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stillalivebydemand893 · 2 days ago

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Ex's & Oh's...?

18+

One plan to ruin an ex spirals and turns into a wildfire of lust and late-night moaning.

“PLEASE, I’M GETTING ON MY FUCKING KNEES, OKAY? JUST THIS ONCE!” Erik shouted across the living room like it was a telenovela.

“FUCK OFF! I’M NOT DOING IT!” you yelled back, already halfway to chain-smoking a full pack and faking your own death. Not even Marlboros could fix the migraine you got just from existing today.

Erik looked five seconds away from spontaneous combustion. “Why not?! Jesus fucking Christ-one thing, Peach. Just one. Don’t make me bring up the Denver trip.”

You shot up off Julia’s couch like your soul had been yanked out of your spine. “DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE, CAMPBELL.”

You stormed toward him, eyes blazing, trying to intimidate him. He didn’t budge. Didn’t blink. Arms crossed, mouth cocked into a smirk like he was ready to end this fight with fists, fire, or a fake engagement ring.

Julia strolled down the stairs, coffee in hand, face bored. “What’s happening? It smells like unresolved sexual tension and broken dreams in here.”

“It’s just rage and bullshit,” you snapped. “Tell your brother he’s a dumbass.”

“Oh, he knows,” she chirped. “Doctors said it’s irreversible. We even tried holy water. He just got wet.”

“Why are you fighting, anyway?” she added, sipping.

“Because she can’t do one damn thing for this friendship,” Erik growled, stepping closer. “At this point, I don’t even know why we’re still friends. She’s fucking useless.”

You were toe to toe now. Close enough to feel the heat of his breath on your lips. You didn’t know if you wanted to slap him or shove your tongue down his throat. Probably both.

“Fuck you, okay?” you hissed. “Just because we’ve known each other since the fucking Black Plague doesn’t mean I’m going to help you win your ex back. Go on Tinder. Bumble. Fucking Grindr. I don’t care. Pick someone else.”

“Oooh,” Julia purred, eyes wide. “So that’s what this is. Sophia’s coming back to town and Erik’s playing ‘Get My Ex Back: The Remix.’”

You groaned. “I hate her. Last time we were in the same room, she almost bit my head off.”

“That’s because you nearly set her hair on fire,” Erik reminded.

“She wore half a can of hairspray to a Christmas party! I was lighting a candle, not plotting murder!”

“Exactly!” he exclaimed, eyes wild. “She hates you. Which means she’ll do anything to get me back, just to piss you off.”

He threw his arms up like a dramatic Real Housewife.

“Oh babe…” Julia grinned like the devil. “Guess who Sophia’s dating now?”

“I don’t give a single fu-”

“Alex.”

You froze.

“My Alex?”

“Your ex Alex,” she said sweetly.

The Alex. High school heartbreak. Gaslighting king. Prince of “You’re just not popular enough,” which actually meant not hot enough. It took four months, three therapy sessions, and one egging of his house to get over him.

(Erik bought the eggs.)

“Oh. We’re doing this,” you said coldly.

“See?” Erik grabbed your shoulders, eyes blazing. “Come on, Peach. We have to do this. For honor. For vengeance. For-”

“For making Sophia combust and watching Alex implode?” you asked, all sugar and venom.

“Exactly.”

He looked too smug. And maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t just about Sophia. Maybe he liked the idea of calling you his. Maybe he wanted the fantasy to bleed into reality.

But he’d never say that out loud.

Julia clapped her hands like a game show host. “So, babes. What’s it gonna be?”

You grabbed Erik by the collar, yanking him so close your breath tangled. “We’re getting married,” you growled. “Mark my fucking words. Those two don’t know who they’re messing with.”

“HELL YES, baby!” Erik shouted, spinning you around like a coked-up Patrick Swayze.

Julia cackled. “I cannot wait for tonight.”

He set you down gently, hands still resting on your waist. Too warm. Too steady. Too dangerous.

You winked. “Game time, baby.”

Then stomped upstairs.

“Julia, we’ve got a makeover to do!”

“YES MA’AM!” she yelled, nearly tripping over herself to follow.

Downstairs, Erik stood alone, grinning like a man on the edge.

“God help me,” he whispered. “I’m so fucked.”

“Ready, Peach?” Erik waited downstairs.

You strutted in, wrapped in war paint and vengeance,short skirt, red-hot top, hair cascading like you just stepped out of a shampoo commercial and a bar fight.

He whistled, low and dangerous.

“Hot,” he whispered, taking your hand. Just that one word sent shivers down your spine.

“You sure? I feel kinda slutty,” you teased, fully aware it would only fuel him.

His eyes darkened. “Flaunt those lashes at me again and we’re not making it to the damn party, sweetheart.”

There was always something between you. Heat. Hunger. History. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe you were ovulating. Maybe you just wanted to climb him like a jungle gym and let him ruin your entire existence.

“Game time,” you said as you walked into the house.

It was packed. You and Erik stuck close, fingers laced, the picture of toxic bliss. And then you saw her. Blonde bitch, perfect blowout, standing next to your ex.

You stiffened. Erik’s grip tightened.

“Come on, Peach,” he murmured, dragging you toward the couch in the center of the room.

“What’s the plan, Campbell? Make out in front of everyone?” you snorted.

He pulled you onto his lap in one swift motion.

“Not my style,” he smirked, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You were blushing like hell, unsure whether to bury yourself in his chest or crawl under the coffee table.

“Let’s make some motherfuckers jealous, baby.”

You leaned in, hand on the back of his neck. Skin on skin. Fire in your blood.

He slid his hand up your thigh. “Easy, tiger.” Then kissed your neck like he was starving. You gasped as he squeezed your thigh and bit your collarbone.

“You’re killing me,” you whispered, dizzy with lust.

“That was the plan from the start,” he growled, lips brushing your ear.

You couldn’t take it. You grabbed his lower lip between your teeth and tugged.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Well, well,” Sophia appeared like the Ghost of Christmas Bitches.

“Hey, Sophia,” you said brightly, hand resting on Erik’s chest. He didn’t even look at her. Eyes locked on yours.

“So... you two finally dating? I knew you were always after him-”

Before she could finish, Erik pulled you off his lap and dragged you outside.

“Sorry, we’re leaving,” he called, not even glancing back.

“Erik, what the hell-” you started as you reached the parking lot.

Then he kissed you.

Hard.

No warning. Just mouth on mouth, heat exploding, tongues colliding in chaos.

“Peach, let’s go home,” he whispered against your lips.

“Best idea you’ve ever had,” you breathed, climbing into the passenger seat of his Dodge Charger.

The whole drive was silent-except for your gasps every time his hand inched higher on your thigh.

Julia called. You answered with your voice ragged.

“Yeah, we’re good. Just... caught a cold. See you tomorrow.” You moaned as he pressed against you.

“We’re so fucked,” Erik muttered, turning into your apartment lot.

“We’ll deal with that tomorrow.” You were already halfway out of your clothes.

The door barely shut before he slammed you against the wall, lips on your neck like you were dessert.

“Don’t tease, oh god-” you whined, fingers tangled in his hair.

“I’ve waited too long for this, Peach.” He yanked off your top, kissed you like salvation, stripped you down to bra and skirt.

You moaned, helpless under his touch.

“Me too.”

He hoisted you up, legs wrapped around his waist, carried you to the kitchen counter, the cold marble sending a shock through your burning core.

“There’s no turning back now,” you whispered.

“No turning back,” he rasped, taking off your bra as you tore off his shirt.

Mouth on mouth, chest to chest, heartbeats in sync like war drums.

His hands cupped your breasts, mouth devouring each one like they held secrets, like they were his to worship.

“Fuck, Erik-”

Your moan echoed through the kitchen like sin wrapped in velvet.

Erik's hands gripped your thighs, strong and possessive, as he lifted you just a little higher onto the edge of the counter. His mouth was back on your neck, nipping and sucking like he was trying to brand you.

"You taste better than I ever fucking imagined," he growled into your skin.

Your breath hitched, fingers dragging through his hair as he pushed between your legs, grinding into your soaked core through your underwear like it was killing him to go slow.

You couldn’t think. You couldn’t breathe. You could only feel.

“Erik-"

He pulled back just enough to look at you, lips parted, pupils blown, hair messy in that way that screamed you did this. His hands slipped down your back, teasing along the hem of your skirt.

“Turn around,” he said, voice low, dark, and cracked with restraint.

You obeyed, almost mindless, hands bracing against the counter as he spun you with one swift movement. His chest pressed flush to your back, and you gasped as he leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

"I've dreamed of fucking you just like this," he whispered, every word dripping into your bloodstream like liquid fire. “Bent over, shaking, begging-”

You let out a breathless whimper, thighs clenching.

And then,you felt it. Hard. Hot. Pressed against you. But something else too.

A jolt lit your nerves on fire.

“Is that...?”

He smirked against your shoulder. “Pierced.”

You nearly lost your balance.

“Holy shit.”

“Exactly,” he rasped, sliding his hand between your thighs. “And it’s all for you, baby.”

Your knees buckled as he ground into you, slow and devastating, like he was showing you just a taste of what that piercing could do.

“I want to ruin you,” he growled, voice strained, hips moving in slow, torturous rolls. “Wreck you so good you forget every asshole that ever looked at you.”

You pushed back into him, desperate, feral.

"Then do it," you gasped. "Make me forget everything."

His hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back gently so his lips could ghost along your neck again.

“You’re mine tonight, Peach. And tomorrow... we’ll see if I give you back.”

One hand fisted in your hair, yanking it into a rough ponytail. The other slid under your skirt, slow and deliberate, fingers slipping between your thighs,right where you needed him most.

“All this wet for me, Peach?” he growled against your shoulder, his voice pure gravel and sin. “You knew I’d wreck you tonight, didn’t you?”

Your breath hitched. The smirk you gave him was pure defiance. “Took you long enough to notice me, jerk.”

You knew exactly what you were doing. The brat in you wanted to push. You wanted the consequences.

He didn’t take the bait lightly.

“No, Peach. I’ve been noticing you forever,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous. “You put me through hell with that ass of yours. And now?” His breath burned against your neck. “Now I’ve reached my limit.”

Then: “Get on your knees.”

Your heart thrashed in your chest. Blood raced. Adrenaline licked every nerve ending like fire.

You dropped, no hesitation, the air thick between you.

His belt hit the floor like thunder.

You looked up,and damn. He was beautiful, hard, thick, pierced, and proud. Your lips parted before you even realized.

“Open that pretty mouth, sweets,” he said, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Maybe this’ll finally shut you up.”

Your breath came shaky as you obeyed, your eyes still locked on his. You wanted to ruin him. And he knew it.

He hissed as your lips wrapped around him. His hand stayed knotted in your hair, the other braced on the counter behind him, head tilted back in restraint.

“Fuck, Peach…” he moaned, and it shot straight through your core. His voice, thick and trembling, was sweeter than any praise.

Your tongue worked him slowly, expertly,dragging over the piercing just enough to make him twitch.

He looked down at you, eyes dark, jaw locked. “If you keep looking at me like that, I swear to God you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

He dragged you back up by your hair gently, but possessively,your chest pressed to his, breath mingling.

He grabbed your chin, thumb sliding along your bottom lip.

“Open up, Peach.”

You did.

He slid his thumb inside your mouth, and you sucked on it obediently, tongue swirling like you were starving for him. His pupils blew wide, his chest rising and falling like he’d run a marathon.

“Who knew you were such a slut for me,” he said with a wicked grin.

You bit down gently on his thumb.

His smirk turned dangerous. “Brat,” he hissed.

And then he crushed his mouth to yours.

It was chaos.

Teeth. Tongues. Desperation. His hands everywhere, yours tangled in his shirt like you needed him to hold you up,or you’d drop to the floor, ruined.

You didn’t know what was happening next.

Only that you wanted all of it.

You were dizzy. Drunk on him.

And when he pulled back, just barely, voice low and trembling?

“If we don’t move to the bedroom now, I’m fucking you right here against the counter.”

Your smile was dangerous.

That was all it took.

He gripped your waist like he’d been waiting his whole life to, lifting you up and carrying you with that effortless strength like you weighed nothing. Your back hit the mattress, soft but charged—your chest rising fast, your pulse louder than the room itself.

He stood at the edge of the bed, looking at you like you were something sacred and savage all at once. Completely bare, except for that skirt still hanging low around your hips, clinging on like it didn’t want to miss the show.

Erik groaned, deep and rough. “Now that’s a fucking sight.”

Then he was over you,arms caging you in, body heavy with need, muscles taut, eyes locked on yours. You could feel the burn of his stare tracing every inch of skin he hadn’t touched yet.

“Say the words, Peach,” he whispered against your neck, lips brushing your skin, sending a shiver straight through your spine. “And I’m yours. All of me.”

You looked up at him, eyes wild and soft all at once. He hovered there like he didn’t dare move until you called him home.

“You’ve always been mine, dumbass,” you breathed, voice thick with something between want and love.

Then you pulled him in,fingers tight on his shoulder, lips meeting his in a kiss that was slow, deep, and dangerous. One of those kisses that said don’t you dare stop touching me. One that made time stutter.

You pulled back just barely, eyes still locked on his, your arms looped around his neck like a vow.

“Fuck me, Erik.”

And that was it.

His restraint shattered.

He slammed into you with a growl that sounded like it came from somewhere deeper than his chest. You gasped, the force of him knocking the air from your lungs,and your mind.

His piercing dragged over every sensitive inch of you, igniting sparks that made your vision blur.

“God, Peach,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping like you were drowning in each other. “You feel-fuck,you feel unreal.”

You clenched around him, nails digging into his back as he moved with pure purpose. It wasn’t just sex,it was claiming, consuming, years of tension finally set on fire.

The rhythm was relentless. His name spilled from your lips like a prayer and a curse all at once.

He was everywhere,his hands on your hips, his breath in your ear, his teeth scraping along your jaw like he wanted to devour every inch of you.

“This what you wanted?” he growled, voice wrecked. “Me losing my mind for you?”

You barely managed a nod before he shifted, thrust deeper, harder, making your body arch beneath him.

You couldn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

Because the look in your eyes screamed it: I want you to ruin me. I want you to stay.

And he would.

Every second, every touch, every ragged moan said the same thing back.

He already was.

The sunlight hit your face like karma.

You groaned, shifting under the sheets,but you couldn’t move far. There was a whole wall of muscle and menace wrapped around you.

Erik.

His arm was thrown over your waist like a human seatbelt, chest pressed to your back, legs tangled. And dear god,he was still warm. Still solid. Still smug in his sleep.

And still very naked.

You blinked at the ceiling, brain slowly rebooting from what could only be described as the Mount Vesuvius of orgasms.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered to yourself. “I think he rearranged my spine.”

From behind you, Erik let out a sleepy groan, nuzzling into your shoulder. His morning voice was pure filth,low, gravelly, and half a threat.

“You talkin’ shit, Peach?”

“I’m talking facts,” you muttered. “I’m not sure I can walk. My knees still think I’m on the kitchen floor.”

He laughed, a deep rumble that vibrated against your back.

“You were asking for it.”

You rolled over to face him,and regretted it instantly because his smile was too smug, too hot, and he was definitely still packing a lethal weapon between his thighs. That damn piercing should come with a warning label.

“I wasn’t asking for you to put me in a chokehold with your thighs and rail me into another dimension.”

He smirked. “You say that, but you also said ‘harder’ like… ten times.”

“That’s not legally admissible in court.”

“Oh no?” He leaned in, lips brushing your neck, voice a seductive threat. “What about when you begged me to bite your-”

“ERIK.”

You both froze as Julia’s voice rang through the apartment.

“IF YOU BROKE THE BED, I SWEAR TO GOD-”

Your eyes went wide. Erik slapped a hand over your mouth to stop your giggle. His expression screamed do not move she’s like a damn T-Rex.

“I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE, PEACH.”

You whispered against his hand, muffled: “She’s gonna murder us.”

“She’s gonna throw holy water on me,” he whispered back. “Again.”

Julia’s footsteps got closer.

“I MADE COFFEE. AND PANCAKES. AND I NEED TO KNOW IF THIS IS A ONE-NIGHT STAND OR IF I SHOULD START PINNING WEDDING CENTERPIECES ON PINTEREST.”

Erik groaned, burying his face in your neck. “I hate her. I love her. But I hate her.”

You were dying. Physically dying from trying not to laugh.

Still, you grabbed the sheet, wrapped it around yourself like a toga, and tiptoed to the door.

Julia stood there. Holding a coffee. Looking entirely too smug.

“Well, well, well,” she said. *“If it isn’t ‘I hate his guts’ and ‘we’re just best friends.’”

You took the coffee. Sipped it. “It’s complicated.”

Behind you, Erik called out, “She begged.”

You turned and yelled, “I will end you, Campbell!”

Julia just raised her eyebrows. “So… you staying for breakfast or just coming for dessert?”

You turned beet red. Erik groaned from the bed. Julia cackled like a witch.

Welcome to hell. Population: You, your enemy-with-benefits, and your chaos-loving best friend.

And you wouldn't change a thing.

You went back to the Campbells house .Erik was in his sweatpants, no shirt, hair still a disaster from the night before. You were in his hoodie,that damn skirt of your and leftover sin.

You sat at the breakfast bar, sipping coffee like you hadn’t just gotten railed into next week.

Julia? Across from you. Staring. Judging. Plotting.

“So…” she said, too casually. “You two finally fucked. Loudly.”

You choked on your pancake.

“Julia.”

“Don’t ‘Julia’ me, Peach. You butt dialled me and I heard you yelling ‘wreck me, Erik.’ Like, honey, I left the apartment.”

Erik didn’t even flinch. “She said it. Multiple times. I have witnesses.”

“Shut up,” you hissed, elbowing him in the ribs. He grinned and bit into his pancake like he hadn’t just shattered your spine six hours ago.

Julia narrowed her eyes.

“So is this... a thing now? Or are we pretending you didn’t just dry hump each other into the afterlife in front of my Christmas candle?”

You and Erik exchanged a glance.

And then,because the devil owns your soul,he looked right at you, smirking, and said:

“She’s mine.”

Your heart didn’t just flutter. It sucker-punched you.

Julia blinked. “Oh, we’re doing the possessive era now. Good. I’ll get matching sweatshirts printed.”

You were about to throw a waffle at her when there was a knock on the door.

Julia frowned. “Who the hell...?”

She opened it.

And you saw her.

Sophia.

Looking airbrushed, iced-out, and suspiciously smug. Next to her?

Alex.

Oh hell no.

You straightened in your chair. Erik’s jaw tightened so fast you could hear it.

“Well, this is awkward,” Sophia said sweetly, glancing at you like she was checking for damage. “We were in the neighborhood. Thought we’d stop by.”

Julia stepped aside slowly, eyes wide. “This is about to be so good.”

You stood.

“Hi, Alex,” you said coolly, sipping your coffee like it was champagne. “Didn’t expect to see you. Or your… shadow.”

Sophia gave a fake laugh. “Oh Peach, still spicy. Cute.”

Erik stood behind you, one hand resting lightly on your waist, thumb brushing under the hem of his hoodie like it was instinct.

Alex’s eyes followed it. You saw it.

So did Sophia.

“So,” Erik said, casually dominant, voice low enough to sound like a warning. “You here to start drama, or are you just lost?”

“We just wanted to catch up,” Alex said. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s been a while. Thought you were still single.”

You didn’t miss that.

Neither did Erik.

He leaned down, kissed your cheek, then whispered near your ear,just loud enough.

“You wore me out last night, Peach. Still sore?”

You nearly dropped dead from the power.

Julia straight-up wheezed.

Sophia’s mouth tightened like Botox on a budget.

“Well,” she snapped, “this was fun.”

“Thrilling,” you said. “Next time, send a postcard.”

They left, tension trailing behind them like glitter and bad perfume.

As soon as the door shut, Julia collapsed on the floor.

“YOU GUYS. I AM LIVING FOR THIS. I NEED A REALITY SHOW. I NEED A CAMERA CREW. I NEED YOU TO FUCK ONCE PER EPISODE AND THEN DESTROY EVERY EX WHO CROSSES YOUR PATH.”

You dropped into Erik’s lap, chest heaving from all the drama. He wrapped his arms around you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“So,” he said against your shoulder, “round three after brunch?”

You smiled, slow and wicked.

“Only if you say please.”

He smirked.

“Brat.”

#erik campbell #erik campbell fanfiction #erik campbell final destination #final destination #erik campbell x reader #final destination bloodlines #final destination au #Spotify

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amg-petronas-princess · 15 hours ago

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"𝕊𝕠𝕗𝕥 𝕃𝕒𝕦𝕟𝕔𝕙, ℍ𝕒𝕣𝕕 ℝ𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕟𝕘𝕖"

A max Verstappen x reader smau

Summary: He cheated, so I went to the race we were supposed to attend together… and somehow left with his favorite driver instead.

yourusername

liked by yourbestfriend, landonorris and 12,402 others

yourusername didn’t change the plans. just changed the company.

yourbestfriend he ticket still scanned… cinematic.

user23 hot girl heartbreak has entered the grid

maxverstappen1 liked this comment

your.ex this can’t be real.

emm.wrn and yet. she glowed.

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, f1gossipgirlie and 160,484 others.

yourusername revenge isn’t loud. it wears heels and doesn’t text back.

maxverstappen1 who let you walk around looking like this?

↳ landonorris the FIA needs to investigate immediately.

↳ danielricciardo i sneezed looking at pic 1. allergic to heartbreak served this hot.

f1gossipgirlie she’s not healing. she’s haunting him.

↳ Charles_leclerc she is the penalty.

carlossainz55 this outfit caused 3 DNFs and one midlife crisis.

f1gossipgirlie

liked by yourbestfriend, landonorris and 34,675 others.

f1gossipgirlie not PR. not media. she’s definitely with him.

landonorris y’all really said “no sources, just vibes” huh?

danielricciardo is this journalism or fanfiction? either way i’m invested.

Charles_leclerc i wasn’t in the groupchat that planned this. i feel betrayed.

f1teaspill HE LOOKS AT HER LIKE SHE IS THE CHECKERED FLAG I’M LOSING IT

anonymousburner she’s only with him for the clout.

↳ yourbestfriend and what are you here for? the humiliation?

maxverstappen1

liked by yourusername, Charles_leclerc, danielricciardo and 1,394,493 others.

maxverstappen1 she’s not a secret. she’s just mine.

yourusername and i wouldn’t trade the quiet for anything.

↳ maxverstappen1 you made the silence feel like home.

landonorris this post smells like rich people and unresolved tension.

danielricciardo bro posted one (1) couple photo and now i want to buy matching bracelets with someone..

f1gossipgirlie the dinner hands. the silk skin. the skyline. this isn’t a soft launch. this is a full series premiere.

charles_leclerc how do i turn off feelings for posts that aren’t about me?

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, yourbestfriend, charles_leclerc and 1,468,850 others.

yourusername he broke it. you held it. now it feels whole again..

maxverstappen i wasn’t trying to fix anything. just wanted to be where you are.

↳ yourusername and somehow that was everything.

charles_leclerc i’m not crying. you’re crying. shut up.

danielricciardo ladies and gentlemen, we got her.

landonorris so when does the movie adaptation come out? asking for all of us

↳ yourusername working title is he fumbled. you didn't.

↳ maxverstappen1 solid title.

carmenmmundt the caption?? yeah ok now i need tissues.

f1gossipgirlie from pit lane tears to soft launches and elevator cuddles?? i’m IN. LOVE.

yourbestfriend i swear if anyone hurts her again we’re forming a task force.

↳ danielricciardo do we get matching jackets?

↳ landonorris i call dibs on team name.

↳ charles_leclerc make it international. i’m in.

georgerussell63 this is the grid’s version of a happy ending

↳ danielricciardo wait do we get credits at the end or just tears?

#max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen smau #max verstappen x you #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen fluff #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #lando norris #lando norris x reader #daniel ricciardo #daniel riccardo x reader #george russell #george russell x reader #carmen mundt #f1 social media au #social media au

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4linos · 2 days ago

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when the past knocks 2

seo changbin x f!reader, kim seungmin x f!reader

synopsis: you left to protect your son and yourself. but healing gets complicated when old ghosts return… and one of them still makes you laugh.

genre/warnings: angst, infidelity, emotional manipulation, grief, jealousy, unresolved feelings, slow burn, hurt/comfort.

wc: 16,998.

[when the past knocks part 1]

The morning felt like it had arrived too soon, dragging its weight across your chest, suffocating you with its inevitability. You had barely slept, your mind cycling through the words you and Seungmin had exchanged the night before, the look in his eyes when he saw the texts, the way everything seemed to snap so suddenly, everything falling apart in ways you never thought possible. You tossed and turned, trying to find some comfort in the bed that used to feel like home. But tonight, it felt like a cold, empty void between the two of you.

You had hoped maybe things would be different when you woke up. Maybe Seungmin would be there, sitting on the edge of the bed, tired from the fight but still here, still trying. But no.

The bed was already cold on his side.

You blinked, feeling an uncomfortable lump form in your throat as you pushed yourself up, rubbing your eyes, trying to force your body into action despite the exhaustion that clung to your limbs. The room felt too big, the silence almost suffocating.

You checked the bathroom connected to the bedroom, still expecting to see him there, even though you knew, deep down that he wouldn’t be. But maybe… maybe there would be something. A reason to hope that things hadn’t gone as far as they felt. But the bathroom was empty, and so was the small corner where he had placed his bag the night before.

His things were gone.

The clothes he had brought back with him, the ones he hadn’t bothered to put back in a suitcase, but had just tossed over the back of a chair were no longer there. There was no sign of him at all.

It felt like something heavy and sharp pressed against your chest. Not anger, not even frustration. Just hurt.

You wanted to be angry. You wanted to tell yourself that you should be relieved, that this was for the best. But you couldn’t. You loved him. You still loved him. And despite the lies, the betrayal, and the damage he’d done to you and your son, you couldn’t erase the love. You hated how it still clung to you, how it refused to leave, no matter how broken things were.

You called out for him softly, almost like a question. “Seungmin?”

There was no answer.

You walked downstairs slowly, feeling the weight of every step. You knew your mother would be down there by now, probably waiting with a warm breakfast as she always did. She was still trying to hold things together. You could feel the weight of her expectations, the hope in her eyes every time you walked in, the way she didn’t want to admit that something might be wrong.

When you got downstairs, your mother was in the kitchen, moving around the stove. Roan’s laughter echoed from the other room, a reminder of how normal everything was on the surface. But you felt like you were living in a different world. You cleared your throat, trying to sound casual, but the words still came out quieter than you intended.

“Mom, have you seen Seungmin?”

She paused, turning slightly, her expression unreadable. And then it softened, just a little, though it didn’t stop her from giving you a look. A look that wasn’t judgment, but concern. The kind of concern that mothers reserve for their children when they’re trying so hard to hold everything together, even when it’s falling apart.

“He left early this morning,” she said, a quiet finality in her voice. “Caught him leaving around 4 a.m. Said he had to go into the office today. He thanked me for letting him stay.”

Your stomach turned.

You nodded, trying to pretend it didn’t hurt to hear that. Trying to act like it was fine. “Okay,” you muttered, your voice thin and strained.

But she didn’t buy it. She stepped closer, crossing her arms in a way that told you she wasn’t going to let you off that easy. She studied you for a second, searching your face like she was trying to read some kind of clue.

“What’s going on with you two, huh? I thought you’d be working things out by now. I really thought it was just a bump in the road. After all these years, I figured it would be fixable.” Her voice cracked just a little, and it caught you off guard.

You bit your lip, fighting the urge to just collapse right there in front of her. You felt the weight of everything you hadn’t said. The weight of everything you had been holding back.

And for a brief moment, you almost thought about telling her everything, the truth, raw and exposed. That Seungmin had destroyed your trust, that the marriage was over, that there was no easy fix to this. But when you looked at her, you saw the years of hope, the way she had loved Seungmin like her own son. You saw the way she still believed in the “happy ending” for the family she’d always dreamed of.

You couldn’t break her, too.

So you lied.

“It’s fine, Mom. We’re just… working through things. It’s been tough, you know? But we’re figuring it out.”

She didn’t seem entirely convinced, but she didn’t push either. Her eyes softened, but she couldn’t hide the doubt in them.

“Well,” she said, her voice tightening, “he left early this morning, said he wanted to give you some space. I heard you two arguing last night.” Her voice dropped a little. “You didn’t seem like things were fine then.”

Your heart skipped. She heard you?

But you couldn’t react, not now. Not when everything felt like it was already on the edge.

You forced a smile, shaking your head slightly. “We’re just… having a hard time communicating right now. But we’ll be okay. I’m sure we will.”

Your mother didn’t press further. She crossed her arms and looked at you with that knowing expression. “You’re sure? Because I’ve never seen you like this. You don’t have to keep pretending everything’s fine if it’s not.”

But before you could respond, Roan came bounding into the kitchen, his hair messy from sleep, a bright smile on his face. “Mom! I’m ready for breakfast!”

The moment was over, broken by the sound of your son’s excited voice. And you felt an immediate pang of guilt for lying in front of him, for pretending to be okay when everything felt like it was crumbling.

You forced yourself to smile at Roan, pushing the sadness deep down. “Okay, buddy, let’s get you something to eat.”

But your mother’s eyes lingered on you for a second longer, as if waiting for something you weren’t ready to say. Then she turned and started preparing breakfast as if nothing had happened.

The rest of the morning passed in a haze of motions. You got Roan dressed and ready for school, the conversations were light, forced, and polite. But in the back of your mind, you could feel everything shifting. The truth you weren’t telling. The love you weren’t ready to let go of.

The ping of your phone broke the quiet stillness of the morning. You were sitting at the kitchen counter, slowly sipping your coffee, eyes unfocused, trying to drown out the weight of everything. It was too early for this. The morning felt like a battle between the pull of comfort and the sharp sting of everything unraveling around you. You hadn’t heard from Seungmin all day after the night’s argument, and despite your internal pleading not to think about him, your mind had been consumed by him, by everything he was, everything you once had together.

You pulled your phone toward you. The message was from Seungmin.

It was a simple text: “Hey, can I call Roan tonight? I just want to check in on him and hear his voice.”

You stared at the message for a moment, your thumb hovering over the screen. It hurt to even acknowledge that he wasn’t here. You’d been waiting for him to step up, to take accountability, to make things right, but it wasn’t like that, was it? He had left. And now he was giving you space. Space you didn’t even know if you wanted, but were probably going to have to learn to live with.

You couldn’t blame him for needing space. You needed it too. But how do you move forward from this? How do you separate the love that’s still so strongly rooted in your heart from the anger, the betrayal, and the overwhelming sadness? You missed him so much that it physically hurt. But there was so much damage between you two.

You quickly typed a response, something simple “Yeah, that’s fine. Roan will be happy to hear from you.”

Then came the barrage of texts that you hadn't expected, each one coming faster than the last.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I left early this morning because the argument from last night made me realize we both need space.” The words were clear and deliberate, almost as if he was trying to make himself sound reasonable, calm.

“I’m going to give you all the space you need for now. Whenever you’re ready, we can sit down and talk about what’s going to happen with us… and with Roan.”

A strange, hollow feeling spread through you as you read his words. You hadn’t expected him to leave. It was just too… final. But here he was, sending these texts, acting like everything could still somehow be fixed. And deep down, you didn’t know if you wanted that. You weren’t sure what you wanted anymore.

You didn’t respond right away. Instead, you let your phone sit on the table while you mindlessly stirred your coffee. The silence was deafening, and you felt the ache in your chest grow. Was he right? Was space the answer? Could you and Seungmin really talk about the future? And even more confusing, did you want to?

You loved him. You still loved him. That love hadn’t faded, even in the wake of everything that had happened. Even now, despite the anger and betrayal, it felt like your heart refused to let him go.

You hated that it hurt. You hated how badly you still wanted to fix things, to hold onto the family you once had. You wanted to feel that warmth again, the kind that was once so certain between you and Seungmin. You wanted to believe it could all go back to how it was before.

But something had changed. Something else had wormed its way into your mind. And it wasn’t just Seungmin anymore.

Changbin.

His face flashed in your mind, sharp and bright like a sudden storm cutting through the fog.

It wasn’t just that you remembered him. It wasn’t just the memories of the past, of high school, of how he had always been there for you, how he'd always understood you. It wasn’t even the fact that you had spent time with him recently, reconnecting and laughing over old stories.

It was the way you felt now, in the silence after Seungmin’s texts.

The way you smiled at your phone after reading his message. The way your chest felt lighter with every word he sent, the way your thoughts drifted to him and not Seungmin.

Suddenly, you were questioning everything. The connection with Seungmin that you had once believed was unbreakable, it felt less solid now. More fragile. As though it was built on sand.

You hadn’t meant for things to get complicated again. You didn’t want to feel this pull toward Changbin. Not now. Not when everything with Seungmin was already so volatile. But it was like trying to fight the current, your thoughts kept returning to him. To the way he made you feel seen, understood, and even happy. There was no bitterness, no tension, no past mistakes haunting the space between you.

The thought of Changbin now felt like a breath of fresh air compared to the suffocating weight of the relationship with Seungmin.

And it wasn’t just about the past. It was now. You’d spent hours talking to him, laughing with him, reconnecting in ways you hadn’t expected. And even though the friendship was unexpected, there was this undeniable connection. An attraction that had been buried under the weight of your life with Seungmin, but now seemed to bubble back to the surface.

Your thoughts were scattered, tangled between the man you had married and the one who once held your heart, the one who was still somehow here, slipping back into your life.

A sharp ping broke your reverie. Another message from Seungmin.

“I just wanted to remind you that I’m here when you’re ready. For you. For Roan. Don’t shut me out.”

You felt the familiar sting of guilt. You wanted to respond. To tell him that you didn’t know what you wanted anymore, that you didn’t know if you could fix things. But you didn’t. Instead, you set your phone down and stood up.

The pull toward Changbin had unsettled you. You didn’t want to admit it, but you couldn’t deny it either.

The more you tried to push it down, the more it crept up. He was becoming a constant thought. The more you thought about him, the more the idea of Seungmin and what you had with him seemed less and less certain.

You loved Seungmin. You did. But you didn’t know if the love you had was enough to fix everything. You didn’t know if it was enough to erase the years of resentment, the lies, the unspoken words between you two.

And now, a part of you was wondering if it was possible to love someone else, someone who could actually see you. See you in a way Seungmin never had.

You leaned against the counter, feeling the weight of the decision hanging in the air, heavier than anything you had ever faced before. Would you even allow yourself to love again? Would you be willing to take the risk? Or would you bury everything, hoping that time and space would somehow heal the broken pieces of your marriage?

You couldn’t decide. Not yet.

And so, you pushed it all down, Seungmin’s texts, Changbin’s face, your emotions.

But you couldn’t escape the ache, the pull, the uncertainty.

And as the day dragged on, the questions remained.

What would you do next?

The sunlight filtered through the trees, casting soft, dappled shadows over the park as you sat on the blanket, surrounded by a picnic spread. Roan and Yuna were playing on the swings and climbing frame with the other kids, their laughter ringing through the air. It felt like a rare moment of peace, a fleeting escape from everything that had been weighing on your heart for the past few weeks.

But the conversation you were having with Changbin was the highlight of your day, as it always was. Changbin had just finished recounting one of his favorite stories from high school, one that had you laughing so hard you almost spilled the lemonade you were holding. The way he told it, with his wide grin and exaggerated gestures, made it feel like it happened yesterday.

You’d almost forgotten about that time. You and Changbin had been inseparable during those early years, always getting into some kind of trouble. But the one memory that always seemed to stand out was the time he’d tried sneaking into your room late at night, only to have your dad catch him in the act.

Changbin grinned at the memory, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I thought I was going to be a goner that night,” he laughed. “I was halfway through the window when your dad came storming in like a SWAT team. I don’t even know how he heard me. I thought I was being so sneaky!”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you remembered your dad’s furious face. “You were terrible at being sneaky,” you teased. “I told you not to come through the window. It was too obvious. But you still thought you could outsmart my dad.”

Changbin snorted, the memory still clearly amusing to him. “I swear, I never saw him coming. He just barged in like some kind of ninja. Then he grounded you for a month, right? It felt like a year, honestly. I couldn’t even talk to you outside of school. That was brutal.”

You nodded, your smile widening as you remembered the long, quiet days after that. “It was. My parents were furious when they found out what was going on. They never trusted you after that, especially my dad. He probably still tells that story to anyone who will listen.”

Changbin laughed again, a rich, deep sound that made your heart flutter in a way you hadn’t expected. “I can’t blame him. I deserved it. But I’d do it all over again if it meant I got to hang out with you. It was worth it. Every second of it.”

His words hit you in a way you couldn’t quite explain. You hadn’t realized how much you had missed hearing Changbin talk like this so open, so genuine. He had always been the kind of person who wore his heart on his sleeve, and even though so much had changed since high school, it still felt like you could talk to him without any pretense.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt something like warmth spread through you. A comfort you hadn’t realized you were craving. It wasn’t just the carefree way he talked about the past, or the teasing banter, or even the fact that he was just here, present and sharing this moment with you, but something deeper, something that felt like a connection you hadn’t realized was waiting to be rekindled.

Since Seungmin had left, you had been living in a quiet sort of limbo. Every day had felt like a blur of uncertainty. Your interactions with Seungmin had become limited to brief texts and calls about Roan. He had asked about you a few times, but those conversations were brief, awkward, and mostly focused on logistics how Roan was doing or if he could speak with him. And while part of you appreciated the space Seungmin was giving you to think, it also left a hollow feeling in your chest.

But here, with Changbin, it felt different. You didn’t have to pretend. You didn’t have to act like everything was fine or like you had everything figured out. With Changbin, everything felt like it could be uncomplicated again, just two old friends, reminiscing about the past and sharing laughs without the weight of expectations.

You glanced over at Roan and Yuna, who were giggling as they played tag. The scene felt almost too perfect. You didn’t want to overthink it, but you couldn’t help but notice how nice it was. Roan had been so happy lately. Maybe he didn’t fully understand the complexities of what was happening between you and Seungmin, but he felt secure in the routine you had established.

You turned your gaze back to Changbin, who was still in the middle of telling another hilarious story about high school, something about the time he had accidentally ruined a school play by tripping over the curtain during his big moment on stage. You laughed and shook your head, appreciating the simplicity of the moment. It was a stark contrast to everything else that had been happening in your life lately.

You weren’t sure when things had started to shift between you and Changbin, but now it felt undeniable. The way you found yourself smiling more easily when he was around, the way he seemed to fill the space left by the absence of Seungmin’s presence. It wasn’t that you didn’t still love Seungmin. You did. That love was still buried deep in your chest, like a flickering flame that refused to go out. But what you were beginning to realize was that you couldn’t ignore the fact that being around Changbin made you feel something new, something you hadn’t felt in so long.

You had always thought that after everything that had happened with Seungmin, your heart would be closed off, shut tight. But with Changbin here, with his easygoing nature and the familiarity of old memories, it was like something inside of you was starting to open again. You didn’t know what that meant, or what would come of it, but for the first time in weeks, you felt hopeful even if it was just a little.

The conversation shifted as you both fell into a comfortable silence, watching Roan and Yuna. You could feel Changbin’s eyes on you, but you didn’t turn to meet his gaze immediately. Instead, you focused on the moment, the quiet warmth of the afternoon, the soft rustle of the leaves above, the laughter of the kids echoing in the distance.

When you did turn to face him, he was watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite place like he was carefully considering something. You raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at your lips.

“What?” you asked, your tone light.

Changbin seemed to hesitate for a moment, his smile faltering just slightly before he spoke. “I’m just glad we’re doing this.”

You blinked, not quite understanding. “Doing what?”

He shrugged, a little sheepish now. “This. Hanging out. It feels good, you know? Like it’s... easy. Like it always should have been.”

You felt something catch in your chest at his words, but you didn’t know what to say. So, instead, you just nodded, your throat suddenly tight. The silence stretched between you both, but it was a comfortable one, a shared understanding that something more was blossoming between you. Something you weren’t ready to name yet, but something you couldn’t ignore either.

And for the first time in a long while, the weight of your life didn’t feel quite so heavy.

The atmosphere between you and Changbin shifted subtly when he asked about Seungmin. The once-easy banter faltered, replaced by a quiet tension that neither of you could ignore. Changbin’s voice was careful when he spoke, as if weighing his words before asking.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he began, “but... what happened with Seungmin? If you’re okay sharing, that is. I just... I want to understand.”

He paused, letting the silence settle, as if giving you the space to decide how much, if anything, you wanted to share. You could see it in his eyes, a mix of concern, empathy, and the deep care he always had for you. It made the weight of your emotions even heavier.

You took a deep breath, looking over at Roan as he ran around the playground, his laughter ringing in your ears. He was so full of life, unaware of the storm you were weathering on the inside. You hadn’t realized how much you’d been holding in until that moment, how much had been left unsaid for weeks. Now, with Changbin’s patient gaze on you, it felt like the dam was finally starting to crack.

“I don’t even know where to start,” you said, your voice quiet. You reached for the bottle of water in front of you, your fingers trembling slightly as you picked it up. The coolness of the bottle felt oddly grounding. “I guess... I started noticing something was off about four months ago.”

Changbin’s eyes never left you, his expression soft but expectant. He wasn’t rushing you, but you could tell he was hanging onto every word you said. You drew a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself as the memory unfolded.

“It was subtle at first. Just... little things. He came home one night, and I could smell this strong perfume on him. It wasn’t mine. I tried to convince myself it was nothing, just some mistake. But I knew something was wrong. I never doubted Seungmin. How could I? He’d never given me a reason to, not once in all the years we’ve been together. But that night, I couldn’t ignore it.”

You paused, glancing at Roan again, his carefree joy in stark contrast to the ache you were feeling. You pushed through the tightness in your chest and continued, the words feeling heavier the more you spoke.

“Then, there was this one day, I had to borrow Seungmin’s car because mine was in the shop. I was just picking up lunch for him when I found something, something that didn’t belong to me. A necklace. It had a letter on it. Her initial. The woman he’d been seeing behind my back.”

Your voice caught at the end, but you fought to keep it steady. Changbin’s face had shifted, his brows furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, as if he could feel the hurt radiating from you. He didn’t say anything, just nodded slightly, signaling for you to keep going.

“I didn’t want to believe it at first. I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t what I thought it was. That I was just being paranoid. But then... I met her.”

The words were hard to get out, like they had been sitting in your throat for so long, just waiting to spill out. But now that you were saying them aloud, it felt like the weight on your chest was increasing by the second. You swallowed hard, but your throat felt dry.

“I went to Seungmin’s office one day to drop off a file he’d forgotten for him. And there she was. Wearing the exact same necklace. The one I found in his car. And Seungmin—Seungmin introduced us like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t a huge blow to everything I thought I knew about him. It... it hurt more than I could even explain.”

You paused, squeezing your eyes shut, not wanting to relive it but unable to stop the memories from flooding in. The way Seungmin had smiled at you when he introduced you both, like he didn’t even know how badly it would shatter you. How the world seemed to spin out of control in that moment.

“I didn’t know what to do. I was surrounded by his coworkers. I didn’t have the courage to confront him, not there, not in front of everyone. I just—” you stopped yourself, taking another shaky breath. “I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t. But later that night, I heard him on the phone with her. I just... I don’t know. It all started to spiral from there. I couldn’t pretend anymore. I knew what was going on. I knew he was seeing her.”

Changbin’s expression darkened as you spoke, his fists clenched slightly in his lap, clearly frustrated at the whole situation. He leaned forward, his voice low and steady as he spoke.

“You didn’t deserve that, you know?” he said, his words filled with genuine anger. “I don’t know how someone can do that to you. To betray your trust like that. You trusted him. You gave him everything, and he threw it away.”

You nodded, the sting of his words cutting deeper than you expected. You had been trying to hold it together for so long, but hearing Changbin’s words, hearing the sincerity in his voice, broke something inside you. You exhaled slowly, trying to push the tears back.

“I never expected it from him. Everyone always said Seungmin was head over heels for me. And for the longest time, I believed it. I felt it too. He made me feel like I was the only one in the world. But somewhere, somewhere along the way, he fell for someone else. And that was the hardest part.”

Your voice cracked as the weight of that realization settled in. You had loved Seungmin with everything you had. You had built a life together. A family. And to see him so easily slip away from you for someone else felt like the ground had been ripped out from under your feet.

Changbin’s hand reached out instinctively, resting gently on yours. The contact was warm, grounding, and it felt like a lifeline in the sea of confusion you were drowning in. You looked at him, grateful for his presence, for his understanding.

“I can’t believe he did that to you,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over your hand in a comforting gesture. “You’re worth so much more than that. You deserve someone who sees you for who you are. Someone who doesn’t take you for granted. And I hate that he didn’t see that.”

The words were a balm, soothing a part of you that had been raw for so long. For a brief moment, you let yourself lean into the comfort of Changbin’s presence. You couldn’t fix the past, and you weren’t sure where things would go with Seungmin, but you felt a flicker of hope for the first time in a long time, and it scared you.

But it also made you wonder if maybe, just maybe, you had been holding onto a broken piece of your heart for far too long. And perhaps it was time to let it go, to allow yourself to heal, to move on.

You didn’t know what the future held. But right now, with Changbin by your side, with Roan laughing in the background, it felt like maybe, just maybe, you could start to breathe again.

You sat there for a few more moments, with Changbin’s hand still resting on yours. The sunlight was warm on your face, and the sounds of Roan and Yuna’s laughter filled the air, but it felt like everything else around you had momentarily faded. You didn’t have to say anything, because somehow, you knew Changbin understood. He wasn’t pressing for more details, nor was he making you feel like you had to explain yourself further. He was simply there, being the kind of person you’d always hoped for someone who didn’t shy away from the hard things but stayed right alongside you when they needed to be faced.

You glanced up at him, catching the way he was looking at you, his expression soft but intense, as if he were silently willing you to let go of the weight you had been carrying for so long.

“I never wanted to be in this situation,” you said quietly, breaking the silence, your voice carrying the weight of everything unsaid up until this point. “But somehow, I ended up here. I don’t even know how to fix things with Seungmin anymore.”

Changbin squeezed your hand lightly, offering you a gentle smile. “You don’t have to fix everything right now. It’s okay to be uncertain. It’s okay to not have all the answers. I think you’ve been carrying the burden of that relationship for so long that you haven’t been able to see what you deserve outside of it. But whatever happens, I’m here for you, okay?”

The sincerity in his words wrapped around you like a warm blanket. You hadn’t realized how much you needed someone to tell you that it was okay to not have everything figured out, that you didn’t have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders alone. You had been so focused on trying to keep everything together, on being the strong one for Roan, for your family, that you hadn’t even given yourself permission to feel the depth of the hurt, the confusion, the loss.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath, but Changbin heard it. And that was enough.

For a long while, the two of you just sat there in comfortable silence, watching Roan and Yuna run back and forth across the playground. It felt like the world had, in some small way, started to right itself. Maybe not everything was fixed yet, but for the first time in a while, you could see the potential for it.

At some point, Roan and Yuna ran back to you, both of them breathless and flushed from all the running around. Roan immediately climbed up next to you, his small body pushing against yours as he asked for a sip of your water. You laughed softly, ruffling his hair and handing him the bottle.

“What were you two up to?” you asked, keeping your voice light, your mind momentarily distracted by the sight of Changbin’s easy smile as he chatted with Yuna about something funny that had happened while they were playing.

Roan took a long sip from the bottle before answering, “We were pretending to be superheroes! I was saving Yuna from the bad guys, and she was helping me stop them!” His eyes were wide with excitement, and for a moment, you just let yourself soak in his joy, feeling the weight of your earlier conversation lift just a little bit.

“Sounds like a good time,” you said, smiling at both of them.

As the afternoon wore on, you found yourself feeling a little lighter. The heaviness that had been in your chest wasn’t gone, but it felt less suffocating. You spent the rest of the time at the park talking to Changbin about random things, movies you’d loved, music you’d both forgotten about. Every now and then, Changbin’s eyes would flick to you, that soft, understanding look never leaving his face. You caught it once or twice, and it made your heart ache in a way you didn’t expect.

But you didn’t pull away. You let yourself feel it. The way he was there for you. How his friendship, his steady presence, made you feel like maybe you could take the next step forward, even if you weren’t sure exactly what that step was.

Eventually, the sun began to dip lower in the sky, and it was time to leave. Roan reluctantly agreed to head home, his energy starting to wane from all the running around. You packed up the blanket and snacks, your mind still wrapped in the thoughts of Seungmin, but also the subtle comfort of the moment you had shared with Changbin.

Life with Changbin was easy. Too easy, sometimes. You found yourself laughing more, smiling more, and just... feeling more than you had in a long time. It wasn’t that you were actively seeking a distraction, but it almost felt like everything that had been broken in your life was being patched up with something as simple as a few hours spent with him.

When he texted you, you felt that warm flutter in your chest. It was like a light breeze that made everything feel less heavy, less... suffocating. His jokes, corny as they were made you laugh like you hadn’t in years. And you knew it wasn’t just because of the jokes themselves. It was because of the way he looked at you when he said them, like you were the only one in the world who could possibly get how funny he was, even if his humor was a little goofy at times. And the way he smiled after making you laugh... it was like he was seeing you again, not just the person wrapped up in the struggles of life, but the person who had been buried under the weight of a marriage that had long lost its spark.

You tried not to think too much about it. Tried not to get caught up in the way he made you feel. Because you didn’t have feelings for him, right? That would be impossible. You were still married. You were still living in a home with Seungmin. You still had a son who needed stability. The idea of starting over, of letting go of everything you’d built even if it had been built on shaky ground felt too impossible to entertain.

But the more time you spent with Changbin, the more those lines blurred.

It was the way he noticed you in a way that no one else had. The way he’d listen to every word you said, paying attention to the smallest details, the things you thought no one else would care about. When you helped him with Yuna, making sure she was fed or entertained. It felt natural, like it was just something you were meant to do. And even more than that, Changbin would thank you in the most genuine way, making you feel like your efforts actually mattered. Every thank you, every smile he gave you made your chest tighten in ways you didn’t know you were capable of.

And when you realized he was taking time out of his own busy schedule to spend with you, even when it was just hanging out and talking about random things, it felt comforting. You found yourself looking forward to it. Waiting for his messages, his calls, and the next time you’d get to see him.

But here’s the thing. You didn’t have feelings for him, right?

You would try to convince yourself of that every time your heart skipped a beat when his name popped up on your phone. You would dismiss the way your stomach fluttered when he complimented you, or when he offered to drive you home from the grocery store just because he wanted to spend more time with you. You told yourself it was just friendship. That was all it was. You were still figuring things out with your marriage, still trying to keep everything together for Roan. Everything you had with Changbin was just a distraction, you thought. Nothing more.

But you couldn’t ignore how natural it felt when he was around. The way your conversations flowed effortlessly, the way you could talk to him about anything, even the things you didn’t feel comfortable sharing with anyone else. With him, you could be yourself in a way you hadn’t felt like you could be with anyone in a long time.

The simple truth was, it felt too good. It was too easy. You found yourself grinning every time you saw his name light up your screen. And yet, in the back of your mind, there was this nagging feeling, a voice reminding you that you still had a husband. A family to protect. A son who deserved a stable environment.

So, what was this? What was it that was pulling you towards him?

Maybe it was that, in all the chaos of the past months, he was the one thing that made sense. With Seungmin, everything was complicated, a mess of hurt feelings, betrayals, and unspoken words. With Changbin, it was simple. It was carefree. It was a reminder of who you used to be, the person who had felt loved and wanted, who had laughed without hesitation and smiled without second thoughts.

But you didn’t have feelings for him, right?

You told yourself that again. But this time, it didn’t feel as convincing. You had liked Changbin back then when you were in high school. But that was a long time ago. You were different now. You had a son, responsibilities. Your life was no longer about chasing feelings or fleeting moments of joy. Your life was about keeping things steady, for Roan’s sake, for Seungmin’s sake.

Yet, every time you saw Changbin, that line between friendship and something more seemed to blur just a little bit more. You found yourself wanting to stay in that moment, just a little longer. You didn’t want to leave when he dropped you off after dinner or when you’d walk out of a store and he’d offer to carry your bags for you. Those little gestures made you feel... special. Like maybe you hadn’t lost everything after all.

But you weren’t in love with him.

Right?

The sound of your phone buzzing in the dead of night made your heart leap, and for a brief second, you almost let it go to voicemail. It was late, and Seungmin never seemed to understand the boundaries of your new reality, calling you at odd hours of the night, pulling at strings you had carefully kept taut. You knew he’d probably just leave a message, something along the lines of “I’ll call in the morning.” But this time, something in you made you answer it. Maybe it was the guilt. Maybe it was the fact that despite everything, you still cared for him, and you didn’t want to cut him off entirely, even if that meant dealing with the same emotional tug-of-war that had been going on for months.

"Hello?" you said softly, your voice still rough from sleep.

The first thing he said, before even asking how you were, was, "I miss you."

Your throat tightened. You didn’t say anything, couldn’t bring yourself to. His voice had that familiar tone again, that soft vulnerability that used to make your heart ache in all the right ways, and yet now felt like a weight in your chest.

“I’m... I’m laying in bed,” Seungmin continued, his words dragging, like he was unsure of how to say what was on his mind. “The bed we used to share... I wish you’d come back. I miss you so much. And Roan, I miss him too.” His voice faltered, the emotional rawness unmistakable.

You could hear the rustling of sheets on his end, and then the quiet, barely-there sniffle that followed. It hit you harder than you thought it would. Despite all the hurt, despite what he did, you still felt for him. You wished you could hold onto the anger that had kept you steady, but in this moment, the hurt felt like it was leaking through the cracks.

“Are you okay?” he asked after a pause, as though he could sense something in your silence. You couldn’t lie to him. Not now, not after everything.

You didn’t answer immediately. Your mind was racing. Roan. Seungmin. Everything. You had to keep this together for Roan, but the weight of the past few months seemed to press down on your chest.

“I don’t know,” you finally answered softly, your voice distant. “I still don’t know how I feel about being around you.”

“I understand,” Seungmin said, his tone quieter now, almost apologetic. “I just... it’s been unbearable not having you here, not having you around. I miss coming home to you after work, seeing you and Roan. I don’t know how to do this without you.”

The words burned. You wished you could say it didn’t matter, that it was his own fault, that you had every right to shut him out and leave everything in the past. But the truth was, there was still a part of you, however small that ached for what had been lost. You couldn’t help it.

“Well,” you said, unable to keep the bitterness from creeping in, “I’m surprised you’re not keeping her there while I’m gone.”

There was a long pause on the other end. A tense, uncomfortable silence. You could practically hear him swallowing his pride.

“She’s not staying with me,” he finally said, his voice tight, like he was trying to hold back his emotions. “It was just a one-time thing. Please, can we just... let it go already?”

Let it go? How could you? How could you let it go when everything you thought was solid and permanent had been shattered in a matter of weeks? He had let you down. He had let both of you down. But despite everything, you could feel the temptation, the pull to forgive him. To believe that this could be fixed, that the person who had once loved you with so much intensity could still be there.

You let the silence linger. "It’s only been a few months," you said softly. "How am I supposed to let that go when you’ve been with her for who knows how long?"

“I understand,” Seungmin replied quietly. “But I’m telling you, it was a mistake. It didn’t mean anything.”

You didn’t say anything after that. It felt like the same old circular conversation you’d been having for months now. You both had been here before. Neither of you seemed to be getting anywhere.

Then, Seungmin brought up something that stopped you in your tracks. “I was thinking about coming over,” he said, his voice hopeful. “Maybe we can talk. For Roan’s birthday coming up. I don’t want to miss it.”

You immediately felt a knot in your stomach. The thought of him coming over again, especially with everything still so raw felt like the worst idea imaginable. You’d barely made it through the last few weeks without breaking. The idea of facing him in your parents’ house, knowing how much time you’d been spending with Changbin lately, was a mess waiting to happen. You didn’t want to deal with that. But at the same time, you knew he had every right to want to be there for Roan, especially if his son had been asking about him.

You sighed, long and drawn-out, before speaking. “I... I don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to come over. Things are still... complicated.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “But it’s for Roan. I promise. I just want to see him. Please.”

You thought about it, your mind running through all the possible scenarios. Your heart wasn’t ready for the confrontation it would bring, but you also didn’t want Roan to feel caught in the middle of it. You sighed again, this time more reluctantly. “Okay. Fine. But it’s only for Roan. Nothing more.”

Seungmin’s voice brightened at that, and for a brief moment, you could almost feel his relief through the phone. “Thank you. I’ll be on the road first thing tomorrow.”

You didn’t respond, only nodded as if he could see you. Your thoughts were a whirlwind, but you managed to keep your voice steady as you said, “Okay. We’ll talk soon.”

You hung up, your finger lingering on the screen before finally setting the phone down. It felt like everything was spiraling again. A part of you wanted to stay angry. You wanted to keep your distance. But another part, the part that still loved him just wanted peace. And that made everything feel even more confusing.

But in the end, no matter what you told yourself, you still didn’t know what you wanted.

Seungmin’s arrival that morning had an almost surreal quality to it, as if the events of the past few weeks hadn’t happened at all. The door swung open with a soft creak, and before you could even react, Roan’s excited voice echoed through the hallway, “Dad!”

Your son came running, his small feet slapping against the hardwood floors, his eyes wide with disbelief and joy. He didn’t know Seungmin was coming, and when your father opened the door, Roan practically flew into Seungmin’s arms, as though no time had passed at all.

Seungmin caught him easily, pulling him in close, his face breaking into that familiar, soft smile that always seemed to melt away the stress of the day. Roan wrapped his little arms around Seungmin’s neck, pressing his face into his father’s shoulder. You could see the emotion in Seungmin’s eyes, how much he’d missed Roan. And despite the anger, the hurt, the chaos swirling in your own chest, you couldn’t deny it. Seungmin loved Roan. That was undeniable.

Your chest tightened as you watched the tender moment unfold. It hurt. It hurt in ways you couldn’t put into words. You had been through so much so much that you weren’t even sure if there was any way back to where you once were. But Roan was always at the heart of it, wasn’t he? He deserved this, to have his father in his life, to feel that love, even if everything between you and Seungmin had become so fractured.

Your mom greeted Seungmin with an excited smile, giving him a quick hug. Your dad followed suit, a warm handshake followed by a slap on the back, as if this was just another visit, another day when nothing had changed. As though everything was still fine.

Then, Seungmin turned to you.

For a moment, there was hesitation in his eyes. You could see him searching your face, trying to gauge your reaction. And then, without a word, he pulled you into a hug. You didn’t pull away. It wasn’t that you wanted him to hold you, but the guilt of pushing him away in front of your parents weighed on you. You didn’t want to make a scene not now, not in front of them.

So you held him back. Just for a second. It was stiff, forced, but you allowed the hug. He kissed your temple softly, his lips lingering for a moment longer than they should have, and you felt the old ache stir in your chest, the one that had never truly faded.

But that wasn’t enough to erase the anger and betrayal. Not by a long shot.

By the time the evening came, you were exhausted, mentally, emotionally. Roan was finally in bed, tucked in with his favorite stuffed animal, and your parents had gone out for a wine night with some of their old friends. The house felt quieter now, the calm before the storm.

Seungmin and you were left alone, with nothing but the thick, unsettled air hanging between you. You sat in the living room, the TV playing softly in the background, but you couldn’t focus on anything. Not the shows, not the quiet hum of the house. All you could focus on was him. Seungmin.

He reached for your hand, the gesture slow, almost tentative, as if he wasn’t sure if you would pull away. But you didn’t. You let him take your hand, and when he pulled it gently to his lap, he reached into his pocket and pulled out something that made your heart drop.

The wedding ring. The one you had left at home, the one you hadn’t worn since the night you packed your things and left.

“Seungmin, no,” you whispered, your voice shaky.

But he ignored your words and carefully slid it onto your finger. You stared at the ring, feeling the cold metal settle into place, and it was like your entire past came rushing back at once the promises, the dreams, the life you thought you’d built together.

You tried to pull your hand away, but he held it there, not roughly, but firmly. You didn’t want to wear it. You didn’t want to be reminded of everything you were still struggling to let go of. But his grip softened as he looked up at you, his expression raw.

“Please don’t take it off,” he said quietly. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make things right.”

You swallowed hard, the anger rising in your chest, but you fought to keep it at bay. “What does that even mean, Seungmin?” Your voice cracked slightly. “What does ‘making things right’ look like? Because right now, just looking at you makes me angry. Every time I look at you, I see her. I hear her name in my head, and it makes me sick.”

Seungmin’s eyes softened, his hand shifting to lift your chin, gently but firmly, so you had to meet his gaze. He didn’t let go of your hand, the warmth of his palm grounding you in a way that felt so intimate, so familiar.

“Look at me,” he said softly, almost a whisper. “Really look at me.”

You didn’t want to. You didn’t want to give him that. But you did. You looked into his eyes, and for a moment, you saw the man you used to love. The one who had stood by you when everything seemed impossible. The one who had held you when you cried, the one who promised you forever.

His thumb gently brushed away a stray tear that had fallen down your cheek, and he took a deep breath. “I know I messed up. I know I hurt you. I hurt Roan. But please, don’t shut me out completely. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything I’ve done.”

The words were like a balm to a wound that had never fully healed. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe that he could fix everything, that the man in front of you wasn’t the same one who had betrayed you.

But then, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours softly. It was gentle at first, the kind of kiss that spoke more of longing than of passion. But it lingered. And it hurt. You hadn’t realized how badly you missed his touch until you felt it again. The warmth of him, the closeness you hadn’t had in so long.

Your heart pounded, conflicting emotions swirling inside you. You wanted to pull away, to stop the kiss, to remind him of the pain he’d caused, but something held you there. Something you couldn’t quite define.

When the kiss ended, he didn’t pull away right away. His forehead rested against yours, and his voice was barely above a whisper.

“Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Just please... don’t walk away from me completely.”

You closed your eyes, feeling the weight of his words settle over you. Everything in your body screamed that you couldn’t forgive him, that you couldn’t go back to the way things were. But another part of you, one that still ached for the life you once had with him, wanted so desperately to believe that you could make it work.

But you didn’t know if you could.

“I don’t know what to do, Seungmin,” you said quietly, your voice shaking. “I don’t know if we can fix this. I’m so tired of being hurt by you. I don’t know if I can forget.”

Seungmin didn’t pull away, didn’t argue. He simply held you, his hands gentle on your shoulders, as if he was waiting for you to make the decision for both of you. He didn’t press. He didn’t beg. He just stayed there, waiting for you to decide.

And in that moment, you realized that you were at a crossroads. Your heart was torn between the life you had built and the possibility of something new, something that you weren’t sure you were ready for. You didn’t know if you could ever truly forgive Seungmin for what he’d done. But you didn’t know if you could keep running from him, either.

You pulled away slightly, looking up at him one last time before saying, “I need time, Seungmin. I need more time.”

He nodded, his face softening with understanding. "I’ll wait. As long as you need."

And you didn’t know how long that would be. But for the first time in months, you felt like you had time. Time to figure things out. Time to make the decisions you needed to make.

What came next was uncertain. But for the first time in a while, you felt like you had the space to breathe.

The night passed quietly, and despite Seungmin sleeping so close to you, it was a strange kind of tension that filled the space between you two. It wasn’t the same as it once was, the comfort you used to find in his presence. You both respected the silence and the space that now existed, and yet, there was a subtle tension that reminded you of everything that had happened the betrayals, the hurt, and the unresolved feelings. Seungmin didn’t try to hold you or pull you closer. He simply slept close, not intruding, but not exactly distant either. It was almost like a truce, a fragile attempt to bridge the gap between the two of you without truly addressing the distance that had grown in your relationship.

It was almost too quiet. The kind of quiet that made everything louder. Your thoughts. The memories. The pain.

You didn't sleep soundly, tossing and turning for hours as the weight of your emotions lingered. Every time your mind would start to settle, you’d remember something new, something you hadn't processed yet whether it was a memory of Seungmin before everything fell apart or the unexpected closeness you felt with Changbin, the one who made you feel like you could breathe again.

But you couldn’t let yourself think too much about Changbin. Not now. Not with Seungmin here, trying to make his way back into your life.

When you woke up, Seungmin was already downstairs, most likely with your parents or spending time with Roan. You were grateful for the space, the chance to take a breath without feeling the weight of him looming over you. You stretched, trying to push back the thoughts that wanted to swarm, but it wasn’t easy. You needed to talk to someone. You needed to hear a familiar voice.

The buzz of your phone broke your concentration, and when you saw Changbin’s name flashing on the screen, your heart gave a little flutter. You hesitated for just a second before answering.

"Hello?" You tried to sound normal, though there was an unspoken layer of tension hanging in your words.

Changbin's voice came through the speaker, warm and comforting as always. "Hey, you up? You wanna do something today?" He sounded casual, like he was just checking in, but there was a slight edge of anticipation that made you pause.

For a brief moment, you felt a flutter of hope, a momentary feeling that you could escape everything that was happening in your life just by being with him. But then reality hit. Seungmin was here.

You sighed softly, feeling the weight of the situation. "Seungmin's actually here. He arrived yesterday morning," you said, trying to keep it light, though you could feel the disappointment creeping into your voice.

There was a long pause on the other end. Changbin’s usual upbeat tone faded, replaced by a soft hum. The sound of disappointment was subtle, but it was there. "Ah," he said, his voice quieter than usual. "I see."

You knew he wasn’t thrilled about the situation. Changbin had been there for you in ways Seungmin hadn’t been in months. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that telling Changbin about Seungmin’s sudden reappearance would change things between you two. You didn’t want to push him away.

You quickly tried to change the subject, to salvage what was left of the conversation. "You know, Yuna mentioned wanting to go dress shopping with me recently. I promised her I’d go. And maybe you could hang out with Roan, do some boy stuff together while Yuna and I do that. I’m sure he’d love that."

But before you could say anything more, Changbin cut you off, the disappointment heavy in his voice. "Actually, I just remembered I have something come up. I... I gotta go." His tone had shifted, and you could tell he was trying to keep his words neutral, but there was a tightness there that wasn’t normal for him.

You blinked, feeling a pang of confusion and hurt in your chest. "Oh," was all you could say. You had been expecting something different, perhaps a little more understanding or at least some reassurance that it was okay. But that wasn’t what you got.

"Yeah, sorry. I gotta go," he said, and before you could respond, the line went quiet. The call ended abruptly, leaving you holding your phone in the middle of your room, feeling strangely abandoned.

You stared at the screen for a moment, your heart sinking. That was... different. Changbin had never ended a conversation like that before. He’d always been patient, always made sure you had the last word, always seemed so willing to spend time with you no matter what was going on. But today was different.

You sat down on the edge of your bed, replaying the conversation in your head. Was it something you’d said? Something you hadn’t said? The disappointment in his voice had been unmistakable, and the suddenness of his departure from the conversation stung more than you cared to admit.

Maybe he was just trying to give you space, he knew Seungmin was around, and maybe he didn’t want to make things more complicated. But the sudden shift in tone made you wonder if there was more to it, something you weren’t seeing.

You didn’t know what to make of it. You had spent the last few weeks leaning on Changbin, allowing yourself to laugh, to forget for a moment about all the hurt surrounding you. He had become this unexpected source of warmth, a reminder that not everything in your life was broken. But now, his abrupt departure from the conversation left you questioning where you stood with him, too.

You shook your head, trying to clear your mind. You couldn’t focus on this now. You had too many other things going on. Too many things to figure out.

But as you got up and walked toward the door, heading down to join Seungmin and your parents, the weight of the conversation lingered in the back of your mind. Something had shifted with Changbin, and you weren’t sure if it was something you could fix.

Changbin had been in denial for weeks, pushing down his feelings as best as he could. At first, it had been easier, he told himself that what he was feeling toward you was just sympathy, maybe a lingering sense of care for someone he had always been close to. After all, you and Seungmin were married, and despite everything that had gone wrong between you two, he couldn’t have possibly seen you as anything more than a friend. His heart had already been through too much, and he didn’t think he was ready for anything more.

But then, the last time he saw you, something shifted. He had been watching you laugh, the sound so familiar and comforting, yet different in a way. It wasn’t like before, there was more lightness, more joy in your voice than he had heard in years. The way you had made him laugh, teasing him like you used to back in school, brought back a flood of memories. You were the same person he had once been hopelessly in love with, but time had changed both of you.

That was when he realized it. He had feelings for you again. And not just a little crush either, but something deeper. Something that terrified him.

It had been the first time in years that he allowed himself to feel something for someone other than Sua. His wife, Sua, who had passed away two years ago, and after her death, Changbin had completely shut himself off from the possibility of loving anyone else. He had convinced himself that he would never be able to love anyone like he loved her. That maybe the kind of love he shared with her was a once-in-a-lifetime thing. He had grieved deeply, and his heart had healed in its own time, but the scars were still there. He wasn’t sure if he could open up to someone new without betraying the love he had for Sua.

But then there was you, someone he had known intimately in a past life, someone who had been with him through his teenage years. He had seen you go through so much Seungmin’s betrayal, your struggles, the hurt that still haunted you. He wanted to be there for you in a way he hadn’t been before, but somewhere along the way, the friendship turned into something more.

When you had called him earlier that morning and mentioned Seungmin, it hit him harder than he expected. A tight knot twisted in his stomach. He tried to keep his voice neutral, but inside, something dark stirred a mix of frustration, jealousy, and fear. The thought of you still being so close to Seungmin, still entangled in your past, ignited a deep sense of possessiveness. He had told himself it wasn’t his place to feel this way, but hearing Seungmin’s name, Seungmin, the man who had hurt you, the man who had been the reason for so much of your pain felt like a slap to his chest.

He had been so careful, keeping his feelings to himself, pushing the idea of a future with you aside, but hearing that Seungmin was there, staying with you… it felt like a betrayal, even though he knew it wasn’t. You and Seungmin shared history, a history that Changbin wasn’t a part of, no matter how much he wanted to be. It made him feel small, like an outsider who didn’t belong in the picture anymore.

The moment you mentioned Seungmin’s arrival, Changbin’s chest tightened. He couldn’t keep the disappointment from leaking into his voice. “Ah, I see,” he said, his words soft, almost like he was trying to mask the hurt he was feeling. He had told himself over and over that he wasn’t entitled to your time, that you had every right to make your own decisions, but hearing you talk about Seungmin made him feel like he was losing you, even if you weren’t technically his. It wasn’t just that he was jealous, it was the painful reminder that Seungmin had been your past, and no matter what Changbin felt, he would always be a part of your story.

When you tried to salvage the conversation, suggesting you could still hang out later, Changbin’s mind raced. But the thought of spending the day with you while Seungmin was around felt wrong. It wasn’t just the jealousy, it was the fear that maybe he was too late. Maybe you had already moved on, maybe you still needed Seungmin. And what was he supposed to do with that? He couldn’t compete him, no matter how much he wanted to.

And then, when you mentioned your plans with Yuna, the disappointment hit again. Changbin felt this sharp pang in his chest, this deep sense of frustration with himself. He had been so certain that today could be the day when things felt different, when he could spend time with you, laugh with you, maybe even though he hated to admit it, confess to you how he felt. But now, everything felt out of reach. He couldn’t get a clear moment with you without Seungmin standing in the background, hovering over everything. It was suffocating.

“Actually, I just remembered I have something come up,” he said quickly, almost like he was trying to justify his decision to pull away. He didn’t want to hear himself say it, but the words came out anyway. “I gotta go.”

He hung up before you could say anything else. He didn’t want to hear your voice in that moment, didn’t want to hear you try to make it better. The truth was, he was afraid. Afraid that his feelings for you would never be returned, and that all he was doing was hurting both of you by being around. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with his emotions, and he didn’t know how to even start a conversation about it without ruining everything.

He paced around his apartment, trying to calm himself down. The jealousy, the confusion, it all spiraled. He didn’t want to lose you. He didn’t want to be the guy who stood by and watched while someone else had your heart, but at the same time, he couldn’t push you too hard. You needed space. You were still navigating the wreckage of your marriage, and he wasn’t going to be the one to force you into something you weren’t ready for.

But the thing about Changbin was that he’d always been one to act on impulse, to dive headfirst into the things he cared about. And despite all his fears, he knew one thing for sure, he couldn’t just walk away from you now. The feelings he had were real, and they weren’t going away.

That night, as he sat in his apartment, he stared at his phone for a long time, wondering if he should call you back, wondering if there was any chance for the two of you. He had never been this uncertain before, his heart and his mind at war with each other. What would he do next? Would he try again to be a part of your life, even if Seungmin was there?

He didn’t know, but he knew one thing, he wasn’t ready to let go of you. Not yet.

Seungmin was never the type to make grand gestures. He wasn’t the kind of man to chase after someone or beg for forgiveness with tearful eyes and flowery words. He had always been pragmatic, calm, and a little reserved when it came to matters of the heart. But this, this was different. The reality of the situation, the hurt he had caused you, had cracked something inside him that he hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just about him wanting to fix things for himself anymore. He wanted to fix things for you, for your family, for Roan.

When he arrived back at your parents’ house that morning, a part of him still felt like he was walking on eggshells. His chest had tightened as soon as he saw you, the discomfort in your eyes unmistakable, but what hit him the hardest was the cold distance between the two of you. That had been a wall he had built himself, and now that it was there, he wasn’t sure how to break it down.

But he was trying.

He had to try.

Over the past few weeks, after you left and he stayed in your once shared home, Seungmin had spent sleepless nights replaying everything in his head. The mistakes. The lies. The things he had told himself to justify his actions. The distance between you two, even after everything he did, had never felt so suffocating. It wasn’t just about being away from you, it was about the family he had broken. The life he had destroyed by being selfish.

The realization came when he woke up one morning, staring at the empty space next to him in bed, the weight of his choices bearing down on him. He had been too focused on his own needs and desires, too caught up in what he wanted in the moment, to see the bigger picture. He hadn’t seen how much it hurt you, how much it had affected Roan.

For weeks, Seungmin had convinced himself that you just needed time. That, eventually, you would come around, that the time apart would heal things. But that realization was a punch to the gut. He had to do something, something more than just waiting around and hoping you’d forgive him. He had to show you that he was willing to change, that he was ready to be the man you needed, not just the one he thought you needed.

That’s when he made the decision to come back.

When he knocked on your parents' door and saw Roan running toward him with his arms wide open, his heart cracked a little bit. Roan’s warm embrace, his innocent excitement to see his dad, felt like a slap in the face to Seungmin. He had been so lost in his own guilt, his own shame, that he had almost forgotten about what truly mattered the love his son had for him, the unspoken bond they shared.

Seungmin needed to do right by that.

He smiled as he held Roan tight, but the smile quickly faded as he looked at you. There you were, standing in the background, watching him closely. You looked… different. Stronger, perhaps. But there was still a tenderness in your eyes, an old familiarity that made his heart ache.

He greeted your parents, tried to appear casual, as though he hadn’t just barged back into your life after everything that happened. Your mom greeted him warmly, but there was a trace of hesitation in her eyes. Your dad shook his hand, but there was no attempt to hide the discomfort in his stance. They both said all the right things, but the underlying tension in the air was palpable.

Later that evening, when Roan had gone to bed and your parents had left to visit some friends, Seungmin took his chance. He wasn’t going to let this moment slip by.

He sat down next to you, the air thick with the words left unspoken between the two of you. He reached for your hand, hesitating for a moment before gently brushing your fingers with his.

"I’ve made so many mistakes," he said, his voice quieter than usual, but full of sincerity. "I know I’ve hurt you, and I don’t expect you to forgive me just like that. I just… I need you to know that I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make this right. I can’t lose you, and I can’t lose Roan."

You didn’t pull away when he touched your hand, but you didn’t move closer either. You sat there, silent, processing his words. The wedding ring he had brought with him glinted in the light, and he slid it onto your finger gently, as though asking permission without asking for it.

You stared at it, not sure what to do. The weight of it, the weight of everything between you two, felt so heavy. Seungmin’s eyes searched yours, almost pleading, and for a moment, you almost wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe that he could be the man he promised to be. That he could make things right for Roan. For your family.

But there was still that sharp, raw pain at the center of it all. You still couldn’t erase the image of him with her, the betrayal, the lies. The way he had moved on so easily, as though nothing had ever been wrong between you two.

And still, you didn’t push him away. Maybe because you weren’t sure if you were ready to either accept or deny what he was offering. You didn’t know what the next step would be, but in that moment, you felt an old piece of your heart, the part that had loved Seungmin fiercely, that had trusted him with everything you had, start to stir again.

“I don’t know how to do this anymore,” you whispered, your voice breaking as you spoke the truth that had been buried for so long. “I don’t know how to be with you, Seungmin. I don’t know if we can go back to what we had before.”

His hand remained in yours, warm and gentle. “I’m not asking for everything to go back to the way it was,” he said, his thumb running along your knuckles. “I just want a chance. A real chance to show you that I can be the man you need me to be. The man I should have been all along.”

You looked at him, really looked at him, seeing the vulnerability in his eyes, the same vulnerability that he had hidden for so long. Maybe you could believe him. Maybe, in time, he would prove that he meant every word.

But then, just as quickly as the hope flickered in your chest, doubt filled its place again. Could you let go of everything, everything he had put you through and trust him again?

And just like that, with everything weighing heavily on both of you, Seungmin leaned in. His lips brushed against your forehead first, soft and tender, before he gently kissed your lips.

It wasn’t a passionate kiss, nor was it full of desire. It was a kiss filled with longing and regret, one that carried with it all the unspoken promises that had been left unsaid for too long.

And in that moment, you realized that things weren’t going to be easy. There would be days where you’d feel confused, where you’d question what the right thing to do was. But for now, you allowed yourself to believe that, maybe, just maybe Seungmin was doing everything he could to make things right.

But would it be enough?

Changbin had been a storm of conflicting emotions ever since he heard that Seungmin was back in the picture. At first, he had tried to brush it off, to keep his distance from you so he wouldn’t get too attached, especially when things between you and Seungmin were still so unresolved. But there was something in the way your voice had faltered when you talked about him, something that made Changbin wonder if you were letting yourself slip back into a relationship that had caused you so much pain. He hated the idea of it. He hated how your pain seemed to disappear whenever Seungmin was around, even though deep down, Changbin knew it wasn’t that simple.

Still, he’d kept his distance. He convinced himself it was for the best, he couldn’t risk being the guy who made things messier for you, who stood in the way of your family’s attempts to piece itself back together. But seeing you so quietly accepting of Seungmin’s return, even when you were still hurting, made something inside him twist uncomfortably.

Why should you let him back in so easily? Changbin thought. After everything he did, after all the lies, after hurting you so badly, why let him waltz back into your life like it was nothing?

It wasn’t just about Seungmin’s return, it was about the way he felt for you. The way he couldn’t stop thinking about you when you laughed, when you smiled, when you’d pick up little things for Yuna and Roan, your soft touch, the quiet moments that seemed to stitch the fractured pieces of his heart back together. It was about the tenderness he had developed for you over the past few weeks, the moments when you’d sit together, letting go of the world around you. And it was all crumbling now, slipping through his fingers, because of that damn wedding ring.

Changbin didn’t know why it stung so much, but when he saw it sitting on your finger as you adjusted your hair that morning, it felt like his chest was being crushed in a vice.

His breath caught in his throat as his eyes focused on the ring, the ring he hadn’t seen on your finger yet not even when he reconnected with you. The one that symbolized all the promises you had made to Seungmin, the life you had shared, the family you had created together. It was still there. And it hurt. It hurt to know that no matter how close he got to you, no matter how much time he spent trying to help you heal from the pain Seungmin had caused, he wasn’t the one who held that promise.

For a brief moment, Changbin had considered walking away pretending he didn’t care, pretending he wasn’t feeling the suffocating weight of his own jealousy. But the truth was, he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t lie to himself. He couldn’t act like the wound in his chest wasn’t there.

You’d been through so much already, and here he was, having a hard time even standing near you when the man who had hurt you so badly was back, effortlessly sliding back into your life. That wedding ring felt like an anchor, dragging him down into a pit of confusion and self-doubt.

When you approached him, he forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He turned slightly, making sure to keep his distance, pretending that he wasn’t affected.

“Hey,” you said, a little hesitantly. “Are you okay? I haven’t heard from you since… well, since that phone call.”

Changbin gave a tight-lipped smile, his mind racing. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just been busy, y’know.” He shrugged, trying to make it seem casual. He tried to avoid looking at your hand, but his gaze betrayed him. There it was again, the wedding ring.

He felt his throat tighten.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” you continued, oblivious to the storm brewing inside him. “Are you up for doing something soon? You know. I promised Yuna I’d take her shopping for dresses. Roan’s been telling me that she’s been talking about it nonstop.”

Changbin nodded automatically. He had no intention of ignoring you. It wasn’t that. He just needed to sort through this mess in his mind first. “Yeah, that sounds great,” he said, though his voice felt distant, not quite as bright as it usually did.

You fixed your hair absentmindedly, and that’s when he saw it again, the ring. The diamond glinting faintly in the morning sun, making it hard for him to focus on anything else. That damn ring.

For a moment, he just stood there, staring at it, fighting the overwhelming urge to rip it off your finger, to scream at you for not protecting yourself, for not protecting your heart. He had no right to be angry. He knew that. But his chest was tight with something he couldn’t name, something that felt dangerously close to resentment.

You looked up at him and noticed the way his expression had shifted, a flash of something unreadable in his eyes.

“Changbin?” you said softly, stepping closer to him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He clenched his jaw and nodded, refusing to let his emotions spill out. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired, I guess.”

Your smile faltered slightly, and you looked at him with concern. He could see it in your eyes, the curiosity, the worry. You weren’t buying it. But he didn’t know how to explain it to you, not without sounding petty and selfish. Not without admitting how much it hurt to see you wearing that ring.

So he did what he always did when things got too complicated, he turned away. He kept his distance.

“I’ve gotta get going,” he said quickly. “But, uh… yeah. I’ll talk to you later.”

Without waiting for a response, Changbin quickly turned on his heel and headed in the opposite direction. He had to get away from you. He had to process this. Because if he didn’t, he might do something he’d regret. Something that would only make everything worse.

He didn’t want to lose you again, not to Seungmin, not to anyone. But he wasn’t sure if he could keep pretending that he was okay with standing in the shadow of a wedding ring that wasn’t his.

Seungmin’s return to your life had been, at best, confusing. But if you were being honest with yourself, you couldn't help but notice the effort he was putting in, even if it didn’t erase the hurt, the betrayal, or the cracks that ran deep. He was trying, and for the first time in a while, it wasn’t just about him. It wasn’t about his comfort or his needs, it was about you, about us, or at least, the remnants of what that was supposed to be.

It wasn’t like it was perfect, far from it. But Seungmin seemed to be realizing, bit by bit, that just saying he was sorry wasn’t going to be enough. He couldn’t just expect you to forgive him, and, for the first time, he was showing that he understood that. That realization, that effort, was enough to keep you tethered to the idea of trying, of giving him a second chance, or even just the space to prove that he was different now.

At first, it felt like he was just trying to go through the motions, just doing what he thought he needed to do to win you back. He brought you coffee in the morning, remembering your exact order, just like he used to. He'd offer little, thoughtful gestures like picking up your favorite snacks from the grocery store or asking if you needed help with anything when he knew you had a busy day ahead. It was almost like he was trying to show you that he could still be the person you had once relied on.

But there were other moments, more subtle ones, where you saw a shift. He’d try to engage in conversations with Roan, or ask if you needed help with something around the house, even if it was the last thing he wanted to do. He’d ask how you were feeling, not in a casual way, but with real concern like he genuinely cared. The way he’d look at you sometimes, with a mixture of apology and longing, made your heart twist.

You hadn’t seen that look in a long time.

It was in the little things too. Like how he started making sure you were included when he was talking about future plans, something he used to exclude you from. It was like he was starting to remember what it was like when you were a team, when everything wasn’t so fractured and distant. When he asked if you wanted to go out for lunch, he didn’t just suggest places that were convenient for him, he picked ones you’d always liked, places that held memories from when things were simpler between you two. He even asked if you wanted to go for a walk in the park, something you used to do when you first started dating.

And then, there were moments when he would genuinely listen, and not just for the sake of listening, but because he wanted to know how you felt, wanted to know if things were okay between the two of you. His eyes would soften when you spoke, like he was processing everything you said, really hearing it. He wasn’t rushing to make things better, or to jump in with excuses, he was just… present. It wasn’t like the Seungmin you had known, the one who’d always tried to fix things quickly with humor or with grand gestures. This version of him wasn’t rushing anything; he was just trying to make sure you knew that you were seen and that you were heard.

You had to admit, even though it made you uncomfortable at times, it made you feel something you hadn’t felt in a long while. It made you feel important again, like you were his priority. That was a feeling that used to come so naturally between you two, but over time, had eroded. The years of work, the growing distance between you two as his distractions took over, it was hard not to feel like an afterthought. But now, in the quieter moments, you could see that he was trying to change that.

There were also moments when he was more physically present. He didn’t just hover; he’d do small things, like picking up Roan from school, offering to help out around the house, or just making sure you didn’t feel alone. When the weather got cold, he’d wrap an extra scarf around your neck before you could even think to grab one, like the old Seungmin who had always worried about you getting sick. When Roan’s homework was difficult, he’d patiently sit beside him and explain it, not even looking at his phone as he usually did.

But the most telling sign was how he interacted with you. In the rare moments when it was just the two of you, when the house was quiet and Roan had gone to bed, Seungmin would sit across from you, his gaze lingering on you a little too long, almost like he was trying to read you. His smile was softer, less rushed, as if he was savoring the fact that you were still there. And for the first time in a while, you could see how much he wanted to make it right. He didn’t just want you back for himself, he wanted you back because he realized what you meant to him, what he’d been too blind to appreciate until now.

You didn’t know how you felt about him, not fully. There were still too many scars. Too many pieces of your heart that were still cracked, still raw. But, somehow, his small efforts, his attempts to rebuild trust were making it difficult for you to completely shut him out. It wasn’t the same. It was never going to be the same. But for the first time, you saw a glimmer of hope, a chance that he might truly be trying to be the man he had failed to be before.

Still, the confusion lingered. How could you forgive him for everything? How could you let go of the pain, the betrayal, when the memories of everything he’d put you through were still so fresh in your mind?

But as Seungmin held Roan close, as he cared for you in the way he knew how, as he showed you, not just told you that he was trying, the doubt started to fade a little. Maybe it was a beginning. Maybe, with time, this could work. Or maybe you were just allowing yourself to hope for something that couldn’t be fixed. It was too soon to know.

But you couldn’t deny that, for the first time in months, you were allowing yourself to consider the possibility of forgiveness. Not for him, necessarily, but for you. Because at the end of the day, it wasn’t just about whether Seungmin deserved it. It was about whether you deserved to heal.

When you heard the buzz of your phone, your heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t like you had been expecting to hear from him. After all, the last time you spoke, things had been… well, different. Awkward. You weren’t sure where things stood anymore. And yet, when you saw Changbin’s name on the screen, your thumb moved before your brain could process what was happening. You picked up the phone, trying to mask your nervousness with an air of indifference. It wasn’t easy, but you tried. You didn’t want him to know how much his voice affected you, how it had always affected you.

"Hey," you answered, trying to keep your tone casual, even though you were anything but.

He greeted you warmly, his voice sounding as comforting as it always did, but there was an undercurrent of something you couldn’t place. “How have you been?” he asked, his words soft but genuine.

You paused, thinking about your answer. You could lie and say you were fine, but was that really fair to either of you? Instead, you settled for, “I’m okay.” It wasn’t the truth, not entirely, but it was the answer that didn’t invite too many questions.

“How’s Roan?” Changbin asked next, his voice filled with the same warmth. You could hear the concern in it, and it made your chest tighten a little.

“He’s good, keeping busy with school and his friends.” You didn’t elaborate on the way Roan had been dealing with things, the times he’d asked about his dad or when he talked about how much he missed things being ‘normal.’ You didn’t want to bring any of that up now, not when the conversation was so casual.

“That's good," Changbin said. You could feel a slight pause, like he was taking a deep breath before continuing. “Yuna misses you, you know. She says she only gets to see you at pick-up nowadays. She’s been asking if you and Roan could hang out more, maybe have another playdate. She misses hanging out with you.”

The mention of Yuna made a lump form in your throat. You did miss her, miss the simplicity of the moments you’d shared, before everything had become so complicated. Before life had gotten in the way of your friendship.

You smiled, genuinely, as you thought of the little girl who’d stolen your heart in the most unexpected way. “I miss her too,” you said, and you meant it. “And I miss you, Changbin. It’s been a while.”

You heard a soft sigh from the other end of the phone, and it sounded so much like a mixture of relief and longing that it made your stomach flutter in a way you weren’t prepared for. He didn’t respond right away, but you could tell something was weighing on his mind. He seemed hesitant to speak, and that only made you more curious.

“I wasn’t gonna call,” Changbin said suddenly, his voice a little quieter, almost like he was trying to hide something. “But Yuna’s been talking about you a lot, and I guess I miss seeing you guys too. It just... it’s been a while, and I know things have been... complicated, with everything.” There was that weight again, that familiar heaviness in his tone, like he was trying to tread lightly but couldn't hide the depth of his feelings.

The words “complicated with everything” hit you harder than you expected. That phrase alone summed up everything you’d been going through. It felt like a lifetime ago when everything had been simple between you, Changbin, and your little world. And now? Now it was all a tangled mess of emotions, regrets, and… choices.

“I know, I know…” you started, but you didn’t really know what to say after that. You wanted to explain the mess that had become your life since Seungmin came back, but what good would it do? Changbin didn’t need the details.

But he wasn’t letting the silence settle between you two. His voice came back, a little more hesitant this time, like he was trying to figure out how to phrase what was on his mind.

“Well, I don’t know if you’re busy with Seungmin or what,” Changbin said before trailing off. The mention of Seungmin hit you harder than it should have, and you could hear it in his voice, the quiet edge of jealousy that he hadn’t quite been able to suppress. You knew what he meant, what he was trying to ask without saying it outright. Were you back with Seungmin?

You frowned, your mind suddenly racing. You didn’t understand why he would even bring Seungmin up now, after everything. You had mentioned to Changbin that you and Seungmin were working through things, that you were trying to find some kind of stability for Roan, but it felt like that wasn’t what Changbin needed to hear. It was like he was looking for something different something more, something you weren’t sure you could give him.

Before you could say anything, Changbin continued, his voice awkward and strained, “I didn’t mean to bring up Seungmin like that... It just slipped out. What I meant was, if you’re not too busy, if you have time, maybe you, Roan, and Yuna could hang out with me sometime soon. I—uh, I miss spending time with you, with all of you.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. The words "I miss spending time with you" felt like a punch to the gut. You hadn’t realized just how much you’d missed him, how much he had come to mean to you, until that very moment.

But still, the whole situation felt too complicated. He was asking you to hang out like it was the simplest thing in the world, but for you, it wasn’t simple. Not when you were trying to sort out your life, your feelings, and your priorities. You couldn’t just pretend everything was fine. It wasn’t.

“I’m not sure when, Changbin,” you said slowly, carefully, “but I promise I’ll try to find time. I think Yuna deserves that.”

He didn’t push you. There was a quiet pause before he let out a breath, something between frustration and relief. “Yeah, of course,” he said softly. “I get it. Just... just let me know when you’re free.”

You wanted to tell him you were sorry for not making things easier, for making everything more difficult than it needed to be, but you didn’t. There was no room for apologies, not yet. You weren’t sure if it would make anything better.

The conversation slowly came to an end, neither of you saying what was really on your mind. You hung up, staring at the phone in your hand, thoughts swirling. There was so much you wanted to say to Changbin, so much you needed to figure out before you could even think about doing anything with him anything more than friendship, at least.

But right now, all you could do was try to make sense of the messy feelings, the confusion, and the painful truth: you were still so drawn to Changbin. Even if you didn’t know exactly what that meant for your future, you couldn’t deny the pull. It was always there, lingering just beneath the surface.

And as you sat there, still holding your phone, your mind wandered back to the time when things had been simpler. To when you and Changbin had been on the same page, before everything had gotten so complicated. You didn’t know what would happen next, but you knew one thing for sure: this, whatever it was, was far from over.

Changbin felt a momentary calm settle over him after hanging up the phone with you. Hearing your voice again, even if it was through the filter of awkwardness and unresolved tension, gave him a small measure of peace. You hadn’t shut him out, and that was enough for now. It meant he hadn’t imagined it, those weeks you spent leaning on him, laughing with him, feeling like something was blooming between you. He told himself not to hope, but still… a part of him did.

He was lost in those very thoughts, his mind spinning around the images of you and Seungmin, the uncertainty of your feelings, the way you still wore your wedding ring until a familiar, bright voice jolted him back to the present.

“Daddy!”

Yuna’s sweet shriek of joy rang across the school courtyard as she ran toward him at full speed, her little backpack bouncing with each step. He immediately bent down, arms open, catching her as she leapt into him without hesitation. He lifted her with ease, settling her comfortably in his arms, her cheek pressed against his shoulder.

“Guess who I talked to today?” he said, voice teasing and light as he tried to push away the heaviness that had returned to sit in his chest.

Yuna pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes wide with excitement. “Y/N?” she guessed with a hopeful grin.

He smiled and nodded. “Bingo.”

Yuna let out a high-pitched squeal and kicked her legs in the air with excitement. “I knew it! I told Roan you would talk to her. I told him,” she said with pride, like she had willed the conversation into existence. “Does this mean we can go shopping now? She promised.”

He chuckled softly and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Yeah, I think we’ll make it happen soon.”

Her face lit up again, and she leaned her head back on his shoulder as he began walking toward the car, his grip on her secure and comforting.

As they made their way through the parking lot, Yuna started chattering about her day, what snack her teacher gave them, how she and Roan played tag at recess, and how Roan had reminded her to not forget about his birthday party this weekend.

Changbin blinked.

The party.

Of course. Roan’s birthday. This weekend.

Yuna’s voice became background noise then, not because he didn’t want to hear her, but because all he could focus on was the sudden realization that he would have to see you again. Not just for a brief moment at pick-up or drop-off. Not a quiet phone call. But see you.

Be around you.

Be around you… and Seungmin.

His chest tightened with that familiar bitter ache, jealousy rising in his throat like bile. It wasn’t fair not to Roan, not to Yuna, not to you, but he couldn’t help it. The idea of standing there, in your parents' home, watching you and Seungmin smile and act like a family again, felt unbearable.

He would have to watch Roan call him “Dad.” He would have to hear your parents praise him. Watch Seungmin touch your back gently or say something to make you smile, and pretend it didn’t make him sick.

Because Changbin wasn’t just jealous of Seungmin having you. He was angry. Angry that he had broken you in such a cruel way cheated, betrayed, and somehow still got to come back into your life like a ghost demanding space.

And yet… you’d let him back in. Even if you hadn’t fully forgiven him, you’d opened the door.

That was the part that crushed Changbin the most.

He shifted Yuna a little higher in his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead to ground himself. Her little hand wrapped around his thumb.

“You okay, Daddy?” she asked softly, peering up at him with curiosity.

He blinked down at her and nodded, pasting a smile on his face. “Yeah, baby. Just thinking.”

“Are we still going to Roan’s party?” she asked, and he nodded again. He couldn’t say no, not when her eyes looked so hopeful. Not when she was so happy at the thought of seeing you again.

“Of course,” he said, his voice low and steady despite the storm inside. “We wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

But as they reached the car and he buckled her in, his mind wandered again to the party, to you, to the way your smile lingered in his mind even when he tried to push it away.

He was happy to see you again.

He dreaded it too.

Because loving someone who’s trying to fall back in love with someone else? That kind of pain was the slow kind. Quiet. Hidden. And it burned like nothing else.

Still, Changbin would go. He’d smile, for Yuna. For Roan. Even for you.

And he’d pretend the ring on your finger didn’t feel like the door shutting in his face.

masterlist.

(a/n: who else is #TeamSeungmin 🖐️)

❌proofread

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slut4kwon · 2 days ago

Text

if you were anyone else

pairing: kwon jiyong x fem! reader

synopsis: you’re his best friend’s little sister. it was never supposed to mean anything, but now he can’t forget the way she looked at him like it did. and that’s the problem. because wanting her was already a mistake, but letting her go might be worse.

warnings: 18+, implied sexual content, swearing, angst, secret relationship, brother’s best friend trope, emotionally repressed men™, jealousy, regret, unresolved feelings, possessive behavior, emotionally charged spirals, mentions of anxiety/panic attacks, slight praise kink, yearning so intense it physically hurts.

authors note: this is my first time posting on here, so… go easy on me. or don’t. i probably won’t sleep either way. also this is long as fuck i am so sorry. if you read it, thank you. if you liked it, even better. if you’re here just for the angst, me too.

you should’ve known it would get messy the first time he kissed you.

it wasn’t sweet. it wasn’t slow.

it happened behind the wardrobe rack in one of the yg dressing rooms, thirty minutes before a run-through while the crew scrambled to fix a lighting issue.

you were in a sports bra and sweatpants, makeup half-finished, second-day curls falling effortlessly down your back.

he was in his usual all-black rehearsal outfit, a silver chain at his collarbone, and something unreadable behind his eyes.

“you’re not supposed to look at me like that,” he muttered, jaw tense, gaze fixed on yours.

you crossed your arms. “i’m not looking at you like anything.”

he stepped in closer. “you keep doing those little moves. the ones you know drive me fucking crazy.”

“you mean the choreography?” you shot back, lifting a brow. “i’m literally just doing my job.”

“that thing in the second chorus,” he said, his voice lower now. “when you drop low and bite your lip. you do that for me. don’t lie, beautiful.”

you rolled your eyes, but your breath caught when he moved again. closer, slower, deliberate.

“you want me to lose it, don’t you?”

you didn’t answer. couldn’t.

because the way he looked at you was hungry. frustrated. like he’d been holding something back for far too long. it lit something dangerous inside you.

before you could even speak, his mouth was on yours.

hot. desperate. possessive.

your back hit the wall. his hands gripped your waist.

your fingers curled into his shirt like it was an instinct.

his tongue, his hands, the way he groaned when you tugged his hair. everything about it was messy.

and it didn’t stop there.

the backstage hookups became a pattern. between rehearsals. after fittings. corners of the studio with fogged mirrors and locked doors.

always hidden. always rushed. always too much but somehow never enough.

you gave him your first time on the studio couch, the same one you always collapsed on after long nights.

not out of romance, but something heavier. needier.

your legs wrapped around his waist. your fingers in his hair like you were clinging to gravity.

and he let you.

let you take. let you tremble.

let you come undone in his lap while his mouth traced your collarbone like a promise he’d never speak out loud.

no one knew about this.

not the stylists. not the other dancers. not even his own bandmates.

and especially not seunghyun.

your older brother would’ve lost his mind. maybe even burned the whole building down if he ever found out.

because of course, out of all the people in the world, it had to be him.

kwon jiyong.

his best friend. his closest friend.

the one person who had no business even looking at you like that; let alone touching you, wanting you, needing you.

and yet somehow, he was always there.

for months, you told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

that the way he touched you like he needed you — like breathing wasn’t enough unless you were under him, around him, full of him — was just part of the act.

that the way he lingered after, brushing hair from your face like it mattered, wasn’t real either.

you told yourself you could handle it.

that you were strong enough to keep it casual. quiet. hidden.

but it got harder to lie every time he pulled you in and didn’t let go.

every time he stayed a little longer.

every time he looked at you like maybe, just maybe, you were more than a secret.

still, you never asked for more. how could you?

he was your brother’s best friend. this was never supposed to happen.

but it did.

over and over again. like a bad habit neither of you could quit.

you didn’t plan to fall for him. didn’t mean to hope he’d stay the night, or kiss you like it meant something.

but you did. god, of course you did.

i mean, how could you not?

he touched you like you were fragile, but fucked you like you were the only thing that’s ever made him come undone.

he zipped up your jacket for you like it was just an excuse to touch you again.

he continuously found your eyes across any room like they were the only ones that existed.

for a while, you let yourself believe he felt it too.

until about a month ago, when he decided that pretending it meant nothing became easier than admitting it ever meant anything at all.

it happened in your dressing room. you’d just touched up your lip gloss, and casually asked him if he was coming over that night.

same routine. same rhythm.

he didn’t answer right away though. he just stood there, still and silent.

you turned, confused, watching the way his jaw clenched and how he couldn’t quite meet your eyes.

“jiyong?” you spoke up quietly.

he finally looked at you.

and you knew. before he even opened his mouth, you felt it.

“we can’t keep doing this.”

your stomach still dropped. “what?”

“this… whatever it is… it needs to stop.”

“don’t do that. don’t act like this wasn’t real.”

his jaw tightened as he looked away. “it was a mistake.”

“say it and mean it,” you snapped.

he didn’t hesitate this time. “it was a mistake.”

your laugh came out sharp, bitter. “tell yourself whatever you need to sleep at night, but don’t stand there and pretend that i didn’t mean a damn thing to you.”

“y/n—” he started, but you cut him off.

“fuck you, jiyong.”

he met your eyes again, his throat tight.

almost like he wanted to say something else. like it was stuck somewhere between his ribs and his pride.

but he didn’t answer. he just let the silence grow between you.

let it choke everything that hadn’t been said. let it mean more than the truth would’ve.

“i’m sorry.” he finally said.

not a reason. not an explanation.

just that. two words. and then he walked out.

no goodbye. no chance to respond. no space to fall apart.

just the door clicking shut behind him like none of it had ever meant anything. like you had never meant anything.

the worst part wasn’t even the way it ended.

it was how nothing else did.

rehearsals still ran long. the mirrors still fogged with sweat. the playlist still cycled through the same tracks you used to hum when you thought no one could hear you.

he was always there. of course he was.

not in the way that mattered though. not in the way you needed. just in the way that somehow made it worse.

that same smirk. same swagger. same easy charm that made everyone else feel like nothing had changed.

like he hadn’t ruined you with nothing but his mouth and a handful of whispered promises he never intended to keep.

he still showed up to rehearsals like none of it ever happened.

he still carried his favourite hoodie. the one he never left home without.

everyone thought it was a comfort thing; a habit, maybe. something worn-in and familiar. assumed he just loved it.

and maybe he did. but it wasn't because it was warm, or soft, or broken in just right.

it was because it was yours.

he never carried it for himself. he carried it for you.

you never brought your own.

you hated feeling cold, and hated asking for help even more.

but with jiyong, you never had to ask. he paid attention to the way you’d rub slow circles into your arm, tuck your hands under your thighs, sometimes even press your tongue to the roof of your mouth just to stay quiet.

tiny things. things no one else could ever pick up on.

and yet somehow, he always did.

you never had to ask. he’d just offer it. sometimes with just a glance, sometimes with a soft, “here.”

and if you ever hesitated, he’d pull it over your head himself. like he was allowed to. like it meant something.

the other boys never questioned it. of course they didn’t. they would’ve done the same. they had before, on the rare days jiyong wasn’t around. but when he was, they never got the chance.

but now, he wears it again like it doesn't hold your scent. your shape. every version of you he ever pulled close. like it's just a hoodie.

however, this didn't stop you from showing up to rehearsals every day too.

because that’s what professionals do, right?

they show up, even when it hurts.

even when the person they can’t stop dreaming about is stretching ten feet away.

still laughing with everyone like he wasn’t one secret away from getting his jaw broken by your older brother.

there was no wreckage. no huge fall-out. just absence.

no one knew what had been taken because nothing, on the surface, was missing.

but you felt it. in every glance he didn’t give you. every touch that didn’t happen, but almost did.

and you were angry.

angry that he ended it without warning. angry that he made that decision for the both of you. angry that he could walk away without looking back.

you were angry at yourself for still caring.

you hated that your eyes searched for him when you entered the room. that your skin remembered him better than your brain wanted it to. how some part of you still wished he’d turn around and take it all back.

but he never did. not once.

rehearsal had run longer than usual today. the sun had dipped somewhere behind the city skyline without you noticing. shadows were now stretching across the floor as the studio emptied, one by one.

you stayed behind, stretching in silence, letting the burn in your muscles distract from the burn in your chest.

you suddenly heard your brother’s loud voice, which snapped you out of whatever trance you were in. “dinner. let’s go.”

you didn’t even blink. still stretched out on the floor, one leg bent and arms braced behind you. “pass.”

seunghyun frowned. “you didn’t even ask where.”

“don’t need to,” you said coolly. “you’re painfully predictable.”

daesung raised a brow. “she’s got you there.”

“actually, i’m switching it up tonight,” seunghyun insisted. “new place. no kimchi stew.”

you finally looked up, unimpressed. “who’s paying you to try their new restaurant?”

he crossed his arms. “no one. i just think you need some real food in you. something with protein. maybe even a vegetable.”

“tempting,” you said, standing up and stretching your arms over your head. “but i can’t. i’ve got plans.”

“plans?” seunghyun’s voice cracked like he’d just heard you say you were moving out and never coming back.

you grabbed your water. “yep.”

“what kind of plans?”

“the kind that don’t include you,” you said, smiling sweetly.

youngbae’s head popped up from behind his duffel. “wait. are we talking… plans plans?”

you just sipped your water like it was nothing, which, naturally, made it something.

daesung narrowed his eyes. “that look. that’s a ‘plans with a boy’ look if i’ve ever seen one.”

you didn’t answer. you didn’t need to. it was more entertaining to watch them spiral on their own.

youngbae gasped. “you’re going on a date.”

“jesus christ,” seunghyun muttered. “no you’re not.”

“i didn’t say that,” you replied, smoothing your hair down.

“but you didn’t not say it.”

you gave the smallest shrug, which, unfortunately, said everything, once again.

youngbae gasped like he’d been betrayed. “you’re seeing someone? since when?”

“relax,” you said, throwing your towel over your shoulder. “you’re acting like i announced an engagement.”

“it’s hard to relax when you’re acting suspiciously vague,” daesung countered.

“which means it’s serious,” youngbae added while nodding. “you’re protecting him.”

you raised a brow. “or i’m protecting you idiots from a full-blown meltdown.”

seunghyun squinted. “who is it?”

“none of your business.”

“it is absolutely my business if some dude is out here making googly eyes at my baby sister behind my back!”

“googly eyes?” you echoed, half-laughing. “what are we, twelve?”

“i’m being serious, y/n.”

“i can tell, oppa. very intimidating.”

“is it someone we know?” daesung asked. “because i feel like it’s someone we know.”

“you don’t know him.” you replied, which wasn’t technically a lie.

there was no him. but they didn’t need to know that.

especially not the one sitting on the bench near the mirror, completely silent.

jiyong hadn’t said a word. hadn’t even moved.

just sat there with his towel around his neck, and his eyes on the floor.

but you saw the tension in his hands. the way his jaw was set so tightly, it looked like it hurt.

and it gave you just enough fuel to keep going.

seunghyun was still spiraling. “i don’t like this. what if he’s some asshole? what if he’s just trying to—”

“then i’ll deal with it,” you replied calmly. “i’m perfectly capable of throwing hands.”

“still don’t like it.”

“you’re not supposed to, oppa.”

and that’s when jiyong spoke. low. dismissive. deadly.

“just let her go.”

everyone turned.

seunghyun blinked. “huh?”

“if she’s got plans, she’s got plans,” jiyong said. not looking at you. not looking at anyone. “it’s not our business.”

“oh, wow,” daesung muttered. “traitor.”

“you’re not even gonna try to talk her out of it?” seunghyun asked, almost sounding dumbfounded.

“she’s allowed to do whatever she wants,” jiyong replied, tossing the towel aside like the whole conversation bored him. “if it’s a date, then…let her have fun.”

you said nothing. you just stared at him.

and after a long second, he finally looked up, just for a heartbeat. just long enough to meet your eyes.

and there it was. buried under all of it; jealousy. regret. hurt.

only things that you could see.

the things he couldn’t say. the ones you never needed him to.

so you smiled, small and sweet.

“thanks for your support, jiji.” you said sweetly, using the nickname you rarely used for him anymore.

he didn’t answer, but you didn’t wait for one either.

you grabbed your bag and threw it over your shoulder.

“anyways, don’t wait up!” you shouted, turning and blowing a kiss towards the boys as you walked towards the door.

youngbae clutched his chest. “she’s so going to make out with him.”

“i’m gonna vomit,” seunghyun muttered.

you walked out giggling without looking back.

jiong didn’t move. didn’t even blink. just stared at the door like it might swing back open and undo all of it.

it didn’t.

he noticed the tremble in your hands as you reached for your bag. it was faint, almost invisible. the kind of shake that came when your body had given too much.

he always noticed.

it was a curse. a reflex. a silent devotion to you that he never meant to make a habit.

you were clearly overstimulated, vibrating underneath your skin. and no one else seemed to care.

but he did. he always did.

the boys were still talking. still laughing, but their voices echoed as if they were underwater.

daesung was teasing seunghyun about running a background check. youngbae was already trying to guess the date’s name. one of them joked about texting you the restaurant address ‘in case lover boy stands you up.’

jiyong didn’t laugh. he couldn’t.

because the silence left in your absence was louder than anything. and beneath it, something ugly twisted in his chest.

he knew you weren’t dressed for a date. your hair was wild, your face was bare, still glowing with sweat and adrenaline.

you didn’t look like someone trying to impress a man, not that you needed to. you just looked like you. the version jiyong had memorized in the low light of his apartment, curled into his sheets, still trembling from his mouth on your skin.

and somehow, that made it worse.

because what if this new guy didn’t care enough to notice the small things jiyong had?

what if he didn’t realize how you go quiet when you’re overwhelmed, not out of moodiness, but because your brain shuts down under too much noise?

what if he didn’t know how sometimes you can’t ask for help, because you don’t even know what you need?

what about that you chew the inside of your cheek when you’re anxious? or that you tap your thumb against your middle finger three times when you’re trying not to cry?

would he know that you hated the sound of ticking clocks? that certain words made your skin crawl? that sometimes, dancing was the only thing that kept your thoughts from devouring you whole?

jiyong did. he knew all of it.

he knew how to sit behind you on the studio floor when everything got to be too much; legs stretched out on either side of you, chest pressed against your back.

he knew not to ask what was wrong. he knew that you didn’t always know, and that asking only made it worse.

just to let you press your ear over his heart and listen to the rhythm of his heartbeat until your lungs remembered how to breathe properly on their own again.

he knew the hoodie he always carried for you was your lifeline when you needed comfort. which songs made you cry even if you didn’t quite know why.

he knew you couldn’t sit in the backseat of a car because it always made you nauseous. which corners of your body held tension so tightly, you didn’t even realize they hurt until he pressed his fingers there.

he learned you like a prayer. a warning. a song that never stopped playing in the back of his head.

and now, someone else might get to touch you. might get to pretend they know you. run their hands down a body they hadn’t earned. kiss a mouth that didn’t belong to them.

and jiyong fucking hated that.

because yeah, it started as just sex.

reckless. rushed. hidden in between rehearsals and outfit changes. in cars, stairwells and hotel rooms too quiet for what the two of you were doing.

but it stopped being just sex a long time ago.

he didn’t know when exactly it shifted. maybe it was the first night you told him not to ask, but to just take. when you grabbed his wrist and pulled it to your throat. when you told him to ruin you.

or maybe it was the one night he didn’t.

the night he slowed down.

held your jaw in both hands like you were made of glass and kissed you like he had something to lose.

told you how fucking perfect you were. how you take him so well. how you were made for him.

you came apart for him like you believed it. like you needed it.

surely that’s when he realized it wasn’t just sex. at least, not anymore.

because you didn’t just let him have your body, you gave it to him. not with words. not directly.

in the way you trembled under his touch. in the way you arched into his hands. in the way you moaned his name like it meant something.

and fuck, it did. it meant everything.

he memorized you. not just the way your thighs shook when you were close or the spot beneath your ribs that made you gasp when he kissed it for the first time.

he knew your body better than he knew his own.

he memorized the curve of your spine. the pitch of your moans. the shape of your mouth when you were too fucked-out to speak.

he knew exactly where to touch to make you fall apart, but also exactly how to hold you when you couldn’t put yourself back together.

he hated himself for it.

for needing you. for learning you. for turning every sound you made into a song he couldn’t stop humming in his own head.

because the more he gave, the more he wanted. and the more he wanted, the more it hurt.

he told himself that ending it was the right call, and maybe it was.

maybe it was smart. you were seunghyun’s little sister, after all. this was doomed from the moment it started.

but god, he missed you.

you were the only one he ever let see him for who he really was, and now you were gone. and he has no one else to blame for that but himself.

his thumb pressed into the palm of his opposite hand; hard. a grounding technique, one that you taught him. one that never worked unless it was your voice talking him through it.

he barely felt the pain.

he just sat there, spine tense, gaze still locked on the scuffed floor where you’d been standing just a few moments ago.

the room still buzzed with conversation. low laughter, the rustle of jackets, someone still talking about dinner plans.

but it all felt far away. almost like he was watching it through a sheet of glass that was thick and smudged with fingerprints.

he didn’t hear what they said. he didn’t care either.

because all he could think about was the look on your face before you walked out.

not happy. not angry. not sad either.

he honestly wasn’t quite sure, and that scared him a little.

he remembers how you used to look at him. like you saw through everything; the ego, the performance, the chaos.

that was because you did, and yet, you still chose him.

every. single. time.

but now, you didn’t even look back.

“hyung?” daesung said cautiously, tone lighter than his expression. “you good?”

jiyong blinked like he was waking up from a dream. “what?”

“you’ve been kinda weird lately,” youngbae said from behind him. “and not just today either.”

“yeah,” daesung added. “like the last few weeks.”

jiyong exhaled through his nose, forcing a shrug. “just tired.”

seunghyun looked up from where he was zipping his bag. “ji.”

jiyong flinched like his name stung.

“talk to us,” seunghyun said, voice low, less like a demand and more like a plea. “we’ve been worried. you don’t laugh the same anymore. you barely show up.”

“i’m fine,” he said, sharper this time. like if he said it hard enough, they’d believe it.

“we’re not trying to push,” youngbae said gently. “we just miss you, man.”

jiyong’s throat was tight. he couldn’t look any of them in the eye.

“i’ll see you guys later,” he spoke suddenly, already halfway to the door.

“what?” daesung called after him. “you’re not coming to eat?”

“not hungry.”

seunghyun took a step forward. “jiyong—wait.”

but the door was already closing behind him.

and just like that, he was gone. his feet moved without thinking.

down the hallway, out of the building, and into the night.

but on the inside, he was somewhere else entirely.

back in the dressing room. back in your bed.

back in that goddamn moment where you looked up at him like you were his, even though you both knew you weren’t.

he can still feel it.

the weight of your body curled under his. your nails in his skin. his name on your tongue.

the breath you let out when he called you sweetheart like it meant something.

the quietness afterwards that felt like a promise, even though neither of you ever made one.

it should’ve faded by now.

but it hasn’t. it’s still there.

in the way his chest tightens when someone says your name.

in the way his hands curl into fists when he pictures you laughing with someone else.

in the way the silence feels heavier when you’re not around to fill it.

and now, he has to act like it didn’t happen. like it didn’t mean anything. like you didn’t mean everything.

he hates himself for how much he still cares.

hates that he let it get this far. that he let you in. that he let it mean something.

but more than anything, he hates that he can’t stop hoping it meant something to you, too.

because no matter how far he lets you go, he will always believe that no one else will ever have you in the way that he did.

and maybe that makes him selfish.

but it also makes him right.

140 notes · View notes

secretlifeofliyahh · 2 days ago

Text

FLATLINE

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

warnings: cussing, angst, one kiss

↳ side note: paige comes home and sees you

𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 paige bueckers x fem!reader (angst | one kiss | gxg | very long)

You weren’t supposed to see her.

Not again. Not here. Not in Minnesota. Not after she left you standing in the damn hallway of Hopkins High with nothing but a shaky breath, wet cheeks, and a heart that hadn’t stopped flatlining since the day she boarded that plane to Connecticut.

But here she was.

Back in the place she once called home. Back where it all started. Back in the grocery store parking lot at 7:47pm on a Thursday like her presence wouldn’t rip something raw and unresolved open in your chest.

She saw you before you could duck your head.

“Y/N?”

Her voice was exactly the same — soft, lilting, just enough rasp to remind you of summer nights on your porch when she'd read you poetry with a flashlight under her chin and pretend it was Shakespeare.

You froze.

Not from fear. Not from surprise.

From anger.

“You really came back?” you said, teeth clenched.

She blinked, already defensive. “I mean… it’s home.”

You laughed once. Bitter. “Oh, now it’s home.”

She flinched.

Because she knew.

She knew what she did. She knew what she left behind.

You.

She texts you later.

“can we talk?”

You leave her on read.

She tries again the next day. Then the next. Until finally, it’s Saturday night and your chest feels too heavy with everything you’ve never said, and she sends you a final one:

“i’m outside.”

You look out the window. She’s in that same gray hoodie she used to wear after practice, leaning against her car like she doesn’t know you’ve dreamed of yelling at her for years.

You walk outside.

You don't say a word.

“I didn’t know how to say goodbye,” she mumbles before you can open your mouth. “So I didn’t.”

You squint at her through the porch light.

“And you think that’s an excuse?”

“No,” she admits. “But I was seventeen. I thought if I left fast enough, it’d hurt less.”

“For who?”

That lands.

She shifts her weight. Looks down at her shoes. “You,” she says, almost like a whisper. “Me. Both of us.”

“You didn’t just leave, Paige. You disappeared. I had to find out from your mom that you were gone. You kissed me the night before and said you’d call, and then I never heard from you again. You acted like we—like I—meant nothing.”

“You meant everything,” she says immediately.

You scoff. “Yeah. Sure. That’s why you couldn’t even text back once.”

“I didn’t know how to deal with it. You were the one person who made this place feel like more than just a stepping stone. And I needed to leave. For me. For my career. But if I stayed for you, I knew I’d never go.”

“And you couldn’t have told me that?”

“I was a coward.”

The words hang in the night.

“I thought about you every day,” she continues, slower. “In dorm rooms. After games. On the court. I looked for you in every crowd like maybe you’d show up and scream at me or something.”

You finally look at her fully, throat dry. “And what would you have done if I had?”

“I would’ve deserved it.”

The porch light flickers. She’s standing so close now you can smell that same vanilla body wash she used to steal from your shower. You hate how much of her you remember.

“I didn’t just lose my girlfriend,” you say, voice cracking. “I lost my best friend.”

“I know,” she whispers. “And I’m so sorry, Y/N. You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve me—at least not how I was back then.”

You laugh bitterly. “Then why are you here now?”

She swallows. “Because I never stopped loving you.”

The silence after that is so loud it could break the moon.

You breathe, just once, before speaking.

“You don’t get to come back and say that like it’s supposed to fix everything.”

“I know.”

You take a shaky step toward her. Then another. And then you’re right there, close enough to see the shimmer of guilt in her eyes.

“I don’t forgive you,” you say.

She nods.

“But I missed you,” you add, a whisper.

“I missed you more.”

And then, you don’t know who moves first—but her hand is on your cheek and your fingers are in her hoodie and she kisses you like nothing’s ever changed, like time is a liar, like seventeen didn’t shatter everything you ever had.

Just one kiss.

One breath between two broken girls who never got their goodbye.

And maybe this isn’t a beginning. Maybe it’s not even a second chance.

But it’s something.

And for now, that’s enough.

END.

TAGLIST @2prettyyjayahhh , @24hrssofnea , @americasfavoritelesbian , @archivessofkassidee

#paige bueckers #paige x reader #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers x y/n #paige bueckers x oc #uconn huskies #uconn x reader #ncaa x reader #𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐲𝐚𝐡𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 📚 .

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loganficsonly · 1 day ago

Text

an independent woman

˚₊‧⁺˖✮ ch 5: slipping away ✮ ˖⁺‧₊˚

worst!logan x fem!reader, 5.3k (the longest yet!)

SUMMARY: As Logan learns to live instead of survive, he finds himself in the extremely dangerous position of sharing an apartment with you—Wade's friend. Extremely dangerous because Lord knows he can't keep his feelings a secret forever... not when your room is five steps away from his.

SERIES WARNINGS/TAGS: english is not my native language, no use of y/n, reader is a working adult (mid-late 20s) with a slightly written out personality, friends to roommates to lovers, slow burn, secret crushes, mentions of alcoholism and AA

CHAPTER WARNINGS/TAGS: 18+ MDNI!!!, masturbation, ANGST, hurt no comfort, unresolved sexual tension, a ton of negative self-talk, past trauma, death (imaginatory), just lots and lots of feelings

AUTHOR'S NOTE: gonna make this a/n a bit longer than usual:

first, a huge shoutout to @theworstwolvie who has been so gracious with her time and feedback. c, your comments on the chapters so far have been a great source of motivation and joy for me, and the fact that you enjoyed reading this one before i posted it is SUCH a relief for me—mainly because of how deep i had to dig for this chapter. THANK YOU SO MUCH I LOVE YOU <3

second, i haven't the faintest personal experience with alcoholism and AA, and so i resort to reading things online to understand what it's like for the little bits of it that this series contains. i stumbled upon this blog post while writing this chapter, and i just want to share it with you for how honest it is. i hope the writer is living her best life right now!!!

this chapter took a lot out of me to write (i'm bruised in many invisible places), i hope you enjoy it.

Silver and bronze.

One heavy, rectangular slab each, about as long as a remote control. Clean cut. The metallic ingots sit quietly on the shelf of the living room, plain if not for the engraving of the name of your workplace and the accolade you received.

Reflected within their monolithic shine are bursts of animated colors from the television light, dotted with rambunctious laughter that settles down into mutters of concentrated small talk.

Yukio brought her Nintendo Switch and they’re playing a party game while you watch, sitting on the floor in front of the couch. Wade, Peter, Dopinder, and Negasonic Teenage Warhead—Ellie now, to most of you—are trying to “cook a cube of steak on all sides”, per the instructions of the game.

Vanessa’s behind you, her hair dipping down as she leans to giggle near your ear. The four players wrestle visibly with the controllers, moving it like they would a frying pan.

“They look like they’re jerkin’ off the air,” she covers her mouth, and you do too, biting back a grin because you see it.

When Wade first floated the idea of celebrating your win, you said no immediately.

It’s excessive—it was a team win, not your own. You’ve allowed yourself to feel proud of your achievements, specifically on the night of the award ceremony, which was almost two weeks ago. Life has gone on since then. Even at work.

But Wade begged and pleaded.

“I promise it’s just for the first five minutes, honeybee. The rest of the night is gonna be us hanging out. Pretty please?”

Of course you couldn’t say no to that. So you relented.

“We’re doing it at your place, though,” your ex-neighbor grinned, “a proper housewarming is long overdue.”

And Wade kept his word: nice things were said about you over toasts with raised Solo Cups, earnest despite your friends overtly not understanding what it is you do for work. After that, takeout boxes were drained dry, and Yukio asked if people were in the mood for games.

You’re watching the chosen form of entertainment play out when you feel it. A pang of loneliness, just a sliver of it, as soft as a petal landing on your hair.

Logan’s not here.

Eyes flit to the kitchen—he’s there, doing dishes. Slipping away temporarily in a way that’s familiar to you. Something in you relaxes.

Before you know it, you’re up on your feet, approaching him.

It’s been like this lately. You do your best to control yourself, to be self-aware—maybe a little too aware—in maintaining an appropriate distance with the best roommate you could as for, but you still can’t stay away.

You always look for him first when you enter a crowded room. Seek the meaning between the delicate lines that appear between his eyebrows when he tastes the food you make. Focus on the stir of his back muscles against flannel when he moves around the house.

The moon probably feels the same way orbiting around Earth, you think. What pulls you to him is stronger than celestial gravity.

A defeated part of you has long excused your physical attraction towards him. He is an attractive person, the internal voice reasons, nothing wrong with eating the eye candy. It’s an insult not to.

And you agree. You haven’t dreamed of him since, but once is enough. All it takes is one dream and suddenly he’s haunting all of your waking hours like a personal vendetta against you.

He makes himself hard to ignore, whether he realizes or not. Always with the white tank tops and sweatpants. Biceps out. With any other person, you’d simply be fascinated at that level of fitness on a human body, but with him? Your mind wanders the way a child would in an amusement park.

How are you supposed to function normally when the source of your maladaptive daydreams live five feet away from your door?

Can he blame you for slipping a hand under the blanket late at night, chasing subconscious sensations that felt so real to you? Would he despise you for pretending your fingers were his own, for lying to yourself—they’re his—the way you dreamed of?

If he knew you gave yourself to him in secret, what would he do?

You have half a mind to think he notices—you were never the best pretender, and he’s lived with you long enough to get a bead on you. Stares poorly concealed. His every movement demands you to look: his fingers gripping a glass, how his eyes seem to change color under sunlight, the stretch of cotton over his undeniably sculpted chest… which come to think of, you still haven’t seen bare, to Wade’s surprise.

The worst part of this is that it’s not just his body. It’s more than that. More than eyes, hands, and his larger-than-life frame.

It’s the way he looks at you when you come home from work and wordlessly take a tub of ice cream from the freezer. The way his fingers brush against yours when you reach for the popcorn bowl at the same time. And how he hugs you, warm and binding. You keep that memory filed away in a precious stack, that night he told you about his first AA meeting.

God, you miss his arms around yours. When can he hold you again?

Would he, if he knew the things you did while thinking of him?

Wade’s voice echoes in your head.

You’re really not gonna make a move on him, honeybee? Do you actually not like him?

You reply in your head. I think I’m past liking him, Wade.

You know because alongside the dirty delusions about the rumble of his voice, you’ve started fantasizing about other things.

Things like telling him how you feel.

How it would happen—perhaps after a particularly charged movie night, or right before the mundanity of what to order for dinner. The kind of words you’d pick for him are hard to imagine, impossible to form with your mouth.

Language couldn’t contain the convolution that floods your lungs like flowers.

I want to be more than just friends. Do you?

The way you’d cut your heart out from your chest and serve it to him on a silver plate, just to show him the way it beats. Messy and erratic when he’s around. You think it’s alright if he sees all of it, even the parts that you swear to hell and heaven you wouldn’t show anyone.

Your voice would be fraught with weakness because god knows you’re never good at declaring what you want.

And it stops short there, the fantasy.

You don’t allow yourself to think about what happens next. Whether he’ll pull you into a kiss that takes your breath away or shoot you an apologetic look like he spilled coffee on a white shirt. If the nosedive ends up in the cool waters of an aquamarine swimming pool, or broken bones on a pavement.

That line of thinking is forbidden. You know how dangerous it gets, how the less-kind voices whisper. They’ve already started, in the nooks and crannies of your idle mind.

He’s nice to you because he doesn’t see you that way.

If you tell him, you’ll make him uncomfortable in the apartment he calls home. Don’t be selfish.

He sees through you. How could he possibly want that?

So the daydreams end abruptly, a third act with no resolution other than the lucidity of a single thought.

You just don’t want him to leave.

And if that means secretly surviving the stormy and turbulent, you’d do it. Day, after day, after day.

“I’d ask you to stop, but I’d be a hypocrite.”

The words tumble out of you quietly, standing by the sink near him. The party goes on, Vanessa’s and Wade’s laugh cutting through the noise.

He looks at you and does that huff—the one that’s not quite a chuckle, but just enough as an amused response.

“Caught me.”

“You don’t like the video game?” There’s a tinge of concern that weaves through the syllables. It’s getting rather loud and you don’t want him to feel bothered.

“’s fine,” he replies, wiping his hands dry after putting away the last dish, “just not good at it, ’s all.”

“You were great at the rowing one,” you smile, already replaying the fresh memory in your head.

It was rather miraculous that he didn’t swat away the offer to play in the first place. Maybe it was his soft spot for Yukio that did him in. He took the controller without a word and stared so seriously at the screen as if faced with an actual mission.

You schooled your giddy face as you watched him, stiff hand mimicking the rowing motion. Then he brought the team to victory and you were the first to cheer.

After nearly two months—god, where’d the time go?—Logan is still full of surprises, you decide.

He shoots you a playful look, one that says I know you were looking. One that’s easy to miss, but his face already became a fluent language to you.

The Super Mario Party-induced bedlam continues to resonate mere feet away, and yet the kitchen feels like it’s just for the two of you, almost enclosed in a different reality.

You watch as he looks at you. Gentle, phantom strokes across your face.

It’s moments like these that make you fall into that labyrinth. The maze that lies past your fantasies. It traps you into thinking that maybe, just maybe, he feels it too. Your heart aches with feelings that have no way out.

Logan opens his mouth then.

“And why are you escaping?”

You swallow, side-stepping to get to the fridge. I can’t, you answer in your head, not from you.

“I’m not. Just getting soda.”

The lightness in your voice had to be forced through the thickened air.

Can he tell? The same way you can tell what his grunts mean, if the frown on his face is one of upset or confusion, how he likes his coffee?

He watches as you cradle two big bottles of diet Pepsi, one in each arm. You try to ignore the way your spine tingles, reacting to the heat of his eyes on you.

You look at him one last time before passing him by, barely managing a smile on your lips.

He watches you walk away and digs a hand into the pocket of his jeans.

He feels it. An aluminum medallion.

Light, the size of a poker chip, he reckons. With a swipe of a thumb he grazes its surface, busy with embossed letters, but larger words are pressed at the center. “1 MONTH”. Buried deep like a secret he didn’t mean to keep.

Windswept with the passage of time, he forgot about it.

There’s already a buzz in the air when he enters the room in the library.

Something much bigger is underway. Something he isn’t used to, much to his dismay.

It feels like the sky drops when the question does.

“Anyone here have thirty days?”

A sudden silence takes over. His head is anything but. Strange that he is so doubtful, as if he hasn’t been counting each day religiously.

He has thirty-five. Should he raise his hand?

No, not yet. Maybe someone else hit theirs today—they should get to raise their hand first, not him, not when he feels like he hasn’t actually done anything real to get here—

Somebody does raise their hand.

Brent, he recalls. Young, a little younger than you, wearing baggy clothes and a little cowlick on his dirty blonde hair. He has a difficult look on his face as he starts to speak. The raised hand falls awkwardly back onto his lap, and then something in his eyes shines. Quiet. Steady.

“I’m Brent. I’m an alcoholic and I’m thirty days sober today.”

Pin-drop silence for a split second before the room erupts into cheers. People are clapping. Some of them get up from their chairs to embrace Brent in congratulations. The chairperson walks up to him, giving him the chip. The metal gleams red in the warm light.

What is more often than not an appropriately somber meeting, reserved in the first few minutes, dissolves into lightness and warmth. Like the shackles around each of their ankles are gone, just for the moment. Freedom in knowing that someone here—Brent—got to today, and that is enough for someone else in the room to get through their first 24 hours.

The shift in the air seems to be enough to affect him, too. The voices in his head, the recitation of names that chant as soon as the memories creep—Scott, Jean, Rogue, Storm, Charles…—lack their bite of guilt and shame. He doesn’t feel like drowning, not like he used to. Images behind his eyelids flash, not of charred corpses and bloodied faces. Not today.

Today they smile, and he remembers fragments of his days with them, as beautiful as painted pictures.

The same image that made him cry for the first time in years.

In this room, with other faces who have gone through so much, regret doesn’t echo as loud. If his friends—no, his family—were here…

…they’d be proud of him too. He can’t lie to himself out of that fact.

He doesn’t know how, doesn’t know a part of him still remembers after countless cries since the day he lost them. But he does—hear their voice, see their smile, as if it were yesterday.

Jean and Rogue would hug him, their heads tucked in his chest and neck. Storm would, too, with a wide smile.

And Slim? Slim would be quiet for a while, gaze unreadable from behind the red visor, before finally circling an arm around his shoulder.

Charles would be the only one with words. The warmth in those bright eyes could bring tears to his own.

We’re so proud of you, Logan.

That’s what he would say.

So a minute later, Logan swallows the lump in his throat and raises his hand.

He strokes the cool metal inside his pocket. He should tell Wade. Tell Laura.

Tell you.

He watches the living room from his spot at the island, trying to be present.

It’s your and Laura’s turn on the console. Somewhere along the way it turned into a fighting game, apparently. He can hear the banter, Laura mercilessly barraging you with attacks as a response to your playful goading.

When the killing blow plays in slow motion, you let out the loosest laugh he’s heard in a while, a hand running through your hair. Laura shakes your shoulders playfully, half-heartedly consoling you with a “of course I win, we play this at the dorms all the time”.

You sigh, the same sound that he usually hears after watching a great movie together. Entertained. Grateful.

And then you turn to look at him, a bright smile on your face.

Did you see that? the pull of your lips seems to ask.

His heart rends in two at the sight.

This is what made him forget.

You. The greatest thing to stir up his emotions that drowned in a tar-like ocean of sin.

Things are deceptively easy with you. A couple of conversations got you past that clumsy hump that comes with meeting a mutual friend, and after that, the road’s been highway-clear. The two of you coast like you know the way, like you’ve known each other for a while.

Each interaction with you is a four-leaf clover, a smooth pebble, a scallop seashell—beautiful, natural little gifts that help convince him he was okay. That he no longer has to fight the world or himself, at least for the time being.

That he’s allowed to rest.

Except he can’t.

Because in the past week, June has forced her temperature up a notch, and it has been nothing less than hellish torment. Suddenly your shorts become shorter, your t-shirts smaller, until they eventually turn into tank tops.

It’s not that he blames you for seducing him through the way you dress—you could wear a potato sack and he’d still want you—it’s his fault. He was the one who crossed that line, that night in the shower, thinking of you like that despite trying so hard not to.

You exist, blissfully unaware of his transgressions, and he’s tempted.

His eyes can’t help but hunger and he feels like a nasty animal, preying on you with his gaze while you’re around the house, a place where you feel safe.

Jaw clenching at your exposed legs as you walk around from one room to another. Hands balling into fists at the glimpse of your waist when you reach for the top shelf. Mouth salivating as you move your hair, exposing the nape of your neck.

That part of you should be so innocent, but the curve, your skin… it reminds him of the dress you wore.

It didn’t help that he bumped into you a few days ago, fresh out of the shower. You gasped when you collided into his chest and he had to put a hand on your waist to hold you steady, except he didn’t realize the only thing covering you was a flimsy blue towel.

Skin damp, smelling like a concoction of fragrances that made him want to take a bite out of you.

“Oh my god, sorry,” you breathed, escaping to your room without meeting his eyes. The door closed, and he was left alone in the hallway, accompanied only by his heart beating like it was begging to be let out of its enclosure.

It also didn’t help that he came home from work early yesterday, only to hear a buzzing sound. Too loud to be electricity. Faint and barely there, but more than enough for his enhanced hearing to pick up.

Above it, a sigh. Your voice. So soft he thought he imagined it.

Then a muffled whimper, and he knew it was real, because it was better than anything he could dream of.

His nerves jolted with hyper-awareness as soon as he registered what was happening. He could feel his body react as if it responded to yours, blood pumping south, his pants tightening.

A shaky exhale. You sounded so good, too lost to have heard him close the front door, but not at all loud, like you’re still trying to hold yourself back in case someone heard. Have you been sneaking around like this, taking advantage of the times he was away, trying to hide this from him?

What if you thought about him when you touched yourself?

Fuck, he couldn’t believe that’s where his mind went. It was too late. Once he started picturing you picturing him, he felt dirty, but it wasn’t enough to make him stop.

So yes, nothing helped. Certainly not you. You made it worse.

Made him picture you in your bed in a state of undress just shy of total nakedness, legs tangled between crumpled sheets, pressing a little vibrator against your clit while you slip your fingers into your folds. Made him want to break down your bedroom door and show you how he’d make you lose your mind instead of relying on that godforsaken toy.

Made him yearn.

He locked himself in his bedroom that day, hand around his cock, and thought about more than just the arch of your back when he sinks into you. Timing his strokes with your quiet gasps—perhaps hushed for human hearing, but more than enough for him—like he wanted to believe he was there with you, causing your downfall.

A deeper need hummed incessantly through him. He should be startled at its revelation, but instead, he found it perfectly familiar. Maybe he’d thought of this from the very start.

Your face, wrecked with pleasure, cheeks flushed as you gasp up at him.

Logan, please, more.

He’d give you anything you asked for, drive deeper with the singular purpose of carving his soul into your very being. He’d leave a mark neither you or time can erase. You’d moan, lost in him, but your eyes would lock with his as you whisper, stuttered in between thrusts:

I love you—love you so much—

He came. Harder than any of the times he’s touched himself while thinking of you. Copious amounts of him spilled in his hand, on his stomach, forcing him to hold back a loud groan.

It felt wrong, his wayward mind twisting your voice to say those three words to him. He didn’t just cross a line this time, he violated it.

What have you done to him? He thought he’d be content just living. The universe gave him a chance at redemption in the shape of a man in red tights, and as if that wasn’t crazy enough, he ended up with the cleanest slate he could get: a life in a different timeline with his friends and his daughter.

But here he is, blood boiling with affection that laces his veins—for you. The prettiest, softest, kindest thing he’s ever seen, the person who stubbornly insists to be useful when you only need to exist for him to fall into that wretched feeling he hasn’t felt in a century.

You’ve turned him into a monster of greed, because now, living is no longer enough.

He wants you, wants to pull that laugh out of you, wants to make his shoulders comfortable enough for you to rest your head on, wants to spend a lazy morning in bed with you, cradling your face in his hands and showering kisses on your eyelids—

“Logan? Do you wanna play?”

Hazel eyes snap back to reality at the sound of your voice.

The entire living room is looking at him. Laura and Wade look suspicious, while you still have that blameless smile on your face, holding your controller out as if it’s for him to take.

Thoughts usually cease to exist when you look at him like that, beaming, but tonight it’s different.

Tonight he feels like he’s defiled you without having laid a hand on you, and the thoughts ring louder than ever, taking the shape of a voice he didn’t think he’d hear again.

Cassandra Nova’s.

There’s a cruel lilt to her voice, the same one he heard in the Void. That happened a lifetime ago, but it doesn’t echo—smooth and unmistakable. She’s still in there, in his head.

One good thing enters your life and you can’t keep your paws off her. Desperate pup.

You should see how you slobber all over her. A blind person could tell. I think she can, too.

You think she’s going to kick you out? I think she’s too polite for that. She’d pretend everything was fine. That sounds like her, doesn’t it?

It feels like her grimy fingers are sinking into his brain again. As if they never even left.

He tries to shake it off, the sensation of nails scratching into the recesses of his brain.

But oh, boy, when she finds out… a cold chuckle, give her two weeks and she’ll tell you she needs to move out for some bullshit reason, completely unrelated to you. Because she doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. Never. She’s too nice, isn’t she?

The sensation sucks the air out of his lungs, an out-of-season chill up his spine.

She’s only nice to you because she feels sorry for you.

For a split second, he sees your face in the rubble. Bloodied in pallor, eyes blank.

Dead.

Don’t get too close, Wolvie. You know what happens when you get too close.

Fear.

How could he forget?

Has hitting thirty days of sobriety got him cocky, got him thinking he’s worth more than he really is?

What was he thinking, planning on showing a fucking coin to you?

It doesn’t change a thing. Doesn’t change the fact that he’s killed, spilled blood that could fill up a river. Pretending like his moral ledger is not in the red, like he no longer has enemies, debt-free, all set for a quiet life? What the fuck is he doing, playing house with a woman who has her entire life ahead of her?

You’re probably doing this out of pity, anyway, the same pity that moves little girls to their core when they see stray cats stuck in the rain. The kind that can’t stand seeing someone cold and alone, unaware of the diseases he’ll bring. The teeth. The claws.

He jumped timelines. Who’s to say others can’t, if they want to hunt him down so desperately? And god knows they’re out there, he just doesn’t know when they’re going to come for him.

If he’s sure of anything, it’s that his past always comes back to haunt him. Always.

And that you deserve better.

“Logan? Do you wanna play?”

He doesn’t answer your question. Grunts, footsteps padding across the room until he’s situated at the furthest corner away from you.

Doesn’t even look at you.

He’s quiet that way for the rest of the night, but only to you. You’ve spent most of your life reading rooms and sensing situations—you’re fairly certain of your assessment.

He’s upset.

About what, you don’t know. Your mind jumps to the conclusion it always does. Could he be mad at you?

Something heavy and invisible begins to make itself known in your gut. He’s only a little subdued, the way someone would after a long day at work. Afflicted with a kind of tiredness that his healing factor can’t fix.

Aside from that, he seems normal. Would be, to the average person. He even exchanged a few words with Ellie. Something about Japan. Yukio smiles, an easygoing bundle of joy next to her girlfriend.

You’re in a conversation with Dopinder—if you can call it a conversation, because it’s mostly him speaking at this point. His words are lost to you as you leave the asking of follow-up questions to Peter, while you’re left retracing steps and things said to Logan, in case something landed the way you didn’t intend it to, trying not to look over at him every three seconds.

You fail.

Glancing at him, you see him already staring at you back.

What do his eyes say? In that instant, you forget how to speak their language.

He looks away.

Suddenly it’s cold.

There’s the taste of bile in your mouth.

“Hey… you okay?”

He’s on the couch, a faraway look on his place. You step closer, gathering the guts to sit next to him—not afraid of him lashing out, but the possibility of him not wanting you there.

He nods, unmoving even as your weight sinks on the soft surface.

You’re so used to his presence, especially here in the living room. A sacred place where the two of you are free to blend into each other. Movie nights, easy laughter on your part and a snort or two from him. Assembling a store-bought shelf together on the floor, plywood parts surrounding you in a circle like it was actually a private little bubble—you and him against the world. Having dinner with him and Laura, talking shit about work, windows open, music in the background…

Now, there’s a wall. The air is thick in a way that suggests a coil being snapped, and not at all in the way you would like. Your skin tells you someone is getting hurt.

And you know who is.

“I was—”

“Did you wanna—”

The two of you begin speaking, only to stop at the same time. On another occasion, you’d laugh. Not this time.

“You first,” you look expectantly at him.

He wipes his nose once, leaning forward to rest both elbows on his knees. Doesn’t look at you when he speaks, his gaze glued to the black TV screen ahead despite you watching his every move.

There’s a prolonged silence before he finally speaks.

“I was thinkin’ of movin’ out.”

He turns his head to finally look at you.

You wonder what he sees on your face, because you don’t know what emotions are running through you right now.

Surprise, because you aren’t sure what to expect, but it definitely isn’t that. Doubt, because this whole thing is set up like a prank, except he won’t joke about this. Logan is straightforward, not needlessly cruel.

Most of all, you feel confused.

Did you get the signals mixed somewhere along the way?

The world sinks slowly beneath your feet, like your reality has been a poorly constructed sandcastle all along. Feet slipping, grains parting as you drop further downwards.

Maybe he wasn’t as comfortable as you thought he was, living with you. Maybe he didn’t like having to help you wrestle with wrenches and bolts. Maybe he only approved of the fried rice you made, and that asking him to taste test your other dishes got him annoyed. Did he really like the fried rice, or was he just trying to make you feel better about cooking?

Maybe you misread his sharing past stories as a sign of openness.

Maybe in showing him pieces of yourself you'd never shown anyone else, you created pressure instead of safety.

Maybe you hovered too close. Pushed too far.

You hear a voice from the past. Nameless, faceless, an amalgam of a few persons you no longer keep around.

You need to lay off. You’re a bit much.

God, you know you get things wrong sometimes, but this? You feel sick, the ice-cold realization submerging you.

What if you projected so much of your infatuation towards him that your rose-tinted glasses made you blind? What if, this entire time, you didn’t see him at all?

You’re the one to break eye contact, looking down at your lap. From your periphery, you can see his hands tightening around his knees like he’s holding something back.

He continues to speak, voice measured, slightly apologetic.

“Was thinkin’ I needed privacy after all, now that I can actually afford it,” he rasps.

“Space. Just for myself. Less awkward if I… have some company over.”

Something in you cracks.

You catch yourself just before breaking in the only way you can.

He watches as you look up at him, a smile on your face that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“I understand. I appreciate you telling me in advance,” you reply, voice level. “Do you, um, know when you’re gonna move? I need time to find a new roommate.”

“Not sure, Wade and I got this mission that’ll last for a while. I’ll look around after.”

You nod. It’s quiet for a while.

“I’ll help you look, then.”

He nods this time, voice quiet.

“Thanks.”

You get up.

“Shower’s all yours. Good night, Logan.”

“...Night.”

He watches as you turn, disappearing down the hallway, your bedroom door clicking shut.

Hands clench around the fabric of his pants so tight, his knuckles turn white. He exhales, but there’s no relief. Instead, the pain intensifies, jagged wires constricting his chest and digging into his skin.

Fuck, he doesn’t know why he said that. That part about company, as if you didn’t already have him wrapped around your finger, as if you hadn’t been the best person to be around, as if he wanted someone else.

Felt like cutting his tongue off the moment the words escaped him. He hates it, he fucking hates it.

Hates the look on your face, trying to be calm and considerate of him. You didn’t even ask why and he lied to you, only to watch you mask the hurt like he couldn’t see through it. He can, he has a feeling you know he can. Instead, he watches you slip back to the past, like this was your first conversation with him.

Polite.

Like whatever the two of you shared this past two months didn’t exist in the first place.

Logan ignores the pained caterwauling in his chest. His breath won’t go down his throat, tortured and stuck.

Absentmindedly, his feet take him to the hallway, gaze lingering at your bedroom door.

It’s dead quiet, his enhanced senses picking up nothing. Somehow he thinks it’s worse than hearing you cry.

He swallows before retreating into his own room.

It was the right thing to do.

So why does it feel like he’s still drowning even after it’s done?

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#an independent woman #logan x reader #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x reader #wolverine #x men #deadpool and wolverine #wolverine x you #logan howlett #logan howlett fanfiction #wolverine smut

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khuzena · 1 day ago

Text

The Ink Didn’t Fade

𐙚 PAIRING: Mydei/F!reader

𐙚 PARTS: 1, 2

𐙚 SUMMARY: A wartime radio announcer keeps broadcasting long after a general goes missing in a bombing. The war ends. He doesn’t return. Still, she holds to his letters and the sound of her own voice—until a quiet reunion asks whether memory is enough.

Some promises survive in silence. And some voices you wait for, even when the frequency goes quiet

𐙚 C.W: Tragedy, hallucinations, implied PTSD, war themes, implied character death, violence, blood, survivor's guilt, grief, unresolved feelings, implied depression, emotional repression, loneliness, displacement, breakdowns, hopelessness, reunion after trauma, emotional whiplash, fleeting comfort, lingering loss, disassociation, and memory fixation.

𐙚 A/N: Hi!! I started reading some journalist stuff about Edward Murrow (i think thats his name) and i was fascinated about how some radio broadcasters during war time would visit missions or camps to get the full picture and relay the news to common folk. I hope my writing is okay……….

𐙚 TAGLIST: @reapersan @strawb3rri-bliss @sugilitez @aerisevx @takeyomikamakura @whatamidoing89 @myegyumi

𐙚 W.C: 8037

Three… two… one.

“This is Station Halcyon, broadcasting on 730 kilohertz to the northern provinces. It’s 0600 hours. You’re listening to the military update relay, authorized by the Office of National Communications. I am voice ID 042.”

You pause. Let the sound hang, steady, professional.

There’s a quiet shuffle behind the glass. Acacia, your sharp-eyed radio technician, taps away at her console, eyes darting between screens. You catch the subtle clink of a coffee cup being set down somewhere in the corner.

You clear your throat, keeping your voice calm, even though your throat feels tight.

“Last night, forces holding Sector D-7 managed to repel repeated enemy assaults. Confirmed casualties stand at fifty-seven, with six soldiers missing in action. The battle was fierce, with artillery fire disrupting communication lines throughout the night. Weather conditions remain harsh—snowfall continues to slow movement and reduce visibility, hampering defense and rescue efforts.”

You glance down at the papers before you typed-up reports from the front, barely legible scrawls from field commanders, urgent telegrams. Your fingers tap a rhythm on the desk, trying to keep nerves at bay.

“The situation at Station Epsilon is evolving. Early this morning, a bombing caused significant disruption to the communication infrastructure in the area. Frontline units are working tirelessly to re-establish contact. As of this broadcast, details remain limited and are subject to change.”

The room feels small but alive. Kastos, one of the writers, leans against the wall, scratching notes onto a battered notepad, eyes narrowed in thought. Acacia’s fingers flick deftly over switches and dials, tuning frequencies, her headset crackling with static.

“Acacia will be managing the relay patch for the upcoming shift,” you say quietly, turning slightly to catch her eye.

She shakes her head, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Nope. You’re on for the next segment too.”

You wince, lowering your voice. “I don’t have much choice. Prices are climbing faster than I can count. I need the overtime.”

Kastos raises an eyebrow, concern plain in his gaze. “Are you sure? You’ve barely taken a break all week. The others could—”

You cut him off with a shake of your head. “No. They need to hear a steady voice right now. Plus, there’s nothing else for me to do at home anyway.”

Acacia laughs softly behind her headset. “Fine. But don’t let us find you passed out on the floor.”

The supervisor’s voice crackles through the intercom, sharp and clipped, slicing through the low murmur of conversation.

“All units, stand by for frontline updates. Maintain clear channels. Repeat: clear channels. Prepare for immediate transmission.”

Your heart rate ticks up, the familiar rush of adrenaline threading through the exhaustion.

You lean forward, hands steady now, eyes scanning your notes again as you prepare to close this segment.

Outside, the pale dawn presses cold and gray against the windows. The world feels fragile, held in the fragile pause before chaos.

“That concludes the update for 0600 hours on Station Halcyon. Stay vigilant. Keep your radios tuned.”

The microphone’s red light switches off, and the room exhales in unison. You lean back, fingers relaxing, but the weight settles deep inside — this isn’t just news. This is lives hanging in the balance.

Behind the glass, Acacia fiddles with a new frequency, her expression serious.

Kastos pushes off the wall and walks over, tapping your shoulder lightly. “You want a break before the next round?”

You shake your head, forcing a tired smile. “Really, no. I need the extra hours. The cost of living’s not getting any easier.”

He nods, not pressing further. You sip your water, your mind already half on the interviews scheduled in the next shift, the faces you’ll have to see and hear and report.

The hours ahead, filled with static and voices, stories and silence.

Outside the station, somewhere between the lines and the snow, the war rages on.

The windowpane fogs under your breath as you lean forward, chin resting against your hand. Outside, snow drapes the ground in a dull white. Not fresh enough to be beautiful, but enough to make the road glisten with quiet hostility. It’s the kind of cold that gets into your teeth if you breathe too fast.

You sigh.

Acacia hums behind you, not really singing, not really talking. She’s fixing her scarf around her neck like she expects to be gone all day. You half-expected she’d insist on handling the assignment herself, but now she’s just stuffing a pack of cigarettes into her coat like it’s routine.

“The bombing at Station Epsilon,” she says idly, “wasn’t it near a munitions cache?”

“Might’ve been. The higher-ups didn’t say.”

“You think it’s sabotage?”

“Or someone got sloppy.” You turn back toward her. “Either way, they’re not giving us the full picture.”

She shrugs and gives a pointed glance to the dusty vent above the broadcasting booth. “They never do. But if the explosion was that loud and that close, maybe we’ll get real answers once we reach the camp.”

You grimace and look back at the window. The street outside is nearly empty—just snow-covered rooftops, shuttered buildings, and an old delivery van caked in slush. Nothing moves. Even the sky looks reluctant.

Kastos enters the room again with a stack of clipped reports, his scarf lopsided and his coat half-buttoned. “The company journalist’s already downstairs. And the car’s warmed up.”

You blink. “Already?”

He tilts his head. “You did say you’d go.”

You grunt, already reaching for your coat.

Before you’ve even shrugged it on fully, the crackling voice of the station chief echoes over the speaker:

“Halcyon crew. Let’s move. Camp Carthage is twenty klicks out and we’ve got daylight to burn. We need a full segment recorded by nightfall, preferably with clean audio this time.”

You wince. Clean audio. In a military camp. During a snowstorm. With half the equipment held together by tape and hope.

“Understood,” you call back, adjusting your scarf and tucking your press badge into your breast pocket. It’s chipped at the corners and still says Field Assistant instead of Lead Broadcaster, but nobody bothers to fix things like that anymore.

Acacia steps beside you, glancing toward the door. “You’re really sure you want to do this one?”

“I need the money,” you say, again. But there’s more than that.

There’s a kind of buzzing in your chest, not quite nerves. Not quite dread either. Just something pulling. Some part of you feels like something is coming. Something overdue.

Kastos hands you the last of the reports. “The camp you’re visiting? Carthage Unit. That’s one of the main defense divisions assigned to the Northern Borderline.”

You flip the folder open, scanning the list of ranks. Then pause. A name buried halfway down the page catches in your throat.

General Mydei.

The folder almost slips from your hands.

Acacia notices, her brow furrowing. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say too quickly, closing the file again. “Nothing.”

Because it’s not supposed to mean anything. You’ve seen the name before on posters, in briefings, once scratched on a cafe wall like a curse.

But it still clutches at your stomach when you read it.

That’s the man who used to stand in line at the corner bakery every Thursday, exactly at noon. Who never smiled, but always tipped the staff and bought the same pomegranate bread, dusted with sugar. Who never said your name, but always nodded when you passed by. Who, one rainy afternoon, left a clean handkerchief on your seat when you forgot yours.

You hadn’t known who he was until he disappeared from the city altogether. Until the rumors started that the famous tactician was being shipped out. Until posters with his name were printed in black and pinned to walls like announcements of war.

You wonder, briefly, if he still likes pomegranate bread.

“Let’s go,” you say finally, as your hand tightens on the folder.

You make your way downstairs, the stairs groaning under your weight, coat pulled tighter around your frame. The wind slaps at your cheeks the moment the front doors open, and the cold digs straight through your bones.

Parked on the curb is the usual truck, military make, with the back converted into a cramped audio recording room. One of the junior field techs nods at you, holding the door open.

You step in, tucking your folder close to your chest.

The last thing you see before the door closes is the snowfall thickening.

As if even the sky wants to blur what’s about to happen.

Snow flurries whip past the windshield as the transport truck rolls to a stop, tires crunching over slush-packed gravel. The gate ahead is nothing like the ones you’ve passed on safer routes. No banners, no welcoming officers. Just concrete, barbed wire, and tall shadows flanking the entrance like stone guardians.

You press your palm against the side window, peering out.

“They really stuck us out in the edge of the map,” Kastos mutters beside you, thumbing his pen with nervous energy. He’s already creased the interview questions.

“They’re the spearhead division,” Iliyen replies, voice low but calm. She adjusts her officer’s coat and slips a black notebook into her breast pocket. “They’re the reason the front hasn’t collapsed yet.”

She says it like it’s praise, but her jaw stays tense. You don’t ask questions. You know her type, the kind of correspondent who’s seen enough wreckage to speak in clipped phrases and small exhales.

The back door slides open, and a wave of cold air floods the truck’s interior. One of the drivers motions silently for you to get out.

You step down onto hardened ground, boots crunching over the icy surface. Around you, the camp sprawls like a living machine. There are gray tents and steel outposts peppered across snow-dusted hills. Men and women move like clockwork: some carrying munitions crates, others trudging in groups toward the eastern lookouts. Their uniforms are thick, faded with frost. Their expressions unreadable.

There’s no music here. No shouting. Just the wind and the occasional barked command.

You tug your scarf tighter.

At the gate, a stern-looking officer approaches — tall, clad in full winter gear with only his eyes visible beneath his cap. He doesn’t introduce himself. Just scans your badges and says:

“You’ll speak with Lieutenant Raen. She’ll brief you on what you can and can’t record.”

Iliyen nods. “Understood.”

You glance to Kastos. He flashes a thin smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

As you’re led into the camp proper, you pass soldiers who glance only once before turning away again. No curiosity. No interest. Just war-weariness shaped into silence.

You’re not used to being invisible.

You pass the mess tents, the gear sheds, the comms posts with each one half-buried in snow, smoke curling from chimneys that barely heat the interiors. The air smells of sweat and rust and something faintly metallic.

And then you reach it, a central pavilion reinforced with stone and iron, like a makeshift headquarters carved out of old world bones.

Inside, the air is warmer. Dim lanterns swing gently from the beams. Maps cover the walls. Chalk and pins mark movements and losses.

Lieutenant Raen stands at the center, sleeves rolled, voice brisk.

She turns when you enter and gives a short nod.

“You’re the press team?”

You nod. “Radio Halcyon.”

Raen eyes you, then Iliyen. “We’re on borrowed time. Command only gave you two hours.”

“We’ll take thirty minutes,” Iliyen says.

“Fifteen,” Raen corrects. “You want answers, ask fast. No photos. No names unless cleared. No questions about the blast. No questions about ‘General Mydei.’” She says the last part flatly, like she’s memorized it.

Your heartbeat skips.

Kastos doesn’t flinch, just flips to a fresh page in his pad.

You say nothing.

Raen leads you to a side wing where a handful of soldiers. The more presentable ones, you guess, are seated and waiting. Most look tired. One taps his fingers on his rifle’s strap. Another adjusts the bandage around her wrist and mutters something under her breath.

These are the ones they want the public to see.

Raen gestures toward the foldable chairs arranged like an awkward classroom. “You can record here. You get quotes, not monologues. Keep it clean. If anything sounds off-message, I’ll cut it.”

Iliyen already has her notebook out. Kastos follows suit.

You set up the mic, the static in your ears a low buzz. Your voice is hoarse from the cold.

You clear your throat, glance at the recorder’s red light.

“Recording live,” you murmur.

You look up.

And you begin.

“Corps Command Halcyon, frontline feature, Northern Defense Axis,” you say, tone low and measured. “Present location: Camp Carthage, spear division of the border defense. In front of us: five soldiers, five stories.”

One of the soldiers, the one with tired eyes and a faded patch on his arm, meets your gaze.

“Let’s talk about what survival looks like,” you say softly. “Here. Now.”

The recorder hums softly in your gloved hand, its red light blinking slow and steady. A bit like a pulse. You lean forward, enough to catch the profile of the soldier speaking without crowding him.

“…it’s cold, sure,” says one. Corporal Theon, wiry with sharp, wind-burnt cheekbones. “But the thing about frostbite is it creeps up quietly. Like artillery. You don’t feel it until you’re already too far gone.”

There’s a stiff chuckle from one of the others.

Kastos jots it down, then gently interjects, “How’s morale, Corporal?”

Theon shrugs. “We still get letters. The food’s warm. When it isn’t frozen, anyway.”

The woman beside him. Specialist Vesha. She folds her arms, eyes half-lidded but listening. You turn slightly to her.

“What about the last skirmish? Reports said Carthage was the first to respond.”

“We always are,” she says dryly. “We’re used to going first.”

There’s no pride in it. Just fact.

You clear your throat. “And... word was that someone on your squad intercepted a transmission from behind enemy lines?”

Now, that earns you attention.

Vesha’s brow lifts. Theon scratches his neck. The youngest, a Private whose name you never caught, leans in a little.

“Oh, you mean the mole?” the Private blurts, a little too loud.

You exchange a quick glance with Kastos.

Iliyen’s pencil pauses mid-word.

Vesha elbows the kid, not subtly.

Lieutenant Raen, who’s been standing off to the side like a bored shadow, steps forward. “Strike that,” she says firmly. “That information isn’t cleared for public dissemination.”

The soldier mumbles an apology. You nod silently, thumb the switch on the recorder and mark the cut. Later, you’ll edit that part out.

Still, you file the word mole somewhere in your brain. You’re not sure if it’ll matter, but your gut says it might.

Kastos moves things along. “Let’s talk about conditions.”

One of the others, a medic, judging by the red cross half-hidden beneath his coat, gestures vaguely outside. “Snow’s hitting harder this week. Rations are tighter. We don’t see command often, but when we do, they usually come bearing good or bad news. No in-between.”

“And what do you do to stay… grounded?” you ask. “To remember you’re still yourselves out here?”

The medic hesitates, then half-smiles. “We listen to the broadcasts.”

Your breath hitches just a little.

“The radio,” he clarifies. “Yours. Mostly yours. Someone strung up a signal rig in the comms tent. We catch it most nights if the wind isn’t too cruel.”

He doesn’t say your name, but his eyes linger a beat too long on your face. You wonder if he recognizes your voice before your face. If he ever imagined you looked different, or if you were better off staying just a voice.

“Helps us feel like we haven’t slipped completely off the map,” he adds.

“...Thank you,” you say, a little quieter than you meant to.

They nod. The air settles.

But then someone… One of the quieter soldiers at the end, older, worn like wet rope, murmurs, “The General listens too.”

Raen straightens slightly. “That’s enough.”

He doesn’t stop. “We heard it. From the mole. Enemy officers said he’s been picking up Halcyon frequencies, even when he’s behind enemy lines. They call him ‘ghost-walker.’ Think he’s some phantom with a pulse.”

You can feel your stomach twist. A slow, low curl of something in your chest.

Kastos writes faster.

Raen’s voice slices through again, sharper this time. “Strike that.”

Iliyen doesn’t even argue. She draws a thick black line across a portion of her notes.

The older soldier shrugs. “Was worth saying.”

You glance at the recorder. Still red. Still blinking.

You switch it off with a soft click.

The interview ends in an awkward shuffle. No one claps. No one thanks anyone. Just tired nods and half-formed murmurs of "stay safe."

You step outside again, scarf pulled over your lips as the cold slaps back into your lungs. The sky above is gray-blue and heavy with snow. The wind whistles through barbed wire and loose canvas.

Iliyen joins you at your side, gaze faraway. “He listens,” she says.

You look at her.

“The General,” she continues. “Or so they say. I wonder what he’s hoping to hear.”

You don't answer.

Because you already know.

You’ve seen the signal strength peak at odd hours. Heard rustling when no one else was supposed to be transmitting. Caught static at your name. You’d once said something—something small, off-script, during a broadcast lull:

“If you’re out there… if any of you are out there… just know someone’s still listening.”

And someone had tapped the line once. Just once.

You’d told yourself it was wind.

But you’d written it down anyway

The wind is quieter now, almost reverent. Snow falls in patient flurries, dotting your coat and lashes. You stand near the gravel path that snakes out of the main barracks, waiting for the car to circle back from refueling. A low hum echoes from the far end of the camp — soldiers drilling.

Not just jogging or casual formation.

No, training.

Hard.

Rhythmic, timed drills. Callouts in unison. Boots pounding frozen earth in perfect coordination. The kind of conditioning you only ever hear about in radio reports, but rarely see.

You and your small team stand near a stacked crate, watching like civilians watching a well-oiled, frightening machine.

Kastos exhales next to you, breath visible in the air. “The other camps don’t train like this.”

Iliyen folds her arms, gloved fingers tapping the outside of her coat. “Camp Carthage isn’t like the others. I’ve heard it’s where they send the toughest units.”

Kastos nods absently, gaze still trained on the soldiers. “Still. This feels excessive.”

“General Mydei runs this one, doesn’t he?” Iliyen says, not looking at either of you. “They say he’s strict. Really tall. Big build. Makes them train three times harder than protocol.”

There’s a long pause.

You glance at her from the corner of your eye but say nothing. The name Mydei clings to the inside of your skull like snow melt against skin.

Iliyen shrugs. “I mean... of course. Carthage is always first in. When the lines are redrawn, they’re the ones pushing it. Or dying on it.”

A young assistant, whose nametag reads Harren, maybe fresh out of training, sidles up to join your group. “It’s because they’re sacrificial,” he says bluntly. “Everyone knows that.”

You don’t even think before your hand jabs his side with your elbow.

“Hey.” You don’t bother hiding your glare. “Don’t say that. Not out loud.”

He stammers, rubbing his ribs, looking mildly ashamed. “Sorry. I just—everyone thinks it. I didn’t mean anything.”

You look back at the training yard. Soldiers running drills under snowfall, lifting crates, forming formations, voices crisp and synchronized. One of them collapses, gets back up within seconds. A sergeant barks something from across the yard.

“I know,” you say after a moment. “But some of them still write home. They still hold onto birthdays. They’re not just statistics.”

A long silence settles again.

Only the sound of soldiers calling out numbers cuts through the cold.

Kastos shifts beside you. “Ever met Mydei?” he asks suddenly, eyes still on the yard.

“No,” you lie, quickly.

Iliyen watches you, but doesn’t call it out.

“Well,” Kastos says. “If this is his doing… can’t decide if it’s terrifying or admirable.”

“Both,” Iliyen says quietly.

You don't respond.

Instead, you stare a little longer at the blur of movement. The dark coats. The steady, trained bodies. And somewhere out there, maybe in one of the tents or maybe already gone back to the field, is a man who once stood in line at a bakery every Thursday at 4 p.m.

He always ordered the same lemon tart. He never said more than five words at a time.

You never knew his name back then.

Not until you started hearing it echo across casualty reports, field victories, and whispered soldier rumors like it was both a threat and a blessing.

General Mydei.

You pull your scarf higher up your chin and exhale.

Behind you, the car pulls up at last, headlights dimmed against the white glare of snow. You don’t get in right away.

You keep watching.

Not for long. Just a few more seconds.

You pat down your coat pockets once. Then twice. Then with increasing urgency, a third time.

No pen.

No—not just any pen.

You shove your hand into your left coat flap, then the inner lining, then frantically unzip your side pouch. Kastos and Iliyen are already halfway to the car, chatting like people who don’t have a heart sinking into the soles of their boots.

“Wait—ugh, I’ll be right back!” you call out, already spinning on your heel.

“Again?” Kastos yells over his shoulder. “What is it now?”

“My pen! My lucky pen!”

He groans. “You and that cursed thing—”

“I was holding it literally six minutes ago,” you mutter, ignoring him as your boots crunch back over the gravel.

It was Thomas’ pen. Your favorite professor during your last year in broadcast journalism. Said you had “a voice like velvet and vinegar” his words, not yours, and handed you that red metal pen before your first campus coverage.

You got your internship three weeks later. Then your first job. Then—somehow—Station Halcyon.

And now you’d dropped it. Somewhere in Camp Carthage, the most intense military base in the damn region. You could scream.

You trudge past crates, your fingers jammed under your arms to stay warm. “Please don’t let some lieutenant find it and think it’s a bomb,” you mutter to yourself.

There—near a cluster of empty benches outside the officer tent.

You spot the gleam of metal against frost.

You scramble forward.

“Oh, thank god—” you sigh, crouching to retrieve it. Your name still elegantly etched near the clicker. Slightly scratched but still legible.

You tuck it back into your breast pocket with a reverent pat. “You’re the only thing that makes my handwriting legible,” you whisper to it, only half-joking.

Your nose twitches.

Then—ah-CHH! You sneeze sharply into your handkerchief, muffling it as best you can.

Ugh. Cold.

You straighten up and turn around—

And crash straight into something.

Solid. Warm. Tall.

You recoil, mumbling an immediate, flustered, “Oh, I’m so—!”

Then you look up.

And freeze.

He stands in front of you like a thunderclap dressed in regulation.

Dark coat. Tactical gloves. Snow still melting on his shoulders. His hair is slightly mussed, damp from training or wind. His eyes—sharp, dark, and steady—land directly on you.

You’ve seen that face only a handful of times up close.

Once at the bakery.

Twice in passing.

And one time, half-shadowed in a classified military photo you weren’t supposed to see.

But there’s no mistaking it now. No confusion.

This isn’t some vague officer or distant silhouette.

This is him.

General Mydei.

And he’s staring at you.

Just a beat too long.

You blink. Your breath hitches.

His eyes flicker downward briefly, like he's taking stock of you: the scarf, the broadcaster’s badge on your coat, the handkerchief still clutched in your fingers.

Then his voice, low, smooth, with an edge like flint, breaks the silence.

“…You dropped your pen.”

He says it like it’s a matter of state.

You nod dumbly. “I—I got it. It’s, um… it’s really precious. Refill’s stupidly expensive.”

A pause.

Is that the corner of his mouth twitching?

No. Couldn’t be.

You clear your throat. “Sorry for bumping into you. I didn’t mean—sorry.”

“No harm,” he says.

Another silence.

Another moment that stretches longer than it should.

He’s not moving.

You’re not either.

You wonder if he recognizes you. Not from radio broadcasts. But from Thursdays. From tart crumbs. From the smell of lemon sugar.

Before this war devoured everything.

You’re not brave enough to ask.

Not yet.

From the corner of your eye, you see Kastos waving from the car.

You swallow, nod stiffly to him, and start to move past—

“Mydei,” he says quietly.

You pause.

“I’m General Mydei.”

You turn back to him slowly. He didn’t need to introduce himself. Everyone here knows.

But somehow, hearing him say it… to you feels different.

Like he’s handing something over. Even if it’s just a name you already knew.

You wet your lips.

“I know.”

He studies you a second longer.

Then, with nothing more than a nod, he turns and walks off toward the barracks.

You don’t move for a long time.

Only once he’s disappeared into the haze of snowfall do you whisper, “What the hell.”

Then you walk back to the car, hand over your badge to the guards, and try not to let anyone see how pink your ears are.

The walls hum quietly. The radiator sputters again.

You exhale as you toss your coat over the single chair by the door, boots kicked off with the sluggishness of someone whose spine has been standing too long. The second the latch clicks shut behind you, the silence settles. Not comforting. Just there.

You lean against the doorframe for a second, just breathing.

The building shakes faintly every few minutes, trams or low-altitude aircraft. Hard to tell anymore. The view outside your window is barely a view: dim streetlamps, skeletal trees, and that same white birdshit stain on the upper right pane.

You were going to clean it. Last week. Then your boss scheduled you for two more overnight shifts. And the market trip. And that call from the registrar's office in the Outer Lieran Region—your younger sibling’s tuition deadline, right on cue. The second one needed housing funds.

You didn’t even flinch when your last paycheck dissolved the moment it hit your account.

It’s quiet. You don’t turn the radio on this time. For once, your voice is the last thing you want to hear echo back.

You collapse into the chair by your desk. Your coat slips off the side.

Right. Work.

You dig out the pages from your coat pocket—notes from today’s field interview. Scrawled shorthand. Names, code designations, half-legible transcriptions. You’ll have to polish it all tomorrow, but you want to at least organize it before it all blurs again.

Your fingers ache slightly as you hold your pen. The red one. The engraved one.

Your name glints under the weak lamplight.

You stare at it for a long moment.

Then your eyes drift.

He looked different.

You'd already known he was tall—could tell even from the bakery line, from how people moved around him like his shadow carried weight. But in uniform? In full command?

It was like watching someone step out of a war mural.

The golden pauldron caught the light when he moved. The twin gauntlets didn’t look ceremonial; they looked used. The robe—dark and stitched with sharp red lines—moved when he walked like it had its own momentum.

But his hair—

It still looked the same.

Messy. Beige with threads of red through it like streaks of clay, sunlit in some places. A long, thick lock was still braided neatly down the right side, and the sapphire earring he always wore—the one you used to quietly admire when he passed your bakery window—was still there. Just… brighter.

The tattoos you only half-saw. They curled past the edge of his collar, glowing faintly beneath the sharp line of his neck.

You rub your eyes.

Why are you thinking about this so much?

You sneeze into your sleeve again, groaning.

Right.

Still sick. Still underpaid. Still out of credits.

You glance at the corner of your desk, where yesterday’s receipt is still pinned to the wall.

180 credits – Eggs (bargained 20% off)

The lady at the counter had looked at you like you were gutting her cat, but you needed it. Needed something cheap. Rent ate the rest.

Your fingers drift to the windowsill, tracing dust with your pinkie. It’s been a while since you even wiped this thing. The fucking bird droppings dried into the glass days ago. It looks like a cursed shape. Sort of a lowercase "g." or maybe a fucking “o”.

You should clean. You should.

But you don’t.

You pull your legs up into the chair, curling one arm around your knees.

There’s a letter on your nightstand waiting to be mailed. It's to your siblings. You’ll have to pay extra just to get it out by courier—postal lines are delayed again, thanks to military rerouting.

You sigh and lay your head down on the desk.

His voice was deeper than you expected.

Not booming. Just… deliberate. Like every word had to pass through a dozen checkpoints before being released. But when he said your name, even just once, it stuck in your chest like a bruise that didn't hurt.

You wonder if he recognized you.

You wonder if he ever listened.

Surely not. You’re just a voice on the frequency. Background noise between strategy reports and ration orders.

But maybe…

Maybe once or twice, before deployment or during quiet hours, he tuned in. Maybe he knew it was you. Maybe that’s why he said his name like that.

“Mydei.”

Like a reminder.

Your name, his name.

Two things that don’t usually sit in the same sentence.

You let your eyes drift closed, just for a moment.

The room smells faintly of ink and radiator heat. The soft hum of the war beyond your window fades just long enough for you to almost forget you’re part of it.

Almost.

Click. Pen. Click. Pen. Click.

You blink blearily at the scheduling sheet, the overhead lights too white for your crusted eyes. The ache in your throat hasn’t let up. The coffee’s cold, and you haven’t even touched it.

Your fingers are cramping slightly from transcribing yesterday’s interviews—nothing special, just more vague military platitudes and rehearsed optimism. Except for the one slip-up. That poor man practically flung his whole career into your recorder before Raen told you to cut it from the official copy.

You left it in your private notes, though. Just in case.

Across the room, Illiyen pinches the bridge of her nose. "Follow-up scheduled. Camp Carthage wants us back there for an extended segment. Apparently, the general’s agreed to speak directly this time."

Kastos lets out a low whistle. “General Mydei? Himself?”

Illiyen mutters, "They’re never that generous with media access. Wonder what he wants spun.”

“Control the narrative before it controls you,” Acacia mutters.

Your stomach twists.

"Guess who gets to interview him," she adds, eyes sliding to you. "Congratulations. He insisted."

You blink.

“…He what?”

“He said, and I quote,” Illiyen flips a page, “‘Tell the broadcaster not to bother assigning anyone. I’ll speak. Only with her.’”

Her tone is unreadable.

Kastos snorts. “Must’ve liked how you look clutching that red pen.”

You jab your elbow into his ribs on reflex. “Shut up.”

But your hands are cold. You shove them under the table, trying to steady your pulse.

You arrive late.

The morning frost hasn’t lifted, but Camp Carthage is already blistering with movement. Soldiers run drills. Barked orders echo across the field. The air smells like scorched fabric and freshly oiled metal. Yet there’s still that strange trace of sweetness—somebody’s always baking in this place, you swear.

You barely register the routine security checks this time. Raen’s already watching over you like a goddamn hawk. Illiyen’s adjusting her camera strap. Kastos is trying to look casual and failing miserably.

You’re just cold.

“Interview’s set up in the outer war room,” an escort tells your group. “General’s already inside. Waiting.”

Your fingers brush the edge of your coat pocket, where your pen rests. Still there.

Good.

The room is clean. Stark. A long rectangular table stretches through the middle, flanked by military maps pinned on every wall. Red markers. Circles. Strings. No windows. The heater hums.

He’s already there.

General Mydei stands at the far end, back to you at first—his posture unnervingly relaxed for someone surrounded by so much tension. But when the door closes behind your group, he turns.

Your breath catches.

In full light, he looks sharper. Not just large—striking. His uniform is the same as yesterday’s: deep maroon robes under sharp tailoring, the gold of his pauldron catching even the weakest light. His gauntlets reflect faintly, fingers flexed as if he’s perpetually ready to strike. The tattoos just barely peek from the edges of his collar. His eyes—sun-gold, slitted just slightly—land on you.

And stay there.

Iliyen starts introducing herself. Mydei doesn’t even blink. He nods once to the team. Gives a simple, “Thank you for coming.”

But his gaze never leaves yours.

You clear your throat. “We appreciate your time, General.”

“It was mine to offer,” he says, quietly.

The interview begins. You do your job.

You ask the prepared questions. Updates. Troop morale. Shifts in strategy. Reflections on public sentiment. His answers are composed, measured, but not rehearsed. There’s something disarmingly direct about the way he speaks. He never rambles. He never deflects. But he’s choosing every word like a blade.

And still—he looks at you. Almost the entire time.

You can feel the weight of it like pressure on your throat.

You try to ignore it. You have to.

Kastos starts wrapping up, giving the practiced thank-you and final formalities that come with every military interview. His tone is brisk, neutral, just enough polish to signal professionalism but not deference. Iliyen is already clipping the mic off her coat, brushing some lint off her scarf. Then, Kastos cracks his knuckles and mutters something about freezing his fingers off while fiddling with the audio case.

You don’t move.

Not immediately, anyway.

Your fingers hover over the recorder’s buttons, slowly double-checking everything you’ve already checked twice. You thumb through your notes, half-skimming your own shorthand even though you know exactly what’s written. A small, stubborn part of you stalls—lingering for a reason you don’t quite have the words for.

He doesn’t leave.

You feel it before you confirm it: that same unmoving gaze. Mydei hasn’t shifted from his spot at the far end of the table. He stands with his hands clasped behind his back now, gaze rooted to where you sit.

Not unkind. Not expectant. Just steady.

Your pen trembles slightly between your fingers. You set it down, too slow.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Kastos.

He’s mouthing something.

Ooooh.

You don’t even need to hear it to feel the heat crawl up your neck.

You shoot him a look sharp enough to shear his tongue off. He smiles innocently and turns away, already helping Illiyen pack cables.

Raen leans in just enough for her words to be heard over the static, voice clipped and quiet. “Tread carefully around generals,” she says, eyes fixed ahead. “I’m not in the mood to explain insubordination.”

Your mouth opens slightly. “I’m not flirting,” you hiss.

“You were lingering.”

“I’m working.”

Raen shrugs. “Then do it. And don’t try anything foolish.”

You ignore her. Mostly because you can’t argue while your heart’s pounding this hard.

When you finally lift your head, you’re met—again—with his gaze.

It’s not piercing. Not invasive. It doesn’t leer or search.

It just sees.

There’s a calm to it, like staring into the eye of a slow-moving storm. Not danger. Not desire. Just depth. Like he’s memorizing your face for reasons even he doesn’t understand yet.

You swallow. The back of your throat still aches.

You gather your things too quickly, nearly knocking your clipboard over. Your hands fumble with the strap of your bag as you follow your team, suddenly aware of the echo of your boots against the cold tile floor.

You hesitate in the doorway.

And still—he hasn’t said anything.

But as your hand finds the doorframe, steadying yourself as you step out, you feel it. The air shift.

He nods.

A simple thing. Barely even movement.

But it’s not a dismissive gesture.

It’s one of recognition. Like he’s answering a question you hadn’t asked aloud.

And it’s meant just for you.

The door shuts quietly behind you.

Days pass by, broadcasting news with a hoarse throat.

The news finishes broadcasting at precisely 17:00. Your voice still lingers faintly in your ears, the tail end of a final sentence about grain ration restrictions and how imports from the northern regions will be suspended due to sabotage.

You flick off your mic.

The studio is warm and smells like paper and old wires. Acacia’s in the corner doing maintenance on the transmitter, mumbling about the feedback delay on Frequency 3. Illiyen’s out on her day off—good for her—and Kastos is raiding the office cabinet for the last pack of coffee sticks. Again.

You're about to stand and grab your notebook when the front desk intern walks in, holding a square envelope like it's radioactive.

“Something came for you,” she says, holding it at arm’s length.

You furrow your brows, taking it cautiously. It's... old-fashioned. Real paper. Cream-colored envelope. Inked address.

Your full name is written in neat, squared handwriting. No return address.

But in the top corner—

Camp Carthage.

Your stomach drops.

Acacia doesn't notice. She's still swearing under her breath at the equipment.

But of course, Kastos notices.

"Ooooh," he says, drawing the syllable out like he's sixteen again. “Camp Carthage? That’s from frontline daddy, isn’t it?”

“Shut up, asshole,” you snap too quickly.

“Bet it’s a marriage proposal.”

You whirl on him, nearly smacking him with your clipboard. “I swear to the gods, I will file a hostile work report on you.”

He raises his hands innocently, grinning wide. “Don’t shoot the messenger. Or the jealous coworker.”

You pocket the envelope like it might spontaneously combust.

It’s probably not personal. It’s probably official. Maybe you forgot to redact something.

Maybe it’s a warning. Maybe General Mydei wants to complain that you hovered too long or stood on the wrong side of a marked perimeter or—

You sneak out of the studio.

You head straight to the second-floor bathroom, into the third stall—the one that doesn’t lock properly but faces away from the mirrors. You sit on the toilet with the lid down, heart drumming faster than it has any right to.

You open it carefully, breaking the wax seal.

The handwriting inside is the same. Clean. Sharp-edged. Pressed like the writer hesitated after every word.

It reads:

“To Station Halcyon – Attn: Broadcaster [Name], Regarding your last transmission: You mentioned the supply shortages near the Estera fields, and I believe your source was either outdated or misinformed. For record accuracy, we’ve since rerouted all eastbound grain stocks via Riverline, with security guaranteed by Squadron IX. Furthermore, the tone of your closing remark (re: "the bleakness of the eastern border settlements") may unintentionally demoralize listeners stationed near those areas. I understand the pressures of tight scripting, but I would suggest consulting the civilian morale guide distributed last quarter. Should you require updated data regarding troop rotations or food parcel allocations, I can arrange for briefings to be transmitted weekly to your station. I will ensure they are signed and verified. Your reporting has been... notably consistent. – Commander M. of Carthage Division”

You stare at it.

You blink.

You read it again.

You feel warm in the face and cold in your fingertips.

It’s not personal—not really. Not even close.

But there’s a very specific kind of... attention to it. The formality is thick, like he doesn’t know how else to communicate. But the words aren’t condescending. They’re intentional. Even thoughtful.

"Your reporting has been... notably consistent."

What the hell does that mean?

You fold the letter neatly, tucking it back in the envelope. It smells faintly like paper and ink. No perfume. No hidden message. Just a strange, stiff kind of connection, signed with a single M.

Your foot taps against the floor. You reread the line about arranging weekly briefings.

You mumble aloud, “Does he... want me to keep talking?”

A knock on the stall door jerks you upright.

“You die in there?” Kastos calls. “Because if you are, I’m not covering your shift.”

“Get out!” you bark, flushing hard.

You bury your face in your hands.

When you’re back home, you fold your arms on the desk and groan into them.

Why is writing a simple thank-you letter making you sweat like this?

It’s not like it means anything. It’s a follow-up. A professional courtesy. You do this all the time. With vendors. With guest speakers. With that one guy from the postal union who sent you a thank-you card with an accidental oil stain.

This is normal. So normal.

You sit back, adjust your posture, and stare at the blank sheet of paper like it's a final exam.

Okay. Focus.

You pick up your pen—the red one, the one with your name engraved—and begin writing in the same formal structure you imagine he used. Except you’re chewing on the corner of your sleeve and second-guessing everything as you go.

“To Commander M. of Camp Carthage, Thank you for the clarification regarding the Estera grain supply reroute. We’ve updated our station records accordingly. I apologize for the error in tone regarding the eastern settlements—it was not my intention to frame the situation in a way that might discourage or alarm listeners stationed near the region. I appreciate the offer for regular briefings. If such transmissions can be arranged, it would greatly improve the accuracy of our broadcasts and help maintain the trust of our audience. Your feedback is valued. – [Your Full Name], Station Halcyon”

…Your feedback is valued? AAAAAA. You cross it out. It sounds like a customer service bot.

You try again.

“…Thank you for taking the time to write. I imagine your schedule is demanding. We’ll take care to reference verified materials moving forward.”

You tap the paper. Then rewrite that sentence because "I imagine your schedule is demanding" makes you sound like you’ve been thinking about his schedule which, you haven’t, obviously, what the fuck.

You cover your face.

This is deranged.

Why are you even blushing? It’s a letter. From a literal general. About literal war.

And yet—

You can see him. Stoic. Still. Gauntlets catching the light. Watching you like he did at the end of that interview, eyes not judgmental, just… unreadable.

You shake your head and close the letter.

That’s enough.

You’ll seal it, get it couriered, and not wait for a response.

You definitely won’t hover by the desk pretending to organize files just to hear if someone mentions incoming mail from Camp Carthage.

Definitely not.

The tent smells faintly of parchment, ash, and old tea. There's a brazier glowing behind you and the steady drip-drip of snow melting off the canvas above. Your breath fogs faintly in the cold.

You adjust your scarf, recorder already on, pen tucked behind your ear.

Iliyen’s at your side, halfway into the formal opening.

“We’ll be recording a brief segment for Station Halcyon, mostly regarding the western checkpoint—”

“Out,” Mydei says.

You and Illiyen both look up.

“...Sir?” illiyen blinks.

“I’ll handle this interview alone,” Mydei says again, tone even.

There’s a beat. You nearly drop your pen.

Illiyen blinks once, glances at you, then back at Mydei. “...Understood, General.” She doesn’t question it. She just pats your shoulder once and slips out of the tent, brushing past the flaps with a huff of cold air.

You are now alone with him.

You clear your throat. "U-Um. This will be brief," you manage, flicking your gaze to your clipboard. “Just a few notes on the recent patrol routes, and—”

“You speak well,” he says, cutting through your nerves with that low, gravel-soft voice.

You blink. “Sorry?”

He nods once. “Your phrasing. Clear. Intentional. Commanding, at times.”

You weren't expecting that.

“Oh. Thank you…?” you fumble.

Mydei leans back against a table, arms crossed. The light catches the gold edge of his pauldron. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“But,” he continues, “when you talk about troop losses… or damage…” He tilts his head slightly. “There’s weight in the facts, yes. But you allow it to linger.”

You freeze. “...Too much?”

“Not too much. Just enough to feel real.” He pauses. “But morale breaks in the quiet, not in the chaos. People are tired. Be mindful of how long you let silence stretch between your words.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Your heart’s hammering, and you’re not sure if it’s the cold or him. Probably both.

You nod slowly. “I’ll… work on that.”

A small grunt of approval. He pushes off the table and walks to the map on the tent wall. You take that moment to breathe.

He begins speaking, slow and measured. "Three nights ago, we intercepted communications from a collapsed enemy camp near the border. One of our moles confirmed what we feared—the bombing near Station Rozen was not meant for civilians. It was a test. Meant to measure response time.”

You scribble notes. He doesn’t pace, doesn’t fidget. He speaks like someone who has too many thoughts and not enough space in his body to store them.

You glance up. “And the camp here? Any word if you’re a potential target?”

He looks at you for a long moment. “Always.”

That hangs in the air longer than you want it to.

You shift in your seat. “I see.”

“Carthage is too valuable. We intercept most first-wave assaults. Which makes us both feared… and disposable.”

You frown. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“I would.”

You don’t know what to say to that. But he continues before you can try.

“There’s also been movement along the frozen river. We’ve dispatched scouts. I’ll send you the official debriefing tonight.”

You nod quickly, pen scratching.

Then, silence again.

He doesn’t leave. Doesn’t move.

Finally, he speaks again, voice quieter.

“You keep the red pen.”

Your breath catches.

You look up slowly. “How did you know it was mine?”

He looks down at you. "You said it out loud when you found it. Three times."

You flush. Of course you did. Fucking loudmouth.

“You could’ve left it at the officer's tent,” you say, trying to salvage your dignity.

“I could’ve,” he agrees, no hint of sarcasm.

You scribble the last note down. “...Thanks again.”

A long pause. He steps closer—not uncomfortably close, but enough for the brazier’s heat to catch his silhouette.

“You write your own reports?” he asks.

You nod. “Most of them.”

He watches you for a moment longer. “I read them. Often. Even before the camp visit.”

Your pen stills.

“Oh,” you say softly.

His eyes are unreadable. “They’re good.”

Then: “That’s all.”

You nod, throat dry.

You gather your notes quickly, double-check your recorder (still on, thank god), and make for the flap—

“Your cadence is improving,” he adds before you step out.

You look back, breath misting.

“Thanks,” you whisper.

You step outside, heart thundering.

Snow still falling.

And for some reason, you can’t feel the cold. Not yet.

The ride back to the station is quiet. Snow thuds softly against the windows of the old transport vehicle, and the heater hums in a broken, uneven rhythm. You’re wedged between your notes and your recorder, knees tucked under your coat, fingers still tight around your pen.

You press play.

"Your cadence is improving.”

You pause it. Rewind. Press play again.

"Your cadence is improving.”

𐙚 A/N: School rlly fucked me up and I had to keep revising- there's so many groupworks, I'm gonna have work immersion too... Please kill me :(( Just had exams today, really funny because it's just the second week of classes but o welp. I'm sorry if the fanfic was delayed for weeks, but I'm posting the second part tomorrow, I swear! :(

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡

#mydei x reader #honkai star rail mydei #mydei smut #hsr mydei #honkai star rail #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr fluff #honkai star rail angst #honkai star rail x you #hsr angst #mydeimos #mydei fluff #mydei #amphoreus #mydei hsr

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crystallilytarot02 · 14 hours ago

Text

How to get more in touch with your spiritual gifts?

Pile 1

You can work succesfully with your spirit guides, try to be in touch with them, they can help you a lot. If you have an addiction or a bad habit, and you try to stop it, when you are alone, listen to what that inner voice says. It's your spirit guides, they will be there for you in the hard days. If you enjoy life, your intuition will get better. Be in the nature, laugh a lot, be with people you love. When you do this, your intuition will be on point without even trying. You can use Tarot or oracle cards too. Start with small questions. Also try to guess something small, like what color will be your friend's shirt when you next meet. This way you can be better in a fun way. You can have an incredible connection with your loved ones spiritually, you can meet them in your dreams, and you can send energy, healing. But don't send bad things, not even to bad people. If you have negative feelings, speak with someone or write it down, don't hold it in yourself.

Pile 2

You are probably a little more logical, but you can see things from a different perspective. Try to look at spiritual things with an open mind. You have a friend who is more spiritual, they can help you see things in a unique way. Even if you feel like you don't have spiritual talent, you will be surprised with the amount of symbols, synchronycities you will experience if you are more open. And those aren't only coincedences. You should work on the reason why you have this block in yourself against spirituality. You probably have some unresolved bad experience in your subconcious mind. But you have a good intuition actually, if you let yourself be more emotional, you sense people's vibe, you can predict things. Moving, walking, dancing is really good for you, it activates good energy in you. But if you want to feel an important thing or someone's real motive, you need to be alone, meditate, relax. Don't think about the problem, just relax, clear your mind, and you will get the answer.

Pile 3

You probably have intense dreams, and even if it feels chaotic, it always has a meaning. You can practice lucid dreams too, you will meet your future spouse in your dreams before meeting them in real life. You can feel while traveling that you lived in that city/country, you can feel an attraction to different cultures. If it didn't happened yet, you probably will have this experience one day. It will be definitely a meaningful event in your life, you can even move to another place after. You can be good in learning languages too, or one particular language, because of this past life. When you will heal from bad experiences, that's when your intuition will get better. You will see why something didn't worked out, even be grateful looking back. Until than, don't give up, you have a vision, and it's not just a daydream, it's your destiny. You can use vision boards, and visualisation. Try to keep balance in your life, don't overindulge in anything, that isn't good for your energy.

#tarot community #tarot #tarotblr #pick a card #pick a pile #tarot reading #free tarot

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delilahsturniolo · 3 days ago

Text

— 𝜗ৎ wildflower . . . c.s

in which . . . you see your ex boyfriend chris and his new girlfriend, your ex best friend at a party and confront them.

warnings . . . mentions of alcohol and being drunk, unresolved angst, slight panic attack, chris is kinda mean at first.

written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

HIT ME HARD AND SOFT WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #5

the music is too loud. the lights are too bright. and he’s standing too close. you weren’t even supposed to come tonight. but your friends begged, said it would be fun, said you needed to get out. said he probably won’t even be there.

liars. he’s across the room when you first notice him, red solo cup in one hand, other lazily resting on her waist. her. your old friend. the one who swore up and down she’d never touch him, who cried with you the night everything fell apart, who told you he didn’t deserve you. she’s wearing a necklace similar to the one he bought you last summer.

you swallow down the ache, grab whatever drink is closest, and pretend to laugh at a joke you don’t hear. your heart is already racing. not from love. from rage. he sees you before you see him walking over. his jaw clenched like it always is when he’s about to start something. the same walk. the same eyes. but not the same boy. “what’re you glaring at me for? like what you see?” he says flatly, voice slurred just a little. you blink. “fuck you.”

“yeah?” he scoffs, tilting his head. “you came here just to start something?”

“no,” you snap. “i came here to forget you exist.” he laughs then, bitter and small. “looks like that’s going great for you.” you hate him. god, you hate how familiar he still feels. how fast he can reach inside you and pull every buried thing to the surface. you bite the inside of your cheek, fists clenched. “does she know?” he frowns. “know what?”

“that you cried when i left?” you whisper, stepping closer. “that you begged me to stay? that you said you didn’t even love her?”

“shut up,” he says, quieter now.

“you told me it was always me,” you breathe. “and now you’re playing house with her like none of it meant anything.” his lips part like he wants to deny it. like he wants to tell the truth. but she’s there. behind him. watching. you turn to her. “you told me i deserved better. now you’re fucking him. so which one of us is the liar?” her mouth opens, but no words come out. she just shakes her head, glances at him, then walks away. she doesn’t even look back. she knew she crossed the line.

you feel it all at once. the betrayal. the heartbreak. the way your throat tightens until breathing feels like a chore. your vision blurs and you’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or the tears or the weight of every word you wish you hadn’t said. you try to walk away too, but your legs aren’t listening. “hey—” chris’s voice cuts through the static. “wait. wait, what’s going on?”

you stumble, lean against the wall, pressing your palms into your eyes. “i can’t—fuck—i can’t do this.” he reaches for you, hands hovering. “stop it, stop. calm down.” you don’t answer. can’t. you’re shaking and everything is too much and he’s too close and not close enough.

he doesn’t ask again. he just moves. arms around you. steady and warm and infuriatingly safe. he holds you like he used to, like you’re something breakable. like he’s afraid you already are. “c’mon,” he murmurs, voice low near your ear. “i’m taking you home.”

you try to protest, but it’s useless. he’s already guiding you through the crowd, shielding you from the stares, leaving his girlfriend behind. the cold air outside hits like a slap, but it’s easier to breathe out here. you sit in the passenger seat of his car, knees to your chest, while he drives in silence.

“you okay?” he asks after a while.

you turn your head, eyes red, voice hollow. “do i look okay?”

he nods like he deserves that. “i’m sorry.” you stare out the window. “for what?” he hesitates. “everything.” you laugh, but it’s not happy. it’s empty. “too late for that.” the car pulls up in front of your place. you unbuckle, about to get out, but he grabs your wrist gently.

“i miss you,” he whispers. “even now.” you hate him for saying that. you hate him for meaning it. because you still feel it too. even after everything. even after he ruined you. but you don’t say anything. you just get out and shut the door behind you, letting the silence swallow the things you’re too tired to scream. and he stays there, in the car. watching.

waiting.

too late.

too much.

too far gone.

like a wildflower trying to bloom in the wrong season.

💌: DID I CROSSSSSS THE LINEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE???????????

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sinsxo · 1 day ago

Text

symphony. —itoshi rin

cw. mdni! nsfw, fem!reader, toxic relationship dynamics, angst, degradation, emotionally charged arguments, make up sex, rough sex, soft aftercare.

based on this request.

note. loved writing this. had the perfect song in mind — symphony by highvyn ft. JEY.

synopsis. another cold war. unresolved arguments. you and rin can’t seem to talk without it ending in a fight — or something worse.

wc. 2.3k words, not proofread.

again.

you sighed, slumped on the couch in the living room of the apartment you shared with rin.

cold, bitter, and alone.

just like what your relationship had become.

you checked your phone again — looking for anything. a text, a missed call, even a single-word reply — just an update from rin.

none.

figures.

you and rin were in another cold war. tension high, wounds fresh from your last argument — yet neither of you did anything to fix it. it was just quiet now. empty.

the sound of the front door opening pulled you out of your spiral. rin walked in, fresh from training, the same blank expression on his face.

“didn’t think you’d come home,” you muttered, eyes still on your phone.

“don’t start.”

you scoffed. “don’t start? you do know you have a phone, right? a simple text would’ve been greatly appreciated.”

“didn’t think you’d care,” he replied flatly, already walking toward the bedroom without looking back.

you followed.

“you’re right. maybe i shouldn’t care next time,” you said, leaning against the doorframe. “couldn’t even spare five seconds for a damn message? i’m supposed to be your girlfriend, but i don’t know where you are half the time — your schedule, your plans — nothing.”

he exhaled through his nose. “can we not do this right now? i’m tired.”

“yeah? when are you not?”

he stopped by the dresser, jaw clenching. “my schedule’s packed even during breaks. i come home to this — to you — picking a fight. i leave for germany again in two days, and you can’t give me a fucking break?”

“i’m not picking a fight, rin. i’m asking for basic communication!”

“and using that tone that makes it worse,” he snapped. “it’s always about you, and i’m so fucking tired of it. drop it — we’ll talk next time.”

you stared at him, chest heaving. “next time? it’s always next time, and it ends like this every time. i hate it. i hate you.”

“good,” he said coldly. “the feeling’s mutual.”

and with that, he slammed the bathroom door behind him.

you stood there, seething. for someone so cold, he sure boiled fast.

you slammed the bedroom door shut behind you, throwing yourself onto the bed. lying on your side, you curled into yourself, your phone abandoned beside you.

how did it get like this?

every fight followed the same cycle.

you argued, you avoided, then you ignored each other until something snapped and it all spilled over again.

you let out a loud sigh. then another.

and by the third, the bathroom door opened.

“can you not?” rin’s voice came from the doorway of the master bathroom. “your sighing is so loud. it’s annoying.”

you rolled over, finally looking at him. “what? i can’t breathe now?”

he didn’t respond at first. just stood there, jaw clenched, putting on his clothes.

then he sighed. you understood him now, because that pissed you off too.

before you could say anything else, he walked over and sat beside you on the bed, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“look,” he said, voice low, tired. “i’m sick of this too. it’s not just you.”

you had your eyes closed, trying to shut everything out. but he saw the scrunch in your expression, your trembling lips.

“i don’t mean to give you the silent treatment,” he continued. “but the more we fight, the more i avoid you — not because i don’t care, but because i don’t want to say something i’ll regret. i know my temper, and i know yours. it’s like… fighting fire with fire. no control, and we both get burned. i just wish we’d just let our pride go sometimes.”

his voice dropped even lower.

“i know you don’t mean half the shit you say when you’re upset. but it still cuts deep. and i know i do the same too, no excuses for that. i just… i’m done pretending this is normal. that we’re fine.”

you slowly opened your eyes, then sat up, ashamed.

“i don’t mean to pick fights,” your voice came out small. “i just get so overwhelmed sometimes. we barely spend time together anymore. and when you come home exhausted, i feel like i can’t even talk to you. like i have to hold it in so you won’t get tired of me too.”

your voice cracked. “i didn’t mean to become the thing i feared. i didn’t mean to push you away.”

you looked at him then — eyes filled with guilt.

“i don’t want to be the reason you stop loving me. but sometimes i feel like i already am.”

“is that what you’ve been thinking?” he asked softly.

“yeah,” you whispered. “i’m scared you don’t need me the way i need you.”

rin leaned in, brows furrowed. “so that’s what this was about.”

you looked up, confused. “what do you mean?”

but before you could finish, he moved — leaning over you, arms caging you in as your back met the mattress.

“you could’ve just told me,” he muttered, voice low. “but no. you chose this way.”

his expression was tight. angry, yes — but not at you. not really. maybe at himself, for missing it. for not seeing it sooner.

before you could reply, his lips were on yours — rough, desperate. all emotion, no control.

maybe anger. maybe guilt. maybe frustration. maybe love.

your arms wrapped around his shoulders, tugging at his shirt. he broke the kiss only long enough to take it off, doing the same to you — undressing you with trembling hands.

then he was kissing you again. deeper. like he needed to.

you kissed him like you were afraid he’d leave mid-breath, and he kissed you like he was trying to make you stay.

“for someone who says they hate me,” he mumbled against your lips, “you sure hold on tight.”

“shut it,” you whispered, pulling him back into a kiss.

he groaned low in his throat, his lips trailing from your mouth to your neck, collarbone, chest — every inch of you. everything felt so raw, like you were making up with each other with touch instead of words.

you couldn’t even remember the last time you touched each other like this. not even a hug. not even holding hands.

and now you clung to each other like you’d shatter if you let go.

he spread your legs open before you realised.

you inhaled sharply, your thighs twitching under his touch.

“keep them open,” he muttered, voice low, warm breath ghosting over your inner thigh.

you tried to close them on instinct, flustered, unsure if you were still mad at him or you were just that needy, but his hands were firm, prying you apart again.

“don’t be difficult now. you’ve been doing that all day.” he looked up at you with that same cold, condescending stare he gave you during fights — but now it made your stomach flutter.

“fuck off.” you tried to sound strong, but your voice wavered.

“mm,” he hummed, fingers brushing over your heat, slow and teasing. “still got a mouth on you. but i wonder how long that’ll last.”

you reached down to swat his hand away, but he caught your wrist midair.

“don’t,” he glared at you. “you’ve talked enough for one night.”

he didn’t wait for a reply.

his mouth was on you before you could form a thought — tongue working slow circles that had your legs shaking in seconds. you gasped, back arching, one hand clutching the sheets while the other tangled itself in his hair, tugging hard.

“ah— fuck, rin—!”

he sucked harder, the pressure making your hips buck. he held them down with one hand, the other slipping up to your chest, pinching your nipple just to hear you gasp again.

“such a mess already,” he said, pulling away just enough to talk.

his lips and chin were slick with you. “missed me that much?”

you glared at him through your haze. “hurry up and fuck me already...”

he raised a brow. “so needy,” he sat up, grabbing you by the ankles and yanking you down the bed until your hips hit the edge. “spread.”

you did — barely — still glaring, defiant.

“you know this is all we ever do,” he muttered, voice sharp as his fingers dug into your thighs. “fight until we’re so fucking drained, then fall apart like this.”

his jaw clenched, eyes flickering over your bare body beneath him. he looked angry.

not just at you. maybe even more at himself.

“what the hell are we even doing?” he asked, voice low as he dragged two fingers along your slit, watching you squirm. “we tear each other apart just to crawl back like this every time.”

you didn’t answer. couldn’t.

your breath hitched as his fingers circled your clit — teasing you, like he was taunting you.

“you hate me,” he said — like he was reminding himself. “you say it all the time. say you’re done. say i’m not enough.”

then he pushed two fingers in — without warning — and you cried out, hips lifting from the bed before he shoved them down again.

“but here you are.”

your fingers curled into the sheets, the burn between your legs making your thighs tremble.

“every fucking time,” he hissed, curling his fingers until your back arched. “you hurt me. i hurt you. and we still end up like this.”

you bit your lip. your voice was shaky.

“what do you want me to say?”

he laughed — sounding bitter — before pulling his fingers out and replacing them with the thick press of his cock, dragging along your folds before pushing in all at once.

you screamed, nails scratching down his back as his hips were flush against yours. he didn’t ease in. didn’t ask. just pushed forward until he bottomed out and you cried out beneath him.

“don’t say anything,” he groaned against your neck. “just shut the fuck up for once.”

you bit his shoulder hard, and he moaned — gripping your hips hard enough to bruise before he started moving.

“so fucking tight for me,” he gritted as he thrusted into you roughly.

you choked on a moan, head spinning.

his pace didn’t slow — it grew rougher and sloppier — frustration spilling out in every thrust, every smack of skin, every breathless insult laced with something more. something like love mixed with anger.

his hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back.

“you make me fucking sick,” he muttered, lips brushing your jaw. “i hate what you do to me.”

but he kissed you anyway — deep, tongue sliding past your lips as he fucked you even harder. and you kissed him back like he was your oxygen, nails digging into his back like you needed to anchor yourself to him or you’d drown.

“this is the only time we don’t lie to each other,” he muttered. “when you’re under me like this.”

you couldn’t deny it. didn’t even try.

because he was right.

you wrapped your legs around his waist, dragging him closer, making him fuck you deeper until your cries turned into sobs — broken and breathless, like your pride was cracking at the seams.

and maybe it was. maybe his was too.

he leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath stuttering against your lips as his thrusts turned frantic, rough and filled with everything he couldn’t say.

“hate you,” you gasped, eyes glassy as you reached your release.

“i know,” he whispered, letting go inside you. “me too.”

but he kissed you again — tongue tangling with yours as your bodies moved in sync, like the fighting never mattered. like nothing ever did, except this.

you didn’t know what this was. maybe love. maybe something worse.

but whatever it was, it destroyed you every time. and you always came back for more.

then silence.

just the sound of your ragged breaths, coming down from both of your highs.

sweat clinging to skin.

your hand still tangled with his as he hovered over you.

he didn’t speak.

but he didn’t leave either.

rin pulled out slowly, watching the way you winced — watching your body twitch from the aftershocks, trembling from everything he gave you and everything he took.

then he cleaned you up without a word.

not rough. not soft.

just careful.

like he was trying not to be cruel anymore.

like it was the only apology he knew how to give.

you were in a daze for a bit until your eyes fluttered open — barely.

just enough to catch the tension in his shoulders, the tight line of his jaw, the way his brows furrowed as he wiped your skin with a warm, damp towel.

when he was done, he tossed it somewhere off the bed, pulling the blanket over you both before slipping in behind you without a sound.

and then he wrapped his arms around you.

tight like he didn’t want to let go.

desperate like he couldn’t.

you exhaled softly, the last of your strength giving out as you melted into him. his chest met your back and you pressed closer, instinctive, vulnerable.

he kissed your shoulder, then again. softer. like he didn’t mean to. like the ache inside him needed a place to rest.

you weren’t facing him.

but his hand found yours beneath the covers and linked your pinkies together — the way he always did when he couldn’t say sorry — when the guilt sat too loud in his throat and too heavy in his chest.

and even though not a single word passed between you, even though the air still pulsed with all the things left unsaid, you fell asleep like that.

this kind of love made you feel drained yet aching, tethered by one fragile finger and everything you both refused to say. but at this moment, with the both of you tangled in each other’s touch, nothing mattered — not the damage, not the distance — just the ache of holding on anyway.

because in two days, he’d be gone again.

just like he always was.

all images, aside from the dividers, do not belong to me. credit belongs to their original creators on pinterest & xhs.

#itoshi rin smut #rin itoshi smut #itoshi rin #rin itoshi #itoshi rin angst #rin itoshi angst #blue lock smut #bllk smut #blue lock #bllk #bluelock #rin itoshi blue lock #itoshi rin bllk #itoshi rin blue lock #rin itoshi bllk #🍒 ˎˊ —cherry's works.#🍒 ˎˊ —lace.

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slattlicker · 3 days ago

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╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * F O R G I V E M E N O T ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ a jschlatt x reader exes-to-lovers fic · chapter T W O ✦ if it makes you smile ✦ ↳ 3.4k words · slow build · college/uni au ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

✦ written with a female!reader in mind ✦ (but everyone’s welcome to suffer—i mean enjoy ♡)

you didn’t ask for this. but you didn’t stop it, either. now he’s giving you gifts like it’s a normal thing. and yeah. he brought two forks.

✧ ⊹ · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ⊹ ✧

╭˚₊‧͙⁺˚₊‧͙✧　❛ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ❜　✧‧͙˚₊⁺‧͙˚₊╮ ✧ mentions of past emotional neglect ✧ anxiety around reconnection ✧ implied depressive behavior ✧ college setting / casual profanity ✧ unresolved relationship dynamics ╰˚₊‧͙⁺˚₊‧͙✧　❛ 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄 ❜　✧‧͙˚₊⁺‧͙˚₊╯

✧ ⊹ · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ⊹ ✧

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

you wake up feeling weird.

not tired, not rested—just… off. like your brain’s still buffering from the night before.

you reach for your phone out of habit.

and there it is.

SCHLATT: morning. don’t forget to eat something. you got class at 10, right?

you just stare at it for a second. blank screen, black text. no “good girl.” no “sweetheart.” no voice memo at 2 a.m. slurring his regrets. just a quiet little check-in.

you didn’t block him. thought about it, a few times. even hovered over the button once.

but you didn’t.

you don’t text back.

not because you're mad. just because you don't know what to do with a text from your ex after months of not hearing anything from him.

✧

the sky is gray by the time you head out. that wet, chilly kind of morning where your hoodie sleeves feel damp no matter what. the quad’s half-empty. you take the path behind the music building to avoid the frat guys setting up some kind of table out front.

your first class is in a big lecture hall—intro to psych. easy credit, annoying professor, always freezing cold. you sit on the left side, third row from the front, second seat in. you always sit there.

which is why you freeze when you spot something already sitting on your desk.

a drink.

your drink.

exact flavors and toppings. still cold, no condensation yet. it was just dropped off.

your name is scrawled on the lid in sharpie in familiar handwriitng—but not just that. tucked underneath the drink, just barely peeking out, is a crumpled post-it note.

you glance around, like maybe you’re being watched. then slide into your seat and peel it out. it says:

figured this was better than showing up to give it to you. - j

your stomach turns a little. not in a bad way. just… a way. you’re still staring at the note when maya slides in beside you.

she takes one look at the drink, the post-it, your face—and gasps.

“oh my god. that’s from your ex, isn’t it.”

you don’t answer. but the color on your face certainly does. she grabs the cup and spins it in her hands like it might have a secret message written on the bottom.

“okay. no, actually, what the hell is this? when did you guys even start talking again? did he venmo you? is this, like, some kind of ‘drink truce’?”

you sigh, snatch the cup back, and take a sip.

it’s perfect. you hate that it’s perfect. you hate that he remembered.

you sort of wish your taste had changed, just so that you could have thrown or given this cup away. but it's been a miserable morning, and this class isn't going to make it any better...so you bring the cup to your lips again, and try not to think too much about where it came from.

✦ SCHLATT’S POV ✦

she didn’t text back.

which—fine. he wasn’t expecting her to, not really.

but that doesn’t stop him from checking his phone every five minutes like an idiot on a leash.

he even rereads the text once, just to make sure it didn’t sound too eager.

morning. don’t forget to eat something. you got class at 10, right?

yeah. no hearts. no weird overcompensating jokes. just enough. hopefully.

he adjusts the strap of his backpack and crosses the quad, head down. it’s cold, but not unbearable. cloudy. the kind of morning where campus smells like mud and energy drinks.

the drink in his hand is starting to sweat, so he wipes it on his sleeve. writes her name on the lid with the sharpie he borrowed from charlie. then he grabs a post-it from his notebook—crumpled from being in his pocket all morning—and writes:

figured this was better than showing up. - j

he doesn’t linger. just drops it off on the desk he knows she always sits in and ghosts out before anyone sees him.

by the time he gets to his own class, he’s wound tight.

he keeps his phone face-down. doesn’t want to see the nothing that’s still waiting there.

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

by the time you get to the dining hall, your group already has the usual table: long bench, chipped edges, always kind of sticky. you see maya before anyone else—waving you over like she’s on a game show.

you’re halfway there when you notice something different. there’s a tupperware container sitting on your tray spot. not one of the sad, sweat-covered plastic trays from the line. a real, packed meal.

you pause.

maya grins like she’s about to explode.

“ohhhhhh,” she says, “you’re gonna love this.”

you sit slowly. look down at the container. it’s packed tight: rice, perfectly sliced chicken, sauce you actually like, and a cookie that looks bakery-grade.

everything’s still hot. nothing’s touching. wow.

you look at her. “what is this?”

she’s already pulling out her phone. “your boy dropped it off like five minutes ago. walked right up to us like he wasn’t about to commit an act of emotional terrorism.”

jordan leans in. “he said, and i quote, ‘figured she wouldn’t want to eat whatever crap they're serving today.’ and then disappeared. like. he didn’t even break stride. whoosh, whoosh...a true man on a mission.”

“he sprinted, ” courtney says. “his giant ass shoes squeaking. poor guy was so fucking nervous that we were gonna attack him or some shit.”

you blink at the tupperware like it might explode. you haven’t even opened it yet and you’re already spiraling.

and then you do. and yeah—it’s real. and it smells amazing.

“okay,” maya says, nudging your elbow. “say what you want, but if he ever wants to drop me a lunch like this, i’m available.”

you roll your eyes, but your face is warm and red again.

you take a bite.

it’s perfect. first a perfect drink, then...a perfectly hot, dorm-cooked meal?

you can't help but smile at the taste of the hot rice and fluster at the thought of: what could be next?

✦ SCHLATT’S POV ✦

the classroom is dim. one of the ceiling lights is flickering. the projector screen is stuck on a slide about supply chain logistics—week 4, apparently—and the professor sounds like he’s trying to set a world record for how many times someone can say “optimization” in a sentence.

schlatt is not listening.

he’s sitting near the back, hood up, thumb hovering over his phone. there’s a notebook open in front of him, but he hasn’t written anything down in the last twenty minutes except a small, increasingly dark patch of scribbles in the corner.

he told himself he wouldn’t check again until the class ended.

he’s checked four times in the last six minutes. still nothing.

maybe she hated it. maybe maya made a joke and she got embarrassed and dumped the whole thing in the trash. maybe the cookie got soggy. did he pack it weird? should he have separated the sauce?

the container felt warm when he handed it off. that was a good sign, right?

god, he should’ve left a note. no—wait. no more notes. that's probably why she didn't respond after the drink delivery this morning. he's probably acting too clingy. right?

he’s spiraling. he knows he’s spiraling. but the damage is already done.

he flips his phone over again, just to check the time—

and her name lights up the screen.

Y/N ♥︎ you can’t bribe me into being your girlfriend again.

he reads it once. then again. and a third time, just to make sure it’s not a hallucination brought on by cafeteria fumes and emotional instability.

his lips twitch—almost a smile, but not quite. he sits up straighter, like that’ll stop his heart from doing the thing it’s doing.

he types back immediately.

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

you’re halfway through lunch when your phone buzzes.

SCHLATT: i know wasn’t trying to just wanted to start off your week strong and maybe make you smile then, immediately after: schlatt: not like make you just like if it happened that’d be cool not saying you owe me a smile

a beat later:

SCHLATT: god i’m making this worse huh

you stare at the texts, thumb hovering, brain blank.

across the table, maya sees the look on your face and goes, “oh no. what did he say now.”

you ignore her. she'll make a huge deal about you even entertaining him after all that word vomit. you type slowly.

Y/N: you’re definitely overthinking this

SCHLATT: yeah i do that sometimes this is me being normal btw this is my normal mode

Y/N: terrifying

there’s a pause. then:

SCHLATT: you smiled tho right

you bite your lip. don’t answer right away.

Y/N: yeah whatever …thanks j

✦ SCHLATT’S POV ✦

class ends with zero fanfare. the lights flicker once, the professor mumbles something about next week’s reading, and people start packing up like rats off a sinking ship.

schlatt barely heard any of it.

he’s been on autopilot since her text.

yeah whatever…thanks j

four words. that’s it. and yet somehow it’s enough to knock him on his ass. he can hear her voice, her little chuckle as she said it...

she could’ve left him on read. could’ve said nothing. but she didn’t. she responded. she joked. she used his initial.

he’s been replaying it all afternoon like a dumbass with a crush.

which—okay, yeah. that’s exactly what he is.

a crush on his ex-girlfriend that he's trying his damnedest to win back.

but still.

the second he’s out of class, he heads to the library. he actually wants to get shit done. maybe burn off some of the jittery energy in his chest. maybe just feel like a person with a functioning attention span again.

he takes the stairs up to the third floor, where it’s quiet and nobody breathes too loud. picks a table by the windows. pulls out his laptop and opens his notes.

he’s halfway through rewatching a lecture when he feels someone’s eyes on him.

looks up.

and there she is.

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

he looks up before you’re ready.

not in a startled way. just… like he knew you’d be there. like part of him was waiting for you here...even if he knows that you almost never come up to the third floor.

but when he sees you, he smiles. it’s not a big smile. barely noticeable, really. but it’s real. no teasing behind it. no smugness. just soft.

safe.

you freeze for half a second. consider walking right past him, pretending you didn’t see.

but you don’t.

your feet move before your brain can stop them, and the next thing you know, you’re standing at the edge of his table. you don’t say anything. he doesn’t either.

you hesitate.

not because you don’t know where to sit—there’s a chair directly across from him. and it’s a big table. too big, honestly.

you hesitate because he looks up and smiles and now your brain is suddenly way too loud with old memories full of mutual laughter.

you clear your throat, shift your weight, point at the chair across from him in the universal student body language of: “is this seat taken?”

he tilts his head, a little confused.

and then your hand kind of flutters. awkward. dumb. you gesture again, smaller this time, like you know what, never mind.

why are you even asking? this is the guy who disappeared on you for months. the guy who left when things got serious. who took your feelings, shoved them in a drawer, and slammed it shut because he didn’t know how to deal.

and now you’re asking for permission to sit with him? seriously?

you almost pivot away—almost leave it there.

but then he shifts in his seat, leans back a little, legs spread wide, and gestures toward the chair with a quiet:

“yeah. of course.”

no hesitation. no edge.

like it never even crossed his mind that he’d say no.

your stomach twists as you sit down.

✦ SCHLATT’S POV ✦

you sit across from him, and for the first time in weeks, he actually gets through a full page of notes.

not because you’re talking to him. you’re not.

you’re doing the opposite—quiet, efficient, head down, just the gentle sound of typing and paper rustling from your side of the table. and somehow, that helps.

your focus is contagious. he picks up on the rhythm of it—syncs to the pace of your writing, the way you pause to re-read something, the exact second you reach for your water bottle.

it’s grounding. but also?

it’s killing him.

because he keeps catching himself watching you.

not for long—just little flickers. a glance at your hands. the corner of your mouth when you frown at your screen. the way you still bounce your foot when you’re stuck on something.

things he didn’t even know he remembered.

it’s like his brain is taking inventory, stockpiling little reminders of what it was like to have you in his orbit.

and it’s messing him up.

he gets halfway through typing a sentence—then backspaces the whole thing.

focus. he’s supposed to be focusing.

but every few minutes, that thought slips in: she’s here. she’s here. she’s actually here. she asked to sit with me.

and god, he’s trying not to mess it up.

so after a solid block of quiet, after he’s made it through two pages of notes and only spaced out once or twice—he pushes his laptop closed.

just softly. intentionally.

then he tilts his head toward the hallway. raises a brow.

“break?” no words.

just the offer.

and when you nod—he thinks maybe this is the first time all day he’s let himself exhale.

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

the walk to the café is short. it always is. but somehow, with schlatt next to you—not touching, not even close enough to brush shoulders—it feels longer. or slower. or maybe that’s just your brain buffering. the two of you step inside. it’s quieter than usual. the late afternoon lull.

he holds the door. you say nothing.

you both drift to the bakery case. you stare at the drink menu. he tilts his head, studying the pastries like they’ve personally wronged him.

“get whatever,” he says, eyes still on the glass. “it’s on me.”

you roll your eyes. “didn’t you already pay a bit of your debt with that five-star michelin lunch?”

he smirks. “that was just an appetizer.”

you almost smile. you order something caffeinated. he orders something that sounds 100% artificially flavored. and then he points at one of the desserts behind the glass and says, “that too.”

the girl at the counter raises a brow. “want a fork?”

he doesn’t hesitate. “make it two.”

you blink. say nothing.

you end up at a small table near the window. sunlight spills across the surface in those weird golden strips that make everything feel older than it is.

he sets everything down. drinks. napkins. the sad little dessert. and quietly, without looking at you, he places one fork in front of your side. that’s it. no grand gesture. no comment.

like it’s just… assumed.

and somehow, that’s worse.

you sit. pick up the fork.

he digs in. keeps his eyes on the window. “it’s mid,” he says around a bite. “we chose wrong.”

you roll your eyes and stab a corner.

“we? you ordered it,” you say after a bite, dry. “don’t act like it betrayed you.”

schlatt snorts. “looked better in the glass. that’s not my fault.”

“you pointed at it with conviction. then forced me to be in on it too.”

he shrugs. “i have a history of bad decisions.”

you arch an eyebrow.

he catches it. sighs. “yeah, yeah. walked into that one.”

the silence that follows isn’t stiff. it’s tired, but not tense. comfortable, somehow.

✦ SCHLATT’S POV ✦

you keep eating.

he watches the people passing by the café window. pretends not to check your expression when you’re looking down. tells himself not to read into the little things—how you haven’t moved your seat farther away, how you haven’t called this a mistake.

then you speak.

quiet. barely over the hum of the coffee machines.

“thanks. for today.”

he glances over.

you don’t meet his eyes, but your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. like you're not sure if you should’ve said it. like maybe he’ll make it weird.

“yeah,” he says. “anytime.”

he means it.

he didn’t know how today was going to go. hell, he didn’t even know if you’d respond to the first text. he thought he knew you better than anyone, before things blew up. but when it ended, when he left, it was like someone flipped a switch and made him a stranger in his own memories.

that’s what scared him the most. and now?

you’re here. sitting across from him. splitting a dumb little pastry and still catching him off guard with the tiniest thank you.

it’s not everything. but it’s something.

and for once, he’s not spiraling about what this means next. not planning the whole rest of your relationship in his head. not worrying (too much) about your parents hating him or whether he makes enough money or if he’s the guy who can actually give you what you deserve.

he’ll still worry about all that. later. but right now?

one day at a time feels pretty damn good.

✧

they leave the café without saying much.

it’s not awkward.

just… full.

like the air between them is carrying everything they haven’t figured out how to say yet.

he keeps pace with her down the sidewalk, hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket, shoulder just a little too close to hers.

every so often, their arms bump. then, when their hands brush, she doesn’t pull away.

and when he shifts his fingers—just barely—she threads hers through his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he doesn’t breathe for a second. just holds on.

the walk is slow. campus fades into a blur of yellow lamps and sleepy foot traffic. everything’s quieter now. softer. the kind of evening that makes you think maybe life doesn’t have to be so loud all the time.

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t want to break whatever this is. whatever they’ve found today.

you squeeze his hand once.

and for a moment, it’s everything.

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

his hand is warm in yours.

you let him hold it.

because you don’t know the next time you’ll get to.

because today was… good.

and that’s what hurts the most.

it started with a text—simple, easy, like he hadn’t left months of silence between the two of you. then the drink, waiting at your desk like it was never a question. the packed lunch. the smiley texts. and then there was the library. him focused. steady. glancing up at you like he couldn’t believe you were really there. like he didn’t deserve it. like he wanted to deserve it.

and when he tilted his head—silent invite to take a break with him? you went.

the café. the dessert. the two forks.

the way he didn’t push, didn’t demand anything, just… showed up. of course, you can't be won over by materialistic things, but...there was a thoughtfulness behind today that you couldn't shake.

and now here you are, walking back to your dorm, hand in his, in the same rhythm you used to move in before everything went sideways.

it feels like deja vu.

it feels like something you wished for months ago.

it feels like too little, too late.

he used to freeze up at the thought of doing anything like this. used to shut down when you asked for more. and now? now he’s doing it without being asked.

you’d spent months wishing for this version of him.

and now that he’s here…you want to believe this could work. you do.

but you also remember what it felt like to sit in silence, waiting for him to care again. you remember trying to hold things together by yourself, telling your friends everything was fine while checking your phone more times than you’ll admit. you remember how easy it was for him to disappear.

and now?

now he’s here. fully. or at least, showing that he can be.

but you can’t unlive the part where he wasn’t.

so you hold his hand.

a little tighter.

one last time.

and you try to memorize what it feels like.

✧ ⊹ · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ⊹ ✧

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * E N D O F C H A P T E R T W O ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ remember how he disappeared for months? yeah. well. hahahahaha ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

📌 taglist - @f4sh10n-m4v3n

#vuewrites #jschlatt #schlatt #jschlatt x reader #schlatt x reader #jschlatt headcanons #schlatt headcanons #jschlatt imagines #schlatt imagines #jschlatt x you #schlatt x you #forgive me not #forgive me not slattlicker

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