#but first...i gotta write...the ENDING... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

daddymaster21 · 3 days ago

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Review time!!! I’m already scared by your authors note. Sorry this took so long!!!!

1. Is this the darkness??? Amara, sweetie, is that you????

2. All my homies hate the PTSD nightmares. Smh my head.

3. LMAOOO HER WRITING DEANS NAME ON HERSELF. ME TOO HOMEGIRL.

4. Mmmh. Not sure about that one, Princess. You don’t really have normal dreams

5. Ohhhhhh okay, death makes more sense

6. Man, she’s going even harder than Dean on how she wants to serve him. Which, like… same.

7. DEAN IS SMART AND HES NO LONGER ALLOWED TO THINK OTHERWISE

8. I FUCKING KNEW IT AHHHHHH

9. Fun fact: my birthday is two days before deans

10. Her and Cas are just Creatures, trying their best. I love them.

11. AHHHH THE SMILEY FACE DETAIL

12. Bobby and Sam going through it for real, trying to get their idiots to kiss

13. LMAOOO “PILLOW TALK”

14. NOT BOBBY GETTING THE CONDOM, THEA I CAN’T

15. “You wanted that boy before you even knew him” PLEASE MY HEART CAN’T TAKE IT

16. Yeah, it doesn’t count if you only think about doing something stupid!

17. Girlie. I don’t even know what we’re doing, but I’ll tell you what — it’s gonna stupid, and Dean’s gonna be pissed.

18. CROWLEY MY BELOVED!!! (If I drowned in Mark Sheppard’s voice, I’d die happy)

19. why are you British lmfaoooooo

20. This isn’t going to end well.

21. I’m just like Sam fr. Pretending to be stupid is HARD.

22. Yay!!! More nosy bitch hours!!!! (I love them learning abt each other through the dreams so much. You really knocked this one out of the park.)

23. John Winchester is IN DANGER.

24. Oh. Oh no. The image of him kneeling in front of her. In a church. Thea the symbolism is too good, send help

25. Dean, asked to suffer for everyone: I just don’t know if I can do it. It’s too much. Dean, asked to suffer for princess: truly, I’d volunteer for this.

26. He literally can’t sleep when she’s not there, his body wakes him up every time she leaves 😭😭

27. Team Creature!!! Aw man, if Jack is born in this universe, it’ll be Creatures all the way down!

28. They’ve GOTTA have a conversation, they can’t keep turning into awkward teenagers any time sex is involved

29. Dean describing wanting to fuck her literally just bc she exists lol

30. Jesus Christ WHY WOULD SHE KEEP KISSING YOU IF SHE DIDNT WANT TO KISS YOU. PLEASE I BEG ITS ACTUALLY SO EASY.

31. It’s okay. They’re just babies. I can be patient.

32. I- please??? Why wait??? Do that now, please??????

33. LMFAOOO THE CREATURES ARE FIGHTING

34. “She already explained them to me” I love her and Cas so much I can’t explain

35. literally the only thing I can say about this part is woof.

36. Listen. I know that Princess is gonna be the one who cracks first, but my god if I got to read Dean actually dropping to his knees and asking for that, I would combust on the spot.

37. She’s literally never been wrong about a monster, Cas, just work the odds. It was never gonna be a Cupid.

38. ….either Sam is gonna catch these hands, or this is the monster trying to trap Dean. I hope it’s the latter, but I think it’s the former.

39. Ohhhhhhhh he drank it cause Famine is in town. Alright, he’s forgiven. We’re good.

40. Dean is going to be Very Incredibly Normal and definitely not go out of his mind with lust for her.

41. THAT’S WHY CAS ATE THE BURGERS. OKAY YEAH I SEE YOU.

42. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HE ADMITTED IT

Final thoughts: I’m fucking FERAL right now. And scared for the next chapter.

Chapter 24 - Just Hold On

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Huge chapter for fans of emotional whiplash, Dean's feelings, and Princess and Cas being creatures. Enjoy!

Chapter Title from Twin Skelton's (Hotel In NYC) by Fall Out Boy

Word Count: 19.1k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You try to keep it together, get an offer, and Dean learns something about himself. Usual Warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action

Chapter 23 - Chapter 25

Read on A03!

It’s smiling at you.

Everything is smiling at you, and you aren’t in control. There’s a hand on your neck—it might be your own—that’s strangling the Silver out of you, and you can’t feel the pain but only because you are far too big for anything like that.

You are everything.

Your nails are digging into something strong and cold, and black and titanium, and you’re ripping it open as teeth—those aren’t yours—sink a level lower than your skin. You want to stop. You have to stop. You wish you knew how to fucking stop, but it’s right in front of you, and you’ve never been good at control, and-

There’s a laugh, echoing in your ear. There’s gold and purple stained on the walls. The air is thin, but you’re not sure you need it anymore. You just need it to be over. For everything to fall away because you’re so tired, and you’re not in control, and you want to go home.

If you were better—less than a plague, less than just a cancer twisting into whatever’s in your hold—you’d stop. You’d save the choir of souls that are hanging right over your head, forming a stained glass of a picture you recognize, but don’t remember. You’d look up and beg for their forgiveness, because you didn’t mean to. You never mean to. But you’re sick and wrong and you’re a little burrowed in everything, and the teeth in your neck were going to bite Dean-

Dean.

He’s not here.

But that’s his Gold. And the Spiderweb is going haywire around you—light dancing off the walls and bursting like a supernova—and you’re fucking everything, and where’s Dean-

The world shakes. It rattles, and all the souls above you let out a high moan, and there’s a soft, delicate hand that’s brushing the hair away from your face and asking ‘are you strong enough, little one? Are you bright enough to bring the rat home?’

You’re not sure.

You still look at your hands, just to see. But all you find is Gold and pastel blue.

You’ve never been able to save either of them.

And the Sky is high over you, just a level past the souls howling for your attention. But it never does anything except fucking watch when you need it, and rip things in half when you’re trying to keep them.

It hurts so fucking much. All of it.

You just want to fucking go home.

And the strong thing cleaves apart.

The teeth—stained with blood and singing your name—crow like you’ve brought them a great gift. The hands on your face maybe turn to ash—or maybe they were never there at all—and in their wake is Gold. Shifting, strong Gold and pretty green eyes. You should be falling back into yourself, but the Dean before you isn’t real, so he can’t call you back home

And you can see it.

Tall. Thin.

Old.

It looks old.

Pale and hanging off of bones, smooth and quiet and content. None of it is trying to escape itself. It doesn’t seem all that interested in being here at all. It doesn’t run like a machine the way white-eyed demons do, and it isn’t humming with a neon power like an angel.

It just is.

And it doesn’t smile at you. It just tilts its head—not quite a head, more of a gentle, black shadow that looks like it should be hiding something, but isn’t—and holds your gaze.

It doesn’t really have a gaze.

It’s really only mist, in its eyes—not eyes, more like dying stars that have chosen to remain in a stasis—but the mist is boring right into you, and you can’t move.

You can’t look away.

But it’s not painful. There’s nothing wrong with it looking at you.

It’s not home. But it’s familiar. You might have known it your whole life, moving in its wake as it waited for you to find it, just so it could tell you this.

No.

You can’t hear it, but you can feel it in every dark space between the stars and under the dirt, in every decayed bit of life that’s pleading to be called back up. And it’s telling you it doesn’t want you.

And when you frown at it, you can feel it.

The power.

And everything shatters apart.

Your eyes fly open, but you can’t move. It’s almost paralyzation. Your body is still stuck in the nightmare, and your eyes are darting around but all you can see is the dark, and-

Dean.

He’s here. He’s fine. Knocked out at your side and snoring into the pillow, his hand resting over yours and his knee bumping near your thigh.

Slow breaths. Deep, slow breaths, and find what you can see. What you know is real, and not just another haunting terror.

You’re real. And right now, you’re yours. The Silver is dormant, and the Spiderweb is a little wired, but with every rumbling snore from Dean it settles back down. The sheets are sticky from cold sweat, and Dean’s shirt is bunched uncomfortably on your back. There’s no light leaking from under the door, so it must be impossibly early. Dean’s shoulder still has the bandage from his last hunt, and he’d whined like a baby when you put it on, but still grinned at you the whole time. The book Sam brought you is open on your side-table, and when you manage to sit up, you can still see Dean’s name in Enochian, written in pen on your forearm.

It’s only been a night. Nothing new has happened, and that wasn’t an omen or a vision, like Lucifer and the cage.

Only another nightmare.

And it hurts so much. There’s all the usual pain, but then there’s also the noose that’s formed itself around your throat, and it’s made of Death.

Death looked at you, and it didn’t want you. You raised him, and he told you no. And you don’t remember anything else but pain, and knowing that you’re something so horrible and sick and fucking wrong, that Pestilence calls you pure, and Death doesn’t want you.

It’s not like you can blame him.

You don’t really want you either.

Dean says to wake him up, when this happens. That if he’s off dealing with apocalypse shit, you should call him or go get Bobby. If you’re drowning in it—in the blue on your fingers, or dying stars seeping into your soul, or all this fucking pain that’s not allowed to kill you, because Death doesn’t want you—then you need to get him or Bobby. If there’s something hollow that’s spreading over your chest, and it’s filled with winding, distorted colors that are calling for you, but you can’t seem to reach, that you can’t just curl up and try to wait it out.

But he looks so peaceful. His mouth is parted slightly, and there are no lines in his brow of worry. No deep look his eye that reminds you that you’re just a fucking problem. That you’re making this harder for him, because he’d asked you to come home so he wouldn’t have to worry about you, but now he’s fucking worried anyway. He’s been texting you every day to make sure you’re eating, and when he’s home, he doesn’t move from your side.

You don’t deserve him. You’ve never deserved him. He’s always stronger than you’ve ever been, and he’s always too good to you, and he needs some rest.

When you dare to trace your hand over his cheek, Dean mumbles something you can’t make out and leans into your touch.

You’re not going to wake him up.

But you can’t just stay here. Can’t just sit in the pain, or it’s going to shred you into ribbons that Dean will—for some reason—decide are worth braiding back together.

You shuffle out of bed on unsteady feet, and Dean grunts, but doesn’t wake up. You’re moving quietly. Pulling on sweatpants—they’re a little too big, so likely Dean’s and not yours, but that’s better—and fumbling for a sweater and socks in your dresser.

You don’t bother with shoes, when you slip out of the door and down the stairs.

The jagged sticks and rock below your feet help you anyways.

You’re not sure where you’re going, as you walk through the yard. Not too far. You’d promised Dean you wouldn’t run, so you’re only wandering. Letting the cold wind and morning mist bite into your skin, until it starts to buzz with the relief of being numb.

And you walk in circles—sharp rocks cutting into your feet, but no blood on the dirt behind you—before you end up at the usual place.

The Impala is locked. Dean always locks it, because—even though Bobby’s yard has newer, better cars for people to steal—he’s careful.

He’s always so careful.

And Baby is covered in his Gold. She smells a little like him, too. Lingering cinnamon and leather, and it’s like a tiny haven you don’t deserve. A shield around you so that, when you lay on its hood, you’re not left alone with the Sky.

Staring down at you, and doing nothing but watching.

“I hate you,” you whisper, and your voice is almost swallowed in the wind. “I fucking hate you. Leave me alone.”

It flashes, but it’s not in warning. It’s a reminder.

It’s everywhere. You’re never going to escape it. And no matter how much you hate it, nothing will change.

The Sky will keep watching. Waiting.

And you’ll just keep growing sick.

You don’t know how long you lay here. Your fingers start to shake and the Sky blinks—now in warning, it doesn’t like when you damage it’s toy—but you just close your eyes. It hurts. Over all your nerves and sore in your gut, it fucking hurts-

“Son of a-“ Warmth wraps around you, and you squeeze your eyes tighter.

If you look at him, you’ll start crying. Again. And Dean doesn’t need that.

“Goddamnit, sweetheart.” He’s tugging you up, until your face is pressed right against his chest. “You’re fucking- How long have you been out here?“

You don’t answer. Your fingers just curl against his shirt—you don’t deserve to have him here, worried about you and holding you so close, but if he leaves you might split into a million fractures that scatter further than the universe—and the ache in your throat grows unbearable. You know you woke him up, and you made him come outside to get you, and you wish he’d just leave you alone, leave you to freeze into a glassy, perfect and docile statue of the monster that you are-

Dean mutters your name, and you shake your head. He’s keeping you wrapped in his jacket like you’re a baby kangaroo, and it’s so warm here.

His chest heaves with a deep sigh, and your arms shoot around his torso. He can’t go. This can’t be the time he decides to leave you. You should let him—you’re not something that can be saved—but you need him to grab you before you fly away, and your head is swimming with too much pain and you’re so tired-

“It’s okay,” Dean murmurs, his lips brushing over your brow, and a weak sound escapes your throat as your eyes start to sting. “You’re okay, Princess. I’m here.”

You’re not okay. You can still see him staring at you.

Death.

Not greeting you like a friend, but something more. Something worse.

But Dean’s here. And he’s slowly tugging you back, keeping you stuck to his chest as big hands frame your face. His thumb strokes down your nose as you collapse into his touch. The sting grows to a wet blur when you take a staggered breath, and drag your eyes open.

He’s watching you, so carefully. Holding you the same. As if you might shatter under his touch, or turn to ash if he blinks wrong.

So fucking careful.

“You with me?” Dean’s voice is barely a rasp, still clogged with sleep and deepened from the cold, and you swallow down a sob.

You did that. Made those lines on his brow appear with worry, make him wake up, made him come save you from drowning yourself.

And he’s more than Golden, in the fog of the slowly rising morning. He’s brighter than the Sky, and that odd, intangible thing his soul is made of is turning and glowing in the light.

Running through it, you can still see it. The shining, silvery river that’s always flowing inside him. That you wove there, and he’s never seemed to find it foreign.

And that’s likely because Dean can’t see souls. Can’t know that there’s a parasite burrowed into him, can’t even feel it.

But you can lie to yourself a little.

Say he doesn’t fight against it because you’d never hurt him.

Just like you tell yourself that he’s in your orbit by choice, and not because you demanded his attention like a loud, feral beast.

You’re only the beast to serve him.

But you’d climb up to the Sky and lay yourself on its alter, if that served Dean. You’d bow your head and let yourself be put on a leash, if you knew he’d be safe.

He’s still watching you.

He asked you if you’re with him.

So you nod, and whisper the only thing you can think of.

“All the way down.”

Dean’s throat bobs, and you get a small nod as he tugs you a little closer, and tucks your head right back against his neck.

“All the way down.” He murmurs, the sound from deep inside his chest and his heart beating right near your ear, and that’s all it takes.

The first sob is soft, and muffled in Dean’s shirt. He still hears it. Still holds you tighter, instead of shoving you away and leaving you to erode alone.

Maybe if he did, you’d grow into something better. A tall tree, that he could keep visiting, which would never hurt anyone again. You’d offer him shade in the summer and wood in the winter to keep him warm. And he could come back when he finds a better woman and marries her, and bring his future children to visit you, and you’d just be a tree, but you’d be Dean’s tree-

Your body is shaking with it, now. The pain, rolling out of you in heavy waves and clawing out of your throat.

“I-“ You sniff against Dean’s shirt, your nails digging into the muscle of his back. “I- I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to-“ Another sob wracks your body, and Dean’s arms tighten around you. “I’m sorry-“

“I know, ba- sweetheart. It’s okay-“

You shake your head—he doesn’t understand—and you’re not sure when your legs wrapped around his waist. You’re not strong enough to move them away. “I’m sorry-“

Dean shushes you, pressing another kiss to the top of your head, and then your face is back in his hands. His thumb pets down your nose once more until your breathing is even, and your tears dry out.

Baby. You know I love you, baby.

His gaze is driving straight into you. And you’re still sniffling and blurry eyed, but he only wipes your nose with his shirt, and lets out a long, heavy sigh.

“You wanna dance?”

You blink at him. “What?”

“Dance.” He mutters, his knuckles brushing the last lingering tear from your cheek. “You owe me one, Princess. C’mon.”

Dean starts to tug you forward, but you’re just staring up at him with an open mouth. You’re not sure you heard him right. Or that this isn’t just another hazy dream. But you can feel his warmth, and his deep voice is so clear in the night air, so it has to be real.

You need it to be real.

You don’t think you’ll be able to manage waking up and replaying this whole scene all over again like a cruel joke-

He sighs and bends down, holding your gaze with a slight frown. “Sweetheart, I can carry you if you need, but you gotta work with me-“

“Sorry.” Your voice even sounds fucking weak. “I- I don’t know what- You-“

“I’m asking you to dance with me,” Dean says your name, his voice low and soft, and your lips pull into what might be a pout. “Please.”

You couldn’t say not to him if you wanted to. And your nod is tiny, but Dean still sees it, and a grin you don’t deserve splits his handsome face.

And you can’t stop yourself. From reaching up and tracing his jaw, feeling the slightly prickle of stubble against your skin, and knowing he’s real. Golden and alive and—despite all reason—here with you.

But reason has never been either of your strong suits. And knowing you should shove him away and scream for him to just let you go, it would be so much fucking easier for everyone if Dean would just let you go, doesn’t help you at all.

So you let him help you to your feet and guide you inside, Dean’s hand on your lower back quickly turning into you stumbling a single step, and him hauling you up into his arms.

“I-“ He clears his throat as you climb back upstairs, his gaze fixed ahead. “Got that honey-cereal thing you like. When I went out with Sammy last night.”

You hum, letting your fingers play with the collar of his shirt. It’s better than scratching at your own skin. “Did the bar have a grocery aisle?”

“Nah.”

“So you just… Found it?”

Dean rolls his eyes, his lips twitching slightly. “Saw it at the gas station. There’s a pack of root beer’s waiting for you, too. Just don’t touch the strawberry ice cream. Hid a condom in there.”

“You- Why?”

“Don’t worry, Princess, it’s for Sam.”

“I think that’s more worrying-“

“Shut up.” Dean kicks open the door, poking your rib slightly and grinning at your small squeak. “He found a blonde chick last night that seemed pretty into his whole wet puppy thing. I’m trying to make sure he stays safe.”

You give him a flat look. “With an ice cream condom.”

“Yep.” He slowly sets you down to your feet, but doesn’t make a single move to pull away. “It’ll remind him.”

“I don’t think it will-“

“Well, sweetheart.” Dean grins down at you, his arm slipping down to hold your hip, and you swallow. “Good thing you don’t need to worry about it. If Sammy gets himself knocked up, I’m not lettin’ him dump the baby on us.”

You giggle, dropping your face into his chest, and you know what he’s doing. He always does it so well, until the pain is there, but faded slightly. Only a drum of your heartbeat—a little heavier than usual—and a pressure in your lungs that gets lighter with Dean’s every word. Your fingers are still tingling from the cold, but you can feel it when Dean takes your hand and tugs you fully against him. Your knees are okay, but you’re not worried about them giving out.

Dean’s here.

He’s got you.

“I- Uh-“ Dean sighs, and you look up at his almost nervous expression. “I don’t know if you want music, but- uh- I don’t have any-“

“You have a phone, De.”

“For calling people.” He grumbles. “Not music.”

You giggle again, not bothering to hide your smile. “You are going to make an excellent old man one day.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m an idiot-“

“I didn’t say that.”

“You were thinking it-“

“No. I wasn’t.”

Your words are quick, a small frown on your face, and Dean raises his brows. “You got something you want to tell me, Princess?”

You sigh, resting your brow on his shoulder, and Dean starts to sway you back and forth.

The dancing.

You’re dancing. With Dean. And it’s less dancing and more letting Dean move you around in silence, but it has the same effect.

You’re a little dizzy.

A little drunk on the smell of him and the Gold that’s flowing all over you.

And the silence means to you can hear his breathing. Steady and slow and almost in time with your own, making you come down, down, down.

Back to Dean.

Always back to Dean.

“You’re not dumb.” You mumble against him, your free hand digging into his shirt. “You’re the smartest person I know.”

“Pretty sure you know yourself, sweetheart-“

“I’m serious.” You snap, pulling back to hold his gaze. “You are not dumb, Winchester. You’re the only reason I even know what I am.”

He frowns. “That’s-“

“You figured out I was mistranslating the Enochian in my head. I only asked Cas to look into the Magdalene’s because you gave me the idea.”

“You would have figured that out yourself-“

“It had never even occurred to me.”

Dean jaw ticks, his gaze locked onto yours, and you’re still dancing. He’s so close. His hair is mussed from sleep, his lips slightly swollen from the same, and it’s a good thing he’s got you. You might have fallen too far into him, otherwise. Dragged him down, until you were both on the floor and you’re straddling his abdomen, trying to show him. Prove that it hurts, so much, all the time, but you love him.

That even when you thought Dean was something that hurt, it was only because you didn’t get to have him at all.

And, for better or worse, he’s here now.

You’re not allowed to say you love him. Not allowed to show it.

But Dean’s hand squeezes yours once—checking in—and you squeeze it back three times.

It means I love you, now.

He just doesn’t get to know that.

“We’ll see if I make it long enough to be an old man,” Dean hums, and you blink.

He’s trying to divert the conversation. And you don’t want to let him, but he just keeps talking.

“And I’d get one of those iPod thingys, but they’re a million freakin’ bucks. I’m not made of money, sweetheart.”

You let out a slow breath, press your cheek back to his chest. Tonight, you’ll let him have it. “I could get you one. For your birthday.”

“You even know when my birthday is-“

“January 24th.” You mumble. “Soon."

You could swear you hear is heart stutter. “Ah. We’ve, uh- I didn’t think I told you that-“

“Think again, Winchester.” Sam had told you.

“You don’t have to get me anything-“

“Yes I do.”

Dean mutters your name, and you lean back with a glare.

“I have a whole untapped credit card to burn, Deano. Watch your fucking back.”

He’s still frowning. “But-“

“Shut up.”

A smile tugs at his lips. “So bossy.”

“Dean-“

“Alright, alright.” Dean chuckles, and you yelp as suddenly he’s twirling you around, then pulling you right back into his chest. “Whatever you want, Princess.”

You. The Spiderweb sings as you gape at him. I just fucking want you, Dean.

But you’re not allowed to say it.

So you hum, and let Dean keep swaying you in the silence. Your eyes are getting heavy again, and you can feel sleep creeping up the corner of your vision, even as sunlight starts to leak through the window.

You still don’t want this to end.

“You getting tired, sweetheart?”

“No.” You grumble, moving your free arm to hook around Dean’s neck. “Shut up.”

His laugh is low and deep and right in your ear. “I don’t know, you sound kinda tired-“

“‘M gonna stab you.”

“Okay, Sleeping Beauty. Let’s get you to bed.”

You shake your head, even as Dean pulls you up to his chest and you fold right against him. “De?”

He grunts, and you swallow, the sting of tears building back up behind your eyes. He’s so good. Strong and resilient and careful, and all you do is make him lose sleep, but he’s still carrying you to bed.

“I’m sorry.”

Dean sighs, and you feel his lip brush over your collarbone as he speaks. “I know, ba- Princess.”

You mumble something even you don’t understand as he sets you back in bed, and grab his hands when they cup your face.

“I need you to promise you’re gonna call me.” He mutters your name, and your lashes flutter as you try to hold his gaze. “I’ve gotta go with Sammy in a few hours, we’ve got a case in a nuthouse to take care of. We’re gonna use that truth-telling thing you did in-“ He cuts himself off, and you know why.

He’s trying not to remind you of San Francisco.

It’s sweet.

But it’s still going to hang over your head like a blade. You’re never not aware of it.

That’s how you ended up here in the first place.

“De-“

“We’ll only be gone a week, and I’m not gonna have my phone, but I’ll call you from the hospital line. And if start getting the urge to do something stupid, call it like crazy and don’t stop until they let me talk to you.” He’s frowning, his grip tightening slightly against you. “Please. I- Even it’s the middle of the fucking night, just call-“

“Okay.” You breathe out, settling down into the pillows. You’re too tired to argue anyway. “I will.”

Dean nods slowly, then raises his hand between your bodies.

Your pinky locks with his fast, and he leans forward to press a kiss to your brow as the hand still on your face strokes a line down your nose.

You let out a soft sigh, and Dean might be saying something, but you can’t really hear it.

It’s just Dean.

It’s always just Dean.

And you sleep dreamlessly, through the morning, and into the afternoon.

Your days are a little more flexible now. In the weeks since San Francisco, you haven’t been hunting. And the nights like these keep you from Bobby’s hunter fever, because you know.

It’s safer for you to be benched right now. Safer for everyone.

You’d raised Death. You’re not sure how you did it, but you hadn’t needed Cas to tell you that’s what happened. You, with only pain and grief and the Silver, had raised Death for Lucifer. And nobody is pissed at you about it—a bitter, raw part of you really wishes they would be—but they all agree you’re most useful on book duty right now. Trying to figure out where Death might be, helping Sam and Dean with easier cases over the phone, using your spare time to try and transcribe everything you can about the Magdalene’s onto paper.

You’d called Cas around midnight a week ago, when you were alone. Prayed to him carefully—just in case Gabriel was on the line again—and barely flinched when you’d heard his voice behind you.

“Dean says I am supposed to insist that you sleep,” he’d said as you turned around. “If you call me at night.”

You’d rolled your eyes. “Dean is dramatic. I’m fine.”

Cas’ head had tilted slightly. “Yes. You seem fine.”

“Was that…” You blinked at him. “Sarcasm?”

“An attempt at it, yes. Did it land?”

“Sure.”

“Good.” Cas had paused, still holding your gaze. “You do not seem fine, to be clear. You are… very bright.”

You’d scowled, rubbing at your wrists. “I thought I was supposed to be bright.”

“You are. It is just… Distressing.”

“Distressing? I’m distressing?”

Cas had nodded slowly. “There is a commercial Dean showed me. Where a dog dies, and it makes the other humans very sad. This is similar.”

You’d blinked at him. “So I’m a dog?”

“You are in pain. And it is distressing. To me.” Cas’ frown had deepened. “I can hear it. If you were not hiding yourself from my brethren, they would likely feel it to. Heaven would weep.”

“Oh.” You’d swallowed. “Sorry.”

Cas had shrugged. “Are you going to go to sleep now? Dean was very clear that you should either go rest, or call him-“

“Dean can shove it.” You’d kept your voice flat, even as the Spiderweb had howled at just the sound of his name. “I need to talk to you. I- I have some questions.”

Cas had paused, and you’d sighed.

“You did your job, Cas. I’ll go to bed after we talk.”

“Alright.” He’d nodded slowly. “What are your questions.”

You’d let out a slow breath, watching him carefully. “You want some ice cream?”

“Is that your question-“

“No. Do you?”

Cas had blinked at you for a second. “I have never had ice cream.”

“Well, let’s fix that.” You’d turned around, calling over your shoulder as you opened the door. “I think we’ve got strawberry and chocolate. You’ll love it.”

Cas had loved it. You’d sat in dark, letting Cas devour the whole bowl, then the chocolate carton as you turned your questions over in your head. You’ve been trying to track Ellen’s soul, but it’s as if she’s vanished off the face of the Earth. It’s not worth asking Cas about that, though, given the whole cut off from Heaven thing. And if none of Bobby’s hunter contacts know anything, she doesn’t want to be found.

You’ve still been searching though. If only to find Her and say I’m so fucking sorry. I shouldn’t have left, I should have saved Jo, I’m sorry and if you hate me, I understand, but just know that I’m so fucking sorry-

“You haven’t asked me your questions.” Cas had cut through your thoughts, and you’d sighed.

“It’s- You might not have anything. And it might be nothing all, but-“

Cas had said your name carefully, and you’d rushed out the rest of the sentence.

“I found this thing about Men of God, and I’m not sure what it means, and I- Angels are of God. So-“ You’d let out a heavy breath. “Yeah.”

Cas had stared at you for a long moment, then shaken his head. “I have never heard that phrase before. Was it in Enochian?”

You’d shaken your head. “I heard it. In English. From, uh- Lilith, Alistair, and Anna.”

“Anna?”

You’d nodded, and Cas had sighed.

“She was of a higher rank than I, in Heaven. And Alistair and Lilith were very old demons, both of whom seemed to be aware of you, but- I’m sorry. I don’t know what men of god are.”

“Alright.” It had been a long shot anyway. “I-“

“I can look, though.” Cas had jumped over you, and you’d blinked at him. “If you wish it. It might be able to help with my search.”

“Yeah, uh- Sure. Thanks.” You’d poked your ice cream—now only soup—with your spoon. “How’s the God search going, by the way?”

“Not well. There is… A lot of Earth.”

You’d snorted. “Yeah. Small, big planet.”

Cas had frowned. “Those are antonyms-“

“It’s a dialectic. Contradictory things that are both true.”

“Ah.” Cas had tilted his head at you. “I am sorry. That you have not been able to see it.”

“I’ve seen more of it than Sam and Dean.”

“Maybe. But there is- You are not Sam and Dean.”

You’d blinked at him. “What?“

“Dean told me what Anna said.” He’d murmured. “That your name is written in parts of Heaven I have not seen. And it does not seem to only be Heaven.”

“I-“

“May I ask you a question?”

You’d frowned, but nodded, and Cas had leaned forward.

“What do you love? Of what this species has created?”

“Humans?”

Cas had nodded, and you’d rubbed your palm as you thought.

“I- I don’t know. I don’t really think about it. But maybe- Nothing?”

Cas had frowned and opened his mouth, and you’d shaken your head.

“No, not nothing. Just- Nothing.” You’d sighed. “Nothing that we’ve created. I’ve never been happy because of something. Like I-“ You’d let out a long, slow breath. “You know my knife?”

“The one you keep in your jacket.”

“Yeah, that. It’s- Dean gave it to me. And I love my flask because Bobby gave it to me. And I- I don’t care about the thing itself. I just- I love other people. And the things we do for each other.”

That had been pure fucking nonsense. You’d known it.

But Cas had nodded slowly.

“I… believe I like that too.”

His attention had returned to his ice cream, and before you could push about the written in Heaven thing, he was talking about how he was fond of bridges.

And you’d remained benched. Researching and spending most days with Bobby, then trying not to smile like an idiot and kiss Dean’s big, stupid and pretty face whenever he came back.

No demons knock at the door, but Lucifer might be keeping them on a leash. The angels are still after you, but the only reason they haven’t landed on Bobby’s roof to rip you away is because you warded the place to Hell. Four sleepless nights, utilizing Sam’s longer arms to get the ceilings and serval calls to Cas—Dean scowling in the corner and muttering that he’s surrounded by crazy—and Bobby’s house might be the most secure building in the country.

So you read, and write, and pass the time trying to just get through it.

You will.

You always do.

When you wake up there’s a glass of water on your dresser, paired with a little paper note folded beneath it.

Nuthouse is in Alabama. Sammy thinks it’ll take five days, so with the drive we’ll be back next Friday. Call tonight, then when we get there - DW

You smile, and tuck the note into your pocket. Maybe you can track down Ketch and demand he give you the first note back—or search all Mexico until you find it floating on the wind—so you can start a shrine. Even the paper has a little Gold on it. And Dean added a little smiley face that he scribbled out at the bottom, and he’s the most adorable thing on the planet, and you love him.

It might be written all over your face, when you walk downstairs. There’s no other reason for Bobby to roll his eyes at the sight of you.

You stick your tongue out at him, but you’re not doing yourself any favors when you shuffle over to the coffee machine, and see that there’s extra left. Made with your grounds, and the cereal box waiting out for you.

A stupid, wide smile overtakes your face, and Bobby sighs.

“You look drunk, kiddo.”

“I don’t drink-“

“Wish you did.” He mutters. “Maybe it would give you the balls to tell that idjit you like him back.”

You flip him off over your shoulder—this isn’t a useful conversation to have right now—and focus on the cereal. Dean even cleaned your mug and left it out on the counter, right next to an empty bowl and spoon. And if it were anyone else you’d be pissed about it. About the coddling and gentle treatment, like you’re just a little girl. Like you can’t carve your way through demons with only a knife, or kill monsters with nothing but your head and hands.

But it’s Dean.

“You know about this case they got?” Bobby asks as you drop across from him, and you shrug.

“Dean said it was in psych ward last night. I think they’re going to try and get into it. But that’s all.”

Bobby raises his brows. “You’d already gone to sleep when Sam got the case.”

You sigh, giving him a flat look. “You know Dean and I sleep in the same bed, Bobby.”

“I don’t know shit.” Bobby holds your gaze. “Far as I was aware, you were just sleepin’, not having, uh- Pillow talk-“

“Jesus Christ, it’s not- We don’t-“

“I’ve told you, I ain’t gonna judge if ya are, long as you’re both aware of what’s goin’ on-“

“Bobby-“

“And you’re bein’ safe!” He runs a hand over his face. “I mean, if it comes to it, I’ll help ya, but now ain’t the time to be caring for a-“

“No.” You cover your ears with your hands. “Nope. It’s- We’re not even- Why would you-“

“Found a condom in my ice cream this mornin’.” Bobby shrugs. “Wanted to tell you that’s just gonna make it useless.”

Your face might be burning, and you glare at the cereal in the hope Dean can feel it, even halfway across the country. “Great. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good.“ There’s a long pause, and then- “You can do a hell of a lot worse than Dean, kiddo. And he’s fuckin’ dedicated to ya-“

“Bobby.” You poke at the lingering cereal, floating around in the milk. “Please.”

Bobby grunts your name, and you shake your head.

“We’re not sleeping together. Or dating. Or-“ You swallow, unable to finish the sentence, and Bobby sighs.

“You remember when you were nine, and I took you out to that safe house I got, in Alexandria?”

You nod, and Bobby clears his throat.

“Was supposed to be a break. I’d had a rough hunt with a wolf, and you’d been havin’ those nightmares where you’d wake up screamin’ that someone was watchin’ you. But I’d brought the boys up there, month before that. Your magic thingy had started gettin’ out of hand, and John was gonna drop them with me for the week, but I wasn’t about to have you runnin’ to Rufus’ when you were freakin’ out about how the lamps were tired and the walls were gettin’ sore.”

“Rufus stayed with me.” You mutter. “He brought me new crayons, watched soccer, and told me to draw whatever I was seeing. Then you came back and said you were glad I asked about monsters and not math.”

“Sam spent the whole week talkin’ my ear off about fractions.” Bobby mutters. “And you gave me one of those drawings. Drew me green and the grass gold. When I asked you why, you said cause you’re green, and I like grass.”

You swallow, dropping your gaze back to your hands, and Bobby pushes on.

“I keep that in my desk. With all your other…”

“Crazy shit?”

He chuckles. “Sure. But the point I was tryin’ to make is that I brought you up to Alexandria, but I’d forgotten to clear it out. Some of Dean’s shit was still lyin’ around, and you were goddamn fascinated by it. Few of those old movies he loves, car magazine he’d grabbed from a library, and a bunch of candy he’d nicked for Sam. Think that was the first time you ate candy. Your eyes got real wide, and you asked if there were other things that tasted like it. Then you watched all the movies three times, and asked me to bring you more of ‘em.”

The world is blurring a little again. “All you could find was Indiana Jones.”

“Yep. Got you that, and a root beer float, and you never fuckin’ looked back.”

“Bobby.” You don’t want to look at him. To see what you know, written all over his face. “I- I don’t- I can’t-“

“I know you can’t, kiddo.” Bobby lets out a long, slow sigh. “All I’m tellin’ you is that whatever the hell you two got goin’ on, it’s not new. You wanted that boy since before you even knew him.”

“I-“

“You don’t gotta do anythin’ about it. But if you think it’s nothin’, it’s not. I still remember Dean bein’ twelve and askin’ me why that blanket you kept on the couch smelled good. And he’s a dumbass, but he’s good for you.”

“He’s not a dumbass.” You mumble, and you don’t care if it’s not helping your case. You still have to say it.

Bobby only sighs. “I know he ain’t. But he can be. Just like you.”

You give a tiny nod, and keep your eyes fixed on your fingers. You’re picking at them again. “Can we please talk about something else.”

“You hear me? ‘Bout Dean?”

You nod, and hear Bobby let out a slow breath.

“Okay, then. What’d you wanna talk about.”

“Uh- How’s the hunt going for Death-“

“Same as it was last night.”

Your glare shoots up, and Bobby gives you a small, dry grin.

“Finish your breakfast, kiddo. Then we’ll talk Armageddon.”

You sigh, but listen.

And the hunt for Death isn’t really making progress. Wherever Lucifer sent him, it’s not for television appearances. Most of the day is spent playing the news in the background in hopes of blatant omens.

You won’t be useless. You might not be allowed to hunt, and you might lose Dean sleep by wandering out in the dead of night, but you won’t be useless. You won’t start screaming about Death in the middle of the night and make it Bobby’s problem. You’ll go sit on your bed and work on what you do best.

Weird things.

New spells and rituals, trying to resketch that map of Heaven, ideas for how to help Bobby or find Ellen. Through the whole night, ignoring when your eyes go dry and you can feel your teeth, because you won’t be useless.

True to his word, you get a call from an unknown number the next morning. Early the next morning. Your phone buzzing before the sky has even started to lighten, starting your attention away from the notes in your lap.

“Dean?” You pick up in a second, and he laughs from the other side.

“You know, one day you’re gonna pick up the phone and it’s gonna be the feds. Then you’ll have some explaining to do, Princess.”

You sigh, tipping your head back and smiling at the ceiling. "The feds don’t know who I am, De. Some of us are good at our jobs.”

“Hey, I’m good at my job. I got me and Sammy into this psych ward, didn’t I?”

“You did.” Your smile grows. “With my strategy.”

“Shit.” Dean mutters, and you let out a soft giggle. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“Nope.” You pause, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

Dean’s shirt.

Dean’s shirt that you’re wearing, because you’re an idiot who misses him and loves him and wants him all the time.

“I, um,” You swallow. “Are you there? And safe?”

You can hear him sigh through the phone. “Yeah. We’re safe. I mean, we got full bended and spread, but we’re safe.”

“Bended and-“

“Medical exam.” He grumbles, and you can almost see his sour expression. “It don’t know what the hell my ass has got to do with being bananas, but they still had to take a look.”

“Oh.” You flush, and force it to stay out of your voice. “That’s, um- Did it hurt?”

“Nah. It was fine. I-“ Dean cuts himself off, his voice dropping slightly when he continues. “Princess.”

Your flush is spreading. Growing hot between your legs. “Yeah?”

“Why the hell are you up right now.”

“You’re up-“

“I snuck out to leave you a voicemail so you had the number.” He snaps. “I didn’t think you’d actually be awake. Go back to sleep-“

“I never went to sleep.” You raise your voice over his, your knees drawing up to your chest. “I- I can’t.”

The line is only static for another second, then Dean clears his throat. “You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay. You haven’t been-“

“I’ve been writing.” You whisper, turning one of your notes in your hand. “And thinking. But that’s it.”

“Good.” Dean mutters, and you hear a rustle through the speaker. He might be rubbing his face. “I can try and stay on the line with you, b- sweetheart, but if they catch me, I lose pudding privileges.”

You smile softly at the air. “Woe is you, Deano. I-“

“It ain’t that bad.” Dean speaks over you before you can convince him to hang up. “All they got is butterscotch.”

“Wow. Woe really is you.”

He chuckles. “You have no idea, Princess. You want me to stay?”

“Yes.” Your grip tightens on the phone. Like you can force his voice to stay with you. Please.”

“Alright, then. I had a great fucking milkshake on the road. Tasted like mint.”

“Dean, you hate mint-“

“I hate toothpaste. The, uh- sharp kinda mint-

“Spearmint?”

“Yeah. That. This was better than that. I’ll take you sometimes. If you- Uh, if you’d like.”

You smile into the air. “I’d like.”

“Good.” Dean coughs. “Sammy got a salad. Fucking health freak.”

You giggle, and stay on the phone until you blink, and realize the sun has long risen back into the sky, and you’re slumped across the mattress to Dean’s side of the bed.

He’s fine. The first thing Bobby tells you when you get downstairs is that Sam called that morning, saying they think they’re hunting a wraith and nothing else. If Dean was in trouble, Sam would mention it.

“Bobby.”

He grunts, and you push one of your papers across the table.

“Can you read that?”

“The Enochian?” He gives you a flat look. “No.”

“Not that.” You tap the bottom of the page. “That.”

Bobby sighs, and frowns at the paper. “Congelo.”

“Great. Now take this,” you shove a fistful of mint into his hands. “And keep it in your pocket.”

“In my-“ Bobby say your name with an incredulous expression. “What the hell are you talkin’ about-“

“It’s a defense.” Your tone is almost frantic. You can’t help it. “If you eat the mint and then say congelo, then everything within a ten-foot radius will freeze. I tried to keep it as simple as possible, but we’re going to have to up the salt in your diet and get you some pebbles to throw over your shoulder. And you, uh- You’ll have to keep the house about five degrees colder-“

“Kiddo, I ain’t doin’ any of that.”

“It’s not forever! It’s-“ You grab another fistful of notes, shoving them forward as if Bobby could read a single word. “It’s just until I figure out how to heal you-“

“No.” Bobby shakes his head, and you frown.

“But-“

“No. I don’t want you wastin’ your time on me.”

Your brows knit tight, and you scowl. “It’s not wasting time, Bobby-“

“It is if you’re lookin’ for ways to get me out of this chair instead of stop Lucifer.” He snaps. “I ain’t gonna lie and say I’m happy with this agreement, but I sure as shit ain’t putting myself before the damn world.”

“What if I want to put you first-“

“Then you need to remember that there’s no me, no anybody, if there ain’t world.”

You shake your head, your words growing strained. “What- What if something attacks you, Bobby. What if I’m not here and a demon gets to you again, and you can’t get to your shotgun. Then that’s three people that I could have helped, but I failed-“

“Hey.” Bobby grunts your name, and you take a slow, slightly shaking breath. “Breath. I got a piston on me, I keep extra guns places in this house that would shock ya’, and I know my exorcisms.”

“But-“

“If we’re bein’ honest, kiddo, my life expectancy is probably doubled in this chair. You’ve made this place more secure than fuckin’ Alcatraz. I’ll be fine.”

You take a heavy breath, your voice dropping under your breath. “People escaped from Alcatraz.”

“Yeah, three dumbasses who got themselves drowned.” Bobby sighs your name, rubbing his beard. “I’ll be alright kiddo. I got you lookin’ out for me, and if it makes you feel better, I’ll keep the damn mint. But I ain’t doin’ all the other stuff.”

You’ll take it. Just to give yourself a false sense of comfort, you’ll take it.

But it doesn’t help you sleep better. And the pain still crushes your lungs in the dead of night, but you don’t call Dean. He’s working. He needs the sleep too.

You’d promised you’d call him, if you were going to do something stupid. But you’re not. Every time you want to go outside and scream at the Sky until your voice is gone and your skin is frostbitten, you just keep writing under your hand cramps. It’s not even spells anymore. It’s Dean’s name in Enochian, a record of things you did that day, a bunch of fantasies you’re never going to speak aloud—that part comes with your hand between your thighs and a small gasp that sounds a lot like Dean—and a list of ideas for Dean’s birthday.

But it still hurts.

And you can’t just sit in it.

You take the knife and the Blade, as you slide out the door. You won’t need them—anything that can really hurt you will trigger the Silver, and then it’s everybody’s problem—but it will be good to have a defense in the morning, when Bobby asks what the hell you were thinking, sneaking of in the middle of the night. You brought a weapon. Everything was fine.

It isn’t.

Not really.

And you’re not really sure where you’re going. For a second, you’re driving the Firebird to the trail, ready to hike to the waterfall and see Jo—hiking at night might be a dumb idea, but animals tend to like you, and you do have your knife—but you’re not ready.

You can’t do it alone.

So you turn around, and end up at a bar. It’s the one Sam and Dean always go to. And you’ll always refuse Dean’s invitation, because they’re going to be drinking and you don’t want to be a bummer. The stick in the mud loser who can’t play pool, won’t drink, and is clinging to Dean’s side, stopping him from getting laid.

Sam had said Dean doesn’t look to get laid anymore.

That doesn’t mean he’d turn down an offer.

You try not to think about it.

But there’s still the fucking fantasy. Where you do go the bar with them, Dean’s only looking at you. Grinning at you and ordering you a Shirley Temple before guiding you to the pool table with his hand on your lower back, and talking to you through the whole game. Then he wanders over to your stool and stand between your legs, smirking at you before pulls you into a long, deep kiss-

“Are you waiting for someone, darling?”

You blink at the voice from your left—you’ve been staring at your eggnog for maybe twenty minutes—and nod. “Yeah, my boyfriend.”

The voice hums, and your skin crawls. It’s British, and all you can think of is Ketch. “Some boyfriend he is, leaving a lovely thing like you hanging.”

“He’s not leaving me hanging.” You shrug. “He’s a mechanic and I make him shower before he joins me. And I’m really not looking for company, so-“ You turn to look at Mr. British, and your words die in your throat. “Fuck.”

The demon is seeping and sticky and smooth. Blood red.

Crossroads demon.

His vessel is shorter, dressed on all black with a clean beard.

Easy body to hide.

You reach for your knife, and the demon just sighs.

“Don’t do that.” He tilts his head to your hand, and you scowl.

“Shucks, buddy, you don’t really get a say-“

“I am not here to hurt you.” He hums, taking a slow sip of his own drink. “No fun in that.”

You pause. The Silver isn’t rising anymore, but it’s not going back down either. Just humming in static. Waiting.

You don’t pull out the Blade, but you don’t move your hand, either. “No fun?”

“God, no.” The demons turns to face you with a smirk. “If I’m being self-aware, no point in trying, either. I’ve seen the news. As far as I recall, San Francisco never had hospital that looked like a hanging garden. Not until you visited it, anyway.”

The Silver flares slightly at that, and your words are pushed through your teeth. “What do you want.”

The demon laughs. “Think I’d rather introduce myself first, actually.” He extends a hand, his smirk growing. “I already know who you are,” he says your name, and you sit a little taller. “But I’m afraid I missed you, when your two handsome buffoons gave me a gentlemanly call. Crowley, King of the Crossroads, anti-Lucifer demon.”

Fuck.

You’re staring at him, trying to weigh the merits of stabbing him and running. If one demon found you, others could find you. And even if Crowley is—as he very pointedly said—against Lucifer, that doesn’t mean other demons won’t find you and call Lucifer-

“What’s wrong?” Crowley cuts through your cold panic, his brows raised. “Not a toucher?”

His hand.

You’re not going to shake it.

“You didn’t answer my question.” You say, pulling your hand out of your jacket. “What do you want.”

“Well, if we’re skipping formalities,” Crowley withdraws his hand, and his smirk grows. “I want to make a deal.”

“No.”

He sighs. “You haven’t heard my offer yet, you can’t just say no-“

“Yes, I can. No.”

“You are-“ He scowls, scanning over you carefully. “I’m not asking for your soul, darling. This isn’t another Dean’s got a year situation.”

You narrow your eyes, the Silver flaring slightly. “I’m still not interested.”

“Yes, because you don’t know what I’m offering-“

“I don’t care-“

“You will.” His grin returns in full force, wide and snake-like. “Because I can give you Death.”

The Silver flares again. Still too deep in your body to be dangerous, but brighter. You can feel how cold your glass is, from the ice in your drink. “Death.”

“That’s right.” He hums. “And since I can’t take your soul, all you’d owe me is one little favor.”

One favor.

Death, for one favor.

You’re not a fucking idiot. And Crowley might have played nice with Sam and Dean, but he’s still a demon. Still smiling at you from inside the vessel, hideous and crude and bloody.

But Death.

You could fix your mistake. You could make it better.

Dean told you not to do anything stupid.

“I know you have no reason to trust me,” Crowley says, before you can even open your mouth. “But I promise. I don’t break my deals, and I am very much in favor of a world without the Devil. He doesn’t even do any of the real work. Made us govern ourselves for years, he’s barely more than a figurehead.”

You frown, and speak before you can stop yourself. “Why are you British?”

He rolls his eyes. “Why are you American?”

“Touché.” You sigh and rub your thumb over your palm. “I-“

Crowley shakes his head. “Don’t answer yet. Sleep on it. And if you need proof of my allegiances,” Crowley leans forward, holding your gaze. “So I can offer you a step forward. For free.”

“Offer me- A step forward.” Your eyes narrow. “Why would you do that?”

“Call it an investment. I’ve been told some interesting things about you,” he drawls your name with a small shrug. “And while I’m not looking for friends, I’d have to be a fool to be on the bad side of the girl who kills angels and raised Death.”

“What’s a step forward-“

“You’ll have to find that out yourself, I’m afraid. But I promise I’m good on my word.”

You swallow, the Silver twisting in your body. “And it’s… free.”

Crowley nods, his grin never dropping. “As long as you promise to think about my real offer, yes. It is free.”

And Dean told you not to do anything stupid.

But thinking about it doesn’t mean you have to do it.

“Fine.” You lean forward, holding Crowley’s gaze, and his smirk grows. “I’ll think about it. Promise. Your turn.”

“Los Angeles, California. See what you find.”

You open your mouth to push, but before you can, Crowley snaps his fingers. And he’s gone.

Fuck.

——————

“Dean.” Dad grunted, and Dean’s sat up.

If Dad needed him, he always had to sit up. Look ready. Prove that he was listening, and that he would be worthy of whatever was needed. The kiddie gun Dad let him keep was in his pants. He couldn’t get into smaller spaces anymore, but he could strong-arm them open. Or just force himself into them, so Sammy didn’t have to.

Whatever it was, Dean would do it. He could do it. He always did it, and it hurt sometimes, but he was being fucking useful, so-

“Take these.” Dad muttered, passing a pair of scissors into Dean’s hand. “Go inside, cut some cloth, then come out. Anyone ask you what you’re doin’, you pretend you’re dull in the head. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dean didn’t understand. But he knew better than to tell Dad that. Then Dad would just give the scissors to Sammy, and while Dean could play stupid, Sammy couldn’t. Kid didn’t know how. He’d just freak out about getting caught and start making up frantic excuses until they were screwed.

But Dean could play stupid. He was good at it, too. And he’d figure out what Dad wanted.

Get cloth.

That couldn’t be too hard.

Dad had parked around the back of the Church. Out of the view of the road and—more importantly—patrolling cop cars. Dean had heard him on the phone with Bobby this morning, while Sammy was sleeping. Someone had ratted out the guy in room 105 at the motel on Kirk Street, with a bunch of guns and two kids that didn’t go to school. Now they had to wrap up the case and hit the road, before everything got worse.

That was why Dean was going in, and not Dad. Dad would be in danger.

Dean might be too, but no one was going to hurt a kid.

Usually.

And Dean had never been in a church before. He didn’t remember Mom being that kind of religious, and Dad always said ‘you’d have to be a crazy asshole to believe, knowin’ what’s out there.’ Sometimes they’d pass big, dusty churches on the highway, but they looked like nothing. Single-colored building with crosses stuck on the top, all wood or clay or brick. The door always seemed too big, and the signs all said things like ‘There will be judgement’, which Dean wasn’t sure was true.

If there was judgement, it was a little slow. Or misplaced. If there was judgement, Mom never would’ve gotten ganked, and Sammy would’ve gotten to know what normal was. If there was judgement, Dad would get to sleep more, and he wouldn’t ever be angry because everything would be fine.

Dean didn’t remember what fine felt like.

He was sure he wouldn’t be finding it in an old building that smelled like wet wood and smoke, with some old bald guy yelling at him.

And that was what he’d been sure all churches would be.

But this wasn’t that.

Maybe it’s because they were in a city. Dad rarely took them to cities. But Chicago had a problem, and Dad was the only person who could solve it. So, city.

And Dad rarely let them near churches, either. But here they were.

And when Dean shuffled through the too big doors, this wasn’t the wooden box filled with guilt and dummies praying to nothing.

It was big.

Beautiful.

A ceiling that seemed higher than the sky, and arches that curved over his head like doorways. There was a big organ at the front, stained glass windows lining the walls, and Dean felt small. He felt like he was somewhere he shouldn’t be. It was too bright and colorful, too well-kept and clean. That might be gold, lining the alter, all the benches were shiny and polished, and not one of them was going to give him a splinter.

It was empty. Oddly empty. It was a Thursday, but a place like this felt as if it should be filled with a hundred people, shouting and singing and doing church things. But it was just Dean, and the stature of the guy on the cross, hanging over the dais.

That looked painful. Really freaking painful.

Dean didn’t think he’d be strong enough to do that, if he had to. He knew the whole Jesus story—he wasn’t that much of an idiot—and if Dad asked him to hang himself for the sake of everyone else, he didn’t know if he could.

He wanted to be able to. Wanted to be worthy of whatever people saw in that guy, to make something this beautiful for him. Maybe if he bled enough, just one person would leave a flower at his grave. One person would sit on all those shiny benches, and think of Dean.

He would never be worthy of all this beauty. Of those painting on the glass of angels, or the spotless shine of the floors. A flower and one person could be all he asked for.

Maybe one day he’d earn it.

Right now, he had to get cloth.

There was no one to stop him wandering right up the steps to the big preaching area, and there was some red, soft looking fabric hanging off the alter. That could be what Dad was looking for. And if it wasn’t, Dean would just take the blow, then run back inside until his brain started freaking working and he figured it out.

He knelt down behind the alter—where nobody would see him, if they walked in—and raised the scissors to make a small, clean cut.

“What are you doing?”

Dean’s head shot up, and there She was. Sitting on the alter with hair shinier than the gold in the pews, looking at Dean with eyes brighter than all the sun leaking through the glass. Dean whispered Her name, his voice a little hoarse, and suddenly he wasn’t small anymore. He was kneeling, but at Her eye level. The scissors were smaller in his hands, and the alter was far from hiding his body from sight.

He didn’t want to be hidden from sight. He wanted Her to look at him, all the fucking time. And smile, and lean forward while holding his gaze.

“Dean.” Her voice was teasing, mimicking the tone with which he’d said Her name. He really wanted to kiss Her. “Why are we in a church?”

“I, uh-“ He cleared his throat, grabbing Her knee.

A little bit to steady himself, but mostly just to touch Her. Make sure She didn’t vanish into the air as the dream fell back into a boring pace.

“I’m working a case. With Dad.”

“Huh.” She frowned, glancing down at the scissors. “What?”

“He needed cloth from a church.”

“Why couldn’t he get it himself?”

“There were cops.” Dean shrugged. “And this isn’t that bad, sweetheart. One time he had me crawl into the sewer cause he dropped the wolf killing bullets.”

Her brow furrowed into a tight wrinkle. “Dean-“

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” He shrugged. “But shit happens. And he got the wolf.”

“I- How old are you?”

“Right now?” Dean frowned. “This is, uh- The ’89 case in Chicago. Woulda been ten.”

The little wrinkle deepened, Her lips falling into a full pout. “That’s-“

He sighed. “Look, Princess, I know. And I’ve come to terms with it-“

“I don’t care.” She whispered, Her fingers reaching up to trail his jawbone. “You didn’t deserve that, De. I- He never deserved you.”

Dean let out a dry chuckle. “That right, Princess? I’m just that good, huh.”

“You are.”

She was holding his gaze, and there wasn’t anything mocking in Her voice. She just had that little furrow in Her brow, a siren-like voice that might be the most gospel this stupid church had ever heard, and Dean didn’t even feel small now. The felt like he was something important, with how She was looking at him.

And he wasn’t.

But for Her, he’d always wanted to be.

“Well,” Dean drawled Her name, raising his brows. “Who would deserve me, then?”

She frowned. “Nobody.”

Dean blinked. She’d said it like She meant he was too good, when really nobody deserved having to deal with him. Deal with all his shit. The bits he’d forced into himself, the mud he’d been born into, the violence and horror that came with just knowing him.

And She’d said it so simply, too. Like it was a fact and not just an outright lie. Moving on before he could push it.

“You know, I’m from Chicago.” Her voice was a hum, Her fingers still lingering on Dean’s face. “Sort of. It was the closest city. I actually came to this church a lot.”

Dean frowned. “You did? If I’m ten, you’re-“

“Seven. Still with my family.”

“Huh.” He scanned over Her carefully, catching Her hand before She pull it away, and pulling Her a little further forward. Until he was higher on his knees, settled between Her spread legs and holding Her gaze.

“Dean.” She whispered, and he pressed a kiss to Her knuckles.

“What do you think woulda happened?” He murmured. “If we met then?”

“I- I don’t know.”

“I do.” He shrugged, taking Her face between his hands, and brushing his thumb over Her lower lip. “I’d start goin’ to church a lot more.”

She gave him a flat look. “Dean.”

“Yeah, baby?” He grinned at Her, and She flushed.

“You would hate church-“

“But I like you.”

She sighed. “You’d have to sit still for hours. Without music.”

“So I’d sit next to you.”

“My family wouldn’t have let you sit next to me.”

“Then I woulda snuck you out.” Dean shrugged. This was a stupid, impossible fantasy. That didn’t stop him from having it. “We’d hang out with they did whatever church people do, and if you still wanted to run away, I would’ve taken you with me. But if you stayed trapped with your douchebag family, I would’ve kept coming back, over and over, forever.”

She sighed, giving him a sad smile. “That’s a long time, Deano.”

“Nah.” He shrugged. “Not if I was with you.”

Her throat bobbed, Her fingers curling on the collar of Dean’s shirt, and She was so fucking beautiful. This was what the world should be worshipping. Her. But She shouldn’t have to suffer for it. She was too untouchable, too divine. People should be the ones bleeding for Her.

Dean certainly would.

And when She leaned forward, brushing Her lips over his, Dean understood how people could dedicate their lives to something they could never be sure was real.

This was only a dream. Dean was only crashing up into Her in the haze of light and color that was his dream, and only leaning Her down on the alter in his head. And he may never get this again, out there in the real world, but he didn’t care. He’d keep himself as Her shadow out there, and He’d keep Her like this in his mind all the time.

Sighing easily into his mouth and mumbling his name, pliant and soft under his touch but scratching at his back when he nipped Her lower lip or pulled Her tongue between his teeth.

Just for the idea of Her, he’d do unspeakable things.

And for Her herself, he’d bleed all over the floor if She asked it of him.

Everything Dean had to give was Her’s.

All the way down.

Something slammed right into his fucking face, and Dean’s eyes shot open with grunt.

“What the- Goddamnit-“ He dragged the towel off his face, shooting a very smug looking Sam a glower. “This is still fucking wet, bitch-“

“You weren’t waking up, jerk.” Sam shrugged. “C’mon. I already started the car.”

Dean frowned. “You- Why? If you think you’re driving-“

“I’m not driving, Dean. We just need to hit the road, if we want to get to LA before midnight.”

“Before-“ Dean shook his head, and he could still fucking smell Her in the air. It hadn’t helped clear his thoughts. “Sammy, there’s no way we’re going right to the next case without-“

Sam said Her name, and Dean froze. “I know. You want to go back to Bobby’s to see her-“

“I- We need to check on Bobby and the Horsemen-“

“Sure, dude. But she’s gonna be there. So let’s go.”

“Be- In LA?”

Sam nodded, tossing Dean his jacket, and he caught it with a scowl.

“Why the fuck is she in LA, she’s still benched-“

“It’s her case.” Sam shrugged on his own jacket. “I guess she un-benched herself.”

He was way too goddamn relaxed about that. She shouldn’t be on a case right now. And it wasn’t just Dean being overprotective like Sam kept saying. Sam wasn’t there with Her, almost every night. Sam didn’t hold Her while she cried in the dead of night, or see that She was picking at her hands again, or notice how She’d been rubbing Her wrists until they were raw and looked rope burned.

Sam didn’t wake up to find Her missing from bed. Didn’t feel his heart jump into his throat as he ran outside to find Her, and have it sink right back down into a pit at the sight of Her. Shivering and curled into Herself, all the color drained from Her features.

Sam didn’t feel goddamn useless when he got Her to smile again, but still left Her in the morning.

Dean didn’t want to leave Her. Ever. If it were up to him, he’d live at Bobby’s and never stray further than he could hear Her calling his name. But the stupid fucking apocalypse meant he had to. And he wasn’t sure if it was the shit in San Francisco that had pushed Her too far, or something else she wouldn’t talk about, but he knew She shouldn’t be in the field. Shouldn’t be anywhere where She might hurt herself more.

And She’d agreed with that. Dean had double checked that She really was fine staying with Bobby, and She’d agreed.

So he wasn’t sure what the fuck was happening.

“What do you mean, it’s her case.” Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam, and the kid sighed.

“I mean she called last night, and she said I’ve got a case in LA. Meet me there. That’s it, Dean.”

“She called you?”

“Yep.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, and Sam gave him an amused look.

“Holy shit, dude. You were asleep-“

“Shut up.” Dean stomped to the door. “Call her for the details, then tell her to go back to Bobby’s-“

Sam snorted. “No. There’s no way I’m doing that.”

“I’m not asking-“

“No, Dean.” Sam gave him a flat look as they moved across the parking lot. “And glaring at me isn’t going to change my mind.”

“Sammy, she shouldn’t be hunting-“

“Then tell her yourself. I’m not jumping in front of that bullet for you.”

Dean scowled, and Sam let out a long sigh.

“Look, dude, you’re not gonna be able to stop her. You know that better than anyone.”

Dean did.

Son of a bitch, he really did.

And he only grunted at Sam and turned up the radio, but Sam didn’t need Dean to admit he was right. The little smirk on his stupid face meant he already knew.

Trying to stop Her wouldn’t work. It had never worked. If Dean went up to Her and said Princess, go home, he’d get a glare that might hurt just as much as being stabbed. Then She’d been pissed at him, and wouldn’t let him talk to Her, and if She started crying, Dean wouldn’t be allowed to comfort Her.

The best thing he could do was be there. With Her. For Her. Next to Her as her shadow, all the time.

Hopefully, this would be a quick case. If not a salt and burn, a monster that She could gank in Her sleep, and She just wanted them there to help her with. They’d take care of it, then maybe actually get to the beach this time around.

And that wasn’t what was going to happen. She wouldn’t have left Bobby just for a monster of the week.

She wouldn’t be waiting for them at the motel—the drive had been long, but Dean had only stopped for gas once and told Sam to hold it whenever he started whining about the bathroom—with Cas at Her side, if it was something that would be done in a day.

They were settled in, too. Cas sat at the table, frowning over some of Her notes. She beamed when She saw Dean—and it filled him with light and made him stand a little taller, ignoring Sammy’s eyes roll entirely—and stood up, crossing the room to pull Sam into a quick hug.

Sam got to go first. That was fine. There was no reason—at least not a logical one—that Dean should be hugged first, so he just rocked on his feet with his hands in his pockets, and he didn’t need to Her to hug him at all-

She almost slammed into him, and Dean let out a wheeze. It was tight. And long. And his arms wrapped around Her in a second, holding Her head to his chest and swaying back and forth slowly.

He could smell the fruit, and Her hair was so shiny, and Her lips were brushing against his neck whenever She took a breath-

Dean squeezed Her once, just to check, and She squeezed back twice.

His jaw clenched, and he held Her a little tighter.

Something was wrong.

“Hey, Cas.” Sammy cleared his throat, shooting Dean a should we be worried about this look. “You’re, uh- I thought you were still looking for God, right?“

Cas said Her name, and She pulled back from Dean’s arms with a sigh. “I can tell them, if that would be easier-“

“I’ve got it.” She took a pace back, looking between Sam and Dean with a small, tight smile. “I’ve got a lead.”

“A lead?” Sam frowned. “Like, on a horseman?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Don’t know yet.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean you don’t know.”

“I know it’s something.” She gave him a grimacing smile. “Jury is still out on what.”

“How’d you find the lead.” She sighed, twisting the skin on her finger. “Research.”

Lie. That was a fucking lie.

But before Dean could call Her on it, Sammy was talking again.

“What is the lead?”

She walked back to the table with Cas, who gave Her a tight nod and passed her a paper without a word.

Maybe Sam was right. Maybe they should be worried about that.

“People are fucking each other when they try to have sex.” She said, and Dean couldn’t stop his smirk.

“I think that’s what’s supposed to happen, Princess.”

Flush. Hitched breath. Parted lips that feel into a tight frown. “I know that,” she muttered. “I mean they’re fucking each other up. Like, ripping each other apart.”

She held up the photo—red and gruesome with a lot of guts on the outside of bodies—and Sam recoiled.

“That’s… so gross.”

“It gets worse,” Cas muttered. “Another couple suffocated. To death.”

Dean frowned. “How the hell is that-“

“They were also engaging in sexual acts.”

“Sexual-“ Sam shook his head, then said Her name. “What sexual acts?”

Her voice was barely a mumble. “Uh- 69ing.”

“Oh.” Sam’s eyed widened. “Oh. Shit.”

Dean couldn’t look at Her too long. At how She was very obviously avoiding his gaze and rubbing at Her wrists, hiking her knees up to Her chest as she dropped back at the table. It was just sex. And maybe Dean imagined it with Her, every time he took a shower and whenever She was lying with him in bed—or when he was alone in bed, or when She bent over and he wanted to crowd all Her space and kiss over Her neck, or when She fluttered her lashes and pouted Her lips and it felt like a goddamn spell was being cast over him—but that didn’t mean this was weird. She didn’t even know Dean thought those things.

He was pretty sure She didn’t know.

If She knew, She’d never said anything. She would have said something. Or, more likely, stopped sleeping in a bed with him. And he played this out a million times before in his head—if She could see Dean’s desire and need for Her, spinning out of control from his soul and trying to touch Her, Dean always wanted to touch Her—but never stopped to circle around what if She could see it, and didn’t say anything, but didn’t hate it, either.

He wasn’t sure what to do, then. She might be waiting for him to something, just like the kiss in Florida. But Dean wasn’t sure, and he didn’t want to say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing and fuck it all up.

And if She wanted him, if She was flushed and nervous because of that, then-

Now wasn’t the time to worry about that. People were dying. Fucking each other to death. He needed to focus.

The more he focused, the faster they’d get through the case, the faster they got Her home, the sooner he could think about falling to his knee in front of Her and asking do you want me to touch you, baby girl? Are you thinking about touching me? Cause not a goddamn second passes where I don’t think I’d be a happy man suffocating between your legs-

“Do we have any theories?” Sam asked, moving to stand over the table and Dean clenched his fists. Focus. He needed to goddamn focus. “I know you guys have only been here a day, but-“

“We have ideas.” Cas cut Sam off with slow, careful words, looking to Her.

Still staring at the floor as Cas said Her name.

“The Enochian. Tell them about that.”

She frowned. “You tell them about it.”

“But you’re the one who found it, and translated it.”

“But you keep saying I translated it wrong.”

“You still got it, though.” Cas frowned, and Sam shot Dean another worried look. “Do you wish me to explain it?”

She swallowed, but shook Her head. “I- Yes. Please.”

“Fine.” Cas looked back to Sam and Dean. “It’s a cupid.”

She rolled Her eyes. “It’s not a cupid.”

“You said I could explain it. I’m explaining it.”

“But you have to say my side too-“

“Your side is incorrect, why would I give them incorrect information-“

“Cas.” Dean grunted, looking between them with a frown as he muttered Her name, and She blinked up at him with shining eyes. “What the fuck is happening here.”

She sighed. “We have a bet.”

Sam blinked. “A… bet?”

“I found Enochian markings on the victims.” Cas said, pushing another paper—this one covered with Her handwriting in the margins—forward. “It is a Cupid’s mark. One may have gone rogue.”

She shook Her head. “But it says meat.”

“It says mate. Meat is a mistranslation.”

“But the word mate in English is derived from meat. And the people were hungry.”

“Hold up.” Dean shook his head, leaning over to frown at the paper. “Mate? Like- Soulmate?”

Cas sighed. “No, Dean. Soulmates aren’t real. Unions are pre-ordained by Heaven for higher purposes, or chosen at the free will of humans. Mate means…”

Cas trailed off, giving Her a helpless look that she only shrugged at, and Dean cleared his throat.

“Sex. It means sex, right.” He frowned between them. “You two are allowed to say sex-“

“We know that.” She snapped, and Dean’s lips twitched as She snatched the paper back with a glare. She was so fucking pretty. “We’re just tired. We’ve been working this all day.”

Sam frowned. “So you can’t say sex?”

“Sam.”

“Oh- Uh, sorry.” Sam scratched the back of his neck, reclining slightly from Her glare. Dean couldn’t blame him. She looked scary. “So- Do we think it’s a Cupid?”

She said no at the exact time Cas said yes, and Dean sighed, running a hand over his face.

“Well, it’s gotta be something-“

“That’s the bet.” She said, crossing Her arms over Her chest. “If it’s a cupid, he wins. If anything other than that, I win.”

“Win?” Sammy frowned between them. “Win what?”

“She will buy me more ice cream.” Cas muttered. “And I will find her a cat.”

“Cas.” Sam said slowly. “You’re an angel. I don’t think you need someone to buy you ice cream.”

“And,” Dean grunted Her name, holding Her gaze. “You can’t get a cat.”

“Why not?”

“I’m allergic.”

“It… will not be your cat, Dean.” Cas frowned at him. “I am getting it for her.”

“Yeah, Dean.” She stuck Her tongue out at him. “He’s getting it for me.”

“But only if you win, right?” Sam frowned between them. “I mean, that’s how bets work-“

“I know how bets work.” Cas said Her name with a shurg. “She explained them to me.”

“And we’ve already shaken on this one.” She sat up a little taller, raising Her chin. “So that’s that.”

Sam had definitely been right. Whatever this was—Her and Cas both staring them down with smug expressions and a bunch of Enochian notes covering the table—was maybe going to give Dean a heart attack.

“Oh- Okay.” Sam sighed, shooting Dean a defeated look. “Did you guys make a plan?”

“We have had a plan for hours, Sam.” Cas’ tone was flat, and Sam blinked. “We were waiting for you to arrive, so it could be executed.”

“Exe-“ Dean shook his head. “Cas, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but it’s damn near two in the morning-“

“We’re gonna go to bed, De.” She gave him a softer smile, and his heart might have just done a freaking flip. “But in the morning, I’m going to take Sam, and you’re going to go Cas, and I’m going to win.”

Cas frowned. “Unless it is a cupid-“

“It’s not a cupid.”

“The point of the bet is that it may be a cupid-“

“No, the point of the bet is that I want a cat-“

“Guys.” Sam raised his hand, raising his voice over theirs. “Splitting up isn’t a plan. I mean- It’s kind of a plan, but not really-“

“Don’t worry, buddy.” She gave Sam a wide grin. “You’re with me. And I’ve got a real plan.”

“Oh- Okay.” Sam put his hand back down. “And Cas and Dean-“

“I have a plan as well.” Cas gave Dean a small nod, and he felt a little frozen. “Dean, there is a diner down the road with burgers you will like. We’ll meet there.”

“We’ll- Where the hell are you going now?”

Cas frowned, rising slowly. “I do not sleep, and there are,” he glanced down to Her. “Other things. For me to attend to.”

Dean scowled. “Like what.”

“Things.” Cas’ voice remained flat. “I will see you in the morning, Dean.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Wait-“

There was a rustle, and then Cas was gone.

And She was still staring down at Her hands, the skin of Her nails picked raw.

Something was wrong.

“Shit.” Sam muttered Her name, shaking his head. “Do I need anything for tomorrow?”

She shook Her head. “No. Just get some sleep.”

Sam nodded slowly, turning around with a clap of Dean’s shoulder. “I’m gonna go get our bags,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ll take whatever bed you guys aren’t in.”

Dean grunted an agreement, and didn’t look away from Her as Sam moved away.

The door closed, and he crossed the room to kneel before Her, his hands resting carefully on Her thighs. She could shove him away if She needed to. And it would sting over his heart and skin if She did, but he’d let Her.

She just met his gaze under Her lashes, a small furrow in Her brow.

She looked so fucking tired.

Dean muttered Her name, slowly reaching up to hold Her face in his hands. “You’re not supposed to be hunting.”

“I- You’re not my boss, Winchester-“

“But I’m your-“ Friend. Best friend. Pathetic guard dog. Shadow. “I know you, Princess. Better than anyone. And you need rest-“

“I- I know, okay. But I need to see this through.”

He frowned. “Why.”

“Because.”

Dean grunted Her name, and She shook Her head.

“I- I just do, okay. Please.”

She was saying please. And fluttering Her lashes slightly. And Dean was orbiting around Her, and falling up into Her, but goddamnit, this felt like a shit idea. She was lying about something, and he didn’t know how to push Her on it. He’d never been good at applying the right amount of pressure with Her. And Dean might be damn good at taking care of Her—brushing a little of Her hair back and running his thumb down Her nose—but he’d also been good at hurting Her.

He hadn’t hurt Her in a while. He never wanted to hurt Her again.

But he couldn’t make it better if he didn’t know what was wrong. He couldn’t protect Her if he was off with Cas for the whole hunt.

“Princess-“

“I- I want to go see it soon.” She whispered, and Dean frowned.

“See-“

“The waterfall. Where Bobby-“ She swallowed, and it clicked in Dean’s head.

“Jo.”

“I- I can’t go alone, De. I- I’ve been trying. And I can’t. And I promise I’m not running, and I know this is a bad idea, but it’s my lead and I have to do it-“

Her words turned into soft, weak tears, and Dean swore under his breath. He wasn’t making Her cry. But he wasn’t fucking helping either.

“I- I’m so tired,” She was falling over him, and Dean adjusted in a second. Pushing up to his knees and tucking Her into his chest. “I wanna go home-“

“Then go home,” he muttered Her name. “We can take care of this ourselves, cupid or not-“

She shook Her head against him. “No, I- It has to be me. I- I’m just tired.”

This was more than tired. She was leaning back with sniffles and pouting lips, and Dean knew this was more than tired.

But son of a bitch, he didn’t know how to push Her on it. And at least She’d have Sammy. He wouldn’t let anything happen to Her, if not for Dean, for Her. The kid adored Her. And She was strong. She’d gotten through months alone, right after Jo’s death, without a single scratch.

That Dean could see.

But he couldn’t push Her on that either. Or on whatever the hell She and Cas were up to. And it definitely wasn’t the time to talk about how—when he kissed Her brow and helped Her to her feet, guiding Her into bed and pulling off his shoes before falling at Her side—he couldn’t stop wanting to fucking kiss Her.

He needed to just be there for Her. Lay at Her side and take Her hand, carefully testing if She’d kick him out of bed like a dog if he tugged Her a little closer.

She didn’t.

And that should be enough. It had to be enough.

But it never was.

She shifted, in the night. Dean drifted in and out of sleep, and every time his eyes would open and he’d regain fully awareness, She’d have moved. Her body now facing his. Her chest pressed to Dean’s side. Her leg hooked over his waist, and their hands still tangled together.

Her face, burrowed in Dean’s shoulder, Her breath warm on his skin.

It was torture. It was the best goddamn torture in the world, because Dean got to hold Her—kind of—but it wasn’t enough, and now he couldn’t fucking sleep.

The rest of the night passed with lights on the ceiling, their hands pressed to Dean’s chest the smell of fruit and sugar getting him high on an amazing, horrible drug.

He shouldn’t think about it right now. It was wrong. Sick. She was his best friend, and She was in fucking pain, and She’d been crying in his arms only a few hours before.

But She was also humming softly whenever She took a breath, and nuzzling against Dean’s throat, and Her knee was real damn close to brushing against his cock. And in another world, maybe he’d be allowed to flip Her over until she was staring at him all pretty, splayed out below Dean and whispering his name in that siren-like way only She had ever said it. Then he’d kiss the sound off Her lips, and she’d hum softly and tug at his hair, and he’d give Her more. Give Her everything. All She’d need to do was relax into it, and Dean would make Her see all those stars that only seemed to shine for Her. Make Her feel that perfect, slightly pained paradise he lived in, whenever She so much as fucking smile at him.

He’d made Her scream his name until Her voice was hoarse, then wrap Her safely in his arms, getting Her whatever she needed before She had to ask. He’d fuck Her until She couldn’t walk, then carry Her wherever She needed to go. He’d praise Her and kiss Her until she was a flushed, fucked out mess, and kiss Her again just so She knew.

That as long as Dean had a say in it, She’d only feel good things. Be good places. Be happy.

He just needed to be the luckiest, most undeserving son of a bitch in the world, and be the one She wanted to be happy with. The asshole from the mud that hadn’t dragged himself up, but had hardened into clay. And She could mold him into whatever She wanted him to be.

Dean just really fucking hoped it was something where he got to kiss Her, and She stayed wrapped around him for maybe the rest of time.

He got up the moment light cracked through the blinders. He’d be fucked if She woke up first, and felt the raging boner pressed into Her thigh.

The cold shower sort of helped. The gritting his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut, and jacking off to the fantasy of Her in bed with him—curled at Dean’s side, smiling at him with fluttering lashes and maybe grinding onto his thigh while Her hands wrapped around his cock—helped a lot. And Dean dressed in the bathroom, grabbing coffee from the desk and setting in on the nightstand, with a little scribbled note that he was out with Cas, and to call if they got any leads.

She and Sammy needed the sleep more than Dean did, anyway. They both looked peaceful, and they’d both been beating themselves up every damn moment they’d been awake, and Dean had been trying to help them but maybe he was only making it worse-

Problems for later. Right now, Dean needed to get a start on the case. The sooner they wrapped it up, the sooner Dean could get Her home. Take Her to go see Jo. Maybe stop and get Her food—not that day, that day would be a lot more holding Her while she cried—and then find the words to ask am I allowed to kiss you still, Princess. And if I am, could we do more than kissing. Could you maybe see yourself holding my hand, wearing even less clothing when you slept, and letting me build you a house that might not be the fanciest thing in the world, but would be fucking ours. And you’d be mine, and I’d just keep being yours.

Always been yours, Princess. He stared down at Her like a fucking creep, tracing his hands over Her cheekbones. Never gonna be anything else. All the way down, right?

She didn’t answer.

So Dean headed out the door, and called Cas at the diner.

“How certain are you it’s a cupid?” Dean asked, right through a mouthful of burger—Cas was right, this place was awesome, they served burgers at six in the morning—and Cas sighed.

“I am positive.” Cas muttered Her name. “She is caught up on the semantics of the translation. I will admit that I’ve never seen a rogue cupid do something like this, but this year has been… full of firsts.”

Dean grunted. “Yeah, it has. Never seen an angel place a bet before. Or take orders from a human.”

Cas frowned. “I have taken orders from you, Dean.”

“Those were suggestions-“

Cas said Her name carefully. “I am speaking of her. You did not suggest that I ensure she slept.”

Dean scowled. “Well, did you?”

“Of course I did.” Cas frowned. “You asked me to.”

Dean blinked. “Oh, uh- Thanks then. You’re not really gonna get her a cat, right?”

“I will have to. If I lose the bet.”

“What, did you two make a blood oath-“

“I don’t have blood.” Cas paused, his gaze flicking down to Dean’s burger. “You are eating slower than usual.”

“It’s early. And you better lose that freakin’ bet-“

“I am confident in my theory, Dean. You can come with us when we get ice cream.” Cas was still staring at the burger, and Dean cleared his throat.

“How’d that other thing go?”

Cas’ gaze flicked back to Dean’s with a frown. “What?”

“Your other thing that you left us for. Last night.” Dean narrowed his eyes, and said Her name. “Was it something for her?”

Cas sighed. “If you are looking for me to tell you of our private conversations, Dean, it won’t work.”

“Why the hell not-“

“Because I won’t betray her confidence. Just as I wouldn’t betray yours about the bottle of her perfume that you keep in the bottom of your bag-“

Dean sat up. “How the hell do you know about that.”

“You asked me to grab you a gun, a few weeks ago. And I have eyes.”

“Well- I-“ Dean shook his head, leaning forward. “This is different, Cas. She might get herself hurt-“

“I will not let that happen.” Cas was looking at the fucking burger again. “Dean, I know how you are about your food, but-“

“Take it, man.” Dean sighed, pushing the plate forward. “I’ll get another one for the road or something.”

Cas nodded, grabbing the burger a lot faster than Dean expected, and he frowned.

“I thought you didn’t need to eat-“

“I don’t. I’m trying new things.”

That didn’t make a whole lot of sense.

Wasn’t enough time to push it.

“Well, if it’s a cupid, how are we gonna find it-“

“You won’t have to find it.” Cas shrugged, frowning around the diner. “This city is a high priority location for cherubim-“

“Cherubim-“

“Cupids. They are low level angels. Not a threat, though.” Cas nodded slowly, and it mostly seemed to be to himself. “I will find it and deal with it easily.”

Dean frowned. “Then what the hell am I here for-“

“The bet.”

“Ah. Right. The bet.” He let out a slow breath, turning over his fork on the table. “If cupids are angels, do you think this is a rebellion situation? Lucifer flips one of them, diapered douchebag goes around ganking anyone he can?”

“Cupids don’t wear diapers.” Cas took another bite of the burger. “They’re naked.”

“Course they are.” Dean muttered. “Awesome.”

Cas nodded, speaking through a mouthful. “And I am not sure of this one’s motivations. There is no reason for Lucifer to want a cherubim. Human love would not be… of his interest.”

“So you’ve got nothing.” Dean said flatly. “No motive, no theory, no explanation for why this might be happening.”

Cas shook his head, his mouth still stuffed with his burger, and Dean sighed.

“Dude, we’re going to fucking lose this bet.”

And Cas kept saying they wouldn’t. Dean got his second burger—Cas ordered his own as well, and they were good burgers, but not that good—before they left, and whenever Dean muttered that it would probably be better for them to be helping Her and Sammy, Cas shook his head and said it’s a Cupid. Only they make those marks.

But it wasn’t a fucking cupid.

Cas summoned the damn thing, and it crushed their freaking bones with hug, then started sobbing about how it would never do that.

“Are cupids good actors?” Dean muttered in Cas’ ear, and Cas sighed.

“No. They’re not.”

“So you lost-“

“Apparently, yes. Congratulations on your cat, Dean.”

Dean scowled—there needed to be a way to talk Her out of that—as Cas moved forward to comfort the sobbing cupid.

There was something off about this whole thing. There was a case here—people didn’t just eat each other—but if it wasn’t the cupid, Dean didn’t have a goddamn clue what it was. And She still hadn’t said how she actually found the lead, or given any alternate theories, and this cupid was sobbing, but both the vics had been marked with that meat or mate thing-

“Wow.” The cupid gasped, still hugging a very rigid Cas and staring at Dean, and he blink. “I’ve never seen anything like you.”

“Anything like-“ Dean pointed to himself. “Like me?”

The cupid nodded, and before Dean could open his mouth, the guy was naked and right in front of him. Poking him. His chest and face and arms and-

“Cas.” He grunted, his tensed with the effort not to throw a punch. “What the fuck is this.”

“I am not sure. Brother,” Cas caught the cupid’s hand, and it gave him an almost innocent expression. “I cannot recommend poking Dean Winchester-“

“I know, I’m sorry, it’s-“ The cupid took its other hand, and fucking poked him again. “Can you not see it? The bond in him?”

“The bond?!” Dean looked back to Cas. “What bond? I- Is there something in me-“

“There is nothing in you.” Cas sighed, and the cupid shook his head.

“But- Look at that! He’d so shiny, and I- I’ve never seen such intricate work, and it’s not even angel made-“

“It?” No punching. He wasn’t allowed to punch. “What is it? I- Cas-“

“You have a connection.” The cupid whispers, his eyes wide on Dean’s. “It is the purest love I have ever seen. It’s-“ The cupid grabbed Dean’s face between his hands. “It is beautiful, Dean Winchester. Your love.”

Dean was frozen.

His- He- That wasn’t-

Cas muttered Her name, slowly pulling the cupid away. “He’s seeing her. Cupids are more attuned to souls than the average angel. They can see the webs you weave for each other-“

“Webs?” Dean blinked, and his voice was hoarse. “Cas, I- What-“

“Human souls are the most complex in creation.” The cupid offered eagerly. “They are all made of other people’s souls, too! You have your soul, then little bits of all the souls that have affected you the most! And as a cupid, my job is to take my arrow and weave certain souls together, but you- Your love-“ The cupid tested out Her name slowly, and Dean was going break his own hand. “You love her so much-“

“Cas.” Dean felt like something was pressing on his chest. “We’re done, right.”

Cas nodded, and that was all Dean had needed to say. There was a whoosh and then both the angel were gone.

And it wasn’t pure.

Dean wasn’t pure. He was made of mud and guts, and the was a shadow, not some shining prince in a fairytale. He killed things for a living, he lied and cheated and stole, he was barely better than the fucking monsters he chopped the heads off of and burned like it was a sick fucking sport. At least they hadn’t gotten a choice. They’d just had shit luck, a bad draw of species, born evil and wrong without a say in the matter. Dean had made that demon deal. He’d picked up that blade in Hell. He’d failed to keep Sammy off the demon blood, and he’d just let those Hell’s assassins keep a gun to his head while Anna killed Jo.

And he’d held Her, after. And waited for Her.

But that was because it was a law of fucking nature. She needed to be good. If She wasn’t good, nothing was good. She was warmer than the mud Dean came from, and stronger than the oceans he’d drown in, if She asked him to. More vital than the air he was taking in shallow gasps. Brighter than holy fire.

And Dean still thought about fucking Her. About getting on his knees until Her legs were shaking, or stuffing Her mouth with his cock until She was moaning around him. That wasn’t pure.

She was ethereal, and brilliant, and made of damn stardust or something, but Dean had always known he’d only turn that into something bloodied.

He hadn’t.

He tended to Her. Been careful. Waited.

But- The cupid- It-

Dean’s phone rang, buzzing in his pocket and ripping through the air, and-

It was Her.

He picked up in half a heartbeat.

“Hey, Princess, what’s-“

“It’s not a cupid.” Her words were frantic, and Dean could hear how She was running out of breath, and Dean’s grip tightened on his phone. “Dean, it’s not a cupid, you have to tell Cas and come back right now, I- I need you-“

Fuck. “I’ll grab him, sweetheart, but- I need you to slow down and tell me exactly what’s happening-“

“Sam.” She whispered, and Dean’s blood went cold. “Fuck, Dean, he’s- We were looking at the morgue and I turned around for a second, but he was gone. And he’d been acting weird, and I’d seen that there was demon, but-“

Dean muttered Her name, and there was a muffled bang from the other side of the line. “What-“

“He took a hit of demon blood.” Her voice was so fucking soft. “I- I knocked him out. And dragged him back to the motel. He’s tied up. But I- I don’t know what to do-“

She didn’t have to know what to do.

That’s what Dean was for.

“I’ll be there in ten.” He muttered, already walking out to the Impala. “Keep him tied up, and don’t answer the door for anyone but me. We’ll deal with it.”

“Oh- Okay.” Dean heard Her shaking breath. “I- I’m sorry-“

“Don’t.” He grunted. The engine wouldn’t start fast enough. “You did good, Princess.”

“I hit him with a hospital poop pan.”

“And he’ll thank you when he’s up.”

She sighed, mumbled an agreement, and Dean forced himself to let Her hang up. It might be better to keep Her on the line. Just in case She thought of doing something reckless-

“Dean.” Cas appeared in the passenger’s seat, and the engine started.

“Thank Christ,” Dean muttered. “Cas, we gotta go-“

Dean said Her name, and Cas cut him off with a shake of his head. “I don’t think it’s wise for you to be near her, Dean. Not right now.”

“Cas-“

“I have a working theory.” Cas said, his words slow. “And it may be dangerous-“

“I don’t care.”

“Dean-“

“No, Cas. I don’t give shit what’s doing this. We’ll work on the case after. My girl calls me, I go.” Dean pulled onto the street with a scowl. Speed limits were suggestions anyway. “That’s it.”

Cas made the smart choice. He shut the hell up, and let Dean drive.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, crossed legged and curled into herself, eyes a little red as She stared at Sammy across the room. There was blood dried on Her lower lip, and it was swollen from chewing. Blood on Her nails as well.

Sam was tied to the chair, his face still a little stained with demon blood, and bowing his head.

That was good. If Sam wasn’t fighting it, all they’d have to do is wait for the detox.

So Dean walked right over to Her.

There was nowhere else to go.

His arms wrapped around Her shoulders, Her face buried in his stomach as she held him back, and they stayed like that until Cas cleared his throat and muttered Her name.

“You have connected it?”

“Yeah.” She sighed, and Dean stepped off to the side so She didn’t have to lean around him. “Meat. Mate. It’s hunger.” Dean frowned. “Hunger?”

“Famine.”

Cas nodded in agreement, and shot Dean an odd look. “I asked the cupid if it’s seen other cases like that. It said it had heard rumors, of pairings gone wrong. And lust is the most… potent of the sins-“

“So he’s been tailing after cupids.” She muttered, pushing to Her feet. “Sirens too. Found a few cases scattered across the country, but they somehow got missed. They start in Maryland.”

“Ilchester?” Dean muttered, and She nodded. “Shit, that’s where Lucifer-“

“I know. It’s Famine.” She let out a slow breath. “Cas and I will deal with it.”

She started to walk to the door, and Dean barely registered the words fast enough to grab Her around the waist with a scowl.

“You and Cas are not dealing with it-“

“It would be the most effective.” Cas offered, very unhelpfully. “I may be affected by the desires of my vessel, but I can overcome that.“

“And they can’t do shit to us.” She said, holding Dean’s glare. “Famine eats souls. Cas has grace, and if he does try to touch me, I’ll blow him up.”

Dean scowled. “I’m not exactly falling apart either, sweetheart-“

“Dean.” She squeezed his hand three times, Her gaze so fucking soft. “Please.”

God fucking damnit. “Fine. But if you’re not back by sunrise, I’m launching a search that’ll make a manhunt look like a lost sock-“

“I know.” She wrapped Her arms back around Dean’s neck, Her face falling into his chest. “Thank you.”

Dean only grunted. “Call me if you-“

“I will.” She was going to choke him, with the way She was clinging to him. He didn’t really care. “I fucking hate California.”

Dean let out a dry chuckle. “So we’re not goin’ to the beach.”

“Maybe we can try an east coast beach.” She mumbled. “I’ve always wanted to go to cape cod.”

Dean had been to cape cod. Lot of box houses and gray sand and dune. No place for a walking, breathing star.

But wherever She wanted to go, Dean would follow. Just like the goddamn shadow he was.

And he wasn’t going to just be reduced to dog, pacing around the motel and looking at the door, waiting for Her to return.

That ended up being most of the afternoon, though. The TV played in the background, Dean and Sam ate in silence after the kid had mostly detoxed, and every time Dean glanced at his phone, there wasn’t a new call or message.

“Why aren’t you affected?” Sammy broke the silence around dusk, his voice a little gravely. “I mean, you’re like, the hungriest guy I know, Dean.”

“And I eat when I’m hungry.” He shrugged. “It’s not that complicated, Sammy.”

“Yeah, but, if lust is something that Famine can feed-“ Sam cut himself off with a shake of his head. “I mean, you haven’t gotten laid in a while-“

“I take care of myself.” Dean muttered, and didn’t fucking know why he wasn’t affected. He just wasn’t. And he wasn’t a soul scientist or something-

The cupid. It could see him. It had said his- That it was pure-

“Maybe it’s- I mean, you do eat, and I’ve, uh-“ Sam cleared his throat, and Dean really needed him to just drop it. “Heard you-“

“Sam-“

“You’re loud, dude. It’s sort of a miracle that-“ Sam said Her name, then froze. “Holy shit. You should be like, all over her.”

“Sam.” Dean’s voice was almost a bark. He couldn’t find it in himself to be sorry about it. “I’m not affected. That’s it.“

“No, it’s not. You- Dean, even if we ignore feelings, you at least want her physically-“

“I-“

“And denying that isn’t going to do you any favors right now, so-“

“I’m not denying it.” Dean pushed the words through his teeth, holding Sam’s gaze with a scowl, and Sam blinked.

“You’re… not?”

“No. I’m not.” Dean was going to snap a few teeth. “You win, Sammy. I want her. I think about her all the time. I dream about her. She’s my whole, stupid world, and I can’t live without her, and I-“ He choked on the last words. Pure. “I know that I want her. But it’s complicated. And yeah, I’ve been thinking about fucking her, but I’m not feeling whatever the hell hit you and Cas, so I’m fine.”

The room was silent for long. Too long. Dean shouldn’t have fucking said that. He’d let a lot of Sam’s teasing about it slide, over the years, but this- She was holy. Sacred. And Dean couldn’t let the fact that he had feelings taint that, or let Sam ruin the very thin line he’s been walking for damn near nine years-

“Dean.” Sam’s voice was barely a rasp. “Oh my god, dude. It’s-“

“Don’t-“

“I knew.” Sam said quickly, and Dean frowned. “I mean, I’ve known. Everyone’s known. But I- I didn’t know.”

Dean stared at him. “Man, if you keep talking in riddles-“

“How long have you felt, uh- That? About her?”

“Yeah, no, I’m not showing you my fucking diary-“

“Dean.“ Sam sighed “I’m trying to help. Just tell me.”

It took a second to say it. This conversation fucking sucked. “Long as I can remember.”.

“As long as- You mean-“

“Yeah.”

“Oh. I- Do I need to say it?”

Dean let out a long breath, and shook his head. He understood. And Sam, to his credit, finally shut up. The detox wrapped up with Sam knocked out—his hands still tied together, and one leg to the bedpost for safety—and Dean just…

Waited.

For Her to come home.

He sat on the couch and stared at the door, and he was fucking pathetic. Dad would have shot him, if he could see Dean now. Would’ve yelled at him about lettin’ the lyin’ little girl boss him around.

All Dean would’ve had to say in his defense was that he liked Her bossing him around. She looked hot while She did it, and She knew what she was talking about all the damn time. And She wasn’t a liar. Not about the stuff Dad thought. She was just bright and consuming and amazing, and Dean knew when She was lying anyway, so it didn’t really matter.

Dad would’ve then snapped that Dean wasn’t being a man, havin’ Her do all the work. Sittin’ around on his ass like a bitch.

And Dean wasn’t sure what Dad had thought being a man was.

But to him, it felt a lot like when the door opened, She walked through without a single drop of blood on Her body but a heavy look of Her face, and Dean was the first place She went.

Before the bed. Before Her shoes were off, before Cas was even in the door.

She went to Dean. Folded into him, with Her arms back around his neck and their bodies slotted perfectly together, letting Cas take the lead as She just stayed in Dean’s arms.

“Famine’s ring.” Cas muttered, holding it up for a second before dropping it on the table, and Dean nodded.

“Did, uh-“ He glanced down to Her, and Cas understood.

“It was a clean cut. I stayed outside, she got him with her blade. Is Sam-“

“He’s feeling better.” Dean muttered. “How about you, man. Still craving burgers?”

“No. It passed.” Cas paused. “Dean, I believe we should discuss how you-“

“No. We shouldn’t.”

“Dean-“

“I know.” Dean muttered, his gaze flicking down to Her.

She was passed out. Warm against him. So fucking beautiful, even with Her hair knotted from the hunt and a little drool already falling from Her lips.

And Dean knew.

He knew when Cas nodded, and muttered that he had those other things to take care of, but to call if they needed him. He knew when he carried Her to bed, and She let out a soft, sweet sigh. He knew when She curled closer to his body, and Her hand moved into his like a magnet.

He’d felt it forever.

But he only knew now.

Pure.

It wasn’t pure. It was just big. Consuming. Easy to get lost in without ever needing a way out. Safe to be trapped in because he’d never want to be anywhere else. It was every single star, and all the planets Sammy used to love telling him about. The deepest parts of every ocean where light didn’t touch, so She’d told him that the fish made their own. The first time Dean had stepped into a church, and he’d felt so small, but wanted to be more. The loudest parts of all the songs he had memorized and all the words She knew that still would never be enough to properly say it. The whole universe, and then whatever was going to devour it in the end.

Her.

It was all Her. All the way down.

And it didn’t matter if She tried to rip herself apart again, or if She left a million more times. I didn’t matter if She came back and fell into his arms, or tried to take a bite out of him. If She screamed and cursed his name, or let him hold Her until the pit in his body was only light.

It didn’t matter that the world was ending. Or that She was being hunted by angels, or had raised Death, or had Lucifer making Her friendship bracelets. It didn’t matter that Dean might have to play puppet for an archangel, if he didn’t get killed in the process.

It didn’t matter that it was complicated, because it wasn’t. Everything else sure as shit was, but this wasn’t.

Dean loved Her.

And that was all the way down, too.

End Note: John Winchester turning in his grave right now. Good. I hope he explodes when they fuck.

I'm back!!! Thank you guys so much for waiting the two weeks! I posted a few bonus chapters in the pslams while I was on vacation, so check those out if you want to.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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teamchasezwrites · 17 hours ago

Text

MASH

Word Count: 7,991

Characters: Damian Priest/You

Genre: Smut

Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex,

Summary: Damian finds a torn piece of paper with a list of men on it in your handwriting. He’s gotta know it’s just part of a silly 90s teen game and not a list of men you want to fuck, right? Right?!

Author’s Note: I wrote this for @eringobragh420 and her upcoming birthday! Surprise! I hope you enjoy this. Happy early birthday!

This is my first time writing from the “you” perspective. I’m not sure I like it. I hope it’s not too bad.

You knew he was mad.

He didn’t tell you. No that wasn’t Damian’s style. It aggravated you to no end but in the three years you’ve been together it just became one of the things you’ve learned to live with. One of his quirks.

A meme you recently saw while doom scrolling Facebook jumped to mind: If he’s angry, show him your boobs.

The idea held merit but you didn’t want just give in. You had no idea the cause of his anger. By the side eye he was giving you it didn’t take a genius to figure out you had to be the cause. You just didn’t know what you did to cause it. It was on the tip of your tongue to ask if it was his time of the month, but you were certain that would definitely cause his anger to increase tenfold. You knew what it would do to you if he asked you the same question but he wasn’t that stupid. He may think it on occasion but he wasn’t a big enough idiot to actually open his mouth and voice the question.

The downside to Damian’s silent anger was it was slowly stoking yours. Usually you were able to ignore him when he got like this, but unfortunately for you – and him – you were slated to start your period in a couple days. At this point in your cycle breathing wrong near you could cause you to combust. If you had sleeves you’d be pushing them up at the moment and taking out your earrings to start a fight. This time you just let your own anger slowly fester with each glance in your direction and with each heavy foot and thud of items being moved or put down.

You had just gotten back from a two week overseas European tour with Damian. Now it was time to unpack the suitcases you may not have overpacked plus souvenirs you picked up in every city. You drug Damian up and down nearly every sidewalk looking for the perfect item. It was getting clothes cycled through the laundry. Toiletry items put away. Replenishing the items in Damian’s travel bag he would be using again in just five short days. Then it was tidying up an already clean apartment. You hated to leave the place a mess before a trip so it was clean but there was a thin layer of dust on the surfaces. While you were doing that, Damian was making a shopping list.

And allowing cupboards to slam shut. Each time the wood hit the jam caused your eye to twitch and your shoulders to ratchet up until your neck nearly disappeared.

“What is your problem!” You roared when the fruit drawer in the fridge shut hard enough you were certain it caused a crack. You slammed the the Pledge canister in your hand down on the counter.

In a move that sent her anger dangerously close to exploding through the top of the capillary tube he looked at you over his shoulder with his eyebrows cocked. “I don’t have a problem.”

The flash in his dark eyes belayed that comment. So did the pursing of his lips into thin lines as his jaw clenched so hard a muscle in his cheek twitched.

Much like your eye.

“Right,” you drew out with a chuckle. “That’s why you slammed the fruit storage drawer so hard it nearly shot out the back. The entire washer nearly collapsed when you shut the lid.”

“It did not.”

The eye roll did it. Like a gun shot in the air from the starter’s hand sending the runners off the line, your anger spilled over. “The fuck it didn’t! You’ve been stomping around here like an ogre from practically the moment we walked through the door. I’m surprised you haven’t fallen through the floor and landed on poor Mrs. Garcia.”

Mrs Garcia was a nice old lady who lived in the apartment below them. You weren’t sure her age but you guessed her to be in her 90s. You were too afraid to ask. Casual conversation with some of the current tenants in the apartment passed from previous ones had them all figuring she came new with the building from the 60s. Rumor was she was 90 back then too.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

The eye roll had you grinding your teeth so hard you were certain your dentist would admonish you on your next visit. If you made it there because right now you had visions of wrapping your hands around Damian’s pretty little neck and cutting off his air supply until it wasn’t anger flashing in those captivating dark pools.

“You’re really going to stand there and tell me you’re not in a mood?”

“Not in a mood.”

Your eyes narrowed watching as Damian turned away from you and actually left the kitchen leaving you standing there alone. You bristled and released the white knuckled grip you held on the microfiber dusting cloth leaving it lay on the counter next to the can of Pledge. You made your way into the bedroom purposefully ignoring Damian who was now sifting through his travel backpack. You knew he was taking stock in the contents. The backpack never truly got unpacked after trips. Items such as chargers stayed tucked inside. It cut down on time and anxiety. With Damian being gone every weekend, it just made sense to have somethings earmarked as travel only.

You pulled your shirt over your head and tossed it into the hamper. Your pants followed. You were reaching behind your back to unclip your bra when Damian spoke.

“I know what you’re doing.”

You could feel his eyes on you. You always could. Your body would tingle and begin to simmer. It was the same when he entered a room no matter how many people were present. There was an awareness of his presence even when you couldn’t physically see him. Your connection had always been strong even before you started dating.

“I’m not doing anything,” you simply stated as you let the bra fall down your arms. Damian’s deep chuckle caused goosebumps on your arms. Your nipples pebbled and you the felt wetness build between your folds. You damned him in your mind for his ability to turn you on with the littlest of things. A laugh of all things and you were ready to forget your anger and jump him.

“I saw that reel too Princesa. I told you I’m not in a mood but if you want to show me your tits, I’m not gonna complain.”

“I am not showing you my tits. I’m going to take a shower and wash off the traveling.” You pushed your underwear down your legs. Satisfaction filled you when you heard the choked groan as you bent to pick the article of clothing off the floor. You deposited it into the hamper and walked to the bathroom ignoring Damian.

“Aren’t we going to the store?”

His voice filled the bathroom indicating he followed you. You shivered but refused to give in. You kept your back to him as you reached into the shower stall. A flick of the wrist brought a cascade of cool water raining down.

“You and your not-in-a-mood can go. I’m too exhausted from the flight to play that game today. You don’t want to tell me what’s wrong? Fine.” You shrugged feeling a splash of hurt join your simmering anger. You just wanted to be trusted enough to receive an answer at the first ask. If he didn’t want to tell you… well you refused to beg.

You reached into the small linen closet, still keeping your back to Damian, and grabbed one of the luxurious fluffy towels neatly folded inside. They were a splurge you didn’t feel guilty about but you also never informed your mother of the price for one. A sharp piercing pain went through you remembering the silly arguments you and Damian got into when you first moved in about the proper way to fold towels. He’d eventually given in and yielded to your supreme ways.

You jolted when a warm hand gripped the back of your neck. Fingers pressed into your skin and you were whirled around. Your back slammed against the linen closet door. Hand still cradling the base of your head. Damian’s hard body pressed against your front. The manhandle move paired with the sensation of his fully clothed body against your naked one had your knees weakened into jelly. It was a struggle to lock them. If not for Damian’s body holding you into place you were pretty certain you’d have melted to the floor. A puddle at his feet.

Damian raised your face with a knuckle beneath your chin. Your blown pupils met his eyes. You could read the anger still in their depths but now they were darkened with something else. Your lips remained parted from your gasp of surprise. He loomed over you; your breaths mixing. Your nipples rubbed against the softness of his plain black t-shirt. The sensation running an obstructed path toward your center. Wetness pooled and you pressed your thighs together. Your fingers pressed against the door behind you. The towel lay forgotten on the floor at your feet.

You stared into Damian’s eyes unable to look away; to break the connection. Your anger slowly morphing into something else and you were afraid your earlier thought was a lie. You were close to begging.

“Are you done?”

Damian’s words brought that anger rushing back. With a quick move, your arm broke the hold he had on you and you shoved him away. He stumbled back a half step. The surprise littering his face would have caused you to laugh if you weren’t so angry.

“I’m not dealing with this.” Your eyes narrowed as you glared at him. It was a funny feeling to be turned on and angry at the same time. Part of you wanted to push him back through the bathroom door until he fell onto the bed. Then unzip his jeans to bare his cock to you and sink down on him. The other part truly did want to hold his head under water. “You have been pissed off since we’ve been home. I can practically feel the anger radiating off you. You won’t tell me what’s wrong. I know it has to do with me with the way you’ve been shooting daggers at me. I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out what I did and I can’t think of anything. It’s absolutely exhausting trying to tiptoe around you when you get like this. So please,” you could feel tears starting to well in your eyes. “Tell me what I did to piss you off so I can apologize or double down because you know I’m not just going to roll over for you.”

You feared he wasn’t going to do anything. He stood in front of you; the only movement was the shirt stretching further across his chest with each breath he took. A tear crest your eye lid and rolled down your cheek and he spurred into action. You knew he hated to see you cry and you really didn’t mean to right now but the combination of hurt, anger, and an impending period made for a ripe breeding ground.

You watched as Damian reached into the pocket of his medium wash jeans and pulled out a piece of lined notebook paper. The paper was torn; barely even a quarter of the sheet in a crude triangle shape. It was crumbled and crinkled. You could just make out the black ink of written words but couldn’t focus enough to decipher them. You raised your eyes to his; confusion filing across your features.

“When were you going to tell me I wasn’t your first choice?” The paper nearly disappeared in Damian’s large hand as his fingers curled into a fist. The grip belying his anger. “Hell I wasn’t even your second.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion at Damian’s words. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“This!” He thrust the paper toward you and you slowly reached for it.

With hesitation in your movements you slowly lowered your hand to the paper you now held in your hands. You blinked in bewilderment at the writing. It was a list of five names:

Punk

Rollins

Damian

Sabin

Cody

The handwriting was unmistakably yours. There were lines drawn through each of the names crossing them out except Damian’s. His was circled roughly five times. A single continuous loop around his name. There were no other markings on the paper.

You couldn’t help it. You started to laugh. A soft giggle at first before you were cackling loudly with glee. Your eyes began to water. Your stomach cramped. Any of the previous anger you felt disappeared immediately. Raising your tear filled gaze, your eyes met Damian’s. While yours were sparkling with merriment, his had darkened considerably. Anger weighing heavily in them.

It took a lot of effort to choke back your laughter. Even so, your lungs heaved as you tried to draw in a breath. There was a stitch in your side and you made a concentrated effort to not lift a hand to massage it.

“You done?”

You peered at him; staring deep into his eyes. You bit back a curse seeing the masked hurt. It was hidden so deeply and you were so blinded by your own irritation and growing anger you failed to see it. You straighten your body; a soft smile on your lips. “Damian… what do you think this is?”

Damian’s lip curled in disgust. Most times the crookedness of his lips when he spoke caused your brain to go offline and turn to mush. Now was no different. Your fingers twitched wanting to reach out and brush your thumb over his lips until they straightened and relaxed. “Obviously a list of guys you wanted. Did you try Punk and Rollins first before settling on me? If I didn’t work out were you just gonna try Sabin next? Then Cody?” He broke off in Spanish that most definitely did not twist your insides.

‘What a dumb idiot,’ you thought. Your lips curved into a smile again.

“You enjoying this Princesa? How would you like it if you found a list of girls I’d like to fuck?”

You blew out a breath and closed your eyes counting to five. You didn’t point out that the imaginary ‘fuck’ list of his would coincidentally be your kill list. “It’s a game Damian.”

“Having a list of men you’d like to fuck is a game?”

“Yes… I mean no,” you stuttered. The eye twitch from earlier slid to the bridge of your nose and morphed into pressure. “It’s not a list of men I’d like to fuck. Haven’t you ever heard of MASH?”

“The old TV show?” Damian’s voice was laced with confusion.

“No,” you groaned and this time you did pinch the bridge of your nose. “The game from junior high and high school. Maybe even elementary.” At his lost look, she sighed. “Come on… MASH. Mansion. Apartment. Shack. House.”

“What are you talking about and what does that have to do with this?” Damian grabbed your wrist and held your hand up. The paper with your list of men waving with the motion.

“You seriously have no idea what I’m talking about?”

“Does it look like I know what you’re talking about?”

The poor man looked just as lost as he was last weekend when Jackie Redmond tried teaching him how to make a heart with his fingers. You fell a little bit more in love with him during that adorable moment. Thankfully the lovable dork could defend you during a zombie apocalypse because he definitely failed at popular trends.

You sighed and grabbed his hand, pulling him into the bedroom. You opened the drawer in the bedside side and grabbed the small composition notebook kept there. Turning the notebook to a blank page you quickly filled out the paper with the categories. MASH across the top. Husband and job with enough spaces to list a handful of picks. Then down the right side of the paper she listed money and car. Down at the bottom she put kids. “Ringing any bells?”

Damian shook his head. “What is it?”

“It’s a silly fortune teller game we used to play as pre teens and teens. We’d fill these out with boys we thought were cute in our class or famous celebrities like Zach Morris from Saved By The Bell or Jordan Knight from New Kids on The Block…” This time you wrote Damian’s name for each of the options under husband. “Fill in the money we wanted to make.” You wrote crazy amounts like you did as a kid. The zillion dollars. A billion. Hundred thousand. The one dollar. “Then the jobs you wanted…” One of those was the obvious marine biologist all girls in the 90s wanted to be. Another a doctor. Then a stripper. “Car you wanted to drive… such as a Porsche or Lamborghini.” You also joking wrote horse drawn carriage and MoPed. Lastly you put down options for the numbers of kids. “Now you draw a spiral until the person you’re playing with tells you to stop and then you count the lines.” She drew a random spiral and counted the lines. “You take this number and start counting through everything you wrote down until you’re left with only one option in each category.” You played a round through the game, counting out six and crossing out each option you landed on. “Get it?”

Damian nodded. “Then what’s this?” He motioned toward the ripped paper.

“Naomi and I were goofing around on the plane. We played this. Made one of those origami fortune tellers…” You could tell he was just as lost as before. You tossed the notebook down on the bed, along with your pen. The torn piece from your earlier fun crumbled in your fist into a tiny ball before you tossed it onto the bed with your notebook. Taking a step toward him, you saw his eyes flare. This time not in anger. Warmth curled deep in your belly.

Your hands rested on either of his hips and you took step closer. With your head tilted back to look up at him, your thumbs brushed back and forth over his shirt. His stomach quivered under your touch. “I am not trying to fuck anyone in that locker room but you.”

Damian’s hands cupped your face. He angled your face up pulling you toward him at the same time. The movement caused your hands to grip his hips tighter as you swayed toward him. Your breasts brushed against his t-shirt. The sensation causing them to harden. “Is that right?”

“Is the way I’m dressed not blatant enough for you?”

Damian’s lips stretched into a smirk. The right side of his upper lip crooking up stealing the very breath you breathed. “I thought you weren’t engaging your underhanded tactics on me?”

“Well I wasn’t then…” You said coyly. Your hands moved over his stomach toward the center before they began their ascent up his chest. You could feel the warmth of his skin through his t-shirt. The tiny twitches of his muscles as your hands ran over his stomach and the hard walls of his chest. “But I am now…”

“Is that right…” Damian drawled. His hands brushed over your back. They were rough from years of working the ropes and working out. You shivered as the callouses caught your smooth skin. His hand skimmed down to the curve of your ass and you pressed back against it, popping your ass out slightly. His fingers dug into your flesh as he moved you to him. His cock hard against your belly.

“Is it working?”

“I’m not exactly thrilled you put those names down… you apparently find them attractive enough to pick.”

You rolled your eyes. Your hands moved down to place teasing touches along the waistband of his jeans. “I am not standing in front of any of them buck ass naked ready to sink to my knees and suck their cock.”

Damian’s eyes darkened at her words. “Get on your knees now.”

You hesitated even though you wanted to sink to your knees immediately. His words caused a flush to stain your skin. Your pussy slicked and clenched. You squirmed slightly in an attempt to alleviate some of the pressure. “I’m doing this because I want to, not because you told me too.” The words were sassy and your breath caught when his fingers twisted in your hair pulling you back to his body. Your lips a breath away from his. Your breaths mixed and you grew impossibly wetter at the scene.

“Suck my cock Princesa,” Damian’s voice was low; almost a growl and didn’t that cause another flush of wetness between your thighs. “Prove to me you only want my cock between your thighs.”

You whimpered when his hand tightened in your hair. Not in pain though. Your breathing grew shallower, nearly panting. His face blurred in front of you are your pupils dilated. You were close to begging him to fuck you. Just bend you over the bed and ram into you from behind as you howled in pleasure at the invasion.

“You want my cock Princesa?” Damian’s cock pressed painfully against the zipper of his jeans practically begging to be released. The head leaking as he watched your arousal build. You nodded your head against the hold he still held. He grinned. “Show me… show me how you want my cock.”

Like a string being cut, you sank to your knees the moment his hand released its grip. Your knees dug into the flatweave area rug that softened the ambience of the bedroom. Up on your knees your hands held onto his hips and you leaned forward. You buried your face into his crotch, nuzzling the hard ridge. The denim was rough on your skin. You inhaled his scent, moaning softly as it invaded your senses. A shiver worked through you starting and ending at your pussy. You wanted run your hand down your chest, between your breasts, over your stomach and down between you legs. You wanted to slide your fingers through your wetness, slicking them before pressing two deep inside you.

Instead you drew your head back as your hands moved to the front of his jeans. Looking up through your eyelashes you caught his gaze. Chin tucked to chest as he looked down at you with a heated gaze. With the button of his jeans undone, the zipper easily slid down. Tight black boxer briefs awaited you; stretched across a delicious bulge that had your mouth watering. Leaning forward, you mouthed that bulge breathing in the very essence of Damian. A smooth rich scent assaulted you and you moaned softly. Your hands ran up and down the hard muscles of his thighs. The denim rough against your palms. You opened your lips mouthing at his head. The breathy groan from above caused another shiver.

A tug had his cock bouncing free from its confines. It bobbed in front of you gloriously hard and leaking from the tip. The most mouth watering meal you ever been presented with. Your hand circled around the base. The skin silky smooth and hot. Your tongue peaked from beneath your lips as it trailed along your bottom lip leaving behind a glistening wetness.

“Suck my cock Princesa,” Damian groaned as you squeezed his cock. He reached out to run a thumb across your cheek before burying his fingers in your hair. He held you steady and guided you toward his tip. You gladly followed.

You licked the head of his cock with a flat tongue. A salty taste burst on your tongue from the bead of come gathered on the tip. Your moaned joined his. You swept teasing licks across the tip, your hand slowly stroking up from the base. You sucked gently, tongue still engaging in swirling licks around the tip.

You pulled off and lifted the hard cock in your hand. You licked a strip from his balls to his tip following the vein where you sucked it back into your mouth with another round of swirling teasing licks.

“Fuck… your mouth,” Damian groaned, his eyes falling shut as his head fell back.

You moaned around his cock feeling it pulse in your hand. You licked another path from root to tip and drew him back in your mouth. Your hand tightened around him as you slowly began to draw more of him in your mouth. You sank down on his hard length; your tongue working the underside curling up around it. Soon your lips met your curled fingers and you slowly started lifting off leaving behind a trail of wetness. He pulse in your hold again and you squeezed.

With just the tip in your mouth you glanced up at Damian. He stared down at you; his pupils blown wide. Eyes heavy with desire. His hand still threaded in her hair, cupping the back of your head. He wasn’t guiding your movements. He was just sort of holding on. You sent him a wink and sank down on his cock once more. The glide made easier with your saliva already slickening his hard length.

Your lips stretched wide around his ample girth. The weight of his cock on your tongue made your mouth water. This time when your lips met your hand you simply uncurled your fingers until it was just your thumb and forefinger circling Damian. You moved your hold down as you sank further taking more and more of him in your mouth.

“That’s right. Take it all…” Damian groaned tightening his fingers in your hair. His body hummed in pleasure watching his cock disappearing between your lips. “You look so good on your knees for me.”

You moaned at the feel of his tip probing the back of your throat. Your jaw ached and your nose was pressed against the skin at the base of his cock. He was shaved clean; the skin surrounding his cock smooth. His musky scent surrounded you. Your hands gripped his hips, your fingers digging into the denim still covering him. You inched forward on your knees gagging slightly when he pressed into your throat.

“Dios Mio,” Damian breathed feeling your throat closing around him. When you swallowed around his tip his fingers tightened in you hair, twisting the strands in a piercing grip. A quiver worked over his body. One of those full body trembles that weakened his knees. He pulled his hips back, fighting against the suction of your mouth.

You re-gripped his cock with your hand as you lifted your head. The base slippery in your hold. You worked your hand up and down his length; the glide easy. You continued to jerk him off as you sucked the top. The hollowing of your cheeks created a suction so tight it tugged at your lips and caused a groan to fall from Damian’s lips.

You ran your tongue over his head gathering up the pre come. Your eyes fell shut at the flavor. You sank down once more on his full length pressing deeper causing your throat muscles to protest and tears to leak from your eyes. You pulled off completely with a gasping breath as your hand continued to work him. Your free hand moved up his body dipping beneath the t-shirt he still wore. His stomach quivered beneath your touch. His skin warm. You scrapped your nails over his belly as they moved downward to grip his thigh once more.

Holding his cock still, you rubbed the tip over your lips tracing each one like you were applying chapstick. Pre come smeared over your lips and your tongue chased the taste licking it all up until you swallowed him again. Movements picked up as you bobbed your head faster; tongue working the underside as your hand moved up and down at the base meeting your lips and parting only to meet again on the up stroke. Lips and hand working in tandem to draw breathy moans and curses from his lips. You almost dropped your hand between your thighs where your pussy begged to be filled. Folds saturated with your excitement. Clit swollen with arousal.

Instead you grazed your fingertips over his balls. The motion caused a litany of Spanish curses to fall from his lips. He jerked in your mouth and the fingers twisted in your hair was nearing the point of painful. You continued the teasing little tickles as it caused his cock to leak into your mouth. You willingly accepted the offering and deep throated him twice more in quick succession.

You were ripped from his cock with the hand in your hair and pulled to your feet. The dark look in Damian’s eyes was almost enough to make you come. Your lips crashed together and you felt your breath leave your body with a whoosh. Your hands fought for purchased gripping and twisting in the offending t-shirt that kept you from being pressed against his skin. A wave of heat coursed through you at the image you must make. Damian completely clothed in jeans and a shirt. You naked as the day you were born. You wiggled your body against his feeling a sticky wetness trail across your belly from his weeping cock.

You sank into his demanding kiss as his hands moved down your back leaving a trail of fire on your skin from his touch. His hands cupped your ass and his fingers dug into the meaty flesh. With a slight pressure you were lifted in his arms. Your legs wrapped around his waist with your ankles crossing at his back locking you to him. Your hands dug into into his shoulders before brushing across to his neck and up where you settled them on his cheeks. His well manicured beard scratched at the skin on the palm of your hands. The sensation creating a firestorm inside your body.

His licked at your lips and you opened on a sigh welcoming him in. His tongue dueled with yours. You whimpered into the kiss as your body heated. Your body flooded with a swirling sensation that caused your core to tighten. You wrapped your arms around his massive shoulders pressing yourself closer to him as he moved deepening the kiss. Softness met your back as he lowered you to the mattress.

The kiss broke with a gasp. Yours. Your heavy desire ridden gaze met his. “Please,” you begged raising your hips up, rubbing shamelessly against him. Your chest heaved causing your breasts to bounce drawing his gaze. A flush swept across your skin igniting your already on fire skin.

“Please what Princesa?” Damian ran his hands up your body, his hands cupping your breasts. His fingers dug into the fleshy globes as he squeezed gently. He pressed his hips into yours and you arched your back into his touch.

“Fuck me Damian,” you moaned. “Please.” He drew another moan from your body when his fingers tweaked your nipples. The buds drawn into hard pebbles. Each tweak… each pinch felt like a straight jolt directly to your clit. You shamelessly rubbed against him. “I need you…”

“You look so gorgeous spread out for me like this…. Beggin for my cock….” Damian grabbed his cock in his hand. He tugged at the hard length a couple times. He hissed at the touch, his eyes nearly closing. Pressing down he ran his cock through your folds. The tip pressing against your sensitive clit.

A low moan fell from your lips at the feeling. The searing heat of his cock against you. You rocked up into him. Your folds soaking his length. Your hands moved across the blanket; fingers gripping and un-gripping the soft cotton. Your hips moved against him as he teased you. “Damian…” his name fell from your lips like a prayer. You would fall to your knees and pray to any deity if it would get his cock inside you.

“Beg Princesa… beg for my cock…”

“Oh God… please Damian….” Your breath stuttered as the head of his cock nudged your clit and your brain seemingly short circuited. Your thighs tightened around his waist urging him forward with a press of your heels into his denim clad ass. “Give me your cock… it’s just you I need… not them… you…” you gasped as his cock speared your folds pushing inside of you slowly so you could feel every inch invading your body. You clamped down on him as he pulled back out in a desperate attempt to keep him inside you.

“This pussy was made for me,” Damian’s voice was strained alerting you to the considerable amount of effort it was taking him to move slowly. He watched his cock slip from your body covered in your creamy essence. He pushed back in, his movements just as slow and restrained as the first. Pussy lips gripping him trying to pull him deeper.

A whine left your lips when you felt him retreat once more. You lifted your hips to push back on his cock. “Damian please… I need it… I need you…” Your body trembled when he pulled completely free to run his cock through your pussy lips again. His heated head nudging your clit with every up stroke. “God Damian…” your hands gripped the comforter again. You unlocked your legs from his waist and caught your heels on the bed frame. You used it as leverage to press your hips up searching for his cock.

His cock was gone but before you could whine in protest, you felt his warm hands at your thighs. Those calloused hands tracing up and down the sensitive soft skin of your inner thighs. You blinked your eyes opened, staring down at him. Your vision blurry from being clenched shut. He dropped to his knees the same time his hands pushed your thighs apart baring you to him.

“Yeeeessss,” you hissed. He wrapped his strong arms around your thighs and pulled you dangerously close to the edge. You felt off balance liked you’d slip right to the floor, but then you felt his hot breath on your pussy and all thought flew from your head.

Your legs trembled in his hold as his breath blew across your dampened folds. Your clit was swollen with need. Each wave of air caused your hips to jerk and your opening to clench. Your breath caught in your throat when he dragged his tongue through your folds licking you from your opening to your clit with a flat tongue. He gathered up every bit of your spilled offering. Your body tense, frozen as Damian nudged your clit with devoted strikes. The pressure in your chest built and suddenly you were gasping for breath, sucking oxygen into your depleted lungs. “Fuck…” the curse fell from your lips as Damian pressed his face deeper into your center. His hardened tongue spearing your folds entering into your body searching for more of your sweet slick.

Your body was on fire. Your hand ran over your stomach and up where you rolled your nipple between your thumb and forefinger. A pinch to the sensitive nub sent a jolt of pleasure right to your center. A gush of liquid Damian lapped up with a moan. Your hand then travelled down your body brushing over his cheek and ear. You cupped the back of his head pressing him closer still. His hair was freshly shaven only the day before and the long strands from the top were pulled back in his ever present bun. With a couple tugs and flicks from your fingers, the elastic band gave way and his hair tumbled down hiding the shaved parts. The strands tickled your inner thighs and you immediately twisted you fingers in it using it as leverage as you held him against your body. Your hips moving against his face.

A finger soon replaced his tongue. The thick digit slipping easily inside of you. You moaned at the invasion wishing it was something bigger… thicker. Nonetheless your pussy clenched just the same. Milking it the same way you would his cock. You raised your hips hoping to send it deeper.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” Damian’s voice vibrated against you sending another round of shock waves through you. “You clenching around me so tightly…” he wrapped his free hand around his cock. The tip leaking, dribbling down his shaft. He rubbed his come into the smooth skin of his shaft with each stroke. His breath coming out in stuttered gasps.

“Damian,” you lifted yourself up onto your elbows to get a view. You couldn’t see his cock, but you knew what his was doing by the way his arm moved. The biceps rippling with each tug causing the black in on his arms to dance. “Please…” Desperation filled your voice. His finger left you only to be replaced once again by his tongue as he dove back in. His hand still worked his cock.

You fell back onto the bed as his tongue stopped teasing. The strokes became more intense flickering over your clit. Pleasure wound and built deep in your belly. Your hand clutched at his head pressing him deeper into your clit. You jerked your hips moving your pussy against his face. The room filled with a mixture of his muted moans against your folds, the soft fap of his hand stroking his cock, and your growing moans.

“Fuck Damian please… I need you in me. God I want your cock so deep inside me I can taste it…”

“Come on my tongue first. Let me taste you,” Damian squeezed the base of his cock. A groan fell from his lips as he warded off his impending orgasm. He forced himself to remove his hand and wrapped it around your thigh. Underneath and over your hip where his fingers parted your folds. Your swollen clit stood out like a beacon in the night. Like a sailor transfixed by the song of the siren, Damian’s tongue torpedoed in; assaulting your clit with precision strikes.

You writhed on the blankets. A fine sheen of sweat covering your body. Your left hand twisted into the blankets; your nails digging into the cotton. Your right still twisted in his black strands. Fisted so tightly you knew it had to hurt but you couldn’t bring yourself to loosen the hold and Damian didn’t complain. You bucked against his face and pleasure swirled and grew. Your body produced more slick covering his chin and beard; dripping down the curve of her cheeks. Your moans grew louder and more frenzied. Your well timed movements lost their rhythm.

Damian rode each jerk, each thrust. He held your hips tighter and continued his work. His cock was weeping. His come falling to the carpeted rug. He feared he might lose control of his own body. His eyes flickered up your body. The quivering stomach muscles as you fought for your own control; a useless attempt to keep your orgasm at bay. Your heaving chest as you desperately tried to keep oxygen inside your lungs but your gasping breaths weren’t filling enough.

You could hear his licks through your soaked folds. Could hear his own grunts and moans as he gained just as much pleasure from pleasuring you. You looked down at meet his eyes. Completely black pools and you bit your lip. Little whimpers broke through and his gaze trapped you. “Oh…” you moaned as the tension tightened. Damian’s efforts doubled and you came with a loud moan. Your body jerked in Damian’s hold as you sank back on the bed. Your body releasing a flood which Damian happily licked up.

Damian stood, a feeling of pride filling him. A virile masculinity puffing his chest as he watched your body twitching as you slowly fell back to earth. He wiped a hand down his beard coming away wet with your juices. He reached for the hem of his shirt to pull it off when your voice stopped him.

“Leave it on…” your body hummed post orgasm. Tiny little tremors working their way through leaving small twitches in their wake as your senses fought to come back online. You wanted to sink right into the mattress in euphoric bliss but you caught sight of Damian’s cock protruding from his jeans. Hard and leaking from the tip. The open fly of his jeans framing the magnificent cock. A wave of pleasure shot through you at the vulnerability you exuded. “Just like this.”

Damian hooked his arms under your thighs and pulled you back to the edge of the bed. He stepped closer between the v of your thighs and reached for his cock. He teased your opening sliding through your sopping folds coating his cock. His tip nudged at your overly sensitive clit causing you to jerk. His hands held you in place.

You released a low moan when he finally pushed into you. There were no teasing strokes this time. He sank all the way in; his hips resting against yours.

Damian’s body shook as a tremor worked through. You were tight and warm around him. Clenching him so hard. His heads dropped back as he breathed through his nose, jaw clenched tight as he fought to not come immediately. He wanted to. He wanted to flood your channel with his come until it was dripping out of you.

“Please Damian… I need you…” You begged him as you rocked up against him. He filled you so wonderfully. Slotted against you like he was meant to be.

“I got you Princesa.”

And he did. Damian pulled you back to him, your ass cheeks against the denim of his thighs. He held your legs open as he pulled out and slammed back into you. You moaned loudly at the feeling. Clenching tighter around him. You fought with your body wanting to keep him locked inside and wanting to feel the pull of him sliding out of you only to push right back in.

Your legs were moved to rest on his shoulders. One arm wrapped around them to keep them in place. His other hand gripped your hip as he pulled you into him every time he impaled you on his cock. His hips started thrusting with fervor. Like a piston in a car engine, he slammed his cock into you at a quick pace. His thighs slapping against your ass. The sound muted because of his jeans.

Small whimpers and moans were coaxed from your body. Your toes curled and your hands once again fisted in the blankets. Your head tilted back as your eyes drifted closed allowing the feeling of pleasure to wash over you. Your breasts bounced with each snap of his hips. You braced your ankles on his shoulders and lifted your ass a little sending him deeper. You nearly howled when he hit the hidden spot inside you.

A fuse lit inside of you and you weren’t sure how long you had before the bomb exploded. You chanted Damian’s name and reached for him needed to feel him all over you. Feel his weight pressing you down on the bed. He leaned forward nearly rolling you in half. Your leg slipped from his shoulder and you wrapped it around his waist. “Don’t stop,” you pleaded. Your hand clutched at his shoulder gripping his t-shirt in a tight hold that had the fabric stretching across his chest.

“Never stopping,” Damian grunted as he kept up his torrid pace. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His heart pounded against his rib cage. His muscles strained with exertion. “Proving… you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you cried. Your hand drifted to the back of his head tangling in his hair again. “I’m yours Damian… always…”

“Fuck,” Damian’s hand hit the mattress next to her head. She was folded beneath him allowing him to go deeper. His shins hit the frame of the bed with every thrust but he couldn’t stop. The position caused her to cry out and he faltered.

“No no. Don’t… please…” You could barely move your hips in this position relying on Damian to bring you home. He hit that rough patch inside you and your body hummed. A continuous vibration. Your fingers tingled and you felt a muscle in your hip lock but you were too far gone. Damian’s efforts renewed with vigor. Both gasping for breath. Little grunts and groans mixing.

“I’m gonna come…” Damian‘s hips snapped to yours. He was at the edge of the cliff waiting to be thrust over. He slammed into you again and again. You pussy lips clenching like a vice. Your channel feeling like a Heaven he never wanted to leave.

“Keep going… fuck don’t stop,” you pleaded with him feeling pleasure building. Your heart hammered frantically in your chest. You clenched his cock trying to milk the come from his balls. You could feel it pulsing inside you. Lightning flooded your core. Tension coiled in your belly.

“Fuck fuck fuck…” Damian chanted. A moan from fell from his lips – harsh and guttural. He slammed into you and his orgasm exploded. He came with a deep roar. His cock pulsed wildly inside of you as he shot ropes and ropes of thick white hot come all over your walls. Each clench of your pussy caused his body to jerk. He panted heavily. Tiny whines escaping on each exhale.

The feeling of Damian’s come painting your walls sent you careening into your own orgasm. Your wail mixed with his. Your body jerking as you tried to rock on his cock. Your pussy fluttered around him desperately trying to milk all the come from him; greedily pulling it into your body. You withered and arched beneath Damian. Your muscles tensing and locking as white hot pleasure burst through you. Tears fell from the corner of your eyes.

“Fuck,” Damian released a full body quiver as he let go of the hold on your legs. They fell to the bed; the muscles feeling like jelly. The new position caused her eyes to widen and she searched for purchase as her weight tried to pull her from the bed. You rested precariously on the edge. You moaned feeling Damian’s hips press into yours holding you in place. He slumped over resting his head against your heaving chest.

You managed to somehow get your muscles to work and you wrapped your arms around him, cradling him to your breast. His back expanding with his own heavy breathing and you hummed softly. Your muscles twitched as the tension slowly released. Your hands gently caressed Damian’s back. You untucked your arms from his so you could cup his face. From there you pulled his lips to yours. The kiss was soft. Lips moving together in a lazy manner. Your lips parted and your tongues met. Slow strokes stoking the embers of their lovemaking.

The kiss broke as slowly as it began. His forehead rested against yours. You blinked your eyes open staring into his. The earlier anger was gone. His brown eyes sparkling with a warm gentleness. You traced a finger down his cheek.

“Why third?”

Your brow furrowed in confusion at his words. The confusion must have shown because Damian explained without prompt.

“Why was I listed as third in your list?”

“Oh…” Laughter bubbled up. Soft chuckles releasing. She placed a kiss on the tip of his nose and then another on the right side of his mouth; right where that lip bent in a crooked manner when he spoke.

“It has the best probability of being selected.”

#wwe fanfiction #wwe fanfics #wwe fanfic #damian priest #Damian Priest x reader #Damian Priest X You #Damian Priest Fanfiction #Damian Priest Smut

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birdadjacent · 3 days ago

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while "[x] reacts to [y]" style videos usually do nothing for me, i am really interested in music theory, so i've had a lot of fun watching music industry pros' initial reactions to the Clair Obscur soundtrack (most notably certified banger Une vie à t'aimer)

but what i really want is someone who HAS played the game to analyze that song (and others) from a story AND music theory perspective - like:

Specifically WRT Une vie à t'aimer:

the tension between the classical vocals/instruments and the rock/metal ones to represent the conflict between Aline and Renoir. To be more precise: the vocals and instrumentals representing Aline are very classical, while the blown out electric guitar and metal vocals are for Renoir - what does the clash of styles say about their respective positions?

The song largely switches between (based on my own counting; i haven't seen any notation) 2/4 (2/2?), 4/4, and 6/8, but there are odd bars with an extra beat specifically when verso's name comes up in the lyrics, and what that means in terms of how his absence is such a disruption

The 6/8 motif is repeated in Renoir's theme, but NOT in Aline's - what does this say about their respective feelings about the conflict between them?

And other things like

the environmental music that plays in the last area of stone wave cliffs before the lampmaster fight uses a simplified version of verso's theme, foreshadowing his appearance

Inversely: one of the last areas before the final confrontation with Renoir at the end of the game has Gustave's theme for its environmental music (which, of course, incorporates motifs from Lumiere)

Speaking of - I see people comment a lot that Verso's theme is the only character theme with no vocals. This isn't true - Gustave's theme, while much more instrumentally rich, doesn't have a vocal line either. Another way the game is putting them in the same role?

There's a low-pitched, husky sounding woodwind instrument (i'm pretty sure it's a clarinet? but i'm Bad at identifying reed instruments by sound alone) that's most prominent, if not exclusive, to songs that are associated in some way with Lune - her theme, for example. HOWEVER, there's a really similar register/effect, but on a flute, for some of the music in Sirene's arena - another thematic link between them?

The first vocal line in Lune's theme and Sciel's theme are very melodically similar (though they diverge after). Maybe a coincidence, but maybe a commentary on their shared origin? (though Gustave's theme doesn't share this, so maybe not)

Music that plays as early as spring meadows incorporates motifs from Renoir's theme and Aline's theme, which just adds to my "if you think the game 'suddenly' switched to being all about the Dessendres in act 3, you haven't been paying attention" reaction to that common line of criticism. (Let alone the beginning of Renoir's theme playing during the gommage in the first 30 minutes of the entire game)

And that's barely scratching the surface. Like, just breaking down where character themes and motifs sneak into world music and why could be an entire video. Don't even get me started on how pretty much all of the music for The Reacher doesn't sound like anything else on the soundtrack, and what that could mean. I realize I'm like halfway to writing the script myself with this post but the last time I took a music theory class was my senior year of high school (15 years ago) so there's gotta be someone out there better qualified than me to break this down. anyway give lorien testard every award. what an incredible ost.

#when will this wretched beautiful game let go of my brain #clair obscur: expedition 33 #expedition 33 spoilers #expedition 33 #not going in the body of the post but it was literally this morning when i realized that the vocals of goblu *aren't* “gustave gustave” lma #been trying to figure out what that could have meant for a WHILE #sorry for the long post #it was supposed to be much shorter but i kept thinking of new things

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mellozine · 1 day ago

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Scrapbook

I don't normally write fanfic, but I have a bunch of vague ideas that I really gotta get out.

ReaderxJerry, Gender Neutral reader, past male love interest briefly mentioned. Fluff. The scrapbook can't be dateviated, don't worry about it. Not beta read, we die like Hank no. 6

“Whatcha’ got there, friend-o?”

You jump, startled to find Jerry peering over your shoulder, looking with interest at the old composition book sitting on your desk. It has a tattered cover, littered with peeling stickers with miscellaneous things sticking out all over. It hardly even closes.

“Just something I found in the attic,” you reply. “Lady Memoria really wants me to get on cleaning it out. I knew I had a lot of stuff up there, but I never realized how much.”

“A lot of stuff, huh…?”

“Jerry, we talked about this.”

“No, no, you’re right, the attic wouldn't be a…healthy environment for me,” he says, with a bit of a frown. “But, if you ever decide you needed a little assistance with curating-”

“Jerry.”

“Alright, alright.”

“Anyway, to answer your question…it's my old scrapbook.” You hope that if you sate his curiosity, it will distract him from the idea of all the potential lost items in the attic. “I used to paste everything and anything in here for years.”

“Cheese n’ crackers…! Uh, may I?” he asks, gesturing toward the well worn book.

“Sure. Actually…” you rise from your office chair and gesture for him to sit.

As Jerry thumbs through the well worn pages, you point out photographs and little notes, explaining the context behind each one. Jerry, however, is less interested in the photographs than he is the various bits and bobs taped and glued to the pages.

“Oh, that?” you ask, referring to a chunky star shaped button. “I grew out of my favorite coat that year. One of the buttons fell off before my mom donated it, so I decided to keep it. It's really kinda cute, isn't it?”

“And what about these?” Jerry asks, pointing out a series of candy wrappers adorned with cute cartoon characters, lined up neatly, each adhered to the page with decorative tape.

“Oh, a candy company did a promo for a show my friends and I liked! Each wrapper had a different character on it! We spent the whole summer trying to get a full set,” you laugh. “I was the only one of us who managed it. We were so sick of that stuff by the end of it. I haven't eaten any since.”

He turned the page, revealing a photograph of a young man right in the center, the entire rest of the page adorned in heart shaped glittery stickers.

“Oh-ho, and who is-”

“You don't need to see that right now,” you say, turning the page.

“But-”

“You don't. Need to see it.”

“I uh, guess I don't need to see it. Hey, look, a four leaf clover! And so well preserved!”

“Oh, yeah! Some friends and I went on a hike during spring break that year! I found that while we were having lunch!” you smile, as the memory of that day comes flooding back. “I was nearly dead by the time we got to the end of the trail, but I was so excited to find that. Like that made the sweat and hard work of getting there all worth it.”

Your eyes light up at the next page and you point out an old concert ticket, covered with a large piece of clear packing tape.

“That was my first concert!” you exclaim loudly, causing Jerry to startle as a broad smile grows across your face. “I saved my money for months to afford tickets to see Warp live! I still remember feeling the bass all the way in my chest! It was amazing!”

Jerry looks at you. He's not sure he's ever seen you quite so excited, even among the beauty of his various exhibits in the junk drawer. Not even the spare change exhibit has ever caught your interest this way and that was always a crowd pleaser. The crowd was usually just him, but still.

“Bedknobs and broomsticks, it certainly seems that way. I guess those were pretty good times!”

“They really were,” you say softly. Your expression dims, as sadness starts to creep over you. “It's weird, suddenly being reminded of people I don't talk to anymore and stuff I used to like doing. Maybe I should just throw this out…”

You reach towards the book, but Jerry snatches it away, jumping to his feet. For a moment, he splutters in disbelief, holding it to his chest, almost protectively.

“Wh- How…How could you ever consider throwing this away?! All these stories, these memories…?!”

“Jerry, it's not even a proper scrapbook. It's a composition book with crap glued in it.”

“It's not crap! It's a rich history! It's incredible! It's beautiful! It's…it's you!”

The two of you stare at each other for a moment, silence hanging heavy in the air. After a few moments, Jerry laughs nervously.

“I…I meant that…you, you don't…haha, listen to me, going on! That's uh, that's ol’ Jerry for you, huh? Just, uh…oh boy…”

You're quiet for a moment more, as your eyes settle on the ragged notebook in Jerry's hands. He notices you staring and his own gaze flits around the room anxiously, feeling as if your eyes could bore holes into his chest.

“I guess keeping it a little while longer might not be such a bad idea. Actually, why don't you hold on to it for me?”

His face lights up and he holds the scrapbook to his chest, a little tighter, as if it were some precious treasure.

“Really?!”

“Sure. …Just don't take anything out of it.”

“I-I wasn't going to!”

Later, in the cramped confines of the junk drawer, Jerry wanders, looking for the perfect place to place…the Tome of Memories. But nothing seems quite right. It's not a Lost Item, after all. It's a Found Item with no mysteries held within. He already knows all of its secrets. Well, most of them. He thumbs through it again, smiling fondly at the memory of you, radiating joy as you told him all of your stories. Carefully, he tucks it into a pocket inside his overstuffed jacket. Perhaps this treasure will be part of his private collection for now.

#date everything #jerry date everything #jerry the junk drawer #Date everything fanfic

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spikedfearn · 2 days ago

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alright y'all I took a break after last night when anon decided they wanted to weaponize my trauma against me, but real talk I'm gonna stop replying to these type of messages altogether, because at the end of the day, there's no way that anon wasn't fishing for a reaction that they baited me into giving them because they decided to take disgusting cheap shots about a situation they know fuck all about. I'm just gonna block anon and move on, I have far more people who support me vs. those who don't. I'm not sorry one bit for how I handled the situation in the first place when I made that public callout post, if people wanna leave public comments criticizing my work they can get put on blast publicly too!! Why is someone allowed to trash me but I'm not allowed to defend myself when people wanna accuse me of writing for a fucking pedophile, like of course I'm gonna fucking crash out, especially when I myself am a victim of CSA. anyways, I gotta drive over to Oregon to re-up but after that I plan on focusing on chapter II of the Jimmy fic since it's my day off!!

#idgaf what that anon had to say other than when they decided to weaponize my trauma as a shitty gotcha #I don't usually let comments get to me but being reminded of one of the worst nights of my life sent me into a spiral c:#I'm good now but god are people so comfortable with being vile on here #tw // sa

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joshujin · 2 days ago

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i don’t even know where to start with this. i guess maybe with: i want to give you a hug. the first story i ever finished was one that helped me excise every bit of pain i’d ever felt from getting my heart broken and finally let everything go. it was torturous and miserable and depressing and hopeful and liberating, and not to project, but i can’t help but think something written like this—so deceptively unassuming but increasingly raw and vulnerable—is a response to something you’ve felt yourself so deeply, it can only escape you like this. if i’m right, then like i said, i want to give you a hug. if i’m wrong, then i applaud how well you’ve captured the feeling of slipping and i still want to give you a hug. i just saw on your profile that you’re only 18, and it’s honestly jarring LOL. not bc i don’t expect talent at that age (fandom and fanfic is built off the backs of teen girls tbh haha) but bc there’s no way i would’ve been able to grasp a lot of these concepts and emotions at that age. at 18, i got my heart broken for the first time; it felt like the world was ending and that i was actually going to die from chest pains lol. at 18, i didn’t have the wisdom to know it was going to get better and feel better and that when i came out on the other side, it would only be me left but that would be a good thing. at 18, you not only know all of that so well, but you portray it so gracefully. you are so talented and wise and your work is soooo beautiful, and i’m so lucky to have come across it tonight. if my earlier assumption is right, thank you for digging deep and losing whatever you had to lose to write it. if i’m wrong, thank you for bringing it to life with so much care, it’s able to elicit such strong and honest feelings (fr feel like i got sucker punched back to when i was 18 and on the verge of death by broken heart lol). if you have a taglist for this, i would love love LOVE to be added. i’m so looking forward to seeing what happens with these two.

p.s. you lowkey owe me and my husband emotional reparations bc you had me sobbing in this man’s arms forcing him to reassure me we’re in a healthy, loving marriage lmao. if i’m traumatized, he’s gotta be traumatized too idgaf

100 Ways to Lose Your Love

Pairing: Joshua x Reader Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, emotional slow burn Warnings: Emotionally stunted reader, a bit of dysfunctional family sprinkled in there, brief misuse of power/workplace harassment (not from Joshua) Word count: 26.8k Summary: Love isn’t lost in the big fights, it’s lost in the fear of being truly seen. Part of Yuki's 100 milestone collab @supi-wupi my beloved thank you for beta reading on such short notice always ilysm ft. @kyeomofhearts and @bella-feed cameos

Writing has always been my escape. It’s been how I ran away from reality into a place I can shape and form however I want ever since I could hold a pencil, my little bunker in the tornado of life. My teachers had called it a gift, my parents called it useless, and I just continued writing through it all. It’s how I process your emotions, I guess, although now I’m starting to realize it may be how I avoid them. And yet, here I am, writing again.

The first time you met Joshua, it was the summer between your sophomore and junior years of college. Your friend, Soonyoung, invited you along with a handful of his friends to go on a road trip from campus down to his parents' vacant vacation home and stay for a few weeks, enjoying the beach.

You said yes because the thought of going home to see your parents made your skin crawl, even if it meant sharing a house with near-strangers and dealing with sand in your shoes. Soonyoung had promised late nights, grilled food, and sunsets that didn’t need filters. You figured you could use a break—from school, from expectations, and from yourself.

Joshua wasn’t who you noticed first. He wasn’t loud like Soonyoung, the Zoology major who’d attached himself to you the year prior, or constantly moving like Jun, who you’d never met before this, but his constant foot tapping was starting to grate on your nerves. He didn’t make a big deal about his entrance when he showed up late, either—just walked up with his guitar case and an apologetic smile, soft-spoken as he said hi to the others. You were sitting on the porch steps, sipping iced coffee from a paper cup and trying not to feel out of place even though you knew a couple others there from shared classes.

He sat down beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world, not crowding, not even really facing you—just close enough that you could hear him breathe between sips from his water bottle. You remember glancing over, expecting a brief hello or maybe one of those awkward small-talk moments where you both pretend the silence isn’t loud. But he didn’t say anything right away. He just looked out toward the driveway where Soonyoung was loudly arguing with Seungcheol about how to pack the cooler.

“Do you think they’ll still be fighting about ice packs when we’re thirty?” he asked suddenly, voice light, almost amused.

You snorted into your coffee. “I think they’ll still be fighting about everything when we’re thirty.”

That was it—your first exchange. Just a few words, a shared joke at someone else’s expense, and then the quiet again. You didn’t know what to make of him yet. He wasn’t unreadable, exactly. Just... settled. Like he knew how to take up space without demanding it. Like he didn’t need to impress anyone here, not even himself.

You ended up crammed between him and Minji—who you’d talked to a few times over the semester in stats class—in Seungcheol’s beat up SUV. Jihoon, a music major, had aux, Soonyoung belting along as Wonwoo (comp. sci.) tried to drown them out with noise-cancelling headphones. Joshua’s smile was fond as he looked at them, occasionally joining in. He had one of those quiet presences that didn’t feel the need to compete with chaos. You noticed it again during the drive, when Minji fell asleep with her head against the window and your shoulder began to ache from staying too stiff, too polite. Joshua, without a word, shifted slightly and leaned closer—not enough to touch, just enough to make it feel like you weren’t holding yourself alone in the noise.

At one point, Jihoon passed the phone back for song requests, and Joshua didn’t even hesitate before handing it to you. “Pick something you won’t regret screaming later,” he said with a teasing grin, the first real note of mischief in his voice.

You scrolled, stalling, then picked a song from your high school playlists—too nostalgic, too dramatic—and halfway through, when you were laughing with your head thrown back at Jeonghan, one of Seungcheol’s friends from finance, trying to rap and Jihoon snapping at him to stop, you realized Joshua was looking at you. Not in a way that felt like pressure. Just… observing. Like he liked the way you looked when you weren’t trying so hard.

The house was nicer than you expected. Weathered wood, sand already in the doorway, old photos of Soonyoung and his family in every corner. You all chose rooms with the urgency of kids at summer camp—first come, first sleep—and you ended up with Minji, who said she snored and wasn’t sorry.

Those first few days blurred together: grilling badly, racing to the ocean, eating popsicles in the shallow end of the pool while the sun melted down your shoulders. You’d catch Joshua sometimes with his guitar by the fire pit, or humming a melody while washing dishes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He always smiled when he saw you—not a flirty kind of smile, something gentler. Something that made you feel like he saw through you a little, and didn’t mind what he found there. It took three days before he asked you to join him for a walk on the beach.

It was after dinner—everyone else hanging back for a movie night with popcorn and the last bottle of Soonyoung’s dad’s expensive wine. You’d wandered outside for air and found him there, barefoot in the sand, hands in his pockets like he was waiting for the right kind of silence.

“Want to come with me?” he asked, nodding toward the shoreline.

And you did.

You walked in companionable silence for a while, the sky streaked with purples and oranges, the wind teasing at the hem of your hoodie. Every now and then your arms would brush, and you’d both pretend it didn’t mean anything. But you felt it. Every time.

“I like it here,” he said after a while, his voice low, like he didn’t want to ruin the stillness. “Feels like you can breathe more slowly. You know?”

You nodded, and that was the first time you smiled at him like you meant it.

The two of you headed back inside not long after, the others either passed out drunk on the couch (cough cough Soonyoung) or asleep in their rooms. You took the opportunity to sit in the corner and pull out your laptop, fingers clicking on the keys as you wrote. Joshua sat himself on the couch, strumming away on his guitar calmly, humming a soft tune. It felt oddly peaceful, like time had stopped for everyone except the two of you. He didn’t ask what you were doing, didn’t comment on what or why you were typing, just sat and played the gentle melody.

He kept his distance—respectfully, carefully—like he understood that some people live with their nerves just beneath the skin. And maybe he did. Maybe he’d seen it in the way your hands hovered above the keyboard before diving in, or the way your shoulders only ever seemed to relax when your fingers were flying across the keyboard. Or maybe it was just Joshua being Joshua.

At one point, your laptop froze. Not crashed—just one of those irritating pauses where everything stops responding except the rising tension in your spine. You sighed, leaning back with your head thunking gently against the wall.

“Writer’s block?” he asked softly, still not looking directly at you.

“No,” you replied, eyes still on the frozen screen. “Computer’s just being dramatic.”

He chuckled under his breath, fingers picking at a new chord progression. “Must be catching. Pretty sure Jeonghan tried to argue with a wine bottle earlier.”

You glanced over, smiling despite yourself. “Did he win?”

“Hard to say. He’s asleep, so technically the bottle lasted longer.”

You snorted. The screen flickered back to life, but you didn’t turn to it right away. Instead, you watched his hands. Watched how they slowly plucked a tune, as they seemingly breathed the music to life. He played like he was thinking with his fingers, letting them speak for him while his mouth stayed quiet.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, before you had time to second-guess it.

Joshua hummed in acknowledgment.

“Why do you play?”

He slowed, but didn’t stop. “It calms me down.”

The simplicity of it sank into your bones.

You looked at your laptop screen again, words half-typed and blinking. “Yeah,” you murmured. “I get that.”

He finally glanced over then, something open in his expression. Not asking anything of you—just offering that soft space again. You weren’t used to that. People always wanted more. They wanted you to speak, to react, to fill the silence with something worth holding onto.

Joshua just played. Eventually, you returned to your writing, fingers slower this time. He kept playing. Neither of you said goodnight. When you closed your laptop and headed upstairs, you felt softer, like someone had reached into the storm and reminded you it didn’t have to rage all the time.

The next morning started slow.

You woke to the scent of toast burning and Soonyoung’s voice rising in dramatic protest from the kitchen—something about someone not flipping the pancake when the bubbles showed up.

Minji was already up, stretching on her side of the room and humming some pop song off-key. You groaned into your pillow, rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling, letting the sounds of the house drift in—laughter, someone banging a cupboard shut, Jun yelling “I’m not eating that!” like his life depended on it. It felt like summer in the kind of way you had only ever heard of when you were young talking to friends at the start of a school year—loud, lazy, full of sun and the kind of messy joy that didn’t need organizing.

By the time you wandered into the kitchen, Joshua was already there, hair still damp from a shower, sleeves pushed up, sipping coffee like he’d been awake for hours. He caught your eye briefly, smiling into his mug. You looked away first.

Soonyoung offered you a questionably golden pancake with a flourish and a bow. “Made with love and very little skill.”

You took it. “The perfect combination.”

The group migrated out to the deck after breakfast, sprawled across old lawn chairs and half-broken loungers. Jihoon had a speaker playing something vaguely acoustic, and Jeonghan was making a truly pathetic attempt at organizing a card game that dissolved into chaos the moment Seungcheol showed up with sunglasses and a smoothie like he was at Coachella.

Joshua settled a few feet from you, pulling out his notebook—one of those worn leather-bound ones with creased pages and dog-eared corners. You watched him jot something down in it before your eyes flicked away again. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to talk to him, it was just that you… kind of did, which made it harder.

You buried yourself in your own notebook instead, knees drawn up to make a table. You weren’t writing anything in particular—just phrases, pieces of things, observations you’d maybe use later. You scribbled down a description of the way Jun and Soonyoung were fighting over the last bag of chips like it was a war treaty. You described the faint mark on Jeonghan’s neck from falling asleep weird on the couch. You noted the way Joshua’s thumb tapped against his knee while he thought.

Around noon, the group decided to head to the beach. You went with them, not because you wanted to swim, but because the idea of staying behind felt heavier than the idea of being around people. You waded into the shallows, ankles sinking into wet sand, the breeze curling around your body.

Joshua found you again, eventually, like he’d developed a radar for when you needed someone nearby without being on top of you. He walked up with two lemon popsicles and handed you one wordlessly. You took it without question.

“Everyone’s trying to see who can stay in the water longest,” he said, watching Soonyoung and Seungcheol yell nonsense from waist-deep in the waves. “The winner gets nothing, but apparently pride is enough.”

You licked the popsicle. “Tell that to Jihoon, looks like he’s two seconds from punching someone.”

Joshua smiled. “That is Jihoon’s version of a good time.”

You watched the others for a while, the popsicle dripping down your fingers, the sky so blue it hurt a little. Joshua didn’t fill the space with questions or commentary. He just stood beside you, eating his own at a steady pace, like there was no urgency to anything.

“You’re quiet,” you said after a while, not sure why.

He shrugged. “You are too.”

“Yeah, but I’m quiet because I’m overthinking everything.”

Joshua turned his head toward you slightly. “And I’m quiet because I’m not.”

You huffed a laugh at that. “Must be nice.”

He hadn’t answered, but his smile tugged at the corner of his mouth again, and for a split second you let yourself look at him properly. His eyelashes were longer than they had any right to be, his nose slightly pink from the sun. His expression was open, steady, warm in a way you weren’t sure how to hold.

Being reckless was never allowed when I grew up. I always strived for perfection, at least my parents’ view of it, never giving myself any room to breathe. I worked hard, did what I needed to do, and never slacked off. I remember looking down on the kids that would have fun during recess instead of studying, wondering how they ever thought they’d succeed in life with that attitude. Now I know it was just jealousy, they were allowed to have fun. For years I kept that mindset, never sneaking out, never getting into trouble.

You were my breath of fresh air, in a way.

Eventually, the others managed to drag you deeper into the water, jumping over waves and splashing each other happily. You let yourself live in the moment for a little, shoulders soaked, laughter catching in your throat like it had been waiting there for years. The ocean tugged at your legs and you let it pull some of the weight off your chest, let it rinse the fear out of your bones. Someone had brought a beach ball and a poor game of keep-away broke out—chaotic and uncoordinated, but it didn’t matter. You were smiling.

You hadn’t realized Joshua was watching you until you stumbled backward, tripping slightly in the sand, and he was there—steadying you with one hand to your arm, his touch light but grounding.

“Got you,” he said, like it wasn’t a big deal and didn’t make your heart stutter in your chest.

You glanced at him, trying to catch your breath and not let him see it. “Thanks.”

His hand lingered just a second longer than it needed to, then dropped away. “You looked like you were having fun.”

“I was,” you admitted, and it felt like saying something bigger than it sounded.

The sun dipped lower, the group beginning to scatter—some heading back toward the house, others flopping on the sand to dry off. You and Joshua walked together again, this time slower, your feet leaving long, crooked trails behind you. He carried both your towels. You didn’t ask him to, he just did.

Back at the house, the rest of the evening passed in that golden-tinted blur summer seems to have a monopoly on—music drifting out the windows, the scent of grilled corn and sunscreen in the air, a card game on the porch that nobody really remembered the rules to. You sat on the armrest of Joshua’s chair, one foot tucked beneath you, laughing quietly at Jeonghan’s commentary and Soonyoung’s increasingly wild bluffing strategy. Someone suggested starting a fire pit, like in all the coming-of-age films, so you all gathered around the fire pit in the backyard as Seungcheol started it.

At one point, someone asked for a song. Without hesitation, Joshua picked up his guitar.

“What should I play?” he asked the group.

“Something soft!” Minji called, already leaning back in her seat like she was ready to fall asleep to it.

“Something sad,” Jun added, “so I can pretend I’m in a breakup montage.”

Joshua had laughed, the sound light and beautiful, music in and of itself. He looked down at his guitar, fingers adjusting on the strings. He started to play—something slow, easy, and melancholy. You didn’t recognize the song, but you didn’t need to. It said enough. You watched him through the golden firelight, head tilted just enough to see the focus in his face. His voice, when he sang, was soft but steady, the kind of sound that wrapped around a room rather than cutting through it.

And when he looked up in the middle of a verse, eyes meeting yours for the briefest second—You forgot how to breathe. The flicker of the fire reflected in the warmth of his eyes, painting him in its yellows and oranges, the light curling around each strand of his hair and dancing across his face.

Later that night, after the fire pit had burned down and everyone had either gone to bed or passed out inside, you stood on the back deck alone, hoodie zipped up against the breeze, looking out at the stars.

Joshua came up beside you without a word, arms folded on the railing.

“I always forget how many stars you can see outside the city,” he murmured.

“Me too.”

The silence between you felt full, not empty. Comfortable. Safe.

“I’m glad you came,” he said after a moment, voice low.

You swallowed, heart bumping into your ribs. “I almost didn’t.”

“Why not?”

You thought of your parents. The pressure. The version of yourself you left behind every time you smiled too easily or sat too still. “Didn’t think I’d fit in.”

Joshua looked at you then, really looked. “You do.”

And it wasn’t just the words—it was the way he said it. Like a fact. Like he meant it. Like you could believe it, just for a little while.

That night, as you lay in bed beside a softly snoring Minji, your fingers itched to write again. You pulled out your laptop, the screen glowing softly as you wrote of a boy who glowed brighter than any star.

The rest of the week passed with the same ease, full of laughter and bad jokes, and before you knew it, you were once again in the backseat of Seungcheol’s SUV, Minji and Joshua beside you still. This time on the ride back, you were all singing together, much to Jihoon’s dismay, loud, semi-off-key, and blissful. You sang louder than you meant to, too tired to care, the kind of tired that came from sunburns and saltwater and smiling too much. Minji clapped off-beat, leaning against your shoulder this time, and Joshua’s thigh pressed warm against yours as he tried and failed to harmonize. The windows were cracked, the wind rushing in, and every now and then someone would shout the wrong lyric just to make Jeonghan groan. At some point, Jihoon gave up entirely and buried his face in a hoodie, headphones cranked up as loud as they’d go. The rest of you kept going, undeterred. Every voice melded into the next, creating something less like music and more like memory.

And Joshua—God, Joshua—he looked over at you during one of the slower songs. Not a love song, not really, but something nostalgic, full of yearning and soft crescendos. His gaze was steady, soft, like it had been since the moment he sat beside you on the porch steps days ago. You didn’t look away that time. You held it, let it settle in your chest.

You didn’t say anything when he passed you his phone later, the screen opened on the contacts page with a new one open for you to put your number in. He didn’t ask if he could text you. He didn’t need to.

You saved the contact as Joshua 🎸, thumb hovering over the keyboard for a second too long before you put the phone down and let your head fall back against the seat.

You didn’t text him.

Not that week, not the week after. You told yourself it was because life had picked up again. That the weight of being who you had to be came crashing down the second you got home—internship applications, catching up on summer coursework, sitting across from your parents at dinner and pretending that you weren’t always bracing for disappointment.

But the truth was this: you didn’t text him because you didn’t trust yourself to. Because there was something about the way he looked at you—like you were already unraveling and he didn’t mind—that made you want to run straight into him and never look back. And you weren’t ready for that.

Not back then.

So you tucked the summer into the back of your mind like a pressed flower in an old journal. Left untouched, but never forgotten. You went back to your life, your structure, your goals. And the next time you saw him again… it wasn’t a beach, or a fire pit, or under the stars.

It was a classroom.

Fall semester. Culture Studies. Second row, left side.

He sat next to you like no time had passed at all.

Smiled, eyes crinkling, voice soft:

“Hey. I was wondering when I’d see you again.”

And just like that—

A breath caught in your chest.

I think I’ve always been careful with my heart—not out of wisdom, but fear. I learned early on that wanting too much was dangerous, that letting someone in meant giving them the tools to undo you. So I stayed guarded, measured. I convinced myself that I was better off alone, that solitude was strength. And then you came along—not loud, not forceful, just present. You didn’t try to pull the walls down. You just stood outside them long enough that I started to wonder what it would be like to open the door. It’s a strange feeling, wanting to be seen and being terrified of it at the same time. I keep catching myself watching you when you’re not looking, wondering what you see when you look back at me.

I don’t know how to let someone in without losing myself, even though now I’m trying.

You and Joshua formed a small study group with Minghao, one of the new freshmen who was in the class as well. Your days were spent at cafés and libraries, sneaking glances and laughing as if you’d known each other for years. Minghao integrated himself into the friend group quickly, and soon enough the little study group became weekly hangouts with everyone.

Minji made a friend in her figure drawing class, Luv, who brought her Communications major boyfriend, Seokmin, who dragged his friend Mingyu from Architecture. Just like that your group of nine became twelve, but still managed to feel seamless and tight-knit. Still, it would get slightly overwhelming sometimes, and although you thought you hid it well, Joshua started inviting you to the cafés alone, saying he couldn’t focus around everyone. The look in his eyes gave it away though, that he was really doing it for you.

Eventually, it became a ritual—every Tuesday and Thursday, like clockwork, even if the whole group was hanging out later, he’d still find time for the two of you. Some days you talked more than you studied. Some days you didn’t talk at all. And on the days when your thoughts felt too loud, when you couldn’t stop spiraling about grades and expectations and whether or not you were living the life you actually wanted—he didn’t try to fix it. He just sat there, steady and reliable.

And maybe that was what got to you most of all.

He didn’t ask questions you couldn’t answer.

He just kept showing up.

On a Tuesday after all your classes had ended, the kind that blurred into a quiet hum—gray skies, too many assignments, not enough sleep. The kind of day that wrapped itself around your shoulders like a weighted blanket and refused to let go.

You’d holed up in the library with Joshua, as usual. Your table in the corner had become something of an unofficial claim—charger cords and scribbled notes, half empty coffee cups and stolen glances. The rain had started sometime around four, soft and steady against the tall windows, and hadn’t let up since.

The overhead lights were warm and low, the world outside already swallowed by night, as you’d long since stopped paying attention to the time. Your eyes burned from staring at your screen, fingers twitching as you backspaced the same sentence for the fifth time. Across from you, Joshua stretched in his seat, shirt riding up slightly as he yawned behind one hand.

“I think my brain is broken,” he said, voice rough with sleepiness. “Like, permanently. I don’t even know what I’ve been reading for the past ten minutes.”

You snorted. “Same. I’m pretty sure I just tried to cite Wikipedia in APA format.”

He grimaced. “We’ve hit rock bottom.”

You smiled tiredly, closing your laptop with a soft click. “We should probably go before they lock us in here overnight.”

Joshua glanced toward the windows. The rain hadn’t let up. If anything, it had picked up, water streaming steadily down the glass in long rivulets.

You frowned. “Is it still pouring?”

He checked his phone, winced. “Yeah. You didn’t bring an umbrella?”

You shook your head. “I didn’t even bring a jacket. It wasn’t supposed to rain today.”

Joshua made a thoughtful noise, then stood and reached behind his chair to grab his hoodie. It was oversized, worn-in, a faded navy blue with a small embroidered patch near the cuff.

“Here,” he said, holding it out.

You blinked. “What?”

He smiled, eyes soft but unassuming. “It’s warm. You’ll freeze on the walk back.”

You hesitated. “What about you?”

Joshua shrugged. “I’ll survive.”

You didn’t reach for it right away. There was something about the gesture—so simple, so unspoken—that made your throat go tight. Not just because it was thoughtful, not just because he noticed, but because he always noticed. Without fanfare, without asking for anything in return.

You took it carefully, fingers brushing just barely.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

He gave a small smile, one hand raking through his hair. “No problem.”

You didn’t put it on until you were outside, beneath the awning. The rain was heavier than it looked from inside, cold and relentless. You pulled the hoodie over your head and let it swallow you whole. It smelled like him—like laundry detergent and cinnamon and something else you couldn’t name. You walked side by side under the streetlights, sneakers splashing in shallow puddles. He didn’t try to talk. Just kept pace with you, close enough that your arms brushed occasionally, and you let them. By the time you got back to your dorm, your legs were damp, your socks wet, but you didn’t care.

You tugged the hoodie tighter around you. “I’ll wash it before I give it back.”

Joshua looked at you, his hair damp from the rain, the light catching in his eyes in a way that made your heart trip over itself.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said easily. “It looks good on you.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but nothing came out. So instead, you nodded.

“Night, Joshua.”

“Night,” he said, smiling like it wasn’t just another goodbye.

You closed the door behind you and stood there for a long moment, water dripping from your sleeves onto the floor. The hoodie clung to your skin like something you shouldn’t get used to.

And still—you didn’t take it off.

I’ve always been the observant one. The quiet one who watched more than I spoke, who picked up on the shift in tone before anyone else even noticed a change. I think it started with my parents—how their voices would get tight over dinner, how silence wasn’t really silence but a warning. I learned early on how to read the room like a second language: when to disappear, when to smile, when not to ask questions. It’s strange, how survival skills turn into personality traits. Now, even in rooms that are safe, I’m still scanning for tension like it’s my job. Still listening for the quiet before the storm.

You didn’t mean to start memorizing the way he smiled, but you did.

The way one corner of his mouth lifted first. The way his eyes crinkled when he was amused, but not surprised. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention—like he was listening to something you hadn’t said yet. You caught yourself writing about it later, in the margins of your notes. A small character sketch here. A description tucked into a pretend dialogue. At first, you told yourself it was just how your brain worked—you’d always been too observant for your own good, but deep down, you knew better. He was becoming a habit. A comfortable one that curled around the edges of your day and lingered long after he was gone.

That winter came faster than expected. Midterms blurred into Thanksgiving, and before you knew it, snow had started to fall. Not heavily, delicate soft flakes swirling down through streetlights like something out of a movie. You’d been walking home from another group study session, hands jammed in your coat pockets, brain fried from too much caffeine and too little sleep, when you felt someone nudge your arm with theirs.

Joshua.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just fell into step beside you, his scarf pulled up around his mouth, eyes crinkled with quiet warmth.

“It’s snowing,” he said, as if you couldn’t already tell. “First snow of the year.”

You looked up, letting a flake land on your cheek. “Feels like we skipped fall.”

Joshua glanced at you, his breath fogging the air. “It went by too fast, huh?”

That stopped you.

Because it had.

The semester was rushing by. You were rushing by. And somewhere in all of it, this—whatever this was with him—had gone from tentative to familiar. Tuesdays and Thursdays turned into Fridays too, and sometimes Saturdays. Group dinners, one-on-one coffees, passing notes during class even when you knew you’d see each other later. The way he’d easily slipped into your life scared you, so you just nodded in response.

The night before winter break, you and the group gathered at Seokmin’s apartment for what had been dubbed “Midterms Are Over, We Deserve to Be Dumb” night. Mingyu showed up with four boxes of takeout and zero utensils, Soonyoung brought cheap champagne, Jeonghan brought a speaker and declared himself DJ for the night, which lasted until someone dared Jun to change the playlist and chaos ensued.

You wore Joshua’s hoodie—not because you’d forgotten to give it back, but because you hadn’t. He didn’t say anything when he saw you in it, just offered that same soft, steady smile that always seemed to pull the floor out from under you. Later, after the food had been eaten and the lights dimmed and someone had turned on a movie nobody was really watching, you found yourselves in the kitchen together. You were refilling your drink, he was leaning against the counter, nursing a soda. You stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, quiet for a moment as the voices from the living room faded into background noise.

“You heading home for break?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just for a bit.”

Joshua took a slow sip. “You okay about it?”

You hesitated. “I’ll manage.”

He looked at you—really looked—and it felt like the kind of look that saw more than it was supposed to.

“Call me if it gets bad,” he said simply. Not dramatic, not demanding, just there.

You smiled, tired and grateful. “You’ll actually pick up?”

He laughed. “I’ll always pick up.”

It wasn’t until you were lying in your own bed later that night, watching snow swirl past your dorm window, that those words echoed back to you.

I’ll always pick up.

And for the first time in a long time, the thought of coming back next semester felt like something to look forward to.

You didn’t text more than a few times—mostly updates about weird holiday food and “you won’t believe what my cousin just said” messages. You kept it light and safe, but he stayed in your thoughts anyway, like a song you kept humming without realizing it.

When you returned to campus in January, your heart did that stupid stutter again when you spotted him across the quad, half-buried in his coat, grinning like you’d never left, and this time, you let yourself run to catch up. You let yourself believe in the small, quiet way he was waiting for you.

Just like that, your study sessions were back on—just the two of you in your favorite corner of the usual café—but Tuesdays and Thursdays became almost every day, and you found yourself not minding.

It was late afternoon, just after four, and your laptop had long since stopped being useful. The café’s windows were fogged slightly at the edges, and the warm hum of conversation around you was starting to fade into background static. Joshua sat across from you, pen in hand, lazily doodling something in the corner of his notes. You weren’t paying attention to your own, instead pretending to read an article while sneaking glances at him as he pretended not to notice.

Eventually, he closed his notebook and leaned back in his chair a little, arms crossed loosely. “Hey.”

You didn’t look up right away. “If this is you trying to tell me that I've been staring at the same sentence for the past twenty minutes, don’t.”

He smiled, chuckling. “That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

You glanced up then, one brow raised. “Oh? Gonna insult my coffee order again?”

He shook his head, still smiling. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to get dinner sometime.”

You blinked. “We literally just had coffee.”

“I meant like a real dinner,” he said, easy and unbothered. “Not here. Not after a study session. Just you and me.”

You stared at him, heart skipping once—but your mouth moved faster.

“Wow. Bold move.”

Joshua shrugged, unfazed. “You’ve been wearing my hoodie for two months, I figured the line between bold and obvious had already been crossed.”

You flushed, but hid it behind your cup. “That’s because it’s comfortable.”

He gave you a long look, head tilted. “Right. Of course. You steal my hoodie, hoard my playlists, hijack my fries, but no romantic interest whatsoever.”

You narrowed your eyes, lips twitching despite yourself. “I’m a very complicated person.”

“I know,” he said, like it wasn’t a problem. “That’s part of the reason I like you.”

You paused. Something about the way he said it—so casual, like it didn’t cost him anything to just like you as you were—made your throat go tight.

You looked back down at your screen, scrolling without reading. “If this is your way of trying to guilt me into a pity dinner, it’s not working.”

Joshua smiled, soft and steady. “It’s not pity, it’s an invitation.”

Your fingers tapped your keyboard aimlessly before you quit “Where?”

He blinked, seemingly surprised you were actually entertaining it. “Tiny Korean place, downtown. Family-run, kinda loud, food’s amazing. You’ll pretend to hate it, but you’ll love it.”

You scoffed. “Excuse you, I have excellent taste.”

“That’s why I’m asking.”

You shot him a look. “You’re really not going to stop until I say yes, huh?”

“I’ll stop if you say no,” he replied simply.

The silence between you stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You bit the inside of your cheek.

“…Fine,” you muttered, reaching for your drink again. “But only because I’m hungry and my fridge is pathetic.”

Joshua’s eyes crinkled as he tried—and failed—to suppress a grin. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you said, standing and stuffing your things into your bag, avoiding eye contact. “It’s not a date. It’s food.”

“Sure,” he said easily. “Food. Saturday?”

You slung your bag over your shoulder. “Whatever.”

But as you turned to go, hoodie sleeves tugged down to cover your hands, he caught your eye one last time and said it with a kind of warmth that made your stomach flip:

“I’m looking forward to it.”

You didn’t reply. You just walked out the door with your face burning and your heart beating too loud.

Saturday came faster than you expected.

You spent way too long picking out an outfit, then told yourself you didn’t care. Spent another ten minutes trying to calm your hair, then gave up entirely. It wasn’t a date, after all. Except it was, and you knew it. And—judging by the stupid way your heart picked up when you spotted Joshua waiting by the curb, leaning casually against his car like he hadn’t been checking the time every five minutes—he knew it too.

He opened the passenger door for you, because of course he did. “Hey.”

You raised a brow. “This whole picking-me-up thing feels dangerously date-adjacent.”

Joshua just smiled. “Guess we’re halfway there already.”

You rolled your eyes, but you got in anyway. His car smelled like his cologne and cinnamon, the aux cord was already connected. Your name was still on the screen from last time you’d hijacked it. The drive was easy, filled with soft music and snarky commentary about other drivers. You liked that about him—he didn’t fill silence with filler. He just let you be.

The plan was dinner. A real one. The restaurant was supposed to be cozy, tucked downtown, hole-in-the-wall enough to feel cool without trying too hard.

The reality?

A handwritten CLOSED FOR PRIVATE EVENT sign taped to the restaurant door and Joshua sheepishly biting back a laugh while you stared at it in betrayal.

“You had one job,” you said, arms crossed.

“I swear it didn’t say anything online,” he replied, trying not to smile. “I even checked the reviews.”

“Did they mention getting stood up in the parking lot, or is that just me?”

Joshua put a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “Wow. Cold.”

You sighed, already tugging your seatbelt back on. “You owe me fries. Like, good fries, not soggy disappointment sticks.”

He grinned, already putting the car in gear. “Deal.”

Fifteen minutes later, you were parked beneath the soft orange glow of a streetlamp, a brown paper bag between you, fog slowly blooming across the car windows. The food was hot and messy and way too salty, and everything felt perfect. He handed you your burger and opened his own box with all the grace of someone who had fully embraced the situation. You were still shuffling through a playlist when he reached over and popped open the glove compartment.

Napkins. Dozens of them, all collected from various cafés and takeout orders, some still with logos printed in fading ink.

You raised an eyebrow. “Why do you have a whole ecosystem of napkins in there?”

He looked smug. “Emergency preparedness.”

You laughed despite yourself. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m a hero.”

You shook your head and reached for one anyway. “Alright,” he said, picking through the fries, “first bite rule. You have to rate it on a scale of one to tragic.”

You took a dramatic bite of your burger, chewed with exaggerated thoughtfulness, then pointedly held up six fingers.

“Six?” he scoffed. “You’re a tough crowd.”

“You promised good fries. These are aggressively mediocre.”

“You are aggressively ungrateful.”

“Mm, but charming.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Scarily self-aware for someone eating like a raccoon.”

You threw a napkin at him. He caught it one-handed and used it to wipe a smudge off your cheek without thinking, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you'd done this before. Like this wasn’t your first date.

You both paused.

Not awkwardly—just… softly, like time hiccupped.

So you made a napkin glove (it was an automatic defense mechanism that popped into your head, okay?). Kind of. Mostly it was just a lot of crumpled paper shoved around your fingers, but you held it up with pride and wiggled it in his face.

“Look,” you said, completely serious. “Art.”

Joshua grinned. “Incredible. Revolutionary. Never been done before.”

“It’s the future of fashion.”

“Can I hire you to do my album cover?”

You looked at him over the rim of your drink. “Only if I get royalties.”

He smiled again—so full, so real, like it lit up his whole face. You felt it in your chest, like a match being struck. The heater hummed softly, your knees brushed. He was close, not just physically, but in the way that made you want to lean in more, to stay longer. The night blurred at the edges, and the city felt quieter than it usually did.

“This was kind of perfect,” you admitted, quietly, when the conversation slowed.

Joshua glanced over. “Yeah?”

You nodded, staring down at the empty fry box in your lap. “Low bar, maybe. But yeah.”

He nudged your foot with his. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I should be saying that to you.”

He smiled, the kind that crept in slowly—corner of his mouth first, then the rest of his face catching up. Outside, the windows had fogged completely, the world beyond the windshield soft and blurred. You were wrapped in warmth and salt and too many napkins. When he walked you to your door, the quiet followed you.

He stood in front of you, hands deep in his jacket pockets, his hair mussed from the car ride. “Thanks for tonight.”

You raised a brow. “Why are you thanking me? I didn’t do anything.”

Joshua laughed, low and warm. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” you said. And you did. You always knew when he was.

There was a pause—not quite silence, but the space before something.

Joshua tilted his head a little. “So… do I get to do this again sometime?”

You tried to keep your voice light. “Only if you promise no more closed restaurants.”

“I can promise to try.”

You huffed a laugh and looked down at your shoes. His hand brushed yours, not quite holding—just a nudge. A question.

And before you could overthink it, you stepped closer. He looked down, eyes meeting yours, the same softness as always—but this time, there was something else behind it. A held breath. An invitation.

You kissed him.

Not planned, not polished—just a moment folding in on itself, your hand curling in the fabric of his jacket, his mouth warm and careful against yours. He didn’t rush it, didn’t pull away either. His hand found the small of your back like it belonged there. When you broke apart, it wasn’t dramatic. Just a breath. Just him looking at you like you’d knocked the wind out of him in the best possible way. You stepped back, heartbeat thudding like it hadn’t caught up yet.

Joshua blinked. “So…”

You smirked, brushing past him toward your door. “Don’t let that go to your head either.”

He laughed, breathless.

“Night, napkin hoarder,” you called over your shoulder.

“Night,” he replied, still standing there, stunned and glowing.

And as you stepped inside, hoodie still zipped to your chin and your hands tucked in the pockets, you realized something strange.

You already felt like you missed him.

I used to think the goal was to be good at life. To do things the right way, the smart way, the way that made people nod approvingly and say, “She’s doing well.” So I did all the things I was supposed to. Got good grades, smiled politely, made myself agreeable. Learned how to be impressive without being intimidating, kind without being soft, competent without drawing too much attention. And for a while, I thought that meant I was doing it right.

But lately, I’ve started to wonder what I gave up in the process.

It’s a strange feeling, realizing you’re not quite sure who you are outside of your usefulness. That most of your accomplishments feel more like proof of compliance than passion. I used to love staying up late to write, to draw, to imagine other lives, other versions of myself that weren’t so afraid to want things. Now I stay up late answering emails and scrolling through job listings I don’t even want.

You always made it look easy—wanting things. You’d talk about your dreams like they were already real, like you were just on your way to meet them. I used to envy that, quietly. I used to think I’d catch up eventually, once things settled. But they never really did. They just kept moving, and I kept following, waiting for some internal switch to flip and make everything feel meaningful.

You started dating not long after that night. There wasn’t some dramatic confession or big ask—just a shared look, a shift in the air between you, and then a string of days that slowly folded into something you both already knew. He asked, technically—half-laughing, eyes soft, the words “So are we…?” hanging between you like a question with an obvious answer, and of course you said yes. From there, it was easy—easier than you expected—like you’d already been in the rhythm of it before either of you dared to call it love.

He knew what coffee to bring you when you were stressed, you knew when to remind him to eat lunch between classes. He’d send you photos of cats he saw on the way to the bus, you left notes in his hoodie pockets, half-sarcastic, half-sincere. You never had a honeymoon phase. Or maybe you did, and it just felt like a continuation of whatever had already been building since that first beach walk. It wasn’t intense. It wasn’t overwhelming. It was just… comfortable. Like slipping into the version of your life where you didn’t have to explain yourself all the time. Where he just got it. Each day was another with him by your side, making even the most boring chores seem brighter.

The grocery store was colder than it needed to be. You stood in front of the deli section like the wrong choice would change the rest of your night, squinting at plastic trays of pasta and overpromising risotto, all of it under the hum of the flickering light that never got fixed.

Joshua held up a tray of lasagna—beige, sagging, uncertain. “This one looks like it gave up halfway through becoming food.”

You didn’t even flinch. “So basically, it’s us, in edible form.”

He laughed, not the loud kind, but the kind that slipped into the space between you like it belonged there. “Speak for yourself. I still have ambition.”

“Yeah, to eat garbage and call it gourmet.”

Still, you didn’t walk away. He didn’t either. You stayed there, arms brushing every few seconds, letting the refrigerated air chill the part of your brain that had been too warm all day. Eventually, you grabbed the lasagna from him and tossed it into the cart like a surrender. He beamed. You rolled your eyes, but your chest felt a little lighter.

“Dessert?” he asked, already heading for the candy aisle.

“Obviously.”

You bickered about snacks like it was life or death—he swore by Tootsie Roll Pops, you swore by Airheads. He made a passionate argument about the flavors being more emotionally dynamic and lasting longer, you accused him of over-identifying with candy. He bought both, of course. He always did. At checkout, he insisted on scanning every item, pretending the barcode scanner was a lightsaber and making increasingly dramatic ‘pew-pew’ noises. The teenage cashier didn’t blink. You laughed anyway. He looked proud of that.

You’ve thought about that moment more times than you care to admit—how unremarkable it all was. How perfect.

He opened your door for you without thinking. You clicked your seatbelt while he arranged the bags like you were moving cross-country, not three blocks. His playlist came on automatically—lo-fi beats and a song you’d been obsessed with for three weeks and would pretend not to like in two.

Back at your apartment, you didn’t bother with plates. Just tossed a blanket on the couch and dug in with plastic forks, arguing over who got the corner piece like it mattered. He gave it to you. You gave it back. He took it, grinned, and said, “We’re getting better at compromise.”

You told him he was delusional.

You don’t remember what movie you put on, only that it had subtitles and a lot of pauses. You watched him more than the screen. He watched you too, probably more than you realized at the time. At one point, he leaned against your shoulder, head tilted just enough to make your heartbeat shift, and whispered, “I hope you never get tired of this.”

You’d blinked. “Of lasagna that tastes like regret?”

He smiled like you’d said something profound. “Of us. Like this.”

You didn’t answer. Not really. You just elbowed him gently and reached for another Airhead.

He didn’t say “I love you” that night. But you think he almost did. You think you might’ve heard it in the way he stayed too long after the credits rolled, in the way he carried the trash out without being asked, in the way he paused by the door, looking like he didn’t want to leave.

“Wanna stay?” you’d asked, voice too casual to be casual.

He nodded. “If you don’t mind the world’s worst blanket thief.”

You tossed him a pillow and called him dramatic. He called you soft. Neither of you denied it.

That night, he slept on the couch and you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about the way his feet stuck out from the end of the blanket, how he always curled toward the cushions like he was trying to take up less space than he deserved. You didn’t write about it that night. Not right away. But later—when things were less clear, when the quiet between you stopped being comfortable—you opened a blank document and wrote about two people deciding between frozen meals like it mattered. You wrote about gummy worms and borrowed playlists, about a boy who didn’t say he loved you but meant it anyway.

You never finished that piece.

You still open it sometimes, reread the lines, move a sentence around and tell yourself it’s editing. You never change the ending. Maybe because it never really had one. Or maybe because it had one and you just didn’t write it down. Sometimes, you wonder if that’s what writing really is—holding onto a version of a moment that felt whole, even if you weren’t. Even if he wasn’t.

You still avoid the frozen food aisle when you’re alone. Not because it hurts. Just because it makes you remember. And you’re not always sure which is worse.

There’s a part of me that will always wonder: if I had been more focused on us instead of not messing us up, maybe things would be different. If I’d told you how much you meant to me, that you were my world and that it scared me to be so attached, I might be able to run into your arms the way I always wanted to. There’s no point in wondering now, but I still find myself writing stories where we end up happy in the end, where I remind you how much I love you every day. Sure, the characters have different names, live in different places, but they’re still always us, or at least what I wished for us.

You didn’t even realize it was your six-month anniversary until Minji reminded you, halfway through a bite of cafeteria pasta.

“Wait—today’s the twenty-third, right?” she asked, frowning at her phone. “You and Joshua started dating on the twenty-third, didn’t you?”

You blinked. “...Did we?”

Luv gave you a look over her pasta. “Don’t you remember your own relationship?”

You shrugged, but you were smiling. “I guess I didn’t really think about it, since we just kind of slipped into everything.”

“Yeah, into disgustingly domestic bliss,” Minji muttered. “What are you guys doing tonight?”

You checked your calendar out of instinct. “Uh, he said something about dinner. Wouldn’t tell me where.”

Luv narrowed her eyes. “He planned something.”

You laughed. “Relax. It’s Joshua. It’s probably dinner and a walk.”

“You say that like it’s not the dream.”

You were wrong, for the record. It wasn’t just dinner. He picked you up with flowers. Tiny yellow petals in a paper-wrapped bundle, already drooping a little from being carried around campus all afternoon.

“They’re a little sad-looking,” he admitted. “But they reminded me of you.”

You squinted. “Um. Thank you?”

“Hopeful. Beautiful. A little chaotic.” He held them out with a sheepish grin. “I meant it nicely.”

You rolled your eyes but took them anyway, hiding your smile in the petals.

You knew it was sweet. You knew most people would melt over it—and you did—but it also made your chest tighten, just a little. Because the more perfect it felt, the more aware you were of the quiet voice in the back of your head whispering: don’t mess this up.

He took you to a cozy Italian restaurant—the one he’d been planning on taking you on that first date. The food was good, the conversation was easy, and you made each other laugh in the same rhythm you always did—like there was no room for awkwardness anymore. Yet still, somewhere beneath all that warmth, a flicker of unease curled in your stomach.

How long could this really last?

You didn’t know where the thought came from. It just appeared, uninvited. Maybe because it felt too good, like something you weren’t sure you were allowed to keep. You’d always been better at preparing for the fall than trusting the height.

After dinner, he didn’t take you straight home. Instead, he pulled into a quiet overlook by the river. The kind of place that would’ve felt cliché with anyone else, but just felt right with him. He passed you a napkin from the glove compartment when your ice cream dripped down your wrist.

You teased him about it, he teased you back. The breeze was cool, the sky was fading into pinks and purples as night fell.

And somewhere in the middle of it, he turned to you, voice soft but sure.

“You’re my favorite person.”

You froze. Not outwardly—but something in your ribs pulled tight.

“That’s dangerous,” you responded.

He smiled, open and unguarded. “What, being honest?”

“No,” you said, quieter. “Making me want to say it back.”

You did anyway. Not in words—you couldn’t—but you leaned across the console and kissed him, soft and steady, like a promise you weren’t sure you could keep but wanted to make anyway. For a moment, it was all so warm, so close, so real.

Later, on the drive home, you watched his fingers on the wheel, the way he tapped to the beat of the music. You could feel it again—that fear pressing up against the edges of your chest, cold where everything else was soft.

He looked at you like you were everything, but you knew, deep down, you didn’t believe you could be. You held his hand anyway and told yourself that was enough, but some part of you was already bracing. Just in case.

The first time Joshua told you he loved you, it had been a normal day. You’d been dating for seven or eight months at that point, and he had been over at your house, laying on your couch and watching TV as you typed away on your computer, doing a report on The Myth of Daedalus and Icarus for your Ancient Greek Lit class. You remember the way his eyes were focused on you, not whatever show played on the screen, because you called him out on it.

“What?” You’d asked, glancing up to meet his gaze, thrown off by how soft it was.

He’d blinked like he’d been caught doing something he didn’t mean to, but didn’t look away. “Nothing,” he responded, then added, after a pause, “You’re just really beautiful when you’re focused.”

You’d snorted, typing another line without missing a beat. “Cheesy.”

Joshua laughed, the quiet kind, like he knew you were deflecting but didn’t mind. “Yeah,” he agreed, “but true.”

He’d gone quiet after that, letting the room fill again with the sounds of the sitcom on the TV and your fingers tapping at the keys. He stayed like that for a long time—long enough that you forgot he was watching again until he shifted a little closer, until you felt his warmth bleeding into your side.

And then, casual like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like he was commenting on the weather,

“I love you.”

You’d stopped typing mid-sentence. The cursor blinked against the white of the screen like it was waiting for you to catch up, but your brain was still buffering, caught somewhere between the unexpected softness of his voice and the flutter that had leapt into your chest.

You turned to him slowly, brows drawn together. “What?”

He smiled, the kind of smile that curled at the corners and settled into his eyes. “I love you,” he repeated, this time with a little shrug, like he wasn’t offering you anything to carry, just telling you something true. “Just thought you should know.”

And you had no idea what to say.

You weren’t even sure how you felt about it—not because you didn’t care about him, but because the words felt so big. Too big. You didn’t know if you believed in love, not really, not after all the ways people had made it conditional in your life. But Joshua just said it, like it wasn’t a condition at all. Like it was just there.

You’d blinked at him, unsure, quiet. Then, instead of saying it back, you’d asked, “Aren’t you supposed to say that when we’re, like, having a moment?”

Joshua grinned. “This is a moment.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling, too. “You’re ridiculous.”

He reached over and poked your cheek gently. “Yeah.”

You had huffed a laugh, rolled your eyes as Joshua leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple before settling back into the couch.

You didn’t say anything else that day—not about the I love you, not about how your heart had soared before sinking to your stomach, sinking to your feet the same way Icarus fell to the ocean. Even so, that night, after he left, you opened a new document and wrote ten pages of a love story you’d never finish.

When Joshua told you his mom was coming into town and wanted to meet you, you nearly had an aneurysm. You had been mid-sip of your latte, which immediately went down the wrong pipe, making you cough so hard you almost knocked over your laptop.

“She what?”

He was calm, automatically passing you a napkin while he responded. “She just wants to meet you. She’s been asking since month three, but I told her I’d wait until you were comfortable.”

“And you think I’m comfortable now?”

He tilted his head, sipping his tea like you weren’t spiraling. “Aren’t you?”

You stared at him. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

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

You remember preparing like it was a job interview. A sweater—not too fancy, not too casual. Clean jeans. A bag packed with emergency gum, hand sanitizer, and half a pack of tissues in case you cried (you wouldn’t, but still). Joshua just laughed when he saw how stiff you were in the mirror.

“She’s going to love you,” he said, adjusting your sleeve gently and rubbing your back.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he said, eyes warm and certain. “Because you’re you.”

You hated how much that softened you.

His mom met you at a little café downtown, the kind with handmade mugs and mismatched furniture. She stood the second you walked in, arms open like she’d known you forever.

“Oh my gosh—you’re even prettier than in the pictures,” she said, pulling you into a hug before you could stop her.

You stiffened, unsure where to put your arms, how long to hold on, but she didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did, and didn’t care. She smelled like jasmine and peppermint, and her laugh came easy.

“Hi,” you managed, awkward and too formal. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Hong.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart, please, call me Mom.”

Your brain short-circuited. She sat across from you, immediately launching into stories—about Joshua as a kid, about their family dog, about her terrible driving. You didn’t have to say much, she filled every silence like she hated to see space unused, but not in a way that demanded anything from you. It wasn’t pressure, just presence.

At one point, she leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Has he shown you his baby pictures yet? No? Ohhh, you’re in for a treat.”

Joshua groaned. “Mom—”

“She needs to see the bowl cut. I insist.”

You laughed—a real laugh. So real it startled you. When her hand had brushed yours over the table, you didn’t flinch. Just looked down at it and thought about how different it felt—gentle, curious. Not weighing you. Not measuring your worth. You weren’t used to that.

Later, when she left—hugging you again, kissing Joshua on the cheek, making you promise to visit over break—you stood beside him on the sidewalk in stunned silence.

“She hugged me,” you said dumbly.

Joshua nodded. “Twice.” He confirmed.

“She meant it.”

He smiled sideways at you. “Of course she did.”

You didn’t answer—you couldn’t—because what you really wanted to say was that’s not normal for you. You wanted to say, my mom once called me dramatic for crying at my graduation or my dad said love is earned. But you didn’t.

Instead, you slipped your hand into his, quiet and steady. You didn’t know how to say thank you for things you didn’t know you needed. But you squeezed his fingers, and he squeezed back like he heard it anyway.

Growing up, my parents always told me writing was a useless hobby, and being an author was a fruitless job. Now, as I sit in my apartment, typing yet another page, I wonder if they were wrong. Of course I’d listened to them, like I always did. Chose the safe path, got the degree, accepted the job offer, and found myself in an office with boring beige walls and a badge to clip on my blazer. I learned to say things like “per my last email” and “looping back”, made spreadsheets, sat through meetings that could’ve been emails and nodded at my boss like I was grateful for the opportunity. They’d always said growing up wasn’t fun, and it's moments like now that make me wonder if they were just doing it wrong. If I am. You never seemed to have that problem, but then again, sometimes I think I never looked hard enough.

It went differently when he met your parents, as expected. The semester had ended, and you weren’t allowed to go on the beach trip like the year prior, instead having to go home and take care of your younger sister, Bella. She’d been “rebelling,” according to your parents, which could have meant anything from refusing to memorize the school’s motto to sneaking out to party. You never got the full story—just a text from your mom with a time and a list of rules, followed by a thinly veiled threat about "setting a good example."

So you went, and Joshua, because he was Joshua, offered to drive you. Just drop you off, he’d said at first, but the closer you got to your hometown, the more the silence thickened, and at one point—fifteen minutes from your street—you’d looked at him and asked, “Do you want to meet them?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

You weren’t sure if you meant it or why you even offered, but it was too late after that.

They were polite.

Your dad opened the door with that measured expression he wore to fundraisers and board meetings—neutral with a pinch of skepticism. Your mom smiled, the tight kind, eyes flicking over Joshua’s outfit, his hands, his posture.

“You didn’t mention he played guitar,” she said after introductions, not as a compliment.

Joshua smiled anyway. “Mostly just for fun.”

They didn’t laugh. Bella waved from the staircase, wearing a hoodie that probably wasn’t hers and chewing gum in a way that made your mother twitch. You wished you could sit with her instead. You wished you could disappear entirely.

Dinner was a slow ache. Joshua tried to help with dishes afterward, but your mother insisted he sit. She asked about his major, his GPA, what his father did for work, and Joshua answered every question with patience, that soft steadiness you adored in him. You watched his knuckles whiten slightly around his water glass. Your dad interrupted him twice.

At one point, your mom said, “It’s good that you’re helping her stay focused. She tends to get… distracted.”

And Joshua said nothing. He didn’t argue, but he looked at you like he knew how hard you were biting the inside of your cheek.

Later, in your childhood bedroom—after everyone had gone to bed, after you’d laid down and stared at your old ceiling fan like it might have answers—you whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Joshua looked over at you from the makeshift bed you’d set up for him on the floor. He smiled softly. “Don’t be.”

“You didn’t deserve that.”

“I’ve been through worse,” he said, like it was a joke. It wasn’t.

You turned your face toward the wall, the soft thrum of the fan masking the rise of your heartbeat. “I thought… I hoped maybe they’d be different this time.”

His voice was so quiet you almost missed it. “They don’t know how to love you.”

Your breath caught. “Don’t say that.”

He hesitated. “Okay.”

But you both knew it was true.

He left in the morning, but you found a folded note in your hoodie pocket. His handwriting, familiar and neat, written on the back of one of Bella’s old homework assignments.

You’re not the person they try to make you be.

You’re more. You always have been.

I’m proud of you for coming home anyway.

I’ll see you when school starts again, don’t forget to call.

Love you

You didn’t cry, but you kept the note. You still have it, actually. Tucked into the back of your journal, under a page with a half-written poem about ceilings and silence. The ink’s smudged a little, the edges worn soft from being handled too many times. You reread it sometimes when you feel yourself folding in again. Just to remember what it felt like, to be seen like that. To be chosen.

Even when you couldn't choose yourself.

You’d learned pretty quickly what your parents meant by “rebellious” when you caught a boy trying to sneak in through the wrong window. It was just past midnight, you were at your desk, headphones in but not playing anything, too mentally fried from summer class readings to focus but not tired enough to sleep. That’s when you heard it—a faint clink, then the rustle of leaves, and something brushing against the siding outside your window.

You got up and peered through the blinds, heart already preparing for the worst. There he was: a boy, halfway through climbing to the study, balancing awkwardly with a tote bag slung over his shoulder. He was laughing under his breath, the sound muffled by effort.

You opened your window. “You do realize there’s nothing in there, right?”

He nearly slipped off the ledge. “Oh—sorry! I didn’t know anyone was awake. Bella said this was the right one.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who are you?”

“Chan,” he whispered, lifting the tote as if that explained everything. “We’re in the same class. I brought her strawberry milk. It’s her favorite.”

You blinked. He looked… harmless. Earnest, even. His socks didn’t match and his hoodie had little stars embroidered on the sleeves.

You sighed, already giving in. “Use the tree and climb into this room, Bella’s in the room next to mine. That’s the study.”

His whole face lit up. “You’re the best. Seriously.”

You didn’t answer—just shook your head as he dropped down to instead scale the tree outside your window and climb in, thanking you again before sneaking into Bella’s room.

When you peeked in later, expecting chaos or whispered schemes, you were met with soft lamplight and the smell of strawberry milk. Bella was curled up in bed, legs tangled in a blanket, flipping through flashcards while Chan sat on the floor with his back to the wall, their pinkies barely touching between them.

“Oh,” Bella said when she noticed you. “You’re still up.”

You stepped into the room. “I am, why are you?”

“We’re studying,” she said. “I have a quiz tomorrow.”

Chan nodded, serious. “I quizzed her six times already. She only missed one.”

Bella looked proud. “It was ‘ephemeral.’ I got cocky.”

You tried not to smile. “And sneaking him in was… necessary for vocab retention?”

Bella shrugged, but there was a blush blooming in her cheeks. “He knows I get nervous when I study. It’s easier when he’s here.”

You looked between them—at the books, the snacks, the little pinky touch—and something tugged at your chest. They weren’t doing anything wrong. They were just being. Sweet. Simple. Young.

“You really like him,” you said, not as an accusation.

Bella nodded. “I do.”

It was so certain, so easy.

You glanced at Chan. “You like her too?”

He nodded, just as serious. “I’ve liked her since she gave me her extra glue stick in fourth grade.”

Bella laughed, reaching down to poke his knee. “You always bring that up.”

“Because it was a defining moment in my life.”

You sat at the edge of the bed, folding one leg beneath you. “You’re not rebellious.”

She tilted her head. “I know.”

“Then why do they think you are?”

Bella looked down at her flashcards. “Because I want things.”

You swallowed because that landed much harder than it should have.

She looked up again, softening. “They raised us to be good. I think I just want to be… happy, too.”

You didn’t answer in words, you just leaned forward and pulled her into a hug—awkward and sudden, but needed. She went without resistance.

Chan looked like he was trying very hard not to intrude on the moment. You reached out and ruffled his hair as you pulled back. “You break her heart, I break your kneecaps.”

He nodded solemnly. “Reasonable.”

Bella laughed so hard she snorted, and you found yourself smiling, really smiling, for the first time in days.

That night, when you got back to your room, you sat on your bed in the quiet, phone in your hand, Joshua’s name at the top of your messages. You stared at it for a long time, thumb hovering.

Then you typed:

"My sister's in love. It's kind of gross. Also adorable. Do you still have the playlist from the deli lasagna night?"

He replied before you could even lock your screen:

"Of course. Also, I love how you say 'gross' when you mean 'I’m feeling things and I’m scared.'"

You rolled your eyes and smiled into your pillow.

Maybe being a little rebellious wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

When you’d told Joshua you’d never been to an amusement park before, he’d almost passed out from shock before dragging you to one the next weekend. You’d tried to argue, saying it wasn’t that big of a deal, that it was just one of those things you never got around to—but Joshua had looked at you like you’d just confessed a great personal tragedy. He was already pulling up ticket prices before you could finish your excuse.

“No childhood rollercoaster trauma?” he asked, peering at you suspiciously as the page loaded. “No fear of clowns or funnel cake?”

“Not unless you count my mom calling anything fun a waste of time,” you replied, only half-joking. “She said the Ferris wheel was basically paying to sit still in the sky.”

Joshua had frowned at that, the kind of frown that tugged at the corners of his mouth and sat deep in his eyes, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to put it. He didn’t press you, though. Just bought the tickets and sent you the confirmation with the caption: you’re about to experience joy, please prepare accordingly. You’d laughed, called him dramatic, and pretended you weren’t nervous.

That Saturday, he’d shown up at your door grinning and holding a giant water bottle and a pack of Advil like you were about to hike the Alps.

“Trust me,” he said, slipping his fingers through yours as you locked your door. “You’re gonna need this after four consecutive loops on the Cyclone.”

The amusement park was crowded and loud and aggressively colorful. You’d felt overwhelmed the moment you stepped through the gates—too many kids screaming, too many smells of fried sugar and sunscreen—but Joshua’s hand was warm and steady in yours, grounding you. He navigated the chaos like he’d grown up in it, dragging you from ride to ride with the giddy confidence of someone showing off a secret hideout.

You hadn’t expected to like it—you told yourself you were just humoring him—but somewhere between the bumper cars and the second round of cotton candy, you’d started laughing—really laughing—the kind that made your stomach hurt and your eyes water. Joshua had this way of making the world feel a little less sharp. Like maybe the point of life wasn’t to be productive, but to scream your lungs out on a ride that made no sense and taste everything twice just in case it was better the second time.

After the sun dipped low and the lights began to flicker on, you found yourselves at the Ferris wheel. It looked taller in person than it had in the pictures, the cars creaking gently as they rotated upward into the purple sky.

You’d hesitated, eyeing the height. “This is basically paying to sit still in the sky.”

Joshua grinned, pulling you gently forward. “Exactly. Your mom would hate it.”

You laughed, breathless, and followed him into the car. At the top, with the wind tugging softly at your hair and the whole park glittering beneath you, Joshua had gone quiet. You glanced over to find him watching you again, that same look in his eyes—the one that made your chest ache a little, like maybe he saw something you didn’t believe was there.

“What?” you’d asked, softer this time.

He shook his head. “Nothing. You just look happy.”

You didn’t respond right away, once again you didn’t know how to. But you’d reached out and laced your fingers with his again, like maybe that could say what you couldn’t.

Later, you wrote about a girl who learns to fly, not because she wants to escape, but because someone teaches her the sky isn’t as scary as it looks. You still haven’t finished that story either.

I’ve always been afraid of big steps. The kind that changes things—the kind you can’t undo once they’re taken. Moving in, saying I love you, letting someone stay. They’ve always felt too heavy in my hands, like I wasn’t built to carry that kind of closeness. I used to imagine those moments with dread, not joy. Like they were cliffs instead of bridges. But with you, somehow, it didn’t feel like falling. It felt like breathing. I’m now realizing that maybe love isn’t about being ready. Maybe it’s about finding the person who makes you forget you were ever afraid. I wonder how different things would be if I’d realized sooner.

You saw Joshua more that summer, he’d come around to see you, was respectful to your parents, and would take you on dates, or “rescue you” as he’d call it. He met Bella, they got along better than you’d ever hoped, and everything felt… nice. Lighter.

On one date, you were halfway through your bowl of spicy noodles when Joshua said, “So, how do you feel about mold?”

You blinked. “Like… as a concept?”

“As a roommate.”

You arched a brow. “Depends. Is it paying rent?”

Joshua shrugged, sipping from his water like he hadn’t just opened with a completely deranged question. “There’s this one place I looked at. Great light, quiet street, shower pressure from God himself. But there’s… a corner. In the kitchen. It’s not technically mold yet, but it’s definitely manifesting.”

You winced. “Yeah, no— I’m not looking to catch the plague before graduation.”

“That’s what I said. The landlord offered to knock fifty bucks off if I ‘wasn’t picky.’”

You laughed, spearing another bite. “He basically said, ‘you might die slightly faster, but you’ll die fifty bucks richer.’”

Joshua grinned. “Exactly.”

There was a pause. The restaurant was mostly empty, a quiet Tuesday night glow settling over everything. His chopsticks tapped the side of his bowl once, idly.

“I saw a studio that looked nice,” you offered, “but it’s like three buses from campus, and I’d have to live above a bar called ‘Moist.’ So…”

Joshua gagged audibly. “You can’t live above something named Moist. That’s how people get haunted.”

“By what? The ghost of poor branding?”

“That—and regret. And spilled beer.”

You shook your head, smiling into your bowl. “Ugh. Why is apartment hunting so exhausting? I haven’t even seen anything in person yet and I already feel emotionally betrayed.”

“Because it’s not really about apartments,” Joshua said, in that quiet way he had when he meant something under the surface. “It’s about deciding how you want to live. Who you want around. What kind of mornings you want to wake up to.”

You glanced at him, caught off-guard by how soft his expression had gone. There was sesame oil on the corner of his mouth. You reached across the table to wipe it off out of habit.

“I just want a place where the fridge works and I don’t get robbed walking home,” you said, voice lighter.

“Fair,” he said, then paused. “What if… what if we lived together?”

You blinked. “What?”

Joshua looked calm. Casual. Like he did every time he sent your brain into a tailspin. “I’m serious. We’re already together most of the time. We like the same coffee, we split grocery bills, you steal my hoodies, and I know you hate overhead lighting.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You make that sound like a romantic résumé.”

He pointed at you with his chopsticks. “Exactly. Look at us—so compatible.”

You laughed, loud and sudden. “Joshua, moving in is a big thing.”

“I know,” he said, unbothered. “But… so is looking for a place in this hellscape of a rental market. And I like you. A lot. I like the idea of waking up and knowing I get to see you. I like that you talk to yourself while you write and pretend you don’t. I like that you keep trying to teach me how to cook and pretend I’m not a lost cause.”

You stared at him. “Are you saying you want to move in with me… because you’re bad at sautéing onions?”

He smirked. “I’m saying maybe we could make a place feel like home together.”

Your stomach flipped in that quiet, terrifying way it always did when Joshua said something sweet like it wasn’t a big deal. Like love wasn’t a heavy word, but something you could tuck into your pocket and carry around without noticing the weight.

You toyed with your chopsticks. “So what would this hypothetical home look like?”

“No overhead lights, a kettle, some shelves for all your books, one of those couches that’s ugly but too comfortable to get rid of, plants you’ll forget to water so I’ll do it, a fridge with sticky notes on it, and a drawer just for your favorite snacks so I don’t eat them when I’m desperate at 2 a.m.”

You swallowed.

“You’ve thought about this,” you said.

“Of course I have,” he said, with no hesitation. “Haven’t you?”

You hadn’t let yourself—didn’t want to hope— but sitting there, watching him sketch a future out of air and sesame noodles and softly spoken intentions felt less like a leap and more like the next step you’d already taken, just hadn’t admitted out loud. You reached over to take a bite from his bowl.

“If you steal my leftovers in the middle of the night,” you said, “I’m changing the Wi-Fi password.”

Joshua leaned back, eyes crinkling with his grin. “So is that a yes?”

You didn’t say it.

You just smiled and said, “Only if the fridge has space for soda.”

And that was enough.

Apartment hunting had been anything but easy. There was the place with the ceiling fan that threatened to decapitate anyone over 5'10", the studio that mysteriously smelled like soup despite no visible kitchen appliances, and the duplex where the landlord proudly mentioned a "quirky rat situation" like it was a feature, not a threat. One unit had slanted floors so dramatic that Joshua had to grab the doorframe to avoid falling into the living room. Another had a neighbor with a pet ferret named Vengeance. You tried not to judge, Joshua asked if it was housebroken, and you both ran.

It was the sixth place of the week—the kind of weekday evening where the sky looked like wet cotton and your energy was hovering somewhere between “barely functioning” and “don’t talk to me unless you have snacks.”

You were already half-preparing your list of things to hate when the door opened. It didn’t look like much from the hallway—just another nondescript beige door with peeling paint and numbers that hung slightly crooked. But the second you stepped in, it felt different. The apartment was small, yes—but clean. Cozy. Lived-in without actually being lived in. Wooden floors, worn in all the right ways. Tall windows that let in light even on a gray day. A built-in bookshelf along the far wall that made your heart skip just a little.

Joshua stepped inside behind you and went quiet. You both walked the space slowly, separate orbits circling the same sun. You trailed your hand along the windowsill. He opened cabinets like he was afraid they’d creak (they didn’t). You peered into the bedroom, which was just big enough for a bed and two people with low expectations. The bathroom had decent water pressure. The kitchen counter had a corner that jutted out awkwardly, but it also had a drawer that rolled out like butter.

You stood in the middle of the living room, turning slowly in a circle, eyes on the ceiling.

“Shua.”

He looked up.

“I think this is it,” you breathed.

He let out a breath. “Yeah.”

You sat down on the floor. No furniture yet, but the sunlight hit the floorboards like a promise. Joshua sat beside you without hesitation.

“It’s a little small,” he said after a moment.

“Yeah.”

“And we’d have to get rid of, like, half our stuff.”

“Yeah.”

“But I could see us here.”

You looked at him. He was already looking at you.

“You really think we’ll survive living together?” you teased, nudging his shoulder.

He grinned. “I think we’ve been living as if we do for a while now.”

And he was right. You already split groceries half the time, you already argued over movie genres and laundry detergent. He already had a toothbrush in your drawer and his hoodie was still hanging off your desk chair from three days ago.

“You’re going to label your cereal, aren’t you?” you asked, mock-accusing.

“And your hot sauce will be mysteriously on every shelf, I’m sure.”

You smiled. “Compromise.”

“Teamwork,” he said, leaning in just slightly.

It wasn’t a dramatic kiss, just a soft one—sunlight on skin, lips brushing like an answer to a question neither of you had fully asked. Familiar, but new. A beginning, but also a continuation. You kissed him back, eyes closed, and thought: yeah, this is home. When you pulled away, he was already smiling.

“So,” you said, standing and brushing your hands on your jeans, “do we tell the landlord we’ll take it, or do we let them wonder why two weird kids just made out on the floor of an empty unit?”

Joshua laughed, pushing himself up with a mock-serious expression. “I vote we sign before they change their mind.”

The key stuck a little in the lock, which Joshua had said was a good sign. “Means it’s old. Lived in. Has character.”

You’d rolled your eyes and said, “It means it’s going to snap off and trap us inside one day.”

He grinned, nudging the door open with his shoulder. “A very poetic way to die, tragic roommates to lovers, found decades later.”

You remember how the apartment had smelled that first night—wood polish, faint lemon cleaner, and the heat of late summer pressing in from the windows. You’d both laughed at how loud your voices echoed in the emptiness. There hadn’t been any furniture yet, just your tote bag dumped in the corner, his carefully balanced pizza box, and a faded blue picnic blanket that didn’t quite cover the floor but felt like enough. Back then, things were simple in the kind of way that didn’t feel simple until much later.

You sat cross-legged across from him, knees bumping his, the two of you too tired to keep your jokes straight but too giddy to stop talking.

Joshua had taken a bite of his second slice, lips shiny with grease, and looked around like the world had cracked open just for the two of you. “We actually did it.”

You leaned back, palms on the floor, stretching out your legs like it would help you take it all in. “I think I was still in denial until we got the keys.”

He offered you his soda—flat, but sweet—and asked, “Still wanna live with me?”

You remember the exact pause, the beat of your heart in your throat before you said, “Jury’s still out. I need to see if you’re the kind of guy who folds his laundry or lives out of the basket like a goblin.”

“Excuse you,” he replied, mock-offended. “I fold it. Badly, but I fold it.”

You laughed like nothing in the world could come between the two of you. The pizza was bad and the fan rattled like it was one loose screw away from falling, but you remember thinking—This is what happiness looks like. You didn’t say it out loud, you barely even admitted it to yourself.

Later, after the food was gone and the city sounds had softened, you curled up on the too-small blanket, his jacket tossed over both of you like a half-hearted attempt at being warm. He’d pulled you close, arm wrapped around your waist, cheek pressed to your temple.

“This is the best night I’ve had in a long time,” you’d whispered, eyes fluttering closed.

He didn’t speak right away. Just tightened his grip a little, like holding on could make time freeze.

“Me too,” he said eventually, and you remember thinking it didn’t matter that the place was bare, or that your backs would probably hurt in the morning, or that life would get complicated again.

Back then, things were still soft. And even now, years later, you still remember the way he looked at you—like home wasn’t four walls or a bed or a lease, it was you.

I think a part of me always knew I was archiving us in real time. That every late-night grocery run, every offhand comment, every half-finished story wasn’t just a habit—it was documentation. Proof that we were real. That I was real. It’s strange, looking back now, how many versions of us exist only because I wrote them down. And stranger still, how many I didn’t. The ones I kept to myself. The ones that never made it past memory. I wonder if those are the most honest ones, or just the ones I was too afraid to touch. I wonder if things would be different if I hadn’t just written my feelings, if maybe I’d found a way to tell you, pull you closer instead of pushing you away.

By the time the school year started, the two of you had fallen into a comfortable rhythm, like the apartment had always known your footsteps. Mornings were quiet and warm—Joshua humming while he made coffee, you groaning into your hoodie as you hunted for clean socks. He always remembered how you took your coffee and you always made sure his headphones weren’t tangled when he ran out the door late. Sometimes you’d leave sticky notes on the fridge for each other—little drawings, reminders, a “don’t forget your umbrella” with a crooked smiley face. It wasn’t romantic in the obvious ways—it was better. It was easy, thoughtful, and familiar.

You’d study at the kitchen table in parallel silence, laptops open, wires tangled underfoot, your knees brushing beneath the table without either of you moving away. You still teased him for playing the same five lo-fi tracks on repeat, and he still claimed your highlighters were a fire hazard. It was your kind of normal. When classes got overwhelming, you found yourselves curled up on the couch, your feet in his lap while he read through notes with one hand and absentmindedly massaged your ankle with the other. You'd never asked him to do it, he’d just started one day. You never told him to stop.

You remember thinking—if this is what love looks like, maybe I’ve been underestimating it all this time. And yet, sometimes when he was already asleep, curled toward the wall in the bed you shared with a blanket kicked half off his legs, you’d lie there staring at the ceiling, heart too full, too fast, too much. You didn’t know how to hold it all. It scared you, how much space he took up in your thoughts. How much emptier the world felt when he wasn’t around.

You told yourself it was fine, that this was the good part, if you just stayed here, in this moment, you’d never have to figure out what came next. But the problem with comfort is that you get used to it. You stop looking closely. You stop checking for cracks. And even the best rhythms can start to slip when the tempo changes.

It started with an email. You were sitting at the kitchen table, legs curled under you, one hand wrapped around a mug that had long gone cold. Joshua was across from you, hunched over his planner, underlining something in blue and humming quietly to himself. The apartment was still, soft with early light, the kind of peace you’d grown used to. Until it wasn’t.

INTERNSHIP OPPORTUNITY – Interview Invitation

You read it once, then again, heart thudding in that quiet, thrilling, terrifying way. It was from a firm downtown. Well-known, high expectations, and a name that would open doors. You’d applied months ago and then forgotten about it entirely—figuring it was a long shot. Now, they wanted to meet with you. Joshua looked up when you went still.

“What’s up?”

You turned the screen toward him. “Got an interview.”

He lit up. “Wait, seriously? Which one?”

You said the name and his eyebrows lifted. “That’s huge.”

You nodded, trying to play it cool, but your chest was already buzzing.

“They want to meet this week,” you added. “It’s part-time through the semester, but, like, serious hours. Four days a week. Real workload.”

Joshua nodded again, slower this time. “That’s… fast.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. “Isn’t that the point?”

“No, totally. It’s great,” he said, tapping his pen against the edge of the table. “Just—didn’t know you were still looking.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

He looked at you, gentle but a little too careful. “I guess I thought you already had enough on your plate.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah, but this is kind of what I’ve been working toward. It’s not forever. Just this semester.”

He nodded again, but the movement was distracted. “I get it. It’s just a lot.”

The way he said a lot made something inside you bristle.

“I can handle it.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t,” he said, too quickly.

You sat back, lips pressed together. “I feel like you’re not actually happy for me.”

Joshua frowned. “That’s not fair.”

“Then why do you sound like it?”

He set his pen down, quiet for a second. “It’s just—we barely see each other when school starts up. If you’re doing this, too… not to mention you’re already working so hard and I don’t want you to burn out.”

You exhaled slowly, the pieces clicking into place. “So this is about time.”

He didn’t answer right away. You saw the hesitation in his expression—the effort not to say something he couldn’t unsay.

“Maybe,” he said finally. “I don’t know. I guess I thought we found a rhythm. I didn’t realize it was temporary.”

You looked at him. Really looked. The boy who made you coffee in the mornings, who left you sticky notes, and picked out apartments with you like it was a forever plan. You didn’t know how to explain it—that wanting more didn’t mean wanting less of him. So you said nothing. You just picked up your mug, took a sip of lukewarm coffee, and pretended the bitterness wasn’t from the taste.

It wasn’t a fight, not really. Just a moment that didn’t settle the way it used to.

But you’d remember it—how it made your chest ache a little. How for the first time in a long time, being on the same team didn’t feel like a given. And you didn’t know what to do with that.

I don’t remember when I stopped writing. It was probably around the time of the internship, I was busy and when I wasn’t working I’d be asleep. You noticed, of course you did, and I remember feeling your worry and ignoring it. I told myself that I’d get back to it once things slowed down, and I guess I did, in a way. Since I’m writing again now, after everything.

Things sped up after that, you’d still see him in the morning, but it was in the rush of getting to class or whatever commitment you’d made. Your only savior was the weekends. One night, there was a storm, a slow one—lazy, almost. No thunder yet, just the distant hush of rain threading through the gutters and tapping softly against the window panes. The kind of weather that made the world feel smaller, quieter. Yours. Joshua had shown up late, soaked halfway down his hoodie from the sprint between your car and the door. You’d tossed him a towel and teased him for not checking the weather app. He’d kissed you with rain still in his hair.

Hours later, the living room was dim except for the pool of warm light spilling from the floor lamp, and the two of you were camped out on the rug like kids at a sleepover. The puzzle you’d found on a shelf marked DO NOT OPEN was spread out between you—tiny cardboard fragments of some coastal watercolor landscape neither of you had seen in real life.

Joshua’s hoodie hung loose on his frame, his sleeves pushed up to expose the faint smudge of ink near his thumb from a grocery list he’d jotted down earlier and never washed off. You’d been at it for nearly an hour and were still nowhere near finding the corners.

“This piece is gaslighting me,” you declared, holding up a patch of cloudy blue sky. “It looks like it fits in three different places and it’s lied every time.”

Joshua smirked without looking up. “Maybe the sky wasn’t your area of expertise. Want to trade? I’ve been doing ocean.”

“Excuse me, I am great at ocean. Sky is just playing hard to get.”

You tossed the piece gently onto his section and reached over for a handful of edge pieces, resting your chin in your palm. The floor was unforgiving, but neither of you made any move to relocate. There was something nice about being grounded like that, surrounded by tiny pieces of something you were building together—even if it was just a thrift-store puzzle with a corner missing. Joshua hummed under his breath, squinting at a stretch of puzzle water. You thought he might be singing something, but it was barely there. Just enough for you to recognize the tune.

“You’re not seriously humming Maroon 5 right now.”

He looked up at you, deadpan, “I absolutely am.”

“I knew I got to you.”

“I’ve been gotten,” he sighed, dramatically placing a piece. “And now I can’t get Sunday Morning out of my head.”

You grinned, triumphant. “You love me.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I do.”

He said it so easily, so casually, that it caught you off guard for just a second—not because you didn’t believe it, but because of how perfectly it fit in the middle of that moment, like another puzzle piece falling into place. You crawled over to him without warning, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Okay, now you’re just trying to distract me from winning.”

“You’re not winning.”

“I’m close.”

“You’ve done the same cloud four times.”

You fell sideways into his lap, limbs sprawling like you’d given up on the floor altogether. He made a show of trying to shove you off, then sighed in defeat and let you stay, carding lazy fingers through your hair. For a while, there was no talking, just the occasional shuffle of cardboard, the soft patter of rain, the sound of him breathing near your ear. You closed your eyes and let it all wash over you. When you blinked them open again, he was still there, still working—quiet, focused. The tip of his tongue was pressed lightly to the corner of his mouth in concentration, and the way the lamplight hit his profile made his eyelashes look impossibly long.

You wanted to kiss him, so you did. Just a brush of lips, and he smiled into it.

“I love you,” he murmured, without fanfare.

His hand found your back and drew you in tighter. Eventually, you migrated to the couch, where the storm got a little louder and the lights flickered once, then settled. The puzzle remained unfinished, pieces scattered and forgotten on the floor. Joshua tugged a blanket over the both of you and let you tangle your legs with his. The TV was playing something neither of you were really watching. He was warm, slightly damp still from the rain, and he smelled like the bergamot candle you always forgot to blow out. At some point, your head fell against his shoulder and he shifted only to press a kiss to your hairline. You stayed like that for a long time. Now you wish you’d stayed longer.

Days were long and hard, leading both of you to dread having to cook. You’d found the restaurant by accident.

It was tucked between a laundromat and a closed-down bookstore, small and quiet and too easy to miss. The first time you walked past it, you were arguing—something about a movie he liked that you swore had no plot. Your hand was in his even as you were rolling your eyes, and when he’d stopped walking, you nearly kept going.

“What?” you’d asked, looking over your shoulder.

Joshua had squinted at the sign above the door, then back at you. “You hungry?”

You weren’t, not really. But it was raining, and his hoodie already had little wet patches near the shoulders from where you’d tugged at the hood to cover both of you. So you’d nodded. “Sure. Why not.”

The inside was dim and warm, smelling like garlic and sesame oil, with faded family photos on the walls and a chalkboard menu that hadn’t been updated in years. A woman behind the counter looked up when you came in, her eyes sharp and assessing. You smiled politely. She didn’t smile back.

But Joshua had, soft and easy. “Hi,” he said, like they were already friends.

She nodded once, still skeptical, and waved you toward a booth by the window. You remember sitting across from him in that cracked red vinyl booth, the rain tapping against the glass, his hands cradling a chipped ceramic cup of tea. You’d teased him about something—maybe the way he pronounced “bulgogi”—and he’d called you insufferable. You’d stuck your tongue out. He’d laughed. The woman brought your food without a word, and it was the best thing you’d ever tasted.

“Okay,” you said, pointing a chopstick at him. “I might forgive your movie taste.”

He raised a brow. “So I win?”

“You win one point. Don't get cocky.”

Joshua grinned at that, leaned back, and watched you take another bite. You hadn’t realized he was watching until you looked up, and he wasn’t even pretending to hide it.

“What?” you asked, self-conscious.

He shook his head. “Nothing. Just—” He paused. “I like watching you fall in love with things.”

You’d pretended to gag. “Gross.”

But your cheeks were warm, and he just laughed. You went back to that place almost every week after that. The woman behind the counter eventually learned your names, though she always greeted Joshua first. She’d bring out extra kimchi for him, and only him, even though you liked it more. He’d slide his bowl across the table toward you when she wasn’t looking. You never said thank you. He never asked for it.

Sometimes, after dinner, you’d stay long after the plates were cleared, talking about nothing and everything while the staff cleaned up around you. He’d ask you about work, about your writing. You’d shrug, try to make a joke out of it. He never let you. Not really.

“I think you’re better than you let yourself believe,” he said once, chin in his hand, voice soft under the hum of fluorescent lights. “At everything.”

You’d stared at him for a second too long, unsure what to do with something that kind. So you changed the subject. You always did. But he stayed anyway, picking the rice off your plate and smiling like he could wait forever for you to catch up.

You wonder if he still sits in that booth, if he ever looks across the table and forgets, just for a second, that you’re not there. Because sometimes, you still see him. Every time you pass that place, every time something tastes like comfort, every time you remember that someone once watched you fall in love with the world and thought it was beautiful.

There’s a quiet kind of panic that comes with realizing you care. Not the cinematic kind, with grand gestures and swelling music—but the kind that lives in your chest, right under your ribs, the one that whispers “this could matter”. I’d spent so long trying to feel nothing that when I started feeling something that real, it felt like standing too close to a fire.

You were halfway through your first class when you remembered the coffee. It hit you all at once—sharp, small, like a pebble in your shoe. You’d made it for him that morning without thinking, the way you always did. Two sugars, just a splash of milk. You even stirred it with the tiny spoon he liked, the one shaped like a cat paw you’d sworn you’d throw out every week but never did. You’d poured it into his travel mug, set it on the counter next to his keys, and then… forgot. You were in such a rush—papers half-stuffed in your bag, earbuds tangled, your jacket barely on—that you hadn’t said goodbye properly, let alone reminded him. Now, in the lull between lectures, you pulled out your phone and texted him.

YOU:

i left your coffee on the counter.

i suck.

can i bribe you with takeout?

No reply yet. You stared at the screen longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the keyboard. You weren’t even sure why it bothered you so much. It wasn’t the first time something like this had slipped. It wasn’t the first time you’d been distracted. But it was the first time he hadn’t texted you that he missed it.

That evening, you came home first. The coffee mug was still there, untouched. Cold now. You dumped it without thinking, washed the cup, dried it. Put it back in the cabinet like nothing had happened. Joshua came in a little after seven, his hoodie damp from the drizzle outside and his expression unreadable.

“Hey,” he said, leaning in for a kiss. You gave it to him, but it landed slightly off-center.

“I owe you dinner,” you said, turning toward the fridge. “Or emotional reparations. I accept Venmo.”

He laughed—light, automatic—but didn’t say anything else. You made rice and eggs and threw a couple of dumplings in the pan. He offered to help, but didn’t insist. The kitchen was quiet—not cold, but quieter than usual.

At the table, you slid a plate toward him. He smiled at you over his fork. “Thanks. Smells good.”

You picked at your food, and he finished without complaint. It wasn’t a fight. Just a moment. The kind that came and went. The kind you didn’t write down, because it didn’t feel like it mattered. But later, when the space between you felt just a little bit wider, when you looked at him across the couch and couldn’t tell if he was distracted or just tired, you’d remember it. The coffee, the mug, the empty counter and the emptier silence, and you’d wonder if that was where it started—not with anger, but with forgetting. Even later still you’d realize just how much you’d forgotten with him.

You were back at your usual grocery store, the same fluorescent lights flickering overhead, the same faded tile underfoot. It was a little colder than necessary, like always, with Joshua walking a few steps ahead pushing the cart with one hand and scrolling through the grocery list on his phone with the other. You followed, arms crossed, brain somewhere between class readings and what to make for dinner. It had been a long week, and you hadn’t quite caught your breath.

“I forgot the coffee,” you said suddenly, stopping short as Joshua turned, eyebrows raised.

“I meant to grab it yesterday. We’re out, right?”

He blinked, then smiled. “Yeah, but it’s fine. I’ll survive one morning.”

You gave him a small look. “You said that last time, and you nearly committed a felony over a broken coffee machine in the student lounge.”

He chuckled, barely. “Manslaughter at most.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was a pinch of guilt beneath your teasing. You usually remembered that sort of thing.

“I’ll run back and grab some.”

He reached out, gently touching your sleeve. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get it on the way home.”

And just like that, the moment passed—soft, almost nothing, but it stayed with you, lingering like an aftertaste you couldn’t get rid of. The frozen meals all looked the same, like they always did, as you picked through them half-heartedly while Joshua grabbed two cartons of eggs and inspected a bag of spinach like it had personally wronged him.

“I’m still not over the fact that this place reorganized the cereal aisle,” he muttered.

You smiled faintly. “I guess we have to adapt.”

He glanced over, catching your tone, and said nothing. When you reached the candy aisle, he tossed a bag of Airheads into the cart without asking. You didn’t say thank you, and he didn’t expect you to. You stood in line, quietly watching the conveyor belt fill up between you. A strange kind of memory pressed in on you—of the first time here, when your hands had touched reaching for frozen lasagna, and he’d made you laugh so easily you forgot to pretend it didn’t mean something. Now, you stood just a little further apart. Not far, just… enough that you noticed it.

Joshua turned toward you, shoulder bumping yours. “You okay?”

You nodded, quick. “Just tired.”

He looked like he wanted to say something else, but the cashier was already ringing things up. You helped bag the groceries in silence. Familiar, efficient. When you got to the car, he unlocked it without a word and reached across the front seat to move his hoodie so you could sit. You noticed a napkin in the cup holder—crumpled slightly, stained with a faint coffee ring. From earlier? From last week? You weren’t sure. You didn’t ask.

The ride home was quiet. Comfortable, mostly.

You still laughed once, when he cursed at a pothole. He still reached for your hand at a red light, but your fingers didn’t tangle the way they used to.

You don’t remember what started the argument—only that it wasn’t really about the dishes. You’d come home tired, worn thin from a week that felt like it had been peeling you back layer by layer, and the sink had been full. Again. And somehow, that was the tipping point. That was the thing that cracked the silence wide open. You’d said something sharp without meaning to, he’d said something softer than you could stand.

“Just say what you’re actually upset about,” Joshua said, standing in the doorway of your kitchen, arms crossed but voice even. Like he wasn’t mad, just waiting.

And maybe that was what made you lash out again. The waiting. You hated how patient he could be with you. How gentle. It made you feel exposed.

“I’m not upset,” you’d snapped, even though your jaw was tight and your heart was beating fast, even though you were. “It’s not a big deal.”

Joshua’s expression didn’t change. “Okay,” he said, and you hated how calm he was.

Hated how much of you he seemed to understand without trying. You turned your back, rinsed a plate you didn’t care about, just to have something to do with your hands.

“I just—I feel like I’m carrying everything alone,” you said finally, quieter, words tumbling out before you could filter them. “School, bills, my parents, my head—it never shuts up. I come home and I don’t get to rest. I just have to—keep going.”

You didn’t mean to sound like you were blaming him. Maybe you were.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped forward slowly, like you were something fragile. And you hated that too, how right it felt to let him wrap his arms around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder, the warmth of his chest pressed against your spine.

“You don’t have to carry everything,” he murmured. “Not alone.”

You closed your eyes. He always said things like that. Like love was easy. Like you were easy.

“You say that,” you said, voice thin. “But I don’t think you get it. I don’t think you know what it’s like to be this tired and still feel like you haven’t earned a break.”

You felt him breathe in behind you. Not deeply. Carefully.

You counted three seconds before he responded, “Maybe I don’t. But I know I’d rather be tired with you than well-rested without.”

You didn’t answer. Just leaned back against him and hated yourself a little for how much you needed it. How much you needed him. How badly you wanted to believe he wouldn’t leave when it got hard. You stayed like that for a while—him holding you like you wouldn’t break, you pretending that meant you wouldn’t.

Later, you watched him fall asleep on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes, his mouth parted slightly like he always forgot to pretend he had it all together. You watched him like you were memorizing him. Like you were afraid you’d need the details someday.

You didn’t write about that night. You thought maybe you didn’t need to. But now — as the memory of his face gets blurrier—now you wish you had.

I’ve spent most of my life trying to be easy to love. Saying yes when I meant no, smiling when I wanted to speak up, softening my edges so no one would ever find a reason to leave. People called it kindness. I thought it was, too—until I realized I didn’t know who I was without someone else to please. You saw through that, and it scared me more than I thought it would. I’m still unlearning the idea that love has to be earned by shrinking. Still learning how to want something for myself, even if it makes people uncomfortable. Even if it means they walk away.

The office was too white. Not sterile exactly, but cold in a way that made you sit up straighter, made you conscious of your breathing. Your internship had started three weeks ago, and already you could feel your shoulders beginning to curl inward. It wasn’t the work—the work was fine—data entry, scheduling, the occasional writing assignment that made you feel like a ghost in someone else’s sentences.

It was him.

Your supervisor was one of those men who seemed charming at first—polished, smart, the kind who leaned a little too close when explaining something, who always found a reason to linger by your desk, who touched your shoulder when there was no need. His name was Greg, which didn’t help—no one cool had ever been named Greg.

You told yourself it was nothing, at first, but the second time he called you ‘sweetheart’, it lodged in your spine. When he offered to “show you how to work the printer” and spent twenty minutes brushing past your arm, your hip, your back—it stopped being hypothetical.

You’d texted Joshua about it. Just a short message:

he's weird.

Joshua had responded right away.

weird how?

You didn’t answer.

Now, you sat at your desk, your half-assigned workspace in the corner of the office, pretending to read through client notes while your skin itched with the knowledge that Greg had walked by your chair twice in the past five minutes. You kept your cardigan draped over the back of your chair like armor.

“Hey,” he said, pausing behind you. “You free for lunch today?”

You didn’t turn around. “I brought something.”

“Oh come on. First month deserves a little celebration. My treat.”

“I’m good, thank you.”

You didn’t hear him move, but you felt it—the way the air shifted when he leaned just a little too close.

“Hard worker,” he said, low, almost amused. “Gonna go far.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t move. You just waited until he walked away again, and only then did you let yourself exhale.

You didn’t tell Joshua the full story that day. Just said work was tiring. That your boss was a little too friendly. You joked about it. Smiled while your stomach twisted. You said, “It’s fine. I can handle it.”

But later that night, when he kissed your temple and asked how your day had gone, you hesitated, and he noticed. You still didn’t tell him—not the whole thing. Just enough to pass. Enough that you could keep the lie small and palatable—something that didn’t feel like lying if you said it with a laugh.

“Long day,” you said that night, stretching your arms over your head, trying to shake the stiffness out of your shoulders. “Greg thinks I’m the intern-slash-printer technician now.”

Joshua grinned, already peeling open the takeout containers. “I told you you had hidden talents.”

You smiled back, but your eyes didn’t quite meet his when you said it, and he noticed, you knew he did. You could feel the weight of his gaze lingering a second too long, the way his laughter didn’t reach his eyes all the way. He didn’t push, though, and for once you wish he had.

The days bled together. Greg kept finding reasons to stop by your desk, kept asking questions that weren’t really about work. He started standing a little too close when no one else was around. Once, his hand brushed your waist—too slow, too familiar—and you froze.

He’d laughed it off. “Tense, huh? You’ve gotta loosen up.”

You went to the bathroom and sat in the last stall with the lock that stuck, just to breathe. You stared at your reflection in the mirror when you came out, face flushed, hands shaking even though it hadn’t been that bad. You told yourself that a dozen times a day.

Still, the next morning, you couldn’t finish your coffee. Joshua noticed that too.

“You okay?” he asked, brushing a crumb off your cheek. “You’ve barely touched your toast.”

“Just tired.”

He didn’t believe you, but he didn’t press either. He kissed your forehead and told you to text him if you needed anything. You nodded, and then you didn’t. At night, you stayed up later; pretended to read, pretended to write. You’d stare at your laptop screen until your eyes burned, then close it without typing a single word. You stopped talking about your internship altogether. And Joshua—he started talking less about his days, too, like he didn’t want to add weight to something already unsteady.

Once, you came home and found him asleep on the couch, the TV still on, his head tilted to the side in that way that meant his neck would be sore in the morning. You watched him for a long time, just breathing in the room you shared, the life you’d built that was starting to feel like it didn’t quite fit. You didn’t wake him, just curled into the armchair with your legs pulled to your chest, staring at the quiet flicker of the screen and wondering if this—this stillness, this silence—was better than the alternative. If keeping the truth to yourself was a kindness, if it made you strong.

Joshua stirred once, sleep-heavy, eyes blinking open.

“Hey,” he mumbled, reaching toward you without thinking, “how are you feeling?”

You slipped out of reach. Just enough that he wouldn’t notice.

“I’m okay,” you said.

And the worst part was that you almost believed it. You didn’t cry; not in the elevator, not in the lobby, not when he brushed too close behind you with a hand that lingered, with a smile that said ‘What are you going to do about it?’ Not when he said your name like it belonged to him.

You just said, “I need to head out early,” and he let you go. As if it was mercy. You walked six blocks before realizing you hadn’t stopped for traffic once. When you got home, your hands were shaking so badly you dropped your keys twice. You didn’t text Joshua, didn’t call. You couldn’t. Not with your throat closed like that.

You took a shower hot enough to sting.

You scrubbed your skin until it turned pink.

You stood there until the water ran cold.

He came home before sunset. You were curled up on the couch, wearing his hoodie and holding a mug you hadn’t drunk from. The lights were off. The TV was on but muted. Joshua paused when he saw you. Said your name once, quietly. You looked up and smiled—not convincingly, but it was the only thing you had left. He didn’t ask anything. He just walked over, bent down, and kissed the crown of your head.

“Hey.”

You blinked hard, nodded. “Hey.”

He sat next to you, close but not too close, his hand finding your knee. “You didn’t say you’d be home early.”

You shrugged. “Just… slow day. Wanted to be here.”

Joshua studied you for a long second, thumb brushing against the fabric of your leggings. He didn’t press, he never did. But his voice was soft when he said, “I missed you today.”

You didn’t mean to flinch. You didn’t mean for it to hurt, but it did, because you’d missed him too—and somehow, that made it worse.

“I’m here now,” you said, the words barely audible.

He leaned over, head on your shoulder, arms around your middle like he was trying to keep you steady. Like he knew, maybe not the details, but enough. He didn’t ask why your voice was quiet or why your hands hadn’t warmed up. He didn’t ask who made you feel small today, or why you couldn’t quite meet his eyes. He just held you like you weren’t broken. Like he didn’t need to know what was wrong to want to make it better.

For a long time, you stayed like that. His arms around you. The TV casting soft light on the walls. The tea cold in your hands. The moment soft around the edges, blurred by exhaustion.

Eventually, he murmured, “Want to watch something dumb with me?”

You nodded into his shoulder.

“Something with explosions,” he added. “And absolutely zero emotional value.”

You almost smiled. “You spoil me.”

He kissed your temple. “Always.”

And you let yourself lean into him—just for tonight. Just for now.

Because if you let yourself fall apart, you weren’t sure you’d come back together the same way.

The rest of senior year passed like a train you couldn’t quite catch. One minute you were splitting groceries and syncing calendars and trying to figure out how to make time for dinner together three nights a week, the next, it was midterms and internship deadlines and alarm clocks that always rang too early. Your days folded into each other—study, eat, work, sleep, repeat—and the softness between you started thinning in ways you didn’t notice until it had already worn through. You kept telling yourself it was just a busy season, that it was normal to be tired, that all couples got quiet when things got hard.

Joshua would leave coffee for you some mornings, and you’d find it sitting on the counter with a sticky note—Hang in there, I love you—and your chest would ache in a way that didn’t feel sweet anymore. You’d write little messages back sometimes. Smiley faces, half-hearted doodles, but neither of you said much out loud. There were good days, still, days when he made you laugh in the cereal aisle, days when he kissed you just to make you blush. You held onto those like they could carry you through the rest.

But mostly, it felt like you were living on fast-forward. Like the version of you who’d once sat on the beach next to him with sand in your hair and a story in your throat had been replaced by someone who only spoke in deadlines and weather updates. You kept meaning to slow down, to fix it, to say something real, but then graduation came.

Caps and gowns and name cards you almost lost. Cameras flashing in the wrong direction, people shouting, Minji tripping over her heels, Luv crying with Seokmin in the crowd, Joshua holding your hand too tightly the whole way through, like maybe if you both squeezed hard enough, the rest of it wouldn’t fall apart. You smiled for pictures. You kissed him in the middle of a crowd and told yourself this was the beginning.

You didn’t know yet that something had already ended.

You sat at the kitchen table with your laptop open and your head in your hand, scrolling through job listings that all blurred together after a while. The apartment was quiet—too quiet, maybe, the kind of quiet that made you painfully aware of every small sound. The hum of the fridge. The occasional rustle of cars outside. The tap-tap-tap of your fingers on the trackpad as you refreshed the page for the fifth time. Joshua padded out of the bedroom, still in sweats, his hair mussed from sleep. He rubbed at his eyes before leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head.

“Any luck?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just sighed, shoulders slumping as you leaned back in your chair. “They all want three years of experience for an entry-level job. How does that even make sense?”

He frowned, pulling out the chair next to you and sitting backward on it, arms resting across the backrest. “It doesn’t. It’s bullshit. You’d be perfect for half of these.”

You gave him a tired smile, appreciation soft but weighed down. “Tell that to the hiring managers who probably haven’t even opened my résumé.”

He reached over and tilted your laptop screen down until it closed, gentle but firm. “Take a break for a bit. Come lay down with me.”

“I can’t afford a break right now, Shua.”

“You also can’t afford to burn out two weeks into job hunting.”

That made you pause. He looked at you then—really looked at you—with that same mixture of protectiveness and softness he always carried. Like if he could take this weight from you and carry it himself, he would. And maybe that was why you let him guide you back to the couch, pulling you close, tucking your legs over his lap. The job would come eventually, but for now, you let yourself rest. Just for a little while. With Joshua’s fingers tracing slow circles into your back and your head on his chest, it felt okay to let go. But rest was never just rest anymore.

You could feel it even then, the way his touch didn’t linger as long as it used to, the way his other hand still held his phone, thumb swiping mindlessly through notifications. He wasn’t scrolling with purpose. Just habit. Just something to fill the space between you that neither of you wanted to name. You stayed like that for maybe twenty minutes—thirty, if you counted the time you pretended to be asleep. Then your laptop called you back with a faint ding, an email notification that made your heart jolt before you even read it. Another rejection. Thank you for applying. We regret to inform you… Joshua glanced at your screen when you sat up. He didn’t ask what it said, and he didn’t have to.

Instead, he stretched and stood, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “I’m gonna shower.”

You nodded, watching him disappear down the hallway. The bathroom door shut with a soft click, and you were alone again. You opened a new tab. Typed in your major. Filtered by location. Salary. Remote. Any. Nothing changed. You weren’t sure when the spiral started, exactly—maybe it had been building for months, buried under essays and work-study shifts and Sunday grocery runs. But now it felt like it was everywhere. In the half-unpacked boxes still in the closet. In the dishes that sat a little longer in the sink. In the way you and Joshua had begun to orbit each other like two planets slightly off their axis—close enough to touch, never quite colliding.

That night, he made pasta. You did the dishes. Neither of you mentioned the email or the silence. You went to bed early, curling toward the wall before he joined you. He wrapped an arm around your waist like always, and you reached back to lace your fingers through his. It was muscle memory by now. But even muscle memory could falter.

Joshua got a job two weeks after graduation. It happened quietly, the way most things with him did—no big announcements, no dramatic declarations, just a text while you were elbow-deep in laundry:

got the offer :)

You stared at your screen for a few seconds, the basket half-sorted, a sock dangling from your hand. Then, slowly, you typed back:

holy shit?? already??

music teacher position at the middle school, he replied.

i start next month.

You were proud of him—of course you were. You told him that when he got home—hugged him tight, kissed his jaw, let him spin you once in the living room with that stupid grin he always wore when he was excited. It was what he’d been hoping for. A public school gig in a district that still valued arts programs. A classroom of his own. Sheet music he didn’t have to borrow. A piano that wasn’t out of tune.

“I’ll finally have space to hang that ‘World’s Okayest Teacher’ mug from Seungkwan,” he joked, practically glowing.

You laughed and meant it, but the sound felt a little thinner than usual. He didn’t notice, or maybe he did, but didn’t know how to say anything about it. Either way, the days moved on. He started prepping lessons, reading up on middle school pedagogy, scribbling little icebreaker activities in the margins of your shared grocery list. He bought a pair of dress shoes he didn’t hate. You helped him pick out button-downs that wouldn’t wrinkle too badly.

And you kept applying. Every morning, you set up at the kitchen table with your laptop and a spreadsheet and a cup of slowly cooling coffee. You clicked through job boards like it was your only job. You rewrote your cover letter so many times the words stopped meaning anything. And every time another rejection email popped up in your inbox, you minimized the window and pretended not to care.

Joshua didn’t gloat. He was never unkind about it. But sometimes, when he’d tell you about the school’s band room or how one of the seventh graders called him “Mr. H,” you’d nod and smile and feel the tiniest prick of something sharp settle under your ribs. Not quite jealousy, just the quiet ache of falling behind. You told yourself it wasn’t a competition. That it didn’t matter who got there first, and you believed that—mostly. But some nights, when he fell asleep beside you, already dreaming of classrooms and chorales, you stared at the ceiling and wondered when it would be your turn.

You didn’t expect much when the email came in. It was buried between a coupon from CVS and a LinkedIn newsletter you never subscribed to, the subject line so plain it almost felt like a scam: Interview Invitation – Financial Analyst Associate (Entry Level). You had to reread it three times before it sank in. Your breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.

“Shua?” you called, voice shaking just enough to make him look up from the sink.

You turned the screen toward him, blinking fast. “They want to interview me.”

He stared for a second, then crossed the room in three strides, towel still in his hand. “Wait, seriously? Who?”

You named the company, the one you’d sent your resume to weeks ago and promptly forgotten about. His eyes widened, and the smile that broke across his face felt like sunshine after weeks of rain.

“Baby, that’s huge.”

“I haven’t even gotten the job yet.”

“Yeah, but you got the interview. That’s the hard part. That’s everything.”

He kissed you—quick, excited—and you laughed into it, the sound bubbling out of you in a way it hadn’t in a while.

The next few days were a whirlwind. You researched until your eyes ached, practiced answers until your voice sounded rehearsed even in your head, dug through your closet for something that looked confident but not overdone. Joshua helped where he could—printed your resume at the campus library, made you tea when your hands wouldn’t stop trembling, quizzed you until you rolled your eyes and told him no more mock questions, please, I’ll scream.

You went to the interview, palms sweaty, heart hammering. And then… you nailed it. You didn’t know for sure, of course—not right away—but you left with a smile on your face and a quiet kind of pride blooming in your chest.

A week later, the offer came in. You were brushing your teeth when you saw the email. You froze, electric toothbrush still buzzing in your hand, and ran into the hallway with foam in your mouth.

Joshua took one look at you, wide-eyed and feral with mint toothpaste, and blinked. “Wait, did you—?”

You just nodded, grinning so wide it hurt. “I got it.”

He shouted. Actually shouted. Picked you up and spun you around the living room until you were laughing so hard you choked on the toothpaste, both of you collapsing onto the couch in a dizzy heap.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered later, forehead pressed to yours.

And you believed him.

Everything didn’t magically fix itself overnight. There were still bills to split and long commutes and nights when you both came home too tired to talk. But things began to shift—slowly, then all at once. You got up in the mornings with purpose. You made coffee with music playing again. You told Joshua about your coworkers, your strange little cubicle, the new routine you were building from scratch. He started sending you “good luck” texts on meeting days. You caught yourself smiling at red lights for no reason at all.

One night, he came home with a bottle of wine and takeout from your favorite place. Said, “I thought we should celebrate you.”

“You already did,” you said, smiling as you reached for the chopsticks.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now, “but I think we’re worth celebrating, too.”

Work changed things. Not all at once, but gradually. Like a sweater unraveling stitch by stitch, so slow you didn’t notice until the cold set in. Mornings used to mean sleepy forehead kisses and shared coffee on the balcony. Now they meant quick goodbyes, separate commutes, and breakfast eaten over unread emails. Joshua’s first period started early, so he was usually gone by the time you finished brushing your hair. He’d still leave notes sometimes—Have a good day, Love you, Don’t forget your lunch—but they were taped to the fridge now, not placed gently on your laptop. You kept them anyway, folded and tucked into the back pocket of your planner, like maybe they still meant something if you didn’t throw them away.

Evenings weren’t much better. You came home exhausted, heels blistered, eyes burning from too many screens. Joshua would be sitting on the couch in his work clothes, tie loosened, grading papers with a red pen that always stained the side of his hand.

“Hey,” you’d say.

“Hey,” he’d echo.

And that was it.

Sometimes you’d ask how his day was. He’d give a half-smile and say, “Same as yesterday,” and you didn’t press. Sometimes he’d ask about your new client, and you’d mumble something about spreadsheets and metrics and he’d nod like he understood. You stopped watching shows together. You started eating dinner at different times. You went to bed first more often than not.

You were never a heavy drinker, so when you did get drunk, it was… an experience. It started innocently—just a quick dinner, a little networking, maybe a glass of wine if someone else ordered first. But somewhere between your boss ordering shots “to celebrate Q3 wins” and the cocktails that tasted suspiciously like candy, everything blurred together. Before you knew it, you were standing outside the restaurant, blinking down at your phone as if it might steady the world.

There was his name on the screen: Joshua 💛

You hit call without thinking.

“Hello?” His voice was warm, tired, a little scratchy from late hours. It was late, much later than you usually called.

“Shua,” you whispered, like it was a secret between just the two of you. “My hands don’t work.”

There was a pause—gentle, patient. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m great. Amazing, even.” You hiccuped. “I think I’m a little bit wine. I mean… drunk. I’m a little bit drunk.”

He exhaled—soft, fond. “Where are you?”

“Outside. Somewhere. I think there’s a statue of a dog?”

“…You’re definitely drunk.”

You laughed, swaying on your heels. “I wanted to call you because everyone kept talking about pivot tables and profit margins and team synergy and I just—ugh.” You leaned against the cold brick wall. “I missed your voice. And your face. But I don’t know how to FaceTime right now. My eyes are blurry.”

You can still imagine his chuckle, picture him sitting up in bed, probably running a hand through his hair. “I’ll come get you, okay? Just stay put. Try not to wander off or hug any strangers.”

You gasped, trying to explain, “How’d you know I was gonna hug someone?! There’s this girl in HR who’s so soft, like emotionally, and she’s been through a lot—”

“Baby,” he interrupted gently, “focus. Statue. Dog. Send me your location.”

Somehow, with a bit of luck and a lot of blurry fumbling, you managed it. Twenty minutes later, his car pulled up to the curb, headlights cutting through the dark like a rescue mission.

When you saw him, you lit up like a kid on Christmas.

“Shuaaaa!” you sing, stumbling toward him. “You came!”

“Of course I came,” he said, steadying you with both arms, tucking your coat tighter around your shoulders. “You’re a mess.”

You grinned, slurring, “I’m a very professional mess. I networked.”

He kissed your forehead, smiling. “I’m proud of you.”

You melted against him, cheek pressed to his chest, barely holding your head up. “I love you, y’know.”

He smiled, quiet and close, and said, “I know. I love you, too.”

And that was it. The first and only time you ever said it. Not because you didn’t mean it—but because you were a coward sober.

It’s those moments I miss the most. The soft ones that still make my heart warm even though everything is over. I’m still a coward sober, but I don’t lie to myself anymore. I loved you. I still do. I miss you more than anything. But it’s too late now. I wish I’d realized sooner, but I know it was the end that made me start looking back. That made me start writing again, about those moments after I’d stopped, in hopes of saving them somewhere other than my memory.

You didn’t mean to forget. In fact, if someone had asked you two days before, you probably would’ve said your anniversary was still weeks away.

It wasn’t. You realized it only after Joshua set a plate down in front of you—takeout from your favorite Thai place, the one with the peanut sauce you always stole from his plate. He had even lit a candle, small and flickering in the middle of the table, nestled between your clutter: unopened mail, a half-used sticky note pad, a pen that had long since dried out.

“What's this?” you asked, tugging your blazer off, more exhausted than curious.

He smiled, soft but a little hesitant. “Happy anniversary.”

You blinked, and then your stomach dropped.

The silence must’ve lasted too long, because his smile faded, just slightly, like a string pulled loose.

You covered your mouth. “Oh my god, Shua—I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head quickly. “No, it’s okay. I know work’s been crazy. I just thought… we could do something low-key. I didn’t want to make it a big thing.”

You sat down slowly, trying to force your brain into remembering something—anything—you could use as an excuse. You couldn’t. You’d been so caught up in back-to-back meetings, missed trains, and trying not to cry in stairwells that the date had slipped by like any other Tuesday. You looked at him then—really looked at him. Still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled up. Tired eyes. A faint ink smudge on his wrist from grading papers. He’d tried. He always tried.

“I should’ve remembered,” you said quietly, picking at your napkin.

He reached across the table and squeezed your hand. “It’s okay. You’re here now.”

And you were. Physically, at least. You ate together, even laughed a little over dinner, but something about it felt quieter than it should have. Like you were playing a part you used to know by heart, only now the lines didn’t come as easily.

It's hard to pinpoint one moment that we started breaking, when the cracks started getting longer, deeper, until we shattered. Maybe it was one too many forgotten anniversaries, or the way I started avoiding you even when you tried to get closer. I could feel us slipping, so I pulled away quicker so it’d hurt less. At least that's what I told myself.

It wasn’t one big thing. It never is. It was the little things, like how he started staying at school later. He’d say it was to help a student rehearse or prep lesson plans, and maybe that was true, but he used to text you when he was running late. Now he didn’t. Now he just came home after dark and tossed his keys on the counter with a quiet, “Sorry,” before disappearing into the bedroom.

It was the way your mugs sat unwashed in the sink for days—his coffee stains, your lipstick rings—like tiny pieces of evidence neither of you bothered to clean up. It was the laundry piling up on the chair in the corner because no one had the energy to fold it. The groceries that went bad in the fridge. The forgotten texts. The missed calls. The goodnight kisses that landed on hair instead of lips. It was how you stopped making each other laugh. How dinner went from something you cooked together to something you ate apart, often at different times, with different shows playing on different screens. It was the way he didn’t correct you when you forgot your anniversary. The way you didn’t correct him when he called you by the wrong pet name once—an old nickname, sweet and familiar, but one he hadn’t used in months.

It was how tired you both always were, and how that became your excuse for everything.

It was the silence between you, filling up all the space that used to be soft. You told yourself it was just a phase. That it would pass. That things would feel better once the new job got easier, or once his school year ended, or once you both finally got a weekend off at the same time. But it kept going.

And somewhere along the line, you stopped planning for the future together. You stopped asking “what should we do next?” and started asking “what do I have to do tomorrow?”

He still kissed your cheek when he left in the mornings. He still said he loved you.

Every morning, just before the door shut behind him.

Every night, when you were half-asleep, curled toward the wall.

Sometimes over the phone, if one of you stayed late at work.

Sometimes in the middle of a sentence, like muscle memory.

“I love you.”

And you always answered with something.

“Drive safe.”

“Sleep well.”

“You too.”

A smile. A hand on his chest. A nod.

Never the words. It wasn’t intentional at first. You’d be tired, distracted, too deep in an email or a thought or your own spiraling doubt. And by the time you realized he’d said it, the moment had passed. You told yourself you’d say it tomorrow. That he knew. That it didn’t matter if you said it every time.

But tomorrow kept moving. And then the longer you went without saying it, the heavier it became. The more it felt like a choice. Like saying it now would be a lie, or a performance, or worse—an admission that you hadn’t meant it the last time.

So you didn’t.

And he noticed. You could tell by the way he lingered after saying it. The pause, the wait, the way he’d glance over like maybe you just hadn’t heard him. And when you smiled or nodded or kissed his cheek instead, he’d nod too, and pretend it was enough.

But it wasn’t.

He was still trying. He still said it every night, and you kept answering with silence, until silence was all that was left.

So you ended it. The day is still clear in your memory, how he’d looked at you like his world was falling apart. You’d stood by the window, your hands tucked deep into the sleeves of your sweater, eyes fixed on the streetlights outside like they might offer some kind of answer. Joshua was behind you, pacing in slow, uneven circles like a man rehearsing a conversation he didn’t want to have. You could hear his breathing—short, uncertain.

“I just don’t understand,” he said, again. His voice cracked a little. “Why are you shutting me out like this?”

You didn’t answer right away, you couldn’t. You were tired—tired in a way that made words feel pointless, like shouting into a vacuum.

“You're acting like none of this mattered to you,” he said.

At the time, you had convinced yourself it hadn’t, let yourself go quiet and disappear. A slow, creeping numbness had moved in like fog, and by the time you noticed, everything felt distant, even him. Especially him.

“I don’t know how to fix this if you won’t let me in,” he’d said. “Just… talk to me.”

You turned then, finally meeting his eyes. His face was flushed, his jaw clenched, like he was holding everything in place with sheer force of will.

“I don’t want to fix it,” you said. Your voice came out flat. It wasn’t cruelty—you didn’t even feel cruel. You felt nothing. That was the worst part. “I don’t love you.” You had lied, even you knew that much, but Joshua still flinched, like you’d slapped him.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I’m sorry,” you said. And maybe you were. You would have liked to be the kind of person who stayed, who felt things the way he did. But you weren’t. Not back then. He stepped toward you, slowly, as if you might bolt.

“Don’t do this. We can figure it out. Whatever this is—whatever’s going on—we can work through it. Just don’t walk away.”

But you already had. Inside, you’d left a long time ago, and you knew he had too. So you just shook your head. Not to be cruel, just to be clear.

“This isn’t working and you know it. I can’t keep trying,” you said. “And you shouldn’t have to either.”

Joshua's eyes went glassy. He didn’t speak, and his hands dropped to his sides, useless. You didn’t stay to see the moment it hit him, because you knew if you saw it you’d come back. So you picked up your coat and walked out the door, letting it close softly behind you, half wishing he’d come running after you. No slammed doors. No raised voices. Just the quiet kind of ending—the kind that hurt more because it didn’t look like heartbreak.

It just looked like goodbye.

It's been a full year now, since everything happened. Since I stood in front of you and said things I didn’t mean, or maybe meant too much—it’s blurry now. Since you looked at me like you were still hoping I’d say something different. Since I turned around and walked away, thinking you’d stop me.

You didn’t. And I told myself that was your choice.

But lately, I’ve been wondering if maybe you were just tired of waiting for me to choose you first.

I tell people I’m doing okay. I keep up the image—work is steady, friends are still around, I eat real meals more often now. But every once in a while, I’ll hear a song you used to hum under your breath or see someone with the same walk as you, and it knocks the air out of me like I’ve run straight into a memory.

Do you still make coffee with two sugars and forget it on the counter?

Do you still keep extra napkins in your glove compartment, even though you said it made you feel like your mom?

Do you still wait three seconds before replying when you're mad, like you're trying to be kind even when you're hurt?

I keep thinking I’ll stop wondering eventually, that time will do the whole healing thing people like to talk about. But I think there are wounds that don’t scab over, just ones you get used to carrying. Like an old injury that flares up in the cold. You learn to live around it.

And the worst part is, I don’t even want to move on most days. I just want to go back. Not even to the good parts. Just to you. Even when we weren’t at our best, at least you were still within reach.

There’s so much I never told you. So much I’m still afraid to admit, even here, where I can pretend you’re reading and not judging me.

I think I loved you in the quiet ways. The kind that didn’t look like love because I was too scared to name it out loud. Too scared that once I said it, you’d realize how fragile I really was. But maybe that’s what you needed from me all along—just for me to admit I needed you, too.

I wish I could do it differently.

I wish I could do it over.

But I can’t, and so I write. Over and over and over again. Like if I write it just right, maybe you’ll feel it wherever you are. Maybe some part of you still listens. Maybe some part of you still cares, even if I don’t deserve it.

After the breakup, you’d moved out, found yourself a small apartment closer to work, and sobbed into his hoodie on the bathroom floor like you hadn’t thrown everything that mattered away. You called Bella, just to check in, talked for a while about her and Chan and how they were settling into college life. You pulled yourself together, because you had to. The apartment was smaller, quieter. The hum of the fridge filled the silence, and sometimes you’d sit with it like it was talking to you. You bought throw pillows. You learned how to cook for one. You stacked his hoodie in the back of your closet like it was a guilty secret. You stopped checking his socials—at least, not every day.

Nights were the hardest. There was no one brushing their teeth beside you, no coat thrown over the dining chair, no keys jingling in the bowl by the door. Just you, and the quiet, and the dull ache that settled somewhere beneath your ribs like something unfinished. You didn’t tell anyone how often you still thought about texting him. How your fingers hovered over his name in your phone. How sometimes, after a long day, you would whisper his version of your name into the dark—just to hear it again, even if only from your own mouth.

You saw a couple at the grocery store one night—arguing over pasta sauce, of all things—and it nearly broke you. Not because they were fighting, but because they still cared enough to fight. You remembered what that used to feel like. The messy, stupid, infuriating intimacy of building a life with someone. And how you’d let it slip through your hands like it was nothing. Like he was nothing.

But he wasn’t. And you knew that. You always knew.

Still, you got up the next day, made your coffee, took the train, sent a polite email, sat through meetings, and smiled when someone made a joke.

You didn’t fall apart. Not completely. And that was the cruelest part of all. Because the world kept moving—utterly indifferent to the fact that you had loved someone so deeply, and only realized once you’d left.

But slowly, you started growing. Not all at once, not in any way that felt cinematic—you didn’t wake up one day and feel healed. It was messier than that—small, stubborn inches instead of leaps, like a plant pushing through cracked pavement, unsure if it even belonged there.

You started by doing the dishes. It sounds stupid, maybe, but one night you just… did them. Without letting them pile up, without waiting for the weight of it all to crush you into movement. You turned on music and scrubbed away coffee stains and silence and everything else that used to sit between you and someone else. And then you did it again the next night.

You stopped checking your phone after work, started taking walks just because the air felt nice. You started saying yes when your coworkers invited you out, even if you only stayed for one drink. Even if you spent half the time wondering what Joshua would’ve ordered.

You bought a cheap bouquet of grocery store flowers for your kitchen table. You opened the windows when it rained. You rearranged the furniture—not because it was necessary, but because you could. You read books without annotating them, cooked meals without trying to impress anyone, watched movies and actually finished them without checking your phone every ten minutes.

You began to realize how many things you used to do just to be easier to love.

And when you caught yourself doing them again—over-explaining, apologizing too much, shrinking to fit someone else’s comfort—you paused. You took a deep breath. And you tried again.

You started writing again, not about him this time, but about other things. Stories that had nothing to do with heartbreak. Characters who didn’t carry your face or his name. You let yourself be bad at it. You let yourself be free. And when you started admitting to yourself how much you missed him, you let yourself write about that too. About the memories, about the future you didn’t have, about how sometimes things are meant to happen even when they hurt.

And some days were still hard. Some nights you still found yourself curled up in the corner of your bed, arms around your knees, that hoodie still tucked somewhere in the closet like a soft reminder. But there was a difference now. You weren’t waiting to be saved anymore. You were building something, even if it was small. Even if it was just a life where you could sit with yourself without feeling like a stranger. Even if some days all you did was make your bed or answer that one overdue text.

That counted, too. Because healing, it turns out, isn’t always loud. It’s not a speech or a dramatic realization or the perfect closure scene. Sometimes, it’s just standing in the middle of your own life and choosing to stay. Choosing to try again. Choosing to believe you’re allowed to be whole on your own.

And slowly, you did. You started becoming someone you could live with. Someone who didn’t just survive the hurt—but grew from it.

Of course you still miss him. Even after everything—even after the growth, after the quiet rebuilding, after the nights where you didn’t cry and the mornings where you didn’t think of him first—you still do. Maybe more honestly now.

Because it wasn’t until after everything that you could finally admit it.

It wasn’t the desperate, drowning kind of missing that used to own you, or the version where you’d check your phone at midnight and wonder what he was doing.

This was different. This was the kind of missing that didn’t ask to be fixed.

You could say it now—I miss him—and not fall apart.

You could carry the truth without letting it break you open again.

You’d done the hard parts. You’d stood in your own silence and learned how to live there. You’d stopped rewriting the past in your head like a prayer for one more chance.

And somewhere in all of that, you found room for something softer. You stopped fighting it. Stopped pretending the memories didn’t still live in you. Stopped scolding yourself every time his name rose up like smoke in your mind. He mattered. He mattered so much. And you missed him—not because you hadn’t healed, but because you had.

Because healing didn’t mean forgetting, it just meant being able to remember without losing yourself again.

You miss the sound of his laugh.

You miss how he’d hum while brushing his teeth, how he’d wait three seconds before replying when he was mad, how he knew your coffee order even when you changed it.

You miss the safety. The stillness. The softness he offered, even when you couldn’t meet it.

And now you realize that’s okay.

You’re allowed to grow and grieve.

You’re allowed to move forward without erasing where you’ve been.

You’re allowed to miss someone who felt like home, even after you learned how to build a new one on your own.

Maybe you always will. Maybe some part of you will always look for him in the crowd, always wonder if he ever looks for you too.

But you don’t need an answer anymore.

You’ve made peace with the silence.

Just like that, three years passed.

Time felt impossible after the breakup, like something that happened to other people. You counted days in coffee spoons and missed calls, in all the quiet spaces where he used to be. You thought healing would come fast, like a wave or a revelation. It didn’t. It came slowly, in barely noticeable shifts. And then, all at once, the calendar said three years.

Three years since you stood in front of him and lied.

Three years since he reached for you and you didn’t let him touch you.

Three years since you walked away.

You moved apartments once, got promoted, changed your hair. You lost touch with some people, grew closer to others. You built a life that didn’t revolve around anyone but you—and that felt like an accomplishment. A hard-won, deeply personal one. You didn’t need someone else to make the bed, or share the weight of grocery bags, or remind you to eat lunch. You didn’t need Joshua to feel whole anymore.

But you still thought of him.

Not every day, not even every week sometimes, but enough. Enough that when the song came on—the one he used to hum without realizing—you froze in the middle of the cereal aisle. Enough that when you smelled his cologne on the train, your stomach dropped like it used to when he’d say your name half-asleep.

The ache wasn’t sharp anymore, just dull and familiar—something you carried with you like a scar that stopped hurting, but never fully disappeared.

And what surprised you most was this: you stopped being angry. At him. At yourself. At the version of love you couldn’t hold onto.

You started looking back with softness instead. Not to rewrite the past, not to pretend it hadn’t broken you—but to honor it. To let yourself admit that it mattered. That it changed you. That it made you into someone stronger, even if it cost more than you thought it would.

Sometimes, you still wonder if he’s okay. If he ever thinks about you when it rains, or when he drives past that Korean place you both used to order from.

You’ll probably always wonder a little, but you’ve learned how to let that wondering live beside you, instead of inside you. It doesn’t gnaw at you the way it used to. Just sits quietly in the corner, a reminder that love like that leaves a mark—but it doesn’t have to define you forever.

Three years passed, and you’re still here. Still learning. Still growing. Still becoming someone you’re proud of.

Holy shit.

I saw you again.

And thats a wrap on part one, it was an absolute monster to write and I'm not super satisfied with it, but its done and on time so whatever. There will be a part two eventually, once I get my shit together! It may take a little bit because I have other things I wanna write too, but I'm not sure yet. Anyways hope you enjoyed reading it.

#{ 📖 } → joshujin reads #a favorite #read it now or else i’ll show up under your bed at 3am and eat u

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