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seospicybin · 2 months ago

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EVERMORE.

PROLOGUE

Bangchan x reader x Hyunjin. (s,f,a)

EVERMORE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When your daughter’s wedding weekend brings you, a former it-girl and Chris, a legendary rockstar back under one roof, the two of you must navigate old memories, unexpected feelings, and the chaos of family. As laughter, love, and a hint of scandal unfold, you're both reminded that some love stories don’t end—they just change shape. (16k words)

Author's note: You guys asked for Hyunchan so here you go. As always, hope you enjoy it and don't forget to share your thoughts after ♡

Rock Royalty Welcomes a New Heir: Chris Bang Becomes a Father October 13, 2000 — by Robert Yang. Move over, guitars and groupies—Bang Theory’s wild-hearted frontman Chris Bang is now a dad. The 23-year-old rockstar and his longtime partner, beloved 90s "It Girl", welcomed their first child into the world early this morning at a private hospital in Seoul. A healthy baby girl named Tigerlily was born at 5:47 AM, weighing in at 3.1 kg, just hours after Chris wrapped his set at the Soundscape festival. “He cried. Both of them did,” a nurse from the delivery room said. “He looked more nervous than on stage.” Despite being known for his stage dives, pyrotechnics, and tabloid-worthy antics, insiders say the famously untamed musician turned into “a complete marshmallow” the moment he held his daughter for the first time. “She's got his nose and her mother’s everything else,” a source close to the couple shared. The pair has yet to release an official photo, but fans are already flooding forums with love and name guesses—though Tigerlily, a bold and whimsical choice, feels perfectly on brand for the iconic couple. No word yet on whether this new chapter means a break for Bang Theory, but one thing’s certain: Chris Bang just had his loudest, most life-altering debut yet. Rockstar? Yes. But now… Dad.

Tigerlily came into the world on a rainy Tuesday in October. The sky cracked open like a dramatic cue, thunder shaking the windows of the hospital room while you clutched the sides of the bed, barely old enough to drink but old enough to know your life was about to change forever.

You were twenty-two. The industry's darling, all soft glam and sharp edges, gracing every magazine cover and walking every red carpet with a gaze that dared people to look twice. Chris had just come off a whirlwind tour with The Bang Theory the rock band that had somehow become the voice of a generation overnight—gritty, golden, and chaotic in a way only the 90s could pull off.

He didn’t make it in time. Missed the delivery by two hours, stuck in a storm somewhere between the airport and the hospital. But when he burst through the hospital doors, hair damp and chest heaving, the world slowed down for just a second.

And then—Tigerlily.

Born screaming, like she already knew how loud the world could be and wasn’t afraid of it. She had your mouth and his eyes and the softest tuft of dark hair, like velvet. She stared at you both like she’d been waiting lifetimes to meet you.

She was born with the kind of name that sounded like she came from a song. And maybe she did. Bang Chan insisted on it—“She’s going to be a force,” he said. “She needs a name that doesn’t sit quietly.”

And she never did.

For the first five years of her life, her world was a tour bus. Not playgrounds or preschool, but green rooms and stadium seats. You learned how to swaddle her with one hand and fix your eyeliner with the other. She’d nap through soundchecks and dance barefoot on stage during rehearsals, curls bouncing as she clutched her little stuffed bunny.

She loved the hum of the road, the neon-lit nights, the way her dad would scoop her up mid-song and let her press her tiny hands over his guitar strings. She called every band member “uncle,” and by the time she was four, she could identify a Fender Strat by sight.

Sometimes, you worried she was missing out on normal things. But then you'd see her curled up in Chan’s lap as he strummed lullabies that weren’t written for the charts, or the way her eyes lit up when the crowd sang back to him.

She was safe. She was loved. And she was extraordinary.

And now, she stands under the golden light of a university auditorium, dressed in a powder blue gown, clutching her art degree in hands that once clung to your hair as you sang her to sleep.

You sit in the front row, surrounded by strangers, with pride ballooning so hard in your chest you think you might float right off the seat. Chris isn’t here—touring again, or producing, or lost in some other corner of the world. You’re used to it by now. So is Tigerlily.

Still, you clap until your hands sting, tears slipping silently down your cheeks.

She didn’t just survive the whirlwind you brought her into—she bloomed in it. And in that moment, you realized—you didn’t just raise a daughter. You raised a woman who knew exactly who she was.

You wait just outside the auditorium, clutching a bouquet of Tiger Lilies—just like her name. The kind she used to doodle in the margins of her notebooks as a kid once she knew she is named after the flowers. The crowd spills out around you in waves: parents with cameras, graduates in gowns, professors in velvet hoods, all buzzing with joy and relief. But you only have eyes for her.

And then—there she is.

Tigerlily spots you instantly, weaving through the crowd with that effortless grace she must’ve inherited from someone else entirely. Her gown flows behind her like a cape, and when she reaches you, she throws her arms around your neck without a word.

You breathe her in. She still smells like vanilla and that earthy perfume she never leaves the house without. You hold her a little tighter than you mean to.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper into her hair, blinking fast against the sting in your eyes.

She pulls back with a bright, tear-glossed smile. “Tulips,” she says, beaming. “You remembered.”

“I always remember.”

You hand her the bouquet, watching as she presses her nose into them with a soft sigh. For a second, you think you’ve made it through without a cloud. But then—

“Did Dad text you?”

The question comes gently, not accusing—just hopeful. You hesitate.

You shake your head. “No. He couldn’t make it.”

Tigerlily’s smile falters for the briefest second, but she nods like she was already bracing for it. She always was good at bracing. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I figured.”

You reach up and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear the way you used to when she was five and nervous about her first ballet recital. “He’d be here if he could. You know that, right?”

She shrugs, looking down at the tulips. “I guess.”

You give her a soft nudge with your elbow. “He’s probably somewhere feeling miserable about it. You know how dramatic he gets. I’m sure he’s got his face buried in his hands, whispering lyrics about lost time into a notebook.”

That earns you a smile—small, but real.

“Anyway,” you continue, linking your arm through hers. “We have a reservation at Monarch. I even bribed them for extra truffle fries.”

“You never bribe restaurants,” she says, narrowing her eyes at you.

“Well,” you say, leading her toward the sidewalk, “you only graduate from college once. And we’re celebrating you. No distractions, no missed moments.”

Tigerlily squeezes your arm, resting her head on your shoulder as you walk.

“Thanks, Mom.”

You smile softly. “Always, my little cub.”

The restaurant is glowing, lit with soft amber lights that reflect off the polished windows and make everything feel a little more golden than real life. You guide Tigerlily through the front doors, her gown bunched in one hand, bouquet in the other, cheeks still rosy from all the congratulations.

“You really booked Monarch?” she whispers, wide-eyed. “You never let me eat here growing up.”

“You never had a degree before,” you murmur with a small smile. “Besides, I figured you deserved something special tonight.”

The host greets you with a polite nod and gestures toward the back corner booth, the one with the plush velvet seats and the view of the city through the tall windows. Tigerlily starts forward, then pauses.

Someone’s already there.

He’s sitting casually, fingers tapping against a water glass, hair pushed back like he just walked off a photo shoot—still effortlessly cool after all these years, even with the faint silver near his temples that he’s stopped trying to hide.

Chris.

Tigerlily stops in her tracks, staring for a beat too long.

“Dad?”

Chris stands up slowly, a crooked grin pulling at his lips. “Hey, little cub.”

Her bouquet hits the table with a soft thud as she launches toward him.

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed and grinning as you watch her collide into his chest with all the force of a girl who may have been preparing herself for disappointment, but never quite stopped hoping.

“You told me he wasn’t coming!” she shouts over her shoulder, arms still around her dad’s neck.

You shrug, stepping further into the room. “Well, it’s called a surprise for a reason.”

Chris laughs as he holds her tighter, eyes closing for a second like he’s breathing her in. Like the years he’s missed are pressing against him all at once.

You stand quietly by the table, taking them in—the way her arms wrap around him like she did when she was small and sleepy, always reaching out for one more hug, one more story, one more night tucked between the two of you on a too-small tour bus mattress.

She always was a daddy’s girl. You murmur it to yourself, too soft for anyone to hear. “She still is.”

And for a moment, you forget all the complications. Forget the past, the missed birthdays, the growing distance. All you see is your daughter, glowing with joy, exactly where she’s supposed to be.

Dinner arrives in warm, fragrant waves—plates of truffle fries, roasted duck, handmade pasta that glistens under the golden lights. The booth feels like its own little world, wrapped in velvet and candlelight and the soft murmur of clinking glasses in the background.

Chris sits across from you, Tigerlily nestled between you both like she’s still your little girl, even if she’s outgrown everything but her stubbornness. She’s glowing with the kind of joy that makes her look younger and older all at once.

“So,” Chris says, setting down his fork and looking at her with that proud, slightly overwhelmed expression he wears every time he sees her after too long. “What’s next, cub?”

Tigerlily leans back, reaching for her water glass. “I’ve got a few freelance gigs lined up. Illustration work. Book covers, a couple zines.”

Chris lets out a low whistle. “Look at you. Graduating and conquering the world.”

“I learned from the best,” she says, her eyes darting between the two of you.

You smile but stay quiet, sipping your wine and letting them talk. Chris starts telling her about the band—how The Bang Theory is planning a small reunion tour, something acoustic and intimate, “just for the old fans,” he says, though you know he still lives for the stage.

“How about you?” he asks, his eyes landing on you. “Are you working on something right now?”

You glance at him, caught slightly off guard by the way his attention shifts so effortlessly from Tigerlily to you—gentle, but direct. Like he hasn’t asked in years, but he’s always been curious.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. A new book,” you add quickly, chuckling. “It's the same old thing with me.”

Chris grins, eyes crinkling in that way that used to undo you. “Of course,” he murmurs. “You’d make it sing, no matter what.”

Before you can respond, he reaches out—just casually—and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. It’s a simple gesture, something he’s done a thousand times, but it feels different now. Familiar, yes. But also fragile. Like it belongs to another version of yourselves.

You glance down, and Tigerlily watches it all with a knowing little smile curling at the edge of her lips. She doesn’t say anything. She just picks up another fry, pops it into her mouth, and mutters around her grin, “You two are so obvious.”

You both look at her—startled, defensive, amused.

“What?” Chris says, eyebrows raised.

“I didn’t say anything,” she sings, tossing you a wink. “Just... observing.”

You and Chris exchange a glance—brief but loaded.

And for a flicker of a moment, something shifts. Not loudly. Not urgently. Just... there. Still alive. Still quietly beating.

Not wanting to let it carry you on, you shift the attention back on him as curiosity taps at your shoulder.

“So,” you say, tilting your head and setting your glass down gently, “how’s Rowan?”

“Busy,” Chris answers a little too quickly and you didn't expect less since you're asking about his wife but you notice his expression shifts—just slightly. “She’s working on a TV series right now.”

“That’s wonderful,” You say as you nod, reaching for your glass of wine. “How about Riley?”

“She’s good,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Fourteen now. Which is… a whole thing.”

You smile softly. “Puberty, huh?”

“Puberty. Mood swings. Existential dread. She’s got this journal she guards like it's the nuclear codes. One second she’s hugging me and the next I’m the reason for global warming.”

You laugh, leaning back into the velvet booth. “Sounds like a riot.”

Chris sighs, but there’s affection beneath it. “She’s just at that age where everything feels like the end of the world, you know? I’m trying, but… I don’t think she knows where to put me right now.”

You nod gently, your fingers curling around the stem of your wine glass. “At least you didn’t have to go through that phase with Tigerlily,” you say with a teasing smile. “She skipped all the angst and went straight to being perfect.”

Tigerlily’s jaw drops, scandalized. “Excuse me?”

Chris laughs, leaning forward in anticipation.

“Mom,” Tigerlily says with a warning tone, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t you dare bring up—”

“—the blue eyeliner phase?” you interrupt sweetly. “Or the time you tried to cut your own bangs and cried for three hours?”

Chris nearly chokes on his water, face lighting up. “Oh my god, yes!” he laughs. “I remember that! She came with a hoodie on and wouldn’t take it off for two days!”

Tigerlily groans, burying her face in her hands. “This is actual betrayal.”

You’re laughing now, shoulders shaking as you reach over to pat her hand. “You were still cute. Even when your bangs were... slanted.”

Chris grins across the table, eyes sparkling. “She’s always been cute.”

Tigerlily lifts her head, glaring at you both. “You two ganging up on me is a hate crime.”

You share a look with Chris—soft and easy and full of old inside jokes—and for just a second, the world feels like it used to: three of you on the road, laughing about eyeliner and heartache, living out of suitcases and old songs.

Tigerlily’s still grinning though, even through her mock-offense. “God,” she mutters, shaking her head. “I forgot what it’s like when you two are in the same room.”

The plates are nearly empty now, forks slowing down as conversation takes over. Tigerlily is laughing at something Chris said about a funny episode happened at a show, and you're quietly sipping what’s left of your wine, content to just watch them exist like this—bright and close and connected.

Then Chris checks his watch with a sigh, the familiar shift in energy settling over the table. The end of the night.

“I’ve got to head out,” he says gently, looking toward Tigerlily with a reluctant smile. “Early flight to Tokyo. I'm helping this band with producing.”

Tigerlily pouts, her bottom lip pushing out the way she used to when she was five and didn’t want him to leave for tour. “Already?”

He opens his arms, and she rises without hesitation, burying herself in his chest like she’s still that little girl on the road, climbing into his bunk after shows. “Come here, little cub,” he murmurs into her hair, voice muffled but warm.

His arms wrap tight around her, his hands moving gently up and down her back in slow, comforting strokes. You watch from your seat, quiet and still, as he leans down to whisper something in her ear—something only for her. Her eyes flutter closed, lashes brushing against her cheeks, and she nods without speaking.

He presses a kiss to her temple before pulling back. “I’m proud of you,” he says, with a smile that breaks a little at the edges. “Always.”

Tigerlily wipes quickly at her eyes. “Text me when you land.”

“Promise.”

Chris turns to you next, his expression softening even further. He steps closer, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. “Thank you,” he says. “For tonight. For putting this together. I didn’t know how much I needed this.”

You wave a hand, trying to brush it off like it’s nothing. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

But when your eyes meet, there’s something there—unspoken but tangible. Like a thread still connecting you, stretching quietly between what you were and what you still might be. You’re the one to look away first, afraid if you don’t, you’ll forget yourself. Again.

He opens his arms, and this time it’s you stepping into them. The hug is brief, practiced, safe—but the warmth is real. His scent is still the same, something familiar and distant that tugs at the back of your throat.

“Take care,” you say softly, pulling back.

“You too,” he murmurs, before walking away.

You and Tigerlily step outside together just in time to see his car pull away from the curb, red taillights fading into the evening traffic. The moment stretches in silence until Tigerlily leans her head on your shoulder.

You wrap an arm around her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her temple. “It’s moments like this,” you murmur, “that make me wish I could’ve given you the kind of family you deserved. One that stayed whole.”

Tigerlily doesn’t move for a second. Then she lifts her head, frowning a little. “But I did get a family,” she says. “Just a different kind. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

You hold her a little tighter, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze to ground you and in that moment—standing in the glow of the city lights, hearts full of love and loss—you let yourself believe that maybe different wasn’t always a bad thing.

The cursor blinks accusingly at the top of your blank document, waiting for you to stop procrastinating and start delivering something brilliant. You rub at your temples and glance at the email from your agent again—third reminder this month.

Hey, just checking in again on that chapter draft. Hope everything's alright. Deadline's creeping up—let me know if you need anything!

You sigh, reply with a vague promise of "soon" and click out of the inbox. But right as you're about to close your browser, something catches your eye.

A headline.

The Bang Theory Frontman Chris Bang and Wife Rowan Announce Divorce After 15 Years of Marriage

There’s a photo of them beneath the headline—Rowan in oversized sunglasses, Chris beside her, jaw tight. They look distant. You don't even need to read the article to know that smile on his face is the one he wears when he’s pretending everything’s fine. Still, you click.

The article is full of vague statements from publicists and “sources close to the couple.” Nothing scandalous. Just the usual—“growing apart,” “amicable,” “focused on co-parenting their daughter, Riley.”

You’re halfway through skimming the quotes when your phone suddenly rings, the sharp sound startling you so much your mouse skitters across the desk.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mom!” Tigerlily’s voice is bright, a little rushed, like she’s walking fast somewhere. “Hey, is it okay if I bring someone over for dinner tonight?”

“Of course,” you say instinctively. “Anyone I know?”

There’s a pause. “Not yet. But you will.”

Your brow lifts. “Should I be nervous?”

Tigerlily laughs. “No. Maybe. A little. But mostly no. Love you!”

Before you can ask anything else, she hangs up. You stare at your phone for a second, then set it down beside your laptop.

The article’s still open. You look at the photo of Chris again. His expression is guarded, tired. You haven’t spoken in months—maybe longer. There’s a number in your contacts that hasn’t been used in too long. Just his name. Just “Chris,” like that’s all he’s ever needed to be.

You scroll down and hover your thumb over it. For a moment, you just sit there, staring at his name, thumb resting above “Call.” You wonder if he’s okay. If Riley’s okay. If he needs someone to talk to. If he even wants to hear your voice again.

But then your hand drops and you press the power button on your phone, letting the screen go dark. Some things are easier left in silence. You push the article aside, shut the laptop, and head for the kitchen.

There’s dinner to cook—and someone new to meet.

You’re just setting down the last of the cutlery when the doorbell rings. You wipe your hands on a kitchen towel and head for the front door, already guessing it’s Tigerlily. She never remembers to text when she’s close.

When you open the door, there she is—wearing a grin that says be cool, Mom—and beside her, a tall man with floppy brown hair, a shy smile, and arms full of flowers and wine.

“Hi, Mom,” she says sweetly. “This is Julian.”

“Hi,” he says quickly, stepping forward and offering the flowers. “It’s such an honor to meet you. I mean, you’re—I know who you are. I’ve seen your old interviews. Your film stuff. You’re even more beautiful in person.”

You blink, pleasantly amused, and take the flowers with a smile. “Oh, is that so?”

He nods, a little too eagerly.

With a small smirk, you take a step closer to him, lowering your voice just slightly. “You know… I’m not nearly as beautiful up close.”

Julian lets out a breathy little laugh, shoulders going stiff as his cheeks flush. “I—I mean, I think you definitely are. I mean, it’s not just your face. I mean, not just—” He throws a helpless glance at Tigerlily, who’s already rolling her eyes.

“Julian,” she cuts in dryly, “stop flirting with my mom.”

“I’m not—! I wasn’t—” He stammers, then finally gives up and laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. “Okay. Maybe just a little.”

You chuckle, stepping aside to let them in. “Well, come in, both of you. The food’s warm, the wine’s breathing, and apparently, I still have some star power.”

Tigerlily snorts as she kicks off her shoes. “You love it.”

You wink at her. “Of course I do.”

The dining table is cozy, the food still steaming in its dishes as the three of you settle in. Conversation flows easily at first—small talk, compliments about the meal, and the occasional sarcastic nudge from Tigerlily when Julian tries too hard to impress.

“So,” you begin, picking up your wine glass, eyes darting between the two of them. “Tell me—how did you two meet?”

Tigerlily doesn’t miss a beat. “At an art exhibition. He was standing in front of a piece I hated and we started arguing about it.”

Julian grins. “I maintain that it was a brilliant statement on digital isolation.”

“It was a pile of tangled wires and a single desk lamp,” she counters. “But apparently, that’s all it takes to find love.”

You laugh and tilt your head. “And how long have you been dating this tortured art soul?”

“Four months,” Tigerlily answers, her voice dipping into something soft, almost shy.

You hum thoughtfully, then turn to Julian with a gentle smile. “How old are you, Julian?”

Before he can even open his mouth, Tigerlily pipes up again, “He’s only a few years older than me, mom.”

You lift an eyebrow. “You sure you’re not his spokesperson, sweetheart?”

She flushes, biting her bottom lip as Julian chuckles beside her.

You nod, still looking at Julian. “And may I know what do you do?”

Again, Tigerlily jumps in, “He’s a data analyst.”

You slowly blink at her, lips curling into a knowing smile as you turn your attention fully on Julian. “Well, with a job like that, I’m sure Julian can answer my questions himself.”

Tigerlily lets out a sheepish laugh, covering her face with one hand. “Sorry. I just—habit, I guess. Go ahead, interrogate him. Just… please be nice.”

You laugh softly, giving her hand a quick pat. “Don’t worry, honey. I only interrogate the ones I like.”

Then you look back at Julian, folding your hands on the table like a queen giving audience.

“So, Mr. Data Analyst,” you say, eyes twinkling. “Tell me everything. Start with your worst trait and work your way up.”

Julian gulps dramatically, already smiling, and the table bursts into gentle laughter.

You’re scooping sorbet into little bowls when you feel Tigerlily’s presence beside you, her hand already reaching for the berry compote you made earlier.

“Need help?” she asks.

You nod. “You read my mind.”

The two of you move in sync, falling into an easy rhythm as she spoons sauce and you add mint leaves for garnish. After a moment, you glance toward the dining room where Julian is sipping his wine, politely waiting.

“He’s a little serious, your Julian,” you say lightly, nudging her with your elbow. “He always seems… nervous. A bit rigid.”

Tigerlily rolls her eyes. “He’s just shy, Mom.”

You smile knowingly. “He’s the complete opposite of your usual type.”

“Okay, ouch,” she retorts, though she’s clearly amused. “Maybe I’m growing up.”

You chuckle, bumping her hip playfully. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. I can tell you fancy him. You’ve got that stupid little twinkle in your eyes.”

“Oh my God—” she groans, face turning red as you slide a bowl toward her and bump your hip against her again.

The soft music playing from the living room hums a dreamy melody, and without warning, you start dancing along to it, swaying your hips as you plate the last dessert.

Tigerlily watches in horror. “Please stop.”

You throw her a wink. “What? I’m not trying to embarrass you in front of your boyfriend.”

“Yes, you are!”

You let out a cackle, spinning once with your spoon in the air like a microphone. “You didn’t say I couldn’t entertain him.”

Tigerlily practically begs, “Mom, please, I’m trying to keep some mystery in this relationship!”

“Fine, fine,” you say, finally setting down the spoon. “I’ll stop torturing you—for now.”

You hand her the last plate, then glance at her gently. “Did you know about your dad and Rowan?”

Tigerlily nods, not surprised. “I'm honestly surprised that their marriage lasted that long.”

You hiss. “Tigerlily Bang.”

She nonchalantly shrugs in response. “What? I’m just being honest.”

You give her a look. “Have you called him?”

She hesitates. “I’m going to visit him next weekend. I’m… introducing Julian.”

You pause for a moment, then soften. “Be nice to him, okay? It probably wasn’t easy to him. Maybe just give him a call before that—ask if he’s okay.”

Tigerlily stays quiet, pressing her lips together. Then she nods, her voice soft. “Okay.”

You slide an arm around her shoulder and pull her in, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Good girl.”

Tigerlily leans into you for a moment. The kind of lean that says she’s still your little girl—even now. And then you’re back at it, nudging her with your hip again. “Now come on, sing with me. You know this part!”

“No, no, no—Mom!”

But she’s laughing as you start twirling, and eventually, she gives in, half-singing the chorus while the two of you finish plating desserts, moving in sync like the good old days.

Just as you’re setting the final plate down with a flourish, you hear someone clear their throat. You both turn.

Julian is standing at the kitchen doorway, blinking. “I—uh. Should I come back later?”

You and Tigerlily look at each other. Then you beam.

“She made me do it,” Tigerlily says instantly.

“Sure she did,” Julian grins.

At the end of the night, you walk them to the front door, the last of the dishes soaking in the sink and the music now reduced to a soft hum in the background. The night air is cool when you step outside, a gentle breeze brushing past as you follow Tigerlily and Julian to the car parked along the curb.

Tigerlily turns to you first, her eyes soft and glassy in the porch light. “Thanks for the lovely dinner, Mom.”

“Of course,” you say, pulling her in for a long, grounding hug. You squeeze her tighter than usual, feeling the familiar comfort of her arms wrapped around you—still your little girl, even with the grown-up job and the boyfriend waiting by the car. “I love you.”

“Love you more,” she mumbles into your shoulder.

You step back, brushing her hair from her face like you always do, and she gives you that shy smile she used to have when she was caught sneaking snacks before dinner. Then she walks over to the passenger side, leaving Julian standing awkwardly at the bottom of the steps.

“Thank you again, ma’am,” he says, wringing his hands slightly.

You give him a look, amused. “Ma’am makes me feel ancient.”

He swallows. “Right. Sorry. I mean—thank you for having me.”

You step forward, resting a hand lightly on his arm. “You’re welcome, Julian. And for what it’s worth…” You pause, smiling. “You’ve made quite an impression tonight.”

He exhales a laugh, relieved. “That’s good to hear.”

“Drive safe, okay?”

“I will,” he says, nodding a little too eagerly.

You step back as he gets into the car. Tigerlily waves at you through the window, and you wave back, your arms folding over your chest as you watch the headlights blink on. They pull away slowly, the car disappearing down the quiet street.

You stay there for a moment on the porch, your fingers brushing your elbows, listening to the stillness of the night settling in around you and even though it’s quiet, your heart feels full.

You close the door behind you and lean your back against it for a second, letting the silence of your home settle over your shoulders. You walk into the living room and glance at your phone on the coffee table. You hesitate, then reach for it.

Your thumb hovers over Chris’s name in your contacts.

You check the time—too early to be asleep, too late to know what he’s up to. Probably pacing around his house with his guitar strapped to his chest, or lying on his couch with the TV on and his mind elsewhere.

Still, before you can talk yourself out of it, you press call. The line rings once. Twice. A third time. You shift your weight, ready to hit “end” when—

Click.

“Hello?”

You blink at the sound of his voice, low and familiar through the speaker. “Guess what?” you say, your tone light, almost teasing.

“What?” he asks, curious.

“Your daughter just brought her boyfriend over for dinner.”

There’s a beat of silence. “She what?”

You laugh. “His name’s Julian. Very polite. Very nervous. He looks like he’d rather face a firing squad than meet me.”

Chris groans. “Great. That’s exactly the kind of guy who’d try to steal my daughter from me.”

“She’s not being stolen, she’s dating.”

“Same thing.”

You smile to yourself, curling your legs under you on the couch. “They’re going to visit you next weekend. Be nice.”

“Define nice.”

“Chris.”

“Okay, okay,” he sighs. “I’ll give him a chance. But I’m not promising I won’t make him sweat a little.”

You chuckle. “That’s your job, I suppose.”

A silence stretches between you, not uncomfortable—just weighted with history. You take a breath before saying, “So I uh... I saw the news.”

Another pause.

“I was going to call earlier,” you continue, gently. “But I didn’t know if you’d want to talk. Are you okay?”

Chris lets out a quiet breath. “I’m… getting through it.”

“How’s Riley handling it?”

“She’s…” he trails off, searching for the right words. “She looks okay, but I don't know.”

You hum in agreement. “Check on her once in a while to let her know you're there if she wants to talk about it.”

“Yeah, I will,” he mutters, sounding defeated.

“You know,” you say with a small, lopsided smile, “at least your second marriage lasted longer than ours.”

Chris chuckles, the sound softer this time. “Low bar.”

“You set it, not me.”

There’s a quiet moment again. Then your voice softens. “I mean it, Chris. If you ever need to talk, or vent, or scream into the phone—I’m here, okay? As much as I hate it… you’re still my daughter’s father.”

He exhales slowly, and you can hear it through the phone, like something he’s been holding in is finally slipping out.

“I miss it,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “Miss what?”

“This,” he says simply. “Talking to you.”

You swallow. The lump in your throat arrives fast, uninvited. “I should let you rest,” you say quietly, clearing your throat before your voice can crack. “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thanks for calling.”

“Anytime.”

You hang up before the silence turns into something else. Something too close. Too familiar. You set the phone down and lean your head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

And for a while, you just sit there bcause sometimes, missing someone is quieter than you expect.

Summer sunlight spills through your kitchen windows, casting warm, golden streaks on the hardwood floor as you pack the last of your sunscreen and sunglasses into a tote bag. The hum of cicadas fills the air from outside, and you can already hear Tigerlily’s voice carrying from the living room—teasing, excited, just a little chaotic, as always.

Julian stands nearby, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, his hands tucked into the pockets of his shorts. He’s always been a little stiff around you, still nervous after all this time, but today… it feels different. Extra twitchy.

“Hey,” he says quietly, catching your attention just as Tigerlily calls out that she’s running to the bathroom to reapply her sunscreen.

You turn to him, eyebrow raised. “Everything okay?”

“Can I—” he clears his throat, gestures toward the back door. “Can I talk to you for a second? Just… out there?”

You eye him for a beat, curious, then nod and follow him onto the back porch. The breeze is warm, but there's a nervous chill rolling off of him.

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes flitting toward the floorboards. “I, um. I wanted to ask you something.”

You fold your arms loosely, head tilting. “Okay…”

“I know this might seem fast,” he begins, eyes finally meeting yours, “but I’m going to propose to Tigerlily today. On the boat. I’ve been planning it for a while.”

You blink. The words hang in the summer air like a firework frozen mid-explosion. Your mouth opens slightly, but no words come right away. You stare at him, heart swelling and squeezing all at once.

Julian continues quickly, hands half-raised in panic. “I know we’ve only been together for a little over a year, but I love her. She’s everything I’ve ever hoped for, and I want to build a life with her. And I—I wanted to ask your permission, before anything else.”

It is fast. But you’ve seen the way she looks at him, how he looks at her. The way they orbit each other like two stars pulled by gravity stronger than reason. You’ve watched them fall in sync like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And he’s never once made you doubt his intentions.

You smile softly, eyes going a little glassy. “Well,” you begin gently, “you’ve been nothing but a wonderful boyfriend to my daughter. And you clearly adore her.” You pause, reaching out to lightly touch his arm. “So yes. You have my blessing, Julian.”

His shoulders drop in visible relief and he lets out a small, nervous laugh. “Thank you. Really. That means the world to me.”

Just then, the door opens behind you, and Tigerlily’s voice cuts through the moment. “What are you two doing out here?”

Julian spins on his heel a little too fast, and you clear your throat quickly, your brain scrambling for the first believable thing. “Julian was helping me, uh… figure out the sprinkler. It’s acting weird.”

She narrows her eyes. “The sprinkler?”

“Yep,” you nod, way too quickly. “Super weird. Total mystery.”

Julian gives a stiff little smile, playing along. “We, uh, think it’s the pressure valve.”

“Okay…” she says slowly, clearly not that interested. “Well, come on. Let’s go. The boat’s not going to wait for us.”

You grab your bag and follow her out the door, heart still racing a little from the moment you just shared. Julian gives you a grateful glance as he opens the car door for Tigerlily.

And as you sit in the passenger seat, watching the two of them exchange playful banter and knowing glances on the way to the dock, something in your chest softens.

Tigerlily is happy. That’s all you’ve ever wanted.

The dock stretches out before you like a ribbon of sun-bleached wood, groaning faintly beneath your steps. The sea sparkles under the sun, dazzling and blue, dotted with boats and the occasional flash of seagulls flying over the sunny sky. Julian walks ahead, a few steps in front of you, leading the way to his family's boat.

He turns around as you reach the boat, climbing down to the edge and holding out a hand. “Here, let me help you guys on.”

Tigerlily climbs on first, holding onto the railing before turning back to you with a grin. You pause, just for a second, taking in the image of her—sunlight in her hair, smile wide and easy, laugh lines already forming around her eyes—and something about it makes your throat tighten.

Julian offers his hand to you next. “You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod, pressing your lips together as you take his hand.

“Yeah,” you say, stepping onto the boat. “More than okay.”

Tigerlily helps you with your bag, the two of you settling in as Julian introduces you to the rest of the guests on board. He offers his hand again as he helps you up a narrow stair to the upper deck, guiding you through the boat with gentle ease. “Come on, let me give you the grand tour.”

You follow him with a soft chuckle, brushing your hair away from your face as the wind picks up. The boat is beautiful—sleek, well-kept, definitely not the kind of thing you expected to find yourself on this summer.

He leads you into a cozy lounge area, where his parents are seated on a cushioned bench, sipping drinks and chatting quietly. They both rise when Julian gestures toward them.

“Mom, Dad—this is Tigerlily’s mom.”

His mother greets you first with a warm smile, her hand extended. “We’re so happy to finally meet you. Thank you for joining us today.”

You take her hand and return the smile, nodding. “Thank you for having me. It’s a beautiful boat.”

Julian’s dad nods along. “Julian’s told us a lot about you,” he says kindly. “You raised a wonderful daughter.”

You laugh lightly, brushing off the compliment. “She pretty much raised herself, honestly.”

You move on to another corner of the deck where a younger girl sits with headphones half off her ears.

“This is my little sister, Maude,” Julian taps her shoulder, and she pulls them off, blinking up at you with instant recognition.

“Oh my God,” she says before she even stands. “You’re her. I knew you looked familiar.”

You blink, a little caught off guard. “Her?”

“Her, as in you,” she insists with a grin. “You’re—wow—you’re even more beautiful in person. My girlfriend, Alexa, is going to freak.”

Before you can respond, she’s already pulling her phone out. “Lex!” she calls. “Come here—come meet Tigerlily’s mom!”

A second later, a tall girl with red curls appears from below deck, raising a brow. “What—”

“She’s right here,” Maude says, practically bouncing. “Isn’t she stunning?”

You press a hand to your chest, laughing shyly as you look away. “Okay, okay, I think that’s enough of that,” you say. “You’re all going to make me too self-conscious to stay on this boat.”

Fortunately, Julian swoops in, hand landing lightly on your shoulder. “Alright, you two, quit scaring my girlfriend's mom,” he teases before turning to you. “Come on—front deck’s clearing up. Let’s relax a little.”

You nod gratefully, and he guides you to the front of the boat where cushioned seats curve around the bow. Tigerlily’s already lounging there, hair whipping in the breeze, sunglasses perched on her nose.

Julian hands her a kiss on the lips—quick, sweet—and tells her, “I’m getting us drinks. Be right back.”

He disappears down into the cabin again, and the sound of the water takes over.

Tigerlily turns to you, pulling her sunglasses up into her hair. “See?” she says. “Everyone loves having you here.”

You roll your eyes playfully, folding your legs beneath you as you settle into the cushions. “They’re being polite.”

“They’re being real,” she insists. “Especially Maude. I think she’s about to print out your Wikipedia page and frame it.”

You laugh, and she grins wide.

“And especially me,” she adds with a meaningful look. “I love having you here.”

You reach over and brush her cheek with your knuckles, your heart tugging at the corners. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

The boat rocks gently as the three of you lounge on the front deck, sun cascading over everything in a golden glaze. You’re tucked in one corner with a book in hand and sunglasses shading your eyes, only half-focused on the page. From your peripheral vision, you catch glimpses of Tigerlily curled up against Julian, their conversation floating around like soft background music—something about a movie he promised to watch, something else about her weird dream last night. You smile faintly at their easy affection, eyes dropping back to your book—until a shadow lengthens beside you.

Someone joins the group. You can feel it immediately, like a ripple in the calm. Not just the presence, but the weight of a gaze on you—curious, unwavering. You glance up briefly, eyes peeking over the rim of your sunglasses.

It’s someone you haven’t seen before. A tall, lithe man with buzzcut hair and delicate, striking features that contrast sharply with the sharpness of his frame. His eyes linger on you in a way that feels oddly direct, and it’s only when he finally speaks that the spell breaks.

“Hey, who’s this?” he asks, his voice smooth, amused.

Julian blinks, glancing between you and the man. “Oh—right. Hyunjin, this is Tigerlily’s mom.”

Hyunjin’s mouth twitches into a small smile as he steps closer and extends his hand. You slip your bookmark in place and close the book, slipping off your sunglasses. His hand is warm in yours, long fingers wrapping around gently—but his eyes, they hold your gaze like they’re reading something in you.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” he says, voice low, and then adds with absolutely no hesitation, “You’re really beautiful.”

Tigerlily bursts into sudden laughter, her hand flying to cover her mouth. “Hyunjin!” she gasps. “Are you trying to hit on my mom?”

“So what if I am?” he says, totally unbothered, still looking at you.

You feel a heat rise to your cheeks—not the sun, this time.

Julian groans good-naturedly. “Hyunjin, why did you think I’m dating the daughter, not the mom? She’s the it girl of the ’90s, man.”

Tigerlily gives Julian a glare before elbows him on the side.

“I had no idea,” Hyunjin says, his gaze not leaving yours. “I just know she’s beautiful.”

You’re not used to compliments like this anymore—not said so earnestly and with such ease. You laugh lightly, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear as you give a polite, slightly flustered smile. “Well, thank you.”

Tigerlily, still grinning, leans over to nudge Julian. “He missed the part where you say in the ‘90s, right? Like… a while ago.”

Hyunjin just shrugs, his tone almost challenging. “Like I care about that.”

Tigerlily blinks at him. Then turns to you. You raise your brows, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. You try to return to your book, but the page blurs a little. Not from the sun, not from the wind—but because there’s something about the way Hyunjin is still watching you like there’s more to read in you than the pages you’re holding.

The boat stops once it's far enough from the shore and the splashing sound coming from the side of the boat startles you. You fumble to check only to find Julian’s sister, Maude, has jumped into the sea.

You decide to sit at the edge of the boat, legs curled beneath you, a cold drink in one hand and the sun warming your shoulders as Tigerlily, Julian and Alexa are also jumping into the water, splashing around like kids, their laughter echoing over the waves. You watch them with a fond smile, chin resting on your palm, feeling oddly full just witnessing your daughter so happy. Then, you hear it.

Click. Click.

Your head turns instinctively toward the sound, and there he is—Hyunjin—standing a few feet away with a camera in hand, lowering it with a guilty smile when he notices you’ve caught him.

“Sorry,” he says, not looking sorry at all. “I just… couldn’t help it.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, half-amused, half-incredulous. “Were you just taking pictures of me?”

He shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I was. You're beautiful—it’s hard not to.”

That makes you let out a breathy, surprised laugh, half-shy, half-entertained. You shake your head, glancing back out to the sea like it’ll cool your blush. “You’re something else.”

“Hyunjin,” he says, finally coming closer and offering his hand again, this time more properly. “I don’t think I introduced myself earlier.”

You take his hand again, noting how warm and familiar it already feels in yours. “Nice to meet you, Hyunjin. I take it you and Julian go way back?”

He leans casually against the rail beside you, his sunglasses hanging off the collar of his shirt. “High school. He was exactly the same back then. Sweet. Smart. Terrible at talking to girls.”

You grin. “So you’re saying he’s always been this… nervous?”

“Like a scared puppy,” Hyunjin confirms, laughing. “But the kind that would take a bullet for the people he loves. You don’t have to worry about Tigerlily. He worships her.”

You nod softly at that, touched. “That’s very reassuring. Thank you.”

Hyunjin looks at you for a beat, then tilts his head. “Aren’t you curious to know about me?”

You laugh. “Are you offering up a full character profile?”

“Only the interesting parts,” he says with a wink. “Let’s see… I’m a pottery artist. I throw clay for a living. Julian actually met Tigerlily at one of my exhibits, so I’ll take partial credit for their love story.”

“Wow,” you smile. “Multitalented and a matchmaker.”

“And single,” he adds, eyes sparkling. “Also, apparently… recently discovering I might have a thing for older women.”

You laugh—a real one this time, unfiltered and light—and toss your head back slightly. “Oh, is that so?”

Hyunjin leans a little closer, voice low and teasing. “You’re kind of making it hard not to.”

Your gaze flickers to his—those sharp eyes softened by sunlight and mischief—and you find yourself laughing again, caught completely off guard by how amused, how seen you feel in that moment.

It’s been a long time since someone made you feel this way. Curious. Flattered. Just a little bit reckless. And the fact that it’s someone like him only makes it worse—and better.

The sun is hanging low over the horizon, spilling its golden light across the calm sea, and you’re in the kitchen galley, shoulder to shoulder with Julian’s mother as you help prepare dinner for everyone. The boat gently sways beneath your feet, and the sounds of laughter and soft music drift in from the deck. There’s something peaceful about it—this simple, domestic moment, so different from the chaos your life once knew.

Fresh from her shower, Tigerlily joins you, her cheeks still flushed from the sun and her hair damp around her shoulders. “Smells good in here,” she says, bumping her hip against yours as she grabs a stack of plates and starts setting the table on the back deck.

You're watching her, quietly smiling, when Julian appears beside her, freshly changed into dry clothes. He takes her hand gently and calls, “Hyunjin, hey—would you mind taking a few photos of us with the sunset?”

You glance over, your heart skipping a beat. So this is it.

Hyunjin, camera in hand, gives a playful salute and positions them with their backs to the sunset. “Alright, stand right there. A little closer. Julian, put your hand around her waist… yeah, perfect. Lils, look out at the ocean.”

Tigerlily does as she’s told, oblivious and relaxed.

Julian’s other hand slips into the pocket of his pants. You freeze where you stand, breath catching in your throat. Julian slowly pulls out a small velvet box.

“Okay, now, Lils,” Hyunjin calls gently, “turn around and look at Julian.”

She spins playfully, half-laughing—until her eyes land on him. She goes still. Her breath stutters.

Everyone else falls quiet.

Julian is on one knee, holding the box open, his face awash in the soft, fading sunlight. You grip the edge of the table, your heart racing in your chest.

“I knew from the moment I saw you at that gallery that I wanted to know everything about you,” Julian begins, voice a little shaky but clear. “I love how your laugh comes out before your jokes do. I love that you always steal fries off my plate even though you say you’re not hungry. I love that when I’m with you, I don’t feel like I need to be anyone else.”

Tigerlily blinks, tears welling fast in her eyes.

“You make everything feel like home,” Julian continues, his own eyes glassy. “And I want to spend the rest of my life trying to make you feel the same way. Will you marry me?”

It hits you like a wave—pride, joy, a strange ache in your chest like you were the one being asked, you were the girl in love with the sea glowing behind her.

Tigerlily gasps, a hand over her mouth, and then—she nods. “Yes,” she chokes out. “Yes, Julian.”

Cheers erupt around the boat. Julian slips the ring onto her finger, his hands trembling, and then stands to kiss her, slow and reverent, with the ocean breeze dancing through their hair.

You blink back tears, feeling them slip down anyway—and then a gentle arm wraps around your shoulders. Julian’s mother. She gives you a knowing squeeze, her own eyes shiny with emotion. “It’s something else, isn’t it?” she murmurs.

You nod, biting your lip to keep from crying harder. “It really is.”

And as Tigerlily and Julian hold each other beneath the peach-streaked sky, their silhouettes backlit by the fading sun, you can’t help but whisper under your breath, “My little girl’s getting married.”

You’re still trying to collect yourself, when you hear the hurried footsteps—barefoot and light—and then suddenly, she’s there.

Tigerlily throws herself into your arms, nearly knocking the wind out of you. She’s laughing, breathless, trembling with joy as she hugs you tight.

“Mom!” she exclaims, pulling away just enough to hold her hand out in front of you. “Look!”

The ring glints under the fading sunlight, elegant and simple, but it might as well be the crown jewel by the way she’s staring at it, eyes wide, still dazed. “I’m getting married,” she says in a whisper, like she doesn’t believe the words even as she speaks them. “I’m actually getting married.”

You nod, slow and soft, swallowing hard against the lump forming in your throat. “You are,” you manage, voice thick with emotion. “You really are.”

And then you pull her back into your arms, wrapping her up like you did when she was small, when she’d scrape her knee or have a bad dream or just need her mom.

“Are you happy, little cub?” you murmur against her hair.

She pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes, cheeks still wet from tears but her smile—oh, her smile is luminous. “Yes,” she says, with a kind of certainty that steadies your heartbeat. “I’m so, so happy.”

You nod again, brushing her hair gently back from her face, your fingers lingering at her temple.

“If you’re happy,” you whisper, “then I’m happy.”

You lean in, kiss her softly on the temple, and for a moment, the world falls still. It’s just the two of you—mother and daughter, hearts full, tears barely held back, connected by something deeper than words.

Then Julian approaches, his steps quiet but purposeful, and you break the hug to turn to him. His face is still flushed from the proposal, his eyes a little watery, but he smiles at you—nervous again, like always. You step into his arms and hug him too, firm and warm.

“Congratulations,” you whisper. “Take good care of her, will you?”

“I will,” he says, voice a little shaky. “I promise.”

When you pull back, Tigerlily is beaming at both of you, and then she takes Julian’s hand, and just like that—the celebration continues.

Dinner is served on the upper deck under a string of fairy lights. Music plays, laughter rings out across the boat, and champagne glasses clink in celebration. Everyone is radiant—Maude and Alexa dancing barefoot, Julian’s parents looking proud, Hyunjin snapping candids in the golden hour light, and you—

You sit back for a moment, just watching. Watching your daughter. Your daughter, laughing with her fiancé, cheeks flushed with happiness, her whole future ahead of her.

A mix of emotions rolls through you—pride, awe, disbelief, joy, and that familiar ache that comes with letting go. You think of all the versions of Tigerlily you’ve loved: the little girl with scraped knees and messy braids, the teen who rolled her eyes but still hugged you goodnight, the woman now, who wears engagement rings and about to be someone's wife.

And something blooms in your chest, wide and full. Not just joy—but peace. Profound, bone-deep peace. In this moment, you feel it completely. You are happy.

The house feels impossibly still after a day so full of life. You move through the quiet halls, still smelling faintly of salt and sunblock, your bag abandoned by the front door. The lights are dimmed low, just enough to guide your way to the bedroom. You’re halfway through brushing your teeth when your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Chris.

You hesitate before picking up. It’s late. But you know him—you know that if he’s calling at this hour, it’s not casual. You slide your finger across the screen and press the phone to your ear. “Hey.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then— “She’s getting married.”

His voice is low, worn out. Not angry. Not sad. Just… broken.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, your breath catching slightly. “She called you?”

“Just hung up,” he says. “She was so excited. Said it like she couldn’t believe it herself.”

You smile faintly. “She was glowing all day, Chris. You should've seen it.”

Chris lets out a laugh—quiet, hollow. “I remember when she used to light up like that just from sitting on my shoulders.”

There’s a long pause, one of those where neither of you needs to speak to understand the ache the other is carrying. “I know it’s stupid,” he finally says, “but it feels like I’m being cheated on. Like—she was mine. My baby. My little cub. And now some guy gets to come in and just—just take over. Call her his family.”

You close your eyes, pressing your lips together. “It’s not stupid.”

“I used to be her whole world,” he says, his voice cracking. “Now I’m... a scheduled phone call. A guest at her wedding.”

You lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, your heart heavy with a quiet ache. “You’ll always be her dad, Chris. Nothing will ever take that from you.”

He sighs, and you can hear the way he’s holding back more. Memories. Emotions. Regrets.

“I missed so much already,” he mutters. “Her graduation. Her first heartbreak. All those stupid in-between things. I thought maybe I’d have more time.”

“You’ll have different moments now,” you say gently. “Maybe not the same ones. But new ones. Important ones.”

Chris goes quiet, and for a second, you wonder if he’s still on the line. Then, softly, he asks, “Did you cry?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Of course I did.”

“I wish I could’ve seen her,” he says. “Wish I could’ve been there. With you. For her.”

You swallow the sudden lump in your throat. “She looked so much like you when she said yes,” you whisper.

That gets him. You hear the hitch in his breath. The rest of the night is spent like that—Chris talking, remembering, grieving something that was never really lost, just changed. And you listen, the way only someone who’s loved him deeply once can. You let him be selfish, fragile, ridiculous—because this isn’t about being rational.

This is about love.

And when he finally falls silent, you whisper, “We did good, you know. Raising her.”

There’s a long silence before he murmurs, “Yeah. We really did.”

You set your phone down gently on the nightstand, the screen going black like the closing of a curtain. The house is quiet again, but the silence feels different now—thicker somehow, like it’s holding something inside of it. You lean back against the pillows, exhaling slowly as your eyes drift up to the ceiling.

It’s not just you.

That’s the thought that settles over you like a blanket. You’re not the only one caught in this strange in-between—between the past and the future, between holding on and letting go. Chris, too, is reeling. Grasping. Feeling like he’s losing something he thought he had more time with. There’s a quiet comfort in knowing that.

Because tonight, watching Tigerlily say yes with the sunset blazing behind her, part of you had felt like you were standing still while the rest of the world moved on without asking. Like everything was changing too fast, too soon.

But now, lying here in the soft hum of the night, you realize that maybe change doesn’t have to be something to fear. Maybe it’s just a new season arriving—quiet, inevitable, and hopefully, kind.

You turn your head, eyes landing on a photo of Tigerlily on your dresser. She’s younger in this one, her cheeks round, her smile toothy. You remember taking it. You remember everything. You smile faintly. Maybe this is what growing up looks like—not just for her, but for you, too.

And maybe it’s all changing for the better.

It’s a slow Saturday afternoon when you hear the familiar creak of your front door opening and Tigerlily’s voice calling out, “Mom?”

You glance up from your notebook, pen still in hand, and before you can answer, she’s already walking into the kitchen like she owns the place—as she always has—plopping her purse on the counter and reaching straight for the cookie jar.

“You want something?” you ask without looking up, grinning as you hear her bite into a cookie.

“Yeah,” she says around a mouthful, “I want you to come out with me tonight.”

That gets your attention. You raise an eyebrow as you swivel in your chair, playful curiosity in your voice. “Wow, inviting your mom out on a Saturday night? What, Julian couldn’t make it?”

From the kitchen, she groans. “He’s been swamped at work this week. He said he might fall asleep standing if he tries to go out tonight.”

You smile as you stand and stretch. “So I’m the backup plan.”

“No,” she says pointedly, another bite of cookie halfway to her mouth, “you’re the main event. I wanted to spend time with you. Before I become someone’s wife.”

You’re halfway to the kitchen when she says that, and your steps falter just a little—just enough to register the weight of her words. You reach her side and pluck a cookie from the jar, mirroring her stance, leaning against the counter.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask softly, a teasing edge to your voice.

Tigerlily doesn’t answer—not with words. She just gives you a knowing look, the kind of look that says everything without saying much at all. And you know. You know what she means.

That she won’t always be yours first.

So you gently pat the top of her head, a silent acknowledgment of what’s changing—of what will never change, too.

And then you take a bite of your cookie, brushing the moment aside with practiced ease. “So where are you taking me, future wife?”

She perks up, cookie forgotten. “There’s this art exhibition downtown—Julian got me the invite—and I thought maybe after, we could get drinks or something. Just us.”

You nod, finishing your cookie. “Alright then. Let me go throw on something cool and age-appropriate.”

“Please do,” she says with a smirk. “Because you’re about to be seen with a young woman.”

You flick a crumb at her, already walking away. “Then I better wear heels. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking I’m your mother or something.”

The city hums quietly around you as Tigerlily drives, her fingers drumming lightly against the wheel to the rhythm of the song on the radio. The sun is beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting golden light across her face—her cheekbones highlighted, her eyes focused, her lips painted a shade that suits her too well.

You’re watching her in silence, your elbow propped on the car door, cheek resting against your hand. It hits you all at once—how grown she is. Not just older, but grown. A woman. Not just your daughter, but someone’s partner. Someone who knows what she wants, who walks into rooms with her head high and her heart wide open.

She catches your stare during a red light and raises a brow. “Do I have something on my face?”

You blink yourself back into the moment and smile softly. “No. I just… I like your lipstick.”

She grins. “It’s in my bag if you want to use it.”

You reach down and grab her purse from the floor, fishing through it. Lipstick, sunglasses, tissues, receipts, mints—and a folded, glossy brochure catches your eye.

You pull it out, unfolding it. “Is this the exhibition we’re going to?”

Tigerlily glances over. “Yeah. Julian’s firm helped sponsor it.”

You scan the list of artists until a familiar name stops you cold. Hwang Hyunjin.

Your brow arches. “Wait. Is this… the Hyunjin I met on the boat?”

Tigerlily’s grin is instant, wicked, and wide.

“Yes,” she says, dragging out the word. “That Hyunjin.”

You slide her a look.

“Oh my god,” she says dramatically, “you totally forgot he was an artist, didn’t you?”

You feign innocence, setting the brochure in your lap. “I didn’t forget. I just didn’t know he was showing here.”

She laughs, delighted, tapping the wheel. “You like him.”

“I don’t like him.”

“You do. You got all flustered the second he called you beautiful.”

You roll your eyes. “Tigerlily.”

“Mom.”

You look out the window, but you’re smiling now, the kind that tugs at the corner of your lips despite yourself. And she sees it.

“Oh my god, you do like him.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath. “He’s like, what, twelve?”

She snorts. “He’s as old as Julian.”

You glance back at her. “That’s not better.”

“That’s hot,” she says instead. “You’ve still got it.”

You shoot her a look. “Please stop.”

You hadn’t expected to feel nervous—this wasn’t a date, it was an art exhibition with your daughter. But ever since spotting his name on that brochure, there’s been a flutter of something low in your stomach, delicate and unshakable.

You walk beside Tigerlily into the exhibition, all clean lines and soft lighting. Art lines the walls—paintings, sculptures, ceramics—and you try to keep your eyes on them, but you can feel it. His gaze.

And when you look up—there he is. Hyunjin, standing near a tall display of pottery, dressed in relaxed black slacks and a linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His buzzcut somehow makes his cheekbones look sharper, but it’s the way his eyes immediately find you that makes your breath hitch.

Tigerlily grabs your hand and tugs you toward him. “Let’s go say hi to your potter boy.”

You gently swat her arm but don’t argue.

Hyunjin straightens as the two of you approach, a soft, knowing smile spreading across his face. His eyes flick between Tigerlily and you, but linger on you—open, unbothered, like he has no intention of pretending otherwise. “Hi,” he says simply, like the word is meant only for you.

Tigerlily grins. “Congratulations, Hyunjin. This whole thing is incredible. The colors, the forms—like, it’s weirdly emotional. I didn’t expect to feel something over clay.”

Hyunjin nods, appreciative. “Thank you,” he says, and then, softer, to you, “I’m glad you came.”

You swallow, fingers tightening slightly around your clutch. “It’s beautiful. Everything.”

Tigerlily glances between the two of you, and you catch the flicker of realization in her eyes. Her gaze lingers on Hyunjin, then you. A smile curves her lips, but she doesn’t say anything—just lightly touches your arm.

“I’m gonna get us some drinks,” she says, far too casually. “You two go ahead and talk about... I'll just go.”

Before you can say anything, she’s already turning away, leaving you alone with Hyunjin in the middle of his world.

Hyunjin smiles, as if this was always meant to happen. “Would you like a tour?” he asks. “I’ll show you my favorites.”

You nod, trying to collect yourself as he leads you across the room to a display of delicate, curved vases and explains a bit about it.

“Have you ever worked with clay?” he asks, that slight tilt to his voice—casual, but laced with suggestion.

You shake your head. “I don’t know the first thing about pottery. But it’s… really beautiful.”

“I could teach you,” he says.

You laugh, a little flustered. “I’m sure you’re busy.”

“For you, I’d make time.”

It’s so simple, the way he says it. No hesitation. No games. And that’s what throws you.

You look at him, really look—and he’s looking at you like you’re the centerpiece of the exhibition, like he curated the entire room just to bring you here. It’s intense, that kind of attention. Unapologetic.

“I doubt I’d be any good at it,” you say, trying to deflect.

“Come to my studio,” he says. “Let’s find out.”

His voice is low, but not pressing. Just enough to leave space—for you to lean in or walk away. But his eyes… his eyes are burning. Admiring. Wanting. A quiet pull you can’t quite escape.

You break the gaze, looking down at the smooth glaze of the pot nearest you, your fingers brushing lightly over its curve. Hyunjin’s smile deepens, and you don’t have to look at him to know. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

And somehow, you don’t hate it.

After the exhibition, you and Tigerlily settle into a cozy booth at a bar just down the street from the gallery. The music is mellow, the lights low and golden, and the clinking of glasses and quiet hum of conversation wrap around you like a blanket. You each have a drink in hand—something fruity and pink in Tigerlily’s, something simpler in yours.

You sip, exhale, and lean back. “Well… that was unexpectedly interesting.”

Tigerlily’s lips curve around the rim of her glass. “You mean the exhibition?” she teases.

You lift an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling him now?”

She laughs, a full, unfiltered sound. “I saw you and Hyunjin, you know. Sneaking off for your little pottery tour.”

You feign a gasp, dramatically clutching your chest. “What are you saying, Tigerlily? You want a new dad?”

She chokes on her drink, coughing through her laughter. “Oh my God, please don’t ever say that again.”

You grin as you stir your drink with the little straw. “Just checking.”

But then, her tone shifts—still playful, but more earnest now. “I’m serious, though. I think it’s a good time for you to start dating again.”

You glance at her sideways, teasing, “Oh? So you’ve finally given up on the dream of me and your dad running off into the sunset?”

Tigerlily chuckles, soft and knowing. “I mean… yeah. I used to hope, but now? I just want you to be happy. However that looks.”

Something in you stirs. It’s not sadness—not quite—but something tender. Moved. You coo, placing your hand over hers on the table. “You’re all grown up now, aren’t you?”

She gives you a sheepish smile, then rolls her eyes as she groans, “Even if that happiness means Hyunjin becomes my stepdad. Ew.”

You burst into laughter. “He’s not—Tigerlily!”

“I’m just saying,” she lifts her hands in defense, eyes wide, “if it ever comes to that, I’ll be supportive. Slightly traumatized, but supportive.”

You laugh until your chest aches, then sigh as you cradle your glass between your hands. “I don’t know… dating at my age, it feels kind of—”

Tigerlily gasps. “Don’t even start with that age talk.”

You shrug, playful but honest. “It just seems a little late to open up my heart again.”

She leans forward, voice soft but firm. “Then don’t open it wide. Just crack the window a little. Let some air in. You never know what might fly through.”

You look at her, this remarkable woman you raised, and something about her words nestles itself right under your ribs. “I’m not saying it has to be Hyunjin,” she adds, sly smile returning. “But… you could do worse.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile that lifts your lips is genuine. “You’re kind of sweet when you’re not being annoying.”

She raises her glass. “To annoying daughters who want their moms to be ridiculously happy.”

You clink glasses with her, the sound small but meaningful and for the first time in a long while, the idea of something new—something a little wild, a little uncertain—doesn’t scare you. Not when you’ve come this far. Not when your daughter is rooting for your heart.

So here you are, standing in front of the brick building tucked into a quiet corner of the city, the late afternoon sun casting warm shadows across its facade. The metal plaque reads Studio Hwang in a clean, simple font. You pause at the door, your hand hovering just before the handle.

This doesn't mean you're going to open your heart.

You're not here to be charmed or swept off your feet or written into some kind of romantic plot twist. No. You’re here because—well, because you were curious. And maybe a little flattered. And maybe, maybe, you wanted to try something new.

You exhale through your nose, give a small nod to yourself. Who knows, you think, maybe I’ll like it. So you push the door open.

Inside, the soft hum of conversation mingles with the earthy scent of clay and dust. Afternoon light spills through the high windows, warming the space in golden hues. Shelves are lined with ceramic pieces—some smooth and glazed, others raw and half-finished, waiting to become something more.

You spot Hyunjin almost immediately. He’s across the room, mid-conversation with someone—maybe a buyer, maybe a fellow artist, you’re not sure. He’s gesturing toward a set of tall vases, his tone focused, expressive. He hasn’t seen you yet.

For a moment, you hesitate. Your instinct tells you to step back outside, to give yourself an out before this becomes something real.

But then Hyunjin turns. He catches sight of you—and his entire face lights up. His smile is instant, genuine, radiant in a way that makes you forget you were just about to retreat.

“I’m happy to see you,” he says, stepping away from his conversation without hesitation. “You came.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you say, glancing briefly toward the person he was speaking with, your hand still loosely gripping the strap of your bag. “I can come back later, if you’re busy.”

But Hyunjin’s reaction is immediate. He takes a small step toward you, shaking his head with a pleading softness in his eyes. “No. Don’t go.”

You blink, a little surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

“I was just finishing up anyway,” he says, flashing you a crooked smile, one that almost feels like a quiet apology for making you feel like you weren’t welcome here. “I’ve been looking forward to this. Stay—please.”

And it’s the way he looks at you. Open. Warm. Like your presence just made his whole day better. Like there’s nowhere else he’d rather have you be.

You feel your hesitation melt, bit by bit. Your grip on your bag loosens. Your heart softens in a way you didn’t expect. So you nod. Quietly, simply, you say, “Okay.”

As you wait, you take slow steps around the studio, letting your eyes wander over the carefully displayed pieces—bowls, vases, sculptures that seem to carry a sense of motion even in their stillness. Each one is uniquely imperfect, textured with fingerprints, small ridges, grooves. They're beautiful in the way something made by hand always is—full of soul, full of intention. But as much as you're trying to focus on the art, your attention keeps drifting. To him.

Hyunjin stands a few feet away, still finishing his conversation, and you can’t help but look. The way he’s dressed is simple—just a white tank top tucked into jeans, the fabric hugging his frame in all the right places, and an apron dusted with clay tied around his waist. His buzzed hair is wrapped under a bandana. He gestures with his hands as he talks, his words low and animated, his passion palpable.

There’s something magnetic about it—the way his brows pull together when he's describing a shape, the way his hands mimic the curves of the piece, like he’s still molding it in the air. You find yourself watching too closely. Admiring too much.

God, he's attractive. Really, really attractive.

You realize you’ve been staring, your thoughts trailing somewhere they shouldn’t, and you quickly look away, pretending to examine a nearby vase like it suddenly became the most interesting thing in the world.

Your pulse does this little skip in your chest and you remind yourself again: You're just here to learn pottery.

The soft click of the studio door signals that Hyunjin’s guest has just left, and suddenly, it's just the two of you. The room feels quieter now, like it’s holding its breath, waiting. You run your fingertips along the rim of a ceramic bowl, pretending to study it as you hear the sound of his footsteps getting closer. Your heart does a little flutter as you straighten your posture, but you don’t dare turn around until you hear his voice.

“So…” he says, his tone lighter now, a little teasing, “ready for your first pottery lesson?”

You finally turn to face him, and he's looking at you with a smile that makes you feel warm all over. His apron is still dusted with clay, his arms streaked with it, and there’s a tiny smudge on his cheek you have to force yourself not to reach for.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, giving a small laugh. “I guess so. I mean, I don’t want to break anything.”

He grins, dimples and all. “Don’t worry. The only rule here is to enjoy yourself.”

The way he says it—calm, easy, inviting—makes you relax a little. You nod, your lips curling into a smile. “Okay. Teach me, then.”

Hyunjin reaches for an apron hanging on a hook, shaking the dust from it before offering it to you with a quiet smile. “Here,” he says, “can’t have you ruining that pretty outfit.”

You chuckle softly as you slide your arms through the apron, smoothing it down the front. Before you can reach behind to tie it, he’s already stepping closer—close enough that the heat of his body brushes your back.

“Let me,” he murmurs.

His fingers gather the straps at your waist, slow and deliberate, and as he knots them behind you, you feel the firm brush of his knuckles against the small of your back. Your breath hitches—just slightly—and you’re thankful he can’t see your face just yet. But then… he moves higher.

Without a word, his hand lifts to your hair, gathering it gently, fingertips brushing your nape as he lifts it away from your neck. “Can’t let it get messy either,” he says quietly, voice dropping an octave as he twists your hair and pins it up with a clip from the table. “There. Perfect.”

Hyunjin doesn’t step away. He lingers, his hands falling slowly, deliberately, to rest lightly on your shoulders as he leans in—just enough for you to feel the soft, warm brush of his breath against your neck. You close your eyes for a moment, heat rising in your cheeks, heart fluttering like it’s never been touched before.

“You smell really good,” he says, low and sincere, as if it’s a secret he hadn’t meant to say out loud.

You swallow, pulse quickening. “I—um… thank you.”

When you finally turn your head slightly to glance back at him, his eyes are already on you—dark, unreadable, but soft. And the look he gives you makes you feel like you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.

He smiles, the corners of his mouth curling up like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “Let’s make something beautiful,” he says.

And you’re not entirely sure if he’s still talking about pottery.

Hyunjin leads you to the table, where a solid mound of clay sits waiting. He picks up a thin, taut wire with wooden handles on each end and holds it out for you. “This is a cut-off wire,” he explains gently, “you use it to portion the clay before you bring it to the wheel.”

You take the handles in your hands, unsure, and glance at him. He steps behind you again, not too close this time—but close enough that you can feel the presence of him, the quiet patience he carries.

“Pull it tight,” he says, “and glide it through like you’re slicing butter.”

You do as he says, but your motion is a little hesitant, uneven. He doesn’t correct you right away. Instead, his hands come up to rest over yours, steadying them, guiding the motion with a softness that makes your breath catch.

“Like this,” he murmurs, his voice brushing your ear.

Together, you slice through the clay. When it’s done, he lets go—slowly—and steps around to lift the cut piece with ease. He smiles.

“Perfect,” he says. “See? Not so hard.”

You follow him as he carries the clay over to the wheel, your heart still fluttering from the brief contact. He pats the stool next to the wheel.

“Come sit. Let’s get your hands dirty.”

You do, smoothing the apron over your lap as you settle in.

He slaps the clay down at the center of the wheel with a satisfying thud, then sits beside you, adjusting the pedal with his foot. “We’re going to start by centering the clay. That’s the most important part.”

You look down at your hands, already dusted with faint clay residue. “What if I mess it up?”

Hyunjin leans in with a smile that borders on a smirk, eyes flicking up to yours. “That’s part of the fun.”

His hands take yours again, guiding them toward the spinning mound of clay. The wheel starts turning, slow and steady, and he wraps his fingers around yours as the clay begins to take shape beneath your touch.

The sensation is strange—cool, smooth, pliant—but with him guiding you, it doesn’t feel overwhelming. It feels… grounding. Intimate. “Just feel it,” he says quietly. “Don’t overthink.”

You nod, even though your heart is racing—not from nerves over the clay, but from the way his voice settles into your spine. The way his hands feel sure and gentle over yours. The way his focus is split between the clay and you.

Then, Hyunjin moves to the wheel across from you, his own piece of clay already set and spinning. “Watch me first,” he says, looking up with a soft grin. “Then you can try.”

You nod, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear as you lean forward slightly, eyes on him. On the way his hands wet with slip move gracefully over the surface of the clay. His fingers are long, precise—expert—and there’s a natural rhythm in the way they press and pull, coaxing form from the formless.

Your gaze drops to his forearms, where veins run along the skin like rivers, his muscles subtly flexing as he controls the wheel. The way his biceps shift beneath the snug fit of his tank has your breath hitching just slightly, and then your eyes move up again—past the bandana holding his hair back, past the little smudge of clay near his jaw—to his face.

Hyunjin is all focus. Calm, unbothered, completely at home in the motion of his craft. And for a moment, you forget where you are.

You’re watching him—not just the process, but him—and your thoughts go quiet. All you hear is the hum of the wheel, the soft squish of clay, and your own heartbeat tapping against your ribs.

Then, as if he senses it, his eyes lift. He catches you staring. You look away fast, cheeks warming, pretending to busy yourself with your own shapeless lump of clay. But across the room, you hear his soft laugh. Low, amused, unbothered.

“I can feel you watching me,” he says, not looking up this time as he dips his fingers in water and smooths a new edge into his piece.

You glance up at him again, trying to sound casual. “I’m just observing. You said to watch.”

“Right,” he says, a teasing glint in his eye now. “Strictly academic.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that spreads on your lips. He doesn't push, just continues shaping his work with that same focused grace—while every now and then, you catch his gaze flicking back to you. And each time it does, it lingers just a little longer.

Not long after, you find yourself sinking into it, the stillness not awkward but comforting. The kind of quiet that wraps around you like a warm blanket, where nothing needs to be said. Your hands move gently over the clay, smoothing it, shaping it—not entirely sure what you're making, but enjoying the process anyway. It’s oddly therapeutic, the coolness of the clay, the give and resistance of it, the freedom to make anything. You let your fingers trail along its form, until—

The wheel spins too fast beneath your hand, wobbling wildly, and your once-decent shape collapses inward with a wet slap. You sigh, pulling your hands back, covered in clay and frustration.

Hyunjin looks up from his own wheel. He sees your frown, your ruined creation, and he doesn’t laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he wipes his hands with a rag and rises, walking over with an amused curl to his lips and that glint in his eyes. “You panicked,” he says softly, voice dipped in warm amusement.

“I messed it up,” you mutter, eyeing the deformed lump.

“You can still fix it,” he simply resolves.

Before you can ask how, he’s already behind you. Not too close—but close enough that you can feel his presence, the gentle press of warmth radiating from his chest. Then, with zero hesitation, he reaches around you, his fingers brushing lightly against yours as he guides your hands back to the clay.

“Slow down,” he murmurs, his breath brushing against your neck.

You try not to shiver as he continues, “Just feel it. Let your hands listen to what it wants to be.”

His hands gently cup yours, steering them over the clay as the wheel spins again—slower this time. Controlled. Intimate. His fingers never leave yours, and every time he leans in to speak, his lips come dangerously close to your ear. “You’re doing good,” he whispers. “See? Told you we could fix it.”

You manage a breathy chuckle, though your focus is split—half on the clay, half on how close he is. How his chest nearly grazes your back, how his voice sinks into your skin, how his fingers linger just a little too long with each adjustment.

“Feels a little like cheating,” you murmur.

He huffs a laugh behind you. “I like helping.” His voice dips a little lower. “Besides… if it means I get to be this close to you, I’m not complaining.”

You glance back at him—only to find his face already angled toward yours, eyes heavy-lidded with that teasing smile. Your breath catches. For a moment, neither of you move. You pull in a breath, trying to center yourself again—on the clay, the motion, the wheel beneath your hands, not on the way Hyunjin’s breath felt brushing your skin just moments ago.

“Okay,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. “Let’s just finish this.”

And you do. You put all of your focus into the shape, your hands moving more confidently now. Every curve, every pressure, you begin to feel the rhythm. Hyunjin stays close but doesn't interfere anymore—just lets you work, watching with quiet eyes and the occasional, almost imperceptible smile. A few times, he gently murmurs encouragements, soft like a breeze: “Just like that… slower on the edge… good, yeah, that’s it.”

And slowly, it comes together. A little uneven, maybe. Not perfectly symmetrical. But it has a charm—your charm, your hands in the shape of it.

When you lift your hands and look at what you've made, you let out a quiet breath. “It’s… kind of a plate?” you say, unsure.

Hyunjin chuckles, stepping in. “It is a plate,” he says warmly, reaching for the cut-off wire. He carefully loops it beneath the clay, slicing it from the wheel with practiced ease, and lifts it with gentle hands like it’s a masterpiece.

He turns to you with a smile so genuine it makes your chest swell. “You did a really good job,” he says.

You smile back, your cheeks still warm. “Only because you practically made it with me.”

“I was just your guide.” He winks. “You’re the artist.”

You roll your eyes with a soft laugh, but something about the way he’s looking at you makes you stand a little taller. Like maybe you are capable of making something beautiful—even if it’s just a slightly lopsided plate in a small studio, with a man who’s slowly but surely making a mark on your heart.

The clay’s still under your nails a little, but there’s something oddly satisfying about it. A trace of the afternoon etched into your skin. You wash your hand in the nearest sink and feel a little more relaxed as you're toweling your damp hands.

Not long after, Hyunjin walks in, balancing two cups of coffee with ease, still in his paint-smeared apron and bandana, looking effortlessly undone in the most deliberate way.

“Made us coffee,” he says, handing you one of the mugs. Your fingers brush for a second as you take it, and it sends a small jolt up your spine.

“Thanks,” you murmur, taking a sip and leaning against the big wooden table beside him. The studio is quiet now, just the soft hum of life outside the windows and the lingering scent of clay and coffee between you.

You admire the wall-to-wall shelf of pottery on the other side of the studio, each piece unique, imperfectly perfect in their own way. “You’ve made all of these?” you ask.

He nods, glancing at them over his cup. “Each one’s like a memory.”

You smile at that, letting the silence wrap around you both for a beat. Then, from beside you, he says casually, “So… I might’ve done a little internet stalking about you.”

You glance at him, brow arching. “Oh?”

He smiles into his cup, lowering it slowly. “I was curious.”

“And what did you find out, detective?”

He turns his head to look at you, something playful and soft behind his eyes. “That you were… different.”

You narrow your eyes, amused. “Different how?”

He tilts his head, thinking. “Fiery. Effervescent. A little wild, in the best way.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Are you disappointed now?”

He shakes his head, eyes still locked on yours. “Not even close.” His voice is low, steady. “I like who you are now.”

Your heart flips, unprepared for the way he says it—so matter-of-factly, like it's the easiest truth he's ever spoken. Then he adds, almost as if speaking to the room, “But I think that part of you is still in there. Just… quieter now. I wonder if I'll ever meet her.”

You look down into your coffee, lips curling slightly before glancing back at him. “Or maybe you should’ve been born sooner,” you tease, nudging him lightly with your shoulder.

But Hyunjin just smiles, slow and knowing, as he turns to face you more fully. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “If I was born sooner… you wouldn’t have noticed me. I’d be nobody.”

Your smile falters, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he says, stepping closer. “You would’ve looked right through me. But now…” His eyes lock on yours again, this time deeper, weightier. “Now you see me.”

Your breath hitches, the space between you shrinking, thick with something electric.

“I think,” he murmurs, voice low, “we met at the right time.”

You swallow, caught off guard—not just by his words, but by the way he says them. The way he makes you feel. And you realize, maybe it’s not about being ready to open your heart. Maybe it’s about someone walking in and making it feel safe enough to try.

And then, he takes a small step closer, close enough that you can see the brown of his eyes, the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheekbones, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his temple from earlier.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks, voice low, husky with hesitation… and intent.

You nod before you can think better of it.

“I’ve been trying to keep it cool,” he murmurs, his hand brushing the edge of the table near yours. “Trying not to be… too much.”

Your lips twitch, heart hammering. “You think this is you trying to be subtle?”

Hyunjin lets out a quiet laugh, one that curls around your ribs and settles in your belly. “I guess I’m not very good at subtle when it comes to you.”

And then, slowly, he reaches out—his hand gentle as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing the curve of your jaw before falling away. The touch is light, but it lingers in your skin like fire.

“You make it really hard,” he says, barely above a whisper, “not to want... more.”

“More?” you echo softly, trying to keep your voice steady.

His eyes don’t leave yours. “More moments like this. More of your time. More of you.”

The silence stretches for a beat—your heart racing, cheeks burning—but you don’t pull away. You don’t stop him. Because in this moment, with the earthy scent of clay still hanging in the air and the fading sunlight washing golden across the floor, it feels terrifyingly easy to let yourself lean in—just a little closer.

And Hyunjin sees it. He sees the way your eyes flick to his lips for half a second too long. So he closes the space between you, just barely, until his face hovers inches from yours. Not touching, not yet. Waiting. Letting you decide.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, “and I will.”

But you don’t, you don’t say a word. Instead, you meet his eyes—warm, steady, searching—and you let yourself lean in just enough to close the last inches between you.

And then, finally, his lips meet yours.

It’s soft at first—so gentle, as if he’s afraid to break something delicate. His lips move against yours with reverence, like he’s been waiting a long time for this moment, and now that he has it, he’s not going to rush. He kisses you like it means something. Your hand finds the front of his apron, clutching the edge of the fabric just to ground yourself, to make sure this is real. And when you respond—when your lips press back into his, just a little more certain, a little more open—he sighs softly into the kiss, like relief, like gravity finally pulling him where he belongs.

His hand cradles your face, thumb brushing the edge of your cheek, and the other finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer—not demanding, but asking. You let him. You let yourself fall into the warmth of him, the quiet hum of something new and terrifyingly beautiful blooming between you.

When he finally pulls away, it’s only just—his forehead resting against yours, eyes still closed, breath mingling with yours. “I’ve been wanting to do that,” he murmurs, “since the first time I saw you.”

You smile, breathless, your heart blooming in your chest like something brand new. “And here I thought you were just being polite.”

Hyunjin huffs a quiet laugh, his nose brushing yours. “Not even a little bit.”

And for a while, you stay like that—close, quiet, wrapped in something warm and soft and maybe even a little magical—before the moment gives way to the next.

Because this doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like the very beginning.

✨ Chapter I of Evermore is available on my Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

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gay-dorito-dust · 1 year ago

Text

Through the eyes of Aunt Alysanne, who could see that her nephew was smitten with you from the moment eyes met, falling evermore when you handed him his ass during sword training.

Through the eyes of Aunt Alysanne, who could see that Benjicot would often act as your second shadow, standing close by but never in the way he wanted as he forced himself to find comfort in your seemingly platonic relationship; however friends do not let their eyes linger on the others lips as much as you and Benji did, nor did they subtly brush the backs of their hands against one another’s like you and Benji often did in reassurance.

Through the eyes of Aunt Alysanne, who could see the anger cloud her nephew’s stormy eyes as his jaw tighten and his fists clenched at his sides, watching in silent hurt and uncertainty as you talk to another from across the room. She could feel his desire to walk over to you and let it be known for all in attendance that you were the other half of his soul, and therefore should be his betrothed, for he knew you better then most men and had moulded himself to fit into the kind of man you’d be proud to seen beside.

Through the eyes of Aunt Alysanne, who couldn’t help but smile when watching you fret over Benjicot, a bloodied and dirtied mess of a man that looked at you with such a adoration unbeknownst to you as you quickly worked to heal the bruises on his knuckles. He had a fight with some Brackens that day and one took a jab at your expense, and just like that he had lost all composure as a fury unlike any other overcame him.

Now within the care of your hands however, Benji was at peace and was as serene as a calm lake, a lake that’s stillness would’ve mistaken if for a mirror of the sky above, while he only listened as you communicated your worries and fears to him openly. Never once did Benji dismissed your feelings or made you feel less for having them, if anything it made him recognise just how much time he had been wasting away pining, contemplating the what if’s instead of acting on his deep rooted feelings.

Through the eyes of Aunt Alysanne who celebrated in silence as her nephew held your face in his calloused hands, whispering his confession so sweetly against your lips as you happily accepted, the the look of content upon your face as you melted into his kiss. The internal war was over for Benjicot as he eagerly pressed more kisses on to your lips and face, all the while your laughter and squeals of a happily ever after reached her ears like a melody.

She was happy to see you both so happy and in utter love, a love so rare within Westeros that it was easily the most valued thing of all, for no amount of riches, glory, nor power would even dare compare to that of genuine feelings blossomed from a beautiful and respectable friendship.

Through the eyes of aunt Alysanne, who spoke the story of your love story with your own children as a bedtime story, hoping to one day encourage to do as you and Benji did; find love through a strengthen friendship for there was no love quite like it as you and Benji watched from the doorway, closely pressed against one another with matching smiles as your souls sung together in harmony.

#hotd x y/n #hotd x you #hotd imagines #hotd x reader #hotd imagine #hotd #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon imagines #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon #benjicot blackwood x reader #benjicot blackwood #bloody ben x reader #bloody ben #ben blackwood x reader #Benjicot Blackwood imagine #Benjicot Blackwood imagines

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vomitspit2 · 7 months ago

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jade who can’t stop/can’t help but to keep using his unique magic on you …. BIG jade thoughts!!!

though his unique magic has been utilized for sinister motivation, this is perhaps the only time his motivation has been sweet.

he cannot stop loosening the zipper over your mouth. it's an indulgence.

you are not a verbal person. you’re kind of introverted. mouse-ish, if he had to pick an animal. a little too self conscious to let all your thoughts flow out freely. and you aren’t very eager to say ‘i love you’ 24/7 like jade’s lovey-dovey parents do.

doesn’t mean you don’t feel it.

just means you are selective on where and when you say such monumental words.

jade would never want to pry those words out your mouth. he feels gifted when you grace him with your shy affections. those words should come naturally.

but, he does adore getting to pull out your other reticent affections — shoving his hand down your throat to pluck out each flower from the bottom of the basket — that are often not said. you just need a little good push and jade is nothing but benevolent.

up goes your chin, guided by a gloved finger. the magnets of both your eyes click into place. shock the heart. then, he helps you root out all the tiny, amorous thoughts you would have kept hidden from him.

now, he knows that you drool over how he will roll his sleeves up when on kitchen duty, you adore when he goes on seamlessly about a mushroom's biological blueprint, a hand pinches your arteries when he fixes your tie, his cool confidence in the face of others make you envious yet endeared, the flavor of tea in his mouth is your favorite blind taste test, you like this about him and you like that about him, when his hat shades his eyes in a certain way and when sunlight illuminates his eyes in a certain way ... all those petite sentiments that you probably would have kept closed up evermore, he gets to hear them.

you really went nuts when he wore that one black watch, now he knows to wear it as frequently as possible. it's like a little cheat. peeling back the top layers of your nerves to get to the fruit underneath.

you never remember it. you lose memory for about thirty seconds, like someone had pulled out some kind of plug in you. maybe it lasts for a minute-thirty if jade has been having a particularly rough week.

why wouldn't he use his gift, if not to fill up the hole in his chest to his very, very selfish heart's content.

#jade leech #jade leech x reader #twisted wonderland x reader

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notlongtolove · 6 months ago

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into the rose garden; for evermore

months of hope, weeks of ache. you’ve stayed. you’ve waited. you’ve stayed in the waiting. more pathetic than poetic if you’re being honest. but now, with him standing here with his heart in his hands, it doesn’t feel simple. this work is part of the burnt norton series

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: angst... with an ending

content: situationship core, fighting, tears, sad...

word count: 5.5k

note: thank you for all the love on the burnt norton series! i hope you enjoy this last and final part (make sure to read allll the way to the end for something special inspired by this!)

a line: You knew you were tied to a fate of loving hard first, crying harder later.

Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden. My words echo Thus, in your mind. - t.s. eliot

It was quiet, but Spencer heard it all the same.

“I love you.”

The confession was as delicate as it was sacred. A soft, almost fragile, wisp of a sound that left your lips.

His breath stilled before coming out in a shaky exhale as your hand curled around his. He swallowed and wished he could unhear it. Unknow it. But Spencer Reid has always been cursed with knowing things he wished he didn’t.

He’d tried not to notice at first. The way your gaze still lingered on him, how your voice still softened with every call of his name.

Of course, he’d known. And then he’d tried to forget.

When you’d suggested being friends instead—your voice trembling but determined—Spencer had known then that he should’ve walked away. He’d read enough, lived enough, to know how this would end. They said if you could still be friends with someone after loving them, it meant only one of two things: either you had never truly loved them, or you still did.

Spencer knew it wasn’t the former. He was many things—awkward, fractured, clumsy with feelings—but he wasn’t a liar.

And he loved you like it hurt him.

He had tried to kick the habit of you. Tried to drag out the time between phone calls and texts, tried to wean himself off the need to see your smile, hear your laugh, feel your lips on his. He’d told himself that he was being kind, that this distance he built between you was mercy. He knew it was cruel to keep stringing you along, holding on to you even as he kept you at arm’s length—but he wasn’t selfish enough to pretend he deserved you.

And so, while you stayed, wanting, waiting, Spencer ran.

Not because he didn’t love you. But because he didn’t know how to stay without breaking you in the process.

Thursday had come and gone. No text, no call. You weren’t phased, not at first, telling yourself the case ran long. It was a willing suspension of disbelief—that he was buried in reports and unsteady sleep, lost in the same work that had stolen him all the times before.

But then Friday arrived. Time dragged, slow and heavy, as each second passed. The news alerts, spam calls, and junk messages that lit up your screen mocked you relentlessly. The silence of Saturday and Sunday wasn’t any better, each minute unbearably long. Before you knew it, it had been a week since you’d last heard from him, since you’d seen even the faintest ghost of Spencer Reid.

Your friends didn’t ask questions. They didn’t bother prying, all too happy to fill in the blanks themselves. “Good riddance,” one of them had said over drinks one night. You laughed with them, too loud, a sound that didn’t quite belong to you. “About time you let that one go.” And you let them believe that was the truth.

You didn’t fill them in on the part where you’d been the one left hanging, the one Spencer had walked away from without a word. You let them believe you were the strong one, the sensible one, that you’d cut the cord and been better for it. You swallowed that truth alone bitterly because you couldn’t bear their pity. If Spencer wanted to close the door on you, you weren’t about to break your nails bloody clawing it back open. You’d already stood there, holding it wide for him, time and time again.

But in the quiet of the night, your bed empty and cold, anger and sadness slipped in through the cracks. They sat at the edge of your bed like unwanted guests, familiar and persistent, whispering the same questions you had no answers to. “What had changed?” Sadness wept, her shoulders shaking between sobs. “What had you done wrong?” Anger screamed, louder, harsher, her tongue lashing.

Each thought was a page torn from you, words unsaid thrown into the fire. Vulnerable and wasted—they could only have ever been meant for him. You hated yourself for it. And, for a fleeting second, you hated him too. He was gone. You were still here—waiting, always waiting. But you’d known all along that the flash of his badge, the weight of the gun on his hip, could never have compared to the significance of you.

In a way, you would’ve been right. Spencer’s work—his pride, his passion, his relentless devotion—It was all-consuming, yes, and it could never compare to you.

Nothing could compare to you.

You were it for him.

He knew it from the way sleep came so easily in your presence, his body finally surrendering to the peace and security he felt only in your arms. You were a quiet reprieve he could find nowhere else. He knew it from the way his heart had splintered when he’d heard you crying, the sounds of your sniffles fracturing something inside him. He couldn’t even bring himself to turn on the light. It would’ve been too unbearable, too painful, to face the sight of tears on your face.

To Spencer, you were the light at the end of a tunnel he’d stopped trying to run through years ago. He loved you for it—God, did he love you for it. But it was a light he didn’t think he deserved to reach.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Spencer wasn’t made for softness. He knew that. Whatever pieces of him had once been smooth and whole were long gone. He wasn’t the kind of man who could give you love letters or lazy Sundays with whispered promises. He was sleepless nights and cold coffee reheated three times over. He was restless hands and a mind constantly bracing for the next worst thing to happen. His time at the BAU had turned him into something broken and jagged. The last thing he wanted was to ruin you, too.

Because you, his sweet girl—soft, bright, and unshakably steady—you were everything he wasn’t. You didn’t need that. You didn’t deserve that. You deserved someone better, someone less damaged, someone who didn’t need you just to keep from sinking.

Maybe you’d found that in him. He was a friend of a co-worker of a friend of a cousin of a—wherever he came from, you hadn’t bothered to remember. He wasn’t Spencer.

This is your third date. Date. The word itself felt like a foreign concept. It carried a weight of certainty you’d never had before. With Spencer, there were no real beginnings, no clear endings—just nights out cut short, nights in cloaked in secrecy. A thing you never dared—or perhaps in Spencer’s case, cared—to truly define.

“I’d love to see you again,” he’d said, his voice solidly steady. “How’s Friday?”

“Friday’s fine,” you replied.

And when Friday came, so did he. On time, standing at your door with a smile that was easy to read, so uncomplicated, so un-Spencerlike. You’d gotten dinner, had a walk in the park, stopped by the little ice cream parlour you’d always wanted to take Spencer to. It was all exactly what you’d said it would be. Perfectly and predictably fine.

He dropped a piece of his waffle cracker onto the table, then casually blew it off and popped it into his mouth.

“Five-second rule, right?” he grinned.

“You know, actually, germs can transfer in less than—”

You hated the fact that Spencer was still playing on your mind. You hated the fact that you knew you weren’t on his more. You caught yourself, then shrugged, laughing it off.

“Forget it, I do it too.”

You tried to forget it. To forget him. It’d been almost 3 weeks since you’d last seen Spencer at this point. Anger and sadness hadn’t left entirely. They lingered, silent but present. You could feel them, but they were easier to ignore now—especially with a new warmth beside you at night, an easy distraction from the quiet ache.

But then, nostalgia came. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. No, she was more insidious than that.

She sat, cool and poised, on your kitchen counter, watching you with a sickeningly gentle gaze. “Remember how he used to help with the dishes after dinner? He’d wash them twice-over just because he knew you liked them that way. This one doesn't do that, does he? Doesn’t even know.” Her words stung, and they didn’t stop there. "Why didn’t you tell him? Why haven’t you told him?"

You don’t know why.

Sometimes, nostalgia grew meaner. She waltzed through the house, taking root in all the places you thought you’d exorcised him from. She rested on your dresser, her voice soft but biting. “You’re really going to wear that out with him? He bought it for you, remember? It still smells like him." Her tone sharpened. "Don’t be cruel.”

You weren’t trying to be.

Still, as you turned to leave the room, you caught the faintest flicker of a thought—Nostalgia’s quiet, treacherous whisper as she lingered in the doorway. “He’s not him.”

It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.

It definitely wasn’t fair for Spencer either when he saw you that day, walking down your street with your hands tucked into your pockets and another’s arm casually draped around your waist. It felt cruel, really. He hadn’t meant to be there. He’d only come to drop off your key. But fate, it seemed, had other plans—a twist and shove of the knife already buried hilt-deep in his chest.

The guy next to you looked stupid, so fucking stupid. There was no other way to put it. Spencer hated everything about him—his stupid fucking face, his stupid fucking hair, and his stupid fucking suit that probably smelled like the overpriced cologne Morgan used to wear.

Spencer decided to call him Stupid Fucking Bob. It felt appropriate. Cathartic, even.

Stupid Fucking Bob was tall. Taller than most. Not taller than Spencer, though, which gave him the tiniest, pettiest flicker of satisfaction. But it didn’t last. Not when you threw your head back and laughed at something Stupid Fucking Bob had said, your eyes crinkling in that way Spencer knew all too well.

Stupid Fucking Bob had the audacity to be dressed like he had his life together. A crisp, ironed button-up shirt, perfectly tailored that was worlds away from Spencer’s own casual, comfortable style. His whole look screamed refined—the kind of guy who probably ironed his perfectly matching pair of socks and knew the difference between champagne and prosecco. He’s nothing like Spencer.

Maybe Stupid Fucking Bob, with his stupid suit and stupid gelled hair was exactly what you needed now. Maybe he was a lawyer. Or a doctor. Something respectable and put-together. Someone who wouldn’t cancel dinners at the last minute or drag you to niche bookstores for fun.

Your hair was braided. That hit him first. He’s never seen you wear it like that before, and it felt like a punch to the gut. And your makeup? You looked beautiful. Well, you were always beautiful, but today you looked different in a way that made his heart ache. The heels on your feet—When had you started wearing heels? Or maybe you always did. He wouldn’t know, he’d never been with you anywhere formal enough to warrant anything beyond casual slides or sneakers. It all hit him harder than he expected.

Spencer turned away, swallowing hard against the bile rising in his throat. He needed to leave. The ache burned, spreading through his chest like wildfire, scorching every inch of him. He couldn’t do this. Not here. Not now.

But fate seemed to smirk and snapped her fingers.

“Spencer?”

Fuck.

He took a deep breath, forcing it past the lump in his throat, and tried to steady his breathing. His hands carried a slight tremor, and he shoved them into his pockets, curling them into fists. He managed to muster a smile—strained, but passable.

“Hey!” he said, wincing as his voice came out a little too loud, a little too eager.

“Wow,” you replied, your tone warm but surprised, “I haven’t seen you in—”

“Yeah,” Spencer interrupted quickly, his words tumbling over yours. “We, um, we had a big case.” He let out a short laugh, the kind he’d learned to recognise when suspects were trying to fill the silence with empty words.

You shifted your weight, hesitating for just a second before gesturing to the man standing beside you. “Oh, um, sorry—this is my, uh, friend, he’s…” Stupid Fucking Bob leaned forward, offering a polite, firm handshake.

But before he could reach Spencer, you stepped in, leaning over to stop him. “Oh, Spencer doesn’t…” you said softly. The way your hand gently rested on his arm wasn’t lost on Spencer. Whatever stupid fucking name he gave, Spencer couldn’t hear it over the static in his head.

Spencer couldn’t decide which was worse—the way you stepped in so instinctively, a painful reminder of how well you still knew him, or the way you were touching Stupid Fucking Bob, like you were starting to know him too. You’d called him a friend. He can’t be anything more than that, right? But the hesitation before you said the word told Spencer otherwise.

“Nice to meet you,” Spencer muttered through gritted teeth, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. It was the polite thing to do, even though his palms were clammy, and Spencer couldn’t bring himself to meet his eyes for more than a second.

You were looking at him, your expression unreadable. Spencer hated that. And Stupid Fucking Bob just stood there, calm and composed in a way that made Spencer want to throw something.

Spencer hated Bob. Fuck, he hated Bob. Spencer hated the way his hand rested casually on your lower back, a touch that was so possessive, like it belonged there. But more than Bob, Spencer hated the way you didn’t pull away.

“So, uh,” you said, clearing your throat, “just in the neighbourhood?”

Spencer nodded stiffly, his hands still buried in his pockets, fingers curling tight around nothing. “Yeah, I uh, had some errands to run,” he said, trying and failing to sound casual.

You nodded back, your smile polite but tight, “Yeah, same here—”

“We were just grabbing lunch,” Stupid Fucking Bob cut in, his voice too cheerful, too comfortable. Oh my god, shut the fuck up, Bob. Spencer's jaw tightened, his molars grinding together.

We.

The word reverberated through his skull. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. “Right, right,” he said, nodding a little too much, as if that would make the whole thing easier to digest. It didn’t.

“I um, don’t want to keep you from your lunch,” Spencer finally said, his voice tight, his words clipped. He glanced at you, but only for a moment. “I should... I should get going. Errands and… other things.” He motioned vaguely over his shoulder, like there was somewhere he desperately needed to be. There wasn’t.

You hesitated, and for a brief moment, it looked like you might say something. But then Stupid Fucking Bob shifted beside you, his hand brushing against your back once more, and the words died on your lips.

Watching Spencer walk away felt like betrayal at its sharpest, love at its most humiliating.

It wasn’t fair that you had put yourself through the quiet torment of watching, staying, hoping—only for it all to come to nothing. It wasn’t fair that you allowed yourself to feel, to be seen in all your vulnerability, just to have Spencer walk away as if none of it had ever mattered.

I’ll stay, if he stays. It was your unspoken promise to yourself and your silent plea to him.

But he hadn’t stayed.

So it wasn’t fair that you were still here, while he got to walk away. It wasn’t fair, but you let him go regardless.

Because Spencer’s absence had given your life a strange kind of regularity, one you tried to see the best in. You leaned into it, telling yourself it was what you needed. It was a new kind of normalcy. You should’ve liked it, and you did like it.

At least you told yourself you did.

Three days later, it was a work party that finally unravelled you. Maybe it was the way your coworkers shared plans for the holidays, futures they seemed so certain of, the kind of dreaming you’d stopped allowing to indulge in. Or maybe it was the wine—too much of it, too quickly. Probably the wine. Excusing yourself to the bathroom, you locked the door behind you and leaned against the sink, staring at the girl looking back at you in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair slightly tousled, her smile looked convincing enough. She looked alive, happy even—But you didn’t quite feel like her.

Your fingers found your phone, scrolling aimlessly until they stopped, hovering over a name. It was instinctive, thoughtless. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you pressed call. “Could you come get me?” A pause, then softer, almost pleading. “Please?”

The party had dwindled to a quiet murmur by the time you stood waiting by the street. You nudged your coworkers along, promising them you’d be alright.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay?” one of them asked, concern flashing across her face.

“I’m fine,” you assured her, waving her off. “I’m waiting for someone.”

You had someone now. Someone dependable. That felt good, right? It was what you deserved. Dependable was good. Dependable was safe. But when you glanced up, sobriety crashed through your buzzed haze in an instant. It wasn’t dependability that greeted you.

“Spencer?” His name escapes your lips in a whisper, disbelief catching in your throat. “What are you—”

“You called me.”

Your stomach twists. “I… I did?”

“You did,” he nodded, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out his phone. The screen lit up with your call log, stark and undeniable. Your eyes flicked back to him—his hair slightly dishevelled, his coat hanging open. He looked like he’d rushed out the door. Your chest tightens, the ache returning in full force.

All you can think is, Oh God. I called the wrong him.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out. Your heart hammers away in your chest as your gaze darts toward the street, desperate for a cab. “I didn’t mean to call—You can go. You should go.”

Spencer’s brow furrows, something unreadable crossing his face. “I’m already here,” he says, “Let me walk you home.” “I—” Your voice is soft, tentative. You hesitate. The choice should be simple. He’s already here. He’s offering to walk you home. There’s nothing inherently wrong with it. And yet, this feels wrong. You despise the fact that it does. You shouldn’t say it. You know you shouldn’t. But the silence between you is unbearable, and his presence feels impossibly close. “Okay,” you murmur, the word slipping out before you can stop it. Suddenly it feels more than wrong. It feels like surrender.

The night feels colder than it should as the two of you start walking. The silence stretches, long and awkward, until finally, he speaks.

“I’m glad you called me.”

Your stomach twists. “I didn’t mean to.”

His footsteps falter for just a moment, and when you glance at him, his gaze is sharp, questioning. “Me?”

“What?” you stammer, the word barely forming on your lips.

“You didn’t mean to call me?” His eyes lock onto yours, searching for something. They demand an answer you’re not ready to give. The question hangs in the air between you but the weight of his gaze has you pinned in place.

“I—yes, I didn’t—” You stumble over your words, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Spencer watches you carefully, his eyes never leaving you, “You didn’t mean to, but you called me.”

Your breath shakes as you let out a long exhale. Finally, you whisper, “Yes. I did.”

“That guy,” He leans in just a little, his expression hardening. “Was he who you meant to call?”

You swallow and nod slowly, the answer burning in your throat. The reluctant admission feels raw as something flashes across Spencer’s face—Annoyance? Jealousy? You can’t hold his gaze long enough to tell. “What is he? Your boyfriend?” he mutters when you come to stop at a traffic light. His words strike a match, igniting a quiet anger within you.

“That’s none of your business,” you shoot back, your voice more defensive than you intended. It wasn’t so much that you needed to defend him—it was more about defending this new part of your life, the one where Spencer wasn’t there, the one where his absence hadn’t completely consumed you. A shred of proof that shows you can stand without Spencer.

That you are whole without him.

The silence that continues to stretch between you is heavy and suffocating. You silently curse the city for its sudden and inconvenient lack of cabs. Typical. The universe has always had twisted sense of humour.

“You know you don’t actually like him.” Spencer says under his breath.

“Oh, what the hell do you know?” You burst out. Without thinking, you step forward into the street. The light hasn’t turned green, but the road is clear, and Spencer’s presence is clawing at your throat. You need to do something, anything to get away from it.

Spencer’s hand shoots out, his fingers curling firmly around your wrist. You whip around to face him, anger simmering beneath you. His expression is calm, infuriatingly so, though there’s a flicker of disapproval in his eyes. “I know you,” he says, like he’s daring you to deny it.

“No,” you snap, shrugging his hand off your arm with a sharp jerk. The movement feels more like self-defense than defiance. You press the traffic light button repeatedly, a little too hard each time, even though it’s already lit. It’s a pointless gesture, but it gives your restless hands something to focus on. “You don’t know anything.”

“I do.” His voice was maddeningly steady, calm in a way that made something inside you snap. “I know your hair was braided that day because you probably hadn’t washed it the day before. You hate washing your hair.”

“Just—” You shake your head, voice breaking. “Stop talking.”

“I know those heels definitely hurt your feet,” he continues, relentless, “but you wore them anyway. Probably because you think he likes them.”

“Spencer, stop.” You’re trying to hold it together, to keep the tears at bay, but they come anyway.

“I know—”

“God, Spencer, stop it!” The words explode out of you. “You don’t know shit,” you snap, wiping furiously at your cheeks, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Just—Just fuck off!”

Spencer visibly flinches, but only slightly. The traffic light changes to green, but neither of you move to cross. “You—” Your chest heaves as you pull in a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. You close your eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly, “You should go.”

“Is that really what you want?”

His question feels like mockery. What does it matter what you want? It clearly never mattered before, and it certainly won’t matter now.

You’d always been a bit of a hopeless romantic. You liked to believe that love, no matter how complicated or painful, was worth it. Maybe that was the only way you could make sense of the pain no one asked you to endure, a way to quantify the heartbreak Spencer never asked you to feel. You told yourself it had to serve some greater purpose, even when that purpose had yet to reap any kind of reward.

You tried to convince yourself that staying was a decision made from a place of independence, that your willingness to endure was an admirable strength born from the innate human need to love, and of wanting to be loved in return. But you knew it ran deeper than just that. You knew that you didn’t deserve this pain, but you also knew you’d never be the one to let go first. Your mother used to tell you that relationships only work if one person loves harder, and you’d realised early on that that person would always be you.

You knew you were tied to a fate of loving hard first, crying harder later.

And in that, it would never be fair.

“Why are you doing this?” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the pounding in your chest.

Spencer pauses. When he speaks again, his voice is softer—but no less cutting. “You’re lying to yourself,” he says quietly. “And to him.”

A bitter laugh escapes your lips, and you turn sharply, starting to walk. “Oh, I get it,” you said, a scoff lacing your tone. “You’re trying to play matchmaker now? Is that what this is about?” You fold your arms across your chest, tugging at your jacket, a feeble attempt to hide yourself from the hurt he so effortlessly unearthed.

“This isn’t about him.” he says firmly. “This is about you—about us.”

“There is no us,” you spit as you turn to face him momentarily. “Remember?”

“You’re acting out.”

“Wow, real mature Spence,” you snap, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “They teach you that in FBI school? You think just because I’m finally happy—finally not waiting around for you—that means I’m acting like a petty, jealous child?”

“No, I think you’re acting out because you’re hurt.”

“Oh, yeah? Gee, I wonder why.”

“Because I didn’t say it back.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The world stops. The air seems to freeze around you. For a moment, you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move. A car speeds by, its horn blaring. Spencer reacts immediately, stepping to position himself between you and the flow of any other oncoming traffic like a barrier.

“What are you—Don’t just stop—” His hand grips your arm firmly, tugging you toward the sidewalk. But your feet refuse to move, rooted in place, and you barely register his words. “Would you—would you get off the street?” he says urgently. You can’t do anything but stare at him.

“You heard me?”

His expression softens. “I did. That night.” Spencer’s voice is quieter now, almost a whisper. “I heard you.”

You open your mouth, but no sound comes out. The glow of the traffic light pulses in the corner of your vision, steadily blinking. Sadness swells in your chest, but it’s overtaken by something sharper, hotter, darker.

Rage. Inexplicable, undeniable rage.

“You heard me.” You whisper, more so to yourself than to him. “You heard me, and you still—” The tears choke out the rest of the sentence. “Don’t,” you snap, stepping back when he tugs at you again. “Don’t touch me. Don’t—Just go. Please just go.” You turn away from him, your legs carrying you as far as they can, as fast as they can. You don’t even know where you’re headed anymore, only that you need to keep moving. But you hear Spencer behind you, his steps matching your pace.

“I’m not leaving you here.” Another faint brush of his fingers grazes yours sends you spinning back around, wrenching your hand away as if his touch burns.

“But you did!” you scream, your voice raw. Your grief echoes in the stillness of the street. The two of you are locked in some heartbreaking tableau. It feels almost cinematic—the age-old story of a girl who loved and a boy who didn’t. “You already left, Spencer! You heard me, and you still left!”

Spencer’s face crumples, and for a moment, he looks as lost as you feel. “I didn’t know what to do,” his words tumble out, his voice breaking. “I—”

“You could’ve stayed! You could’ve said it back! You—” You shake your head, swallowing the grief that rises in your throat, the words too painful to say out loud.

“I do,” he says suddenly, stepping in front of you. “I love you. I do. I love you. So much.” he repeats, his hand twitches at his side like he wants to reach for you but knows better. “I love you too.”

That last word—too—cuts through you. It lands with a cruel finality. It should soothe the ache inside you, but it doesn’t. It’s not the solace it should be. It’s only a bitter reminder that he heard you that night. That he left anyway.

“Then why?” The question comes out in a broken whisper, and you hate yourself for how vulnerable it sounds. “Why didn’t you say anything? You didn’t even try—” you whisper through your tears. “You just… left.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you—I was scared that I would,” he says, the words tumbling out in a rush as he reaches for your hands in an effort to ground himself. “I didn’t want to screw things up even more. I thought if I left—you’d be better off.”

“Oh, fuck off, Spencer. Look at us. Look at me. Is this what you call better off?” You stand there, unmoving, tears streaking down your face, each one a testament to your heartbreak. The sight of you, raw and broken, makes something deep inside him fracture.

“You hurt me anyway.” Your voice shakes with unspent grief and fury.

“I know, I know I did, baby—”

"Don’t call me that!" you snap, your heart clenching at the word. You try to pull your hands out of his grip, away from his touch, but he holds on.

“Baby—shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,” Spencer says, his voice cracking. He shuts his eyes for a moment, furrowing his brows, as if trying to collect himself. “I know I fucked up. I know. I’m just—” He exhales shakily. “I’m trying to fix this. Look at me. Please. Just... please.”

You can’t look at him. You focus on the floor, on anything to avoid his eyes, because if you see that pleading expression, you just might break—You’ll shatter all over again.

“That guy?” Spencer’s voice pulls you back, quiet and desperate. “He doesn’t know anything about you. I knew it the minute I saw him. He said you were going to lunch? You hate everything on your street within a five-mile radius. That’s why we always ordered Chinese. Right?”

Every word he out of his mouth feels like a plea and what’s worse is that you know he’s right.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, his voice breaking. “I was stupid. I didn’t think. I thought leaving was the right thing—that I was protecting you from me. But I see now—I know now. It wasn’t. It was the worst thing I could’ve done. To you. To us. I was wrong.” His voice drops, barely audible. “And I just want a chance to make it right. Please I—”

You hear the break in his voice, and before you can stop yourself, your gaze lifts to meet his, only to see tears pooling in his eyes. The ache in your chest deepens, and this time, you can’t look away.

“Look,” Spencer says, voice cracking, “he’s probably a great guy. Nice, smart—smarter than I ever was if he wants you too. But he doesn’t—” He pauses, swallowing hard, “He can’t love you the way I do. I know people always say I’m smart, that I know a lot. And it’s true—I do. But this? You? Loving you? It’s a fact, the clearest one I’ve ever had. And yeah, I know it took me too damn long to get here. But it’s true. It’s always been true.”

The chasm in your heart splits open, and you didn’t know you were still capable of breaking like this. Of course, Spencer Reid would be good at heartbreaking speeches too. You start to turn away, furiously blinking back the new wave of tears threatening to spill over.

“Look at me,” he pleads, his voice soft but laced with urgency. “Please. I hate that you won’t look at me, I just—”

You try—God knows you try—but the tears in your eyes blur everything. Still, the desperation in his tone is unmistakable.

You shake your head, your voice low, “Spence—”

“I want to do this right,” he continues, his words tumbling out with sincerity so raw it sends another wave of hurt right through you. “Just give me a chance to make it right. One chance. That’s all I’m asking for.”

“I don’t—”

“I mean it,” he says quickly. His voice is low, but there’s a desperate edge to it. “No more mistakes. No more labels—forget the friends thing. I’d rather die than just be friends with you. We’ll go out. We’ll take our time. I’ll show you. I’ll really show you. I’ll make it right this time.”

You feel like you’ve spent a lifetime waiting for this moment, for him to say the words you needed most. Months of hope, weeks of ache. You’ve stayed. You’ve waited. You’ve stayed in the waiting. More pathetic than poetic if you’re being honest. But now, with him standing here with his heart in his hands, it doesn’t feel simple.

Because for the first time, you have a choice. To go back or turn away.

To leave or to stay.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer x reader #spencer x self insert #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader angst

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writingbluerose · 3 months ago

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That Butler, MAGIC TWISTED

✦ warnings : blood, power imbalance and everything that needs to be a warning in Black Butler low-key ; Yuu is a girl and this is from the second person perspective. I will be trying my best to write Sebastian as close to the canon as possible, this will also have a lot of suggestiveness, it's a demon and his master what did you expect? ( you're right, I can't hold myself and I had to do it ) ALSO YUU IS 18-19 YEARS OLD! please remember this ;

✦ taglist ( if you want to be tagged send your request in the askbox and I'll add you ) : @lulu--lala19 @kiki-kuku @nyuu7 @bleh09 @moonwatcher2005 @toxicm0cha @boredwithlifeatthispoint @mewchiili @1nserturlhere @analiee6 @hheerrmmiitt @acersandterminal @citrine-everhart @paleocarcharias @s7-evermore

✦ This is a series of short stories following the adventures of Yuu and her butler Sebastian who were mysteriously transported into the world of Twisted Wonderland ;

✦ From the modern world of London, Yuu is a very well known figure amongst her city, mostly for the black-clad handsome butler she has by her side at all times. One day when coming back from a meeting, both were taken by surprise by a sudden carriage that was suspiciously way too close to dodge, and so, they awoke in the world of Twisted Wonderland at the school for mages called Night Raven Collage. What problems will this new adventure cause for the two? And how will they go back home? Will someone ever find out that Sebastian isn't who he says he is?

Stay tuned for their adventures ...

✦ DISCLAIMER : SOME STORIES MAY NOT BE RELEASED IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER! they won't be organized in the master list either, and some may be released like that too, so keep an eye out! Also NO IDEA how long is this going to be lol, probably until I get bored or no longer have ideas for it :p

✦ CHAPTERS [ more coming soon... ]

IN THE MORNING :

IN THE AFTERNOON :

AT NIGHT : unknown arrival

AT MIDNIGHT :

#✦ ~ 𝐚𝐳𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 !#THAT BUTLER : Magic Twisted #twst #twisted wonderland #black butler #kuroshitsuji #twst x black butler #black butler x twst

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cno-inbminor · 2 months ago

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evermore

a/n: don't know what hit. not sure when or how this will continue. skimmed through, not thoroughly edited. plot: your daughter, emerus, is getting married -- which means that you're having to see sylus more and more, despite having been separated for the last decade of so. to be honest, you're not sure if you're ready for that. (middle-aged parents reader x sylus that are legally still married but have been separated for years) TW: mentions of divorce, growing old, reader and sylus are both going through it, vague descriptions of the past, slight cliffhanger wc: 4.1k

Sylus knows this is a dream. Anyone who knew the man would know that he would never be found in a state of denial of anything, even after all the years that have passed. But when it comes to you, all logic is thrown out the window.

“A-che, let’s go!” your voice calls out, and he turns towards the sound with a foggy mind. He observes in morose silence at the endless field of tarus flowers before seeing your figure at the top of the hill, your hand beckoning him over.

He can indulge himself one more time, right?

Each step is like trudging through muddy waters, as if his strength and stamina had left him long ago. Sylus can see your growing impatience, but he starts getting nervous – you don’t seem to be any closer than you were minutes ago. He’s been walking for a while now, so why does it seem like he hasn’t made any type of progress?

Sylus is nothing but persistent – after all, he would go to the ends of the Earth for you. He needs to walk for eternity with you as the end goal? Absolutely no shadow of a doubt that he would do so. But he is tired. “Hold on,” he tries to call out to you. There is no sign that you heard him, and he can see the liveliness from earlier start to fade away. “Please wait,” he says as he tries to pick up his speed, finally able to break out into a full run. You’re finally getting closer, and excitement pricks at his skin.

When you look away from him, the excitement dissolves into panic. He knows that gesture, that posture all too well. More familiar than he’d like to admit, but it will never cease to haunt him after all these years. Don’t walk away from me, his mind races, matching the gait of his sprint. Not again, please–

“I’m tired of waiting,” you confess after a heavy, burdensome sigh. “I’m tired of waiting for you to come to me.”

“Sweetheart, I–” His chest seizes. He can’t remember the last time he felt so out of breath, like his lungs were going to stop working at any second.

“You only kept me close when you wanted. I thought–” You pause to sniffle, and Sylus’s heart shatters at the trail of tears down your cheeks. “I thought I could wait forever, but I can’t.” Your voice grows softer, your airway closing up more and more. “I love you, Sylus.”

Fuck, why can’t he run any faster than this? This wasn’t a dream. This was his worst nightmare on repeat for the nth time. And it always ends the same exact way – the same look, the same hair, the same scene, the same pandemonium, and the same cadence in your last words.

“But I have to go.”

And even though your parting sentence is the quietest you’ve been, it’s the loudest he’s ever heard you.

As he blinks away the sweat and grime, the sunset bleeds into darkness, hard edges etching between shadows of, what he realizes now, the furniture in his bedroom. No trace of light exists aside from the sliver that peeks through the blackout curtains to his right. It takes another blink to recognize the line of shelves along his wall, filled with vinyls and tomes and photo albums. The occasional picture frames that have collected dust serve as decoration and less painful reminders of the life he once had. But his favorites sit on the nightstand closest to him — one of you, another of you and him, and another with your daughter when she was a toddler in his arms.

Sylus slips out of bed with care, leaning behind to stretch out his back. He’s starting to feel the weakness in his knees, a sure sign of time and age. In the bathroom, his reflection stares back at him – always known for his sharp jawline, angular features, bright, crimson eyes, yet they appear softened before him.

It’s expected, really. The beauty of youth would never last forever, even for someone like Sylus. Crow’s feet are more prominent, wrinkle lines beginning to show, his hair having lost a part of its shine sometime ago, and the skin around his neck is starting to loosen. A silver fox, many would call him. Over the years, a number of people – young, older, and similar aged – have approached him with attraction seeping through each gesture. But then they glance down at his left hand, and the mix of platinum and obsidian that sits on his ring finger is everything they need to know. At that time, most of them politely back out, but a fair share find it as a challenge. After all, why would a married man sit alone at the bar like the weight of the world sat on his shoulders?

Sylus rejects their advances with aloofness and curt words, and they happen so often that his usual bartenders have to fight their hardest to hide their snickering. Never once have they suggested to him to take the ring off – well, except for one who had no knowledge of Sylus at all, and nobody had warned him before his first shift. Needless to say, that bartender made sure to never ask again and keep to themselves because they’d do anything to not be on the other end of their boss’s withering glare. Occasionally Sylus will step behind the bar, which ends up being a treat for everyone with bigger tips. In fact, someone had once recorded him make some drinks with little spurts of working flair, and it got popular enough that his own daughter sent it to him, signed by, “omg dad, someone recorded you!! you’re viral now LOL 😂😂” and “i suggest you not look at the comments, just fyi, but a lot of people were disappointed by your ring hahahaha”. When he had decided 30 minutes afterwards to finally reply, she slid in a “and yes, i sent it to mom” with a screenshot of their text conversation.

Your way of trying to redirect the conversation brings up a corner of his lips for half a second. He remembers the indescribable pain in his chest when you came back together for the first time for her birthday (the guilt trip one that started a tradition), and he had noticed the ring was no longer perched on your left hand. His own had glistened under the bright lights, the contrast of its metal to the color of his skin making it stand out even more. Maybe you had seen it before he slipped it off in secret and tucked it into his pocket. Maybe you had noticed the way he instinctively kept his left hand in a pant pocket so he could fidget with the band, knowing that it would never be lost. Since then, he’s only ever taken it off when he knows you’ll be around. You had moved on, and that was something he had to live with.

(Maybe if he hadn’t tried to spend so much effort making sure he wasn’t caught staring at you, he would’ve noticed the way you seemed to always have a hand by your neck, fingers messing with the necklace chain hanging around it for the very same reasons.)

His own text conversation/thread with you sees very little activity. His daughter, who again, is getting married (where oh where did the time go?), had set up a group chat with the three of them under the guise of needing them to coordinate on things when needed. Sylus initially offered to take care of the entire cost of the wedding, one that you rejected with a curt text before delineating what you were planning to pay for, including percentages of items like the cake, the deposit for the venue, the cost of having an open bar, her wedding dress, and more. And perhaps his asking again if that really was okay came off just the littlest bit (like, really, infinitesimal) condescending, because you had not responded well: “If I said I can take care of it, then I can take care of it, Sylus. I’ve been setting money aside specifically for this event.”

“Very well”, he had responded, as well as ignored the banner appearing with a message coming separately from his daughter with five eye-rolling emojis. Sylus has always wondered where her sass came from, and he likes to think it’s a good blend of him and you.

His smart watch vibrates on his wrist, causing him to blink his way out of his reverie. It displays an alert to remind him that his daughter’s final dress appointment is in the next couple of hours, and he sighs. He never went on the previous shopping trips, leaving it to you and her. When she had been born, you had mentioned on several occasions to him that you would both rue and cherish the days you’re rifling through racks of silk and organza for her. He hadn’t wanted to ruin those moments, but after five seconds of begging from his daughter to at least come to the final fitting, he relented. She had made sure that you were already aware he was coming, and that there was nothing you could do about it. After one more look in the mirror, he dips his head down, turns on the sink, and starts his morning routine.

Sylus pulls into the parking lot of the boutique about five minutes before the scheduled time. Stepping out, he scans the area to see if anybody else had shown up early and notices your car parked a few spots down. His daughter’s car was nowhere to be seen yet. A nervous tic shot through him. Alone? With you? Without their daughter as a buffer?

He lets out a slow exhale, almost psyching himself up. “It’ll be fine,” he murmurs to no one as he slams the car door closed. “I’ve been through business deals hairier than this,” he continues to reassure himself, and that everything would be fine. So fine. He sees you at least twice a year, what’s the big deal now?

One last breath, and he swings the door open.

“Ah, and you must be the father! I could tell the resemblance right away,” the attendant greets in a cheery voice with an outreached hand. Sylus gives a small smile in agreement and shakes their hand.

“Her mother is here already, I’m presuming.”

“Yes, she arrived just a few seconds before you,” they say as they lead him into the main atelier. He immediately spots you sitting on a couch, your perfume still lingering in the air where you had walked before him. “Your daughter was so excited to have you today. It’s a shame you never came before!”

“I had some meetings,” he lies in a practiced fashion. “And I’m sure there’s nothing I could really contribute.”

“Oh nonsense,” they say, “Emerus mentioned you were quite the stylist yourself.”

“Nothing compared to her and her mother, I assure you,” he quips.

Your eyes finally meet his own, and part of him wants to die.

You’re just…just so beautiful. Age has only made you more elegant, regal, untouchable, every bit the paragon of a goddess in his eyes.

“I’ll go back to the front and wait for her there! Make yourself comfortable, help yourself to some champagne or water over there,” they chime, waving a hand over at the drink station before disappearing back around the corner.

Breathe, he reminds himself like a teenage boy confronting his crush for the first time. “How have you been?” he asks in a soft voice.

Did he sound nervous? Could you tell?

“Good, and you?” you respond with a small smile of his own.

“The usual,” he shrugs as he sits on the couch a comfortable distance away from you. Under normal circumstances (normal circumstances as in when you were all still living happily under one roof many many years ago), he would have pressed himself right up against you, slung an arm around your shoulder, and given you a peck on your temple with a squeeze – all of which he hasn’t done for over a decade now, so this isn’t new.

The twitch in his fingers to do just that isn’t new either. Even now, after all this time.

Silence wedges its way between you two as he searches for anything to say. He doesn’t get to hear your voice enough, so it sends him for a loop every time he does hear it.

“Is she happy with it?” he decides on asking, staring at the dress sitting on one of the busts by the wall of mirrors.

“Very,” you respond, warmth flooding your voice. “She couldn’t wait for today.”

“Then that’s all that matters.”

“Ma, ba!”

Both of your heads swivel towards the sound of your daughter’s voice. He waves as she drags her maid-of-honor along, and he bends down for a hug when she gives him a hug after one to you. “Thanks for coming, Dad,” she says in his ear, her voice also warm and soft like yours, her mother’s.

“Of course,” he replies, pulling back and taking a good look at her. “Aiya, wǒ de nǚ'ér zhēn de yāo jié hūn le. Zhǎng dà le.” [Aiya, my daughter is really getting married. All grown up.]

“I’ve been grown,” she sasses back in a playful manner, no real annoyance evident in her voice at all. “I’m excited for you to see the dress!”

“Well he can’t see it if you stay out here. Come on, let’s get you dressed.”

Whether it be luck or a curse, he’s left to his own devices as the two most important women in his life plus one of their best friends and the attendant from earlier disappear behind the changing partition. They speak in hushed voices and giggles until Emerus calls out, “Alright Dad, I’m coming out!”

He sits at attention and waits patiently for her to step on the raised platform and smooth out any wrinkles she sees, aided by you and your maid-of-honor. When they deem it perfect, she flashes him a bright smile (she truly is your daughter, he muses). “Well, what do you think?”

Sylus is already nodding before he can say anything, but any words that would’ve left his mouth are stuck in his throat because the sight before him is familiar. The design of the dress isn’t the exact same, but it’s enough to send him flying back down memory lane to the day when he stood at an altar and impatiently waited for you to finally be close enough and call you his wife. Those words begin to actively choke him, and his eyes shimmer just the slightest at the sight before him and the ghost of his past, all colliding into one.

“Beautiful,” he manages to say before looking over at you. “Gorgeous,” Sylus adds on with his gaze still stuck on you, as if to ask, “Are you seeing this as well? Do you remember too?”

Sylus pays no mind to her friend and attendant now talking through the details and last minute fixes, especially since you’re walking back to his side now. His eyes follow you, and it’s quite pathetic how touched he is when you place a hand on his arm. “She was insistent on finding one like mine,” you inform him. “Mine is a bit too old-fashioned, and we luckily found one that was very similar in essence.”

He can only hum in understanding, still so incredibly fixed on you and your hand. It burns him, through cotton and all, and he takes in the wrinkles around your knuckles.Your nails remain unblemished, which means you’re in good health at least. In his examination, he spots a few strands of white amidst your locks. Had you two still been together, he would have you sitting on the bed in front of him, holding a pair of eyebrow tweezers and digging through to pluck those out at your behest. It would’ve become a nightly routine, something to laugh at and look fondly on when there are too many gray and white hairs to bother with. He always thought he would grow old with you.

Two pats on his arm bring him back to his cruel reality, and when you finally look up at him, it’s like you know what he was envisioning, wishing for, longing for. “I’m going to help them out,” you tell him before walking away, and his finger twitches again. Your steps that widen the already gaping distance between you two continue to carry you away from him, but they are different from the steps he had seen behind his eyelids just this past night. You weren’t leaving leaving him in this case, and that’s more than he could ever ask for.

(“I’ll wait for you, I promise. I don’t want anyone else.”

“You don’t need to, Sylus. I’d understand if you did find someone else.

“I mean it,” he emphasizes again. His hand cradles your cheek, his thumb smoothing over the apple of your cheek. In a hushed, broken whisper, “I can wait for an eternity, and I will if I have to. There is no love purer than mine.”)

When your daughter had announced to Sylus that she was done fidgeting with the dress, you had immediately trained your gaze onto him, gauging his reaction. Since her teenage years, Emerus had always expressed how much she loved your wedding dress, and that she wanted to find one just like it whenever she gets married. Even then, you had already told her that her taste in fashion may change over time, so it would be completely understandable if she wanted something completely different. But here you are, ten-or-so years later, seeing it with your own eyes. And you wondered if he would be just as affected as you were the first time she tried it on.

(That night, you had gone home and rewatched the video that was made of the wedding for the first time since the separation. Needless to say, your eyes were extremely puffy the next morning.)

Based on his stunned expression, you knew he was thinking about your wedding, but which part specifically? Was he thinking about your first dance? Your first kiss in front of a crowd when you two were officially announced as husband and wife? How you looked walking down the aisle?

When he glanced at you, your breath hitched. The unguarded, desperate, longing look was more apparent than you had ever seen, and you most definitely noticed how the crimson in his eyes seemed to shine too brightly before he blinked. It was difficult to fight off your own tears as the world around you fell away. All that mattered was him and the frayed, red string of fate between you two.

“Gorgeous,” he had said, and his voice alone commanded you to walk toward him. Nothing could stop you from approaching him with a comforting hand on his arm. The warmth of his skin sears you through his sleeve, and you allow yourself to be selfish by leaving your hand there. “She was insistent on finding one like mine,” you told him, voice on the verge of shaking like a leaf. “Mine is a bit too old-fashioned, and we luckily found one that was very similar in essence.”

His gaze was glued on your hand long enough for you to awkwardly pat his arm twice before pulling it back. Maybe he was uncomfortable. Were you being too familiar? Did he think you were sending mixed messages? Were you sending mixed messages?

Do you dare to allow yourself to believe that Sylus misses you as much as his eyes seem to say?

No.

“I’m going to help them out,” you say before returning to your daughter’s side. Emerus gives you no time to think before asking for your opinion on a last minute stitch in the back. On the inside, you mentally slap yourself twice, once on each cheek. This isn’t about you. It’s about your daughter and her wedding, even if she is swathed in a near-replica of your dress. “Any tighter and you’ll be left with no room to breathe,” you warn. “It’ll be a long night, and you’ll need what little time you have to eat to get through the whole thing. The dress won’t be falling off, so I think you’ll be okay without it.”

Just because you've known for a while now what the cost of the dress would be, doesn't mean you can't wince a little when you tap your card on the credit card terminal. And yes, you've been prepared for this for quite some time, but it doesn't stop you from lamenting over how expensive weddings can be. Yet when you turn and see the blissful smile on your daughter's face, it makes it all worth it.

You can't help but be drawn to the man standing next to her. Sylus stands by with all the fatherly fondness the universe has to offer and more. Rays of sunshine come through the window, partially obscured by the wedding dresses out on display, and they highlight the faint wrinkles around his eyes. For years, you thought it would be impossible for him to age even the slightest, having been blessed with phenomenal skin and the drive to keep up a regimen consisting of adequate exercise, a healthy diet, and a skincare routine. Even in the early days of Emerus’s infancy when she would wake in the night, he only looked a little tired on the worst days while you looked like you got tossed around in a tornado before being spat out onto the ground.

An old daydream creeps in, a flashing sight of entwined hands, wrinkled and sunken in with age, but no less full of love and adoration. They take slow but steady steps along the trail in a plain filled with flowers and blooms. It was the peaceful ending to a life that you once thought was finally in your hands. But you ruined it all, and there was no one to blame but yourself.

Along the way somewhere, you felt that Sylus had stopped wearing his heart on his sleeve for you to see. It was apparent – radiant almost – for everyone else, especially your daughter. And after she turned ten, you noticed that Sylus was quieter around you, a little less expressive.

By no means was he a neglectful husband – in fact, he was almost perfect. He knew your favorite flowers, your favorite foods for each emotion you could possibly think of, never missed an anniversary or events when a plus-one was expected. But those anniversary dinners became quiet affairs, soundscapes of silence filled by metal against ceramic. Passionate nights dissolved into faux serenity. Tucking you under his arm began to feel mechanical, as if he was too kind to ever tell you that, in actuality, he wanted some distance and space in bed at night.

He did not return until the night you brought up the separation, but it was too late at that point. You were stuck too deep in the black hole of your envy and greed, your selfishness and immaturity (which therapy would tell you a couple of years later that you were not, in fact, selfish or immature), to feel worthy of Sylus’s endless apologies that you didn't think he needed to give. No matter how much he tried to reassure you that he would fix everything, to shoulder the burden of picking up the pieces of your shattered soul, you couldn't find it in yourself to accept it. How could you?

Sylus turns to look at you. Out of habit, you steel yourself for what is to come – the guarded look in his eyes, the slight tensing of his shoulder, his smile thinner and more muted.

But seconds go by without him doing any of the sort. The affection he regards you with sends you back to the early days of your relationship, the never-ending honeymoon era that held up against the removal of your rose-tinted glasses. They almost seem to beg you in earnest – for you to understand, to accept that after all these years…

He still loves you like no other.

#sylus x reader #love and deepspace #sylus #lads sylus #sylus qin #sylus x you #qin che #lnds sylus #sylus angst #l&ds sylus #love and deepspace sylus

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idksmtms · 5 months ago

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'tis the damn season (Modern!Aegon Targaryen x reader) - evermore series

A/N: Hiiiiii! I am finally back after way too long omg! While I am still stumbling my way through getting back into my writing, please enjoy this next instalment of the evermore series! I will slowly be coming back and trying to post a lot more often, but just bear with me while I navigate my writing journey. Enjoy!!!

Summary: Three years ago you left home behind to pursue university. You left Aegon. Now, you’re back and faced with not only the destroyed relationship you had once run from, but all the thoughts and feelings you have been dwelling on and refusing to face over the years you’ve been away.

Word count: ~3.9k

Trigger Warnings: 18+, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, angst, post-breakup, Aegon being heartbroken (past), breaking up, mentions of alcoholism, mentions of drug addiction, mentions of mental health issues, mentions of rehab, rehab recovery, breakups, heartbreak, just painful and difficulty reunions, owning up to your mistakes and too-late realisations, angsty but hopeful (please let me know if I missed any)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters. I do not claim to own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so.

Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)

The smell of mulled wine wafted gently across your face, carried by the warm air blasting from every heater in the manor. Cinnamon, and close, star anise and a hint of cherry, Mrs. Targaryen’s personal twist that made the recipe oh so coveted.

The door was unmanned, a rather surprising thing given how much Mrs. Targaryen loved to flaunt the servants and security guards. Perhaps you really had been gone too long.

You deposited your clutch on the little side table and divested yourself of your coat, first one arm, then the other, a quick pat of the pockets, a little fling onto the coat rack so the heavy black felt thing was situated just enough not to topple the overflowing rack over. You brushed the hem of your dress down, fingertips catching on the glistening red sequins before brushing over your black tights.

You picked up the clutch again, a matching red sequin rectangle, and turned to the ornate mirror hung on the wall above the end table, gold edged and running the length of the wall. You took up only a sliver the size of you, and clasped your hands around the clutch to press it to your stomach. You straightened up, shoulders back and spine relaxed. You stretched your lips here and there, weird grotesque smiles and pouts and bared teeth to check for the millionth time that the slash of red lipstick had not strayed. You batted your eyes at yourself before turning away and beginning a gentle walk down to the splash of light in the hall from which a daunting array of chatter, clinking glasses, and soft instrumental seasonal tunes emitted.

When Mrs. Targaryen heard (from the mouths of your parents no less) that you had finally returned after three years of university (“not even one visit during all that time?!” she had inquired to your mother - who then promptly explained that they went up North to you instead), she had impressed upon your mother that if you declined to attend her annual holiday party that she would take it as a personal affront.

So here you were, fashionably late (only due to the almost clinical level of overthinking you had engaged in from the moment you began to dress to just a second prior) and ready to show your face in what you and Helaena had affectionately dubbed ‘high society’ once more.

It’s not like you had cut off ties with everyone when you left. Almost everyone who had followed you on instagram was still there, nestled in your private profile (except the select few that were occasionally pruned on days you were bored). You still responded to messages, were still in the group chats (despite never once contributing), facetimed friends, et cetera, et cetera. Just because you didn’t return didn’t mean anything (except, of course, that it did).

You stepped into the room, slow but steady, and took a moment to gaze around the ballroom. You were unsurprised at the continuing theme of green. Dark green curtains cinched back at each bay-style window, sashes and bows of the same fabric framing the tops. Dark green, satiny, tablecloths draped carefully over the standing tables dotted all around. The Christmas tree near the back towered over everyone, glowing with yellow lights and gold, silver, and phthalo green baubles. You still remembered how Mrs. Targaryen said that coloured tree lights were tacky, one of the more posh things you had heard from her in your early teen years.

You dropped your gaze to the people. You could see some familiar faces, girls you hadn’t spoken to since the end of school, but whose instagram stories still diligently kept you up to date on their lives. Other people who had dropped off your radar completely and now brought vague and somewhat touching memories to mind of moments shared in classes, laughs and jokes once given and received.

You caught glimpses of Mrs. Targaryen’s auburn hair through breaks in the crowd, a delicate hold on a flute of glass filled with non-alcoholic cider. Since you had known her she had refused to partake in drink, something that had earned your respect once upon a time. Before…

You caught sigh of Aemond in the corner, a shiny black suit doing well to blend him into the shadows. He was gently grasping a flute glass in long elegant fingers, and his eyepatch was a perfect match to his suit, pressed perfectly to his face and over his neatly combed man bun.

His ever watchful eyes caught you quickly, a spark of recognition, a little lift of the brow, the careful deposit of his glass on the table as he began rounding it. You smiled, lifted your hand in a little wave and waited for him to find you.

His progress was interrupted, though not halted, by his sister gliding into view and smiling brightly as she gently grasped your arms for a moment before pulling them away. The most hug she could ever give you with her aversion to physical touch. You had never once minded, you had grown up with Helaena just the way she was, gentle Helaena as you often called her.

Though she couldn’t handle touch, she stood as close as possible without it and beamed at you, the most unabashed grin you had ever seen from her.

Her cheeks were rosy and her beautiful hair was gathered into a beautiful braided knot at the back of her head. She wore a dress of green and silver, emphasising the pale silveriness of her skin, no doubt a mutated form of the gown her own mother was wearing.

“I can’t believe you’re back!” She said in an excited little voice, husky and gentle. You resisted the urge to clasp her hands in yours and instead held tighter to your clutch.

“Me neither, it's been a long time,” you sighed. You could see the touch of seriousness twinge Helaena’s face, but you looked over her shoulder and beckoned Aemond closer before she could voice it.

“Hello Y/n,” his soft whispery voice had not changed since you’d been gone. “Finally returned?”

You smiled at him, pulling him into a little side hug before threading your arm through his and pulling yourself tight to him. It felt familiar, homely. You had been forcing the poor boy into cuddles since your families had been connected.

“Yes, Mr. Dragon,” a teasing but rare nickname that made his remaining eye twitch in annoyance. “Back for now.”

“I’m your elder, you should show some respect,” he gritted out, trying to shake you off his arm halfheartedly. You simply clung on and pressed a quick teasing peck to his cheek. Though it was technically true that you were younger than him (though only just about), you had been at just the right age to gain all the siblings’ friendship rather than becoming a patronised younger hanger-on.

Aemond huffed but stopped his attempts to detach himself from you. You had always been a little too loving for his tastes.

Helaena leaned her elbows on the standing table the three of you had gravitated toward and gently began fiddling with the clasp of your clutch which you had thrown down at the first opportunity. Your eyes drifted to the crowd again, as if you were looking for someone, and Helaena cleared her throat.

“Have you seen him yet?” She asked in that quiet halting way of hers. You snapped your eyes back to her, felt Aemond stiffen a little in your grip. You wanted to think of something witty and gently humorous to say but there was the hint of a lump in your throat so you just shook your head with a pathetic little smile.

“Ah,” Aemond nodded and then pursed his lips, swallowing and then gazing down at the table.

“I’m a little scared to,” you whispered, now fiddling with the other end of your clutch.

“Because you broke his heart?”

“Aemond!” Helaena exclaimed, glaring at him as you took the glass out of his hand and sipped from it.

“Because I’m scared I regret it,” you blurted out, exhaling long and slow. Helaena smiled sympathetically and reached forward to awkwardly pat your hands twice.

You could see Mrs. Targaryen over her daughter’s shoulder, making her way closer and then setting her eyes on you. She smiled that polite and reserved smile she always used, then pulled you into a gentle hug when she got to you. She issued you on the cheek then lightly grasped both your arms to look at you properly.

“How are you, my dear? It has been far too long.” You smiled and nodded, brushing a piece of your hair from your face.

“I’m alright, thank you, Mrs. Targaryen. Just trying to relax for a little while right now.” SHe nodded along to your words and smiled softly, the way she had once done when you were little and thanking her for letting you stay over for a sleepover with Helaena.

“Congratulations on your graduation, dear. I’m so proud of you. I always knew you could achieve great things.” You felt the bashfulness burn under your skin and bowed your head in thanks.

When you looked up, you caught sight of him in the distance behind her. He was talking to someone, one hand grasping a drink and the other safely tucked into his trouser pocket. His hair was a little shorter than before, slicked back so it only flicked up at the ends by his neck. You could see an earring, his constant, and an array of rings on his hand. You wondered if he still wore the one you got him all those years ago. He was smiling, chuckling at whatever the other person had said, and you felt something clench somewhere inside of you.

He looked… clean, well put-together, comfortable in his skin. You hoped he felt that way. His eyes flicked towards you and you turned your attention back to Mrs. Targaryen, nodding and smiling as she filled you in on all the changes about the place before she ultimately found another person that needed to be met.

“I’ll just go say hello to Daphne, but I’ll find you again soon, dear.” She kissed you on the cheek and paused just as she was about to leave. She looked you right in the eye and gave you the most sincere smile you had ever seen from her. “It;s very good to see you again.’ And then she was off once more.

You turned back to the table with Helaena and Aemond and motioned for one of the waiters to come over. You grabbed a drink off his tray and instantly began taking quick little sips from it. The side of your face burned and you couldn’t tell if it was because he might be staring at you or because you were simply aware he was on that side of the room.

Suddenly the sting became agitation and you knew you needed fresh air right at that moment or you would start blabbering whatever words popped into your head and you were not interested in handling that particular panic symptom.

“I’m gonna go out for a smoke,” your voice was abrupt, curt, as you began reaching for your clutch and picking it up.

“You don’t even smoke,” Helaena exclaimed quietly.

“There’s always time to start,” you mumbled as you turned away and walked out of the room, heading back the way you had come only such a short time ago.

The air was brisk, like cold palms being laid flat against your skin as you shivered on the doorstep.

You could just leave now and go home. You had shown your face at the party, there was no need to stay. You also knew that if you left before dinner, Mrs. Targaryen would be annoyed beyond belief. And leaving without telling Helaena felt like a betrayal anyway. She would understand you needing air for however long you wanted but she would expect you back in at some point.

For now, you could just shiver on the doorstep, gulping in the lungfuls of icy air and thinking deep philosophical thoughts.

The door opened a moment later and you turned toward the sound. He was a silhouette in the golden backlight, like a sign from god. You just stared at him as he slowly came outside and shut the door behind him. Your arms wrapped tighter around yourself.

He didn’t say a word, just continued looking at you as he lifted his arm and held it out to you, your coat proffered in his hand. You gently took it from him and he watched you slip it on.

“Y/n,” he said your name so evenly, no emotion, no indication of his thoughts. You sort of hated that you could no longer tell what he was thinking. His voice had not changed, you thoguht, then scolded yourself because why would it have?

“Aegon,” you whispered, chewing on your lip as you glanced toward him then away then back again. You could only accept him in small doses right now.

“You’re back,” he responded, showing his hands into his pockets as he looked out onto the gravel drive then back to you. You could see his truck parked by the garage on the far side, near the hedges on the property line. It was just as garish and hold as it had always been. Just as full of memories.

“Mhm,” you hummed, biting your lip a little harder until it stung.

“You didn’t say,” and he sounded almost offended, as if you hadn’t just ignored him for the past three years.

“Should I have?” You mumbled, glancing back at him then away again. He was staring, unabashedly, at your face.

“No,” he shook his head slowly, back and forth, then popped his lips. “Nope.”

In the silence that followed, you felt the pressure of the air on your brain. Your eyes stung and your throat clogged and you could do nothing but let the waves wash over you. You turned to him, stared at his blurry outline through the tears and felt your lips begin to shake with the sobs threatening at your throat and tongue. He was quick to pull you in, to wrap his arms around you and tuck your face in against his neck.

He was so warm, as he had always been, but leaner now, less soft and more defined muscle. He smelt clean too, like fresh ocean-scented laundry detergent and cold cologne and his weird spicy shampoo. He clung to you tightly and gently hushed you and you wanted to hit him, to pummel him on the chest and slap him across the face.

How dare he be so nice? How dare he comfort you when you deserved none of it? How dare he be so kind when all you had done was break his heart when he deserved the pain the least? You sobbed harshly against his shoulder, wrapped your arms around him and clung tightly. You could feel the damp fabric under your face. You only pressed closer until the sobs became quiet little blubbers and you could feel the drip of a tear against the back of your neck, the press of his pursed lips against your hair.

You pulled away quickly, turned your back to him as you began hurriedly wiping at your cheeks and praying your waterproof mascara worked. You could hear him sniffing behind you, and you paused, closed your eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, then whispered,

“I’m sorry.” He waited for a beat.

“For what?”

“I-” you swallowed, turned back around, looked into the bright, shiny, achingly beautiful blue of his eyes, the little line of water balanced precariously behind his eyelid. “I don’t know. A lot of things.” Your voice was clogged and pain-filled and you swallowed again.

“Let’s be specific then,” he breathed out, smiling the joking little smile when he was feeling sarcastic and teasing, but a sadder, waterier, version.

“For leaving when I did, for not explaining properly and maturely, for not calling.” You paused. “For letting myself believe I didn’t love you that much. For thinking that leaving also had to mean leaving behind.” You brought your hand up and began chewing on the side of your finger. He was quick to bring your hand back down, a gentle press on the forearm to force your arm back to your side. You cleared your throat and wrapped your arms around yourself. You looked off into the distance, into the black night by hedges.

“Helaen told me you got out of rehab last year.” You began chewing on your lip. He cleared his throat.

“Yes,” he nodded, “one and a half years sober now.”

“Congrats,” you whispered. “You look good, sobriety suits you.” You paused. Gulped. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. What does that even mean…” you glanced at his face and the smile he was trying so hard to repress, the mischievous glint in his eyes. A breathless laugh escaped you, a pitchy little giggle that was most likely insanely unattractive but made you feel freer, a little lighter.

The sudden bursting wish that he would kiss you was blinding. And sobering. You cleared your throat and looked away again.

“It’s ok,” he finally said in a sigh, strolling closer. “Well, I mean, as ok as getting your heart broken by the girl you thought you would marry can be.” You shot him a glare.

“Don’t joke about this.”

“Why not? I’m the one that got heartbroken if I remember correctly.” “Aegon.”

“Alright, sorry,” he hugged, but the smile said he really wasn’t. You clenched your hands together.

“I was wrong,” you finally blurted out.

You hadn’t been expecting to do this tonight. You had sat in your bedroom a week after you had returned and thought about how you would get in contact with him. A text message perhaps, a letter passed through Helaena if you were feeling old school, something to let him know you wanted to talk. And then you would meet him at a coffee shop, or maybe at the park where you used to force him to take walks with you so he wouldn’t sit in his room thinking about all the drugs he could be doing.

But then Mrs. Targaryen had bumped into your mother and you had been forced into attendance, and you suppose the unavoidable is as the name suggests… unavoidable.

Aegon didn’t say a word.

“I was wrong in so many ways that I actually don’t even know where to start now…” you shifted a little, fiddling with a coin you had left in your coat pocket.

You could almost see the argument play out in your mind’s eye like a movie. The university acceptance letter crumpled in your hand as you both stood in his room. You were looking at him apprehensively, at the darkness in his eyes as you told him how excited you were, how you had to start packing and booking flights and… You could hear him asking what would happen between you two, what would become of the beautiful budding little thing the two of you had cultivated in the midst of all the troubles of your lives.

“I don’t know,” you had said hesitatingly, looking down at the paper in your hands. You were young and irrational then. Though you had only grown three years older since (a blip of time in the grand scheme of things), so much had changed since.

You could remember the way you had said you were going, as if he had ever mentioned stopping you. How defensive you had gotten when there had been no attack.

“What about us?” He had asked. “What about me?” And the stupid, angry, words you had said. How you weren’t going to let anything hold you back. Not even this.

It had felt so right at the time, to tamp down the feelings you had for the chance at an exciting, independent life. Not knowing… Not knowing what he had been going through. Not knowing that he hid those dark, struggling, parts of himself from you so you would only ever see the sunny side of life. Not knowing that he was just sitting there and taking all that shit from you because he would do anything to make you happy.

And you, spoilt and ignorant you, had just up and left and taken three years to realise that while you enjoyed your life away from home, it could only have been better with him still in it.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the drinking and the drugs? Why did you let me say all that shit to you?” You looked at him, feeling the tears burn again but ignoring them as you reached out and grasped his hand between yours, gently running your fingers across his own.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled in return, bringing his other hand to do the same across the back of your hand.

You supposed it didn’t matter. Both of you knew, even if he didn’t say it. And it didn’t really need to be said anyway.

You moved even closer, gently cupping his cheek. He closed his eyes, nuzzled his face into your palm and took a shaky breath in, then out. You ran your thumb across his cheekbone, back and forth, feeling the barest hint of stubble come in.

“Aegon,” you mumbled, pressing a little closer so that more of you touched him, so that more of you could nuzzle into his warmth. “I can’t promise that I’ll stay here,” you began hesitantly, “but if I leave again, will… will you come with me?”

Aegon opened his eyes and looked at you. Deep into your eyes as if he could see to the very dark core of your soul.

He could see the first time the two of you had kissed, awkward and gentle in the darkness of the Targaryen manor kitchen when you were getting water late at night during a sleepover with Helaena and he was sneaking back in from a party.

He could see the text messages where he had shyly asked you out on a date despite already having kissed you. The quick response you had sent, eager and unafraid.

He could see all the little dates between the highs and the drunken stupors. He could see the times you had sat in his room, studying at his desk while he lay on his bed, still a little buzzed, thinking about the next party or dwelling on the way his mother had yelled and called him a failure, compared him to you, only a few hours prior.

He could see the years of silence. The news that you had packed and gone off to university, left him behind like he always knew you would. Your number, still in his phone, left untouched. Radio silence.

He looked at you now, teary eyed and so pained, so apologetic. At your shiny and sparkly red dress. At your lips.

He pitched forward and pressed his mouth firmly to yours. He kissed you like he was drinking water. He kissed you like he had not taken a breath in three years… and you were air.

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