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thatfeelinwhenyou · 2 months ago

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SAFE & SOUND — extras: jungwon's POV

Navigating one year post-apocalypse, when the dead began to walk and the living proved to be no better, you decide that trust is a luxury you can no longer afford. But after a run-in with a group of seven peculiar survivors, you learn that there are bigger problems than just the undead roaming the streets. You also start to wonder if there’s more to survival than simply staying alive.

word count: 18.1k (LMFAOOOO)

a/n: erm... i know i said i wouldn't be writing anything extra for safe & sound but I saw some of your comments saying how it would be interesting to read from Jungwon's perspective. i realised then, how much detail I was missing out on because I was writing in first perspective. the thought irked me. so I opened my laptop and wrote this... LOL it's not full chapters, just some scenes and extra cuts that I thought would be fun to read in won's POV! enjoy reliving some of the most traumatic moments I guess? as usual, heavy trigger warning for blood, killing, death, ANGST, and morally grey ideologies.

MASTERLIST

Pre-Safe & Sound

The courtroom reeks of cigarette smoke and musty paper, the air so thick it feels like it’s clogging his lungs. Jungwon’s shoulders ache from sitting too stiff for too long, his back pressed against the cold metal of the chair. His fingers tap against his thigh in an impatient rhythm, a habit he’s never quite managed to shake.

Jungwon is just one of many faces scattered throughout the makeshift courtroom—one of many playing pretend in a crumbling civilisation that wants to believe it’s still standing. Pretending the world hasn’t rotted outside these concrete walls, pretending the rules still matter. The others around him—higher-ups, officers, men and women who hold titles that lost their meaning the day the world went to shit—are watching the spectacle with all the enthusiasm of a pack of vultures waiting for something to die.

It’s always been like this—marble floors and steel walls, designed to intimidate, to remind everyone sitting here of the authority they’ve willingly, or unwillingly, surrendered themselves to. The Future prides itself on order and control. On weeding out the weak. On pruning the unruly.

The General sits at the head of the room, his posture rigid, shoulders squared, the insignia on his chest gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Beside him, Sergeant Major Kim of Weapons Control has his mouth twisted into a sneer, his eyes like polished stone.

Jungwon knows this isn’t just a formality. It’s an execution, dressed up in procedure.

“I’m tired of tolerating his shit. So what if he’s a good shot? All the more he’ll turn the muzzle on one of us if he feels like it.” Sergeant Major Kim’s voice grates on Jungwon’s nerves, his words nothing more than polished venom, a slow, creeping poison meant to dismantle anyone who steps out of line.

It’s been a solid forty-five minutes since Sergeant Major Kim started making his case against Jay. Not just any case, either. A full-blown, meticulously constructed argument, layered with every possible sin Jay might have committed. Insurbodination. Recklessness. Endangering his comrades during an infiltration of a new community not far from HQ.

Jungwon’s jaw tightens as he listens, only half paying attention to the string of accusations that drip from the Sergeant Major’s mouth. It’s all politics. It’s all bullshit. They’re clinging to some sense of order, some desperate attempt to pretend they have control when the world has already slipped from their grasp.

“Private First Class Park is a liability. Reckless, undisciplined, and worst of all, disobedient. We give orders and he questions them. We set boundaries and he oversteps them. That’s not someone we can rely on.”

The words are familiar. They echo the same rhetoric Jungwon has heard in every damn meeting about Jay. The same tired complaints, the same frustrations disguised as grievances.

But something is different this time. There’s a finality to Sergeant Major Kim’s tone. A hunger for punishment.

Jungwon’s fingers drum against his thigh, the motion so slight it’s almost imperceptible. Outwardly, he remains calm, collected, his expression one of neutrality. But his mind is anything but.

The General leans forward, his hands clasped together on the table before him. “Expulsion has been discussed in the past.” His voice is measured, dispassionate. “But now, the situation has escalated.”

Jungwon’s jaw clenches. Escalated. That’s one way to put it.

Jay’s a good shot. Too good. His skill with a rifle has saved lives more times than anyone can count, his quick thinking turning the tide of more battles than the council has the nerve to acknowledge. And his mouth—well, his mouth is the part they can’t seem to stomach. The bluntness. The refusal to bow to authority when that authority is nothing more than a fragile facade.

Jay had defied orders, yes. Had disregarded direct commands during the last infiltration mission. But Jay’s reasons were sound. Ethical, even. The community they were raiding had families—innocent people trying to survive, same as them. Jay had pushed back, refused to partake in what he deemed an unnecessary massacre. And in doing so, he’d broken the one unspoken rule The Future held above all else—obedience.

“His actions jeopardise the integrity of our system. His insubordination is not only dangerous, but infectious.” Sergeant Major Kim’s eyes narrow, his gaze sweeping over the room like he’s daring anyone to disagree.

Jungwon doesn’t. Not outwardly. Not yet.

“Expulsion is the only logical course of action.” Sergeant Major Kim’s voice is calm, collected. “Unless someone can offer a viable alternative.”

The silence is thick, stifling. No one speaks. No one dares to.

But Jungwon can feel it—something coiling in his gut, hot and sharp and undeniable. A warning. A decision.

Expulsion.

He can’t get the word out of his head. They’re going to throw Jay out. Cut him off from their little makeshift organisation like he’s nothing more than a diseased limb that needs to be amputated. And Jungwon knows what happens to those who are expelled. It’s a death sentence. Maybe not right away, but eventually.

Because the world out there doesn’t care if you were once part of a structured society. It doesn’t care if you were skilled or strong or brave. It only cares about whether you can survive. And survival is a lot harder when you’re alone.

Jungwon’s eyes narrow, his mind racing. The General is speaking now, his voice calm and detached, as if he’s discussing nothing more than a routine supply run. But Jungwon catches the hesitation. The way his fingers drum against the table. The way his gaze shifts from the Sergeant Major to the others gathered around, gauging their reactions.

Politics. It’s always politics.

He needs to get out of here. He needs to think. His fingers tap harder against his thigh, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. If they really expel Jay, if they really push him out into the world without resources, without allies—

Jungwon doesn’t know why the thought bothers him so much. Doesn’t know why his fists are clenched so tight his knuckles have turned white.

He’s been trained to follow orders. Conditioned to obey, to survive, to keep his head down and his mouth shut.

But for the first time, he’s not sure he can.

He takes a measured breath, his eyes fixed on the General’s. “Expulsion is a permanent solution to a temporary problem,” he says, his voice steady, deliberate. “Jay is reckless, yes. But he’s also resourceful. Skilled. Loyal.”

“Loyal to who, exactly?” Sergeant Major Kim cuts in, his smirk barbed. “Because from where I’m standing, his loyalties lie wherever his own moral compass points. And we can’t afford to keep someone around who values his own judgement above the chain of command.”

“Loyal to us,” Jungwon counters, his voice sharp enough to cut. “To me. And to the rest of our team.”

The words hang in the air, their weight undeniable. Jungwon can see the way the General’s gaze narrows, his fingers twitching ever so slightly as he considers.

“And what would you propose, Staff Sergeant Yang?” The General’s tone is cold, indifferent. “A slap on the wrist? A stern talking-to?”

Jungwon’s mind is already racing, the pieces clicking into place. He has to be careful. One wrong move and he’s signing Jay’s death warrant himself.

“No,” Jungwon says, his voice tight, controlled. “I suggest we redirect his skills. Use his rebellious nature to our advantage. Put him on tasks that require ingenuity and creativity. Give him the freedom to operate without compromising our security.”

“You aren’t just defending him because you know him personally, are you? Bias isn’t a good look in the military, Sergeant Yang.”

The words hit like a slap, sharp and cutting. Jungwon’s eyes narrow, his posture stiffening as he meets Sergeant Major Kim’s gaze head-on. The sneer twisting the man’s mouth makes Jungwon’s stomach churn. The accusation is there, laid bare for everyone in the room to see.

A murmur ripples through the room, low and treacherous. Judgemental eyes flicker his way—other officers, other officials. Faces he’s seen time and time again, most of them just waiting for him to slip. Because no matter how many times he proves his competence, his loyalty, his efficiency, there are always those who resent his place here. A twenty one-year-old commanding respect, making decisions that affect the lives of hundreds. It’s not natural, they say. It’s not fair.

“I’m defending him because he’s worth defending,” Jungwon says, his voice flat and calm, though his pulse thrums with irritation. “Jay’s unconventional, yes. But so are the challenges we’re facing. If we want to survive—if The Future wants to survive—we can’t afford to be rigid. We need people who think differently. People who aren’t afraid to act when the situation demands it.”

Sergeant Major Kim’s mouth twitches, his gaze turning flinty. “Acting on instinct isn’t the same as insubordination. The man is a liability. And if you can’t see that, perhaps your judgement isn’t as sound as we all thought.”

“Then give him a task that suits his skills,” Jungwon counters, refusing to let the Sergeant’s condescension sink beneath his skin. “Put him somewhere his resourcefulness can be an asset rather than a threat.”

“You’re missing the point, Sergeant,” Sergeant Major Kim drawls, like he’s explaining something obvious to a child. “This isn’t about skill. It’s about loyalty. It’s about control. And if Park can’t follow orders, then he doesn’t belong here.”

Jungwon’s teeth grind together. The committee’s eyes are on him, assessing, judging. He needs to tread carefully. One wrong word, and he’s not just condemning Jay—he’s signing away their entire group’s place in The Future.

“Sergeant Major Kim,” Jungwon says, voice tight, steady. “If you think that questioning orders is grounds for expulsion, then maybe you need to re-evaluate what you value more—obedience or survival. Because if you can’t adapt, if you can’t make use of the skills people bring to the table, then we’re not building a future at all. We’re just holding on to the past.”

The room goes silent. Eyes shift from Jungwon to Sergeant Major Kim, awaiting his response.

“You’re speaking out of line, Sergeant,” Sergeant Major Kim says, voice cold and clipped. “This is the military and you’re soldiers. Your sole purpose and duty is to follow orders. Your arrogance will be your downfall.”

“My pragmatism is what’s kept us alive,” Jungwon snaps back before he can stop himself. The words hang heavy in the air, his defiance stark against the sterile, calculated atmosphere of the room.

A beat of silence stretches, and Jungwon can feel his own heartbeat pounding against his ribs, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

The General clears his throat, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Enough. This discussion has gone on long enough.” His eyes flicker towards Jungwon, unreadable. “Sergeant Yang has made his case. We will deliberate and make our decision by the end of the week.”

A dismissal.

The others begin to file out of the room, some casting Jungwon wary glances, others looking almost impressed. But he pays them no mind. His focus is on Sergeant Major Kim, who lingers by the doorway, gaze still locked on Jungwon with the intensity of a predator sizing up its prey.

“Bias or not, Yang,” Kim says, voice low and venomous. “You’ve just tied yourself to a sinking ship. And when it drags you down, I won’t be there to pull you out.”

The words are a threat. And for the first time since Jungwon walked into this room, he feels the ice creeping into his veins.

But his expression remains impassive, his shoulders squared, his eyes unwavering. He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t let the Sergeant Major see even a flicker of fear. Because he knows now what he has to do.

Jay’s expulsion isn’t a question of if. It’s a question of when.

And Jungwon will be damned if he lets them take his friend without a fight.

As he leaves the room, his mind is already churning, thoughts clicking into place with ruthless precision. If The Future wants to cast Jay out, then fine. They’ll be leaving together.

And there’s nothing—no threat, no authority, no crumbling society—that will stop him.

The hum of fluorescent lights buzzes faintly overhead, muffled by the thick concrete walls of the auxiliary storage bay. The place is empty—technically off-limits after curfew, which makes it perfect for the conversation Jungwon doesn’t want anyone else to hear.

Jay’s leaning against a stack of ration crates, arms crossed, posture defiant in that quietly confrontational way of his. His expression, though unreadable, holds a kind of lazy edge—like he already knows why Jungwon’s here and doesn’t care.

“I take it this isn’t a supply check,” Jay says, tilting his head.

Jungwon steps in, letting the heavy door shut behind him with a dull thud. His voice is low, steady. Controlled, but fraying at the edges. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Jay doesn’t move. “You’ll have to be more specific. I think a lot of things.”

“You disobeyed a direct order, Jay. You blew the infiltration on the west community. Sergeant Major Kim is calling for expulsion.”

At that, Jay’s eyes narrow. “They were unarmed civilians, Jungwon. Not raiders. Families. Kids. We weren’t just ‘infiltrating,’ we were planning to strip them dry and leave them vulnerable.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

Jay scoffs. “Says the guy who helped design half the tactics we use to screw those people over.”

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, the silence is razor-sharp between them. Then he steps forward, closing the distance until there’s nowhere left to hide behind words or sarcasm.

“I told them you weren’t a threat. I vouched for you, Jay. Sat in that goddamn courtroom and played the perfect little soldier so they wouldn’t put you on the list.”

Jay flinches—barely—but Jungwon catches it.

“You think you're some kind of saviour because you questioned one order? You’re not. You’re reckless. You’re lucky they’re only talking expulsion and not something worse.”

“They’re wrong,” Jay bites out. “And you know it.”

“I do,” Jungwon says quietly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you fucked up. You made yourself a target. And now… now I can’t protect you anymore.”

There’s a beat of silence where neither of them says anything.

And then Jungwon’s voice lowers further, like the weight of what he’s about to say is too heavy to carry out loud.

“I’m thinking of leaving.”

Jay’s head jerks up, brows drawing together. “What?”

“If they expel you, they’ll monitor the rest of us. And if they find even a trace of sympathy or dissent, we’re next. Me, Jake, Sunghoon, Ni-ki, Sunoo, Heeseung... all of us.”

Jay stares at him, eyes unreadable. “So that’s it? You’re just going to run?”

“No,” Jungwon breathes. “I’m going to take us out before they bury us.”

Another silence. This one charged. Heavier.

Jay’s voice softens, almost uncertain. “Does the rest of the group know?”

“Not yet. I’ll tell them when I figure out how to get us out without getting us all killed.”

That night, the air inside The Future’s inner walls felt unusually still—eerily subdued in a place that never truly slept. The soft hum of generators buzzed overhead, casting stark white light down the sterile hallways of the supply depot. It should have been louder—more movement, more noise, more bodies. But something was off.

Jungwon noticed it the moment he stepped inside.

There were fewer people on duty than protocol demanded. Only two stationed at the check-in desk, one watching the entrance, and none making rounds through the aisles. It wasn’t just a shift change lull—it was a skeleton crew, and they all looked like they hadn’t slept in days.

He didn’t ask why. Not at first. Asking questions in The Future was how you got assigned to more shifts, more silence, more suspicion.

But then he heard it.

Whispers. In the hallways. Low voices crackling over radios. Reports that the outbound retrieval unit—Team D4—never made it back on time. They’d been dispatched earlier that week to collect a shipment from a nearby survivor community.

But something had gone wrong.

According to murmurs passed between command and medbay, the team was ambushed. Overrun. The dead poured out of the treeline, faster and hungrier than anticipated. Out of twelve, only three returned. All injured. One of them shot in the leg. Another missing an arm. The third didn’t speak—just stared at the floor with blood still drying in his beard.

That explained the silence in the depot. The tension. The missing bodies. Everyone was stretched thin trying to fill the void the dead left behind.

It also explained why tonight—if they were ever going to do it—was the night.

Jungwon turned on his heel and made his way back to the lower barracks, where Jay was already waiting, sharpening the edge of a blade that technically wasn’t authorised for lower division use.

"Team D4?" Jay asked, not looking up.

“Most of them didn’t make it back,” Jungwon replied, voice low. “They’re short-staffed across all zones. Nobody’s looking at us tonight.”

Jay simply nodded.

Because they both knew. This was the window. The only one they might ever get.

And by morning, they wouldn’t be soldiers of The Future anymore. They’d be deserters.

Alive—for now.

But fugitives all the same.

The first night outside The Future feels like stepping onto another planet.

They move fast under the cover of darkness, adrenaline coursing through their veins, every footstep deliberate but uneven with nerves. The plan had been hastily drawn, but executed with terrifying precision—at least on Jungwon’s part. He hadn’t factored in the emotional weight that would follow the moment they drove past the barricade.

They’re not alone. A handful of others—faces half-familiar, half-forgotten—had taken the chance when Jungwon gave the signal. Deserters, they’re called now. Traitors, even. People clinging to the fragments of their humanity in a world that no longer rewards it.

They make camp in the remnants of an abandoned roadside diner. Dusty booths. Shattered windows. A place that probably once smelled of burnt grease and coffee. Tonight, it smells like mildew and ash.

Ni-ki tries to help set up makeshift beds from ripped upholstery while still casting anxious glances at the shadows outside. He’s the youngest, but he doesn’t complain. Just listens when Jungwon gives instructions. Follows every word like it’s law.

Jay sits by the boarded-up window, rifle across his lap. Silent. Watching.

And Jungwon—he doesn't sleep. Instead, he stands alone outside the back exit, staring into the trees, trying not to hear the voices in his head. The ones asking if he did the right thing. The ones whispering the names of the people he didn’t save. The ones asking if it’s worth it.

He doesn't have an answer.

But when he finally looks back at the diner, at the silhouettes of his friends—of his family—huddled together in the quiet, in the cold, something settles in his chest.

Back at The Future, they weren’t just surviving—they were thriving in the roles handed to them, performing with the kind of polished discipline The Future demanded.

Jake had earned his place in the treatment facility. Respected. Quietly feared, even. He had a mind for detail, a steady hand, and an ability to detach just enough to survive the sight of infected test subjects without flinching. He had a bed. A routine. The luxury of clean scrubs and indoor lighting. And yet, he walked away from it all.

Sunoo manned communications and supplies, his sharp tongue and sharper wit oddly perfect for keeping morale in check. He had access to inventory, conversations, coded maps—he knew where people were and what they needed. And he traded all of that in the second Jungwon came to him with the plan.

Ni-ki, though young, had embedded himself in logistics. Quiet. Observant. Efficient. He knew the flow of shipments and troop placements better than most commanding officers. He could take apart a busted engine and rebuild it before most had even figured out what was wrong. He was becoming indispensable. But Ni-ki didn’t hesitate either.

Even Heeseung, who’d just been promoted to Head of Security two weeks before their escape—an elevation that came with more food, a locked quarters, and actual authority—chose to follow. He’d worked so hard for that title. And in the end, it meant nothing compared to the people he refused to leave behind.

Sunghoon was rising fast, too. A newly appointed drill instructor, his job was to sharpen recruits, to crush fear out of them and replace it with precision. His methods were harsh, but the soldiers he trained survived. He was well on his way to a permanent place in the system. Yet, he too joined the escape.

Because even with their ranks and privileges, they could all feel it: The Future was rotting from the inside out. The higher you climbed, the more of your soul you had to trade in for the view. They could see what was happening to them. To others. And in the end, they decided they'd rather run into the teeth of the dead than sit comfortably while everything human in them slipped away.

So when Jungwon offered them a way out, even those who had the most to lose didn’t hesitate. It wasn’t about leaving safety behind. It was about reclaiming something they’d forgotten they were allowed to have.

Freedom.

Now, that freedom tastes like blood and ash and sleepless nights, but it’s real.

For the first time in a long time, they get to choose who they are.

And that, they’ve decided, is worth everything.

Part 1

You shift against him in your sleep, and before he even realises it, your head has tilted until it’s resting lightly on his lap.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, barely breathes. Not because it’s uncomfortable. But because he doesn’t know what to do with this—this trust.

He glances down at your face—peaceful and still, completely unguarded. Your breathing is slow and even, lashes fluttering with whatever dream you’ve slipped into—it gnaws at something inside him, something dormant he thought he’d buried alongside the worst of who he used to be.

His fingers hover awkwardly over his knee before curling into a fist. It takes a second for his body to catch up—then another before his heart finally settles. The weight of you isn’t heavy. It’s… grounding, in a way. Familiar. Even though he doesn’t really know you.

Not yet, anyway.

It’s been a long time since he had a conversation like that with anyone. A real one. Not about supplies or patrols or plans. Not about death or survival. But about feelings. About fear. About loss.

It’s weird—talking to you. It shouldn’t be this easy. He barely knows you. You’re a stranger. But maybe that’s exactly why it’s easy. There’s no expectations, no history weighing things down. Just two people who’ve seen too much, said too little, and survived more than they should’ve.

Still, something about you makes him feel like he could be honest for once without having to pay for it later.

He thinks back to what he said earlier. About The Future. How he called them monsters. And you’d nodded, like you understood.

But you didn’t. Not really.

Because what you don’t know—what he didn’t say—is that when he talked about the coldness, the control, the cruelty, he wasn’t just talking about the system. He was talking about himself.

You’d looked at him like he was someone good. Like he was someone worth listening to. And he let you. He let you believe it. That’s the part that makes his stomach turn.

He watches your face now, how peaceful it looks, how easily you slipped into rest next to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he hasn’t done things that would make your blood run cold.

The problem isn’t that he’s afraid you’ll figure him out. It’s that part of him doesn’t want you to. And that part—small and stubborn and stupid—is what terrifies him the most.

The moment he laid eyes on you in that auto shop, he could tell you weren’t from The Future. The sole fact that you were out here, exposed to the dangers of the world beyond those walls meant you weren’t from any of their civilian divisions. And if you were part of the military, He, Jay, Sunghoon, or Heeseung would have recognised you.

But it’s not just your unfamiliarity that confirms it. It’s the way you act. The way you talk. The way you still believe survival doesn’t have to come at the cost of decency.

You risked yourself to save him back at the motel, didn’t even hesitate. You’d offered him safety before yourself, with that determined look in your eye, like death was just another inconvenience you’d deal with later. You asked nothing in return. You didn’t walk away. And Jungwon doesn’t know what to do with that kind of goodness. That kind of blind, foolish courage.

You were the kind of person who still gave a shit. Who still held on to morality even when the world tried to beat it out of you. Who reached back for others when there was every reason to run. That kind of soul didn’t survive long in this world. People like you aren’t supposed to exist anymore. And yet… here you were—making everything he’s done harder to justify.

He knew then, for sure, that you weren’t one of them.

The Future didn’t make people like that.

No one who spent time under that regime would’ve wasted energy on strangers like that.

The camp is quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your thoughts louder, more unbearable. Somewhere below, Jungwon can hear Heeseung snoring faintly. The occasional shift of movement in the camp. But up here, it's just you, him, and a silence so thick it presses against his ribs.

Your head shifts slightly on his lap, your brows twitching faintly as if sensing his thoughts. He smooths a hand gently over your hair, careful not to wake you.

He swallows hard, eyes scanning the treeline beyond camp, trying to focus on anything other than the way his body feels too still, too aware. Like he’s being watched. Like he’s watching himself.

He should wake you. He should shift you off and remind you that trust is dangerous, that closeness is a liability. But he doesn’t. He stays still. He lets you sleep.

Not because he wants to. But because he can’t bring himself to interrupt the first quiet moment he’s had in months.

Still, something gnaws at him.

Not pity. He’s long since buried that. No, it’s something more restless. A low, crawling discomfort that settles beneath the surface of his skin.

He looks down at your sleeping form again, the faint rise and fall of your chest syncing with the rhythm of the wind brushing through the trees. His jaw tightens. He can’t describe it, but there’s a softness about you that reminds him of who he used to be. Who he still wants to be—

Someone who he had forgotten shortly after the world fell apart.

He finds comfort in that thought.

Part 2

The rations are lower than he’d hoped.

Jungwon crouches near the supply crates, fingers counting through the bags of dried grains and tins with fading labels. Heeseung’s estimate from earlier was right—they had enough to last a week if they were careful. Less, now, with one more mouth to feed. He doesn’t blame you, not really. It was his choice to let you stay. His burden to carry, his responsibility to manage. He just didn’t expect how fast everything would dwindle.

His eyes flicked toward you, sitting just a few feet away, chewing quietly on the last of the dried jerky. You didn’t know he’d seen the exchange between you and Heeseung. You didn’t need to. The guilt already lingered in your eyes like smoke.

He wasn’t angry. He understood. You weren’t deadweight. You pulled more than your share. But it didn’t change the math. Nothing ever changed the math.

He holds one of the dented cans in his palm, thumb brushing over the label, nearly worn down to nothing. He calculates quickly, quietly. Eight mouths, one meal a day, factoring in exhaustion and hunger—

They’d have to start scavenging. Soon.

Still, Jungwon keeps his face calm when he approaches Heeseung. His words are clipped, deliberate: “We’ll have to send a team out to hunt. Latest before noon.”

The others gather instinctively. No one questions it—it’s the way they’ve always operated. Without him barking orders, without a raised voice. He isn’t their leader by title, but by necessity. By trust earned through blood and bone and all the things he’s never said aloud. He stands where others hesitate, and they follow because he always brings them back. He always calculates the outcome.

Except now, the variable is you.

He watches the way Jay glares at you, a quiet resentment simmering under the surface. It’s not even subtle anymore. The jab lands—“We do have one more mouth to feed”—and Jungwon feels a flicker of something hot rise in his chest. Not quite anger. Not yet. But something protective. Something unfamiliar.

He didn’t even need to look at you to know that you took that hit without flinching. You’d gotten good at that—pretending you’re fine. It annoys him. Because he could see through it.

“Jay,” he said simply.

It was enough. Jay looked away, but not before Jungwon saw the frustration still simmering behind his eyes.

“I’ll go,” you say, your voice slicing through the tension. Jungwon’s gaze snaps to you immediately, eyes narrowing. The suggestion is unexpected, and he doesn’t like surprises—not when it comes to survival. But you’re already explaining yourself, calm and rational, just like the first time he heard you speak in that busted-up auto shop. That same fire, the same grit. You weren’t lying then, and he doesn’t think you are now.

Still, he challenges you. “You?”

You don’t back down. “You need every fighter you can spare here, and I can handle myself.”

There’s no hesitation in your eyes. No flinch. It’s not a bluff—it’s a debt. You’re trying to repay them, even if you don’t realise that’s what it is. Jungwon recognises the expression. He’s worn it himself before, back when guilt used to be sharp and fresh instead of dull and persistent.

When the volunteers step forward—Heeseung, then Jay—Jungwon watches closely. Jay’s distrust is expected. Heeseung’s trust is reassuring. But it still doesn’t sit right with him.

So he steps forward too. “I’ll go.”

But the moment the words leave his mouth, you’re already challenging him again.

“No, you can’t go.”

And that stuns him more than it should.

He watches you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. You step in closer, your voice low and measured, as if you know that contradicting him in front of the others is dangerous—but you do it anyway. Because you’re not afraid of him. Because you believe what you’re saying.

“They need you here,” you whisper. “They’re rattled. They need their leader.”

And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe it’s the way your eyes meet his like you’ve known him longer than you have, but Jungwon hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough to admit to himself that you’re right.

He couldn’t let them fall apart again. Not like before.

His silence is his answer.

“All right,” he concedes at last, softer than the others expect. “But don’t take unnecessary risks. If it looks bad, you come back. Understood?”

He doesn’t know why he says it that way. Not “be careful.” Not “watch each other’s backs.” No, his concern is aimed at you specifically, and that confuses him.

Jungwon watches the group disperse to prepare. The fire’s gone out, and the morning chill begins to creep through the trees. You’re already tying your boots, already too far from him to see the way his jaw clenches as he watches the way you glance around at the others like you were memorising them. It unsettles him. Like you were saying goodbye.

That’s when Jungwon pulls Jay aside, his steps quiet but deliberate as he angles them just out of earshot from the others. The moment feels heavy, calculated. Not a command—but close.

“Make sure she comes back,” Jungwon says, voice low but firm.

Jay’s head snaps toward him, blinking like he’s not sure he heard right. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Jay’s head tilts slightly, disbelief flickering across his features. “You can’t be serious. I’m not her babysitter.”

“I’m not asking you to babysit,” Jungwon replies, his voice steady, eyes scanning the trees ahead. “I’m asking you to make sure she doesn't run off.”

Jay scoffs, folding his arms across his chest. “Why? What’s so special about her?”

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t flinch. “You’ve seen the way she moves. She’s adaptable. Resourceful. Smart. Doesn’t hurt to have someone like that around.”

Jay lets out a dry, humourless laugh. “So what? That doesn’t mean she’s not a threat. You really think you can trust someone who showed up out of nowhere? Remember what happened the last time we trusted somebody? I lost Ji–” Jay cuts himself off, suddenly conscious of his voice raising.

There’s a beat of silence. Jay knows there’s no point arguing with Jungwon, not when he’s already convinced you are some kind of saviour sent down from the heavens. So, he exercises the only form of discontent he can manage by shaking his head and muttering something under his breath before stalking off to grab his pack.

Jungwon doesn’t call after him. Instead, his eyes drift back to you—your silhouette against the trees, knife sheathed, shoulders squared. You don’t look back. You never do. And that unsettles him more than it should.

Because for all his planning, for all the careful equations he ran in his head—the tactical choices, the contingencies—he never planned for you. Never anticipated the weight of your presence. Never accounted for the way you made the lines between logic and instinct blur. And no matter how he frames it in his mind—no matter how much he tries to reduce you to a number, a risk factor, a variable in a larger equation—he can’t.

You don’t fit. You’re not the plan.

And yet, you’re already part of it.

Part 3

Jungwon can feel the tension rising before anyone speaks—like a storm pressing down on the air, suffocating and inevitable.

He watches you carefully, your fingers curling slightly against your palm, your shoulders square despite the weariness clinging to your frame. You’re pushing. Offering. Volunteering to go in someone’s place. Again. It’s not the first time you’ve done something like this, but it still hits differently now.

He knows what you’re doing. You’re trying to prove something—not just to them, but to yourself.

And then there’s Jay.

“This is insane,” Jay scoffs from where he leans against a tree, arms crossed, eyes hard. “We barely know her, and you want to let her go off into the village?”

The words hit exactly how Jungwon expects them to. He doesn’t move, just watches the way your jaw tightens—just a fraction, but he sees it.

He waits for Jake’s voice. Right on cue.

“Jay,” Jake says without even looking up, his tone sharp and steady. “Again. Not your place to speak.”

It’s almost funny, the way Jake can silence a room. Almost. If the air weren’t already thick with leftover tension. And in his defense, Jake’s anger is not completely misplaced. Jungwon lets the silence linger, lets it press down on the group, watches the way Jay shifts his stance and glances off to the side, jaw clenching.

You take a breath, and Jungwon instinctively shifts his focus to you again.

“Trust me,” you say, and it’s the way you say it—steady but hollow—that pulls something taut in his chest. “Or better yet, don’t trust me. If anything goes wrong, it’s easier to leave me behind anyway.”

The words land like a stone in his gut. For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Guilt. It coils in Jungwon’s chest like smoke, slow and suffocating. It’s not an emotion he’s allowed himself to feel in a long time—not when he needed to stay sharp, decisive, calculated. And yet, there it is, curling through his ribs the moment your words slip out.

Because he’s thought about it.

He’s thought it, and he hates that he has. It’s how he’s survived this long. Know the numbers. Know the odds. Know when to cut your losses. He’s always been that kind of person. Tactical. Strategic. Even now, even when he tells himself he’s changed, his mind still drifts to the math of survival. He’s still capable of thinking in loss ratios and calculated sacrifices. Still carrying remnants of the machine he once served.

But when you say it—not coldly, but as if you’ve accepted it already—it doesn’t feel like survival. It feels like cruelty.

It’s not just about your willingness to risk yourself. It’s the fact that, deep down, he’d allowed himself to believe it too. And that makes him feel like a monster all over again.

His gaze flicks around the group. Heeseung looks away. Sunoo’s lips are pressed into a thin line. Even Jay shifts uncomfortably.

They’ve all thought it too, haven’t they?

Still, your words echo in his mind, louder than anything else.

It’s easier to leave me behind anyway.

So when he speaks, when he says “Don’t joke about that,” it’s not just to you. It’s to himself. A warning. A plea. Because he doesn’t want to be that person anymore. Doesn’t want to weigh your life like a number on a chart.

And for the first time, he realises: you’re not just another survivor to be measured and managed. You’re something he doesn’t know how to carry—but he wants to try.

So he makes the decision now, quietly, without anyone knowing.

He wants you to come back.

No matter the cost.

The siphon’s slow. Too slow. Jungwon watches the steady trickle of fuel through the tube like it might suddenly stop working, like if he looks away, everything could go to shit again. The sky’s still wrapped in the pale grey of morning, but the air smells like heat’s coming. Another scorcher, probably.

He doesn't look at you or Jay—he keeps his gaze trained on the canister. Keeps his hands steady. Keeps everything steady.

Then your voice cuts through the quiet. "It might not mean anything, but I would’ve done it too.”

Jungwon’s head turns before he can help it. You’re not looking at him—you’re looking at Jay. And Jay, who’s standing on the other side of the tractor, squints at you, clearly caught off guard.

He didn’t understand it at first, but then you say it: “Going after him—I mean.”

And everything freezes for a second.

Jay’s expression shifts. Hardens. “You don’t have to lie to comfort me. I know what I did was wrong.”

Jungwon watches you quietly, his fingers curled into fists beside him. His pulse is steady, but something in his chest tightens. There’s a fire in your voice—not rage, not grief, but something deeper. Something rooted. You speak like someone who’s already lived with loss. Too much of it.

Jungwon doesn't move, but his mind has already left the field. It's spiralling, fast. You’ve done something to him again—upended the quiet order he relies on to stay sane. The structure. The roles. The carefully drawn lines he’s used to separating emotion from survival. You, with your raw words and unwavering eyes, walk right through them.

“But even if you think it’s wrong, you don’t regret it.”

The way you say it... Jungwon flinches inwardly. Because it’s not just a statement. It’s a mirror. And for a moment, he sees his own reflection staring back through the cracks—every line of guilt etched beneath your voice. He’s not even sure who you’re talking to anymore. Jay? Yourself? Him?

Jay tenses, trying to keep that wall up, but it’s already thinning. “What are you trying to say?”

You don’t even blink. “What I’m trying to say is, what you’re feeling is valid. If it were up to me, I would’ve shot him in both ankles. Make sure he couldn’t run to begin with.”

Jungwon’s chest tightens. The field goes quiet.

Jay shoots him a look. “You’re not scared to say that? In front of him?”

You turn slightly. Just enough to meet Jungwon’s gaze. He doesn’t react, not outwardly. But inwardly, there’s a small ripple beneath the surface. Because that’s the second time this morning you’ve challenged something—first his orders, now his image.

“Why would I be?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His silence is answer enough. Because no matter how steady he looks, he feels everything ripple underneath—this fracture between who he was and who he wants to be. Between the person who signed off on raids and the person standing here now, listening to you speak like someone who’s survived both sides of the war.

Jay exhales through his nose, like he’s trying not to let something else slip. “You probably already figured it out, but the whole point of this group—the way Jungwon leads us—is to make sure we don’t become the monsters we ran away from. Whatever Jake or the others feel about what I did… that’s valid.”

Jungwon wants to correct him. Wants to tell him that he’s not leading anyone. That he’s just trying to keep the wheels turning long enough for someone else—anyone else—to take over. But he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes on the canister, his fists tight enough that his knuckles start to blanch.

Because Jay’s not entirely wrong. Jungwon is supposed to be the anchor. The one who holds them together, who balances risk and morality like it’s simple math. But even now, hearing it out loud—that he’s the one meant to stop them from falling too far—feels like a lie. A fragile one at best. He’s barely holding himself together as it is. And it’s only about to get harder now that you’re here, making him question things he thought he’d buried.

You speak again, quieter this time. “If I saw someone I love die in front of me, I’d do much more than just shoot someone in the ankle.”

And that sentence? That one stays with him.

Because it reminds him that he doesn’t know who you’ve lost. Doesn’t know how close your grief is to the surface. But whatever it is, it’s carved into your spine. There’s a weight behind your words that’s too heavy to fake.

Jay goes still. “Yeah… it doesn’t bring her back, though.”

“No,” you reply gently. “It doesn’t.”

Silence again. Not heavy this time—just worn. Weathered.

The wind picks up, brushing the overgrown stalks around them. Jungwon’s eyes flick to you. You’re still calm, composed. But there’s a sadness in you too. One he hadn’t noticed before.

“But,” you add, “you seem to forget that it’s also human to want justice. Or revenge. Whatever you want to call it.”

Jungwon watches the way Jay’s expression softens. Just barely. The way your voice threads through the space like balm and blade all at once. And all he can think is that this is what scares him the most. Not that you’re reckless. Not that you challenge him. But that you feel so deeply, and still haven’t hardened yourself into something else. That you’re still fighting like it means something.

Jay mutters, “Justice or revenge… depends on who’s telling the story.”

You nod once. “Or who’s left to tell it.”

It’s a brutal thing to say, but it isn’t cruelty he hears in your voice—it’s clarity. Cold, sharp clarity born of a world where justice and revenge are no longer separate concepts. And what scares him isn’t your willingness to say it. It’s how much he agrees.

Jungwon doesn’t look away. Not now. Because there’s something in you, in the way you speak—raw, candid, without hesitation—that gnaws at his chest. The others follow orders, look to him for structure. But you?

You keep challenging the narrative.

Jay’s shoulders loosen. His eyes drop. “I don’t know what that makes me, though. A monster or just… someone who’s trying to survive.”

And that’s when Jungwon finally speaks.

“It makes you someone who’s still here. Someone who’s still fighting. That’s all that matters.”

His voice is level. Measured. But it rings hollow in his own ears. Because the truth is, it’s a reminder meant for himself just as much as for Jay. Because when you joked earlier about being easy to leave behind, it wasn’t funny—not to him. It was a reminder. That he’s calculating again. Risk versus reward. Just like before. Just like The Future trained him to be. You could’ve died, and he weighed it like an equation.

And even now, he’s still calculating.

But for the first time, he doesn’t want the answer. Because the numbers don’t reflect what’s clawing at him now—the feeling that if something happened to you, the loss wouldn’t be strategic.

It would be personal.

You pick up the tube, pull it free from the tank, and screw the cap back on. Jay lifts the canister, nods once, and starts heading back toward the road without another word.

You and Jungwon walk side by side now. He keeps a few paces from you, but every now and then, his eyes flicker to your profile. You don’t speak. Neither does he. But the silence between you is louder than it used to be.

It unsettles him.

Because just days ago, you were a stranger in the shadows. Another mouth. Another risk. A variable Jungwon wasn’t prepared for. Someone he would’ve discarded in the past, or worse—filed under liability and moved on. Back then, in The Future, everything was numbers. Resources. Probability. Sacrifices. Names didn’t matter. Faces didn’t matter. And you?

You were never supposed to matter.

But now you’re this—this raw, unpredictable thing that keeps catching him off guard. Every time you speak, every time you meet his gaze without flinching, something in him shifts. Rearranges. Like you’re tugging at wires he didn’t know were still connected.

You challenge him—his leadership, his orders, his silence. You don’t do it with arrogance or anger. You do it with honesty. With conviction. With a quiet kind of strength that doesn’t come from training or hierarchy, but from survival. And somewhere along the way, without permission or warning, you've slipped between the cracks of his guarded exterior.

He hates that.

Not because you’re dangerous.

But because you’re not.

Because you remind him of the part of himself he’s spent years burying—the part that wants to believe there’s still something worth protecting that doesn’t serve a strategic advantage. That maybe, just maybe, not everything needs to be calculated. That there are people who still make choices because it feels right, not because the odds are in their favour.

And worse, it mirrors your own thoughts—how just hours earlier, you convinced yourself that walking away would be the safest thing. That leaving them, leaving him, was the right call. Not because you didn’t care, but because you cared too much. Because you’ve seen what happens when you let people in. What it costs.

You told yourself you’d repay them, that you’d disappear before they grew to trust you. Before you grew to trust them. Before the roots took hold.

But they already have. He sees it in the way you offer to hunt, to siphon gas, to carry your weight and more. He sees it in the way you speak to Jay—not with contempt, but with understanding. He sees it, and it frightens him.

Because you’re not just surviving—you’re still human.

And in a world where humanity is often a liability, you are living proof that some parts of it are worth saving. You are proof that maybe he’s not too far gone. That maybe he doesn’t have to bury every soft part of himself to lead.

It’s maddening.

Because this isn’t how it was supposed to go. You weren’t supposed to get under his skin. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything other than the instinct to keep the group alive. He wasn’t supposed to look at you and think—

Not her. Not if I can help it.

But the thought is there. It has been for a while. And now, no matter how he tries to push it down, it keeps resurfacing.

Because for all his structure and restraint, you’ve introduced something volatile.

Hope.

Part 4

The van bumps down the cracked road, the scent of Jay’s blood thick in the air, the silence louder than the groans fading behind them. Jungwon sits rigid in the passenger seat, fists clenched on his thighs, jaw tight. He hasn’t spoken since they pulled away. Not even when the two men started running after them. Not even when one of them screamed, “Please! We didn’t want it to go this far!”

He hears you, though. The urgency in your voice when you say, “They’re unarmed. They’re not a threat.” You say it like you believe it. Like you need it to be true.

But Jungwon doesn’t answer. Can’t. Because if he opens his mouth, he’s afraid of what might come out.

Because the truth is, he doesn't know anymore.

He used to. Back in The Future, everything was black and white. You either secured the mission or you didn’t. You either survived or you didn’t. There were no in-betweens. No compromises. No emotional attachments to blur the lines.

But that world didn’t have you in it.

You, who looked the man who shot Jay in the eyes and still hesitated to pull the trigger. You, who dared to say out loud what he’s been burying since day one—that if any of them died, he wouldn’t be rational about it. That if you had collapsed into that field with a bullet in your chest, if Jay had died protecting you, Jungwon doesn’t know what he would’ve done. What line he might’ve crossed.

And that terrifies him.

Because now he knows. You were right.

If any of you had died, he would’ve hunted them all down without a second thought. No calculation. No strategy. Just blood. Just rage.

He knows in the marrow of his bones that he wouldn’t have left survivors. Wouldn’t have spared the two men running after the van, wouldn’t have let anyone surrender. A bullet through the head wouldn’t have been justice. It would’ve been the highest form of mercy he was capable of offering in that moment. Because there wouldn’t be room for compassion. Or mercy. Or even thought.

Only vengeance.

The van rumbles on, Ni-ki’s knuckles white around the wheel. Sunghoon is silent, his eyes fixed on the floor. Sunoo looks sick. Heeseung hasn’t moved from Jay’s side. Jake is still pressing down on the wound, hands trembling. They’re all unravelling.

And it’s his fault.

Because the thing he never accounted for—the variable he couldn’t predict—was what would happen if he started to care.

Now he knows.

Caring makes one reckless.

Caring makes one hesitate.

Caring makes one pull the trigger for someone else and never quite recover from it.

He watches the woods blur past the window. Thinks about the woman who died. The men who tried to kill you. The man who shot Jay. The two who begged for their lives. The part of himself that wanted to give them a chance. And the part that didn’t.

He hears you shift beside him, hears the way your breath shakes as you whisper, “We’ve crossed a line.”

He doesn’t respond.

Because he’s still trying to figure out when exactly he lost sight of it. All he knows is that this—this sickness in his chest, this silent weight pressing against his lungs—is the cost. The toll you pay when you start thinking with your heart instead of your head.

He should’ve never let that happen.

But he did.

Because of you.

Because somewhere between your barbed honesty and quiet defiance, between the way you look at this world like it hasn’t fully beaten you down yet—he let his guard slip.

He doesn’t want to feel this way. Doesn’t want to feel anything. Emotions get people killed. Emotions make you weak. He knew that once. Lived by it.

But now?

Now he’s watching the person beside him become someone they don’t recognise. Just like he did. Just like they all did.

When Jungwon said “I did it for me,” he wasn’t trying to sound cold. He wasn’t trying to push you away.

What he meant—what he couldn’t say in that moment—is that he pulled the trigger so you wouldn't have to.

Because if you had taken that shot—if you had crossed that line—you wouldn’t have come back from it. Not really. Not the way you are now. Not the version of you that still believes in something more than just survival. The version that still pauses before pulling the trigger, that still sees people instead of threats. That still tries.

And that version of you? That fragile, lone, dandelion still clinging to the cracks in this rotted world?

He couldn’t let that die.

Not when you were the first person in a long, long time to make him question who he was outside of tactics and duty. Not when you were the first person to look at him and not just see the soldier, the strategist, the boy bred by The Future to be a weapon—but someone worth saving too.

So yes. He did it for you.

But more selfishly?

He did it so he wouldn’t have to watch you become someone you’re not. He did it so you could stay as somebody who is kind and innocent. Somebody who inspires him to be a better person. You’re not a monster. And he’ll do everything he can to keep it that way.

Because watching that kind of light go out in someone like you?

That would’ve destroyed him.

And he’s already too far gone to survive another kind of loss like that.

Jungwon doesn't know how they got here so fast. One moment he hears them—low groans bleeding through the trees like a warning—and the next he’s pulling you through a sea of rusted cars, adrenaline screaming through his veins. His grip on your wrist is tight, desperate. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t have to. The dead are close. Too close.

He finds the lorry purely on instinct, tossing you up before you even have time to catch your breath. The edge of it scrapes his palms as he climbs up after you, then yanks the tattered tarp over both of you in one swift motion, plunging the space into shadow.

Your voice rises, a startled whisper, but he cuts it off with his hand pressed lightly over your mouth—not harsh, just firm. His other arm braces over you, holding himself there as the first chorus of groans rolls past the truck.

It’s suffocating, the way the air thickens with decay and tension. The sound of their dragging feet fills his ears, an endless wave of hunger just inches away. The metal beneath him vibrates with the weight of it—the horde moving past like a tide of death. If even one of them hears you breathe too loudly, it’s over.

So he holds his breath. And he holds you.

Your chest rises and falls beneath him, the quickened rhythm of fear making your whole body tremble. You’re shaking, but you’re trying to be brave—trying to stay still despite the instinct to run. He feels your shoulder tucked under his arm, the way your hand clutches at the fabric of his jacket, whether you mean to or not.

He doesn’t look. Not at first.

He’s too busy listening—calculating the distance, counting the footsteps. But when the sound starts to fade, when the worst of them pass and only the stragglers remain, something in him shifts. He glances down.

And he sees you.

Really sees you.

The dim light filtering through the moth-eaten holes in the tarp spills soft patterns across your face—highlighting the curve of your cheek, the flutter of your lashes as you fight to keep your eyes closed. There’s dirt on your skin, a smear of something across your jaw, but you still look... beautiful. Fragile, in a way he doesn’t know how to stomach. It makes his chest ache.

Because he remembers the drugstore. Remembers the exact second he almost lost you.

He remembers the scream—the sound of you calling his name, the thud of your body slamming into the hatch frame, the sickening moment when a rotted hand grabbed your ankle and yanked you back toward death. He’d never moved so fast in his life. Never fired a shot with such fury. He pulled you out of that hatch with every ounce of strength he had left, your blood smearing across his palms, your gasps digging into his ribs like knives.

You could’ve died back there. And the truth is—he wouldn’t have survived it.

And now, lying here in the silence after the storm, your breath brushing his collarbone, your body curled so unconsciously against his—it hits him all over again. The closeness. The danger. The way your hand just curled a little tighter into his jacket.

You shift slightly, and he instinctively pulls you closer, one hand sliding to cradle the back of your head. “Stop moving,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice barely more than breath.

He expects you to flinch. To pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, you press your cheek closer to his chest, your breath steadying, syncing with his. And it feels like something clicks into place—something that shouldn’t. Something dangerous.

Because in a world like this, closeness is a luxury. Tenderness is a risk. And you… you are a risk he never meant to take.

But lying here now, with the world rotting just inches away, he can’t find it in himself to regret it. Not when your heartbeat thuds against his ribs. Not when you’ve buried your fear in the safety of his arms.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just listens to the dying groans fade into the distance, holding you like you’re the last good thing in this godforsaken world.

Part 5

Jungwon sits on the rooftaop long after the sun has risen, legs bent, arms draped loosely over his knees, the rifle resting at his side, untouched. The morning air is crisp, and the sky above is a pale, uncertain blue—washed-out and faded like a painting left out in the rain. Even the clouds seem hesitant, lingering low and unmoving, as though the weather itself is unsure whether to weep or stay dry.

From his perch, he has a clear view of the road—the same one you walked away on just an hour ago. It winds past the edge of the camp, disappearing into the hoizon like a thread unraveled too far to follow. And even though he knows better, even though he tells himself not to expect anything, he watches that path like it owes him something. Like maybe if he stares hard enough, you’ll come walking back. That some part of you might still choose to return.

But you don’t.

And he doesn’t look away.

The breeze brushes against him, tugging gently at his hair, but he makes no move to push it aside. His body is still, but his mind is anything but.

He's been up here since you turned your back on him and walked away, since he realised you were gone for good. He didn’t go back down, didn’t speak to the others when they woke up, didn’t offer an explanation. He didn’t have the words. He still doesn’t. Because if he says it out loud—if he lets the sound of your absence cross his lips—he’s afraid something inside him will crack so deep it’ll never be put back together.

So he sits.

And he watches.

And he thinks.

About the things you said to each other. Words thrown like knives in the dark, sharp and bitter and honest in the ugliest ways. He thinks about how your voice broke when you told him you couldn’t stay, how your shoulders trembled with the weight of the choice you were making. He thinks about how you looked when you said you couldn’t lose them—couldn’t lose him.

There was a look in your eyes then—a look he’d never seen before. Not even when Jay nearly died. That time, you were reckless. This time, there’s a look of desperation, grief, something close to love and even closer to fear. Not the kind of fear that comes from facing the dead. The kind that comes from having something to lose.

It’s strange—the silence that follows. It’s not rage. Not yet. Not grief, either. It's a kind of stillness. The kind that presses against the inside of your ribs, caught in the base of your throat like a sob that never quite makes it out.

He feels it settle into him like a sickness. A slow, crawling thing that starts in his gut and moves outward, hollowing him out.

You lied.

That’s the first thought that really stings. You stood there, looked him in the eye and said you’d stay. That you’d help carry the burden. That he wasn’t alone.

And now you’re gone.

He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, the sun casting a faint glow across his face. It should feel warm. It doesn’t. Nothing feels warm anymore.

He remembers how your voice shook and how you avoided looking into his eyes when you said you never meant to care. Thinks about the way you flinched when he accused you of being no different from those who left you. The way you looked like you wanted to scream and collapse all at once.

You think he’s good. You told him he was the one holding everything together. That they follow him not because they have to, but because they trust him. Because he’s him.

But you don’t see it the way he does.

They follow him because there’s no one else. Because someone has to make the hard calls. Someone has to carry the weight. And he does. Not because he’s good. But because he’s still standing. That’s all it is.

The good ones are the ones who don’t make it. The ones who hesitate. The ones who don’t pull the trigger.

But Jungwon? He pulled the trigger the moment the world went to shit. And he’s been pulling it ever since.

You're not like him. You're better. Or maybe you were. Maybe he just didn’t want to watch that final part of you die.

But the truth is—you’re not good either. Not really. You’ve lied. You’ve stolen. You’ve done things you’re not proud of. You’ve chosen survival over strangers more times than you’ve admitted. You hold the blade just as well as he does.

He knows that now.

You think he’s good, and he thinks you are.

But the truth? You’re both just survivors, trying to hold onto what little scraps of humanity you still have left. You're not good. Not anymore. Maybe not ever. But that doesn’t mean you’re monsters either.

Not yet.

Because what neither of you realised—what he’s only beginning to understand as he sits on this rooftop, staring out at the road you vanished down with an ache in his chest—is that the parts of yourselves you’re trying so hard to protect aren’t found in your own strength.

They’re found in each other.

You were his balance. The reminder that the weight could be shared. That maybe he didn’t have to carry it all alone. That maybe not every decision had to be cold and calculated. And he was your anchor. The reason you stayed longer than you should have. The one thing that made you second-guess running. He was the tether pulling you back to something human.

He grounded you. You softened him.

Neither of you were good. But together, you were better.

And that was enough.

Or it could have been.

He exhales slowly, the sound quiet against the breeze. His eyes don’t leave the road, even though it remains empty. His fingers curl against the rooftop's edge, digging into the concrete until his knuckles pale. The pain’s dulled now, no longer sharp—just a constant, aching throb, like a bruise you forget is there until you move the wrong way.

He should be used to this by now. People always leave. Always look out for themselves. That’s what the world has become. And he’s always known that. It’s why he never lets himself get too close.

But you were different.

You were the exception.

You were the moment he started to hope.

And now, standing there in the pale morning light, your name like a ghost on the back of his tongue, he feels something crack. Not loudly. Not visibly. But deeply.

You’re the greatest loss, Jungwon.

When you said that, he swore his heart was about to jump out of his chest. It wasn’t a goodbye. It was a confession. One wrapped in cowardice and fear. But a confession nonetheless.

And god, he wanted to believe that was enough.

But belief doesn’t change the fact that you still walked away. And Jungwon is left with the thought that he alone wasn't enough to convince you to stay.

He closes his eyes for a moment, letting the wind run through his hair, letting the world fall quiet again.

You’re gone and he’s still here. Still watching. Still waiting.

But the road stays empty and the rooftop stays quiet.

He just sits there, alone. Holding onto the last part of himself you hadn’t taken with you.

And hoping, quietly, that maybe—just maybe—wherever you are, you’re holding onto a piece of him too.

Part 6

The moment you say the word—bit—Jungwon feels the world tilt. It doesn’t make sense. Not immediately. He hears the word. Understands it. But the meaning doesn’t sink in. Not really. Not until he sees your arm.

The torn sleeve. The torn flesh.Teeth marks.

He goes still.

No air enters his lungs. No words form in his mouth. He just stares.

This isn’t happening.

He steps forward, slow and mechanical, like he’s walking through a dream—no, a nightmare—where his body no longer obeys him. Every instinct screams denial, but the evidence is right there, painted in your blood, mocking him.

“You’re lying,” he says.

Because you have to be. Because the alternative—the truth—splits something down the middle of his chest. He can feel it cracking, deep and irreversible.

But you’re not. And he sees it.

In the tremble of your fingers.

In the pale stretch of skin around the wound.

In Jay’s silence.

No. No. No.

The images of your death floods his vision and Jungwon swears he’s slowing losing his mind. He steps closer without thinking, fury and panic colliding in his chest. “Why?” His voice is a snarl now, strangled and broken.

You start to speak, but he cuts you off. He’s spiraling, his voice raw, hoarse, unraveling. “I told you to stay put inside. I told you. You never listen. Fuck–” His voice catches, his fists clench, and the words fall apart before they reach the end.

His hands fly to his head, fingers digging into his hair, tugging, trembling. He can’t hold it in—this storm rising inside him. It’s too much. Too loud. Too fast.

She’s bit. She’s bit. She’s fucking bit.

He sees the blood again—so much blood.

And all he can think is: I should’ve been faster. I should’ve been there. You’re dying and it’s my fault.

You apologise.

He wants to scream.

Because you’re apologising like it’s over. Like you’ve already accepted it. Like he’s just meant to stand here and watch you die.

He doesn't think.

There’s no calculation. No weighing the risks. No strategy. No logic. Because logic doesn’t exist in this moment—not when you’re standing there, blood soaking through your sleeve, skin pale and eyes resigned.

The world goes silent, deafeningly so.

And then, without thinking—without permission, without hesitation, without fear—he lets go of the rifle in his hands. It crashes to the rooftop, forgotten. Worthless.

His feet close the distance in a single breath.

He grabs you, pulls you into him like he’s trying to anchor himself to reality. One arm locks tightly around the back of your neck, the other cradles your head, his fingers threading into your hair, holding you against him like a lifeline.

It’s not careful. It’s not soft.

It’s desperate.

Crushing.

He doesn’t realise how hard he’s holding you until his arms begin to ache, until his breath shudders with the effort of keeping you close enough—close enough to feel you breathing. Close enough to feel your heartbeat. Close enough to convince himself you’re still here. Still his. Still alive.

His whole body is trembling. He presses his face into your shoulder, barely breathing, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. Your scent, your warmth—it’s all still here. Still real. Still you.

And it’s killing him.

Because this moment isn’t supposed to be happening.

You’re not supposed to be leaving. You’re not supposed to be dying.

His grip tightens, the pads of his fingers digging into your scalp like he can force your soul to stay through sheer contact alone.

He knows—god, he knows—he should let go. Should be the strong one. The leader.

But he can’t. Because he knows that if he lets go, you’ll start slipping away. And if you slip away—he might not survive it.

And the terrifying part?

He doesn’t think he wants to. Not if it means going back to a world that doesn’t have you in it.

It’s selfish.

But he doesn't care.

He’s breathing you in like this is the last time he’ll ever be able to. Like this is the last trace of warmth he’ll ever know. And maybe it is. Because this moment—this second in time where you’re still you—is slipping through his fingers, no matter how tightly he holds on.

And when he feels your arms slowly wrap around his waist, it shatters him. Because you’re comforting him. You’re steadying him when you’re the one who’s dying.

It’s too much.

Your fingers twist into his shirt, creasing the fabric. He holds you tighter in response, burying his face in your hair, letting the scent of ash and blood and you consume him. He doesn’t know how to say goodbye. He doesn't know how to live with this.

He’s not ready. He’ll never be ready.

Then—he feels it.

A hand. Not yours. On his back.

Then another. A body presses in from behind. Then one at his side. Then another. Until the world around him disappears. He doesn’t need to look to know it’s the others closing in, forming a wall around them. A shield. A goodbye.

And something about that breaks him even further. Because he was supposed to protect them. He was supposed to keep you safe.

But he couldn’t even stop this.

So he holds you like a dying man holds a lifeline. Arms locked around you, one hand gripping the nape of your neck, the other wrapped so tightly around your shoulders it must hurt. But you don’t complain. You don’t flinch.

You sink into him.

And that’s what undoes him.

He feels it when you press your cheek to his collarbone, the wet heat of your tears seeping through the fabric of his shirt. He feels the way your body finally gives in to the grief. Not quietly. Not gently. But all at once. Like a dam breaking. Like everything you’ve been holding in—every fear, every sorrow, every buried hope—has chosen now to bleed out.

The first sob wrecks him.

It shatters through his chest like a shockwave, a sound so raw, so guttural, it forces the air from his lungs. And then another. And another. Until you’re sobbing in his arms, uncontrollably, violently, like grief is trying to tear its way out of you.

And still—he doesn’t let go.

Because if this is the last time he gets to hold you, to have you, then he’s going to memorise it. Every trembling breath. Every broken cry. Every heartbeat that still syncs with his. He’s going to carve it into his skin so he’ll never forget what it felt like to love someone so much it made him stupid. So much it made him human.

When you finally start to pull away, when your body begins to shift, the movement feels like a knife. Like losing you in slow motion.

His hand—without thinking—clutches yours, refusing to let it go, even as your breath steadies, even as your sobs die down into a choked stillness. His fingers are shaking. His eyes are burning. But he doesn’t loosen his grip.

And then—then you say the worst thing you possibly could.

“I need to go.”

The moment the words leave your lips, something in him fractures.

It’s not the first time you’ve challenged him, not the first time you’ve spoken with that stubborn fire in your voice—but this? This feels different. The way your tone doesn’t shake. The way your eyes hold his like they’ve already said goodbye.

Jungwon reacts before he can think. “No.”

It’s sharp. A command. A wall. One final barricade against the inevitable.

But you’re already scaling it. With every word, every breath, every look—you’re slipping from his grasp.

“I’m no help up here,” you say, and his gut twists. Your voice is too steady. Too rational. Like you’ve already buried the part of yourself that’s scared. Like this is already decided. “In fact, I’d be a threat. A is still out there. If I don’t find him, he’ll come back. He’ll keep coming back.”

“No.” His hand tightens around your wrist. It’s reflexive. Desperate. His fingers dig in like they can stop time, like pressure alone will keep you tethered. But it’s not enough. You’re still slipping. Slipping like water through cracked palms.

“We can still win, we can—”

“I’ve already lost, Y/N.”

The words escape before he realises he’s said them. And the second they’re out there, hanging in the silence between you, he wants to take them back. Because the look in your eyes—god—it hurts.

You freeze. Just for a second.

But your conviction doesn’t falter. He sees it in your gaze. You’ve already accepted what he can’t even begin to fathom.

“Please, Jungwon.” You step closer, and the distance that’s been widening all night folds in for one fragile moment. “I need to know that you’re safe. Only then can I die in peace.”

He sways.

He physically sways like the ground’s shifted beneath him. Because that word—die—cuts through him cleaner than any bullet. Any blade. It’s the word that makes it real.

His head shakes before he can stop it, violently, like he can shake the thought loose from reality. His grip tightens around your wrist, trembling now, trembling so hard it’s like his body already knows what his mind refuses to accept.

His gaze drops. He can’t look at you. Not when he knows this is the last time you’ll be standing here, this whole. This you.

So when your hands rise to cup his face, when your fingers brush his skin—warm, gentle, grounding—his hands instinctively come up to hold your wrists, to keep you there, to anchor you.

And that’s when the panic really sets in.

Because your expression… it’s not defiance. Not anger. Not even sorrow.

It’s peace.

That kind of terrifying, heartbreaking calm only people ready to die wear like a second skin.

Your thumb grazes his cheek, and it’s so tender it nearly kills him. He wants to scream. Wants to tell you to stop, to fight. Wants to kiss you

You beat him to it.

Your lips press against his, gentle and slow, and it feels like everything in him collapses all at once. It’s a kiss of desperation. It’s grief. It’s love. It’s a goodbye carved into the shape of your lips. Because you’re kissing him like this is the last thing you’ll give him before you walk away. He kisses you back like he’s trying to memorise it. Like he can pull you back from the brink with nothing but the way he feels about you.

You lean your forehead against his, and the moment is still. Timeless.

Then, you step away.

He’s still chasing your warmth when he realises what’s happening. The second your gaze shifts to Jay, Jungwon’s body moves on instinct. His hands reach out, wild with panic.

Too late.

Jay and Heeseung seize his arms just as he lunges, and the world erupts into chaos. He’s thrashing. Screaming. Cursing at both of them, calling out your name over and over like maybe you’ll turn around. Like maybe if he says it enough, you’ll change your mind.

But you don’t.

You walk away.

And he breaks.

He breaks.

Not like before. Not like the quiet grief he’s used to carrying.

This is raw. Ugly. Loud.

He screams until his throat burns, fights against the hands holding him down, eyes locked on the back of your figure as you move further and further away. And the terror—god, the terror—it’s not just about losing you.

It’s the helplessness.

It’s knowing that he’s still alive, still breathing, while you march straight toward death with his name still warm on your lips.

It’s knowing he can’t stop you.

When you're gone—masked and determined—Jungwon falls to his knees. Not because he’s weak. But because you took the best part of him with you.

And now he’s just a boy again.

Not a leader. Not a survivor. Just someone watching the person he loves choose to die so that he can live.

And god help him—

He would’ve switched places with you in a heartbeat.

A few minutes after you disappear into the horde, Jungwon collapses.

His legs give out beneath him like they were only held up by the ghost of your presence, and now that you're gone, there’s nothing left to keep him upright. He drops hard, first to his knees, then to the cold, unforgiving concrete of the rooftop. And he stays there. Hands pressed flat against the ground like he’s trying to anchor himself to something—anything—that won’t slip through his fingers the way you did.

But it is slipping.

You are.

And no matter how hard he digs his nails into the rooftop, how tightly he curls his fists into the grit and grime beneath him, it won’t stop the splintering sensation inside his chest—like his ribs are cracking open from the inside out.

His whole body is trembling now—violent, uncontrollable tremors racking through him. The adrenaline that had pushed him this far is gone, drained in an instant, leaving only the bone-deep exhaustion, the helplessness, the guilt. His breaths come in short, uneven gasps, like he’s forgotten how to inhale properly, and when he finally speaks, his voice is a rasp—barely audible, a ghost of sound that drifts between them like ash.

“Somebody should’ve stopped her.”

No one answers.

Because they all know they couldn’t have.

Sunoo is crouched against the wall, knees hugged tightly to his chest, face buried so deeply that his shoulders are the only thing giving him away—trembling, silent sobs rattling through him. Even Jay, who almost never breaks, has to turn his face to the side, his jaw clenched so tight it’s a wonder he hasn’t cracked a tooth. His hand covers his mouth like he’s trying to swallow down every raw emotion threatening to spill out. His eyes are red-rimmed, glassy. And he doesn’t even try to pretend he’s okay.

Jungwon doesn’t lift his head. He doesn’t need to.

He feels it in the silence—the grief sitting on all of them like an anvil, the unspeakable weight of watching you walk off with death marked into your skin and no one able to stop you.

“Fuck,” Sunghoon mutters from the edge, staring out at the horde below. His voice is hollow. “What do we do now?”

For a moment, no one speaks. But instinctively, they all turn to Jungwon.

Even though they know.

Even though they see the way he’s curled in on himself, eyes fixed on a crack in the concrete, like if he stares hard enough, it’ll crack all the way open and swallow him whole. He doesn’t speak. Not right away. Not until he finally forces out three words—empty and trembling.

“I don’t know.”

The silence that follows is brutal.

It eats at the edges of them like rot, and Jungwon wonders—quietly, bitterly—if this was all worth it. If he had just gone with you when you asked. If he’d just agreed to leave. If he hadn’t pulled you back into this place—into this war, this hope, this delusion—would you still be whole right now? Would you still be his?

And he sees it—etched into the others’ faces. That same regret. That same guilt. Especially Ni-ki.

Ni-ki, who had fought you the hardest. Who yelled at you, argued, doubted your intentions. And now you’re the one out there, bleeding, hunted, dying—for a place you never wanted to stay in to begin with.

And just when the silence feels like it’s going to smother them all—

A sound cuts through it.

A muffled giggle.

They all turn at once.

Lieutenant Kim.

She’s still tied to the base of the convenience store sign, her arms bound behind her, the gag damp in her mouth. But her eyes are bright with amusement, glinting in the moonlight like a blade. She’s smiling.

Ni-ki is the first to move, fury snapping through his limbs as he storms over to her and rips the gag from her mouth.

Lieutenant Kim exhales with exaggerated relief, then sighs dramatically, like this is all beneath her.

“Oh, you’re all so fucking pathetic,” she sneers. “Really. I almost feel bad watching this.”

Her words ripple through the rooftop like a slap. Sunoo doesn’t even look up from where he’s curled in on himself, but his voice trembles with exhausted frustration.

“Ni-ki, shut her up before I throw her off this roof.”

“Oh?” Her smile is twisted. “Even if I can tell you how to save your precious Y/N?”

Everything stops.

“What?” Jungwon’s head jerks up so fast his neck nearly snaps. The crack of his voice sounds like disbelief, but his heart’s already lurching.

Lieutenant Kim doesn’t look at him right away. She’s toying with them—slowly rotating her shoulders, rolling her neck, tasting the sudden shift in power. It’s a game to her.

“I said,” she drawls, as if repeating herself for children, “I know how you can save her.”

“You’re lying,” Jay snaps immediately, his arms folded tight across his chest, his expression cold and controlled—but his eyes flicker.

“I don’t know,” She says, that smug tone curling at the edge of her words. “Am I?” She turns her gaze sharply to Jake. “What do you think, Doctor Sim?”

Jake narrows his eyes, brows furrowed. “How can we save her?”

Lieutenant Kim shrugs like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I’ll tell you. But only if you let me go.”

Sunghoon scoffs, stepping forward. “We’re not risking that. You could be lying. Stalling. Feeding us bullshit to get free.”

“I’m telling you,” she says sharply, her smile gone now. “You still can save her. But the longer you hesitate, the less time you have. Tick-tock, soldiers.”

“You expect us to believe you?” Sunoo bites out. “She could be dying while you play us like this.”

“And what if I’m not lying?” she continues, locking eyes with Jungwon now. “What if I’m the only one who knows how to stop this?”

Before Sunoo can argue again, Jungwon’s voice slices through the chaos.

“Okay. Deal.”

The word lands like a grenade.

Everyone turns to him.

Sunoo’s mouth opens in protest, but the look on Jungwon’s face silences him before a single syllable can form. Jungwon’s voice is steady. Flat. Unrelenting.

“I give you my word,” he says, his eyes locked on Lieutenant Kim. “You tell us how to save Y/N… and I’ll let you go.”

The wind rustles across the rooftop. Somewhere in the distance, a low groan rises from the ground. The world holds its breath.

Lieutenant Kim tilts her head slowly. She stares at him like she’s trying to read something behind his eyes, something buried deep beneath the mask he wears so well.

“Shame,” she says at last, her smirk returning. “You would’ve made an excellent leader in The Future, Sergeant Yang.”

Jungwon doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. His fists are clenched tight at his sides.

Lieutenant Kim nods once. “Alright then. I’ll take your word for it.”

She turns to Jake. “You remember the day I came into the treatment facility?” Her tone is casual now, like they’re catching up after a long absence.

Jake nods slowly. “You’d lost your arm. Said you were ambushed.”

She smiles. “I was. By a biter. So I cut it off.” She lifts what remains of her limb as if presenting a trophy.

“You’re saying…,” Jake murmurs, the horror dawning across his features, “You amputated. And it stopped the infection?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s insane,” Heeseung mutters, but even he doesn’t sound convinced anymore. Just shaken.

“How do we know you’re not lying out of your ass right now?” Sunoo snaps. “If we cut it off and she dies—”

“She’s dying anyway,” Jay says quietly. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. “She’s already been bitten. What else do we have to lose?”

No one breathes. The rooftop is still.

And Jungwon?

Jungwon’s heart is thundering in his chest. Because this is it. This is the thread. This is the one, impossibly thin thread he didn’t know he was praying for.

And he’s going to grab it with both hands.

Even if it means destroying what’s left of you to keep you alive.

Part 7

Day Zero

The first few hours after you pass out are chaos.

Jungwon doesn’t remember who screamed first. It might’ve been him. He doesn’t remember how they amputated your arm, how Jake’s hands moved with frantic precision, or how Heeseung kept barking orders that no one listened to. He doesn’t even remember when you fell asleep on his shoulders as he sang that lullaby to you.

What he does remember is the first sound you make. It didn’t even register as human. He remembers it tearing through the air, through Jungwon, like something primal and raw and wrong. The way your body arches, every muscle seizing, and your scream rips through him like glass dragged across his ribs.

He also remembers the pained look on your face as Heeseung holds you down, whispering, repeating something over and over—but Jungwon can’t hear it. Even when he wants to look away. Even when his instincts scream at him to close his eyes, to shut it out, to protect himself from the sight of you in so much pain—he doesn’t.

Because this is the cost. Your cost. And if you’re going to bear it, then so is he.

He remembers murmuring your name, again and again, not even sure if you can hear it. His voice is hoarse, breaking under the weight of every syllable. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re okay. Stay with me.”

But you’re not okay.

And he’s not sure you’re going to stay.

He also remembers the blood. How warm it was, even as it soaked through your shirt. The way it clung to his fingers long after Jake had said, “It’s done.” Long after Sunghoon pressed the iron down and your body stopped seizing. Long after your eyes rolled back and the world went quiet.

He sits beside you through the night, not moving. Not speaking. Not breathing, it feels like.

When the others finally drift into uneasy sleep—some out of exhaustion, some out of fear—he stays.

Your hand is limp in his. Cold.

You should’ve come back different. That’s what he keeps telling himself. You were bit. It was over. That’s what the world said. That’s what they all said. But you didn’t turn. You didn’t die either.

You just... slipped into silence.

He also remembers overhearing the moment you appointed Jay as your executioner. He hadn’t mean to eavesdrop but its hard not to tune you out when all he wants to hear is your voice. He had to take a moment to recollect himself but the thought only twists the knife deeper.

You’re the one dying, and you’re still trying to protect him from the fallout. From having to be the one to end it all.

He feels nauseous.

By the time he makes it back into the room, his throat is raw from holding in everything that wants to shatter him that it hurts to even swallow. And when you look at him, softened eyes unaware of what he’s heard, he says nothing.

He just walks to your side, careful not to let the shaking in his arms show as he drapes the blanket over you. He tucks the edges beneath your body, fingers lingering near your shoulder, pretending nothing has changed.

But it has.

Jay lingers around a few feet away, fingers curled around the handle of a pistol. Jungwon knows why. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. He's simply upholding the promise he made to you.

Day One

He still hasn’t slept.

Your fever is rising now, sweat slicking your skin, your body shaking beneath the blankets. Jake does what he can—sponging your forehead, checking your pulse, redressing the stump—but Jungwon doesn’t leave your side. He stares. Watches your chest rise and fall, rise and fall, like if he looks away even once, you’ll stop.

When Jake tries to get him to eat something, Jungwon doesn’t respond. Not really. Just a blank stare. A nod that never leads to a bite.

Heeseung tells him gently, “She’s going to need you when she wakes up. You need your strength.”

But in his head, Jungwon hears: And if she doesn’t wake up, what’s the point?

Day Two

Heeseung sighs as he speak, “We can’t hide out in here forever. I’m sure the horde has thinned out a little, I’ll go see if I can lure them away.”

“No, I’ll go. Watch after Y/N for me, please.” Jungwon adjusts your blanket as he says.

“What? But you haven’t had proper sleep in days.”

Jungwon doesn’t argue. He just nods, gets up, grabs his rifle, put on the mask and leaves.

The first scream he lets out doesn't sound like his own. It tears out of his throat like grief incarnate, drawing the horde’s attention instantly. All of them. Their heads snap in his direction like puppets on strings, drawn by the sound of something alive—something grieving.

Jungwon bangs his rifle against the edge of the barricade, the metallic clang echoing into the night. Then again. Then again. He can barely hear it over the pounding in his chest.

“Come on,” he shouts. “Come on. You want something to eat?”

Another scream, more hoarse this time.

The first ones break away from the rest stop like waves caught in a new current. Their groans rise, louder now, a chorus of hunger, and as they move toward him, the others follow. Mindless. Predictable.

He keeps shouting until his throat burns. Until the only thing left is breath and bitterness.

Then he runs.

And they follow.

The sun is just starting to rise by the time he reaches the bus terminal, and his legs are already threatening to give out. He keeps going. He doesn’t look back.

He can hear them behind him. Always. Just far enough to not be on top of him, close enough that he can’t afford to slow down.

There’s blood on his tongue from how hard he’s been biting the inside of his cheek, and he swallows it down like medicine. He doesn’t stop. He can’t. He sees you every time he blinks—your arm, your face, the sound of your voice when you said “do it before I change my mind.”

He doesn’t know what kind of strength it takes to say that. But whatever it is, he clings to it now.

He screams again. Bangs his fist on a rusted signpost. Shoots a round into the air just to make sure they’re still coming.

They are.

The rain begins somewhere near midnight.

It’s cold, sharp, soaking through his clothes, turning the mud beneath his boots into sludge. His muscles scream. His head is pounding. He hasn’t eaten. Hasn’t drank anything. He left without telling anyone where he was going, didn’t even give them time to argue.

He had to go. If he stayed, he would’ve lost his mind.

The horde is quieter now, more sluggish with the rain. They still follow. Not because they understand. Just because it’s what they do. And maybe that’s what scares him more than anything—the simplicity of it.

No purpose. No will. Just motion.

He wonders if that’s what he’s becoming.

Day Three

He passes the village again around noon.

It’s quiet, but not empty.

He spots them first by smell, the rotting air thick with the coppery stench of death. Then he sees them—the two men he left behind. Or what’s left of them.

One has no face. Just torn muscle and glistening bone. The other’s stomach is splayed open like a dissected frog, intestines dragging behind him as he staggers forward without aim, without destination. Their eyes are grey now. Vacant.

Jungwon stops walking. Just for a second. Just long enough for a thought to cut him open: They were people. And we left them behind.

Then he shoots them both. One shot each.

He doesn’t flinch when their bodies hit the ground. Just reloads, turns his back, and keeps walking.

He wonders if that makes him human—or something else entirely.

That night, he finally sees the city.

Just beyond the rise of the hill, it sprawls in fractured silhouettes—buildings collapsed on their sides, smoke rising from craters in the road, the wind rattling broken windows like teeth chattering in a dying skull.

He slumps against the shell of a vending machine, hands shaking.

His feet are blistered. His ribs ache. His jacket is soaked through. His fingers are numb and raw, his voice long since gone.

But he made it.

They’re following him still—thinned out, some lost to the terrain, others distracted by noises that only exists in the city—but enough of them came. Enough of them are far, far away from the rest stop now.

From you.

Jungwon drags himself into the first store he sees, the door already broken in. He barricades what he can. Collapses behind a counter. Pulls the hood of his jacket low.

And for the first time in two days—he cries.

Not loud. Not even with tears.

Just silent shaking, his fingers curled in his hair, his chest folding in like he’s trying to disappear into himself.

He doesn’t sleep.

He just lies there, listening to the moans outside, wondering if you’re still alive.

Day Four

The next morning arrives cloaked in a brittle stillness. The rain that had dogged him for hours has finally stopped, but it’s left behind a colder, meaner kind of silence.

The wind has sharpened with the chill of dawn, slicing through the fabric of Jungwon’s soaked jacket, biting at his skin as if trying to remind him that he’s still alive. Every step he takes feels heavier now—sluggish and deliberate, like his body is finally starting to reckon with what he’s just done. With what it cost.

He glances out at the street, eyes scanning the remnants of the chaos he’d lured away. The horde is dispersing now, their ranks thinned and wandering, scattered like leaves caught in the aftermath of a storm.

His job is done.

But he doesn’t feel victorious. Not even close.

There’s no sense of relief settling into his chest, no triumph pounding in his veins. Just an ache. A dull, echoing emptiness that stretches from his ribs to the soles of his blistered feet.

He should feel proud—he pulled them away, bought them time, gave you a chance—but all he feels is this gaping hollow where something inside him used to live.

So he turns.

And begins the slow, punishing walk back to the rest stop. Back to you.

Not because he knows you’re awake. Not because there’s been any sign, any whisper of hope that you’ve stirred. But because he has to. Because something in his chest—something feral and aching and stubborn—needs to be near you again, even if it’s only to sit beside your motionless body and count your breaths.

Even if you’re no longer breathing at all.

Halfway back, while dragging himself along the road with boots caked in mud and legs that barely hold him upright, he stumbles across a curb overgrown with weeds and cracked cement. And there—sprouting defiantly between the rubble and ruin—is a small patch of wildflowers.

Delicate. Bright. Alive.

They sway in the breeze like they’ve never known the end of the world. As if they exist in a time untouched by rot and ash. And Jungwon doesn’t know what kind they are—hasn’t the faintest clue. He doesn’t even care.

He sees them and thinks of you.

You, curled beneath a threadbare blanket, your forehead damp with fever. You, whispering your final requests with the last of your strength. You, promising you'd be okay—just to spare him.

His breath catches in his throat, and then—

He runs.

Doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate. He sprints like a man chasing salvation, like a single second might make all the difference between reaching you in time and arriving too late.

His feet pound against the pavement, raw and ragged. He slips once—knees colliding with the ground, palms tearing open on shattered glass. Blood seeps from his hands, but he doesn't stop. He can’t. He presses on, stumbling to his feet with a ragged gasp and pushes forward again, faster, harder, propelled by something that isn’t logic or certainty but need.

Because he doesn’t know if you’re still breathing.

Doesn’t know if the others were able to hold the infection at bay, if the amputation worked, if the fever broke.

He doesn’t know anything.

But he needs to.

Because if you are awake—if you’re still there—if your eyes are open and searching for something to hold onto in this world—then he wants to be the one you see. Wants you to remind him that it’s not too late to hold on to what’s left.

Not hope.

Not some dream of a better world.

Just you.

Because in a world where everything is dying, where everything good slips away too fast—you are the only thing he can still believe in.

Day Five

You still haven’t woken.

The others take turns watching you now. Heeseung insists on it, says Jungwon needs to get some air. He does but only so he could hunt down the remainder of A’s people.

He doesn’t tell them that he’s not hunting them for safety. That he’s hunting them because it’s the only thing that makes the noise in his head stop.

He stalks the woods in silence, teeth clenched, gun steady. Every bullet he fires feels like penance. Every body that hits the ground is a fraction of the rage and helplessness he can’t bleed out any other way.

By the time he returns, you haven’t moved. And he hates that the sight of your motionless figure still makes him hope.

Day Eight

He starts blaming himself.

Not just for this. For everything. For dragging you back to the camp when you wanted to leave. For believing he could protect anyone. For every command that got someone hurt. For letting you go that night, when you said you were bit.

You had looked him in the eye and told him. And what had he done?

Screamed. Panicked. Held you like you were already slipping through his fingers. You had to be the one to make the plan. To tell them what to do. To walk away. And he let you.

He let you.

Day Eleven

He wakes up from a dream where you died.

Your body had gone cold. Your eyes clouded. But worse—your voice, the one he’d memorised in every tone, every laugh, every biting remark—it was gone. Forever.

He screams himself awake.

Jake and Sunghoon find him on the edge of the rooftop, heaving, fists clenched in his hair, shoulders shaking. He doesn’t say anything. Just stares down at the world and tries to remember how to breathe.

Day Twelve

He’s still out there, combing the surrounding woods for any trace of A’s remaining people.

Deep down, he knows there probably aren’t any left—not this close to the rest stop. But that doesn’t stop him. He keeps going, driven not by strategy or necessity, but by something far more relentless: the need to do something.

To bleed out the guilt he can’t seem to quiet.

Day Fourteen

You move.

Just your fingers. A twitch. Barely there.

He’s the only one who sees it.

He grabs your hand and nearly crushes it in his grip, whispering your name like a prayer, like a drowning man breaking the surface. But you don’t stir again. And when he tells the others, they think he’s imagining it.

He doesn’t care.

He knows what he saw.

Day Fifteen

The second Jungwon steps past the barricade, he knows something’s changed.

He can’t explain it—there’s no sound, no shout, no rushing footsteps to greet him. Just the stillness of the evening air, the muted creak of the gate behind him, and the way the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end like some part of him already knows.

He moves automatically, his legs dragging with exhaustion, muscles screaming from days without rest. The rifle slung over his shoulder feels heavier than ever, the dried blood on his sleeves long since stiffened into the fabric. Every step toward the convenience store feels like wading through wet cement, but he keeps going. Because you’re here. Or you were. And that’s all that matters.

Heeseung meets him at the threshold, eyes wide, mouth opening like he’s about to say something—but Jungwon doesn’t stop.

Not until he sees you.

You're standing up. Just barely. But it’s enough to make his heart lurch so violently in his chest that it knocks the breath clean out of him.

You're awake.

You're alive.

His legs buckle.

He doesn’t remember crossing the room. Doesn’t remember letting the rifle slide from his shoulder or the way the others instinctively moved aside for him like they knew—they knew—he wouldn’t be able to wait a second longer.

And then you look at him.

Eyes tired, swollen, half-lidded from pain and medication, but unmistakably you.

“Y/N.”

Your name breaks in his mouth—raw and jagged, torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, and the second his skin touches yours, he shatters.

His entire body trembles, the sobs clawing their way up his throat with a force that leaves him breathless. He feels your warmth, your breath, the faint thump of your pulse against his temple—and it’s too much. Too much relief. Too much grief. Too much of everything he’s been holding back.

And when he feels your hand on his back, pressing into him, returning the embrace, it splits him wide open.

“You’re okay,” he breathes, over and over, like if he says it enough, he can make it true. “You’re awake. God, I thought—” His voice breaks, catching on the words he’s too afraid to finish. “I thought I lost you.”

Your voice is quiet, trembling. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

He pulls back, just enough to see your face—drawn, pale, bruised, but alive. Alive. His thumb brushes along your jaw, reverent and aching, and it feels like holding something sacred. He can barely believe it.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, voice thick with guilt. “I should’ve been here. I should’ve—”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You kept them safe. You kept me safe.”

The words don’t make it easier. They just hurt differently. He leans in again, forehead pressed to yours, his breath stuttering as his hands find your waist, gripping like you might fade if he loosens his hold.

“I thought I lost you forever,” he whispers, and this time, the weight of it nearly brings him down again.

And then—then you say it.

“I’m alive.”

Your voice cracks on the words, but they echo like a miracle.

His chest seizes. His breath stalls. “You’re alive.” It slips from his lips like a confession, like an answer to a prayer he didn’t know he was allowed to make. “God, Y/N… you’re alive.”

He lets out a shaky laugh, the sound caught somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to a sob. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, and you feel the heat of his tears before they even fall.

He’s crying.

Openly. Unashamedly. His body trembling against yours, breath hitching with every inhale, fingers clutching at your shirt like it’s the only thing tethering him to this moment. He’s held it in for days—for weeks—and now, with you finally awake, it all comes spilling out.

His arms tighten around you, as if trying to pull you further into him, trying to convince himself that this is real—that this isn’t a dream or some hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation and guilt.

And then you kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you. He doesn’t know who moves first. All he knows is the way your lips find his like they’ve done it a thousand times before. It's desperate, clumsy, shaking with emotion, but he pours everything into it—every sleepless night, every scream he swallowed, every prayer he never voiced.

When you whisper his name, it doesn’t sound like pain anymore. It sounds like salvation.

“I’m here,” he whispers back, lips brushing yours, his voice trembling with the weight of a thousand promises. “I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”

He feels you collapse against him, your face tucked into the curve of his neck, and the sound of your breathing against his skin grounds him in a way nothing else can. He holds you tighter. Closer.

You’re real.

Somehow. Against every odd, through every horror. You came back.

And now, finally, so does he.

He doesn’t let go of you that night.

Not when the others start filtering in, trying not to stare. Not when Jake quietly checks your vitals and nods in quiet relief. Not even when Sunoo tries to pass him a damp cloth and tells him to “breathe or something.”

He stays curled beside you on that mattress, head tucked near your shoulder, his arms wrapped protectively around you like you’ll vanish if he lets go.

Because for two weeks, he lived in the space between grief and hope.

And tonight—for the first time in what feels like forever—he gets to choose hope.

Because you're here.

You're alive.

And he never wants to know a world without you again.

part 7 - hope | masterlist

♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡

notes from nat: okay NOW i conclude safe & sound... see this is what happens when a writer has major attachment issues. it gives you 18k words on a word document after a series supposedly ended. anyway happy jay day! and I'll come back with many exciting things soon! xoxo

perm taglist. @m1kkso @hajimelvr @s00buwu @urmomssneakylink @grayscorner @catlicense @bubblytaetae @mrchweeee @artstaeh @sleeping-demons @yuviqik @junsflow @blurryriki @bobabunhee @hueningcry @fakeuwus @enhaslxt @neocockthotology @Starryhani @aishisgrey @katarinamae @mitmit01 @youcancometome @cupiddolle @classicroyalty @dearsjaeyun @ikeucakeu @sammie217 @m1kkso @tinycatharsis @parkjjongswifey @dcllsinna @no1likeneo @ChVcon3 @karasusrealwife @addictedtohobi @jyunsim @enhastolemyheart @kawaiichu32 @layzfy @renjunsbirthmark13 @enhaprettystars @Stercul1a @stars4jo @luvashli @alyselenai @ididntseeurbag @hii-hawaiiu @kwhluv

taglist open. 1/3 @sungbyhoon @theothernads @kyshhhhhh @jiryunn @strxwbloody @jaklvbub @rikikiynikilcykiki @jakesimfromstatefarm @rikiiisoob

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slightlovelygirl · 4 days ago

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⋆˚࿔ but there was a time…; billie x reader

reader joins in on a tiktok trend following breakup with long term girlfriend Billie who of course sees the post 🫀

warnings. intense/distraught heartbreak (implied depression), angst

wc. 1477

7:36 P.M.

You weren’t trying to get a reaction, you honestly didn’t think she would see it.

When a certain sad trend crossed your feed multiple times in one evening you decided to join in. It was fitting, you were still heartbroken. Point blank heartbroken, not a spiteful ex who wanted the other to feel pain—not yet anyway.

It had been just over nine months since you and Billie split. Five years down the drain. Five years of her contact being pinned to the top of your messages screen. Five years of sharing the same bed. Five years of green room pep talks.

Five of the best years of your life, now dissolved in your tears. So excuse you for not being over it quite yet.

Joining in on the trend, you picked a mirror selfie you took earlier in the week: the one of you before going out to lunch with a friend, your face slightly solemn in the dim hallway light.

Taking a quick deep breath you began scrolling back further and further into your camera roll, to a photo you couldn’t bring yourself to delete quite yet. One Billie had actually taken. It was from her perspective as she straddled your body.

The two of you had been play fighting. Billie illegally tickling you despite a pinky promise made not to years ago; it was broken frequently.

“Wait!” She exclaimed suddenly, dropping herself onto you and taking each of your forearms to stop your wriggling.

“Billieee,” you wined. “Get off of me. You’re too heavy.” You giggled from her weight on your stomach.

But she was too busy looking around to hear you.

“Where’s your phone?” She asked and quickly retrieved it from the direction you pointed.

Hovering over you, her face was soon blocked by the double lensed camera.

“What’re you doing?” You questioned, moving your head to see her. She combated your move with her own.

“Stay still. You look like an angel right now.” Her tone was surprisingly serious as she focused.

You rolled your eyes but did as she said, only letting a sloppy smile stay. Your eyes didn’t meet the camera’s though, they stayed concentrated behind it. Peering past it to see Billie, it’s all you ever wanted to see.

After a moment she dropped your phone again, discarding it to a spot next to you on the bed.

“Seriously doll, ‘m gonna have to make that my lock screen. And screensaver. And your contact photo. And maybe even my profile pic. Need everyone to see how pretty my girl is.” Her ramblings interrupted only by a peck from you in between every line.

“Alright Bee. Whatever you say.”

Your hands slightly tremble as you tap on the intimate memory. Images of the way Billie’s bottom lip caught in her teeth while concentrating when taking the picture flooding your already clouded mind.

After selecting the photos you added the trending text. Over slide one you curated a small list of things in your day to day life you’ve changed: a one room apartment, dinners for one, focusing on friends more, and phone on dnd. And over slide two: but there was once a time…

You tried thinking of a lighthearted caption, but your heart was anything but light. You actually wished it felt heavy, that would be proof it was still there. Proof you were alive.

No, your chest felt empty most days. It was as if with Billie’s departure she took your heart. She probably did, it belonged to her for so long she probably had forgotten to give it back.

Instead you type out how you feel: i really hope she wasn’t once in a lifetime.

Hitting post you let out a shaky breath and promptly force yourself to forget about it.

2:09 A.M.

It takes a third call and a total of 96 seconds for you to wake up. Finally rising to the noise of your phone aggressively buzzing on your nightstand.

Without reading the caller ID, you answer. Assuming it’s an emergency, why else would someone be calling in the middle of the night?

“Hello?” Your voice thick with sleep, it was barely able to push air out to answer.

A weak voice replies. “Doll?”

Her. Billie.

Suddenly you have a different issue, you have no oxygen in your lungs to talk back. Hearing her voice for the first time in nine months was a gut punch.

“Doll, it’s you, right? You haven’t changed your number, right?” The way she ends her sentence, it sounds like a desperate plea.

“Billie.” You finally choke out. Tears brim the corners of your eyes.

“Good. It is you,” she says relieved.

Good? How inconsiderate could she be? Waking up her ex after leaving her high and dry, no word for nine months. In the middle of the night no less, to what? Harass her? Give a half-assed apology because she missed her body next to hers?

“This is good for you? So you get to decide when it’s okay to call? And you think that that is almost a year after you leave me hollow?”

A deep breath crackles over the line. “I’m- Look.” But silence takes over instead.

You listen for what might have been an hour, waiting. Until the floodgates open.

“I would say ‘I’m sorry’ but I know that’s not enough. Not enough for you and not enough of what I want to say.”

You consider interrupting her. Consider being angry and letting her have it. Consider making her feel as worthless as she made you feel that night.

“You’re just, not what I need.” Billie couldn’t even look you in the eye when she said it. Hands in her lap, they shook from holding them still instead of fiddling with the ring on her thumb like she always did.

“Not what you need?” You replied completely taken by surprise. “You couldn’t have told me that five years ago? Before I let you engrave yourself into every aspect of my life?”

You left that night. Everything packed into the few bags your friends lent while carrying your things out of the apartment. Their eyes shooting daggers towards Billie who sat silently at the dinner table with a blank expression, staring down at the empty wooden surface.

She never called after that, no text. Not from her or any one of her family members. Your mutual friends didn’t push you to go out with them anymore, understanding what they reminded you of. Giving you space.

No one expected that space to still be going on nine months later.

So when you decided to stay silent—like she was that night—and listen to what she had to say, Billie was surprised. She expected you to talk over her, tell her to go fuck herself and never contact you again.

But you missed her voice too much to risk this opportunity. Nine months sober from her, it didn’t mean you didn’t miss it. The way her inflection danced around your ears, saying your name like it the most beautiful word constructed by man.

“I haven’t spent a single day not regretting what I did to you. I’ve never been so disappointed in myself.” She took a breath. “You are the single best thing to happen to me, and it scared me. I had never been given such an opportunity as being yours and I didn’t know how to treat it.”

Tears slipped down your face without you noticing.

“A year ago I passed a jewelry store with my mom and she asked me, “When are you going to settle down with y/n?” And it became so real to me then that there was a chance you wouldn’t choose forever with me. Or you would and then one day decide you didn’t want it anymore.”

You were sat up in bed now. Your head tilted back against the headboard. Phone in your lap. Billie over speaker mode.

“That fear ate at me for a few months. Until one night…” It didn’t need to be spoken. You both had clearly thought about it everyday.

“And so I’m calling you to say, I’m not once in a lifetime. I am your lifetime, I want your lifetime. If you’ll have me again, please. I can’t take back my mistake but I will spend the rest of forever making it up to you.”

She took another breath and then, silence. Silence took its turn instead of you.

“Doll? You still with me?”Billie asks, fear taking over again.

You exhale. “Come over. Before I change my number.”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “On it,” she hangs up.

Letting out a shaky breath you close your eyes. You won’t forgive her anytime soon, she knew that. But having her by your side during the process will make it much easier.

a/n. i kinda actually hate the way this turned out… 🫠 but hey im posting this at 11:54 so technically still on the 23rd. send requests i’ll do better i promise (i might edit this later)

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belowablue · 8 days ago

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I've Never Seen Brown Eyes Look So Blue - Post Breakup James Potter x Reader

Thank you Ethel Cain for this title. Angsty one guys. No happy ending. 931 words.

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James sighed dejectedly at breakfast. He’d been doing that a lot recently. Ever since you ended things.

Now Peter would say, “c’mon James its been weeks, surely you’re over her by now?” Then, like clockwork, Sirius would chime in, “Just go and get laid mate, that’ll smooth a lot of things over.” He’d give James a conciliatory pat on the arm and go back to his coffee.

His friends tired to cheer him up everyday, and he was grateful for that but,

‘They’ll never be able to fill the hole you’ve left behind’ he thought miserably.

From your perspective, James should have seen the breakup coming from a mile away even without his glasses. When you’d first gotten together it felt like the whole world was bathed in a golden light. You were so happy you could hardly breathe. The two of you were so in love, nothing should’ve been able to come between you.

Except James didn’t need anything to. He did it himself. He got too comfortable. Blew you off too many times to do other stuff, because he thought you’d always be there when he got back. He stopped talking to you so much. Not the regular ‘pass the marmalade please?’ But the deeper, meaningful talks you used to have late at night, curled up in a window somewhere. He stopped confiding in you. He stopped putting effort in.

All in all, he took you for granted.

You put up with it for a while. Forcing strained smiles when he came stumbling back through the portrait swearing on his life that he would come on the next date you planned- because it was always you doing the planning. You defended him to your friends, saying he was busy with Quidditch or his friends and you didn’t want to be the overly-clingy girlfriend anyway. Pretending it didn’t bother you when all the bouquets he got you withered and he never replaced them.

Until you couldn’t stand it any longer.

The kicker was your anniversary date. What was supposed to be your six months anniversary date. You considered yourself pretty low-maintenance and decided a picnic by the lake would be fine. You’d given James a good weeks notice and he nodded, grinning, telling you he’d be there. How naive you were to believe him.

You got all dressed up in your nicest clothes, lugged all the food and blankets and pillows across the grounds. Set everything up, making it all pretty. You even charmed a couple of candles to float when the sun set. You fussed around for what felt like hours until everything was finally perfect. Then you perched yourself on a pillow and waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

You continued waiting for hours because the alternative was too painful to bear thinking about.

Eventually you were forced inside when it began to rain. You’d gotten past the sad stage, now entering anger.

You stepped into the common room, soaked through, hair sticking to you, to find James, warm and dry, curled up in a circle with his friends laughing his head off.

Catching sight of your bedraggled state, his laugher stopped quickly, “I was wondering about you. Where have you been?”

He said it so innocently that your anger deflated, leaving you with nothing.

You stared.

Concerned, he got up and came to stand in front of you, brushing hair out of your eyes.

“Whats’s going on hmm?” He asked, so gently it was almost enough to make you melt right into his arms. Almost.

Wordlessly you handed your anniversary present to him. It was a pair of concert tickets to his favourite band that was playing in the holidays. It had been sold out for weeks and they were an absolute bitch to find but you did it, because you loved him. Fuck, you hadn’t even expected him to take you, predicting he’d ask Sirius instead and you were going to be okay with it because this time, this time you thought he would actually bother to show up.

He took the tickets and his eyes lit up. “No fucking way,” He gasped, “How the fuck did you manage this you absolute angel!” The smile on his face was obnoxious.

‘Don’t do it’ you silently begged in your head, ‘Please for the love of God don’t-‘

He turned away. He raced over to Sirius to wave the tickets in his face. “Look!” He crowed, “Look at this! Look what she’s found.”

The two of them began celebrating in front of the fire, jumping and laughing. Peter stared up at them, bemused. It was only Remus who had the thought to turn back to you.

Standing in a puddle from your dipping clothes, shivering, your last labour of love being paraded around in James’ hands.

You knew it was over then.

You went up to the dorm and didn’t look back, not even when you heard James calling your name confusedly. You didn’t want him to see the tears mingling with the rain drops on your face.

Now when you walked past him out of breakfast, you pretended he didn’t exist. You had to start putting yourself first and that meant no more letting James Potter walk all over you.

But you also couldn’t bare to look at him. Not when you knew you’d see such sadness in his eyes. You knew you’d melt and go running back to him. So you held your head high and marched on past him, ignoring the way his gaze followed you out of every room, watching you walk out of his life again and again.

AN: guys I don't know what got into me to write something sad. Anyways.

#james potter #james potter angst #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x reader #james potter x you #hurtnocomfort #marauders #james potter is a douche #no happy ending #james potter drabble

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swiftiethatlovesf1 · 10 months ago

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Toto's obsession

Hii guyss, I hope you like this idea I had.

You knew who Toto Wolff was long before you actually met him. Your brother, George, spoke of him all the time, describing him as a visionary, a man who turned dreams into reality. "He’s not just a team principal," George would say, his voice tinged with awe, "he’s a strategist, a leader—a god, really. Strict, yes, but there’s no one like him. He’s why I’m going to win a championship."

Strict, charming, busy—those were the words George used. But it wasn’t until the first time you met Toto that you fully understood what he meant by "charming."

It was at a celebratory dinner. George had just signed with Mercedes, and the room buzzed with excitement. You felt a certain nervousness, knowing you'd soon be face-to-face with the man your brother had so admired. But nothing could have prepared you for that moment.

"Y/N," George called, catching your attention, "come to meet Toto."

And then you saw him. Tall, imposing, with an air of calm authority that seemed to silence the room as he approached. His sharp, tailored suit, the confidence in his stride—it all added to the magnetic pull he had.

Toto’s hand extended toward you, and the moment your fingers touched his, a spark ignited. His eyes met yours, dark and calculating, but there was something else—something deeper. You could feel the intensity in his gaze, as though he was memorizing every detail of you in that instant.

"Pleasure to meet you," he said, his voice smooth, but there was a certain edge to it—something almost predatory.

From Toto’s perspective, the moment he saw you, time seemed to slow. There you were, standing next to your brother, but somehow, everything else faded into the background. You weren’t just George’s sister; you were something he couldn’t quite describe—captivating, delicate, and untouchable all at once.

He prided himself on being a man of control, a man who calculated every move. But you… you were a variable he hadn’t planned for. The way you smiled, the softness in your voice, the quiet confidence that emanated from you—it all struck him harder than he had anticipated.

She has to be mine.

The thought crept into his mind, uninvited but relentless. He barely heard George’s words as they introduced you, his focus entirely on you. He was a man used to getting what he wanted, and you, without even knowing it, had become something he wanted more than anything.

As the dinner went on, Toto kept glancing your way, watching how you moved, how you spoke. Every detail fascinated him—the way your lips curved into a smile when you laughed at something George said, the way your fingers absentmindedly played with the edge of your glass.

Obsessed wasn’t the right word. It was something more. You were a puzzle he needed to solve, a challenge he couldn’t resist. And in his mind, the outcome was already decided. You were meant for him, and nothing—not even the relationship he had with your brother—would stop him from making you his.

Later that evening, when George stepped away for a moment, Toto seized the opportunity. He made his way toward you, his presence commanding attention without even trying.

“You seem to have made quite the impression,” he said, his voice low, eyes locked onto yours.

Your pulse quickened as he stood closer than before, and for a brief moment, you felt a tension that you couldn’t explain.

“Oh? On whom?” you asked playfully, but your voice wavered slightly.

His smile was subtle, almost imperceptible, but the weight of his words hit you with full force.

“On me.”

You stirred awake in the soft, dim light of a hotel room, the warmth of Toto’s arms wrapped securely around your waist. His chest rose and fell steadily behind you, his breath brushing the back of your neck in a rhythmic, soothing pattern. For a moment, you simply lay there, allowing yourself to enjoy the peaceful silence, the comforting weight of him holding you close.

Since that night at the celebratory dinner, your life had taken a turn you never expected. It was supposed to be a harmless introduction, a fleeting moment in the whirlwind of your brother’s new career with Mercedes. But after that night, Toto had made sure you didn’t slip away. You had started seeing each other in secret, always in the shadows, far from prying eyes and cameras.

The world would have a lot to say about you and Toto if they knew—about the age gap, about you being George’s sister, about the power dynamic. But in these quiet moments, it all faded away. Here, it was just the two of you, hidden away from the world’s judgment.

You shifted slightly, feeling his arms tighten instinctively around you as though he could sense you thinking about pulling away, even for a second. His possessiveness was something you were still getting used to, something you weren’t sure you fully understood. He wasn’t just protective; he was almost territorial, as if the very thought of you belonging to anyone else, even in the smallest way, was unthinkable to him.

"Stay," his voice, deep and groggy from sleep, rumbled against your ear. He nuzzled into your hair, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your head.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, smiling softly as you let your fingers trace his arm around your waist.

His hand moved to cover yours, holding it against his chest, his grip firm. "Good. I don’t like the thought of you slipping away from me."

You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “Where would I go? No one knows we’re here, Toto.”

He hummed in satisfaction, but there was an underlying edge to his words as he murmured, “And that’s how it should stay.”

You didn’t fully understand the depth of his obsession with keeping your relationship secret, assuming it was mainly about the media and the attention it would bring. After all, he was an incredibly public figure, and any news about his personal life would be plastered across headlines instantly. And yet, sometimes, there was a flicker in his eyes that made you think there was more to it.

Toto shifted behind you, pulling you closer until your body was flush against his. His lips brushed the shell of your ear, his breath warm as he spoke in that low, commanding tone that always sent a shiver down your spine.

“Do you ever think about how it all started?” he asked, his voice smooth and rich with emotion. “That night… the moment I saw you, I knew I couldn’t let you go.”

You tilted your head back slightly, meeting his gaze. His eyes were filled with a tenderness that made your heart flutter, but beneath it, there was something else—something more intense. “I didn’t know you felt like that then,” you said softly, smiling at him.

He cupped your face, his thumb brushing your cheek gently. "You’re smart, but sometimes too innocent," he murmured, his lips curling into a faint smile. " From the very beginning, you were mine. I couldn’t let anyone else have you."

His words, though wrapped in affection, held a possessive edge that you had come to recognize. It wasn’t just love that fueled his actions—it was something deeper, a need to claim you, to ensure that no one else ever got close to you. But you trusted him. You believed in the love that you felt from him in these moments, not fully realizing just how consuming it was for him.

You giggled softly, brushing it off, still unaware of the full extent of his obsession. "Well, I’m not going anywhere," you repeated, placing a gentle kiss on his lips.

Toto's hold on you tightened once again, his eyes darkening with a fierce protectiveness. “No,” he agreed, his voice low and firm. “You’re not.”

Here's part 2

#f1 #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 #toto wolff #toto wolff imagine #toto wolff x reader #toto wolff x y/n

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joeyfranchise · 6 months ago

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𝟙𝟚 𝕕𝕒𝕪𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕗𝕚𝕔-𝕞𝕒𝕤: 𝕕𝕒𝕪 𝕥𝕖𝕟

last christmas, i gave you my heart

ex!joe x fem!reader

note: (& kinda summary) SURPRISE! i said cindy lou didn’t have a part two but…. how could i spoil it for you? here’s what happened after the instagram dm, from joe’s perspective.

word count: 1.3k.

warnings: more sadness, hurt feelings, joe isn’t really an ass but he has poor decision making skills… etc. this fic is sfw but minors please do not interact with my page.

song inspo: cindy lou who by sabrina carpenter and lips of an angel by hinder.

joe didn’t really care about likes or comments on instagram.

he didn’t care to post too much either, regardless of what it was, because he preferred staying private and in his own lane. sure, he posted brand deals on there, the occasional game day fit or victory post, but he wasn’t one to flaunt a relationship around… not until today.

the christmas eve festivities were in full swing, and joe and his new girlfriend, along with his parents, were spending the evening together. they’d been to dinner, stopped by a few local places and eventually ended up at a rec center to watch a local christmas play.

when it was over they decided to take photos out in the hall, where the archway was decorated to the nines and the lighting was absolutely perfect for those warm, christmas-y shots.

joe and his girlfriend posed together alone, and then with his parents, and then they each took photos alone. once the photos were sent to him, he vetted through them carefully, selecting which ones he should post.

in his mind, he knew what he was doing was wrong… but in his heart, he wanted to know if you still cared. he wondered what you were up to this christmas. he assumed home with your family, maybe out with your sister. that’s something he knew you’d missed doing since you’d spent the last few christmases with him. he hoped you were able to go with her, that your holiday still felt special.

it didn’t. he didn’t know you didn’t go home to your family, that you were sat on your couch ready to drown in your wine glass and cry over a heart-breaking christmas movie. he didn’t know you were all alone there with him on your mind.

but in a sick, sick way… he also hoped that you were thinking of him, too.

joe posted the photos to his instagram with no caption, but he made sure to tag his girl. he slid his phone into his back pocket before joining back in the conversation she was having with his parents. his mind lingered on you.

joe wasn’t a cheater - nor would he ever be. he really enjoyed having his new girl around, and he didn’t know if he was in love yet, but he knew she felt like she could be right for him.

he sat with his thoughts for another hour before he checked his phone again. in the time since he posted the photos he laughed and talked with his company, holding his girlfriend’s hand and smoothing his thumb over her palm soothingly.

when he slid his phone from his back pocket and opened instagram, he had a multitude of notifications. family, fans friends.

but he looked at the likes anyway. it was wrong of him, toxic of him to hope you’d seen it… but you had. and you liked it. his chest began to feel tight.

why did he do that to you?

when you and joe broke up, it was all him. he knew it, you knew it. you were still completely in love with him. it made him physically sick to think about.

joe’s issue was… he still loved you too.

around the time of your break-up, things were incredibly tense. he was injured, he was in the roughest mental place he’d ever been in, and despite your valiant efforts to help him work through it, all he ever did was push you away. he continued to treat you poorly out of anger, and out of love you stuck by him.

he should have thanked you for that.

joe didn’t think he was falling out of love with you per se, but he wanted a break. he wanted space to find himself again, and though it completely broke you, you agreed. you would never force yourself into his life, not if he didn’t want you there.

he knew you thought you were the problem, and no matter how much he tried to explain you weren’t, you didn’t listen. he knew his actions weren’t conveying that he loved you, and that’s what forced the wedge between you… so when you split, there was never a reconciliation.

joe never reached out to you because he was afraid you’d reject him after all the pain he put you through. you didn’t reach out to him because you were convinced he was done with you, that he didn’t love you anymore.

when he met his new girl he was in a better place, and she was sweet. she was kind, beautiful, she had a heart of gold. she took his breath away, he hadn’t felt that in a while.

they started seeing each other casually before diving in head first, and he knew she loved him. he was getting there. but he still needed to let you go. the air in the room was getting hot, and although it felt like he’d been on his phone for an eternity, it was just a few minutes.

the hallway was full now, people who were in the play and family friends gathered around. his parents were chatting with the neighbors, his girlfriend was talking to one of the stars of the play. he looked around his periphery to make sure nobody could see him click your profile, and quickly he tapped your message button and typed something out.

joeyb_9: merry christmas, y/n.

he pressed send. his heart was hammering against his chest. his parents and his girl didn’t seem to notice. he didn’t expect you to answer so quickly. his breathing felt shaky as he saw you typing.

y/n: merry christmas, joe. i’m so happy for you.

the room began to spin. joe was getting hot. why why why. why did he do this?

he made a quick impulsive decision, against his better judgement. the voice in his head told him to stop, don’t do this. but his heart had to know. he excused himself quickly, claiming he had to make a work call.

he stepped outside of the rec center, the cool december air felt hot on his newly flushed skin. he closed the instagram app, clicking on the phone app and dialing your number. ring ring ring.

you answered.

“um… joe?” you asked. your voice sounded groggy, like you’d just fallen asleep.

“fuck. i’m sorry. i don’t know why i called.” he admitted. he ran his hand over his face.

“are you— is everything okay?”

“it’s fine. i’m… fuck. i’m sorry. i hope you’re having a good holiday. i guess it just feels weird not to be with you.” he doesn’t know why he’s telling you this. in the building behind him, his girlfriend is laughing with his parents. she’s having a lovely holiday. and joe’s outside, on the phone with his ex.

“it is weird. but it seemed like you were having a good night based on your post. go back to whatever you were doing, please. i can’t do this.” he heard your voice crack. he imagined your face. he knew your hand was probably clamped over your mouth, he heard you start to cry.

“fuck, y/n. i’m so sorry.” he says. he feels like he’s going to cry too.

“don’t be upset for me, joey. you’ve got a beautiful girl in there. i saw the love in your eyes in those photos. don’t fumble this one, okay 9?” you told him through tears. hearing you call him that felt like a slap right across the cheek. he missed what you used to have.

he felt sickly. he knew he was probably as white as a ghost. you were right… but he needed the closure.

“thank you, y/n. i hope you’re doing well… and uh, it was good to hear your voice.” he said, scratching at the back of his head lightly.

“yours too, joe.” you said, and then you hung up. he heard the door to the rec center open and turned around, coming face to face with his girlfriend.

“you alright?” she asked, coming down the short steps to caress his cheek. “i’m okay.” he said. he put on a smile and let her link their arms before he walked back inside with her, leaving the last of his feelings for you outside in the freezing winter air. he was thankful that you let him go, and now he could finally let you go too.

all photos and dividers used are not mine. cred to owners.

taglist: @slimshiesty @starsinthesky5 @joeyburrrow @kykysinlovewithafairytale @burrowdarling @joeyb1989 @loveyatopluto @toterry @unhingedfangirl @superheroprincess22 @burreauxsworld @definitelynotdomanique @samanthamark5 @superstarshitblog @fa1ry03 @wickedfun9 @xbriexx @venic-bxtch @burrowdarling @angels555 @idbe-theman @yelenasbraid @ladyluvduv @joeburrowshaircurl @joeybisbootiful @livinobx @blairsworld22 @jarring-behavior @yomamaslays4lyfe @gazebotori

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ccsainzleclerc5516 · 9 months ago

Text

Toto’s Daughter (part 2)

warnings: smut

part 1

One thing your dad didn't like was seeing you drink alcohol. He never forbade you to drink, especially not now that you are an adult, but whenever he saw you with a glass of alcohol in your hand, he would just look at that glass and then at you, and you would know what it meant. That's why you avoided drinking when you were around your dad, but tonight you couldn't help it after what you heard in Lewis' room.

You drank one glass after another with your eyes wide open trying to forget the hot calling of your name.

"Honey?" The voice of your dad snapped you out of your thoughts. You startled as if you were scared that he could somehow know what you were thinking about. "Are you alright?"

"Hey, dad, yeah..yeah I'm okay" You gave him a quick smile as he put his hand on your shoulder.

"That glass stuck to your hand pretty well, huh?" He commented making you roll your eyes. "Are you having a good time?"

"I am, I just-" The ringing of Toto's phone cut you off.

"I'm sorry, honey, I gotta take this, I'll be right back." He excused himself before answering the phone and walking away.

You took a deep breath and drained another glass of wine that was in your hands. You couldn't stop thinking about Lewis. You suddenly found yourself looking at him in a different light. You found yourself thinking about the way his body must've tensed as he touched himself to the thought of you. Suddenly, you began to see him as a man who was immensely attractive to you, and no longer as just your dad's friend.

It's been a while since you've been with a man and for a second you found yourself thinking that Lewis might just be the one who could change that. The more the evening went on, the more tempting the idea became so you decided to look for him.

You found him in the courtyard of the mansion talking to Susie and her friends. After taking another sip of wine, you braced yourself and decided to approach him.

"Lewis?"

"Hey, y/n. What's up?" He turned around to look at you and smiled seeing you completely unaware that you decided to play with his head.

"Can I ask you a favor?"

"Of course."

...

"Tell me where to put my hands, okay?" You say posing on the balcony of his room for the picture you wanted to ask for when you first entered his room.

He stood behind you holding up his phone as you leaned on the balcony fence wearing a perfectly aesthetically pleasing long white backless dress.

"Relax your shoulders a bit" He said snapping a few shots. You listened to him relaxing your shoulders and turning your head to the side so he could catch the side profile of your face.

"Like this?" You asked glancing at him.

"Yeah and spread your arms a bit more. Yeah, that's the one. Perfect." He instructed before kneeling down to take another one from a different perspective. "Now tilt your head back so that your hair falls over your back. And put your hands up in your hair"

"Is this okay?" You asked trying to recreate what he was saying.

"Yeah, you can turn your head to the camera as well"

When you turned to the camera, looking straight into his eyes through your long eyelashes, you almost hypnotized him. He couldn't look away or take a picture as he was stunned by your beauty. He just stood there with the phone in his hands looking into your eyes without saying a word, his slightly open mouth was drying and his eyes glistening.

"Lew?" You chuckled a little startling him from his thoughts.

"S-sorry"

"Can you show me the photos?" You smirked stepping closer to him.

You walked closer to him and he opened the gallery, his finger sliding across the screen showing you the artwork he had just photographed.

"Wow, you've got some skills there"

"Do you like it?"

"Yeah, I like it just like that, Lew." You half whispered your gaze stopping at the level of his lips before moving up to meet his eyes.

His breath got caught in his throat and for a second he stopped breathing as the words left your mouth. He felt like you caught him in the act, but that was just impossible..it just can't be..

He thought.

"I-I.." He stuttered trying to say something even though he himself didn't know what to say. He started breathing again and his chest moved at a visibly increased pace as your lips were just a few inches away from his.

"What were you doing while you were moaning my name earlier today, Lew?" You asked innocently tilting your head to the side and batting your eyelashes while looking up at him.

"W-what do you mean?" He swallowed dryly.

"Now..you can lie to me for nothing or you can tell me what were you really doing thinking of me and maybe I can make it a reality for you." You said leaving the balcony and entering his room.

"Fuck, y/n how did you hear me?" He sighed quickly following you inside.

"I came to your room to ask you to take a picture of me earlier today"

"Fuck.." He closed his eyes and threw his head back in embarrassment.

"Couldn't stop thinking about it ever since" You whispered putting your hands against his chest. He looked down at you putting your cheeks between his hands and pulling your face closer to his.

"That dress of yours that you wore yesterday drove me absolutely crazy" He said quietly before connecting his lips with yours into a heated kiss.

"Yeah? So what were you doing in the shower?" You asked breathlessly pulling back from the kiss.

"I-I was touching myself..thinking of you"

His pants were getting tighter and tighter in the crotch area by the second and your thighs clenched when you heard him say that.

"Did you cum?"

"Fuck, y/n.." He groaned his hands landing on your hips tightly gripping them.

"Did you?"

"Yes, fuck. I came so hard."

Your hand slowly slid from his chest down his abdomen to his crotch. His breath hitched when you started palming his very much hard member through his pants.

"We can't be doing this, y/n.." He groaned.

"No one has to know, Lew." Your fingers found the button of his pants unbuttoning them and pulling down the zipper. "I promise I won't tell" You whispered trying to pull his pants down.

He didn't hesitate for more than two seconds before he helped you remove his pants, leaving himself only in his boxers in front of you. He moved your hair to the side exposing your neck and flooding it with hot wet kisses. You moaned at the tingling feeling in your stomach encouraging him to take things further.

He took your hand in his pressing it against his hard cock while looking deep into your eyes. You palmed him for a second before sneaking your hand into his boxers. He moaned throwing his head back when you took him in your hand and slowly started pumping him.

"Oh, shit.."

"Does that feel good?" You asked continuing to work your hand up and down inside his boxers.

"Yes, fuck. Do you..do you wanna take it in your mouth?"

part 3

#f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 #lewis hamilton x you #sir lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton fluff #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton smut #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton #f1 smut #f1 one shot #f1 fluff #f1 imagine #f1 scenario #f1 blurb

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mrpenguinpants · 4 months ago

Note

ooooh I love how you write jing yuan!!

can I request hcs (or a fic if you prefer) on what a domestic life w/ him would be like? like what happens after work or on weekends? :)

Down time

— Jing Yuan

Credits to the Animated Short: "Taking It Easy" for the beginning. [Masterlist]

Thank you anon, I'm glad you like him cause I enjoy writing him;; I am boycrazy about Jing Yuan.

Mornings are a struggle. Sharing a bed means sharing Jing Yuan’s early alarm and his terrible habit of refusing to get up until the very last possible second. You’re fairly certain he wakes up before the alarm even rings, yet he insists on playing dead for the entire half-hour it takes to coax his heavy body off you and out of bed. It always starts the same way. First, he rolls over just enough to silence the alarm while your mind is still struggling to register what lights even are. Then, without fail, he shifts again—this time right on top of you—burying you under his full weight as if he’s decided you make a perfectly comfortable mattress. It really brings into perspective how much time flies and how much people can change. You remember the tentative, tip-toe phase of your relationship—when you and Jing Yuan had just started dating, and the man could barely keep it together if you so much as leaned against his side. And now? Now, he had the audacity to bury his face against your chest, arms wrapped around you like a vice, and drift back to sleep without a second thought.

You can tolerate a “five more minutes” rule, so you don’t say anything at first, simply going limp beneath him, pressing your cheek against the fluffy mess of his hair, and waiting for him to move on his own. But then five minutes turn into ten, then twenty, and there’s still no sign of life. That’s when more drastic measures become necessary. At first, you try tugging on the tips of his hair—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to be annoying. No reaction. So you escalate, attempting to slip your arms around his neck in a makeshift chokehold, hoping the mild inconvenience will get him to budge. It never works. What does work is wiggling just enough to throw him off balance, sending you both tumbling in opposite directions. The morning ritual always ends the same way: you, sprawled on the floor, dry-heaving and disheveled, hair a complete mess; and Jing Yuan, sitting pretty on the bed, completely unbothered, watching you with lazy amusement—just like your fat white cat perched on a windowsill, basking in the morning sun.

While Fu Xuan, Qingzu, and even Yanqing sometimes—muttering under his breath—like to compare Jing Yuan to a lazy cat, you think a sticky leech is a far more accurate description. You physically cannot go anywhere without him clinging to you in some way. The simple act of walking to the bathroom in the morning turns into an awkward, shuffling waddle as Jing Yuan drapes himself over you from behind, his weight making every step as difficult as possible. He buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply, as if the very air he breathes needs to be laced with tea tree oil or he might just wither away. Even brushing your teeth is a shared experience. One of his arms snakes around your waist, securing you firmly in place—not just to keep you within reach, but to conveniently bend you forward at the perfect angle so he can spit into the sink without getting anything in your hair. Because, of course, heaven forbid the mighty Arbiter-General suffer even a single second where you aren’t attached at the hip when he actually has the time to do so.

Mornings are quiet for the most part, steeped in a comfortable drowsiness that neither of you are in any hurry to shake off. The world outside is beginning to stir, but in here, time moves slower, stretching lazily between shared warmth and half-hearted movements. Words feel unnecessary, replaced by soft hums and the occasional shift of weight as you both move through the familiar motions of your routines. A nudge against his side earns you a low sigh, but Jing Yuan relents, lifting his arms just enough to let you slip from beneath them to grab your uniform. Fabric rustles as you begin changing, the cool air meeting bare skin in sharp contrast to the heat left behind by tangled sheets. There’s a weight to his gaze, one you don’t need to see to feel. Leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, still half-lost to sleep, he watches with an easy sort of attention, the kind that isn’t searching for anything new but appreciating what’s already familiar. A slow exhale, a quiet hum—subtle, yet unmistakably fond. You don’t bother turning around, but the warmth that presses against your shoulder a moment later makes you still. Lips graze skin, unhurried, reverent in their own way. The gesture lingers just long enough to make the space between waking and dreaming blur again, as if he isn’t quite ready to let go of the quiet moments where the world only belongs to the two of you.

The garden outside is vast, sprawling with carefully tended greenery, yet Jing Yuan’s personal collection remains modest—just three potted plants resting on the lip of the fountain. Vibrant petals bloom alongside the deep green of their leaves, and he tends to them lazily, one hand tilting a watering can while the other rubs the sleep from his eyes. The drowsiness clings to him still, evident in the slow blinks and half-hidden yawns between each absentminded motion. This is when the roles reverse, and you find yourself slipping your arms around his waist, your steps slowing as you lean your head against his back. Jing Yuan moves with ease, but you can feel his steady warmth against you, his movements languid. He idly traces patterns over your hands, the rhythm soothing, a silent second conversation between the two of you.

By now you're both awake enough to start talking, light and casual. You talk about breakfast—what sounds good today, whether you should have something quick or if it's worth the time to cook a more elaborate meal. The mention of Yanqing’s morning habits leads to a soft laugh, wondering if he’s already up and running or if he’s still tucked away in his room, likely too absorbed in sharpening his swords to notice the passage of time. You both share a knowing look at the thought, the fondness clear in the quiet smile that lingers between you. Then the conversation shifts to the future, and you ask if next week might be a good time to visit your parents for lunch. It’s a simple question, but one that feels significant in its own way, a small slice of normalcy between the chaotic, ever-shifting world you both live in. Jing Yuan hums thoughtfully, considering the question for a moment before nodding, his hand giving yours a reassuring squeeze as he continues walking, guiding you through the calm of golden hour.

The small finches that have claimed him as their own flit through the air, landing with practiced ease along the curve of his shoulder. Some nestle comfortably in the folds of his robe, while others busy themselves tugging at strands of his hair, their tiny beaks working persistently through the thick waves. It would be endearing—if you hadn’t spent so much time brushing out every last tangle just minutes ago. No matter how soft his mane appears, it is deceptively stubborn, each lock demanding patience to work through with a fine-toothed comb. You can already imagine the knots forming anew, the battle you’ll have to wage against them later. He, of course, remains utterly unbothered, chuckling as the birds weave through his hair, letting them undo all your efforts without a single care. Your peaceful morning ends with you having a rather one-sided argument with a finch, jiānduī (sesame ball) that Jing Yuan so dearly calls, who chirps angrily back at you as you fight over your husband.

You had attempted in the past to dress Jing Yuan up. The idea mostly stemmed from movies and cartoons from Penacony, where older characters would neatly button up their kids' collars or loving wives would tighten their husbands' ties before sending them off for the day. It all looked so charming, so endearing—you wanted to try it for yourself. While Yanqing has hit that age where he admittedly refuses any help from his mother because he's "not a kid anymore", you can still get away with it with Jing Yuan. Eagerly, you padded into his closet one morning, determination burning in your eyes as you set out to recreate a heartwarming moment straight out of a children’s show. But what you found instead was an overzealous designer. His wardrobe wasn’t filled with simple shirts and pants—it was an intricate battlefield of layered fabrics, confusing belts, and unnecessarily elaborate clasps. Your enthusiasm wavered as you pulled out a piece of his uniform, holding it up like an ancient relic, brow furrowing at the sheer number of unnecessary straps and accessories. What were these thigh straps even for? Psychological warfare??

Food is an essential family bonding tradition on the Luofu, and the Jing family is no exception. No matter how chaotic life gets, there's an unspoken rule that meals must be shared—one way or another. If breakfast together is impossible, then lunch becomes the fallback. If lunch slips away, then dinner is non-negotiable. Should dinner plans crumble under duty’s weight, then a midnight snack will have to do. And if even the snacks are lost to time, then at the very least, a shared cup of water at three in the morning must suffice. But on the rare occasion that an entire day passes without even the briefest moment to eat together, there's a final clause: whoever canceled the most has to foot the bill for the next meal. And considering you married the most important man on the Luofu—the very Arbiter-General himself—you fully intend to take advantage of that rather impressive paycheck.

You’re both... passable when it comes to cooking. Given your busy lifestyles, neither of you ever had the luxury of refining your culinary skills beyond the bare minimum—if the food is edible and won’t send you to the infirmary, it counts as a success. As a result, most of your meals consist of dining out or bringing home leftovers to stretch into the next meal. It’s not the most ideal arrangement, but you both have other strengths, and at this point in your life, you’ve made peace with the fact that cooking simply isn’t one of them. Especially when it comes to meat. After the last food poisoning incident—a miserable, harrowing experience that neither of you ever speak of—you’ve sworn off handling it entirely. On the other hand, Jing Yuan is a bit more capable in the kitchen. He can throw anything into a clay pot, let it simmer for a while, and somehow, the end result is surprisingly decent. But the moment a recipe demands any real technique, precision, or effort beyond “let it stew,” you both might as well start drafting the funeral rites for whatever unfortunate pan is about to meet its untimely end. At this point, adding a new one to the bi-weekly shopping list has become routine.

Aside from the maintenance crew that tends to the expansive estate, your home life is kept strictly private—just you, Jing Yuan, and Yanqing. You’re not particularly comfortable with outsiders wandering through your space and handling personal belongings, and, frankly, considering how often you end up stumbling half-awake through the halls in the middle of the night, the risk of accidentally scaring someone or yourself half to death is far too high. Jing Yuan, ever the picture of warmth and diplomacy, is cordial with the staff. He offers easy smiles and polite conversation, always taking the time to thank them with small gifts and kind words, making them feel seen and appreciated. You, on the other hand, are fairly certain that the staff either believes you’re a complete recluse who has never once set foot beyond the estate walls or that you’re in the early stages of succumbing to Mara itself. It’s not that you dislike people—you just have an unfortunate tendency to freeze up when faced with new interactions. Any years of experience you have in holding a conversation seem to evaporate the moment you lock eyes with a stranger. Take, for instance, the time you encountered the gardener while stepping outside. Instead of greeting him like a normal person, you froze like a deer in the headlights, eyes wide and unblinking, before slowly backpedaling into the house while maintaining eye contact the entire time. Not your proudest moment. You’ve yet to summon the courage to properly reintroduce yourself and assure him that, no, you are not a shy ghost haunting the estate.

During working hours, your relationship remains strictly professional—at least, that’s how it’s supposed to be. Everyone knows you’re married; if the shared surname wasn’t enough, then the matching jade-and-gold dragon and phoenix hairpins certainly were. But despite this well-established fact, Jing Yuan has an unfortunate habit of letting little things slip when he really shouldn’t. Moments that are meant for serious discussions about military operations or Luofu affairs somehow derail when he offhandedly mentions that you forgot your scarf again, or that he liked the way you tied his hair this morning. But once the day’s duties come to an end, so does the facade. Postures slump, formalities fade, and if you both happen to finish at the same time, you forgo the Starskiff and walk home together instead. Beneath the golden hues of dusk, with the Luofu bathed in the warm glow of a setting sun, you can’t help but steal glances at your husband. It’s ridiculous, really—how even after all this time, after centuries of shared mornings, whispered conversations, and quiet nights, he still manages to leave you breathless. That even now, as the years stretch long and endless before you, you still have to take a moment to remind yourself that this is real. That against all odds, by some miracle of the Aeons above, you’ve somehow managed to marry the most beautiful man this side of the universe.

You both still take detours away from the crowded streets, slipping into quiet back alleys where the world narrows to just the two of you. It’s a habit born out of necessity—Jing Yuan’s presence draws attention no matter where he goes, and avoiding the inevitable gawking is simply easier this way. But there’s something nostalgic about it, too, something thrilling. It reminds you of when you were both still young, sneaking away from training and cram school, dodging the ever-watchful eyes of your mentors. Of course, those teachers are long gone now, their scolding voices nothing more than distant memories, but the habit remains. You tug Jing Yuan along by the hand, his red hair tie trailing in the wind as you weave through narrow paths lined with mossy walls and overgrown vines. The stone beneath your feet has witnessed years of hushed whispers and stolen kisses, of fleeting moments where duty was briefly forgotten in favor of something softer. It all started when he was still just a lieutenant, ducking away from Baiheng’s relentless attempts to braid his hair. You remember the exact moment—how he nearly crashed into you in his haste, only managing to sidestep you at the last second. He had turned to throw a quick apology over his shoulder, already scaling the wall with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before. Meanwhile, you were left fuming, barely managing to keep your grip on a heavy box of ink blocks, hurling curses at him as he disappeared over the edge. Some things change with time. Others, like the thrill of slipping away from responsibilities, remain the same.

Having said that, you’d still have to be the most self-sufficient, independent, borderline introvert if you want any hope of making your marriage with Jing Yuan work. As much as he dislikes it, his duties as General will always take priority over his role as a husband. Meetings run longer than expected, stacks of paperwork demand his signature, and sometimes, no matter how much he wishes otherwise, he must personally oversee an operation to ensure nothing goes awry. It’s an old reality, one he’s long since accepted—but not without its lingering weight. When he was younger, still just a lieutenant with ambitions far greater than his years, this very fear had shaped his resolve. Back then, he had chosen to lock away any thoughts of romance, dedicating himself entirely to his training. A relationship, he believed, would be unfair—to both his partner and himself. He couldn’t offer them the time and devotion they deserved, and he refused to bear the guilt of that neglect. An afternoon spent together could mean a tomorrow lost, and he was never one to gamble with what he wasn’t willing to lose. He’s always on the clock, even on his registered days off, because there truly is no rest for the Arbiter-General. His position does not allow for long, uninterrupted stretches of peace, and by now, you’ve learned to expect that quiet moments with him are fleeting at best, illusions at worst. Whether it’s in the middle of dinner—just as he’s mid-motion, placing food onto your plate—you’ll hear a knock at the door, a messenger waiting with an urgent report. And the next second? He’s gone, leaving behind the warmth of his presence, and you’re left eating alone, staring at dishes that have already begun to cool. Or perhaps you’re half a step into bed, finally ready to surrender the day’s burdens against his chest, when an alarm starts blaring through the halls, cutting through the serenity. You don’t even get a proper goodbye—just the feeling of his fingers brushing your wrist as he murmurs an apology, his side of the bed still warm but empty.

Chores are technically split between the two of you, following an unspoken law of common courtesy. Whoever cooks, the other does the dishes. Whoever washes the clothes, the other dries. Whoever sweeps, the other mops. It’s a simple system, fair in theory—until reality intervenes. Given Jing Yuan’s relentless schedule and the fact that he is, by all definitions, never truly "free," the balance of responsibility inevitably tips toward you. More often than not, he barely manages to grab a sponge before a knock at the door calls him away. Another urgent matter, another fleeting promise to do better next time. And every time he returns to find the house already spotless, guilt seeps into his chest. He knows you don’t mind, that you understand he isn’t shirking duties on purpose just to lounge around. But still, it must be frustrating, constantly picking up after someone who swears—each time, with complete sincerity—that next time will be different. At this point, you’ve stopped waiting up for him. It’s not that you don’t miss him—you do, terribly—but there’s only so many times you can fall asleep against the headboard, only to wake up alone, the sheets still untouched beside you. Instead, you’ve adapted. You’ve learned to see these moments not as disappointments, but as opportunities. Leftover meals mean less cooking time tomorrow. An empty bed means more space for you to stretch, curling up like a cat or sprawling in a glorious starfish position you wouldn’t otherwise have the room for. And when he does return—exhausted, apologetic, but always reaching for you first—it almost makes up for the nights spent alone.

In times of quiet, when the guilt sits heavy in his stomach, Jing Yuan turns to the simplest, most instinctive solution: coming to you. Communication, after all, is a surprisingly rare skill among his peers, and he knows too many people who lack both the time and the temperament for it. It’s usually when you’re both in bed, your back pressed against his chest, that he allows the restraint to slip. In the hush of the night, his voice is softer, the weight of unspoken thoughts finding form. Are you truly happy with him? Do you ever regret tying your life to his? Do you feel the same quiet thrill he does when someone calls out "Jing," and have it mean the both of you?

In these moments, you’re faced with a simple yet crucial decision: how exactly do you wish to kill your husband? Smothering or strangulation? Rolling over to face him in the inky black of night, your hands move on instinct, reaching out to pinch his cheeks together before capturing his lips in a kiss meant to steal every last breath from him. He barely gets a chance to react before your full weight presses down, ensuring he has nowhere to escape. His muffled protests—something about bruised lips, something about letting him breathe—are swiftly dismissed with a sharp slap to his shoulder. Because what the hell did he just say to you? Did he forget the centuries of pining, the countless nights you spent longing for a single glance from the elusive, white-haired Cloud Knight? Did he forget how you had sobbed—ugly, gasping cries—to the point where he had to hold you, rubbing circles into your back until you could form a single coherent word, all because he had proposed? And most importantly, had he somehow erased from his memory the image of you standing at the doorstep every night for over three hundred years, unwavering in your devotion, waiting with a white lion at your side—a companion who had slowly aged, growing frail with time, until the night came when you stood alone? If he was truly re-thinking everything, he'd better be ready to make up centuries of your life or you'll take it back in blood.

The days when the world finally seems to slow are the most treasured. When Jing Yuan can actually slouch, letting the weight of his title slip from his shoulders as he leans against you, his breaths deep and unguarded. Those days mean far more than the cold nights spent alone and the lukewarm meals left unfinished. Despite his deep-seated worries—that one day, you’ll realize you deserve a marriage far better than what he can offer—you think he’s got it entirely backward. He has no idea how lucky you feel, how absurd it still is that you not only caught his eye but somehow managed to keep him tethered to you. Jing Yuan, the revered Arbiter-General, the man who commands an entire army with effortless grace, yet chooses to rest his head against your shoulder, trusting you to hold him up when the weight of the world bears down on him. Honestly, even now, despite sharing the same family name, it’s a pretty fair assessment to say you still harbor the fattest crush on him. A hopeless, unwavering admiration that hasn’t dulled in the slightest—even when he’s snoring lightly against your collarbone, trapping your body beneath his heavy frame, utterly unbothered by the way you’re struggling to breathe.

#honkai star rail #hsr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #jing yuan x reader #hsr jing yuan x reader #hsr headcanons #honkai star rail headcanons #jing yuan headcanons #hsr jing yuan headcanons #jing yuan #hsr jing yuan

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wishyoudwell · 3 months ago

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Theres often talk about Legends trauma and how he tries to distance from his emotions, how his experiences have affected him, and in turn I also like to think about how Ravio operates with his own trauma. This might sound pretty silly but I think both of them are equally as terrible at dealing with their issues. Ravio is still Links counterpart after all, and I'm more than sure he's gone through a fair share of things, especially hailing from Lorule. There's just differences in how they handle it. While Legend is often written to be repressing his trauma and keeping himself tight under lock and key, Ravio seems to be pretty casual about mentioning bad happenings. It kinda feels as if Ravio would make light of his own trauma, hardships or bad experiences before quickly brushing them off/playing them off as jokes. He sort of does this ingame, after all? The way he says it makes you unable to take him seriously, but when you really think about what he's saying...

"Finally, no more sleeping in the wild. Tough world out there, you know?" "But—! But—! But aren't we buddies? You'd kick me out? Into that cruel, cruel world out there? Please? You don't know what it's like trying to get some shut-eye with all those creepy-crawlies!"

You could argue that he's only saying this to garner sympathy and pity from Link. But since he escaped Lorule without knowing if he could ever even return....yeahhh, I think there's a lot of truth here. Casually hinting at how he he had to sleep outside while worrying about being left defenseless to monsters... I don't think Ravio really lies (much). He's just pretty good at omitting information. He's also really good at playing a character. Ravio also says some pretty weird and mildly concerning stuff once he's "in retirement" and being all philosophical on Links floor.

"I always thought sleeping all day would be fun. But now I think I'd miss breakfast and lunch, right? Yeah, I've got a new outlook on life, and it's all thanks to you, Mr. Hero!"

"For a long time, I believed that if you put your ear to the ground, you'd hear the world's heart beating. That the world just goes on living, whether you were there or not. Weird, right? And sorta sad. So I've been listening here for a while, and you know the only heart I've heard? Mine! I couldn't be happier. Ha! I've got a new outlook on life, and it's all thanks to you, Mr. Hero!"

"You know, whenever I used to just lounge around... I would think how I'm just a tiny speck in a great, big world. And I still believe that I'm a teeny, tiny, little speck in a world that's SO much bigger than I ever thought! But even a speck can change the world if he puts his heart into it. I've got a new outlook on life, and it's all thanks to you, Mr. Hero!"

"I've never really had the time to take a lot of naps before. The world looks so different from here! Sometimes just changing your perspective is the key to... well, to everything! I've got a new outlook on life, and it's all thanks to you, Mr. Hero!"

"When I look at you, Mr. Hero, I now realize that just about anything is possible if you put heart into it. Ha! Seems like it's about time for me to decide where to put MY heart!"

It's a lot of fun, trying to imagine what the future holds. Ha! I've got a new outlook on life, and it's all thanks to you, Mr. Hero!

One thing that does become pretty evident though is how Links presence and the land of Hyrule itself seems to have had a really positive and healthy influence on Ravio and his psyche. He appears to have been a lot more somber before, but meeting Link and experiencing his courage firsthand has helped Ravio grow too, to the point he was able to develop a happier, positive outlook on life. Meanwhile you could argue that Legends become more bitter overtime on his outlook on life the more adventures he has to go through (lol). Hmm...yeah, I didn't really have anywhere specific I was going with this. It's just another interesting parallel to me how Legends personality and portrayal would clash with his counterparts. They're interesting to me, they compliment and play off each other well...they process and experience life so similarly yet differently...

#lu legend #linked universe #lu ravio #ramble #this kind of feels like a cornplate post but thats okay. i like ravio #well im really bad at putting my thoughts into words so i hope this post is worth sooomething??#but basically i like thinking about how ravio seems to pretty obviously has his issues too #hes cheerful in his manner and casual about mentioning them #you wouldnt take him all too seriously and thats probably his intent

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lamentationsofalonelypotato · 8 months ago

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Chapter 14: Don't Be A Bundt Cake

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV, Soldier Boy POV

Summary: When you decided to work with Butcher and his merry band of supe hunters to take down Homelander, you never expected to be saddled with a sullen, grumpy, jerk like Soldier Boy when the job was done. The more you're around him the more you hate him, but you can't help but wonder, is he really as big a jerk as you think? Reader is a supe with plant powers. This takes place in an AU about a month after the end of The Boys Season 3, in which Butcher has let Soldier Boy continue to work with him on his team. (I'm real bad at summaries, please forgive me!)

Tropes: Enemies to Lovers (Not in this chapter), Slow Burn, Age Difference (Reader is in her 20s), Soft Ben/ Soldier Boy, Protective Ben/Soldier Boy, Miscommunication Trope

Word Count: 13.1K

Warnings: I'm going to label this 18+ because Soldier Boy (he's a warning and everyone knows it), Swearing, Mentions of Sex, Sexual Innuendo, Talks of Death, DENIAL, Idiots in Love, Pining by the Reader (and SB, but he won't admit it) Depressing Thoughts, Mentions of sexual assault/rape (not detailed at all, really just in passing) Talks about weed, Sexist comments, Ben makes derogatory comments, Threatening Ben/Soldier Boy might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Spotify Playlist 🪴

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

A/N: I am so sorry this one took me a bit longer. The writers block was fighting me the whole way, but we are very closely nearing the end of this series and the moment the reader and Ben stop being so stinkin' stubborn.

Reader POV

You lean your forehead against the cool window, watching the world flash by in a flurry of color. The wooded forests had vanished hours ago and all that was left were the yellowed sprawling fields of corn and grain and family farms that were laid sporadically along the interstate. Each one a little world that caught the flecks of golden sunlight as the sun began to peak above the horizon.

The bus rolled smooth and steady over the weathered pavement towards it's destination and was filled with an odd assortment of people young and old. There was man with a brightly colored parrot that had been singing "It's A Small World After All" since you left NYC, a woman with a little boy playing with an iPad and who refused to turn down the volume no matter how many times his mother asked him to, a group of teenagers a few seats up that continued to pass around a flask, and due to how far back you were sitting on the bus an uncomfortable smell emanated from the bathroom each time the door was opened.

But you didn't notice any of it.

The only thing on your mind were the events that happened almost twenty hours ago. They continued to circle your mind, playing over and over again like a perverted cassette tape making you sink further into the worn cloth covered seat at the back of the bus. The images were haunting, some new and some old, but all the more still horrible to re-live.

The song "Nights In White Satin" floating into the backseat of your family's car, the flash of unnatural light you knew was never lightning, the caskets at your parent's funeral covered in flowers that were much to pretty to lay on something so morbid, Elijah's body succumbing to the poppies that ripped him apart, the proud sneer on your brother's face when he admitted to killing your parents, Darren's broken and bloodied body strewn in pieces over the street with the creature standing over him with a dripping red maw, the ruined building that housed "Please Don't Die" reduced to nothing more than rubble, and the look on Ben's face when you turned your back on him and fled the scene.

For some reason that particular image seemed to cling on to you and refused to fade. You'd never seen him look that way, almost… helpless and a little fearful. In all the time you'd known him, Ben had never looked at you that way. Sure you'd seen him proud, angry, cocky, lustful, mischievous, but never fearful. And you were sure that it wasn't an emotion that he was used to feeling, but that begged the question… why?

Why was he looking at me like that? Why wouldn't he let me go? And what was he afraid of?

The creature curled in your lap snorts something in it's sleep, turning it’s head further into the cradle of your elbow to shut out the brilliant early morning sunlight. It was now the size of a toaster and had warranted several odd looks whenever you got off to change buses, but you didn't care.

You weren't sure about anything anymore. Everything your brother confessed to you made you feel like you were living a lie and the revelation of exactly what your powers could do- take life from plants to heal yourself, create whatever the hell it was on your lap, and speak to plants… it scared you.

You thought for so long that you knew everything about your powers, that you were in control, but now you weren't sure.

You felt different, as if something had unlocked deep down that you couldn't shut up again.

You'd felt different after you killed Elijah, but this was more alive, weaving and twisting in the pit of your stomach. You felt more connected to the earth, to the world outside the bus even though you were divided by glass and metal. You could feel the energy that thrummed through the body of the creature on your lap, bending to your will, the life force of the plants it was formed from molding with you, becoming a part of you.

You felt so different than the person you had been before Darren entered the shop, so uncertain, and there was only one place you wanted to be when you felt like this… home. You couldn't wait to run up the worn front steps of your grandmother's house and into her arms. She always knew what to say in times like this.

And you desperately needed the comfort of her embrace.

The phone in your pocket buzzes again and you flip the screen to see the ridiculous selfie Annie and you had taken on Halloween last year. The one that you'd both spent dressed up as the two brothers from your favorite paranormal tv show. It wasn't the first time she'd called. Annie had called and texted you more times than you could count over the past twenty hours but you didn't answer her. You didn’t want to.

It was the first time that you didn't want to talk to her, but talking to her meant that you'd have to re-live all of it again and you were clawing at the last shred of sanity you had left to keep it together.

The overwhelming waves of emotion kept pummeling you, dragging you deeper beneath the white surf. Each one brought the memories of what happened surging over you and were followed by everything that Darren said to you. Years of taking care of Darren and doing whatever he wished were tearing at your soul, years of giving up little things in your life to make him happy, and years of taking care of a man who you thought cared about you, but hated you enough to kill your parents and try to kill you too.

It made your skin crawl. Each time your brother told you that he loved you was an even bigger lie and now that you knew the truth and saw him for what he was, it felt like you were drowning. The darkness that ebbed just on the edge was begging you to leap into the abyss, but you were resisting the best you could.

The tears had stopped falling miles ago, but you couldn't stop the memories or the emotion that formed a cold ball in the pit of your stomach.

A sigh works it's way up and you pull your legs on the seat underneath you, jostling the creature on your lap that raises it's head for a moment to blink it's black eyes at you sleepily.

It was surprisingly docile right now, especially considering that twenty hours ago it had ripped your brother to shreds. In fact it seemed to understand how upset you were and had spent the better part of the last twenty hours rubbing it's head against your arm as if trying to bring you some comfort. It was settled on your lap, the weight of it a comfort, almost like a weighted plushy that gave you something to focus on.

"It's alright buddy." You whisper, scratching him under his chin. "We're almost home."

The phone in your jacket pocket buzzes again, but when you pull it out to turn it off, you catch a glimpse of the screen, and you hesitate. Because this time it's not Annie who's calling, it’s Ben.

The picture that flashes on the screen under the contact name "Gramps" is the picture of Mr. Fredrickson from Up. It always made you smile whenever he called you and you saw the picture because Ben did often remind you of him. He was certainly just as grumpy as Mr. Fredrickson and just as out of touch, but you thought it was cute.

Your thumb hovers over the answer button and you think about talking to him.

But what would I say?

You weren't sure what to say to him, or why you wanted to speak to him so badly, why you wanted him to be sitting here on the bus with you as you went home, and why you wanted him to hold you against his chest while you allowed yourself to break, but you did. You wanted to feel his awkward shoulder pat and his awkward version of hand holding and you wanted to hear him try to tell you to "buck up" or whatever he thought that a comforting word should be.

He's really not the best at that.

You smile to yourself at the memory of how he tried to comfort you back at the hospital, but the longer you sit there and look down at the picture on the screen the worse you feel.

Maybe that scared you more than your newfound powers, how much you were realizing that you needed him, how much you depended on him when things got too much for you to bear. The memory of him appearing as soon as you needed him back at the shop, another of him grabbing Darren and throwing him into the street as soon as Darren insulted you comes in a flash, and finally followed by the memory of Ben carrying you out of Elijah's office while you curled into his chest. You couldn't remember too much from that moment, in fact you'd thought that Ben had kissed you on top of your head, but you ascribed that to the haze of pain you'd been in from your broken arm.

What you did remember was how wonderfully warm he was after you'd been trapped in that damn freezer and how nice it felt to be in his arms. Another memory of Ben sleeping on the couch at the hospital bubbles up and you feel something in your chest begin to crack open. And you try your best to tell yourself the same thing that you always do when you feel like Ben might care more about you that he was letting on.

Ben doesn't want that. He's made it perfectly clear. He doesn't want a relationship. He's only wants one night, that's why he goes out with all those women-

You hesitate, thumb still hovering over the answer button as you do, the memory of the week you'd spent at the apartment with him flickering in the back of your mind. The week where he refused to leave you alone in the apartment, where he refused to do any jobs for Butcher, where he took care of you the best way he could, when he sat with you on the couch and made you laugh with his ridiculous movies, and the week where he hadn't had one date.

Your finger itched to answer the phone, but you couldn't, because you didn't want to feel this way about Ben, not when he'd told you countless times that you kept romanticizing him, not when he told you that he didn't want a relationship, and not when you could feel yourself beginning to fall for someone you thought was the wrong man.

For just a moment you tried to pretend that it was different, that he was different, but you didn't want to. It only made it hurt more.

The phone stops ringing, but the pit in your stomach still gapes open at you and for the first time in twenty hours you feel tears begin to fall. You didn't know why you were crying about this, why the thought of not picking up Ben's phone call seemed to hurt more than everything that had happened, but something made it hurt.

The bus driver announces over the overhead that you're reaching your final destination as he takes the exit for your hometown. The familiar buildings that line the streets are sheathed in a honeyed glow from the sun, the long shadow of the bus darkening them momentarily as it rumbles down the small streets to the bus station.

When it rumbles to a stop at the bus station you wait for everyone else to get off, trying to summon the strength to stand, and swipe the back of your hand across your face to rid yourself of the remaining tears.

The bus station was about a thirty minute walk from your grandmother's house, and you still hadn't called her. You didn't know what to say, didn't know how to tell her that Darren was dead and that he was the reason why your parents were dead.

The creature crawls up your body to drape it's warm body over the back of your neck as you stand. It wasn't bothering to hide, besides the people in your hometown already thought that you were odd because you were a supe and you'd always welcomed it. You give him a scratch on top of his head and his warm tongue flicks on the bottom of your earlobe as if thanking you before it curls further into the side of your neck, seeking warmth.

The first few steps on solid ground are shaky, but you find the strength while taking in a deep cleansing breath of the outside world, letting the gentle warmth of the sun and the tickle of the autumn breeze pull at your coat. You hadn't stopped at your apartment before coming here, instead you had stumbled your way to the bus station covered in dust, flecked in blood, and demanded the first ticket back to Illinois. It was lucky that the next bus was leaving immediately, because you didn’t want to spend another second in NYC, not when all you wanted was to be home.

Plus you were worried that someone had recorded what exactly happened outside the plant shop and you didn't want to get arrested.

It was self defense anyway. Maybe Jake would represent me in court.

The thought of Jake makes you twinge. You hadn't checked to see if he was alright before you ran from the scene. Not to mention you'd destroyed the shop he'd put all his life savings into after he stopped being a lawyer.

Oh fuck, what if he sues me? He can't exactly sue Darren…

You hear someone call your name and you open your eyes.

Your grandmother is standing in front of the same baby blue pickup truck that she'd had longer than you've been alive, wearing a long multicolored skirt and a pressed white blouse tucked elegantly into it. Her silver hair is loose and long, curling over her shoulders in gentle waves. She looks the same way she looked one week ago when she left, and you've never seen anything so beautiful in your life.

You're running before you can stop yourself, crumbling into her warm embrace, with more tears streaking down your face, but she doesn't mind.

"Shh. It's alright honey." She whispers, rubbing her hand over your back, her embrace steady and surprisingly strong. "Let's go home."

Her home is the same as it's always been. A two story Victorian house painted in a happy yellow shade, with a white wrap around porch and two white rocking chairs sitting empty on the front porch. You'd spent more nights than you could count rocking silently beside her with a crochet project in your lap listening to the rain fall and soak the world outside, while the plants sang praises with every gentle bend beneath the heavy droplets.

You could barely remember the home you spent in your early years with your parents, not when you'd spent most of your childhood spending the night here and after your parents died living here permanently. There was still a large oak tree were a wooden swing swung in the slight breeze on the left side of the yard, a gardenia bush that stretched as high as the second story on the right side of the house and brushed it's soft leaves against the sunshine colored outer walls, a garden filled with both flowering plants and herbs that perked up on both sides of the front yard as you walked up the path, and a cobblestone path that Annie and you had spent hours of your shared childhood covering in chalk art.

Neither of you were good, but when the rain would fall and smudge the clean lines, you'd jump in the puddles that pooled along the walkway singing the lyrics to ABBA's "Cassandra" not quite understanding what it meant.

Standing here outside your house made you miss Annie and feel worse about not calling or texting her back, but you didn't feel like talking about what happened and you were sure that Butcher filled her in. The only thing that you wanted was to collapse in your bedroom upstairs and curl under the comforters.

Despite everything the house was a welcome sight, but at the same time it was different. You could feel the plants calling out to you, asking for you, bending towards you just to touch your shoes as you walked by. You'd never felt so connected with them before, not even when you were in your apartment or working at the shop. It was overwhelming.

And although a part of you was frightened by it, another part of you rejoiced in it. You didn't feel alone, didn't feel weak, and you knew that you never would ever again.

The creature nuzzled into the side of your neck with a sigh, soaking up the sun's healing rays as you walked up the front steps with your grandmother following behind you silently. She hadn't spoken since she picked you up at the bus station and you hadn't supplied anything in the ten minute car ride back to her house.

You didn't know where to start and you were still trying to process everything yourself.

The inside of her house was just as cozy and warm as it was the day you moved out. There were photos of your parents and you covering the walls (Darren's had been placed in the closet long ago), half-finished knitting projects sorted in different baskets on both the dining room table and the living room coffee table, spools of yarn were strewn over the couch sorted by color, and the fresh smell of gardenia wafted through the open windows on the breeze.

It was home. This was what you'd been missing the moment everything began to crash over you, but as you stood there in the familiar living room it felt like something was missing. Something tugged at the back of your mind, but you couldn't put your finger on it.

There was something or rather someone that should be here, but you didn't know what or who. And your mind supplied Annie, but you weren't sure that's who you meant.

"Let's have some tea." Your grandmother says from behind you and you feel her soft hands come down on your shoulders to steer you through the familiar creative chaos and into the large kitchen at the back of the house.

The kitchen isn't spared from the madness, it rarely was. There are boxes upon boxes of cookies in different stages of being packaged all over the counter, dirty bowls and a measuring cup stacked in the sink, and a large opened bag of chocolate chips spilling over the flour covered kitchen island.

It wasn't unusual to find the kitchen or the house in a state of chaos, your grandmother always said that a house should look lived in and that the mess was part of the fun of any major project as long as you were responsible enough to clean it up.

"Bake sale?" You ask as you sit down in the breakfast nook, uttering the first words that you'd said to another human being in twenty hours.

The next breath that you inhale was supposed to be cleansing, but you can still feel a weight pressing down on your chest, the same one that settled in the moment everything happened with Darren.

You contemplate again how you're going to tell her that Darren is dead and was the reason why your parents died.

Damn it Darren.

"Mhmm." She hums, filling the well used red kettle. "Annie's mother practically cornered me in the supermarket yesterday and begged me to make cookies. I love Annie, but her mother needs someone to pull that stick out of her ass. It's been up there for so long that I'm sure it's rotten."

The creature crawls down from your shoulders and down your arm to sniff at one of the chocolate chip cookies nearest you. It hadn't eaten since…

Darren.

You wince slightly at the thought and hope that you hadn't created something that needed and craved human flesh. The last thing you wanted to unleash on the world was Audry two especially in the wake of Homelander.

Truthfully you were waiting for the guilt at killing your brother to come, but it never had and you wondered if it ever would.

Probably not. He deserved that, he killed our parents, he tried to kill me, he tried to kill Ben.

The thought of Ben again makes a lump form in the back of your throat. You didn't know what was happening to you only that you felt guilty for leaving him like that, for yelling at him to let you go, and just vanishing on him when he probably thought that you were going back to the apartment.

He doesn't know where I am. Maybe that's why he tried to call, because he got back to the apartment and couldn't find me there and he was worried. You press your lips together. Yeah. Worried. Right.

"Honey?" Your grandmother says in a soothing voice

You look up from the box of chocolate chip cookies that you didn't remember picking up. Even the creature is looking at you with an expression that you can only explain as worry.

"Yeah?" Your voice shakes slightly.

She's leaning back against the counter, arms crossed over her chest, head tilted slightly to the side, her beautiful grayed hair pulled up in an elegant bun, but in her eyes you can see genuine concern. "Fuck." She sighs after a minute.

You blink in surprise. It was the first time that you'd ever heard her say that word in your entire life.

"I shouldn't have left." She breathes. "I told Ben to look out for you. I told him, that little bastard was bound to show up again and what did he do? He left you at that plant shop alone with no protection!"

You'd only seen her really angry a handful of times in your lifetime. Like you, your grandmother often had a gentle disposition and didn't get angry unless the situation called for it.

I mean, Darren admitted to killing our parents and then got fucking ripped apart. But how does she know about any of that? I haven't told her…

"How did you know that he left me there? Did Ben call you?" You ask putting down the box of cookies.

An odd expression crosses her face, as if she's contemplating something. "No." She hesitates again. "I saw it."

"No." Your grandmother hesitates. "I saw it."

"You saw it?" You repeat, confused.

What's going on?

"Too late of course, but I'm a little rusty. I was able to warn Ben that Darren was coming back. That's how he got there so quickly or rather-" She shrugs sheepishly. "He got there in time to make sure that Darren didn't get you to forgive him. Which you shouldn't have at all, but I know he's always had a talent for manipulating you."

"What?"

Is she saying what I think she's saying?

Instead of explaining further your grandmother walks out of the kitchen, leaving the kettle behind on the stove and you in a state of utter confusion.

Is she saying that she can see the future? Because that would mean that she's a supe and there's only one supe in history that I know of that can do that. A supe that no one has seen in over forty years.

You can hear her open the door to the closet under the stairs and the sound of her sifting through all the junk that the two of you had shoved in there over the years instead of finding the right place to put it.

When she comes back into the kitchen, she's holding a giant cardboard file box that you'd never paid attention to each time you opened the closet to find something. Your eyes shift from the box to her still not comprehending exactly what she was saying.

"I probably should have told you this a while ago, but…" She trails off and nods her head at the box before turning back to the kettle on the stove that has begun to scream. "I kept putting it off."

The box is old, worn at the edges, and theres a musty black fabric beneath a collection of yellowed photographs. You pull out the one on top to examine it.

Ben is standing there in his full Soldier Boy regalia outside of Vought tower and the woman standing next to him is Soothsayer. The outfit she wore was familiar, a black-skin tight suit with a blind fold tied over her eyes.

Soothsayer was a supe who could see the future and who was apart of Payback, a supe that had vanished a year before the mission in Nicaragua and no one knew where she went. There were rumors that she'd died and that she'd been a Russian spy, but you'd never believed them. You'd heard Butcher talk about how he tried to find her when he was trying to figure out what happened to Soldier Boy, but he never had. Said that the trail went cold.

But now you knew where she went, because she was standing directly in front of you.

She's Soothsayer? Holy fuck that's why Ben kept accusing her of cheating in the poker game because he knew that she could see the future.

"You were Soothsayer?" You gasp. "But why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you tell me?"

She continues to measure the tea leaves. "I didn't tell anyone."

"Grandpa didn't know? But he was alive when you were a supe?"

Your grandfather had never spoken about a history with supes that you remember.

"No." She turns to look at you, a hurt expression crossing over her face for a minute. "Well, I know that I said I was going to have tea, but if we're going to talk about this I'm going to need something a little bit stronger."

Your grandmother opens a cabinet under the stove an pulls out an enormous bottle of scotch. Truth be told you'd never seen her drink more than just a glass of wine, to see her like this was about as shocking as seeing a polar bear sunning itself on a Florida beach.

"Do you still want the blueberry tea or do you need something a little stronger?" She looks back over her shoulder at you as she pulls down a glass for herself.

"I think I need something stronger." You answer honestly.

Learning about everything Darren had done was one thing, but finding out that your grandmother used to be a famous supe and that she never told you about it was another thing. It was like looking at another person. You'd always loved your grandmother's gentle way, her care for her community and her family soft, but now you weren't sure you really knew who she was.

She sits down across from you and hands you a glass of the amber colored liquid. There's a heavy silence that hangs between the two of you as she tries to find a way to start. The photo of her and Ben is laying on top of what you realize is her uniform inside the box and she smiles down at the photo, just a little twitch at the corner of her lips.

"I met Ben when I was twenty three years old." She begins taking a sip from the glass. "Legend 'discovered' me. I had the injection of Compound V maybe two years before that, not when I was born, but I hadn't gotten popular. Other powers were much more flashy and by then there were so many heroes coming out of the woodwork that someone with the ability to see the future didn't seem as marketable."

There's something reflected in her blue eyes, the same eyes your father had, that you can't place. "I had just moved to New York, I had no money, and the way I was getting it was by pretending to be a fortune teller and betting on some sports events on the side. It wasn't hard to prove that I could see the future, the past was more difficult, but Legend somehow stumbled into my shop and figured out that I was a supe. And he didn't think I was too bad looking so he helped me get big."

"You pretended to be a fortune teller?"

She snorts into her glass. "Mhmm. People really will believe anything if they're desperate enough and back then there was so much turmoil going on with Russia that people were scared and wanted to feel comforted. My job provided some of that."

"But why did you walk away from it if you were such a big hero." You ask. "Everyone knew your name, you were-"

Your grandmother raises an eyebrow at you and you fall silent so she can continue. "When I got onto Payback that's when everything exploded for me, the films, the commercials, the ridiculous ads." She sighs. "That's also when I met Ben."

You take a sip from the glass in front of you, sputtering slightly. It was stronger than you were expecting. "And you two were-"

Please don't say dating, please don't say dating, please don't say…

"Friends. Just friends." Diana sits back against the back of the breakfast nook, sinking into the navy blue pillows. "But he is almost as charming now as he was then."

You cringe at the thought of Ben coming on to a younger version of your grandmother.

She taps her glass with her index finger deep in thought. "But I think that I was the only person that Ben actually talked to, the only person that he was comfortable being around."

"What do you mean?" You ask confused. "Didn't he talk to Countess and to Legend?"

Her expression hardens at the mention of Countess's name. "He didn't talk to her the way he talked to me. Ben is difficult, he always has been and I think that most of the people he meet him write him off as this asshole with a chauvinistic look on the world, but he's not. At least, not all the time. There are so many people that he's met that are never willing to take a chance on him. To trust that there is really something beneath all of that bravado."

It was what you had been thinking for the past week, that there was more to Ben than he was willing to let people see, but you were slowly realizing that Ben was letting you see those parts. In the quiet moments at your shared apartment when he sat with you while you read or made you laugh or walked you to and from work you saw another side of Ben that you never saw when he was around anyone else. The guilt rises again when you think of how you ran from him, how you turned your back and left him standing there to clean up your mess.

I shouldn’t have done that, but it was all just so overwhelming and I didn't want to talk to anyone.

"I think that Ben is the most loyal friend I ever had. No one ever seems to believe me when I say that. That we were just friends, but nothing happened between us."

"You didn't date? Or sleep together?" You ask cautiously. It was difficult to imagine Ben being friends with a woman and not having a sexual relationship with her.

Well. We're friends, but that's different.

The last thing you wanted to think about was Ben and your grandmother having sex.

I would need so much therapy after that. You sigh. Yeah, because after all the shit I've been through and found out about my life in the last twenty hours, the knowledge that Ben fucked my grandmother is what's going to push me over the edge.

"No." She shakes her head with a small smile. "About a week after I met Ben, I was running late to a movie shoot and I stepped off the crosswalk without looking. There was a car coming and I didn't see it. Ironic isn't it?" She laughs at herself. "I can see the future and I didn't see a car coming, but your grandfather did and he grabbed the back of my jacket and yanked me onto the sidewalk, saved my life. And the second my eyes locked with his I saw our future. I saw our wedding, our first house, I saw our son take his first steps and I saw how much I would love him and how much he would love me." She clears her throat for a minute, her fingers tighten on the glass, and her gaze drops to the wedding ring on her left hand. “The future is never set in stone, it’s fluid. It morphs and shapes with your decisions, but in the future I saw, I was so happy. And I didn’t want to lose that.”

Your grandfather had passed a few years ago, but you knew it weighed on her everyday. She had spent the week after he died in her room not saying anything to anyone. And sometimes she'd look out the window into the backyard with an odd expression, but you knew that meant she was thinking of him.

Growing up you'd seen how in love the two of them were, more so than your parents. Seen the flowers your grandfather always brought home just because he was thinking of her, watched him do little things around the house without being asked, saw how they never walked away angry from one another, and seen the soppy expression he'd get when he watched your grandmother move around the kitchen baking with a grace that you'd never possessed.

You reach across the table to touch her hand and she takes it gratefully.

"I didn't want to tell him that I was a supe, and at the beginning I thought I could balance it all, but then Ben started dating Countess." She takes another sip from her glass. "She hated me."

"What? Why?" You ask. The creature crawls across the table to sniff at the glass in front of you, before it snorts and falls into your lap, curling into a ball.

"Countess was a bitch." Your grandmother says mirthlessly, her expression hardening. "She wanted to possess Ben completely. Only loved how famous he was, how popular it made her, and he threw himself at her feet, in his own way, not understanding that love didn’t look that way. He’s never had a good example of it in his life. And she never understood that Ben and I were just friends. By then I had been dating your grandfather for a few months and things were getting serious. It was about a year before everything that happened in Nicaragua."

She presses her lips together as if remembering what happened to Ben there. "She was jealous, possessive, and she came to me one night. Ben was out of town for a film so she knew we wouldn’t be interrupted. She threatened to tell your grandfather who I really was and threatened to kill him.” Her jaw sets. “My powers were never really as offensive as hers were. And she said that Ben wouldn’t ever protect me over her because he loved her and would do anything to make her happy. So I left and I never looked back.”

And here I thought I couldn't hate Countess any more than I did for what she did to Ben.

“You didn’t talk to him ever again?” You wonder out loud.

She left without telling him goodbye?

“There was the occasional phone call. Sometimes Ben would ask me to see who was going to win a ball game or something so he could make a few bucks. He stopped by to say hi a few times because he was in the neighborhood. One time he brought your father a baseball glove that was way too big for a one year old.” She snorts, the memory flashing in her eyes. “I always thought Ben would be a good dad some day. But I think seeing your father was when Ben realized how much he wanted to have kids. And I think seeing the way your grandfather treated me made him start to feel conflicted about Countess. But he respected that I walked away, he saw that I was happy.”

“But what about Nicaragua?"

A dark look crosses her face followed by something that looks suspiciously like guilt. “I saw what they were going to do to him.”

“What? But why didn't you tell him what they were planning? Why didn't you-"

"I tried." She snaps, shoulders tense, but then they drop. "I called Ben, but Stan answered. By then your father was turning two, your grandfather had opened up his practice, and Stan threatened me, he knew where we were and knew everything about us. So I kept my mouth shut and I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

You could feel your heart breaking for her.

Ben was her best friend and she had to sit by and watch them do that to him. She saw what they were going to do and they were going to kill her for it, kill my family for it.

The anger that surges in your chest makes the creature in your lap stir and grow a few inches, but you tamp it down before it gets bigger than a small dog.

“Does Ben know?” You ask her to distract yourself.

You didn't want Ben to hate your grandmother for this, didn't want him to hate her for something that wasn't her fault.

She nods. “Yes. I told him everything.”

“When?”

“The moment I saw him in your hospital room. I couldn’t keep it in any longer. I wasn't expecting him to be there, but it all poured out of me. I was so surprised to see him there. I hadn't seen a future where he came back."

“Was he mad?”

I mean… he didn't seem mad when I woke up, not to mention he was upset when she left to come back to Illinois.

“Not at me.” She shakes her head. “He knew how much I wanted a normal life and how much I loved your grandfather. He doesn’t blame me for any of it.”

“Good. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

The glass in front of you is still more than half-full but you don't want to risk another sip of what you're sure is gasoline packaged to look like Scotch. Your grandmother reaches to pour herself another glass.

“I didn’t want to until you were ready.”

“And when would that be?”

Your grandmother shrugs. “Maybe on my deathbed.”

You weren't angry for her not telling you, more surprised, but now that you knew everything about her it was hard to see her the same way you had.

You snort. “And no one knew?”

“Your dad figured it out.”

“How? When?”

“The moment you made that strawberry plant grow from your high chair.” She shakes her head with a smile. “It skipped a generation. Don’t know why, but you got it all somehow.”

“I was never injected?”

“No. That was a lie your father created. He knew that your grandfather didn't know and he knew that I didn't want your grandfather to know."

“Darren thought I was.”

“I know.”

At the mention of your brother's name, you watch her expression harden and she takes another swig from the glass in front of her, not flinching as the liquid goes down her throat.

“Did you see everything that happened?” You ask in a small voice.

You still weren't 100% sure how it was her powers worked, but you figured that she was able to see some of what Darren did and what he said.

“Yes.”

“You heard everything Darren said?"

“Yes.”

You chew the inside of your cheek for a minute hoping that she didn't take it as hard as you did. “Did you know that he killed them?”

“No.” She breathes, rolling the glass between her hands for a moment. “The night they died, I got a vision a few minutes before the car ran off the road. I was the one who called the police and who told them where to look, but I never saw that it was Darren or that it was anyone causing the accident. All I saw was the three of you in the car. I should have known.” Her voice breaks.

“It’s not your fault.” You squeeze her hand.

“And it’s not yours either.” She squeezes your hand back.

The memories are beginning to float up from the recesses of your mind and your teeth clench together as you try to keep them at bay.

“I know.” You breathe. The memory of the ruined shop flashes through your head. “I didn’t know that I could do something like that.” You gently touch your healed right arm and glance at the creature that is nibbling on the edge of the cardboard box with its sharp splinter-like teeth. “I feel so different and I don’t know how to go back to the way I was.”

“I don’t think you ever will.”

"Really?"

The thought was unwelcome. You were hoping that all of this was going to blow over, but you knew it wouldn't. Your powers had changed. There was an energy that thrummed in your veins now, stretching out of the house to the plants that grew in the garden. You could feel them all if you concentrated.

She frowns. “When you told me that you were working for Butcher I was worried about you getting involved in the supe world. I didn’t want that life for you, didn’t want you to suffer the way I did-“

“Was it really that bad?"

“Not all the time, just at the end. But I think that’s why I loved your grandfather so much. Because he was different than all the supes. He was down to earth, not just normal but-“ She shrugs. “I think Compound V does something to our minds, makes them more susceptible and when you’re surrounded by people using their powers and thinking that they’re gods it’s easy to lose who you are. I was glad I left when I did."

“Great." You huff, thinking about how your powers had grown exponentially since you killed your brother. It was scaring you to think that you would reach a point where you acted like Homelander, where you saw yourself as a god and killed anyone who stood in your way.

As tired as the stereotype of you only being able to make the flowers grow, you liked doing that. You liked healing plants, tending to them, and helping them grow. For you it had never been about using your powers the way that you had to kill Elijah and your brother and had always been about spreading a little more joy and love like your grandmother did with her kindness in her community.

Your mind flashes back to the first night that Ben stayed with you in your apartment and he'd asked you why you worked for Butcher and told you that he thought you "didn't fit."

Before you hadn't. You knew that. You weren't intimidating to look at or fueled by revenge or had a bone to pick with supes. You'd joined because you thought it was the right thing to do and because you wanted to be closer with Annie. She had been so involved in the supe world and you'd felt like you were losing your best friend. When in reality being at "Please Don't Die" was the only thing that felt natural for you.

You could feel yourself changing and you weren't sure that you wanted to and you weren't sure if you were changing for the better. Deep down you still felt like you, despite everything Darren had revealed, but your powers were greater than you'd thought they could be.

“No.” She squeezes your hand pulling you out of your head. “I don’t see you losing yourself in this.”

“You’ve seen-“ Your eyes widen.

“The future yeah.” Her lips twitch up at the ends in a smile. “It is what I do.”

“That’s so weird.”

You hadn't meant to say it, but you really didn't want to know too much about your future.

Well, not all that much. Maybe just a little.

“You of all people have no right to judge what’s weird. Not with Godzilla sitting in your lap.”

"Godzilla" yawns, flashing a mouthful of his pointy teeth, before settling back down on your thighs.

You smile for the first time in twenty hours, but then it drops. “I don’t like losing control. I thought I knew who I was but now I don’t-“ The emotions were bubbling up again, chest tightening, and lungs beginning to gasp for air. “I don’t know who I am anymore or what I am or what I can do and-“

“There’s nothing wrong with not being in control.”

“But what if I hurt someone? What if I kill-“ You body shakes as you think about all the important people in your life, Annie, Hughie, Butcher, Kimiko, MM, Frenchie- and then your mind stutters on Ben.

“Your powers are growing and there’s nothing to be afraid of or ashamed of. If you’re afraid of them it won’t get easier for you. You have to embrace the fear to see the lights that line the path through it.”

"I killed Darren, I killed Elijah-"

"Not because you lost control. You did it because you were protecting yourself and protecting your friends."

"But-"

"Who is it that you're scared of hurting? Annie?" Her expression turns sympathetic. "Annie is a supe and understands what it's like to lose control. None of us are in control all the time and it's ridiculous to believe that you won't lose control at least once."

Your throat clenches tightly, because when she asked the question you didn't see Annie's face, you saw Ben's. You knew that it was probably ridiculous to worry about hurting a guy with a nuclear reactor stuffed in his chest or a guy who'd been through every torture known to man, but you were. And you weren't entirely sure if you meant hurting him with just your powers.

Tears crest and fall down your cheeks as you sit there, throat thickening. "I don't want to hurt Ben."

"He's a little more indestructible than us sweetie." She cracks a smile, but you can't smile back and you don't answer because you're unsure how to.

She sits back against the breakfast nook and sighs, examining your face and slowly realizes what you mean. "Ben is complicated. He always has been. I like to think that most of it, is his father's fault. Has he told you anything about him?"

You shake your head.

"He was a dick. Made Ben think that he was a disappointment his whole life. I don't think that Ben has had someone love him unconditionally since his mother died. And loving Countess only made it worse for him. Her love was jealous, possessive, and I don't think that he's really come to terms with what real love should look like." She lets out a breath, tapping her index finger against the glass. "I never saw him as more than a friend, but I do love him. It's not a crime to love him."

"I don't love him." You say it immediately.

"Why not?"

"What?" You sputter. "I don't know what you're-"

"Tell me why you don't love him." Your grandma says methodically, as if she's trying to talk you through it.

"Because I-" The pressure was back in the back of your throat and you couldn't quite meet her eye. "Because-" You scramble for the answer, trying your darndest to keep your heart from clenching in your chest. "I want what you and grandpa had, what Annie and Hughie have, and what my parents had. A strong relationship with someone who sees all my flaws, the little parts, and the darkness and still choses to fall in love with me anyway. I don't want just one night I want every night. I want something real and Ben has said countless times that he-"

"So you've talked about it with Ben?" She raises an eyebrow.

"Only because he kept trying to sleep with me and I told him that I didn't want to have sex with him." You reply exasperated.

"You don't?"

"Gran!"

"What? He's attractive."

"It doesn't matter. None of it does. Because Ben has said that he doesn't have relationships, that he doesn't care about feelings, or emotions." Saying the words that Ben had told you countless times made something inside begin to shrivel up and die. "And I do. And I don't want to manipulate him into being something he's not or force him into a relationship that's doomed from the beginning. Ben is Ben. He's not changing or-"

"He has." She interrupts.

"What?"

"The Ben I saw in your hospital room is not the one I knew." She says it so matter of fact that makes it hard to breathe. "And neither was the one that I saw in your apartment when I stayed with you. I mean he is in essence Ben, but-"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"He is changing. Not completely, but he's acting differently than when he was with Countess. I mean, I saw all the things he did for her. The way he was around her."

"Why does that matter?"

"Because he loved her."

The words make your heart seize in your chest. "Ben doesn't love me. He's my roommate and my friend-" It was the same thing that you kept telling yourself on repeat to beat back the other feelings that you hadn't quite identified yet. "And he's told me that he doesn't want a relationship and that I should try to meet other people."

That last part was a lie, but you honestly didn't know where she was going with this conversation or why it was getting so hard to breathe.

"Have you thought that maybe Ben doesn't want to love you because he's scared?"

"He doesn't love me and Ben isn't afraid of anything."

"He is. It might not look the same way on him as it does on everyone else, but if you pay close enough attention you can catch it." She hesitates. "And I think if you pay attention to you, you'll see what it is that you're afraid of too."

What does she mean? What the hell am I afraid of? Ben isn't afraid of anything, he's practically shouted that from the mountaintops like Julie Andrews.

"I already told you what I'm afraid of."

"I'm not talking about you hurting someone honey. There's something else that you refuse to admit to yourself because you're scared." She smiles sadly at you. "You should though, because when you embrace it, what comes after is really beautiful." There's a far off look in her eyes and you realize that she'd seen something further ahead that she wasn't letting on.

"And it's all I want for you. To be happy." Your grandmother stands from the other side of the booth "I think you need some rest. You drove all night long and I doubt you got any sleep. And I have to package all of these before Annie's mother calls down the four horsemen of the Apocalypse on me."

"Wait-"

"Please sweetie." She lays her hand down on your arm. "I think you'll feel a little better about all of this when you've had some rest." Her fingers raise to push back some of the hair that's fallen forward into your eyes. "Hmm?"

You didn't want to rest, you wanted to talk about this, but you knew better than to argue with her. Not to mention she was right, you hadn't slept.

"And when you wake up I'll make your favorite for dinner, alright?" She smiles, but there's something behind it that you can't place.

"Okay."

And this time you don't argue with her. You go up the worn staircase that you have your entire life and collapse onto your bed, wondering exactly what it was she saw your future hold, and what it is that you won't admit to yourself.

Soldier Boy POV

There was no light in the apartment save from the burning red tip of Ben's blunt and the bluish glow emanating from the tv that caught the dips and sharp edges of his face. But it was nothing more than background noise.

His hand absentmindedly stroked along Bean's back, his eyes focused on the ceiling above the couch. He hadn't moved in hours. It had been over twenty four hours since everything that happened at the plant shop, since you'd summoned a creature from the depths of the store, since Darren had thrown Ben through the plate glass windows of the bakery, and since Ben had last seen you.

He didn't understand why you hadn't let him take you back to the apartment and why it was that you had to leave. Ben hadn't liked the feeling that stabbed him in the chest when you turned your back on him and ran away. He'd felt the urge to comfort you the way he'd watched Hughie do for Annie in the car a week ago, but you hadn't let him.

Instead all he'd done is stood there and watched you run, still covered in dust, rubble, and blood. Worse was you hadn't let him check you for injuries and Ben hated the thought that you were hurt somewhere and he didn't know where you were.

You were so much more fragile than he was. He was realizing that more every day, was acutely aware of it after everything that happened with Elijah. Honestly, sitting there in the hospital with you laying there asleep with nothing that he could do, but wait for you to wake up had been agony. Not to mention that looking at the bruises around your throat, over your eye, and the bright green cast only made him feel worse. He'd never felt so helpless in his entire life and he hated it. Because Ben wasn't some helpless damsel in distress, he was a man and a man shouldn't wait on anyone or feel out of control, or at least, that's what he told himself.

Ben hears someone walk down the hallway outside the apartment and he perks up to listen, hoping that it's you finally coming home. Ben's mind stutters on the word "home." He'd lived many places in his life, apartments that felt more like way-stations, and the drafty cold mansion back in Philadelphia where he grew up, but neither felt like home. And although he hated how small your apartment was, it was the first place that Ben liked living in. He was starting to understand the word home.

But the feet keep moving past the apartment and Ben sinks into the couch cushions. Even Bean seems to be disappointed. "It's alright buddy." Ben mutters. "She'll come back."

But he wasn't sure.

Ben also wasn't used to feeling this way. It was close to the way that he felt when he went to Boston and was sitting in that damn hotel room waiting for something to happen and he still didn't understand what it meant. He didn't understand why he couldn't stand it that you weren't back yet. It made him feel like a woman waiting for her husband to get home from work when he told her that he was "running late." He'd tried to distract himself by looking at some possible prospects on Tinder, but just like the week after you'd come home from the hospital and just like the date he had in Boston, no one held any appeal.

His mind was awake and roaming around, pacing back and forth. The blunt was supposed to help, but it hadn't.

His phone chirps and Ben picks it up to look at the screen, but it's not you, it's Jake.

Jake: I know that I'm not your favorite person, but thank you for what you did.

Ben huffs and turns his phone face down on the couch once more. "What a fucking pussy."

When you left Ben had realized that Jake was still inside the building and as much as he wanted race after you, he understood that you'd be even more upset if you'd killed Jake. So Ben had tromped back through the building and found him trapped beneath some rubble. Jake was okay, just unconscious, but Ben had carried him out and put him on the sidewalk before he high tailed it out of there. The last thing that he wanted was to be caught with a shredded body outside a ruined building.

I didn't do it for him. I did it for her. Ben thinks to himself, looking down at the text message.

As much as he hated the thought of saving your future boyfriend, he didn't want to see what it did to you if you found out that you killed Jake, so he'd done it to avoid watching you cry again.

Ben didn't understand why he hated watching you cry.

Women cry. They're damn emotional all the time. He tries to reason with himself taking a puff from the blunt pinched between his thumb and forefinger. And she fucking cries way too much.

The image of you crying outside of the shop in the wake of everything that happened pricks something under his ribcage. Fuck.

Ben didn't feel remorse for what happened, well, the only thing he regretted was not getting there sooner and getting to fuck Darren up himself. When Diana had called him to tell him that Darren was coming, Ben had practically ripped the apartment door off in his haste to get back to you. He hadn’t wanted to leave you at the plant shop, but Butcher had told Ben, that he had a possible location for Darren, but it came up empty and Ben had been at Butcher's apartment chewing him out for sending him on a fucking wild goose chase.

It only made Ben more angry to allow Darren to speak to you, but he was trying to let you handle it even though he wanted to handle him. But it had brought him an unholy amount of joy to throw Darren in front of that minivan and to watch that creature tear him apart while the final whitish blue pulses of electricity jumped and crackled down the street making the streetlights shower sparks everywhere.

But Ben was more upset that Darren had been able to land a few hits on you before you killed him.

Ben remembered the giant lizard that crawled out of what was left of "Please Don't Die" and felt his lips quirk up into a smile. As much as he hated the entire situation, Ben couldn't help but feel a little surge of pride at what you'd done to your brother. He'd never seen you look so powerful standing there in the street, your eyes glowing a brilliant green, arms outstretched, and the ground trembling around you as the world begged to be unleashed.

Of course he'd been just as surprised as you were at the fact that you'd healed your broken arm. He wasn't sure if you'd noticed it yet, but you looked different too. There weren't as many lines on your face and your hair was more springy, the few silver hairs that Ben had noticed in passing were no longer there.

He wasn't sure what that meant, but there was something that felt suspiciously like hope tingling in his stomach, hope that you weren't as fragile anymore and hope that it meant you wouldn't die.

When Diana had told Ben that her husband had died, he saw the pain in her eyes when she said it, saw her relieving the memory, and for some reason as soon as she said that he was dead, the first thing Ben thought about was you. Ben hadn't considered his inability to age as much in the past, hadn't cared about outliving anyone before. Seeing Countess as an older woman had made him more aware of it. Looking at the woman who he once thought he loved, had showed him what that was like. Not that he had a problem with daring older women, Ben always thought that women really did get better with age, but it was what came next that Ben wasn't fond of.

And for some reason thinking that one day he'd wake up and see the marks of age on your face or one day he'd wake up and he wouldn't be able to annoy you or hear you yell at him made his chest tight.

Ben takes another hit of his blunt. The longer he sat there the more then unnatural feeling stirred in the pit of his stomach, thrumming through his veins, the feeling that he was trying to avoid. He thought that the joint would calm him down, but he found himself jumping at every creak and footstep in the apartment building, perking up each time and hoping that it was you coming home.

He didn't know where you were. You hadn't answered any of his texts or calls and Ben was ashamed at how many times that he had tried to call you.

Get a fucking grip. He'd thought to himself when he typed out another text message to send you, stopping himself from sending it.

But he'd been so desperate to hear from you that he'd actually gone to talk to Annie who seemed upset that she couldn't get ahold of you either. When Hughie and Annie had seen how upset Ben had been, Hughie had laid his hand on Ben's arm and told him not to worry. Ben had yelled at him that he "wasn't fucking worried and to mind his own business" and had shaken off Hughie's comforting hand before stomping out of the shared apartment.

No one else seemed to be as concerned about finding you. Butcher, MM, and Frenchie were all deeply involved in trying to figure out the cover-up for what happened outside the plant shop. By some miracle no one had caught a picture of your face, but there was little they could do about Darren's body that had been strewn across the street. Annie was having to deal with the repercussions at work, trying to handle what the news was calling a "super villain threat."

Personally, Ben thought that since they froze Homelander, the Seven looked weak and Ben believed that the superhero team that represented America shouldn't look weak. Of course before Ben had also thought that they looked like a bunch of pussies and again felt himself sink deeper into the couch when he thought about what his supposed son had become.

He shakes off the feelings he has about it and his thoughts turn back inevitably to you.

Ben wasn't used to thinking about someone as much as he thought of you, but each time he settled back into the apartment and you weren't there he was hyperaware of how quiet it was.

Maybe I should call Diana. She might know where she is.

As soon as Ben thinks that, his phone begins to ring, but Ben doesn't bother to look at who it is before he answers it.

"Hello?" Ben huffs out a breath of smoke that hangs in the air in front of his face, catching in the bluish light coming from the television.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" The voice on the other side of the line yells at him.

"Di?"

"Yes it's me. Who did you think it was? Santa Clause?" Your grandmother snarks.

"Why are you calling me and why the fuck are you so mad? What did I do?" Ben answers slightly annoyed.

As much as you got under his skin, your grandmother had been the same way. He actually thought that it was amusing that even before he figured out that she was your grandmother that he had often compared you to her in his mind. You had the same mannerisms, the same defiant and stubborn attitude that drove Ben up the wall, and you were just as beautiful as she was.

Ben was okay with admitting that he was attracted to you. To him that felt normal, it was the other feelings that he was conflicted about, the ones that he'd never felt before stirring in his chest that made him feel "too emotional" and "woman-like."

Truthfully, Ben was sure that if your grandmother had given him a shot that maybe he would have felt that way about her too. She was the only person that Ben actually trusted in the 80's, the only person that was brave enough to call him out on all his shit. You did that now. But he liked her husband also, so Ben was content with letting her go. He liked how happy that Henry, your grandfather, had made her. He knew that she wasn't happy as a supe and seeing her so happy and in love made Ben feel something that was close to happiness.

And it was seeing the way the two of them were together made Ben wonder if what he had with Countess was the same thing. Because he did have feelings about her that were different, but each time he went to visit Diana and saw your father playing on her lap he felt that there was something missing in his life.

It was the same way that he thought something was missing when you weren't in the apartment, but Ben hadn't realized that yet.

"Because I don't understand what the hell you're doing!" Diana replies and Ben honestly doesn't know why she's angry with him.

"About what?"

"My granddaughter."

Ben sits up the blunt in his fingertips forgotten. "Is she there with you?"

"Yes." Her voice softens for a moment.

Ben relaxes and leans back onto the couch, sighing in relief. "Good. That's good." Relief swelled in his chest when he thought about you staying with her, safe.

That's what she meant when she said that she wanted to go home. Home is with her grandmother. Ben stopped the next thought before he could go there.

The thought that home wasn't with him.

Ben was trying not to think about that or think about you hating him. He didn't think you did, well, didn't think you did anymore. At first it really was touch and go, but now he was almost eighty percent sure after you'd told him more than once that you weren't afraid of him and didn’t hate him that you sometimes wanted him around.

"No, not good."

"What do you mean? Is she okay?" Ben's grip on the phone tightens so hard that he's sure that he hears the screen cracking.

"No."

"What happened?" Ben's voice is a growl, the feelings of relief evaporating as soon as they had begun to bloom in his chest. He mentally calculated how long it would take him to get to you.

"Her entire life fucking fell apart and where are you? Not here!"

Oh. Ben relaxed a little bit.

"I don't need to be there." He says on an exhale of smoke.

"Yes you do!" Diana presses.

"No, I don't. She a big girl she doesn't need me there, she's-" Ben takes a puff from the joint.

“If you were any denser you’d be a Bundt cake Benjamin!” She says exasperated.

"What the fuck are you talking about doll? I am not-"

“Let me guess." She interrupts and Ben can imagine her tapping her foot. He hated when she did that. "You’re moping around smoking a blunt on the couch probably with a glass of something that you're hoping to numb whatever the hell it is you're feeling."

Ben's eyes shift to the bottle of whiskey on the coffee table that he hadn't touched in a few minutes.

“I’m not fucking moping and stop spying on me!” He snaps back at Diana.

He hated how well she knew him. She was his best friend in the 80's through all the shit, she had seen him at his worst and at his best too many times to count.

“I don’t have to use my powers to know what you’re doing. I know you Ben.”

"Sorry to disappoint you sweetheart.” Ben grits his teeth, temper flaring hot. “But if you know me as well as you fucking say you do then you then you know that this is-“

“You avoiding your feelings by acting aloof and brooding like a fucked up version of Mr. Darcy.” She interrupts.

She certainly hasn't changed.

“I am not avoiding-“

“She needs you here Ben.” Diana stamps her foot, the same way you do when Ben pisses you off, and Ben can hear it.

“She doesn’t need me! She said that she wanted to go home, that she didn’t want to be here with me! I tried to-“ Ben shouts back standing up. It was the exact thing that he'd been thinking for the past twenty four hours, that you didn’t need him and that you didn't want to be any where near him.

That last thought made an uncomfortable sensation prickle in his gut when he thought it, because all it did was remind him of how you acted when the two of you first met, when you didn't want him to live with you and tried your darndest to make him go away.

He didn’t want to and he wasn't sure why that was.

“Try harder.” Diana interrupts him again and frankly it was pissing him off.

Ben clenches his jaw. “I think that you’ve confused me with someone else baby.”

“Don’t you 'baby' me Benjamin! We both know that you’re doing what you always do when things get hard for you.”

“And what’s that?”

“You pretend not to care and shut out everyone who tries to care for you. Not to mention you drown yourself in drugs, booze, and women.”

“She doesn’t care about me!” He spits.

“She does!” Diana snaps back. “And believe it or not she needs you here and she wants you here.”

"But-"

"Ben please." It was the first time that he'd heard Diana sound softer and almost pleading since the conversation started. "Don't do this to her. She's worth more than Countess and all those other women you've fallen into bed with."

"Do you really think I don't know that?" He roars. The answer surprises himself. "Do you think I don't know that she's different?"

Wait what?

"If you know that, then why aren't you here?"

He hesitates.

Everything you said to him the night of the party comes roaring back. You looking beautiful in a dress that made his throat tight, and you telling him that you just wanted to be friends and that you understood that he wasn't the type of guy to have relationships. He didn't understand why it stung a bit when you said that, but it had.

Ben thinks about the week that the two of you spent together after Diana went home, when he tried his best to take care of you, distract you from everything that happened with his movies, and would sit with you and try to make you laugh. He'd never wanted to take care of someone before.

Not to mention he kind of liked the way you laughed. He wouldn’t admit that to anyone, but each time you did, it made him want to laugh too. That had never happened to him before. But he wanted to make you laugh to forget everything that happened with Elijah. His fist clenches when he thinks of exactly what Elijah tried to do to you and it makes him feel so mad that he feels close to spontaneously combusting. Ben might not be the best role model when it came to women, but he couldn’t imagine the type of man who would force himself on someone else.

It had made him angry when he thought that you were suggesting that he would try something when he first moved in, because he wasn't that type of man.

Ben was trying to be better for you. He wasn't admitting that, but he really was trying to be better. He didn't understand why. You'd told him countless times that you didn’t want to be with him, that you wanted to be with someone else like Jake.

Ben frowns when he thinks about the man he'd pulled from the rubble of the shop. And again thinks to himself that you should be with someone different, someone who was a supe and could understand you. Ben had seen how difficult it was for Diana when she was keeping her supe life a secret from your grandfather and he didn't want you to have to do that with someone.

"Because I'm not-" Ben begins to say, but he holds his tongue. It was too honest, too raw, too unlike him to admit this to anyone.

Because I'm not this guy. Because I'm not the one she wants. Because I'm not some knight on a white horse. Because she's everything right with the world and I'm just a fucking asshole who sleeps on her couch.

"Ben." Diana breathes and he can practically hear her pinching the bridge of her nose. "In all the years I've known you, you've never done what you did for her with anyone else. You carried her out of that warehouse, you stayed with her in the hospital even after she woke up, you took care of her when she came home, you protected her from Darren. You can't ignore all those things."

"I'm not ignoring them. She's my friend." The word sours in his mouth as he says it. "And she would have done the same thing for me." He knew it was true.

She's a good person and she wouldn't let me chase her away if any of that shit happened to me and I told her to leave me alone.

"Yes she would. Because she cares about you." Diana sighs.

"She doesn't."

"Why don't you believe me?"

"Because she's told me what she wants!" Ben shouts so loudly he can feel the room shaking. "She wants to be friends-“

"Because she doesn't think that you want a relationship you nitwit!"

"I don't." Ben spits the words before he can stop them, but as he does something tightens at the base of his throat.

"How is it that it's been forty fucking years and you're still able to dance on the grave of my last nerve?"

Ben chuckles. "I missed you too sweetheart."

She sighs into the phone again making it crackle in Ben's ear. "She needs you.” Diana repeats. “And I think you need her too.”

His temper was flaring again, the thoughts that his father pressed into him surging up before he can stop the words. “I don’t need anyone. I’m Sol-“

“If you say that you’re Soldier Boy, I’m going to reach through this phone and slap you silly.” She snaps. “And you do need her, but you’re still just too stubborn to admit it.”

“I-“

“Ben I know that everything that happened with Countess was fucked up, but my granddaughter she-“ Diana pauses before she changes the thought. “You say that you know she’s different, but right now you’re treating her the same way you treat all those other women.”

“I’m not-“

“My granddaughter has decided you’re important to her and once that’s happened it’s hard to make her let go. You saw the way she was with Darren and that guy was a manipulative asshole. Imagine what she thinks of you.”

“I-“

“Stop making excuses!”

“You didn’t even hear what I was going to say!” Ben shouts.

“And I don’t need to! Think what you want Ben but if you’d stop acting so stubborn and so ridiculously blind to what’s right in front of you. I promise that what comes next is worth the risk.”

“Don’t go all fucking mystical on me doll.”

“And don’t go all macho- no feelings asshole on me! So stop being so damn stubborn, get on a plane and get your ass here.” She retorts. “Don’t fuck this up Benjamin because if you do I’ll fuck you up.”

The line goes dead.

Ben sat there for a minute in the silence still holding the phone up to his ear, listening to what your grandmother said to him ring around in his head for a second.

No one ever spoke to him that way. In fact, Ben had never allowed anyone to speak to him the way that she did, well, not until you came along. You reminded him so much of her that it was astounding and he wasn't going to admit that maybe it's why he liked being around you so much.

Ben frowns at what Diana said, thinking about the unusual feelings that were swirling in the pit of his stomach. He felt wrong and the feelings were odd for him. He hadn't felt anything remotely like this ever in his life, not even for Countess.

And although Ben refused to be afraid of anything, the feelings he was having scared him. He didn’t understand and he wasn't sure that he wanted to. He wasn't sure that he wanted to see where this ended up. He felt like he was in too deep.

As much as he wanted to go to you like Diana ordered him to, he wasn't sure that he should. Something was holding him back, digging it's heels in and refusing to budge.

But why do I feel like-

His phone rings and he doesn't look at the caller ID when he picks up, expecting it to be Diana again, yelling at him.

"Di I-"

But it's not Diana.

"Hello Ben. It's nice to hear your voice again." The familiar voice says, sounding calm and collected.

"What the fuck do you want?" Ben snarls.

"I thought it was time the two of us had a chat.”

A/N: At this point Diana is really just trying to give both Ben and the reader the kick in the pants they need. And yes I know another cliffhanger, but you know you love it. 🤭😉 We are quickly reaching the end of this series, but that means the confession scene is coming and I am so excited about it!!

As always thank you so much for reading! Reblogs, likes, and comments are not required, but are always appreciated. I love hearing what y'all think! If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series let me know. 😊

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