#Mock of the Oak Tree

[margarineonbread]

✧─── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧

🎨~ART DUMP!!~🎨

@ayelen0o0o :3

[luxcuriousao3]

Based on this post by @dante-mightdie . One line of dialogue taken directly from it so all credit for that goes to them!

Warnings: misunderstandings, mentions of murder (no violence or murder actually happens), pregnancy, no smut, ~1200 words

“I’m pregnant.”

The silence that followed your declaration was nerve wracking, and you drummed your fingers against the dashboard of Simon’s car. You’d been coming back to the pub you met him at for three weeks straight since that damn test had turned up positive, wanting—no, needing—to at least tell the man who’d knocked you up about his baby growing inside you. You didn’t expect anything from him, not really. He was a stranger, a ruggedly attractive man you’d gone home with after one too many drinks. Not that you’d regretted hooking up with him, he was as good in bed as he was hot—or at least you hadn’t until you’d missed your period.

You’d nearly given up on meeting him again when you walked into the pub today and saw him in the same corner booth he’d sat in last time, nursing a pint. He hadn’t smiled when he’d seen you, but his eyes had locked onto you and not strayed as you strode towards him, nervous but determined. When you’d asked to speak to him in private, he’d raised a single brow, letting the silence stretch on for so long you were sure he’d say no. But then he’d just gotten up and walked towards the door, holding it open for you and clicking his tongue when he turned around to see you frozen in place. Like a misbehaving child being scolded, you’d scrambled towards him, whispering a stuttered thanks and then following him to his car, cheeks hot.

The car in which you now sat, still stifled by silence as Simon just stared at you, face blank and giving nothing away. You swallowed thickly, a shaking hand pressing against your belly, a habit you’d unconsciously picked up over the last few weeks. Simon’s dark, penetrating eyes tracked the movement, lingering for a long moment before he suddenly reached over you, ignoring your surprised flinch to grab your seat belt and buckle you in. Before you could ask what he was doing, he’d thrown the car into reverse and peeled out of the parking lot, making you grip the handle above you for dear life.

“S-Simon, what— what are you doing?” You asked, doing your best to keep the tremor out of your voice. Simon just grunted. “We have— we have to talk about our options—”

“What options?” He asked, voice flat and deadly. “Ring options? Mortgage options? Paint swatches f’the nursery?”

You shut up, tears stinging your eyes at his mocking. You weren’t going to ask him for any of that, but it still hurt to hear him be so cruel. You turned away to look out the window, the light from the streetlamps the only thing penetrating the inky darkness of the night. Shadows crawled out from the forest, making a shiver run down your spine.

“Just take me home,” you whispered, dejected. “Please…”

“I am,” Simon answered, still in that same emotionless tone.

You didn’t know if you believed him.

Your gut feeling was proven right when he parked the car in an abandoned lot, wooded and secluded and a perfect place to murder the mother of his unwanted child before disposing of your body. You sat stiffly in the passenger seat as he climbed out of the car and walked around to your side, opening the door and holding out his hand for you. You stared at him, eyes wide, frozen like a deer in the headlights. He huffed in what could have been amusement but was probably annoyance, reaching over you once again to unbuckle you before scooping you up and carrying you deeper into the lot.

“See that tree?” He asked, nodding towards a sturdy looking oak. “That one branch stickin’ out’d make a good place ta hang something from.”

Oh my God, you thought, feeling dizzy and nauseous. Is he going to hang me and make it look like a suicide?

“There’s a pond down there,” he continued, and to your minor relief, walked right past the tree. When you reached the pond a minute later, he finally set you back on your feet. “S’dangerous. Fully grown man could drown in it.”

You flinched, your breathing picking up. He’s going to drown me instead. Simon turned to look back up the hill he’d just carried you down, his back facing you. It was now or never. If you wanted to live, you needed to run.

“Gonna have to build a fence ‘round it. Not too high though, don’t want ta mess up the view from the house—”

You didn’t hear the rest of what he was saying, already halfway up the hill by the time he cut himself off. A gruff, angry “hey!” had you moving double time, nearly clawing at the ground just to get to the top faster.

You didn’t make it.

Strong, thick arms wrapped around your middle and lifted you in the air, and you screamed, shrill and terrified.

“No! No! Let me go!” You begged as you flailed in Simon’s firm grip. It was useless—he was so much stronger than you, so much larger than you, and his hold on you was unbreakable. He didn’t say anything as he carried you back down the hill, towards the pond, towards your death, and your shrieks turned into sobs as big, fat tears rolled down your cheeks. You were hyperventilating, now, animal panic wrapping its hands around your throat and squeezing, cutting off your air. Or maybe those were Simon’s hands? You didn’t know, you couldn’t think straight through the fear. All you knew was that you didn’t want to die.

“Thinkin’ we could name the baby John, if it’s a boy.”

The words filtered through your panic after an indeterminate amount of time, and you slowly came back to yourself, the blackness leaving your vision. The first thing you noticed was that you were cradled in Simon’s lap, face tucked into the crook of his neck as he murmured softly in your ear. The next thing you noticed was that one of his hands was rubbing your back soothingly, while the other rested on your belly. You let out a confused, snotty croak, and his voice quieted, before he pulled back a bit to look down at you.

“You back with us, love?” He asked, but then gently shushed you when you whined. “Shh, s’alright. Try not ta get all worked up again, hmm? S’not good for the baby.”

“But— but— but you don’t want it,” you whispered. Simon blinked at you, the slightest of furrows appearing between his brows. “You’re g-gonna kill me…”

“Am I now?” He tsked. “That’s not very nice of me.”

You whimpered, squirming in his lap and trying to get free. His face softened minutely, and he started rubbing your back again, still not letting go.

“Shh, shh,” he repeated. “S’alright, love. M’not gonna hurt ya. Was just makin’ a shite joke, yeah?”

It took another few minutes of you struggling (and failing) to escape, and him cooing gruff reassurances at you, before you gave up.

“You’re not gonna kill me?” You finally sniffled, scrubbing at your wet, red-rimmed eyes. Simon’s lips twitched into an almost-smile, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead. You relaxed, practically melting into him as your heart rate started to slow. Maybe you had been wrong. Maybe Simon really wasn’t dangerous.

“I’d eat my gun ‘fore I hurt ya or our baby,” he vowed.

You stiffened again.

“You have a gun?!”

[cruel-seduction]

If I get more pretty? 

Content Warnings: Mild cursing, angst, emotional vulnerability, themes of insecurity, and crying.

Summary: You and Mattheo have been keeping your relationship under wraps. But when doubts and insecurities begin to creep in, you find yourself questioning your worth. Mattheo, however, won’t let you suffer in silence. He’ll fight through any storm—no matter how many times he has to face it—because the one thing he won’t ever allow is for you to feel unloved. And when it comes to loving you, he’s unstoppable.

Glimpse - You smirked, your lips quivering as you raised an eyebrow. “Don’t speak too much, Riddle. Or I might just impregnate you.”

He withdrew his hands from you in mock horror, covering his body as if you’d just said the most scandalous thing in the world. “I knew it,” he said, feigning shock, “You only want me for my body.”

a/n - I am writing this while I am in metro and I forgot to bring my headphones and there is a really cute guy sitting next to me who also have dimples and he looks like a nerd cause he is doing some maths equation and he even smiled at me so I am fucking happy.

The sun hung low on the horizon, its amber rays stretching lazily across the Black Lake, casting a soft, golden glow over the rippling water. You were sprawled out beneath a towering oak tree, its ancient branches providing just enough shade to temper the warmth of the evening. Your back rested comfortably against the rough bark, while Pansy’s head lolled casually on your shoulder. To your left, Mattheo sat close, his presence grounding you in a way you didn’t quite understand but had come to crave.

You weren’t exactly close friends with the group gathered here. Pansy was an acquaintance at best—though her sharp wit and biting humor had grown on you—but Mattheo? He was your secret. Your boyfriend. A relationship that defied logic and societal expectations. On the surface, you and Mattheo were opposites: you, measured and reserved; him, chaos wrapped in dark allure. You had loathed his reputation once, the stories of his recklessness and destruction, but now you knew the truth—the tender boy beneath the mask, the one who would move mountains just to see you smile.

Still, it was your idea to keep things private. “Private until permanent,” you had insisted, brushing away his protests with a laugh. “People are too eager to cast their evil eye.” It wasn’t that you didn’t want the world to know. You did. But you couldn’t shake the instinct to protect what was precious to you, even if the irony of shielding someone as notorious as Mattheo Riddle from harm didn’t escape you.

Your voice broke through the tranquil atmosphere as you finished recounting a story, one that had the group doubled over in laughter. “It’s not that funny, you assholes,” you muttered, though a smile tugged at your lips. “I’m actually concerned about it, okay? Like, it’s true, but still…” You rolled your eyes, your chuckle mingling with the fading laughter. Eventually, you let your head rest atop Pansy’s, her dark curls tickling your cheek. From the corner of your eye, you noticed Mattheo watching, his dark gaze fixed on where Pansy leaned against you. His jaw tightened ever so slightly, and you couldn’t help but suppress a grin. Jealousy suited him.

As the laughter ebbed, Blaise leaned back on his elbows, a smirk playing on his lips as he turned to Mattheo. “So, Riddle,” he drawled, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “What’s the deal with that redhead who’s been mooning over you?”

Mattheo’s brow furrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “What redhead?”

“Oh, don’t play coy,” Blaise replied with a laugh. “You know exactly who I’m talking about. The redhead—absolute knockout—who’s been fawning over you.”

“She doesn’t,” Mattheo said firmly, his tone laced with mild irritation. “She just assumes we’re friends.”

“Friends, huh?” Blaise quirked an eyebrow. “Let me enlighten you, Riddle. Do women usually parade around in barely-there clothing for their so-called friends?” His teasing earned him a sharp slap to the back of the head from Pansy.

“Any girl can wear whatever she damn well pleases,” she snapped. “And it doesn’t have to be for anyone, let alone a man. And If I hear you say such nonsense I will chop your dick and feed it to that three headed dog, you understand?”

Blaise rubbed the back of his head, chuckling. “Alright, alright. I am sorry, ma’am. But come on, Mattheo. She waits for you at Quidditch practice every morning. Five a.m., mate. No one studies that hard in the field when we’ve got a perfectly good library. She’s practically throwing herself at you.”

Theodore, lounging nearby, chimed in with a smirk. “I have to agree. She’s got a killer figure. Honestly, Riddle, she seems tailor-made for one of your infamous one-night flings. Speaking of which, you’ve been suspiciously… alone lately. Someone caught your eye?”

Before Mattheo could respond, Pansy interjected, her tone light but edged with sarcasm. “Please. Mattheo fawning over just one woman? Not possible. It’s probably against his DNA or something. The man’s practically programmed to bounce from one hot girl to another.” She leaned back, her lips curving into a mischievous smile. “And some of those girls, I’ll admit, are downright smashable. Even I’m tempted sometimes.”

The group laughed, the conversation shifting seamlessly to lighter topics, but their words lingered, carving fissures in your confidence. Their teasing shouldn’t have bothered you—you knew Mattheo’s heart belonged to you—but doubts began to creep in, unbidden and persistent. Were you enough for him? Did he deserve someone better, someone more dazzling, more suited to his world?

The thoughts gnawed at you until you felt a warm hand slip over yours. Startled, you turned your head to find Mattheo watching you, his gaze impossibly tender. His lips curved into a small, genuine smile, one that spoke of unspoken promises and quiet devotion. You mustered a smile in return, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

And Mattheo noticed.

He always noticed.

Later that evening, you made your way back from the library, your bag slung lazily over your shoulder and your thoughts preoccupied. Mattheo had skipped your study date, and though disappointment gnawed at the edges of your mind, you reasoned it away. He was probably busy with Quidditch practice—the final match was looming, and the pressure was mounting. He’d make it up to you after the match, you told yourself, because that’s who he was. He always found a way to make things right.

Still, the morning’s conversation lingered, casting a faint shadow over your thoughts. You didn’t want to overthink it—it wasn’t worth ruining your mood—but the words from earlier replayed in your head like an unwelcome echo. To distract yourself, you silently recited the lyrics to a song, focusing on the rhythm of your footsteps as you made your way toward your dorm.

And then, just as you turned a corner, you saw them.

The sight froze you in place, a wave of nausea churning in your stomach as your heart plummeted. There he was—Mattheo—standing with a girl so breathtakingly beautiful it felt like the universe was mocking you. Her golden hair fell in perfect waves, her face framed with elegance, her height poised like a model stepping off a magazine cover. She was flawless. Perfect hair. Perfect face. Perfect everything. She was everything you weren’t.

Your chest tightened as you watched her lean toward him, her laughter like a siren’s call, and bile rose in your throat. You wanted to scream, to curse her, to tear her apart with the fire burning in your chest. But then the sharp edge of reality cut through. Was she really at fault? She didn’t know. To her, Mattheo was just another unattached, impossibly attractive boy. It wasn’t her fault she was flirting with someone who everyone believed was fair game.

Still, your gaze locked on her hand as it brushed his shoulder, and the lump in your throat grew harder to swallow. He moved his arm away, subtle but deliberate. Yet your mind refused to accept it. Why wasn’t he doing more? Why wasn’t he stopping her outright, shutting her down completely? Did he… like the attention? Or worse, did he realize he was better off with someone like her? Someone perfect?

The thought shattered something inside you. Tears welled up in your eyes as you stood there, frozen, watching the scene unfold. The voice in your head whispered cruel truths: He deserves someone better. Someone who fits his world. Someone who isn’t you.

You loved him so much it ached, but wasn’t love about sacrifice? About letting go? You told yourself it was. And so, that’s what you did.

For the next week, you committed to what you bitterly called your “stupid mission” of letting him go. You ignored Mattheo at every turn, cutting off the moments that had once been routine—canceling dates with feeble excuses, skipping his Quidditch practices where you used to show up just to watch him, even avoiding the places where you knew you might run into him. If he was better off without you, you wouldn’t stand in his way.

But boy, you were so wrong.

Which is how you ended up here, in the dim light of an abandoned classroom, your back pressed against the cold stone wall. His dark eyes burned with intensity, locking onto yours as he caged you in with both hands planted firmly on either side of your head. His body radiated heat, and the tension in the air was palpable.

“Mattheo,” you hissed, shoving at his chest, though it was futile against his unyielding strength. “Let me go.”

“Not until you tell me what the hell is going on,” he snapped, his voice low and rough. “You’ve been avoiding me all week. Canceling on me. Ignoring me. And don’t even try to lie, because I know you’ve been doing it on purpose.”

You glared at him, your hands curling into fists as you shoved at him again. “It doesn’t matter, Mattheo. Just—just let me go, fucker.”

“It matters to me,” he growled, his face inches from yours now. “You don’t get to just disappear from my life and act like it’s nothing. Tell me what’s going on.”

Tears pricked at the edges of your vision, but you blinked them away, refusing to let him see you break. “Why are you here?,” you choked out, the words slicing through you like broken glass. “You certainly were enjoying that blondie’s attention..”

Mattheo’s brows furrowed, confusion giving way to something deeper—something that almost looked like heartbreak. “Blondie who?”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you. “The girl from the last week. The one for whom you cancelled our study date for—”

But before you could finish, Mattheo leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that sent shivers down your spine. “Stop.” His hand found yours, his grip firm but gentle. “You seriously thought I would cheat on you?”

Your breath hitched, the fight draining from you as his words sank in “But—”

“You don’t even have this much trust in me?” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper, the hurt and disbelief evident in every word.

You shook your head, tears streaming freely now. “No, Mattheo, it’s not about trust. It’s about reality. You deserve better. Someone like her—perfect body, perfect everything. And I don’t think we’re meant for each other. I’m not perfect, not even close. So, it’s not that I think you would cheat,” you choked on the words, your heart breaking with every breath, “but I think you’re better off with her.”

By now, your sobs had overtaken you, the rawness of your feelings too much to contain. You were crying—really crying, like you hadn’t in years. Mattheo’s expression shifted from confusion to something deeper, darker, as he moved towards you.

Before you could even react, his hand found the back of your neck, his touch cold against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. His other hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you close, as he pressed your head to his chest, the steady beat of his heart grounding you. His lips brushed over your hair, his voice low and insistent.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” His words were like a punch to the gut. “Don’t pull this movie bullshit on me, babe. That I deserve someone better? Cause we both know that I don’t. Come on, I don’t. I have more than enough. I have you. The fucking real goddess.”

You felt his arms tighten around you, his words sinking into your soul. “I don’t believe in reincarnation or any of that shit,” he continued, his voice softer now, “but I do think I’ve done something right in this life, something good, because I get to be with you. And trust me, baby—you and I are the only endgame. At first, I thought this was just some fling, but now? A day without talking to you feels like a waste. And I want to say some romantic shit like I’ll be with you even if the whole world is against you, but fuck that. I’m not weak, baby. I’ll kill anyone who dares go against you. Do you understand?”

A strange, tearful smile tugged at your lips as you looked up at him. His hand ran up and down your back, comforting, reassuring.

“I know now’s not the right time to say this, but you’re getting your snot all over the only clean dress I have, baby.”

You lightly slapped his shoulder in mock annoyance, but the tension in your chest began to ease. He made you laugh, even in the midst of everything. You pulled your face back to look at him, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him. The kiss was slow and soft, unlike any other kiss you’d shared. It was filled with something tender, something fragile, as if he was holding you close, afraid that if he let go, you might vanish.

When you finally broke the kiss, his gaze was fixed on you—his eyes filled with an intensity that spoke volumes. You could see it, clear as day: he was yours, and you were his. You were the endgame.

“You think I’d waste my time with anyone else when I have you?” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Baby, you’re the only person who can handle all of me—the good, the bad, and the downright shitty. You believe in me. You worry about me when I get sick. You scold me when I’m being an idiot. And most importantly, when I look in your eyes, all I see is love. Not fear. Not ‘Riddle’s son.’ Just me.”

You smirked, your lips quivering as you raised an eyebrow. “Don’t speak too much, Riddle. Or I might just impregnate you.”

He withdrew his hands from you in mock horror, covering his body as if you’d just said the most scandalous thing in the world. “I knew it,” he said, feigning shock, “You only want me for my body.”

And you laughed, the sound of it echoing in the empty room, light and carefree, a stark contrast to the heaviness that had settled earlier. But it didn’t matter.

Mattheo Riddle, for all his faults, his arrogance, his unpredictable nature—he was yours. And you loved him. Maybe love wasn’t about letting go, after all. Maybe it was about holding on, cherishing what you had while it was still yours. Because if you had to let go of your love, then maybe it wasn’t meant to be in the first place.

Main Masterlist || Divider - @bernardsbendystraws

[astars-things]

SOS

Charles Leclerc x sister!Reader

summary- you text Charles SOS and he drops everything for you

reader is 17 

SOS was all you sent to Charles, he knew what it meant. You had struggled with anxiety for so long, and when you were in a situation where it got too much, all you had to do was text Charles SOS, and he would come get you. The first time it happened was when you were 10 and Charles was 21, you were going for your first sleepover "Bug, if you need me to pick you up for whatever reason, text me SOS and I'll be there", Charles said, giving you a quick forehead kiss 

Fast forward to now, you were sitting in a small corner of the library, you didn't know what triggered it, but your hands were shaking, and it felt like you could barely breathe, you felt your phone vibrate in your shaky hands "Go to the office, I'll be there in 10 minutes" You mumbled out loud reading the message, you grabbed your bag. You walked with your head down to the front office and sat on one of the chairs, and waited. 

Every second felt like an hour as you tried to focus on breathing, just like Charles always taught you. In for four, hold for four, out for four. You heard the office door open and heard some mumbling, soon you heard footsteps coming towards you

You didn’t have to look up to know it was him. You would recognize the sound of Charles’ hurried footsteps anywhere. "Je suis ici, Bug," (I'm here, bug) you heard him murmur as he crossed the office, his voice low and sure and steady, just for you. "Come on, let’s go home," Charles said gently. 

You barely nodded before he took your bag from you, slinging it over his own shoulder like it weighed nothing. His free hand reached out, and you slipped yours into it instinctively. His thumb brushed over your knuckles in slow, comforting circles as he led you out of the school.

The moment you stepped outside into the fresh air, you could breathe a little better. Not completely, but enough. Charles opened the passenger door for you as you slipped inside the Ferrari. By the time he got into the driver’s seat, you were already clutching the sleeves of your hoodie, trying to disappear into the fabric.

Charles started the car but didn’t move it just yet. He looked over at you, his green eyes soft. After a few minutes, he glances over at you with a little smile. "I was thinking..." he says casually, like you didn’t just have a panic attack at school. "Emergency ice cream?" you hadn't quite found your voice yet so you nodded your head yes "Just don't tell my trainer" Charles muttered to which you let out a small giggle 

Charles’ head whipped toward you immediately, his whole face lighting up like you’d just handed him a trophy. "There she is," he said softly, almost in awe, as if that tiny laugh was worth more to him than any win he’d ever had on track.

Without wasting another second, Charles shifted the car into gear and pulled out of the parking lot. The drive was peaceful. He played some quiet music, humming under his breath in a way that made the car feel warm and safe. Every once in a while, he'd drum his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the beat, sneaking little glances at you to make sure you were okay.

When you pulled up to the little ice cream shop, Charles parked in his usual spot at the back, where it was a little more hidden. He jogged around to your side of the car before you could even unbuckle, opening your door like a chauffeur.

"My lady," he said in a mock-posh accent, making you smile again as you stepped out. Inside, he ordered for you without even asking, rattling off your usual like it was second nature. When the girl behind the counter handed over your ice creams, Charles passed yours over with a little bow that made you roll your eyes affectionately.

You found a quiet bench outside, shaded under a big oak tree. It was far enough away from the street that it felt like your own little world. For a while, you just sat there, legs swinging slightly, slowly working your way through your ice cream. Charles made a show of pretending to steal a bite of yours, grinning when you smacked his hand away with a mock glare.

"You’re allowed to have bad days, Bug," he said after a while, his voice low and steady. "You don't have to fight them by yourself." You stared at your ice cream for a second before leaning your head against his shoulder, ice cream cone still clutched loosely in your hand.

"I’m glad you came," you whispered, your voice small but steady now. Charles immediately leaned his head against yours, squeezing your knee gently. "Always," he said, like it was the easiest promise in the world. "You text SOS, and I'll drop the whole damn world to come get you. No matter what."

[rosesareredrosa]

Too Hot to Cuddle

Theo Nott x fem reader

Summary: Theo just wants to cuddle but its just too hot to cuddle isn't it? based on this ask by anon thank you <333

Authors note: I made smth up with the enchanted ice water bottle

Word count: around 930 words

Hogwarts in the summer was a different kind of magical. The castle grounds buzzed with the sounds of nature, and the sun cast a golden hue over everything it touched. But inside the castle walls, the stone corridors retained the heat, making it almost unbearable. For Theodore Nott and Y/N, it was too hot to cuddle.

Theo and Y/N had been best friends since their first year, and as they grew older, their friendship had blossomed into something deeper. Summer had a way of intensifying feelings, and for Theo, the heat only seemed to make him clingier.

One particularly scorching afternoon, Theo found Y/N sprawled on a blanket under the shade of a large oak tree by the Black Lake. She was fanning herself with an old Herbology textbook, her face flushed and damp. Theo approached, carrying a basket of cold pumpkin juice and a couple of enchanted ice-cold water bottles.

“Hey, bella,” he greeted with a warm smile. “Thought you might need something to cool down.”

Y/N looked up, gratefully accepting a bottle of water. “You’re a lifesaver, Theo. It’s unbearably hot today.”

Theo sat down beside her, his body already seeking closeness. He draped his arm over her shoulders and leaned in, trying to snuggle closer. “You know, amore, it would be perfect if we cuddled right now.”

Y/N laughed softly, but she couldn’t hide the slight discomfort. “Theo, as much as I love you, it’s too hot for cuddling. I’m practically melting.”

Theo’s eyes widened in mock sadness. “But we’re like the perfect pair, bella. Just imagine how amazing it would be if we were cuddling right now.”

Y/N shifted, trying to avoid his warm embrace. “I don’t know, Theo. I’m already so hot—I don’t think I could handle it.”

Theo gave her a pleading look, his bottom lip jutting out in a way that made it hard for Y/N to resist. “Just a little cuddle, please? I promise I won’t complain if you get too hot. I’ll even fan you with this book.”

Y/N shook her head, trying to hold back a smile. “You’re relentless. I’m serious, it’s too warm.”

Theo sighed dramatically, nuzzling his face into her neck. “But you’re so irresistible, dolcezza. I can’t help it. I just want to hold you close.”

Y/N tried to ignore the pleasant shivers running down her spine from his touch. “Theo, I really can’t handle the heat.”

Theo’s face lit up with a sudden idea. “How about this? If you let me cuddle with you, I’ll share my enchanted ice-cold water bottle. It’ll keep us cool, I swear.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite herself. “You really think that will make a difference?”

Theo nodded eagerly, his arms tightening around her in a playful, affectionate squeeze. “Absolutely. And if you get too warm, I’ll cool you down with my magic ice-cold touch. Deal?”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh at his enthusiasm. “You’re incorrigible, Theo.”

“Is that a yes?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with hope.

Y/N sighed, a smile tugging at her lips. “Alright, alright. Just for a bit. But if I start to overheat, you’re on your own.”

Theo’s face lit up with triumph as he pulled her into a snug embrace. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close while she settled against him. He conjured a few fluffy pillows and arranged them around them, making their makeshift nest as cozy as possible.

“There,” Theo said, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Y/N’s head. “Now we’re both cool and comfortable.”

Y/N snuggled into him, feeling the coolness of the enchanted water bottle against her back. The combination of Theo’s warmth and the cool air created a perfect balance. She sighed contentedly, feeling a sense of peace.

“This actually isn’t so bad,” Y/N admitted, resting her head against Theo’s chest.

Theo’s heart soared at her admission. “I told you, amore mio. Sometimes, the best moments come when you least expect them.”

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes filled with affection. “You’re pretty amazing, Theo.”

“And you’re my everything,” he replied softly. He gently brushed a stray hair from her face, his touch tender.

They spent the rest of the evening wrapped in each other’s arms, their laughter mingling with the soft rustling of the leaves outside. The room they had found was a sanctuary from the heat, but it was Theo’s persistent love and warmth that truly made it special.

As the night drew on, Theo held Y/N close, occasionally pressing soft kisses to her forehead and whispering sweet nothings in her ear. Despite the heat outside, inside their little haven, they were perfectly content.

In that cozy embrace, surrounded by magic and love, Y/N realized that even on the hottest days, Theo’s affection made everything feel just right.

[aluraveil]

sunday and ayato are both very alike in certain ways.

they both have sweet younger sisters that they care a lot about, are the heads to their respective families, have a lot of influence and power, hell they both even have blue hair for fucks sake.

but when it comes to their darling, they are both alike and different in terms of how life would be like with them. for instance they're both alike in how they would want you to be well acquainted with their sisters.

ayato loves his younger sister ayaka very much and wants to protect her from the corrupt and shady side of inazuman politics. ayato has and always will be a family man and his family comes first before everything else. not to mention, ayato needs a heir to continue the kamisato bloodline.

sunday loves his younger sister robin a lot. sunday was very close with his sister during their childhood days and he would even listen to robin's mini concert with him as the audience and a couple of other stuffed animals. sunday loves his sister, but he also both loved and cared for the people of penacony. sunday cared for them so much to the point where he didn't care if he suffered, but if everyone else could live in paradise in a sweet dream for the rest of their life, then it would make his suffering worth it.

they're also alike in how their darling wouldn't be able to escape them at all. ayato is known as someone who works behind the scenes and he has somebody else do the dirty work himself. ayato is a master strategist and he has the shuumatsuban on his side. the shuumatsuban mainly deals with espionage, gathering evidence against corrupt officials of inazuma, and they're loyal as hell meaning that they report whatever they find to ayato. the shuumatsuban is willing to give up their life if it means protecting their lord ayato against an assasination attempt. ayato will also have the shuumatsuban on your back secretly watching you in the shadows as you go about your day inside the kamisato estate when ayato is forced to be pulled away from you due to his never-ending pile of paperwork and meetings inside his office.

escape certainly isnt possible with ayato that's also how sunday can relate as well. sunday was someone who secretly conspired with the order behind everyone's backs not to mention he also managed to hide it until the very end. if that doesn't prove that sunday is a master conspirator then i dont know what will. sunday was also shown to have many different birds lying around penacony as a way for him to spy on certain people and things. with no doubt, those birds will be watching you like a hawk perched on top of a tree branch making sure to make eye contact with you- almost like a warning telling you not to get any funny ideas since the bird is around.

though they're alike in many parts, they're also different as well. for instance, they both handle escape attempts very differently.

ayato finds it so cute and adorable whenever you try to escape. the moment that you're forced onto ayato's feet on your knees when the shuumatsuban drag you back is quite amusing to him because of the sour look on your face. in fact, ayato even encourages it. ayato's a sly bastard who knows just what to do and say to get you all riled up and the worst part of it is that he does it on fucking purpose. ayato openly mocks your escape attempts because of how desperate you were and he just sits back and enjoys the show whenever you try to reason or argue with him.

sunday also finds escape attempts funny but after a certain point, they're not so hilarious. sunday finds it frustrating with how frequent your escape attempts become and at first he humored you but now he's just straight up dissapointed. sunday believed that if he allowed you to try and escape, you'd realize how futile they were and just how powerless you were compared to the head of the oak family. after a while, sunday just opts to cuffing your wrist to his own that way you can be with him at all times and that way you can stop making his birds work overtime.

but to pair both ayato and sunday together with a darling would be a recipe for disaster. to pit two yanderes who have a lot of money and influence together would make them an unstoppable duo. having them both share a darling would just mess with their head due to ayato's mind games and sunday's annoying proximity with you due to the cuff binding your wrists together.

lets just hope you would never get stuck in this situation between this deadly duo of yanderes.

[lost-in-thoughts03]

Falling for you // Hwang brothers

Previous part || Next Part

Summary: You accidentally said something that could jeopardize your friendship. In-ho is also beginning to make his presence felt in this game.

" Don't you see me I...I think I'm falling, I'm falling for you."

Warning: Angst, In-ho being In-ho, forbidden love, flirting, teasing, thick tensions, taunting, confession, rejection, heartbreak, hopeless romantic, stalking, grammatical errors

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the school garden. The scent of blooming flowers mixed with the crisp breeze, rustling the leaves of the old oak tree where you and Jun-ho strolled side by side. The atmosphere was light, filled with laughter as you nudged him playfully.

" I still can't believe you tripped over a soccer ball in front of the entire class." You teased, grinning.

Jun-ho rolled his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets. " Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. At least I didn't fall into a fountain during PE."

Your mouth fell open in mock offense. " That was one time! And it was your fault for distracting me!"

He chuckled, shaking his head. The two of you continued walking, your footsteps falling into an easy rhythm. But then, the playful mood shifted when Jun-ho's expression darkened slightly.

" Listen, Y/n…about my brother." He started, voice quieter now.

You frowned at his sudden change in tone. " What about him?"

Jun-ho exhaled sharply, as if debating whether to say more. " Just…be careful around him. Don’t trust him too easily."

You stopped walking, turning to face him. " What? Why are you saying this all of a sudden?"

He avoided your gaze, looking off into the distance. " I’m serious, Y/n. Stay away from him."

Your brows furrowed in frustration. " Jun-ho, I don’t get it. First, you ask me to be close with him, and now you’re warning me about him? What’s going on?"

" Just do what I say." He muttered, jaw tightening.

" No!" You snapped. " I’m not just going to listen to you without a reason. Why are you acting so weird? Why won’t you just tell me the truth?"

Jun-ho ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated too. He didn’t answer.

And that was what pushed you over the edge.

" God, Jun-ho! Why are you like this? Why do you always keep things from me? Do you even trust me?!" Your voice wavered, emotions bubbling to the surface.

" Do you even care how I feel?! Because—"

You stopped, realizing what had just slipped past your lips.

Jun-ho looked at you, brows knitting together. " Y/n…?"

There was no turning back now.

Your breath hitched, but you forced yourself to continue. " I like you, okay? I—I’ve liked you for a long time. And it frustrates me that you’re so distant sometimes. That you never let me in." Your voice softened, filled with unspoken emotions.

" You’re the only person who made me feel safe, even when the whole world turned against me. And I—I just wanted to be that person for you too."

Silence.

Jun-ho stood frozen, his eyes wide. He opened his mouth as if to say something but hesitated. His shoulders tensed, and that alone told you what was coming before he even said it.

" Y/n…" His voice was gentle, but the weight of his words already crushed you. " I…I don’t see you that way."

You felt your heart drop.

" You’re my best friend. My little sister. That’s how I’ve always seen you."

You wanted to laugh bitterly, to say something—anything—to make this moment less painful, but nothing came out.

" I’m sorry."

You forced a small, shaky smile. " No, it’s fine. You don’t have to apologize." You swallowed the lump in your throat.

" I was just being stupid."

The air between you was heavy now, filled with unsaid words and broken feelings. You turned away first, not wanting him to see the hurt in your eyes.

" We should get going." Your voice was barely above a whisper.

Jun-ho didn’t stop you as you walked ahead, leaving behind the golden warmth of the setting sun—and a confession that could never be taken back.

In-ho stood at a distance, half-hidden behind the thick branches of a tree, arms crossed as he silently watched everything unfold. He had been following you—not in a way that you’d notice, but just enough to make sure you were safe. After all, with the mess you were in, you couldn’t afford to be careless.

But now, he wished he hadn’t seen this.

From where he stood, he saw the way you looked at Jun-ho, the way your voice trembled when you finally blurted out the feelings you’d been holding in for so long.

Pathetic.

Desperate.

The words ran through his mind like venom, not because he wanted to insult you, but because it angered him to see you chasing after someone who wouldn’t even turn back to catch you.

You were begging for love from a man who only saw you as a sister. How blind could you be?

In-ho clenched his fists as he watched Jun-ho reject you—watched the way your face fell, how you forced that weak, trembling smile. He knew you well enough to see through it. You were hurting, trying to hide it like you always did.

And yet, even in your pain, you still looked at Jun-ho like he was your entire world.

That was what frustrated him the most.

You didn’t even notice that, all this time, someone else had been watching over you. Someone who had always been there, in the shadows, waiting for you to finally turn around and see him.

But you never did.

As you wiped at your eyes and walked away, leaving Jun-ho behind, In-ho remained still, his gaze dark and unreadable. His patience was wearing thin. How much longer would you keep running after someone who would never love you the way you wanted?

And how much longer would he have to wait for you to finally look his way?

…

Jun-ho pushed the front door open with a sigh, exhausted from the weight of the evening. His mind was still clouded with thoughts of you—your confession, your pain, the way you walked away with that fake smile. He hated hurting you, but lying would’ve been worse.

As he kicked off his shoes and stepped inside, he immediately felt something off.

In-ho was there, standing in the dimly lit living room, arms crossed. His sharp gaze was locked onto Jun-ho with a stern expression, his jaw clenched tightly.

Jun-ho frowned. " What’s with that look?"

In-ho didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. " Nothing. Just admiring my little brother’s talent for breaking hearts."

Jun-ho’s brows furrowed in confusion. " What are you talking about?"

In-ho scoffed, stepping closer. " You really don’t know, huh?" His voice was laced with sarcasm. " Or maybe you’re just playing dumb like always."

Jun-ho exhaled sharply, already feeling his patience thinning. " In-ho, if you have something to say, just say it."

In-ho tilted his head slightly, a mocking smirk playing on his lips. " I was just wondering…how does it feel to crush someone who would do anything for you?"

Jun-ho’s eyes darkened as realization hit him. " You were there." It wasn’t a question—it was a statement.

In-ho’s smirk faded. " Of course, I was. Unlike you, I actually pay attention to the people who care about me."

Jun-ho clenched his jaw, his irritation growing. " This isn’t your business."

" Isn’t it?" In-ho snapped, his voice colder now. " Do you even realize what you did to her? Or are you so self-absorbed that you don’t even care?"

Jun-ho’s fists tightened. " I told her the truth! What else was I supposed to do—lie? Give her false hope?"

" You could’ve been less of a damn coward," In-ho shot back.

The air between them crackled with tension, both brothers now glaring at each other, standing just inches apart.

" What the hell is your problem, In-ho?" Jun-ho finally demanded. " Why are you so worked up about this?"

In-ho’s eyes flickered with something unreadable—something deeper. But instead of answering, he just scoffed and looked away, further fueling Jun-ho’s frustration.

" Stop dodging the question!" Jun-ho shouted, grabbing In-ho’s arm.

In-ho yanked himself free, his patience snapping. " You wouldn’t understand even if I told you!"

Jun-ho pushed him. " Then make me understand!"

Without thinking, In-ho shoved him back, harder this time. Jun-ho stumbled, his anger boiling over as he lunged forward, grabbing In-ho’s collar.

In-ho did the same, their tempers flaring as they stared each other down, fists tightening, muscles tense. It was a breath away from turning into something worse—until—

" Enough!"

Their mother’s voice cut through the tension like a knife.

Both of them immediately froze as they saw their mother standing at the base of the stairs, her expression stern but filled with worry. She had clearly rushed down after hearing their shouting.

" What is wrong with you two?" She demanded, her voice a mix of exhaustion and concern.

Neither brother spoke, their chests still rising and falling heavily. But whatever fight they were about to start had already fizzled out under their mother’s sharp gaze.

Jun-ho was the first to pull away, letting go of In-ho’s collar as he turned away, running a frustrated hand through his hair. In-ho, too, stepped back, shoving his hands into his pockets as he looked away.

Their mother sighed heavily, shaking her head. " If you have problems, solve them without acting like wild animals. Do you hear me?"

They both nodded silently.

" Good." She exhaled and turned away. " Now, get to bed before you do something you’ll regret."

As she walked back upstairs, silence settled over the room once again.

Jun-ho glanced at In-ho, who was still looking away, his jaw tight. There were so many things left unsaid, so many things he still didn’t understand about his brother’s anger tonight.

But right now, neither of them had the energy to keep fighting. As Jun-ho turned away, exhausted from the argument, In-ho’s voice cut through the silence, stopping him in his tracks.

" You know…if you don’t want her, maybe I should take her instead."

Jun-ho slowly turned back, his eyes narrowing. " What did you just say?"

In-ho smirked, tilting his head slightly, enjoying the way his brother’s body tensed. " I mean, since you rejected her so easily, I doubt you’d care if I stepped in. Someone has to pick up the pieces, right?"

Jun-ho clenched his fists. " Don’t play games, In-ho."

" Who said I’m playing?" In-ho’s smirk widened, but his eyes held something more—something that wasn’t just teasing. " Think about it, little brother. What if one day, she turns around…and I’m the one waiting for her instead of you?"

Jun-ho didn’t respond immediately. He hated the way In-ho said it, hated the way he spoke about you like he had any right to interfere. But most of all, he hated the uncomfortable knot forming in his chest—the unfamiliar feeling of something he refused to call jealousy.

" Do whatever you want." He muttered, turning away again.

In-ho chuckled under his breath. " Let’s see if you still say that when it actually happens."

Without another word, they both turned away from each other, walking in opposite directions.

But the tension lingered—unspoken, unresolved, and more dangerous than before.

A/N: Y/n and Jun-ho met when they were 16. In-ho, on the other hand, began to like her when she reached her legal age—around the time Y/n was in her twenties. (I need to clarify this to avoid misunderstandings between the characters)

Y/n and Jun-ho's age right now: 23 (College students)

In-ho's age right now: 30 (I need to lower down his age to make it more accurate)

I'm also excited about what comes next.

So...here's the part 3 guys! Thank you so much for your support on this story. I didn't expect so many people to enjoy this. Ahm...should I add another part?

Part 4?

[skywalkerslvt]

Campfire Secrets- Ellie Williams

❥Pairing: Camp counsellor!Ellie Williams x AFAB!Camp counsellor!Reader

❥Summary: Your growing feelings for your fellow camp counsellor, Ellie, come to light when you both go skinny dipping one night...

❥CW: 18+ smut, fingering, handjobs, skinny dipping, a tiny smidge of thigh grinding, sex in the wilderness, 2.1k words, NOT PROOFREAD

❥a/n: Because it's finally summer, here's a crazy summer camp porn fic about my fav! Just a reminder that my asks/requests are open if any of you horndogs would like to make a request (requests are my favourite thing ever please send stuff)! Hope you enjoy <333 pics are from pinterest

You met Ellie three years ago during your first summer as camp counselors. She had strolled into the staff meeting fashionably late, her hair still damp from an early swim in the lake, exuding a carefree confidence that instantly caught your attention. Her arrival disrupted the serious tone of the orientation, replacing it with laughter and easy banter as she greeted everyone by name, as if she had known them all her life.

You, on the other hand, had been nervous and slightly overwhelmed, navigating a new environment and the responsibilities that came with it. Ellie noticed your apprehension and made a beeline for you during a break, flashing a mischievous grin that instantly put you at ease. “First time, huh? Don’t worry, newbie, I’ll show you the ropes,” she had declared with mock superiority, her voice tinged with playful arrogance that made you chuckle despite yourself.

From that moment, a friendship blossomed between you two, forged through shared duties, late-night conversations under starlit skies, and a plethora of camp activities. Ellie had a knack for turning every mundane task into an adventure, whether it was organizing scavenger hunts, mastering archery, or sneaking midnight snacks from the mess hall. You found yourself drawn to her infectious energy, her quick wit, and the way she effortlessly charmed everyone around her.

During one memorable morning canoeing session, Ellie had challenged you to a race across the lake, her competitive spirit evident in the determined set of her jaw. “Bet I can paddle circles around you!” she had taunted, her paddle slicing through the water with precision. You had accepted the challenge with equal fervor, relishing the thrill of the chase as you navigated the tranquil waters, laughter echoing across the lake.

Evenings were reserved for campfires and camaraderie, where Ellie’s guitar-playing skills and knack for storytelling made her a favorite among campers and counselors alike. You often found yourself mesmerized by her talent, the gentle strumming of strings mingling with the crackle of the fire as she led sing-alongs and shared ghost stories that sent shivers down your spine.

Now, years later on your third summer being a camp counsellor, you couldn’t deny the growing fondness you felt for Ellie. Her infectious laughter and genuine kindness had captured your heart, yet you hesitated to acknowledge the deeper stirrings within you. You cherished your friendship too much to risk it with romantic feelings, afraid to disrupt the easy dynamic you had cultivated together. To make matters worse, this year Ellie was your cabin mate, making your quickly growing feelings even harder to hide. 

One scorching afternoon, with the kids engrossed in making friendship bracelets under the shade of the big oak tree, Ellie turned to you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Hey, have you ever explored the waterfall just beyond camp?” she asked, her voice lowered as if sharing a secret. You shook your head, intrigued by her sudden enthusiasm. “No, I didn’t even know there was one.” Ellie’s grin widened, a playful challenge in her gaze. “It’s a bit of a hike, but totally worth it. We should go sometime. Just the two of us.” The idea of escaping to a secluded spot away from the noise and chaos of camp, with Ellie by your side, stirred something deep within you, though you masked your excitement with a nonchalant shrug. “How about tonight?” you suggested. “We have the night off from the campfire.” 

Ellie gave you a mischievous smile, making your face heat as your heart skipped a beat. “Then tonight it is.” You smiled back at her, then got back to work helping the kids tie their bracelets. 

You couldn't wait for tonight, though the day went by painstakingly slow. No matter how you tried to occupy your time, whether it was playing games with the kids or taking naps during your breaks, the night just couldn't come soon enough. 

But when the sun finally dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the camp, you wasted no time seeking out Ellie in the busy camp. You and Ellie slipped away from the cabins, hearts pounding in anticipation. The path to the waterfall was bathed in the soft glow of twilight, the sounds of the camp fading away behind you as you ventured deeper into the woods. 

Ellie led the way, her flashlight casting dancing beams of light that illuminated the trail. The hike was a mix of comfortable silence and easy conversation, the natural rhythm of your friendship making the journey feel effortless. As you approached the waterfall, the distant sound of rushing water grew louder, filling the night air with its soothing roar.

“Almost there,” Ellie said, turning to flash you a grin. The sight of her lit by the moonlight, her features softened by the gentle glow, made your breath catch in your throat. You returned her smile, pushing down the butterflies that fluttered in your stomach.

When you finally reached the clearing, the waterfall was a breathtaking sight. Water cascaded down a rocky cliff, the pool at its base shimmering under the moonlight. Ellie turned to you, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. The sight was mesmerizing, but your attention kept drifting back to Ellie, standing there with an expression of pure joy on her face.

“Wanna jump in?” Ellie asked, still grinning. You realized then that in your haste to get Ellie out of the camp, you foolishly forgot to put on a bathing suit before leaving. “Shit! I forgot to bring a bathing suit.”

Ellie shrugged nonchalantly. “So did I. We could just take our clothes off,” she suggested with a grin.

You crossed your arms, giving Ellie a pointed look. “You want to skinny dip?” 

“Yeah, why not?” Your eyes widened at her suggestion, heat rising to your cheeks as you imagined what your coworkers would think if they found the two of you skinny dipping. 

“Ellie, I-”

Before you could finish, Ellie had begun unbuttoning her jeans, stripping down to her underwear and tossing her clothes onto a nearby rock. She gave you a playful look as she hooked her fingers into the waistband of her boxers, to which you turned around flustered, your heart pounding in your chest. 

You heard her dive into the pool, water splashing the backs of your legs. You stood there for a moment, caught between your apprehension and the undeniable pull of wanting to join her. You quickly glanced over your shoulder, finding the glimmering water up to Ellie's shoulders. The pool did look really inviting now that she was in it. 

Taking a deep breath, you quickly shed your own clothes, feeling a rush of exhilaration as the cool night air hit your skin. You stepped to the edge of the pool, Ellie’s laughter ringing in your ears, and with one last glance at her, you dove in.

The water was refreshingly cold, enveloping you in its embrace. You surfaced to find Ellie grinning at you, her hair slicked back and her eyes glinting with mischief. “Took you long enough,” she teased.

You splashed her in response, laughing as she retaliated. The playful banter continued as you swam together, the night around you filled with the sounds of laughter and splashing water. You made your way over to the waist deep water under the waterfall, leaning your back against the smooth rock as you faced Ellie, relishing in the feeling of her roaming eyes on your exposed body. 

As the playful splashing subsided, the space was filled with a more intimate silence. The moonlight danced on the water's surface, casting a soft glow over Ellie’s features. She swam closer, her bare chest almost meeting yours as your breaths mingled in the cool night air. 

Ellie’s gaze shifted from playful to intense as her eyes roamed over your face. “You know,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper, “I've always wanted to do something like this with you.” 

Her gaze heated your cheeks, and you laughed nervously. “You've always wanted to get me naked in a pool like this?” you joked, though your voice was strained from the sudden desire to touch her. 

Ellie chuckled. “Well yes, but that's not what I meant.” Your heart pounded as she reached out, her fingers brushing against your bare waist, sending a shiver down your spine. “Ellie…” you started, but she silenced you with a gentle kiss, her lips soft and warm against yours. 

You melted into her touch, your hands finding their way to her waist pulling her flush against you. The water swirled around you as the kiss deepened, your bodies pressed together in the moonlit pool.

Ellie's hands roamed over your back, her touch igniting a fire within you.

She pulled back slightly, her breath hot against your lips. "Are you sure about this?" she asked, her eyes searching yours.

You nodded, your fingers tangling in her hair. "I've never been more sure of anything."

Ellie's smile was both tender and filled with desire as she kissed you again, her hands exploring your body with a newfound urgency. You moaned softly as her fingers traced the curves of your waist, your skin tingling under her touch. Her leg shifted under the water, her knee parting your thighs as she slid it between your legs, pushing her thigh flush against your heat. You moaned into her mouth at the addicting friction against your clit.

Ellie's hands slipped between your thighs, her fingers teasing your entrance. You gasped, your hips bucking against her hand, craving more. "Ellie, please," you whispered, your voice filled with need.

She didn't need any more encouragement. Her fingers slid inside you, her touch sending waves of pleasure through your body. You clung to her, your moans filling the night air as she moved inside you, her thumb circling your clit with expert precision.

As Ellie continued to pleasure you, you reached out, your hand slipping between her thighs. She gasped at your touch, her hips grinding against your fingers. You mirrored her movements, your fingers finding her entrance and sliding inside, matching her rhythm.

The pool around you seemed to amplify every sensation, the cool water contrasting with the heat between you.

Ellie's breath hitched as you curled your fingers inside her, her grip on you tightening. "Fuck, you feel so good," she moaned, her voice a low rasp in your ear.

You responded with a whimper, your body arching against hers as your pleasure built. The intensity of the moment, the feeling of Ellie's fingers inside you while you pleasured her in return, was overwhelming. Your breaths became ragged, each touch and movement heightening the connection between you.

Ellie's thumb circled your clit faster, her fingers curling inside you in a rhythm that had you teetering on the edge. You mirrored her movements, your fingers pressing and curling inside her, drawing out breathy moans that only spurred you on.

"Ellie," you gasped, your voice trembling with need. "I'm so close."

"Me too," she breathed, her lips brushing against your ear. "Come with me."

Her words sent you over the edge, your body tensing as waves of pleasure crashed over you. You cried out her name, your fingers pressing deeper inside her as you rode out your orgasm.

Ellie followed moments later, her body shuddering against yours, her moans mingling with yours in the night air.

For a moment, you clung to each other, the water soothing your overheated skin as you caught your breath. Ellie's forehead rested against yours, her breath warm and steady as she pressed a soft kiss to your lips.

"That was.." she started, her voice trailing off.

"Amazing," you finished for her, smiling as you brushed a strand of hair from her face.

She chuckled, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. "Yeah, it was."

“I hate to ask this of you,” she started, giving you a nervous smile, “but if we want to stay in the same cabin, I think it would be best if we kept this between us.” 

You smiled at her, pressing a soft kiss to her lips as you wrapped your arms around her. “Well, I suppose we could consider it our little secret,” you replied playfully, a hint of mischief in your eyes. “As long as you can keep quiet at night, nobody will find out.” 

Ellie laughed, her hold around your waist tightening as she nuzzled into your neck. 

You stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other's arms, soaking in the peaceful ambiance of the waterfall and the night around you.

[ak319]

Lovesick Childhood friend x f!reader

Headcanon / Intro

Warnings: This story contains matriarchal themes, fem dom such as mpreg, fem dominated world, role reversal, and BXG pairing! Yes, it's a boy x girl, so don't interact if you are uncomfortable! Gonna have historical themes, little age gap (3 years) in terms of historical times, heavy angst, fluff, pining, and drama. The art is not mine, it's from Pinterest. Enjoy reading. ─ m.lists

"but you know what they say,

you can't help who you fall for

and you and I fell

like an early spring snow...."

─────────

1917

"Orsen, you’d better finish your food before you run off to play. Got it?"

"Yes, Papa!" Orsen nodded dutifully, but his gaze betrayed him, fixed on the window behind his father. His eight-year-old eyes sparkled with mischief as he struggled to suppress giggles. Out in the garden, you were pulling faces and breaking into an exaggerated, clumsy dance, clearly determined to make him laugh.

He had to finish his food quickly, before his father noticed anything. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of you getting a light smack on the back of your head from your mother, the estate gardener, who scolded you for goofing off. Orsen bit his lip to stifle a grin.

Without a second thought, he wolfed down the rest of his meal. His father’s disapproving gaze burned into him as he muttered something about unmanly behavior and lack of etiquette. But Orsen didn’t care, not one bit. Ignoring the reprimands, he dashed out of the room when his plate was empty, proving his father right in the process.

But none of that mattered. He’d kept you waiting long enough already.

"Finally! You eat too slow and... way too much for someone the size of a squirrel," you teased, crossing your arms with a smirk.

That earned you a swift smack on the chest from Orsen, who clearly had plenty of energy to spare. Ah, so that’s where it all goes, you thought with a grin.

"COME ON! LET'S START WITH A GAME OF CHASE, THEN HIDE-AND-SEEK!"

"You’re on!" you replied with mock seriousness, already taking off before Orsen could fully process the challenge.

And just like that, playtime began. You were eleven, three years older than him, and yeah, yeah, people might wonder why you spent your afternoons running around with the eight-year-old son of Lady Isolde. Because you were made to since he needed a playmate. You didn’t mind and if you were being honest, it was fun.

"You're too slow, Orsen!" you call out, weaving between the trees with practiced ease.

"I'm not slow! You're just taller!" Orsen huffs, his golden hair flying behind him like a ribbon as he tries to catch up. His laughter rings out, light and carefree, as he nearly trips over a tree root.

"Excuses, excuses," you tease, pausing just long enough for him to barrel into you, both of you tumbling to the ground in a heap.

"I got you!" Orsen declares, his soft hands gripping your arms triumphantly a stark comparison to yours , rough from helping your mother around the estate with tasks.

"You tackled me, not tagged me!" you laugh, sitting up and brushing dirt off your knees. "That’s against the rules."

"There are no rules in chase," he replies matter-of-factly, flicking his long blond hair over his shoulder like some princeling—and it makes you snort.

"Fine. No rules, huh? Then how about this?" Without warning, you spring to your feet and scoop him up by the waist, spinning him around while he squeals with laughter.

"Put me down, you IDIOT! I’ll get you back for this!"

"Sure you will," you grin, finally setting him down. His face is red from laughing so hard, but he immediately points to the swing hanging from the old oak tree nearby.

"Your turn to push me!"

"Your turn? When was it my turn?" you ask, feigning exasperation but already making your way to the swing.

Orsen is already climbing onto it. You steady the ropes for him, watching as he gets comfortable, his small hands gripping tightly. "Ready?"

"Ready!"

With a firm push, you send the swing into motion, the wood creaking softly under Orsen’s weight. He leans back, his laughter filling the air as the wind tousles his golden locks. "Higher!" he demands, his voice bright and full of life.

"Careful, you’ll go flying straight into the bushes," you joke, though you give him another push, watching as his laughter spills into the air like music.

"And you’d rescue me," he counters, turning his head to flash you a grin.

"Obviously," you reply, rolling your eyes but smiling despite yourself. Or else your mother would make soup out of my bones if you even got a scratch.

"See? I’m safe as long as you’re here," he says, his voice lighter, softer, as the swing slows with the waning light. The golden glow of the setting sun paints him in warm hues, his hair a tousled mess, his cheeks pink from play.

You ruffle his hair as he climbs off the swing, earning an indignant squeak. "We should do this every day," he murmurs, looking up at you with those wide, trusting eyes that seem to hold the whole world.

"Yeah," you say quietly, a fond smile tugging at your lips. "Every day, Orsen."

And in that moment, you mean it.

1922

"Brother Orsen?" Rowan called, tugging at his older brother’s sleeve. "She’s calling for you."

Orsen, now 13, was sitting in front of his vanity, carefully sorting through his collection of accessories. He didn’t bother looking up, too absorbed in his task.

The 5-year-old huffed, folding his arms. "She’s calling you to play, not to do a fashion show."

"SHUSH! Rowan, come here for a second!" Orsen snapped, his tone light but firm. Rowan grumbled under his breath but walked over, clearly itching to be anywhere but here.

"Okay, so listen," Orsen began, lowering his voice even further as he picked up a necklace from his collection. "Which one should I wear?"

"Necklace?" Rowan blinked, his frustration barely contained. "You’re gonna wear a necklace to play?"

Orsen rolled his eyes dramatically. "Look, we are not playing instead (Y/N) is taking me out to see a play! To a theatre!"

Rowan’s expression softened at the mention of (Y/N)'s name. "A play? Really?"

"Yes, really!" Orsen grinned, his tone proud but slightly embarrassed. "It’s a big deal. I want to look my best."

Rowan exclaimed, his voice rising in disbelief before quickly quieting down. "B-but mama and papa aren’t home! They told us to stay inside the manor, and what about the stupid nanny? I’m so over him-"

"This is exactly what I’m telling you!" Orsen pleaded, his voice low but desperate. "Just cover up for me, please! And even if Elias finds out, he won’t get mad or tell anyone, I swear, but the other servants, they can’t know, got it?"

Rowan frowned, clearly conflicted. "Are you going on... what mama and papa go to? What’s it called... um... a date?"

Orsen’s ears turned bright red, and a warmth spread through him, making his heart race in an unfamiliar way. His hand paused mid-air, the necklace he was holding slipping slightly as his mind began to swirl. A date. Was it a date? His chest tightened, a fluttering sensation moving through him. He tried to push it down, telling himself it was ridiculous. It was just (Y/N). But still... the thought of being alone with her, of seeing her smile...of being beside her...sitting so close to her...

"Ugh, I-" Orsen’s voice faltered, and he cleared his throat, hoping Rowan wouldn’t notice the redness creeping up his neck. "It’s not a date, okay? Just... something like that."

Rowan raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it, but he sighed dramatically and crossed his arms. "Fine, fine, I’ll cover for you. But you owe me big time, Orsen."

Orsen smiled, his heart still racing. "Thanks, Rowan. You’re the best."

Rowan shot him a sly grin before walking out of the room. "Just don’t get caught, alright?"

Orsen watched him go, still feeling the heat of that unexpected moment, his thoughts full of the image of (Y/N) waiting for him. A date... He could only hope she saw it that way too.

The sunlight poured through the trees, casting long shadows on the garden path as you stood by the gate, tapping your foot impatiently. Orsen was late—again. You couldn’t help but smirk, leaning casually against the stone wall, arms crossed and eyes scanning the road ahead.

You had to admit, though, it was kind of cute how he always managed to show up just a little bit after you, acting like you weren’t already getting a head start on your impatience. He always had that timid, apologetic look on his face, but it was like he couldn't help it. It was endearing, even if it drove you crazy sometimes.

Finally, you spotted him.

When he saw you, his face broke into that shy smile, the one that always made your stomach flip, and you couldn’t stop yourself from teasing him.

“Took you long enough,” you called out with a cocky grin, straightening up as he came closer. “Did your vanity mirror take longer than usual?”

Orsen flushed, immediately looking down at the ground, his fingers nervously brushing at the edge of his shirt. He bit his lip, clearly flustered. “I-I wasn’t... I mean, I was just making sure I looked decent,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. "And...was just convincing Rowan to cover up."

“It’s fine,” you assured him, though you couldn’t stop the teasing note that slipped into your voice. “But I almost thought you weren’t going to show.”

He looked genuinely apologetic, his blue eyes wide and full of that quiet sincerity that always made your heart twist a little. “I wouldn’t leave you waiting, (Y/N),” he murmured, his hand tugging nervously at the sleeve of his shirt. “I promise.”

You felt the warmth in his words more than anything else, and it made your smile falter for just a second. Orsen was the kind of person who always tried to do the right thing, even when it wasn’t easy. He wasn’t like the other boys in the town, so confident and sure of themselves. No, Orsen was gentle, and careful, always thinking about others before himself. You could see that quiet, understanding gaze under his straw cartwheel hat , in the way he looked at you now.

“Well, if you’re sure,” you said, your voice softening, “we should probably get going before someone else notices, huh?”

“Yeah,” Orsen agreed, his expression turning a little more serious as he looked over his shoulder. He glanced up and down the street, making sure no one was watching, before taking a step closer to you. “Are you sure about this? I know it’s... a little risky.”

You hesitated, feeling the weight of your decision in the pit of your stomach, but when you looked at Orsen’s face, you felt a little lighter. There was no teasing now, no jokes, just his quiet concern, and for once, it made you feel like maybe this was worth it. You nodded.

“I’m sure,” you whispered back, then added with a hint of a smile, “It’ll be fun.”

“You really are...” He shook his head, his lips curving into a smile despite himself. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Do what?” You raised an eyebrow, giving him a challenging look. “Make everything seem like it’s no big deal? Maybe because it’s not. And you’re going to learn that today.”

He hesitated for a moment, but when you stepped forward and grabbed his sleeve to pull him toward the playhouse, he followed without protest.

Orsen’s heart skipped a beat as your hand enveloped his, and the warmth of your touch sent a flutter of butterflies through him. His breath caught in his throat, and he couldn’t help but glance at you, his face turning a shade darker. He wasn’t sure why something as simple as you holding his hand made him feel so nervous, but it did. It wasn’t just the physical touch, it was the way you kept him close, guiding him gently, as if taking care of him.

You pulled him to the side of the sidewalk, positioning him on the inside to keep him safe from the traffic and the bustle of the crowd. He felt a sudden surge of warmth at how protective you were being, even if it was just a small gesture. His chest tightened in a way he couldn’t explain, and his steps faltered slightly as you kept him close to you, shielding him from the rest of the world.

His heart raced, faster than it should have, as his mind wandered to those quiet moments when you became reserved, especially during functions. When he told you he was going to one or whenever they were held at the estate, your demeanor always seemed to shift. He noticed the way your gaze would turn sharp and distant, your movements brisk and careful, as though you were trying to shrink away. He hated it.

He hated seeing you as just part of the crowd, working tirelessly around the estate, your hands busy with tasks instead of resting in his. Most of all, he hated the functions themselves. Because while you were stuck there, unspoken and unnoticed, he was dolled up, standing with the sons and daughters of elites, smiling politely in a world that felt hollow. And maybe… maybe you hated that too.

Maybe you hated seeing him like that, all pretty, polished, and mingling with other people, particularly the daughters of noble families, ones his parents made sure he was somewhat acquainted with. Maybe you thought he belonged in that world, with them, rather than here with you.

The thought made his steps falter. A pang of desperation hit him. If only you knew. If only you knew that no crowd, no daughter of any elite, could ever hold his attention like you did.

To him, it didn’t matter how the world saw you or him, what mattered was this. You, walking beside him. You, pulling him to the safer side of the sidewalk. You, shielding him, even when you didn’t know that he was already yours.

At the theatre gate, you hesitated briefly before pulling out the money, the ache in your chest barely masked by the small smile you gave. Each coin was hard-earned, saved from days of labor at the Elaris estate and neighboring homes. As you handed it over, Orsen stepped closer, his hand brushing lightly against yours for just an instant. The gesture was fleeting but warm, like a silent promise that you were not alone.

“(Y/N)... I know it’s not much, but-” He started to say, then hesitated, biting his lip. “I really appreciate you doing this. For both of us.”

You smiled at him, a little softer this time. “You don’t have to thank me, Orsen,” you said gently. “I want to do this.”

His eyes softened, and he looked away briefly, cheeks flushing just a bit. “You always know how to make me feel... better,” he muttered under his breath. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

You couldn’t help but smile at that, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard. “Well, that's my job as your friend.” you replied, quietly. “I won’t go anywhere.”

He gave you a shy smile, more timid than usual. "I know..."

The moment passed quickly, but the quiet understanding between you both lingered as you walked into the theatre together, the world outside fading away. Orsen risked a glance at you, his gaze catching on the way the dim evening light outlined your sharp features. You looked so effortlessly composed, so handsome that it made his breath hitch for a moment. He felt a rush of warmth spread from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, his fingers brushing nervously against the ribbon under his chin as if it could steady him.

It didn’t matter that you were different. It didn’t matter that you came from different worlds. Right now, all that mattered was that you were both here, together, sharing this moment in time.

And for Orsen, that was enough.

── .✦

Orsen sat in his room, absentmindedly tracing patterns on the wooden desk, his mind still occupied with the discomfort that had settled over him the past few days. He hadn’t expected his body to feel like this, unfamiliar, heavy, and strange. The flow had come, just as his father and tutor had warned, but it didn’t make the experience any less confusing or jarring. He had kept to himself mostly, trying to adjust, trying to make sense of what it all meant.

A soft knock on the door broke his thoughts. He looked up quickly, his nerves suddenly tightening. His father, Lucan, stepped in, his posture rigid as always, his dark eyes scanning the room before landing on Orsen.

“Orsen,” Lucan began, his voice steady but tinged with an unfamiliar seriousness. "Wanted to talk about something, love."

Lucan stepped further into the room, his voice lowering, as if the matter was too delicate to say aloud in front of anyone else. “I and your mother think it’s time for you to stop... associating with (Y/N) for now.”

Orsen’s stomach twisted painfully. The words felt like a sharp blow to his chest, though he knew this was coming. His world, for the last few years, had been shared with (Y/N), the carefree days, the laughter, the moments when they were just two children playing in the garden or sneaking out to see a play. It was always natural, always easy, until now.

“Why?” Orsen’s voice cracked slightly, and he immediately regretted it, his cheeks burning as he stared down at the floor. “What did I do wrong? Wh-at did she do??”

Lucan sighed, a heavy sound that made Orsen feel smaller, as if he were a child again, needing to be controlled. "It’s not about you, Orsen. Your mother believes you should start focusing more on your responsibilities. You are no longer a child. Your a man and she...she's a woman. It’s time for you to stop playing games, stop seeking out... distractions."

Orsen felt his breath catch in his throat. Distractions. That’s how his parents saw (Y/N) now? His heart ached at the thought of never being able to run off and play with you again. It felt like the walls were closing in on him.

"You need to start preparing for your future," Lucan continued, not looking at Orsen directly, but at some point beyond him. “Your mother has plans for you, and she expects you to focus on your studies, your family name. No more distractions, Orsen. You’re growing into something much more than that."

The last words lingered in the air, and Orsen felt a sickening knot twist in his stomach. He wanted to argue, wanted to scream at the injustice of it all. Why should everything change now? But the words didn’t come. Instead, he simply nodded, his eyes brimming with the weight of it all.

Lucan turned to leave, but before he did, he paused at the door. “It’s for the best, son,” he said, his tone almost sympathetic. “I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but your mother’s decision is final.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and Orsen sat there, staring at the floor, his hands trembling. The world outside felt so far away now, like it was slipping through his fingers.

It was over. He couldn’t see (Y/N) anymore. He couldn’t run to her and find comfort in her presence. He couldn’t protect her or laugh with her. He was supposed to grow up. He was supposed to follow the path his family laid out for him, to grow into something else. To grow up for rather someone is more like it. To be a good man so that he can be a good husband...

But I’m not ready to let go, Orsen thought miserably. I can’t.

The evening had settled over the manor, but Orsen still hadn't left his room. He had feigned illness, citing exhaustion as the reason for his retreat, and, thankfully, his parents had bought it. His mother, as aloof as ever, didn’t press the matter too hard, but it was clear from the way she sent up his dinner that she wasn’t exactly pleased with him skipping meals. Nevertheless, they left him in solitude, and he barely touched the food. Just a few bites, enough to keep the appearance of complying with his parents' wishes.

You can't be with (Y/N) now...

The words circled in his mind like an endless loop, the cruel reminder of everything he’d just lost.

Society...

Family name...

And all that other bullshit...

Orsen couldn't suppress the bitter curses that slipped past his mental barriers, curses he'd only learned from you. Thanks to you, he had been exposed to the harsher truths of the world, the side that no one of his status was supposed to see, let alone understand. Without you, he would have remained ignorant, a sheltered boy in a world that seemed so far removed from the lives of people like you.

How could he just forget you? How could he ignore the way you made him feel so alive, so seen?

He wanted to lie to himself, to deny the truth, but it was becoming impossible. The feelings he had for you were not just those of a carefree childhood friendship. No, they had evolved into something far deeper, something he couldn’t bury beneath the expectations of his family and the rigid norms of society.

His mind swirled with the questions that had no answers. Had they told you? Did you know the news already? How would you have reacted?

Would you be heartbroken, too? Or would you simply move on, uncaring, as though he had never been a part of your life at all? After all, he was just the son of a lady of the manor, a wealthy, entitled boy. You, on the other hand, probably had your own circle, your own friends. Girls who shared your struggles, who truly understood your world in ways he never could.

The thought burned in his chest like a quiet, smoldering ache. Maybe there was even a boy among them, someone prettier, someone who fit into your life better than he ever could. Someone who could stand beside you without looking like a silly, awkward dreamer. The idea made his heart clench. He wanted to be everything you needed, but deep down, the fear whispered, what if you didn’t need him at all?

Orsen curled into himself, the loneliness settling over him like a suffocating weight. His heart ached with the thought of you, of how far apart he felt from you now. The girl who had been his closest friend, the one who had filled his life with laughter and mischief, now seemed like a distant memory, slipping through his fingers.

Would you even miss me? He couldn't stop the question from repeating itself.

But deep down, he knew the answer. You were strong, capable, too strong, too capable to be held back by someone like him. You had a life to live, a future that didn’t need him to make it complete. And he, a pampered boy who had always had everything handed to him, couldn’t keep up with that.

Still, his heart refused to listen to the logic of it all. It stubbornly clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a place for him in your life still.

But what if...

The thought was interrupted by a quiet sob he couldn’t suppress. His heart ached, and his tears fell unbidden, mixing with the confusion and sorrow that clouded his thoughts.

Just then, the soft patter of footsteps approached, and the door creaked open. Orsen barely registered the sound, too consumed by his own grief to notice at first. But when a small, tentative voice called out to him, it pierced through the fog of his sorrow.

“Orsen?” Rowan's voice was quiet, unsure.

Orsen didn't look up. He couldn't. Instead, he pulled his knees tighter to his chest, willing the tears to stop, though they kept coming. He didn’t want Rowan to see him like this. He was supposed to be the older brother, the one who protected him, the one who had all the answers. But now he felt like nothing more than a broken boy, helpless and alone.

Rowan, being much younger, didn't fully understand the weight of the situation, but he could sense the sadness in Orsen's hunched shoulders, in the way his older brother’s sobs shook his frame. Without hesitation, Rowan crossed the room and climbed onto the bed next to him, his small hands resting gently on Orsen’s arm.

"You’re not alone....You’ve still got me."

Orsen felt the warmth of Rowan’s hand, and it was enough to make him break down completely. The tears fell faster now, as if Rowan’s simple words had unlocked everything he had been holding in. He buried his face in his hands, trying to stifle the sobs, but it was useless. The pain was too much.

“I don’t know what to do, Rowan,” Orsen choked out between his sobs. “I... I don’t want to change. I don’t want to lose her. Why does everything have to be so... so different now?”

Rowan, though younger and not entirely understanding the complexities of the world they lived in, squeezed Orsen’s arm tighter. “Maybe it’s not forever,” he said quietly. “Maybe... maybe you can still be with (Y/N). You’re smart, Orsen. You’ll figure something out.”

Orsen let out a ragged breath, his body shaking as the tears slowly subsided. Rowan’s small voice, his unwavering support, gave him something to hold onto in that moment, something that felt like a lifeline.

“Thanks, Rowan,” Orsen whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "M-means a lot.."

Rowan smiled softly, his little hands patting Orsen’s arm as he snuggled closer. “You don’t have to. I’ll always be here, even when Mama and Papa tell you to stop playing with (Y/N). I'll always play with you!"

Orsen’s heart tightened. His little brother didn’t understand the full depth of what had just happened, but his words meant more than he could ever say. In this moment, Rowan was the one keeping him together, the one showing him that, even when everything seemed to fall apart, he wasn’t truly alone.

── .✦

He was perched at the balcony window, the cool breeze tousling his long, silky hair as he gazed out at the garden below. His fingers lightly gripped the edge of the windowsill as he watched you, working diligently on the grounds below.

You were cutting logs, a task far more physical than what Orsen was used to seeing you do. Your movements were strong, your muscles flexing with every swing of the axe, and it sent a strange flutter through his chest. His eyes followed the rhythm of your body, the way your arms tensed with the exertion. There was something undeniably powerful in the way you moved, a raw strength that both mesmerized and unsettled him.

Orsen swallowed hard, his heart skipping a beat as you wiped the sweat from your brow, revealing the determined glint in your eyes. His breath hitched in his throat as he couldn’t help but admire the way your body worked, every movement fluid and precise. The sight of you, the girl who had always been by his side, now growing into someone completely different, had his thoughts running wild.

Stop it, he told himself, gripping the windowsill a little tighter. This is wrong. She’s... His mind stumbled over the words, his heart desperately trying to calm the fluttering sensation that wouldn’t go away.

You didn’t seem to notice him at first, too focused on your task, but then, by some miracle, your eyes found his. For a moment, time seemed to stretch as your gaze locked onto his, and Orsen’s heart raced in his chest. There was something about the way you looked at him, a kind of unspoken acknowledgment as if you knew exactly what he was feeling without him saying a word.

He quickly forced himself to look away, his face flushing with heat, but not before giving a small, almost timid wave. His fingers, still gripping the windowsill, trembled slightly from the nervousness coursing through him.

You gave a quick wave back, then turned your attention back to the task at hand, but the simple exchange was enough to send a shiver of excitement through him. He leaned against the window frame, his chest tight with something he couldn’t quite name.

The quiet, pounding ache in his chest deepened. He was stuck, trapped behind this invisible barrier that kept him from stepping outside, from being close to you in the way he wanted. You, with your strength and duties, your hands working like they knew no other way of being. And him, trapped in this gilded cage, unable to touch you, talk to you.... to even get close.

His eyes followed your every movement, as if he could somehow close the gap between the two of you just by watching. The ache in his chest grew heavier, and the question hung in his mind like a dark cloud: Why am I feeling like this?

You didn’t even know, did you? Or maybe you did, but... what difference did it make? His hand tightened on the windowsill as he let out a quiet sigh. There was nothing he could do. Nothing he could say. Just... watch.

── .✦

The days passed slowly for Orsen after that encounter. Each morning, he would wake up with an uneasy knot in his stomach, knowing he couldn’t be near you. He could only watch you from his window, his heart aching with every glimpse of you working in the garden, your hands strong and graceful, yet out of his reach.

But then, one day, a small note arrived. It was discreet, slipped under the door to his room by Rowan, who seemed to have caught onto the secret in his own innocent way. Orsen unrolled the crumpled piece of paper, his heart pounding.

I see you watching me these days, Orsen. Are you going to keep staring, or are you finally going to talk to me? Don't be afraid...

Orsen stared at the words, a soft blush rising to his cheeks. You, you, had noticed. He carefully folded the note and tucked it into the pocket of his shirt before his parents could catch him with it. His heart raced, but there was a comfort in knowing you felt something too.

Over the next few weeks, the notes began to come more frequently. They were always passed through Rowan, always discreet, and always full of the teasing, playful energy that Orsen both craved and feared.

One evening, Orsen received another note. This one was a little longer than the others, the ink scrawled with hurried words.

I’m starting to think you’re too shy to talk to me in person, Orsen. It’s just a letter. Why don’t you send me one back? Are you really just going to end our friendship like this...? I am worried for you too...Please answer..

Orsen’s hands trembled slightly as he read the note. He had never written to anyone like this before. He had never had a reason to hide his words. But you, you made him feel things he couldn’t understand, things that burned and twisted inside him every time he thought about you. And now, you were asking for him to write.

The next afternoon, he couldn’t stand it anymore. Taking a deep breath, he took up his pen and began to write:

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to talk to you, not like this. But I think about you. All the time. I can’t stop. But they said to...not to...I want to though. Every day...

It was simple, just a few words, but it felt like the world was contained in that tiny letter. He sealed it carefully, not wanting anyone to find it. Rowan, ever the accomplice, delivered it the next morning.

The day passed in anticipation, and soon, he received your reply.

So you're shy, huh? That’s alright, Orsen. But if you want to see me, if you want to talk to me... I’ll be in the garden tomorrow at noon. I’ll wait. They won't catch us. I promise.

Right... No one would know. It would just be you and him. Just like you promised.

That night, he barely slept, the thought of seeing you in the garden swirling in his mind. And as soon as the clock struck noon the next day, he snuck out of his room and slipped through the hallways of the manor, his heart thundering in his chest.

There, in the garden, you waited. The sun was high, and the breeze was soft. You were working again, your back turned to him as you cleared some weeds. His footsteps were quiet as he approached, but you heard them.

You turned around, your eyes meeting his. The playful glint in them was gone, replaced with something softer, something warmer.

“You came,” you said, smiling slightly. “I thought you might be too scared.”

Orsen’s face flushed, but he nodded, his heart racing in his chest. “I wasn’t sure… but I wanted to see you. I didn’t know how to say it.”

You stepped forward, closing the distance between you. “Well,” you said with a sly smile, “you’ve said it now.”

He swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond. But you didn’t give him time to think. You reached out and placed your hand on his arm, the touch sending a shock of warmth through him.

As he looked into your eyes, the teasing, playful energy that once defined their interactions was gone. Now, there was only a quiet understanding, a deep yearning that neither of them could ignore any longer.

Orsen’s breath caught in his throat. His body was still, heart racing, as you gently cupped his face, your thumb brushing the faint line of his jaw. His hands hovered at his sides, unsure what to do, but every part of him screamed to hold you.

"You’ve been so quiet, Orsen," you whispered, your voice softer than he’d ever heard it before. "What’s on your mind?"

The question hung in the air, but before Orsen could form a response, his gaze flickered to your lips. His heart skipped a beat, and without thinking, he leaned in...you did too. The world around them seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you, standing in the middle of the garden.

And then, as if drawn together by some invisible force, your lips met.

The kiss was hesitant at first, tender and shy like two people testing the waters of something new and forbidden. But it didn’t take long for the hesitance to melt away. Orsen's hands found their way to your collar, pulling you closer as if he could feel you slipping away with each passing second. Your hands gripped his slender waist holding him firmly in place as you lost yourself in the feeling of his soft plump lips.

The kiss deepened, and Orsen felt the weight of everything he had been holding back, the feelings, the longing, the fear of losing you, all come crashing down in that single moment. He wanted to say so much, but all he could do was hold onto you as if his life depended on it.

Finally, when they broke apart, Orsen was breathless, his forehead resting against yours. He opened his eyes to find you gazing down at him, your face flushed and your chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

"I… I don’t know what to say," he murmured, his voice unsteady.

You smiled softly, running a finger across his jawline, as if reassuring him. "You don’t have to say anything."

But then, your expression shifted, and Orsen could see the uncertainty in your eyes. It was like a sudden weight had descended on you, something you couldn’t hold back any longer.

You pulled away slightly, looking away from him for the first time in their brief encounter.

"I have to tell you something," you said, your voice tinged with sadness. "I’ve been trying to avoid saying it, but you deserve to know."

Orsen’s heart clenched at the seriousness in your tone. "What is it? You’re scaring me."

You took a deep breath, your gaze returning to his. "I’m being...drafted into the army. I leave in two weeks for training."

Orsen's face drained of color. The words didn't fully sink in at first, but as they did, a chill ran through him. "What do you mean? You’re going away?"

"I have no choice," you said quietly, looking down at the ground. "I have to go. You know I always...wanted that and my mother wants it too. I passed the test. And will have to leave for...I don't know yet. Could be an...year."

The weight of her words hit him like a physical blow. He reached out instinctively, taking your hands in his, as if holding onto you could somehow change everything.

"But we just-" Orsen’s voice cracked. "We just… we just had a kiss. And now you’re leaving?"

You nodded, wiping the tear slipping down his cheek. "I never wanted this. I never wanted to hurt you. But I have no choice. This is what’s expected of me."

Orsen’s heart ached, but as he looked into your eyes, he knew there was nothing he could do to change it. The world was too big, too complicated, and he was just a rich boy who wasn’t allowed to have what he wanted.

He stepped back, releasing your hands, and turned his back to you. He couldn’t let you see the way his eyes were welling with tears.

He swallowed hard, struggling to keep his voice steady. "I didn’t even get to tell you, h-ow much I care about you. And now yo-u’re leaving."

You stepped closer again, gently touching his shoulder, your voice soft. "I care about you too, Orsen. But there’s nothing I can do. I’ll be back. I promise. It's not a big deal. Please...don't cry. I want to see you smile...before I leave...."

"But how long? What if we never-"

"We will," you whispered firmly. "When I come back, I’ll find you. We’ll figure this out, together."

Orsen turned to face you then, a smile weakly tugging at the corner of his lips despite the heaviness in his chest. "I’ll be waiting for you."

"I am doing this...for us. I---I have felt this way about you for very long...and I now know you did too. So... when I return," you said, your voice firm with conviction, "I’ll ask for your hand."

Orsen’s heart stopped for a second. The words you spoke were like a breath of fresh air in a world that had felt suffocating. But then, a cold, sinking feeling crept into his chest. He swallowed hard, his thoughts racing.

"I…" He shook his head, his voice faltering. "My mother… she’ll never allow it. I can’t-"

"Don’t worry about her," you cut him off gently. "When I return, we’ll figure it out. I’ll fight for us. I am not a coward. I won’t let anything stand in the way of what we have."

But Orsen’s mind was already racing, and despite the warmth your words brought, doubt gnawed at him. His mother, Isolde Elaris, a businesswoman, would never allow him to be with someone like you. She would never approve. And no matter how much he might want to be with you, he couldn’t ignore the reality of his world.

Still, as you gazed at him with such earnestness, he found himself nodding, almost against his will.

"I’ll be waiting for you, just like I said, promise. Be safe...for me...please (Y/N)...." Orsen whispered, his voice barely audible, but filled with all the hope he had left.

With that you pulled him into a warm embrace that seemed to melt all his worries, his hands gripping you like a lifeline.

1923

One year later...

You had returned.

A year of training had shaped you into someone different, not just physically, but in ways you couldn’t have imagined. At 17, you were a Junior Sergeant, a rank earned through sheer grit. You hadn’t just survived the grueling regimen; you had thrived in it. Yet, despite all that, none of it felt quite as important as the task ahead.

Convincing your mother had been no easy feat. It took more strength than any of your drills to get her to agree to accompany you today. But, in the end, she relented. She didn’t speak much as you both traveled, but the tension in the air was thick with her reservations.

You heard the standard protests from your parents.

"What if we get kicked out?!"

"There is no match between us and them."

"You’re saying she will marry her son only for him to live in the servant quarters of the manor?!"

"I just want to ask for his hand, not bring him here!" you snapped, your voice steady with the weight of your resolve. "Just an engagement, nothing more, until I’ve found my footing. My own house, where we can all live, where we’ll be happy."

Your words were filled with confidence that stemmed from the one thing that motivated you, the love you had for Orsen. It wasn’t about status, not about titles, or what others thought. It was about him. It was about making him happy, seeing him smile, and one day—maybe soon, building a family with him.

Your mother’s protests quieted as she looked at you, still skeptical but, perhaps, beginning to understand the depth of your determination.

"I will fight for him," you said softly, almost to yourself. "I’ll do whatever it takes."

Orsen’s breath hitched in his chest, his sweaty palm almost crushing his younger brother Rowan's. Both of them stood just outside the drawing room, where you and your mother were speaking with his parents. The air felt thick, heavy with the weight of what you had just said, and Orsen’s anxiety surged with each passing second of silence. He could barely comprehend it, you had said it. You had confessed your love, asking for his hand.

The silence was broken by a furious, sharp voice that made Orsen's heart drop into his stomach.

“ABSOLUTELY NOT! Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Isolde shot up from her seat, her eyes blazing with fury as she pointed an accusatory finger in your direction.

“YOU THINK YOU CAN COME HERE AND ASK FOR MY SON’S HAND, THE ONE WHOSE SINGLE SHOE COSTS MORE THAN YOUR ENTIRE QUARTERS?!” Her voice rang with disgust, the insult heavy in the air.

Orsen felt his knees threaten to give way. He had known his mother would react this way, hell, he had feared it. But hearing her say those words about you, about what you meant to him... It hurt more than he could have imagined.

"Love... love is not something that you weigh, Ms. Elaris." Your mother gripped your arm tightly as a warning, her fingers pressing into your skin as she tried to pull you away, her voice full of urgency. She muttered apologies under her breath, but you remained rooted to the spot, staring straight ahead. Isolde’s presence loomed closer, her fury palpable in the thick tension of the room.

"Oh really?" Isolde sneered, stepping forward with venom in her voice. "Well, your pathetic and nasty feelings towards my son WON'T KEEP HIM FED! IT WILL ONLY RUIN EVERYTHING ASSOCIATED WITH HIM, WHICH IS MY FUCKING NAME THAT I BUILT!"

Her words sliced through the air like a blade, but you stood your ground, not backing down, your voice steady despite the knot of anger rising in your throat. "You think I would have come here for something as trivial as commitment just to let him starve? We both love each other-"

"DON'T FUCKING SAY HIS NAME, YOU-" Isolde's face contorted with rage. Before you could even react, she struck you across the face, the sharp sting of her palm sending shockwaves through your head.

The sound of the smack echoed in the room, and it was all Orsen needed to hear. He couldn’t take it anymore.

"NO! MAMA! Don't hurt her!" His voice broke through the tension, desperate and raw. He dashed into the room, his eyes wide with panic and pain, his feet carrying him faster than his mind could catch up. The sight of you, standing there with a reddened cheek and your heart in turmoil, pushed him past his breaking point.

"Don’t you dare!" he cried out, trying to rush toward you, as his father stopped him.

Isolde turned to her husband, rage still boiling in her voice. "YOU LET THEM PLAY WHEN I TOLD YOU NOT TO!" she screamed. "See?! This is what it fucking results in!"

Orsen ignored her, his focus entirely on you, on the hurt she had caused, and the way it shattered him to see you suffer. He reached for you, but his father blocked his path, forcefully holding him back.

"NO! STOP!" Orsen sobbed, the sight of you being dragged away tearing him apart. His chest tightened, his heart breaking into a million pieces. All he could do was watch as his dreams of being with you, of having a future together, crumbled before him.

"At least think what your son wants! I promise to keep him happy even if it means working myself to death, just give me a chance Ms. Isolde! I'll be forever loyal to-"

Isolde’s voice rang out again, cruel and final. "I WON’T GIVE YOU MY SON IN A MILLION YEARS!" she spat. "Now go home. Pack your bags. GET FUCKING LOST FROM MY PROPERTY!"

The words struck like daggers, and Orsen could only stand there, his body wracked with sobs. The pain, the injustice, the helplessness, it all became too much. You were being dragged away, your love for him still so clear, and yet, everything was falling apart.

And as he watched you being forced from the manor, Orsen’s world seemed to collapse in on itself. He could feel every part of him breaking, every dream he had of a future with you slipping through his fingers like sand.....

Please be a nightmare...please be a nightmare.

Isolde stormed back into the manor, her fury still crackling in the air. "Lucan! Get him inside his room, and I don’t want to hear a single word about that pathetic woman! Neither the sobbing! You hear me?" She didn’t wait for an answer. Without another glance at her sons, she turned on her heel, the sound of her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she made her way toward her study, her anger still seething.

Lucan stood there for a moment, staring at the door his wife had slammed shut, the weight of his own helplessness pulling at his chest. He sighed heavily, then turned to Orsen, whose body trembled with the weight of everything that had just unfolded.

"Orsen..." Lucan’s voice was softer now, but laced with concern. He approached his son, his hand resting on his trembling shoulder. "My dear... calm yourself," he murmured, trying to comfort him as best he could. But it was clear that his own frustrations and regrets were too much for him to contain. "You really thought your mama would let this be? Why did you let yourself fall for her?" His tone was more accusatory than he realized, but it was clear that his anger wasn’t directed at his son, it was just a manifestation of his own disappointment.

Rowan, who had been silently watching the exchange, finally stepped forward. His small hands reached out for his brother, and with the innocence only a child could have, he whispered through his tears, "Orsen, please don’t be sad. I... I don’t like seeing you cry."

Lucan finally helped his son to his feet, though Orsen could barely stand on his own. The weight of his heartbreak was too much to bear, and he leaned heavily on his father, the pain in his chest threatening to crush him with every breath. Rowan followed close behind, his small hands trembling as they touched Orsen’s arm, trying to support him.

"I don’t... I can’t live without her," Orsen whispered, his voice barely audible, a tremble in every word. "Please... I’ll die... I’ll kill myself..." His words hung in the air, heavy with despair. And then, in a moment of overwhelming emotion, Orsen’s world faded to black, his body collapsing in his father’s arms as everything around him went silent.

── .✦

After you left, Orsen felt as though half of his soul had been ripped away, leaving him hollow and incomplete. Lucan had tried to convey this to his wife countless times, but Isolde was deaf to his pleas. She dismissed his concerns about their son with cold indifference, refusing to acknowledge the truth of what Orsen had become, a lovelorn boy consumed by grief. He withdrew from the world entirely, locking himself away in his room. Socializing, already a challenge for him, became impossible. And so, he painted. Over and over again, he painted you.

Each canvas bore your face, your smile, your essence. Every brushstroke was a desperate attempt to capture what he had lost. The paintings multiplied, filling his room with hauntingly beautiful reminders of a love he could no longer hold.

“This is getting out of hand!” Isolde’s shrill voice echoed through the manor as she stormed into the parlor. “I swear to God, if I see one more portrait of that bastard in my house-”

“STOP!” Lucan’s voice thundered, cutting through her tirade. “For God’s sake, Isolde, just stop! Can’t you see what you’ve done? My son, our son, has lost himself because of you! If only... if only you’d handled this with an ounce of discretion, with empathy! They were young and in love for God’s sake! She was young, and she did it, she came here, to us, and asked for his hand. What was her crime? Loving him? That’s not a sin!”

“Oh, it most certainly is!” Isolde snapped, her face flushed with fury. “She did commit a sin because how dare she even think she’s at par with us? How dare she believe she’s fit to be my daughter-in-law? She’s a nobody! And you-” she pointed an accusatory finger at Lucan, her voice trembling with rage, “you need to stop wallowing in pity with him and do your job as his father. Go up there and fix your son instead of standing here arguing with me, your wife! You failed to raise him properly! I want the best for him too! Do you think I’m his enemy?”

Lucan’s jaw tightened, his fists clenched at his sides, but before he could respond, Isolde pressed on, her tone sharp and resolute. “If you won’t act, then I will. I’ll find him a suitor. A proper one. Because clearly, you’re too busy sulking to see what’s best for him. There are plenty of well-established women, daughters of my partners--women who will treat him like the prince he is! Not like some charity case meant to be dragged down by a girl who doesn’t even belong in the same world as us.”

Lucan’s eyes burned with unshed tears, his voice breaking as he whispered, “And what do you think that will do to him, Isolde? You think parading someone else in front of him will make him forget her? You’ll break what little is left of him.”

But Isolde had already turned her back, dismissing his words with a wave of her hand as she walked toward the grand staircase. “You’ll see, Lucan. One day, he’ll thank me for saving him from her.”

However, Isolde’s plans always seemed to crumble before they even began. Every suitor she brought forward found her son either too meek, too detached, or, worse yet, eerily silent. He was almost ghost-like, his quietness mistaken for muteness by many. But it wasn’t silence, it was absence. Every fiber of Orsen’s being was consumed by you. His thin frame seemed weighed down by the memories he refused to let go of.

Because every part of his being was consumed by thoughts of you, his eyes replaying the memories, his hands yearning to be held by yours, his ears straining to hear your voice, his nose craving the faint trace of your scent, and his mind entirely consumed by you. His mind, utterly devoted to you, left no space for the present. How could he be anything but a shell of himself?

The embarrassment came soon enough. The rumors spread like wildfire after one particular incident---a disaster in Isolde’s eyes. Forced to interact with a suitor in private, Orsen, in his dazed and lovesick state, spoke only of you. Your name slipped from his lips like a prayer, every word dripping with longing and devotion. The suitor, bewildered and offended, left without a word. And that was it, Isolde’s perfect plan shattered yet again.

But the world outside was less forgiving.

A boy in love?

The son of Isolde Elaris in love?

And with a mere servant, no less? Tsk, tsk. So unruly...

No wonder he looks so wretched. Betrayed by a woman beneath him, perhaps?

Heard she’s in the army now. But poor as dirt, that explains why Isolde refused.

The whispers, the snide remarks, and the pitying glances reached Isolde’s ears, stoking her fury. But Orsen? He couldn’t care less about the rumors. Let them talk. Let them mock. None of it mattered to him.

His world had shrunk to the confines of his room, where his paintbrush brought you back to life in hues of longing and heartbreak. Your laughter echoed in the silent strokes of his art. Your touch lingered in every corner of his mind. Your memory was his solace and his torment.

He needed nothing else, just the faint traces of you that lingered in his heart. For him, they were enough.

"You destroyed your life for HER?! She isn’t coming back here, and neither am I ever going to accept her, so imprint that in your mind and fix yourself! Otherwise, we will be forced to move to another province."

SLAM!

The door rattled violently as Isolde stormed off, leaving the air thick with tension. All she ever did was talk, command, dictate, and talk some more. Orsen leaned his head back against the wall, letting out a dry, rueful chuckle. Her words barely scratched at the armor of his despair anymore.

"Does your mother always think she’s the empress of everything? Or does she just save that energy for me?"

He could still picture you folding your arms, feigning indignation while your eyes sparkled with mischief. Back then, you’d leaned closer, dropping your voice conspiratorially. "No offense, but I’m half-expecting her to declare a new tax just for looking at her wrong."

That teasing jab had made him laugh so hard he’d forgotten, for a moment, the weight of his world. He could still remember how your fingers used to drift into his hair without a thought, toying with the soft strands as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It always made his cheeks flush, though he never stopped you—he loved it, cherished every touch, every moment your attention lingered on him.

Now, his hands gripped the scissors, the metal glinting faintly under the dim light. His movements were sharp, almost desperate, as he cut through the alluring gold locks, yet there was an underlying tenderness to it, hesitant, like he was severing a connection to you. Gently, because you loved his hair. Aggressively, because he didn’t want anyone else to see it anymore. No suitors, no flattering remarks from his parents. No one deserved to notice him the way you had.

Even now, the memory of you was so vivid it felt like you were in the room with him. Almost. But not enough to fill the void you’d left behind. Nothing ever could.

Meanwhile, you, after being kicked out and shamed by Lady Elaris—were drowning in an unbearable mix of shame and guilt, especially in front of your parents, who were now homeless because of you and your foolish fantasy of being with her son. What were you thinking? Had you been so blind in your naive, reckless love that you lost sight of reality? Your parents should have been your first priority. Instead, you had risked their stability and comfort over a foolish dream.

Your heart broke the day your father had to sell his cherished marriage jewelry, pieces he had once treasured, because your single month’s salary, combined with your mother’s meager savings, wasn’t enough to afford even a modest one-room apartment. It was a moment that crushed you, made you see the depth of your mistakes, and yet, it also became the turning point.

At that moment, you made a promise. You vowed to repay them tenfold, no, a thousandfold, everything they had sacrificed because of you. That vow became your life’s focus, your unrelenting drive. There was no more room for silly infatuations, no place for childish fantasies. Only purpose.

1931

Over the years, countless letters were written by Orsen to you. Rowan, ever loyal, carried each one to the post office, just as he had done when they were boys. But you never wrote back. Not once. Each unanswered letter chipped away at Orsen's hope, leaving him to wrestle with the silence. In his heart, he could only fathom two reasons for your absence: either you had truly forgotten him, abandoned him, played with his heart, or you had simply given up on the dream.

Perhaps you kept the love a secret but he didn't. He kept it as an oath.

He thought it would be a love for the ages. But now, as the days turned into years, he realized he was the only one writing on…pages.

But why? No. No, you shouldn’t have. You promised to fight for him, didn’t you? You were the woman, you were supposed to fight for your love. He had fought for you, hadn’t he? So why didn’t you?

There were moments when resentment clawed at his heart, moments when he hated you for your silence. But his love always overcame it. A quiet voice within reminded him of the guilt and heartbreak he had seen in your eyes that last time, the moment you stood at the threshold of his home. No, he would tell himself, you didn’t betray me, did you?

And yet, the doubt lingered, cold and cruel. Was he really so...forgettable to you?

"BROTHER ORSEN! Orsen!" Rowan's voice trembled as he rushed inside his brother’s room, panic rising in his chest as he saw Orsen hunched over, lost in the sea of his own thoughts. He approached him gently, reaching out to steady him, but it was as if Orsen was made of glass, fragile and on the edge of shattering.

"I-... I did you hear the news...?" Rowan's voice quivered, unsure if he truly wanted to be the one to break this.

A slow, hesitant shake of Orsen's head was all Rowan received—what he had expected, but still, it hurt more than words could express.

"T-the... war is upon us... and..." Rowan’s voice faltered, breaking on the edge of that awful, cold truth. He didn’t need to say more. Orsen’s face went blank, his body slumping further, as if the weight of the world had just pressed him into the bed.

"War..." Orsen’s voice was barely a whisper. It wasn’t the war that had brought him to this point. It wasn’t the world outside that was destroying him. It was the war within, against the memories, the love, the haunting silence.

"Y-yes, brother. War, soldiers are being deployed to the western border... but don’t you worry, she’ll return, she’ll be fine-"

"But she won’t return to me..." Orsen’s words were choked, and Rowan felt his heart fracture as his brother's emerald eyes filled with unshed tears.

"No matter how many wars go by, Rowan..." Orsen’s voice quivered, his body shaking with the intensity of his pain, the weight of years of silence and waiting pressing down on him. "She won’t fight the war... for us. The one war that I was ready to die for."

Rowan’s heart ached, and he reached for Orsen immediately, his hand coming to rest gently over his brother’s lips as if to shield him from speaking the words that were tearing him apart. "Why do you always speak ill of yourself? It hurts me, Orsen. As much as I... support you and love you you need to stop destroying yourself over her."

Orsen’s hands trembled, and his voice broke as he whispered, almost desperately, "Rowan, my heart doesn’t stop! There’s always this voice... this voice that tells me she still feels something for me, that I still live in her heart, the same way mine beats for her. But it’s all I have left. The hope. The hope that she’ll come back... and maybe... maybe it will be enough."

Rowan's throat tightened, but he couldn’t speak, not with the agony in his brother’s voice. His own heart broke for him, but he couldn’t let Orsen sink deeper into the suffocating grief.

"Even if she returns..." Rowan’s voice faltered as he feared what the consequences would be. "Mother will-"

But Orsen cut him off, his voice low, almost too quiet to hear, "It won’t matter, Rowan. I’ve already lost her...I've lost...everything."

One year later...

After years of bloodshed and sacrifice, the town whispers of your return. At 25, you walk back into the place you once called home, no longer the wide-eyed girl who had left at 17, but a woman hardened by the brutal realities of war. Your uniform, now adorned with a sergeant's insignia, tells the story of your rise through the ranks, your resolve steeled by every battle fought and every friend lost. The air feels different, heavier, almost suffocating as you step through the town’s familiar streets, but your heart remains unyielding, barricaded from the past. Orsen’s letters are still tucked away, unopened, each one a reminder of a love you’ve forced yourself to forget. You’ve accepted it. You were never meant to be, and no amount of hope could change that now. The weight of those letters no longer tugs at you, not when you’ve fought and survived so much more.

Dear Orsen,

I know you’ve been waiting. I know you’ve sent me countless letters, filled with hope that I would somehow return to you, to the life we once dreamed of. But Orsen, I can’t. I’ve read every word you wrote, and yet I find myself unable to respond in the way you so desperately long for.

I wish things had been different. I wish I could turn back the clock and be the girl who ran away with you in her heart, the girl who believed love could conquer everything. But that girl no longer exists.

You were my first love, Orsen, and you will always hold a piece of my heart. But that piece is buried deep now, and I cannot let it resurface. You deserve more than the shadows of someone who cannot return your love. You deserve someone who can give you all the things I cannot.

Please, move on. I’ve had to. And though it breaks me to say this, I need you to as well. There are things we can’t undo, and I’ve learned that some battles are meant to be lost.

I wish you nothing but happiness, Orsen. Please find it, for both of us.

Yours,

(Y/N)

Orsen read the letter over and over again, the words blurring as his tears fell onto the paper. He could feel the weight of her words, the finality in them, but it didn’t matter. She was back. She had sent a response. That was all that mattered. He could still feel the flicker of hope inside him, despite the pain.

"See, Rowan?" Orsen's voice trembled, filled with a raw, desperate conviction. "She does care... she did come back! And she sent a response! After all these years, after everything..." His hands shook as he held the letter, his eyes wide with disbelief, as if the letter were some miraculous token of proof that his love had not been in vain.

Rowan stood still, watching his brother, his heart aching with the quiet sorrow that had always lived within Orsen. He had been there for all of it, the hopeless days, the constant painting, the letters, the belief that (Y/N) would return. But now, even with the letter in hand, he knew nothing would ever truly change for Orsen. The boy who loved her so deeply, so painfully, would never let go.

"Orsen-"

"I told you, Rowan!" Orsen interrupted, his eyes gleaming with an intensity that sent a chill down Rowan’s spine. He didn't even hear his brother’s voice, his focus solely on the canvas beneath him. He dashed to his desk, where he'd been working for hours, and pulled out the latest painting of her, his masterpiece.

He held the canvas in his arms like it was the most precious thing in the world. His hands, once trembling with uncertainty, now steadied as he placed a soft kiss onto the painting of her.

"I knew you would," he whispered into the stillness of the room, the words soft, almost a prayer. "I knew you would, (Y/N)... I knew you’d come back to me."

His lips brushed the painted figure as though it were real, as though he were holding her in his arms once more. He collapsed beside it, curling up against the canvas as though it were her embrace. The painting of (Y/N) became his only solace, his only love.

And though the letter told him to move on, to accept the impossible, Orsen couldn't. He wouldn't.

He would live in his world of painted memories, of moments stolen from time. If that was all he could have, then that was enough. His heart belonged to her, now and always.

Rowan sighed, a heavy, sorrowful breath, and sat beside his brother, not knowing how to save him from the pain that would never fade.

── .✦

The years had been kinder to you in some ways. You had finally earned the respect you'd dreamed of, built a stable life, and found a steady income. Your parents, once worried, once ashamed, were proud now. They had a bungalow, a car, and all the comforts that came with your hard work. Adrian was a good man, his steady smile and warm presence had become a source of quiet comfort. Your parents approved of him, and in public, he fit the role of what they had always envisioned for you.

You had met Adrian at one of the official functions after the war, an event meant to honor veterans and those who had served. He had approached you politely, a charming young man from a good family, well-educated, and well-spoken. It was easy to fall into a comfortable conversation with him. He was kind, and considerate, and seemed genuinely interested in your experiences, nothing too probing, nothing too personal, and a touch of flirty which you found attracted to. The connection had been easy, and effortless. Over time, he had become more of a presence in your life, someone to lean on, someone to rely on when the weight of the world felt too heavy.

But in the quiet moments, when you caught him smiling or when his gentle presence filled the room, you couldn't help but wonder what it would have been like if Orsen were here instead of him.

Had he listened to you? Had he chosen a different path? You had told him to move on, to find happiness elsewhere. But as you thought of him, still alone, still stubbornly clinging to something that had long since slipped away, you felt an overwhelming ache. You wondered if he was doing well if he had found peace, or if he was still trapped in the same loop of memories, the same quiet obsession that you had once shared.

The whispers that reached your ears spoke of his isolation. They called him a "spinster" in the most cruel terms, among their circle blaming him for wasting his life over a dream, for not letting go, and for refusing to welcome suitors. The town had forgotten the love he had once held for you, reduced it to mockery and judgment. And it stung more than you cared to admit. It wasn’t just the cruel words, they blamed him, not you. But you still felt the guilt gnaw at you. If only you could have done something differently. If only you hadn’t pushed him away if only you had stayed.

You wished things could have been different, so different. Sometimes, you would drive by the road that led to the Elaris estate, the place where it had all started, where it had all fallen apart. You grimaced each time, your mind filled with the memories of Isolde’s cold arrogance, her cruel insults hurled at your mother, the disdain that had torn everything apart. You would never forget the way she looked down on your family. Never forget the way her words had stung.

And yet, despite it all, the quiet moments still haunted you. Adrian was everything you had ever been told to want. He was good, stable, and kind. But whenever you saw that smile, whenever you felt his hand on yours, the image of Orsen would slip into your mind, and for a fleeting moment, you wondered, what if?

"Ready for the date, love?" you asked, a playful smile on your lips as you slid into the driver's seat of your sleek Packard coupe. Adrian hopped in beside you, his excitement palpable as he fastened his seatbelt. The polished chrome gleamed under the fading sunlight, reflecting your success.

"Ready as ever," Adrian grinned, leaning in for a quick peck before you revved the engine.

As you pulled out onto the road, Adrian’s eyes sparkled with energy. "Oh my God, baby! Look! An exhibition! We should totally go there!"

"But what about our reservation?"

"We can eat somewhere else," he said, his voice bubbling with excitement. "I'm in the mood to go there now! And it’s going to be fun!"

"As you say, doll," you laughed, making a sharp turn, and Adrian’s hand instinctively gripped your arm as the car glided smoothly along the streets.

The gallery was quiet when you both entered, the sound of hushed conversations echoing in the background. But as soon as you stepped through the door, you both stopped in your tracks.

Every single wall was covered in paintings. And what made your heart skip a beat, what made the air feel heavy, was that every single painting was of you. Each canvas captured a moment, an expression, an angle of you. The portraits were hauntingly familiar, your face, your eyes, your presence, all staring back at you in ways that felt too intimate, too familiar.

Adrian stood beside you, his mouth agape as his eyes darted between the paintings. "What the hell is this?" His voice trembled with confusion, but his gaze never left the artwork.

You didn’t respond, your heart pounding in your chest. The words caught in your throat as the reality of the situation sank in. How had this happened? Why had someone done this?

You felt the walls closing in, the weight of every portrait suffocating you. The paintings weren’t just of you, they were a testament to someone who had been watching, remembering, and never letting go. They were not just of your face, but in parts too but all those parts...made a story , the story you were all too familiar with.

The garden...

The swing...of you pushing a boy...you knew too well.

your eyes...

your lips nuzzling in golden hair...

you working in the garden but the painter drew it as they...were in some balcony...

Adrian looked at you, searching your face for an explanation. "Do you know who did this?"

You shook your head, your voice barely a whisper.

"Is this… is this really me?" you whispered, feeling a tremor in your voice.

Adrian stood beside you, studying the painting. He gave you a gentle nudge. “Of course, it’s you. Look at that, love. It’s beautiful. Who could capture you like that? It's like they’ve seen the real you.”

Your mind was however not registering his words as you turned your eyes to the next painting. Another portrait of you. And another.

The entire gallery was filled with paintings of you. Each one more personal than the last.

Your breath hitched. The familiar, almost painful pull of longing twisted in your chest. The artist, who could it be? Why was this happening? You didn't want to think it, but you knew deep down. You knew this was Orsen’s doing.

Adrian sensed your shift in mood, his brow furrowing in concern. “What’s going on? This... this doesn’t seem like you to be so quiet.”

You turned to him, the weight of the paintings and your tangled emotions making your heart ache. "It’s… it’s him. Orsen."

Adrian’s face softened in understanding, his eyes scanning the gallery around you. "I thought you'd told me you had moved on from him. That you had buried that part of your life."

“I did,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “I thought I had. But I didn’t expect this… to see him like this. To see him still... holding onto me."

Adrian studied you, his expression a mixture of concern and something softer, more understanding. He took your hand, gently guiding you towards the painting of you in the center of the room. “(Y/N), listen to me. This… this is what he’s been doing all this time. This is his heart, laid out on canvas. But you, you, need to follow yours now.”

Your heart raced as you turned to look at him. “I don’t know if I can,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “His mother… she ruined everything. I ruined everything.”

Adrian’s hand squeezed yours gently, and he looked you in the eyes, the sincerity in his expression unwavering. “But you’re not her, (Y/N). Don’t let her shadow stand in the way of what’s real. You feel it, don’t you? You feel that pull. The ache in your heart. You’ve never really let him go. He’s still there, inside you. Maybe it’s time to go to him. Maybe it’s time to follow your heart, before it’s too late. Be the woman you should be. For him."

You swallowed, the weight of his words sinking deep into your chest. Adrian’s eyes softened as he added, "Go to him, (Y/N). You owe it to yourself."

For a moment, you stood there, torn between the past and the future. But deep down, you knew what you had to do. Adrian was right. You had buried the love you shared with Orsen for too long, hidden behind walls of fear and shame. You couldn’t pretend anymore. The paintings were his way of reaching out to you, of showing you that he never stopped loving you, even when you were too proud or too afraid to admit it to yourself.

With a shaky breath, you turned to Adrian and smiled softly. “Thank you. I don’t know how to repay you.”

He smiled back, brushing a lock of hair from your face. “No need for that, love. Just be happy.”

After a comforting and final farewell with Adrian and dropping him you drove towards the Elaris estate. Your heart thudded in your chest, each beat louder than the last. You knew what was waiting for you. You knew that, despite all the years of pain and regret, Orsen was still out there, still holding onto you, waiting for you.

You didn’t know how you would face him, but you knew one thing for sure, you had to try.

When you arrived at the grand estate, it felt like stepping into the past. The familiar sight of the towering gates, the ivy-covered walls, all of it reminded you of everything you had left behind. Your hands trembled on the steering wheel, but you didn’t hesitate. You got out of the car and walked up to the grand doors, your heart heavy with the fear of what you might find.

Orsen’s mother answered the door, her face cold and dismissive as ever. “You’ve come back for more, have you? He’s upstairs, but don’t think this will end well.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to. She could fuck herself.

Taking the stairs two at a time, you arrived at his door. You hesitated for just a moment before knocking.

"Orsen?" you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and hope. “Orsen, it’s me.”

For a long moment, there was silence. But then, the door creaked open, and there he stood, your Orsen. His eyes widened in shock as he saw you, standing there on his doorstep after all these years.

“You came,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “I came, Orsen....I did..."

The years between you didn’t matter anymore. The world outside could’ve been falling apart, but in that moment, all that mattered was him. And you. Together, at last.

Orsen’s voice trembled as he spoke those words, his hands shaking as he reached for you, his face painted with disbelief. "I never stopped loving you. I never gave up on us."

You stood frozen for a moment, your heart hammering in your chest, and then, without another thought, you stepped forward. The distance that had kept you apart for so long seemed to vanish as he collapsed into your arms.

Orsen's breath hitched as you wrapped your arms tightly around you, You could feel his tears against your neck, the way his body trembled as he let out a sob, quiet at first, but then growing louder, more desperate.

"I thought you were lost to me forever," he whispered between gasps, his voice cracking with emotion. "I tho-ught--I thought you would never come back."

You ran your fingers through his hair, pressing your cheek against the top of his head as he cried. His sobs were broken, painful, as if years of longing and heartache were finally being released. It hurt to see him like this, but it also made you realize just how much you had missed him, how deeply he had always felt for you.

"I’m here," you whispered softly, your voice barely audible, but the words felt like a promise. "I’m here, Orsen. I never wanted to leave you. I was a coward--a fucking coward...a bastard. That's what I am."

Orsen pulled back just slightly to look at you, his tear-streaked face full of vulnerability. He reached up to touch your face, your jawline, his fingertips brushing gently over your cheeks as though he couldn't quite believe you were really there.

"You... you never stopped loving me?" His voice was raw, a mix of hope and doubt.

"I never did, never" you said, your own tears starting to slip free. "I just... I was afraid. Of everything."

He shook his head, a soft smile breaking through the tears, though it was a broken one. "Yo-u are not a coward....you are my everything...I-I feel as if I can breathe ag-ain (Y/N)...I love you..."

"Oh Orsen..." You pulled him to your arms again as you both now sat on the carpeted floor. " I love you too. Always. I am so sorry.."

You hugged him tighter, your body pressed against his as he continued to sob in your arms, his tears soaking into your clothes, but you didn’t care. You held him, the warmth of his embrace grounding you, making you realize that all the pain, all the time spent apart, didn’t matter anymore. You were here now, together.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself cry, the tears falling freely as the weight of everything you had been carrying finally lifted. His arms were around you, and he was holding you so tightly, as though he would never let go again.

And in that moment, it felt like the world had stopped turning. All that mattered was the two of you, your past, your fears, your love, all of it was there, unfolding in his arms. Orsen had always been your home, and now, finally, you were both back where you belonged.

It didn’t matter that the world outside remained uncertain, that Isolde still cast her shadow over Orsen’s name, or that the whispers of the past lingered like unwanted ghosts. When you finally stood together with Orsen, hand in hand, the rest of the world fell away. You had spent too long apart, too long in the agony of wondering “what if,” but now, there were no more questions. No more waiting.

As Orsen stood beside you, the man who had loved you for all these years, he seemed almost too perfect to be real. His emerald eyes, the same ones that had once searched for you in the distance, now held you in a steady, comforting gaze.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered to you as you exchanged vows, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought I was never going to feel your arms around me again, never hear you say my name.”

“You never lost me, Orsen,” you responded, your voice steady, but your heart thundering in your chest. "I was always here..."

And then, as if nothing else mattered, you sealed your promises to each other with a kiss that was as soft as the years you had spent apart, as fierce as the love you now shared.

The years of separation melted away in that one, perfect moment, and for the first time in a long while, the weight of your past was lighter. You had come back to each other, and that was all that truly mattered.

After the wedding, life settled into a quiet rhythm. You and Orsen moved into the bungalow. It wasn’t grand compared to where he came from, but it was nonetheless a heaven for him. Every room held a piece of you both, and slowly, you began to build a new life.

Orsen often found himself in the garden, his hands in the dirt, tending to the flowers that now bloomed as brightly as his heart. You would watch him from the kitchen window, leaning against the frame, a smile tugging at your lips as you admired the way he made everything seem so effortless. The way he painted in the garden. His laugh, when he caught sight of you watching, was soft and full of warmth.

At night, you would share simple dinners, just the two of you, with candles flickering in the dim light. Orsen would tell you stories of his of the times when he had been filled with hope and dreams, waiting for you to come back to him. You shared your own tales, of the war, of the triumphs and the losses, the people you met, and the battles you fought. And yes of course, talking about the memories of your childhood...the most cherished ones.

But the best moments, the ones you cherished the most, were the quiet ones. The evenings when Orsen would in your lap, his arm around your neck as he clung to you, as you both listened to the wind rustling through the trees, and the sound of crickets filling the air.

You never spoke of Isolde much. She remained a distant, bitter part of Orsen’s past. And while she still tried to cause trouble, trying to remind Orsen of what he “could have had,” you both knew that she no longer had a place in your life. She had lost him, and that was all that mattered. You had heard how she had suffered losses in her business and for Orsen and you, it seems like she was facing the consequences of her ego and stubbornness.

Sometimes, you would take walks through the town, just the two of you, your fingers intertwined, the sun setting in the distance. The people who had once whispered about your union now smiled, and you would catch the glint of admiration in their eyes. You had proven that love, even in the face of all odds, could survive.

One evening, as you both sat on the porch, the stars beginning to twinkle above, Orsen turned to you, his eyes soft and filled with a quiet happiness.

“Do you ever think about what could’ve been?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper.

You smiled and shook your head. “No. I think about now. I think about you and me. This. That’s enough for me.”

And Orsen, ever the poet, kissed you gently, his lips lingering on yours in a quiet promise that this love, this life, was all that mattered now.

The past was gone. The future was still unwritten, but you were both finally, truly together, and that was more than you had ever dared to dream.

In the warmth of each other’s arms, you knew, finally, that no matter what the world might throw your way, you had everything you needed. You had each other.

You did it. You fought for him...no, you both did, in fact you felt ashamed sometimes that it was Orsen who really did. He remained true to his word, his love.

Now none of the bitter past mattered. What mattered was that you two were now bound.

And that was enough.

── .✦

The sun had just begun to set, casting a warm golden glow over the bungalow, and the soft hum of evening filled the air. The days had stretched into years, and now, the soft patter of little feet echoed through the house.

The twins, Isla and Blair, were running around the garden, laughing as they chased each other between the rows of flowers that Orsen had lovingly tended. Isla’s bright curls bounced with each step, her fiery energy matching her mother’s, while Blair, a little more reserved, hid behind a bush before springing out with a playful shout. You couldn’t help but smile as you watched them, so full of life, so full of joy.

Orsen stood beside you, a proud smile on his face as he adjusted the collar of your shirt, though he couldn’t keep his eyes off the children for long.

"Think they'll ever slow down?" he asked, his voice warm, though laced with a hint of exhaustion.

You chuckled softly, resting your head on his shoulder. “Not as long as they have that energy. They're just like you at their age, honey."

"I was never that much trouble," Orsen said, feigning innocence, though his smile betrayed him.

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You want me to remind you about the treehouse incident?”

He laughed leaning back on your chest, the sound rich and full. "Alright, alright, maybe I was a bit much. But they’ve got your fire in them, that’s for sure. I see it every day. It’s like they’re part of both of us."

"You can say that again. Isla's already giving Rowan a run for his money with her mischief."

You then nuzzled the side of his soft and milky neck, feeling the warmth and peppered light kisses as he giggled. "And definitely got your streak of being a brat."

"Oh, shut up you..." His voice softened, looking up at you with a dreamy gaze. He cupped your jaw gently, his thumb brushing the line of your cheek as his eyes traced the lines of your face. "You know...this was my dream, and I would sacrifice everything a million times for this... for you."

You shook your head, smiling tenderly as you brought his soft hand to your lips. "You sacrificed enough. It's my time to do that." You kissed his forehead, feeling the heat of his skin and the quiet ache of love that swelled in your chest. He swore he melted right then and there, his heart swelling with emotion.

"I WANNA KISSHY TOO!" Isla’s voice broke the moment as she wobbled over, her little face scrunched with exaggerated impatience. You chuckled, easily scooping up your three-year-old daughter, her giggles filling the air as she flung her arms around your neck.

"Do you now?" You teased, smiling at her. "Then kisshies you get. And you too, little mister." With one swift motion, you scooped up Blair in your other arm, planting kisses all over both their little faces. Their giggles filled the space around you, a sweet symphony of innocence and love.

Orsen laughed softly, his eyes twinkling as he watched the scene unfold before him. The sight of you, his family, so full of life and laughter, was a dream he had never dared to speak aloud, one he was living every single day. He sighed in contentment, his heart swelling at the sight. It was everything he had hoped for and more.

All his art had come to life, and it was more beautiful than he could ever have imagined. Every brushstroke, every moment of uncertainty, had led to this, a home filled with love, with laughter, with a family bound by unspoken understanding, and, most importantly, by the love that had always been there.

© ak319. All rights reserved.

[the0doreslover]

Stuck forever by the... glue? | t.n x fem!reader

summary: you and theodore are quite literally “stuck together”

warnings: a few innuendos

a/n: so i’ve been MIA for a little while but i hope this 4k piece makes up for it 😬😬😬

‘just make it to friday’

‘just make it to friday’

‘just make it to friday’

These were the five simple words that played in your mind since the beginning of the week.

Maybe it was because your mother had been sending you a letter every day, reinforcing the importance of your success in any exam you are to partake in, or because your professors had seemed to be putting extra pressure on you at the moment, or maybe… just maybe it was because you were simply tired, that every day seemed to be getting harder.

Your friends weren’t much help, it wasn’t their fault, they just couldn’t understand the pressure you had been going through over the past few weeks. You had unintentionally pushed them away.

Friday morning at last.

You had a little while to kill before your first lesson of the day and had decided on sitting in the courtyard.

You were walking towards your usual seat behind the large oak tree when you noticed

a rather peculiar looking sketchbook in its place

You picked it up, and opened the first page, and there in the neatest writing was the words; Property Of Theodore Nott

Great.

You were just admiring the pattern on the front of the book when a hand on your wrist startled you.

Looking up, in all his glory was Theodore Nott.

You didn’t have a chance to fully clock him, when he snatched the book from your hands.

“Did you open the book?” he asked, seeming to be catching his breath

“What?”

“i said did you open the book?” he urged, louder this time.

“No… Nott i didn’t” you answered

“right… well your blouse is undone” he nodded towards your chest.

You gasped slightly pulling your fingers towards the buttons, you felt around for a second until he started laughing “i lied”

“why do you have to be such a dick” you groaned noticing he tried to change the subject away from his sketchbook

“i guess i was born that way” he shrugged, with a slight grin on his face “why do you have to be such a prat?”

“i guess i was born that way” you huffed before walking away from him

Seeing as you had only a few minutes before your lesson, you had decided on going a bit earlier.

Professor Flitwick's classroom was already half-full, the usual chatter filling the air as students settled into their seats.

After what felt like an eternity, Flitwick clapped his hands together, drawing everyone's attention. "Alright, today we're going to practice some partner work. Pair up and choose the most interesting charm you can think of, the winning pair will be free from the assignment i am giving out later”

You groaned inwardly. Partner work meant having to socialize, something you didn't feel up to after the morning's events. You stayed seated, hoping someone would approach you. Instead, you felt a presence next to your desk. Looking up, you saw Theodore standing there,

"I’ll partner with you” he said taking the seat next to you

You blinked in surprise. Maybe he was trying to sabotage you in revenge of the morning…. but seeing some of the other options for partners, he didn’t seem so bad

"fine"

The two of you moved to an empty corner of the classroom, while you grabbed a study guide to charms.

“We’re not using that” theodore laughed

“well unless you’re secretly a charms dictionary i’m not sure what you think we should use”

He reached into his bag and pulled out a thick grey book, labelled “A masters guide to charms”

“Sorry Nott i didn’t know you were a master” you mocked him bowing your head down

“yeah yeah funny” he rolled his eyes opening the first page to its contents

“how about this one?” you asked pointing to a picture of a beautiful ocean

“no way i don’t really want to drown today”

you glared at his reply

“let’s do this” he hummed

“no way, i’m not turning everything edible”

“boring” he sighed

“lets do this” “we’ll do this”

you both said at the same time pointing to a photo of a man appearing to be stuck to a tree.

After agreeing on the spell and practising it without wands for a little while, You decided you should try it out.

“i have a pencil and a sharpener. Try on them” you said pulling both out your pocket and placing them infront of him

Stepping back you watched theodore perform the spell.

one

two

three

“nothing happened?” you sighed

“i think i can see that myself” he grabbed the pencil and placed it closer to the sharpener

“let’s do it at the same time. That way it might be stronger” you suggested and picked your wand up.

“one” you looked at him to ensure he was doing it correctly

“two” he watched your hands to ensure you had placed your wand at the right point”

“Three!” Just as you both cast your charm, a sudden jolt sent your wands askew. You glanced up in surprise to see Fred and George Weasley barreling past.

"Watch it!" Theodore snapped, but it was too late.

The spell went haywire. You felt a strange pull on your hand and looked down to see your fingers stuck to Theodore's. His eyes widened as he tried to pull away, but your hands were firmly glued together.

"Fred! George!" you called after the twins, who had stopped and were now doubled over with laughter. "What did you do?"

"Nothing, love, it seems we just gave your charm a little nudge," Fred grinned, winking at you.

"we are very familiar with this charm" George added, chuckling.

"So you can fix this?" Theodore demanded, his usual cool demeanor slipping into frustration.

"Afraid not, mate. You'll have to wait it out," Fred said, still laughing. "The charm wears off in a 24 hours."

“Even if we performed it at the same time?” you asked

This seemed to make the twins laugh even harder

“let’s say an estimate of 48 hours then”

As the twins walked away, still laughing, you turned to Theodore. "This is your fault," you accused, trying to free your hand but only managing to make the bond tighter.

"My fault? You're the one who suggested we practice that spell," he shot back, though there was a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“You said it too!” you argued

“Okay stop pulling! it’s my hand too!” he said

"Well, now what?" you sighed, looking at your joined hands.

“we need to find Hermione"

Theodore sighed "why?"

“because she is literally smarter than you”

Navigating the crowded corridors of Hogwarts with your hand stuck to Theodore's was an exercise in patience.

Students cast curious glances your way, and whispers followed you down the halls. You kept your head down, focusing on getting to the Gryffindor common room as quickly as possible.

As you entered the common room, heads turned, and the chatter died down. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were sitting by the fireplace, deep in conversation. They looked up simultaneously, eyes widening at the sight of you and Theodore hand-in-hand.

"What in Merlin's name?" Ron blurted out, almost dropping the chess piece he was holding.

Hermione stood up, her brows knitting in confusion. "What’s happening?"

You cleared your throat. "We had a bit of a mishap in Charms. Fred and George decided to 'assist' our spell, and now we're stuck like this."

Harry snorted, trying to hide his laughter. "Of course it was Fred and George."

You felt your cheeks flush with embarrassment as Hermione approached, examining your joined hands. "Hmm, let me see," she muttered, pulling out her wand and waving it gently over your hands. "It's a strong charm. They must have amplified it somehow."

"Can you fix it?" you asked, desperation creeping into your voice.

Hermione bit her lip. "It might take a bit of time. This isn't a simple charm to reverse, especially if they boosted its strength. Let's sit down, and I'll see what I can do."

You and Theodore awkwardly made your way to a nearby table, still joined at the hand. Hermione began leafing through her Charms textbook, occasionally glancing up at your hands.

"Are you sure it wasn't intentional?" Harry teased, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Shut up, Potter," Theodore shot back, but there was no real malice in his voice.

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the heat rising in your face. "Can you please just help us, Hermione?"

"Alright, alright," she said, waving her hand to shush the boys. "I think I found something. It says here that a reversal spell should work, but it needs to be performed perfectly, or it could make things worse."

"Perfectly?" you echoed, feeling a pang of anxiety. "And if it goes wrong?"

"Well, we might end up with more than just your hands stuck together," Hermione admitted. "But don't worry, I've got this."

“Okay i’m ready… let’s do it” you breathed in

“Wait… i can’t do it now, i need some time to practise it. As i said, it could go very wrong of not performed perfectly”

you groaned and fell backwards onto the sofa.

Theodore glanced at the clock on the wall, then at you, his expression shifting to one of mild panic. "I have to cut our despair short. I have Quidditch practice now."

You blinked at him, still processing the absurdity of the situation. "Okay, go then."

He raised your joined hands, giving you a pointed look.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione burst into laughter. Ron clutched his side, gasping for breath. "Good luck at practice, mate!"

Harry smirked. "Maybe you can use the bonding time to strategize."

Theodore rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed. "Yeah it’s all fun and jokes now potter, but we have a match against you tomorrow."

Hermione cleared her throat, trying to stifle her giggles. "Alright, you two. I’ll need some time to figure this out. Why don’t you… well, make the best of it?"

You groaned again, feeling the weight of the situation. "Great. Just fantastic."

Theodore tugged gently at your joined hands, pulling you toward the door. "Come on, i don’t have all day."

As you approached the Slytherin locker room, you felt a sinking feeling in your stomach. Theodore seemed to sense your apprehension.

"I need to get changed," he said leading you into the locker room. The room was empty, the rest of the team already on the pitch.

You looked around, feeling incredibly awkward. "Um, how are we going to do this?"

Theodore glanced at his Quidditch uniform hanging on a nearby hook, then back at you. "We'll have to cut the sleeve of my uniform."

You stared at him, unsure if he was serious. "Cut the sleeve? Are you sure?"

He nodded, his expression resigned. "It's the only way. Unless you have a better idea?"

You shook your head, feeling a bit guilty. "No, I guess not. Do you have scissors?"

Theodore rummaged through his locker, producing a pair of small, sharp scissors. He handed them to you, and you took a deep breath, trying to steady your hands.

"Alright, hold still," you instructed, carefully cutting through the fabric of his shirt sleeve. The sound of the scissors slicing through the material was oddly loud in the quiet locker room.

Theodore watched you, his expression unreadable, but you could feel his gaze burning into you. His breath hitched slightly as you drew closer to his skin, "You're surprisingly good at this," he said

You glanced up at him, surprised. "Really? I feel like I'm ruining your shirt."

He shrugged, "It's just a shirt. Besides, you can sew it back together later, right?"

You smiled, feeling a bit more at ease. "Yeah, I can do that. Don't worry, I'll fix it."

With the sleeve cut, Theodore carefully slid his arm out of the shirt, keeping your joined hands steady. He then reached for his Quidditch uniform

"Now for the hard part," he said, looking at the uniform's sleeve.

You repeated the process, cutting the sleeve of the uniform with as much precision as you could muster. The fabric was tougher, but you managed to make a clean cut. Theodore slipped into the uniform, and you couldn't help but admire how the green and silver suited him. His muscles flexed under the tight fabric, and for a moment, you found it hard to look away.

He smirked teasingly "stop checking me out."

You rolled your eyes, your face flushing. "you’re insufferable… i’m trying to make sure the sleeve fits right," you retorted.

The reality of your situation hit you again as you exited the locker room, your hands still firmly stuck together. Navigating the hallways and the field together was awkward, to say the least.

As you approached the Quidditch pitch, the rest of the Slytherin team was already in mid-practice, flying through the air, tossing Quaffles, and practicing their Beater drills.

The sight of you and Theodore hand-in-hand drew immediate attention.

Draco was the first to approach, a sly grin on his face. "whats happening here?" he laughed, "Nott, I didn't know you needed a babysitter for practice."

Theodore shot his friend a warning look. "Shut up, Draco."

Draco chuckled, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “i thought you guys hated each other? when did you make it official?” he laughed louder this time

"You are the only one laughing" theodore said chuckling at him

“i feel sorry for you” draco said towards you “anyway, let’s continue with practise”

You did your best to stay out of the way,

draco had allowed you and theo to simply sit in the stands while someone threw a bludger at him to try and hit.

he clearly didn’t try hard enough as you got hit in your head twice.

A few of the players couldn't resist taking jabs at you and Theodore as they ran past.

"Hey, Nott, maybe she can be our good luck charm!" one of them called out, laughing.

"Or a distraction for the other team!" another added, snickering.

You clenched your jaw, trying to ignore the comments.

“they’re all stupid” theodore would say

Finally, one player took it too far.

"Hey, Nott, why don't you just sleep with her already? Maybe that'll break the spell!"

Theodore stopped dead in his tracks, his face flushing with anger. "That's enough!"

a few members of the team fell silent, taken aback by his outburst. The player who made the remark, Marcus Flint, sneered. "What's the matter, Nott? Can't take a joke?"

Theodore scoffed. "Shut up you tosser, yes, she is a girl, but she didn’t ask to be surrounded by you idiots, so the least you can do is respect her"

You could feel the tension radiating off him, and it was clear that his patience had reached its limit. Flint opened his mouth to retort, but before he could say anything, you stepped forward.

"It’s okay," you said, "We didn't ask for this to happen, but we're dealing with it. So if you're done acting like children, maybe you can focus on your practise."

"Alright, enough," Draco said, his tone firm. "let’s end here today yeah, let’s just hope today was enough to get us our win tomorrow”

As the Quidditch practice ended, the players dispersed, heading towards the locker room.

"I can't go in there," you said, tugging on Theodore's hand to stop him from entering. "I don't want to see anyone...you know, changing."

Theodore paused "Fine, we'll wait out here until they're done."

You both sat on the bench outside the locker room, Silence hung heavily between you, neither of you wanting to break it. Finally, Theodore spoke.

“you should of punched flint, no one would’ve of said anything”

“well, i’m not one to start fights, that would make me reckless” you sighed

Theodore’s smirk widened. “well you did suggest we do this spell” he lifted up your hands “together, that’s pretty reckless.”

“Oh, please,” you retorted, turning to face him. “Like you didn’t push for it too. That ‘I’m a master of charms’ act? Such a joke.”

Theodore’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned in slightly. “well you’re always whining about how hard life is. If you’re so tired, maybe you should’ve stayed in bed instead of trying to impress everyone.”

“Impress everyone?” you shot back, your faces inches apart. “Nice try, but your house is all about being superior, right?”

“Well, if we’re talking about superiority,” Theodore said, his breath warm against your face, “maybe you should look at your own house, the loudest bunch of show-offs.”

“Loud?” you challenged, your fingers brushing against his arm. “At least we’re not sneaky and backstabbing. I’d rather be loud than be a two-faced snake.”

Theodore’s eyes flashed. “Better sneaky than a blabbering idiot. At least I don’t go around pretending to be perfect.”

“Perfect?” you scoffed, leaning in so close that your lips nearly brushed his. “You think you’re so high and mighty. Well, you’re not.”

“Yeah?” Theodore’s voice dropped to a low murmur as he leaned even closer. “Maybe I’m just tired of you acting like you’ve got it all together.”

“You mean like you’re tired of being a pompous jerk?” you spat, “I’m tired of your attitude.”

Your faces were so close now. Just as it seemed like something might actually happen, Theodore suddenly pulled back.

“Honestly, can’t we just have one conversation without it turning into a drama?” Theodore said, crossing his arms and turning slightly away from you.

“Oh, so now you’re the expert on handling disagreements?” you retorted,

“Well, you’re not exactly making it easy to like you,” Theodore snapped, turning towards you for the tenth time. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re a complete—” you began, but your words were cut off as Theodore’s lips almost touched yours again.

you both sat back

“Let’s just get this charm sorted and go our separate ways.”

You nodded, your jaw clenched.

“your blouse is open” he said staring at the pitch

“yeah nice try”

“i’m not joking” he urged

you discreetly looked down to see that your two buttons were, in fact undone.

you slowly dragged your hand towards your top, pulling theodore’s hand with it.

Your fingers failed to do the button with his hand in the way.

“Nott, please flatten your hand” you said lowly

he cleared his throat “if i flatten it… it would be on your chest”

you breathed out and closed your eyes slowly, before flattening his hand yourself.

Theodore shifted, his hand still pressed awkwardly against your chest. His eyes met yours, and for a brief, unsettling moment, the anger seemed to dissolve into something else.

“You’re such a...” Theodore started

“Don’t start,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You make me feel... things I don’t want to deal with.”

After visiting Hermione, who delivered the disappointing news that you and Theodore might be stuck like this for another day, the reality of the situation set in. The idea of spending an entire night with your hands stuck to Theodore's was less than appealing.

After agreeing on it, you both reluctantly made your way to the Astronomy tower. The tension was high, and you could feel every small touch between you—whether it was Theodore adjusting his position or the slight bump of your hands against each other.

“I guess we should figure out where we’re going to sleep,” Theodore said

“Right,” you replied, trying to sound collected despite the discomfort. “Do you have any suggestions?”

Theodore shrugged, glancing around the tower as if searching for an escape route. “We could just sit here until morning?”

You sighed, feeling the exhaustion of the day catch up with you. “Fine. Just... let’s try to make this as bearable as possible.”

You both found a quiet corner of the tower and made yourselves as comfortable as you could, given the circumstances.

“So,” Theodore began after a moment of silence, “since we’re stuck together, we might as well talk.”

“Talk?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “What could we possibly have to talk about?”

“Plenty,” Theodore said with a shrug. “We’ve been arguing nonstop. Maybe it’s time we actually had a proper conversation.”

You considered this for a moment. “Alright, fine. What do you want to talk about?”

“Let’s start with why you always act like the world is out to get you,” Theodore said, leaning back against the wall.

You stared at him, taken aback by the question. “What makes you think I act that way?”

“You always seem so stressed and ready to snap,” Theodore explained. “It’s like you’ve got this cloud hanging over you.”

“maybe i do”

A brief silence followed, during which you both seemed to be lost in thought.

“So,” Theodore said, breaking the silence, “what annoys you the most about me”

You laughed slightly. “Your carelessness.”

Theodore chuckled softly. “i care about a lot of things actually”

“yeah? like what”

he stared at you in a comfortable silence, leaving that question unanswered

You smiled faintly

As the evening wore on, you both found it increasingly difficult to ignore the closeness of your situation. The moonlight made even the smallest touches feel more significant.

Eventually, you both fell asleep, leaning against each other for support.

You rubbed your eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. “Oh, this is just perfect,” you groaned, pushing yourself up and realizing just how tangled up you were. “We need to get to our dormitories and change. It’s almost time for the Quidditch match.”

You glanced around the tower, feeling the urgency of the situation. Theodore sat up, still a bit dazed, and ran a hand through his messy hair. “Then we need to find hermione”

You both maneuvered to stand up, your hands still firmly attached. It was a delicate balance, trying not to trip over each other as you made your way out of the Astronomy Tower.

The corridors of Hogwarts were quieter at this hour, but you still drew curious glances from early-rising students who whispered and pointed as you and Theodore hurried by.

Once you got to your dorm you instructed theo to turn around while you changed.

after you had gotten ready you both sprinted to the locker room and sighed in relief at hermione waiting there you.

You both lifted your hands infront of her ready to be freed

“i can’t perform the spell”

“what?”

“it’s too dangerous, i even consulted with mcgonagall, she said that we will just have to wait it out”

You sighed, feeling frustration “It’s okay, Hermione. Thank you for trying.”

Hermione gave you both a sympathetic smile. “I’ll head to the stands and watch the match. Good luck”

As Hermione walked away, you turned to Theodore, “I’m really sorry about this, Theo. I know how much this match means to you.”

He looked at you, his eyes softening. “It’s okay. We’ll have to try and manage.”

The tension between you seemed to dissolve slightly as you both stood there

The Quidditch match was about to start, and with the stands starting to fill up, you found yourselves standing closer than you had all day. The space between you seemed to shrink and In a moment of impulsive decision, Theodore leaned in, and before either of you could second-guess, your lips met his.

When the kiss ended, you pulled back slightly, feeling a rush of warmth spread through you. You noticed, with a jolt, that Theodore’s hands were now resting comfortably on your waist. The realization hit you, and you looked at him in surprise. “Theo… your hands are on my waist.”

Theodore blinked, confusion crossing his face, before it dawned on him. “Wait—” he started, looking at your hands which were now free.

You both stared at each other, “I guess we really did have to kiss to break the spell,” you joked with a light laugh.

Theodore chuckled and a genuine smile lit up his face. “I suppose so.”

“Well,” Theodore said, “I’d better get changed before the match starts. I’m sure the team’s been waiting for me.”

“yeah” you said, smiling slightly. “good luck.”

he quickly leaned forward to kiss you one last time before fake saluting you with a smile on his face and turning towards the locker room.

“wait theodore”

he turned around

“your buttons undone” you pointed to his trousers

[valsverse]

‎‎‎‎‎‎⠀⠀(୨୧) STOLEN KISSES AND POMEGRANATE SEEDS⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀. .⠀PAIRING ⠀⟡⠀ percy jackson x child of aphrodite!reader

﹙💌﹚ in which ：as a child of aphrodite, you have a liking for things that are red. roses, pomegranates, percy jackson's lips- wait, what?⠀ ── ⠀ 645⠀requested

THE DROWSY SUMMER SUN bled through the leafy canopy of the oak tree where you and percy sprawled at a weathered picnic table. half-sliced pomegranates littered the space between you, their seeds like tiny rubies glinting in the light, the crimson juice trickling down the oak’s surface, painting it in delicate, sinuous lines of red.

percy moved with practiced ease, his pocket knife flashing as he worked, methodically picking out the seeds for you to savor. slice, halve, pick. slice, halve, pick. you stole glances at him from the corner of your eye, captivated by the way the sunlight played in his dark hair, how his laughter lines carved deeper when he smiled, how his focus sharpened as if each seed were a treasure meant only for you. his hands were steady, deliberate, as he plucked each seed and let it fall into the porcelain, gold-rimmed bowl from which you ate.

breaking from your trance, you nudged him lightly with your elbow. “you know aphrodite was the first to plant pomegranates, right? you ought to thank her later,” you teased, a sly smile tugging at your lips.

percy looked up, his brows arching in exaggerated surprise. “oh? is that right?” he asked, his chin resting on his hand as his knife paused mid-air. his eyes, a stormy sea green speckled with flecks of gold, met yours with an unsettling calm that sent a flutter through your chest—a flutter that had been growing more insistent lately, as if it had a mind of its own. almost annoying.

“of course it is! are you implying otherwise?” you shot back, crossing your arms. you knew he wasn’t, but you seized onto the distraction, anything to escape the warmth growing in your chest.

percy’s smile only curled with a lazy grace as he toyed with the pomegranate seed he picked earlier, his fingers moving idly as his gaze remained fixed on you. he shook his head with an air of dreamy nonchalance, offering no reply, only a sigh that seemed to drift on the air.

“are you even listening?” you teased, laughter laced through your words as you reached out to snatch the seed from his hand. the seed’s cool, slick surface was a stark contrast to the warmth that spread through your fingertips as they brushed against his. percy arched an eyebrow, a mock offense flickering in his eyes, but let you take it, his touch lingering just long enough to send a shiver down your spine. as the tart sweetness of the pomegranate seed burst on your tongue, you caught the glimmer of something in percy’s eyes—an expression that shifted from surprise to delight. his laugh followed, rich and warm, a melody you'd memorized long ago. “what is it?” you asked, pausing mid-chew, the seed still resting on your tongue as curiosity knit your brows together. “what’s so funny?”

"nothing," percy said, his voice thick with amusement as he tried to catch his breath. "it’s just…" he trailed off, his gaze softening as he leaned in, closing the distance between you. "you’ve got a little something…"

before you could react, he tilted his head and swiped his tongue over the crimson stain of pomegranate juice that had pooled at the corner of your mouth with a deliberate slowness, the touch of his lips sending a shock of warmth through you. and then, as if pulled by a force neither of you could resist, he deepened the kiss, the sharp tang of pomegranate mingling with the heat of his breath, the world narrowing to just this—just him.

his hand cradled your cheek as he finally drew back, his breath still hot against your skin. “there, that's better.” he murmured, a soft smile ghosting across his lips as he held up the pomegranate seed you’d claimed earlier, rolling it between his fingers. “you’re right. i really should thank aphrodite later.”

©valsverse— do not steal, edit, or repost my works. plagiarism is prohibited.

[sweetheartsofpanem]

Mint and Memory - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

not me actually doing research for this series, i literally learned sm about medicinal herbs just so i could be accurate😭 sobbing and throwing up a lil bit from the ending bc i’ve put so much of my own feelings and experiences into Y/N

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 3.72k

series masterlist | main masterlist

The woods are quieter than usual today, like the breeze decided to hold its breath.

You follow just behind Katniss, watching the way she moves through the trees like she was born for it—sure-footed, quiet, eyes always scanning. The sunlight filters through the leaves, warm on your arms as you trail after her, basket in hand.

She crouches beside a patch of green near the base of an old oak. “Peppermint,” she says, running her fingers gently over the leaves. “It helps with pain and headaches. You crush it to release the oil.”

You nod, crouching beside her and mimicking the motion. “It smells… clean.”

Katniss glances at you. “You’ll get used to identifying it by scent. There’s a difference between this and spearmint. Subtle, but it matters.”

She plucks a few leaves and drops them into the basket you’re carrying. You’ve done this together enough now that there’s a rhythm—she identifies, explains, harvests, and you listen, ask questions when you’re brave enough, carry the basket like it’s a small price for her time.

“You remember what this one is?” she asks, tapping a short plant with pale purple flowers.

You frown, reaching down to brush the leaves between your fingers. “Lamb’s ear?”

She nods. “Good for wounds. Stops bleeding and helps fight infection.”

You smile faintly. “The fuzzy one. I remember because it feels like touching a cloud.”

Katniss actually cracks a smile at that. “That’s what my dad used to say.”

The mention of her father hangs in the air for a moment—soft, reverent—but she doesn’t seem to pull away from it. If anything, she seems a little more open out here, in the woods where she probably feels him most.

You walk in silence for a few minutes, stopping occasionally to harvest more herbs. You point out burdock by a streambed, and Katniss raises an eyebrow, impressed. “Not bad.”

“I’m learning from the best,” you say, only a little sarcastic.

She snorts. “Try saying that when you’ve got poison ivy in your socks.”

“I’ll just blame you,” you quip.

She gives you a look, dry and amused. “Then I’ll tell Haymitch you almost cried when you were talking to Peeta about the shoulder incident.”

You gasp in mock horror. “You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would.”

You shake your head, but your grin doesn’t fade. There’s something about being out here, with her, that makes things feel easier—more grounded. Like the worst parts of the world can’t quite touch you in the dappled sunlight and the smell of crushed leaves.

Katniss stops at the base of a slope and crouches beside another plant, long-stemmed with narrow leaves. “Yarrow,” she murmurs. “Another one for wounds.”

You nod, committing the name to memory. “You ever think you missed your calling as an apothecary?”

She shrugs. “If things had been different… maybe.”

You don’t say it, but you think she would’ve been good at it. She’s precise, thoughtful, always watching. The kind of person who doesn’t say much unless she means it. You trust her, even when you don’t know how to trust yourself.

Your thoughts drift to the familiar ache on your upper thighs. It’s been worse today, lingering and dull beneath the surface, tugging at your attention.

You shift your weight. “Hey… is there anything that helps with old scars aching?”

Katniss glances up at you, her eyes catching on your wrists for a second. “Scars?”

You nod. “The scars on my thighs. Some days, they just… hurt. I think it’s because they’re worse.”

She studies you for a moment, then nods. “Mint oil helps. Especially when you mix it into a balm. I can show you how.”

You blink. “Really?”

She stands, dusting off her hands. “We’ve got most of what we need already. Come on—we’ll get the rest and make it back before the heat really sets in.”

Katniss doesn’t say much as you walk, but she doesn’t need to. Her presence alone feels steadying—like being tethered to solid ground. You fall into step beside her, the basket swinging between you, filled with mint, yarrow, lamb’s ear, and a few other herbs you’ve learned to recognize by name and scent.

She points out a low-growing plant with small, round leaves. “Plantain,” she says. “Good for inflammation. We’ll use it in the base.”

You crouch to gather some, mimicking her careful fingers. “Do you just… know all of this? Like, from memory?”

“Mostly,” she says. “Some from books. But mostly from my dad.”

There’s that quiet again. Not uncomfortable, just thoughtful. You glance at her as you stand.

“I remember when he overheard my mom screaming at me once, made him promise not to tell my dad and he said he wouldn’t as long as I came to your house if it got too bad.”

You never did go to her house on the days it was worse, too scared to admit that your own mother believed you were worth nothing.

She nods, smiling softly. “He was good like that.”

You don’t say more. The weight of shared grief doesn’t need to be spoken. You both understand what it is to miss someone who made the world feel a little safer.

By the time you return to her house, the sun is higher and the air heavier. Katniss leads you into the kitchen and nods toward the sink. “Wash everything. Gently. I’ll get the supplies.”

You do as you’re told, scrubbing your hands first, then rinsing the herbs under cool water. The smell of mint hits you hard—clean and sharp, like a breath of fresh air in a stuffy room.

Katniss moves efficiently around the kitchen, pulling jars from shelves, a small pot from a cabinet, beeswax and olive oil from a basket. She doesn’t explain at first, but you don’t mind. Watching her move is its own kind of lesson.

“Here,” she says, passing you a clean towel. “Pat everything dry. We don’t want water in the balm.”

You nod, following her lead. She grates a bit of beeswax into the pot and adds oil, setting it on the stove at the lowest heat.

“When it melts, we’ll add the herbs. Let it steep.”

You blink at her. “You make this sound way too easy.”

She smirks. “It’s not hard. Just takes patience. And not setting things on fire.”

You glance at the stove with mock suspicion. “No promises.”

Katniss snorts, then gestures for you to join her. Together, you add the mint and plantain to the melted mixture, stirring slowly. The smell rises almost instantly—cool, earthy, calming.

You watch the mixture swirl in the pot. “Feels weird making something like this. Like I’m doing something good for myself.”

Katniss shrugs. “You are.”

You nod slowly, swallowing the lump that rises in your throat. “Feels… selfish, sometimes.”

Her gaze flicks toward you, sharp but not harsh. “It’s not.”

You nod again. “I know. Just… hard to undo that kind of thinking.”

Katniss says nothing for a moment, just stirs. Then she murmurs, “That kind of thinking usually isn’t yours to begin with. Someone put it there.”

You glance at her, surprised by how closely her words hit the mark.

But again, she doesn’t push. Just waits until the mixture darkens and the herbs have given everything they can, then strains it into a small jar to cool.

“Try it tonight,” she says. “Rub it into the scars. Should ease the ache.”

You study the jar before glancing over at her. “Thanks.”

She shrugs. “You helped make it.”

You offer a small smile. “Still. You didn’t have to.”

The balm cools on the counter, its soft, pale green surface gleaming under the kitchen light. You and Katniss leave it there while she heats water for tea, and you both settle at the table. There’s something easy in the air now, like the stillness after rain.

Peeta arrives first, his boots scuffing the porch before the door creaks open.

“Smells good in here,” he says, brushing dirt off his hands as he walks in. “Mint?”

“Homemade balm,” Katniss says without looking up. “For her scars.”

Peeta’s eyes flick to you, gentle and curious. “They hurting again?”

You nod, but it doesn’t feel as vulnerable saying it this time. “A little. It’s worse when the weather shifts.”

“Didn’t know you were getting into medicine now,” he says, nudging your shoulder lightly as he passes to grab a cup. “You’re gonna put me out of a job.”

You snort. “Pretty sure baking and balm-making are two separate industries.”

Peeta shrugs. “Still. You’re on thin ice.”

Katniss rolls her eyes. “You’ll live.”

You sip the tea Katniss slides in front of you, watching the way they bicker softly, the way the edges of your own defenses seem to dissolve in this space. It’s strange—how comfortable it’s starting to feel. How much you’ve grown to rely on these moments, even if you still doubt them on bad days.

The door creaks open again.

“God,” Haymitch calls from the doorway. “The smell in here’s like a damn apothecary and a bakery got in a fight.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Peeta calls back without turning around.

Haymitch steps into the kitchen, flask already in hand, and eyes the jar on the counter. “What’s this? Secret potion? Love spell? Poison?”

“Balm,” Katniss says flatly.

“For her,” Peeta adds, nodding toward you.

Haymitch squints. “You’ve gone fully domestic, haven’t you?”

You sip your tea innocently. “Just wait ‘til I start knitting.”

“I’ll burn the place down,” Haymitch mutters, sliding into the chair next to you.

Katniss raises an eyebrow. “Thought you were all about chaos.”

“Chaos, sure,” he says, “but not decorative yarn chaos.”

You laugh under your breath, and Peeta sets down a small bowl of berries from the garden—strawberries, blackberries, and a few wild ones you can’t name.

“Thought these might go well with the tea,” he says, sliding them to the center of the table.

“Perfect,” Katniss murmurs, already reaching for one.

You follow suit, plucking a particularly ripe-looking strawberry and popping it into your mouth. The sweetness hits instantly, and you hum in approval.

Haymitch watches the exchange with a smirk. “You two having another one of your bonding tea parties?”

“Jealous?” you shoot back, licking a bit of juice from your thumb.

“Deeply,” he deadpans.

Peeta chuckles and leans back in his chair, brushing a smear of dirt from his shirt. “I think he’s just upset you don’t invite him to herb lessons.”

Haymitch scoffs. “Yeah, no. I don’t care about flowers and leaves.”

You snort, picking out another berry. “You know, you say that, but I bet you’d actually love it. Bet you’ve got a soft spot for chamomile.”

Haymitch raises his flask slightly in mock salute. “Only if it’s steeped in something stronger.”

“Does everything have to be alcohol with you?” Katniss mutters, though there’s no real heat behind it.

“It’s a hobby,” he says, then glances at you. “Like your sudden obsession with plants. You start naming weeds in your sleep yet?”

You shrug. “Only the deadly ones.”

“That’s my girl,” Haymitch grins.

The words settle strangely in your chest—unexpectedly warm. Your gaze flickers to him, but he’s already stealing a berry from the bowl, his face the picture of innocence.

Katniss watches the exchange silently, something unreadable in her expression. She doesn’t say anything, just shifts slightly to rest her elbow on the table, chin in her hand.

“I still can’t get over using mint for the balm,” you say, turning back to her. “I thought it was just for tea.”

“It’s one of the best herbs for soothing inflammation,” she says. “My dad used it for burns and joint aches. I figured it couldn’t hurt to try.”

Haymitch squints at you. “Wait, is that what you two were doing earlier? Frolicking through the woods like little apothecaries?”

Katniss doesn’t even blink. “Yes. We frolicked.”

“Braided each other’s hair too, I bet.”

“Peeta braided mine once,” you offer with a grin.

“That was one time,” Peeta says, hands raised. “And you asked.”

“You did a good job,” you say sweetly, turning to Katniss. “He’s got gentle hands.”

Katniss snorts into her tea. “That’s the nicest insult I’ve ever heard.”

Peeta only rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

You lean back in your chair, letting the chatter fade around you for a moment. It’s easy here—too easy, some quiet part of your brain whispers. The kind of easy that makes you nervous. Like the second you stop guarding it, it’ll slip away.

You shake the thought loose.

“Alright,” you say, grabbing another berry. “Who wants to learn the difference between yarrow and poison hemlock?”

Haymitch makes a face. “Why the hell would I want to know that?”

You pop the berry into your mouth. “So you don’t die, for starters.”

Katniss nods sagely. “Important life skill.”

Peeta nudges the bowl toward Haymitch. “We’ll make you a study guide.”

“Make me a drink instead.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s already your solution to everything.”

“Exactly. Why fix what’s not broken?”

“Fine,” you say, leaning your elbows on the table. “But if you keel over from picking the wrong plant, I’m not carrying you home.”

“Good,” Haymitch mutters.

Peeta chuckles. “We’ll just wheel him back in the wheelbarrow.”

Haymitch lifts an eyebrow at you. “See what you’ve done? Got the boy thinking he’s funny.”

“I’ve always been funny,” Peeta argues lightly, wiping his hands on a cloth.

Katniss tilts her head. “In a very polite, bakery-adjacent way.”

Peeta gasps, mock offended. “I take that as the highest compliment.”

You shake your head, laughter bubbling in your chest before you can stop it.

Katniss stands and stretches, her arms arching overhead as she steps out into the small patch of sunlight spilling through the open kitchen window. “I need to check on the herbs I’m drying upstairs,” she says. “Y/N, you still want that lesson on storing them?”

You blink, surprised but pleased. “Yeah. If you don’t mind.”

She nods and gestures for you to follow. As you push up from your chair, Haymitch leans back and rests his hands behind his head.

“Don’t let her teach you too much,” he says lazily. “Next thing I know you’ll be growing roots.”

Peeta grins as you trail Katniss into the living room. “Try not to get recruited into her herb cult,” he calls after you.

“No promises,” you call back, and Katniss just shakes her head without turning around.

The upstairs of their house is quiet, filled with the scent of drying herbs and something faintly sweet—lavender, maybe, or thyme. You trail behind Katniss as she moves toward a table near the window, where bundles of plants are tied and hung with careful precision.

“I forgot how peaceful it is here,” you say softly, fingers brushing the dried edge of a sprig of mint. “Everything in District 13 felt… clinical.”

Katniss hums. “Yeah. That place didn’t know what to do with quiet.”

She sits on the edge of the table and begins carefully sorting through a pile of dried leaves. “This one,” she says, holding up a small, curled plant, “you’ll want to keep sealed tight. It loses strength fast.”

You nod, absorbing her instructions more easily than you expect to. Something about Katniss’ voice when she’s teaching—steady, calm—makes it easier to focus.

She glances at you after a moment. “You really like this stuff, don’t you?”

You nod. “It reminds me of my dad. He used to point out plants to me when I was little. I don’t remember much, but… I remember how his voice sounded when he talked about them. Like he was telling me something sacred.”

Katniss is quiet for a long beat. Then she says, without looking up, “I remember that too. Your dad used to bring my dad these weird root clippings to mess around with. They’d argue about the best way to boil pine bark for hours.”

You smile faintly. “That sounds right.”

There’s a long, comfortable silence before Katniss adds, “He was a good man. Kind.”

Your throat tightens. “He was.”

“You’re like him,” she says, and it’s not soft, exactly, but it’s genuine.

You blink down at the table, something in you cracking just a little. Not in a bad way. Just enough to let some light in.

“I hope so,” you say quietly.

Katniss doesn’t respond. She just keeps working, methodical and calm.

After a while, she tosses you a bundle of yarrow and tells you to get to work.

You start mimicking Katniss’ motions—careful, deliberate, though your hands are slower. She doesn’t correct you unless she has to, and when she does, it’s brief, straightforward. No judgment, just facts.

“You’re better at this than you think,” she says after a moment, not looking up from her own bundle.

You glance at her, surprised. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not,” she replies, tying off a bundle of mint with practiced ease. “If I didn’t think you could handle it, I wouldn’t waste my time.”

That makes you smile. It’s the Katniss version of a compliment—half a threat, half encouragement. Somehow it means more than anything softer.

You both finish what you’re working on, the quiet not awkward but settled, like a breath held steady.

She stands, brushing plant dust off her hands. “Come on,” she says. “If we leave Haymitch and Peeta alone too long, they’ll start debating which one of them is the real culinary genius.”

You snort. “Spoiler: it’s neither.”

Katniss lets out a low, amused breath and leads the way back down the stairs.

The stairs creak as you and Katniss descend, the scent of mint still clinging to your fingers. You step into the living room to find Peeta now sitting cross-legged on the rug, sketching something in a small notebook. Haymitch is in your usual chair, looking far too comfortable and vaguely smug.

“Look who survived botany boot camp,” Haymitch says, tipping his flask in your direction.

“We made a potion up there,” you reply, brushing a stray leaf from your shirt. “Might use it to poison you.”

Katniss grabs a berry from the bowl on the coffee table and pops it into her mouth, eyeing the both of them. “You two need hobbies.”

“This is my hobby,” Peeta says, tapping the edge of his drawing. “And baking.”

“Annoying me is his hobby,” Haymitch mutters.

You snort and settle on the floor near Peeta, peering over at his sketch. It’s not quite finished—some kind of plant, delicate lines shading in the leaves. Your stomach twists with something you can’t quite name. He’s always creating. Always turning something small into something beautiful.

“You drew that from memory?” you ask.

Peeta shrugs, almost sheepish. “I liked the way the light hit it earlier. Figured I’d try to keep it.”

Katniss sits close to him, cross-legged like she’s preparing for a strategy meeting. “You should show her the ones you’ve been hiding.”

Peeta stiffens, but only slightly. “They’re not finished.”

“They’re better than finished,” Katniss replies.

You glance between them. “What’s this?”

Peeta hesitates, then flips a few pages ahead and tilts the notebook so you can see. Your breath catches.

It’s… you.

Not just one drawing, but small moments. You, sitting on the porch with a blanket over your knees. You, holding a mug of tea and staring out the window. You, asleep with your head tipped against the couch.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

“They’re not all great,” Peeta says quickly. “Just… I draw what feels quiet. That’s all.”

You swallow thickly, your eyes still on the page. “I didn’t know I looked like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like… someone worth seeing.”

Peeta doesn’t respond, just gives you a small, steady smile.

Haymitch clears his throat loudly, and you glance over to see him watching with a slightly uncomfortable expression.

“If we’re done with the sap,” he says, “someone pass the damn berries.”

Katniss tosses him one without warning, and it hits him square in the chest. You burst out laughing as he fumbles to catch it before it rolls off his lap.

“Violence,” he mutters. “Always with the violence.”

Katniss tosses another berry at Haymitch, this one intentionally softer, and Peeta catches her hand before she can reach for more.

“Alright, that’s enough aggression for one night,” he says, his voice light but fond. He pulls her hand toward him, brushing his lips over her knuckles in a gesture so easy, so instinctive, it makes something in your chest tug.

Katniss rolls her eyes, but her mouth twitches at the corners. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet you’re still here,” he murmurs, and she doesn’t argue. She just leans against him slightly, her shoulder bumping his as she steals a berry from his hand without looking.

It’s not overly romantic. It’s not flashy or dramatic. It’s just… soft. Natural. Familiar.

You watch them for a moment longer than you mean to, that quiet warmth from earlier starting to turn bittersweet.

It must be nice, you think, to have that. Something steady. Someone who sees all your sharp edges and doesn’t flinch. Someone who chooses you even when it’s inconvenient.

For a second, you let yourself imagine it. What it would feel like to be touched like that—to be held like you’re worth holding. To be loved like it’s not a risk.

But then the thought slips, and another voice takes its place. A cruel one. Familiar.

The only people stupid enough to love you are already dead.

It’s your mother’s voice, cold and matter-of-fact, slicing through the quiet of the room like broken glass.

Your stomach knots.

You glance down at your hands in your lap, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place they look here—how out of place you look, surrounded by people who belong to each other in ways you don’t.

You press your fingernails into your palm, grounding yourself in the sting.

Don’t spiral, you tell yourself. Not here. Not now.

You manage a soft smile when Peeta glances your way, and he doesn’t question it. Just offers you another berry from the bowl, like nothing’s wrong. Like you aren’t fighting a war with your own mind.

You take it.

Because for now, pretending is easier than explaining.

Next Part

[annewithaneofthegreengable]

Summer Serendipity

Summary: It was the summer break between the races, and Oscar suddenly came across a travel magazine about a quiet town in Northern Ireland on the work desk of someone who had left it open when he was visiting McLaren’s HQ in Woking. Next thing, he was on his way to Belfast, with nothing much on his mind, no worries about the championship standings, the braking mode, the corners or chicanes,... Nothing, just him and his summer getaway in Belfast.

Meanwhile, Edith Ezra, a devoted single mother working at a quaint cafe in Belfast, cherishes her two children, Ivy and Eddie, above all else. Having faced the heartbreak of their father's abandonment, Edith has built a life centred around providing for her family and creating a sense of stability for her children.

When Oscar's path crosses with Edith's in Belfast, their worlds collide in unexpected ways. As Oscar finds himself drawn to the warmth and genuine kindness of Edith and her children, he begins to see a different side of life beyond the fast-paced world of racing.

The first true warmth of a new sunny day arrived with a surprising clarity, chasing away the drizzles and grey that lingered in Belfast the day before. The sun painted the city in gold, coaxing flowers into bloom along the footpaths. Edith took one look at the clear blue above her window and made a decision: today was a day for going out, maybe they could have a picnic since today is the twins’ day off too. 

She packed a small picnic, cheese sandwiches, ham rolls, carrot sticks, sliced apples, and a tub of homemade flapjacks. Ivy insisted on bringing her favorite blanket, a faded tartan that had seen its share of childhood picnics. Eddie was in charge of juice boxes, which he nearly dropped twice on the walk down the stairs.

Oscar arrived at the café just as they were locking up. He wore a soft linen shirt, rolled at the sleeves, and sunglasses that made him look almost anonymous. There was a lightness to his step, a smile that came easily as Eddie launched himself into a rambling monologue about the “super secret picnic plan.”

“Serious business,” Oscar agreed, kneeling to help Eddie adjust his untied shoelace. “Can I be part of the mission?”

Ivy eyed him with mock suspicion. “Only if you carry the blanket.”

Oscar accepted the role with a solemn salute, and the four of them set off, laughter trailing behind them as they navigated the Saturday bustle.

Their destination was the Botanic Gardens, one of Edith’s favorite places in the city, lush, sprawling lawns, winding gravel paths, and the Victorian glasshouse that glimmered in the sunlight. They found a quiet patch beneath an enormous oak, just far enough from the playground for the children to run wild, but close enough for Edith to keep a watchful eye.

Oscar spread the blanket with exaggerated care, smoothing the corners as if it were a royal decree. Eddie and Ivy giggled, tumbling onto the tartan in a heap. Edith unpacked their food, arranging it with a mother’s neatness. For a moment, Oscar simply watched them, their easy affection, the way they fit together, the ordinary magic of a family at rest.

The meal was simple, but it tasted better than any fancy catering Oscar had ever had at a race weekend. Maybe it was the open air, or the way Edith laughed at Ivy’s jokes, or how Eddie’s sticky fingers kept finding their way into Oscar’s share of flapjacks. Maybe it was the freedom of not being watched, not being expected to perform.

After eating, the children coaxed Oscar into a game of hide-and-seek. Edith leaned back against the tree, her eyes following Oscar as he pretended to search and fail spectacularly, always just missing the children as they giggled from their too-obvious hiding places. He was utterly unselfconscious, letting himself be silly, letting the joy of the moment carry him.

When the adults finally convinced the children to take a break, they wandered through the gardens. Oscar pointed out the strange Australian plants in the Palm House, sharing stories of summers much hotter and drier than this gentle Irish day. Ivy asked endless questions, while Eddie clung to his mother’s hand, shy but fascinated.

They continued the afternoon at the playground, where Ivy challenged Oscar to a race across the monkey bars. Oscar obliged, flailing and nearly falling, earning shrieks of laughter from both children and even a rare, unguarded laugh from Edith. She was brighter today, Oscar noticed, her face relaxed, her posture open. She didn’t seem weighed down by worry or by the ghosts of the past.

As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the gardens, the air took on the faintest hint of chill. Ivy, usually indefatigable, let out a theatrical yawn. Eddie, perched contentedly on Oscar’s shoulders, was quieter now, his golden head resting sleepily against Oscar’s cap. Edith glanced at her phone, then at the sky, reluctant to let the magic of the day slip away just yet.

“Are you all hungry again?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

Ivy perked up immediately. “Can we have fish and chips?”

Oscar laughed. “You read my mind, Ivy. I was just thinking about dinner.”

Edith hesitated, feeling the familiar tug between frugality and the desire to treat her children. Oscar caught the fleeting doubt in her eyes.

“Let’s make it an adventure,” he said gently. “Do you know a good place?”

Edith thought for a moment, then smiled. “There’s a chippy near the river. It’s not fancy, but the kids love it.” She looked at him, a little shy. “Only if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Oscar replied, meaning it.

They gathered their things and made their way out of the park, hands linked in a chain, Ivy leading Edith, who held Eddie’s hand, and Oscar carrying the picnic basket. The city was alive with summer energy: couples strolling, children riding bikes, music drifting from open windows. The walk to the chip shop was leisurely, filled with stories and laughter, the twins peppering Oscar with questions about Australia “Are there really kangaroos everywhere?”, “Has he met sharks or crocodiles before?”, “Are the giant spiders real?” and “Have you ever driven a real fire truck?”. 

The chip shop was just as Edith described: simple, bustling, redolent with the intoxicating aroma of frying fish with potatoes and vinegar. They found a table by the window, and Oscar insisted on ordering for everyone. He returned with steaming parcels of battered cod, crispy chips, alongside deep-fried fish with mushy peas, and a bottle of lemonade to share. The twins tore into the food with gusto, giggling over the fizz of the lemonade and the satisfying crunch of the chips. Edith, watching her children’s delight, looked younger, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed with happiness.

Oscar found himself studying her in the golden light. There was a softness about her now, a warmth that seemed magnified in these ordinary moments. When she met his gaze, she smiled, and for a second, it felt like there was no one else in the world.

Conversation was easy, unhurried. Edith shared stories of her university days, of wild nights at the student union and getting lost on the way to lectures. Oscar recounted tales of his travels, carefully edited, of course, focusing on funny mishaps and odd meals abroad. He told them about when one of his co-workers just casually adopted him and then told him to call Leo, this co-worker’s “dog son”, brother. Ivy and Eddie were entranced, their laughter ringing out in the small shop.

After dinner, they walked slowly along the river, the city lights twinkling on the water. Eddie clung to Edith’s hand, while Ivy skipped between Oscar and her mother, singing a made-up song about “picnic days and fish & chip shop nights.” Oscar listened, his heart aching with a gentle, unfamiliar longing. It was when Edith suggested to give him 

When they reached the café, Eddie was nearly asleep on his feet, and Ivy’s eyes were heavy with dreams. Edith unlocked the door and shepherded her children upstairs, pausing to turn back to Oscar. She lingered for a moment, as if wanting to say more. 

“Thank you,” she said quietly, almost as faint as a whisper, “I can’t remember the last time we had a day like that.”

He smiled, feeling a fierce, protective fondness for her and the twins. “Me neither.”

For a moment, they simply stood there, the city quiet around them. Oscar felt the urge to say something more, about how much this meant, about how he was starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe, he could find a different kind of happiness here. But he held back, content to let the silence stretch between them, full of possibility.

“See you tomorrow at the cafe?” Edith asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he replied.

The following morning, Belfast was washed in that rare, dazzling sunlight that seemed to make the whole city shimmer. Oscar woke with a sense of contentment, the echoes of laughter from the previous night lingering in his mind. The memory of Edith’s smile, Ivy’s hand in his, the taste of chips and lemonade, all of it felt both real and impossibly precious.

He moved through the morning with a lightness he hadn’t known in years. He made tea, scribbled a few lines in his notebook, and looked out the window at the busy street below, feeling, if only for a fleeting moment, as if he belonged. His phone, long neglected and still on do-not-disturb mode, sat face down on the kitchen counter. For days, he had managed to forget it existed, but now, out of habit more than needed, he picked it up and thumbed it awake.

The screen lit up with a list of missed calls and messages. Team updates, media inquiries, some from his mum, a few from old school friends…but most persistent of all were the missed calls from Lando. His teammate, fellow driver, and, despite the rivalry, a friend who always knew when something was off.

Oscar stared at the notifications for a long minute, torn. The world he’d left behind was calling, and with it came everything he’d tried to escape: expectations, pressure, the relentless grind of being “Oscar Piastri, Formula 1 driver.” For a heartbeat, he considered ignoring it all again.

But Lando had never been one to let things go.

The phone vibrated in his hand. Lando’s name flashed across the screen. Oscar hesitated, then sighed, and finally answered.

“Oscar! Mate, you’re alive!” Lando’s voice was half-relieved, half-indignant, all rapid-fire energy. “Where the hell are you? No one can get a hold of you. Zak’s losing his mind. I thought you’d been kidnapped by Ferrari or something.”

Oscar laughed despite himself, the sound rusty. “I’m fine, Lando. I just… needed a break.”

“A break? To where? You didn’t even tell me. It’s like you have disappeared, no news, no updates, not even a glimpse of you through someone’s camera. People think you’ve gone off to meditate in the Pyrenees or something.”

Oscar scrubbed a hand over his face, guilt pricking at him. “Sorry, mate. I didn’t mean to worry anyone. I just needed to get away. Clear my head.”

There was a pause on the line, and Oscar could almost picture Lando’s familiar frown. “Look, I get it. Everyone’s under pressure. But you can’t go radio silent, man. People care about you. I care about you.”

Oscar felt the tightness in his chest ease a little. “Thanks, Lando. Really. I just… I needed to find out who I am without all of it, you know?”

Lando was quiet for a moment, then softer: “Yeah. I get that. But you don’t have to do it alone. Where are you, anyway?”

Oscar hesitated. A part of him wanted to keep this world, this sweet Belfast life, hidden, untouched by the noise and scrutiny of racing. But the loneliness in Lando’s voice tugged at him.

“I’m in Belfast,” he admitted. “Just… taking some time. Met some good people. It’s quiet here.”

Lando whistled. “Northern Ireland, eh? Didn’t have that on my bingo card. Are you coming back?”

“I don’t know when, but not now,” Oscar admitted, the truth heavy on his tongue. “I think I need a little more time. But I’m okay, Lando. Really.”

Lando’s laugh was wry. “You sound different. Happier, maybe. That’s good. Just promise you’ll check in? And, uh… don’t get too attached to the Guinness.”

Oscar grinned. “No promises.”

“You sounded different, Osc.”

“Different how?”

“Like you’re happier, maybe I should come to Belfast too.”

“I don’t think it suits you, Lando. You would feel too bored in your second hour here.”

“Challenge accepted, Osc.”

They talked for a while longer, the conversation meandering from racing gossip to old in-jokes, to a tentative, unspoken understanding that things might never be quite the same. When Oscar finally hung up, he felt a strange mix of relief and longing, grateful for the friend who cared enough to reach out, but also fiercely protective of the small, precious life he was having here.

He slipped his phone back into airplane mode, tucked it away, and got ready for the day. Downstairs, the café would be opening soon. Edith would be there, her hair shining in the morning light, her smile ready to welcome him home. And for now, that was enough.

As he stepped out into the sunlit street, Oscar realized that sometimes, the past doesn’t have to be an enemy. Sometimes, it’s just a reminder of how far you’ve come, and how much you have to lose.

He made his way to The Bean & Blossom, eager for the quiet comfort of Edith’s company and the cheerful chaos of the café. The bell on the door chimed as he entered, and he found Edith behind the counter, brow furrowed over her phone, Ivy and Eddie perched nearby with bowls of cereal. The twins greeted him with sleepy grins.

Edith looked up, her relief obvious. “Morning, Oscar. You’re just in time.” She held up her phone. “Angie, the part-timer, just called in sick. It’s just me and the kids today, and… well, the Sunday crowd’s no joke.”

Oscar didn’t hesitate. “Put me to work. I can take orders, clear tables, whatever you need.”

Ivy perked up. “Can Oscar make smoothies?”

Edith laughed, the tension easing from her shoulders. “If he can figure out the blender, he’s welcome to try.”

Oscar grinned, rolling up his sleeves. “Point me at the to-do list, boss.”

The first hour was a gentle warm-up: regulars trickled in for their usual scones and flat whites. Oscar, more used to the hum of engines than espresso machines, approached the counter with a mix of bravado and trepidation. Edith gave him a crash course on the till and the basics of the coffee machine.

“Steam wand on the left, milk jug here, and, careful, it bites if you’re not gentle,” she teased, demonstrating a perfect swirl of froth.

Oscar’s first attempt produced a cappuccino that was more foam than coffee. The customer, a wiry old man named Mr. McBride, sipped it, then winked. “Are you trying to drown me, lad, or just impress the boss?”

The regulars quickly caught on that Oscar was a rookie. Mrs. O’Malley, who always ordered the strongest black coffee, offered advice (“You need a heavier hand, love, don’t be afraid of the grind!”), while young Jamie tried to teach Oscar latte art, resulting in a bear-shaped blob that sent the entire counter into giggles.

Between spills, Oscar found a rhythm. He cleared tables, delivered pastries, and learned to decipher Edith’s handwritten order slips. The twins helped by ferrying napkins and stacking sugar packets, their pride in “helping Oscar” obvious. Edith darted between the kitchen and the front, her energy infectious, her laughter rising above the clatter.

At one point, Oscar dropped an entire tray of croissants. Flour dusted his hair and shirt, and Edith doubled over with laughter. He grinned, brushing crumbs from his shoulders. “I’m more of a hazard than a help, aren’t I?”

“You’re perfect,” Edith replied, eyes warm, “just maybe don’t quit your day job.”

As the lunch rush eased, Oscar found himself enjoying the simple cadence of café life: the regulars’ stories, the children’s laughter, the way Edith’s hand brushed his when they worked side by side. He felt, perhaps for the first time in months, useful in a way that had nothing to do with speed or fame. He was just Oscar, present and needed, part of something small but real.

After the last customer left, Edith flipped the sign to “Closed” and exhaled deeply. The kitchen was a mess, flour and coffee stains everywhere, but the atmosphere was jubilant, the air thick with accomplishment.

“Not bad for a first shift,” Edith said, handing Oscar a mug of tea. “You survived the coffee machine, the flour and Mrs. O’Malley’s critiques.”

Oscar raised his cup in salute. “I think I earned my stripes.”

The twins, sprawled on the sofa, demanded a reward for their hard work. Ivy piped up, “Mum, didn’t you say we could go see the giant’s footprints if we helped out?”

Edith smiled at Oscar, her cheeks pink. “We did make a promise. How about next Saturday, if the weather holds? We’ll make it a proper outing, The Dark Hedges, Carnlough Harbour, Cushendun Caves, and The Giant’s Causeway.”

Oscar felt warmth bloom in his chest. “It’s a date,” he said softly, meaning every word.

Edith’s eyes met his, holding his gaze for a long, sweet moment, the promise of more adventures, more ordinary magic, and maybe, just maybe, an unexpected kiss.

As they set about cleaning up together, Oscar realized that sometimes the best kind of belonging came not from winning, but from simply showing up, messy, earnest, and all in.

Taglist: @teamnovalak, @angelluv16, @frankiejo04, @manuztb, @httpsxnox @devilacot @maximuminfluencerstarlight @bee-the-loser

[magical-reid]

Who's Your Friend?

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader

Word count: 800 (this one's short!)

Summary: When Y/N encounters a Ravenclaw boy named Luke, who informs her about their Muggle Studies project partnership, Fred becomes noticeably protective and jealous. Despite Fred’s dismissive attitude, his actions reveal his underlying feelings, while Y/N teases him about his jealousy as they walk back to their friends.

The courtyard was bustling with students, a sea of robes swaying as they streamed out of the castle after classes. My friends stood beneath the large oak tree, their laughter carrying over the chatter of the crowd. I started toward them, but an unfamiliar voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Hey, Y/N, isn’t it?”

I turned, raising an eyebrow. The voice belonged to a Ravenclaw boy I recognized but had never spoken to. His dark brown hair was slightly messy, and his sharp black eyes studied me with curiosity. Despite his defined features, his faintly rosy cheeks softened his otherwise stoic look.

I glanced to my left and right, unsure if he was actually addressing me. His gaze didn’t waver.

“Yes?” I replied cautiously, wondering if I had done something wrong.

“You weren’t in class yesterday,” he said.

Internally, I giggled. Instead of attending Muggle Studies, I’d been lounging by the lake with my friends, enjoying the sunshine and skipping stones on the water. It had been worth it, even if McGonagall had given us all a stern lecture and a week of detention for “failing to take our studies seriously.”

The boy continued, “We got partnered for the new Muggle Studies project. I figured I’d let you know since you missed the lesson. Maybe we could work on it outside of class if you have time?”

I offered him a polite smile. “Oh, that’s so nice of you to let me know—”

Before I could finish, a familiar arm looped around my shoulders. The scent of peppermint and fireworks instantly gave him away.

Fred.

“Who’s your little friend here?” Fred’s voice was teasing, but the way he emphasized little made my lips twitch. The Ravenclaw boy was only an inch or two taller than me, a stark contrast to Fred’s towering frame.

Fred’s grip on my shoulder tightened slightly as he tilted his head, his warm brown eyes catching the sunlight in a way that momentarily distracted me. “Is he bothering you?” he asked, glancing at me before his expression shifted into a sharp, mocking smile directed at the boy. “So, where do we know each other from, hmm?”

The Ravenclaw boy cleared his throat, clearly flustered but trying to maintain his composure. “I was just telling her we’re partners for the Muggle Studies project. It’s nothing special.”

“Is that so?” Fred quipped, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

The boy turned as if to leave, but Fred’s hand shot out, halting him. “Why so nervous all of a sudden?” Fred smirked before flicking his gaze to me. “Was I interrupting something?”

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I looked helplessly at the Ravenclaw, who simply shook his head and waved it off.

“Another time,” he mouthed, retreating quickly into the crowd.

Fred watched him leave before turning back to me. “Well then, let’s go. We’ve been waiting for you,” he said, his tone lighter now.

As we walked away, curiosity got the better of me. “What’s his name, anyway?” I asked, though I immediately regretted it.

“Luke,” the boy had said earlier, but Fred’s reaction was as predictable as it was amusing.

Fred frowned, his hands clenching briefly into fists. Subtlety had never been his strong suit. He grabbed my hand and pulled me a few steps further before stopping abruptly.

“Who was that?” he asked, his voice dropping into a much deeper register.

I raised an eyebrow at him. “He literally told you, Fred. He’s my Muggle Studies partner. You know, the class I didn’t show up to because I was at the lake with you and the others?”

Fred stepped closer, so close our noses brushed. His expression was unreadable except for the intensity in his eyes.

“I. Don’t. Believe. It.”

I giggled at his ridiculous seriousness but quickly stopped when his frown deepened. “You can believe whatever you want, but it’s the truth,” I said, holding his gaze.

He tilted his head, much like he had before, but this time his lips parted as if to argue. Whatever he was about to say, he decided against it, closing his mouth with a sharp exhale.

As we walked the last few meters to the tree where my friends were waiting, I couldn’t help myself. I tiptoed, resting my chin on his shoulder and grinning up at him.

“Is Freddie jealous?” I teased, adding a pair of exaggerated puppy-dog eyes for good measure.

Fred’s face remained stoic, but the corners of his mouth twitched ever so slightly.

“No,” he said flatly.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Despite his denial, the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. I smirked, feeling more confident now.

“Whatever you say, Fred,” I said lightly, skipping ahead to join the others.

But even as he tried to act unbothered, Fred’s eyes followed me like a hawk, ensuring no other Ravenclaws—or anyone else—came too close.

[quietstormxr]

Underestimate

Request: Liam and Bodhi underestimate you in the quadrant after bullying you when you were younger.

A/N: Mentions of bullying, violence, flirting

Word Count: 1.7k

“You’re going to have to go easy on her.” Liam snarks to Garrick’s left. 

You can’t help the way your ire rises at the insinuation that you’re weak, your eyes shining with indignation. The way he just assumes you’ve glided through life not trying to survive since the last time he saw you. You look up to Garrick who is watching you with a smirk gracing his lips, his quiet confidence in you taking over his features. 

Of all the people here, Garrick knows what you’re capable of and it’s time to show the other’s you aren’t the meek and unprepared girl they seem to think they left behind.

“What do you say, Spitfire? Should we give them a show?” Garrick teases with that gleam in his eye that says he expects your best for this challenge.

“I expect you to go just like you would against Xaden.” You sass to Garrick giving back the same mischievous grin. 

“Unless” you purr. “You’d like to give it a try Liam. Since you’re so confident I’m not much of an opponent.”

Liam looks at you with an over-confident smirk gracing his features. You barely hold in the eye roll that threatens to take over your whole face. 

“You do know that Xaden taught him, right? You really think you’re up for that?” Bodhi joins in on Liam’s jabs walking from the other side of the mat. 

Garrick looks at you and gives you a knowing grin. He was only one who knew you were training as hard as you were. The one there to push you and make sure you were prepared. But clearly the rest of the boys only saw your frame and lack of defined muscle against theirs as the visible definition of your weakness.

“Well, I suppose you’ll all just have to see if I’m ‘up for it’ as you say. Let’s go.” You state determinedly waving Liam forward with your hand.

You watch as Liam shrugs his shoulders obviously expecting the spar to be finished within a few seconds after starting. 

Garrick leans down and whispers in your ear, “give him hell Spitfire.”

You give a smirk back to him before beginning to walk up to the mat. While taking up your fighting stance, you can’t help but think about the last time that these two boys underestimated you. It’s especially frustrating to see the smug satisfaction that’s on their faces thinking that just because Xaden taught them, they are invincible against anyone in the quadrant. 

“I’ll give you one last chance to back out.” You purr to Liam.

He looks back at you, the smug smirk still lining his features the surety of the win plastered on his face. “Never.”

You shrug your shoulders and set down into your stance. You counted on his pride never letting him back down. As you watch him settle into his stance, you focus your mind and analyze his fighting stance. You’ve been watching him spar the last few weeks knowing that it was inevitable you’d find yourself here. Especially with Liam and Bodhi, you knew they would never waste the opportunity to challenge you out of their own arrogance.

You can’t help the flash of memory that hits you. You at the age of 14, crying at the foot of a tall oak tree. You had followed Bodhi and Liam that morning hoping that they would let you join in whatever stupid activity they were planning for the day. You’ll never forget the way they mocked you, laughing at your pitiful attempt to climb the tree and then doubling over when you hit your head on the back of the tree when falling from a limb. Walking home with the burning wound on the back of your head and stinging tears flowing from your eyes, you settled that you would never let them make you feel that way again. 

After that incident, you stopped following them or looking for them at all. That one instance was all it took for you to realize that they would never see you as more than a weak little girl. You realized all too early that they would never see you as anything other than an inconvenience. 

A small huff leaves your mouth as your eyes narrow, the anger that you’ve felt lining every single inch of your muscles coiled tight and ready to strike. If there was one thing that Garrick drilled into you repeatedly, it was to utilize your anger and to not let it overtake your frame and ability.

As your eyes calculated Liam’s frame, you couldn’t help but notice the way he leaned ever so slightly further to his right, leaving just enough for you exploit. However, after a few months in the quadrant, you knew better than to make the first move, especially with an opponent that already underestimated you. 

“Don’t worry sweetheart, I’ll try not to hurt you too badly.” Liam purred, his signature flirtatious style making its usual appearance.

“Oh darling, I don’t think I’m going to be the one hurting.” You would never usually be this willing to rile up your target, but all the memories of being tossed aside by Liam and Bodhi have reared back. 

You take a deep breath and set in your stance, but you aren’t there long before Liam lunges towards you trying to bring you down at the waist. Anticipating his desire to put you on the ground, you slide to your left side and bring your right leg out to sweep his feet while unbalanced.

Shockingly, he falls hard onto the mat face first. You stand back up going to circle the man that has caused more than his fair share of tears to fall from your eyes. Quickly he is bringing himself back up, his blue eyes shining with a new challenge as if realizing you may not be as easy to take down as he thought.

“Come on Liam, you can’t make it look so easy for her.” Bodhi calls out from the side lines, his usual taunting causing you to roll your eyes. 

For several minutes you both trade blows back and forth. He manages to jab you in the right shoulder, and you land a left hook to his jawline. However, as you continue to spar, you watch as his determination changes as he realizes this fight isn’t so easily won. 

“If you think it’s so easy, why don’t you join him Bodhi?” You issue in challenge the smirk on your face growing wider as you continue to analyze Liam and the best way to win.

“Wouldn’t want us to gang up on you now would we, pretty girl?” You scoff at Bodhi’s retort the would-be compliment dripping derision from his lips.

“I would watch your tongue if I were you Bodhi.” Garrick snips. “You may be taking on more of a challenge than you realize.” 

“Let him make his own bed and lie in it, Garrick.” You yell back, not fazed by the verbal jabs.

As the words leave your lips, Liam rushes towards you again, trying to land a right hook. You easily dip below his arm and twist bringing your elbow into his kidneys hard. Liam immediately grunts in pain while trying to sweep your feet. You quickly jump over his leg before landing and jabbing your boots into the backs of his knees. 

Liam falls hard to his knees but manages to trip you on the way down. He turns and goes to pin you down face first on the mat. His hand comes to your forehead and his other brings a blade to your neck. You look up and see Garrick staring back at you with the knowing gleam in his eyes. You know the next move you make may be dangerous, but that’s the adrenaline you live for, especially with proving yourself to the two men who tormented you as you grew. 

“Do you yield?” Liam asks as he brings his face close to your ear. 

“Never.” You rasp defiantly. 

Before he can retort, you wriggle your right arm free from his hold and elbow him as hard as possible in the side. Liam slashes his hand back and you can feel the drip of blood coming from the small wound, but you don’t dwell on it as you kick your right leg and bring you both into a roll. 

As you roll, you bring your knees up and just as you thought, Liam is now the one with his face to the mat. Jamming your knee in between his shoulder blades and your arm around his neck, you make sure he is entirely immobilized. 

“Do you yield Mairi?” You taunt as you slide your free left hand down the side of his body. You can feel the way his body tenses under you, and he swallows thickly. As your hand reaches his thigh, you pull the dagger that is sheathed there and slowly drag it up the side of his body. 

“Well?” You drawl in a sultry voice as you feel Liam’s body continue to tense.

“I yield.” He says, though you can tell it takes everything in him not to say otherwise. 

“Good boy.” You whisper in the shell of his ear, drawing the tip of the dagger over it to assert the fact that you have bested him. 

As you stand, you bring your head up at the sound of a deep, rumbling laugh of pride. A smile splits your face as you lock eyes with Garrick, and you give him a quick wink. 

As you go to turn, you catch Bodhi’s stare as well. The look of disbelief in his eyes is almost as satisfying as having Liam pinned down to the mat. 

“Whenever you want your turn at being bested Bodhi, you just let me know.” You say as you sheath your new dagger. 

Giving the three men the most flirtatious smile you can, you turn and walk out of the gym swaying your hips as tantalizingly as you dare. 

Before the door closes, you overhear one of them breathlessly exclaim. “Damn.” 

You let a small laugh escape from your lips as you confidently walk your way back to your barracks. 

This one feels like a snippet of a longer one to me, thoughts?

[aleskie]

HEY OSCAR! | Oscar Piastri x Reader

SUMMARY: You’ve shared a close friendship with Oscar Piastri since you first met during Freshman Orientation. When you join an open mic event that requires you to have an original composition, you channel your feelings into a song, hoping it can convey what you’re too scared to say. As it turns out, sometimes the heart speaks louder than words. AKA the Oscar Piastri University AU

Word Count: 8k Warnings: None :>> Just a lil Best Friends to Lovers ♫ Listen: Hey Stephen by Taylor Swift ♫

You sit cross-legged beneath the shade of an old oak tree in the open fields of the university, guitar in hand, fingers plucking strings with delicate care as you hum along. Beside you, a glitter pen rests on top of an open notebook, the pages half-filled with scrawled chords and lyrics that have been scratched out.

The air’s turned crisp and the sun dips lower, casting the sky in vibrant waves of orange, pink, and violet. But you're too absorbed in perfecting the melody, to enjoy the beauty unraveling above.

“There you are!” a familiar voice calls out, cutting through your focus. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

It’s your best friend, Oscar.

He crosses the field with his usual lopsided grin, looking slightly out of breath, his backpack bouncing with each step. As he reaches you, he plops down on the grass and drops his bag with a thud beside yours, the collection of keychains clinking against each other like a small wind chime.

“I thought I’d be headed to the library by myself,” he says, still smiling, his eyes glancing over at your notebook. “Didn’t think I’d find you out here, lost in…this.” He gestures towards you hunched over your guitar, scribbling glittery musings in your notebook.

You shrug, glancing sheepishly at your notebook. “Sorry bub, you might still have to go without me. I’ve got this melody I need to finish.”

“A melody?” He echoes, raising a brow and clearly amused. “You do remember we’re engineering majors, right? Not musicians.”

“Unlike someone, I actually have a hobby,” you shoot back, grinning, though your gaze drifts back to your guitar, fingers instinctively tracing the fretboard. “We can’t all be robotics prodigies, Mr. Piastri.”

“Augh!” He clutches his chest in mock injury, grinning widely. “Low blow, Y/N.”

You roll your eyes and return to strumming, catching the way he settles onto his backpack, head tilted back as he scrolls through his phone. Clearly, he isn’t going anywhere, so you continue experimenting with melodies and rhymes, though none of them feel quite right.

As the sky darkens and a chill settles in, you glance over to find Oscar still sprawled on the grass, now with his AirPods in, chuckling softly at something on his screen. Smirking, you reach over and pull one of the earbuds out.

“I thought you were heading to the library?” you tease, raising a brow.

He huffs, reaching for the earbud in your hand, though his fingers linger on yours for just a beat longer than necessary. “You weren’t going to be there, so what’s the point?”

You feel some heat rush to your face but quickly push it down. He’s your best friend—nothing more. Probably.

“So, what? You’ll just stay here until I’m done?”

“Nah,” he says, a playful glint in his eye, “I’ll stay until you decide to ask for my opinion.”

“Ask for help from the guy who hasn’t even added a single song to our shared playlist?” You scoff, pouting, bringing your focus back to composing. “Yeah, no thanks.”

He hums a response and a beat passes before he gives you a knowing look. “So, why’d you even sign up for that original-submission open-mic thing anyway?”

You shrug, mumbling, “It seemed fun at the time.”

“Not so fun now, huh?” He smirks, his gaze drifting to the notebook littered with scratched-out lyrics and half-formed lines.

“Shut up,” you groan, playfully nudging him with your foot. He laughs, a sound as familiar as it is comforting, and you can’t help but smile as you return to your guitar, his presence a steady rhythm in the background, keeping you company as the stars begin to appear overhead.

“Well, let me offer some advice anyway, since you clearly don’t know what you’re doing,” he says, sitting up and rummaging through his backpack. He pulls out a hoodie and tosses it toward you, his aim landing it squarely on your face before it tumbles into your lap. “Just…focus on what you know.” 

The hoodie is your hoodie—well, his hoodie, but you’ve claimed it enough times that it might as well be yours by now. It’s the one you always reach for on cold mornings and late nights. The one that’s softer than all his other hoodies. The one that clings to his scent the longest—not that you’d ever admit you notice that.

“Write what I know, huh?” You look over at him, letting your gaze linger on his tousled hair, his bright eyes, the faint freckles sprinkled across his face. As you think about his words, you start to make a mental list of the things you do know.

You know robotics and calculus. You know the exact temperature for steeping different types of tea. You know how to sew and knit and crochet. You know chemistry and coding and…you know Oscar.

You know his quirks, his habits, the way he folds into himself when he sleeps, how he prefers his coffee, and how he schedules his day with way too many alarms. You know his class schedule by heart, the subjects he struggles with, and the way he pushes through them anyway. If nothing else, you know him. You know him in all the small, quiet ways that matter.

You slip on the hoodie, feeling its warmth wrap around you, and can’t help but give him a small, almost secret smile—a little mischievous, a little uncertain. You already know what you’re going to write about.

For better or worse, this would be a song he wouldn’t forget.

You first meet Oscar at freshman orientation. By chance, the two of you end up sitting side-by-side in one of those endless welcome sessions, the kind that packs in far too many speeches from people you’ll probably never see again. He’s quiet and a little reserved, dressed head-to-toe in school merch: a fresh university shirt and a cap with the campus logo. You’d actively avoided wearing any of it, determined not to look like the stereotypical freshman, but somehow, on him, it’s endearing. He actually seemed excited to be here, enough to wear it proudly—and, well, he was cute. That didn’t hurt either.

You, on the other hand, were exhausted. The nerves from knowing you’d be starting college had robbed you of sleep, and the stuffy room only added to the weight of your eyelids. Somewhere between the speech on campus values and the talk on student resources, your head dips forward, and before you know it, you’re fast asleep—right on his shoulder.

He’s the one who gently nudges you awake once the session finally ends, when everyone else is already getting up to leave for campus tours. Blinking in confusion, you sit up quickly, mortification settling in as you realize what happened.

“Oh my God—I am so sorry!” You say, eyes wide and filled with regret.

“It’s fine,” he says, hands slipping into his pockets, a small, slightly awkward smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Could’ve happened to anyone.”

You squint, trying to gauge if he’s serious. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?”

He shrugs, still calm. “I mean, it could. I was close to falling asleep too,” he admits, leaning in as if it’s a secret.

You let out a laugh, nerves easing just a bit. Somehow, he makes it seem like less of a big deal, and you find yourself smiling.

“I’m Y/N,” you say, extending your hand with a tentative smile, hoping to smooth over the awkwardness of your unplanned nap on his shoulder.

“Oscar,” he replies, reaching out to grasp your hand. His shake is gentle but sure, his grip warm against your fingers.

For a brief moment, you hold his gaze, and there’s something both reassuring and easygoing in his expression. You can tell he’s someone who doesn’t mind the little quirks in people—he’s likely someone who’d find them interesting. The noise of other freshmen shuffling around to start the campus tour fills the air, but the two of you linger for just a beat longer.

“Well,” you say, letting go of his hand reluctantly, “Which group are you in for the tour?”

“Um.” He checks his phone, squinting slightly. “Group four.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, and a smirk creeps onto your face. “Well, look at that! Looks like you can’t get rid of me yet.”

“Never said I wanted to get rid of you.” He chuckles, sliding his phone back into his pocket as you both fall into step together. “Especially not when you’ve made quite the first impression.”

After a shared laugh and an easy exchange of grins, you lead the way to the back of the line for Group Four. Building after building, you walk together, navigating the labyrinth of campus with a strange mixture of excitement and calm.

Sometimes you walk in comfortable silence—the kind that only comes in those first moments of meeting someone, when you want to say more but aren’t quite sure where to start. Other times, your conversation spills into heated debates that draw in other students before they drift away again, leaving you and Oscar to continue on alone. You chat about everything from the cafeteria’s rumored curfews to the quirky statues scattered around campus, and as each topic arises, Oscar surprises you. He’s reserved, but his dry humor and unexpected quips keep you laughing, his calm wit a perfect match for your own.

By the time you’ve seen most of the campus, you realize there’s something different about him. He’s easy to be around, comfortable and safe, but with a spark that keeps things interesting. You can’t explain it exactly—and maybe it’s too early to tell—but some part of you feels that this could be the beginning of a friendship that’s special—one that could last a long, long time.

By the time sophomore year rolls around, Oscar is celebrating seven months with Michelle, his girlfriend, while you’re somewhere around your millionth date—or at least, that’s what it feels like.

It’s fine, you tell yourself. Oscar’s always been the type to settle down in serious relationships, while you’ve leaned into the idea of playing the field, keeping things light before they turn into something more. But that idea lost its appeal fast when you realized most people in the dating pool were just looking for something casual, something fleeting.

And it didn’t help that every so often, you’d find yourself third-wheeling Oscar and Michelle. They’d gotten together near the end of freshman year, survived a summer apart while he went back home to Australia, and picked up in sophomore year as if they’d never left each other’s side.

You kind of like Michelle. You’ve spent enough time with her to consider her almost a friend, sometimes hanging out without Oscar around. She’s sharp, funny, and somehow manages to match Oscar’s dry humor in a way that leaves you in stitches. But sometimes…well, sometimes, she gets under your skin. Like right now.

“Do I look alright?” Oscar asks, running a hand through his hair for what has to be the hundredth time tonight, eyes fixed on the mirror as he adjusts his shirt and frowns slightly.

You’re sprawled across his roommate’s bed, a spot that’s become practically yours over the past two years.

Oscar’s roommate, Lando, is an upperclassman in your major, just a year ahead, and the three of you clicked almost instantly. He’s practically the big brother of your university life, guiding you through the maze of class schedules, professor choices, and which activities are worth your time.

He’s loud, fun, and has an impressive collection of video games that you all regularly raid. And thanks to him, you and Oscar have a standing invite to all the best parties on campus, where he dramatically introduces you both as his “prized students.” He’s a blast to be with. There’s never a dull moment with him. 

Currently, he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing his Nintendo Switch with complete focus while you absentmindedly twist curls in his hair.

“You look fine, Osc,” you groan, “You looked fine thirty minutes ago when you first asked.” You give him a pointed look. “Which, by the way, was the time she was supposed to meet you here.”

Oscar shrugs, brushing it off with a small smile. “She’s probably just finalizing the details of the date. She’ll be here soon.”

Lando smirks, not glancing up from his game. “Does she know that offering to plan a special date—and then executing it—also involves showing up on time?”

You smack the back of his head lightly, and he yelps, finally looking away from his game. “Ow! What was that for?”

“Don’t make him feel bad,” you pout, crossing your arms.

He rolls his eyes, grinning. “Oh, so you can throw in all the little comments about her being late and flaking out, but I can’t?”

“Yes,” you say, matter-of-factly, crossing your arms, “Because I actually hang out with her. You just get the highlights.”

Lando snickers but doesn’t get a chance to reply before Oscar cuts in, his expression a mix of disbelief and curiosity. “Wait—so you gossip about my relationship now? Since when?”

Lando gives Oscar a devilish grin, leaning back with a smug look. “That’s classified info, Ozzy boy,” he says, “But we’ll let you in on the secret if you two either break up or end up getting married.”

Oscar looks at you, his expression practically pleading, as if to say, And you’re in on this too? You’re going to keep this a secret from me?

You can’t help but smirk, knowing how it’ll get under his skin. “What he said.” You and Lando share a quick high-five, laughing at Oscar’s groan.

Then, Lando gives you a sly look, leaning in with a grin. “Honestly though, Y/N, if you ever get tired of waiting on him, I’m single. We’d be campus royalty, you know? Top of the line.”

You snort, playing along. “Oh, totally. Imagine the headlines: Y/N and Lando—A Match Made in Unexpected Heaven!”

“Right?” Lando grins, winking. “We’d be a dream together, love.”

Oscar shifts uncomfortably, crossing his arms as he watches you two banter. “Are you two done planning your imaginary relationship?” He mutters, trying to sound casual but giving you a sidelong glance.

You glance back at him, laughing. “Relax, Osc. Lando’s not even my type—”

“Hey now!” Lando protests, feigning offense.

“—But if he were,” you continue, ignoring Lando’s dramatics, “You’d totally be the best third wheel, bub.”

Oscar rolls his eyes, but there’s a glint of something behind the exasperation, something you can’t quite place. “Yeah, yeah. Just remember who’s actually got a date tonight.”

Lando raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. We’ll let you focus on impressing your date, lover boy.” He smirks. “If she ever gets here.”

You give him another light smack on the head and he laughs as Oscar chuckles along, the three of you settling back into the easy rhythm of jokes and chatter. Oscar seems quieter than usual, but you chalk it up to nerves about the date—or lack thereof.

You’re just relieved to have the same easy vibe you’ve always had with them—after all, that’s what matters most.

When the clock strikes midnight, Michelle is still a no-show. No text, no call, no explanation. And Oscar is...silent. Even Lando, usually quick with a quip, notices the change in Oscar’s mood and dials down the teasing, trying instead to fill the silence by chattering about a game they both play. But even that doesn’t bring Oscar around; his usual lighthearted responses are replaced by quiet nods and distracted hums.

His clothes have long since changed from his date outfit to his usual worn hoodie and sweatpants, but the frown on his face hasn’t budged.

You and Lando have swapped places now—you’re sprawled on the floor, and he’s kicked back on his bed, scrolling on his phone. Oscar lies between you two, his head resting on your lap, eyes fixed on his screen. He’s still waiting, clearly hoping for some sign from Michelle, though by now you’re almost certain that no text is coming.

Eventually, you give him a gentle pat on the cheek, signaling for him to shift so you can slide out from under him and put your shoes back on to make the trek to your own dorm.

“The third roommate moves out,” Lando jokes, leaning back with a sigh. “Always the hardest part of the night, Y/N.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smirk on your face as you give him a quick hug. “My presence really does brighten up the place, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He grins, playfully nudging you. “Bring her back safe, Osc!” He calls out as you and Oscar step into the hallway.

You and Oscar walk in silence, a heavy quiet that neither of you rushes to fill. After a moment, he reaches for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours, and you squeeze his hand back, hoping it’s some small comfort.

“What she did was shitty, you know,” you murmur, finally breaking the silence.

He lets out a laugh, though it’s empty, tired. “It’s kinda funny, isn’t it? I got all dressed up, wondering how the night would go, and then…nothing.” His voice trails off, resignation in every word.

You stop and turn to him, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “This isn’t on you, bub. She should’ve said something.”

He looks at you, eyes tracing the ground for a second before they finally lift, catching yours. “At least you’re here.”

“Perks of being single and unwanted,” you joke, your voice light but the words half-true. You squeeze his hand reassuringly. “I’ll always be here, Osc. No matter what.”

Hand in hand, you make your way to your dorm, basking in a silence that feels steady, solid. When you reach your door, you pause, turning to him with open arms. He steps into the hug, pulling you close, and you feel him cling just a little tighter, his warmth grounding you both.

After a long moment, he pulls back, his hands resting on your shoulders, but he doesn’t let go. “For the record,” he says softly, his gaze steady on yours, "You aren’t unwanted.” His voice grows quieter, serious. “I’ll always want you around.”

For a moment, his words feel loaded, almost more than platonic, and something in his eyes lingers a beat too long. But you brush the thought away, reminding yourself of the boundaries in place—he has a girlfriend, and he’s just been hurt tonight. He’s vulnerable. So you ignore any underlying meanings—ignore the rising tension—and you ruffle his hair, keeping things light.

“Me too, bub.” You smile, patting his shoulder. “I’ll always want you around too.”

With a last squeeze of his hand, you slip into your dorm, leaving Oscar standing there, both of you holding onto that quiet, unspoken promise between you.

Oscar and Michelle break up just before summer, right near the end of sophomore year. You can’t say you’re surprised—honestly, you’d been half-expecting it since that night she stood him up. But when he tells you, his voice low and resigned, you do your best to hide any hint of satisfaction. You give him a steady pat on the back, listen as he mopes through the last few weeks of school, and keep all those unspoken feelings locked away. After all, he’s your best friend, and that’s what he needs most right now.

Still, you can’t deny that a part of you is relieved. He’s spending more time with you again and his hoodies have officially returned to their rightful home—your dorm room. You feel a secret giddiness every time he hands you one to wear, relishing the way it’s soft and warm and unmistakably his. It’s as if things have gone back to how they used to be.

But you’re his best friend, and best friends don’t overthink the little things. So you keep it to yourself, even when you’re studying for finals together, living off caffeine and library vending machine snacks, or trading late-night rants about the professors who dared assign twenty-page essays. You proofread his pages with half-shut eyes at 3 a.m., he helps you organize your chaotic notes, and somehow, you make it through. After every three-hour final, you both wait outside the exam hall for each other, sharing a quiet sense of victory, collapsing into a laugh about how little you actually remembered from all those nights spent cramming.

When the semester finally ends, and it’s time for him to pack for his trip back home to Australia, you help him sort through his clothes and cram textbooks into his suitcase, doing your best to ignore the familiar ache of goodbye.

If your fingers brush a little too long while folding his favorite shirt, or if you find his face lingering a beat too close as you hand him one last book to pack, neither of you mentions it. These almost-moments hang in the air, the silence thick with words you’re not yet ready to say. But it’s enough just to know he’ll be back, that no matter how far he goes, he’s still yours. 

At least, in the way best friends belong to each other.

When he comes back after the summer, now entering into your junior year, you notice he’s different. It’s subtle, but unmistakable—a little more confidence in the way he carries himself, a bit more certainty in his steps. He’s shed some of that awkward charm, replaced by a newfound ease that almost feels strange. You find yourself watching him more closely, catching moments that feel just a little bit different.

There’s a shift between you, too, something new lingering just beneath the surface, threading itself into each conversation. It’s a tension that neither of you dares to name. The way he walks, the way he talks to you—it all feels sharper, more vivid somehow. And the way he says your name now, in that deeper tone with that familiar hint of teasing, makes your heart race a little faster, even though you tell yourself it’s silly.

One afternoon, you’re sitting side by side on the campus lawn, watching students pass by, each absorbed in their own lives. Oscar’s fingers idly pull at the grass between you, but his gaze keeps drifting back to you, lingering just a moment too long. His eyes are warm but searching, as if there’s something he’s been holding back. 

“Do you…miss me over the summer?” He asks, half-smiling but with an edge to his tone, as if he’s testing the waters.

You laugh, rolling your eyes as you give his shoulder a playful shove. “Are you forgetting the reason I spend half my summer awake at the strangest hours? Making sure your calls don’t end with me passing out mid-conversation?” You raise an eyebrow, leaning back. “Trust me, bub, you’re impossible to forget.”

“Just wanted to make sure,” he says, jutting out his lower lip in a mock pout. His gaze stays steady on you, his eyes searching yours, and there’s something there—something you can’t quite place but that you feel all the way down to your bones.

You swallow, trying to keep your tone as light as his. “Oh, Oscar. No need to be dramatic. You’ve been stuck with me since orientation.” You smile, warm and reassuring. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

His chuckle is warm, but the laugh doesn’t fully reach his eyes. A flicker of something vulnerable, almost haunted, crosses his face. “People have a way of leaving,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, Lando’s about to graduate, and after that…well, things change.”

His words hang between you, stark against the background noise of campus life. It’s a reality you both understand: university, with its friendships, late-night talks, and steady routines, is never as permanent as it feels in the moment. Change is inevitable, and soon, it’ll come for all of you.

You scoot a little closer, letting your shoulder brush against his, grounding him in the here and now. “Lando’s an old man at the edge of freedom, the lucky bastard.” You smirk, nudging him gently. “You and I though? We’re still the same. No one’s going anywhere.”

For a moment, you both just sit there, the weight of unspoken promises lingering between you. His gaze dips briefly to your lips before flicking back up, and there’s a spark of something that feels new, unexpected. It’s as though he’s waiting for the right words, like there’s a tune that neither of you has heard yet playing gently in the background, just waiting for one of you to finally hum along.

You rest your head on his shoulder, taking a deep breath, letting the familiar weight of his presence ground you. “We’ve got time, Oscar.”

He grins, a little reluctantly, but there’s a warmth in his eyes that softens his expression, something unguarded and real. You can feel the silent understanding settle between you both, an unspoken promise that maybe, just maybe, some things don’t have to change.

Not yet.

And now, you’re here. Typing out the lyrics to the song you know is going to be for Oscar, while lying on his bed with his arm resting comfortably around your waist, his breathing slow and even beside you. The gentle weight of his arm keeps you grounded, but it’s more than that; it’s the warmth of him next to you, a presence you can’t shake, a feeling that lingers even when he’s not here.

You’d thought nothing had changed between you two. But now, looking back, you see it—small shifts, like puzzle pieces rearranging themselves before you even noticed they’d moved. Maybe it’s the way he’s been studying your face a little longer, or the way he’s been holding your hand more often, or how he brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear without a second thought.

Then, there was that moment just a while ago. You’d been sprawled out on Lando’s bed as usual, laughing at some random meme he'd shown you. But Oscar was just watching you, a soft expression in his eyes that felt almost...territorial.

"C'mere," he’d said suddenly, his voice soft but insistent, breaking through your laughter. “Stay with me.”

Lando had raised an eyebrow at Oscar’s request, and you’d missed a small knowing smirk on his lips. But you were more focused on how Oscar’s eyes hadn’t left you, his hand reaching out in a quiet invitation.

You’d moved over to him, hesitating for only a second before settling into his arms. The way his hand had rested on your waist, his fingers drawing small circles there as you leaned against him, felt different—like he was anchoring you there, like he wanted you closer than usual. And though he’d acted like it was nothing, you could have sworn you felt his heartbeat pick up against your shoulder.

Now it’s just the two of you, the quiet of the dorm settling around you, warm and easy. Lando had left a while ago, heading to a friend’s party and leaving you and Oscar alone—though not before snapping a couple photos of you two on the same bed. The dim light from the streetlamp outside filters through the blinds, casting soft shadows across the room, and you can’t help but notice how natural it all feels—like you were always meant to be here.

Oscar stretches beside you, facing you with his hazy eyes and that familiar, sleepy smile. There’s something gentle in his gaze, a kind of warmth that makes your pulse skip a little, though you try to ignore it, focusing instead on the slow rhythm of his breathing and the subtle sound of his laughter still echoing from earlier.

“Comfortable?” he murmurs, his voice low and a little drowsy. His hand, warm and steady, rests lightly on your shoulder as he draws you closer.

“Yeah,” you say, not even bothering to hide the smile in your voice. It’s almost ridiculous, the calm that fills you while you’re with him—no masks, no obligations, just the two of you in the cozy quiet.

Minutes pass in an easy silence, your head resting just close enough to his that you can feel his breath against your cheek. When you look up, he’s already watching you, eyes half-lidded, a softness in them you haven’t quite seen before. There’s a vulnerability there, something almost unguarded, as if he’s waiting for you to catch onto a feeling that he’s carried all along.

Your eyes drift closed, and soon enough, the quiet thrum of his heartbeat beside you becomes a lullaby, easing you to sleep with a sense of comfort you can’t remember feeling anywhere else.

When you wake the next morning, soft sunlight is spilling through the blinds, warming the room with a gentle glow. For a moment, you’re disoriented, blinking away sleep and adjusting to the soft, steady breathing beside you. Then you remember—you’re still here, wrapped in the blankets beside Oscar.

Oscar stirs, his eyes fluttering open just enough to catch you watching him. A lazy grin tugs at his lips, and his hand, which had somehow ended up wrapped around yours, gives the smallest, sleep-tinged squeeze.

"Morning," he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep.

"Morning," you reply, feeling a warmth settle over you that has nothing to do with the morning light filtering through the blinds. There’s a pause, a soft kind of stillness stretching between you, as if the world outside doesn’t exist yet and you’re suspended here, in this quiet, shared moment.

"G’moooooorning," Lando groans from across the room, his voice muffled by the covers. The two of you chuckle, knowing he’ll be facing a brutal hangover today.

Still smiling, you shift to sit up, and that’s when it hits you—just how close you and Oscar are, practically nose to nose on his twin bed. His hand is still loosely draped around yours, and you can feel his steady breaths, warm against your cheek. The familiarity of it sends a pleasant hum through you, a feeling of rightness that’s been quietly building in moments like this.

Oscar’s gaze catches yours, his eyes lingering just a bit longer than usual, and you notice the small smile playing on his lips, a little shy, a little more awake now. For a split second, something in his expression feels different—like there’s a question he hasn’t quite asked, or a confession he’s almost ready to say.

You feel a flicker of something, unexpected and thrilling, settle in your chest. And in that moment, you think that maybe, just maybe, there's something more here. 

But you shake the thoughts from your head. You’re just friends. Best friends.

Oscar’s bed is quickly becoming your new headquarters, if only because he won’t let you sit on Lando’s anymore. He insists it’s practical—Lando’s bed is too far from his side of the room, and Lando would complain about your stuff spilling over anyway—but you can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it. And Oscar’s growing possessiveness over “his side of the room” only fuels that suspicion.

One afternoon, as you’re curled up in his bed, typing out lyrics on your laptop, his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, smiles, and excuses himself to take the call, wandering to the far side of the room. You’re too focused on your song to notice right away, but something about his tone pulls you from your work.

“Hey, yeah…I know, I know,” he says, his voice soft and a little bashful. You can’t make out the other end of the conversation, but whatever they’re saying has him pacing, one hand ruffling his hair as he mutters a response.

He sighs a second later, a smile playing on his lips. “Come on, it’s not…it’s not that easy, alright?” He glances over at you, catching your eye for a brief, vulnerable moment before quickly looking away, his cheeks tinged with color. “I don’t think she’s...aware of anything like that. Not yet, at least.”

You can practically hear the teasing tone from the caller without even needing the words, and Oscar groans, running his hand over his face. “Okay, but…what if…I mean, what if it messes things up?”

You pretend to be fully absorbed in your screen, fighting back a small smile. You can’t hear the other side, but the snippets you catch send a warm flutter through your chest for some reason. 

“Fine, fine,” he chuckles, conceding. “No, I get it. I do.” He steals another glance your way, a softer, unguarded look in his eyes, something unspoken. “Look, I’ll...I’ll think about it, okay?”

When he hangs up and returns to the bed, there’s a new, nervous smile on his face, like he’s holding back.

“Good talk?” you ask, trying to keep your tone light, though curiosity buzzes in your chest.

“Yeah, uh, just Hattie,” he says, still sounding casual, though his eyes are filled with something quieter, maybe even hopeful. He hesitates, as though choosing his words carefully. “She, um…thinks I should take more risks.”

“Oh yeah?” you tease, leaning in, feeling the familiar, magnetic pull between you. “What kind of risks?”

He laughs, though there’s a nervous edge to it, his gaze dropping to the edge of the blanket as he fidgets with it. “Just…the ones that aren’t obvious until you actually go for them, I guess.”

You hum, shifting back to your lyrics, though your heart skips a beat. The air between you feels charged, like you’re both on the edge of something new and a little terrifying.

It’s two weeks before the open mic, and you’re sitting at your desk, carefully polishing every line, every note of the song. There’s a rhythm to it now, a familiarity as you hum the lyrics under your breath, and suddenly, it hits you—this song, this performance, everything…it’s for him.

You're in love with Oscar Piastri.

You don’t exactly know when it happened—the exact moment it shifted from comfortable friendship to something deeper. Maybe it was that quiet moment on the field when you swore he looked at your lips a little too long, or when you found yourself deciding to dedicate this song to him. Maybe it’s always been this way with you both, feelings going deeper but never having the chance to be more.

Now though, it’s glaringly obvious. And it’s stressing you the fuck out.

Lando, on the other hand, is having the time of his life.

“Oh, thank the heavens!” He snickers, barely containing his glee as you finally confess it to him, late one night while Oscar’s out with other friends. He dramatically wipes a nonexistent tear from his eye. “I was starting to think you’d never figure it out!”

“It’s not funny!” You groan, slumping back into the chair across from him, running a hand through your hair.

“It soooo is!” Lando cackles, his laughter echoing through the room. “I mean, come on, Y/N. You were acting all kinds of weird back when he had a girlfriend!”

You sit up defensively, crossing your arms. “I was being a good friend! I even hung out with her!”

“On hangouts you always had issues with!”

“She was never on time and flaked constantly!”

He rolls his eyes, his smirk widening. “Fine, fine. But what about the fact that you basically live here now, huh? You and Oscar are like a package deal.”

You stick out your tongue. “You like having me around.”

“Yeah, yeah, I do,” he admits, smirking. “But come on. It’s obvious now—you’ve liked him for ages.”

You sigh, shoulders dropping as the weight of the truth settles in. “Yeah. I guess I have.” You let out a breath, feeling both relieved and nervous now that you’ve finally said it out loud.

Lando leans forward, raising an eyebrow. “So, what are you gonna do about it?”

You blink, suddenly feeling a little vulnerable. “I mean…do I have to do anything? What if he doesn’t feel the same?”

Lando gives you a look, the kind only a big brother can give, full of patience and a hint of frustration. “Y/N, the guy looks at you like you hung the stars. Seriously. You could be a serial killer and he’d be wagging his tail while helping you dig a hole.” He chuckles. “He’s madly in love with you. I swear it.”

You laugh, feeling warmth spread through you at his words. But you still shake your head, hesitant. “You think so?”

“Duh,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Look, don’t overthink it. Just play your song, put it all out there, and see how he reacts. You’ll know.”

You roll your eyes, giving him a playful nudge. “When did you get so wise?”

“Probably when I had my graduation photos taken,” he grins, brushing you off.

You laugh along with him, feeling a little lighter. Maybe he’s right. Maybe that’s all you need to do—play the song, let the words say everything you’re too afraid to put out there, and hope he hears it in all the ways that matter.

Two days before the open mic, you’re practicing alone in the small rehearsal room on campus, running through the song again and again. The lyrics are practically engraved in your memory, but each time you sing them, they feel heavier, more vulnerable. You’ve poured so much of yourself, of your memories, into these words—it’s impossible not to think of him as you sing them.

The door creaks open, and you almost jump out of your skin. Oscar steps inside, an easy smile on his face as he leans against the doorway, hands stuffed in his pockets. "Hey,” he says, his voice low and soft, “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

You clear your throat, feeling your cheeks heat up as you try to act casual. "Just practicing,” you say, glancing away and strumming a few absent chords on your guitar. “You know, trying to make it sound…not terrible."

He chuckles, shaking his head as he walks further into the room. “Not a chance of that. I know it’s gonna be incredible." He stops just a few feet from you, and suddenly the room feels much smaller. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this serious about something that wasn’t for our grade. It’s kind of amazing.”

You laugh, a little too nervously. "It might have turned out to be more important to me than I originally thought.”

He watches you, and there’s something unreadable in his expression, a mix of admiration and curiosity. It makes you feel exposed, as if he can see right through you, into the meaning behind what you just said, into all the feelings you’ve been trying so hard to keep under wraps since you realized.

“Since we met…” You trail off, catching yourself, unsure if you want to finish that sentence.

Oscar raises an eyebrow, a faint smile playing at his lips. “Since we met…what?” he asks, leaning a little closer, his gaze locked onto yours.

The words almost spill out—how you can’t help but think he looks like an angel when he smiles, or how sometimes you wonder what it would be like to kiss him in a moment like this, your mind drifting to the memory of the two of you dancing in the rain, soaked and laughing as if it’s just the two of you in the world. 

But you’re not sure you’re ready for that. Not with the performance so close, and definitely not when he’s standing here looking at you like that.

Though what that is, you can’t say. Or maybe you’re still too scared to find out.

Instead, you manage a small smile, shrugging. “I don’t know…since we met, it’s just been…magic,” you say quietly, the word barely louder than a whisper.

There’s a brief flicker of surprise in his eyes, something soft and almost vulnerable, and then he smiles. “Yeah…yeah, I know what you mean,” he says, his voice dropping to a murmur. He’s close now, close enough that you feel the warmth radiating from him, and for a second, it feels like maybe you’re not the only one feeling this.

It takes everything in you not to lean in, not to close the distance. Instead, you look away, your heart racing. "So…you’ll be there? For the performance?"

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he says, his voice sincere, and the way he’s looking at you makes it feel like maybe he means more than just the performance.

When the open mic comes, you’re almost a wreck, nervous and excited all at once. When the night of the open mic finally arrives, you’re a mix of nerves and excitement, feeling each second tick by as the lights dim and the hum of the audience grows. Backstage, you tighten your grip on your guitar, casting one last look through the curtain to see if he’s there. But he isn’t.

A pang of disappointment settles into your chest. You tell yourself he’s probably just running late and that any second, he’ll slip in, giving you that half-smile he always has when he knows he’s kept you waiting. But a part of you can’t shake the small, sinking feeling that maybe…maybe you were hoping for too much.

But Oscar’s never let you down. And you don’t think he’d start now. 

When your turn comes, you take a deep breath and step onto the stage, feeling the warmth of the spotlight, and yet the crowd feels distant—none of them the person you want there the most. Settling into your seat, you scan the room one last time, but he’s still not there.

With a quiet sigh, you look down at your guitar, anchoring yourself in the familiar strings, the melody you’ve practiced countless times. You close your eyes, letting the weight of your feelings pour into the chords, filling every note with the things you’ve never been able to say.

Your voice starts soft, and as you sing, memories start playing in your mind. You think of meeting him at the Freshman orientation, the awkwardness, the fragility of the budding friendship—but you also think of the way you knew he was gonna be a part of your life, the certainty with which you realized you like having him around.

Hey darling, I know looks can be deceiving, But I know I saw a light in you And as we walked, we would talk, And I didn’t say half the things I wanted to.

You picture him beside you, the way his voice dips low when he’s teasing, the way his hand always seems to find yours in crowded spaces, like it’s second nature to him. A small smile tugs at your lips as you sing, the words becoming more and more specific to your story with him.

The way you walk, the way you talk, the way you say my name It's beautiful, wonderful—don’t you ever change.

Each word spills out, heavy and vulnerable, leaving you bare as you play. Every line is something you’ve kept close, something you’ve been afraid to say, and it’s only now, on this stage, that you’re finally able to let it out.

Hey darling, why are people always leaving? I think you and I should stay the same.

Each note, each line is a confession, a quiet vulnerability you let slip through the melody, hoping he hears it—wherever he is. 

As you near the song’s climax, your gaze sweeps over the crowd, people swaying in time with the music, and then, finally, you see him.

He’s standing near the entrance, face slightly flushed, like he’s just rushed in, but he’s there, his eyes fixed on you with a look that sends a surge of warmth straight to your chest.

When he catches you looking, he raises his hand in a small wave, a hint of that familiar grin on his lips. The weight on your chest lifts and you feel a renewed sense of purpose, like you’re the only two people in the room, your voice steadying as your gaze stays locked on his.

Hey darling, I could give you 50 reasons why I should be the one you choose.

A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, and you can’t help but imagine all those reasons, each one racing through your mind. You could probably give him more than fifty—and every one of them would be true.

All those other girls, well, they're beautiful, but would they write a song for you?

When you sing that line, he chuckles, shaking his head slightly. The sight makes you laugh, your voice softening as you step into the final chorus, feeling like every word has finally found its rightful place.

'Cause I can't help it if you look like an angel Can't help it if I wanna kiss you in the rain So, come feel this magic I've been feeling since I met you Can't help it if there's no one else

The last notes hang in the air as you let the final chords fade, your fingers gently leaving the strings. The song comes full circle, wrapping up with the melody that began beneath the oak tree, when you first decided to give this song to him.

The applause swells, and you stand, bowing before making your way backstage, where you know he’ll be waiting. Heart pounding, you step through the curtain, and there he is, leaning against the wall, hands behind his back, looking at you with a combination of expressions you’ve never quite seen on him before—soft, maybe a little nervous, with a hint of pride shining in his eyes.

“You’re late,” you tease, unable to keep the grin off your face.

He smiles sheepishly and, with a slight flourish, pulls a bouquet of your favorite flowers from behind his back. “Turns out flower shops are in high demand on nights like this.”

Your heart melts a little as you take the bouquet, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of the flowers. “You’re forgiven,” you murmur, glancing up at him.

He rolls his eyes in playful relief. “Good. You get cranky when you’re mad.” He chuckles as you give him a slight nudge. “C’mon let’s get out of here. Dinner’s on me.”

You nod, your heart pounding with a mix of excitement and relief, and hurry to pack up your guitar. As you walk out together, his hand finds its place gently but firmly on your hip, guiding you toward the door. And if you notice the way he pulls you just a little closer, his fingers lingering as if they belong there, you don’t say anything—you just smile and let yourself fall. 

For once, maybe things are exactly as they should be.

Dinner’s casual, nothing too fancy, but there’s a shift in the air. He’s more forward now, his fingers brushing against yours with a confidence you haven’t seen before. He holds your hand a little tighter, his gaze lingering on your lips more often than it ever has.

Lando was right. You knew it. And so did he.

The meal feels familiar—easy laughter, the same teasing banter, inside jokes that still land with ease. But beneath it all, there’s an unspoken tension, a hum in the air that keeps the silence between you both louder than it should be. It’s the quiet weight of a confession that hasn’t been made, but you both feel it there, just waiting for the right moment.

He links your fingers together as you walk back toward your dorm. The night feels like it’s stretching out, slow and deliberate, each step bringing you closer to something inevitable.

You break the silence first. 

“When did you come in?” You ask, glancing up at him.

“A little bit before you sang…” He clears his throat, his smile teasing. He sings the line with a laugh, "The way you walk, way you talk, way you say my name, it's beautiful, wonderful, don't you ever change."

You groan, embarrassed, but can’t help smiling at how effortlessly he teases you. He laughs, full of heart, and says, “I loved every moment of it.”

“Good,” you reply, the words simple but carrying everything you want to say. You lean a little closer, just enough for him to feel the shift in the air between you.

As you reach your door, you stop, heart racing in your chest. You look at him, trying to gauge what he’s feeling, the question that’s been swirling in your mind now impossible to keep inside. 

“Did you get it then? What I meant to say?”

Oscar’s expression softens, and he steps closer, his hand gently covering yours where it rests on your guitar. “Y/N,” he says, his voice low, “I think I got the message loud and clear.”

Before you can say anything, his fingers brush your cheek, his touch so soft it sends a shiver through you. The world feels like it’s slowing down, the noise of the night receding into the background as he leans in just a little closer. “Play me the song again,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, “So I can hear it in full.”

You chuckle, your heart fluttering in your chest. “I should’ve just written a song with fifty reasons why it should be me.”

He shakes his head, a soft smile playing at his lips as his thumb brushes against your skin. “You didn’t need fifty reasons. Just one would’ve been enough.”

“And what would that reason be?” You ask, your breath catching in your throat.

“Because I love you too.”

And then, before you can process anything more, he’s kissing you. It’s soft, tender—like the final note to a song you’ve been playing in your heart for what feels like forever. You melt into the kiss, the world around you vanishing as he pulls you closer, his arms wrapped around you, grounding you in a way that feels like home.

In that quiet moment, as the sounds of the night drift into the background, you realize it was always meant to be this way. All the magic, all the feelings have been there since the day you met. 

Everything falls exactly into place.