t too far to the river from here.”

His question caught you off guard, though you weren’t sure why. You blinked, looking up at him as if to make sure you’d heard him right.

“A walk?” you echoed, your voice tinged with surprise.

He nodded, his smile softening just a little. “Yeah. Ain’t no rush t’be anywhere, right? Figured we could take the long way ‘round.”

You hesitated for a second, the weight of his words settling between you. There was something about the way he asked, something quieter, more earnest. It wasn’t the usual playful banter, the flirtatious teasing that you’d come to expect from him. It was softer, like he was offering more than just a walk. Like he was offering a moment—something real, something that wasn’t wrapped up in the games you’d both been playing for so long.

And in that moment, you found that you didn’t want to say no.

You glanced back out at the street, the rain now barely more than a light drizzle, then back at him. “Alright,” you said softly, a small smile tugging at your lips. “A walk sounds good.”

Remy’s grin widened just slightly, something almost satisfied flickering in his eyes as he stepped out from under the awning and into the street. “C’mon, then, cher,” he said, holding out his hand with a dramatic flourish. “Let’s see if we can’t dodge the rest of the rain.”

You shook your head, laughing as you stepped out to join him, your hands tucked into your pockets to ward off the chill. As the two of you started walking down the damp street, the soft patter of rain falling around you, you couldn’t help but feel the quiet weight of the moment settling in. Something about it felt different—more real, more grounded. It was just you and him, walking side by side in the fading rain, no games, no pretense.

And for once, you weren’t thinking about where this was headed, or what it meant, or whether you should keep your distance The rain had eased into a soft drizzle, hardly more than a mist now, just enough to make the air feel cool and heavy with the scent of damp streets and wet earth. You and Remy walked side by side, the sound of your footsteps echoing softly on the slick pavement. The city felt quieter at this hour, the usual buzz of New Orleans muted by the rain and the lateness of the evening.

For a while, the two of you just walked in comfortable silence, the easy rhythm of the night settling between you. Every now and then, you’d glance over at him, catching the way the dim streetlights flickered across his face, casting shadows over his sharp jawline and the soft curve of his mouth. He looked different like this—less guarded, maybe. More real. Like the Remy you knew was still there, but with the edges smoothed out by the quiet of the night.

As you passed by the iron-wrought gates of a small courtyard, the sound of distant music floated through the air—somewhere, a lone saxophone player was working through a slow, mournful tune. It made the moment feel even more surreal, like the city itself was leaning in, listening.

You glanced at him again, the question burning at the back of your mind, one you hadn’t really asked before. “So,” you began, your voice soft, careful not to break the moment too sharply, “what’s your life like outside of all this?”

Remy’s eyes flicked to you, his expression unreadable for just a moment before he looked ahead again, his lips pulling into a small, almost cautious smile. “Outside of all this?” he repeated, his voice carrying that familiar Cajun drawl, but there was something else in it now—something more distant, guarded. “What y’mean by that, cher?”

You shrugged, trying to keep your tone light, though you knew the question held more weight than you were letting on. “I mean, I see you here, running with your crew, always in the middle of some hustle or another. But… what do you do when you’re not doing that? What’s the rest of your life like?”

There was a beat of silence, the sound of the rain almost deafening in its stillness as you waited for his response. Remy’s eyes narrowed slightly, the grin on his face softening, but not disappearing entirely. He reached up, scratching at the back of his neck as he let out a low chuckle.

“Ah, cher,” he said finally, his voice smooth but evasive, “ain’t much to tell, really. Y’know how it is—dis an’ dat, keepin’ busy.” He waved a hand vaguely, as if to brush off the question, his eyes flicking to the ground in front of him. “Ain’t nothin’ too excitin’ outside what y’see.”

You frowned slightly, knowing that wasn’t the full truth. Remy was always good at dodging questions, at keeping people at arm’s length with a smile and a joke. But something about tonight—about the way he’d asked you to walk with him, about the softness in his voice just now—made you want to push a little further. You wanted to know more. You wanted to know him.

“C’mon, LeBeau,” you said, your voice gentle but persistent. “I’m not asking for your deepest, darkest secrets. I just… I don’t know. I wanna know about you. What do you do when you’re not playing the role of Remy LeBeau, the charming rogue?”

Remy’s steps slowed slightly, and you could see the tension ripple through his shoulders, though he kept his expression casual. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips but not quite reaching his eyes.

“Y’don’t let up, do ya?” he said, his voice laced with amusement, though there was something guarded behind his words.

You shrugged, offering him a small smile of your own. “Not when I’m curious, no.”

He let out another soft chuckle, shaking his head. “That’s dangerous, y’know. Curiosity like that. Could get y’into trouble.”

“I’ve already got you in my life, LeBeau,” you said, nudging him lightly with your shoulder. “I think I’m already in trouble.”

That earned you a real laugh, low and warm, and for a second, the tension in his posture eased. But when he spoke again, there was a weight to his words, something darker lurking beneath the surface.

“Truth is, cher,” he said, his voice quieter now, “this is the life. Ain’t much outside of it. Always been like that.”

You frowned, glancing up at him, catching the way his eyes seemed to cloud over, staring ahead but not really seeing the street in front of him. There was something in his tone—something almost resigned, like he’d accepted that this was all there was for him. “Always?” you asked softly.

He gave a small nod, his smile turning a little more bitter around the edges. “Always. Grew up rough, y’know? Ain’t a sob story or nothin’, just de way it is. Y’learn early how t’get by, how t’look out for y’self. Got good at it, too.” He paused, his eyes flicking toward the river in the distance. “This city? She’s always been home, but she ain’t always been kind.”

You could hear the truth in his words, the weight of years spent surviving in a world that didn’t offer much in return. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. You’d always known that Remy’s life was complicated, that he wasn’t just the smooth-talking charmer people saw on the surface. But hearing him talk about it, even in these vague terms, made it feel more real. More raw.

“What about now?” you asked gently, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Is it still like that?”

He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes still fixed ahead, his jaw tight. Then, finally, he let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping just slightly.

“Maybe not,” he admitted quietly, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable. “Things change, I guess. People change.” He glanced at you then, his eyes meeting yours for just a second before flicking away again. “But it’s hard t’leave behind what y’know, y’know? Even if y’want somethin’ different.”

You felt your heart tighten in your chest at his words, the weight of them settling between you like something unspoken. You wanted to reach out, to tell him that he didn’t have to keep living like this, that there was more to life than just surviving. But you knew Remy too well to think that would be enough. He didn’t trust easily, and even now, even after everything, you weren’t sure if he’d ever truly let you in.

But you wanted to try.

“Maybe it doesn’t have to be like that forever,” you said softly, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He glanced at you again, his eyes lingering on yours for just a moment longer this time, and you thought you saw something flicker in them—something hopeful, maybe. Or maybe you were just imagining it.

“Maybe,” he said quietly, though there was a hesitation in his voice, like he wasn’t quite ready to believe it.

You walked in silence for a while after that, the rain now little more than a light mist, the cool night air wrapping around you both. You could feel the weight of the conversation still hanging between you, but for once, it didn’t feel uncomfortable. It felt like something had shifted, like maybe, just maybe, you’d gotten a little closer to the real Remy—the one who hid behind the charm and the grins, the one who didn’t let people in easily.

And as you walked beside him, your hands brushing lightly every now and then, you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, he was starting to let you in. <><><><><><> As you and Remy strolled down the bustling main street, it took you a moment to notice the shift. Something in the air had changed, the atmosphere thickening with a tension that hadn’t been there before. People moved past you, their umbrellas dripping from the earlier rain, but your focus was drawn entirely to him. His jaw clenched, then unclenched, and the easy, relaxed aura he usually wore like a second skin coiled into something sharper, more alert. A quiet alarm went off in your mind, subtle but insistent.

You followed his gaze, your eyes quickly zeroing in on two men standing up the street, leaning casually against the brick wall of a shop. They looked too comfortable, their postures intentionally loose, but their eyes scanned the passing crowd with a practiced detachment that churned your stomach. You didn’t know them, but you knew their type. The kind of people Remy always tried—unsuccessfully—to keep you away from.

His voice came low, cutting through the ambient noise of the street. “Do me a favor, chère,” he said, his usual warmth replaced by something cooler, more calculated. “Wait here.”

He didn’t meet your eyes when he spoke. His attention was locked on the men ahead, his focus dialed in with a predator’s precision. The playful charm he carried so effortlessly had slipped, and in its place was something harder, something dangerous—something that always made your breath catch in your throat.

You hesitated, your feet refusing to move as you watched him stride forward, his long legs eating up the distance with a calm confidence that made your chest tighten in ways you couldn’t explain. Your mind raced, scattering in a thousand directions at once. You knew Remy’s world. You weren’t naïve. You’d seen glimpses of it in the shadows where he operated, in the silences he never filled with explanations. But seeing it unfold out here, in broad daylight, was different. It felt more real. More dangerous.

The two men straightened as Remy approached, their thin veneer of nonchalance cracking just enough to reveal the tension underneath. You couldn’t hear what was said, but the interaction was too fast, too smooth. One of the men extended his hand, the motion disguised as a handshake, but you didn’t miss the small, hard object that passed between them. It fit easily into Remy’s palm, and the man’s eyes flickered nervously up and down the street, his posture twitchy as though he was waiting for something to go wrong.

Your stomach dropped. You knew this routine. You’d seen it before—small moments, brief exchanges that reminded you of the parts of Remy’s life he never let you into. Just when you’d started to believe in the man who laughed with you over stolen pastries and kissed rain off your skin, reality would come crashing down. A lingering glance from a stranger, a name dropped in passing, or, like now, what was unmistakably a deal, done right there in the open.

The sadness that washed over you was unexpected, bitter and thick. It was one thing to know—in an abstract, distant way—that he was tied to this world. But it was another thing entirely to see it, to watch him slip so easily into a role you wanted to pretend didn’t exist. A role that felt foreign, dangerous—a role you didn’t belong in. And maybe, you thought with a sinking realization, you never would.

You tried to shake the feeling, but it clung to you, heavy and unwelcome.

Remy turned back toward you, his face unreadable as he sauntered over, slipping whatever had just changed hands into his jacket pocket with an ease that made your heart ache. His footsteps were soft against the wet pavement, but the weight of the moment pressed down on you like a suffocating blanket.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice casual, too casual. “Had t’ take care of somethin’.”

You stared up at him, your eyes searching his face for something—an explanation, a flicker of remorse, anything to make this feel less like a betrayal. But his expression was smooth, guarded. The easy smile was back, the one that never quite reached his eyes, and it made you feel hollow.

“You don’t have to explain,” you said, though the words tasted bitter on your tongue. You told yourself you didn’t want an explanation, but the truth was, you did. You wanted him to open up, to tell you what had just happened, to let you in for once.

But you knew he wouldn’t.

Remy’s smile faltered for just a second, and you almost thought—hoped—that he could see the hurt in your eyes. That maybe, this time, he’d say something to make it better. But instead, he just shrugged, his hands slipping into his pockets as he glanced away, as if the whole thing didn’t matter.

As if you didn’t matter.

The knot in your stomach tightened, the weight of your own disappointment settling over you like a shroud. This was always how it went, wasn’t it? Every time you thought you were getting closer, that maybe you could be a part of his world, something like this would happen. Something that reminded you of the distance between you, of the walls he kept firmly in place.

“Let’s go,” Remy said lightly, as though nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t just left you standing there, watching him slip further into a world you couldn’t follow.

You nodded, throat tight, and fell into step beside him. The street buzzed with life, people brushing past with umbrellas and shopping bags, conversations floating in the air. But all you could hear was the echo of your own thoughts, the same question repeating over and over again:

How long are you going to keep doing this?

How long could you keep pretending that you were okay with the secrets, the danger, with the way Remy always kept you at arm’s length? How long could you chase after someone who lived in the shadows, someone who would never fully be yours?

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye as you walked. He was quiet now, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his gaze fixed straight ahead. The tension from earlier had melted away, replaced by the easygoing demeanor that had drawn you to him in the first place. But now, that charm felt hollow, like a mask you’d seen too many times to believe in anymore.

And yet, despite everything, you couldn’t shake the pull you felt toward him. The way your heart still ached for him, even when you knew you shouldn’t. Even when you knew that this—whatever this was—would never be enough.

But you weren’t ready to let go. Not yet.

So, you walked beside him, your heart heavy with everything left unsaid, everything unresolved. You tried to push it down, to ignore the questions swirling in your mind, but they wouldn’t go away.

How long could you live like this—on the periphery of someone else’s life?

“I can walk ya home,” Remy offered suddenly, his voice softer, as if that slight change in tone could smooth over the rough edges of what had just happened.

You shook your head, forcing a smile. “No, it’s fine. I’m just a few blocks away.”

You knew you weren’t fooling either of you. But the truth was, you needed space. You needed to clear your head, to remind yourself that this was the life Remy lived. The life he chose to live. And as much as you were drawn to him, moments like this made it impossible to forget that there were parts of him you would never reach.

Remy opened his mouth like he was going to argue, but then something shifted in his expression. His body tensed, his gaze flicking up and down the street with a sudden, sharp urgency.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, too low for you to fully make out.

Before you could ask what was happening, before you could process the change in his demeanor, he was already moving. His hand slipped into his jacket, and when he turned back to you, his face was tight with something you couldn’t quite read—regret, maybe? Desperation?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice rough. And before you could ask him why, before you could even begin to react, his hands were on your face, pulling you toward him.

When Remy’s hands cupped your face, pulling you toward him, time seemed to slow. For a split second, your mind couldn’t process what was happening. His lips collided with yours in a rush of heat and urgency, and the world around you—the crowded street, the hum of people passing by, the distant echo of car horns—faded into the background, leaving only the two of you, suspended in a moment that felt both inevitable and wrong.

Your body stiffened at first, instinctively resisting the sudden intimacy. This wasn’t how you imagined it would happen. You had pictured this kiss before—how could you not? It had been lurking in the spaces between you for months, in the way he looked at you with that mischievous glint in his eyes, in the flirtatious remarks that always seemed to hover on the edge of something more. But not like this. Not now, not here. The timing was all wrong. The kiss was all wrong.

And yet, as his lips pressed harder against yours, something inside you began to unravel. Despite the wrongness of the situation, despite the alarms blaring in the back of your mind, you slowly gave in. You felt your body soften, your hands tentatively reaching up to grasp his jacket, holding on to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. The warmth of his mouth, the roughness of his stubble brushing against your skin, the way his fingers tightened slightly on your cheeks—it all stirred up feelings you had buried, feelings you had told yourself you wouldn’t let surface.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a release. All the tension, all the unspoken words, all the moments you’d shared that had felt like more than friendship, all of it was spilling into this kiss. For a brief second, you let yourself believe that this was real. That maybe, just maybe, this was him finally letting you in. Finally showing you that you meant something more.

But there was something off. Beneath the heat of the kiss, beneath the press of his lips, there was a desperation that unsettled you. His hands, usually so playful and teasing, were trembling slightly. His kiss wasn’t just passionate—it was hurried, almost frantic, like he was trying to lose himself in it. Like he was trying to distract you. And that’s when the unease returned, creeping up your spine like a cold, unwelcome shadow.

You tried to pull back, to find some clarity, but then his tongue brushed against your lips, urging them open. Without thinking, you complied, letting him in, deepening the kiss. But the moment you did, something hard and foreign slipped into your mouth.

It took you a second to process what had just happened. Your lips were still on his, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours, but your mind was already racing. The tiny object sat heavy on your tongue, unfamiliar and unwelcome, and you froze, every nerve in your body going rigid.

Suddenly, the kiss didn’t feel like a kiss anymore. It felt like a transaction. Like a betrayal.

Remy pulled away slowly, his lips lingering for just a heartbeat longer than necessary, as if he could erase what he had just done. As if he could make you forget the cold, hard truth of the tiny plastic package now sitting in your mouth.

Your heart pounded in your chest, a sickening realization settling over you like a weight you couldn’t shake. You stared at him, wide-eyed, searching his face for some kind of explanation, some kind of reassurance that this wasn’t what you thought it was. But his expression was calm, too calm, his eyes guarded. And that easy smile—the one you’d fallen for, the one that had always made you feel safe—was back on his lips, but now it felt like a mask. A mask that hid everything you didn’t want to see.

Your chest ached with the weight of it all. The kiss, the deal, the package on your tongue—it was all too much, too fast. You wanted to spit the package out, to scream at him, to demand an explanation. But before you could, the sound of a car pulling up broke through the haze of your thoughts.

A police car.

The lights flashed, and suddenly, the world around you snapped back into focus. The street, the people, the sounds—they all came rushing back, and you realized just how precarious this moment was. You stood there, frozen, your heart hammering in your chest, the tiny package still on your tongue, like a ticking time bomb.

Remy turned to face the approaching officers, his posture relaxed, as if nothing unusual had just happened. His lips curled into that smooth, disarming smile that had gotten him out of so many situations before. But this time, that smile made your stomach turn.

“Afternoon, officers,” he greeted, his voice as casual as ever, though you could hear the edge beneath it. The tension he was trying so hard to hide.

You stood there, your mind reeling, the weight of the kiss still lingering on your lips, the weight of the package pressing down on your conscience.

And in that moment, you realized something that made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the danger you were in.

The kiss—the kiss you had been waiting for, the kiss that had felt like a promise—had been nothing more than a cover.

A way to hide the truth. A way to use you.

As soon as the police car disappeared down the street, leaving behind the lingering tension of what had almost happened, you felt an overwhelming wave of emotion crash over you. It wasn’t just anger—it was betrayal, disappointment, and that deep, aching sadness that came when you realized you had been fooling yourself all along.

You spat the package into your hand with a sharp motion, the small, cold object a bitter reminder of how easily Remy had pulled you into his game. Without thinking, you grabbed his hand—his stupid, charming hand that had always been so quick to pull you into trouble—and shoved the package back into his palm. The force behind the gesture wasn’t just about the package; it was about everything. It was about him. It was about what you thought you’d meant to him.

Remy’s fingers curled around the package as if it were just another part of the job, but his eyes—those dark, unreadable eyes—flickered with something you couldn’t quite place. Regret? Guilt? It didn’t matter anymore. You were done trying to decipher the emotions he so carefully hid behind that charming grin.

“Don’t you ever pull that bullshit with me again,” you spat, your voice shaking as you fought to keep your emotions in check. You could feel your heart pounding against your ribs, your chest tight with the weight of everything you were holding back. “I’m not one of your lackeys, Remy. I’m not one of your anything.”

The words came out sharper than you meant, but you didn’t care. You wanted them to hurt. You wanted him to feel the sting of it the way you had felt the sting of his betrayal, the way you had felt the weight of that package pressing down on your conscience. But as soon as the words left your mouth, you realized they weren’t just for him. They were for you. A reminder, a painful, bitter reminder, that no matter how much you might have wanted to be something more to him, you weren’t. You were just another pawn in whatever game Remy was playing.

Remy’s expression faltered for a second—just a second—and you saw something flicker across his face, something raw and real. His eyes darkened, the playful light that usually danced there replaced with something heavier, something that looked like regret. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, his face slipping back into that carefully crafted mask of indifference.

You couldn’t stop yourself. You weren’t done.

“I thought—” The words caught in your throat, sharp and jagged, refusing to come out. You swallowed hard, trying to push past the lump that had formed, but it was useless. What had you thought? That you were different? That you meant something more to him than all the others? That maybe, just maybe, this time, you weren’t just another convenient piece in his world of schemes and lies?

You couldn’t say it. You couldn’t let yourself be that vulnerable, not with him standing there, looking at you with those eyes that were so good at pretending to care. Because if you said it—if you let those words out—it would mean admitting just how much you had let yourself hope. And that would hurt more than anything.

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. You could feel the weight of everything you weren’t saying pressing down on your chest, making it hard to breathe. You saw the way Remy’s lips parted, like he wanted to say something, to explain, to make it better. But no words came. He just stood there, holding that damn package like it wasn’t a symbol of everything that was wrong between you.

“I’m sorry, chère,” he said again, his voice low, rough. There was something in his tone that made your chest tighten—something that sounded like he meant it. But apologies weren’t enough. Not this time. Not after what he had done.

You shook your head, stepping back, putting more distance between the two of you. “Sorry doesn’t fix this, Remy,” you said, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “You didn’t give a shit if those cops had searched us, did you?”

He flinched at your words, the muscles in his jaw tightening as his brows furrowed. “They wouldn’t have,” he said, his voice firm, like that was supposed to make everything okay. Like his confidence in his own ability to manipulate the situation was supposed to erase the risk he had put you in. But it didn’t. It only made you angrier.

“You didn’t know that!” you shouted, the frustration and fear bubbling up inside you, spilling out in a sharp, angry burst. “You didn’t know what could’ve happened. But you didn’t care, did you? You just did what you always do—look out for yourself.”

The accusation hung in the air, heavy and sharp, and you saw the way it hit him. His face tightened, his posture stiffening as something dark flashed across his features. For a moment, you thought he was going to argue, to fight back, to tell you that you were wrong. That he did care. That he wasn’t just using you. But he didn’t. He just stood there, his eyes burning with something you couldn’t quite place—something that looked like pain.

And that hurt more than anything. Because part of you wanted him to fight back. Part of you wanted him to tell you that you were wrong, that you did mean something to him. That this wasn’t just another game to him. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“You’re Remy LeBeau,” you said, your voice quieter now, but no less resolute. “You don’t care about people unless it benefits you. You only look out for yourself. And I—” You faltered, your breath catching in your throat as the weight of your own words settled over you, heavy and final. “And I was stupid to think I could be anything more than just another person you used.”

Remy’s expression twisted at your words, something close to hurt flashing across his face before he quickly masked it. His hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach for you, to pull you back, to make you stay. But he didn’t. He just stood there, his silence louder than any argument he could have made.

“Y’ wrong, chère,” he said quietly, his voice raw, stripped of the usual bravado. “Y’ not jus’ someone I use.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight, your chest aching. His words should have meant something, but they didn’t. Not anymore. Not after everything he had done.

“Then prove it,” you whispered, the plea slipping out before you could stop it. It wasn’t a challenge. It was a desperate, last-ditch effort to salvage something from the wreckage of whatever this was between you. You wanted him to prove you wrong, to show you that you weren’t just another pawn in his game. You wanted him to fight for you.

But he didn’t.

Remy’s eyes darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line as he stood there, his silence speaking louder than any words ever could. He wasn’t going to fight for you. He wasn’t going to prove you wrong. Because deep down, you both knew the truth.

You nodded, blinking back the tears that were threatening to spill. “That’s what I thought.”

You stood there, the tension between you and Remy almost unbearable, like a thread stretched too tight, ready to snap. The weight of everything that had just happened pressed down on your chest, making it hard to breathe. You had said what you needed to say, laid it all bare in front of him, and now… now you just needed to go.

But something held you in place. A quiet, desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d say something. That he’d finally drop the walls he’d built around himself and give you a reason to stay. You held onto the silence, giving him the space to speak, to fight for this—for you.

But Remy said nothing.

He just stood there, his hands shoved into his pockets, his gaze fixed on the ground like it was the most interesting thing in the world. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his eyes shadowed with something you couldn’t quite read. Regret, maybe? Guilt? Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough.

Seconds ticked by, each one feeling like an eternity, and still, he stayed silent. You felt your chest tighten, the familiar sting of disappointment settling in. What had you really expected? You had known Remy for long enough to know that this was how he operated—always keeping people at arm’s length, always hiding behind that devil-may-care grin and his smooth, careless charm. But still, you’d hoped.

Your heart pounded in your chest, and you swallowed hard, trying to fight back the tears that were threatening to spill. You couldn’t do this anymore. You couldn’t keep waiting for him to be something he wasn’t. Something he wasn’t capable of being.

“I need to go,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper, but the words felt heavy—final.

Still, he said nothing.

You took a step back, your feet feeling heavy, like they were resisting the idea of actually leaving. You had given him a chance to say something, anything that might fix this. But he hadn’t taken it. And that hurt more than you wanted to admit. You had been waiting for him to fight for you, to show you that there was something real between you. But all he’d done was stand there, silent, letting the distance between you grow wider and wider.

You exhaled, the breath shaky as you tried to steady yourself, tried to push past the ache in your chest. You couldn’t leave without one more truth, though. One more thing that needed to be said because you couldn’t keep pretending that he was something more than what he was.

“You know,” you began, your voice quiet but steady, “everyone in this city thinks you’re some dangerous mobster. The great Remy LeBeau. The one who can charm his way out of anything, who’s always two steps ahead. The one with all the answers, all the power.”

You saw him stiffen slightly at your words, but he didn’t look up, didn’t meet your eyes. You took another step back, your voice gaining strength as you let the truth spill out.

“But the reality is… you’re just a coward, Remy.”

His head snapped up at that, his eyes narrowing slightly, but he still said nothing. His jaw was tight, his hands clenched into fists in his pockets, but he didn’t respond. He didn’t try to argue.

You felt a surge of something—anger, frustration, maybe even pity—rise up inside you as you looked at him, standing there with all his walls still firmly in place, refusing to let anyone in. The Remy LeBeau who terrified half the city, the one who could manipulate and charm his way through any situation, was nothing more than a scared little boy hiding behind his bravado.

“You’re scared,” you continued, your voice soft but cutting. “Scared that you might actually feel something real. That maybe, if you let yourself care, if you let someone in, it’ll make you vulnerable. And God forbid Remy LeBeau ever lets himself be vulnerable.”

He flinched at that, just barely, but it was enough. For the first time, you saw a crack in his carefully constructed mask. His eyes darkened, and for a brief moment, you thought he might finally say something—that he might fight back, argue, try to prove you wrong. But just as quickly as the crack appeared, it was gone, his face hardening into that familiar expression of indifference.

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head as the finality of it all settled over you. “But you know what, Remy? That’s your problem. Not mine. I can’t keep waiting for you to figure out how to be a person.”

His eyes flickered, something raw and wounded flashing across his face, but still, he stayed quiet.

The silence between you was deafening. You realized then that this was it. That no matter how much you had wanted him to be more, to be someone who could care, he wasn’t going to change. Not for you. Not for anyone.

You turned away, your heart heavy but resolute. You had given him enough chances. More than he deserved. And he hadn’t taken a single one.

“I hope you figure it out someday,” you said softly, your back to him now. “But I can’t wait for that day to come.”

And with that, you walked away.

This time, you didn’t look back. You didn’t falter. You didn’t give him another chance to pull you back into his web of half-truths and charm.

Because the truth was, Remy LeBeau might have been a lot of things—a thief, a charmer, a manipulator—but in the end, he was just a man too scared to let himself feel anything real.

And you couldn’t save him from that.

As you walked down the street, the sounds of the city slowly coming back into focus, you felt a strange sense of relief wash over you. It wasn’t the kind of relief that came with peace, but the kind that came with knowing you had done everything you could. That you had given him every chance to be something more.

But he hadn’t taken it.

And now, it was time to let go.

Behind you, Remy stood in the same spot, his hand still clenched around the package you had shoved into it. The words you had thrown at him echoed in his mind, cutting deeper than any insult or wound he’d ever received.

You were wrong, he told himself.

But the ache in his chest told him that maybe, just maybe, you were right.

And that terrified him more than anything else in the world. <><><><><><>

As you rounded the corner, your heart ached with the weight of everything that had just happened. You had known, deep down, that this was how it would end. That Remy was never going to be the person you wanted him to be. That his world was one of shadows and secrets, and no matter how much you might have tried to ignore it, you couldn’t escape the truth of who he was.

And yet, it hurt. It hurt more than you ever thought it would. Because for all the ways you had tried to protect yourself, for all the times you had told yourself not to get too close, you had let yourself hope. You had let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you were different to him.

But you weren’t.

As you walked, the city seemed to blur around you, the sounds of traffic and distant conversation muffled by the pounding of your own heart. Your mind raced, replaying the scene over and over again, as if trying to make sense of it, trying to find some explanation for why it had hurt so much.

But there was no explaining it. No justifying it.

You had let yourself care about someone who couldn’t care about you in the same way. And now, you were paying the price.

The worst part was, you weren’t even sure if you were angrier at Remy or at yourself. Because despite everything, despite what had just happened, part of you still wanted to believe that he cared. Part of you still wanted to believe that maybe, somehow, there had been something real between you.

But that part of you was wrong.

As you moved through the streets, your feet carrying you forward almost on autopilot, your thoughts kept spiraling back to the same painful truth: Remy LeBeau didn’t belong to anyone. He belonged to the shadows, to the streets, to the cons and the schemes that kept him one step ahead of the world. And you? You were just another stop along the way, another temporary distraction from whatever game he was playing.

You had tried to be different. You had tried to be the exception. But maybe that was the problem—thinking you could somehow pull him out of that darkness when he had chosen it. He thrived in it. It was his comfort, his shield, the only thing that kept him from having to deal with the real, messy parts of life. The parts that required vulnerability, honesty, and trust.

And you had been foolish enough to think you could change that.

The memory of his touch lingered, burning against your skin like a brand. The way his fingers had brushed against yours, the heat of his palm as you shoved the package back at him. The way his lips had parted, like he was going to say something—something that could have made it all make sense—but then he hadn’t. He had chosen silence. He had chosen the easy way out, just like he always did.

And you? You had stood there, waiting for something that was never going to come.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips as you crossed the street, dodging a group of tourists who barely noticed you. You almost couldn’t believe how naive you had been. How, even after everything you had seen, after all the times he had pulled you into the chaos of his life, you had still believed in him. Still believed in the possibility that he could be more than the charming thief with a devil-may-care grin and a heart full of secrets.

But that was the thing about hope, wasn’t it? It didn’t care about reality. It didn’t care about the facts staring you in the face. It just kept pushing you forward, whispering maybe, even when you knew better.

You shook your head, trying to clear the thoughts that were swirling in your mind, but it was no use. Remy had gotten under your skin in a way you hadn’t expected, in a way you hadn’t wanted to admit until now. And now that you were finally confronting it, now that you were staring down the cold, hard truth of it, you didn’t know what to do with all the feelings that were left behind.

Was it anger? Was it heartbreak? Or was it something else, something more complicated and twisted, something that you didn’t even want to acknowledge?

The truth was, you felt stupid. Stupid for thinking you could be the one to change him. Stupid for letting yourself fall for someone who had made it clear from the start that he wasn’t going to stick around. That he wasn’t going to choose you.

Because that’s what it came down to, wasn’t it? Choices.

Remy had made his choice. He had chosen the life he lived, the risks he took, the secrets he kept. And he had chosen to keep you at arm’s length, even when he had pulled you in close enough to make you think you mattered. He had chosen to use you when it suited him, to kiss you when it was convenient, to pass off his problems like they were yours to carry.

And you? You had chosen to let him.

You stopped in your tracks, the weight of that realization hitting you like a punch to the gut. You had let him do this to you. You had allowed yourself to get caught up in his world, to believe in the possibility of something more, when deep down, you had known it was never going to happen.

Maybe that was why it hurt so much. Not because of what Remy had done, but because of what you had done. You had let yourself hope. You had let yourself believe in something that wasn’t real.

And now, you were the one left to pick up the pieces.

As the sun stood directly above you, casting long shadows on the pavement, you felt a heaviness settle in your chest. A part of you wanted to turn back, to find Remy and demand answers. To make him explain why he had kissed you like that, why he had used you in that moment, why he had let you believe there was something more between you.

But you knew better.

Remy wouldn’t give you the answers you were looking for. He couldn’t. Because that would require him to face something he wasn’t ready to face—something he might never be ready to face.

The truth was, Remy was always going to be Remy. He was always going to keep one foot in the shadows, always going to walk the line between right and wrong, between loyalty and self-preservation. And you? You were always going to be left standing in the light, waiting for him to come out of the darkness.

But he wasn’t going to. Not for you. Not for anyone.

You let out a shaky breath, your hands curling into fists at your sides as you tried to steady yourself. The ache in your chest hadn’t gone away, but it had shifted. It wasn’t just about Remy anymore. It was about you, about the choices you had made, the risks you had taken with your heart. And now, you had to face the consequences.

As you walked further away from him, from the scene that had left you feeling so raw and exposed, you couldn’t help but wonder if you would ever stop hoping.

Because that was the hardest part, wasn’t it? Letting go of the hope that things could be different. Letting go of the idea that maybe, just maybe, Remy could be someone else. Someone who chose you.

But deep down, you knew the truth.

You couldn’t change him. And you couldn’t keep hoping that someday he would change for you.

So you kept walking, your heart heavy, your mind still reeling from everything that had happened. And with every step you took, you tried to let go. Let go of the hope, let go of the feelings, let go of the part of you that had wanted so badly to believe in something that was never real.

But as much as you tried, you knew it would take time. You knew that Remy had left a mark on you—a mark that wouldn’t fade easily.

And maybe, you thought as you wiped away the tears that had begun to fall, maybe that was the most painful truth of all. <><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Jean and Scott lounged in the sprawling living room of the large penthouse, the gentle patter of raindrops against the large windows filling the silence. Outside, the world was grey and quiet, the storm clouds hanging low over the horizon, making the sun which had earlier offered some relief vanish. Between the two of them, the soft glow of a laptop screen reflected off their faces, casting a pale light in the otherwise dim room. Spreadsheets of numbers and transactions filled the screen—more of the tedious but necessary work of managing the financials, including the delicate balance of laundering funds through their various legitimate businesses.

They worked in comfortable silence, the kind that came from years of shared experience, when the door to the living room suddenly flew open. Remy stormed in, his usual swagger replaced by something sharper, more urgent. His boots clapped against the hardwood floor with a rapid rhythm, his movements quick and uncharacteristically careless. He barely glanced at Jean and Scott, offering a nod that was more reflex than acknowledgment.

"Remy?" Jean called out, her voice laced with concern, but he was already halfway down the hall, ignoring her as he disappeared toward his room.

Scott and Jean exchanged a look, worry flickering between them. It wasn’t like Remy to be abrupt—not with them. His usual easygoing charm and playful demeanor were nowhere to be found. The sudden shift in his energy, the storm that seemed to be brewing inside him, was enough to make them both abandon their work. Rising from the couch, they followed him quietly, their footsteps soft but filled with the weight of unspoken questions.

They found him in his walk-in wardrobe, kneeling on the floor beneath rows of neatly hung suits and ties. His hands moved with frantic energy, punching in the familiar code to the safe bolted down to the floor. The soft beep of the lock disengaging echoed in the small space, followed by the heavy, metallic sound as the door swung open.

Jean and Scott hovered in the doorway, watching as Remy began pulling the contents of the safe out with a feverish intensity. Cash, jewelry, passports, documents—everything important to him was kept in that safe, and now he was emptying it like someone in a panic, someone who thought they were running out of time.

Scott took a step forward, his voice calm but firm. "Remy, what’s going on?"

Remy didn’t answer immediately. His hands kept moving, sifting through the items as if searching for something specific, something that he needed more than anything else in that moment. His breathing was uneven, and his usually steady hands trembled slightly as they moved.

Then, suddenly, his hands stilled. He slowly picked up the small velvet ring box, opening it to make sure it’s contents were there, still safe. Once that was confirmed he picked up the item it was sitting below it.

Remy sat frozen in the dim light of his wardrobe, the worn leather photo album clutched tightly in his hands. The storm outside seemed to echo the turmoil inside him, the rain hitting the windows in a rhythmic patter that almost matched the frantic beat of his heart. He stared blankly at the album, his mind awash in memories he had long since buried, and yet, today they felt as raw and fresh as the day they were made.

He hadn’t even realized how tight his chest felt until he had heard your voice in his head again, that final parting shot you had thrown at him before walking away.

"You’re just a coward, Remy. You’re scared that you might actually feel something real."

The words had cut deeper than he had let you see. They had pierced right through the carefully constructed armor he wore every day—the charm, the swagger, the devil-may-care attitude. Beneath it all, you had seen him for what he truly was: someone who was terrified of vulnerability, of letting anyone in far enough to actually hurt him.

And now you were gone.

Scott’s voice had been steady, but Remy barely registered it. He was lost in the memory of your eyes, the way they had burned with frustration, with disappointment, with a pain that he had caused. He had seen it all, and it had shaken him in a way that nothing else ever had. Not even the risks, the jobs, the deals that could have cost him his life had stirred this kind of fear in him.

This was different. This was real.

He had been standing at the edge of something—something he didn’t fully understand, but something he craved more than he was willing to admit. And now, with the weight of his mistakes pressing down on him, he felt like he was about to lose his chance to understand it at all.

Scott stepped forward again, his voice breaking through the haze of Remy’s thoughts. “Remy, are you sure this is the right way to fix things?”

Remy’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening around the edges of the album. He didn’t answer right away, couldn’t answer right away. His mind was too busy replaying the moment when you had shoved the package back into his hand, the look in your eyes when you had realized what he had done. And then your words—those words that had lodged themselves in his chest like a knife.

He had never felt so powerless. He had charm, wit, and all the tricks in the world at his disposal, but none of them could fix what had happened between you. None of them could undo the damage he had caused by hiding behind his walls, by refusing to let you in when it mattered most.

“I screwed up,” he muttered, his voice thick with emotion. The Cajun accent, usually smooth and lazy, was rough around the edges, like he was barely holding himself together. “An’ this… this is the only way I know how t’ fix it.”

Jean stepped into the room, her soft eyes full of concern. “Remy, are you sure showing her this is the answer?”

Her voice wasn’t accusing—just gentle, as if she understood the weight of what he was about to do. Remy nodded shakily, his gaze still fixed on the album. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a reminder of how much time was slipping away. He had to show you. He had to make you understand.

Because if he didn’t, if he let you walk away thinking he didn’t care, thinking he was just another selfish, heartless crook… he didn’t know if he could live with that.

“I need her t’ know,” he said, his voice cracking with the intensity of his emotions. “She ain’t jus’ anyone t’ me. I wasn’t lyin’ when I said I care.”

The words felt like they weren’t enough, but they were all he had. He had never been good at this—at opening up, at letting people see the pieces of him that weren’t polished, that weren’t pretty. But you had seen through him anyway. You had seen the fear beneath the bravado. And now, standing here, holding onto the one thing that might help him show you the truth, he felt more vulnerable than he ever had in his life.

Scott’s voice broke through again, softer this time. “What if it’s not enough, Remy?”

Remy’s jaw clenched. He didn’t have an answer to that. He didn’t know if showing you the album, if letting you see the things he had kept hidden from the world, would be enough to fix what was broken between you. But he had to try. He had to.

“It’s gotta be,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “It’s all I got ta give her.”

Jean’s hand found his arm, her touch gentle but grounding. “Then show her, Remy. Show her everything.”

His red-on-black eyes met hers, and for a moment, they softened. There was no charm, no cocky smirk, no easy grin. Just Remy, stripped down to the raw, scared man beneath all the layers. He nodded, a tight, almost imperceptible movement, but enough to let Jean know that he had made his decision.

With one last look at the rings, still nestled in their velvet box, Remy snapped the lid shut and placed it back in the safe. This wasn’t about the past—about promises that had been broken long ago. This was about you. About the future he wasn’t even sure he deserved but knew he wanted.

He picked up the album, holding it carefully as if it held all the answers to the questions he couldn’t put into words. And maybe, just maybe, it did. Maybe this was the only way to show you that he wasn’t the man you thought he was—that there was more to him than the lies, the schemes, the deceit.

Without another word, he turned and walked past Jean and Scott, his footsteps heavy with purpose. He didn’t look back, didn’t wait for their approval or their advice. This was something he had to do alone.

As he stepped out into the rain-soaked streets, the photo album tucked carefully under one arm, Remy felt the weight of his decision settle over him. The rain fell harder now, drenching him within seconds, but he barely noticed. His mind was too focused on you—on the look in your eyes when you had left, on the ache in his chest that hadn’t stopped since you walked away.

He had been a coward. He had let fear rule him for too long, hiding behind his charm and his tricks, pretending that he didn’t care because that was easier than admitting the truth.

But now? Now he was going to show you everything.

And if that wasn’t enough?

He didn’t know what he would do.

The rain blurred the city around him, turning the streetlights into hazy glows, the traffic into distant hums. But Remy didn’t care. He had only one goal in mind now: to find you. To show you that he wasn’t just the man you thought he was. That maybe, just maybe, there was something real underneath all the layers.

And as he walked through the storm, the photo album cradled like a fragile lifeline, he allowed himself, for the first time in a long while, to hope.

Because if there was one person who could understand him—who could see him for who he truly was—it was you.

And he wasn’t ready to lose that. Not yet. Not without a fight.

67 notes · View notes