#Small LED Lamp

[minimagicnook]

This mini vintage nightlight features a minimalist yet charming retro design. The base is equipped with a convenient switch and designed with a safe, smoke-free simulation, ensuring both safety and endless romantic ambiance. Perfect for decorating your cozy little home or adding a unique touch to your booknook, this nightlight brings a sense of nostalgia and warmth. Its simple design feels like a beautiful journey back in time, making it an irresistible addition to any home or study space, radiating warmth and vintage charm. Truly a must-have for anyone who appreciates exquisite, functional decor.

[fredbox3d]

Bring the spooky vibes with this Gengar LED light box! Perfect for Pokémon fans, this mischievous ghost will add an eerie glow to your space while keeping things fun and cozy. 👻💜✨

[modernlamps]

The Evolution of Lighting: Aarhus Table Lamps Role in Modern Interiors

Lighting has always been an essential aspect of how we shape and perceive our living spaces. Over time, the way we illuminate our interiors has evolved significantly, shaping the very essence of how we live, work, and relax within our homes and workplaces.

In modern lighting, the Aarhus Table Lamp stands as a beacon of innovation and style. Designed to harmonize with contemporary interiors, this white table lamp represents more than just a light source. It's a fusion of functionality and artistry, catering to the evolving needs of today's interior design landscape.

Historical Perspective: Evolution of Lighting Trends

Ancient Illumination Techniques: Lighting the Past

   Lighting methods of ancient civilizations were pivotal, shaping their daily lives and rituals. From flickering torches to oil lamps and early candlelight, these light sources held cultural and practical significance, illuminating dwellings and sacred spaces alike.

Transition to Ambiance: Candles, Oil Lamps, and Gas Lighting

   The transition from traditional torches to candles, followed by oil lamps and gas lighting, marked a shift towards creating ambiance. Candles brought warmth to homes, while oil lamps improved illumination. Gas lighting further revolutionized interiors, brightening urban areas and public spaces.

Electric Lighting's Revolutionary Impact

   The advent of electric lighting was a turning point, fundamentally altering how interiors were illuminated. Edison’s incandescent bulb and subsequent technological advancements transformed homes and cities, offering brighter and more efficient illumination that revolutionized interior design possibilities.

Shifting Paradigms: Lighting Trends in Modern Interior Design

Unveiling Contemporary Lighting Trends

   Today's lighting trends reflect a blend of innovation and style. LED technology, smart lighting, and minimalist designs are dominating modern interiors, shaping how spaces are illuminated and perceived.

Fusion of Functionality and Aesthetics

   Modern lighting isn't just about brightness; it’s a fusion of function and beauty. Fixtures are designed to complement decor while offering versatile illumination options for various tasks, enhancing both utility and visual appeal.

Lighting's Influence on Ambiance and Mood

   Lighting plays a pivotal role in setting the mood. Warm tones create a cozy atmosphere, while brighter, cooler lights foster productivity. The interplay of light and shadow can dramatically affect how we perceive and experience a space.

The Role of the Aarhus Table Lamp in Contemporary Settings

Overview of the Aarhus Table Lamp's Design and Features

Efficient Power Consumption: The ceramic table lamp operates within a power range of 21W to 30W, emphasizing its energy efficiency. And it contributes to reduced electricity bills while being environmentally conscious.

Adjustable Illumination: You can adjust the brightness of this industrial table lamp to suit your needs, so you're comfortable and functional for any activity.

Space-Saving Design: Its compact and well-thought-out dimensions allow seamless integration into smaller areas or corners, optimizing room layout without compromising on style or utility.

Easy Installation and Maintenance: Its straightforward setup requires no complex assembly; just plug in and use. These unique table lamps are hassle-free to maintain with regular dusting, ensuring a long life and pristine appearance.

Customer Satisfaction and Reviews: There are lots of testimonials from satisfied users praising the lamp's quality, design, and functionality. Positive feedback from customers points out how well it integrates into different environments.

Versatile Applications: Beyond typical residential use, this wood table lamp's adaptability spans professional settings like offices, auditoriums, or conference rooms, enhancing the ambiance and functionality in various scenarios.

Enhanced Ambiance: The warm and white light options cater to diverse ambiance needs. So this marble table lamp creates cozy or invigorating atmospheres based on specific preferences, thereby enriching the user's experience.

Durability and Long Lifespan: The Aarhus table lamp boasts a remarkable lifespan of 30,000 to 50,000 hours under normal use, reflecting its exceptional durability.

Post-Modern Aesthetics: The marble table lamp's simple yet sophisticated design exudes a strong post-modern vibe, adding elegance and style to any setting.

Glare-Free Natural Lighting: It provides glare-free, non-flickering illumination that's great for studying, reading, or working.

Modern Interior Aesthetics of Aarhus Table Lamp

The Aarhus table lamp's design elements align seamlessly with modern interior aesthetics. Its sleek and simple shape embodies minimalist design principles, reflecting contemporary taste. The available body colors—black and white—of this dimmable table lamp ensure versatility, effortlessly blending into diverse interior themes. Additionally, the ceramic, metal, and wood material combination signifies sophistication and durability. This appeals to modern sensibilities seeking elegance and longevity in lighting solutions.

Aarhus Table Lamp Adapts To Diverse Modern Environments

The adaptability of the Aarhus table lamp is one of its standout features. Its versatility extends across varied environments, fitting seamlessly into different spaces such as homes, offices, conference rooms, auditoriums, canteens, and guesthouses. The warm and white light emitting options cater to different ambiance preferences, making it suitable for creating cozy atmospheres or fostering productivity. Its moderate dimensions—40 cm in height, 16 cm upper surface stick body length, 9 cm round light portion width, and 10 cm lower lamp body width—make it suitable for a variety of settings, optimizing both style and functionality.

Innovation and Sustainability: Aarhus Table Lamp's Contribution

The Aarhus Table Lamp features the latest advancements in lighting technology. The modern table lamp utilization of advanced LED technology showcases a leap forward in illumination innovation. This cutting-edge technology ensures optimal illumination and contributes to energy conservation.

The small table lamps are a testament to energy efficiency, operating within a power range of 21W to 30W. This reduces electricity bills and aligns with environmental sustainability efforts. Its eco-conscious design underscores a greener future, blending functionality with environmental responsibility.

Wrapping Up

The Aarhus Table Lamp seamlessly aligns with the essence of contemporary interior design. This lamp isn’t just a light source; it's a catalyst in the evolution of lighting solutions. It redefines how we illuminate our spaces with innovative features, energy efficiency, and adaptability.

As interior design trends evolve, the Aarhus Table Lamp stands as a beacon of change. Its ability to enhance ambiance, cater to diverse settings, and embody eco-friendly practices makes it a dominant factor in interior design and lighting trends.

[ledmyplaceblog]

Bedside table lamps add comfort, convenience, and style to any bedroom. Learn how to choose the right lamp for reading, ambiance, and décor. Explore designs, features, and tips to create a cozy, functional space.

[geeklane-gifts]

Cute Quirky Table Lamps for Desk

Geeklane offers adorable toy desk lamps. You can choose from an array of cute quirky silicone lamps to add a touch of geek chic to your work or living space. Explore our collection of cute and quirky desk lamps that blend functionality with fun. Shop now!

[mrsbarnesblog]

˖˚⊹ unspoken

➤ summary: after a heated argument, Rafe is terrified he’s pushed you too far and that might actually lose you

➤ w/c: 1.6k

➤ warnings: allusions to sex, hurt/comfort, insecurities, fear of loss

masterlist

The room was only lightened by the bedside lamp, casting long shadows over the bed where you and Rafe lay tangled in the sheets. The air was thick with the weight of the situation. Your small argument, just a simple misunderstanding, somehow quickly took the wrong turn, and you both said things that you didn’t mean to.

You were fighting, pouring all the pent-up energy and exhaustion from work, and Rafe’s stubbornness didn’t exactly make it easier. It felt raw and vulnerable, and then suddenly it all led to you stumbling into your bedroom and ripping your clothes off each other. 

Your breathing was still heavy, and your body was still feeling hot and tingly from what had happened just a few minutes ago.

Rafe's chest rose and fell beneath the sheets, his arm thrown across his forehead as he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He hadn't said a word since the argument in the kitchen, which was so unusual of him. His kisses and the way he touched your body weren’t in his typical longing and teasing way; they were angry, almost desperate. Now, there was a silence hanging between you, thick and almost suffocating.

And you knew that partly it was your fault. Blinded by the rage and hurt, you said something that you would’ve never said in the right mind. Something that you should’ve never used against Rafe, knowing his sensitiveness about this topic. But the words about you better get out of his life and you not even knowing why you were still there left your mouth before you could actually process it. 

You instantly regretted it. Seeing the sudden change in his face and eyes and the way his posture became more tense, another sharp reply died on his tongue. You wanted to say something else, soften the situation, but it was too late when Rafe dealt with the problem the only way he knew—he kissed you with all he had, not allowing you to say anything else. Pulling you flush against his body, he gripped the back of your neck until you answered him with the same energy. 

Your words felt like a bucket of cold water, and he panicked, knowing that it might be it. Rafe knew that sex was not a good way to solve a problem, but it was the only thing he thought he was genuinely good at. He wanted to please you, to beg you to stay, so he led you to your bedroom, even if he felt empty inside, even he couldn’t say anything out loud because of the lump in his throat. 

Now, as the argument faded away, when it all seemed too stupid to even argue about, it was weirdly uncomfortable. Rafe’s mind was spiraling. He was too scared to even look at you, too afraid that the simple move or word might push you to get up and actually leave.

You slowly turned onto your side, as if afraid to make noise in the dead silence of your bedroom, your heart pounding with guilt and worry, unsure of where to even begin. You could feel the emotional distance between you two, and it stung. Rafe wasn’t usually the type to get vulnerable or emotional, yet you knew that he took everything too close to his heart. This time, something had shifted in him, and it left you unsettled because you were the reason. You could feel his presence next to you, but it was different.

Slowly, you reached out and laid your hand on his chest. He flinched, but then, after a moment, his hand covered yours, squeezing gently and letting out a shaky breath. He didn’t say anything, but the tension between you was palpable.

"I didn't mean it." You whispered, your voice thick with regret. "I didn’t mean to make you think that was the end. I just… I was angry, and I didn’t know how to say what I really felt. But I’m not going anywhere. I don’t want to leave you." You stopped for a second, noticing the way he clenched his jaw. “I’m so sorry.”

The words seemed to hang in the air for a beat before Rafe finally moved, turning to face you. His eyes were raw and tired, and there was a certain despair in them that made your heart ache. He reached up slowly, his hand trembling as he gently traced your cheek with his fingertips, as if trying to reassure himself that you were still here and that you weren’t slipping away from him.

“I thought… I thought you were done with me.” He murmured, his voice thick with emotions. “I thought I’d messed up too much, that I’d pushed you too far. And I couldn’t take it, I couldn't imagine not having you in my life.”

You felt his breath hitch as his thumb grazed the corner of your mouth, his gaze softening with a mix of relief and still-present fear.

“Oh, Ray…” You said gently, reaching up to cup his face, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. “I’m not going anywhere. You’ve never pushed me too far. We fight, we argue, but I don’t want to lose you. I love you. I love you too much to just walk away.”

Tears welled up in his eyes, and he blinked them away quickly, but it was too late—you saw them, the rawness in them that he was trying so hard to hide.

His chest tightened, and he exhaled shakily, a sob escaping him before he could stop it. He pulled your still naked body close, burying his face in your neck, his hands gripping you like he was afraid if he let go, you’d vanish.

“I’m sorry.” He choked out, sneaking one hand around your waist to find some comfort in the feeling of your skin on his. “For being so difficult and stubborn. I don’t know how to be better. I don’t know how to make you understand how much you mean to me.”

You held him tighter, your hand running through his hair as you soothed him. “You don’t have to be perfect, Rafe. You just have to be you. And that’s enough for me. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

For a long while, you lay there, wrapped in each other's arms. The anger had faded, replaced with something deeper, another level of trust and vulnerability that were new for your relationship. With how hard it was for Rafe to open up and express himself, it was a big step, and you wanted to do everything in your power to make him comfortable.

Rafe still wasn’t entirely sure of himself, but you could feel him beginning to trust in your words as his body relaxed against yours, his breath slowing. His hand never left your face, his thumb still tracing the curve of your cheek like he was trying to memorize every detail of you.

“I was so scared.” Rafe murmured, his voice trembling as he buried his face in the curve of your neck. “I thought I’d lost you... and you’re my entire word.”

You felt his breath warm against your skin, and your heart ached at the tremble in his voice. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your fingers brushing the stray hair from his forehead. “You’re not going to lose me, Rafe.” You said softly, your voice carrying all the reassurance you could muster. “Not tonight, not ever. I promise.”

His jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line like he was trying to hold something back. But then he shook his head, his blue eyes locked on yours, glassy with unshed tears. “You’re the only thing that makes sense in my life. I don’t know what I’d do if you—”

You didn’t let him finish. Leaning in, you kissed him deeply, your lips catching his in a way that was tender but still confident enough to show that what you said was true. His hand slid up to cup the back of your head, his grip firm like he needed this connection to anchor himself. When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting together as the weight of the moment settled around you.

“You’re stuck with me, Rafe Cameron. And don’t think that you can get rid of me this easily, even if you’re annoying me sometimes.”

A quiet laugh escaped him, shaky and uncertain, but it was a laugh nonetheless. “Good.” He said, his voice barely audible. “Because I don’t think I could handle it any other way.”

You smiled, your hand smoothing over his back in slow, comforting strokes as his body began to relax against yours. He exhaled a deep, shuddering breath, the tension that had gripped him loosening with every beat of your heart.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore; it was warm and allowed you to finally fully enjoy the presence of each other. Rafe pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering there as if savoring the moment. And as the hours stretched on, the night wrapped around you like a cocoon, and you both were too lost in each other to care about the outer world. 

For the rest of the night, words became unnecessary. Instead, there were soft kisses, quiet touches, and the unspoken promise that no matter what, everything is going to be okay. Wrapped in his arms, you felt the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek, and for the first time in what felt like forever, there was peace.

[prismatic-skies]

💚👻I MADE A LAMP👻💚

Is t it adorable?! This has been listed on my website, which goes live March 2024.

More details to come!

[hatethysinner]

I’ve been reading stories where Remmick meets the reader whose in a bad marriage with a cheating spouse. They’re good but I now want a different kind of AU, I want to see Remmick meets pregnant reader which the baby’s father dipped the moment he heard the news so basically Remmick steps in to take care of the reader and the baby. If it’s no trouble can you write it please? I don’t mind if you do or don’t add smut in the story

ɴᴏ ᴏʀᴅɪɴᴀʀʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ

ᴡᴄ: 5.1k

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this incredible song. I LOVE THIS IDEA ANON UR SO SMART! i was kind of hesitant to write this for some reason but the more i thought about it the more i was like oh my god this is gonna be so good! one thing led to another and well... is 5k words still a drabble? i'm not in love with my writing in this but i truly hope y'all enjoy it. as always, white girls you can have your fun with this too! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: familial abandonment, grief, light religious mentions, birth though i don't think it's that graphic but mileage may vary, excessive divider usage, amateur knowledge of maternity(!!!), domestic lonely!remmick fluff

fanart!

You hadn’t planned to be alone.

Not like this.

Not with your belly round and aching, your fingers too swollen for the ring he slipped on with shaking hands that spring. Not in this creaking old house with lace curtains and porch swings and enough room for a family that hadn’t come.

The Mississippi heat hadn’t let up in weeks. It clung to your neck like grief, heavy and humid, the cicadas too loud to ignore and the crickets too quiet to trust. You moved slower now, out of necessity, not grace. The floorboards groaned beneath your bare feet as you made your way from the bed to the kitchen as if the house missed a second set of steps too.

You still caught yourself reaching for him at night.

Still caught yourself dreaming of the way he used to hold your waist like it anchored him. The way he kissed the back of your neck in the kitchen when you were stirring something sweet. How he'd whisper that you were going to be the best mother Mississippi ever saw.

He loved you.

He loved you.

Didn’t he?

But the day you sat him down, palms damp, breath caught somewhere between hope and dread, and told him you’re gonna be a father, everything shifted. Not all at once. Not with shouting or slamming doors.

Just silence.

First, he started staying late at the shop.

Then the notes stopped showing up with the groceries.

Then you woke up and he was gone.

No suitcase. No goodbye.

Just the weight of knowing his absence wasn’t an accident.

You’d told yourself it was a mistake. That maybe he was hurt. Maybe something happened. But the bank hadn’t seen him. The rail station hadn’t, either. He left. Left you.

Left this.

The whispers in town followed you like gnats. Women with their husbands at church, nodding politely, eyes drifting down to your stomach before flicking back up with something like pity, or judgment, you couldn’t quite bear to name. No one said it outright, but you heard it anyway.

Poor girl.

What a shame.

You still sat in the same pew. Still sang the hymns, even when your throat ached. Still held your chin high. But it was getting harder. Harder to feel beautiful. Harder to feel strong.

Harder to believe there’d be anything left of you once this child came into the world.

You’d made peace with that, sort of. With being a mother, even if you couldn’t be a wife.

Until the night he showed up.

It was late. So late, the world felt folded in on itself. The moderate rain only exemplified the quiet. The porch light had burned out weeks ago, and the only glow came from the oil lamp you kept near the window. The town had gone quiet save for the occasional bullfrog croaking out near the creek, and you’d just settled into your rocking chair, fingers pressing gentle circles into the small of your back, trying to coax the ache away.

Then the knock.

Soft. Barely a sound at all.

You startled.

Knocks didn’t come this time of night. Not unless someone was dead or dying. You wrapped your robe tighter and eased yourself upright, hand on the edge of your belly, heart already ticking faster.

You stood slowly, one hand on your lower back, the other braced against the wall as you moved toward the door. You didn’t bother to make yourself look presentable. Just adjusted your chest, padded barefoot to the front of the house, and peered through the fogged glass of the window beside the frame.

There was a man on your steps.

Not your husband.

A stranger.

Tall. Lean. Barely cloaked in a threadbare coat. He stood crooked against the porch railing, eyes tilted toward the sky like the rain was speaking to him. His hair was damp and clung to his forehead. His hands were empty.

You should’ve locked the door.

Should’ve turned off the light and walked back to bed.

But something in the way he looked up when you touched the knob, like he’d sensed it, like he’d been waiting, froze you in place.

You opened the door.

He didn’t move.

“Sorry to trouble ya, miss,” he said, voice rough, worn down like old gravel.

You didn’t answer.

He cleared his throat. Rain had slicked down the collar of his coat and soaked through the fabric at his shoulders.

“I ain’t askin’ for much,” he added. “Just a night. I won’t touch nothin’. I just-” He hesitated. “It’s cold.”

You looked him over.

The way he stood didn’t scream threat. Didn’t scream drunk or high or desperate. But it didn’t scream safe either. He looked pale. Tired. Gaunt in the cheeks, but not unwell. Just… small, somehow, despite his size.

You shifted. Felt the baby stir gently beneath your ribs.

He noticed.

His eyes dropped to your belly. His whole face changed. Not pity. Not disgust. Just something sharp and unfamiliar, like recognition.

“I’ll sleep on the porch,” he said quickly. “Didn’t realize... I wouldn’t’ve knocked if I’d known. Honest.”

You didn’t know what possessed you then. Maybe it was the ache in your ribs. The absence of someone who should’ve been there to keep you company through all this. Maybe it was how needy he sounded. How soft his voice got when he said honest.

Or maybe it was the look he gave you when you gave him permission to step inside.

He didn’t smile.

Just nodded. Like you’d saved him from something you didn’t have a name for yet.

“Thank ya,” he said, voice almost hoarse now. “Thank ya kindly.”

You still didn’t ask his name.

You didn’t ask where he came from.

You just shut the door behind him, gestured toward the blanket chest by the hearth, and said, “There’s a quilt in there. Floor’s all I’ve got.”

He nodded again. Didn’t complain.

You watched from the corner of your eye as he lowered himself down, slow and careful, folding the blanket once before curling beneath it. No pillow, no cushion. Just wood and wool and whatever weight he’d carried in with him.

And when you eased yourself back into your rocker, listening to the soft tick of rain on the windowpanes, the baby shifted again, sharper this time. Like it knew something had changed.

You didn’t sleep well.

But when you woke the next morning, he was still there.

And that was the last night you ever spent alone.

It started with the dishes.

Not all at once. Just one plate, then another. A rhythm, like he'd done it a hundred times before. You’d woken from your afternoon nap to find the washtub full and your best rag already soaked, the scent of lye soap and something copper-tinged filling the air.

He hadn’t even looked up at first. Just kept scrubbing slow circles into a plate with that strange, methodical care of his. You’d stared at him for a full minute, waiting for him to stop, to say something, maybe even look guilty. But he didn’t. He just nodded toward the table, where he’d made a small spread of breakfast, only for you.

“Thought ya might be hungry,” he said.

That was all.

You didn’t ask him why he’d done it.

You didn’t need to.

He’d been quiet like that all week. Hovering without hovering, close but never quite imposing. You noticed the way he watched you when you moved around the house, hands tucked behind his back like he didn’t trust himself not to help too quickly. He'd fixed the door latch before you'd even thought to mention it, patched the hole in the roof where the rain got in, even dusted your kitchen shelves with one of your old slips of cloth tied around his wrist like a makeshift cuff.

You hadn’t asked for any of that either.

But maybe that was what made it bearable. Strange, yes, but not frightening. Not threatening. He wasn’t a loud man. Wasn’t messy, either. He stepped light, didn’t slam doors, always kept his boots by the back steps and his sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows.

He didn’t touch you.

But he looked.

You caught him at it often enough. When you were washing greens, when you were folding linens. His gaze always softened around the edges, like he was watching something breakable and didn’t trust the room to keep it safe.

At first, you’d looked away.

Now you didn’t.

You weren’t sure what changed. Only that something about the way he moved, how slow and deliberate it all was, made your chest ache in a way you didn’t expect. Like you’d forgotten what it meant to be seen without being expected to perform.

He watched you differently than your husband had. That man, gone now, though not without taking a piece of your heart with him, had looked at you with something close to love. Maybe it had been love. You still didn’t know. But there had always been a shadow in it. A hesitation. Like he was trying to hold on to who you were before. Before the baby. Before the curve of your belly started showing in every dress. Before you started humming lullabies under your breath.

He didn’t do that.

He just brought you warm water for your feet in the evening and kept the fire going when the wind picked up through the walls. He hung herbs on the porch rail to dry, even though you hadn’t taught him how. Got it wrong the first time. Rosemary bundled with sassafras, but corrected himself without complaint. He had sharp eyes. Paid attention. Knew your schedule by heart now. When you took your walks. When you liked your tea. When the baby liked to kick.

And Lord, the way he fussed over that baby.

He listened for the kicks like they were gospel. Dropped to one knee anytime you winced or shifted, one hand already hovering like he could ease the weight of your belly just by being near. He’d murmur soft nothings to it sometimes, voice low and warm as molasses. Called the baby sweetheart, sugarplum, his little dove, like it already belonged to him, like he'd been waiting for it longer than even you had.

When the baby turned in the night and made your whole spine ache, he was already there with warm cloths and gentler hands. He never made a show of it. Never asked for thanks. Just laid his hand where it hurt most and waited until your breath evened out again. Sometimes you’d wake to find him asleep beside your chair, his head resting lightly against your thigh, still half-dressed from whatever he’d been doing before he heard you stir.

He carried buckets of water in the mornings without you asking, swept the porch, patched the leaks. Cleaned the chicken coop even though he hated the smell. Anything to spare you the strain. Anything to make things easier.

And he never touched your belly without permission. Not once. Always waited for a nod, for some small sign that it was alright. Then he’d press the flat of his palm against your skin like it was sacred.

He didn’t ask for much in return.

Just to be close.

Just to stay.

It was strange, all of it.

You’d said that to yourself more than once, lying awake with your belly high and heavy under the quilt, the fire crackling low in the stove and his footsteps creaking through the kitchen. It wasn’t fear that kept you up. It wasn’t discomfort either, not exactly. It was something quieter. Thicker. A feeling like you’d wandered into someone else’s story, someone else’s life.

You’d never expected company. Not after what happened. Not after the man you married, the one you’d whispered vows with in a sun-warmed church, turned pale and silent when you told him about the child growing inside you. You weren’t stupid. You’d known it would be hard. But you hadn’t expected the look he gave you, like you’d broken something between you. And then he left. Just like that. Like the baby had made you unrecognizable.

But he didn’t seem to flinch.

He hadn’t run, hadn’t stared at your stomach like it was a problem that needed solving. Hadn’t looked past you like he was trying to remember who you used to be before the swell of your belly changed the silhouette of your body.

He just stayed.

And that was strange.

So was the way he moved through the house now, your house, though it hadn’t felt like yours in a while, with a sense of purpose that made no sense. You never asked him to scrub the floorboards or polish the handles or oil the hinges, but he did. Quietly. Methodically. Like he wanted to earn the space he took up.

Strangest of all, though, was how he spoke to your belly.

He didn’t talk to you about the baby. Not directly. But he murmured to your stomach like it was a person already. Asked questions. Told it things. Ran his hand, cool and callused, gently over the curve of you like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

“Evenin’, little one,” he’d say, crouching to place a soft kiss right above your navel after bringing you tea. “Ya givin’ your mama trouble again?”

And when the baby kicked, he lit up like a man who’d just heard the voice of God.

The first time it happened with him, just a nudge, a little flutter against your ribs, you’d gasped and pressed your palm to the spot. He'd rushed across the room with a towel in one hand and a pail in the other, dropping them both like they were meaningless and was at your side in an instant.

“Was that ‘em?” he whispered. “Did they move?”

You nodded. And he reached for your hand so gently it made your throat ache. Placed it over his own, right where your skin had jumped. You watched his eyes flicker red in the dim candlelight as he waited. Then brighter. Brighter still when the baby kicked again.

You didn’t mention the glow. Not then.

You’d noticed it before. Brief, flickering, like something hiding behind glass. His eyes weren’t blue the way other white men in town had them. They weren’t even just blue. They had depth. Layers. Like river water after a storm, with light trapped somewhere deep inside. The red only came when the light hit just right, and was brightened when he was emotional. Happy. Or upset.

Or something else.

His teeth, too, were strange. White, yes, but sharper at the corners. His canines lingered a little too long. He didn’t smile often, but when he did, they always showed just a little too much. He never seemed to eat, not really. Said he had odd hours. That his stomach didn’t take kindly to most food.

But he cooked for you. Always. Carefully. Like the act of preparing your plate meant more to him than eating his own.

All of it was strange.

But you didn’t stop him.

Because when he sat beside you and ran a hand over your belly, there was nothing selfish in it. Nothing claiming or hungry. Just awe. Just devotion.

That was the word that kept coming to mind lately. Devotion.

He followed your pace. Matched your rhythm. Learned your moods before you even knew them yourself. If you sighed, he brought a shawl. If you shifted, he offered his arm. If you cried, when the tears came without warning, in the middle of cooking or brushing your hair or just trying to read, he said nothing. Just held you. Let you soak his shoulder and said your name like it was a promise.

Sometimes you caught him watching you.

Not in a lurid way. Not even in the way your husband used to, back when things were good between you. He looked like he was trying to memorize you. The way your breath hitched when you laughed. The way your ankles swelled at night. The way your fingers danced over the pages of your herbal guides even when you were too tired to really read.

You didn’t ask why he stayed.

You told yourself it was pity. Gratitude. Maybe a sense of guilt.

But something about the way he looked at you, like you were the only tether he had left to something real, made you wonder.

And more than once, you found yourself leaning into him just a little longer than needed. Letting your hand rest on his when he passed you a cup. Letting the silence stretch between you when the fire burned low.

It was slow.

It was strange.

But it was real.

And maybe, just maybe, it was enough.

It had been almost a month.

Four weeks of him sleeping on the floor beside the hearth. Of you waking up to the scent of ash and chicory. Finding the kitchen swept, the kettle hot, your shoes waiting near the door like you had a man who knew where you liked to go. Four weeks of strange cohabitation, of watching each other without asking too many questions, of wordless routines built out of necessity and slow, quiet trust.

And yet, still no names.

You knew the cadence of his footsteps. The shape of his shadow in the yard. How he always tucked his hands behind his back when he thought too hard about something. You knew the way he’d squint at the firewood pile before choosing a piece. And he knew you. When your hips started to ache. When your breathing changed. When the weight of everything, not just the baby, but the world, got too heavy and you needed silence more than you needed talk.

Still, he had never asked for your name.

And you had never asked for his.

It should’ve been strange. Should’ve felt unfinished. But it didn’t. Not really. Because whatever he was, he had never felt like a stranger. Just something old. Something waiting.

That morning, the sky had opened up with thunder and mean gray light. A storm sat heavy over the treeline, wet wind slicing through the cracks in the wood. You stood barefoot at the back door, mug in hand, and watched the trees sway like dancers out of rhythm. He was already outside, boots deep in the mud, securing the herbs he’d hung on the rail.

You saw it before he did. The string snapping, the whole bundle of thyme and yarrow whipping into the wind. He reached for it too late. You nearly called out.

But then he moved.

Fast.

Not just quick, but wrong. Not human. A blur of striped clothing and sharp motion. His feet barely touched the porch before he was in the yard again, herbs in hand.

He caught them. All of them.

And when he turned back toward the door, he looked surprised to see you watching.

His smile faltered.

But he walked toward you anyway, hands full of dripping stems and his coat soaked through to the elbows.

You opened the door.

“Got ‘em,” he said, like that explained anything.

You stepped back to let him in.

He didn’t speak again until he’d shaken the rain off his shoulders and laid the herbs gently on a dry cloth near the stove. You were still watching him. Something you’d been doing more lately. Not because he made you nervous. Not exactly.

But because you didn’t understand how someone could be so careful with the smallest things and yet move like that. Unnatural. Unsettling. And beautiful, somehow. Like a storybook thing.

He noticed your eyes. Of course he did.

“What is it?” he asked, quiet.

You didn’t lie.

“Just thinkin’ how strange this is,” you said, wrapping your hands around the warm mug. “You. Me. This.”

He didn’t answer.

“You sleep in my home. You touch my things. You know how I take my tea. And I don’t even know your name.”

That made him blink.

He stood there in the center of the room, rain still clinging to his lashes, one hand trailing over the spine of a chair.

“I suppose ya don’t,” he said after a beat, almost sheepish.

You raised a brow. “What is it, then?”

He looked at you a moment longer, then stepped forward and said it in a voice like wet moss and river stones:

“Remmick.”

You let it sit between you for a second. The shape of it. Strange and clean. Like something unspoken finally made solid.

Then you nodded.

“Alright.”

He tipped his head, that small, half-hopeful smile curling at the edge of his mouth.

“Ya got one for me?”

You didn’t smile back.

But you said it, soft. Like you were reminding yourself it belonged to you still.

And maybe to him now, too.

You watched the way he turned it over in his mouth after you gave it to him. Like a word he’d chew through all winter, rolling it on his tongue like a secret, like a prayer.

He said it again.

Once.

Like a promise.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, the ache in your lower back sharper now. You pressed your hand gently to the curve of your belly. He noticed. He always noticed.

Without needing to be told, he crouched in front of you and helped guide you to the rocking chair near the stove. His hands were still cold from the rain, but his touch was steady. He adjusted the cushion. Draped a shawl over your knees. Then sat beside you on the floor, arms draped loosely over his knees like always.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

The rain softened. The fire popped.

He reached toward your ankle, thumb brushing where your skin met the top of your sock. Not asking for anything. Just anchoring.

“I’m glad ya let me stay,” he said.

You didn’t answer.

But you reached down and covered his hand with yours.

Because somehow, so were you.

The pain started low and slow, like a tug at the deepest part of you. You were in the kitchen, barefoot and brushing dust from the windowsill, when it hit hard enough to make your breath catch. You gripped the edge of the counter, then looked down.

Water.

A slow trickle at first, then more, pooling between your feet.

You didn’t panic. Not really. You’d read enough, listened to enough, prepared enough. Still, your heart kicked up in your chest like it was trying to warn you of something big coming down the road.

And it was.

“Remmick,” you called, steady but loud enough to shake the rafters.

He was there in an instant. Not from the garden or the porch like he usually was this time of day, but already in the hallway, already moving toward you with that eerie stillness he had when he was trying not to look like he was floating.

His eyes snapped to the floor, then to your face. "It’s time?"

You nodded once, slow.

Then the contraction hit, sharp enough to knock the air from your lungs.

He caught you before your knees buckled.

“It’s alright,” he murmured. His hand was at your back, the other already slipping under your knees. He lifted you like you weighed less than the apron still tied around your waist. “I've got you.”

You didn’t ask how he moved so quick. You didn’t ask how he got the basin already filled, or how the towels had been laid out on the bed before you even stepped inside the room. You barely remembered the lamp being lit.

But it was.

Everything was ready.

Remmick had prepared.

He moved with a purpose that didn’t belong to a man who had never done this before. There was no fumbling. No panic. He worked like someone who had learned the rhythms of birth from midwives long buried, had seen a thousand labors begin and end under candlelight and wood smoke.

He guided you through it all. Let you curse and sob and grip his arms so tight you left bruises.

"Good girl,” he whispered, again and again. “You’re doin’ so good. Keep breathin’, baby. Just like that.”

You didn’t have the energy to wonder how he knew what to do. You couldn’t ask. Not with the pain hitting like waves, not with the pressure bearing down. But somewhere in the middle of the storm, when your vision blurred and your body ached in ways you didn’t know it could, his voice was still there.

Low. Calm. Constant.

“Push now. There ya go. You’re safe. I got you.”

His hands were slick with water and blood, but steady as stone. He never looked away. Not once.

And when the final push came, sharp, terrible, blinding, he caught the baby in his hands like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it.

There was a moment after. A long one.

Where everything stopped.

And then, the cry.

Thin, high, beautiful.

You fell back against the pillows, sobbing harder than you thought you would. Not from pain. Not from fear. Just the release of it all.

Remmick didn’t speak at first. Just held the baby in both hands, his face unreadable.

And then he looked at you.

“It’s a girl,” he whispered, voice cracked and full of something you couldn’t name. “She’s perfect.”

You let out a breath that rattled your whole body.

He brought her to you, wrapped in a cloth so soft it must’ve been hidden in the dresser for weeks. And there she was.

Dark skin. Curling hair already damp against her forehead. Tiny hands twitching with life.

And Remmick, pale, bloodstained, glowing faintly in the dim lamplight, looked down at her like she was something holy.

She was.

To you both.

His fingers shook as he touched her cheek. Shook like he wasn’t sure he deserved to, like the smallest movement might shatter the moment into pieces he couldn’t gather again. His knuckles were bloodstained, and his hand was far too large, too scarred, too rough to be so gentle, but it was. He moved like a man touching glass.

“I’ll take care of her,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’ll take care of ya.”

There was no promise in his voice, no boast, no plea.

Just fact.

You looked at him then. Really looked. Not through the fog of pain or the veil of exhaustion. Not with the wary glances you’d grown used to offering him in the first weeks. But truly. Fully.

His eyes were still wet. Still glowing. Not bright, not loud, but pulsing softly. Faint and sure, like something not ready to die.

His shirt clung to him in wrinkled, clumsy lines, soaked with sweat and streaked with all the effort he'd poured into your labor. The collar was limp and stained with blood, yours and hers. His sleeves had been rolled back at some point, but they'd slipped again, damp fabric bunched at the crook of his arms.

There was blood under his nails. Streaked across his jaw. A smear dried along the side of his throat like he'd wiped his face without thinking.

And his teeth, those strange, terrible things, peeked through when he spoke. Elongated. Cuspate. Pressed just barely over the curve of his lip like he hadn't remembered to pull them back yet. Like maybe, in this moment, he didn’t care to hide anything at all.

But they didn’t scare you.

They never really had.

This strange man. This mystery with calloused hands and a voice like river stones. This creature who could build fires from the dampest wood and wash clothes better than you ever had patience to.

This father to your child.

You nodded. Slow. Steady.

“I know.”

The way his shoulders dropped then, just slightly, made your chest ache. As if he'd been holding the weight of that doubt for weeks. Maybe longer.

He held the baby again, arms curling around her like she was the most delicate thing he’d ever seen. Like she might disappear if he looked away too long. She made a soft, squeaking sound in her sleep, and Remmick’s whole body tensed around her as though the world might threaten her simply for breathing.

“She’s yours,” he whispered, voice crumbling at the edges. “And now she’s mine.”

You didn’t correct him.

Didn’t want to.

There was no logic that could define this thing between you. No words that could make it neat. But you weren’t looking for neat anymore. You weren’t looking for anything.

Except this.

This house. This moment. These people.

There was no sense to be made of it. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. But the three of you, somehow, you fit.

Remmick settled beside you on the bed. Not with the hesitant edge he used to carry, not like he was afraid you might change your mind and ask him to leave. But with something close to reverence. He moved slowly, gently, as if even sitting beside you might unmake the calm if done wrong.

One arm stayed curled protectively around the baby. The other slipped behind your back and pulled you close, cradling you like he didn’t know where else to put his warmth. You let your head fall against his shoulder, heavy with everything you’d just endured. Your body still ached, hollowed out and raw, but it wasn’t empty.

It was full in every way that mattered.

The fire popped in the next room, slow and lazy now, just embers and ash. Wind rattled the windowpane above your heads. The familiar kind of wind that came in every winter, dry and loud and aching through the trees.

But everything else was still.

The hush of the house held you like a lullaby.

Remmick kissed the top of your head, his lips barely brushing your damp hair.

The kiss wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even expectant. It was steady. It was sacred. Like sealing something between you.

“My girls,” he said, voice breaking just a little at the end. “My girls.”

His hand cupped the back of your neck. His chin rested against the top of your head. The baby shifted against his chest, small and soft and unaware that her world had just been born with her.

You closed your eyes.

Let the weight of him, the heat of her, the ache in your body, all of it,anchor you.

And for the first time since that long, lonely night on the porch when the world had changed forever, you didn’t feel afraid. Or alone.

You were home.

And Remmick would never let you forget it.

[woniedarlin]

Shared Custody

Pairing: Ex! Jungwon x reader

Synopsis: Breaking up with Jungwon was one thing. But agreeing to co-parent a dog afterward? That was how you ended up in the weirdest post-breakup situation ever. Because what kind of exes still see each other at precisely 10 a.m?

You broke up. You’re sure of it. So why does it feel like your relationship never ended? Just… got a schedule and a leash?

Author's note: Another fic has been sitting in the drafts for too long. I finally decided to share it with you all. Hope you enjoy it! Happy reading!

Warnings: This story contains equal parts fluff and angst, with a dash of unresolved feelings, awkward ex moments, and a dog that might steal the spotlight. Reader discretion is advised! 🐾

Permanent tag list: @sol3chu @chlorinecake @13tter @jung1w0n @layzfy @firstclassjaylee @ijustwannareadstuff20

Here’s the thing no one tells you about breakups:

When you two bought a dog together while you were still dating, breaking up isn’t just about parting ways with a person. You get partial custody of an emotional support furball with no idea why mom and dad stopped living together. The breakup was mutual. There was no shouting, no ugly crying, no one storming out at 2 a.m. with a suitcase and a dramatic one-liner.

It was a quiet and tired conversation on the couch. Some nods. A few long silences. And Maeumi, curled up between you, unaware that his life was about to get complicated.

You probably should’ve fought over him. Or at least discussed like rational adults. Instead, you both just… didn’t let go. Now, you set schedules like divorced parents. Only with more awkward small talk and a lot of pretending it’s totally normal to see your ex every other day at exactly 10:00 a.m.

It started with meetups. Hand off the leash, say a polite hello, smile as if it doesn’t sting anymore. Then it became coffee afterwards. Then breakfast “because he looks hungry and I’m already here anyway.”

Then, last weekend, Maeumi ate an entire bag of chips and got sick all over Jungwon’s living room, which somehow led to you arguing about brand-name kibble.

“You were the one who said he needed variety!”

“Variety doesn’t mean junk food!”

“They were organic!”

“He threw up on my socks, (name).”

And you’re not proud of it, but you laughed. A little too hard. Then Jungwon laughed, and it felt like nothing had changed for a moment.

But everything had.

Now, you’re waiting for Jungwon in the usual meeting spot, Maeumi’s leash wrapped loosely around your wrist as he trots in excited little circles. Jungwon’s late. Not by much, just five minutes. Enough to make you wonder if he’s okay. Enough to make you check your phone. He shows up a minute later, hair a bit messy, holding two coffees. “Sorry,” he says. “I stopped by that place you like. The one with the stupid tiny straws.”

You take the cup without a word.

Maeumi barks, happy as ever, tail wagging because it was the best part of his week. Seeing his divorced parents together! ૮ ˶ˆ ﻌ ˆ˶ ა

“Did he eat?” Jungwon asks.

You replied. “Yeah. But he thinks spinning in a circle gets him more food now.”

Jungwon sighs. “You didn’t.”

You shrug. “It was funny. He almost knocked over my lamp trying it this morning.”

There was a slight pause before, “He seemed to miss you a lot when he was with me last week. A good thing he has spent with you these past few days.” Jungwon says, nudging Maeumi’s head.

You nod, eyes on your coffee cup. “I missed him too.”

You’re not sure which of them you’re talking about.

🍎

Maeumi planted his butt on the floor and refused to move. You tugged the leash gently. “Come on, it’s Dad’s turn.” Maeumi looked at you. Then looked at Jungwon. Then flopped onto his side. You sighed. “He’s being a brat again.”

Jungwon crouched beside you, holding out a treat from his pocket. “Maeumi, let’s not do this today.”

Maeumi sniffed the treat, stood up halfway, then turned around and pressed himself against your leg.

You and Jungwon exchanged a look.

“I think he’s made his choice,” you said.

“It’s not even a choice. It’s supposed to be my weekend.”

“You tell him that.”

Jungwon sighed and looked down at Maeumi, who was now rolling over, belly up, smug as ever. “You’re a traitor. You know that?”

Maeumi sneezed in response.

Eventually, after five minutes of bargaining and light bribery, Jungwon stepped inside your apartment to get him moving. One minute turned into five. Then ten. Now you were both sitting on the couch, a lukewarm mug of tea in his hands, Maeumi curled between you like a peace treaty in dog form. “You know,” you said, watching as Maeumi kicked his leg in his sleep, “he wasn’t like this when we first got him.”

“Nope,” Jungwon muttered. “He used to listen to me. Now he acts like he pays rent.”

“That’s your influence.”

He shot you a look. “My influence? You’re the one who started giving him tiny portions of your dinner because he’s a spoiled prince.”

You shrugged and grinned. “He deserves nice things.”

“He eats better than me.”

Jungwon glanced at you for too long, then looked away and sipped his tea.

You didn’t notice.

Well, yeah, you did, but you were pretending not to.

Jungwon leaned back a little. Then he looked toward the kitchen. And then he saw it. The mug. The one he bought for your birthday two years ago. You loved it to the point that you used it daily while you two were still dating. He nodded toward the cupboard. “Didn’t think you still had that.”

You glanced over. “Huh? Oh. Yeah.”

He didn’t say anything else, but his eyes stayed on it. That dumb, ceramic memory sitting there as if it had every right to exist in a post-breakup world.

You added, “It’s a good mug.”

Jungwon barely smiled. “Yeah. Real high quality.”

You didn’t reply.

He looked back at Maeumi, who was still fast asleep between you, snoring lightly. “I keep one of your spoons in my drawer,” Jungwon said suddenly.

Your head turned. “What?”

“You left it after that one trip. The one where we bought those instant noodles that tasted like cardboard.”

“Oh. Right.” You stared ahead. “That was a good weekend.”

“It rained.”

“I like rain.”

You both nodded and pretended the conversation didn’t sting a little.

Maeumi snored louder as if he were trying to cover the silence.

🍎

Your phone buzzed at 11:42 p.m.

You were half-asleep. Maeumi had gone home with Jungwon hours ago, but the apartment still felt…full.

You grabbed your phone.

Jungwon [11:42 PM]

Thanks for taking care of him this week. He seemed extra happy. When he saw you, his tail wagged about ten times per second.

You smiled without meaning to, your thumb hovering over the keyboard to send a quick "anytime" or maybe a "he missed you too."

But another message came in before you could type.

Jungwon [11:43 PM]

You’re still the easiest person to talk to.

You stared at the screen.

You didn’t know what to say. Or perhaps you did, and that was the problem.

So you… didn’t reply.

🍎

Jungwon sat on the curb's edge, nursing a canned coffee. Sunghoon was sipping from his drink, watching him spiral in silence. “I’m losing it,” Jungwon finally said. “She still knows how I take my coffee. Didn’t even ask.”

Sunghoon glanced over. “She made it the same way she used to? Back when you two were together?”

Jungwon nodded slowly. “Exactly like that.”

“And you’re upset because…?”

“I don’t know,” Jungwon shaked his head. “She laughs at my jokes the same way. She still says ‘bless you’ when I fake sneeze for attention. And today, I saw the mug I got for her birthday two years ago, sitting in her cupboard like it never left.”

“Maybe it’s just a good mug?” Sunghoon offered.

Jungwon stared at him. “That mug has a whale on it saying ‘whale you be mine.’ It wasn’t just a mug.”

Sunghoon choked on his drink and wiped his mouth. “Okay, yeah, that’s tragic.”

“And she still wears my hoodie,” Jungwon added. “She likes that hoodie.”

Sunghoon crossed his arms. “So, what’s the plan? Gonna ask for the hoodie back and confess your undying love in the same breath?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing. I thought I was over her. I thought we were fine being exes who raise a dog together.” Jungwon let out a long sigh and tilted his head back. “I don’t know when it started feeling like this again.”

Sunghoon crumpled his empty drink can and tossed it into the bin beside them. “You mean the part where you show up with her favorite foods, sit on her couch like you never left, and keep pretending Maeumi’s the only reason you’re still hanging around?”

Jungwon looked at Sunghoon. “…Okay, rude. But not wrong.”

“Exactly. Look, man.” Sunghoon turned to face him fully now. “You two broke up. Sure. But you’re still texting her late at night, still wearing the cologne she once said smelled nice, and still looking at her like she’s the only person in the room.”

Jungwon groaned. “She’s just being nice. She always was.”

Sunghoon scoffed. “No one’s that nice, bro. She has your hoodie. She made you pancakes last week. You said she cut the strawberries the way you like them.”

“She always cuts the ends-”

“Exactly.” Sunghoon gave him a look. “At this point, you’re not just co-parenting a dog. You’re toeing the line of a romcom reboot.” He added, “Seriously, who even does this? Shared custody over a dog? With your ex? This is the weirdest post-breakup dynamic I’ve ever seen.”

Jungwon didn’t even deny it. He muttered, “…Yeah, but it’s kind of working.”

Sunghoon nodded solemnly. “You’re doomed.”

Jungwon groaned. “I think I’m accidentally falling in love with her again.”

“No such thing as accidental. You just never stopped.”

🍎

Maeumi wasn’t himself. You noticed it the moment he refused his dinner. He moved slowly, dragging his paws across the floor, and his eyes looked distant. Something was off. He usually had a healthy appetite, but tonight, nothing. You knelt beside him, gently rubbing his back. “Hey, Maeumi, what’s going on?”

He let out a weak whimper. Panic rose in your chest. You didn’t know what was wrong but knew you needed help. You grabbed your phone without thinking.

Jungwon picked up almost immediately. “What’s wrong?” His voice was concerned, even though he wasn’t sure what was happening.

“Maeumi’s sick. He won’t eat, he’s not moving much… I don’t know what’s happening.”

“Don’t worry. I’m coming over.”

It didn’t take long for him to arrive, his face tense as he crouched down to Maeumi’s level. The dog barely acknowledged him, enough to make you both nervous. “We should take him to the vet,” Jungwon said after a moment.

You nodded, already on the phone, setting up an appointment. The drive was tense, your hand gripping the door handle while Jungwon kept one hand on the wheel, his eyes between you and Maeumi.

When you finally arrived at the clinic, it was quiet. You and Jungwon waited in the sterile, cold waiting room. Maeumi was lying on your lap, his eyes closed and his breathing shallow. You rubbed his head absentmindedly, trying to calm yourself. “He’s going to be okay,” Jungwon said quietly, glancing over at you.

You nodded but didn’t answer. He touched his hand lightly near yours as he reached for the water cup beside you, and for a fleeting second, you felt his warmth. You looked at him, but his gaze was somewhere else, not meeting yours.

For a brief moment, you wondered if he missed this. If he missed you. But before you could even entertain the thought, the door to the exam room opened, and the vet emerged, pulling your focus back to Maeumi. Jungwon stood up. “He’ll be fine,” he said.

And you weren’t sure what to make of it, but for the first time since your breakup, you couldn’t ignore how much it stung to see him so close yet still so distant.

🍎

By the time you and Jungwon returned from the vet, Maeumi was already dozing off on the couch, wrapped in an old blanket and looking much more himself. The panic had eased. You stood by the kitchen, hands on the counter, watching Jungwon kneel to check Maeumi. You glanced at the time. “It’s late. You should eat before you head back.”

Jungwon looked up. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I was gonna cook anyway,” you said, opening the fridge. “Don’t expect a five-course meal, though.”

“I never did,” he said, smiling as he joined you in the kitchen. “You still burn rice, don’t you?”

You gave him a light shove with your elbow. “That happened once. And the pot betrayed me.”

Then, he washed the vegetables while you stirred the soup. It was annoyingly comfortable.

By the time dinner was done, the table was set. Jungwon set down the last dish and glanced over at you. “This… feels like we never broke up,”

You froze. Then, you replied, “We never used to have this much garlic.”

He huffed a small laugh but didn’t push it. And for the rest of dinner, neither of you brought it up again.

🍎

The dishes were washed. The leftovers are packed. Maeumi, finally feeling a bit better, had claimed his usual spot at the foot of your couch, tail thumping gently as he dozed. You stood near the sink, drying your hands on a dish towel, when Jungwon spoke from behind you. “I didn’t just miss Maeumi, you know.”

“I miss…” He let out a soft breath. “I miss all of it.”

“Do you still think about us?” he asked.

The silence was deafening. You felt him watching your back, waiting. And if the room had stayed that quiet a second longer, you would’ve said something honest. But Maeumi barked as if he’d sensed the tension rising and decided to cut it clean. You both jumped slightly. You turned with a light laugh, avoiding his gaze. “I think someone needs his water refilled.”

Jungwon didn’t press. He nodded before crouching to check Maeumi’s bowl.

Neither of you said anything else.

But the question stayed.

🍎

It happens on a night that should’ve been uneventful. A regular handoff. Maeumi is snoozing on your carpet, belly full. Jungwon’s quiet tonight. You notice it right away, but you pretend not to. You handed over Maeumi’s leash, but he didn’t take it. “You still have my hoodie,” he says.

You glance up. “What?”

He gestures vaguely toward the coat rack. “The gray one. I saw it last week. You used to sleep in it.”

You shrug. “It’s comfortable.”

His jaw tightens, but he laughs a little. “Everything I gave you is ‘comfortable,’ huh?”

You don’t answer.

“I saw your story the other day,” he adds. “Looked like a date.”

Now, you furrow your eyebrows. “Seriously?”

Jungwon runs a hand through his hair. “Forget it.”

“No,” you say. “You brought it up. So say it.”

“It’s confusing. For one moment, we laughed as if nothing had changed. Then, in the next instant, I remember how you used to fall asleep on my chest or steal all the blankets.” His voice wavers for a moment, but he pushes on. “I just can’t tell if I’m the only one stuck in the past or you’re better at pretending.”

You hesitate, then quietly. “I wish I could say I moved on, but I haven't.”

Jungwon’s shoulders drop a little. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why didn’t you?”

He looks down. “Because you looked like you were doing okay. And I didn’t want to make it harder if you were healing.”

“I wasn’t okay,” you say softly. “I’m still not.”

Jungwon lifts his head, his eyes locking with yours. “Neither am I.”

“I miss you,” he says. “Not just Maeumi. Not just Saturday mornings. I miss… talking to you. I miss knowing how you’re doing without having to ask.”

You look away. “Then why are we doing this?” you whisper. “Why are we acting like we’re fine?”

He lets out a breath. “Because maybe we don’t know how to be anything else.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

He says, more gently this time, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start an argument.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t.”

He bends down and clips the leash onto Maeumi’s collar. The dog wags his tail, clueless, happy just to be loved by both of you. Jungwon straightens up but doesn’t turn to leave right away. He looks around your apartment. His eyes land briefly on the hoodie by the coat rack, then the familiar mug on your kitchen shelf.

“I still love you,” he says suddenly.

You freeze.

“I didn’t think I should say it. I didn’t want to make this harder. I thought… maybe it’d get easier if I stopped talking about it. But it didn’t.”

He’s not asking for anything. Not a hug. Not a kiss. Not to come back. He was standing there with his hand gently resting on Maeumi’s back because it kept him from breaking. “You laughed at one of my jokes last week,” he says softly. “And for a second, I forgot we weren’t together anymore. That’s how easy it is to fall back into you.”

You swallow hard. But he keeps going.

“I didn’t want to make you feel guilty. Or corner you. I just needed you to know. It wasn’t because I stopped feeling everything when we broke up. I was scared. And tired. And maybe I thought it’d hurt less if we ended it on our terms.”

He finally looks at you. “But it still hurts.”

Maeumi lets out a soft bark. Jungwon reaches down and scratches behind his ears; for a second, it’s just the sound of his hand brushing fur. Then he straightens again, but now you notice his eyes are a bit glassy. “I’ll take him tonight. I’ll text you tomorrow. If you need anything, or if… you want to talk more, I’m one call away.”

You nod. Slowly. You can’t get your voice to work. But your eyes say enough.

Jungwon opens the door and glances back just once. “Goodnight,” he says.

And then they’re gone.

🍎

Jungwon sits on the edge of his bed, hair slightly damp from a rushed shower. Maeumi is curled beside him, his head resting on his paw, and his eyes blinking up at him as if he understands more than a dog ever should. Jungwon takes a small breath and runs a hand through Maeumi’s fur. “You don’t have to look at me like that,” he mutters. “I didn’t yell.”

Maeumi blinks again.

“Okay,” Jungwon sighed, leaning back a little, “I maybe said too much.” He sighed. “I don’t know, Maeumi,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “She just looked at me like I was someone from a different life. That sucked.’’ Jungwon glances down and smiles sadly. “Don’t worry,” he says quietly. “Mommy and Daddy were just having a little disagreement.”

He lays back on the bed. “I’ll bring her back,” he whispers. “I swear, Maeumi. I’ll bring your mom back to me.”

Maeumi lets out a soft woof.

🍎

The rain had been pouring since morning. You didn’t expect anyone when the doorbell rang, especially not Jungwon. But there he was. Standing at your doorway, drenched from head to toe, Maeumi dripped beside him and looked more like a soggy mop than a dog. “Uh,” Jungwon offered sheepishly. “He refused to walk anywhere else.”

You said in disbelief. “You could’ve called.”

“I did. You didn’t answer.”

You step aside. “Come in before Maeumi gets mistaken for a wet sock.”

Towels came out. You wrapped one around Maeumi, rubbing his fur as he wagged his tail. Jungwon was quieter. You handed him a dry hoodie from your closet, which was his, actually. It still smelled like him, though it had sat folded for months.

He changed. You made tea. He sat across you on the couch, rubbing Maeumi’s ears absently. “I’ve been thinking,” Jungwon started, voice gentle. “We weren’t ready back then. But maybe now…”

You looked at him, guarded. “I’ve changed,” he continued. “You have too. And I don’t just mean getting better at feeding Maeumi actual food.” You smiled a little. He took it as permission. “I guess I want to say I’m sorry. For everything I didn’t say before. For not knowing how to stay when things got hard.”

You met his gaze. “I’m sorry, too. For pushing you away when I didn’t know what I needed.”

“Do you think Maeumi would be okay if we lived together again?” Jungwon asked suddenly, eyes hopeful.

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking for the dog or for you?”

A sheepish smile curved his lips. “Both.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you leaned into his shoulder, your head resting there like it used to. “Maybe we could try again,” you said quietly. “For real this time.”

Jungwon’s hand found yours.

Maeumi snored at your feet.

And outside, the rain kept falling, washing everything clean.

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[misswynters]

Ma Meilleure Amour

featuring. ekko x fem!reader

a/n. doing my duty as a writer to fill the ekko tag with fics of him only (it’s translated to my best love)

inspired by. the song Ma Meilleure Ennemie and the scene with ekko and jinx in act iii (listen to it while reading)

Everything felt different. The streets of Zaun had the ever-present haze of smog seem softer, its grim edge dulled by the warm hum of neon lights. The streets bustled with life, as they always did, but the night gave the chaos a certain charm. The glow of green and pink signs reflected off damp cobblestones, while the occasional flicker of a malfunctioning lamp sent ripples of color through shallow puddles.

You walked side by side with Ekko, your steps slow and aimless, as if the two of you had all the time in the world. You didn’t, of course. With how Zaun always had a way of reminding you that the clock never stopped ticking. But right now, under the swirl of lights and the faint hiss of steam vents, it felt like time had paused just for the two of you.

Ekko’s hand brushed against yours every so often, and though he wasn’t one to initiate touch easily, you could tell he didn’t mind the closeness. He always had this way of being effortlessly cool, his swagger and wit making it seem like nothing fazed him. But you knew him better than most. You saw the weight he carried, the pressure of being a leader, a fighter, and a kid all at once. And tonight, you were determined to remind him what it felt like to just…be.

“Ever think Zaun’s kinda pretty at night?” you mused, breaking the comfortable silence.

Ekko glanced at you, one eyebrow raised, before looking around. “Pretty? Dunno if I’d call it that. More like…gritty with a side of a green glow.”

You laughed, nudging him playfully. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the one waxing poetic about this place,” he shot back, his grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Fine, maybe I’m seeing it through rose-colored glasses. Or maybe I just like walking around with you.”

That earned a chuckle from him, the sound low and warm. He shoved his hands in his pockets, his shoulders relaxing as he leaned closer to you. “Well, when you put it that way…” The two of you wandered through winding alleys and across rickety bridges, the air thick with the scent of metal and oil. Every so often, Ekko would point out a shortcut he’d used for one of his time-bending escapades or share a story about an adventure with the Firelights.

But then he led you down a narrow path you hadn’t noticed before, his fingers brushing yours briefly to guide you. At the end of the path, you stepped into a beautiful hidden oasis. A rooftop garden tucked away from Zaun’s usual grit and grime. The first thing you noticed was the lights. Strings of mismatched lanterns crisscrossed the space, casting a soft, golden glow over everything. Tiny fairy lights were woven through the vines that climbed up makeshift trellises, their warm flicker like little stars in the night. The plants themselves were a mix of scrappy greenery and surprisingly vibrant flowers, their colors popping against the muted tones of the city below.

“Woah…” you breathed, turning to him with wide eyes.

He shrugged, trying to play it cool, but the faint blush on his cheeks gave him away. “It’s nothing fancy. Just a spot I’ve been working on.”

“Are you kidding? It’s perfect,” you said, your voice filled with awe.

He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze darting away from yours. “Figured it’d be nice to have a place to get away, y’know? Somewhere quiet.”

You stepped forward, taking it all in. A small wooden bench sat in the center of the garden, its surface worn but sturdy. Around it, the plants swayed gently in the cool breeze, their leaves catching the light just enough to shimmer.

“Come on,” Ekko said, his hand lightly brushing the small of your back as he guided you to the bench. “I didn’t bring you here just to stand around.”

You sat down, the wood creaking softly under your weight. Ekko settled beside you, close enough that his knee pressed against yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the quiet hum of the lights and the distant sounds of Zaun filling the space. It was a working pattern. There was always a comfortable silence between the two of you.

“How long have you been working on this?” you asked softly.

“Couple months,” he said, leaning back with his arms stretched across the bench. “Takes a while to get plants to grow in a place like this. But I dunno…it feels good to build something, y’know? Instead of just tearing things down.”

You glanced at him, your chest tightening at the softness in his voice. Ekko didn’t let people see this side of him often though. I mean this was the boy who dreamed of a better Zaun, the one who carried the weight of his community on his shoulders.

“It’s beautiful,” you said, resting your head against his shoulder. “Just like you.”

He laughed softly, the sound warm and a little shy. “You’re laying it on thick tonight, huh?”

“Just telling the truth,” you said, closing your eyes as his warmth seeped into you.

The two of you sat like that for a while, wrapped up in the stillness of the garden. Ekko’s hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with yours in a way that felt natural, like you were always meant to fit together.

“Hey,” he said after a while, his voice quiet.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For, y’know…being here.”

You lifted your head to look at him, your heart aching at the sincerity in his eyes. “Of course,” you said softly while winking. “You’re worth it, Ekko.”

His gaze lingered on yours for a moment, the golden light casting shadows across his face. Then he smiled. It was real, genuine smile that made your chest feel light and full all at once.

“C’mere,” he said, pulling you closer until you were practically in his lap. His arms wrapped around you, his chin resting on your shoulder as you leaned into him.

“This is nice,” you murmured, your fingers tracing absent patterns on his arm.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice a little muffled. “It is.”

There it was again, the comfortable silence. The garden was quiet, bathed in the golden light of the mismatched lanterns. You rested your head on Ekko’s shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his breath against you. His fingers were still intertwined with yours, his thumb brushing small, absentminded circles against your knuckles.

It was peaceful, almost too perfect for Zaun, where tranquility was a rare luxury. The hum of distant machinery and the faint chatter of the streets below were a backdrop to your own private world. You thought this was it, that the night couldn’t get any better. But Ekko had other plans.

Suddenly, he shifted away from you, his weight leaving the bench as he stood. His warmth leaving your body. You blinked up at him, confused as he turned to face you, his signature grin tugging at the corners of his lips. He extended a hand toward you, palm up, the glow of the garden lights reflecting in his dark eyes.

“Dance with me,” he said, his voice soft but brimming with an irresistible playfulness.

You tilted your head, a laugh escaping you. “Dance? Here?”

“Why not?” He wiggled his fingers, urging you to take his hand.

You hesitated, glancing around. “Ekko, there’s no music.”

He smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Oh, ye of little faith.”

Reaching into his pocket, Ekko pulled out a small, beaten up speaker, a relic salvaged from some forgotten corner of Zaun. He fiddled with it for a moment before a warm melody crackled to life, filling the air with a gentle rhythm.

You stared at him in disbelief, your lips parting in surprise. “You planned this?”

He shrugged, trying to play it cool but failing miserably as a proud smile broke through. “Maybe.”

Shaking your head with a soft laugh, you placed your hand in his, the warmth of his palm grounding you. “Alright, Clockstopper,” you teased. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Ekko pulled you to your feet, guiding you to the center of the garden. The music swelled around you, soft and sweet, a contrast to the chaos of Zaun. His other hand found its place on your waist, and he held you close, his movements easy and unhurried. At first, you tried to match his rhythm, your steps tentative as you followed his lead. But it wasn’t long before your foot accidentally landed on his.

“Oh, sorry!” you gasped, pulling back slightly.

Ekko winced dramatically, clutching his chest as if you’d mortally wounded him. “You’re killing me here,” he said, his voice laced with mock pain.

You rolled your eyes, a grin tugging at your lips. “Don’t be such a baby.”

“Baby?” He laughed, spinning you unexpectedly. You stumbled slightly but caught yourself, the sound of your shared laughter echoing in the garden.

The two of you continued like that, swaying and spinning under the lanterns. Every so often, you’d step on his foot again, and he’d exaggerate his reaction, making you laugh until your cheeks hurt. But then, as the song shifted to a slower melody, Ekko’s movements became gentler, more deliberate. He pulled you closer, your bodies impossibly near. You could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, the faint scent of zauns atmosphere lingering on him. Your eyes met his, and for a moment, the world seemed to fade away. The golden light reflected in his eyes, making them shimmer like they held their own constellation. There was something unspoken in his gaze, something raw and real that made your heart stutter.

“Ekko…” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the music.

He didn’t say anything, just leaned in slowly, giving you enough time to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn’t. Instead, you closed the distance, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was soft and sweet, filled with everything words couldn’t express. Your hands found their way around his neck, pulling him closer as his arms wrapped around your waist. The world seemed to tilt, the glow of the lanterns and the soft hum of the music swirling around you in a haze of light and sound.

Time felt irrelevant—ironic, considering who you were with. All that mattered was the way he held you, the way his lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through you. “I love you,” he murmured, his voice steady and sure.

Your heart swelled at his words, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the lights around you. Smiling, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I love you too,” you said, the words as natural as breathing.

Ekko grinned, his hands tightening around your waist as he pressed a series of quick, playful kisses to your face—your cheeks, your nose, your forehead. Each kiss was accompanied by a soft giggle from you, his affection spilling over in a way that was so uniquely him.

“Ekko, stop,” you laughed, trying to pull away as he kissed the corner of your mouth.

“Never,” he said, his voice full of mock defiance as he caught your lips in another kiss.

The two of you stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world forgotten. The music played on, the lights flickered, and Zaun’s ever-present hum seemed softer, almost distant. As the night stretched on, you found yourselves back on the bench, your head resting on Ekko’s shoulder as he absentmindedly played with your fingers. The garden felt like a dream, a little slice of peace carved out of the chaos. And in that moment, with Ekko by your side and the glow of the lanterns above you, everything felt right. Almost perfect.

banners. @anitalenia

taglist. @diffusebread @xxblairslairxx @thesevi0lentdelights

[em1i2a3]

Telescope

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: On a whim, Bob decides to give himself a haircut and immediately regrets it, so you step in to help.

Warnings: No warnings, just pure fluff basically. Maybe a bit of panicked tears because Bob thinks the haircut is bad and he hates the way it looks. A bit of self-deprecation. Reader and Bob are fairly close.

Author’s Note: I was thinking of writing this little blurb for a bit, and I was really in the mood today to go at it! I hope y’all enjoy this little fluff piece! I loved writing it :) <3

Word Count: 3,838

“He’s been in there for an hour!” You heard John say through the lull in your classical music. It was a quiet night at the compound for once, and you were taking full advantage of it–your legs were stretched across the couch in the common room, and your laptop was overheating against your thighs. You had a bunch of mission reports open in a clutter of neglected tabs as you typed in a document your notes and responses. You didn’t bother turning on the overhead lights, relying instead on the amber glow of the floor lamp behind you and the brightness of your laptop screen.

You pulled off your headphones, letting them hang loosely around your neck as the soft swell of cello faded into the ambient hush of the living space. The sound of shuffling feet, low voices, and a few muffled knocks echoed from the hallway that led toward the bedrooms and shared washrooms.

“Bob. Come on. Open up the door.” Bucky chimed in, laced with a kind of concern that immediately made your chest tighten a bit. He knocked again, three short raps that echoed louder than they should have in the calm of the night. Bob had replied but it was muffled. Faint. You couldn’t make out what he said, but you could tell it was definitely strained and unconvincing. You closed your laptop slowly, the fan still whirring like it was on the verge of liftoff, and you swung your legs down off the couch.

John’s voice came again, muttering low and irritable as you padded barefoot across the floor, the cool tile biting pleasantly at your soles.

”There were these stupid clanking noises and he’s literally had the sink running for the entire time he’s been in there. It’s getting on my nerves.” He explained to Bucky as you stepped into the hallway. He had his arms crossed over his chest, his weight shifted to one hip, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a training t-shirt. You approached the two men with a quiet sigh, pushing your hair away from your face, and brushing by Bucky.

“Move over, boys. Let me give it a try.” John rolled his eyes and stepped aside. You could feel their eyes on you as you gently knocked on the door–just a few light taps, barely louder than a whisper. Then, your voice followed, soft and lifting, wrapped in something warmer than concern–affection.

“Bob…Hun? It’s Y/N. Can you open up the door and let me in?” You could hear shuffling, the almost imperceptible sound of something being hastily hidden–maybe a towel, maybe whatever John heard clinking over the water. You saw the two super soldiers exchange a glance, eyebrows raised in mild surprise.

“…Is it on–only you out there?” Came Bob’s voice, hushed and hesitant. You turned and flicked your hand at the guys–a silent, practiced motion that told them to ‘Go. Shoo.’ Without saying it. Bucky got it immediately, tilting his head to John for the both of them to leave. You didn’t turn to watch them go, but you waited until they were at a safe distance before responding.

”Yes, it’s only me.” A beat passed, then you heard a click. The door cracked open just enough for you to see a sliver of his face–but even in that narrow space, his eyes found yours. Blue, wide, and full of dread. You offered him a small smile.

”Mind if I come in?” Bob hesitated at the question. You could see it in the slight way his thick fingers tightened around the edge of the door. His eyes flicked down, then back up, apologetic and sheepish.

“Promise you won’t laugh?” You let out a breath, exasperated but fond.

”Now, when have I ever laughed at you?” There was a beat of silence, then a little huff.

”…Yesterday. When I caught all those chip bags that fell from the to–top of the pantry shelf.” You smiled despite yourself, head tilting to the side.

“That was a laugh of disbelief because it was impressive. I still don’t know how you managed to catch all six of them without a single chip falling.” Bob didn’t respond right away–he just lingered there in the sliver of light between the bathroom and the hallway, visibly weighing his pride against his need for comfort, “Can you let me in now, please?” You added. There was another long pause, then a quiet sigh, heavy with reluctant surrender. He eased the door open just enough for you to slip through, his broad frame shifting back to make space. You stepped in and gently closed it behind you, locking the world out. The bathroom was dark. Warm, humid, and pitch black. You reached out, palm searching the wall beside you, and tapped the light switch with the tip of your finger with a small click.

And your breath caught.

“Oh.” You didn’t mean for it to slip out–but the sight before you caught you off guard. The floor was littered with soft light brown locks of hair. Bob stood in front of the sink, his tall frame awkward in the cramped space, shoulders hunched slightly as if bracing for impact. He was in a plain white t-shirt that was riddled with little tufts of his hair, and a pair of sweatpants that were baggy on his legs. He looked over at you with that nervous, slow-burning panic in his eyes–blue, round, and pleading. His cheeks were flushed, and his mouth parted like he wanted to speak but couldn’t.

Your gaze traveled upward, and your heart cracked open.

His hair–once long, soft, and light brown, always tied back in a loose, low bun or left to brush against the collar of his hoodies–was now butchered. Cut in rushed, uneven sections. Mid-neck length in places, higher in others. A dramatic slant to the right, like gravity had won halfway through the attempt. You weren’t sure if he’d gone in trying to layer it or simply panicked mid-process, but the result was brutal.

The counter was a battlefield. Hair everywhere. Clumps in the sink, damp strands on the floor, a wet towel bunched up on the edge of the tub. A pair of dull kitchen scissors–your kitchen scissors–lay next a near-empty bottle of conditioner.

Bob didn’t speak. He just stood there with his hands clasped in front of him like he was waiting for a verdict. His posture was so tense, it almost looked like he was trying to disappear into himself, and he winced under your eyes.

”…It’s ba-bad isn’t it?” You didn’t deny his statement. You took another step towards him, eyes still gently scanning the damage.

“Did you at least wet it before you started?” The blush in his cheeks deepened as he squeezed his hands together.

“I think I made it worse by do–doing that.” You let out a soft sigh, and closed the space between you and Bob so you were practically chest to chest with one another. He didn’t dare move during this. Slowly, you reached up, brushing your fingers along the uneven locks that framed his forehead, pushing it back away from his eyes. It was damp to touch, and a few stray strands clung slightly to his forehead.

“Why did you do this, hmm?” You asked softly. There was no accusation in your tone, no teasing, no heat. Just a quiet question–one you asked with the tenderness of someone who knew the answer might hurt to give. Bob exhaled, long and low. His eyes dropped to the floor. You watched the line of his throat shift as he swallowed hard. You reached up again, letting your hand settle on the side of his face. Your thumb traced a slow arc along the ridge of his cheekbone, and your fingers curled against the warm, faintly stubbled edge of his jaw. You knew how touch worked with Bob–how the right kind of physical grounding calmed him better than words. How he leaned into any softness that was given to him because it made him focus on something other than the noise that plagued his brain.

His lashes fluttered slightly at your touch, and then barely above a whisper:

”I…Wanted to clean up before those stupid pr–press photos tomorrow…I just…Didn’t want to look like shit next to everyone else.” Your heart clenched. You almost smiled–but it was a sad, aching thing. Because it was so him to say that. To stand there, big and brave and heartbreakingly gentle, and still think he didn’t measure up. You let out a small, warm breath–half sigh, half laugh.

“Bob,” You started softly, your thumb stroking along the delicate skin under his eye, “We were going to have hair stylists. They would’ve fixed you up just fine.” He closed his eyes and bowed his head, like that hadn’t occurred to him at all. His posture slumped, shoulders rising with a tense inhale.

”Oh…” You let your hand slide a little lower to cup his jaw gently. His temperature had risen beneath your fingers–probably from the growing embarrassment that he tried not to show, even though his body betrayed him.

You tipped his face toward you again.

”Hey,” You murmured, voice low and steady, “Let me help you fix this, alright?” For a second, he didn’t speak, he just blinked at you. Then something in his expression softened–like the worst of the shame was beginning to slip away. He gave you the barest nod.

“Okay…” He breathed, and it was so small, so worn down, it barely reached your ears. You brushed your thumb across his cheekbone one last time, then reached behind him to grab the comb.

“We’ll go a bit shorter,” You started, combing his hair gently to untangle the worst of the frayed, uneven sections along his head, “And we’ll do a bit of a side part to cover up some spots so it looks even, and clean it up around your ears…” You trailed off for a second then looked up at him, “Does that sound good to you?” He nodded quickly.

”Anything is good…As lo–long as you can fix it.” You gave him a small smile–genuine, warm, meant to soothe the frayed edges of his pride.

“Alright then. Just sit down on the toilet lid and I’ll go grab actual hair cutting scissors from my room.” He obeyed without protest, cheeks still a little flushed, eyes following you like he was afraid you might not come back. But he sat down, shoulders hunched a little, towel still around him like some kind of shield.

You slipped out of the bathroom and padded down the hallway, the tile cool beneath your feet. You passed John and Bucky’s voices in the distance, muffled, like the low buzz of a conversation you weren’t quite meant to hear.

You pushed into your room, went straight to your nightstand, and opened the top drawer. There they were–your good scissors. The ones you kept for quick trims, for fixing up your own hair when it got unmanageable or snipping tags off new clothes. The ones you actually sharpened and cleaned. The ones Bob should have waited for.

You picked them up with care, then turned on your heel and padded back down the hall.

When you returned to the bathroom, the door still cracked just slightly from where you’d left it, he was right where you’d left him–perched on the toilet lid, hunched over with his hands between his knees, towel draped across his shoulders. Waiting. His reflection caught yours in the mirror as you pushed the door open again, stepping into the room quickly and closing the rest of the compound off again. He sat up a little straighter, almost like he’d been holding his breath the entire time you were gone.

You placed the scissors gently down on the sink beside the comb, then turned to stand in front of him.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, his voice–quiet, tentative.

“You…Do this a lot?”

You tilted your head a bit, amused.

”When I was at my training camp I used to cut my teammates hair all the time, but apart from that I sometimes give myself a quick trim or something, just to fix the annoying parts. Here’s my portfolio.” You said, motioning to your own head for him, almost as a joke. His lips perked up a little, not quite a full smile, but the edges softened with the beginnings of one.

”Alright…I’m trusting that you won’t give me a bowl cut.” You gave a soft snort, grabbing the comb off the counter and stepping in close again, standing between his knees. His legs were spread just enough for you to work comfortably, but the space between you felt close–intentional. He didn’t pull away as you raised your hand and began gently brushing back the damp strands, following with the comb.

“I won’t give you a bowl cut,” You said with mock solemnity. “Or a bob. Though… it would be kind of poetic to put Bob…In a bob.” He groaned immediately, a fond sort of sound that signalled to you that he was too tired to fight off your terrible jokes even though it secretly comforted him.

”You’re lucky I need you right no–now…Or else I would’ve left the room.” His tone was flat, but his eyes glinted.

”That joke was gold and you know it.” He rolled his eyes again and leaned his head forward slightly as you worked, letting you angle the strands as you needed. The movement was almost shy–like he didn’t want you to see how much he was enjoying the gentle way your fingers moved through his hair.

You ran the comb along the crown of his head, slow and careful. The teeth of it dragged softly over his scalp, smoothing the tangle of butchered layers and calming the chaos one section at a time.

You felt it before you saw it: the tiny shiver that ran up his spine.

It was subtle. Barely there. But his posture shifted, just a little. His breath hitched for half a second. And the back of his neck flushed the faintest shade of pink.

You paused for a heartbeat, just enough for him to notice.

Then said, gently teasing:

“You okay there?” Bob let out a breathy sound that might’ve been a laugh, or a sigh. Maybe both.

“Feels nice.” The words left him in a breath, like he hadn’t meant to say them out loud. You gave a soft smile, parting his hair gently with the comb again as you leaned in.

“Alright, I’m going to start… Ready?” He gave you a short nod, eyes still closed, his breathing steady.

The first few snips were small. Deliberate. You combed the trimmed pieces out, letting the soft fluffs of hair fall down onto the towel around his shoulders like snow. You continued, moving around him as needed, tilting his chin with two fingers when the angle required it, brushing the longer strands aside so you could clean the neckline.

Bob didn’t move unless you moved him.

Didn’t speak unless you spoke first.

His eyes stayed closed, brows relaxed, body slack in a way that almost made it seem like he was asleep. You paused mid-trim and tilted your head.

“Feeling okay?” You asked softly, your breath hitting just above his ear.

A pause. Then a low, barely-there hum.

“Mhm…Trying to not sw–switch.” You blinked. That made you straighten up slightly.

“Switch?” You echoed. “What…Sentry likes getting his haircut?” You teased, which earned you a breathy laugh–quiet, and muffled, but unmistakable.

“It feels good,” He murmured. “The comb dragging across my scalp is comforting, and it makes me all…Fuzzy. So don’t tease.” You couldn’t help the grin tugging at your lips.

“Who knew the Sun God liked being pampered.” You said it under your breath, half-laughing to yourself as you trimmed another section near his jaw, making sure the new angle framed his cheekbones just right. Suddenly, one of the shampoo bottles in the shower behind you thudded loudly to the ground, ricocheting against the porcelain with a sharp clatter. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even turn around.

You just reached across Bob’s shoulder, brushed another lock of hair back, and muttered:

“And he also likes trying to scare people.”

Another laugh. This one a little stronger, a little more him.

“It’s not my fa–fault. He likes making his presence known in odd ways.” You let the comb still in your hand, pausing mid-motion as you tilted his chin up gently with your fingers. His skin was warm beneath your touch, flushed pink at the jaw and neck. You studied his face–soft under the bathroom light, half in shadow, half shimmering.

“Well,” You started quietly, your voice dropping into something close to a murmur, “He’s a coward if he won’t show himself, hm?”

There was a pause.

And then, through the lowered veil of his lashes, a flicker of something not entirely Bob brewed beneath the surface. A gleam. His irises shimmered–gold blooming in threads over blue like sunrise bleeding through ocean water. He peeked up at you with a sleepy, amused look that didn’t quite belong to the man slouched on the toilet seat just moments ago.

“Now coward is just below the belt,” He murmured, voice smoother, deeper, teasing. “And it’s not fair when I’m being suppressed.”

You gave him a slow, playful smirk, shifting your weight just enough that your thighs bumped his knees gently. “Hello to you too, Sentry.” He let out a sound that was part huff, part chuckle. His hand drifted toward the waistband of your sweatpants and tugged at a clump of soft hair clinging to the fabric, flicking it off to the side as he continued to pluck at you.

”What has Bob done to himself now that has earned this type of care?” You returned to trimming, letting the rhythm of it settle between you both–the soft snick of scissors, the drag of the comb, the quiet hush of his breath. It was a strange kind of intimacy. Domestic. Ordinary. And yet…Not. Not when it was Bob Reynolds–or Sentry now, technically–relaxed and pliant beneath your touch, glowing eyes half-lidded with something halfway between mischief and calm.

“He tried to give himself a bit of a haircut,” You said, delicately snipping away at a choppy section just behind his ear, “And well… Now it’s like this.” You swept the trimmed ends off his shoulder with a quick brush of your fingers. “Did you not want a makeover?” He hummed, the sound deep and velvety in his chest. His hands, meanwhile, kept drifting toward your thighs. Gently, rhythmically. Flicking off the tiny tufts of hair that had clung stubbornly to your sweatpants like static dust. You paused to glance down at him–at the quiet way he seemed almost preoccupied with grooming you now, chasing strands off your legs as if they offended his sensibilities.

“I liked my long hair,” he said quietly, not looking up. “Can’t make the decisions though… God forbid.”

You softened at that–at the small swell of bitter resignation behind the words. You didn’t tease him this time. You didn’t joke. Just let out a soft, knowing sound through your nose and said, “Oh to be your own person, right?” That made him glance up at you–eyes aglow, amusement flickering around the edges of something older. Deeper. His expression was half-shadowed by the angle of the bathroom light, but the glow in his gaze was unmistakable.

“You’re being extremely sarcastic and sassy today.” You shrugged, ruffling his freshly trimmed light brown hair with a gentle pass of your fingers.

“You don’t come around often enough to know my personality…Because I’m always like this.” He didn’t argue. He just looked up at you through the gold-threaded glow of his lashes, then dropped his gaze again to your thighs. His warm hands ran slowly down the sides, brushing away another few stray hairs with careful precision–more deliberate than necessary.

“Sounds like you want me around more often,” He murmured, almost offhanded.

You froze for a beat, scissors poised mid-air.

Then, softly: “I wouldn’t mind. We’ve got a good dynamic.” You tilted your head, eyes meeting his. “Though I prefer Bob’s calmness…And the fact he doesn’t make me sweat when I’m standing in his vicinity.”

That earned a sly smile–lazy and infuriatingly smug. “I make you hot?” You rolled your eyes and combed your fingers through his hair again, making sure it was even.

“Temperature-wise, Sentry. Don’t twist my words.” He chuckled, but it was quiet, rich. Almost pleased. You stepped back a little to get a better look at your work, eyes skimming over the new shape you’d carved out of the disaster he’d given you to work with. It was definitely shorter. The jagged lengths were gone. The uneven patches now smoothed into softer layers, framing his jaw and cheekbones just enough to make the cut feel deliberate. Styled.

You tipped your head and nodded once. “I think it’s good.”

Sentry let out a deep sigh, dropping his head back with dramatic flair.

“Great. So I lost all my hair,” He grumbled, “And only got a few minutes of you basically giving me a scalp massage. This sucks.” You barked a laugh, tossing the comb onto the counter beside the scissors.

“Well next time you should just ask for one if you’re so desperate.”

He scoffed faintly, brushing another stubborn strand off your thigh with the tip of his fingers. “I’m not desperate. I just like it.” You smirked, watching him pretend not to enjoy the way your eyes lingered on his face a little longer than necessary. He ran his hand down your leg again, slow and deliberate, flicking away a final tuft gently. His eyes followed it as it floated to the floor, then dragged lazily back up to yours.

“Now I’m annoyed,” He muttered. “Not only by these stupid pants being filled with hair, but the fact that I missed out.”

Your brow lifted. “Missed out on what?”

“On you doing this earlier. On the part where you touch my hair like that and call me pretty in your head.”

You laughed–warm and bright–letting the weight of the night finally settle into something softer.

“Maybe next time, Sun God.”

He tilted his head at that, eyes glowing faintly again. “Promise?”

”Promise.”

[purplereina11]

Part 4

You go to your cousins wedding in Spain, and you catch the eye of the Alexia Putellas, she unintentionally becomes your plus one

Wordcount: 6k

“Do you want to come in?” you asked quietly, unsure if it was too much, too soon, but already knowing your answer.

Alexia didn’t answer right away. Her gaze searched yours for the briefest moment, then she nodded once, slow, deliberate. “If you want me to.”

You reached for her hand, fingers curling gently around hers as you stepped backwards, guiding her into the room behind you.

She followed.

The soft click of the door behind you hushed the world outside. The room was dim, only the warm glow of the bedside lamp casting golden light across the bed, the edge of the armchair, the curtains that still swayed slightly from the open balcony doors. The air held the faintest scent of your perfume and something floral from the wedding.

You led Alexia inside without saying anything, still holding her hand, your fingers laced like you didn’t want to let go. Neither of you moved quickly everything was slow now, a quiet hum beneath your skin, tension and curiosity and want woven together.

She looked around the room briefly, then back at you, like she was seeing it through you anyway. You stopped near the bed, turned to face her, your hands still joined between you.

Alexia stepped closer, the tip of her shoe brushing yours.

“You okay?” she asked gently, her thumb brushing across your knuckles. It was an honest question, not just a pause before a kiss.

You nodded. “Yeah. Are you?”

Her smile was soft. “I’m very okay.”

You both laughed under your breath. The kind of nervous laugh that comes right before something new.

You let go of her hand only to reach up, your fingers smoothing over her lapel, then sliding up to her shoulder, your palm resting against the side of her neck. Her skin was warm, she leaned into it just slightly, just enough.

“I liked today,” you said quietly.

Alexia’s voice was barely a whisper. “I like you.”

That did it.

You kissed her again, this time slower than on the dance floor no audience, no music. Just breath, just mouths finding each other, more tender this time, more deliberate. Her hands found your waist and yours curled behind her neck. She pulled you closer, but not too fast. Like she was learning every inch of how you fit.

She tasted like red wine and mint and something uniquely her. When your lips parted slightly and the kiss deepened, your fingers slipped into her hair without thinking. She sighed against your mouth like she’d been waiting for that all night.

When you broke the kiss, your foreheads touched, both of you still catching your breath.

“Do you want to stay?” you whispered, not out of insecurity but wanting her to know it was up to her.

Alexia didn’t hesitate this time. “Yes.”

It was that simple. You kissed her again as her jacket slid off her shoulders, as your fingers trailed over the bare skin of her arms. The night wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t wild, it was slow, sweet, the quiet kind of intimacy that felt like turning a page you both wanted to read together.

And for the first time, with no boat, no team, no teasing friends it was just you and her.

Alexia’s fingers trailed lightly down your arms as she looked at you, her gaze soft but intent. You stood facing her, she reached for your hand first, raising it to her lips for a gentle kiss, her eyes never leaving yours. Then, with slow certainty, her hands slid to your waist.

"May I?" she asked, voice quiet but steady.

You nodded, your breath catching a little, her fingers found the small zipper at your back. The sound of it being undone was barely audible over the gentle breeze outside, but it made your heart thump louder. She moved slowly, delicately, as though the dress were something fragile or maybe it was the moment she didn’t want to break.

As the fabric loosened at your shoulders, her hands brushed your skin, making goosebumps rise in their wake. She let the sleeves slide down your arms, letting the dress fall gradually, reverently. It pooled at your feet, and for a long moment, neither of you said a word.

Alexia’s hands came to rest lightly on your sides. Her touch was warm, steadying. She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder, her voice low near your skin. “You’re beautiful.”

You smiled, your cheeks warm, a quiet rush moving through your chest as you gently pulled her closer.

Your fingers found the first button of Alexia’s shirt, and with a soft breath, you began working your way down. Each button undone revealed a little more of her, the soft dip of her collarbone, the steady rise and fall of her breathing.

Alexia didn’t rush you. She stood close, her hands resting lightly on your hips, her eyes warm as they held yours. But the moment her shirt started to loosen, she leaned in placing a gentle kiss just below your jaw.

You smiled, your fingers pausing. “That tickled,” you whispered.

Her only reply was a soft chuckle as her lips moved lower, to the curve of your neck. You continued unbuttoning, a little slower now, distracted by the trail of kisses she was leaving her lips finding your shoulder, your collarbone, and the space just beneath your ear. Each kiss was featherlight, deliberate, like she was memorising you inch by inch.

As her shirt slipped from her shoulders, your hands traced over her back, the skin warm beneath your touch. She pulled back just enough to look at you, really look, before brushing her nose against yours with a grin.

“You make me nervous,” she said, her voice playful but honest.

You tilted your head. “Me?”

Alexia nodded. “Yes, but… in good way. Like before a big game.”

You grinned, leaning forward to press a kiss to her chest, just over her heart. “Then I must be special.”

“You are,” she said simply.

Your hands lingered just above the waistband of Alexia’s trousers, fingertips brushing the soft fabric as you toyed with the button, you weren’t in a rush the tension was delicious, but so was the quiet, teasing energy that had built between you.

Alexia’s eyes flicked between your hands and your face as she bit down on her bottom lip, smirking. The tension between you thick with anticipation, but still playful still you and her, the corner of her mouth curved into a crooked smile one that made your stomach flip and you could see something forming behind her eyes, she shifted slightly, her hands brushing along your waist as she tried to stay composed. You could tell she was trying to say something bold it was in the way her mouth curved, the way her brows furrowed just a touch as she searched for the words.

Alexia’s breath hitched almost subtly, her hands sliding along your waist, eyes flickering down to where your fingers paused. There was a playful glint in her expression, one you were starting to know well. Mischief mixed with affection. “I am…” she began, clearly trying to find the right words in English, her accent a little thicker with the moment. Her smile widened as she looked at your hands still at her waistband. “I am ready for… you to make the strip?”

You blinked. “Sorry?” you said, biting your lip to stifle a laugh.

She furrowed her brows, concentrating. “No… like… you take off my pants. Sexy.” She gestured vaguely down her body with a serious nod, as if that helped.

“Oh my god,” you laughed, dropping your forehead to her shoulder as she groaned, clearly knowing she’d said it wrong now.

“I mean… I mean you can do it. If you want. The… taking off. You make the undress.”

You leaned back, grinning up at her. “You are butchering English right now.”

She gave you an exaggerated sigh, hiding her face in your neck. “I was trying to be sexy.”

“You were,” you giggled, wrapping your arms around her, “Just maybe not how you meant to be.”

She pulled back with a smile, eyes crinkling. “Still, you not stop touching me.”

You shrugged, fingers brushing the button again, teasing. “True. Maybe I like your awkward charm.”

“Maybe you like me a lot,” she said, grinning wider.

You gave her a look. “Maybe I do.”

Her hand came up to cup your face gently. “Even when I say the wrong sexy words?”

You kissed her softly. “Especially then.”

“I try to be sexy,” she huffed, clearly trying to stay annoyed but failing as she smiled again.

You leaned in, your lips brushing her cheek. “You don’t even have to try.” Her breath hitched just a little at that, you grinned, your hands still resting at her waistband “And you were,” you teased. “Just… not with the right words.”

She pulled back enough to pout at you. “Then help me say it better.”

You brushed your lips across hers, barely a kiss. “Maybe later,” you whispered. “If you’re good.”

Alexia’s smile returned, playful and defiant. “I’m always good.”

You arched a brow. “Well, now that’s up for debate.” You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head, your forehead leaning gently against hers “Maybe just say it in Spanish. I won’t understand it, but I have a feeling it’ll still have the same effect on me your after.”

Alexia let out a soft laugh, her cheeks pink, but her eyes dark with amusement and something else something warmer, deeper. She leaned in again, her lips brushing against your ear.

She murmured something soft, slow, completely in Spanish. You didn’t have a clue what the words meant, but her voice, her tone, the way her hands found your waist and held you just a little tighter, it sent a spark right through you.

You exhaled a breathy laugh. “Yeah… that’ll do.”

She smiled smugly, pressing her forehead to yours. “Better?”

You nodded, heart thudding. “Much.”

Alexia’s hands slid down your sides, fingers splaying over your hips as she leaned in to kiss you again slow, deep, and full of anticipation. Her hands gripped just beneath your arse, and without so much as a warning, she lifted you effortlessly. You let out a surprised breath, instinctively wrapping your arms around her shoulders, your legs around her waist.

She carried you the short distance to the small desk by the window, one of those odd hotel furniture pieces that never quite seemed to serve a purpose, before sitting you gently on the cool surface. Her hands settled on either side of you, fingers brushing your thighs as her body slotted between them, the warmth of her skin radiating into yours.

Your kiss resumed, more heated now, your mouths finding a rhythm as the press of her against you felt more urgent. Her lips moved from yours to your jaw, down your neck, making your skin prickle and your stomach tighten.

It was slow but electric hands moving tentatively over new skin, lingering at the curve of a waist, the line of a back. There was a gentle kind of wonder in it, both of you discovering each other not in rushed desperation, but with careful reverence.

Alexia’s hands paused briefly on your sides, her breath uneven against your collarbone. She pulled back just enough to look at you, brushing your hair behind your ear. “You okay?” she asked softly, her accent curling around the words, her thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin.

You nodded, smiling, your fingertips running across her ribs. “More than okay.”

The look she gave you in return, tender, a little awestruck said everything. This wasn’t just desire. It was something gentler underneath, something real, either of you said it yet, but it was there.

Your breath hitched as Alexia's lips trailed from your mouth down the line of your jaw, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your neck. Her hands, steady and warm, rested at your waist before sliding up your back, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine through the fabric of your bra, unclasping it with ease before discarding it.

The soft, deliberate way she moved made you melt into her, your hands anchoring at her hips as she leaned in closer, the press of her body familiar now yet still new in a way that made your skin buzz with anticipation.

Her mouth reached the top of your chest, her kisses becoming slower, more thoughtful. She wasn’t rushing, there was something in the way she touched you, careful, focused, like she was learning you one kiss at a time. You tilted your head back slightly, letting out a soft exhale as her fingers swept lightly along your ribcage, thumbs brushing just under the edge of your breast.

You whispered her name without thinking, half warning, half plea and she paused to meet your eyes.

"You tell me to stop, okay?" she said, her voice lower, her accent thicker now.

You nodded, heart thudding, fingers threading into her hair gently as your forehead pressed to hers. “I don’t want you to.”

That was all she needed. Her lips returned to your skin, slow and purposeful, as her hands explored more bravely now never rushing, never pushing, just touching, learning, offering.

Her hand was cradled your thigh gently. She kissed your shoulder, her voice hushed against your skin. “Okay?” she asked again, always checking.

You nodded, too breathless to say much, your body already humming with the anticipation she’d so carefully built. Her fingers trailed along the inside of your thigh, patient, exploratory, making your skin tighten with heat. When she finally touched you properly, your hips twitched, breath catching.

It wasn’t rushed it was reverent. Like she was mapping you out by instinct, watching every shift in your face, every sound that escaped you, responding with even more care. The strokes were slow at first, gentle, as though she wanted to give you time to feel every ounce of what she was offering.

Your hands found her shoulder, gripping gently for anchor as the sensations began to build. It was impossible to stay quiet—your breath came quicker, your body arching under her touch as a low moan slipped out before you could stop it.

She kissed the corner of your mouth, whispering something in Spanish you didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter. The way she said it, how her lips brushed your skin every bit of it felt like worship. The rhythm of her fingers deepened, her free hand gently holding your hand as your thighs tightened around her.

It crested slowly waves of pleasure tightening your core until it swept over you completely. Your back arched, mouth falling open in a breathy gasp as the tension broke, release washing over you in pulsing waves. Alexia didn’t stop right away she guided you through it, steady and soft, until the tremors faded and you lay, spent and blinking at the ceiling.

She didn’t ask for praise. She just rested her forehead to yours, brushing back a strand of hair as you caught your breath, still dazed, “Estás bien?” she murmured, voice thick with affection.

You let out a laugh, shaky and breathless, pulling her in for a kiss, “More than fine.”

She kissed you like she didn’t want to come up for air, like she couldn’t quite believe you were real and here with her. Her hands slid down to the backs of your thighs, and in one smooth motion, she lifted you from the desk as though it was nothing.

You gasped against her lips, arms winding around her neck instinctively, legs curling around her waist yet again. The way she held you effortlessly strong, gentle but unshakable made something flutter low in your stomach.

She laughed softly at the sound you made, her forehead resting briefly against yours, she turned and carried you the few steps across the room, lowering you slowly onto the bed, her hands never leaving your skin. She looked down at you for a moment, soaking you in eyes flickering over your flushed cheeks, your lips, the curve of your body resting against the covers. There was something soft and reverent in her expression, like she was taking in every detail.

Then she joined you, sliding over you, her body warm and close, her lips brushing yours again. You kissed slowly, deeper this time, the kind of kiss that told you everything she didn’t say out loud. Her hands found yours, fingers lacing together, grounding you both in this moment just the two of you, nothing else.

You and Alexia moved together, hands roaming, exploring familiar shapes that still felt new in this closeness. The room was quiet aside from the soft sounds you made breaths that hitched, whispered names, the occasional stuttered laugh when touches surprised or delighted. Especially when you'd rolled to your side and she took the chance to smack your ass, "Cheeky" you muttered against her lips.

Your bodies shifted, tangled, equal in rhythm and want. There was something natural about it, like you'd both instinctively known how to match the other. You pressed closer, breath catching as her hands moved, nothing rushed, nothing forced, just the two of you reading each other like your bodies spoke a language all their own.

Her forehead rested against yours as you held each other through it tension building and rising in tandem, like waves threatening to crest at the same time. You could feel her heartbeat thudding against your chest, mirroring your own. The connection between you sparked, deep and overwhelming.

Then it hit together, not loud or dramatic, just an overwhelming rush of warmth and relief and closeness. You both stilled, clutching at each other, riding the moment out with soft gasps and shaky laughs. Your eyes were still closed when you felt her lips brush your temple, her body pressing gently into yours like she never wanted to let you go and maybe you didn’t want her to, either.

☀️

Alexia’s arm draped over your waist, her hand lazily tracing the curve of your hip beneath the sheet. You were still catching your breath, cheeks warm, limbs heavy but content. Her skin was soft against yours, her chest rising and falling gently at your back.

“What do you like?” you asked softly, your voice a mix of curiosity and affection as your fingers idly played with hers.

Alexia hummed behind you, thinking. “Mmm… I like to read. In off-season. Or go the beach. Sometimes cook with Alba.”

You paused, blinking, then turned your head slightly to look at her over your shoulder. “No, I meant… what do you like in bed?”

She shifted behind you, not catching your tone. “In bed?” she repeated, thoughtful. “I like to sleep on the left side. But only if is not near the door. I don’t like that.” Her hand gestured lazily as she went on, “And always window open or fan. Even in winter. I get hot.”

You bit back a laugh, rolling to face her, your nose nearly brushing hers. Her brows pinched in confusion when she saw the look on your face. You grinned, eyes sparkling. “That’s not what I meant, Alexia.”

“No?” she blinked, then her mouth parted a little as she realised. “Ohhhh.”

You giggled, pressing a kiss to her jaw. “I mean what do you like in bed. Not in bed, but in bed.”

She gave a half-laugh, half-groan, burying her face in your neck. “You are too much,” she muttered in a groan, the tips of her ears visibly pink.

“You make it too easy,” you teased, nudging her playfully with your knee. “I ask one simple flirty question and you give me a full sleep routine.”

She pulled back, still hiding her blush with a hand. “I thought… I really thought you mean sleep!”

You grinned, curling into her. “We’ll revisit the question. When you’re less… off-season mode.”

She laughed again, more relaxed now, pulling you close. “Okay, okay. I think next time I ask you confirm first.”

“Deal,” you murmured, pressing your forehead to hers, still smiling.

The quiet in the room settled again, the type of silence that felt full rather than empty your bare legs tangled together under the sheet, Alexia’s thumb brushing lightly over your ribs in a way that felt almost too soft to bear.

She was quiet for a few moments, eyes on your face as if she was thinking hard, searching for the right words.

Then she spoke, voice a little hesitant, “I don’t… want just… how you say…” Her brows pulled together, lips pressing tight as she frowned in concentration. “One time… thing? Like… one night?”

You tilted your head, watching her carefully. “You don’t want a one night stand?”

“Yes! That,” she said quickly, relieved you helped. Then she shook her head firmly. “No. I don’t want that.”

You smiled, heart tugging at how serious she looked. “Okay. So what do you want?”

She huffed, frustrated with her English. “I want… keep see you. After this. I want dates. Real ones. You and me. I take you.”

You bit your bottom lip, trying not to melt completely. “You want to take me on dates?”

Alexia gave a soft groan. “Yes, this is what I say. Why your English have so many… stupid phrases?”

You laughed, burying your head into her shoulder, kissing it softly. “Because you saying them wrong is the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

She looked down at you, exasperated but smiling. “I serious. I like you. I don’t want just this night.”

“I like you too,” you whispered, brushing your fingers gently along her jaw. “And I want dates too. Real ones.”

Her expression softened even more, and she leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to your lips slow and sincere. “Good,” she murmured as she pulled back just enough to whisper it. “Then is not just stupid English night stand.”

You laughed into her mouth as you kissed her again, heart aching in the best way possible.

☀️

The soft warmth of morning crept into the room, the light barely filtering through the curtains when you felt the gentle press of lips against your shoulder blade. A slow, lazy kiss, then another and another, a trail of affection that made you stir with a faint smile, your eyes still closed.

You felt her shift behind you the press of her chest against your bare back as her arm draped over your waist. Her breath tickled your ear as she nuzzled close, her voice husky from sleep and her Spanish lilt even softer than usual. “Mm… buenos días,” she whispered. “It’s time for breakfast.”

You mumbled something unintelligible, still half-dreaming, earning a quiet chuckle from her. Her nose brushed the curve of your neck before she kissed just beneath your ear, a little firmer this time.

“Come on,” she coaxed sweetly. “I know you don’t want, but we go… we eat. Then… maybe come back to bed.”

That made you smile as you turned your head slightly toward her, eyes finally blinking open. “You bribing me with food and more bed?”

Her grin was lazy and smug as she tucked a bit of your hair behind your ear. “Is good plan, no?”

You hummed in agreement, still half-wrapped in sleep, and let yourself melt for just a little longer into her warmth before eventually sitting up Alexia following close behind, already reaching for the shirt she’d discarded the night before, still watching you like you were the first thing she wanted to see every morning.

Alexia had disappeared with a soft kiss and a whispered, “I go change, five minutes,” slipping out with her shoes in hand and her shirt half-buttoned. You'd taken the opportunity to freshen up, padding into the small hotel bathroom in nothing but one of the white fluffy towels, your toothbrush lazily working through minty foam.

The bathroom mirror was a little fogged from your shower, but clear enough to spot the moment she came back. You didn’t hear the door, she moved quietly but her reflection appeared behind you, and your eyes met hers in the glass.

She leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, now in a soft linen shirt tucked into loose trousers. Simple, clean, somehow effortlessly perfect. Her hair was a little damp at the ends, and she’d clearly rushed, but she was smiling as her eyes took you in.

“You always look good,” she said, voice low and fond as she pushed off the frame and walked toward you.

You finished brushing, trying not to smile with your mouth full of toothpaste. She came up behind you, meeting your eyes again in the mirror, her hands gently sliding onto your hips over the towel.

You spat into the sink, rinsed, and wiped your mouth before glancing at her reflection again. “You were gone five minutes,” you teased lightly.

“I said five minutes,” she shrugged, like it was a challenge to beat her own prediction. Then, softer “I don’t want be gone long.”

You turned in her arms, the towel still snug around you, and raised an eyebrow. “Miss me already?”

She smiled, pressing a quick kiss to your damp shoulder. “Mucho.”

☀️

As you both left your room, the door clicking shut behind you, Alexia’s hand found yours again with ease, her fingers naturally sliding between yours like they belonged there. You were heading toward the lift to meet the rest of the wedding party for breakfast, and she walked close your arms brushing, her thumb gently stroking the back of your hand every few steps.

In the lift, it only intensified. She let go of your hand just to wrap her arm around your waist instead, her palm resting against the curve of your hip, pulling you slightly into her side. You looked up at her, amused.

She wasn’t trying to hide anything. In fact, she looked content like holding you this way was second nature. You rested your head lightly against her shoulder for a second, a small smile tugging at your lips.

As the lift doors opened, her arm stayed around your waist as you walked through the hotel corridor toward the breakfast area. The corridor was quiet, your steps soft on the carpet. Every now and then, Alexia leaned in to murmur something soft in Spanish something you couldn’t understand but didn’t really need to. Her tone was warm, intimate, her hand slipping a little lower as she guided you forward.

You glanced up at her, playful. “I like this touchy feely version of you.” you said as her fingertips grazed your ass.

Alexia gave a bashful smile, her hand still holding you close. “Touchy feely?”

You nodded, amused. “Yeah… affectionate. Handsy. I could get used to it.”

She looked down at you with a grin, then leaned in to press a kiss to your cheek just as you neared where you needed to be. “Get used,” she repeated softly, “please…”

As you rounded the final corner and the soft murmur of conversation grew louder, you spotted Eli and Alba already seated at the breakfast table near the window, sunlight pouring in and catching on their coffee cups and orange juice glasses. They looked up, spotting you both, smiles already forming.

You felt a flutter in your chest something between nerves and anticipation and leaned closer to Alexia as her hand slid naturally to your lower back again.

“How do I say good morning to them?” you asked quietly, eyes on the table ahead.

Alexia glanced at you, a little smile playing at her lips, clearly charmed by your effort. “Buenos días,” she said gently, leaning closer so the words were just between you. “Say it slow bweh-nos dee-ahs.”

You repeated it softly under your breath once.

“Perfecto,” she whispered, squeezing your side. “They will love that you try.”

As you reached the table, Alexia moved ahead just slightly, smiling at her family. You gave them both a small, nervous smile and said, “Buenos días,” your accent shy but sincere.

Eli’s smile grew warm immediately. “Buenos días!” she said brightly, clearly touched.

Alba grinned, nodding approvingly. “Very good,” she said in English, giving you a wink.

You took your seat beside Alexia, who leaned in as you settled. Her voice was soft and proud. “You’re so cute when you try Spanish.”

You smiled, cheeks warm, glancing between the two women across the table.

Alexia added teasingly, “Now they know you’re polite and brave.”

The warm buzz of conversation floated over the table as the breakfast plates were being enjoyed and coffee refilled. You were halfway through your croissant when a family member arrived, carefully placing a comically oversized card down at the end of the table. It had soft gold lettering on the front and a floral border clearly a wedding card for the happy couple.

You watched with quiet curiosity as Eli carefully pulled the cap off a thick pen and began writing inside, her brows furrowing in thought. Alba followed, adding a cheeky message and an affectionate little doodle that made Alexia laugh under her breath.

You sipped your orange juice, trying not to not look out of place too obviously, when you noticed Alexia subtly pull a napkin closer to your side of the table. She kept her eyes on her family, her hand scribbling something casually with the hotel pen. You glanced down, scrawled in a quick, slightly messy script, you are cute.

A small smile tugged at your lips. You turned your head toward her, raising an eyebrow, but Alexia didn’t look at you at least, not right away. Then, when you least expected it, she tilted her head slightly, her eyes flickering your way with a smug, dimpled grin.

You leaned in just a little, voice low. “You’re distracting me from being polite to your family.”

Alexia shrugged with mock innocence, eyes sparkling. “No. I say truth.”

You tried to keep your cool, but you couldn’t help the grin spreading across your face. You picked up the napkin, folding it and tucking it into your bag earning a knowing look from Alba, who’d clearly caught at least part of the exchange.

Alexia leaned in again, whispering, “You save it? You like it?”

You nodded, brushing your knee against hers under the table. “I do. Might frame it.”

☀️

The hotel lobby was quiet except for the low hum of suitcase wheels and the soft chime of the automatic doors opening and closing. You stood near one of the velvet couches with your suitcase upright at your side, your fingers loosely curled around the handle. The morning sun streamed through the tall glass windows, casting warm golden light on the marble floor too pretty a day to be leaving.

Eli was already outside, keeping an eye on the street, her arms folded and eyes occasionally scanning for the arriving taxi. Alba lingered by the check-in desk, pretending to scroll her phone but clearly stalling. She glanced your way now and then, smiling faintly like she knew something neither of you were saying aloud.

Alexia, on the other hand, didn’t pretend.

She stood directly in front of you, her brows drawn slightly, her expression soft but stubborn. Her arms were around your waist for what had to be the third or fourth time in the last ten minutes, her forehead resting lightly against your temple.

"I no like this part," she mumbled quietly, her voice muffled in your hair.

You let out a breathy laugh, trying not to let the lump in your throat form fully. “You’ve hugged me enough times to break a record.”

"Not enough," she murmured, pulling back just far enough to look at you, her hands slid from your waist to your lower back. “You sure you have to go?”

“I don’t want to go,” you said honestly, smoothing a wrinkle in her sleeve with your thumb. “But yes. Real life calls.”

Alexia pouted slightly, then leaned in again, burying her face in your neck for a moment before whispering, “Next time, I go to you.”

You smiled, nodding against her. “Promise?”

“Prometo.” She leaned back, giving you one last squeeze.

From outside, Eli knocked on the glass and waved the taxi had arrived. Alba looked up from her phone with a quiet sigh and started walking toward the doors, Alexia didn’t let go.

Reluctantly, you placed a quick kiss at the corner of her mouth. “I’ll text when I land.”

She nodded, but her eyes followed you all the way to the doors, her hand slipping from yours only when the automatic glass separated you. As the taxi boot popped open, she pressed a hand to the window, watching as you turned one last time to wave.

Even then, she didn’t look away until the taxi pulled out of view.

☀️

You’d barely been home an hour.

The flat still smelled faintly of your suitcase clothes in need of washing, perfumes you don’t remember spraying, a crumpled wedding programme still wedged into a pocket. You’d just showered and pulled on some old pyjamas, your hair damp and tied up, when the buzzer rang.

You paused mid-cup of tea, glancing toward the door with a little frown, you weren’t expecting anyone. Crossing the room, you pressed the intercom button. “Hello?”

“Delivery for [Your Name],” a voice said cheerfully.

Still puzzled, you buzzed them in and cracked open your door. A few minutes later, the lift pinged and opened and the man stepped out with both arms completely full of flowers. Not just flowers a bouquet, massive and absurdly beautiful, the kind you only ever saw in magazines or on Pinterest boards. Soft blush peonies, cream roses, lilac wildflowers, and eucalyptus all carefully wrapped in brown paper tied with a satin ribbon.

You blinked.

“This... is for me?”

He checked the name on his delivery slip and smiled. “Sure is. Enjoy.”

You mumbled a thank you, accepting the weight of the bouquet carefully in both hands. It smelled incredible like summer mornings and something expensive. You set it gently on the kitchen counter, still stunned, before you noticed the envelope tucked neatly within the ribbon.

Your name was handwritten on the front in neat handwriting. You opened it carefully, heart already tugging in your chest.

Inside:

Thank you for being my date. Todo mi amor, A

Your smile spread so wide it almost hurt.

You pressed the card to your chest for a moment, already reaching for your phone with the other hand, this was so Alexia. Effortless romance, quiet intensity, thoughtful beyond words and you missed her already.

You couldn't stop smiling as you held the bouquet in your arms, the flat smelled divine now like florists and fairy tales. You reached for your phone, switching to the front camera, and tilted it toward the mirror.

You stood with your back to the mirror, torso and face behind the bouquet so only your bottom half peeked out. Snap. You uploaded it to your Instagram story with no caption, just a white heart emoji and a smiley face.

It didn’t take long before your phone started ringing. Carmen.

You laughed to yourself, already expecting what was coming as you answered.

“So that’s why Alexia Putellas wanted your address,” Carmen said, no greeting, just immediately calling you out. “I think you need to catch me up, don’t you think?”

You bit your lip to suppress your grin and wandered over to the sofa with the phone. “I was going to tell you, I swear.”

“Don’t even,” she cut in, mock-offended. “You’ve been keeping secrets since the wedding, and now you’re out here getting five-star floral confessions from Spain’s national treasure. Babe. Come on.”

You laughed. “I wasn’t keeping secrets. I was just… figuring it out.”

“Figuring out what? That she’s obsessed with you? Because I could have told you that when she spent thirty solid minutes watching you pour sangria and blushed every time you said her name that night.”

You let out a little groan, flopping back against the cushions, cheeks warm. “Okay, maybe I’ve been in denial.”

“She sent you a literal fairytale garden. That’s not denial territory, that’s main character energy,” Carmen teased. “Right, spill. How did you get to a place where Ale is sending you flowers please? And do not skip anything.”

You glanced over at the bouquet again, still stunned it was real, still stunned she was real. You smiled into the phone. “Okay. It started at your International game, with her asking me to be her date to a family wedding… and then things got very, very real.”

[sillygoose067]

Wrong Bag, Right Time

Lewis Pullman x Reader

You’re already regretting your decision to book the late-night flight by the time you step off the plane. Your brain is a thick fog, your legs are stiff, and your eyes are burning from a barely-there nap sandwiched between two chatty seatmates. The fluorescent airport lights feel like a personal attack as you shuffle through the terminal, clutching your carry-on and weaving through a sea of bleary-eyed travelers.

You follow the signs to the baggage claim, your body moving on autopilot, ears still ringing from the jet engines and the tinny airline announcements. You lean against a cool, steel column, rolling your shoulders back as you wait for the belt to start rumbling. Around you, people are already gathering, faces drawn and eyes darting every few seconds as the carousel creaks to life.

Bags start thudding onto the belt, one after another — a parade of black, navy, and occasionally neon roller bags that look like they’ve been through multiple rounds of airport roulette. You squint, eyes scanning the blur of luggage as it slowly snakes its way around the conveyor.

Your suitcase is black, a standard roller bag with a scuffed corner and a strip of faded, decorative tape around the handle — a last-minute attempt to make it easier to spot in the chaos. When you finally catch sight of it, you push through the small crowd, reaching for the handle just as a kid with a Spider-Man backpack nearly trips over his own shoes, forcing you to dodge sideways to avoid a collision.

You grab the suitcase and wrestle it off the belt, feeling the reassuring weight of your overpacked essentials as the wheels clatter onto the tile. It’s a little heavier than you remember, but then again, you crammed it full of work documents, laptop accessories, and enough backup phone chargers to power a small tech convention.

Dragging it toward the exit, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the glossy airport windows — hair mussed, eyes smudged with exhaustion, and your blouse slightly wrinkled from a restless sleep against the plane window. You sigh, mentally promising yourself a long, hot shower the second you get to your hotel.

The shuttle to the car rental lot is packed, every inch of space claimed by tourists and business travelers with the same dazed expressions you’re sure you’re wearing. You brace yourself against a pole, your suitcase tucked between your knees as the bus lurches into motion, bumping over the uneven tarmac.

By the time you reach your hotel, you’re practically running on fumes, dragging your suitcase through the lobby and into the elevator with a series of clumsy, exhausted jerks. You fish out your key card, nearly dropping it twice before you manage to swipe it through the reader and stumble into your room.

Your heels come off first, clattering to the floor with a dull thud as you toss your bag onto the bed. You flick on the bedside lamp, the warm glow instantly making the small space feel a little less sterile.

The water from the shower is scalding, and you let it beat down on your shoulders, eyes closed as the steam fills the small bathroom, fogging the mirror and making the tiles beneath your feet slick. You let yourself stand there longer than necessary, feeling the tension slowly drain from your muscles, the ache in your lower back gradually easing.

Wrapped in a thick hotel towel, you shuffle back into the main room, hair dripping onto the carpet as you flip open your suitcase, ready to dig out your comfiest, most threadbare shirt and collapse into bed.

But when you peel back the top layer of clothing, your fingers don’t hit neatly folded blouses or the sensible, corporate slacks you’d meticulously packed. Instead, you pull out a rumpled Led Zeppelin tee, its soft, well-worn fabric clearly belonging to someone who’s spent years living in it.

You blink, holding it up, the faded graphic stretching across the front like a relic from another lifetime. Confused, you dig deeper, pulling out a small mountain of band tees, a denim jacket with fraying patches sewn into the sleeves, and a battered leather notebook, its cover creased and edges worn.

Your pulse quickens as you flip through the pages, finding half-finished sketches, messy notes in looping cursive, and the occasional smudge of ink where someone clearly wrote in a hurry. There’s a faint, musky scent clinging to the pages, a mix of worn leather and old cologne.

“Wait...” you murmur, setting the notebook aside as you reach for a thick stack of papers wedged against the side of the case. It’s a printed script, the title bold at the top and someone’s lines heavily highlighted in yellow.

You glance back at the open suitcase, your mind racing, heart thudding against your ribs as you fish out a small, laminated luggage tag tangled in the zipper. It flips over in your hand, the plastic cool and slightly warped from years of travel.

“L.P.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” You sink onto the edge of the bed, the towel slipping from your shoulders as you stare at the mismatched pile of someone else’s life spread across your hotel sheets.

---

Across town, Lewis Pullman hauls his suitcase up the narrow stairwell to his apartment, one hand gripping the railing as he leans into the climb, every muscle in his legs protesting the final stretch. He fumbles for his keys, and finally shoulders his way inside, the familiar, comforting chaos of his one-bedroom coming into focus as he kicks the door shut behind him.

He toes off his boots, letting them fall wherever they land, and drags the suitcase into his cramped living room, tossing his jacket onto the back of the couch. The streetlights outside cast thin, golden strips across the walls, and his refrigerator hums steadily in the otherwise silent space.

He flips open the suitcase, too tired to even think about organizing, and reaches blindly for a clean shirt. Instead, his hand lands on something stiff and sharply pressed.

Lewis frowns, pulling out a neatly folded stack of dress shirts, their collars crisp and perfectly creased. He blinks, eyebrows knitting together as he digs deeper, pulling out tailored slacks and a leather-bound planner with a small, discreet logo embossed on the corner.

“What the...” He flips the planner open, eyes skimming over tightly packed meeting notes, detailed itineraries, and a color-coded calendar that looks like the work of someone who genuinely enjoys spreadsheets.

He reaches for a thick, intimidating-looking folder marked “Confidential” in bold letters, his heart sinking further as he flips it open to reveal a stack of professionally printed documents.

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” He lets the folder drop onto the floor, running a hand through his already messy hair as he stares at the unfamiliar contents of what is very clearly not his suitcase.

Somewhere out there, someone is currently rifling through his tangle of band tees, scribbled notes, and, worst of all, his heavily highlighted script for a new gig he'd just scored.

---

You stare at the suitcase spread open on your hotel bed, the pile of band tees and creased notebook sitting there like a physical reminder of the chaos your life has just become. You should do something — call the airline, maybe, or at least try to figure out who this L.P. is before their missing luggage becomes your permanent problem.

But you’re exhausted. The kind of tired that settles deep in your bones, turning your thoughts into molasses and making even the simplest task feel monumental.

You let out a long, frustrated sigh, rubbing your eyes and glancing at the clock on the bedside table. It’s already pushing 1 a.m., and the idea of trying to navigate a customer service call right now feels like a special kind of hell.

“Alright, fine,” you mutter to the empty room, tossing the vintage tees back into the suitcase and flipping the lid closed. You’ll deal with it in the morning, when your brain is at least somewhat functional. For now, you just need sleep.

You crawl into bed, still vaguely damp from the shower, and tug the covers up to your chin. The mattress is firmer than you’d like, the pillow a little too thin, but it doesn’t take long for the steady hum of the hotel air conditioning to lull you into a deep, dreamless sleep.

---

Across town, Lewis drops onto his couch, head thudding against the worn armrest as he stares up at the cracked ceiling. The folder of mysterious corporate documents is still sitting on the coffee table, its thick, embossed cover practically daring him to open it again.

He considers getting up, maybe flipping through the papers for a hint about who his mystery bag-swapping stranger might be, but the thought alone makes his eyes feel heavier. He’s not exactly equipped for a late-night detective mission right now, not with the remnants of jet lag still clinging to his brain like a wet blanket.

“Tomorrow,” he grumbles, kicking his feet up onto the armrest and letting his eyes drift shut. He’ll deal with it in the morning, when his brain isn’t actively trying to shut down.

---

The next morning comes far too quickly. You wake to the sharp, insistent chime of your phone alarm, the sound cutting through your foggy consciousness like a knife. You groan, slapping at your phone until it goes blessedly silent, and roll onto your back, staring up at the bland, popcorn-textured ceiling.

It takes a moment for the events of the previous night to come rushing back — the wrong suitcase, the unfamiliar band tees, the mysterious L.P. luggage tag. You sit up slowly, rubbing at your eyes and trying to shake the lingering cobwebs from your brain.

First things first: your own suitcase. You’d had the foresight to slip an Apple AirTag into one of the side pockets before your flight, a small, paranoid part of you always worrying about exactly this kind of mix-up.

You grab your phone, opening the Find My app with a flick of your thumb, but the screen just loads into a frustratingly empty map, the little green dot stubbornly refusing to show up. Too far away, probably. You grit your teeth, already regretting not springing for the upgraded model with the longer range.

You tap the call icon and put the phone to your ear, bouncing your knee as it rings.

“Thank you for calling Apple Support. Please hold while we connect you to the next available representative.”

You resist the urge to groan, your fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against the hotel comforter as the tinny hold music crackles in your ear.

---

Across town, Lewis is having his own version of a chaotic morning. He’s halfway through his second cup of coffee, hair still damp from a hurried shower, as he flips through the stack of neatly printed documents that had been sitting in what he thought was his suitcase.

Every page is packed with dense, professional text — contracts, meeting agendas, and what looks like a series of legal documents with a name scrawled at the bottom in neat, looping handwriting.

“Alright,” he mutters to himself, leaning back against the kitchen counter as he taps the name into his phone’s search bar.

Results flood the screen, a frustratingly long list of people with the same name scattered across LinkedIn profiles, news articles, and random blog posts. He scrolls through the first few pages, trying to find anything that might match the person he accidentally luggage-swapped with, but it’s like looking for a needle in a very, very crowded haystack.

He blows out a breath, tossing his phone onto the counter and rubbing the back of his neck. His manager is going to kill him when they find out about this. Still, he can’t exactly let a stranger hold on to his scribbled notes and half-finished script forever.

“Alright, screw it,” he says, grabbing his phone again and pulling up his manager’s contact.

“Sam, hey, I’ve got a situation,” he says as soon as the line connects, pacing a tight circle in his small kitchen. “No, it’s not like last time. I just... I might have swapped bags with someone at the airport, and I have no idea who they are, but they’ve got my script. And my stuff. All my stuff.”

There’s a long pause on the other end, the kind that usually means Sam is resisting the urge to throw his phone against the nearest wall.

“Okay,” Sam finally says, his voice a carefully measured calm. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to take the bag you’ve got and head back to the airport. There’s a decent chance the other person will do the same once they realize they’ve got the wrong bag.”

Lewis sighs, glancing at the stack of neatly folded dress shirts and leather-bound planner sitting innocently on his counter.

“Yeah, alright,” he mutters, grabbing his keys off the hook by the door. “I’m on my way.”

---

Meanwhile, your Apple Support call finally connects, a cheery voice on the other end promising to walk you through the steps to locate your missing suitcase. You glance over at the still-open bag on the bed, the crumpled script catching your eye.

Maybe it’s time to finally figure out who the hell L.P. is. You grab the thick stack of papers, flipping to the cover page and skimming the title. Your eyes widen as the name Lewis Pullman jumps out at you, the pieces suddenly falling into place.

Lewis Pullman. The actor. Bill Pullman’s son.

You stare at the script in your hands, heart thudding in your chest as the full weight of your accidental heist hits you.

“Oh, no,” you mutter, sinking back onto the bed. “What have I done?”

---

Lewis taps his fingers against the steering wheel, jaw tight as he stares at the congested freeway ahead. The morning sun glares off the windshields around him, turning the LA traffic into a slow, blinding crawl. He glances at the passenger seat, where your neatly packed suitcase sits like a silent accusation, the crisp corners and tasteful leather trim a stark contrast to the chaos he’s used to.

By the time he finally reaches LAX, the nerves in his stomach have twisted into a full-on knot. He parks and hauls the suitcase through the labyrinth of terminals, the weight of his mistake pressing down on his shoulders.

The airport is buzzing with activity, the steady thrum of engines and the chaotic clatter of luggage creating a backdrop of controlled chaos as he heads for the airline counter.

The attendant at the lost and found desk looks up, raising a perfectly manicured eyebrow as Lewis approaches, his suitcase clutched in a white-knuckled grip.

“Hi, I... I think I accidentally swapped bags with someone on my flight last night,” he says, his voice coming out a little more strained than he intended. He sets your suitcase on the counter, running a hand through his hair as he tries to sound less like a sleep-deprived mess. “This isn’t mine. I’m hoping the person who has mine will come looking for theirs, too.”

The attendant nods, typing something into the computer and giving him a weary, knowing smile — the kind that says this isn’t the first time someone’s stumbled in with the wrong bag and a panicked expression.

“Just leave it here,” she says, slapping a tag on the handle and sliding it onto the cart behind her. “If the other person comes by, we’ll let them know you dropped it off.”

Lewis hesitates, fingers still wrapped around the handle, his brain fighting a ridiculous urge to hold onto the bag a little longer. He gives it a final, reluctant nudge, watching as the cart wheels it away and disappears into the maze of behind-the-scenes airport chaos.

With a deep, tired sigh, he turns and heads back to his car, hands shoved into his pockets as the sounds of the bustling terminal fade behind him.

---

Meanwhile, back in your hotel room, you’ve entered the frantic, mildly horrifying phase of a full-on internet spiral. Your laptop is balanced precariously on the edge of the bed, multiple tabs open on Lewis Pullman.

You grab your phone, pacing the small stretch of carpet between the bed and the window as you pull up his IMDb page, half-hoping there’ll be a contact button you can just click to resolve this mess. But of course, there isn’t. The closest you get is a list of his past projects and a handful of magazine interviews that all seem to paint him as the down-to-earth, quietly intense type.

Finally, after what feels like a small eternity of frantic googling, you stumble across what you think might be his manager’s number, tucked away on an obscure industry listing. You dial it, hands shaking a little as the line rings, each passing second making your pulse thud harder against your ribs.

Voicemail.

You hang up, your breath coming out in a short, frustrated huff as you toss your phone onto the bed. You’re tempted to try again, maybe leave a message this time, but something about the whole situation already feels too much like a scene from a bad rom-com, and you’re not sure you can handle the embarrassment of leaving a rambling, half-panicked voicemail for a guy you’ve never even met.

Finally, you decide to cut your losses and head back to the airport, clutching Lewis’s battered suitcase like a lifeline as you weave through the bustling lobby and make a beeline for the lost and found desk.

An attendant is sitting there, her expression unimpressed as she types away at her computer. You clear your throat, shifting your weight nervously as you set the bag on the counter.

“Hi, I think I accidentally swapped bags with someone on my flight last night,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I just... I just want to leave this here, in case they come looking for it. It’s got a lot of their stuff in it, and I’m, um, really hoping mine is still somewhere in the system.”

The attendant glances at you over the top of her computer, her expression a mix of boredom and mild curiosity. She slaps a tag onto the handle of the suitcase and adds it to the same cart Lewis’s bag disappeared on earlier.

“We’ll call you if we find anything,” she says, already turning back to her screen.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat as you scribble your name and number on the form she slides your way. It feels weirdly final, like you’re closing the book on a strange, mildly mortifying chapter of your life.

---

A few weeks pass, and the whole suitcase fiasco slowly slips into the background noise of your daily routine — a bizarre, slightly embarrassing story you’ll probably share with friends over drinks someday.

But then, just as you’re starting to convince yourself that you’ll never see your meticulously packed suitcase again, your phone buzzes with a call from an unknown number.

“Hello?” you say, balancing your phone against your shoulder as you fumble with your laptop.

“Hi, this is LAX Lost and Found. We’ve located your suitcase. You can come pick it up anytime this evening.”

---

You arrive at the counter a little breathless, the memory of your original suitcase still a fresh sting as you approach. But just as you step up to the desk, another figure rushes up beside you, his sneakers squeaking against the polished tile.

“Hi, I’m here to pick up my suitcase —” you both start, your voices overlapping in a messy, tangled echo.

You glance at each other, both of you wide-eyed and a little winded, and then immediately look away, the awkward tension settling like a heavy fog. He’s tall, a little scruffy around the edges, his hair tousled like he’s run his hands through it one too many times. There’s a brief flicker of recognition in his eyes, like he’s trying to place you, but then he quickly looks down, rubbing the back of his neck as if he’s suddenly aware of how tightly the air feels around you both.

The attendant rolls her eyes, bending to grab two identical suitcases from the back, her movements sharp with barely disguised exasperation.

“Here,” she says, shoving both bags onto the counter with a loud thunk. “I assume you two know which is which this time?”

You and Lewis both reach for your respective bags, pausing to double-check the scuffs and ID tags, even unzipping the top a few inches just to be sure.

When you both exhale in relief, catching each other’s eye for a split second, his mouth opens, closes, and then opens again, like he’s trying to catch the right words before they slip away.

“Uh, hey,” he starts, one hand gripping the handle of his suitcase, the other half-raised in a tentative gesture. “I, uh... just wanted to say thanks for, you know, bringing my stuff back. I know that, uh, it probably... wasn’t the most convenient thing.” He lets out a little breathy chuckle, eyes dropping to his shoes for a second. “I mean, I’m not sure what I would’ve done if you hadn’t.”

You let out a small, relieved laugh, the lingering tension breaking like the first crack of a smile after a long, awkward silence.

“No, it’s fine. I... kinda panicked when I realized what I had. Almost didn’t want to touch anything, but, uh... yeah.” You bite your lip, feeling a little of the same nervous energy radiating off him.

He nods, his shoulders relaxing a bit, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, like he’s working up the nerve for something.

“So, uh...” he hesitates, his gaze flicking back up to yours, the corners of his mouth twitching in a hesitant, lopsided grin. “Maybe we could, I dunno, grab a coffee sometime? Or, uh, dinner, if that’s... less weird?”

You blink, a little caught off guard by the sudden offer, but the earnest, slightly flustered look on his face makes it hard not to smile.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding before you can second-guess yourself. “Dinner sounds nice.”

“Cool, cool,” he says quickly, letting out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a silent cheer. He fumbles for his phone, nearly dropping it as he tries to unlock it with one hand, his cheeks turning a little pink. “Uh, here, just... give me your number and I’ll... yeah.”

You chuckle, tapping your info into his phone as he watches, his eyes crinkling at the edges when you hand it back.

“Alright, well... I’ll text you,” he says, stepping back with a little half-wave. “Thanks again. Seriously.”

You nod, your heart doing an odd little flip as you watch him turn and weave back into the airport crowd, his suitcase rolling behind him, the wheels clattering against the polished floor.