#alarm clock coded

[snippe475]

texan flag waving behind me

remember the alarmo

mario "yahoo!" in the background

[dhhdss-rr]

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Lan Wangji Goes To Lotus Pier AU: Part 4: Deranged Bedfellows

(Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.5)

[dwtdog]

it sounds like dreams brother just because he mentioned that he worked with callahan at first, but maybe manager ken has some background in coding?? idk what kind of engineering theyd need so early on but who knows, maybe prototyping?

yeah i’m assuming it’s dreams brother rn tbh

[stonedopossums]

walked in this morning to several EMPTY kennels needing to be cleaned cuz closing shift didn't clean any of the departing dogs kennels 🖤🖤🖤

[stitchwraith-stingers]

goodnight omg im gonna get my bag tommrrow if i fuck up this phone call i swear to god

[abbotjack]

Um i have a request that can go either dr jack or dr robby, its up to you and the people🙌

Him figuring out you're pregnant before you even notice? Like he's so in tune with your body that when he's in you or when he feels you up he notices the subtlest change 👀 and when you wonder why your period is late its the final 1% for him 🤭 now he's 100% sure before you even suspect it

Absolutely, here’s the Jack Abbot version—grounded, intimate, and very Jack-coded.

LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST <3

content/warning : pregnancy symptoms, emotional overwhelm, soft marriage vibes, denial, reader in her "i’m fine" era, jack in his "no you're not" era, smut (married, emotionally grounded), pregnancy, food/scent aversion, mild mention of nausea

words : 3,144

You’ve been married to Jack Abbot for thirteen months and a week—but the two of you have been together for four years.

And somehow, you’re still learning him.

Still adjusting to the way he folds his t-shirts into perfect thirds. Still moving his boots away from the front door, even though he always leaves them there. Still catching the way he’ll wait until the lights are off, the blankets pulled up, and then remember one more thing he has to tell you.

You know his rhythms. His moods. The way he kisses you a little differently when he’s worried but won’t say it out loud.

What you sometimes forget is that Jack’s job never really ends—he never really clocks out.

He’s an ER doctor. Which means he’s always watching. Always reading. Always two steps ahead of a problem you haven’t realized is there.

MONDAY – The Morning Slips

The light’s already different when you open your eyes.

Softer. Higher.

You blink at the ceiling, then at the clock.

7:08.

Your breath catches. “Jack?”

You sit up in a rush—sweats and a worn old shirt clinging from sleep—and nearly trip getting out of bed. He’s not next to you. Your alarm isn’t ringing. Your phone is somehow still on Do Not Disturb.

“Jack?”

“Kitchen,” he calls back, voice calm.

You shuffle into the hallway, hair barely brushed, already calculating how fast you can get dressed and be out the door. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

Jack looks up from the coffee pot. He’s already dressed—scrubs on, ID clipped, stethoscope tucked in his jacket pocket.

“You didn’t even flinch when your alarm went off. I turned it off after the third round.”

You stare at him. “You let me oversleep?”

“You never sleep through your alarm,” he says, stepping toward you with a travel mug in one hand and a piece of toast in the other. “So I figured something was up.”

You groan. “I’ve got Q1 projections due today.”

“I emailed Rhonda. Told her you were running late.”

You blink. “You emailed my boss?”

“She sent back a thumbs up emoji.’”

Your laugh comes out surprised. “She would do that.”

“I made your coffee. It’s in the mug with the chip you like.” He hands it to you. “No cream. You’ve been skipping it lately.”

You frown. “Have I?”

Jack just nods. “You said it tasted too sweet last week.”

You take a sip. Still feels off—but you smile at him anyway.

“Thanks.”

He leans down and kisses your forehead. “Go shower. I laid out your dark gray sweater—the one you like for presentation days. Pants are on the chair.”

You freeze. “You picked out my clothes?”

“Only because I figured you’d be half-asleep and half-angry. I’m avoiding both.”

“You’re a menace,” you say, but it’s soft.

“You married me anyway.”

He brushes your hair back, fingers lingering a second too long at your temple.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Me? I’m great.”

“You’re looking at me weird.”

He shrugs. “I think I’m just impressed.”

“With what?”

“How well I know you.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re smug before 8 a.m.”

“I’ve earned it,” he says, nudging you toward the bedroom. “Go get ready. Your spreadsheet empire awaits.”

Thirty minutes later, as you’re rushing out the door with your laptop bag and still-wet hair, you find a granola bar tucked into your coat pocket.

The one you always forget you like until you’re starving at 10 a.m.

You don’t remember saying anything about needing one.

But Jack knows.

Of course he knows.

TUESDAY – Heels and Sore Feet

When you come through the door, Jack’s already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, dish towel slung over his shoulder like he’s been home a little while—but not long enough to fully settle.

You kick off your work shoes in the entryway, wincing slightly as you press your toes into the hardwood. “Remind me again why I thought real leather heels were a good investment.”

Jack leans back from the sink and tilts his head toward you. “Because they were on clearance and you were feeling powerful.”

“Right.” You flex your feet. “Power comes at a cost.”

“Come here.”

You shuffle toward him, dropping your tote bag by the counter. He doesn’t kiss you yet—just takes your hand and guides you to sit at one of the stools. Then he crouches, gently lifting your foot into his lap.

“Jack,” you laugh, “you do not need to���”

He starts massaging your arch with his thumb, firm and slow. “You’ve been on these all day. Let me.”

You lean back with a sigh. “This is how you trap me. You pretend to do the dishes, then you pamper me into silence.”

He smiles but doesn’t look up. “Worked yesterday.”

You wiggle your toes and close your eyes. “Feels so good it’s kind of criminal.”

“Good,” he murmurs.

He glances up just once—and clocks the light puffiness in your ankles.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just moves to your other foot.

After dinner—simple roasted veggies and couscous, eaten off the same two mismatched plates you’ve had since your first apartment—he walks behind you and wraps his arms around your waist while you’re rinsing your glass.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says into your shoulder.

“Just thinking about that ridiculous Excel model I have to finish.”

He kisses your hair. “Take tomorrow slow if you can.”

You nod, but your hand rests gently over his where it sits across your middle.

You don’t notice it.

Jack does.

He says nothing.

WEDNESDAY – The Bloat Debate

You’re standing in front of the hallway mirror, poking at your stomach with the kind of exaggerated annoyance only someone married can safely get away with.

Jack walks by on his way to the bedroom, dressed down in sweatpants and a t-shirt, pausing when he sees your face in the reflection.

“You good?” he asks, leaning casually against the doorframe.

You sigh dramatically. “I look like I swallowed a beach ball.”

Jack walks up behind you, eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “A small one, maybe. Like a decorative beach ball.”

You shoot him a sharp look. “Jack.”

He holds up both hands. “Hey. You brought it up.”

“I said I feel bloated. I didn’t ask for live commentary.”

He smiles and wraps his arms loosely around your waist, hands resting over the area you were just inspecting. “You’re the one poking yourself like a Pillsbury commercial.”

You snort. “I’m serious. None of my pants fit right this week. I sat down today and my waistband tried to fight me.”

“You’ve been eating the same stuff. Drinking water?”

“Barely. Work’s been insane.”

He kisses your temple. “Could be stress. Could be timing. Or maybe your body’s still sorting through Monday night’s gourmet masterpiece.”

You squint at him. “What masterpiece?”

“The one where you ate dill pickles, white cheddar popcorn, and two spoonfuls of peanut butter. In that order.”

You pause. “…It hit the spot.”

Jack grins. “Sure it did. My stomach was scared just watching.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

“I was afraid to interfere.”

You smirk. “You should be.”

He grins. “Noted.”

You shake your head, laughing, then rest your hands over his. “You sure it doesn’t look like anything?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away.

Because it does.

Not in a dramatic way. But he knows your shape. Your weight. The way your body settles against his at night. And lately, something’s… shifted.

Still, he kisses your shoulder and says simply, “You’re still the best thing I’ve ever looked at.”

You roll your eyes, leaning back into him. “Suck-up.”

He hugs you tighter. “Only for you.”

THURSDAY – The Blanket Negotiation

You’re on the couch by the time Jack gets home—already in pajamas, legs tucked under you, remote in hand, a bag of sour candy opened beside a half-finished cup of tea.

He walks in, shrugs out of his coat, and takes in the scene like a man walking into a painting he’s seen every day for four years and still isn’t over.

“You started without me,” he says.

“You’re twenty minutes late. Statute of limitations has passed.”

Jack walks over, leans down to kiss you, and pauses.

He looks at the bag of sour candy. Then the tea. Then back at you.

“That combo feels… bold.”

You shrug. “It’s balance. My body wanted chaos and comfort.”

He slides onto the couch beside you. “Didn’t you say your grilled cheese was ‘too much’ at lunch?

You sigh. “It was aggressive. The cheese had opinions.”

Jack laughs softly. “And now you're chasing it with citrus acid and sleepytime tea.”

You offer him a sour gummy. “Don’t question the system. Just participate.”

He takes one. “Yes, ma’am.”

Jack tries to nudge the blanket to him. You hold your edge tighter. “I got cold first.”

“I just walked in from outside.”

“You’ve got more body heat.”

He squints. “You’re hoarding it.”

“You’re late and you didn’t text. I get blanket privileges and first pick on snacks.”

He laughs, raising his hands in surrender. “I can’t argue with that logic.”

You smirk and finally shift, letting him under the blanket.

Once settled, he rests his hand on your leg—his thumb absently drawing circles near your knee while your attention returns to the screen.

You’re focused on the show.

Jack’s focused on you.

The blanket drapes across your midsection, and he notices the slight pressure you’ve been keeping there all week—how your hand keeps resting just under your ribs like your body’s trying to say something your brain hasn’t caught yet.

He doesn’t bring it up.

Instead, he leans a little closer.

“You feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” you mumble. “Just tired. I’ve been tired all week.”

He nods. “You’ve been going hard.”

“I haven’t touched laundry all week. I’m down to mismatched socks and silent prayers.”

Jack smiles softly. “Want me to run a load?”

“You did the last one.”

“I’m on a streak.”

You lean your head on his shoulder. “I married well.”

“You did.”

FRIDAY – The Way You Feel Tonight

It starts when you straddle his hips.

Jack’s back is against the headboard, pillows kicked aside, and you’re already skin-on-skin—his t-shirt discarded on the floor, yours halfway up your ribs. You’re in nothing but underwear, palms on his chest, nails dragging lightly across the sparse hair there.

He watches you like he’s trying to burn the image into memory.

“You sure you’re not too sore from the gym yesterday?” you tease, rolling your hips just enough to make his breath hitch.

“Positive,” he says. “Although if I die right now, I want it on record this was worth it.”

You grin. “Noted.”

His hands slide up your thighs slowly, thumbs pressing into the backs like he’s reading your muscles through the skin. Then his touch goes gentle. Palming. Bracing.

But when they move up to your waist, they stop.

His fingers settle across your lower belly, just under your navel. Familiar territory. But it doesn’t feel quite the same.

The curve is a little firmer. Rounder. Not bloated—different.

You keep moving over him, unaware. His eyes never leave your face.

“You okay?” you ask, cocking an eyebrow.

Jack refocuses. “Yeah. Just... distracted.”

“You can stare later,” you say, lifting your hips to tug your underwear down. “Hands now. Mouth soon.”

“God, I love you,” he mutters.

“Then prove it.”

He flips you onto your back, mouth already at your collarbone, breath warm, kisses slow. He trails one hand between your legs and groans when he finds you wet and ready, slicker than usual.

You pull him down with a hand behind his neck. “Come on.”

But he’s still slow.

Like he’s measuring.

Like he’s trying to feel every millimeter of you, confirm what he already suspects.

You’re tighter. Not tense. Just changed.

You gasp as he eases inside. “Jesus—”

It’s good. So good. His hips rock into you slow, steady, deep. One of your legs hooks over his back, heel pressed to his side, chasing friction.

Every time he hits just right, your hand fists in the sheets. Your moans are breathless, open-mouthed, involuntary.

Jack watches your face like it holds answers. His pace stays smooth, even as you start to beg.

“Jack,” you gasp, eyes fluttering. “Harder.”

He gives you what you want. A little more pressure. A little less space between his body and yours.

You feel full. Stretched. But not uncomfortable.

You feel held.

And when you come—hard, back arching, fingers digging into his shoulder—he follows seconds after, groaning your name into your skin like he’s never said anything truer.

He brushes your hair back, fingertips trailing your temple.

“You’ve been looking at me weird all night,” you murmur.

Jack smiles. “No, I haven’t.”

You lift an eyebrow. “You were studying me.”

“I was watching you.”

“Same thing.”

He doesn’t respond.

He just presses his hand to your stomach again—light, thoughtful, like he’s grounding himself more than anything.

You roll your eyes playfully. “Don’t get sappy on me now.”

Jack just smiles.

“I’m already in deep,” he says quietly.

You kiss him once, quick. “Weirdo.”

SATURDAY – The Vendor You Walked Away From

It’s just after noon when you stop by the market. Something normal. Familiar. Something you and Jack do when there’s nowhere else you need to be.

You loop through the vendors casually, fingers brushing the edge of a produce crate, checking for ripeness. Jack keeps pace beside you, a canvas tote slung over one shoulder. He doesn’t say much. He doesn’t have to. He’s just watching the way you move.

You’ve always been precise. Sharp, even in small motions.

But today, there’s hesitation.

You reach for a bunch of mint, fingers brushing the stems—then pause.

Jack notices before you say anything.

You pull your hand back, subtle, and move on to the next table without a word.

At the bakery stall, you order for both of you. Jack takes a bite of the rosemary bread. You don’t touch yours.

He watches you stare at it for a few seconds too long.

“I’ll eat it later,” you say finally, tucking the paper bag into the tote. “Not in the mood right now.”

He doesn’t press. Just nods, and walks with you.

Fifteen minutes later, you pass a vendor handing out samples of honey and cheese—something you’d normally stop for. Your eyes flick over the setup, then move away quickly. Not forced. But intentional.

You keep walking.

Jack stays silent until you’re halfway to the car.

“Did that smell bother you?”

You glance at him. “What?”

“The cheese. You looked at it like it turned your stomach.”

You shake your head. “No. I just didn’t want it.”

He nods once. Doesn’t push.

You unlock the car. He loads the bag in the backseat. You slide into the passenger side and adjust the seatbelt low.

He notices that too.

On the way home, the radio’s low. You’re watching traffic, thumb tapping absently against the console.

Jack glances at your profile once. Then again.

“You’ve been different this week,” he says.

You don’t look at him. “So have you.”

There’s no bite in it. Just quiet truth.

He exhales through his nose. “That’s fair.”

You turn your head finally. “Is there something you’re not saying?”

Jack watches the road. His hands stay steady on the wheel.

“No,” he says after a pause. “You’ll say it first.”

SUNDAY – Three Weeks Late

It’s just after 11. The laundry’s done. The dishwasher’s running. You’ve wiped down the counters twice.

You’re standing at the fridge, pinning up a receipt, when your eyes catch the calendar.

Your stomach dips.

You count the days with your finger—slowly, carefully, like you don’t quite trust yourself.

One. Two. Three—

Three weeks late.

Not five days. Not “I think I skipped one.” Three.

You turn your head toward the living room. Jack’s on the couch, half-sunken into the cushions, phone in hand, scrolling through the news without really reading it. His coffee sits untouched on the table. One leg stretched out, the other—his prosthetic—resting beside him like it always is when he’s home and grounded, the kind of settled comfort only the two of you know by feel.

You don’t mean to say it yet.

But it’s out before you can take it back.

“Jack?”

He looks up instantly. “Yeah?”

You stay by the fridge, fingertips grazing the door like it’s anchoring you.

“I’m... three weeks late.”

There’s a long pause.

Jack doesn’t move right away. Just watches you—quiet, focused, already reading every inch of your face.

Then, calmly, he leans forward.

His movements are familiar: practiced, unfussy. He shifts to the edge of the couch, pulls the prosthetic toward him, and straps it on like he’s done a thousand times—smooth, sure, muscle memory in every motion.

You don’t speak. Just watch him move through it with the same quiet purpose he’s carried through every hard season of your life together.

When he stands, it’s quiet—just the familiar click of the prosthetic locking in and the muted slide of his socked foot across the hardwood.

He crosses to you without hurry.

When he stops in front of you, his voice is low. Certain.

“Do you want to take a test?”

You nod.

“I don’t have one.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah, you do.”

You blink.

“Top drawer,” he says simply. “I bought one Monday.”

You stare at him. “You—what?”

Jack shrugs. “I figured you’d see it when you were ready.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You’re not even a little surprised?”

He steps closer, voice low, steady. “You’ve been different. Not in a bad way—just… off your rhythm. You’ve been switching between hoodies in the middle of the day like none of them fit right. You keep standing at the fridge and forgetting what you opened it for. And your leftover curry—the one you swore was better the second day? You didn’t even take a bite.”

You stare at him. “You kept track of all of that?”

“I love you. I notice you.”

You go quiet.

Then reach for his hand.

“Come with me?”

“Of course.”

You sit on the bathroom counter while the test processes. Jack stands beside you, leaning against the sink. Neither of you talk. There’s nothing left to say.

You both look down at the result at the same time.

Positive.

You exhale like it’s the first full breath you’ve taken all week.

Jack rests his hand gently on the counter behind you—not pushing, just there.

Your voice breaks the silence.

“We’re really doing this.”

Jack nods. “We already are.”

You smile—small, but it stays.

And Jack leans in, brushing a kiss to your temple like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done.

[dmumt]

why is everything that could possibly go wrong in my life doing just that

[nitingohel-blog]

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[darkdragon768]

I got woken up by a woodpecker pecking at our house today.

Wtf is this

[missadangel]

MAKE HIM DISLIKE LOVE YOU

Harry Castillo x Reader (The Materialists)

Chapter 12: You Are The Reason

prev chapter series masterlist next chapter(coming soon)

Chapter Summary: To make a fresh start, you need to deal with the struggles from the past. For Harry, this became his main goal, focusing only on the love between you two and leaving no space for anything else. Warnings: 18+ (smut, MDNI) kinda romantic comedy stuff, fluffy, angst, lying, soft and caring Harry Castillo, Lucy as his ex, John as Lucy's ex, wealth, expensive gifts, drinks, money, cars, language, sexual tension, oral sex, p in v sex, kissing, slow burn, power imbalance, I might have missed some warnings; I will update them in due time. Chapter Word Count: 9,3k, FEELINGS, romance, violence, emotions, making up, redemption, intrigue, tension, mention about guns, love, propose (its happening!), sharing a bed, confessions, a little tiny angst, happy ending... authors note: Thank you all for your support, asks, comments, reblogs and likes. I appreciate each and every one of you! Love you all!

On a Sunday morning in Manhattan.

Waking up early can feel like the hardest thing in the world—no matter who you are. Whether you're a student, a regular employee, a wealthy CEO, or even a billionaire with an empire, the struggle is universal.

After all, Sunday is often the only day to truly unwind.

At least, that's what Harry believed. He thought he'd treat himself to a late morning, hoping to linger in bed a little longer. Sleep had been hard to come by lately, and even though he splurged on a sleep mask—something he’d never tried before—he was still nodding off at three in the morning.

Letting out a quiet groan, he fumbled around on the nightstand, his eyes still covered by the mask, trying to grab his ringing phone.

He knew it wasn’t Oliver calling; it was probably Maria or, more likely, someone else entirely. He figured you wouldn’t be calling, especially after Zoe caught the two of you in your room. But there was still a tiny glimmer of hope, so he cleared his throat and answered.

"Yes?"

“Code red, Harry,” a woman’s voice responded, urgent and serious.

Harry’s heart raced as he tore off the sleep mask. He slowly realized it was Sofia's voice. What he hadn’t realized was that he had just answered a video call from his mother. The alarm in Sofia's voice alerted him, and when Valeria appeared on the screen, he barely managed a coherent thought.

“Jesus Christ!”

Harry squinted through the haze of sleep as he tried to adjust to the bright morning light blooming across his room, puzzled by his mother’s reaction.

“Sofia, look at him. He looks utterly miserable! Oh Harry, my son, I don’t even know what to say," Valeria exclaimed.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Good morning to you too, mother.” He raised an eyebrow. “Wait, did you just call me miserable?”

Valeria leaned the phone closer to her face. “You wear a sleep mask because you can’t sleep! I can see the bags under your eyes from here; plus, waking up alone in bed is downright miserable.”

“Maybe getting you that phone with a 4k video quality wasn’t such a great idea after all,” Harry muttered under his breath.

“At least I can watch over you from here, since I can't leave the house.”

Harry frowned, noticing the clock on the nightstand reading 7:45. “If you're done with your early Sunday morning ritual of waking me up and criticizing me, I’d love to get some more sleep, Mrs, Castillo,” he muttered, sinking back into his pillow while keeping the phone propped on its side in his hand to stare at his mother.

“You no-good son! What are you waiting for? Why haven’t you made up with her yet? You should be up doing something to win her back!” Her voice rang loud, and as she leaned forward, Sofia had to catch the phone before it slipped from her grip.

“Calm down. We’ve agreed to start over. I offered to take her out to dinner, and she said yes. We’ll sort things out.”

“Sofia, hold the phone properly,” Valeria scolded, lifting it higher to frame her face. “You should ask her to marry you! Come and get the ring—unless you want me to ask Harry Winston's to give it a polish first, since it’s been stuck in the drawer for years.”

“You definitely should; it’s one of their first, rare pieces,” came another voice from somewhere off-screen.

“Is that Maria?” Harry squinted, recognizing the teasing tone.

“Hey bud,” Maria waved at the camera.

“Of course, it’s you. Who else would be spying on my life with my mother?”

“If you visited your mother more often, I wouldn’t have to keep her in the loop,” Valeria retorted.

“I’m a 45-year-old adult. I can handle my own problems,” Harry grunted.

“It’s tough to say your methods of problem-solving actually work,” Maria chimed in.

“Sofia, show him that picture on the tablet,” Valeria instructed. The image displayed was of a small child.

“Who is this?” Harry asked, squinting at the screen.

“Mateo's son—he’s five years old now.”

“His second son,” Sofia corrected, looking at the screen as if sharing a well-kept secret.

“Oh right, his second,” Valeria echoed.

Harry sighed heavily.

Valeria flicked through her phone and showed another pic of a newborn baby with a guy holding her. “Hugo just had a baby girl last week.”

“Didn’t he just get married last year?” Harry muttered, surprised.

Valeria nodded and continued, “Maybe he wanted to make his mother happy by giving her a grandchild.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Oh, and guess what? Daniel is engaged and getting married soon. Can you believe it?”

Harry was struggling with the news. “Well, it’s his second marriage; that doesn’t really count.”

“He’ll be tying the knot for the second time while you’re still single, just so you know,” Valeria pointed out.

“Come on, Sofia, why don’t you pull up Uncle Fernando’s son’s Instagram? He just got married,” Maria suggested.

Harry let out a frustrated sigh. “Enough already. I get it.”

“You do? Then it’s time to take action.”

“And don’t take too long,” Maria said sipping her coffee.

“Stop bossing me around. I’m not ignoring what she wants. She asked for time, and I’m giving her that.”

“Ugh, men... They just don’t get it,” Maria replied.

“Not at all,” added Valeria.

“They’re all the same,” Sofia said with a disapproving look.

“Maybe it’s because you’re all are more complex than the hardest riddle,” Harry retorted before ending the video call.

It was too much.

Not a moment passed without him thinking about how to win you back, and the pressure from his mother only added to his frustration. He ran his hand over the pillow and sheet, glancing at the empty side of the bed.

He sighed deeply, holding the pillow in his lap, his heart aching at the thought of wrapping you in his arms instead. Each minute without you made the bed feel as cold as ice, while it once felt so warm with you by his side.

He frowned as he remembered that you were postponing the dinner arrangement the last time you spoke on the phone.

Once again, he picked up his phone, resting his chin on the pillow as he opened your chat screen. As he did every morning, he gazed at your profile picture and sighed. You had changed it two weeks ago; you smiled sweetly at the camera, holding a tray of the cheesecakes you baked when you first opened your shop. And, like every morning, gloom washed over him, mixed with anger.

You were just a short distance away in your cousin’s apartment, likely sleeping in your own bed instead of beside him in his.

In your absence, he lost the excitement to plan his free days; nothing felt appealing when you weren’t part of it.

He couldn’t even let himself dream anymore.

How could he?

Nothing held meaning without you.

You were everything he ever longed for, and you would forever be intertwined with every dream he would have.

You were all he ever wanted.

The truth hit Harry harder than ever before. It had been four days and eighteen hours since he last saw you, since he last felt your touch, and time continued to tick away.

What the hell was he waiting for?

With a sudden burst of frustration, yet fueled by determination, he threw off the covers and climbed out of bed.

The same morning in Brooklyn...

Sunday morning wasn’t shaping up any better for you either. The moment you woke up, just like Harry, your eyes drifted to the other side of the bed, thoughts of him flooding your mind. But your guilt paled in comparison to the weight of his. You had managed to come to terms with your feelings, promising yourself there would be no physical contact until your first date—a crucial step toward reconciliation after the breakup. You resolved to avoid him as much as possible, but it was proving to be an uphill battle. It felt like your heart was trapped in an iron cage, desperately trying to break free, and you had to suppress the painful thudding for now. To help keep your mind off things, you found a new pastime: develop new recipes for the bakery. The busier you kept yourself, the more you could listen to your head instead of your heart.

You decided to enter the upcoming chef competition to elevate the bakery’s unique offerings, but you needed a standout product to present. So, you set out to shop for inspiration. Many of the fruit markets were either closed or opened late on Sundays, but the one on 14th Street in Manhattan had fresh produce and was open every day of the week.

Having finished the morning’s cooking at the store and getting everything prepped and ready, you left Zoe and the others in charge. As you strolled toward the fruit shop, your phone rang. It was Jack, peppering you with questions about Melanie. You answered honestly, but it was clear he wasn’t buying her act of being the innocent daughter.

Despite everything, he seemed genuinely grateful for your helping her work at your bakery. His mood shifted to anger when you mentioned Alan buying the shop, and his fatherly instincts kicked in. Jack often expressed that he wished you were his real daughter instead of Melanie—a sentiment that resonated with you. There were times you envisioned him as your father rather than your own, considering how strained your relationship was with your grumpy, withdrawn, hard-ass dad.

Yet, despite the differences between Jack and your father, they shared one glaring flaw: both ignored their own mistakes. Jack was blissfully unaware of Alan's involvement in drug smuggling, and you were relieved; you didn't want him to get caught up in that mess. Besides, he probably wouldn’t have approved if he knew you were helping the NYPD commissioner with this situation. It had to remain a secret.

The fruit market was quiet, most New Yorkers likely still busy with brunch. As you browsed through the aisles, your phone rang again. This time, it was a video chat from Valeria.

You sighed and glanced around before picking up. “Hello, Valeria,” you said, waving.

Her smile beamed back, brighter than your own. “Hey, cariño. I wanted to check on how you're doing—”

Suddenly, a hand reached from behind you and grabbed your phone. You turned in shock to see Harry, holding your phone and looking at his mother through the screen. “Leave her alone. You can pester me all you want, but not her.”

“What the— Harry—”

Harry ended the video call and handed your phone back to you. You stood there, trying to wrap your head around what had just transpired. “Harry, what do you think you’re doing? Why did you hang up on your mom?”

“I just saved you, darling,” he replied with that charming smile.

Oh, that smile—so disarming it made you forget everything: where you were, what you were doing, who you were.

You turned your head away, trying to shake off your attraction. “What are you doing here anyway? How did you know I was here?” You fidgeted with a package of blueberries. “Only Zoe and Nick... Wait a minute. Is he your spy?"

Harry picked up a mango, inspecting it. “Spy? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Harry...”

"Baby..."

You shared a long gaze, each lost in the other’s eyes.

“...We promised not to see each other until dinner, to create some distance between us.”

He smirked. “Darling. If we put any more distance between us, we might as well be two neighboring countries with no diplomatic relations.”

You rolled your eyes, stifling a laugh.

“Besides, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not here to break our agreement. It’s just a coincidence.”

“Oh really? Then why are you here?”

Harry glanced around the fruit section. “Fruits. I came to buy some. This was the only place open in the neighborhood.”

“Are you saying you came here to shop by yourself? All right, Mr. Castillo, what fruit are you planning to get?”

Harry looked over at the nearby fruit display. “I think I’ll go for the blueberries. I love them; I’m going to toss them in my smoothie.”

You chuckled. “That’s not blueberries, that’s cranberries. And a smoothie might not be the best choice since you don’t like sour flavors.”

You both exchanged smiles, pleasantly surprised by the detail you remembered about him. Harry put the cranberries back, looking a bit sheepish. “I honestly thought they were unripe blueberries,” he admitted. “But what about you? I haven’t seen you with a bag yet.”

You glanced at the berries again. “I actually came here to rediscover a flavor I can barely remember.”

“Is this about your special dessert?”

“Yeah. When I was a kid, my mom would make a pie in the summer with fresh fruit from the farm. The aroma was so intoxicating; I can still recall the smell, like a warm breeze. The cream was infused with wild strawberries. Unfortunately, the ones here just don’t measure up to what I remember. I still need to buy some and give it a try.”

"You could just order online. It is a waste of time coming here, especially with how busy you are. Don’t you ever get exhausted?"

You picked a fresh strawberry and held it out for him to smell. “Take a whiff of this.”

Harry inhaled deeply, savoring the sweet scent.

“Why would I choose to order online when I can savor the vibrant colors and intoxicating scents of this fresh, succulent fruit right here? Plus, life is out here on the streets, Mr. Castillo. When was the last time you fed or petted a cat or a dog?”

He couldn't find the words to respond, instead simply smiling with admiration.

You bought the mountain strawberries, and Harry settled on the blueberries.

As you both exited the market and wandered through Central Park, you generously shared some dog food you had purchased earlier with a few stray dogs, giving one a gentle pat on the head. Harry followed suit, smiling at the experience, clearly appreciating this side of you.

“How can you be so amazing?” he murmured, locking eyes with you. 

You smiled back, feeling your cheeks warm. 

"Sometimes I wonder if you're a real Cinderella, a fairy tale beauty—more a product of my imagination than reality." 

You giggled. "I’m not sure that’s a very healthy compliment." 

You both shared a laugh. 

Just then, a dog emerged from the trees, making both of you tense.

“That dog,” Harry pointed out, nervous.

“Muddy and soaked,” you said, mirroring his tone.

As you feared, the dog instinctively shook itself dry, flinging mud and water everywhere. You closed your eyes and shielded yourself, while Harry did the same for you, but it was too late. The dog’s fur sprayed you with a torrent of wetness.

Now both soaked and dirty, you caught each other’s surprised expressions. Onlookers, including children and tourists, couldn’t help but laugh at the scene.

You burst into laughter, taking in your drenched state down to your underwear. “You naughty dog,” you muttered, looking at the oblivious animal, which was too busy enjoying the food to care.

“Great, just great,” you said in exasperation.

“What was that, honey? Something about ‘life on the street’?” he teased.

“How was I to know a wet dog would come out of nowhere?” you grimaced. “Oh, I smell terrible. There’s no way I’m going back to the bakery like this.”

“Well, hello? I stink too, Cinderella,” he said with a laugh. “Come on, we’re heading to my place.”

You widened your eyes in disbelief. “What? No way, I’m going home to take a shower and change.”

“Your apartment’s on the other side of the city, and I doubt they’ll let you on the subway like that, baby,” he quipped, still chuckling.

You huffed, tugging your wet and filthy dress and sneezing unexpectedly. Harry grabbed your wrist. “Stop being stubborn. Just come with me. I’ll call the driver.”

That afternoon in Harry’s penthouse.

It was undeniably strange.

Awkward, too.

Everything about it seemed off, especially after all the promises you had made to yourself. But this was no choice you had made deliberately, was it? You never could have anticipated it would come to this.

After all this time, standing in this room where you once shared your last conversation sent a wave of memories crashing over you. You could still hear his words echoing in your mind, a haunting reminder of what had been shared that night.

To your surprise, you didn’t feel as terrible as you thought you would.

“You can use the shower in the bathroom here, and I’ll take the one upstairs,” Harry suggested, his voice laced with caution and trembling slightly as he studied your face.

He must have sensed the mixed emotions stirring within you, especially given the memories this place held—memories of laughter and deep conversations. You sighed, attempting to gather your thoughts, and nodded in response. As you made your way to the bathroom, he headed upstairs.

After your shower, you crossed paths in the hallway, both wrapped in bathrobes. The atmosphere felt strange, undeniably weird, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that it was anything but humorous. 

“The clothes in your room are still there,” Harry ventured, breaking the thick silence. “If you want to get dressed—”

“I can wash and dry the dress I just took off in the laundry room. Besides, those clothes are too valuable to wear only at the bakery,” you replied.

“In terms of money, maybe,” he said firmly, “but they’re just pieces of fabric. They’re practically worthless compared to you. It’s you who brings out their true value.”

A shy smile crept onto your face at his compliment as you lowered your gaze. But as he stepped closer, you dared to look up at him again. “Your hair isn’t completely dry,” he added softly, reaching out to run his fingers through your damp strands.

“It’s hot today; it’ll dry quickly,” you murmured, trying to keep your cool.

Thanks to the promises you’d made to yourself, you stood frozen as he touched you. Actually, you should have pushed him away, but in this whirlwind of emotions and memories, blocking him out felt impossible.

Harry must have gauged your hesitation, as he slowly pulled his hand back. “I should get dressed. Are you sure you can wait for the dress to dry?”

“The dryer only takes fifteen minutes, Harry,” you replied, noting the edge of sadness t in his tone.

“Right,” he said, frustratingly, making his way toward the bedroom.

You returned to the bathroom to grab your clothes before heading to the laundry room. By the time you both joined again, he was dressed in a cream and beige t-shirt paired with jeans, while you were still in your robe, feeling a bit nervous. He settled beside you on the small seat in the laundry room, and you shifted slightly to make space.

The two of you fell into a weird silence, watching the washing machine spin your dress. From the corner of your eye, you felt his gaze lingering on you.

“Saturday night,” he remarked suddenly, as if a lightbulb had gone on in his mind.

You raised an eyebrow, curious.

“Are you free next Saturday night?”

You knew this wasn’t just about dinner; it was more profound, a promise of returning to each other, a step you had been avoiding until now. But in that moment, you felt ready.

Resolutely, you nodded, looking deep into his eyes. “I’m free that evening.”

He gently took your hand in his, bringing it to his lips. “Thank you,” he said, sincerity ringing in his voice.

At that moment, the washing machine beeped, indicating it was done. You got up to transfer your dress to the dryer, and once it finished as well, he gave you some space while you got dressed. When you finally emerged, fully changed, you found him on the phone in the living room. You waved as you headed for the door, but just then, he ended his call and called out your name.

“Please don’t leave like this.”

You froze in place.

There was more than just pleading in his voice; you could sense it, a deeper emotion lurking beneath the surface.

You turned to face him.

He stepped closer, taking your hand gently in his. "That night, I should have said that. I should have stopped you, should never have let you walk away." Suddenly, he knelt before you, and your eyes widened in surprise. "I should have groveled, begged for you to stay."

Tears blurred your vision as you whispered, “Harry.”

He gripped your hand tightly, as if it were his lifeline, his expression pained. "You were right. I am like a child... when it comes to love. I've always felt that way, like an idiot. It's so hard for me to process. It's as if figuring it out is a math problem, but with you, everything changed. I saw how cowardly I really was, because with you, love felt easy—natural, free of complications." You touched his cheek softly, brushing away the tears that threatened to spill. He sighed, closing his eyes to savor your touch. When he opened them again, a single tear slipped down his cheek.  "Baby, I beg for your forgiveness. Without you, I’m a ship adrift in an endless ocean; you're my beacon, my only compass. The love I feel for you is unlike anything I’ve ever known."

“Harry,” you murmured, kneeling beside him. “What I should have said that day was that you hurt me so much I might never be able to forgive you.” The truth burst forth from your heart. “I should never have allowed you to get close, should never have slept with you, should never listened to what my heart was saying."

Harry swallowed hard. “And what does your heart say now?”

You smiled softly. “It says I should forgive you and wrap my arms around you.”

"Will you follow your heart?"

You sighed, sinking down onto the floor. “I don’t know. Maybe I should, but it doesn’t feel the same as before.”

“Let it be then. We’ll start over,” he murmured.

“That’s the problem, Harry,” you said, wiping the tears away. “You can be impulsive and sometimes a bit materialistic, especially when it comes to making amends.”

"What do you mean by that?"

“Like when you planned to go to Paris. Leaving me your shares and your penthouse as if that would fix everything instead of just apologizing.”

“Would you forgive me if I simply said I was sorry?”

“At least that would show me you’re trying. I’d recognize the effort, not just in a material way, but something deeper.”

He grasped your meaning. “I’m such an idiot, aren’t I?”

You leaned in closer, cradling his face in your hands. "We’re both to blame. I shouldn’t have gone there that night; we could have found another way."

You both sighed deeply at the realization, feeling lighter for sharing it.

"I think we’re in phase five," Harry said as he sat beside you, stretching his legs out.

You knew he was referring to the fifth stage of grief.

"Yeah, which means that what we did last week was merely a sign of depression. All that sex we had."

"That’s right. We chose physical intimacy over conversation," he said, a mischievous smile creeping onto his face. "But admit it, it was amazing."

“It truly was,” you confessed, chuckling together.

Another heavy sigh escaped from both of your lips.

“So, Saturday night,” he murmured, standing and offering you his hand.

“Saturday night,” you echoed as you took his hand and stood up. He watched attentively as you straightened your dress.

“I have to head back to the shop,” you mumbled, your heart longing to stay, but you forced yourself to move on.

“Sure, I’ll see you then,” he said, his tone hesitant, a flicker of something in his gaze.

“Yeah, bye,” you said with a shy smile, leaning in for a kiss on his cheek as he leaned in at the same moment.

So awkward.

Again.

Come on, why was it so tough to just give a simple kiss on the cheek?

Each time you aimed for it, he instinctively found yours, your lips almost brushing together in perfect unison, dangerously close.

You knew you must look silly.

Neither of you could contain your laughter at the absurdity of the moment.

Then, your lips met in a kiss, and the playful mood shifted to serious.

Harry's hand found its place on your waist, pulling you closer.

He was kind, and yet you found it all too easy to lose yourself in that kiss.

It ignited a fire within you, turning passionate and hungry, enveloping you completely, as if you had poured gasoline onto a flame. You clung to him, pressing closer, desperately craving that connection.

Then your phone rang, breaking the spell.

For the first time, you were relieved for the interruption, reminded of the promises you'd made to yourself.

You pulled your lips away just enough to speak, breathless. “Harry, we better stop.”

He placed a tender kiss on your neck and nodded, reluctant to let you go. When he finally withdrew, it was with pain as he felt the loss of your warmth.

The ache continued as you answered the phone and stepped out of the penthouse, both of you left in a whirlwind of emotions, the connection still lingering in the air.

On Wednesday morning in your bakery.

You couldn't help but chuckle at one of Harry's classic, humorous texts that popped up on your phone after you arranged the sweets in the display case. Ever since you two decided to start fresh, he had been sending you a string of funny messages and reels that brought a lightness to your heart.

One of the messages read: 

"My Crush: I'm not that cute.  Also her: A photo of an adorable kitten with a pink bow clip by its ear."

You laughed a bit too loudly, catching the attention of some customers at a nearby table who turned to glance your way, prompting you to offer an apologetic smile.

“At least one of us is in a good mood today,” Zoe remarked as she approached you, while Melanie and Nick tended to other customers.

"Has John called yet?" 

"Who cares? You know what? It's better this way." she put the tray on the counter. "Now tell me. What had you cracking up so much, Miss Happy?"

Right, you hadn't mentioned that you saw Harry last Sunday. You couldn’t let Zoe know you were on better terms with Harry while she was dealing with her fallout with John. “Oh, just some funny videos online,” you shrugged, sending Harry a laughing emoji before slipping your phone into your pocket. 

"Isn’t that Lucy, the matchmaker bitch?" Melanie said.

You both turned to her voice. It was her, and you instinctively tensed. What was she doing here? As Zoe squinted at Lucy in annoyance, you stepped out from behind the counter to join her.

Lucy glanced between the three of you, surprise flickering in her eyes as she stopped on Melanie. Then she looked directly at Zoe. “Can I have a word with you?”

Zoe hesitated at first, but after a reassuring look from you, she agreed. Your jaw dropped when you noticed the car parked out front. Theo was here.

Great. 

You realized you hadn’t been fair to him, especially after you’d ditched him last time. 

Melanie smirked at the sight of Theo entering the shop. “Looks like I picked the best place to work—there's never a dull moment around here.” 

You shot her a dirty look and turned to greet Theo with a smile. “Hey. What brings you here?” 

"I stopped by to check just how swamped you were, hoping it would explain why you haven't replied to my messages," he said with a grin as he glanced around the bustling shop. "And, wow, you really are incredibly busy."

“Yeah, sorry, it’s been a hectic week,” you admitted, eyeing the flashy sports car behind him. “A Lamborghini? Are you, like, the son of someone famous or something?” 

“Kind of,” he said, smiling “There are things about my family I haven't told you yet, stuff I would have shared if you’d come over that night.” 

You felt a flush of embarrassment remembering why you hadn’t gone to see him. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that.” 

“Would you like to talk outside for a bit? Maybe take this beauty for a spin? I remember you mentioned you love sports cars.” 

It was an exciting offer, and you knew you should have a serious talk with him before things went any further. Zoe and Lucy had wrapped up their conversation by now, so you asked Zoe to cover the shop for a bit and hopped into Theo’s car. 

After an exhilarating ride on a private, traffic-free track, Theo treated you to coffee and began sharing stories about his family. He explained that his father, a well-known senator, was unaware of his acting aspirations, as Theo wasn’t ready to come forward and share that side of himself. Despite the circumstances, you sensed his genuine interest in you.

Deciding it was best to be honest and end things on a good note, you leaned against the hood of the car, gazing out at the cityscape. “I think I already knew,” he said softly. “You’re still in love with him.” 

You couldn't deny it; your silence confirmed his intuition. 

“Can we stay friends? You’re a wonderful person, and I enjoy our conversations. When others find out I'm a senator's son, they often act differently, but you’ve treated me just like anyone else, and I appreciate that.” 

You laughed, “I’ve heard that before. Did John know?” 

“Yes, he has been known for a long time. He introduced me to the agency. You, Zoe, and he are such kind people. I’m glad to know you all.”

“You’re kind too, Theo. I have no doubt you’ll find the true love you’re looking for someday.” 

After sharing a friendly hug, you exchanged warm goodbyes, promising to see each other again.

Thursday evening in your apartment.

You and Zoe were lounging in separate couches after a long day, chatting about yesterday's events. "So Lucy mentioned that John helped her with something, but he won’t say what it is?" What could be so crucial that he couldn't reveal it? "Maybe it really matters; John cares about you, after all."

"Then why isn’t he doing anything to make it right?" Zoe replied, frustration evident in her tone.

"Some guys just aren't all that romantic, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you."

"I don’t care. He promised me his ex wouldn’t be a part of our lives, and I can't be with someone who breaks that promise even before we’re married. And that woman? She's no saint."

You had to admit Zoe wasn't wrong; you didn’t have the best impression of Lucy. But still, John had always seemed like a good guy to you. You believed there must be a reasonable explanation for all this. Your thoughts were interrupted when you noticed a message from Harry pop up on your phone.

"I can hear your heart racing for Saturday. I have several surprises planned—want a hint?"

Curious, you quickly typed back, "Surprises? Hmm, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t intrigued."

His reply came just as fast: "Check the door."

As if on cue, the doorbell rang.

You jumped up excitedly from the couch, and Zoe squinted her eyes, sizing you up. "Were you expecting someone?"

With a mischievous smile, you headed to the door, but when you opened it, nobody was there. Puzzled, you glanced around before spotting a teddy bear on the floor, holding a red heart-shaped balloon and an envelope on its lap. As you bent down to retrieve the envelope, you tucked your hair behind your ear. Inside, you found a polaroid photograph of Paris, featuring the Eiffel Tower in the distance—exactly the view from your hotel room that day, and the same picture Harry took back then.

"Who's there?" Zoe called from the living room, making you jump. Just then, you noticed John lingering in the hallway -lost in thought- and invited him over.

What a lucky coincidence.

"Tell Zoe you got this for her; I haven’t told her I made up with Harry yet," you whispered quickly, pressing the teddy bear into John's hands and slipping the envelope into your pocket.

"But I already bought flowers," he muttered, holding up a bunch of pink roses.

"So? Listen, she needs all the romance she can get right now," you insisted.

"John?"

You both turned to Zoe, who was giving you a curious look. "Oh, and you said John wasn't romantic," you teased, nudging him lightly.

Zoe crossed her arms and eyed the flowers and teddy bear in his hands. "What do you want?"

"Can we talk? Please?"

"Yes! Talk! Great idea!" You took John by the arm and pulled him inside, shutting the door behind him. "Oh, I just remembered—gotta make an important phone call in my room. You two talk."

Zoe called after you, but you ignored her and dashed to your room; John's timing couldn’t have been better.

Quickly, you pulled out your phone and called Harry. It rang twice before he answered.

"Hey, beautiful. Did you get the clue from the teddy bear?"

"Yes, but Paris? Really?"

"It all started there, and I thought it’d be the perfect place for us to start fresh."

You smiled at the sweet memories. "But Harry, I can’t just leave the shop, and you have work at the company. We’re both swamped."

"Can’t you leave it with Zoe for a few days, or at least shut it down? We at castillofunds.co would be more than happy to cover any losses for The Vanilla Vine."

You chuckled at the idea. "Hmm, well, but I do have a competition at the end of the month." 

"Only three days, sweetheart. Just you and me," he replied in a low, enticing voice. 

You smiled back playfully. "Alright, ol'man."

As soon as you ended the call, an incoming call interrupted you—an unknown number.

It was Gerardo.

You’d almost forgotten about him. He informed you that they had received word that Alan was leaving NYC tomorrow morning, and this was your only chance to take him down. You felt a wave of annoyance at yourself for agreeing to help, but you knew you had to.

That bastard had gotten away with too much.

You remembered Harry's outburst from last time when he had angrily said he wanted to kill Alan—not literally, of course. However, Alan was different; his demeanor was chilling, indicating that he was not just a nuisance but a real threat. If helping the NYPD meant you could finally rid yourself of him once and for all, then you felt you had no choice.

Friday morning at Alan’s hotel.

The plan was straightforward: break into his penthouse and access the safe containing crucial documents, including details of his illegal drug shipments. While the police had the combination, simply entering the hotel posed significant risks. Alan wasn’t naive; he had connections with nearly every NYPD commissioner, carefully keeping his enemies close and collecting intelligence on them whenever he could.

Some of the hotel staff recognized you, while others did not. You were familiar with the kitchen team, but you needed the cleaning staff to gain easy access to the elevator and the upper floors. When you approached the head of housekeeping and laid out your situation, he appeared apprehensive at first. Yet, his allegiance to the police prevailed, and he agreed to help.

The housekeeping team had access cards to reach the penthouse, allowing you to use the inconspicuous service elevator—after all, no one ever paid much attention to them.

This was a benefit you appreciated from your time as a maid.

With the chief's assistance, you donned a cleaning uniform and rolled the service trolley into the elevator. You couldn't help but chuckle nervously as you gazed at your reflection. You never thought you’d find yourself in this outfit again. As the elevator ascended, your anxiety mounted, your heart pounding in your chest. You held your breath when you reached the penthouse floor, mentally replaying the the commissioner's instructions: find the safe, use the code breaker, retrieve the document, and make a swift exit.

Easier said than done, of course.

They had briefed you thoroughly and would be watching your every move from outside, providing a phone similar to those seen in movies for communication.

Still, you felt a wave of nerves wash over you.

The elevator chimed as it reached the penthouse, replacing your fears with a different brand of anxiety. Adrenaline coursed through your body, and your palms grew slick with sweat. Memories of the last time you were there ignited a flicker of anger, fueling your determination to carry out your mission.

The question remained though, where was Alan’s private safe?

Having cleaned numerous hotel rooms, you had a good sense of where it might be, yet it eluded you. After about half an hour of searching, exhaustion set in, and you collapsed onto the couch.

Gerardo called for a status update, and you told him that despite your efforts, you hadn’t found it. He suggested a few other spots, but none of them panned out.

As you leaned against the bar counter, a memory flickered in your mind. That night—when Alan approached you from behind the bar with documents in hand...

Could it be?

It struck you as ridiculous, but what if Alan had a safe behind the bar? “I feel like I’m starring in a crime movie or something,” you murmured to yourself.

You slipped behind the counter and bent down to inspect. Lifting lids revealed nothing but glasses and barware, but as you were about to close it up, you noticed something sticking out from behind the glasses on the bottom shelf. Carefully, you removed the glasses one by one, exposing a hidden hatch. With a determined tug, you pulled it open.

“I found you,” you whispered with a sense of triumph. Beneath the hatch lay a safe with a digital keypad—just what the cops had described, a fingerprint unlocker. Remembering your instruction, you placed the code breaker against the lock. You marveled at this device, intrigued by its technology. In just minutes, the lock switched from red to green, and the safe door creaked open.

“Please be certain to pick up the correct documents,” the commissioner’s voice came through the phone, steady and authoritative.

You froze as you peered inside the safe.

There was a pistol, 9mm ammunition, valuables, cash bundles, and various documents. Even though Alan was a criminal and a jerk, rifling through someone’s personal belongings felt wrong, but you had a job to do. While examining the files, the commissioner interrupted once more, reminding you of how the file should look. Just then, someone called his name and whispered in his ear. He picked up the phone to speak to you again. “Get out of there now,” he urged sharply.

“What did you say?” you asked, startled.

“Finnegan has returned to the hotel. He left the airport before boarding his jet. Mission’s off. You need to get out now. I repeat, get out now.”

“Hurry up,” Gerardo added urgently.

“Damn,” you muttered, realizing you had gone to great lengths for this. But just then, as you skimmed through one last file, you found what you needed: everything—drug routes, sellers, suppliers, schedules—was there.

You placed the file into the bag, organizing the remaining papers back in their proper spots.

Time was slipping away as you locked the safe, closed the lid, and carefully rearranged the glasses one by one, your hands trembling, head spinning, heart racing, and palms sweating. Just as you were about to throw the bag over your shoulder and make your way to the elevator, the chime of the other elevator and Alan’s voice made you freeze.

You quickly crouched down, hiding in the most secluded corner of the counter, muttering a curse under your breath.

Why did he have to come back?

Fuck my luck, you cursed.

Alan was arguing with someone; his voice was laced with anger, and fortunately, he was too furious to think about drinking. But that didn’t ease your nerves. You felt a jolt when you heard the other voice.

“Lucy, what the fuck? Who do you think you are? I had to cancel my flight because of you!”

Oh great, thanks a lot, Lucy.

“You will listen to me this time.”

“I told you, that baby isn’t coming into this world. Get rid of it, or I’ll do it myself.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing; your mind was racing.

“She’s almost four months along. It’s too risky to abort now.”

“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Not taking your pills to blackmail me? You’re pathetic!”

“No, you’re the pathetic one! You’re so obsessed with him that you’re willing to reject your own child!” Lucy shouted.

“Shut up,” he snarled through gritted teeth.

You didn’t need to see his face to feel how furious he was.

“If I had known you were this obsessed with Harry, I would have never dated you. You’ve made hating him your life’s mission; it’s sick.”

“I told you to shut up,” he warned again, his anger palpable and even more menacing this time.

“You watched us from a distance while we were together; you were thrilled when I dumped him, weren’t you? I know you roped John into all this too. You are responsible for everything. I lost them both because of you. Then you threatened me over my job just so I could pretend to be with you. But when Harry fell for that girl, you tried to get rid of me, didn’t you? She became your next target.”

“Don’t even put yourself in the same category as her. I genuinely love her.”

“Love?" She laughed, her voice tinged with distress, and you could hear her trying to stifle a sob. "No, you don’t know what love is. If you truly did, you wouldn’t treat her like this. All you want is to watch Harry suffer. You’re the most obsessively twisted person I’ve ever encountered.”

Alan let out a chilling, unnatural laugh. “Maybe you should stop talking to me that way. You have no idea what a truly twisted person is capable of.”

He moved closer, and you felt Lucy’s fear echoing your own. "I will kill you, and no one will ever find your body. Do you understand me?"

This was beyond what you could stand; you should have acted instead of just being afraid. Looking around, you spotted several liquor bottles. Grabbing one, you knew you had no other choice.

“Get rid of that baby, or I swear I’ll kill you.”

“No, I can’t, I won’t.”

“Is that so?” Just then, Alan lunged at her, gripping her neck tightly as you were startled by the sound of her bag hitting the floor.

You stood up, shocked by the scene.

What should I do? What should I do?

You glanced at the bottle in your hand—there wasn’t a choice.

You came up behind him and brought the bottle crashing down on his head with all your might. "Let her go, you piece of shit!"

He staggered from the blow and released Lucy, who gasped for air as she fought to recover, coughing.

Alan groaned and placed his hands down for support, struggling to regain his balance as blood oozed from his head. In that instant, only one thought raced through your mind: grab Lucy’s wrist and run for the elevator.

It wasn’t exactly professional, but that didn’t matter right now. You just needed to escape. As you pressed the button for the elevator and selected the ground floor, Lucy looked at you, confusion etched on her face, trying to make sense of everything.

“He…” she croaked.

“No, no, he’s not dead. Don’t worry,” you replied, even though you couldn’t be entirely sure that was the truth.

“You saved me,” she whispered, nearly fainting, her face ghostly pale.

You gently touched her cheek. “Are you okay? Hang in there; we’re almost there. The police are outside. Don’t worry, I’ll ensure they call you an ambulance.”

As the elevator dinged and reached the ground floor, you used your private key—one the maids had access to—to lock it behind you before rushing out. Once in the lobby, you dialed Gerardo's number. "I've got the file. I locked Alan in; he can't escape. And we need an ambulance for a pregnant woman who was attacked here," you said, glancing at Lucy.

Lucy stared at you with wide eyes, mumbling. "Who exactly are you?"

Just then, police officers burst into the lobby, and a nervous laugh escaped you. "You mean right now? Well, I’m the girl who just saved your ass."

She smiled back in response.

Your statements were taken later at the police station, alongside Lucy's, after she was cleared by the medical team. Alan was officially apprehended, and thanks to your efforts, the police now had concrete evidence of his crimes. His offenses included attempted murder, leading to his detention until the upcoming court date. It felt like a weight had been lifted; after everything you had been through, you had finally succeeded.

Zoe and John arrived at the police station simultaneously, both concerned and surprised to see Lucy there. While you quickly filled her in on what had happened, John engaged Lucy in conversation, revealing why they had been seeing each other so much lately. Given Lucy's delicate situation, it was evident this had been a tough time for her.

The commissioner and his team came over to thank you, you missed seeing Harry watching you from a distance, filled with both concern and relief.

As he called your name, you turned to see him, his anxious voice resonating throughout the police station and catching everyone’s attention.

He hurried towards you, wrapping you tightly in his arms and pressing you against his chest. The moment felt even stranger than everything else you’d experienced leading up to this point.

“Are you really trying to kill me?” he grumbled, his hand resting on the back of your head.

“Sorry.”

But just then, he noticed Gerardo, pulling away and fixing an angry glare on him. “How dare you put the woman I love in danger?” he asked, stepping towards him. “Isn’t what you’ve done enough?”

Gerardo stayed silent.

The commissioner cut in, “Mr. Castillo, please remember you’re at a police station.”

Harry retorted, “I’m well aware of that. I’ll sue all of you. What if something had happened to her?”

“Your girlfriend agreed to help of her own free will. Neither Mr. Alvaro nor anyone else forced her.”

“Harry, they’re telling the truth. I asked to help.”

He turned to you, confusion etched on his face. “Why?”

“Yeah, why?” Zoe echoed, both of them looking for an explanation. John and Lucy were equally puzzled.

“I wanted to help them catch Alan.”

So, you recounted everything from the beginning  but Harry's anger just wouldn’t subside. Just then, Maria arrived and quickly got up to speed on the situation. After a brief discussion with Gerardo, you bid them farewell. John took Lucy home, and Zoe decided to join them. Harry walked you to his car to take you home.

“What a day,” you murmured, resting your head on Harry’s shoulder, fatigue washing over you.

“You really are incredible. I can’t believe you had the courage to do something like that.”

“But it worked,” you said, smiling at him.

"You've obviously seen your fair share of James Bond films; otherwise, I couldn't explain your foolish bravery," he quipped. 

"You know, being a spy must be a real challenge. I don't think they live long."

“Why do you say that?” he asked, running his fingers through your hair.

“When I was there, the fear of being caught was so intense I felt like my heart would burst. Living with that kind of stress every second can’t be good for the heart.”

“Thanks to you, I think my heart’s going to give out too; it raced all day, worrying about you. I was going crazy."

You gazed at him. “I’m sorry; that wasn’t my intention. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

“Hm, a kiss wouldn’t be a bad start,” he said teasingly.

You giggled and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. His frown melted away, replaced by a bright smile. “That felt nice,” he said, grinning.

“Our plans for tomorrow are still on, right?” you asked.

“Why wouldn’t they be?”

“I don’t know; maybe you don’t like me anymore now that you know my secret agent identity. Perhaps you’re thinking of running away,” you teased.

He laughed and sighed, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. “You silly woman, nothing you do could make me give you up. I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to.”

You smiled back at him. "So, that means never then. ”

“Never, my love, never.”

Saturday evening in Paris.

As you gazed out the jet window at the enchanting city below, bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, you couldn't help but smile and sigh. Coming back here with Harry felt both meaningful and unique—your emotions were deeper this time, infused with a renewed sense of hope that you would both make it home together.

Really together.

As the jet began its descent, Harry sat across from you, fastening his seatbelt.

“Are you hungry, baby?” he asked.

Considering you hadn’t eaten since breakfast, you nodded enthusiastically. “Starving,” you replied with a laugh.

He chuckled too. “Everything’s set. We’ll head straight to the restaurant while Oliver takes care of our bags at the hotel.”

You smiled as he reached out and held your hand.

“It’s going to be perfect this time. These next three days together will be so much better than before, I promise.”

“I know, and I believe that with all my heart,” you said, returning his smile.

His grip tightened around your hand until the jet touched down safely.

The restaurant where you dined that night offered the same breathtaking view as before, the Eiffel Tower standing beautifully in the distance. While enjoying dessert, Harry reminisced about the treats you had made — he claimed they were the best desserts he had ever tasted, and you both shared a hearty laugh.

Although you were both excited upon arriving at the hotel, exhaustion had set in. You missed him deeply, and the feeling was mutual—his body language spoke volumes of his love for you. But instead of giving in to desire that night, you chose to simply lie in bed in your bathrobes after a shower. This intimate moment held more significance for both of you than any physical act. You felt you were making real progress together.

In contrast to weeks ago, when your interactions were guided more by physical urges, tonight was about connection. You both wanted to enjoy the thrill of make-up sex, but not just yet; tonight was dedicated to understanding each other through quiet moments and meaningful glances.

As you shared a long laugh and finally drifted off to sleep, wrapped in each other’s arms, your heart felt content.

Upon waking to the warm light streaming into the spacious room, you suddenly realized it had been ages since you had slept so deeply for such a long stretch. As you stretched and lifted your head from the pillow, it struck you that Harry was nowhere to be found; the other side of the bed lay empty. That sight was unsettling. Where could he be?

Checking the clock, you noted it was around ten o'clock. “Wow, did I really sleep that long?” you murmured as you climbed out of bed. “Harry!”

The stillness of the room greeted you, your voice echoing back. Noticing his bathrobe draped over the chair, it was clear he had gotten dressed and slipped out. But where had he gone? You quickly grabbed your phone and called him.

“Good morning, Cinderella. I'm waiting for you near the Eiffel Tower.  To find me, just follow the trail of flowers and breakfast,” Harry's voice rang with cheerfulness.

“Flowers? Breakfast? What do you mean? Harry—” But before you could finish your sentence, he hung up.

What the hell?

The Champ de Mars, where the Eiffel Tower stood, was vast—where exactly was he? Questions buzzed in your mind as you got ready. You slipped into a summer dress, perfect for the warm day, ran a comb through your hair, applied some light makeup, grabbed your bag, and made your way out of the room.

As you stepped outside the hotel, you were greeted by Oliver. “Ollie, what's going on?”

"Sorry, I’ve been told to keep quiet about it, and I really love my job."   

You narrowed your eyes. "Harry's going to fire you? No way."   

He chuckled. "I know it would’ve all fallen apart without me."   

"Exactly," you said, laughing again. 

"Go on, he’s waiting for you," he urged. 

Was Harry planning a surprise?

Your curiosity piqued. As you stood in line to buy ticket for the Eiffel Tower, a man approached and handed you a red peony. "No need to buy a ticket, ma'am; it's already taken care of, this way," he said in a charming French accent. 

"All right," you murmured, following his direction.

As you stepped towards the tower, a little girl handed you another peony. Moments later, a boy came up and handed you both a peony and a small package. "Bon appétit," he said in French. 

"Thank you," you replied. Inside the package was a croissant that smelled absolutely divine, tempting you to take a bite. 

Just as you did, another boy presented you with a steaming cup of coffee. 

That’s when it clicked—you understood what Harry had meant. 

Follow the flowers and breakfast.

But where was he? 

One boy after another approached, and you felt a mix of excitement and intrigue. As your view of the tower opened up, flowers in hand along with your breakfast, you turned towards the voices behind you. The children who had gifted you the flowers were all happily following along. 

You were surprised but found it delightful. A little further ahead, you finally spotted him.

Harry stood there, waiting for you in his light-brown jacket, his signature smile lighting up his face. "Welcome," he greeted as you reached him. 

You smiled, responding.

"Did you enjoy your breakfast?" he asked. 

"Yeah, it was wonderful, but I wish we could have shared it together," you said, smiling at the kids surrounding you, though your expression was puzzled. "Harry, what’s going on?" 

All the kids are now holding heart-shaped balloons, leaving you to gaze at them in wonder.

He gently took what was in your hand, handed it to one of the boys beside you, and turned back to you, taking your hands in his. 

"I want to say a few things now. I hope it doesn't sound too cliché." 

You laughed, shaking your head. He looked deeply into your eyes. 

"My darling, my light, the moment I first saw you, I knew you were the one." 

"Cliché," one of the kids chimed in. 

You all burst into laughter. 

"Give it another try, sir," a girl encouraged. 

Harry sighed and cleraed his throat. "My love, you are the most beautiful, intelligent, resourceful, and extraordinary woman I know. Not a moment goes by that I don’t think of you. You’re a wonderful person—helpful, clever, and a bit stubborn and reckless all at once. You've pushed me to do things I never imagined possible, and the most thrilling and beautiful moments of my life began the day you walked into it. I could never have envisioned giving this speech in front of so many, thinking it was embarrassing, but now I realize it’s because I had never truly fallen in love before." 

With a swift motion, he drew a small velvet box from the depths of his jacket pocket, and your breath caught in your throat as your heart began to race wildly. As he sank to one knee, a ripple of anticipation swept through the crowd surrounding you, their whispers filled with excitement and joy. With trembling hands, he carefully opened the box, unveiling a dazzling diamond ring -you saw it before- that sparkled brilliantly, reminiscent of a thousand stars scattered across the night sky, now glimmering in the warm embrace of the sunlight. Locking eyes with you, he said your full name. "I love you with my entire being, more than anything else, and I promise to love you for as long as I breathe. Will you honor me by becoming my wife?" 

"Harry," you whispered, tears spilling down your cheeks. 

An intense fire dancing in his gaze, and spoke with a conviction that made time stand still. He uttered two simple words, often brushed off as clichés, yet they carried a world of meaning within.

"Marry me."

You could hardly find your voice, overwhelmed with emotion. 

"Say yes! Say yes!" The crowd cheered, urging you on. 

You both looked around, emotions bubbling up as you realized the moment was being witnessed by so many. "Just so you know, I hope you won’t say no—there are a lot of people with their phones out. This could be live on Instagram right now!" 

Through your sniffles, you let out a laugh before taking a deep breath. “Yes! Harry Castillo, I will marry you. So, absolutely yes!”

At that moment, cheers erupted from the crowd, with a few whistles for good measure.

Harry stood up, slipped the ring onto your finger, and pulled you close, kissing you passionately.

The crowd erupted in applause.

The children's laughter rang out as they released red, heart-shaped balloons into the sky, the cheering surrounding you in a wave of joy. 

You broke the kiss, gazing at the floating balloons and the crowd celebrating, then back into each other’s eyes, relishing this fairytale moment. Harry wiped your tears away just as you did the same for him, and you kissed again, more deeply this time, as if the world around you had faded away. 

It was just the two of you.

Thanks for reading! I really appreciate your comments, likes, and reblogs. I'd love to hear what you think about the chapter!

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[leahkenobi]

rough night

frank castle x fem! reader

word count: 2k

summary: after a hard night, frank needs to know he can still do some good

warnings: porn with a (bit of) plot. praise kink, rough sex, creampie, aftercare, and certainly other things i’m forgetting

a/n: @crumbledcastle28 wanted backshots, so here we go. i need this man in ways the human mind can’t comprehend and i’m praying to anyone that will listen that we see him tonight.

gif is from pinteresttt

frank castle did not have it “made.” in his youth, he found himself to be a troubled kid. in his early adulthood, he was living through traumatic events that would haunt him for the rest of his life. in his twenties, he lost everything. even now, he worked construction most days and took up his role as the punisher most nights.

he’d always had a bit of a rough go at it. until he found you. his salvation. you had never tried to “fix” him, at least not intentionally. but you had drawn him out from his pits of despair.

all the darkness he had lived in was combatted by your presence. he knew that home with you was a soft place to land.

however, that didn’t mean that he didn’t have his nights. nights where his mind couldn’t stop, where he couldn’t stop. he never felt bad about taking a life. but frank’s mind was a scary place to be when things got intense. he didn’t always mean for things to be taken as far as they were.

there had been plenty of nights in your relationship where frank would stumble into your shared apartment a soft, sad mess of a man. he would try to tell you he was fine, that he didn’t want you fussing over him, that he just needed a quick shower.

as soon as the scorching water would hit his body, reality would come crashing back. he’d scrub at himself quickly, ensuring that not an ounce of the blood staining his skin would ever touch yours.

he’d quickly exit the shower and search you out in the apartment, not even bothering to put on clothes. he knew what he needed, so dressing was pointless.

you’d allow him to take you how he wanted. oftentimes there was no “taking” you at all. he’d lay you down in bed, stuffing you with his cock and pulling you into him for hours on end. or on the couch, holding you in his arms until you’d fall asleep against his chest.

but that was only sometimes. the other half of the time he was crazed. he needed to feel you, yes, but he needed to release it all. he needed you to be crying his name, his real name. not cowering in fear from the punisher, not calling out his alias as pete. he needed to know that he was bringing you pleasure. he could still do something right. he wasn’t too far gone to bring his angel to heaven on earth.

and tonight… tonight he was going to bring you to to your ecstasy.

———

you heard the door close shut from your bedroom where you had been curled up reading. only one person knew the way through the various security codes and locks, meaning it was him.

frank was finally home.

sure, he’d only been gone a few hours, but it was hardly easy to find sleep without his form next to yours.

you glanced at the small alarm clock on your nightstand. 3:13. he made good time tonight.

you heard his bag drop to the floor, then a grunt as he bent over to remove his combat boots that you insisted be left at the front door.

you could almost sense his mood from the sound of his footsteps as they neared your room.

“frankie,” you croaked out as he opened the creaky wooden door.

“hey sweetheart,” he said, walking into the room and beginning to peel off his black henley.

you took him in. not too bloody, not horribly banged up from the look of it, just a new shiner gracing his face. he looked… okay.

but looks weren’t everything.

“everything- everything go alright?” you said trying to assess his mood. he seemed agitated, a bit fidgety. quick movements as he undressed. eyes darting around the room, almost unable to look at you. trigger finger twitching every couple of seconds.

“yeah. uh- yeah, baby. everything’s fine,” he said as he began to undo his belt and just in that intonation, the slight hesitation, you knew he was off.

you started crawling towards the end of the bed to where he was, seating yourself right in front of him.

he stopped his somewhat frantic undressing and looked at you there.

fuck, what a sight. eyes bleary with sleepiness, his shirt engulfing your frame. staring up at him with that look of concern in your eyes.

god he could- he could devour you.

“what’re you doing, huh?” frank asked with just a bit of bite.

“just checking on you. you seem… i don’t know,” you said.

“said i’m fine, baby. don’t worry about me,” he insisted as he walked into the bathroom attached to your room, closing the door behind him.

you released a deep sigh and fixed your gaze on the door. he was clearly agitated. maybe he just needed to decompress?

you heard the shower turn on and shortly thereafter found yourself lost in thought. concern for frank wasn’t a new thing for you to feel, but moments like this where he wouldn’t let you in and you couldn’t get a read on him always left you on edge.

before you knew it the bathroom door was open and frank, wearing only a towel around his waist, was staring you down.

“you just been sitting here?” he asked gruffly, raking his fingers through his wet hair, body now free from the little splatters of blood that had littered it.

“yeah just thinking bout you,” you responded.

he nodded, “was thinking bout you too,” shocking you just a bit.

he stepped closer to the edge of the bed, towering over your seated form.

“yeah?” you asked, looking up at him, recognizing that hungry look on his face.

“yeah, baby,” he responded, tilting your chin up just a bit further with one hand, the other holding his towel steady.

his lips captured yours in not quite so soft a manner. his mouth was hot, tongue almost instantly fighting its way into your mouth.

a groan escaped him as you allowed him entrance, leaning back onto the bed.

his body was instantly on yours, his towel falling and leaving his slightly damp form bare.

“christ,” frank ground out, hands roaming your body, lifting his t shirt and feeling your body squirm beneath his hands.

and you let him. kiss you rough, touch you everywhere. you understood now that it wouldn’t be a soft night. he needed to fuck it all out.

he expertly flipped your body, leaving you stomach down.

“just look so good,” he said, his hands traveling down your curves, smoothing over the swell of your ass.

“frank,” you moaned out as his hand dipped just a bit lower, nearly reaching where you needed him.

“i’ll take care of it, sweetheart,” he said as he swiped a finger through your folds.

“can feel how much you need it. want me to make it better, huh?” he asked.

frank needed to hear you respond. to tell him that you did need him. that he meant something. that he was more than just a tortured man who could show no mercy. that he could bring pleasure to this world, too.

“yes, need you to. please frankie,” you said pressing your hips up to meet his fingers.

instantly he grabbed your waist, pulling you up so your knees were underneath you. he pressed down on the center of your back, forcing you to arch yourself for him.

“that’s it, baby,” frank said once he was satisfied with your position, “fuck, you look so good like this.”

his hand roamed over your ass, squeezing a bit here and there.

you felt the head of his cock at your entrance and moved forward on instinct, preparing yourself for the onslaught of him.

“uh-uh, sweetheart. you stay still,” he said.

he pushed into you slowly, inch by inch, stretching you around him.

“fuck,” frank grunted out, “like you were fucking made for me.”

you were biting down on your lip, nearly drawing blood as you attempted to suppress the lewd noises you wanted to make.

and frank, ever so aware of your body, knew this. he knew that if you weren’t nearly squealing as he slid home, you were stopping yourself. and he would not, could not, have that tonight.

as he bottomed out, he leaned over your folded form and brought his hand to your face, gently tapping your cheek.

“let go of that lip, baby. cmon, let me know if it’s feelin good,” he said. because he needed that. frank had to know that he was still good for something.

you released your lip at his request and immediately a moan tumbled out.

“feels so good frankie, making me feel so full,” you mumbled in your haze.

frank knew you couldn’t see his grin, but that didn’t stop him from letting it grace his face.

“knew it would,” he said, a feeling of pride coursing through him as he started to thrust more consistently into you.

the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room. soft groans escaped you both.

“that’s it baby, you’re taking me so well,” frank said in a near whisper after a particularly rough thrust.

frank kept a firm grip on your hips as he continued with his punishing pace. eventually, your brain went numb and the only thing you could do was cry out his name and tighten around his cock.

one hand slipped around to press down on your lower stomach, applying pressure that nearly made you scream.

“fuck frankie!” you squealed, and he just melted. this was all he needed. you, naked and needing him. he could give you everything.

he draped himself over your body, frame covering yours as his hand snaked down to you clit. his mouth brushed up against your ear and you could feel the heat of his words.

“yeah, know that feels good babydoll. can feel you getting close, feel you leakin’ on me, so squeeze down now, will you? let me take care of you,” frank rasped out.

and if that didn’t put you right over the edge, his frantic thrusts and the delicate figure eights he made over your clit did.

your orgasm was like a crushing force, or maybe it was just the weight of frank over you, whispering praises in your ear as he worked you through it.

“just beautiful baby,” he said as you fluttered around him, close to releasing himself.

“please frankie,” you whined as your legs shook with his continued thrusts.

“i know, i know,” he said, hips stuttering as he finally released into you, “my perfect girl.”

he slowly righted himself, now kneeling straight up and admiring the mess before him. the two of you mixed together around his now softening cock.

he pulled it out slowly, careful not to cause you anymore overstimulation.

you felt him leave you, whining as an emptiness returned to you.

“shh baby. did so good, let me get you cleaned up,” frank said, moving off the bed as you continued to lay there, knees finally giving way under you.

“my poor girl,” he said sweetly as he returned with a both a damp and dry cloth, “know i was rough but you took it so well. my perfect girl.”

you mumbled something incoherent into the sheet your face was smooshed against, some acknowledgment of the praise or whine of discomfort as he cleaned your most delicate area.

after frank took care to clean you up and returned the towels to the bathroom, he made his way back to the bedroom where you had rolled over and found a shirt of his to tug over your frame. your head was rested against a pillow now, facing the bathroom door, waiting for him to return.

he grinned as he saw you, letting relief flow through him. maybe he had done some fucked up shit before he came home to you, maybe he had brought nothing but pain into this world up until the moment he had you.

but then he had you. he knew that, if nothing else, he could be good for you.

taglist (lmk if u want added):

@crumbledcastle28

[screampied]

ੈ✩‧₊˚ TWENTY THREE MISSED CALLS — G. SATORU

☆ sum. you had always nagged to your boyfriend satoru to answer his damn phone. it’d always go straight to voicemail—you told him in your own words, ‘toru, what if something ever happened to you?’ but this time, it was far too late.

wc. 1.7k tags. gn!reader, angst, nickname(s) 'baby, angel.'

an. idk how to write angst much but i was sad so came up w this. merry christmas :)

“hey heyy, it’s satoru. uh, you’ve reached the—eheh what does that lady say again…? you’ve reached the voicemail box of.. gojo satoru. leave a message after the beep, beeeeep. heh, bye.”

such a dork.

you lost count of how many times you listened to that automatic message over and over again. the playful cheekiness in his voice, you could just see his smile. the dumb dimples that poke out against both of his cheeks whenever he grinned.

a cute dork. your dork.

besides that though, it’s been at least twenty three times of you ringing him, but to no avail. each time it went straight to voicemail—sucking your teeth in confusion, you started pacing around your bedroom. it was christmas morning, and gojo promised he’d be here before you wake up.

he couldn’t be…

no, he’s gojo satoru. he always wins, right?

right..?

the more you waited, the more impatient you became. the room grew colder and colder, despite the heat being turned on. you sat on gojo’s side of the bed, inhaling his scent, as if he was here right now.

he’d always fill up the room with his loud cologne scents—you’re always telling him how it’s too strong and he always kisses your cheek, muttering, “eh really? i don’t smell it that much, baby..”

the scent was always sweet, a mixture of cinnamon and multiple other spices—you glanced at the roségold alarm clock that rested against your nightstand, the time reading six thirty am.

he still wasn’t here.

it was hard to not overthink, think the worst, gojo was always so good at calming your nerves. you’d be one to constantly overthink. his trick to stop that was to simply hold you in his arms, stroke your hair and tell you in a soft cheery voice, “hey angel, everything’s gonna be okay. i’m okay, we’re okay.”

but again, he still wasn’t here.

gojo mentioned to you before he left last night around midnight he had to ‘take care of something’ — his code word of he’s about to go into battle or fight, but he didn’t want you to worry about him.

that’s the very last thing he wanted. and if anything, he always assured you he’d be okay. even if he was beaten to a pulp by his enemies, he’d always return back home to you with that stupid lovable grin on his face.

so what made christmas day any different?

you swallowed the thick, nonexistent lump in your throat, trying to snap out of your deep melancholy thoughts. dragging your feet,

you rubbed your eyes from the sun just barely shinning through the curtains scattered throughout the house.

with a soft sigh, you made your way towards the christmas tree — the pretty lengthy tree the both of you decorated together last minute, a tiny smile went on your face at remembering how gojo kept accidentally breaking all of the ornaments, so he had to constantly keep buying new ones.

lights, glimmery multicolored lights, a plethora of ornaments and a pretty sheeny star sits at the very top. you sat on your knees, before glancing down at the various presents — one caught your eye, it was a tiny box. a velvet heart shaped box, and gojo told you it was the biggest surprise yet.

you paused, glancing down at your phone that was about it to die soon, wondering why gojo still hasn’t returned any of your calls.

he’s been gone for hours, and the knot in your stomach continued to tighten—it felt like something inside of you was squeezing, tugging you from the inside.

was this what a gut feeling feels like? something was telling you, screaming at you that something wasn’t right.

with shaky hands, you went to his contact for what seems like the millionth time, staring at the image that was his picture, him and you.

the both of you were being goofy, it was a old polaroid picture a few years ago of the both of you during your birthday.

he spoiled you so much that day, but as always he never forgot to repeat how much he loved you.

the phone rang three times and your mind pretty much knew mentally he wasn’t gonna answer, it was a bit foolish for you to continuously keep trying. but something in you told yourself, it’s satoru. he’s gonna answer. anything to reassure yourself, this happens a lot — gojo’s the type of person who always has his phone on silent, or he says he’ll call you back but ends up forgetting.

after a few rings, the same automatic voicemail plays, and just hearing his voice again, no matter how many times — it never fails to make your heart swoon.

“hey heyy, it’s satoru. uh, you’ve reached the—eheh what does that lady say again…? you’ve reached the voicemail box of.. gojo satoru. leave a message after the beep, beeeeep. heh, bye.”

you intake a sharp breath, closing your eyes before bringing the warm phone up to your ear, pressing it against your cheek before speaking in a voice.

a voice you hardly recognized, “…toru?” and you were on the brink of tears, it was easy to hear and you tried not to let your emotions get the best of you but at this point..

was it really worth holding on to?

fifteen long seconds passed and you forgot the phone was still in your hand.

you sniffled, gathering yourself briefly before continuing in a soft drowsy voice, “h-hey, um. i don’t mean to blow your phone up but, you aren’t responding and i’m getting kind of scared. are you okay?”

you pause again, feeling the sting of tears nearly escape through your eyelids before you squeeze your eyes shut, lightly squeezing your left thigh to prevent any more emotions from revealing themselves.

“i um, just wanna say i love you, and i hope you’re okay. i didn’t wanna open my gifts until you got here but you’re taking forever..”

and you manage to crack a tiny smile that purses against your lips—yet after a while, it fades and your heart feels like it’s just walking on egg shells. “but anyway, yeah. i love you satoru, text or call me back so i know you’re alright, please? and just get home safe okay? bye.”

you hung up the phone and a single tear ran down your cheek.

so much time had passed, and he still wasn’t here. it was nearly seven in the morning now, and your dumb curiosity got the best of you—you wondered what gojo’s big surprise gift was.

he wanted you to wait to see your reaction, but you were just so curious, so enthused.

you started to peel the pretty striped velvet wrapping paper off, one at a time, it was neatly wrapped with a perfect red and blank bow tied on the top.

once you opened it, it had a tiny black box, and your eyebrows raised, a note sticking out the side. grabbing it, you revealed it and it read in neat handwriting:

“hi baby!! merry merry christmas, i’m kinda tearing up while writing this, and i know i know you probably just wanna see the gift but first read this ‘kay? just wanna say i love love you so much, and i’m so glad we’ve been together for almost four years now. you mean everything to me, you’re so sweet and kind, always there whenever i need to talk my feelings out, or even if i just need to lay on you and fall asleep. but anywho, you know who loves you? this guy! hopefully i made you smile as you read this, im probably not at home yet but ill be back soon. don’t worry your pretty little head, alright? i love you baby, merry christmas from your honored one, xoxo.”

tears were in your eyes—and it was like you could hear him, he was right, you did manage to smile. sniffling, you placed the note aside before opening the small black box.

once you pulled the top back, your eyes widened, seeing a small coruscating ring. your heart sang, blinking twice to make sure your eyes weren’t playing tricks on you.

gojo was planning to propose..?

the ring was so pretty.

various scattered crushed up like pearls around the top, and once the tears started, they kept streaming down your face. you quickly pulled it out, sliding it on your ring finger and it was a perfect fit — in a frail sob, you mumble, “y-yes, i’ll marry you satoru.”

yet — that’s when you wake up, finally snapping back to reality. confused with tears still streaming down your face, burning.

“satoru?”

no answer.

you get up from the bed, your eyes widen before you look at your right hand — and the engagement ring was still there. a sigh of relief exits your mouth, and that’s when you make your way towards the kitchen.

nothing to worry about, maybe you just fell asleep while opening the gift. yeah, that had to be it.

although, the atmosphere of your house felt different. taking a quick glance in the living room, the christmas tree wasn’t there anymore, it wasn’t snowing, and it was almost as if you lived by yourself.

“satoru?” you called out again, before pulling out your phone — scrolling towards your messages and your heart suddenly sank. the last message you sent him was two years ago, a subtle ‘satoru, it’s christmas and you’re still not here? are you okay?’

christmas…?

you pulled a tab down on your phone — and the date read march 17th. approximately two years later from when you last sent that message, and you were so confused.

but the further you scrolled down, you saw messages from others, sending you their regards and condolences for your loss….loss?

the recent message was from geto — and your last reply was, ‘thank you, i’m doing okay. i just still can’t believe he’s gone.”

. . .

you felt sick — tear after tear racing down both sides of your face before coming to the sudden unfathomable realization.

gojo never came back home for one reason and one reason only. he died a painful death those long two years ago, even though he swore he’d come back to you on christmas.

perhaps everything was all a lie.

sometimes people don’t win all the time, not even the honored one, the love of your life, gojo satoru.

[ghstyles]

Always | His Angel

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Pairing: College!Yn x CrimeBossl!Harry

Based on this request

WC: 4K

His Angel Masterlist

Main Masterlist

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Y/N's apartment is bathed in the soft glow of lamp light, the clock on the wall showing just past midnight. The space is quiet, save for the occasional car passing on the street below and the steady drip of water from the bathroom faucet. She's sitting cross-legged on her bed in sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt, textbooks spread around her as she studies for an upcoming exam, when the distinct sound of her balcony door sliding open breaks the silence.

She freezes momentarily, then relaxes. Only one person would enter that way, and only one person had the security code to bypass the alarm Harry himself had installed. Still, the unexpected late-night visit sends a flutter of concern through her chest. Harry rarely shows up unannounced these days unless something's wrong.

She's already rising from the bed when he appears in her bedroom doorway, his imposing frame filling the space. Even in the dim light, she can tell something isn't right. His normally impeccable appearance is disheveled with his suit jacket missing, white shirt partially untucked, and most alarmingly, dark stains visible on the fabric that her instincts immediately identify as blood.

"Harry?" she questions, alarm sharpening her voice as she moves toward him. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

His face, partially shadowed, reveals little of his thoughts, but his stance, slightly favoring his right side, tells her enough.

"It's nothing," he dismisses, his voice carrying that particular roughness it gets when he's suppressing pain. "Just needed to see you."

Y/N isn't fooled for a second. She closes the distance between them, reaching for him only to have him step back slightly, evading her touch.

"Don't," he warns. "I'll get blood on you."

The confirmation of her suspicions sends a chill through her. Without another word, she takes his wrist, careful to avoid what appears to be a cut on his forearm, and leads him toward her bathroom. He allows himself to be guided, which tells her more about his condition than his words ever would. Harry Styles doesn't follow unless he's choosing to.

In the brighter light of the bathroom, the damage becomes clearer. His knuckles are split and bloody, there's a cut above his eyebrow that's still oozing, and the way he's holding himself suggests more injuries hidden beneath his clothing.

"Sit," she commands, pointing to the closed toilet lid. When he raises an eyebrow at her tone, she meets his gaze unflinchingly. "Sit down, Harry. Now."

To her mild surprise, he complies, lowering himself with a barely concealed wince that makes her heart twist. She turns to the cabinet, pulling out the extensive first aid kit she's accumulated over the past year. A necessity she never thought she'd need before Harry came into her life.

"Take off your shirt," she instructs as she sets the kit on the counter and washes her hands thoroughly.

Harry watches her with hooded eyes, a hint of his usual smirk playing at the corners of his mouth despite the circumstances.

"Usually you say that with a bit more enthusiasm, angel," he remarks, though his attempt at deflection falls flat against her concern.

Y/N doesn't rise to the bait, merely fixing him with a pointed look until he sighs and begins unbuttoning his shirt. The process is clearly painful for him, his movements stiffer than usual, and when he finally peels the fabric away, she has to bite back a gasp.

His torso, normally a landscape of defined muscle and tasteful tattoos, is now marred with fresh bruising along his ribs and what appears to be a knife slash across his side, shallow but long, still seeping blood.

"Jesus, Harry," she breathes, unable to keep the shock from her voice. "What the hell happened?"

He shrugs, then immediately regrets the movement, a flash of pain crossing his features before he can mask it.

"Business disagreement," he says flatly, as if discussing a minor inconvenience rather than what was clearly a violent altercation. "The other guy looks worse."

Y/N's hands clench around the antiseptic wipes she's just retrieved, a surge of mingled fear and frustration washing through her.

"I don't care about the other guy," she says, her voice tight as she steps between his knees and tilts his face up to examine the cut on his brow. "I care about you coming home looking like you've been put through a meat grinder."

The word 'home' slips out unintentionally; this is her apartment, not their shared space, but neither of them comments on it as she damps a clean cloth and begins gently cleaning the blood from his face.

Harry sits unnaturally still under her ministrations, his eyes never leaving her face, studying her with an intensity that might unnerve someone who didn't know him as she does. There's something in his gaze beyond his usual watchfulness, something almost vulnerable that she can't quite place.

"I can do this myself," he says after a moment, though he makes no move to take the cloth from her hands. "I've patched myself up plenty of times before."

"I'm sure you have," Y/N responds, carefully cleaning around the cut, revealing its true edges. "But you don't have to. Not anymore."

She reaches for the antiseptic, warning him softly before applying it to the wound. To his credit, he doesn't flinch, though she knows the sting must be considerable.

"This needs stitches," she observes, examining the cut more closely.

"No hospitals," he says immediately, his tone brooking no argument.

Y/N sighs, having expected this response.

"Fine. Butterfly closures it is, then. But if it opens again, I'm calling Dr. Mercer."

Harry's mouth tightens at the mention of the discreet private physician on his payroll, but he doesn't argue further, which is as close to agreement as she's likely to get.

As she works on his face, applying the closures with careful precision, she can't hold back the questions anymore.

"Are you going to tell me what actually happened?" she asks, her voice softer now but no less determined. "And don't say 'business disagreement' again. I deserve more than that."

Harry's eyes darken slightly, his jaw tensing beneath her fingertips.

"The Cavanaughs tried to move product through Camden without permission," he finally says, his voice clinical, detached. "I went to discuss the matter with their lieutenant."

"Discuss," Y/N repeats flatly, moving now to his split knuckles, cleaning them with perhaps a bit more pressure than strictly necessary.

Harry hisses slightly at the sting, shooting her a warning look that she pointedly ignores.

"Yes, discuss," he continues after a moment. "Until he decided to express his disagreement with a switchblade."

The casual way he mentions being attacked with a knife makes Y/N's hands falter momentarily, her stomach clenching at the thought of how much worse this could have been. The cut on his side, just inches away from potentially lethal territory, is vivid evidence of how close calls like this can be.

"And you went alone," she says, not quite a question, her voice carefully controlled as she finishes with his hands and moves to examine his ribs. "No backup. No one watching your six."

Harry's expression hardens, recognizing the building anger beneath her calm exterior.

"I had Jones and Miller in the car," he offers, as if this is sufficient reassurance.

"In the car," she repeats, pressing gently along his ribcage, noting when he tenses. "Not inside with you. Not close enough to stop you from getting carved up like a Christmas turkey."

Her voice remains steady, but there's a tremor in her hands now that betrays her emotions as she reaches for more antiseptic and clean gauze to address the knife wound on his side.

"I handled it," Harry says, a defensive edge creeping into his tone.

"Clearly," Y/N retorts, gesturing to his injuries with a sweep of her hand. "Handled it so well you're bleeding all over my bathroom floor."

She kneels down to better access the wound on his side, working with careful efficiency despite her rising anger. The cut is long but thankfully not deep enough to require stitches. Still, it must be painful, and the thought of him receiving it, of a blade slicing through his skin while she was safely studying in her apartment, makes her throat tight with emotion.

"This was stupid," she says, her voice dropping to almost a whisper as she cleans the wound. "Reckless. You could have been killed."

Harry's hand suddenly captures her wrist, stilling her movements. When she looks up, his expression has shifted from defensive to something more intense, more focused.

"I wasn't," he says firmly. "I'm here. I'm fine."

"You're not fine," she counters, pulling her wrist from his grasp to continue her work. "You're beaten and cut up and God knows what else because you decided to play tough guy instead of sending someone else to handle it. Or better yet, handling it like a normal fucking businessman with a phone call."

A harsh laugh escapes him at that, tinged with bitterness.

"Normal businessman? Is that what you think I am, angel?" The question carries a dangerous edge, a reminder of exactly who and what he is, something they both sometimes pretend to forget in their quieter moments.

"No," Y/N says, meeting his gaze directly as she secures a bandage over the knife wound. "I know exactly what you are, Harry. Which is why I know you're smart enough to avoid unnecessary risks. This—" she gestures to his injuries again "—was unnecessary. And don't tell me it wasn't."

Harry watches her for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes before his expression closes off again, that familiar mask of control sliding back into place.

"Some messages need to be delivered in person," he says finally, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that would make most people back away. Not Y/N, though. Never her.

"And some boyfriends need to remember they're not fucking invincible," she retorts, rising to her feet to look him directly in the eye, her hands coming to rest on her hips in a posture of pure frustration.

The word 'boyfriend' hangs between them. It’s an inadequate label for what Harry is to her, for what they are to each other, but the closest conventional term available. Harry's expression shifts again, something like surprise flickering across his features before it's quickly suppressed.

"I'm not your boyfriend," he says, the correction automatic, a reminder of how he views their relationship—as something deeper, more permanent, more possessive than such a casual term could encompass.

"Fine," Y/N snaps, her patience finally fraying. "Some overprotective, possessive, control-freak mob bosses need to remember they're still human and can still bleed out just like anyone else."

The blunt assessment with the raw fear, barely disguised as anger, in her voice, seems to catch Harry off guard. He stares at her for a beat too long, something shifting in his gaze as he truly looks at her, perhaps for the first time since he arrived. He sees the slight tremble in her hands as she packs up the first aid supplies, the tension in her shoulders, the brightness in her eyes that suggests tears being stubbornly held back.

"Y/N," he says, his voice softer now, reaching for her again.

She steps back, needing to maintain the distance, needing him to understand.

"No," she says firmly. "You don't get to 'Y/N' me in that voice and think it fixes everything. Do you have any idea what it does to me, seeing you like this? Knowing that any night you could end up with something a lot worse than cuts and bruises? That I could get a call saying you're not coming back at all?"

The raw emotion in her voice seems to penetrate his defenses in a way her anger couldn't. Harry's expression softens fractionally, the mask slipping to reveal a glimpse of the man who, for all his power and danger, has one vulnerability he can never fully armor against: her.

"Come here," he says quietly, and this time it's not a command but a request, his hand extended toward her, palm up in a rare gesture of openness.

For a moment, Y/N considers refusing, still too rattled by the sight of his injuries, too angry at his recklessness. But the pull between them has always been impossible to resist for long, and slowly, she steps forward, allowing him to guide her to stand between his knees again.

Harry's hands come to rest at her waist, his touch gentler than his appearance would suggest possible, his eyes never leaving hers.

"I'm sorry you were worried," he says, the words clearly difficult for him. Apologies don’t come naturally to a man like Harry Styles. "But I'm here. I came to you."

The significance of those words isn't lost on her. He didn't go to one of his properties, didn't call for his doctor, didn't retreat to lick his wounds in private as his instincts might have dictated. He came to her, allowed her to see him vulnerable, to care for him in a way she suspects few, if any, have ever been permitted to do.

"You shouldn't have had to come at all," she says, though some of the heat has left her voice, her hands coming up to rest lightly on his shoulders, careful to avoid his injuries. "You shouldn't be hurt in the first place."

"It's the nature of what I do," he reminds her, his thumbs tracing small circles against her hips, a soothing gesture that seems as much for his benefit as hers.

"I know what you do," Y/N says, her frustration evident but tempered now with resignation. "I'm not asking you to change that. I'm just asking you not to take stupid risks. To remember that you have something, someone, to come back to now."

The words hang between them, heavy with meaning, with the acknowledgment of what they've become to each other over the past year—a tether, an anchor, a reason to return safely from the darkness that comprises so much of Harry's world.

Harry's expression shifts again, something almost vulnerable flickering in his eyes before he can guard against it. His hands tighten slightly at her waist, drawing her incrementally closer.

"I always come back to you," he says, his voice dropping to that intimate register reserved only for her. "Always."

It's as close to a promise as a man like him can make, and they both know it. In his world, guarantees of safety are impossible, assurances of tomorrow a luxury neither of them can truly afford. But this commitment to return, to fight his way back to her no matter what, is something he can offer, and does, in those four simple words.

Y/N's expression softens, her hands moving from his shoulders to gently cup his face, careful to avoid the butterfly closures she's just applied.

"Just...be more careful," she says softly, her thumb brushing along his jawline. "For me. Please."

The 'please' is what does it. A gentle request rather than a demand, appealing to his desire to give her what she needs rather than challenging his autonomy. Harry's expression softens fractionally, his nod almost imperceptible but present.

"I'll try," he concedes, which from him is a significant promise.

Y/N sighs, knowing it's the best she'll get, and she steps further between his knees, pulling him into her, mindful of his injuries. They stay like that for a moment, his head against her chest, the tension of their argument gradually dissipating in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

After a while, she straightens and returns to the task at hand, gathering fresh supplies to finish tending to his wounds. As she works, a comfortable silence falls between them, and the worst of the storm has passed.

Harry watches her with that intense focus that's uniquely his, tracking her every movement as she carefully applies antibiotic ointment to the smaller cuts on his arms and chest. There's something almost reverential in his stillness, in the way he allows her this access to him at his most vulnerable.

"You're good at this," he observes after a while, his voice quiet in the stillness of the bathroom.

Y/N glances up, a wry smile touching her lips.

"I've had practice," she replies pointedly. "More than I ever wanted, thanks to you."

There's no real heat in the words now, just a gentle teasing that eases them back toward their normal dynamic.

"Complaining, angel?" Harry counters, a hint of his usual smirk returning despite his injuries.

"Observing," she corrects, pressing a final bandage into place before stepping back to survey her work. "There. Not my best patchwork, but it'll do until you decide to be reasonable and let Dr. Mercer take a proper look."

Harry's expression makes it clear what he thinks of that suggestion, but he doesn't argue further, instead reaching for her again, drawing her back between his knees.

"Thank you," he says, the words simple but sincere, his hands settling at her waist once more.

Something about the gratitude that’s so rarely expressed in actual words, catches Y/N off guard. She studies his face, noting the unusual openness in his expression, the lack of his typical guards.

"You've never had anyone do this for you before, have you?" she asks suddenly, the realization dawning on her with unexpected clarity. "Clean you up after a fight?"

Harry's expression shudders slightly, his instinctive response to any probing of his past, but he doesn't pull away. After a moment, he gives a slight shake of his head.

"No," he admits, the single syllable containing volumes of a childhood without comfort, an adolescence spent learning to tend his own wounds, and an adulthood where vulnerability was a luxury he couldn't afford.

The simple admission makes Y/N's heart ache for the boy he was, for all the moments of care he should have received but didn't. Carefully, mindful of his injuries, she steps closer, her arms sliding around his neck as she presses herself against him with gentle pressure.

"Well, get used to it," she says softly against his ear, echoing his own words from the hospital back to him. "Because that's not changing. Ever."

Harry's arms come around her waist, holding her to him with a tightness that borders on desperate, his face buried in the curve of her neck. For a moment, just a moment, she feels him tremble, a minute shudder that passes through his powerful frame before he regains control.

"I hate it," he murmurs against her skin, the lie transparent between them. "Being fussed over like I'm some kind of invalid."

Y/N smiles against his hair, seeing through the protest to the truth beneath. That this man, who has never known gentle hands or concerned care, is struggling to process the foreign sensation of being tended to, of allowing someone else to shoulder his pain, even momentarily.

"Tough," she replies, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "You come to me bleeding, you get the full nurse treatment. Non-negotiable."

A low chuckle rumbles through him at that, the sound vibrating against her chest where they're pressed together.

"Nurse treatment, huh?" he questions, leaning back just enough to meet her gaze, a familiar heat beginning to replace the vulnerability in his eyes. "Is that what we're calling it?"

Y/N rolls her eyes, recognizing his attempt to shift the moment away from emotional territory and back to more comfortable ground.

"Don't even think about it," she warns, though there's no real firmness in her tone. "You're in no condition for anything but rest right now."

Harry's hands slide lower on her back, drawing her impossibly closer despite his injuries.

"I'm in perfect condition for anything you want, angel," he counters, the rough edge in his voice making it clear exactly what direction his thoughts have turned.

Y/N pulls back slightly, fixing him with a stern look that's only partially undermined by the flush spreading across her cheeks.

"Harry, you have bruised ribs and a knife wound," she reminds him, practical despite the heat beginning to pool low in her stomach at his proximity, at the familiar intensity of his gaze. "You need to rest and let those injuries start healing."

Harry's answering smile is pure sin, his hands slipping beneath the hem of her oversized t-shirt to find bare skin.

"I can rest," he agrees, his thumbs tracing circles on her lower back. "You'll just have to do all the work."

The suggestion sends a jolt of heat through her despite her best intentions to be responsible. Y/N narrows her eyes at him, trying to maintain her resolve even as his touch weakens it.

"You're impossible," she informs him, though she makes no move to step away from his exploring hands.

"And you love it," he counters with absolute certainty, knowing exactly how true the statement is.

Y/N sighs, unable to deny it but unwilling to give in so easily.

"What I'd love is for you to stop getting yourself hurt," she says, bringing the conversation full circle, needing him to understand that despite the lightning mood, her concern is genuine. "I mean it, Harry. Be more careful. For me."

Harry's expression sobers slightly at the sincerity in her tone. His hands still their exploration, coming to rest at her waist once more, grounding rather than teasing now.

"I will," he says simply, the words carrying more weight than any elaborate promise could. "For you."

The moment stretches between them, heavy with the depth of what they've become to each other, the ways they've reshaped each other's worlds, the vulnerability they allow only with each other.

Then Harry's lips curve into that dangerous smile that never fails to make her heart race, his hands tightening at her waist.

"Now," he says, his voice dropping to that rough velvet tone that bypasses all her defenses, "about you doing all the work..."

Y/N laughs despite herself, shaking her head at his persistence.

"You’re ridiculous," she declares, but she's already leaning in, her lips finding his in a kiss that's gentle at first, mindful of his split lip, but quickly deepens as he pulls her closer.

Later, she'll insist on proper rest, on ice for his ribs, on careful monitoring of his wounds. She'll probably lecture him again about unnecessary risks and the importance of backup. She might even extract more specific promises about future precautions.

But for now, she allows herself to be drawn into his gravity, to be the gentle to his rough, the care to his recklessness, the safety to his danger. To be the one person in his violent world who tends his wounds instead of causing them, who sees the man beneath the monster and loves them both, impossible and complicated as that sometimes is.

Taglist:@silastylesswift @babegoals @harryssunflower17 @puzio19 @goldensunflowerss-blog @drewrry @tinawritesstuff @dipmeinhoneyh @spinninc @harrystyleshotwife @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @estaticheart @harrysguccihandbag @mads3502 @harrydeary @valuunit @myfavfanficsever @lunaharrygurl @prettygurl-2009 @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinemaa @bethiegurl19 @mellamolayla @triski73 @sstylezzz

[sillylilsquid]

after daisy

pairing - felix x reader summary - after losing his service dog, Felix finds comfort in the ER tech who stayed. grief turns to healing, and healing turns to something more; with a new dog, shared nights, and the quiet love growing. warnings - animal death, description cpr/life saving measures, grief, depression 6k words

It was a slow lull between cases–the kind of pause that never lasts in veterinary medicine. Especially the ER.

You had finished tending to inpatients, and now you were restocking gauze and flushing lines when the front door slammed open with a bang that echoed through the fluorescent lit ER. “Help–please–someone help me!”

You turned on instinct. He was already running toward the counter, cradling a limp, bloody golden retriever in his arms. She was hardly moving. Her hind leg dangled at a sickening angle. Her coat was matted with road grit and blood. Her tags clinked weakly with each panicked step.

The man was crying–sobbing, actually–face blotchy and twisted in a raw kind of grief that made your stomach knot. “She–she got out–she ran, and then–a car–” His voice cracked and broke apart.

You didn’t ask for details. You rushed up to him, reaching for the dog. “We’ve got her,” you said, urgent but calm. “What’s your name? What’s her name?”

“Felix. This is Daisy.”

“Okay, I got her, let me take her.” You turned to him, eyes locking. “I need to take her now.”

He hesitated, shaking. His arms clutched tighter around the dog like he wasn’t sure he could let go. “I c-can’t–she’s my–she’s my–” His whole body folded inward, like the weight of her was all that was keeping him from collapsing too. “She’s my service dog.”

Your breath hitched. “I promise we’ll do everything we can,” you said softly now. But I need to take her back. Now.” You saw the moment he surrendered, the pain slicing through him as he handed her over. You rushed toward the back, yelling for help. “Hit by car, unconscious, bradycardic–”

The rest blurred into chaos. You laid Daisy on the exam table in the trauma bay, the team already swarming. You started checking vitals as you barked orders without hesitation. “Get me IV access–jugular if you have to. Start her on oxygen. Warm saline, full flow. Let’s move!”

Blood matted thick along her flank and mouth. Her breathing became agonal–barely there. You felt for a pulse at her femoral artery. Nothing. “She’s coding.”

You were already switching gears. Another tech slid in beside you and began chest compressions while you clipped in an IV catheter with a practiced flick. You flushed the line fast, securing it with tape as you called out for the doctor.

Dr. Park entered just as you began intubation. “Epi, 1ml IV push it now!” You wiped blood from her airway with gauze, sliding the endotracheal tube into her throat, then hooked it up to the ambu bag. “Tube’s in. 7.5, cuff’s inflated. Starting ventilation.”

The screen beeped. You switched out compression with a colleague, watching the monitor–still flat. Ultrasound was already on her chest. No motion. No flicker. Her heart was silent. “Come on, Daisy,” you whispered, almost without realizing. “Stay with me…”

Another round of epi was pushed. Another round of compressions. Sweat ran down your back beneath your scrubs. The whole room pulsed with urgency. Fear and desperation.

The monitors were a chaotic rhythm of being and alarms. Everyone was moving fast–hands passing syringes, lines being flushed, someone calling out vitals. You were pressing hard on Daisy’s chest, her ribs fragile under your hands, while another tech breathed for her through the endotracheal tube. Her gums still pale. 

Still flatline. “No cardiac activity,” someone whispered. Dr. Park hesitated, glanced up at the clock. “I’m calling it,” he said softly.

Your hands dropped. The fell still–all that noise and effort sucked away in a single breath. You stared down at Daisy. Her chest no longer rose. Her fur was still warm under your gloves, but fading. You took a step back, nausea twisting in your guy. You tried. You tried everything. And it hadn’t been enough.

You scrubbed your hands under burning hot water for the third time. They were shaking. Dr. Park had already written up the report. “I’ll go talk to her owner,” he said and you nodded, deciding to stay behind. But you watched as he stepped out into the cold fluorescent hallway.

You began to clean Daisy up. Removing the endotracheal tube and her IVs. You used a warm rag to clean most of the blood off of her–at least what would come off easily. You brushed out her fur the best you could.

After digging through the cupboard you found the warmest, fuzziest blanket and wrapped Daisy in it. Trying to make her look as presentable as possible for Felix.

Meanwhile, Felix hadn’t moved from reception. He was in the far corner of the waiting area, hunched in a chair meant for paperwork and quick check-ins, not grief. He was still soaked through–his sweatshirt darkened with drying blood, jeans stained with road dust. One of his hands gripped Daisy’s leash like it was a lifeline; the other was shaking violently, holding a crushed paper towel someone must’ve handed him earlier.

His leg bounced, his lips moved soundlessly, like he was whispering to her. Maybe praying. Dr. Park cleared his throat, beginning to speak quietly. “Felix?”

He stood too fast, stumbling forward. His face was a mess–red and drawn and desperate. “Is she–can I–” The words caught and tangled in his throat. 

“Let’s talk in private.” Dr. Park guided him toward an exam room, a larger one they used for sensitive cases. The blinds were drawn. The walls were quiet.

Felix sat stiffly in the lone chair beside the counter while Dr. Park remained standing, giving him space. The leash was still wrapped around Felix’s fist. The doctor didn’t sugarcoat–something he learned in his years in the field. “We tried everything we could. We intubated her, gave her fluids, medications, compressions. There was no cardiac activity on ultrasound. We ran multiple rounds of code, but…” A pause. “We couldn’t get her back. She’s passed away. I’m sorry.”

Felix didn’t react at first. He just sat there, staring at the floor. Then– “No.” Soft, almost inaudible. He shook his head, eyes burning as they welled up. “No, she’s strong. She always bounces back.” His voice broke hard, cracking open like something raw beneath it had finally surfaced. “I don’t understand–I–no–”

Dr. Park apologized again, giving Felix a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. “I’ll have them bring her to you, if you’d like.” And that’s when he broke. Felix’s cries became sobs, his sobs turned into screams.

His face was buried into his hands, screaming inaudible words as he cried. His shoulders shook, his blonde hair fell in his face. Dr. Park turned to leave, heading straight back into the treatment area.

Meanwhile, you’d just finished getting charges put in the computer under Daisy’s profile. When you saw Dr. Park he flashed you a sad smile. “Can you take Daisy to him, please? Exam room 3.” You nodded. As you began to wrap Daisy up in a way that would look more peaceful, rather than traumatic, you heard Felix’s screams. His sobs. Daisy’s name falling from his lips over and over again.

“Jeez,” one of the other techs muttered. “It’s sad, but that’s a little dramatic.” 

The words caused a fire to burn in your chest. You turned towards her and shook your head. “That was his service dog. Show some fucking compassion.” You muttered, grabbing Daisy in your arms and storming out of the trauma bay.

You headed towards the room Felix was in, the door was cracked and you saw his bent over frame. You knocked gently with your foot as you pushed the door open. “I have your girl for you,” you spoke softly. Felix’s head immediately snapped up. His eyes were bloodshot, face was blotchy, dried blood smeared across his face.

You gently laid Daisy on the ground making sure her blanket was wrapped neatly around her, leaving her head out. “I cleaned her up as much as I could,” you explained, brushing your fingers through the fur behind her ears. “Take all the time you need.”

Felix practically fell out of his chair, kneeling next to Daisy. His hands trembled as he reached out towards her. When his fingers touched her fur, he broke harder than before. His body hunched over, engulfing Daisy in a hug as he practically laid next to her on the floor. His face buried against the top of her head.

As he cried, repeating her name and how sorry he was, you quietly moved out of the room. Wanting to give him privacy, but you left the door cracked just slightly. Just in case he needed anything. And as you continued with the rest of your shift, you found yourself peeking out into the hallway towards his room.

The rest of your shift passed in quiet echoes–charting, cleaning, checking on overnight inpatients. You kept glancing at the clock. Thirty minutes went by. Then an hour. Two. By the time three hours had passed, the sun started to rise. You heard a few whispers, “Is he really still in there?” “At least he stopped crying.” And you had to bite your tongue.

You’d just clocked out for the day. You changed out of your scrubs, hoodie tugged over your head, badge stowed in your locker. But before you left, your feet pulled you back toward exam room 3. The door was still cracked. You knocked gently on the frame, barely louder than a breath. “Hey…” you said. “Can I sit with you?”

Felix didn’t look up right away. He was lying on the floor, curled around Daisy’s blanket wrapped form like a child would hold a stuffed animal. His face was blotchy, eyes swollen, lips dry from hours of silent crying. But he nodded.

So you stepped inside, quiet and small, and took the chair beside him. No words, just your presence. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t have to.

After a few minutes, you scooted off the chair, sitting near them but not too close. And you reached out–slowly, carefully–fingers brushing through Daisy’s fur one last time. “She would’ve liked you. She liked everyone.”

You blinked hard, trying to swallow back tears. “I think I would’ve liked her too.” And the two of you just…sat. The kind of silence that doesn’t need filing. The kind that honors what was lost. The kind that stays.

The sky outside was blushing grey with morning when Felix finally stirred. He sat up slowly, arms reluctant to let go of Daisy’s small form, his forehead still pressed gently to hers. When he did lift his head, his eyes were glassy again–emptied out, yet somehow still overwhelmed. “I should go…” His voice sounded hoarse and wrecked. “Or I’ll stay here forever.” You wouldn’t have blamed him.

You smiled softly, the kind of smile that knows the pain he’s talking about. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

Felix sat for another beat, stroking Daisy’s fur beneath the blanket, before whispering, “Thank you, Daisy. For everything.”

You swallowed down the ache in your throat. He looked up at you, hollowed out but grounded, like grief had finally started to settle into his bones. “Do you know what you want to do for aftercare?” you asked gently. “We can send her for private cremation if you want her ashes returned, or–”

Felix cut in, quietly, eyes dropping to her collar in his hands that he had unclipped from her. “I can’t afford that.” He hesitated then added, “The front desk already asked. Said I could make payments on what I owe for today.”

That landed harder than you expected. He didn’t look embarrassed. Just defeated. You only nodded. “Okay,” you said softly. “I understand.”

Felix bent over Daisy one last time, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, his lips trembling against her fur. “Goodnight, baby.”

He didn’t cry then. Not out loud. But his whole body trembled as he tucked the blanket around her once more. You waited until he stepped out of the room before reaching for her. Even though you were off the clock, you carried her back to treatment yourself–wrapped gently, respectfully–no different than you would if her person had still been watching.

The back was quiet again. Everyone moved slower in the early morning hours, that liminal space before the rush of breakfast cases and rechecks. You paused by the freezer door, then turned, and walked toward the doctor’s office instead. Dr. Park looked up from his computer when you knocked.

“Hey,” you said, clutching Daisy to you tightly. “I’m paying his bill. All of it. Cremation too. Private. I’ll cover it.”

He blinked. “You sure? I know it’s sad, but we can’t help everyone–”

You nodded once. “She was his whole world. That should matter more than a fucking invoice.” 

He didn’t argue. Just typed up a few notes and handed you the paperwork to sign. You swiped your card without a second thought.

The sun was fully up by the time you stepped outside. The parking lot was mostly empty. The only cars were the tech’s and doctor’s–but one car hadn’t moved.

You recognized it immediately. Felix was still in the driver’s seat. Just…sitting there. Not on his phone. Not crying. Just staring through the windshield at the front doors of the hospital like something might walk back out.

You stopped by the curb. Watched him for a second, heart folding in your chest. Then, gently, you raised your hand in a quiet wave. He looked up. And when he saw you, something flickered in his expression–confused , exhausted, but grateful.

He raised his hand too. Not a wave. More of a reach.

That next evening at the clinic had settled into its usual rhythm–barking from the ICU, a limping kitten in Room 2, and a stack of unfinished SOAP notes growing at the treatment desk. You were finishing up a TPR when the front desk phone rang.

“Hey, uh…there’s a guy up front. Says his name’s Felix? Wants to talk to someone from ER.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You finished the vital signs with a rushed scribble and stepped into the lobby. He was standing by the counter, holding a small envelope. He looked better–less wrecked–but still like he hadn't quite landed back in his body yet. His hair was down, brushed messily out of his face as if he’d ran his fingers through it a thousand times.

When he spotted you, he straightened. “Hey,” he said quietly. “I…I just wanted to say thank you. For yesterday. For everything.”

He handed you the envelope. Inside was a thank you card–simple, soft grey with white script. Tucked inside was a photo: Felix and Daisy on a hiking trail, her tongue out, his smile wide and natural. There was a $50 gift card to a nearby cafe stapled inside with a note that read for the team–thank you for taking care of my girl.

You blinked fast. “You didn’t have to–”

“I did,” he cut in, voice rough. “I had to. You were…kind.” He turned to the front desk then, digging into his pocket for his wallet. “I also need to make a payment toward my bill,” he said. “They told me I could split it over a few weeks–”

The receptionist blinked at the screen. “Um. It’s actually…already paid in full.”

Felix’s brows furrowed. “That’s not right. I didn’t–”

“I know,” she replied, glancing behind him towards you.

You step forward silently. He turned when he felt you hovering. There was something guarded in his expression–grateful but confused, like he was trying to understand something he didn’t quite have the language for yet.

You didn’t explain. Didn’t confess. You just met his eyes and said, gently, “Daisy will be back in a few days.”

His mouth parted, then closed again. He swallowed. “Really?” His voice was tight, careful.

You nodded. “I’ll call when she’s ready to come home.”

He stared at you for a long moment, eyes wet again, but steadier this time. “Thank you,” he mumbled. “Really. For all of it.”

It’s been a few weeks. Daisy’s ashes are long gone. You wrapped them in tissue paper and tucked the box into a plain brown bag. You remember his fingers trembling when he took it from you–how he didn’t speak, didn’t look you in the eye. Just nodded once. Like if he opened his mouth, he might break apart in front of everyone.

You hadn’t seen him since. Not until today.

“That guy with the Australian accent was looking for you yesterday,” one of the night nurses says casually, popping gum between her teeth as you sign out. “Didn’t catch his name. Said he came by about his dog? He didn’t seem right.”

You pause, pen hovering midair. “Did he say anything else?”

She shrugs. “Just…asked if you were working. Didn’t come in. Stayed by the doors, looking kind of lost. Then left.”

You don’t ask why she didn’t come get you. You just nod and finish your charting.

The next day your shift drags. Nothing goes terribly wrong, but the hours feel heavier than usual–like you’re waiting for something. Every time the front door dings open, you glance toward it. And every time, it’s not him.

Until it is.

You’ve just clocked out. Your hoodie’s half zipped, stethoscope tucked in your bag. You round the corner to head out back and–there he is. Sitting on the curb outside the staff entrance. Hoodie up. Elbows on his knees. Daisy’s leash looped twice around his wrist, like it always was–except there’s no dog at the other end now. Just empty slack.

He looks up at the sound of the door. And when he sees you, he tries to smile. It doesn’t work. “Hey,” he mumbles. His voice is raw, like he hasn’t used it much lately. “Didn’t think I’d catch you.”

You sit next to him. Not too close. Not yet. He fidgets with the leash. You ask how he’s been doing. He doesn’t lie, not really.

“Not great,” he admits. “Some nights I still reach for her food bowl. Realize halfway through that I’m filling it for a ghost.”

He laughs a little, but it’s brittle. His eyes are rimmed red. There’s a dull tremor in his hand when he presses his fingers to his temple. “It’s quiet, you know? Real quiet. I thought I’d like that. But…it’s different without her. It’s not silence, it’s…”

“Absence,” you finish.

He nods. The silence between you this time is gentler.

“She used to wake me up when I had bad dreams,” he murmurs. “Now I just wake up and stay up. Because there’s no one to stop it.”

You glance at him. “Do you have anyone else?”

He shakes his head. “It was just her. Just Daisy.” A pause. “And you, that day.”

He doesn’t cry. But it’s a near thing. You want to ask a million things. You want to tell him it’s okay. But you don’t know if it is. So you say the only thing that feels real.

“You don’t have to go home yet.”

And you stand. You wait. And after a long, fragile pause–he rises too.

“I mean–sorry, that probably sounded weird. I just…” You let out a breath. “You can come to my place, if you want. Just for a bit. Stay as long as you need. I figured you might not wanna be alone.”

He looks at you for a long moment. “Yeah, okay.”

It’s quiet on the drive over. You fiddle with the heat, give him the aux cord even though you know he won’t take it. His hands stay in his lap, the leash still curled tight in his grip like muscle memory.

At your place, he toes off his shoes and stands awkwardly by the door. You flick the lights on and toss your keys into the bowl. “Make yourself comfortable,” you announce. “Couch, bed, floor–whatever works. I’m gonna change into something less covered in fur and anxiety.”

That earns a soft snort from him. A tiny upward curl at the edge of his mouth.

You return in sweatpants and an old t-shirt. He hasn’t moved far–just wandered into your room and perched on the edge of your bed, eyes on the ground like he’s not sure if he should even sit.

“I haven’t eaten since, like, yesterday,” he mutters.

You sit down next to him and pull your phone out. “Pizza?” you ask.

He nods. “Pineapple?” you test.

A breathy laugh escapes him. “Absolutely not.”

“Good,” you say, tapping your order in. “I was gonna judge you.”

It takes about 40 minutes for the food to arrive, and in that time, something shifts. He tugs off his hoodie and sits cross legged on your comforter. You toss him a pillow and he hugs it close. “Is this weird?” He asks.

“Yeah,” you reply honestly. “But not in a bad way.”

You eat pizza sitting on your bed with your knees brushing, boxes spread out between you. He talks with his mouth full, and you don’t call him out on it. You’re just glad he’s eating.

After dinner, it’s quiet again–but not heavy. You stretch out and lean against the headboard. He follows, sinking down beside you. And that’s when he finally lets go.

“She used to curl up under the blanket and stick her nose out like a little burrito,” he murmurs, staring at his hands.

You let him talk. About Daisy. About her first day with him. Her surgeries. Her anxiety. Her stupid favorite toy that squeaked like a dying bird. The way she’d sit outside the bathroom door if he forgot to leave it open.

“She didn’t like most people, but she probably liked you.” He says.

Your chest goes tight. He’s quiet for a beat. Then, softer, “She trusted you. That means something…I haven’t really talked about her. Not like this.”

You nod. “You can keep going. Say whatever you need. You don’t have to stop.”

He does. He talks until his voice goes hoarse. Until he can’t keep his eyes open. You don’t rush him. You just listen. At some point, his head tilts and lands on your shoulder. You go still. “Just a second,” he mumbles. “I’ll move.”

You shake your head. “You’re good.”

And he stays. Breathing slowly, warm beside you. And for the first time since you met him, there’s no difference. No wall. No leash between grief and comfort. Just two people on a bed, sharing quiet and space. The beginning of something fragile, and maybe healing.

It doesn't happen all at once. First, it’s just that one night. Then another. A few days later, he shows up outside the clinic near the end of your shift. No texts. Just leans on your car, hands in his jacket pockets, waiting like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Figured I’d see if you wanted takeout,” he says.

You do.

And after that, it becomes a pattern.

Your place, his place. Takeout boxes in the trash, half finished movies in the queue. He starts leaving things behind: a hoodie on your chair, socks tucked in your laundry, a toothbrush next to yours without either of you mentioning it.

Some nights, you fall asleep talking. Other nights, you don't talk at all. But it’s never awkward. Not with him.

You start watching for his face after shifts. He waits for you outside the ER, hood up, sleeves pulled over his hands. He holds your lunch sometimes. Brings coffee. The other nurses start to notice.

“Is that your boyfriend?” one of them teases.

“No,” you say too quickly. “We’re just–friends.”

But even as you say it, it feels too simple.

One late evening, you’re curled up on the couch at his place. A documentary plays in the background, muted. He’s been quiet for a while, scrolling through something on his phone. You think he’s not really present until he says: “There’s a dog at the shelter.”

You turn toward him, brows raised. “Yeah?”

He nods, still looking at his screen. “They posted her picture this morning. She’s older. Little shy. Black lab mix. Looks like she’s had a rough time.”

You pause, watching the way he chews on the inside of his cheek. “You thinking about adopting her?”

A long silence. He locks his phone and tosses it beside him. Shrugs one shoulder. “I dunno. I don't know if I can do that again. Losing her. I don't know if it’s too soon, or if it’ll always be too soon.”

Your heart aches. You shift closer, gentle. “It’s not weird that you’re thinking about it.”

He looks at you. “I just thought…maybe we could go see her? You know. No pressure. Just meet her.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. We can do that.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

He exhales, like he’s been holding that breath since Daisy died. And when you lean your head against his shoulder, he doesn’t flinch or pull away. His fingers brush yours on the blanket between you. Neither of you say it out loud, but there’s something shared in that silence. Something healing. Something ready. 

The shelter smells like bleach and wet fur. It’s loud in the way all shelters are loud–echoing barks, whining, the sharp clang of metal bowls hitting concrete.

Felix tenses beside you as you check in at the front desk. He doesn’t say much, hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans, but his eyes never stop moving. Not fear exactly–just bracing. Expecting impact.

You glance at him. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Just…haven’t been here since…” He trails off and you just nod in understanding.

You reach out without thinking, touching his wrist. His gaze drops where your fingers brush his skin, then back up to your face. He doesn’t pull away.

The volunteer, a young guy in a ‘FOSTER HEROES’ t-shirt, comes to meet you with a clipboard. “You’re here to meet Emmy?”

Felix nods once.

“She’s a little shy,” the guy says as he leads you down the hallway. “Came from a neglect case. She’s sweet though. Warms up once she trusts you.”

You stop in front of a kennel near the end of the row. The dog inside is curled up at the back–small for a lab mix, black with graying fur around the muzzle, one ear that won’t quite stand up.

Emmy doesn’t rush the door. She doesn’t bark. She just lifts her head, slow and careful, her eyes big and cautious. “Hi, sweet girl,” you whisper.

You crouch down. Let her sniff you through the bars. She doesn’t flinch, but she doesn’t move closer either. Felix stays back at first, hands still in his hoodie, watching.

“Do you want to go in?” the volunteer offers.

Felix hesitates. “You can both go,” he says. “No pressure.”

Slowly, Felix follows you inside. Emmy keeps her distance, tense and watchful, but when you sit cross-legged on the floor and open your palm, she takes a few slow steps forward. Her nails click against the concrete.

You don’t rush her. Felix sits beside you, knees drawn up. Quiet. He doesn’t reach for her–just watches the way her body moves, cautious and ready to bolt.

But then Emmy sniffs your hand. Then Felix’s shoe. Then, slowly, she presses her nose against his knee. He freezes. You don’t say anything. 

She sniffs again, then settles her chin on his thigh like she’s already made a decision. Felix’s breath shudders. He brings one hand up, trembling just slightly, and lets it hover before gently touching her fur. 

“She’s so soft,” he says, barely audible.

You smile. “She likes you.”

“You think?”

“Look at her.”

Emmy shifts, half in his lap now, tail flicking just once. The volunteer grins from the door. “Take all the time you need.”

You stay like that for a while. Letting the silence settle. Letting Felix fall in love again–slower this time, more careful.

And when the volunteer finally returns and asks, “So, wanna put in an application?” Felix looks to you first.

Not because he needs permission–but because this time, he doesn't want to do it alone. You smile and nod. “Yeah,” he says, voice soft but certain. “Yeah, I think I do.”

The rain starts as a gentle tapping on the windows, but by the time the takeout boxes are empty and the lights are low, it’s a full on storm. Thunder rolls heavy through the sky, shaking the apartment like a warning.

Felix doesn’t say much. He hasn’t said much since the shelter. Just looked at Emmy like she might vanish if he blinked too long.

Now, the three of you are curled up in the dim warmth of his bedroom–Emmy at the foot of the bed, you and Felix lying side by side under his gray comforter. The TV is on low, playing some random show that neither of you is really watching.

He flinches a little when lightning flashes. His breathing’s gotten tight. You shift closer, careful. “You okay?”

Felix nods–or maybe just tips his head a little–but his hand is fisting the blanket by his chest, jaw clenched.

“Storms?” you ask quietly.

“Yeah.” He swallows. “Been better since Daisy. But…tonight’s loud.”

You don’t push. You just stay next to him, your hand resting lightly on his arm, grounding. You feel him trembling a little under your touch. A deep rumble of thunder rolls across the sky.

Felix’s body tenses again–barely perceptible, but you feel it. And then, like she’s been watching the whole time, Emmy rises from her spot at the foot of the bed.

She moves slowly, ears half cocked, and steps over the sheets to where Felix is lying frozen. One paw, then the next, up until she’s settling herself directly on top of his chest–not heavy, just enough to anchor him. Her chin rests just under his collarbone.

Felix holds his breath. And then–you hear it–a quiet, cracked whisper, “Daisy did this.”

Your heart lurches. He doesn't cry. Doesn’t move. Just lies there, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his hand coming up like muscle memory to curl around Emmy’s side.

“First storm after I adopted her. I couldn’t breathe. And she–she just climbed on me. Like she knew.” His voice breaks around the edges. “She always knew.”

You press closer, curling your arm over his and resting your head against his shoulder. “Maybe Emmy knows too.”

He exhales, long and shaky, like something loosens inside him. “She’s not Daisy,” he says softly. “I know that.”

“She doesn’t have to be,” you whisper. “She’s Emmy. And you have each other now.”

There’s silence. Then Felix nods. Emmy shifts slightly, letting out a small sigh, her eyes fluttering shut. Thunder cracks again. This time, Felix doesn’t flinch.

Mornings settle into a rhythm.

Felix wakes before the alarm, most days. You brew the coffee while he rubs the sleep from his eyes. Emmy circles your ankles, tail wagging like she’s clocked in for duty.

She follows Felix from room to room–never needy, just near. Always watching. She nudges his leg when he’s pacing too much. Sits against his knees when he gets that faraway look, the one you’ve learned means he’s spiraling. She even curls up beside the bathroom door when he showers. Just like Daisy used to.

The first time you notice it, you glance down at her quiet shape, then up at Felix through the half steamed glass. “She waits,” you murmur. “Like she knows you need someone on the other side.”

Felix blinks at you, water running down his face. “Daisy did that,” he says, his voice sounding surprised.

You smile. “Maybe Daisy’s telling her how to help you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. But that night you find him sitting on the couch while Emmy lay across his lap, and he’s just…still. Not scrolling, not fidgeting. Just breathing. You let yourself believe he’s healing.

It’s a Thursday when it happens.

Rain again, but softer this time. You’re both in sweats, Emmy’s squirrel toy already soaking wet from too many rounds of fetch in the hallway. Felix is on the floor, back against the couch, and Emmy trots over to drop the soggy toy in his lap. “Okay, okay, one more time, Daisy.”

It slips out like breath. He freezes. You’re on the couch, just close enough to see the shift in his eyes–the way the air pulls tight around him. “Felix.”

His jaw clenches. He looks down at Emmy like he just betrayed her. But Emmy doesn’t react. She just nudges his hand, then places the squirrel gently in his lap again.

Felix blinds rapidly, sniffling once. He picks up the toy, not even wiping his eyes. “You wanna play, huh?”

Emmy wags her tail and sits, ears up. He throws the squirrel. She sprints. You slide down next to him, touching his arm lightly.

“She knows who you meant.”

He laughs through a shaky breath. “I miss her.”

“I know.”

You don’t say more. You just sit there, letting Emmy trot back and forth between you, panting and proud. And when Felix rests his head on your shoulder, you lean into him–quiet, steady. Letting the weight of grief settle alongside something softer. Something new.

The squirrel toy lies abandoned now, forgotten in the corner. Felix’s legs are stretched out in front of him, your thigh pressed against his where you’ve both stayed slouched on the floor. Emmy has flopped belly-up between you, snoring faintly, her head resting across his ankle lke she belongs there.

Neither of you has said much in a while. The only sounds are the hum of the fridge and the soft patter of rain. You glance sideways at him, taking in the soft slump of his shoulders, the wet curls stuck to his temple. He’s tired. Not just end-of-the-day tired. The kind that lives in the bones.

“You okay?” you ask gently.

His eyes stay fixed on Emmy for a second too long. Then he swallows “I keep thinking about how bad I was doing,” he says, voice so quiet you almost miss it. “Back when Daisy died.”

You stay quiet. Let him lead. 

“I wasn’t eating. Barely sleeping. I’d come home and the place felt like a grave like if I breathed too loud I’d break it.”

He rubs a hand over his face. “Then I met you.”

You blink. “Felix…”

“I’m serious,” he says, looking at you now. Really looking. “You didn’t just hand me her ashes and disappear. You stayed. You kept showing up. You let me talk about her. You let me not talk about her.”

You feel your throat tighten.

“And now Emmy–she’s not Daisy. I know that. But she…fits. Like she just knew where she was supposed to be. With me. With us.”

He glances down at Emmy, who kicks her leg in her sleep like she’s chasing something.

“Some nights, when I wake up and I feel like I’m drowning again–I’ll turn over and you’re just…there. And she’s there.”

He looks back at you, blinking slowly.

“I don’t think I could do this without you.”

Your heart aches. You don’t speak, just slide your fingers between his, squeezing gently. “You don’t have to,” you whisper.

He leans into you, forehead resting against yours, lashes damp. “Promise?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Felix.”

Emmy stirs, shifting so her paw flops over both your legs like a sleep seal of approval. And for the first time in a long time, you see something new in Felix’s eyes. Not just grief. But hope.

Felix stays pressed against you for a long moment, his breath slow and steady. The storm outside has softened to a light drizzle, but inside the room, something warmer is starting to flicker between you.

You shift closer, letting your hand rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. His eyes find yours, searching, hesitant–like he’s asking permission without words.

You smile softly. “You know,” you murmur, “you don’t have to be scared here.”

His lips twitch in a small, tired smile. “I’m not scared,” he says quietly. “Maybe…just tired.”

You nod, understanding. And then, carefully, as if testing the waters, your fingers brush a stray curl from his forehead. Felix closes his eyes at the touch, leaning into it like it’s the safest place in the world.

You hesitate, then tuck your hand behind his neck, pulling him gently closer. His eyes flutter open, and you see that vulnerable mix of hope and uncertainty again.

“Can I…?” you ask softly.

He nods, and your lips find his. The kiss is slow, soft–like the quiet promise of something new, something healing.

Felix’s hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing gentle circles. Emmy stirs again at your feet but doesn’t move, like she knows this moment is yours.

When you pull back, your foreheads rest together. “I didn’t think I’d ever feel this again,” he confesses, voice barely above a whisper.

You smile, rubbing your nose against his. “Me neither.”

“Thank you,” Felix says, voice thick with emotion.

You squeeze his hand. “No, thank you. For letting me in.”

Outside, the last of the thunder rumbles softly–but inside, it’s calm. Warm. Full of new beginnings.

a/n - sorry for the heartbreak, but ugh this idea has been in my head for a while. I work in vet med and see so many grieve. xoxo hope u enjoyed

[snowrubies]

Language Barrier

Fem!reader x Twice (mainly Sana)

Genre: Extremely fluffy and comedic

Warnings: none

Synopsis: You speak Korean perfectly, but Twice doesn't know that.

"Again? You need better staff," you say into the phone, exasperated. Your friend works in sound design for various concerts and often calls you when yet another member of the culinary or courtesy staff flakes out or quits without warning. It’s not a particularly difficult job, and the pay is decent. Plus, waiting on celebrities can be amusing—you get to see sides of them most people don’t.

"Well, you live so close, and we both know you’re not exactly swimming in plans, loser," she shoots back playfully.

"Fine, fine. Time, place, and dress code?" you reply, already rifling through your closet for the outfit she convinced you to buy "just in case."

"Same concert hall as last time. Be there at 10 AM for setup. White shirt, black pants. Bring them to change into, so you don’t ruin your good ones. Hair and makeup are your choice, but trust me—you’ll want to look good." There’s a sly undertone in her voice that sets off alarm bells. She’s hiding something.

"As if I ever try to look bad in front of celebrities," you grumble, glancing at your bedside clock. It’s 8:30—barely enough time to get ready, grab a quick lunch, and make it downtown. "Well, at least this time I have an hour. That’s better than last time’s 'get here now' panic."

"I’m learning," she says with faux innocence. Then, softer, "Thanks for doing this. See you soon."

You hang up and spring into action. First, leggings and a basic T-shirt for the commute. You pack your good clothes—crisp white shirt, black pants, and the shoes she always insists are "fancy enough." Hair comes next: rollers for quick curls while you keep your makeup simple. Neutral eyeshadow, a touch of blush, a dab of highlight—just enough to feel put together without going full glam. You're not the one under the spotlight, after all.

Time slips away faster than you expect. By the time your hair is pinned loosely at the crown of your head—not a bun, too stiff—you’ve got only ten minutes left. No time for anything fancy, so you toss hot dogs and mac and cheese in the microwave. The true lunch of champions. It’s not exactly a Michelin-star meal, but you figure you’ll sneak some of the event catering later.

You scarf down what you can grab your phone, keys, and bag, and head out the door.

You saw the signs as you were pulling into the back parking lot of the space. Your friend had conveniently forgotten to tell you just who you'd be waiting on, or even exactly what you'd be doing. She couldn't exactly hide the giant LED billboard with nine beautiful women you definitely more than recognized on it advertising tonight's concert. Even if she could, once inside the backdoor of the venue there was a staggering amount of Korean people and Hangul posted on doors and in hallways that'd give you a clue. You sent her a quick text saying where you were so she could give you today's assignment, and so you could jump down her throat for not telling you you'd be waiting on Twice. Just your favorite girl group ever.

She found you backstage by one of the many different locked rooms. "Hey best frieeend," she drew out in a singsongy way going in for a hug.

You weaved out of her hold, " Oh no. You've lost hug privileges. When exactly were you going to tell me it was Twice?"

"I said you'd want to look nice," she giggled. All part of her master plan.

"You are the worst," you muttered, trying to sound angry despite the giddy energy coursing through you. "What am I even doing? Don’t tell me I’m stuck running drinks or something."

"Relax," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "I may have mentioned you know Korean, so you’ll mostly be on standby in case they need anything. Food, water, minor stuff like that. You’re not serving tables or anything formal. Just be polite, stay professional, and don’t freak out."

"Freak out? Me?" you said with a nervous laugh. "Never. Definitely not having a full-blown internal meltdown right now."

"Good," she smirked, handing you a badge and a quick rundown of the evening. "You’ll do great. Oh, and try not to stare. They’re even prettier in person." With that, she spun on her heel and disappeared down the hallway, leaving you alone to process the fact that you were about to be in the same room as TWICE.

Taking a deep breath, you clipped the badge onto your shirt and adjusted your outfit one last time. Time to get it together. No fangirling. Just act cool, calm, and totally collected. Easy, right?

You refused to just sit and wait twiddling your thumbs until they arrived. You exchanged some pleasantries with the catering people and helped them set up snack trays and water bottles in the green room for Twice. They would be here soon for a sound check. Actual sound check, not the fake two to three-song warm-up open to the VIP fans. After that, they had some time to eat and in general hang around while getting their hair, makeup, and costumes done.

The green room looked cozy but professional, with plush chairs, a makeup station, and a neatly arranged buffet table laden with fruit, finger sandwiches, and those perfectly packaged snacks you always imagined celebrities lived on. The catering staff smiled appreciatively as you adjusted the placement of a tray.

You went to go change into your nicer clothes and tiny black kitten heels. You had just enough time to stash your bag somewhere out of sight before everyone started moving franticly.

The door to the green room creaked open, and in walked TWICE.

Nayeon led the group, her smile lighting up the room as she exchanged a few words with a staff member. Behind her, the rest of the group filed in, chatting amongst themselves in soft Korean. You froze for a moment, clutching a water bottle in your hand, trying to look casual as your heart raced.

“Wow, they really went all out for this,” Dahyun said in Korean, gesturing toward the snack table. “I don’t think we’ve ever had this much fruit before.”

Chaeyoung smirked. “Dahyun, you’d say that even if it was just an apple and a banana.”

Tzuyu leaned toward Mina, her voice soft and melodic looking at the monitor in the corner. “The stage lighting looks amazing, doesn’t it? It feels so warm.”

Mina nodded, her tone thoughtful. “It’s perfect. I think the fans will love it.”

They began to spread out, scanning the room and chatting in their small groups. You tried to stay focused, pretending to adjust the water bottles while listening intently.

“Excuse me,” a gentle voice interrupted your thoughts. You looked up to see Sana standing a few feet away, a curious smile on her face. “Uh… water?” she asked in English, her accent charmingly thick as she gestured toward the bottles.

You quickly picked one up and handed it to her, forcing a polite smile. “Yes, here you go,” you said, your voice steady despite the butterflies in your stomach.

“Thank you,” she said brightly, taking the bottle. “Nice...” She motioned toward the snack table and gave you a small thumbs-up before returning to the group.

Meanwhile, Jeongyeon had wandered toward a catering staff member, her English more deliberate but clear. “This… for us?” she asked, pointing at the trays.

“Yes,” the staff member replied. “It’s all for you. Please help yourselves.”

Jeongyeon nodded, looking impressed. “Very nice. Thank you.”

Nayeon, ever the social butterfly, spotted you lingering by the table. “Hello!” she greeted cheerfully in English, making you jump slightly. “You… work here?”

You nodded quickly. “Yes. I’m just helping with the setup today.”

“Ah, good job!” she said with a grin, her Korean accent giving the words a playful lilt. “This… all looks very good.”

“Thank you,” you managed, heat rushing to your cheeks.

As they settled in, their conversations switched fluidly between Korean and broken English, depending on who they were speaking to. Jihyo exchanged a few words with the event coordinator about the schedule, effortlessly mixing both languages.

“Soundcheck… now?” she asked, her English with large pauses but clear.

“Soon,” the coordinator replied. “You have a little time to eat first.”

“Good,” Jihyo said, nodding firmly before turning back to the group to relay the information in Korean.

The room buzzed with warmth and activity, their laughter mixing with the casual chatter of staff members. You couldn’t help but feel awestruck by how approachable they were, even as global superstars. Every interaction, whether in Korean or English, only made them feel more human—and somehow, even more dazzling.

As the group began to relax, you continued tidying up the snack table, doing your best to stay invisible. But you couldn’t help overhearing their conversations—especially the ones you weren’t supposed to understand.

“Did you see her?” Sana murmured to Nayeon in Korean, her voice low but full of curiosity.

“Who?” Nayeon replied, leaning slightly toward her.

“That staff member by the table,” Sana said, nodding subtly in your direction. “They’re really pretty, don’t you think?”

Nayeon glanced at you for a brief moment, her eyes sparkling with amusement before she turned back to Sana. “Oh, I noticed,” she said with a sly smile. “They’re very elegant. It’s rare to see someone like that working backstage.”

Dahyun, catching wind of the conversation, leaned in with a mischievous grin. “What are you two whispering about?”

Nayeon waved her off playfully. “Nothing. Just admiring the staff here. Very organized, very… visually pleasing.”

Chaeyoung raised an eyebrow, overhearing as well. “Wait, are you all talking about them?” she asked, her tone teasing as she subtly gestured toward you. “Yeah, they’re cute. I noticed earlier.”

You kept your head down, pretending to focus on rearranging the water bottles, but your cheeks were burning. Hearing them talk about you like that, assuming you didn’t understand a word, made your heart race.

Mina joined the conversation with a small, approving nod. “I agree. There’s something… calm about them. It’s nice.”

Jihyo laughed softly. “You all sound like you’re picking a favorite contestant on a reality show. Be professional.” But even she glanced your way with a subtle smile, clearly not immune to the group’s observations.

Tzuyu, ever the quiet observer, finally chimed in. “They do seem kind,” she said simply, her voice soft but sincere.

Sana giggled, leaning closer to Dahyun. “Should we talk to them more? Maybe invite them to hang out later?”

“Stop it,” Nayeon said, feigning exasperation. “They’re working! Don’t make it awkward.”

You busied yourself even more, carefully pretending you had no idea what was being said, but every word made your chest tighten with a mix of embarrassment and giddy disbelief. They thought you were pretty. TWICE thought you were pretty.

“Do you think they know Korean?” Chaeyoung asked suddenly, tilting her head.

“Doubt it,” Dahyun replied. “They haven’t reacted to anything we’ve said.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. It took everything in you to keep your expression neutral, even as their words replayed in your head.

"Should we test it?" Chaeyoung asked. "Say something outrageous and see if she reacts?"

Jihyo came over and playfully slapped Chaeyoungs arm. "Don't be mean. She's probably just nervous. Leave her be."

She couldn't let it go. Chaeyoung wandered over to you. Your hands meticulously move bottles fractions of inches repeatedly. "You...very busy hun?" She managed in broken English.

You glanced at her, smiled politely, and nodded speaking slower than normal so she could catch more of it. "Yes, keeping things organized for you."

“Good,” she replied, her tone teasing as she switched back to Korean. “So professional. I think we’re making her nervous.”

“You’re making ME nervous,” Nayeon quipped, rolling her eyes. “Stop messing around. You’re going to scare her away.”

Sana, however, seemed utterly unfazed. “But seriously,” she said, her tone lowering as she addressed the group in Korean, “look at her hair and outfit. So well put together. Not to mention her face. It’s impressive.”

Dahyun smirked. “You’re really taken with her, huh?”

“Who wouldn’t be?” Sana shot back. “It’s not every day you meet someone who looks like they walked out of a drama while setting up a snack table.”

This time, you couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at your lips. You turned your back to them, pretending to check on the fruit tray, hoping they didn’t catch the slight quirk of your expression.

“Did she just smile?” Momo whispered, narrowing her eyes slightly. “I think she might understand us.”

“No way,” Dahyun said, shaking her head. “She’s been quiet this whole time. Probably just coincidence.”

Still, the idea seemed to spark a new level of intrigue among the group. Jeongyeon, who had been sitting quietly, glanced at you and said in English, “You… like music?”

Caught off guard, you hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Me? Yes, I do. Your music is quite good.”

“Thanks,” she said simply, her smile warm but brief. Then she turned back to the group and said in Korean, “See? She’s nice and a fan. Let’s not overwhelm her.”

Tzuyu, who had been observing everything silently, finally spoke up. “Maybe we should invite her to the show later. Watch in the wings,” she said in Korean.

“Really?” Jihyo asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Why not?” Tzuyu shrugged. “It’d be a nice gesture.”

You pretended not to hear, focusing on folding some napkins, but your heart felt like it was doing cartwheels. If they followed through with that idea, how were you supposed to stay composed?

Sana waved you over pulled up her translator app and typed out, 'Would you like to watch the show from backstage?' but when the electronic voice read it out in English it came out as 'Do you want to see the show behind the scenes?'

You understood it regardless. You stared at her phone then back at her then back down again and just nodded thanking her. "Really? Yes, yes, please. Thank you."

Momo smirked. "Ok, that was adorable."

Sana grabbed your hands and smiled wide genuinely happy that you seemed so interested. When she let go you scurried back to behind the table blushing like a mad woman with your fingers twirling around each other.

"I stand corrected. That's the cutest thing I've ever seen," Momo said. "Look Sana, you made her all flustered."

You refused to look up now having a convenient reason to be blushy and shy. As you busied yourself with unnecessary adjustments to the napkin display, you could feel the weight of their gazes. The warmth in your cheeks was practically radiating at this point, and no amount of deep breathing seemed to help.

“I think we broke her,” Chaeyoung teased in Korean, earning a chuckle from the group.

“Stop teasing,” Jihyo said, though her tone was more amused than scolding. “She agreed, didn’t she? That’s enough for now.”

Sana beamed, her excitement palpable. “I’ll make sure she gets a good spot,” she declared in Korean, clearly thrilled at the prospect of including you in their world, even if only for a little while.

From your side of the room, you peeked up just in time to see Sana still grinning in your direction. It wasn’t the kind of smile you’d expect from a superstar—it was warm, sincere, and oddly grounding. You managed a small wave, which only seemed to delight her further.

As the group settled into their pre-show routine, the flurry of activity grew. Makeup artists and hairstylists began their work, and the atmosphere shifted into one of focused preparation. You tried to keep out of the way, but the occasional glance or kind word from the members reminded you just how surreal this moment was.

Eventually, Nayeon wandered over, her casual confidence as radiant as ever. “You okay?” she asked in English, tilting her head slightly.

“Yes,” you replied quickly, your voice a touch higher than you intended. “Thank you for asking.”

She smiled, her eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. “Good. Don’t let Sana scare you. She… very friendly.”

You chuckled softly, nodding. “I noticed.”

As the minutes ticked by, the group prepared to head to the stage for their private sound check. Just before they left, Sana turned back to you with a quick wave and an encouraging smile. “See you later!” she said in English, her words simple but filled with warmth.

You nodded, managing a quiet, “See you,” in return. As they filed out of the room, you finally allowed yourself to exhale fully. You leaned against the edge of the snack table, your heart still pounding.

As the green room emptied, the flurry of energy faded, leaving you in a blissful yet surreal calm. Twice had just been standing there, talking to you—not at you, not above you, but like you were part of the team. It felt too good to be true, but the slight ache in your cheeks from smiling confirmed that it was very real.

Still, the thought of being invited backstage for the actual concert was almost too much to process. You replayed Sana’s gesture in your mind—the way she grabbed your hands, her bright smile, the genuine excitement in her voice. It was the kind of thing you’d only dreamed about.

After the soundcheck, your friend finally reappeared, looking as smug as ever. “So? How’s my favorite ‘just helping out for the day’ staff member?” she teased, a knowing glint in her eyes.

“You set me up,” you accused, though there wasn’t much heat behind it.

“I did you a favor,” she shot back, crossing her arms. “Come on, you’re freaking out, aren’t you? You met Twice. They love you.”

You hesitated, debating whether to admit how much you’d overheard. “They were… really nice,” you said carefully. “And, uh, they invited me to watch the show from backstage.”

Her eyes widened, and then she burst out laughing. “Oh my god, you’ve been here, like, two hours, and you’re already besties with Twice? That’s iconic.”

“Stop,” you groaned, but her laughter was infectious. “I don’t know how I’m going to keep it together. I mean, Sana literally held my hands, and Nayeon asked if I was okay, and—” You cut yourself off, realizing you were rambling. “I’m doomed.”

“You’re not doomed,” she said, grinning. “You’re lucky. Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position right now?”

You sighed, shaking your head. “I know, I know. It’s just… overwhelming.”

“Well, get used to it,” she said, clapping you on the back. “Because you’re about to have the best night of your life.”

The hours passed in a blur. You helped with final preparations, making sure everything in the green room stayed tidy and well-stocked. The buzz of the venue grew louder as fans began arriving, their excitement palpable even from backstage. The Twice members returned briefly to grab drinks and snacks, their energy shifting into show mode.

Each of them had a way of preparing—Jeongyeon hummed quietly to herself, Jihyo went over notes with a staff member, and Sana, as bubbly as ever, flitted around the room, checking on everyone, including you. Every interaction, no matter how small, leaves you feeling more grounded in the moment as if this surreal experience was meant to happen.

Finally, it was time for the concert. True to her word, Sana guided you to a spot near the wings where you could see the stage without getting in anyone’s way.

“You okay?” she asked again, her tone light but genuinely concerned.

“Yes,” you replied, giving her a small smile. “Thank you.”

Her face lit up, and she gave you a quick thumbs-up before joining the others. Moments later, the lights dimmed, and the roar of the crowd filled the air. You watched in awe as the members took the stage, their presence electrifying. It was one thing to see them perform on a screen, but witnessing their energy, precision, and charisma up close was something else entirely.

From your spot, you could see not only the performance but also the little interactions between the members—the quick glances, the shared smiles, the subtle nods of encouragement. It was a side of them the audience rarely got to see, and it made the experience all the more special.

As the show went on, you found yourself completely immersed, cheering quietly from the sidelines and feeling a sense of pride for a group you’d admired for so long. When Sana caught your eye mid-performance and winked, you nearly melted on the spot.

By the time the concert ended, you were on cloud nine. As the members came backstage, still buzzing with adrenaline, Sana made a beeline for you.

“So? How was it?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Incredible,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you for letting me watch.”

She grinned, leaning in slightly. “You’re welcome. It was fun.”

Before you could respond, the rest of the group began filing in, offering you nods, smiles, and even a few casual “thank yous” in passing. Nayeon gave you a quick pat on the shoulder as she walked by, and Jihyo offered a warm, “Good job today.”

As the chaos settled and the members started winding down, your friend appeared again, looking thoroughly pleased with herself.

“See?” she said, nudging you. “I told you this would be the best night of your life.”

The post-concert buzz was palpable, with staff bustling around to pack things up while the members of Twice cooled down, chatting amongst themselves. You stayed in your corner, observing quietly, savoring the memories of the night.

You were carefully arranging water bottles on a nearby table when chaos erupted. A loud crash sounded from the other side of the room, followed by the unmistakable sound of hurried footsteps. One of the backstage doors had been flung open, and a man—clearly not a staff member—was charging toward the group of idols.

Everything happened so fast, but instinct kicked in. You spotted him barreling toward Sana, whose back was turned. Without thinking, you shouted in Korean, "Be careful! Behind you!"

Sana turned just in time to see the man, her eyes wide with alarm. Fortunately, security was already on him, tackling him to the ground before he could get any closer. The room erupted in frantic murmurs, staff rushing in to ensure everyone was okay.

Breathing heavily, you looked around to see Twice staring—more specifically, at you. Jihyo was the first to speak, her eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. "Wait… you can speak Korean?"

You froze, realizing what had just happened. There was no hiding it now. With a sheepish smile, you nodded. "Yes… a little."

Nayeon let out a loud laugh, slapping her thigh. "A little? You just spoke perfectly!"

Dahyun looked equal parts impressed and amused. "So, you understood everything we said earlier?"

Your cheeks flushed, and you ducked your head slightly. "Yes, I heard it," you admitted, bracing for their reactions.

Momo clapped her hands together, looking delighted. "Why didn’t you say anything? Do you know how awkward we were being?"

Sana stepped closer, her expression a mix of embarrassment and curiosity. "Then… did you hear when I said you were pretty earlier?"

You nodded, your face growing hotter by the second. “Yes, I heard that too.”

The group exploded into laughter, their teasing and playful remarks blending together. Jihyo shook her head, a fond smile on her face. "You’re amazing. You stayed so quiet this whole time."

Chaeyoung grinned mischievously. "So you did understand when I said something weird, huh?"

Trying to lighten the mood, you shrugged. "I was just trying to focus on my work."

Tzuyu smiled softly, her voice calm amidst the laughter. "And you protected us. Thank you."

Her sincere words seemed to settle the room, and Sana reached out to gently squeeze your arm. "Really, thank you. Because of you, nothing bad happened."

Though the teasing didn’t stop entirely, it took on a more affectionate tone. They were clearly impressed—and grateful. As the night wound down, you couldn’t help but feel like the bond you’d formed with the group had deepened unexpectedly and unforgettably.

The room gradually settled as the adrenaline from the incident ebbed away, leaving only the warm hum of conversation and soft laughter. You busied yourself by tidying up the snack table, partly to distract yourself from the knowing glances and teasing smiles still coming your way. Your face was burning, and you couldn’t meet their eyes for too long without feeling like you might combust.

Sana was the first to approach you again, her usual playful smile tinted with genuine shyness this time. She tilted her head slightly, clasping her hands behind her back as she hesitated before speaking. "Um," she started in Korean before switching to English. “You… very brave. Thank you.”

You waved your hands in front of you, flustered. "It—it was nothing, really. I’m just glad everyone’s okay."

Sana giggled softly. "No, you were really cool." She glanced back at the group, who were all watching the interaction with varying degrees of amusement and encouragement. “Uh… do you… have phone?” she asked hesitantly, her accent adorably thick.

You blinked, caught off guard. “My phone?”

Nayeon, who couldn’t resist jumping into the moment, called out in Korean. "You might as well ask for her number!"

Sana whirled around, her cheeks pink. “Unnie!” she scolded before turning back to you, her bashfulness now painfully evident. “I mean… number? For… talking later?” She fiddled with the hem of her shirt, her confidence faltering.

Your heart was pounding as you fumbled for words. “Oh, um, yeah, sure. I can—yeah.” You pulled out your phone, your hands trembling slightly as you unlocked it and handed it to her. Hopefully, fast enough she didn't realize your wallpaper was her.

Sana quickly typed her number in, then smiled shyly as she handed it back to you. “Text me… sometime?”

Before you could respond, Dahyun chimed in with a sly grin. "Should we invite her to our group chat?"

Momo snickered. "Don’t overwhelm her."

“Maybe,” Sana said, glancing at you with a playful smile before joining the group again, leaving you standing there with her number saved in your phone and a heart racing faster than it probably ever had.

As the evening wound down and the group prepared to leave, several of them waved and offered warm goodbyes. Sana lingered just a moment longer, catching your eye as she gave you a small, almost nervous wave. "Good night," she said softly before disappearing with the others.

You stared at your phone again, the contact glowing on the screen like a dream made real. This was a night you’d never forget—and perhaps, the beginning of something even more extraordinary.