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seaglassandink · 1 day ago

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𓊝 𓂃Oceans (part II)

Conrad Fisher x ex!fem!reader | part 1 part 3

Summary: When Conrad calls you from Cousins Beach, you expect a catch-up. Instead, he tells you Belly and Jeremiah just showed up engaged. What starts as a late-night FaceTime turns into sixteen years of friendship unraveling: old wounds, unspoken love, and the sting of realising he still hasn’t let go of her… and maybe never will. Warnings/tags: so much angst!!, season 3 spoilers, Conrad doesn't know what he wants, mild swearing if you squint, English is not my first language Word count: 6.5k (I'm sorry) ╭┈┈┈┈┈┈╯ 𓆉 𓇼 ╰┈┈┈┈┈┈╮

Your legs had been tangled with his, the faintest morning giggles spilling into the quiet of the bedroom. The Cousins sun was soft and golden, streaking through the curtains as the world outside slowly stretched awake.

You had lain there together in his bed, curled into one another, his lips ghosting along your neck like a promise he couldn’t stop making.

“I love waking up with you,” he murmured against your ear, his breath warm.

You grinned, eyes still heavy with sleep. “You always did.”

“But this,” he whispered, his voice lower now, rawer. “This is different. This is you with me. Like it’s always supposed to be.”

You’d looked down at him then, and everything inside you had softened at the look on his face—the kind of gentle adoration that could ruin a person forever.

“Promise me something?” you asked.

He nodded, no hesitation.

“Promise me you’ll always love me. And that we’ll always be us.”

“I promise,” he said without missing a beat.

Then he kissed you, slow and unhurried, and in that moment you believed every word. You jolted awake in the dark, breath catching in your throat. For a moment, you weren’t sure where you were.

Then it hit you.

Your apartment.

Your empty bed.

The sound of your own heart hammering against your ribs.

The dream had been so vivid you could still feel his skin against yours, still hear his voice whispering against the shell of your ear.

It wasn’t a dream. It was a memory.

And it shattered you all over again.

Because there was a time—long ago, but not nearly long enough—when that moment had been real.

When he had been yours.

Back at Cousins, at that same hour, Conrad woke up drenched in sweat, his T-shirt clinging to his back, his breath ragged as if he’d just run miles.

His mind was a hurricane, caught between past and present.

He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to block out the image burned into his mind: you, bathed in morning light, laughing softly as if you had no idea you’d been his whole world.

He hadn’t let himself dream of that in years. Hadn’t let himself think of you like that.

And yet tonight, his own subconscious had betrayed him.

You didn’t sleep again after that.

Every time you shut your eyes, the memory returned—his voice, his hands, that promise. And the cruelest part was that, back then, you hadn’t realized that was the last time.

You painted to fill the silence, but the brushstrokes blurred when your eyes burned. You journaled, but the words felt hollow and jagged.

Mostly, you cried.

You cried because the universe had a way of taking and taking until you were hollow. Because he had been the one constant—the person who was always supposed to be there—and he had become a stranger.

At three in the morning, body aching from the weight of it all, eyes red and swollen, you finally gave in.

You grabbed your phone.

Your fingers hovered over the screen, trembling.

And then you typed the truth you had been choking on for years.

Y/N: I always thought it would be me. Why couldn’t you let it be me?

The message sent. You stared at the screen, waiting for it to show delivered, then tossed the phone onto your bed as if it burned.

And in that moment, you no longer cared about losing.

Because somewhere deep down, you knew: you had already lost him.

Conrad’s phone buzzed on the bedside table, the sharp sound slicing through the heavy silence of his room. He reached for it instinctively, heart thundering in his chest when he saw your name glowing on the screen.

For a long moment, he just stared at it. Then his thumb hovered—hesitant—before finally opening the message.

The words on the screen knocked the air out of him like a blow to the ribs:

I always thought it would be me. Why couldn’t you let it be me?

He read it once. Twice. A third time. Each time, it hit harder. His chest tightened painfully, his throat closing up.

He wanted to explain. To tell you that it was you. That it had always been you. That there hadn’t been a single day in his life where you weren’t there, even when he was too much of a coward to admit it.

But the words—the right words—wouldn’t come. All that came was a wave of guilt so sharp he almost doubled over.

Finally, he typed a message. His fingers trembled over the screen.

Connie: Can we talk? Please.

You saw it immediately.

Your phone lit up against the mess of your sheets, and that simple line felt like salt in an open wound. For several minutes, you sat there staring at it.

You wanted to throw the phone across the room. You wanted to cry all over again. But more than anything—you wanted to hear his voice.

So you pressed the call button, breath shaky.

He picked up on the first ring.

The silence that followed was crushing.

Neither of you knew how to begin, as if four years of unspoken words were clawing to get out all at once.

When you finally spoke, your voice was raw, hoarse from hours of crying.

“I had a dream,” you croaked, barely above a whisper. “No. Not a dream. A memory. Seven years ago. One of those Cousins mornings. You promised me something.”

You paused, your chest rising and falling as you tried to hold yourself together.

“And it haunts me,” you whispered. “It haunts me that you broke that promise.”

On the other end, Conrad’s heart cracked open.

Your voice was ragged, so tired, so broken that it physically hurt to listen to you.

He closed his eyes and the memory came back in full color, as vivid as if he’d been transported back into that morning.

The soft sunlight. Your bare shoulders. Your laughter.

Your voice asking for a promise he had meant with every part of him.

“I remember,” he said quietly, barely trusting his voice. “I remember the promise.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you. The tears spilled again, hot and relentless.

“You know,” you whispered between uneven breaths, “the first part I could’ve survived. I could have understood if we’d grown apart. If we broke up. I could have lived with thinking that what we had—that love—maybe it was just because we’d known each other forever. That maybe it wasn’t love, just… comfort. Familiarity.”

You bit down on your lip, tasting salt and blood.

“But you also promised,” your voice cracked, “that we would always be us. And we’re not. We haven’t been us for years. And that…” You swallowed hard, your throat aching. “…that hurts more than knowing you don’t love me anymore.”

Conrad’s hand tightened around his phone until his knuckles turned white.

You don’t love me anymore.

Those words pierced him clean through, leaving him breathless.

He wanted to speak, to tell you it wasn’t true, that he loved you more than anything, that there wasn’t a single thing about Belly or about anyone else that had ever come close.

But when he opened his mouth, nothing came out except the raw truth of his guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low, gutted. “I’m so goddamn sorry.”

Silence.

He waited—for the click of you hanging up. For you to yell. To curse him out. To tell him to leave you alone.

But you didn’t.

Instead, your voice broke through the quiet again, small and fragile and cutting him down to nothing.

“I just wish you hadn’t promised.”

It was like someone twisting a knife straight into his chest.

He felt himself folding in on that pain.

He knew exactly what you meant. How much that promise had meant to you. How much he had destroyed.

I just wish you hadn’t promised…

And for the first time in a long time, Conrad Fisher had no idea how to fix anything.

“Was any of it ever real?” Your voice trembled so softly that Conrad barely caught it through the phone. “I mean… did any of it even mean anything to you? Or has it always been her, and I was just a placeholder?”

The questions hung in the air like heavy smoke—questions that had haunted you for years, the ones you never had the courage to ask before tonight.

Conrad’s heart constricted painfully in his chest.

Of course it was real. Of course it had meant everything.

His mind flashed through the years in an instant: barefoot summers, sand sticking to skin, the kind of laughter that hurt your ribs, the late-night confessions, the arguments that left you breathless, the reconciliations that always felt like home.

“Of course it was real,” he said hoarsely, the words scraping against his throat. “You were never a placeholder. You have to know that. You were always more than that.”

The silence on the other end of the line was deafening.

He could feel it—the disbelief in your breathing, the way your pain filled the pauses.

You wanted to believe him. But four years of being ignored and replaced had left scars too deep.

And he didn’t blame you. He had earned your distrust. He was the one who had broken you heart.

“Please,” he said, his voice raw, “I know you don’t believe me, but just listen.”

You sniffled, wiping your cheeks, though the tears kept falling relentlessly. “I just… I don’t understand,” your whispered, voice cracking as if every word cost her something. “Why not me? Why… not me?”

It was so quiet—small, barely audible—but it hit him like a tidal wave.

Conrad’s heart ached with a pain so sharp he could barely breathe.

He wanted to reach through the phone, wanted to hold you, to stop those words from ever leaving your mouth. But he couldn’t. All he could do was sit there, useless, listening to the wreckage he caused.

“You want to know why not you?” he asked quietly, almost to himself.

“Yes,” you whispered back.

“Because I was a coward,” he said simply.

The truth sat there, stark and merciless.

“I was scared,” he admitted, his voice breaking on the words. “I was scared of losing you. Of losing what we had. I was already losing my mom, and everything in my life felt like it was falling apart. And… I made the biggest mistake of my life.”

Your eyes fluttered closed, his words cutting straight to the core of you.

But you knew—it wasn’t that simple.

“You left me for her,” you whispered.

Your gaze fell to the unfinished painting propped against the wall. You had started painting it the second you woke from that dream. It was that memory from seven years ago, frozen in time like you wished you could have been.

On the other end of the line, Conrad’s guilt swelled until it drowned him.

You were right. There was no sense in pretending.

“I did,” he said softly. The admission tasted like poison.

“And she broke up with you anyway,” you continued, your voice turning bitter, almost unrecognisable to your own ears. “She brought you pain. And who was there for you in those last moments, Conrad? Who was there when you couldn’t even breathe from the grief?”

Your voice shook.

“I was. I was there. Not her. She was too young to understand, and I—Fuck, I stayed. And you still decided to call me last night after barely checking in for four years… to talk about her.”

Your breath hitched, and you swallowed hard, blinking through the blur of her tears.

“I assume,” you said, your tone flat, “you understand why I was angry last night.”

Conrad's chest tightened at your words. You were right. Again.

You had been there for him during his darkest moments, and he had left you behind. He had thrown away your relationship, your history, like it meant nothing. He had thrown away over a decade of life with you.

He had gone back to Belly, and for what? For her to hurt him again.

He felt like the biggest idiot in the world.

"I do," he said quietly. "I understand why you're angry."

"And I'm so goddamn sorry," he added, his voice laced with sincerity.

The guilt and regret were eating him up from the inside out.

You deserved so much better than him. You deserved someone who would never hurt you. Someone who would always put you first.

Not a coward like him.

You bit your lip, looking out of the window. New York was surprisingly quiet. Too quiet for your liking.

“Was it worth it?” you asked, the question that had been haunting you for years. “Were six months with her worth most of our life together?”

Conrad's heart twisted at your question.

"No," he said immediately, his voice firm.

It was an easy answer.

Six months with Belly was nothing.

Nothing compared to all the moments you had shared.

The memories, the laughter, the pain, the fights, the tears – all of it was worth far more than those six months with Belly.

"Never," he said, his voice hoarse. "The answer is no."

"I was an idiot," he said, raking a hand through his hair. "A stupid, selfish idiot."

He was a fool for ever thinking that he could choose Belly over you.

He’d been so desperate to salvage something, he’d ended up losing everything.

"I wish I could take it back," he said, the pain and regret in his voice tangible. "If I could go back in time and smack some sense into my old self, I would."

It hurt. Hearing him like this hurt. Because you believed him. You knew when he was telling the truth. He hadn’t changed that much in the end.

You wiped your face, considering your options. Considering the current situation. He was there, in Cousins, with Belly alone under one roof.

“Why did you call me about that? Of all the things you could have called me about, you called me to talk about her?”

Conrad closed his eyes, the guilt and shame hitting him all over again.

Why had he called you? Why had he talked about Belly to you?

Maybe because, deep down, he knew that you were the one he really wanted to talk to. You were the one who always understood him, who always listened to him. You had always been his person.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I just... I don't know."

“Do you still love her?” you asked after a while.

The whole point of your hurt, your anger last night, was the fact that he had been with her for six months. They had broken up four years ago, and he was still conflicted about what to do with her under one roof. It was just… ridiculous to you.

Conrad's heart clenched at the question.

Did he still love Belly?

The answer was complicated.

He still cared about her, of course. They had a history, a bond that would never go away. But was it love?

No. He didn't think so. He thought it was all those what ifs if he hadn’t screwed up the first time.

"No," he said firmly. "I don't love her."

He knew it was true, deep down. He still cared about her, yes. He still cared for her. But love?

He didn't think so.

You stayed silent for a while. Your heart was broken, but it jumped a little at his words.

If you knew one thing, it was that Conrad Fisher was a complicated man. Not in a bad way. It was in a way that he made himself get lost in his own mind, in his own feelings—often doing things he thought were good but that ended up hurting more people than necessary.

You swallowed hard, running a hand over your face.

“Connie?” you whispered quietly, your voice so broken and small.

Conrad's heart ached at the sound of his nickname on your lips.

He'd always loved it when you called him that. Nobody else called him that the way you did.

"Yeah?" he asked quietly.

“I miss you,” you whispered, fresh tears spilling down your face.

You missed him so badly. So many bad things had happened in your life these past four years. But also so many good ones. And you had friends to share them with. But he was the one you thought about first each time. And you couldn’t share any of it with him. Because he wasn’t there.

Conrad's chest clenched as he heard your words.

You missed him.

God, he missed you, too.

He missed you more than anything.

He missed your smile.

He missed your laughter.

He missed your touch.

He missed everything about you.

"I miss you, too," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "So goddamn much, you have no idea."

It hurt. He missed you.

You had so many questions. So many things to yell at him for. To cry about. To ask.

You were an hour flight away from him. Unless he went back to California. This might be the only chance. You knew he didn’t have clinic this summer. But you worried that if he went back to his life in California, the opportunity to reconnect would be lost.

“Are you going back to California?”

Conrad let out a long exhale, his heart heavy with the weight of your conversation.

"I was planning to," he said quietly. "I don’t have clinic anymore, but Agnes found me something."

He knew what you were hinting at.

You wanted him to stay. And God knows, he wanted to stay.

He wanted nothing more than to stay.

You nodded even though he couldn’t see. The fact that he was in Cousins right now, in his room at the beach house, in the same bed you had been in together so many times… it hurt.

You sniffled. “When?” you asked quietly.

Conrad's heart ached as he heard you trying to rein in your tears.

He could hear your sniffles over the phone. He wished he could be there for you. He wished he could hold you.

"Next Saturday," he replied reluctantly.

He didn't want to go. He wanted to stay there. With you.

That was a week and a half away. You had a week and a half. You could book a flight and go straight to Cousins first thing in the morning.

But you didn’t want to hurt again. You didn’t want your heart to break again. Even though you wanted to see him more than anything. You hadn’t seen him for four years. It was a maddening thought.

Conrad could sense your hesitation, your doubt.

He knew you well enough to know that you were internally arguing with yourself.

You wanted to come. He could hear it in your voice. You wanted to come. But you were scared. You were scared to get hurt again.

He didn't blame you. He'd done a damn good job of hurting you.

He had to say something.

He had to do something.

He took a deep breath before speaking.

"Just come," he said, his voice low. "Just come to Cousins. Please. Just for a couple of days."

God, you wanted to cry in that moment.

He wanted you to come.

It was breaking your heart.

It was breaking you.

You looked at the unfinished painting in front of you. You had much more than a couple of days.

Things had been tough lately.

You swallowed and held the phone away from your ear for a moment, opening an app to book a flight.

“Ten in the morning sounds okay?” you whispered after a few more minutes.

Conrad's heart leapt at your answer.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

You were coming.

You were actually coming.

For the first time in four years, he felt hope. Hope that maybe… just maybe, the two of you could fix things.

"Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good," he said softly. "I'll pick you up from the airport."

You nodded, your heart jumping a little. You glanced at the time. Four in the morning. If you wanted to make it, you had to be at the airport in three hours.

“I have to go pack then,” you whispered, wiping away your tears. “You should get some sleep.”

Conrad swallowed, nodding even though you couldn’t see him.

He didn't want to end the call. He didn't want to let go of your presence, even if it was just your voice through the phone.

But he knew you were right. It was late. And you had to pack.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "You're right. I'll… I'll let you go. Get some sleep too, okay?"

“Yeah,” you said shortly, nodding. “See you soon,” you whispered before hanging up.

You stared at the phone, your whole body paralyzed.

You had no idea what this all meant.

You had no idea if you were going there as a friend, as an ex, or as a completely new person.

But you were going.

Conrad stared at the dark ceiling of his bedroom, his mind racing.

You were coming.

You were coming to Cousins.

He should be happy, right?

He should be ecstatic.

But there was also a sense of unease building inside him.

He didn't know what to expect. He didn't know what would happen when you got there.

All he knew was that he needed to see you.

He needed you. --------------------------------------------

The flight from New York to Rhode Island was a little over an hour. Then there was the drive from the airport to Cousins, which was another fifty minutes.

And that was the part that terrified you most.

Being alone with him in a car after four years of not seeing each other, after only a handful of scattered conversations, was enough to make your heart pound in your throat.

Your flight was at nine, but you hadn’t slept at all.

You had spent the entire night packing, pacing, and staring blankly at the clock. By the time the sky turned pale blue, you drove to the airport on autopilot, too anxious and wired to feel tired.

The flight went smoothly. No turbulence. No delays. To your dismay, there was no excuse to put off what was waiting for you on the other side.

You arrived at Rhode Island at 10:20 a.m., grabbed your bag from the overhead compartment, and headed toward baggage claim.

Your hand trembled as you pulled out your phone and typed the message.

Y/N: Just landed. I’m getting my suitcase.

Conrad had barely slept either.

He’d spent the night tossing and turning in bed, his mind racing with thoughts of you—what he would say, what he wouldn’t say, the way your face had looked on FaceTime two nights ago.

He was nervous.

No, scratch that.

He was terrified.

When your text came in, his heart skipped a beat so hard he thought it might stop altogether.

Fifteen minutes later, he was at the arrivals terminal, standing in a sea of people, scanning the crowd with restless eyes.

You pulled your suitcase off the carousel and headed toward the terminal.

The air in the arrivals hall felt heavy, stifling.

Your eyes swept across the crowd, searching.

You already knew he hadn’t changed much—FaceTime two nights ago had been proof of that—but seeing him in person after all these years was different.

And then you saw him.

Standing there, just like you remembered, trying to look calm and failing miserably.

Normally, you would have laughed at how obvious his nerves were.

But not today.

He was tanned now, the California sun leaving a golden glow on his skin. His hair was the same, only lighter at the edges, sun-streaked. He wore a pale blue button-up with the sleeves rolled up, tucked neatly into a pair of vintage Levi’s.

You swallowed hard. He looked just as perfect as always. Maybe even more so. There was something husband-like about him now, something more mature.

Conrad’s heart was a wreck.

He felt it pounding in his chest like a drum as soon as you stepped into view.

God, you were even more beautiful than he remembered.

His breath caught in his throat. For a second, he had to remind himself to breathe.

He watched you look him over, taking in his appearance, and he wondered what you were thinking. He saw the exhaustion on your face, the faint shadows under your eyes, but to him you still looked stunning.

You walked toward him, painfully aware of how underdressed you were.

You felt like a mess—your hair was slightly tangled from the flight, your face bare because you’d been too tired to bother with makeup, and you’d thrown on linen shorts with a simple cream-colored top.

“Hey,” you said when you reached him, your voice a little hoarse.

Conrad’s heart skipped a beat at the sound of your voice.

That voice he’d missed so much. That voice that had haunted him for four years.

"Hey," he said softly, offering a small, tentative smile.

He wanted so badly to reach out, to pull you into his arms and never let go.

But he didn’t. He didn’t trust himself to do that without breaking down completely.

Neither of you said anything more as you started walking.

Without a word, he reached for your suitcase and took it from you. You let him, nodding slightly, your throat too tight to speak.

You didn’t know how you were going to feel once you got back to Cousins. It already felt like stepping into a life you had left behind.

Outside, the summer air was warm as he led you through the parking lot to his car.

You raised an eyebrow when you saw it.

“New one?” you asked as he walked you to a gray Toyota.

In your head, he was still driving that Range Rover you’d spent so many summers in. You missed that car. But somehow, this one suited him now.

He nodded, opening the trunk and lifting your suitcase inside with ease.

Catching your surprised expression, he smiled faintly.

"Yeah," he said, closing the trunk. "Bought it last year."

He walked around to your side, opened the passenger door, and gestured for you to get in.

As he slid into the driver’s seat and glanced over at you, something inside him shifted.

It felt familiar. Driving with you felt natural, like muscle memory. Like all those years apart hadn’t happened at all.

It felt right.

You climbed into the car, letting your eyes wander around the interior as you settled into the seat. You pulled the seatbelt across your chest, clicking it into place and leaning back, trying to make yourself comfortable.

Fifty minutes.

That’s how long the drive would take if there wasn’t any traffic.

In the past, every drive to and from Cousins had been its own little ritual. The moment the car door closed, you would kick off your shoes, curl your legs up onto the seat, and watch the world go by while he asked, without fail, whether you had taken your Dramamine. Then he’d start the engine, and the two of you would sing the entire way, trading off verses and laughing when one of you forgot the lyrics.

But that was back when it was his Range Rover.

This was not that car.

And this wasn’t four years ago.

You no longer took Dramamine—you’d been prescribed Scopolamine now—and the easy comfort that once sat between you was gone, replaced with something heavier, more fragile.

As Conrad started the car, a sharp ache bloomed in his chest.

The hum of the engine only made the memories louder.

He remembered those long drives like they’d just happened: the way you’d fold yourself up into the passenger seat, the music playing on low, your voice cutting in and out between laughter as you sang along. He remembered how he would glance over and ask, “Did you take your Dramamine?” even though he already knew the answer.

He knew you so well back then.

Now everything felt different.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter than he needed to, knuckles white, forcing himself to look at the road instead of at you.

But he couldn’t help it.

Every so often, his eyes drifted in your direction, taking in the small details—your tired face, the way your hair was slightly tangled, the faint crease between your brows as you stared out the window.

The silence in the car was deafening.

The kind of silence that carried weight.

Was your heart pounding as hard as his? Were you searching for words and finding none, the same way he was?

Finally, you spoke, your voice soft, barely above the sound of the tires against the pavement.

“Do you mind if I play some music?”

Conrad let out a slow breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, grateful for something to break the heavy quiet.

"Yeah, sure," he said, nodding. "Go ahead."

He wondered what you would choose. Would it be new songs he’d never heard, the soundtrack of a life that didn’t include him? Or would it be something older, a fragment of what you used to share?

You picked up your phone, connecting it quickly to the car.

Your thumb hesitated as you scrolled through your playlists.

Most of them were new.

You’d archived almost all the old ones, shoving them into a digital drawer like they couldn’t hurt you there.

But a few had survived.

One in particular.

Driving with Connie.

Your lip caught between your teeth.

You could pick anything—anything safe, anything easy—but everything already felt so strange, so brittle, that you pressed play without giving yourself another second to overthink.

Within seconds, the soft, unmistakable opening notes of Pink+White by Frank Ocean filled the car.

Conrad’s breath caught the moment he heard it.

Memories crashed into him all at once—the exact shade of the late-afternoon light streaming into the car windows back then, the sound of your voice singing over the chorus, the warmth of your presence beside him.

He bit the inside of his cheek, fighting to keep his composure.

He turned his head just enough to glance at you, and his heart clenched.

You remembered.

You still remembered.

“I found our car playlist,” you said quietly, clearing your throat as you set your phone down. You turned to the window, watching the stream of cars blur by.

The soft hum of R&B filled the silence, wrapping itself around the two of you.

You knew there were so many songs that would come up—songs that were yours. Songs that once belonged to another version of the two of you.

But… wasn’t that the point?

Conrad swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the road. He only nodded.

Our car playlist.

Hearing you say those words was like a knife twisting in his chest.

It pulled him straight back to all those hours spent in his old car, the two of you crammed into a shared world of music, voices off-key but happy, windows down, summer air whipping in through the open sunroof.

Back then, there was no distance between you. Now, there was nothing but distance. Because things were different now.

You weren’t the same girl he had known four years ago.

And neither was he.

But the music—

The music hadn’t changed.

Each song carried memories like ghosts, filling up the car, forcing you both to sit with them in heavy, suffocating silence.

Song after song played.

Hozier.

The Neighbourhood.

Old favourites that neither of you could bring yourself to skip.

And then, a familiar sound cut through the quiet. The first delicate notes of Oceans by Seafret. The second you heard it, your breath caught. Panic kicked in.

You reached for your phone, fumbling with the screen, trying to change the track, to stop the rush of memories before they swallowed you whole.

Conrad noticed.

He noticed the second your hands started moving, that subtle urgency in your movements.

Before you could scroll past the song, his hand shot out.

Warm fingers wrapped around your wrist.

The sudden contact burned against your skin, grounding you in place.

You froze.

You swallowed hard and slowly lowered the phone, turning your face back to the window.

You didn’t pull away. His hand stayed.

The lyrics filled the air:

I want you And nothing comes close To the way that I need you I wish I could feel your skin…

The tension inside the car thickened, wrapping tight around your throat.

You wanted to disappear.

To hide from the truth threaded into every note of the song.

It feels like there's oceans Between me and you once again…

You closed your eyes, keeping your face turned away from him, as though that would help.

But Conrad didn’t need to look at you.

He knew this song. The moment it started, he knew.

Without thinking, he tightened his hold on your wrist—not harshly, but enough to stop you.

His voice came low, soft, almost breaking.

“Leave it,” he said.

You stilled completely.

His grip didn’t loosen.

Instead, his thumb began tracing small, slow circles against the inside of your wrist—tiny, unconscious movements that made your pulse race.

He still couldn’t bring himself to look at you, staring ahead at the road, but everything in his body leaned toward you.

The air between you was alive, heavy with all the words that hadn’t been spoken.

You didn’t push his hand away. You let him hold you.

And in that moment, it was the closest the two of you had been in years.

The cars passed by, the world outside moving on, but inside that gray Toyota, time stopped.

The song kept playing:

I want you And I always will I wish I was worth But I know you deserve You know I'd rather drown Than to go on without you…

It hurt. God, it hurt.

Because the meaning of the song had shifted.

It wasn’t the same anymore.

This used to be your song.

He used to sing it to you, soft and low, when you were lying on the beach at night, or in his room with the window cracked open. He’d learned how to play it on guitar just for you. All of that felt like another lifetime now.

Conrad sat there listening, each lyric a blade twisting deeper.

He remembered all of it—the strum of the guitar, your voice joining his, the way you’d look at him like he was everything.

Back then, this song had been filled with love and hope.

Now?

Now it felt like a cruel reminder of everything he had lost.

Without realizing it, he tightened his grip on your wrist just a little more, as if holding on to that small piece of you could stop you from slipping away again.

He still didn’t let go.

The car fell silent as the last notes of Oceans faded, leaving only the hum of the engine and the muted sound of the wind against the windows.

Conrad’s grip on your wrist loosened slightly, but he still couldn’t bring himself to let go completely.

He could feel the steady beat of your pulse beneath his fingers. He could still feel your skin, warm and real, grounding him in a way that terrified him.

He wanted to look at you, to read your expression, but he forced himself to keep his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

He swallowed hard before finally speaking, his voice low and rough.

“I didn’t realize this song was still on your playlist.”

“You know I don’t clean the playlists. I just make new ones,” you said quietly, your gaze locked out the window.

It wasn’t the whole truth.

Because you could’ve sworn you’d deleted that song years ago.

You hadn’t touched the car playlist in so long that you assumed it would be buried, erased by time, by everything that had happened.

But there it was.

Conrad’s heart clenched at your words, and he nodded slowly.

Of course he remembered. He knew you too well.

He could picture you—sitting cross-legged on your bed, phone in hand, creating new playlists while the old ones, like this one, gathered digital dust.

Memories that refused to go away.

He wanted to ask. He wanted to ask why you never deleted it. Why this song was still there. But he bit his tongue. Instead, the two of you stayed silent.

The rest of the drive stretched on, the only sound filling the car was the shuffle of the playlist, song after song pulling you both back into the ghosts of summers past.

By the time the familiar sight of Cousins appeared through the windshield, your chest ached from holding back everything you didn’t say.

The tires crunched softly over the gravel as he pulled into the beach house driveway.

You glanced outside.

Nothing had changed.

The house still looked like it belonged to another world—timeless, golden, suspended in the endless rhythm of summer.

Conrad shut off the engine. The music stopped instantly, and a heavy silence settled over the car.

The only sounds now were your quiet breaths and the faint crash of the waves in the distance.

You sat there for a moment, staring at the house, taking in the sight of it. It felt like stepping straight back into another life.

Neither of you spoke.

The memories in the air were thick, clinging to your skin like the summer humidity.

Finally, you both stepped out of the car.

Conrad went around to the trunk, lifting out your suitcase, and you followed him up the porch steps.

Your stomach knotted tighter with every step.

This was the hardest part.

Because you knew who was inside. You knew Belly was here. She was the reason any of this had happened over the past three days.

You swallowed hard as you stepped through the door.

Inside, nothing had changed either. The same walls. The same photos. The same house you used to think of as home.

He set your suitcase down in the hallway.

You stopped, standing there with him, unsure what to say. You turned toward him, ready to speak—

And then footsteps creaked down the stairs.

“Conrad, have you—”

Belly’s voice rang out before cutting off abruptly. Her eyes landed on you, and she froze mid-step.

You clenched your jaw, every instinct in your body bracing for impact.

In a perfect scenario, you’d already be across the room, pulling at her perfect hair until someone dragged you away.

But this wasn’t a perfect scenario.

“Hello, Belly,” you said instead, your voice cool, steady, every word edged with steel. ╭┈┈┈┈┈┈╯ 𓆉 𓇼 ╰┈┈┈┈┈┈╮

READ PART 3 HERE A/N: Well... this might become a miniseries. It's just so easy to write for them. I swear I have it resolved!! But it's gonna take some time... Let me know if you want a continuation :) Tagging everybody who asked for part 2! @maybankslover @mlt2000 @we-flower-fan @xxxabsss-blog @emory06 @ynnlvrs @10hrs26mn @bellelamoon @idgaf-frr

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baileysoksbakery · 2 days ago

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— todays word count : 1.3k+

— on the radio station today: Bathroom - Montell Fish.

Requested by @noiregodess99 sorry this is a bit rushed and short because im really tryna focus on Devil’s temptation now so i forgot to close my request but i decided to accept it anyways, i also wrote half of this at like 6am…

Cw/Tags: Powerbottom!Lara, Smut with little to no plot, edging, Cum denial, dry humping, gp!reader ( I absolutely don’t care i live for gp!anything tbh.), overstimulation, jealous/possessive Lara, begging, absolutely downbad reader, mean Lara.

A fan walked up to you after the lollapalooza performance. “ Omg, you guys did so good and I love your music so much. I love you so much! “ The Black haired fan shoved a photocard into your hand.

Her hand brushed agaisnt yours, it was so subtle you or her barely noticed. But Lara did—She felt her heart boil at how close you seemed to the fan, The way you would laugh at one of her jokes—The way the fan hugged you. It made her blood boil.

Manon noticed and smirked at this. “ uh-oh looks like someones jealous.. “ The older girl teased while poking her slender finger towards Lara’s arm. Lara scoffed in response and refused of it being anything of the sort. she waved her off with her hand.

But as her head turned she saw you taking a picture with the fan. Thats when she noticed your arm was around her waist—Now she was really pissed. Lara’s jaw clenched and her eyes narrowed—She exhaled a breath she didn’t even know she was holding in the first place.

So she immediately walked over to you and grabbed your wrist. “ She has to go now. Im truly sorry but we have alot of other things too do. “ Lara said while pulling you back to the car that you guys came in.

which also was a lie because you two also had a fanmeet there.

Lara roughly opened up the car door like she was about to rip the door off of its hinges. She pushed you into the car with a breath that sounded like an engine—As she crawled into the car behind you.

“ Lara, Whats this about.. “ you said as you sat down on the black velvet seats of the White Lamborghini. She crawled on top of you—straddling your lap. Her index and thumb finger lifted up your chin. “ So you like flirting with other girls? “ Lara said as her eyes narrowed, her lips parted slightly as she suddenly gained a mischievous glint in her eyes.

She immediately started grinding her body against yours—Feeling your dick start to perk up and harden underneath her. You groaned at the sudden erection, you bit your lip as your hands glid up her thighs to hold her waist. “ Fuck, Lara.. “ She shut you up immediately. Taking your lips into a messy and sloppy kiss. Quickly though, She immediately begun grinding her body against yours—Groaning inside the kiss entirely.

you bucked your hips upward as if hers were leaving yours too quickly. You separated from her and start panting and digging your nails into her hips, your leather shorts now disgustingly wet at the crouch area. But you didn’t care—All you could think about was the current situation you were in with Lara

“ You weren’t acting like this when you were touching all up on that girl.. “ Lara whispered as she kept going—Faster this time as you threw you head back, your mind was everywhere. The way she rode your cock even though it wasn’t out of your shorts made you go numb.

But you noticed was she said and you furrowed a brow. You never realized how jealous and possessive Lara was about you. You didn’t say anything else to her because you didn’t have the strength to say anything else about it—So you just sat there and her dry hump you. Her moans louder then the sound of the leather squeaking together.

“ Fuck, this cock.. all mines, not hers. “ you tried to hold back a giggle from what she just said as she fucked herself silly on your cock. Or should i say the tent of your shorts. But your breath was still ragged as you felt yourself get closer to your orgasm.

“ Lara.. What.. Fuck im always yours, never anyone elses. But yours. “ you mutter through your teeth. Lara’s gaze moved up to you face, her hand on your hand that was on her waist—Out of breath you bit your lip as you tried to plead with her into letting you cum.

“ No. Im still fucking mad at you and you’ll cum when i want you to. Understood? “ She told you in a stern voice. Her eyes never left yours she felt herself get closer and closer. She threw her head back having no disregard for her clothes that were about to get ruined from her sticky mess.

A choked gasp as she tried her best to get out the words. ‘ Im gonna cum ‘. Without cutting herself off—Her eyes rolled back as she threw her head back and rode you like you were some kind of toy to her—You whimpered upon being so overstimulated and overwhelmed you decided to try and beg her again to let you release.

“ Please, Lara, I’ll do anything let me cum. “ Instead of letting you though. She stopped altogether—You whimpered from the sudden disconnect. You begged Lara to keep going—Your big pleading puppy eyes looked up at Lara with some type of lustful shame as your hands wandered up Laras shirt and to her tits.

Fondling and groping them. You bit your lip as you groaned upon feeling her warm skin against yours made you feel even more desperate. Your dick twitched and pulsed in your shorts—You bit your lip upon thinking of another dirty fantasy with her.

You opened your lips again to say something. You begged her even more, you wouldn’t stop. You couldn’t stop no matter how much she told you to—But she finally gave in and rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth. You were about to say something to Lara before she silenced you before you could even open your lips.

“ Say something and i swear i won’t let you cum no matter how much you beg me. “ you immediately pressed your lips closed as she got down on her knees and began to slowly pull down your shorts. Teasing you slightly. You whimpered at the act and moaned at the slight feeling of friction.

you looked at you with narrow eyes—As if daring you to say something or do something she doesn’t like. But she knew you were such a good girl for her and wouldn’t dare defy or go against her word like a brat.

her eyes marveled at your already wet cock. She spread your legs apart and darted her tongue out—Licking up your shaft slow and steady while looking up at you with eyes that pierced your soul. She kissed your tip and curved her tongue around the flushed, sensitive area—Your hips jerking at the small action. She soon took your member into her mouth whole.

slowly bobbing her head up and down as she stared at the sight infront of her. Your face, the way your lips slightly parted—Your flushed cheeks and furrowed brows. She sneakily crept a hand into her own shorts and begun playing with her clit.

her fingers became wet and sticky from earlier when she came—She quickened her pace on your cock—You gasped and let out a high-pitched moan—Her moans muffled into your own cock as your hips tried chasing her face, you put a hand into her hair and pushed her further. Testing the waters a little bit, but her mind was spiraling. Too all over the place to care.

So you kept face-fucking her. Your head thrown back as you went at an impossibly fast pace—Your moans were breathy and uncontrolled. As for Lara, she sped up her fingers that were still rubbing her clit in tight circles to match your pace. Her legs shook slightly as she let out filthy and sultry anthems that was muffled from your cock engulfing every last possible inch of her mouth and throat.

the sound of gags and moans left her throat as tears begun leaving your eyes from everything your feeling all at once. You finally cummed inside her mouth without warning—The feeling of the white, warm, and sticky fluid entering her mouth seemed to help her finish all over her fingers—Swallowing all of your cum little by little during the process.

“ Still mad at me now? “

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matchpointfaist · 21 hours ago

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back when we were still changing for the better, wanting was enough

ex bf! clark x reader

tw for smut, oral f! receiving, unprotected sex, angst, yearning etc

clark always kissed you like he was making a promise, which, in hindsight, was ironic. the night he left smallville, it wasn't dramatic, wasn't stormy or cliche or anything you'd seen in movies. it was the beginning of august, the kind of day where the sun set slow and sweet, the cornfields buzzed with cicadas. nothing gave you any indication that everything was about to change, except for the way he looked at you. "i don't want to leave like this," he'd told you, hands deep in his jacket pockets so he wouldn't reach for you, "but i have to,"

you did, admittedly, know. he hadn't said everything, hadn't told you the full truth behind the new, big, job or the hasty move or the way he got a far away look in his eye at the sound of sirens. you weren't sure how, but you were sure that he was becoming someone else, something bigger. and you, for all your love and all your softness, still couldn't follow him to it. "i know," you murmured, voice catching in your throat, "i just hoped you'd stay anyway," he looked at you like he wanted to change his mind, like he wanted to stay so badly that it hurt, but just wanting, you'd realized, wasn't enough.

you didn't speak after he left. there were no fights, no long distance fizzling out, just absence. you felt it, the ache of missing him, in everything. you saw him in the fields, the ghost of a memory. you felt his presence in every part of your small town, heard the breath of his laugh on the breeze and felt the warmth of his skin against yours when you crawled into bed at night. you had dinner with his parents occasionally, stopped by to make sure they were taking care of themselves, and tried your hardest not to ask how he was doing. if he wanted you to know, you'd know.

a couple of years passed, and you got older, liked to think you were wiser. you still felt him sometimes, when the window was open for the summer air and it reminded you of nights spent in bed while you each read a book, quiet and content. memories of afternoons with the two of you perched on the roof of his barn, wondering if you'd ever leave this place. "do you think we'll always be like this?" you'd asked him once, seventeen and sunburnt and full of love. he smiled like he had all the answers, "maybe not, but i know i'll always remember us this way,"

metropolis glittered at night. it was too bright, shining in a way he'd never get used to, busy in a way that made him ache for smallville. he walked through it like a ghost. "you good?" his coworkers would ask, and each time, he'd nod, polite and easygoing, responsible and kind. he kept a photo of you, a polaroid taken one summer at the county fair, smiling wide with a ribbon pinned to your top. it sat tucked into his wallet like a secret. he'd take it out, some nights, when saving the world didn't feel like enough. when he ached for something real, and he'd remember how you looked at him before he was anything but clark, before the world started asking for pieces of him and when he still had everything to give.

you ran into him again by accident. it was a smallville alumni event, of all things, some fundraiser to redo the school gymnasium. it smelled the same, like floor wax and mixed perfume and your past. when he walked in, taller and broader and so distinctly him, it felt like time folded in on itself. "hey," you said, barely breathing. he blinked, then smiled slow and wide, like seeing you was the best thing that had happened to him in years, "hey," you two talked for hours after that. it was easy, in the dangerous way old love can be, like muscle memory. you didn't ask about his life, not in any way that mattered, and he didn't ask if you were happy. you ended up in the parking lot, leaned against the same honda you'd been driving for years, his face angelic in the street lamp's yellow glow. "you were always the best thing about this town," he said, eyes soft. "back when we were still figuring everything out," you hummed fondly, "remember that?" "i remember everything,"

he had a curious sort of look, one that asked you to get out of there without ever saying a single word, and soon you found yourself smiling like no time had passed, riding shotgun in his project truck like you had in high school, your car left in the school's lot. the seats still smelled like leather and pine, like football games and late night drives. when you pull into the grassy drive of the old barn, a comforted familiarity washes over you, warm and gentle. he follows you up the old, creaking ladder, keeping a respectful distance like he's unsure what's allowed anymore. you perch on the edge, legs dangled over, peering out at the dusky field. "looks the same," you murmur. "yeah," he nods, "not much changes here,"

you hum in agreement, letting the quiet wash over you like summer air, thick and hot. "i thought about this place a lot after i left," he says softly. you don't look at him, can't let yourself meet his eyes when talking about such a tender memory. "i thought maybe that i'd come back someday and it would all be the same. like a snow globe, yknow? like time would wait," "well it didn't," your voice is more tense, a slight rasp to it now. "no, you're right. it didn't," he says quietly, almost apologetically. you finally look at him, and for a moment, the emotion makes him look older, tired somehow. "you could've asked me to wait for you," you say softly, "but you didn't," he swallows, his throat bobbing, "i didn't think that was fair," "it probably wasn't, but i would've said yes anyway," the admittance feels like a relief, after all this time.

his jaw clenches, his eyes shining in the dark, "i still think about the summer before i left. you and me, that version of us. if i just would've held on a little tighter-" "clark, please," you exhale shakily, "don't," "i loved you," it sounds painfully raw, after the passed years, but it settles into your skin like a soothing balm, like confirmation it was real. "you know i loved you too," his shoulder brushes yours, and you let it. "i think about it all the time, how we didn't have it all figured out, how just wanting each other was enough," he says quietly, like a confession. there's something about being here with him, something about the closure finally coming, that feels cathartic. you don't kiss him, even though you want to. you just sit there for a while, two people who loved each other in a way time can't undo.

you climb down after a while, settle back into the cab of his truck, let the silence wash over you. he keeps one hand on the wheel and the other in his lap, twitching like he wants to reach for you, the entire drive back to your house. the radio buzzes low and staticky, some old country station that feels familiar, playing in your mind like the soundtrack of a memory. when he pulls into your driveway, he cuts the engine out of habit, the keys landing in his lap with a jangle. "can i walk you to your door?" he asks, eyes meeting yours across the seat. "yeah, sure," you nod, pushing the door open with your free hand. he gets out, follows you up the walkway, tries not to linger too much on the way you painted your front door and took down your old wind chimes.

he looks down at you as you stand on the top step, brushing a lock of hair from your face before he can stop himself, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "clark," you take a slow breath, your eyes meeting his. he doesn't speak, lets his eyes flicker down to your parted lips, and you finally snap. you stand on your tiptoes, hovering your lips over his, leaving the final decision in his hands. he takes the jump, leaning down and pressing his lips to yours. you fall into him like coming home, melting into his touch, sighing against his lips. he tastes like coffee and mint, like your past and the only future you've ever imagined.

you pull away after a moment, breathless and wide eyed, blood humming in your veins. "do you wanna come inside?" you ask, trying not to sound too hopeful. "yes, of course," he nods instantly, lovestruck and dazed, watching as you fumble with the lock and push the door open. you make it four steps inside before his hand is on your wrist, gentle and timid, pulling you back into his orbit. you kiss him again, smiling now, a surprised huff leaving your lips when he picks you up and rests you on the kitchen island, stepping between your legs and resting one hand on the side of your face, thumb swiping tenderly along your cheekbone. “you taste like home,” he pulls away just enough to take a breath, “missed you so much,” you pull him back in, one hand on the back of his neck, back arching to reach him better.

he groans, low in his throat, when your thigh brushes the tent forming in his jeans. the two of you stay that way for what feels like hours, kissing until you’re dizzy, your skin warmed all over. “bedroom,” you mumble between kisses, lips swollen, “please, clark,” he pulls your legs around his waist, sliding his hands to cup your thighs and carrying you to your bedroom like he did all those times before, kicking the door open and landing on the bed atop you with a huff. you slide your hands up the front of his shirt, feeling the ridges of his stomach beneath your cool hands, humming into the kiss at the familiar sensation. “can i take this off?” he pants, fingers toying with the hem of your dress. you nod, biting at your bottom lip, your eyes meeting his darkened orbs. he pulls you to sit up, unzipping the dress and carefully peeling it off, gently tossing it to the side. he sucks in a breath at your exposed skin, goosebumps rising from the cool bedroom.

“you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, one hand unclasping your lace bra, “you’re even more beautiful than the last time i saw you,” he lets your bra fall to the mattress, your nipples pebbling as you’re exposed further. his kisses trail lower, a low hum rumbling through his chest as he takes one nipple between his wet lips, laving his tongue at the bud. he occupies the other with one hand, rolling it between two fingers enough to have you gasping, the lace of your underwear sticking to your core. “oh, clark,” you exhale, thighs clenching in an attempt for some sort of relief, some pressure to coax out your tension, “need it so badly,” “let me take my time, sweet girl,” he murmurs against your spit slick skin, “have to make up for all i lost,” he slowly trails his kisses down to your stomach, sliding down your underwear and parting your thighs. the air hits you, shocking and cool, and a soft gasp leaves your lips at the sensation. “so wet for me,” he whispers, pupils dilated as he glances up at you, “so pretty,”

he doesn’t waste another second, licking a stripe up your core before sucking your clit between his lips, his tongue flicking. “oh!” one hand flies to his hair, weaving your fingers through it, “clark, my god,” he moans into you, continuing to lap at your cunt, wet and hungry. he slowly, gently, slides two fingers into you, a warm stretch accompanying the feeling of his tongue on your clit. your back arches, hand in his hair tightening as you feel your high approaching already, a pleasure that you only ever felt with clark overtaking you. “i’m so close,” you moan, eyes trained on his head between your thighs, “clark, right there, oh my god-“ you cum with a strangled gasp, hips bucking against his face, pussy spasming around his fingers. he works you through it, licking you clean, his lips wet and shining when he pulls away. “taste perfect,” he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, panting slightly, “sound so beautiful when you cum for me,”

he crawls back over you, propped on one arm, trailing his lips over your jawline. you gently take his jaw in your hand, bringing him down to kiss you, tasting yourself on his lips. your hand moves to unbuckle his pants, huffing when you fail to undo his belt. he sits up on his knees, exhaling a laugh as he removes the belt himself, his pants following. he pulls the shirt over his head, abs flexing, your eyes trained on the expanse of skin. there’s a tent in his boxers, heavy and twitching, and you feel another wave of need wash over you at the thought of having him inside of you again. he slips off the cotton, leaving him fully bare, flushed and leaking at the tip. “so big,” you murmur, reaching for him, taking the length of his cock in your hand. he hisses out a breath, watching your fingers wrap around him, stroking slowly. “so soft,” he mumbles, eyes falling closed, lashes thick against his cheek, “gosh, baby, missed you,” “missed you more,” you murmur, your free hand pulling at his bicep, “want you to make love to me, clark,”

“yes ma’am,” he grins despite the seriousness of the moment, leaning back down and slotting himself between your thighs, “still on the pill?” “mhm,” you nod, catching the corner of his lips in a quick kiss, legs parting more to accommodate his size. he slides his tip against your clit, eliciting a soft moan from you. he slides, back and forth, working you up further as he grinds against you, slick and bare. “clark, baby, please,” you mewl, watching the blissful expression fade over his features, “don’t tease me,” “just gettin you ready, sweet girl,” he murmurs, lips parted, “here you go, i’ll be nice,” he slowly, carefully, pushes inside of you, groaning quietly as you stretch around him. you pull him down into a kiss to muffle your moans, your tongue sliding against his as he bottoms out inside of you, filling you completely. his thrusts are slow and deep, one hand on your cheek and the other on your leg, holding it up to hit even deeper inside of you. he drags the hand from your cheek down to your clit, the pad of his thumb resting against your sensitive nerves as he speeds his thrusts, quiet, hoarse moans leaving his lips and disappearing into your mouth. you pull back, and he takes the chance to bury his face in your neck, half whines and half moans vibrating against your skin.

“feels so good,” you gasp as he hits a particularly deep spot, your eyes rolling back, “oh, clark, right there, just like that,” “yeah? is that good, angel?” he pants, hoarse and raspy, “gosh, can feel you squeezin me,” “yeah, so good,” you babble, lost in pleasure, your second orgasm quickly approaching, “oh, clark, i’m coming,” you let out a high pitched, breathless moan, clenching around him as you reach your high, thighs trembling and chest rising and falling rapidly. “good girl,” he praises, kissing your sweat dampened chest, his thrusts growing rougher, “close, baby,” you scratch at his shoulder blades, pulling him flush against you as he comes, your name falling from his lips in a whimper, flooding you with heat. “oh,” he catches his breath, forehead pressed to your collarbone, lips still parted, “that was- you’re incredible,” “mm, missed that so much, honey,” you murmur, voice raspy from moans, your fingers carding through his hair. he hums, deep and content, moving to lie beside you, tucking you against his chest.

“should we talk about everything?” you ask after a while of silence, his fingers trailing over your spine. “i guess so,” he says after a moment of thought, nerves growing in his stomach, “i’m sure you have questions,” “just want to know why you left,” you murmur, “i know you got the good job offer, but i don’t understand why it had to be so immediate. i don’t know why you didn’t ask me to come with you,” “you never would’ve left. you told me that,” he points out, “i couldn’t ask you to leave your family behind,” “you could’ve asked me to wait. i don’t care if it was unfair, it wasn’t your decision to make,” “i know,” he sighs, “i’m sorry. there’s nothing i can do to show you how sorry i am, alright? there are things i just couldn’t tell you, it’s complicated,” “complicated how, clark?” you sigh in return, rubbing your eyes, “just talk to me,” he hesitates, contemplates how he got to this point, all the work he’s done to keep his secret. he attempts to picture your reaction but comes up empty handed, anxious and apologetic. “well, i’m sure you’ve heard about all the work superman is doing in metropolis…”

#matchpointfaist #clark kent #clark kent x reader #clark kent fic #clark kent 2025 #david corenswet #david corenswet superman #david corenswet x reader #superman #superman x reader #superman smut #superman fanfiction #superman 2025 #clark kent smut #clark kent fanfiction #dc superman

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jacksabbotts · 2 days ago

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. ᵒ .༄ JACK ABBOT x MORGUE!READER ! ࿔* ·˚ ༘ ┊͙ # 🩻 possible trigger warnings heavy makeout ◞ over-the-clothes touching ◞ grinding ◞ PRAISE kink ◞ mention of past sexual harrasment ( not from jack but towards reader ) ‧ 🥼 ‧ ━━ WC 6.2k

series masterlist || inbox || ggc request form ━━━ * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @cafekitsune and @uzmacchiato

⤷ ✵ ✧ . · * . · . AFTER THE HEAT ━━ chapter twelve . ⋆ ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ summary after a rough shift, jack joins you in your apartment for a quiet, rain-soaked night that turns into something far more intimate. what starts as soft teasing and over-the-clothes heat transforms into a deeply emotional moment as you reclaim something that was once stolen—jack’s praise guiding you to your first real release in his arms.

the rain hit like static, a low hiss against the windshield that filled every pocket of silence. the kind of late-night rain that felt like it had weight, sticking to the streets, the windows, your skin.

you’d been sitting in jack’s truck for three minutes now, both of you too wrecked to move, letting the defroster hum while the world outside blurred into muted neon smudges.

neither of you had spoken since you left the hospital garage. there was no need. the day—or the night, whatever this hellshift qualified as—had already said everything for you. you could still feel the sterile hospital air in your lungs, the antiseptic bite of it clinging to your hair and clothes. your fingers ached. your knees ached. even your thoughts ached.

jack’s hand rested on the gearshift, steady, unshaking, like it always was. he hadn’t looked at you much during the drive—eyes mostly on the wet stretch of road—but you felt him. felt the weight of his awareness like the slow burn of a space heater.

you shifted in your seat, the vinyl squeaking softly under you. he caught the movement from the corner of his eye. “tired?” his voice was low, almost hoarse, like he’d spent too many hours shouting over trauma alarms. like the gravel in it was rawer than usual.

you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “exhausted.”

a ghost of a smile brushed his lips. “yeah. me too.”

the windshield wipers squeaked and dragged, filling the silence that followed. you wanted to say something—anything—but your brain was mush. the dinner plans you’d both half-joked about yesterday suddenly felt more laughable than ever. you could barely keep your eyes open, let alone pretend to be a functioning adult at a restaurant table.

“jack?” you hesitated, your voice smaller than you intended. “about tonight—”

he glanced over, his brow lifting slightly. “yeah?”

“could we . . . maybe not?” you asked softly, staring down at your hands. “i just—don’t have the energy for crowds tonight.”

there was a pause. long enough that you risked looking up.

jack’s eyes were on you, warm even in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. “sweetheart,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling in that soft, devastating way, “you think i wanna sit in some loud-ass restaurant after the day we had? hell no. i was kinda hopin’ you’d say that.”

you blinked. “you were?”

he shrugged, hand flexing casually over the gearshift. “figured you’d either pass out in your soup or cry someone who looked at you wrong. neither of those scream ‘first out in public date’ to me.”

a laugh escaped you, shaky but real. “wow. thanks for the vote of confidence.”

jack grinned, tired but warm. “i’m just saying—there are other ways to spend the night.”

your chest tightened. “like what?”

“like . . . ” he glanced at you, his smile softening. “movie? couch? maybe a quiet night in where we don’t have to talk about morgues or trauma bays.”

the words slipped out before you could stop them. “i don’t . . . have a couch.” you were now realizing that jack had never actually seen the inside of your apartment. only the walkway and the front door. it was a studio and the only thing you could afford on your salary in this city but it did it's job alright.

jack tilted his head. “no couch?”

“no.” you fidgeted with your sleeves. “just . . . a bed. and a very tiny tv.” you don't like how suggestive that sentence sounded. because you were not just trying to get jack abbot into your bed.

the truck went quiet again—except for the rain and your heart pounding against your ribs. jack didn’t smirk. he didn’t make it weird. he just looked at you like you’d just told him something important.

“your bed, huh?” his voice was softer now, quieter, with that rough undertone that made you shiver. “you inviting me over, morgue girl?”

your throat worked. “i-i-i didn't mean it like that. i mean-only if . . . you want to. it was your idea.” that last part was definitely not meant for him to hear, it died off into a whisper.

jack’s gaze lingered on you for one long, heavy second. then he smiled—slow, steady. “yeah. i want to.”

the weight of it settled between you—warm and terrifying all at once. he didn’t push. he guiding the truck through the wet streets toward your place like it was the most natural thing in the world.

he chuckled, the sound low and rough, like gravel being poured into something warm. his right hand slid easily off the gearshift and settled on your knee, fingers splayed, the heat of his palm soaking straight through the fabric of your jeans.

you froze.

not because it was unwelcome, but because it wasn’t. at all.

you could feel every nerve ending in your body responding, sparking to life under that single, deliberate touch. you swallowed hard, trying to will your muscles to relax, but your fingers only curled tighter around the seatbelt strap.

the rest of the drive blurred past in a haze of rain and your own heartbeat. every bump of the road, every low hum of the engine felt louder than normal, like the whole night was poised on a knife’s edge.

when he pulled into your street, the truck lights illuminated the slick pavement, glistening like black glass. jack killed the engine, the sudden quiet leaving you both suspended in the sound of rain.

“come on,” he said, already reaching behind the seat for an umbrella.

you hesitated and then he shot you a look over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised, as he flipped the umbrella open with a sharp click.

your lips twitched despite yourself. he came around to your side, pulling the door open with one hand while holding the umbrella high with the other. the rain pelted down around him, beads sliding off his henley sleeves, darkening the fabric over his forearms.

you hesitated again, blinking up at him, and that soft, crooked grin appeared again. “you waiting for a royal escort? c’mon, morgue girl. out.”

you stepped down onto the slick pavement, and the cold instantly hit you. jack shifted closer, holding the umbrella wide enough to cover you but letting the rain soak his own shoulder. his hand found your lower back instinctively—warm, solid, there—and you tried not to shiver from the contact.

the short walk to your apartment felt longer than the entire drive. the sound of rain on the umbrella was oddly intimate, like being sealed into your own little world with him. jack’s body heat radiated close to yours, and every step felt heavier with the weight of everything you weren’t saying.

at your door, he angled the umbrella so you could dig for your keys without getting soaked. “got it?” he asked quietly, eyes scanning your face as though he could tell you were more rattled than the rain warranted.

you nodded, fumbling a little because of course you did. his hand lingered on your back—steady, patient, like he wasn’t going anywhere.

the door clicked shut behind you, and suddenly your apartment—your safe little cave of solitude—felt too small. too warm. too aware of the man now standing just inside, shaking the rain from his hair like he belonged there.

jack glanced around, taking in the one-room layout: the narrow kitchen counter, the scuffed bookshelf, the unmade bed tucked near the window. his presence filled every corner, his broad shoulders dwarfing the tiny entryway. he didn’t say anything, just offered you that slow, crooked grin like he was already picturing you unraveling in this space.

you kicked off your wet shoes, trying not to stare. “uh… here,” you mumbled, darting for the closet. “i’ll get you a towel.”

“sweetheart,” he said behind you, voice warm, amused, “i’m not gonna melt.”

“still,” you shot back, too flustered to look at him. “you’re dripping on my floor.”

you grabbed the first towel you could find—soft but worn, a little frayed at the edges—and handed it over without meeting his eyes. he took it with a quiet, “thanks,” and started rubbing it over his hair, the motion pulling his shirt tighter across his shoulders. you stared at the floor like that would stop your brain from short-circuiting.

“you want something dry to change into?” you blurted, then immediately regretted it. “i—oh, god, i don’t have anything. i mean, i live alone, so obviously i don’t have men’s clothes, and that would be weird, and—”

jack chuckled low, cutting you off. “not a fan of other men’s clothes—unless it’s you wearing mine.”

your brain stopped. like, flatlined. your mouth opened and closed, but all that came out was a strangled, “i—wha—”

he smirked, tilting his head like he was watching you try to form a coherent sentence. “what? i meant it. can’t say i’d hate seeing you in one of my shirts.” his voice dropped, soft and rough all at once. “wouldn’t hate it at all.”

your knees went wobbly. “uh. right. okay.” smooth. very smooth.

jack grinned like he knew exactly what he was doing to you, then tossed the towel over a chair and shrugged out of his damp jacket. “what’s the plan, sweetheart? still want that movie night?”

“yeah,” you said too fast, voice cracking on the single syllable. “movie night. sure.”

movie night was a lie. you both knew it.

your little bed doubled as the couch because your studio was too small for anything else, so you laid perched nervously on the far edge of it, remote in hand, trying to look normal. jack sat next to you, close but not too close, his weight dipping the mattress just enough that you felt every movement.

the movie played on, some half-forgotten dialogue murmuring in the background, but you weren’t hearing any of it. all you could feel was him. jack was right there, an entire stretch of bed between you, but it might as well have been a mile.

his left hand was draped lazily between his knees—close to where you assume he laid limp. too close for your nervous brain to really comprehend.

you kept stealing glances—at his broad shoulders where his henley clung, at the way he sprawled against the pillows like he owned the space. like he owned you. his other arm was propped casually behind his head, bicep flexing with each subtle shift, and the soft flicker of the screen threw warm shadows across his jaw.

he didn’t look at you. not directly. but you felt him noticing. every time you fidgeted with the hem of your cardigan, every time you tucked your feet beneath you or crossed your arms to keep from reaching, you felt his attention like static.

the space between you was literally suffocating you. you hated how much you wanted to fill it.

stop being weird, you told yourself. it’s just jack. he’s literally just watching a movie.

but the silence burned holes in your chest, and your pulse wouldn’t settle. before you could talk yourself out of it, you shifted closer. just a little at first. barely enough to be noticeable. but then—jack turned his head.

and smiled.

not a smirk. not teasing. something softer. quieter. like maybe he’d been waiting for you to make that first move. his arm—heavy and warm—shifted down from behind his head, sliding onto the pillow between you. not touching, not yet, but open. welcoming.

you froze halfway through leaning into him, suddenly aware of how close you’d gotten.

jack chuckled low under his breath. not at you—never at you—but like he couldn’t help himself. then he tilted slightly toward your side, closing the last bit of distance until his arm brushed your sleeve.

it was barely a touch, but it made your breath stutter. “better,” he murmured, just once.

you didn’t realize you were holding your breath until his hand shifted—fingers brushing the curve of your arm, slow and deliberate. he didn’t pull you in. he didn’t need to. the quiet weight of him beside you was enough to make you fold.

you leaned closer, careful, your temple brushing his shoulder.

jack exhaled—long and slow. then his head tilted just enough that you felt his lips ghost your hairline. the movement was so slight, so natural, it didn’t feel like a question. it felt like inevitability.

you turned your head, the movie already forgotten, and that’s when you found his eyes.

god.

the way he looked at you. like you were something fragile and wanted at the same time. like he couldn’t believe you were his.

the air between you evaporated.

this time, jack didn’t wait for words. he shifted just enough to face you fully, his hand sliding from your arm to your jaw, and kissed you.

it wasn’t rushed. it wasn’t demanding. it was slow, deliberate, like he wanted to savor every single second you let him have.

and you melted.

his lips lingered on yours, soft at first—like he was letting you set the pace. he kissed you once, twice, and then his hand slid up, fingers curling against the side of your neck. not hard, not insistent, just there. warm and solid.

your breath hitched. “relax,” he murmured, voice barely a whisper against your mouth. “we’re not in a hurry.”

god, that voice. it coiled low in your stomach, spreading heat through your chest, and you kissed him back harder without meaning to. jack made a soft sound in response—half groan, half approval—and shifted so he was lying back more fully against the pillows, his arm tugging you closer.

you went. hesitant, yes, but you went. the mattress dipped beneath his weight as he leaned just a little sideways, pulling you with him until you were pressed along his side, your knee brushing his thigh.

the kiss deepened. his mouth opened just slightly, and when his tongue brushed yours—light, slow—you made a sound you didn’t recognize. a startled, desperate little noise that had his grip tightening fractionally on your waist.

“yeah,” he breathed against your lips, his voice gone lower. rougher. “just like that.” your whole body burned. you didn’t know what to do with your hands—one was clutching the hem of your sweater, the other hovering stupidly near his shoulder like it had lost all function. jack noticed—of course he did—and reached down, wrapping his hand around yours.

“here,” he murmured, voice coaxing. he placed your palm flat against his chest, right over his heart. “feel that? that’s all you.”

your stomach flipped. his heartbeat was a steady, heavy thud beneath your fingertips. you swallowed hard, your fingers curling reflexively into the soft fabric of his henley.

“other hand,” he said quietly, nudging your arm from where it was frozen against your side. he guided it to his jaw—warm, rough with stubble—and left it there. “good. now hold on to me.”

you couldn’t breathe. couldn’t think. all you could feel was the weight of him, the heat of his body against yours, and the lazy, devastating way he kissed you like he had all night to break you apart.

when his hand started to slide up from your hip, you didn’t even register it at first. his palm traced your ribcage, hovering just below your breast, and he paused—pulling back just far enough to murmur, “okay?”

you nodded, too fast. “y-yeah.”

jack smirked faintly, but it wasn’t teasing. it was warm, slow, approving. his hand moved lower, over the curve of your waist, back to your hip again. his thumb brushed the seam of your leggings, and your stomach clenched so hard you gasped into his mouth.

“easy,” he said softly, kissing you again. “i’ve got you.”

and then—oh god—he shifted. just a little. his hips rolled forward as he leaned over you, and you felt it. the hard, solid press of him against your stomach, the heat of his arousal through the denim of his jeans. you jolted, breath stuttering against his lips.

“feel that?” jack rasped, breaking the kiss for half a second to breathe against your cheek. “that’s what you do to me.”

you froze. not because you wanted to stop, but because the sheer intensity of it knocked your brain clean out of your head.

jack noticed—of course he did. he was specially tuned to you whether you liked it or not. he pulled back just far enough to look at you, thumb brushing your jaw. “too much?”

“no,” you whispered. shaking your head. “not too much. just . . . i don’t know what to do.” he smiled—soft and slow and devastating. “then let me help.”

his hand slid down, curling gently around your wrist, guiding it to his stomach. his warmth burned through his henley. he waited—always waiting—before sliding your hand lower, to the waistband of his jeans.

your breath caught. “jack—”

“you don’t have to do anything,” he said, his voice like gravel now. “just feel me. that’s all.”

your palm hovered over the firm line of muscle just below his belt, your fingers trembling. jack leaned in closer, kissing you slow, steady, like you had all the time in the world. and when you shifted—accidentally pressing against him—his breath hitched hard.

a low, rough sound left his throat, deep enough to make you shiver.

jack’s kisses slowed, deepened, his breath mingling with yours as his hand left your wrist and slid back to your hip. his thumb traced lazy circles there, the pressure feather-light but maddening. then, lower—fingers brushing the outside of your thigh, inch by inch.

you stiffened—because every nerve in your body was suddenly screaming awake. “hey,” jack murmured, pulling back just enough to see your face. his lips were swollen, his voice rough. “just breathe, sweetheart.”

“i am,” you whispered, though it didn’t sound convincing.

jack’s grin was soft but knowing. his palm swept up your thigh again—slow, deliberate, the kind of touch that wasn’t trying to rush you but still sent heat blooming low in your belly. “can i . . . ?” he didn’t finish the sentence. he didn’t need to. the way his fingers hovered near the edge of your leggings, just shy of where you were throbbing, said everything.

your pulse spiked. you couldn’t bring yourself to answer. not right away. “baby, look at me,” he said gently, hand still and waiting. his tone wasn’t a command, not really—it was an anchor, a thread pulling you back into the moment.

your gaze flicked to his.

he searched your eyes, patient and steady, like he’d wait all night if that’s what it took. “do you want me to touch you?”

the breath you dragged in was shaky. you nodded.

“uh-uh,” jack said, soft but firm. “use your words, baby. remember what we talked about?” your stomach dropped, heat crawling up your neck. "you want me to touch you. you gotta say it out loud."

“i… yes. please.”

he shakes his head, disapproving. "uh-uh, gotta say the words."

"i-i-i want you to . . . touch me, jack." his exhale was low and harsh, like you’d just knocked the wind out of him. “that's my girl,” he muttered, his voice hoarse—jack’s words were molten, reverent, like he was praising you for trusting him.

and then his hand slid between your thighs.

not on your center yet—just the inside of your leg, his palm warm even through the fabric. he started low, just above your knee, his thumb tracing lazy, featherlight strokes up, up, up—pausing at the edge of your leggings where the heat of your body radiated through the cotton.

you gasped. your hips shifted without meaning to, trying to chase the warmth of his hand.

jack groaned—soft and restrained—his forehead dropping briefly to yours. “fuck. you’re killing me, sweetheart,” he breathed.

he kissed you again—slow, deep—his fingers brushing over you now, the lightest pass over your clothed cunt. not pushing, not rushing, just enough to make your entire body shiver. “like that?” he whispered against your lips.

you couldn’t even answer. just a breathless, shaking nod.

jack’s hand is warm, heavy against your center, sliding in slow, deliberate passes. every stroke of his palm feels like it burns, like the fabric of your leggings can’t hold back the heat pooling there. his mouth is everywhere—kissing your jaw, your temple, the corner of your lips—while his fingers toy at the edge of where you need him most.

“relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough velvet. “you’re wound up so tight you’re shaking.”

“i—” the word dies in your throat when his thumb skims right over the seam of your leggings, close to your clit. no pressure, not really—just enough to make your hips twitch. he groans into your mouth when you gasp, a low, hungry sound that vibrates against your lips.

“that’s it,” he whispers, coaxing. “just feel me. nothing else. yeah?”

your breath hitches. you nod, though it feels like your brain is melting. he takes that as permission to press a little more firmly, his fingers tracing slow, teasing circles over the fabric, each one tighter than the last.

“jack—”

“i’ve got you,” he soothes, kissing you slow and deep, his hand molding against you like he’s learning every inch of your body by heart. “just like that. keep moving for me.”

it’s instinct. your hips roll—hesitant, unsure—but when you grind against the heel of his hand, the sound jack makes is nothing short of sinful. his head drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as he grind his cock into your thigh. “fuck. you feel that? you’re making me crazy, baby.”

heat sparks through you like lightning. you can’t stop the way you rock into him, desperate and trembling, chasing the friction. his hand guides you—steady, encouraging, the pressure of his palm firm enough to make you dizzy.

“you’re perfect,” he mutters, his voice breaking with it. “you don’t even know how good you feel like this. god, i could stay here all night, just watching you.”

your whole body jerks when his thumb finally drags slowly over your clothed clit, a shudder ripping through you. he kisses you hard when you gasp, like he can’t stand to let the sound escape.

“such a good girl.”

the words hit like a brick to the chest.

everything stops.

your breath catches, and not in the way he means. it’s too sudden, too sharp. all at once, you’re not here—you’re standing in that sterile morgue again, shepherd’s voice slimy and low as he said the same words, good girl, like you were something to belittle. something to control.

your body freezes. jack feels it instantly.

“hey.” his hand is gone from between your legs before you can process it, his palm cupping your cheek instead, his voice low and concerned. “sweetheart. what’s wrong? did i—shit, did i go too far?”

“no,” you blurt, too fast. too desperate. you don’t want to think about shepherd. you don’t want this to stop. you grab jack’s wrist with trembling hands and try to guide him back down, back to where you need him. “please, jack. i’m fine. just—keep going.”

but jack doesn’t move. his hand stays right where it is, fingers brushing your hip but not pushing further. his eyes are dark, tinged with worry.

“you froze up on me,” he says gently. “sweetheart, talk to me. what happened?” you shake your head, frustrated, embarrassed. “nothing, i promise. i’m fine.”

jack’s jaw tightens. he doesn’t believe you. “no,” he says, voice firmer now. “something’s happened and we're not doing anything until you tell me what.”

your throat works, but no words come out. jack is still watching you, all warmth stripped from his expression—his brows furrowed, his jaw clenched, his hand still stubbornly resting high on your hip instead of where you want it.

“sweetheart,” he says again, quieter this time, though there’s steel under the softness. “look at me.”

“i said i’m fine,” you whisper, but your voice cracks right down the middle.

“sweetheart.” his tone leaves no room for argument. it’s not harsh, not even close. but it’s steady, grounded, the kind of voice that wraps around you like a hand at the back of your neck. “you think i can’t tell when something’s wrong?”

your throat feels tight, unbearably so. you squeeze your eyes shut. don’t say it. don’t bring him here. not into this. not into jack.

but jack’s thumb brushes your cheek, tilting your face until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. “talk to me,” he murmurs. “you can tell me anything. always.”

your voice is a whisper. “it’s nothing. just—something stupid. i don’t wanna ruin this.”

the words hit something in you—deep, aching. it’s not like shepherd. it’s not like anyone else. and maybe that’s why the truth spills out in the smallest, ugliest whisper.

“you’re not gonna ruin anything,” jack murmurs, leaning in just enough that his forehead nearly brushes yours. “but if something’s in your head, i need to know. i’m not gonna let you sit here and pretend you’re okay when i can feel you aren’t.”

his thumb rubs an absent circle on your hip—comforting, not demanding. you shake your head, breath catching. “it’s not you.”

“ok,” he says firmly. “but i can’t fix what i don’t know, baby. what happened?”

you’re silent for a moment, wrestling with the words. the memory of shepherd’s voice slithers through your mind, unbidden, good girl. you flinch just thinking it.

when you finally speak, your voice cracks. “he said it. that . . . that name.”

jack doesn’t move. but the temperature in the room changes. he pulls back just far enough to see your face, his expression shifting—slowly, dangerously—from confusion to realization. his brows knit tighter. “who?”

you swallow hard, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. “shepherd. dr. shepherd. he . . . he called me that once.”

jack’s brows knit, confusion flashing into something sharper. “called you what?” you wondered for a second how someone so observant could be so oblivious.

your chest is tight, tears stinging at the back of your eyes. “good girl,” you whisper, and the words taste like ash. “and it didn’t—it didn’t feel right. it felt . . . ” your voice trails off, trembling.

jack’s whole body goes rigid. his jaw clenches so hard you can hear it. “that son of a—” he cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face like he’s fighting the urge to throw something.

“jack—”

“no.” his voice is low, rough with fury. “no, sweetheart. he doesn’t get to do that. he doesn’t get to leave his shit in your head, not when you’re here with me.”

your breath stutters.

jack looks at you then—really looks, with that dangerous softness you’ve only seen once or twice. he taps two fingers lightly against your chest, right over your heart. “he doesn’t get this. he doesn’t get you.”

the tears come faster than you can stop them. “i didn’t want to ruin it,” you admit, voice breaking. “it felt different when you said it. better. but i couldn’t stop thinking about—”

“hey, look at me.” his hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing away a tear like it’s an offense to his hands. his eyes are steady, warm even through the storm brewing in them. “you think i’m gonna let him take that from you? not a damn chance.”

you choke out a laugh that’s almost a sob. “jack—”

“no, listen.” his forehead tips to yours, his voice lowering to something so soft it wrecks you. “when i call you that? it’s because you are good. because you make me feel things i can’t even put words to. because you’re perfect to me. you hear me? that’s all it means. nothing about him. just you and me.”

something in your chest caves. you nod, shaky.

“say it,” he murmurs.

“say what?”

“tell me that you understand it,” he says, not rough, not claiming, but with a quiet conviction that makes your pulse skip.

“i understand,” you whisper.

“yeah,” he breathes, kissing your forehead like it’s the only answer that matters. “you’re my good girl. and i’ll say it until it feels like yours again. not his.”

the words wreck you. utterly. you nod into his chest, clutching his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you here.

your other hand slinks around his wrist and tightens around it. jack’s hand freezes midair when you push it back down, pressing his palm into the heat between your legs through your leggings.

“sweetheart…” his voice is tight, warning, but his eyes darken instantly. “you sure? we don’t—”

“say it,” you whisper, breath shaky but fierce. “say it again.”

his throat bobs, and for half a second, he just looks at you—like he’s trying to decide if you mean it, if you’re ready for what that word will feel like when it’s his.

then his lips curl into the faintest, roughest smile, and he presses his hand down firmer, fingers dragging slow against the seam of your leggings.

“good girl,” he rasps, and your body jerks like it’s the first time you’ve heard it. his. not shepherd’s. not poisoned or cruel or degrading. jack says it like it’s the only thing you’ll ever be—like it’s holy.

your breath stutters. “again,” you demand, your voice a whisper that somehow sounds more like begging than commanding.

he groans low in his chest, his hand moving with deliberate, steady pressure, rubbing you in slow circles through the soft barrier of fabric. “god, you feel so good under me. so wet already, aren’t you? that’s my good girl, letting me take care of you like this.”

your thighs tremble, hips twitching into his hand. “jack—”

“shh,” he murmurs, his tone roughening as his fingers speed up just slightly. “don’t stop saying my name like that. you like me touching you? you want more?”

you nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders. “yes, yes, i—jack, please…”

“please what?” his words come between hot, open-mouthed kisses along your neck, his voice rough against your pulse. “please don’t stop? please make you come? tell me, sweetheart. use your words like i asked.”

“please—don’t stop,” you gasp, your hips rocking now, chasing every drag of his fingers over the damp spot growing in your leggings. “say it again. say i’m your—”

“my good girl,” he growls into your throat, this time harsher, more desperate. “you’re mine. all mine. nobody gets to touch you like this but me. nobody gets to make you feel this good.” his hand presses harder, fingers curling like he’s trying to mold you to his palm, and your body arches.

“again,” you cry out, because the word feels like fire in your veins now. “jack—say it again.”

“good girl,” he repeats, rougher this time, his voice breaking as his thumb finds a rhythm that has you keening, your leggings slick and hot under his hand. “good girl, taking it so well. fuck, you’re perfect. that’s it. just like that. you’re gonna come for me, aren’t you?”

your head falls back, mouth open, a sound tearing from your throat that you didn’t even know you could make. his free hand grips your hip to hold you steady as you rut against his palm, breathless and shaking.

jack’s hand is relentless now, the slow, teasing patience gone, replaced by something darker and hungrier. his fingers press hard against the damp fabric between your legs, working you with a steady rhythm that makes your breath hitch with every drag of his palm.

“you’re soaking through these,” he mutters against your jaw, his voice low and frayed. “christ.”

you can feel him—hard and heavy—grinding against your side where you’re pinned beneath him. each rut of his hips sends a fresh bolt of heat through you, the friction of his jeans against your thigh paired with his hand on you too much to handle.

“jack,” you gasp, nails clawing at the fabric of his henley. “i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” he growls, his forehead pressed to yours now, every line of his body shaking with restraint. “you’re so close, sweetheart. i can feel it. don’t hold back on me. be my good girl and come for me.”

the words hit like a lightning strike—raw, rough, too much. your hips jerk up against his hand, chasing the friction, and jack groans loudly, his breath ragged against your mouth.

“god, that’s it—ride my hand, baby, just like that. fuck—” his voice cracks as his hips grind harder into your side, the roughness of his jeans brushing the soft curve of your waist.

you whimper, desperate and shaking. “say it again.”

“good girl,” he snarls, his tone rough and desperate as his thumb presses down over your clit through the fabric, circling with just enough pressure to make you see stars. “my good girl, taking everything i give her. you’re so fucking perfect like this.”

your head tips back, lips parting on a sharp, breathless cry as you chase the pressure, rutting against his hand while he works you faster. jack’s other arm braces beside your head, holding him above you, his bicep flexing as he moves with you. he’s sweating, groaning, losing it.

“jack—jack, i—”

“yeah, i know,” he pants, his hips jerking faster now as he grinds against your side, chasing his own high. “i’m right there with you, sweetheart. come for me. come with me. i wanna feel you fall apart while i do.”

the combination of his words, his hand, his body moving against yours pushes you over the edge with a sharp, broken cry. your thighs clamp around his hand, your body arching as wave after wave crashes through you.

“yes, fuck, that’s it,” jack groans, watching your face like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. his hips stutter against you once, twice—and then he’s falling with you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his groan muffled against your skin as he comes in his jeans.

the world goes quiet for a moment. the rain outside. the sound of both of you panting, hearts racing. his hand slows, soothing, as he eases you down from the high, fingers brushing lightly against your trembling thighs.

“jesus christ,” he whispers, his voice wrecked. he shifts just enough to cradle you, pulling you into his lap while you’re still shivering. “you okay? sweetheart, look at me.”

your answer is barely a sound, just a soft hum as you bury your face against his throat, clinging to him like you’re afraid to let go. his chest shakes with a quiet laugh, warm and fond.

you are glued to him. melted. dissolved. a trembling, boneless heap in jack abbot’s lap, clinging like the world might fall out from under you if you let go. your arms are locked around his neck, your cheek smushed into that perfect, sweat-warm spot just under his jaw, and you are not letting go.

he shifts just slightly to reach for something and you whine—an honest-to-god, unconscious little whine—and hold tighter.

he huffs a soft laugh against your temple. “god, you’re clingy after you come, huh?” he teases, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “not that i’m complaining. i could hold you like this all night.”

you don’t even deny it. you can’t. your voice is half-gone and your brain’s still buffering. the only thing that comes out is a soft, shattered hum and the barely-there whisper of—“jack…”

and his arms tighten immediately. big, broad hands splayed across your back, cradling, grounding.

“i’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, like he’s soothing a spooked animal. “not going anywhere.”

you’re not sure how long you stay like that—folded into each other, hearts still racing, breath slowly evening out—but eventually, you feel him shift again. this time, he eases you back just enough to see your face.

your cheeks are flushed. lips kiss-bitten. eyes glassy and dazed. you look thoroughly wrecked, and he looks so proud.

“stay here,” he says gently, brushing your hair off your face. “i’ll be right back.”

and true to his word, he’s back in less than a minute with a towel—warm from the dryer, because of course it is—and a bottle of water. he sets the towel down and unscrews the cap, coaxing the bottle into your hands.

“c’mon, sip for me,” he says, guiding it to your lips when you don’t move fast enough. “there you go. that’s my good girl.” he mumbles when you do begin to sip.

you flush all over again. you try to argue, something weak and croaky like i’m fine, but he cuts you off with a look.

“you were perfect.”

you shrink a little at the praise, still half-embarrassed by how much you needed it—how much you liked it—but he just grins, wicked and fond, and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. you open your mouth to argue that you didn't even do anything but whine and moan, but again he stops you cold. "don't argue. you were perfect, baby."

“you always clingy after?” he teases quietly, fingers lazily stroking your thigh. “or is this just a me thing?”

you don’t answer. you can’t. your eyes are fluttering shut and your breath’s gone slow and even. he chuckles again, low and fond, and shifts the blankets over both of you.

“yeah,” he murmurs, tugging you close, “that’s what i thought.”

🔖 . @princesssunderworld @mayabbot @imherefordeanandbones @arigoldsblog @oldmanbunnylover @i-mushi @autumnleaves1991-blog @lovelexi717 @peggyofoz @qtmoonies @nfwmb-gvf @britt217 @babybatreads @cheekym8s @bitteroceanlove @spooky-librarian-ghost @dr-yapper @yutasgem @keseqna @gardeniarose13 @witchbitchlovesdilfs @sotragedynut @robbyrosierobinavitch @anglophileforlife @flyinglama @reignbooks8506 @kmc1989 @sillymuffintrashflap @letstryagaintomorrow @caterpillarskimono @maiamore @chuiisi @madzleigh01 @qardasngan @imightbeinsanebutwtv

@Shadowfoxey @foolishseven @anxiousfuckupon @Lumpypoll @Coldmuffinbanditshoe @blueliketheseaa @Justfaefaeee @sweetdayme4427 @404creep @yourdaydreamerfan @ddrawers96 @m14mags @generalstarlightobject @twiddledeedumsworld @dlljdhsh @jetless @Thedamnqueenofhell @Topnerd03 @misshoneypaper @abllor @Loud-mouph @cannonindeez @nubecita040 @Sabi127 @Coleground @sevenberry @idontcarenoughtonamethis @beebeechaos @cwzham @homebytheharbor @Sammiib444 @painment @namgification @Cherry_cosmos @catmomstyles3 @livingavilaloca @hello-lisa1026 @emma8895eb @thesnugglingduck

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* ✷ ⊹ * ˚ want to join the morgue tech!reader taglist??? click here!!!

#★ 彡 . . . ❪ fic : good girl confessions ❫#jack abbot x morgue tech!reader #the pitt x morgue tech!reader #morgue tech!reader

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deerspherestudios · 1 day ago

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hello there! i just wanted to ramble incoherently and say that michael's character and his insecurities really touched me. the way you wrote him felt so human (ironically) and natural! i know many people have applauded you on his character but i have some different perspective hopefully. made a whole account just to send this (before realizing i had to wait a whole day to send an ask). really sorry if this seems cheesy!

for starters, i suffer from a condition that alters my appearance pretty drastically. i won't get really into detail about what it is, but i always have to wear somewhat of a disguise when i go out. i've gotten used to it by now, since i've had to deal with it for a little over 5 years already, but there is that lingering sense of fear and disgust that comes here and there with myself. while i haven't had anyone call me a monster, i've definitely had some ridiculing or insensitive comments and remarks.

i'd lie, jump over and dodge the truth to people so that perhaps someone, someone could see me as a person they could love. be attracted to, accepted wholeheartedly without a doubt. obviously that's not going to work, i could only keep away the truth away for so long. i wanted to love and be loved, not despite my flaws or appearance but with it. so it made me jealous and bitter. why couldn't i be like everyone else? who would love and accept someone like me?

when mychael finally confessed, i think i understood that dread. that nasty, ugly feeling when the guilt crawls up to you. when you've been found out after lying your way into a companionship because you wanted to hope that maybe, someday, someone will stay. but you deceived them. can someone really forgive something as hideous as you?

you've done a wonderful job at writing mychael. i love how his circumstance is definitely prominent, but there's also still so much more to him beyond that. the heartbreak, the insecurities, love and galore!

moving on from that, i think what i enjoy most is that discomfort you get from rejecting him as the days past. he's genuine and kind, but also so pushy and desperate. it's like trying to say "no" to the super nice person who just wants to get to know you better and be their nice usual self as usual! and it's like, man, i can't really deny them because they've done this and that! you'd be a terrible person to refuse them! the game shows you what it has in store, and then let's you decide whether you should trust him or not. and what i just love is how it almost manipulates you into coming back and replaying the game because you feel so bad for mychael. it doesn't even need to do much! he's such a genuine person and he feels so real, so you inflict your actual real life response onto him and boom!! manipulation time! look at him :( are you gonna say no to him out of all people? wow, you're the monster for wanting boundaries. such a different but amazing pace from the usual yandere-type games.

so in total: am i projecting? definitely. but that doesn't deny that you've made a beautiful and compelling game and character. i can't express to you enough how much this touches me, so thank you for making me (and i'm sure many others) feel heard and seen through a yandere visual novel out of all things! and you know what? i'd probably be a little obsessed with someone if they were as kind and accepting as MC. difference is that i'd start bawling after the river speech aha. i do wonder how mychael would react to someone like me though. i didn't wanna send a separate ask so i just dumped out everything in one. anyway, very sorry for how long this was! not the best at explaining myself, but thank you again for creating mushroom oasis :)

Waaa a a , ,, thank you for such a heartfelt message,,, weeps,,,

As for how Mychael would react, he'd definitely feel a sense of kinship on being judged for how you look, and finding someone who can relate to him so well would give him a sense of comfort too <3

Who knows maybe YOU'RE his comfort character!!

#mushroom oasis vn #mychael ask #doodles #jar of fireflies #i need to remember people genuinely enjoy my work and resonate with it as much as they do #thank you so SO much for sharing and the fact you made an account means so much!!!#i bestow upon you the highest badge of honor “my fursona bawling.png” aka aptly titled “auwgagh” in my folders #i'm sorry it took me so long to respond but I have a bad habit of hoarding these type of messages instead of responding to them haha!

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redsbookshelf · 15 hours ago

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The wrong girl next door. - Clark Kent

Distant Smallville!Clark Kent x Lover girl!reader

In which... Clark is left to sit with his thoughts after telling you to stop showing up for him. He realizes that he might've just made the biggest mistake of his life, but it was to protect you, and it's not like he's in love with you or anything, right?

Warnings: Angst, use of Y/n, Clark is kind of mean for a bit, but he has a redemption arch, hurt/no comfort (for now), cursing, crying (Is that even a warning lmao), sad clark, written in second person.

series masterlist

Dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

The second you entered your home after walking for about 4 minutes, your father instantly noticed something was up. The smeared mascara, red eyes, stuffy nose, and subtle pout on your lips were all collectively a dead giveaway.

"Baby doll, what's wrong?" Your father was tough man, tall, strong, and grew up on a farm that he came to inherit, but he was a girl dad at heart. Nothing could touch his baby girl without facing the consequences. You knew that.

"Nothing, dad don't worry about it." You force a smile, trying your best to make it buyable. "Y/n-" He begins, "Really dad it's nothing." You turn around quickly, walking towards the safety of your bedroom before he's even able to respond.

The last thing you wanted was for Clark to have to deal with your dad, you weren't mad at him. Not when it was your fault for being too clingy, too bubbly, too loud. You pushed too hard when he was done with you, now you get to deal with the aftermath.

Now, sitting on the floor, after sliding down the door, the breakdown had fully hit you. Crossing your fingers, you're feeling pretty lucky considering your dad hasn't tried to push anymore. But little do you know, your dad is already reaching for the phone.

To say Jonathan was confused when he received that call from your dad is an understatement. After bidding your father goodbye he decided to discuss it with Martha before asking questions.

Meanwhile, in the loft, Clark is pacing back and forth repeatedly. He couldn't stop replaying your words in his head. "...even while you weren't trying to be my person, you still were, you still are.", echos in his head to no end. He can't believe how much you truly care for him, doesn't understand why you think he's so perfect, why you look at him the way you do.

He can't stop seeing the heart broken expression on your sweet face, pouty lips, running tears, pleading eyes, silently begging him to stop breaking your heart, Clark's never felt so guilty in his whole life.

He stops pacing, his heart pounding in his chest realizing what he just did.

He basically collapses on the couch, he stares into nothing, all he can think about is you. Tears start to flow; quiet sobs are released into the air as the final realization settles in. He just pushed you away for good.

Gentle sobs rack throughout his body as he drops his head into his hands, quiet cries being muffled by his palms. He feels the couch shift, the weight of a person gently sitting down next to him. Clark still doesn't move from his position, unable to contain himself.

Jonathan places a gentle hand on his back, feeling his trembling torso beneath calloused fingertips. He lets Clark feel, not saying anything just yet, but he's racking his brain trying to figure out why he walked up to the loft to find his son looking broken and defenseless. Not only that, but so unaware of his surroundings.

When Clark finally lifts his head to half meet his father's gaze, Jonathan softly starts, "What happened, son?" it's not pushy, his tone full of genuine concern.

Clark shakes his head, face twisting in sorrow, "Dad, I think I messed up." Jonathan waits for his son to continue, letting him decide what information he tells him.

"She started bringing up how she missed me, asked me if I was okay, I told her nothing was wrong, and that I've just had a lot on my mind." Clark takes a deep breath, swallowing hard, "but then she just kept pushing, she asked if she did something wrong, I didn't answer, and she told me that it was getting hard to care about me."

Jonathan is looking into his son's tear-filled eyes when he softly asks him, "Well, what did you say?"

"I told her to stop, I told her to stop showing up for me, stop loving me, that I wasn't meant to be her person." The words come flying out of Clarks mouth, tears falling out of his eyes. "I had to; I can't let her get hurt because of me. I can't be the friend she needs, and I can't risk putting her in danger." Your face flashed in his head again, "She was so upset and I just kept going, I didn't mean to hurt her, dad."

His voice breaks at the end of his sentence, dropping his head back down. Jonathan nods understandingly, "Do you want to know what I really think?" he asks. Clark eagerly nods his head, desperate for any way he could stop hurting, stop you from hurting.

"Son, you can't keep pushing people out of your life that care about you because it's easier. You say you did it to protect her, but it sounds a lot like you were just protecting yourself." Jonathan explains the hard truth to Clark with a serious tone; he can't stand to watch his son throw his life away over a fear of what people will think.

Clark sits in what he says for a moment, tears beginning to run dry. "I can't believe I lost her." Clark says under his breath, "Clark, you didn't lose her because of what you are, you lost her because of what you did." Jonathan simply replies.

Clark is internally beating himself up, memories of when you were close begin filling his mind.

Flashback

"Clark, wait for me." You yell while jogging to catch up with him, he wasn't even walking fast, he's just so much taller than you—one step for him was like 2 and a half for you.

"It's not my fault you’re slow" He teases, smiling down at you as you come up beside him. You're walking up to his house from the bus stop, he asked you if you wanted to come over so you could study. Even while agreeing to study, you knew that wasn't going to happen, you would get distracted and before you knew it; he would have to walk you home.

Later that day, your books were spread out on the floor of the loft completely forgotten about, laughter had replaced your conversation about your writing project, a game of uno had replaced your writing assignment.

"Clark! that's cheating you're not allowed to do that." You said between giggles. "I can too, it's allowed I swear" He smiles brightly at you. "Yeah right, what rule book are you using?" You raise an eyebrow at him, "Uhhh, Clark's special edition?" he says like he tried to lie and failed.

Laughter bursts from the two of you, you didn't even know what was so funny, Clark's joke definitely didn't account for how you were both laughing so hard your stomachs hurt—well yours did, if Clarks could, it would, too. It was just the two of you, the presence of each other. It was always like this, like everything was just better when you were around one another. Jokes were funnier, boring errands turned into goofy dares in the middle of town, studying while rarely actually happening even became something you both really enjoyed.

The laughter dies down after a minute, you're leaning against the back of the couch, out of breath. Clark's sweet smile appearing on his face casually, looking at you with nothing but adoration.

You lock eyes, giving him a gentle smile back, "You make me feel like I really belong here, Clark."

That was the day he swore to himself that he would always protect you.

Clark's memory gets cut short by a pang in his chest, knowing he's done just the opposite of that for the last three years, and still, you cared for him so loudly. 'Why couldn't I just return that? she never deserved anything but that.' Echos through his head.

"I don't even know why I care so much, dad. It's always been Lana, hasn't it?" Clark admits, he didn't expect this to feel like it did.

Jonathan sighs, giving Clark a tight-lipped smile while rising to his feet, "That's not for me to tell you, but if you ask me, you've been after the wrong 'girl next door'."

Clark watches as his dad walks down the stairs of the loft while thinking about how he's going to handle this next. "I should just stick my ground and not try to take it back, this is best for us, for her. She'll be safe." "I have to reach out, I have to fix this, she'll never be safer than when I'm right next to her." "I can't ask her to forgive me, especially now that things are going somewhere with Lana, this is exactly what I've been waiting for my whole life, isn't?" His thoughts are running a million miles per hour, arguing with himself, trying to figure out how he's going to function without her.

Three days later...

It's sunny out today, the May showers slowly dissipating, allowing warm beams of bright light to shine through the clouds. The kind of warmth you turn your face to, it feels familiar, comfortable, warm.

Unlike Clark Kent, who broke your heart casually and let you walk out like it meant nothing to him.

If only you knew.

You hadn't heard from Clark at all, but when did you ever? You didn't let that get to you, at least, that's what you told yourself. In reality there was a small ache in your chest, missing the best friend you lost three years ago, but became official Wednesday night.

Lana asked you if you could pick up an extra shift at the Talon, and her being your best friend and your boss, you of course agreed. You needed something to keep your mind busy anyway.

Luckily you scheduled with the same Miss Lana Lang, so you got to work with your best friend. She completely made you forget about Clark, making you laugh, talking about summer plans, wanting you to come over and ride the horses with her next Tuesday before closing shift, and overall helping you remember that life outside of Clark Kent exists, you're your own person. You don't need him.

Right as you and Lana are doing some preclosing things like sweeping in the empty corners of the room, wiping down unoccupied tables, and washing the dishes in the sink, none other than Clark strolls in.

Theres nothing cocky or self-centered about the way he walks in, he actually seems almost mopey. You wonder to yourself about what happened, Clark rarely acts like that infront of people, especially in front of Lana because he of course on his best behavior with her.

You choose to keep at it on the table you're wiping down, pretending you don't notice him. You control your breathing, trying to prevent yourself from getting anxious by his presence. He shouldn't have that much power over you.

Clark takes casual steps towards the counter where Lana is, but what you don't see is the way his eyes follow your every move as he walks, the way his eyebrows are slightly furrowed.

"Hey Clark," You hear Lana's sweet voice ring out through the Talon, slightly tense. She's probably mad at him due to your prior explanations as to why Clark Kent suddenly isn't a topic you're interested in anymore.

"Hey Lana, I, uh," Clark stumbles over his words, his tone sounding unconfident. "I wanted to just pop in and see how everything was going." His back straightening out as the words flow smoother out of his mouth on his second attempt.

Lana gives him one of her signature smiles, which you don't see with your back turned to them as you scrub the table rather harder than needed.

Lana lowers her voice, making sure that you're just out of ear shot. "Why are you really here Clark?"

The question seems to almost catch him off guard, his mouth moving like a fish out of water. He drops his head slightly, shoulders drooping, hands going into his pockets. "She told you." He observes, "She did." Lana confirms with a short nod.

"Look Lana, I know I messed up, but you've got to believe me, I didn't want to hurt her. I didn't have much of a choice." He quietly explains, his eyes pleading for her to understand.

"Clark, when will you learn that nobody is falling for those excuses anymore? No one forced you to say those things to her, no one made you make her feel unimportant, you did those things yourself" Lana emphasizes the word 'you' with a poke to his chest over the counter.

"I'm sorry." Clark's head hung low in shame as the quiet apology escapes. "Yeah, well I'm not the one you should be apologizing to." Lana gives him a tight lip smile and slightly tilts her head sympathetically.

As Clark begins to make his exit, you make the mistake of looking towards him, his eyes feel like they're burning into you, if he had heat vision there would be a hole straight through your head. Little do you know though.

Clark exits the building as you walk over to Lana, avoiding any other accidental looks at each other.

"It's okay to be mad at him, Y/n. He hurt you, you don't have to try to hide that." Lana softly explains as you set the tray with the last of the collected coffee mugs down infront of her. "I'll never hate him for not loving me. But I hate myself for hoping he someday would.” You anxiously bite your lip as you continue, "I think I’ll always love Clark Kent. Even when he never asks me to stay."

Clark's chest feels tight as he hears your confession from outside the Talon, his hyper advanced hearing being a blessing and a curse. He finally realizes for the first time, the extent that your love really goes for him. He's got to get you back.

I hope you guys love it!! Let me know pleaseeeee esp if u want to know anything more about their dynamic or just want to ask about them my inbox is opennnn or if you guys are liking the direction it’s going in so far.

Taglist - @unclearblur

Xoxo - Scar 💋.

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shortonwon · 2 days ago

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ENHYPEN AS HUSBANDS ! (나를 사랑해) ♡

❝ cause I don't wanna lose you now ❞

೯⠀⁺ 𖥻 pure fluff ⁺ ᰋ .ᐟ w/c : n/a 𓏵‎ ‎ ‎date published : 04—august—2025 ! MASTERLIST ! . . (새로운 감정)

LEE HEESEUNG ! (이희승)

Heeseung is the kind of husband who never leaves for work without pressing a soft kiss to your forehead even if you’re deep in sleep, bundled up in your dreams. It's become muscle memory, instinct. On the rare days he forgets, his whole morning feels a little off, like he left something precious behind. He secretly keeps track of your period in his phone, never mentioning it out loud—not to be nosy, but so he knows exactly when to stock up on the snacks you crave, switch out the pain meds in the cabinet, or simply hold you closer on days you’re quieter than usual.

He’s the type to fix the squeaky drawer, change the dead lightbulb, refill the water filter—all without a word. And if you try to help, he’ll gently shoo you away with a soft frown and a mutter under his breath about how you should be resting instead. He does it not to prove anything, but because caring for you brings him peace. Sometimes, without warning, he comes home with little gifts tucked behind his back—a book you mentioned in passing, your favorite strawberry milk, a plushie from a claw machine he secretly spent way too much time on. No occasion, no reason. Just because he saw it and thought, “She’d love this.”

PARK JONGSEONG ! (박종성)

Jay is the kind of husband who’ll pull your chair out before every meal—whether you’re at a fancy restaurant or just having takeout at the kitchen counter in your pajamas. He opens the car door like it's second nature, always muttering something half-cheesy, half-serious like, “My wife isn’t touching the struggle today.” And he means it. He lives for couple cooking nights—not just because he enjoys the food, but because it’s one of his favorite kinds of quality time. He plays it cool, of course, tossing compliments and challenges in the same breath.

He’s the type who scolds you when you skip a meal—not harshly, but with that low, serious tone that means he’s worried. “Don’t do that. You don’t have to prove anything by going hungry.” It’s not just about nutrition — it’s because he knows the quiet battles you fight with your reflection, and he wishes you could see yourself through his eyes. The last thing he wants is for you to feel unworthy, when to him, you're everything.

You don’t even realize until much later that the ring he slipped onto your finger—the one you haven’t stopped staring at—wasn’t something he just picked out. He designed it himself. Chose every detail. Every curve, every stone, every engraving hidden on the inner band. But when you find out, he shrugs like it’s nothing. “You deserved something that felt like you. I didn’t think it was a big deal.” As if you aren’t standing there with your heart falling all over again.

SIM JAEYUN ! (심재윤)

With Jake as your husband, every day would feel like a sleepover with your favorite person in the world. He lets you choose the movies for every movie marathon night, even though your taste is the complete opposite of his—not because he enjoys them (he secretly finds them confusing), but because he enjoys you. Your commentary. Your reactions. The way you look at the screen and lean into him when something dramatic happens. He lives for physical affection—he’s that guy. The one who slides behind you when you’re doing the dishes and wraps his arms around your waist like it’s second nature. The one who presses warm kisses to your temple just because you walked by.

Jake would hand you his hoodies without a second thought, always smiling when he sees how comically big they look on you. He’d give you his passwords not out of necessity—but because he genuinely can’t remember them and he trusts you more than he trusts his own brain. And he overshares about you. Constantly. His friends don’t even flinch anymore when Jake starts another sentence with, “You know what my wife did yesterday? She’s literally the best—” They’ve all just accepted that Jake Sim is hopelessly, incurably in love with you.

PARK SUNGHOON ! (박성훈)

To be fair, being married to Sunghoon wasn’t always easy. Because sometimes, it felt like he hated your guts. You’d glance at him across the room, and he’d look away like eye contact with you might end his bloodline. He’d scoff when you asked if he missed you, roll his eyes when you called him cute, and mumble sarcastic things like, “Yeah, I just live to be around you.” But then he’d do things—quiet, deliberate things—that made your heart trip over itself. Like warming up your socks in front of the heater before handing them to you wordlessly. Like always handing you the first bite of his food, no matter how hungry he was. Like getting your coffee order exactly right, every single time, even if he had to stand in line for half an hour.

He'd be the type of husband who wouldn’t say “I love you” often. In fact, most days he wouldn’t say it at all. But somehow, he still made you feel it in the way he noticed everything about you—even the parts you never mentioned out loud. And oh, he got jealous. Easily. Hated it too. He’d try to play it cool, rolling his eyes, arms crossed, acting like he couldn’t care less. “I’m not jealous,” he’d grumble as he watched you talk to someone else for a little too long. But his jaw would clench, and his hand would find yours a little tighter than usual on the walk home.

KIM SUNOO ! (김선우)

Sunoo is the kind of husband who treats pampering like a love language—both giving and receiving. He buys face masks in bulk, not because he needs them all, but because “Wednesday night is skincare night” is a sacred tradition in your home. There’s a playlist, a scented candle, and a whole skincare lineup he curated just for you. He’ll wear matching headbands—ears and all—and take it very seriously. He’s also brutally honest. Almost painfully so. If your outfit isn’t working, he won’t sugarcoat it. “Babe. That shirt? Burn it. Immediately.” And he expects the same from you—it’s all part of the deal. Fashion advice isn’t love unless it comes with a little gasp and a dramatic hand wave.

The two of you fight like you’re on stage. Voices raised, hands flailing, one of you walking dramatically into the other room—but neither of you ever goes too far. Because the makeups are just as dramatic. Tearful apologies, long hugs in the kitchen, and kisses so passionate they turn the air electric. He’s the type who can’t stand hearing you say bad things about yourself. The moment you call yourself ugly—even as a joke—his entire energy shifts. “Do not disrespect my wife like that,” he’ll snap, crossing his arms. “Because she’s literally the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and you’re being rude to her right now.” His tone is so indignant, it makes you giggle through your sniffles.

YANG JUNGWON ! (양정원)

Jungwon is the kind of husband who quietly takes over the parts of life you’ve always struggled to manage—finances, scheduling, bills—not because he doesn’t think you can, but because he never wants you to have to. He’ll check the fine print on every contract, ask the questions you’re too polite to, and step in without hesitation if someone’s trying to take advantage of you. “Talk to me instead,” he’ll say, hand gently on your back, voice firm, eyes steady.

He’s always responsible. Always two steps ahead. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel deeply—in fact, he’s the type who notices even the tiniest shift in your mood. Even if he’s swamped, drowning in deadlines, his eyes still flick to you the moment you go quiet. He’ll close his laptop mid-report, pour you a warm cup of tea, and guide you to the couch with gentle hands and softer words. “Talk to me. I can finish work later. You come first.”

He’s a domestic dreamer—the kind who wants a modest backyard, not for himself, but because he pictures tiny shoes in the grass. He wants a golden retriever sprawled on the patio, kids running around with juice-sticky fingers, and you sitting beside him while he peels oranges for everyone to share. He doesn’t say it often, but he thinks about it more than he should. About growing old with you. About quiet Sundays and sleepy mornings and the slow, beautiful life he wants to build—with you at the center of it all.

NISHIMURA RIKI ! (西村力)

Niki isn’t the kind of husband who jumps out of bed to grab you water at 3 AM just because you’re married now. In fact, he’ll probably groan, pull the blanket over his head, and mumble, “You have legs, babe.” But two hours later, he’s waking you up with your favorite boba in his hand and a sheepish expression—because he feels bad, he just doesn’t know how to say it out loud yet. He messes up the laundry more times than he’ll admit, turns your white shirt pink, shrinks his own hoodie—but always follows it up with a guilty grin and a small bouquet of flowers, plucked from the vendor he passes on the way home. It’s not perfect love. But it’s his love. And it’s real.

Ni-ki’s stubborn. He’ll argue, roll his eyes, and pretend like he’s standing his ground… only to cave an hour later and do exactly what you wanted in the first place. Because watching you smile? That’s a hill he’s more than willing to die on. Your bonding time is sacred. It’s quiet nights, two controllers, legs tangled under a blanket, the glow of the screen reflecting off your faces. And snacks—the ultimate symbol of love. He shares his chips with you freely, even though his friends still talk about the time he bit someone’s hand for trying to take one.

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cece693 · 3 days ago

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I GIVE YOU BACK YOUR PROMISES

pairing: steve rogers x gender neutral reader synopsis: You love Steve deeply, but you’ve finally accepted that his heart still belongs to Peggy. No matter how much he cares about you, there’s always a piece of him stuck in the past—and you’re done waiting for space that may never open up.

The apartment was quiet, too quiet for a place meant to be shared by two people in love. You stood by the window, fingers resting gently against the glass, watching the faint golden light of late afternoon filter through the city. You heard Steve come in—he always moved softly, almost respectfully. Like he didn’t want to disturb a world he still hadn’t adjusted to.

You didn’t turn around when he said your name.

"Hey," Steve greeted, tentative. "I’m sorry I missed lunch again. Fury had me pulled in for a debrief—"

"It’s okay." you interrupted softly, voice steady. Steve blinked at your tone. Something in your calmness made him still. You finally turned, hands now folded in front of you like they were holding something invisible. Or maybe something heavy.

"Can we talk?"

Steve's jaw tightened. He always hated those four words. "Of course."

You nodded, and gestured toward the couch. He followed, sitting beside you like he had a thousand times before, but today there was a space between you that had never been physical until now.

“I want to start by saying I don’t blame you,” you began gently. “You never asked me for more than I could give. You were always honest.”

Steve looked confused but concerned. “I—I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

You smiled sadly. "Peggy." The name hit him like a slow wave. He didn’t flinch. But his eyes dropped. "She was your first love," you continued. "And I never tried to replace her. I never wanted to."

“I know that,” Steve said quickly, almost defensively. “I never meant to compare—"

"But you did," you said, not unkindly. "Not out loud. Not intentionally. But you still speak about her like she's the blueprint for everything good. And maybe she is—for you.”

Steve swallowed hard. "I care about you. I love you."

"I know you do," you whispered. “But I don’t think you love me the way I love you. I don’t think there’s space left in you. Not really. Not when so much of you still lives in the past.”

He reached for your hand, but you pulled away with a softness that somehow hurt more than anger ever could.

“I’m not angry,” you said quickly, trying to ease the devastation forming in his eyes. “I swear I’m not. I just—” You looked away, unable to hold his gaze. The words felt like shattering glass in your throat.

"I return your promises, Steve. All of them. I won’t hold you to anything we said. I won’t be bitter. I won’t ask you to stay when your heart…never really arrived."

Steve opened his mouth, but no words came out. He looked helpless. Like a soldier told the battle was over before he even knew he was fighting one.

"I was willing to love you, even if a part of you stayed with her," you whispered. "But I’ve realized I deserve someone who looks at me like I’m present. Like I’m enough. And I think...I think you still see her silhouette every time you look at me.”

“Please don’t go,” Steve finally said, voice low, hoarse. “I don’t want to lose you.”

You smiled, eyes wet but calm. “Then why do I feel like I’ve never really had you?”

Silence.

You leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek — a farewell kiss, not of romance, but of peace. Of letting go.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” you whispered. “Whether that’s closure, or forgiveness or just a way to move on.”

You stood, grabbing your bag. You didn’t need to pack. You had already begun letting go days ago. This was just the final step.

Steve stood too, face pale, eyes misty. “I’m sorry.” he said, because it was the only thing he could offer now.

"I know,” you said, voice tender. “Me too.”

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thefeverburningalive · 21 hours ago

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𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙡𝙤𝙬

spencer reid x fem! reader

summary: penelope accidentally brought the wrong brownies- and you have a sweet tooth

a/n: i’m baaaaack! it’s been so long since i’ve last written so i figured i’d ease my way back into routine by writing a short little something. i apologize if it’s not great! my phone was broken for quite a while so im a bit rusty. feel free to send any requests!! and please don’t read if you’re sensitive to topics of marijuana :)

genre: fluff (established relationship)

warnings: accidental marijuana consumption, being under the influence of marijuana.

◠ . ◠ . ◠. ◠ . ◠ . ◠ . ◠. ◠ . ◠ . ◠ . ◠ . ◠. ◠ . ◠ . ◠ . ◠. ◠

sweetheart. that was the nickname you’d been given by spencer on your first date. it didn’t just come from your kind and caring personality, it also came from your extreme love for sweets. it could be 7am or 11pm- and you’d always be in the mood for sweets.

everyone around you also knew of your sweet tooth. penelope, being one of your closest friends, liked to bake things and bring them into her office knowing you’d always have some. she often experimented with new recipes and had you be her personal taste tester.

“good morning pen!” you gave a gentle knock on her door before entering, noting that she was already glued to her computer screens. “hello hello hello my love, as wonderful as it is to have your illuminating self in my office i am so extremely busy and have no time for chatter.” her response made you laugh, knowing she had to have been busy since she was turning down a good yap session. “no worries! i’ll see ya later.” before you left her office- you noticed a plate of brownies on her desk. you silently grabbed one, stuffed it into your mouth, and shut her office door with a gentle click.

since there wasn’t a call for a case today, you and the others spent the day glued to your desks. it was rare to have a day to catch up on some overdue paperwork. about a half hour after your visit to penelope, you started feeling a little off. your chest felt lighter, noises sounded louder, and lights looked brighter. it wasn’t like you to get sick out of nowhere, so your first thought was dehydration. you stood up from your desk to grab some water, not even realizing you were walking into chairs.

“yo pretty boy, is everything okay with your girl?” the sound of derek’s voice made spencer look up from his computer screen. “uhm i think so? why wouldn’t she be okay?” spencer then glanced over to your desk, now noticing how it remained empty. derek slid his chair closer to spencer and leaned closer. “she’s been playing with the coffee pods for like 10 minutes now.” spencer followed derek’s gaze to see you, doing exactly what derek said you were doing. spencer watched as you giggled to yourself, stacking the small pods into a pyramid. “i’ll be right back.” and with that- spencer got up to check on you.

just as you were about to place the final pod on top of your triangular masterpiece, a hand on your shoulder made you gasp with a jump- knocking the structure over. you sighed before turning to meet your eyes with spencer’s. “hi sweetheart. is everything okay?” spencer’s gentle voice made you melt, your mind now being clouded with his overwhelmingly warm cologne and even warmer smile. “spencie! hiii. i was just building a tower! but i kinda knocked it over.” you looked back the mess of pods with a frown.

spencer could tell something about you was off. your tone, your body language, even the way you spoke. it was unusual for you to call him any kind of nicknames in the office. he stood in silence while he watched you now line the pods in color order. once you had finished you turned back to spencer and smiled. “i love you so much. you’re so handsome.” you reached up and started to play with his hair. spencer was perplexed by your behavior. he brought his hand to your cheek and studied your face while you stayed distracted by his curly hair. it was at that moment he noticed the small red tint to your eyes- and how your pupils were ever so slightly enlarged. it suddenly clicked. you were high. spencer couldn’t even believe it, you’d never mention anything of the sort to him. not once had you ever expressed to him it was something you would be interested in.

as if like clockwork, suddenly penelope comes in with a slight panic. “spencer! i-i need you to help me find y/n! i think she ate one of the brownies i brought in- only they weren’t the ones that were meant for here- i brought them in instead of the regular ones and now i think she may be under the influence of miss mary jane right now.” spencer stayed silent after penelope’s confession, letting her see that you were here and not loose in the office making a fool of yourself. “oh thank god you found her already.” spencer sighed as he looked from penelope to you. “okay sweetheart. i think it’s time we go home and take a half a day.” you frowned once more and took a step back from your boyfriend. “nooooo there’s so much to do! hotch will kill me if i don’t finish this paper work.” you tried to make your way back to your desk but a strong hand took yours. “the work can wait sweetheart, it’s time to go home.” spencer kept his tone extremely gentle with you, he always did. your eyes met his once more and you became weak in the knees- literally. spencer placed his hands on your hips as you started to loose your balance.

“can i have a kiss first?” your question caught spencer off guard, especially since the two of you were standing in the middle of your shared work place. he could already feel the looks of his coworkers watching the both of you. “you can have all the kisses you want once we’re home sweetheart.” spencer tried to get you to move, but you stood your ground. “no! i want a kiss spence.” you pouted and stood your ground, giving spencer your best attempt at puppy dog eyes. a pink hue spread across spencer’s face, coming to the conclusion he would have to kiss you in the middle of the bullpen. he closed his eyes and sighed before stepping closer, pulling you in, and giving you the kiss you’d been begging for. you smiled into the kiss and even stood on your tippy toes to try and match his height. spencer was quick to break the kiss once he heart the whistling and clapping of his friends. “okay you got your kiss now let’s get going.” you laced your fingers with his and wrapped your other arm around his. “anything you say spencie.” he gives you a smile before leading you to the elevator, and making sure you get home to your shared apartment to sleep off penelope’s baking experiment. needless to say, you started to become more cautious when it came to eating sweet treats.

#spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fluff

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spiced-apple · 23 hours ago

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Shine the Light Ch.4

Yandere Batfam x Neglected Zoey!reader

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3

You didn’t want to jinx it and say that things were starting to look better and feel better. But… maybe, just maybe it was.

It had been months since this change. The audition, though you could barely tell what was going on from the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears and the nauseating anxiety coursing through you, went well. It felt like a fever dream that you kept expecting to have a worse ending than anything you’d ever gone through or witnessed. You kept expecting the pitying looks, the backhanded compliments, the barely concealed annoyance, and eventually dismissal. It all felt like a very real possibility that could happen. The best things almost always had the worse outcomes. You met the third member of what would become your group, Mira, who was nice from what you could tell, but hard to get a read on.

You kept waiting for it. The sudden twist where they said how they really saw you, how much they hated you… clingy, talkative, too much…

But nothing, not even after almost half a year of training.

No. It was coming. It had to be. There was no way this would last.

And the longer it went on, the more your dread grew.

It was after one particularly grueling practice—sparring while singing is surprisingly really difficult—that it was suggested. To go hang out. Celine kept telling you three that maintaining harmony was one of the most vital things, and you kept hoping she meant vocally. Go get food, ice cream, something fun. Each of you would pick something. Rumi and Mira both picked theirs, and then it was your turn.

This was it. You knew it. The beginning of the end. They’d finally realize, or worse, reveal how they—

"What do you think?"

It took everything not to jump at Rumi’s sudden question.

You tried to swallow away the dry feeling the back of your throat, “Oh, um… anything’s fine.”

Mira sighed, and you flinched, preparing for the worst. “Maybe it’s none of my business, but if there's something you want to do, or somewhere you wanna go, it's okay. No one's gonna judge, and if they do, then that's their problem. But whether you like it or not, we’re your friends, we're not going anywhere. No matter what.”

No. No that can’t.

They were lying. They had to be.

Everyone lied.

Everyone would leave.

It didn’t matter. None of this mattered. You should have known better than to let your guard down, again—how could you be so stupid? And now, they would hurt you, and make it feel like your fault, and—

Rumi gently bumped her shoulder into yours, pulling you out of your downward spiral, "Hey, she’s right… I can tell there's a lot going on in there. But we can't help if you don't let us. So please, just talk to us, okay?"

There was nothing. The room was silent, but not like the suffocating kind. More like a gentle silence. Something that didn’t force itself on you or drown out any other sounds. The kind of quiet that made your thoughts louder, but not unbearably so.

“… maybe the aquarium…” You mumbled out, then hurriedly added, "We don’t have to go, I really don’t mind. I can just pick something else, or—"

Mira gently took your hand, and you were startled at how warm her hands were, "Then the aquarium it is. I've always wanted to go anyway."

Rumi took the other, and it was like her touch sent a wave of cool relief through you. "I don’t think I’ve ever actually gone to one, so I'm excited."

The feeling of dread changed when you got there. When they stayed and looked at the turtles with you. You had them, people who genuinely cared about you, who liked you, and were happy to spend time with you. This was it. Your home, the place where you belonged and had tried to find for years, and it was here. With these girls, who had accepted you for you, and didn’t want anything more or less. They liked you in spite of everything, not because of anything.

Things were starting to feel like they were worth smiling about.

And soon enough, they were.

By the end of the next year, the debut happened. You were on stage, in front of thousands, and you felt like you were truly living. For once.

The first album was a success, and so was the next, and the next. It was like you couldn't stop. You kept trying to give back, and show your gratitude, but none of it felt like enough. There were always new songs, new albums, and demons to kill. You loved this, you loved them. Everything was so warm, so full of life, and joy.

It was so bright.

Why do the brightest lights cast the worst shadows?

Looks like everything’s coming up Milhouse.

Or not.

The encouragement from everyone has meant so much! I’m planning on doing a poll after I finish this one. If anyone wants to join the taglist for this or any other story, just let me know!

@mikusamsan @edgycatx @sir-lawrence-felidae @luludeluluramblings @demis2955 @fleursdeau @125bluemachine125 @just-set-things-on-fire @darktrashpoetry @fandomswept @doggyteam2028 @staarflowerr @zooemama @winter-solstice24 @mattsauxe @littlepotaaatosimp @wpdarlingpan @yumeravenclaw @kingofghostscr @holderoflostmemories @ratterpatter @ithoughtthinks @bloessom @letsbedragonstogether @awawage @cupid73 @stormnightingale @sunshinepower17 @goldenmoonbeam @gaozorous-rex-blog @cosmicyuk1

#yandere batfam x neglected reader #yandere batfamily #Zoey!reader #Zoey reader #kpop demon hunters #zoey kpdh

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hxlxnaaa · 2 days ago

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𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 ─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─ 𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐬

you spent your whole life loving him, and he never said a word. a retelling of your story—of the way he made you feel without meaning to, of all the things you held in, waiting for something that was never coming. and now it’s too late to ask what any of it meant.

★ 𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: tied to iris by the goo goo dolls, first part of a 2 part series, non-mc reader, ever so slight canon divergence to make the story work, MC x Zayne mentions, fic spans over the course of a few years, childhood friends to something almost, angst, hurt/no comfort, character death (it’s caleb exploding), unresolved tension, mentions of grief, not all that beta read we die like caleb

★ 𝐰𝐜: 17k

★ 𝐚/𝐧: this literally took me ages. life was throwing hurdle after hurdle at me while i was trying to write this and finally its done. im tossing this out there into the tumblr algorithm abyss and praying it does well because this literally took me almost 2 months. this is going to be a 2 parter (if it’s well received) so if you want your happy ending come back soon!! i hope!! enjoy!!

. . . .

And I’d give up forever to touch you,

Cause I know that you feel me somehow

. . . .

It started as something simple—childish, really.

He’d tug on your pigtails and jab you with pencils, and you’d shriek that he had cooties.

You lived next door, your bedroom window facing his. At night, he’d flash a flashlight through the glass just to annoy you, grinning and sticking his tongue out as you yanked the curtains shut.

But the moment anyone besides him picked on you at the playground, he was there in a heartbeat—stick in hand, chest puffed out, baring his teeth (even if a few were missing). He was the toughest kid on the block, and he always had your back.

Perfect, adorable, insufferable little Caleb.

He lived with this girl—and you quite liked her. She’d play dolls with you, dress up, and mix muddy potions in the backyard. She sat next to Caleb in class and always whined at him to knock it off when he threw things at the back of your head.

She always had the biggest crush on this older boy who lived in the neighborhood. He’d sculpt little animals out of snow, even in the dead of summer, and she’d squeal with giddy delight, cheeks flushed pink as she sprawled out on your bedroom floor. She’d grab your dolls and make them kiss, pretending it was the two of them.

Yet, even though you knew she liked someone else, you couldn’t ignore the feeling that twisted in your stomach whenever Caleb trailed after her like a lost puppy. When he’d groan about having to be your husband when playing house instead of hers. When he’d puff out his chest and play the hero on the playground—but not for you.

It felt like someone had taken your favorite toy and started playing with it right in front of you.

Perfect, adorable, angelic little MC.

It wasn’t until you got a little older that you could name the feeling.

You felt it behind all the tight lipped smiles you wore when they showed off their matching apple shaped hair clips, laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Jealousy was a green eyed thing that settled in your chest like rot, quiet at first, but patient. It made its home there, digging in deep—something you’d carry for years without even realizing.

You did what you could to hold yourself together through the mess of puberty, piecing yourself around every scrap of attention Caleb bothered to throw your way. You wore orange ribbons in your hair because it was his favorite color. Purple, on days when you were desperate—just to match his eyes.

There was some kind of bitter peace in knowing MC didn’t feel the same. She brushed Caleb off like he was nothing more than an annoying older brother, and it stung less knowing he was in the same boat as you; chasing someone who wasn’t chasing him back.

She was blind to the way Caleb looked at her. Oblivious to the obvious change in his voice when he said her name, to the way he followed her around like a lost cause. She soaked up his attention without even realizing it—like some sort of Caleb absorbing sponge.

And God, you hated her for that. Hated how easily she sucked up what you’d spend your nights awake and aching for. You would’ve killed to be in her place—just once. To be the one he looked at like that. But she didn’t even want it. Didn’t even care. She tossed his affection aside like it was nothing.

Still, she was your best friend. That didn’t change. You smiled when you were supposed to. Stayed loyal. Bit your tongue until it bled. Reminded yourself she didn’t want him—that you stood a chance.

. . . .

MC and Caleb were usually late to school, trailing behind like always—yet Caleb was on time, catching up to you on the sidewalk.

“Hey!” He caught your shoulder, flashing you that grin with his signature sparkling eyes.

Damn, that smile. Even back when he was just a gap toothed kid, it could’ve lit up the whole sky. Caleb was like that—like the sun. All warmth and gravity, the center of everything.

Well, of your everything.

And those eyes—that shade of violet you thought was your favorite color never failed to always pull you in like a magnet. There was something about them, soft and deep, like the galaxy at twilight.

They were the first thing you noticed, the part of him you found yourself staring at when you thought no one was watching.

Every time his eyes met yours, it felt like that purple shimmer was reaching out—tangling itself into your heart with a vice-like grip, something you couldn’t explain but couldn’t let go of either.

In their depths, you felt drawn back again and again, hearing the silent language only an iris can speak.

The sudden attention from him startled you. “Hi.”

Caleb dropped his hand from your shoulder and nodded toward the road ahead. “Mind if I walk with you?” His voice was friendly—like it hadn’t been years since you’d felt this close. Now that you were teenagers, young adults in high school, Caleb would toss you a smile in the halls—maybe make small talk when MC was around.

But you hadn’t always needed her in the middle. The two of you also used to be best friends.

Back then, he’d invite you over after school, dragging you to his room to show off his toy plane collection. He’d flip through his worn out books with greasy fingers, rattling off facts and flight names. You’d listen to him talk for hours about how one day he was going to be a pilot—how he’d fly faster than sound, higher than anyone.

Now, if you were lucky, on some quiet nights you’d catch a glimpse of him through the window—sitting at his desk with tousled and wild hair, dressed in worn pajamas and knees pulled up under his chin as he buried himself in homework.

Sometimes, when your movement caught his eye, he’d look up and give you that familiar, slow smile.

He’d wiggle his fingers in a shy wave, almost like a secret between the two of you. You’d respond with the smallest lift of one finger, careful not to break the quiet spell.

In those moments, you’d see him—not just the boy with the model planes lining the bookshelf behind him, but the Caleb who used to really see.. well… you.

The Caleb walking next to you felt familiar—like some old song you hadn’t heard in a while—but also strangely distant, like the boy you knew had somehow grown into someone else. Yet you weren’t sure you really recognized him.

He talked without pausing—about his classes, his friends, about how MC was sick and how frustrated he was that his Gran wouldn’t let him stay home to help her.

As you passed the the corner store, he nudged your shoulder lightly.

“Remember when we used to grab candy there after school?” he asked.

You didn’t even have to look. “Yeah. You’d always pick the weirdest flavors.”

“Weird?” he gasped like you’d slapped him. “Psh, no. More like daring. I had range.”

“You bought clam flavored gum.”

“And? I was young and full of hope.”

“You made me try it.”

He stretched and smiled, “You’re welcome.”

“It tasted like rubber bands.”

Caleb clicked his tongue. “Yeah, that’s what excitement tastes like. Unlike your go to strawberry laces. How bold of you—were the vanilla wafers out of stock?”

“At least my candy didn’t double as a chemical weapon.”

“It built character,” he said. “Your taste buds needed the challenge.”

You rolled your eyes. “You once spent seven dollars on something called ‘Mango Chili Sour Slime.’”

“And I’d do it again—for the experience.”

“You ate half of it, turned green, and declared yourself legally dead.”

He held up a finger. “Temporarily dead. I came back stronger.”

“You threw up behind the bus stop.”

“And rose like a phoenix.”

“You cried.”

“Phoenixes have emotions!”

You snorted, trying not to smile. “A phoenix who can’t handle spicy gelatin, and claims cilantro tastes like soap.”

“Because it does!” He said with genuine offense, pausing on the sidewalk with arms crossed.

“You survived chili goo, but a leaf ruins your day?”

“It’s not just a leaf. It kills your taste buds.”

“Right… Right… Or I propose again, maybe you’re just weird?”

“Maybe,” Caleb shrugged, “And yet, somehow, still the most well adjusted person you know.”

There was a beat of silence, broken only by your footsteps continuing again on the sidewalk. Caleb looked over at the store again, the paint on the awning cracked and curling.

“Crazy how small it looks now,” he said.

“Yeah,” you replied, “Or maybe we just got taller—wiser.”

“Speak for yourself, I peaked at thirteen.”

“You peaked the moment you bought clam gum.”

“But here you are, still walking next to me. Interesting.”

Rolling your eyes, you sighed. “It’s like a field study in poor life choices.”

“And you’re the control group?”

“I’m the exit strategy.”

He laughed again.

As you reached the school gates, he turned to you. “Hey, we’ve got a basketball game this weekend.”

He kicked at the ground, a little awkwardly, then added, “You should come, if you’re free.”

Your heart swelled—like an old dog finding love again after years. You nodded a little too quickly, a shy smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah—yeah, I’ll be there.”

“You better be.”

Before you could say anything, he reached out and tugged gently at one of your pigtails—and for the first time in what felt like ages, you recognized the boy in front of you.

Caleb twirled one of the orange ribbons between his fingers. “I like your hair like this. The orange is pretty.”

And then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there pinching yourself.

That night, lying in the dark of your room, a sudden flash caught your eye—a beam of light slicing through the window. You sat up, heart quickening as the light blinked again. Drawn to the window, you crept over and peeked out.

There was Caleb, grinning like a kid, flashlight in hand, his laughter bright in the quiet night.

You pushed open your window.

“What are you doing?” you called out, voice curious.

He shrugged, flashing a cheeky grin as he opened his own window across the way, pretending to look innocent.

“I got this new flashlight,” he flipped the flashlight in his hand, “just testing if it works.”

Caleb aimed the beam at you again, winking.

And as you slid back under the covers, you found yourself wondering what had come over him.

Did that walk stir up memories—the way it had for you—awakening some old nostalgia buried within? Or maybe, you thought, he realized in some small way that he missed you.

. . . .

You tied those orange ribbons into your hair, dancing around your room to your favorite songs, giddy and light like your body couldn’t hold all the excitement. You spent hours picking out the perfect outfit—cute but casual enough that maybe he’d think you just woke up looking that way.

You practically floated out the door, humming under your breath as you made your way to school. The night sky was cloudless, a deep stretch of dark velvet scattered with stars. The winter air bit at your cheeks, crisp and cold enough to sting, but you barely felt it.

No—your heart was beating too fast and too warm, like it was carrying a fire inside you. One that spreads to your fingertips, your chest, your smile; every breath you took came out in clouds, but you didn’t shiver.

Not when the world felt this full. Not when something—hope, maybe? Was lighting you up like a firefly from the inside out.

When you got to school, the buzz of the gymnasium hit you with bright lights, sneakers squeaking on the court as people filed in, and laughter echoing in tight circles of friends.

You lingered near the entrance for a second too long, suddenly unsure of where to go or what to do with your hands. Everyone seemed to have someone.

And for a brief, unexpected moment—you kind of wished MC was with you.

She had gone on a date with her boyfriend, so she wasn’t going to be able to make it. Something Caleb had thrown a fit about, but you silently rejoiced.

Aw… Bummer! You had thought to yourself, bubbling and beaming with glee.

You made your way toward the bleachers, weaving through the crowd until you found a spot tucked away in the back corner. It was quiet, just far enough from everyone else, but close enough to see the court.

Any lingering nerves disappeared the second you spotted him. That familiar mess of brown hair stuck out even from the bleachers, and your eyes locked on him like they always did. He was on the court already, bouncing the ball lazily between his hands, talking with his teammates.

He glanced up at the bleachers, eyes scanning the rows.

And then he found you.

His face lit up with a grin, and he gave you that signature wave—fingers wiggling in their own little dance.

A quiet smile tugged at your lips, your cheeks growing warm.

You lifted a single finger in a returned wave, your own half of the silent, almost secret handshake the two of you had created—just yours, and just his.

Suddenly, you didn’t feel so alone in that crowd.

The buzzer sounded, and the game began. Caleb turned back to the court, falling into step with his teammates.

You settled deeper into your seat, hands clasped in your lap, eyes fixed on him.

Once or twice, you thought he glanced your way.

You told yourself that even though he was the star of the team—the school’s perfect, adored heartthrob—he had asked you to come tonight.

He had invited you.

He had thought of you.

But when the game ended and your team won, you lingered by the front of the school—hoping to catch him.

To say hello.

To tell him congratulations.

Maybe even walk home together.

You waited. And waited.

And waited some more.

But he never appeared.

Maybe he left with his team, caught up in the noise and celebration.

Maybe he slipped out the back, avoiding the crowd.

As you walked home alone, the cold air wrapped around you like a cruel reminder—you were still on the outside.

And the joy you’d carried all day began to fade, replaced by the familiar hurt of being forgotten.

When you got home, you stopped at your front doorstep, eyes catching the warm glow of light spilling from his living room window.

There he was—laughing with MC on the couch.

Your eyes began to burn. Did it even matter to him that you showed up? Or was your invitation nothing more than a convenient excuse—a way to make sure someone was there? Someone to fill the bleachers when she couldn’t.

You weren’t the reason he wanted you there—you were a placeholder.

The anger bubbled up, but underneath it was something much harsher—the sting of being invisible when all you wanted was to be seen.

As you closed your front door behind you, the silence in your house felt louder than the cheers at the game.

You lay awake, sleep slipping through your fingers as a heavy sadness pressed down on you—desperate to break free in tears, yet leaving you empty and unable to cry.

Hours dragged on as you lay there, staring at the ceiling, desperate for a way to make him see you. You had thought for years, since you knew what love was about changing everything—dyeing your hair, changing the way you talked, the way you walked—anything to be different, to be enough for him, what he wanted.

But if Caleb was Adam, she was Eve—the first, the original, the one he always went back to.

The one you could never replace.

A flicker of light broke through the dark, casting a small glow on your wall.

You didn’t move at first.

You sat there, full of rage and sorrow, still bitter from the feeling of being forgotten. You told yourself not to move.

But your body betrayed you.

Like something ancient pulled at your limbs, you found yourself crawling to the window. Not with hope, but with habit. As if your soul had already answered before your heart could protest.

Some might say you were possessed. And maybe you were.

Not by ghosts, but by something lonelier.

Possessed by love so one sided it hollowed you out. By that hunger to be seen.

There he was—sitting across the way, still in the soft spill of moonlight, and all you could see were his eyes.

Those eyes.

Violet and reflecting the pale glow of the night like glass. They shimmered under the dark sky, catching the light like polished amethysts—so bright it almost hurt to look. Almost beautiful enough to believe.

You didn’t move. Just stared.

No wave. No smile. Not this time—you waited for him to speak first, to do something.

Finally, he opened his window.

You followed. Opened yours. Let the silence stretch thin.

“Sorry for not saying hi after the game,” Caleb said, voice low. “I kind of had to run off afterwards.”

Run off to her, you thought.

Sorry? That was it? That was all he had to give?

You swallowed the lump in your throat. Bit down the words clawing their way up. Your mouth felt dry, your hands curled into fists on the sill.

“Right,” you said, quietly. “You were busy.”

He looked at you then, brows drawn like he was trying to read something on your face.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

You nodded once, not trusting yourself to say more.

Because the truth was, he didn’t have to go.

He chose to.

But yet, he hadn’t promised you anything. Not a meeting, not a moment after. Not even a goodbye. But still—you waited. You had hoped. So was it cruel of you to expect something? Anything? Or were you just naive?

He lingered at the window, fingers fiddling with the flashlight, eyes flickering with something that almost looked like regret.

“I didn’t mean to blow you off,” he tried to add. He sucked at trying to defend himself.

He let out a breath, eyes dropping for a second before meeting yours again. You stayed quiet, your heart twisting, but your face stayed still.

“I feel bad,” Caleb muttered. “I was thinking of hitting the mall tomorrow. Just to hang out. You should come with.”

He tried to smile, softly and casually, like this wasn’t a scrap of attention handed out too late.

“Walk around, get pretzels or something. Check out that record store you like?”

Your throat tightened.

Part of you wanted to shut the window. Part of you wanted to scream at him. But mostly;

You just wanted Caleb to look at you the way he looked at her.

You nodded.

Because even if it was a leftover moment, it was something. And with him, something always felt like more than nothing.

. . . .

You didn’t bother with the ribbons. Not today.

As you stepped outside, you braced yourself—half expecting to see MC by his side, like always. Maybe she’d decided to come last minute.

But there he was, alone—standing at the end of your walkway, hands in his pockets, watching your front door.

His eyes met yours instantly.

“No ribbons today?” You hated that he noticed.

You forced a shrug, eyes anywhere but his.

“I forgot them,” you lied.

The walk was quiet, tense in that way where every step felt louder than it should.

“You look tired,” Caleb nudged your shoulder lightly. “Sorry for keeping you up late.”

“S’okay. I don’t sleep much anyway.”

He didn’t say anything right away, before stopping suddenly. “Oh—wait. I have something for you.”

You turned just in time to see him dig into his coat pocket.

“Strawberry laces,” he said, holding them out to you with a sheepish grin.

You hated the way your heart jumped at the sight of them. You wanted to stay mad.

But why did he have to remember? Why did he have to think about you?

“The vanilla wafers were out of stock,” he added.

You took them, fingers tracing the wrapper as you turned them over slowly. Then you looked up at him, a soft laugh escaping your lips.

“How bold.”

As you went to tear open the bag, Caleb snatched it back, holding it just out of reach with that smug, teasing grin you both loved and hated.

“Nuh-uh,” he wagged a finger in your face. “No candy unless you stop being mad at me.”

You pouted. “That’s not how that works. Gifts aren’t conditional.”

“This one is,” Without missing a beat, he stuffed the bag behind his back dramatically.

“I could just stay mad and take them anyway.”

“You could try,” he teased, backing up a step. “But I’ve got longer legs. And I’m fast.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was that warmth bubbling under your skin now.

Stupid boy. Stupid eyes. Stupid candy.

You were still mad.

But it was getting harder to remember why.

“I’m sorry for leaving you high and dry after the game,” he seemed more sincere now.

“I invited you, and you were so sweet to take the time to come watch me play...” He trailed off, giving you that miserable, kicked puppy look—eyes wide, all violet and tragic.

Those damn eyes. You could never say no to them.

“Could you ever forgive me?”

You huffed. “Yeah. Fine, whatever. I forgive you.”

Stepping up to him, standing just inches away, you held your hand out.

“Now give me my candy.”

He raised a brow, smirking. “Nope. Say it better.”

You groaned, but your smile betrayed you.

“I forgive you, Caleb.”

That was enough for him. He grinned, tossed an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close.

“Atta girl.”

He finally handed the candy back, but not before sneakily grabbing a few pieces for himself.

You smacked his hand, eyes narrowing. “Seriously? You make fun of my candy and then steal it?”

He popped one into his mouth, completely unfazed.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, hugging the bag protectively.

The air between you lightened, the tension dissolving with every shared glance and playful nudge.

He pointed out weird cracks in the sidewalk, made dumb jokes, and told you stories about kids on his basketball team. You teased, called him dramatic, and laughed harder than you meant to.

The mall was fun too. You bounced from store to store, trying on ridiculous hats and oversized sunglasses—laughing over belts with giant, rhinestone buckles neither of you would ever actually wear.

He dragged you into the model shop, eyes lighting up as he pointed out the different planes and jets with boyish excitement. “I’m gonna fly this one someday,” he said, tapping the glass with a proud little grin. You just smiled and nodded, because he'd said that about a dozen different models already.

Then it was your turn—you led him to the record store, your favorite little corner of the mall. You flipped through crates of vinyls, pulling out your favorites while he hovered behind you, pretending to scoff at some of your picks.

“Seriously? This?” he teased, holding up an album.

“You notoriously have zero taste,” you shot back, snatching it from him.

But when you looked away, you caught him out of the corner of your eye, phone in hand, quietly adding the artist to one of his playlists.

The two of you wandered through the mall, half finished pretzels in hand, when you suddenly stopped short in front of a jewelry store window.

Something in the display tugged at you—a necklace, delicate and simple, but impossibly beautiful.

Caleb kept walking a few steps before realizing you were no longer beside him.

He turned, eyebrows raised. “You see somethin?”

You didn’t answer right away, just stood there, eyes locked on the amethyst pendant that sat at the center of the display.

It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t need to be. The gem shimmered in the light, a swirl of purples—some soft as lilac, others rich like wine.

It was his color.

The exact shade that lived in his irises.

“It’s so pretty…” you breathed, voice distant.

He stepped beside you, peering into the glass. “The necklace?”

But your gaze had already shifted—up, to him. To the very thing the gem reminded you of.

You were still staring, caught somewhere between memory and longing.

And when your eyes met his, glittering under the same fluorescent light, it was like looking at the stone again.

You tore your gaze away, pretending you hadn’t just compared a piece of jewelry to the boy beside you like you were twelve again and hopeless.

You took a bite of your pretzel, more for something to do than anything else, chewing to fill the silence, to distract from the way your hands were suddenly too aware of themselves.

Caleb stayed behind for a beat longer, still staring at the necklace—or maybe just thinking. So you started walking, hoping he’d follow and say nothing.

But, of course, he did.

“Hey,” he called, catching up and poking your cheek. “It was my turn to look at it.”

You smacked his hand away, trying to keep your face neutral. “You were taking too long.”

“What? I’m allowed to admire pretty things too.” He ruffled your hair.

You didn’t dare ask if he meant the necklace.

You didn’t dare hope he meant you.

“Wait!” Caleb came to an abrupt halt after walking aimlessly—and you turned to see him with this goofy, unexpected grin.

“Let’s go in here.”

“The craft store?” you asked, surprised. “Since when do you craft?”

He shook his head. “Just come on.”

Before you could say another word, he reached out and grabbed your hand and pulled you inside.

Your breath hitched, a rush of excitement blooming all the way down to your toes.

Oh my god, he just grabbed my hand.

Suddenly, the whole mall seemed brighter, the noise fading into the background as you let yourself be swept along, fingers tangled with his.

Caleb pulled you through the store like he had some grand plan, weaving through displays with a determination you didn’t expect.

“What are you even looking for—” you stumbled a little, trying to keep up, nearly tripping over your own feet.

He didn’t stop right away, only paused for a quick second to scan the store before spotting whatever it was he’d been hunting down.

“Found it,” he said with a proud grin, tugging you in that direction.

You blinked as he led you straight into the sewing section.

“The sewing aisle?” you looked around, confused. “Wait, do you sew now or something?”

He didn’t answer, just walked you—gently this time—over to the wall lined with ribbons.

Rows and rows of them. Every color. Every texture.

And it hit you a second too late.

You didn’t even have time to hide the way your stomach flipped.

He remembered.

Caleb finally let go of your hand as he stepped closer to the wall of ribbons, fingers flipping through the endless options.

He grabbed a spool of sheer blue ribbon, held it up to your cheek, then immediately shook his head.

Next was a deep red. He furrowed his brow. “Nah—too dramatic.”

One by one, he held up different colors and textures next to your face—some he barely considered before tossing them back, others had him tilting his head, really thinking about it.

You stood still, watching him, caught somewhere between embarrassment and giddiness.

When he finally picked up a spool of soft orange lace, he paused. Held it up. Looked at you.

A slow smile crept onto his lips.

“This one,” he said softly. “It’s perfect.”

Your throat tightened.

It was the color you wore for him. The one he’d noticed, the one he remembered.

And here he was—choosing it for you. Like it was obvious. Like it had always been yours.

“Shouldn’t you get one too?” you teased, reaching up to tug playfully at a piece of his hair. “I think you’ve got enough to work with.”

Caleb grinned. “You’re absolutely right.”

He turned back to the wall of ribbons, eyes scanning for barely a second before his hand reached out with surprising certainty.

He pulled down a spool of velvet ribbon—the exact color of your eyes.

He didn’t make a big deal out of it, didn’t even look at you right away. Just held the ribbon between his fingers, studying it.

“Gotta match, right?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Because while he stood there so casually holding a piece of you in his hand, you were still trying to remember how to breathe.

You stood behind Caleb at one of the food court tables, hunched forward with delicate focus as you tied the soft velvet ribbons into his hair.

It wasn’t easy—he didn’t have much to work with—but you managed two tiny pigtails that sprouted from the top of his head like a toddler’s, crooked and ridiculous in the best way.

You giggled, standing back to admire your handiwork.

And instead of swatting them out or calling it dumb, Caleb pulled out his phone, flipped the camera, and grinned at his reflection like he’d just discovered a new level of charm.

“Oh yeah, I look good.”

He struck a pose, tilting his head with exaggerated sass.

You burst out laughing. “Yeah? You feel pretty?”

He didn’t miss a beat.

“Feel pretty?” his eyes twinkled as he turned back towards you. “No, I know I’m pretty.”

He pulled out the chair beside him with a dramatic flourish and patted the seat. “Your turn. Take a seat.”

You eyed him suspiciously but sat anyway. He circled behind you like he was preparing for serious work, cracking open the spool of ribbon with a little too much enthusiasm and gently petting the top of your head.

“Welcome to Caleb’s salon,” he said, voice smooth and over the top. “You’re in good hands.”

You craned your neck to look up at him upside down, squinting. “I don’t trust that.”

“You should.” He guided your head back into place with both hands.

You stared ahead, heart fluttering against your ribs while he stood behind you, threading his fingers through strands of your hair.

You couldn’t see his face now, but you could feel his focus, the care in his hands as he worked.

He gathered your hair into two little pigtails near the top of your head—mirroring his own—and tied the orange lace into uneven bows.

When he stepped back and handed you your phone to look, you flipped the camera and smiled.

They were a little lopsided, not even close to perfect.

But they were perfect to you.

“Feel pretty?” he asked this time.

You nodded, turning your head side to side to get a better look. “What do you think?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at you for a moment—his lips parting slightly like he was trying to choose his words.

“Beautiful,” he said finally.

You laughed, brushing it off like it was a joke. “You mean your work?”

But Caleb didn’t laugh back.

By the time you made it to the exit, the winter sun had already set, casting moonlight across the sidewalk as you stepped outside.

Caleb walked beside you, swinging the bag of leftover pretzel between his fingers. You walked a little slower than usual, not wanting the day to end. Not wanting this to end.

He glanced over at you, and his eyes dropped to the bows in your hair. One corner of his mouth lifted.

"You gonna leave those in?" he asked.

You shrugged. “Maybe. Why? Embarrassed to be seen with me?”

“Pfft. Please.” He lightly tugged on one of them, “I think you make 'em look cooler than I do.”

You smiled at the ground, heart full.

He let out a small breath and looked forward. “Thanks for coming with me today,” he said. “It was fun.”

Caleb scratched the back of his neck, eyes on the sidewalk, and said it like he wasn’t sure how you’d take it.

“Y’know… I missed hanging out with you.”

Your heart jumped, caught completely off guard—but you reeled it in fast, kept your face light.

You puffed your chest out playfully, trying to keep your tone casual. “Yeah, I’m pretty unforgettable, aren’t I?”

He chuckled, but his eyes stayed on you a little longer than before.

You turned your gaze forward again, not trusting yourself to hold it.

You wanted it to mean something more. So badly—but wanting things just kept ruining you.

When you got back to your house, the world had gone still—quiet in that way only winter dares to be, like even the earth was holding its breath. The night had settled softly, and the only sound was the faint crunch of your shoes on frostbitten pavement.

Snow had just started to fall slowly in the background, like it didn’t want to be noticed.

You reached the end of your driveway and turned to him.

“Wait,” you said, fingers already pulling your phone from your pocket. “I wanna take a picture of my art.”

He rolled his eyes playfully but didn’t protest, stepping back just enough so you could frame the shot. When he faced you, his face softened into something else entirely.

It wasn’t a pose. It wasn’t for the camera.

It was for you.

Something warm lived in that smile. Something almost shy—hesitant, even.

Snowflakes clung to his lashes, caught in the messy strands of hair poking out from the bows you tied. And the ribbons—your ribbons—fluttered gently in the breeze.

But it was his eyes that undid you.

Dark and shining under the porch light, like amethysts half swallowed by shadow. The snow reflected in them, tiny constellations in his iris. He looked like a boy carved from a dream—fleeting and too beautiful to keep.

You stared a second too long, then snapped the photo. Saved it to your favorites. Not just because it was a good picture.

But because it felt like capturing a version of him you didn’t want to lose.

Caleb held out his hand. “Give it here.”

You clutched your phone to your chest. “No way, you’re gonna delete it.”

“I’m not,” he stepped in closer. “Come on. Pass it to me.”

After a pause—just long enough for your heart to panic a little—you gave in, placing the phone in his waiting palm.

He didn’t pull away. Instead, he reached up with his free hand and gently squished your cheeks, molding your face into a pout.

You furrowed your brows in confusion, just as the camera shutter snapped.

He laughed, letting go of your face, and the cold rushed back in where his touch had been. You pressed your palms to your cheeks, not to rub away the sting, but to cool the warmth under your skin.

“You needed a picture too,” he looked down at your phone.

There was something delicate in the way he said it. Like he wanted to remember you—just as you were, here in the snow, with his ribbons still in your hair.

“Cute,” he murmured, thumb tapping the screen.

Your eyes widened. “Hey—don’t delete the one I took of you!”

You lunged for the phone— and using his evol, he held it high over your head whilst laughing.

“I’m not! I’m just making sure I look better in mine.”

You both stood there, caught in that silly moment—your hand reaching for your phone, his laughter tangled with yours in the stillness of the night. The snow swirled around you both in slow, glittering arcs—clinging to your sleeves, the world around you muted.

He finally lowered the phone, now holding it out to you with a little smile. “Okay, okay—you can have it back. I promise I didn’t delete your masterpiece.”

You took it, brushing his fingers as you did, and neither of you said anything about the way the touch lingered just a second too long.

His eyes caught what little light the porch gave, violet glinting beneath snowflakes like something out of a story you weren’t sure would end happily.

Then he nodded toward your door. “It’s freezing. You should head in before you turn into a popsicle.”

You opened your mouth to argue—to say you weren’t cold, not really.

“Go,” he said, his voice gentler this time. “I’ll see you soon.”

When you stepped inside, your cheeks stung from the sudden change in temperature, and your fingers itched as the numbness slowly faded.

You didn’t bother taking off your coat right away.

You just stood there, in the dark entryway, phone still clutched in your hand, heart still somewhere outside on the sidewalk where Caleb had smiled at you like that. Where his hands had touched your face. Where his voice had gone soft and said, “I’ll see you soon.”

You made your way to your room in a daze, the snow still glittering in your hair, shoes leaving melted prints down the hallway.

Once inside, you dropped your coat to the floor and collapsed onto your bed, phone in hand. The ribbons in your hair shifted beneath your head on the pillow, one falling loose—but you didn’t fix it.

Instead, you unlocked your phone. Opened the camera roll. Scrolled to the photos from just minutes ago.

There he was—eyes sparkling with snowflakes caught in his lashes. He looked like a painting.

You swiped to the next one. The picture he took of you.

You hated how airy you looked. How hopeful. Like your heart had written itself all over your face before your brain could stop it.

And still, you couldn’t stop staring.

Outside your window, the snow kept falling.

And as you watched it blur the world into softness, all you could think about was the warmth of his hands on your skin, the color of his eyes under the porch light, and the sound of his voice wrapped around the word soon.

You told yourself not to hope.

Your phone buzzed in your hand—a text from Caleb.

‘let me know when you get warm’

A second passed.

‘actually wait’

‘don’t, you’ll use it as an excuse to talk to me again :D’

Another pause.

‘kidding. you can text me whenever. even if you're still cold’

‘especially if you’re still cold’

Your thumbs hovered over the screen, not sure what to say back. But you were smiling—so wide it hurt, like your face hadn’t been asked to feel this much in ages.

And then you noticed it—nestled just above his texts, timestamped from just a bit prior.

A message. From you.

Your heart stuttered.

The photo he took of you—sent to his chat, not yours.

While you were too busy worrying he’d delete his own, he’d been sending himself yours.

He hadn’t said anything about it.

Compared to the frigid cold outside, your body felt like it had finally thawed from the inside out. Warmth hummed beneath your skin, buzzing in your fingertips and curling in your heart. Hell, if you looked in the mirror, you were sure you’d be glowing.

You didn’t just have Caleb back in your life, talking again—he wanted to keep you too.

You fell asleep with the ribbons in your hair. Everything was perfect.

. . . .

You’re the closest to Heaven, that I’ll ever be,

And I don’t wanna go home right now

. . . .

You didn’t usually sleep over at MC’s place—she liked your house better. Said it felt like a break from Caleb. You never really got that—a break from him? You couldn’t imagine ever wanting one.

But this time, she invited you. And while you didn’t want to be that friend, the kind who only says yes for someone else entirely… you agreed—heart already skipping at the fact that Caleb would be there.

When you arrived, you hadn’t even unpacked your bag yet before Caleb was sauntering into the room—arms behind his head, socks mismatched.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite ribbon girl,” He shot you a lazy smile, “guess the gang’s all here.”

The three of you fell into an easy rhythm, or at least, it seemed easy. MC was her usual loud, bright self, bouncing from snack to snack, laughing at her own jokes. Caleb matched her beat for beat, as he always did. And you—you laughed when you were supposed to, nodded when it fit, and tried to keep up with the tempo of the third wheel.

It was late and the screen was playing a movie none of you were really watching. MC lay sprawled out on the couch, her voice drowsy and soft.

“My neck’s killing me,” she whined. “Caleb. Do something.”

Caleb made a face. “What do I look like to you, a massage therapist?”

“A lazy one,” she shot back.

He moved anyway, climbed down behind her and began rubbing her shoulders in slow, practiced circles. Like this was routine, like it was something they did.

You stared at the screen, but the image blurred.

His fingers moved slowly and gently. She made some soft noise, teasing him when he hit a knot, and he rolled his eyes in that way he always did when he was trying not to smile.

You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself.

Caleb down at you from the couch, and tossed a piece of popcorn at you.

“You good?” he asked.

You forced a smile. “Fine.”

The moment passed.

Then her phone lit up.

zaynie <3 calling…

You saw it before she did. The way her whole face changed when she picked it up. Like he had dialed into some part of her that no one else could reach.

“Heyyy,” she said, rolling over and away from Caleb. “Missed you.”

And just like that, she stood up and left. Took the call upstairs like the rest of the room didn’t matter anymore.

Caleb was quiet. Still sitting there, his hands empty now. He stood, dusted nothing off his pants, and dropped onto the floor next to you with a sigh.

“I don’t get it,” he muttered.

You didn’t answer right away. You were still watching the stairs, watching the shadow of MC’s voice floating down, sugary and sweet.

“Maybe she just really likes him,” you said.

“He doesn’t even like her… not really.” Caleb turned to you, annoyed. “Zayne likes school. That’s it. He graduates in the spring, and he’s not gonna have time for her anymore when he goes off to university in the fall.”

“Then maybe she needs to figure that out for herself.”

He scoffed. “She’ll just get hurt.”

“Maybe,” you said. Then, quieter: “Or maybe you need to stop waiting around for her to realize something she doesn’t want to.”

He looked at you—a long, puzzled stare.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You forced a little laugh, picking at your sleeve. You worried you had struck a nerve. “Nothing. Just... maybe it’s time you looked somewhere else.”

You meant it.

He shook his head. “I’m not wired like that. I don’t just switch things off.”

“Doesn’t have to be switching off. Just... shifting focus. Trying something new.”

He let out a breath, something between a scoff and a laugh—the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah? Like what?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t—because what were you supposed to say? Me?

So instead, you looked at him. The TV light hit his face in just the right way—highlighting those ridiculous eyes, the ones you’d loved since before you even knew what love was. They flickered with frustration, with sadness, with something so close to tenderness you could almost taste it.

But it wasn’t for you. It never was.

He leaned back against the couch with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling like maybe the answers were written up there.

You stayed silent beside him. Shoulder to shoulder. Mile to mile.

He didn’t look over again, but rested his head on your shoulder.

You didn’t move, didn’t breathe too deep. Because if you did—if you shifted even slightly—you were terrified he’d lift his head. That he’d remember where he was, who he was leaning on.

And maybe it was pathetic.

Yeah, it probably was.

But you’d take the weight of him over nothing at all. You’d carry it gladly.The movie played on, long forgotten, just sound and flickering light. He was quiet, lost in a place you would never be invited to.

And yet… he reached for you anyway. Not just because you were there, because when his world tilted and spun, you were steady. You were warmth without demand, softness without question.

He wanted you—just not like you wanted him. Not with the fire you carried in your chest for him. Not with the hunger that hollowed you out every time he looked past you.

He wanted your quiet, your presence.

Your shoulder to lean on when hers wasn’t there.

And maybe that was love, in some twisted, diluted form. Maybe he did love you—in the way people love familiarity. In the way someone might miss the smell of home but never stay long enough to unpack.

Your shoulder ached, but your heart ached more.

You wanted to cry. Not sob—not loudly, just let tears slip out slow and unnoticed. Because there was something deeply cruel in being almost chosen.

Looking at the screen, at the blur of colors you couldn’t name, you thought maybe this was all you’d ever be. A detour before he remembered where his heart belonged.

And you swore if he reached for your hand, you would’ve taken it. You would’ve broken your own heart just to hold his a second longer.

But he didn’t, he just breathed softly against your skin.

And you sat there, the rot inside of you blooming too wide for your chest.

You said nothing.

Because what was there left to say, when even silence hurt?

You took what he gave you—gratefully, almost desperately—because it was more than the nothing you’d known for so long.

You reminded yourself that he said he missed you, that you meant something to him. Maybe not everything. Maybe not like you dreamed. But something. And wasn’t that supposed to be enough?

You told yourself it had to be. That being wanted in any way was better than not being wanted at all. Even if it was only in the moments she wasn’t around, when his eyes softened and his guard slipped.

Sometimes, when he reached for you, you felt you could pretend that this was enough. That crumbs could taste like a feast if you were hungry enough.

And you were starving.

It wasn’t as if he were cruel. He was never dismissive, never cold. If anything, he was thoughtful in ways that made it all harder. He remembered things—small, stupid things you wished he’d forget.

Your favorite candy, the songs you loved when you were ten, the way you tied your shoes backwards as a kid. Sometimes you caught him glancing at you like he still knew who you were beneath all the years.

Sometimes you wished he didn’t.

Sometimes you wished he’d snap at you, ignore you, give you something mean to hold onto—some reason to turn the yearning into anger. You wished he’d be heartless, just once, so you could hate him.

But how could you hate someone you loved like this? How could you hate a boy who wore ribbons that matched your eyes—tied in soft little bows to the belt loops of his jeans like he didn’t even realize what he was doing to you? He wasn’t trying to hurt you, and that’s what made it worse.

. . . .

Winter slipped away slowly, dripping from the trees and sidewalks like it didn’t want to leave. The snow thawed, and everything came alive again. Buds peeked from branches, the world turned pretty and green, the sky starting to hold more blue than grey.

But no matter how much the world shifted, you didn’t feel any different.

You thought you would—yet spring only brought more confusion.

Because Caleb never pulled away. He still sat next to you in class when he could. Still gave you that stupid, heart melting smile in the hallway. Still texted you late at night about nothing and everything. Still tied your ribbons to his belt loop, still brought you candy.

And you were left wondering what any of it meant.

Because as much as he gave you moments and fragments—he still looked at her like the sun rose behind her shoulders.

You were caught in the in-between. The maybe. The almost.

And it was worse than being ignored.

You were friends. Sure, that part you understood. But was that all? Was that all he saw when he looked at you?

Because if it was, why did it hurt like this?

You were friends with MC too. And she never looked at you the way Caleb did. Never leaned into your side, never reached for your hand out of nowhere, never lingered in your doorway just to say one more stupid thing before leaving. You and MC had never shared that kind of closeness that you and Caleb had.

And it wasn’t just some guy thing either. You knew Zayne. You watched how he acted with her, the way he smiled and touched her arm, shared his stupid sunglasses and inside jokes. It was obvious what he wanted. It was easy to read. Caleb? Caleb was something else entirely.

And maybe that was the worst part. Because he never said anything. Never clarified. Never told you what you were or weren’t to him. He just kept giving you pieces.

What were you supposed to do with that?

You wanted to scream. To shake him and demand answers. You weren’t some placeholder. You weren’t his emotional crutch for when MC wasn’t around. But if you said anything, anything, you were scared it would all disappear.

You thought winter was heavy—but spring? Spring was unbearable. Because the world was blooming and he was still not yours.

You had started to reach your limit.

You could only be so compassionate. You only had so much empathy—only so much hope to give before it all began to die inside you. Before you felt stupid for still believing in anything at all.

Slowly, the pieces of yourself began to slip. Slipped through the cracks, down into some place that felt like fury and heartbreak mixed together. You were unraveling, losing your marbles one by one.

Frustrated was too gentle a word.

Prom season, junior year. The first one you were allowed to go to. But what was the point? To squeeze into a too loud dress and pretend you weren’t invisible in a crowded gym full of glitter and heartbreak? To stand alone while MC and Zayne twirled under cheap lights, and Caleb glared at the back of their heads from across the room?

Because that’s exactly what he had done when he found out Zayne asked her.

You didn’t mean to overhear their fight through your window, but the whole neighborhood practically did.

“Seriously?” Caleb barked. “You’re going to prom with him?”

MC sounded stunned. “Caleb, I don’t understand why that’s a problem.”

“I just—I thought you hated dances.”

“I do,” she snapped, “but Zayne asked me and I thought it might be fun! What’s with the attitude?”

There was silence. He didn’t answer her. You could picture it—his jaw clenched, that angry crease in his brow. The way he’d look at her like she had just betrayed him, without even knowing how or why.

MC’s voice was quieter after that.

“Caleb… what’s this really about?”

But still, he said nothing.

And it killed you. Because even she didn’t know.

She didn’t know he was in love with her. She didn’t know the way he watched her, the way he spiraled over her. She didn’t understand why he acted like this—and maybe that was the worst part. Because she didn’t even mean to hurt him.

She never did.

Honestly, you didn’t think he’d go at all—because who was Caleb without MC?

Sure, he was still the heartthrob. Captain of the basketball team. The boy teachers fawned over, who made old ladies smile at the grocery store and got away with murder just by flashing that grin. On the outside, he was untouchable.

But you knew better.

Without her, he felt lost—like a kite with no string, flailing in the wind and pretending it was flying. He never said it out loud, but you’d seen it. In how his confidence cracked when he didn’t have her around.

So why the hell would he show up to prom alone?

Why go to some overhyped high school dance when the girl he loved more than anything was showing up on the arm of someone else?

You knew him. Knew how deeply he attached his identity to her, even when he didn’t realize it himself.

So you were surprised, to say the least, when he asked you.

Well—told you.

Some boy from your History class caught you between periods—he was the type who always spoke up when called on, always cracked jokes in group work. You’d talked before, mostly in passing, always lended him your pencils. You knew he played basketball, knew he sat at the end of the bench near Caleb, but that was about it.

He stopped you by your locker, holding out one of the many pencils he’d borrowed.

“Hey, thanks for this,” he said casually. “Also—been meaning to ask—are you going to prom?”

The way he said it was confident. Like he already knew the answer, like you’d be crazy to say no. It wasn’t pushy, just matter of fact—you weren’t sure you were really being given a choice here.

Before you could get a word out, Caleb materialized beside you.

Arm around your shoulder. No warning, no “hey.” Just suddenly there. Like he always was, when you least expected him but needed him most.

His voice was deceptively sweet. “I didn’t know you two talked.”

“We don’t really,” the boy didn’t miss a beat. “ But I was asking her to prom.”

You didn’t even have time to react.

Caleb’s grip on your shoulder didn’t change, but his posture shifted. Slightly in front of you now. Calm and casual, but there was more now under the surface.

With the way Caleb stood beside you, it pulled you back to those days on the playground, when he was a kid with teeth bared, standing guard with a stick clenched tight in his hands—ready to fight one of the boys that had stolen your chalk.

But now it was just his arm around your shoulder, yet the fierce protectiveness hadn’t dulled. His posture, the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes narrowed—it was the same guard dog instinct. You could feel it in your bones, a warning that no one else could cross this line. That was Caleb’s claim, before he even spoke a word.

“Oh,” Caleb said, smiling like it wasn’t the start of a storm. “Sorry, dude. She’s going with me.”

That made your eyes snap to him.

The boy blinked, confused. “Oh. Really?”

Caleb turned to you then, eyes locking onto yours like a silent challenge—expectation, tension, a little heat.

“Isn’t that right?” he asked.

You stared at him, unsure if you were angry or flustered or just completely lost. Your mouth opened and closed. You knew you should say something, should correct him, should remind him he never even asked.

But with his violet eyes shimmering like fire trapped in glass—you nodded.

“Right.”

The boy backed off, giving Caleb a tight lipped smile before walking away.

You stood still, Caleb’s arm still a brand. He hadn’t looked at you yet.

“Since when am I going with you?” you asked, voice low.

Now he turned, that easy confidence wavering just slightly when he caught your expression.

“I figured you wouldn’t want to go alone.”

“I didn’t say I was even going,” you glared.

“Didn’t say no, either.”

You stood there wondering what the hell just happened.

Because he hadn’t asked. He’d claimed.

You stared at him as he walked off down the hall, waving back at you like it was nothing.

He was only asking because MC was going with Zayne. Because he didn’t want to be the one left out. Because he needed someone—anyone—to keep him from feeling like second place.

Exhaling, you deflated right there in the middle of the hallway.

Damn it. Now you had to get a dress.

. . . .

And all I can taste is this moment,

And all I can breathe is your life

. . . .

There was a kind of silence that felt eerie—like the world was holding its breath. A soft spring rain dusted the streets in a dull mist, the sky grey and sad. Not a single car passed by your window. It felt like an omen, if you let yourself think about it long enough.

You had woken up early, just like every other girl probably did on prom day—but unlike them, your chest was tight. Something was wrong. You didn’t know what exactly, but your body did. That gnawing dread wouldn’t leave you, even as you tried to force yourself through the motions.

Every breath felt wrong. Every moment alone in your room only made the silence louder. You curled your hair with shaking hands. Did your makeup with a pit in your stomach. Got dressed like you were preparing for a funeral instead of a dance.

MC was going with a different group of friends. She’d invited you to come along—kindly, of course—but you’d said no. Didn’t want to intrude.

You knew you’d feel like an outsider.

But maybe that’s what made the air feel so tense.

That’s what you told yourself.

You looked pretty. The dress shimmered against the gloom outside, your hair tied up and curled with Caleb’s—no, your purple ribbons. The long gloves you bought felt a little ridiculous, but you wore them anyway. Told yourself they made you look regal.

But no matter how hard you tried, that sinking feeling wouldn’t leave.

Caleb arrived with a knock at your door, and he smiled when he saw you. You didn’t expect really much of a reaction from him, you knew you weren’t the one he had wanted to go with tonight.

You weren’t sure you wanted to go with him either—at least, not this version of Caleb. You wanted the version of Caleb you had grown up romanticizing.

And he wanted MC.

You’d told him the colors of your dress—purple and orange, like a sunset—but you didn’t send a picture, no matter how many times he asked.

He had nagged you about it all week. But you wanted it to be a surprise. Maybe some small, stupid part of you thought that he’d see you and pause. Say something that would make all of this feel worth it.

You wished you’d never tried to make it special at all.

He looked you over. “You look good,” he said, “Didn’t think you’d pick something like this.”

You let out a pathetic laugh at his poor compliment, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “Yeah. Me either.”

It wasn’t the reaction you wanted.

But then again, he hadn’t been the boy you wanted in a long time. You were learning that the hard way.

You pitied both of you, and it crushed you. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Not the way you imagined it. There was no excitement, just this haunting, hollow feeling—no limousine, no friends laughing around you, no magical night.

The look in his eyes while he put on your corsage—whatever it was—was something you couldn’t reach. Maybe regret, maybe guilt, maybe just tiredness. You couldn’t blame him. You’d rather be anywhere else, away from this tangled mess between you, away from the silence that screamed louder than any words.

Your friendship was strangling you, twisting tighter with every forced smile and every awkward moment. It was supposed to be something safe—a warm blanket you both could wrap yourselves in when the world got cold.

But instead, it was a ball of tangled yarn, knotted with all the broken pieces neither of you knew how to unravel. And you were suffocating, drowning in what it had become. You wanted to pull it apart, tear it open and let it all fall apart rather than keep pretending it could be smoothed out, but you were too scared of what the emptiness would feel like without it.

The night was fading into a blur, each moment slipping past like smoke. Your mind was a mess of static, every word Caleb muttered to break the silence during the photos, during the drive to school, just washed over you and disappeared. You felt detached, like you were watching yourself from outside your body.

You wished—if only you could pretend hard enough—that this was all a dream. That when you finally opened your eyes, none of it had happened. Caleb never asked you. You could go back to living with the kind of sadness that at least made sense, the kind you were used to.

Or maybe, you’d wake up and Caleb would be yours. It would be prom morning, but everything would feel right. Everything would line up with the way you’d dreamed it, planned it, wished for it to be. But you knew, deep down, that waking up to that kind of hope was just as painful as facing this empty reality.

The gym was a chaotic mix of noise and shadows, too loud to think while the flashing lights stabbed at your eyes. The air was thick with sweat and perfume, bodies packed too close in dresses that hung awkwardly and suits that were too tight. Caleb was pulled away almost instantly, swallowed up by a group of his friends laughing loudly, already slipping into a world you didn’t belong in.

He looked back at you—searching for maybe a sign that you were okay, or that this wasn’t as lonely for you as it felt.

You forced a small smile. “It’s okay,” you told him, but the words felt small, a fragile shield against the gnawing hurt growing inside as he was tugged away toward the table where they all sat, already leaving you behind.

Finding your way to a quiet corner, you pictured the gym as it was that night you had gone to Caleb’s basketball game. Felt that feeling of hope, the first time in what felt like forever he had made a conscious effort to make you feel seen.

But then he chose her. Without a word, without a glance back. You were left standing by the cold gates, swallowed by the dark and silence, waiting for someone who never came. That night, months ago, should have been the first warning—a cruel prophecy of all that was to come.

A little ways off, where the music pulsed and bodies moved in rhythm, you saw MC spinning like a princess in her dress. She was everything you thought she’d be—like a light bright enough to awaken the dim room, shining and dazzling everyone around her. Her laughter bubbled up, surrounded by friends who hung on every smile. She looked like she belonged there, like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

Your hands twisted together, trembling, tears gathering but refusing to fall.

You looked beautiful.

You had your dress, your hair done, your makeup just right.

You were here with Caleb.

No—you were there in a corner.

Alone.

You sank to the floor, not even flinching when the grime clung to the hem of your dress—the one you told yourself would make you feel beautiful. It didn’t matter now. You felt dirty anyway. Used up. Stupid for thinking this night would be anything but a reminder of everything you didn’t have.

You hugged your knees to your chest, blinking through the tears that refused to stop. The music kept playing, song after song bleeding together, slow ones turning fast and back again. You watched couples sway under the lights like it was the easiest thing in the world to be loved. And you just sat there, still as stone.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting there before a voice pulled you out of your mind.

“Are you okay?”

Startled, you lifted your head from your knees, not expecting anyone to notice you curled up in the shadows. But there he was—Zayne, crouched in front of you, concern written all over his face.

You straightened quickly, wiping at the tears on your cheeks with the back of your hand. “Oh—yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” You let out a laugh that sounded maybe a little too fake.

Zayne didn’t look convinced. His eyes flicked around the room before landing back on you. “Where’s Caleb? I thought you two came together.”

“I don’t know. He disappeared with his friends as soon as we got here. I haven’t really seen him since.”

He sighed and quietly sat beside you without another word.

“You don’t have to stay,” you said, curling in on yourself again. “You should probably be with MC.”

“And you should probably be with Caleb,” he replied, resting his head back against the wall. “Looks like both our dates are having more fun without us.”

You followed his gaze. MC was still out on the dance floor, spinning in circles with her friends.

He didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t have to. You’d grown up around Zayne just like you had with Caleb. You knew him—knew this wasn’t his scene. He was here for her. Just like you were here for someone who didn’t really want you.

You tried to make conversation, anything to distract yourself from where you were—and where you weren’t.

“So,” you said, voice still scratchy, “you excited to graduate?”

He glanced over, giving a soft shrug. “Yeah, a bit.”

“That’s cool…That’s cool…” You sometimes forgot how quiet Zayne was, in contrast to the girl he was with.

“I’m just hoping I don’t trip when I walk across the stage.”

It made you smile, and for a second, things didn’t feel quite as lonely. You were still sitting in a corner, still dressed up with no one looking for you, but at least you weren’t invisible anymore.

“I thought this night would feel different,” you admitted quietly, eyes on the chaos of the dance floor. “I thought it’d feel special.”

Zayne didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you like he understood.

“I like your dress,” he said.

It was simple. Just a compliment. A nice, polite thing to say.

But it hit you harder than you expected—because it was the least someone had given you all night.

Before you could stop it, the tears started to fall again.

Zayne’s eyes widened a little, clearly startled. “Oh—I didn’t mean to—”

You shook your head, holding up a shaky hand. “No, no, it’s not you. I’m okay, I promise.”

You weren’t. But it was easier than admitting how desperately you had needed to feel seen.

And seen you were—when a pointed, loud “Ahem” broke the quiet between you and Zayne.

Caleb stood a few feet away, arms crossed, and jaw tight.

Zayne didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. “Look who remembered he had a date,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.

You almost laughed—almost. But your stomach turned instead.

You quickly wiped at your face, forcing yourself to stand. “Hey,” your voice was thin. “You, uh... you disappeared.”

“I’ll let you two talk,” Zayne said, finally pushing himself to his feet and brushing off his pants. He looked at you and gave the faintest nod, not quite a smile, yet still was the most comforting gesture you had received that night—before he walked off with hands in his pockets.

You turned back to Caleb, hands twisting in the fabric of your skirt.

“I’m sorry,” Caleb said, not looking at you.

You didn’t know what to say. Your cheeks were damp, your eyes sore, your makeup probably ruined. You didn’t really want him to see you like this anyway.

“S’okay,” you mumbled. But it wasn’t. And a part of you wished he’d never found you at all. At least then you could stay in that corner with Zayne, pretending you didn’t care.

“There’s a slow song next,” he said, clearing his throat. “Do you want to dance?”

You hesitated, then nodded. His hand reached for yours and you let him take it. Let him lead you to the floor.

The music was soft. The lights spun gently overhead. Around you, couples swayed like they were in love.

Caleb’s hand found your waist. His other stayed in yours. It was the way you were supposed to dance. Normal, fine.

But it felt like he was holding you just far enough away. Like if he pulled you closer, he’d feel everything—your hurt, your want, your love he didn’t return.

And you were scared if you got any nearer, you’d fall right into him. Disappear into someone, a soul that didn't want to catch you.

You blinked slowly. Let your gaze drop to his chest, the fabric of his button up creased a little too much from where he probably yanked it off a hanger last minute. You had tried so hard—made everything perfect. And for what?

“Caleb,” He looked at you then, startled, like he wasn’t expecting you to speak.

You opened your mouth to say more, but nothing came. There wasn’t anything left. Nothing he hadn’t already ignored.

So instead, you said the only thing that didn’t feel like begging.

“Thanks for dancing with me.”

He nodded. Smiled a little, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

You wondered if he even wanted to be holding your hand.

The song was almost over.

And you wished it had never started.

He watched over your shoulder, eyes fixed on something. You tried to ignore it, but then he spoke.

“Why were you sitting with Zayne earlier?”

That was it?

Of all the things he could’ve said… that?

Not Are you okay?

Not I’m sorry I left you alone all night.

Not You look beautiful.

Just that.

You were flabbergasted. “Seriously?”

Caleb finally met your eyes, face unreadable. “I just didn’t expect to see you with him. That’s all.”

You gave a disbelieving laugh. “You didn’t expect it? I was alone, Caleb—for most of the night.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked vaguely uncomfortable, shifting his weight like he couldn’t decide whether to defend himself or stay silent.

Typical.

You tried to let it go. Tried to smooth down the fire rising from your toes and through your throat—to be reasonable, level headed and calm. The kind of girl who doesn’t make a scene. But then, something in you cracked.

You turned your head, following his line of sight. Zayne and MC were dancing.

They looked good, and comfortable. Happy. MC glowed under the gym lights, and Zayne had that rare, soft look on his face.

And there Caleb was, still staring.

“Is that what this is about?” your voice rose just a bit, not enough to turn heads, but enough to sting. “You’re upset because I was sitting with someone who actually noticed I was upset? Someone who, I don’t know, maybe cared?”

Caleb’s brow furrowed. “It’s not like that. I just—Zayne’s always been—”

“Don’t. Don’t turn this into something it’s not. You abandoned me tonight. Not him.”

“I can’t lose you.”

You froze.

He looked right at you, eyes desperate. “I can’t lose you to him too.”

Too.

That word.

You didn’t even fully understand it—what it implied, what he meant—but it scraped something inside of you anyway.

“I’m not a fucking consolation prize, Caleb,” you snapped, voice breaking on the edges of anger. “You don’t get to ignore me all night and then get jealous. You don’t get to watch me fall apart and only speak up when your ego is bruised.”

His face paled, but you didn’t care.

Because all the things you’d been holding back—the pain, the loneliness, the crushing sense of disappointment—were flooding to the surface now, unrelenting.

“You don’t get to lose me,” your voice wobbled, “because you never even had me.”

The music blurred in your ears. Your pulse roared.

You broke free from his grasp, practically running out of the gym.

You ran, and you ran.

You ran until you didn’t even know where you were going—you just needed to get away. Away from the music, the lights, the people, him.

You kicked off your heels halfway down the street, too tired to care that your feet were raw, bleeding from the blisters. Your dress dragged behind you, snagging on twigs and the sidewalk and god knows what else. You didn’t care.

You didn’t care about anything anymore.

Then you tripped.

You hit the ground with a loud slap—palms scraping open, knees stinging. You just stayed there, frozen. The kind of still that comes after your body gives up. After your heart already did.

And then it started to rain.

Like, really rain.

Cold, heavy and merciless—soaking through your hair, your dress and your skin in seconds. It was quiet, but not peaceful—like the world had decided to shut up just to let you hear how alone you were.

You crawled forward a bit before curling up like a little kid. Arms wrapped around your legs, head tucked down, shaking all over.

Your body started to rock, and then you were crying. The kind of crying that sounds like gasping. Like begging—like something being ripped out of you. You couldn't even tell where your tears ended and the rain began.

You looked down at your dress, torn and muddy, and it made you cry harder. You tried so hard to look pretty for him. You practiced walking in heels, curling your hair, doing your makeup—just to be his date. Just to be chosen. Just to feel like you were enough.

But you weren’t.

Not for him.

You never were.

You cried like a kid. Like someone who’d just realized love doesn’t mean safety. That sometimes people don’t show up. That sometimes, you’re not enough for them to stay.

And sitting there, soaked and shaking, with your mascara smeared down your cheeks and your hands burning from the fall—you didn’t feel like a teenager anymore. You felt five. You felt like a little girl, crying on the sidewalk because Caleb had taken one of your toys. Except this time, it was your heart. Your life.

You curled up tighter, but it didn’t help. You were soaked straight through. Your teeth started to chatter, but you didn’t even try to stop them. You just sat there shaking.

You whispered to no one, “It’s cold.”

Your voice cracked. You said it again.

“It’s cold.”

It was all you could think. All you could feel. Cold, and alone. And small. So small. And you hated that the world just kept going. That the rain didn’t pause for your heartbreak. That the streetlights still flickered above you like everything was fine.

Eventually, your body couldn’t take it anymore. Your knees hurt from how long you'd been sitting, and your hands were stiff and raw. So you got up, dragging yourself to your feet, soaked dress clinging to your legs like it didn’t want to let go either.

You walked home.

Barefoot, your shoes long gone. The sidewalk was rough and uneven, cold and sharp. You felt every step, but also… you didn’t. Your brain had turned off somewhere between the gym and the street. You didn’t look at anything, didn’t check your phone, didn’t cry anymore. You were empty now—wrung out.

By the time you reached your front door, your fingers were too cold to get the key in right. You fumbled and dropped it and just stared at it for a second on the welcome mat, wondering how this had become your life.

You went straight to the bathroom, peeling the wet fabric off your skin piece by piece. Your zipper got stuck and you cried out in frustration—because it was just one more thing.

You looked in the mirror and wished you hadn’t.

Your makeup was a disaster. Your eyes were red and puffy. Your hair hung in damp, tangled clumps. You looked like a ghost. Like a little girl who’d been left behind. And maybe that’s what you were.

You didn’t even shower. You just wiped your skin down with a towel, like that would make it all go away. You stepped out of your dress and left it crumpled on the bathroom floor, too tired to care.

Crawling into bed, still damp, the cold clung to you under the blankets. You curled onto your side and squeezed your eyes shut.

And in the quiet of your room, you whispered one more time:

“It’s cold.”

Not just your body.

Everything.

Your eyelids were heavy, sore from all the crying, and they started to fall shut on their own—suddenly everything felt far away. Like you were still watching yourself from outside your own body.

You could still feel the cold.

It echoed inside you—like a scream that never stopped ringing.

Your breath hitched once, maybe twice, and then your body gave out.

It was a loud, cracking thunder that yanked you out of sleep like a slap. You shot up, heart pounding, breath caught in your throat. For a moment, everything felt heavy and blurry, like your body hadn’t caught up to your mind. Like you were underwater, or dreaming.

You sat there, dazed, blinking at the darkness until another flash of lightning lit up your room as you flinched. The room looked unfamiliar under the pale blue white glow. Like it didn’t belong to you, none of this did.

Still half asleep, half sick from everything, you shuffled to your window, hands weak as you reached for the curtains. You just wanted to shut it all out—the storm, the world, the ache in your chest. You were so cold, and so tired, and—

Then you saw him.

Caleb.

Out there in the rain.

You froze. Blinked. Rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand.

He didn’t move.

Just stood there under your window, soaked through like you had been earlier that night—hair dripping, arms limp at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore. His eyes were lifted, searching, and even though the rain blurred everything, you knew he was looking at you.

For a second, you were convinced you were still dreaming. That maybe you hadn’t actually woken up. That maybe your mind had conjured this out of sheer exhaustion and heartbreak. It felt too surreal, too cruel and too stupid.

Because what else could it be? Why else would he be there now?

For a second, you just stared.

Part of you was too tired to even feel anything.

But then the confusion came. The disbelief. Then the anger—creeping hot up your spine.

What did he want?

What did he think this was?

You just stood there, silently, trembling in your oversized t-shirt, mascara still smudged from earlier. You were cold. So cold.

And he was just out there.

Looking like the boy you wished had loved you right.

He looked so small out there. And you felt so small in here.

Caleb would’ve been stupid not to know exactly how you felt. You were sure of that. Maybe he never said it out loud, never admitted it—even to himself—but he knew. He saw the way your eyes lingered on him, the way your smile faltered whenever he looked away, the way your whole body tensed and softened in his presence. He knew.

And you sometimes wondered if he used that—your feelings—as a kind of quiet leverage. Not because he wanted to hurt you, not because he was cruel or calculating. No, Caleb wasn’t like that. But he had his own battles, his own demons clawing at him, and you were there. You were safe, always willing, always there. You didn’t fight it. You just let yourself get wrapped up in whatever he offered.

You loved him. Painfully so.

And Caleb knew it.

He didn’t need words. He never needed words. You think maybe that was his silent power over you, and maybe his curse.

The rain tapped harder against the windowpane as you slowly closed the curtains, shutting out the cold, the storm, and the figure waiting outside. You shut it all away—his gaze, your heart, the space between you that kept growing wider.

You wanted to close him out, too. But you knew that no curtain could block the way he’d already found inside you.

. . . .

And sooner or later, it's over

I just don't wanna miss you tonight

. . . .

Just as fast as it had seemed like maybe—maybe Caleb loved you back the way you loved him, he vanished. Not physically. He still walked the halls. Still laughed in class. But it was like you’d been scrubbed from his memory. Like you were a bad dream he didn’t want to admit he ever had.

Or maybe you were the ghost. Hovering and haunting, left behind in the wreckage of something that never even got a proper name.

And that was the worst part—there wasn’t even a clean break. No screaming match. No final fight. Just silence. Just Caleb looking through you like you were steam on a mirror, like all he had to do was blink and you’d be gone.

Though he tried to talk to you a few times, after that night—you still shut him out. Slammed the door of communication closed. You wanted him to feel the gut-punch. Wanted him to beg. To grovel like he always did for her.

You wanted him to feel it—wanted him to hurt.

You thought he might fight for you. Thought maybe if you made him miss you enough, he’d come crawling back the way he always did with MC.

You thought if you were good—if you were patient and quiet and hurt in silence—he’d realize what he lost.

Silly girl, you were never her.

You’d never be her.

But still, you watched him. And sometimes—when he thought you weren’t looking—you caught it. The way his face would twitch. The way his eyes almost darted to yours like they used to. The ghost of a habit he was trying to unlearn.

You told yourself that meant something. That it was proof he cared. But glances aren’t apologies. And flinches aren’t love.

You were grieving someone who wasn’t even gone— and that’s the cruelest kind of mourning, isn’t it? Not absence, but a presence that ignores you.

He was right there. He just didn’t really see you anymore.

It’s like being underwater while the world goes on above you. Like screaming with your mouth full of blood and saltwater and no one ever hearing. You were still there—heart still beating, love still burning—but he’d already moved on like none of it ever mattered. Like you never mattered.

And the worst part?

You still loved him.

Like a song stuck in your teeth.

Like a scab you keep picking.

And he just keeps walking.

In love, you spoke in lifelines. He spoke in escape routes. You kept translating, bending, breaking to understand him.

You kept setting fires in your chest, and he kept warming his hands and leaving.

Zayne graduated, and just like Caleb said he would, he was gone by summer. And with that, everything Caleb had warned about came true.

He left MC.

She was wrecked—crying in the bathrooms, drifting through the halls like she’d lost a limb. And a part of you felt for her. You did. You knew the sting of being left behind, of watching someone you loved choose something (someone) else over you.

But your heartbreak had been different. And unlike MC, you didn’t have Caleb to help sweep up the damage.

If Caleb hadn’t been obsessed before, now he was relentless. He was at her side constantly—waiting at her locker, following her laugh like a tether, orbiting her like he couldn’t breathe unless she let him. He bent to her every need. Carried her books, fetched her favorite coffee, dropped everything the second she called. It was like watching a soldier answer roll call—there wasn’t a single part of him that didn’t belong to her.

The rest of senior year passed like that.

You had your own future planned—acceptance into Hunter’s Academy, something you should’ve been proud of. But even that was overshadowed. MC, despite being a year younger, had louder dreams. Dreams people paid attention to. She was going to be a hunter too, and somehow her ambition shined brighter. Everyone saw it. Everyone talked about it. You were just the…one who got in first. Something like that.

And so, you started to fade.

Life became something to get through. With time, a faultline cracked open beneath your feet. A quiet divide between you and everyone else.

And instead of trying to cross it, you stood still. Because at least on your side, the silence didn’t lie to you.

. . . .

And I don't want the world to see me

'Cause I don't think that they'd understand

. . . .

You graduated—walked the stage, took the diploma, and smiled for the picture—ut inside, there was nothing. No flicker of pride. No sigh of relief.

People clapped, your name was called, and you existed. That was the most you could say.

It felt like the past two years had sucked all of the life out of you. Silly teenage girl and silly teenage love, yet you still carried that grief with you through the summer and to the Hunters Academy.

It wasn’t excitement that got you there—it was inertia. You had nowhere else to go. Nothing else waiting for you.

You existed on autopilot: wake up, train, eat, study, sleep.

Repeat.

You passed exams. Earned marks. Beat out half your class by sheer willpower alone. And still, no one really saw you. You were just… there.

No one ever really saw you. Not when you were a kid, not in the chaos of high school. You existed quietly, in the background—present, but never quite acknowledged. Like wallpaper in a room full of louder voices.

And the one person you wanted to see you—the only one whose opinion ever really mattered—never truly did. Caleb.

He went on to the Aerospace Academy, chasing his dreams with the same certainty he didn’t chase you. And you were happy for him, because you’re the kind of person who still loves people who hurt you. You clapped for him through a screen, watching from the sidelines like you always had.

He’d like your posts sometimes. You’d like his. That was the extent of it. No messages. No check ins. Just the algorithm throwing two ghosts at each other every now and then, reminding you he still existed.

As if you could forget.

You became mutuals in each other’s lives. Background characters. Polite nods in the hallway of adulthood.

And somehow that hurt more than anything else.

Because you didn’t forget.

You remembered every version of him—every moment that made your heart hurt when you looked at him too long.

It was like everything the two of you shared had dissolved into nothing. Like your whole childhood had been a figment of your imagination. Like you were the only one who felt it all for real.

You were close to graduating from the Hunters Academy when something shifted in you. Maybe it was just a crack in the numbness.

Either way, you found yourself driving back home—the place you’d been avoiding for quite a while.

Past the corner store where you'd once bought candy with spare change. Past your old high school, its windows still filled with the same kind of teenage loneliness. Past the playground, empty now, except for the memories of who you used to be.

You kept circling. Not really sure what you were looking for—maybe a feeling, maybe some closure. Proof that it didn’t all happen in your head.

Because you had left this town, but it never really left you. Its grip was firm—the streets still knew your name, the air still smelled like the version of you that never got to grow up right.

It was like your soul had gotten stuck here, trapped in the cracks of the pavement and the dust on old windowpanes. A ghost, pacing the same streets, waiting to pass on—but never really knowing how.

As you pulled up to the curb outside your childhood home, the past was already wrapping its hands around your throat.

And there he was.

Sitting on his front steps like nothing had changed. His eyes widened slightly when he saw your car, recognition hitting him.

His lips twitched into the beginning of a smile, and he lifted his hand in a wave—that wave.

You stepped out of the car, forcing a small, polite smile back, because what else were you supposed to do? Hug him? Cry? Pretend like it hadn’t been too long you last saw him—unless you counted the glimpses of him in photos online, standing inside a life that didn’t include you anymore.

You didn’t even make it to your porch before his voice stopped you.

“Hey there,” he called, shielding his eyes from the low evening sun, squinting at you like he needed to really see if it was actually you. “What brings you back to this little old town?”

“Visiting,” you looked at him for a beat too long, then glanced down and fidgeted with the keys in your hand. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He tilted his head a little, pretending to think, “Visiting,” he echoed.

Caleb shifted over on the steps, patting the spot beside him—like there wasn’t years of silence and heartbreak hanging in the air between you. Just a simple gesture, an invitation.

You stood there, frozen for a second.

Your brain screamed no, told you this wasn’t smart—you weren’t even sure coming home had been good for your sanity. And now this? Caleb, inches away? Alone?

But your body moved before your heart could catch up.

Because your soul still recognized him. It remembered the way his eyes used to light up when he looked at you. It remembered the warmth of his shoulder against yours, the cadence of his voice when he whispered your name. He had Pavloved you. Conditioned you, without meaning to, into obedience.

You hated that he still had that power.

And you sat down. Because even if it destroyed you, some part of you still wanted to know if there was anything left to ruin.

“How’s the Hunters Academy treatin’ you?” Caleb asked, his voice so familiar it made your head swirl. That voice had once been your comfort—had once been home.

He looked… different. Not unrecognizable, but not quite the same either. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, like someone who’d lived a little more.

You rubbed at the fabric of your jeans. “It’s okay. I graduate in a few weeks.”

Caleb let out a low whistle. “Didn’t realize that much time had gone by. You must be excited.”

“Yeah,” it was the easiest thing to say.

“Do you see MC a lot?”

There it was. Her name. You didn’t even get one full conversation before she slipped in.

You looked down at your hands, at the little ridges on your knuckles, anything but him. “Sometimes.”

She was also a student at the Academy now, following right behind you—always a step behind and yet somehow miles ahead.

“You’re graduating soon too,” you tried to steer the conversation, to redirect it anywhere else. “Right?”

Caleb nodded slowly, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Feels weird. Like I blinked and suddenly I’m here.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Because for you, time hadn’t passed in a blink—it had dragged. Time that felt like a decade, marked not by milestones, but by every time you managed to get out of bed. Every time you saw him tagged in another photo with her. Every time you reminded yourself not to care, and still did.

“Do you like it? Flying?”

He paused, eyes shifting away like he needed to look far enough away to answer it honestly. “It makes sense to me. Being in the air, it’s quiet up there.”

You nodded, “Quiet sounds nice.”

He looked over at you then. And maybe it was just your imagination, but for a second, it was like he could see it. All of it. The hurt. The years. Maybe even the version of you that used to look at him like he hung the stars.

“You’ve changed,” he said.

You snorted, tired. “Life’ll do that.”

“I didn’t think you’d come back.”

“I didn’t either,” you admitted.

Caleb stared out at the horizon, the sky bruised in orange and purple—the setting sun dipping low behind the rooftops and trees. You followed his gaze. It reminded you of that night—of your dress, and the light it caught as you moved. It reminded you of him, too—of the boy he was, the boy you loved, and the one who never reached back.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he, for a while. Just that quiet between you, full of things too old to still hurt this much.

Then, softly:

“I hoped you would.”

You swallowed. “You don’t mean that.”

He shifted a little, elbows on his knees. “I do.”

You finally glanced over at him. He wasn’t looking at you. Just his hands, like they might say something for him.

“I checked in. Here and there.”

You frowned.

“Your posts. Stuff you’d share.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Didn’t know if I should say anything.”

You waited. He didn’t say more.

“I didn’t hate you,” You stared at the sky again, the purple deepening, the orange slipping.

“I thought you did.” his words stung. “Would’ve made it easier.”

You knew the feeling.

Silence passed—just the soft sound of crickets in the grass, and the rustle of wind in the trees being exchanged between the two of you.

Caleb stood, stretching like he’d been holding something in. “I should probably get dinner going for Gran and MC. They’ll be home soon.”

You nodded and watched the sky shift fully into purple, the sun finally disappearing like it had somewhere more important to be. You stood, dusted off your jeans like you could shake off everything else too.

“Hey,” he said before you could leave, voice quieter now. “I’ve got something for you. Come grab it before you leave town.”

You looked at him then—into his eyes, not just at them. And for a moment, you felt so small. Like nothing had changed. Like you were still that girl who wanted him to choose her. Who thought he might.

So you didn’t say anything else.

You told him goodnight. Waved.

And left.

You never grabbed whatever he had for you.

You were scared.

. . . .

When everything's made to be broken

I just want you to know who I am

. . . .

You saw it on the news.

Another explosion caused by a Metaflux fluctuation.

At first, it barely registered. Just background noise in the chaos of everything else. A feeling of sympathy for the strangers caught in it—until they weren’t strangers anymore.

Until you saw the pictures.

That yard. That house. The one next door.

Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like your body hollowed out.

You remember laughing on those steps. Smiling in that yard. That same yard now torn apart on the screen in front of you.

MC had posted something about her and Caleb, visiting Josephine.

You froze. Maybe for a second, maybe for an hour—you couldn’t tell.

Then you moved.

Rushed to your phone, his contact already there like it had been waiting for you. You hit "call." Let it ring. No answer. Hung up. Called again.

Again.

Nothing.

You sent messages. Poured every panicked, shaking thought into them.

Please call me.

Are you okay?

Please.

I just want to know you're okay.

Caleb please.

There was no reply.

Not that night. Not the next.

Three days passed. You didn’t sleep. Barely ate. Every time your phone buzzed, your chest seized.

When it finally lit up, it wasn’t him.

MC.

Her voice cracked, but she was alive. You were grateful for that.

But then she said it.

"Caleb’s gone."

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

Your mouth moved but no sound came out.

You holed yourself up in your room like you were curling into your own grave. Days passed. Maybe weeks. Time lost all meaning. It dragged and collapsed in on itself like your chest every time you remembered.

You didn’t go to work. Didn’t shower. Didn’t eat. You stopped checking your phone, stopped opening the blinds. Stopped being.

Your bed became a coffin. You laid there, eyes open, blinking slow, letting all of it crush you inch by inch. You didn’t cry at first—couldn’t. It was worse than crying. Your grief was too big for tears. It swallowed you whole.

Then MC texted.

Said she’d been in Caleb’s room. Said she found something with your name on it. Said she’d leave it on your doorstep.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Just stared at the screen until it dimmed, then set it face down and turned away.

You left the box there.

For hours. For days. Then you imagined someone stealing it—ripping it open, tearing through whatever he’d left you.

And the fear of losing it—losing one more thing—dug its claws into your chest and pulled you out of bed.

You dragged your body to the door like it weighed a thousand pounds.

There it was.

Small. Plain. Wrapped neatly with that goddamn ribbon.

You hadn’t seen it in years.

That lopsided bow he always tried to fix three times before giving up and grinning like an idiot.

In your color.

Your knees nearly gave out. Your stomach twisted so violently you thought you were going to be sick right there in the doorway. You almost left it. Almost let the wind or a stranger take it from you. Almost walked back to bed and pretended it had never been there at all.

But you didn’t.

You picked it up, clutching it too tight like it might vanish if you let go.

You brought it inside and set it on the floor by the door.

And then you stared at it.

For hours.

For another day.

For as long as it took to work up the strength to open the last thing he’d ever give you.

You finally undid the ribbon one morning, when curiosity and desperation to know what it was finally overcame you. Peeling back paper revealed a black box, with gold lettering of the name of a familiar company you couldn’t help but forget to recall.

Inside it sat a loose leaf paper.

“I’m sorry,”

It read.

“I miss my best friend.”

That was it.

Two lines.

You stared at them for a long time. Like maybe you’d read them wrong.

But they didn’t change.

You gripped the paper until it tore.

Beneath it was the necklace.

That necklace. The one you’d stopped in front of that shop window years ago to admire. He’d remembered. He’d bought it. Wrapped it up. Written you a note.

Called you his best friend.

It shattered something in you.

The tears came fast—ugly and unstoppable. Not neat or quiet, but sobs that raked your throat raw.

You weren’t angry at the gift.

You were angry at him.

Angry that he never told you the truth when he was still alive. That he let you spend your whole life clinging to this hope, this maybe, this someday. That he made you feel like there was something there—every glance, every moment, every brush of his hand that lingered just long enough to make you wonder. All of it.

He didn’t have to love you back. But he should’ve said something.

Instead, he left you with two lines and a necklace.

You screamed. You screamed so hard it hurt your ribs, begged the empty room for answers, for a rewrite, for one more chance—just one—to say everything you’d never gotten to.

But he was gone, and now there wasn’t even the comfort of pretending. No half-smiles across the room, no soft memories to cradle yourself in, no flicker of hope to nurse late at night when sleep wouldn’t come.

You clutched the necklace and the note to your chest like they were the last things in the world. You curled around them like they could still protect you, like if you held them close enough maybe you’d wake up and he’d still be alive.

You tried to believe it was him you were holding—not a box, not paper, not metal—but him.

But it wasn’t, it would never be.

You sobbed until your throat gave out, until your tears soaked your clothes and the floor beneath you. You screamed his name into the quiet, begged for him like a child, like someone praying for a miracle that wasn’t coming.

But Caleb was gone.

And he never saw you the way you saw him.

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