#chase cold case

[celestiachan]

me playing another code: recollection

[kodasea]

Places to go (clues to find)

[marco-the-vampire]

Just finished "Chase: Cold Case Investigations - Distant Memories" And let me tell you..... it's so badddd

I have many thoughts, the characters are not well fleshed out, it's basically just dialogue after dialogue, no mini games what so ever, the game makes you feel like you are trapped in the office with them even though the POV charcter leaves to do things multiple times and also she is almost useless as is only there for exposition and to balance for the Protag, who isn't likeble at all, and the only twist that actually worked for me was the very last one.

Very disappointed coming from the same people that made "Hotel dusk" and "Last window" that are by no means perfect but they are incredible to me.

[thatsojasminesworld]

Any recommendations for movies or shows

[frostise]

8 & 12!!

𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄   ┇   accepting ♡

8. Does your muse usually take the lead in relationships?

she definitely does wear the pants in the relationship when it comes to a woman. louise gives them the best queen treatment they've ever experienced in their entire life! usually ranging to spa treatments, sharing clothes, taking them out to five star hotels/restaurant, hosting surprise parties and taking care of their emotional needs...but with a man? she's a totally different person since she does expect them to worship the ground she walks on lmfao! if they prove themselves worthy of her time and attention then i can definitely see the ice queen melting at their devotion and displaying heavy amounts of affection for them as well! so it's very likely louise will spoil her partner rotten and become dominant in a relationship although she doesn't really mind if they take the lead as well. but she's going to be cheeky with it! that's just how she is ^^

12. What is your muse’s love language?

act of service and words of affirmation always come in first place because she's a firm believer of showing one's actions rather than words is how you determine what a potential partner feels about you. plus, she can easily read someone and would appreciate how honest they are. if you show trust and understanding after a typical lovers spat? then i think louise will come out of her shell more often and show off her vulnerabilities too, which she rarely ever does because of her overbearing pride and ego.

coming in close second is quality time and physical touch. louise works her ass off 24/7 but is willing to spend most of her spare time with her beloved whenever she gets out of work. it's no surprise louise has severe abandonment issues she's trying to work through so the paranoia lurking in her thoughts doesn't get the best of her if they're not available for a date. it's an obvious requirement for a relationship to be long-lasting and most importantly healthy in terms of communication! louise is confirmed to be touch starved around her partner and will be restraining herself most of the time to save herself the embarrassment because she knows some people absolutely hate being touched actively unless they're receptive to her affections. she has been pretty needy in the past and deeply suppresses that vulnerable side as much as she can.

benefits of dating louise lincoln explains everything about her love language but!! i will extend it based on what i saw in the media. frost is the type of lover to be extremely protective. not to the point where she ends up possessive but i can definitely see her being overprotective if her partner is in danger or wounded in battle. it roots back to her past trauma when she couldn't get to crystal enough and that resulted in her death with firestorm. she will do absolutely anything to keep her significant other safe. killing whatever poses them as a threat will always be number one option or if that's somehow not an option on the table? then she'll resort to injuring them and crashing their sanity before fussing over her lover about their physical state.

[random-cockroach]

Savage

Monster hunter au part 5

Ratchet being worried that his fiendly beast got killed or decided to leave him while he’s actually just started his anime training episode👍

Oh my god this au is taking over my brain haha thank you all so so much for your kind comments and deranged tags. I’m eating them for breakfast>:D

Part 4

[thepandalion]

I need you guys to remind me when it's morning that I want to make a post for pinned post that actually. Does stuff. Like explain my sideblogs and ongoing projects.

Also entirely relevant in the meantime any house md fans plz send me ideas for things to write for the werewolf wilson au (currently named the www.au in my brain for ease of access) because I got a great name for a fic and I want to make it a oneshot collection because I don't have those as a skill yet and what better way to polish a skill than with a fandom I'm dubiously and cautiously entering at 45 minutes after my bedtime on a weekend

[kkusuka]

more roommate simon!

i love the idea that simon thinks he's super open and available with his emotions and reader thinking he's really cold and disinterested. is he ooc? yeah. do i care? no. if you want cannon ghost, play the game!

simon riley doesn't know when you became so important to him.

the only reason he even put out the ad for a roommate was because his landlord though he'd moved out while he was away and he'd rather have some bird in his place than deal with that again.

you were just so easy; showing up to the coffee shop (where you requested to have your first meeting just in case he was some crazy murderer) face flushed, strands of hair all over the place, and sweater a mess; rushing to explain how you got sprayed by a sprinkler on your walk over then chased by a dog. and just as you repeat sorry for the 30th time simon thinks he's in love. you're officially his roommate 30 minutes later.

but it's so out of character for him. he hasn't been around anything other than hard ass military men since he was a teenager. fuck, he's killed hundreds of men in his line of work, tortured thousands more. (he doesn't like to think that that's why he's so drawn to you. that you're so different from who he has to be, someone he's been for so long, that being around you lets him breathe. that he feels like he can actually sit and enjoy his moments away from the field in your tiny manchester apartment.)

he thinks it actually started with the decorations.

the small trinkets you let around the common spaces when he was away. it starts with your room obviously; fairy lights above your bed that spills light into the hallway when he comes home in the early morning hours, paintings on the wall that eventually flow over into the living room, the small plants in your window sill that you ask him to water one day after you leave for work.

then the dinner table suddenly has checkerboard placemats and a vase of flowers that change with the season. and his run-down couch has decorative pillows and a throw blanket (both words he learned from you when he questions what the fuck is on his couch). then the bathroom in the hallway gets a new soap stand, and a mat is placed at your front door, next to the shoe organizer and coat rack.

so he starts buying things too; the penguin plushie in the supermarket window, the vase that matches the curtains in the living room, and a small skull magnet to rest on the face of your fridge.

and before simon knows it his dreary, cold apartment actually looks lived in. and instead of coming home to a dark hallway and an empty fridge, your flower lamp is on, some random show from the 90s is playing, and there's food on the table.

he gets to know you more than he thought he would; he knows what foods you don't like, the books you're reading and the ones you refuse to read again, and even that dick from work he promises to take care of if he bothers you again (it's evident that you think it's a joke and not something that he would genuinely do but simon doesn't think he's ever been more serious).

but he never lets you know too much about him, you don't need to know about it and the less you find out the better.

then came dinners, actual dinner not just him showing up while you already had food ready. you would ask if he wanted whatever you had made ( 'i'm already making food and i normally don't eat is all anyway, so i might as well share' ). so suddenly he was spending his nights at your table with a homecooked meal and simon doesn't think he could ever let this go.

then he gets sent away again, for way longer this time. he makes sure to update his paperwork, changes his emergency contact, your name swirled onto the spouse line. you were probably as close as he'll ever get to one and if you're there they'll tell you if anything happens to him faster. he doesn't want to think of how nice your first name looks with his last name. and you'll probably never even know, simon's never gotten that injured before and he doesn't plan on it now.

months in the heat of the middle east return him to hard shell of a man he was. coming home caked in dirt, blood speckled on his clothes; he doesn't want you to see him like this, he doesn't want you to know this version of him. and for the first time he regrets letting you come into his life.

you are home when he gets back, 2:30 in the morning and every light is off, he opens your door to make sure. you're asleep, not shocking, cuddled into the giant octopus you won at an arcade. he tries not to move, he just wants to look at you for a little bit.

he wakes up the next morning to breakfast and a new pair of combat boots. he's only home for a week this time, not that he's ever home for longer than a month, and he tries to soak up all of your time. you complain about your car, he's on it. the heater started being testy, that's fine he'll take care of it. he's going grocery shopping with you, he watching that weird hospital show, and he enjoys his time in domestic bliss before getting thrown back into some random country.

somehow that all led him here. laying in a hospital bed with two bullets lodged in his shoulder with you sitting in some shitty chair pulled as close to the bed as you could.

"so uh, i'm mrs. riley now?"

"yeah, ya are. 'av been for a while."

[neverendingrelease]

Releasing Today, Mar 7 2024!

Ancient Weapon Holly is a roguelike dungeon crawler where you play an antique weapon known as an anime girl. You can use her abilities to build and destroy the dungeon as needed.

Chasing the Unseen is an exploration platformer where you get to climb through crazy fractal and maze environments.

Blade Prince Academy is a tactical RPG that also incorporates hack and slash elements. At any moment, you can pause the combat and then align team movements to chain damage. The characters are students at an academy, so it might be a bit "student arc"-y. I like the character designs and art style.

Astro Duel 2 is a combat platformer/shmup that seems like a combo of Duck Game and Asteroids. It has co-op and pvp so that's a bonus. I'm not sure if it has a story in the bounty mode.

Teefax: Cold Case is a point and click detective inspired by Teletext broadcasts and that kinda CGA vibe from back in the day.

[celestiachan]

playing chase cold case investigations. why is genji's backstory kyle hyde and his ex situationship tossed into a blender

[kodasea]

Introducing Scott

[bywons]

LOVE ON THE ROCKS ⭑ drunk enhypen

𝐎𝐑 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄， 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎

❪ 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐄 ❫ ｡ 𝖽𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗄!enha 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 1422────── fluff ✿‎ kissing 𝖽𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 贅沢 𖥔

REBLOG ◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ FOR KISSES

LEE HEESEUNG

heeseung is extra giggly tonight, his cheeks red, tie askew— settling on top of a few loosened buttons and his hair a complete mess.

“baby, come here—” he stumbles through his own hallway, chasing you to the washroom, reeking of alcohol, “where’s my goodnight kiss?”

he finds you by the washroom, grinning so wide his eyes turn into little crescents. arms outstretched, he wraps them around your waist from the back, pulling you flush against his chest.

you turn around in his arms and he immediately buries his face in your neck, pressing a kiss there. it’s wet and clumsy, but full of affection.

“you didn’t kiss me goodnight,” he whines, brows furrowed like it’s a real tragedy, and if eyes could get anything they want, heeseung would be a winner. “fine,” you chuckle, cupping his face and bringing it down to press a chaste kiss on his lips— the fine taste of whiskey and love lingering on him.

he stumbles forward as you pull away for a breather, the tipsy weight of him leaning entirely on you. “more,” heeseung mumbles, eyes fluttering shut as he chases your lips again. “just one more. maybe five.”

you laugh softly, brushing his messy bangs back. “you’re hopeless.” “hopelessly yours,” he grins.

PARK JONGSEONG

“who k-kissed you?” jay sounds furious, cupping your face in his hands as he inspects your lipstick smudged face.

the alcohol in his system really is kicking, and you can confirm it by how oblivious he is to the fact that your red gloss is smudged by his lips. jay’s face is red— both from the wine and your lipstick.

his brows are furrowed like he’s solving a crime scene, thumbs swiping gently under your bottom lip with all the seriousness in the world. “baby, i’m not mad, i’m just… i just need names.”

you burst into laughter, clutching onto his shoulders. “you kissed me, you idiot.”

he blinks, stunned. “me?”

you nod, giggling. “twice. aggressively.”

jay’s mouth parts slightly, as if he just cracked the case, and then his expression melts into a sheepish smile. his hands slide down to rest on your shoulders as he leans forward, lips brushing your forehead. “good,” he murmurs, “i’d beat him up if it was someone else.”

his cologne is warm and familiar, mixing with the sharp tang of wine. his tie is crooked, as he pulls you in, gathering you in a drunk bear hug, pressing his lips on the crook of your neck.

SIM JAEYUN

“jake, put me down!” you gasp, grabbing onto your boyfriend’s shoulders as he picks you up with an uneven equilibrium.

jake is the most drunk person in the party, you could tell by his impulsive decisions and reddened face.

“jake, seriously—put me down!” you squeal, laughing breathlessly as your boyfriend lifts you into his arms like a groom on his wedding night. excep, he’s swaying. a lot.

“but you’re so pretty,” he slurs with a dopey grin, forehead resting against yours. “had to steal you away. just for a sec.”

his cheeks are flushed, hair damp with sweat and the glow of fairy lights dancing in his glassy eyes. his steps are clumsy, zigzagging across the lawn as you cling tighter.

“okay, romeo, we’re going to die—”

your words are cut short by a splash.

cold water engulfs you both as jake stumbles straight into the pool, dragging you with him in a chaotic, soaking plunge.

you surface, gasping and blinking water from your lashes, only to see jake float up next to you, completely drenched but still smiling.

“worth it,” he breathes, reaching over to tuck your hair behind your ear. “’cause now we’re both cool.”

you smack his chest, laughing as he pulls you into a soggy hug, lips brushing your temple. “you idiot.”

“your idiot forever.”

PARK SUNGHOON

sunghoon stumbles into your shared apartment at midnight, kicking off his shoes with a clumsy thud. his blazer is half off, white shirt wrinkled and slightly untucked, and his cheeks are flushed a warm pink.

“baby?” he calls out, voice soft and unsure as he peeks around the hallway. “i missed you so much.”

you’re already there, arms crossed, trying not to smile at the sight of your usually composed boyfriend looking like a sleepy mess.

“how much did you drink?” you ask, guiding him by the wrist to the couch.

“not enough to forget how pretty you are,” he mumbles, collapsing beside you and pulling you into his lap.

he buries his face in your neck, arms draped loosely around your waist. “your perfume’s better than any drink.”

you laugh softly, running your fingers through his hair as he melts against you like a sleepy puppy.

“hoon, you’re really clingy when you’re drunk.”

“only with you,” he whispers, lifting his head to look at you, eyes glassy but sincere. “i love you, can we stay like this forever?”

your heart squeezes as you kiss his forehead. “forever sounds nice”

KIM SUNOO

sunoo clings to your arm like a sleepily, cheek pressed against your shoulder as he lets out a dramatic sigh. “you smell like flowers,” he mumbles, voice soft and syrupy with alcohol. “did you always smell this good, or is the wine making me fall in love again?”

you chuckle, tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear. “you’re already in love with me, remember?”

he blinks up at you, eyes glossy under the fairy lights of the backyard, lips pouting just slightly. “but it feels new tonight. like, i wanna write you poems or name a star after you.”

you cover your smile, heart fluttering at his drunken sincerity. “you’re such a flirt when you’re tipsy.”

sunoo sits up with a sudden burst of energy, wobbling slightly. “wait here!” he stumbles toward the garden, plucks a random daisy, then returns and offers it to you with a wide grin. “for you, my moon and stars.”

you take it, giggling as he snuggles back into your side. “you’re going to regret all this cheesy stuff tomorrow.”

“nope,” he yawns, eyes fluttering shut. “if it’s about you, i’ll mean it even when i’m sober.”

YANG JUNGWON

jungwon’s never drunk. like, ever. but tonight? he’s had three fruity cocktails and half a glass of someone’s mysterious punch, and now he’s standing in the kitchen wearing a colander on his head like a helmet.

“babe,” you start, biting back laughter, “what exactly are you doing?”

he turns to you dramatically, wobbling slightly on his socked feet. “protecting my brain,” he says seriously, poking the colander. “you never know who’s out here trying to read your thoughts.”

you snort. “you’ve been watching conspiracy videos again, haven’t you?”

“they make sense!” he insists, pointing at you with a spoon. “also—” he suddenly softens, spoon clattering to the counter, “you’re so pretty it’s unfair. i’m trying to have deep thoughts but all i think is: wow. she’s mine.”

you step closer, sliding the colander off his head. “you’re ridiculous.”

“ridiculously in love,” he sighs, pulling you into a loose hug, resting his cheek on your chest. “do you think aliens would be jealous of us?”

“probably,” you laugh, carding your fingers through his hair.

“good,” he mumbles sleepily. “they should be.”

you glance down at your drunk genius of a boyfriend and grin. yep. definitely keeping him.

NISHIMURA RIKI

“don’t act like you’re drunk,” you roll your eyes, witnessing the tall boy intentionally falter in his steps in front of you, his skateboard pushed to the side.

he grins up at you, eyes gleaming with mischief. “but what if i was drunk,” he says, voice slurred for effect, “and i still skated better than everyone here?”

you cross your arms. “you’re going to break your neck.”

he gasps, clutching his heart. “have a little faith in your man.”

“my man is an idiot.”

“an adorable idiot,” he adds with a wink, already hopping back on the board, swaying ridiculously. “c’mon, it’ll be fun. pretend i’m wasted and you’re my responsible girlfriend guiding me home.”

“riki,” you groan, trying not to laugh as he rolls in a lazy zigzag down the sidewalk.

“catch me if i crash!” he yells.

you sprint after him, already knowing how this ends—with riki tripping over a curb, both of you in a heap on the grass, and him laughing with that stupidly cute grin, arms around you like it was all part of the plan.

“see?” he pants. “told you it’d be fun.”

and yeah—you kind of can’t argue with that.

스루 ܃ i kinda wrote this fast, so i don't think it's my best work TT nonetheless, i hope you enjoy ! 🎀

© bywons, 2025 div ctto —taglist open ! nets. @/k-labels @kflixnet @k-films

[rex-rambles]

➤ SEEING RED (AND ORANGE) | LANDO NORRIS

pairing: lando norris x soulmate!reader

summary: since lando turned eighteen, he has yet to figure out what his soulmate trait is, but he's pretty sure he has mastered the art of emotional intelligence, which is totally the same. right?

or: you can feel your soulmate's emotions. lando has no idea.

wc: 7.3 k

warnings: moments of angst and poor emotional management

➤ MASTERLIST

2017

Lando sits, in the middle of his living room couch, surrounded by all of his friends and family. This year had been magical, joining McLaren, becoming a reserve driver, so close to his dream he could almost taste it. And now, he was about to find his soulmate, and his entire life would be complete. 

He never could dream small, he thinks as the seconds tick down. He had this all planned out for who knows how long: he would win a world championship, have a giant family and a dog and a house in Monaco and England and maybe even one somewhere fun and tropical, and he would be the happiest, coolest person alive. His soulmate would be gorgeous and smart, much smarter than him, and run to him after every race, and-

"Five," They begin to count down for him, and Lando lets his fantasy slip away to brace for impact, arms stretched out in front of him to watch for any magical marks on his wrists. "Four." 

"Three," Lando whispers under his breath. His soulmate mark or trait would be something cool, not the stupid colour blindness one, or a hard-to-find one. "Two," 

"One." For a moment, the world is perfectly still. No one moves, no one breathes, and nothing appears on Lando's arms. No voice fills his head, no memories of past lives come flooding to him. He stands, ripping off his shirt in case it's a mark hidden someone, stripping down to his underwear as everyone laughs, and he waits. 

Mere seconds pass before the realization hits like a truck: Lando has no idea what his soulmate trait is, and it isn't obvious. "Maybe you have to write something on your arm?" Someone passes him a marker, and he frantically writes 'hello' on his forearm, and nothing appears. 

Disappointment has never felt so bitter. It's deep within him, spiralling around his chest in a way he'd never felt before, ceasing him up entirely. He didn't have a soulmate trait. Maybe, he didn't have a soulmate. Maybe, this was all stupid and pointless, and he was standing in his underwear in front of everyone. 

And then, just as he thinks he might cry, his heart very gently become warm, a slow building happiness that has Lando awkwardly smiling as he sniffs and wipes at his eyes. It's a calming notion, that comes over him next, like his heart is reminding him to take deep breathes, and he does. "So?" 

"Nothing," He says to the crowd. "Nothing changed." 

-

2023

"And you're alright with travelling?" Amanda asks over a mug of tea, steaming in the cool England air. "We've a winter house in the Alps and a summer house in Monaco, which with little ones is a big deal." 

"Travelling, if anything, would be a perk." You joke back over your own mug, hands clamped around it tightly. Why she insisted on sitting outside in the morning just after the rain, when the chill still hadn't quite left the air despite the spring weather, was beyond you. That being said, you weren't about to miss this opportunity because of the weather, or your own annoyance with the cold. This was your one chance to finally travel, to finally put all your hard work to use, even if it was chasing a billionaire's kids around. 

"Well, it's a highly stressful perk." Amanda continues, "And taking care of kids is a highly stressful job. Are you good at handling stress? Negative emotions?" 

You nod, your real answer stuck on your tongue. Bringing up soulmates during an interview wasn't exactly the smartest of ideas, considering the potential discrimination from employers who might not want to hire someone who has yet to find their soulmate. After all, soulmate tracking could lead you around the world, and above all, you can tell Amanda needs someone committed to her children and their needs. "May I be honest?" 

Amanda raises an eyebrow, mug paused just below her mouth. Based on the name scrawled on the inside of her wrist, and the fact you were interviewing to be an au pair, she had no trouble finding her soulmate.

But you? 

You were not so lucky. "I have to be good at handling emotions, because it's my soulmate trait. I feel whatever they feel, all day, every day." 

When you turned eighteen, nothing obvious had changed. Your family had stayed up to see the clock strike midnight, to see what soulmate trait you'd get, carrying on the tradition of colour-blindness, or maybe a timer, like your cousin had gotten. Instead, you saw no change, no secret mark appearing on your skin. 

You just felt disappointed, and somewhere in the universe, in yourself, the feeling of disappointment returned to you. 

It was always hard to explain that you could feel the same emotion as your soulmate, but you could. It was a separate thing, based in the middle of your chest, as if your heart could feel two things at once. It was always there, at the back of your consciousness, every feeling attached to a life you'd never seen.

Joy, you think, was the most pure and obvious emotion, something that bubbled up in you with a smile you could never shake. When your soulmate was happy, it was never just contentment, but a bright thing that made you daydream of how their grin must look, how wonderful their laugh must sound. 

Anger was the second most common. It came in short moments of frustration, or sometimes a deep, week-long affair of something blinding, a rage that seemed to consume them whole, and you by proxy. Sadness was a different sort of beast, originally all consuming. There had been long, long stretches of time where it felt as if all your soulmate could feel was anxiety, sadness, grief, and it was this period that made you seek out meditation methods, psychology courses and ways to help others. You spent enough energy sitting with your soulmate's emotions, keeping calm on your end to help them with theirs, that it just sort of became your whole life. 

They might have outgrown the sadness, but you never outgrew your ways of helping them.

You found joy in the world around you because you knew how it helped someone else feel. You pursued jobs and opportunities that allowed you to help others because you knew how to keep a level head, to hear everyone's story, to sit and mourn and love as if they were your own emotions.

Perhaps it wasn't the healthiest thing to get so wrapped up in the emotions of others instead of your own, but it was what your life had come to. Your soulmate had carved this life for you, despite the fact that you had no luck so far in finding them. The next step, then, was obviously branching out and travelling, which made this position, offered to you based on your emotional intelligence, a dream. "But besides your soulmate, how can you deal with other people's emotions, especially children's?" 

"I've spent so long studying people, their emotions and their body language in attempts to find my soulmate that it's now just sort of second nature. I can tell what people are feeling because I'm so used to feeling more than just one thing at one time." You answer, and she shakes her head slowly. 

"What an impossible thing to track. How would you know?" She sets her mug down and flags a waiter. The man stops by with the receipt, the timer on his wrist reading four months, six days, three hours. "See, a timer, that's useful. Emotions? Ridiculous, if you ask me." 

"I think I'll just know when I meet them." Or at least, that's how all your fantasies played out, just locking eyes across a crowded room and realizing that you could feel them, that it was always them, but so far, nothing of the sort had happened.  "I mean, I've experienced all of their emotions for the past five years, I ought to be able to pin that to a person." 

Amanda rises, putting on her coat, and you're quick to follow, your own half-full drink abandoned. "I would've hired you already without the soulmate trait, but I suppose that's the bonus that makes you so special, anyway." She pauses, then, and turns back to you. "If you don't mind me asking, what is your soulmate feeling currently?" 

"I think he's frustrated, but it's not the same as angry. Just sort of annoyed." You take a slow, deep breath in an attempt to calm your own racing heart. If they were annoyed, the last thing they'd need to feel is your nerves added to it. And, after enough breaths, you can feel them start to relax, all on their own. 

-

“No soulmate trait?” Oscar asks, and Lando hums over a ridiculously large bowl of salad.

“It makes no sense!” He answers, stabbing at the lettuce in front of him with a vengeance. “Like not a mark, no colour changing shit, just…nothing. I think it’s one of those things where you have to touch people to know.” 

“So that’s why you’re so clingy,” Oscar answers sympathetically, and Lando takes a crouton and throws it at him. It had been six years, and he had yet to find his soulmate, to have that connection click into place with a simple touch. Sue him for being clingy when it was the only hope he had for finding true love.

Then, just as soon as Lando begins to feel genuinely resentful, a soft wave of calm comes over him. He had joked, once, that his heart and his brain were capable of feeling two different emotions at once. Sometimes, he was furious, but in his heart, he knew he would be fine. Othertimes, his heart was just so happy for no reason. No one really understood what he was talking about, but Lando didn't mind. He was rather proud of his emotional intelligence, being able to decipher what he was really feeling under the surface. He was maturing into a proper adult who could rationalize their thoughts and feelings, but then again, proper adults don't throw croutons in dining halls.

He takes a slow, deep breath, trying to match the beating of his heart, and after he exhales, he returns to his conversation. “Does your heart ever get happy when your brain is angry?" 

“What?” 

“Like I was pissed about the soulmate thing, and now I feel all calm. Like my heart knew I was being stupid.” It was like someone reminding him to breathe, to think of the better alternatives, like the fact that his soulmate was probably out there, just with a rare trait that would make it all the more worthwhile.

Oscar, unfazed by both the strange question and the crouton, thinks for a moment before speaking. “I think you’re just old enough to know not to be mad about things. Or you have other things to focus on.” 

“Maybe.” Years later, Lando would look back at this moment and bang his head into a table, but in the present, he continues to eat his salad and ponder why no one's investigated the psychology of the heart.

-

2024

"Micah? Is that what you're supposed to be doing?" Micah, who should be unpacking his things into the summer house in Monaco, has decided he will not be sorting his socks, and instead will be constructing the world's largest indoor racetrack around his bedroom floor. Never to be left alone, his younger sister Emily is perched in the middle, drooling over a little pink car. 

"I put 'em away, Nana." Micah says, jabbing his thumb in the direction of his suitcase, half shoved in a closet. Typically, children called their grandmothers Nana, but they had adopted the word for you, a sweet little thing you were terrified they'd outgrow. "See?" 

"Ah, yes, I see." You walk over to the suitcase, gently drumming your nails on the top. "How silly of me, this is perfectly unpacked as your mother requested." 

Micah, not quite yet understanding sarcasm, beams his gap-toothed smile. "Told you!" 

"But, what if you need to get an extra pair of shoes? Or sandals? They're stuck at the bottom." Emily gives up on her determination to eat the pink car and grabs part of the track, like a baby-sized Godzilla over the raceway. "And what if we, say, wanted to go to the beach after dinner?" 

Micah pauses at that, sitting up and squinting at his suitcase. "...I can just lay the suitcase down?" 

"And if you can lay your suitcase down, you can put your other clothes away too. Now come on, before dinner. Your cars will stay exactly where they are." Then, to grant him some mercy, you scoop up Emily from the floor and try to put the pieces of his track back in place. 

And then, your heart stops beating in your chest, fingers hovering over the little plastic track. 

Disguised for a moment of panic, you realize it's your soulmate's heart that's stopped, your whole body going cold. For a moment, a terrible awful moment, it feels as if the connection is broken, that there is no emotion to be felt at all, and before you can truly grasp what is happening, a joy greater than anything you've ever known washes over you. Scientifically, you know it must just be a rush of adrenaline, of endorphins and hormones, but god, this must be the most a human body can produce at once, rendering you entirely numb to anything but the excitement, the triumph, it can't compare. It's ecstasy, with a laugh you've never heard before ringing in your ears. 

It's a bright kind of sunshine that makes you dream of how your soulmate must be smiling, what they must be doing to become so happy, how much you wish you could be there to experience it with them. Then, as it begins to wane, it becomes tinted with every other emotion possible.

Sadness, grief, pain, fear, love. It's that last one, the love, that startles you the most, because you've never felt it on your soulmate's end before. You dream that this must be how it will feel when you finally meet, so different than any other emotion you've dealt with before. It's something pure and unadulerated, with no real sign. You just know it's love, and you have to sit on Micah's bed as you try to catch your breath at the feeling. 

It's the sort of mosaic of emotions that you think must embody a person whole. That everything your soulmate has ever felt has just been channelled back inside you, taking over where veins once were. Colours are brighter, the world slower, the pain softer. Emily reaches up to pat your cheeks, startling tears from your eyes that you hadn't realized had formed. 

Micah comes to stand beside you, a sock outstretched in his hand. "I'm sorry I didn't put them away." 

"Oh, sweetheart," You soothe softly, gently parting his hair away from his face. It's sad, you think, that people don't get to experience this in their everyday life. To know what it's like to feel a partner's joy, to know that when you reach out with your own happiness for them, it gets taken and amplified a hundred times over. "I'm not upset because of you. I'm happy." 

"Happy?" 

"Your mom told you what soulmate's are, right?" He nods along quickly, face lighting up. 

"Did you just meet yours?" He almost shouts, and while she must have explained some concepts, it's obvious he doesn't understand how the whole thing quite works yet, but he has plenty of time to learn.

"My soulmate is really, really happy about something, and I'm so happy for them." It makes it all worth it, you think.

Becoming so devoted to learn about the brain and emotions was already worth it, already a passion, but feeling this, greater than any emotion you've ever felt, it's indescribable. It's something you doubt you ever could forget, the power of their excitement feeling as if it might never fade.

"But you don't know what they're happy about." Micah points out, returning to the volcano that is his suitcase. 

"I don't need to." You answer honestly. "Joy should be shared at any time, for any reason. I don't need to know the fine details." And with that, you rise, intent on finding Emily's sandals somewhere in her nursery. "And for that reason, we should go and celebrate too. We can get ice cream after dinner." 

Micah, not needing much convincing, quickly joins your side. "I like your soulmate. He should be happy more often." 

"Yes," You answer, wishing you could bottle this emotion and keep it forever, "He should." 

-

Lando knew his first win would be big, but it was the sort of dream that didn't feel real, even as he was thrown into the crowd, even as he put the trophy over his head, even as he hugged his mom, even as the night waned and the club slowed and he, inevitably, found himself back in his hotel room. 

He couldn't help it. It was just this constant rush of everything all at once, the excitement, the pride, the terrifying realization that life continues on. There will be more races that he might win, and he finds himself more determined than ever to win them. It's the delight that he did it, he finally did it, and the sadness that comes with knowing it took him so long. His younger self would be so proud, and the thought only adds more confusing emotions into the mix. Overall, however, is how much he loves this sport, despite all the pain that does come with it. This was what he was always meant to be doing. 

His heart isn't helping either. The happiness from it just sort of comes in waves, not connected to his thoughts or his words at all. It's like his heart, every so often, remembers that he has something to be so happy about, radiating a warmth that Lando's never felt before. He's never been this happy in his life, like he's perfectly whole, even with his missing piece, a small cloud he'd ignored hanging over him the entire day. 

He never could dream small, but when he had his first win, he wanted a soulmate to share it with. That being said, he's not sure it really matters now. This moment, soulmate or not, is just perfect. He can share plenty of wins with them in the future, anyway. For right now, there's just him and his heart, gently beating and echoing warmth, joy, delight, triumph, whatever you want to call it. 

Lando is very happy that his heart is happy, he decides as he finally goes to bed. 

It should feel like that more often.

-

2025

Fourth wasn't bad, Lando could tell his heart was trying to tell him, but he didn't want to listen. 

He had fucked up, plain and simple, all the way back to starting tenth like he was a fucking rookie again, and sure, he had made his way back to fourth. It was respectable, really. He made a good recovery, he was fine, but he was more furious than he had been in a long time, because this season showed that he should know better. 

He was leading the championship, for god's sake, and now he was below Oscar when he could've kept his title. It was an anger that led, rather quickly, into self-deprecation. He had failed, of course. He could have done better, could have tried harder, could have been better. He didn't have the mindset, people kept saying. What mindset? What did Oscar have that he didn't?

He had cried and fought and struggled to get here now, and he fucked up. In qualifying, like a rookie, like someone who should know better. Fourth, a burn only worsened with the thought of the meagre points he'd get. Fourth. 

Needing something to lash out against, Lando picks up his water bottle from beside him in the driver room and winds up, eyes set on the wall across from him, when his heart does what it does best, and soothes him. It wasn't telling him that fourth was okay, he finds, but rather a strange sort of sympathy that he had a right to be mad. 

It was understanding of his pain, sending soft waves of calm, a tune stuck in the back of his mind that he couldn't quite understand. He should be mad, the water bottle launched across the room, but it stayed in his hand as his heart unravelled the worst parts of him. Anger, rage, was a good, short release, but it didn't get to the heart of the problem. He needed to take a deep breath, his lungs working of their own accord as he let his arm fall, dangling uselessly at his side. 

Fourth. 

Next race would be better. Next race, he'd lock in, he'd figure out whatever hiccup had cost him podium, had lost him first. He would do better, and he would be better, and that would be that.

Even still, as he finishes up for the night, he finds a sadness coming from his heart, an emotion he didn't know would hurt as much as it did. 

-

The anger and joy, this year, kept coming in rounding bouts. Excitement one weekend, failure the next, something that could only be akin to gambling addiction, some sort of sports fan, or someone going through just a rough couple of months. Emily seems as attuned to your soulmate as you are, wailing the moment the anger occurs, rearing its ugly head, and you find yourself calming two souls at once. 

You bounce Emily in your arms, a hefty task now that she's four, humming a soft lullaby as you try to get your soulmate to take deep breaths, take apart their anger. Sorting through emotions was a tall task, even this many years in, but there were so many layers to the sadness and anger that it was just...hurtful. 

A pain you couldn't fathom. Emily soothes as your soulmate does, falling back asleep as you get her tucked into bed, your soulmate's resentment cascading away to just a tired, dull sort of thing. There's a hint of happiness, somewhere at the edges, and that's all you need to let go, to focus back on your own life. 

You don't know how often you'd done that, taken time to soothe someone who never did the same. Your own anger, sadness, what have you, never seemed to be noticed. There was never a comforting, deep breath, a calm happiness to comfort you, just whatever they were feeling, like they couldn't care about helping yours. 

You had devoted your life to the emotions of others, you realize as you peer into Micah's room to find him asleep, peacefully curled up under his blankets. You'd raised him for the past two years, taught him how to exist and grow and act, same as Emily, sleeping peacefully behind you. They were children who needed the guidance, the extra set of hands, but your soulmate was grown. 

So how could they not handle it? You took extra courses, found a career path out of it, but they just seemed to live life, going through the motions with little regard for what all the frustration might do to someone else's daily life. That spike, that explosion of joy held so fondly in your memories now only returned in shorter bouts, like a drug slipping away from someone, and you focus on tidying up the last of the toys scattered around the hall to distract yourself. 

You knew all the emotion tactics to calm yourself, anyway. 

So why would you need someone else? 

-

Lando's heart has been acting up lately, following him through Miami's second place, and into Imola's second place, and now Monaco. 

It just hadn't been as happy as it could've been, as calming as it could've been, like every time Lando experienced a bump, it got less and less willing to pick up the pieces, and Lando understood. Being his heart was a big task, but it was sort of his heart. He needed it, and its strange intelligence. 

The worst part was people started noticing it, too. Not his heart, exactly, but just that as much as he was happy, it wasn't to his core. He had tried numerous remedies, chocolates, therapies, everything, including now going for runs at random hours of the day, currently on a hike in the few hours of dawn just outside of Monaco. 

But the farther he ran, the more up this hillside he went, the further his heart sank inside him, until he could only describe it as weeping.

Reaching the top, he begins to think he might be losing his mind when he begins to hear it crying, too, only to stumble across a real person, crying before him, and his heart tugs in his chest so hard he thinks it might fall out. 

-

Burnout happens far too fast to really understand it, even coming from someone who dedicated their life to understanding people's emotions.

It was hard to always be happy, to always be in tune with other people's emotions, but it was all that you knew. You were supposed to be the happy one, the helpful one, but it was hard to always be happy and always be helpful when it was all coming to an end anyway. Emily and Micah were grown, old enough to have opinions and dreams that far outshone your own, because at some point, children outgrow nannies. This would be your last year full-time, Amanda had broken to you a week or so ago. 

She wanted you around for help with Emily, at least until she was five, but after that, they were going to try functioning as a whole, with you there if they needed extra support. And it wasn't leaving the family, leaving this job, that was the hard part. You were more than understanding, after all. 

The hard part was the realization that nothing was meant to last. You weren't meant to always be there, supporting other people, raising children and sending peace out into the world. At some point, you needed to stop projecting emotions and needed to start feeling them, stunted for so long in the name of love. 

You didn't blame your soulmate, really, but it was time you started living, outside of them, outside of nannying, and that meant doing things for you, like waking early, finding a nice hiking trail, and just going. You walked until your feet grew sore, until a bench looked promising, until your emotions caught back up, and so did your soulmate's. 

Soft and on edge, a sadness that wasn't anything too deep, but just persistent. Instinctively, you take a breath, and it all falls apart. 

Every emotion you've been taught to suppress, to help others navigate through, every joyful moment not shared, every painful moment you've taken on as a burden comes out in a wail that you can't control.

It was a gift to feel your soulmate's emotions, but you shouldn't have to feel so obliged to help them through every bout of sadness and anger, exhaustion piled up from years of your own neglect.

You had been given so much joy in this life, watching a Monaco sunrise from the clifftop, but you can't help the way it's all been tainted by experience.

After all, there are no tips or courses on how to heal a broken heart, desperately trying to get out of your ribcage.

-

Lando's heart keeps tugging him toward the person currently sobbing on a bench, and he has no idea what to do about it. He's emotionally intelligent, he tries to reason with himself. If someone is in distress, like they're lost, he can help! Or, he might be ruining a moment that a stranger needs alone, but his heart keeps weeping and the sadness keeps spreading until finally, Lando takes a few brave steps forward before coming to kneel before the person on the bench. "Hey," He says, with the awkwardness of a man thrust into a truly new situation, "Don't cry." 

You blink at him owlishly before covering your face with another sob. 

Great start. "I mean, crying's okay!" He says, quickly coming to sit beside you, leaving enough space not to crowd you. "It releases stuff for you. But like, if you're crying about a reason, I can...help." 

"Oxytocin and endorphins," You sniff, a sentence that fully catches him off guard, but the weeping in his heart ebbs way for...annoyance? "Crying releases oxytocin and endorphins, they help promote-" You uncover your face to look at him, and it's just heartbreaking, truly. He doesn't remember the last time he saw someone this upset besides his own reflection in the mirror. "Helps promote well-being." 

"Maybe I should cry more often," Lando jokes softly, and happiness slips into his heart before disappearing again. His heart normally was so good at calming him, so why was it so difficult to calm other people? "But I mean it. I get that I'm a stranger, but if something's wrong, I can help." Then, because he knows better, "Or I can try?" 

You don't answer him immediately, turning to look out at the sunrise. It's pretty, he thinks. Calming. You hiccup beside him, and Lando glances over to see your bottom lip tremble with another wave of unshed tears, and his body reacts before he can. 

He takes a big, deep breath. The kind his heart is always telling him to take. One deep breath in, one deep breath out. "You can breathe like that, too. It helps." 

"It triggers the relaxation response." You answer through stuttered breath, somehow far more informed on emotions and their controls than he is. You must be a doctor or something, he thinks. Maybe one of those wellness coaches. Either way, you start breathing alongside him, in perfect unison.

"My heart always helps me breathe." Lando says, trying to make conversation, and you give him a strange look as his heart echoes confusion. "I don't know how to describe it, but my heart has its own emotions. And when I get upset, god knows it's too often, it reminds me to be calm, and breathe. Like this-" He takes in a deep breath, and releases it.

Then you take a deep breath in, and release it, and his heart mimics the action. You watch him intently, repeating the action a few times, until Lando realizes his heart is in sync with you. 

The breathing, the confusion, the weeping. 

A strange mix of emotions floods his heart seconds before he makes the connection, too. 

"You can feel me?" You ask softly, "My breathing?" 

The world sort of comes to an end on a park bench in Monaco, Lando realizes, because he can feel you breathing. When your eyebrows raise, he feels the shock deep in his heart, and his mind supplements that his soulmate trait must be feeling your emotions, and like the true idiot he is, this whole time he just thought it was his heart feeling things. 

God, it's been eight years. Eight years you've been feeling every emotion and trying to help him out, and Lando never knew. He'd never got to help you with your emotions, anyway. You've just had to suffer through all his anger, all his sadness, and he slowly lowers his head into his hands, truly unable to come to terms with what you're saying, what he's feeling, what you're feeling. 

He's been blind. Worse than that, he's been ignorant and honestly almost manipulative. All those deep breaths were you having to take the time to breath with him. All those moments his heart was sad, for no reason, or happy, for no reason, it was you living a life that he was unaware of. Every secret emotion he let out, that only he and the walls of his room shared, you knew.

You knew all the deepest, darkest parts of him, and he thought you were his heart.

It's a new sort of grief that wells up inside him, that is immediately replaced with action. This was not his time to mourn, but yours. He snaps back up, and you're still in the same, curled up position, looking at him in awe, and without much ceremony, Lando reaches over to pull you to his chest, the soulmate connection snapping in place as he gently cradles the back of your head into his shoulder. "Jesus fucking christ," He breathes out, "I thought you were my heart." 

You don't answer him, but he waits to expect the anger, the confusion, the sadness, but all he can feel is something soft and small radiating from you that he thinks might be love, and he begins to cry for it. 

He's sure that if there are any other unfortunate hikers on this trail, they'll stumble across a strange scene of two strangers hugging each other and crying, but Lando has seen stranger in Monaco. Besides, he can't care much about anything besides the soulmate in his arms, and all the ways he needs to make it up to you. From now on, his emotions take a back seat, and he'll help calm you, keep you happy. He wants to memorize every detail of your face, your smile, your laugh. Firstly, he thinks, he should probably get your number and your name.

"How do you know how to handle it?" Lando finds himself asking as he lets you pull away, wiping at your eyes. "Oxy-cotton or whatever, how could you..." 

"I studied it." You answer quietly, "For you." 

"For...for me?" You nod, and Lando's body shakes with unshed tears. 

"You experience everything so vividly. I just wanted to help." You've felt how hard he's been on himself, how angry, and you've been there every step of the way, trying to help. You studied how to help him, for him specifically, and there's nothing he could ever do to make up for it. You reach up to wipe away the tears as they fall, studying his face. "Seems like I could have taught myself a thing or two." 

"You're perfect," He says, voice cracking as he looks down at you. "I'm an idiot." 

Lando never expected to meet you here. He always thought he'd be in some strange corner of the world, where he'd lock eyes across a crowded room and just know, but instead, you're here, in Monaco, a gift from the universe because he never would have been able to find you otherwise. "Your words," You answer with a sniff. "Not mine." 

"Stop being so good at this," Lando says, rubbing his hands over his face. "I need to be the one helping you, not the other way around." He opens his fingers to peer at you through them. 

"You just being here helps." You shove his shoulder gently as you speak. "But you really didn't consider once that your heart having emotions was weird?" 

"Thought I was emotionally intelligent. Like...my heart was also a brain." He watches you suppress a laugh and he hides behind his hands again. "Shut up! I know, I know, I have a lot of work to do." 

And for a moment, you just look at each other, and then that happiness comes spiking back up, and you're slumping into his side as you laugh, a deep thing that has Lando laughing too, like some old joke you've known forever. 

His soulmate. You're his soulmate, and he can feel your emotions, and while that is genuinely probably the worst soulmate trait Lando has ever heard of, it's a trait. He has a soulmate, and he is an idiot, but as he wraps an arm around your shoulders and watches the Monaco sunrise, he realizes he has all the time in the world to make up for it. "I'm Lando, by the way." 

-

-

-

Every time you look at Lando, you feel a rush of emotions that you now know he feels too. Maybe that's why he turns to flash you a grin, just as bright as you knew it would be. Or, maybe, it's because it's your first time in the paddock, the first time Lando gets to reveal you to the world, the fact that you're real. 

You can't really fathom how he never knew he could feel another person's emotions, and with a soft groan, he leans into your side. "You're never going to let that go, are you?" 

The past months you've spent together, Lando has been determined to get to know your emotions. Every little thing you go through, you get a text, a random delivery at your door, him peering around the corner into the living room with a raised eyebrow as you angrily try to put together Ikea furniture. Nearing the end of your contract with Amanda, and trying to find your new way in life, Lando insisted you move in with him, and that he would be your emotionally intelligent student. It was a lot of big steps to take, but looking at him now, you're more than happy to take them. 

"I thought you couldn't read minds," Lando's teammate Oscar says, and Lando's quick to shake his head. 

"I told you, we can feel each other's emotions," He says, arm wrapping around your waist. "For example, I can tell that right now, they are madly in love with me." 

He leans in to kiss you, and you gently shove his face away with your hand, matching grins plastered over your faces. You were, honestly. He was a strange, strange being who defied the emotional courses you took, but it made sense. You were a rock when he was a bouncy ball - hyper and all over the place, but he was teaching you to relax, to let go, to let him go. He insisted that he didn't need your help now that he knew how much brainpower it took up, but that didn't stop you from slipping into old ways, reminding him to breathe no matter where in the world you were, calming him from a distance.

Micah makes a fake gagging sound from beside you, though he's also grinning ear to ear. Lando had given the entire family paddock passes, mostly as a gesture of goodwill, but also so that he could have an excuse to have you here for a race.  "Be nice, Micah." You say, ruffling his hair. 

"Yeah, Micah." Emily quotes, reaching for your hand. She was still quite shy around Lando, whose energy was not always appreciated. You pick her up, an old habit that will die hard, even as she's no longer a toddler, but you hold her on your hip as you hum one of her old lullabies to help ease the stress. 

Beside you, Lando absent-mindedly hums along, and you stop your own noise to stare at him. He was always full of surprises, really, somehow knowing a song that must have slipped through the cracks of your emotions. Well, all of him was a surprise, being an F1 driver more famous than you had ever expected your soulmate to be. 

To Lando's surprise, you existed. It was something to get used to, a shame that clung to him, but he was growing out of it. He wanted to know every little detail, from favourite colours to where you grew up to where you wanted to go. You weren't sure yet, really. You wanted to help people, but you needed your own time and space with your emotions, and Lando was more than willing to help grant you that.

The media, unfortunately, had also wanted to know every little detail, intent on painting you as some young mom before it came out that you were a nanny, which was somehow better and worse. People had plenty of things to say, but that didn't really matter when Lando was at your side, intent on making Emily smile and putting up with Micah's antics, who had already scored a free hat, shirt, and the fuzzy part of a boom mic from somewhere. "Who do you think is going to win the race?" Lando asks the two, who both blink back at him. "Come on, it's me, right?" 

"Or is it going to be Oscar?" You ask, the other man beside you laughing. 

"Oscar." Emily announces rather quickly. "He can win." 

Both Lando and Oscar wear matching expressions of confusion, but Oscar's quickly morphs into a grin as he does a little bow. "Thank you, I'm happy to have your support." 

"Oh, come on!" Lando says, now desperately turning to Micah. "You want me to win, right? British boy to British boy." 

Micah looks from Lando slowly to Oscar, who offers two thumbs up. "I want...Oscar?" 

"Oh, this is just not fair!" Annoyance stirs in Lando, but dissipates when he looks at you. "You're supposed to teach them better than this." 

"Oscar wins so you can stay home," Emily says, playing with her paddock pass. "You make Nana happy." 

Lando pauses, and you can feel his heart swell with love, and with little regard for the cameras everywhere, he buries his face into the side of your neck as he blushes. "Get off Nana!" Micah says, tugging at Lando's shirt. 

"Nope," Lando says into your neck, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. "S' my heart now." 

"Always was yours," You answer with a kiss to his temple, and you can feel Lando melt both against you and in your heart. "Now go win a race, yeah?" 

Lando peels back with that smile that makes your heart do things, and you can tell he knows exactly what you're feeling when that grin just grows. "Thought I was supposed to stay home to keep you happy?" 

"You've got the rest of your life for that." With a genuine sadness you can feel in your veins, Lando finally parts, sneaking another kiss before he's off, and you find yourself that much more attuned to his emotions when he's gone. You can feel the anxiety and the stress as he prepares, the excitement as the race starts up, and the inevitable growing anger and fear as he fights for pole. Second, in your mind, was fantastic, but Lando never knew how to dream small. 

Taking a deep breath, slowly in and out, you wait for Lando's heart to sync with yours, and you can feel him relax just the smallest bit, granted a moment in a corner to overtake Max, and you scream so loudly with excitement that Emily and Micah cover their ears. Lando echoes back that joy and excitement, keeping pace until the race ends. You don't get to see him when he pulls up to the parc ferme, still stuck wrangling the young children, but you can feel nothing but pure joy all the way until he's up on that podium, trophy high above his head as he scans the crowd. He belonged up there, you think, with this kind of ecstatic delight taking over him. That moment filled with joy and love, all those years ago, had been his first win. 

And yet, here, now, that memory was dull in comparison. 

Because when Lando scans the crowd, and finally locks eyes with you, you feel a burst of nothing but pure love.

It's a feeling that never goes away. 

a/n: i saw this concept for a soulmate trait and just had to do something with it!! i honestly want to write so much more between these two

[bakug0uzb1thc]

Bakugou leaning against the frame of the doorway (lick lick lick lick)

Aged up! Bakugou x Fem! Reader

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────

You were laying in your bed, knees bend as your back was against your headboard. You were reading a book Ochako had lent you saying “it has a relatable MC” which lead you to where you were.

Your phone was buzzing but you figured it was a group chat you were in; man were you wrong. It was your fiancée coming home from work.

Suki:

Hey ma, what do you want for dinner?

Suki:

Mama.

Suki:

Hey.

Suki:

I’m getting spicy ramen.

Suki:

Ma this ain’t funny?

Suki:

y/n??

At this point you were to engulfed in your book to even care, you just let it buzz. Ochako was right, the main character was relatable.

The second you were done with the chapter you heard the door swing open. You put your book down but before you could get up, you heard running. Thumping as Katsuki ran through the house to your shared bedroom. Scared you jump back ready to fight whoever it was till the door swung open. Reveling an anxious, cold sweat faced Katsuki in the door way.

“What the-“ you raised a brow and let out a sigh. “Why are you running?” You asked. “Why aren’t you pickin up the phone.” You saw the vein in his forehead pop. Fuck.

You picked up your phone off your nightstand and turned it on to have it flash the wallpaper you set of a cute photo you took of katsuki; and a whole line of messages from your fiancée who was still standing in the doorway.

“I was reading my book and I put it on silence..” you half lied so he wouldn’t yell at you.

“Ah whatever.” He said, and that’s when it happened. He gripped the top of the door frame and leaned forward a bit. His eyes closed as his head tilted.

He was still in his hero costume; still dirty from the day he had but that didn’t stop you from slowly creeping over to him.

“Hey mama..” he said his eyes still closed yet still feeling your warm presence. “Hi ‘suki” you bring your hand up to caress his cheek, going over the big scar he got from the war that took place while still in high school. “I love the way you lean..” you whisper, soft and seductive. “That so?” He opened his eyes and leaned his forehead on your giving your nose a little kiss. “Mhm.” You say still holding his face in your hands.

“I brought home ramen.” He interrupted before anything happened. This caused you to laugh. “What woman I did?” He said confused. “Oh Katsuki-“ you continued to laugh at his dumbfounded face. “Whatever I’m going to eat” he said spinning on his heel and walking away leaving you a laughing mess. “No- HAHA NO KAT IM SORRY.” You said chasing after him, jumping on his back. he grabbed under your thighs lifting you higher on his back ending up giving you a piggy back ride to the kitchen.

“You’re so high maintenance.”

After that you kept your phone on; and looked at it Everytime it buzzed. Just in case it was your fiancée.

[meenaxskz]

when you slightly cut your finger (hyung line)

ot8 reactions | bf!skz x reader au genre: crack warnings: minor injury | slight blood | language a/n : I accidentally sliced my finger while cutting a fruit :( so here's me projecting my pain ✧ hyung line | maknae line

ban chan

You're chopping carrots. He’s sitting at the kitchen counter, scrolling his phone, mumbling something about a new beat. Then it happens. “Ow.” Just a little slip. Barely a nick. You pause “It’s fine.” Chan’s head snaps up “What happened?! Are you hurt ?!” “I said it’s fine-” He’s already at your side “Where?! Show me! Are you bleeding?! How much?! On a scale of 1 to ‘Call Chan’s Mom’...what are we talking??” You hold up your hand. “It’s literally the tiniest cut ever” He gasps. Grabs your hand “that’s blood. That’s blood coming out of your body.” You snort. “Babe, it’s like two drops.” “That’s two too many!!” He grabs a towel and apply pressure “keep breathing, baby. You’re strong. We’re strong. I’ve trained for this.” “Have you?” “I watched five medical dramas, thank you.” He scoops you up and sets you on the kitchen counter “You sit there. No moving. I’ll get the first-aid kit. Don’t go toward the light while I’m gone.” “It’s a scratch” He's already running “SCRATCHES CAN INFECT. WE NEED ANTIBIOTICS. HOLY SHIT DO WE EVEN HAVE BAND-AIDS WITH CUTE DESIGNS???” --- He returns with: -The first-aid kit -A box of Hello Kitty band-aids -A cold compress -And two apples (“In case you faint. Gotta keep your sugar up.”) “...You think I’m gonna faint from this?” “I don’t know your hemoglobin count!” He carefully wraps your finger, biting his lip in concentration “Can you feel your hand?” “Chan.” “Are you dizzy?” “No.” “Are you just saying that to protect me from panicking?” You deadpan: “Yes.” He gasps “OH MY GOD” You laugh. “I’m joking!” Once it’s wrapped, he kisses your forehead, then your nose, then the bandaged finger. “There,” he whispers. “Healed. Mostly. Emotionally, I’ll need time.” You blink. “So dramatic.” He sobs “I almost lost you to a carrot...”

lee know

You gasp. Loud. Dramatic. Oscar worthy. Lee Know turns his head so fast it almost detaches “What?? What happened?!” You hold up your finger “I’m injured.” He squints. Walks over “…Where?” You dramatically spin your finger toward the light. “There!” Minho leans in. “You mean that dot? That mild inconvenience?” “It hurts.” He snorts. “You need a nap and a sticker.” You gasp again. “Wow. So this is how you treat the love of your life? I’m wounded...physically and emotionally!” He crosses his arms. “You just want attention.” “Yeah,” you say flatly. “And a kiss. Right here.” You stick your finger in his face. Minho blinks. “...she cooks one time and now I’m dating a Disney princess with a stabbing injury.” You pout harder. “I might never use this finger again. Think about that. I could drop chopsticks. Tap the wrong emoji. End entire friendships.” “You’re unbelievable.” “I’m bleeding!” “Barely.” Still, he sighs, grabs your hand, and gives the most aggressively reluctant kiss to your fingertip “There. You’ll live.” You blink. Hold up the other hand. “I think this one’s traumatized in solidarity.” He walks away. “Nope.” You chase him. “MINHO I NEED BALANCE OR I’LL WALK IN CIRCLES FOREVER.”

changbin

“Ow!” Changbin, from the other room: “DID YOU DIE?!” “No...just sliced my finger on a strawberry stem.” He appears in the doorway like he teleported. “WHERE. IS. THE WOUND.” You blink. “It’s literally the tiniest-” He’s already in front of you “DON’T TALK. JUST BREATHE. SIT DOWN. DO YOU NEED ICE? WATER ? A NEW FINGER?!” You stare. “It’s a scratch.” He stares harder. “IT’S BLEEDING.” “…A drop.” He yells at the sink. “WHAT DID SHE DO TO YOU, STRAWBERRIES?!” “You’re yelling at fruit.” He’s already digging through the first aid kit. “What size bandage?! Do we need gauze?! Is this a stitches thing?! Do I call Chan?!” You grab a paper towel and press it on your finger, calmly. “Binnie. I’m fine.” He’s pacing now. Flexing with stress. “I train every day for muscle emergencies! not EMOTIONAL ones!” You stick your finger out “Okay, drama queen. Kiss it better.” He freezes half holding your wrist “…You want me to kiss the blood?” You nod. “It’s part of the healing.” He leans closer. Squints at it like it personally offended him “I love you but… what if it tastes like iron?” You squint back. “You bit your lip yesterday and licked it like a popsicle, what’s the difference?” He backs up. “THAT WAS MY BLOOD. MY BODY. MY CHOICE.” --- Eventually, he does it. A single, lightning-fast, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it peck. Then immediately wipes his mouth just as fast. “I DID IT. DO YOU FEEL BETTER? AM I A HERO?!”

hyunjin

“Ow.” Hyunjin, from across the room: “WHAT?!” You hold up your finger. “I cut myself” He sprints over like you just screamed fire. Looks down. Sees the blood. Sees one singular drop. Lets out the most offended gasp “Oh my god. That’s blood. Real blood.” You raise a brow. “I didn’t say I was dying.” You wiggle your hand. “Can you get me a band-aid?” He backs up two steps “I can. But I’ll be applying it as if you are leaking radioactive fluid, just so we’re clear.” You roll your eyes. “You’ve touched my ass with zero hesitation before.” “Your ass doesn’t BLEED” --- Two minutes later he’s back with: -A face mask -Two gloves -Three bandaids He puts gloves on like he’s about to dissect you. You blink. “You’re wearing gloves?” “Yes” he says, snapping them on. “I’m about to enter surgery.” “It’s a PAPER CUT.” “And yet I’m risking exposure.” He dabs your finger with a tissue. Carefully peels the bandaid, eyes squinting. Gently sticks it on. Then steps back. “Okay. You’ll live. Barely.” You hold your hand up dramatically. “Now kiss it better.” He freezes. Face contorts. Eye twitch. “…You want me to kiss it?” You nod. “Please.” He cringes like you offered him raw chicken. “That’s… bodily fluid.” “It’s MY bodily fluid!” He shudders. “And that’s somehow worse.” You pout. “Wow. So much for romance.” “I’ll kiss you literally anywhere else, babe. Just not your plague finger.” You chase him around the table with your bandaged hand outstretched. He screams. “GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME”

⤷ main m.list ❟

DISCLAIMER : This blog and all related content (fics, fake texts, headcanons, imagines, etc.) are entirely fictional and created for entertainment purposes only. I do not know Stray Kids personally, nor do I claim any of this reflects their real personalities, actions, or relationships. All characters and their personalities—including Meena King—are original creations.Please enjoy responsibly and remember : real people = real boundaries.

[orphicmeliora]

Evermore

PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC!Reader

SUMMARY: You have spent your life inside hospital walls, your world stitched together with IV lines, late-night alarms, and the quiet acceptance that some things cannot be fixed. You've been passed from one doctor to another, another test, another trial — all chasing a miracle that never came. Somewhere along the way, you stopped waiting for tomorrow.

But life, in its quiet cruelty and unexpected grace, gives you something you never thought to ask for — a glimpse of another world. A different kind of heartbeat, steady and sure, weaving its way into your fragile one. Moments you never believed you could have: laughter, longing, dreams too big for a hospital bed.

You don't know how long it will last. You don't even know if you dare hope for more.

But when the night is quiet and the snow falls just right, you let yourself believe — for one stolen breath — that maybe your story isn't meant to end here.

Maybe, somehow, you are just beginning.

WORD COUNT: 9.5k

You're dying.

For as long as you can remember, you've known more of hospitals than your own house. It's gotten to a point where when you think of home, it's not a cozy living room or the scent of your mother's cooking that surfaces — it's the sterile, cold corridors of Akso Hospital. The beeping machines. The too-white sheets. The antiseptic sting in the air. That's home.

You've been passed from hospital to hospital like a worn file folder, a case study waiting for a miracle. Doctors, researchers, specialists — all curious, all clinical. Some of them smiled too brightly when they poked at you; others barely met your eyes as they dictated notes into recorders. No matter their faces, it was always the same: a child with a heart too fragile for the world she lived in. Congenital heart disease, they'd say, like it was a sentence you had to carry. Words like hypoplastic, cardiomyopathy, degeneration slipped off their tongues without a second thought.

Research papers had been written about you. Trials run, theories floated, hands reaching inside your chest like gods trying to rewrite fate. But there was no saving you. Not really. Only delaying the inevitable.

At some point, death stopped being a frightening monster lurking at the end of the hallway. It became a quiet fact. A gentle inevitability. Like winter following fall. Like the last leaf leaving the branch. Sometimes you even think of it fondly — a release from the endless pricks of needles and the sting of failed hope.

You don't cry about it anymore. You stopped doing that years ago.

Just you, and the slow ticking of monitors, and the muted conversations outside your door.

But there are still things that ache. Things that death doesn't erase.

Like the school uniforms you never wore.

The scraped knees you never had from playground games.

The friendships you only knew from books and half-forgotten fairy tales read to you by bored nurses.

You grew up surrounded by adults: brisk nurses with kind smiles, tired doctors with far-off eyes, other patients far older than you. No childhood secrets whispered under blankets at sleepovers. No first crushes shared during recess.

Today is supposed to be your sixteenth birthday. A milestone for most kids — laughter, cake, maybe even a little rebellion. You asked for so little. Just a single scoop of ice cream. Something sweet, something that would make you forget, just for a second, that you're broken inside.

Maybe your body decided it was too much joy. Maybe it was just bad timing. Whatever it was, the chest pain started fast and sharp, a blooming fire that stole your breath and sent the world spinning. They rushed you to the ICU, alarms blaring, voices cutting through the fog of your consciousness.

Doctor Li was there, of course. He's always there. A steady presence when everyone else felt like passing shadows. You caught glimpses of his furrowed brow, the tightness in his voice as he barked orders you were too far gone to understand. He was fighting for you. He always did.

The world blurred. Faded. You remember thinking — distantly — how strange it was to die with the taste of vanilla on your tongue.

You don't die that night. Not yet.

But something inside you, small and bright and hopeful, dims just a little more.

The next few days bleed together in a haze of machines and murmured reassurances. You drift in and out of shallow sleep, tethered to the world by the soft beeping of your heart monitor and the cool, practiced touch of the nurses adjusting your IVs. Doctor Li checks on you more than usual — lingering longer at your bedside, as if afraid that if he looks away, you might simply vanish.

You hear snatches of conversation sometimes. Fragments that weren't meant for your ears.

It’s strange how even in survival, you feel like a guest overstaying her welcome.

"She stabilized, but barely."

"Should we consider moving her back to the general ward?"

"Give her time. Let her rest."

On the third day, you notice a figure lingering near the doorway. Not a nurse — they’re always in motion, efficient and brisk. Not Doctor Li, either — this figure carries a stiffness to his stance, a sharpness that cuts into the sterile quiet.

You glance over, disinterested. A boy, maybe a few years older than you, dressed in street clothes that look out of place in the hospital’s sanitized world. Dark hair that falls messily into his eyes, a scowl permanently etched across his face like it was born there. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, like he doesn't want to be here.

You recognize the look immediately — resentment barely contained behind a mask of detachment.

You turn your head away. You couldn't care less.

Let him glare. Let him hate. You’re used to people looking at you like that — like you’re an inconvenience, a burden. You’ve spent your whole life apologizing for existing, even when your lips stayed silent.

He says nothing to you, and you say nothing to him.

Good. Silence is easier. Cleaner.

Later, you hear the nurses whispering about him.

You don't understand why any of it matters. To you, he’s just another shadow passing through your world. Another person whose life will keep moving forward, even when yours stands still.

"Doctor Li’s son. Came straight from his graduation. Poor kid."

"Must be hard, sharing your father with the hospital."

"He'll understand someday. Sacrifices have to be made."

You close your eyes and let the steady rhythm of the heart monitor lull you back into sleep.

Tomorrow will come. Or it won’t.

It hardly makes a difference.

Tomorrow comes. And then the day after that.

Somehow, despite everything, you keep breathing.

You're moved out of the ICU eventually, back into the quieter, less urgent wing of Akso Hospital that has become more familiar than any childhood bedroom you never had. The walls here are softer shades of green, the windows wide and bright — an illusion of freedom you stopped believing in a long time ago.

Your days fall into a familiar rhythm: early morning blood draws, midday vitals checks, whispered conversations with nurses who treat you like a little sister they can't protect. You read when you can, mostly battered romance novels left behind by old patients, and sometimes you simply lie there, counting the cracks in the ceiling tiles like they hold some secret map to a life you’ll never live.

And Zayne —he starts appearing again.

At first, it’s just glimpses. A flash of dark hair down the corridor, the low murmur of his voice when he trails after Doctor Li during rounds. He doesn’t look at you. Not directly. He keeps his gaze clipped to charts and clipboards, face tight with the kind of focus you recognize all too well: the kind born from trying to control what can’t be fixed.

You wonder — briefly — why he keeps coming back.

Most people your age would run from a place like this. Wouldn't they? Chase the world outside with hungry hands, desperate to live, to feel something more than fluorescent lights and beeping machines.

But Zayne stays.

He stands at his father's side, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his lab coat, frowning at words too complicated for you to care about. He listens when Doctor Li explains your charts, your declining numbers, the latest tests they want to run. Sometimes he asks questions, voice low and rough around the edges.

You don't bother trying to hear the answers.

You’ve long stopped hoping anyone had any real ones to give.

The way his shoulders stiffen when Doctor Li mentions your heart’s deterioration. The quick, darting glances he thinks you don’t catch when you wince from another IV insertion. The rare moments his mouth tightens in something almost like frustration, or helplessness.

Still...

You notice things.

You pretend you don't see.

You pretend it doesn't matter.

And you — you have always been leaving.

Because it doesn't.

You have learned, through years of slow dying, that getting attached only makes the leaving harder.

It happens on an afternoon like any other.

The kind where the sun slices through the window just enough to make you ache for the world outside — a world you’ve only seen in pictures and half-forgotten dreams.

You’re sitting up in bed, a book resting on your lap, though you haven’t turned a page in what feels like hours. Your IV pole hums faintly beside you, the only real reminder that you’re still tethered here.

You glance up without thinking — and there he is. 

You hear footsteps before you see him.

Not Doctor Li’s sure, even strides.

Softer. Slower. Hesitant.

Zayne. 

Hovering awkwardly just inside your room, clutching a thick textbook to his chest like a shield. He's not wearing his usual scowl today. Instead, his face is carved into something tighter, more uncertain, as if he isn't quite sure whether he should even be standing here.

You raise an eyebrow, silently daring him to speak.

He clears his throat. It sounds painful.

"I—" he starts, then immediately cuts himself off, glancing away. His hand tightens around the book's spine.

You blink at him, unimpressed.

If he’s here to offer hollow pity or awkward small talk, he can save it. You’ve heard it all before — the forced conversations, the clumsy sympathy from visitors who can't even look you in the eye for long.

You drop your gaze back to your book, pretending he isn't there. Silence stretches thick and heavy between you.

For a moment, you think he’s going to retreat, like so many others have.

But he doesn't.

You freeze, your thumb hovering over the corner of the worn page.

Instead, after a beat of hesitation, you hear him mumble — so quiet you almost miss it —

"…That book’s terrible."

Slowly, you glance up again. He’s staring at the battered cover, expression wrinkling in disdain.

"I mean," he says, awkward and stiff, like every word is being dragged out of him by force, "the plot makes no sense. The heroine falls in love with a guy who literally tried to kill her in the first chapter."

You blink once. Twice.

"Yeah," you say, voice hoarse from disuse, "but it's not like I've got a lot of options."

And then, unexpectedly, a small huff of air escapes you — not quite a laugh, but close.

You hadn't realized how long it had been since someone your age spoke to you like that. Not like you were breakable. Not like you were already halfway gone.

He shifts his weight, looking vaguely guilty now. Like he hadn't meant to insult your sad little world.

You watch him for a moment longer, studying the way he fidgets — a boy trying very hard not to look like he cares, even though it’s written in every line of his posture.

Without thinking, you extend the book toward him, offering it out like a peace treaty.

"Got any recommendations, then?"

He stares at you, startled. Like he wasn’t expecting you to talk back. Like he wasn't expecting you to choose to talk to him.

Slowly, almost warily, he steps forward. Takes the book from your hand, fingers brushing yours for the briefest second—warm and real and alive.

Something small shifts in the air between you.

Barely there.

But you feel it all the same.

But right now—for the first time in a long, long while—you don’t feel quite so alone.

Maybe tomorrow he'll disappear again.

Maybe you’ll still die before you ever really know him.

The next day, you don’t expect him to come back.

People make gestures sometimes — quick, impulsive things born of guilt or pity. You’ve learned not to get your hopes up. You've learned not to expect anyone to stay.

But late in the afternoon, as the sun dips low and the room fills with that golden, aching kind of light, you hear familiar footsteps outside your door. Slower, more deliberate this time. No shuffling nurses, no hurried doctors.

You glance up from your spot on the bed just as Zayne leans into the doorway, one hand shoved deep into the pocket of his jacket, the other holding something behind his back like a guilty secret.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you, frowning faintly, like he’s annoyed to find you still there. (Or maybe annoyed with himself.)

You raise an eyebrow, a silent question.

He scowls a little deeper — a defense mechanism, you think — and mutters, "You said you didn’t have good options."

Before you can reply, he pulls his hand from behind his back and tosses a book onto your bed.

It lands with a soft thud against the sheets, the cover facing up.

You blink at it, surprised. It’s thick, heavier than the flimsy paperbacks you usually get stuck with, and worn around the edges like it's been read a dozen times. A fantasy novel, from the looks of it — something with sprawling kingdoms and sword fights and impossible magic.

You run your fingers lightly over the embossed title, almost afraid it might disappear.

"I had it lying around," he says quickly, too quickly. "Figured you could use something... less stupid."

You look up at him again, and this time you catch it — the faint pink dusting the tips of his ears, the way he can't quite meet your gaze.

You almost smile. Almost.

Instead, you trace the cover one more time, letting the weight of the book settle into your lap like something precious.

"...Thanks," you say, quiet but sincere.

Zayne shrugs, like it’s no big deal. Like he doesn’t care. But he lingers a moment longer than necessary, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

Finally, he jerks his head toward the book. "Page ninety-seven is the best part," he says gruffly. "Don't skip to it, though. You have to earn it."

And with that, he turns and stalks off down the hallway, disappearing before you can say anything else.

You watch him go, your chest feeling strangely full, like someone had opened a window inside you after years of stale, closed-off air.

You pick up the book, flipping it open carefully. On the inside cover, in faded ink, there’s a name scribbled messily: Zayne Li.

You smile — small, private, and fleeting.

—

Maybe you were wrong.

Maybe not everyone leaves.

You tell yourself it’s just a book.

And every single one of them — every single page — is littered with traces of him.

One book turns into two. Then three.

Each one arrives without ceremony — sometimes left on your bedside table when you’re asleep, sometimes handed over with an awkward grunt and averted eyes. Always worn. Always loved.

Little notes crammed into the margins. Sharp, neat handwriting in black ink. Observations. Sarcastic comments. Underlined passages with a single word beside them — you. Sometimes a whole phrase: this reminds me of you or you'd probably argue about this part.

It’s like Zayne is sitting beside you as you read, muttering in your ear.

The strange thing is — the words, the quiet thoughts he left scattered across the pages — they make you feel something. Something unfamiliar and terrifying. A buzzing under your skin, a pressure behind your ribs, too wild and heavy to name.

You devour the books hungrily.

You savor every messy annotation like it’s oxygen.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. You're just imagining things.

Until the night it isn’t.

You’re halfway through another novel — a sweeping, painful story about a dying girl and a boy who loved her too much — when it happens.

Your heart flutters.

You freeze, book slipping from your hands onto the bed.

Not in the way it usually does — the panicked, stuttering rhythm that sends alarms shrieking and nurses running.

This flutter is different.

Soft. Gentle. Terrifying.

For a second, you can't breathe — not from weakness, but from something that feels suspiciously like hope, like longing.

Within seconds, your room explodes into motion — nurses flooding in, monitors flashing to life, Doctor Li himself arriving in a whirl of urgency.

You panic.

You hit the pager beside your bed, repeatedly.

They swarm you with equipment, prick your fingers, measure your heart rhythms. Voices rise and fall in a symphony of concern.

In the middle of it all, you sit there, dazed and mortified.

Because you realize — slowly, stupidly—you’re not dying.

When the chaos finally ebbs, when the monitors hum their steady, forgiving rhythm again, Doctor Li kneels beside your bed and presses a gentle hand to your shoulder.

Not yet.

Not from this.

"You’re alright," he says, voice warm and steady. "It was just... an excitement response. A little arrhythmia. Nothing dangerous."

You nod, face burning.

You don't tell him it wasn't excitement about life. It was about his son.

It was the first time in your memory that your heart had jumped not from fear, but from feeling something more.

It was a start.

Time moves strangely after that.

You learn him.

Weeks blend into months.

Zayne visits more now — under the pretense of study sessions with his father, but you both know better. He still brings you books, still pretends it's nothing, but sometimes he stays to see which parts make you smile. You argue with him over characters. He rolls his eyes when you get too emotional. You learn the patterns of his dry humor, the sharp warmth hidden under his guarded exterior.

And, quietly, dangerously, you start to want more.

One afternoon, you find yourselves alone. Doctor Li is caught up in surgery. The nurses are busy elsewhere. The hospital is unusually quiet.

Zayne sits slouched in the chair beside your bed, tapping a pen against his knee. You’re thumbing through the latest book he loaned you — a nonfiction this time, something about stars and deep space, endless distances that make your small, fragile life feel even smaller.

For a while, you exist in comfortable silence.

Then, without looking at you, Zayne says, "You know you’re sick. Really sick."

It's not a question. It's a fact, laid bare between you.

You close the book slowly, pressing your palm flat against the cover to keep your hands from shaking.

"I know," you say, voice barely a whisper.

Zayne leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor.

"I want to fix it," he says roughly. "I’m studying to fix it."

You stare at him, heart twisting.

"You can't," you say, almost gently. "Nobody can."

His jaw tightens. His fingers curl into fists against his thighs.

"I have to," he mutters. "Otherwise... what's the point?"

The words hang there between you — raw, desperate, infuriatingly beautiful.

You swallow hard, feeling the sting of tears behind your eyes.

"You don't have to waste your life on me," you say. "You have your own future. Your own world."

Finally, he lifts his head and looks at you — really looks at you.

And in his dark, tired eyes, you see it.

"I'm not wasting it," he says.

The stubbornness.

The grief.

The terrible, trembling hope.

He says it like an oath. Like a prayer.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe — just a little — that maybe, just maybe, you're not fighting alone anymore.

You glance up from your book, startled to see Zayne standing by your bedside, a mischievous glint in his otherwise serious eyes.

A rustle of cloth. The scrape of a chair being quietly pushed back.

He holds out his hand to you — palm up, steady.

"Come on," he says, voice low and urgent. "Before someone notices."

You stare at him like he’s lost his mind.

"I’m not exactly mobile, in case you forgot," you say dryly, gesturing weakly at your IV stand and the tangle of wires monitoring your heart.

Zayne’s mouth tugs into the smallest, briefest smirk.

"I planned for that," he says.

He lifts a second IV pole from behind him — wheels it forward like a grand conspirator revealing his secret weapon. It’s empty except for a few dummy wires and a hastily knotted hospital gown draped over it like camouflage.

You blink.

He actually planned this.

"You're insane," you whisper.

"Maybe," he says. "But so are you for trusting me."

His fingers curl around yours, warm and sure, and for the first time in a long while, you feel something electric under your skin — something alive.

You don’t trust easily.

You never have.

But tonight — with the sterile hum of the hospital around you, and the fierce, reckless light in Zayne’s eyes — you find yourself reaching for his hand anyway.

Carefully, painstakingly, he helps you out of bed, maneuvering your real IV to look as inconspicuous as possible. You clutch his arm for balance, and he doesn't flinch or pull away. He just stands there, solid and steady, like he was built to hold you up.

Together, you slip out of your room and into the dimly lit hallway.

The hospital at night is a different world — softer, quieter, suspended in time. The usual sharp edges of sterile life blur into something almost magical.

Zayne leads you through the labyrinth of corridors, past empty nurses' stations and closed doors, moving like a ghost through his second home.

Eventually, he pushes open a heavy door, and you find yourself on the hospital’s rooftop.

You don't ask where you're going.

You trust him.

The cool night air hits you like a blessing. Linkon city sprawls out below you, lights blinking like a thousand tiny stars scattered across the dark.

Above you, the real stars stretch in endless constellations, faint but stubborn, refusing to be erased by the city's glow.

You stand there, breathing in the night, the IV pole at your side forgotten for a moment.

Zayne leans against the railing, his arms crossed over his chest, watching you with an unreadable expression.

"This," he says, tilting his chin toward the sky, "is the closest I could get to taking you out of here."

You stare up at the heavens, feeling something bloom painfully in your chest.

"You’re not supposed to do this," you whisper, but there’s no anger in your voice. Only wonder.

Zayne shrugs. "Sue me."

You laugh — a small, broken sound — and he turns his head slightly, like he wants to hear it again but is too proud to ask.

Finally, you glance over at him.

For a long time, you just stand there.

Two kids on a rooftop.

One dying, one refusing to let her go quietly.

"Thank you," you say simply.

His mouth twitches — the barest ghost of a smile.

"You’re welcome," he mutters.

Then, after a beat:

"You’re not allowed to die yet, by the way."

You blink at him, startled.

"That’s an order," he adds, looking away as if embarrassed. "Doctor’s orders."

Not if there’s still more of him.

You bite back the emotion swelling in your throat, smiling instead.

Because you realize, deep down, you don’t want to die yet.

Not if there’s still more of this.

After that first night, the rooftop becomes your place.

Whenever the nights are quiet and the staff is distracted, he appears in your doorway with a raised eyebrow and a silent question.

You and Zayne never talk about it.

You never plan it.

It just happens — an unspoken ritual.

You always nod.

And then you're off again — sneaking past monitors, wheels squeaking faintly, IV pole rattling slightly as you creep through the halls like co-conspirators against fate.

The rooftop feels almost sacred now.

Up there, the air smells less like bleach and more like possibility.

Up there, you aren’t just a patient strapped to machines — you’re alive.

You learn more about him — the way he hates instant coffee but drinks it anyway. His ridiculous sweet tooth. The way he grips the railing a little too tightly sometimes, like he’s afraid of losing control. How his smiles are rare but real, and he saves most of them for you.

Sometimes you talk.

Sometimes you sit in silence.

He listens. Really listens.

And he learns about you — the real you, the one buried under layers of hospital gowns and medical files.

He learns you love thunderstorms. That you used to dream of becoming an astronaut before you got too sick to dream at all. That you’re terrified, not of dying, but of being forgotten.

And something inside you, long frozen, starts to thaw.

You start pushing yourself during physical therapy. You sit up longer. You fight to stay awake through bad days just so you can catch a glimpse of him passing by.

You get stronger.

Not in the way that matters medically — your charts still fluctuate, your heart still falters sometimes — but your spirit grows stubborn. Fierce. Hungry.

And even if you don’t say it out loud, you know he wants it too.

You want more time.

You want more nights under the stars.

You want more him.

But the clock is always ticking.

Some nights, the pain comes back — sharp and sudden, clenching around your ribs like an iron hand. Some nights, the monitors scream and the nurses race in, and Zayne isn't allowed to visit until you're stabilized again.

On those nights, you stare at the ceiling and try not to think about how fleeting all of this is.

And then one night, when you’re both on the rooftop again, he blurts it out.

You wonder if he knows.

If he feels it too — the way the future presses down on you both like a heavy, inevitable sky.

"You’re getting worse," he says, voice low and tight.

You don't argue. You don't pretend.

Instead, you lean against the railing, the cold metal digging into your palms, and whisper, "I know."

You expect him to retreat. To shut down the way most people do when confronted with the ugly truth of you.

But Zayne just steps closer.

"You’re still fighting," he says roughly. "Even when it’s pointless. Even when you’re scared."

You laugh — bitter, broken.

"There's no winning this," you say. "No miracle cure. You know that, don't you?"

Then, very quietly:

He says nothing for a long time.

Just stands there, breathing hard, like he’s holding back something too big for words.

"I’m still going to try."

You turn your head, meeting his gaze fully for the first time in what feels like forever.

There’s no pity there. No empty promises.

And for the first time, you allow yourself to lean just a little closer, resting your forehead against his shoulder.

Only determination.

Only him.

He stiffens — startled — but then, slowly, carefully, he shifts so you fit against him better.

The IV line tugs against your arm. Your heart monitor blips faintly in the background.

But here, in this small, stolen moment, you aren't a diagnosis. You aren't a prognosis.

You're just a girl.

And he's just a boy trying to save you.

The night it happens, you’re both too tired to pretend you're fine anymore.

The rooftop air is thick and heavy, the heat of the day still clinging stubbornly to the concrete. You sit cross-legged on a worn blanket Zayne smuggled from the staff lounge, your IV pole parked dutifully beside you, your heart monitor muted to a low, steady pulse.

Zayne lounges beside you, long legs stretched out, arms folded behind his head as he stares up at the stars.

Neither of you say much.

The sky stretches overhead in an endless velvet sweep, pinpricked with faint light. Somewhere far below, Linkon city hums and breathes without you.

Words feel too heavy tonight.

Besides, you don’t need them.

You turn your head slightly, watching him.

His face looks softer in the dark — the stern lines of his mouth eased, the tension usually buried in his shoulders melted away. You can see the faint smudges of exhaustion under his eyes, the little crease between his brows he probably doesn't even realize he has.

You realize — with a strange, aching clarity — that you want to remember this. You want to burn this version of him into your memory so you can carry it with you, no matter what happens.

Your eyelids grow heavier with each passing minute.

The monitors hum quietly beside you, a gentle lullaby.

Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, your body leans sideways — just a little, just enough — and without thinking, without planning, you drift closer until your head finds his shoulder.

Zayne goes rigid at first — like someone just pulled a fire alarm inside his chest — but after a long, tense second, he shifts carefully, allowing you to settle against him.

You half-expect him to tease you. To make some snide remark.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he stays perfectly still, perfectly steady, like he’s afraid even breathing too loudly might wake you.

You don't remember falling asleep.

But you remember the feeling —safe, warm, suspended in something fragile and golden —as you sink into dreams for the first time in months without fear clawing at your throat.

You wake up hours later to the faintest touch — Zayne carefully adjusting your IV line, his fingers clumsy with sleep, his eyes still heavy-lidded.

He blinks down at you, caught between guilt and something deeper, something raw.

"Sorry," he mutters, voice rough. "Didn't mean to—"

You cut him off by curling a little closer, burying your face in the crook of his arm.

Later, when you’re both back inside, tangled in warmth and silence, the question slips out before you can stop it.

And for once, he doesn't argue.

He just lets you stay.

You’re still curled under your hospital blankets, the faint beep of your monitor filling the room like a heartbeat. Zayne sits in the chair beside your bed, scribbling distractedly in his med school notebook, but you know he’s only half-focused at best.

"Zayne," you say quietly.

He hums in response, not looking up.

"If you could have anything," you whisper, "anything at all… what would you wish for?"

He freezes, pen hovering midair.

The silence stretches so long you wonder if he’s going to answer at all.

Looks at you.

Then, slowly, he sets the pen down.

Leans forward, elbows braced on his knees.

His eyes are tired and beautiful, reflecting every terrible truth you both carry.

You open your mouth — to ask with who, to demand more clarity — but he beats you to it.

"I’d wish," he says slowly, like dragging the words out of his chest hurts,

"for more time."

"With you," he says, voice breaking just slightly on the last word.

Your heart stumbles painfully in your chest — not from illness, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of him, of this.

You can’t breathe.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until he’s there, wiping a thumb under your eye, the touch so painfully gentle it almost undoes you completely.

He just stays.

He doesn’t ask for anything more.

He doesn’t try to kiss you, or make promises he can’t keep.

Because he knows. You both know.

This love—whatever it is, whatever it’s becoming—isn’t about grand declarations or fairy-tale endings.

It’s about now.

It’s about this fragile, fleeting moment where you are still here, still breathing, still together.

And for tonight, that’s enough.

The days that follow feel… different.

It’s subtle at first — a lighter step in your walk, a softer smile tucked at the corners of your mouth — but it’s there.

Hope.

Tiny, fragile, impossible hope.

And it’s all because of him.

You don’t dare speak it aloud — not when your body is still betraying you at every turn, not when your doctors still whisper in careful, practiced voices outside your room — but it grows inside you anyway.

A stubborn little flame.

Because of the way Zayne looks at you now — not like a patient he’s sworn to protect, not like a lost cause — but like a person.

A girl with dreams worth fighting for.

One night, when the hospital halls are unusually quiet and the rooftop is bathed in a silver wash of moonlight, you find yourself blurting it out.

Your secret list.

The things you thought you had buried.

"I want to see snow," you whisper, breath misting faintly in the cold. "I want to dance without an IV pole dragging beside me." A soft, broken laugh slips from your mouth. "I want to eat an entire cake without someone telling me it’s too much sugar."

You glance at him, embarrassed, cheeks hot. "And I want someone to kiss me like it’s the end of the world."

But Zayne just listens — really listens — every word sinking into him like gospel.

You expect him to laugh.

Or worse, to pity you.

And when you fall silent, when you turn your face away to hide the burning in your chest, he steps closer.

You blink up at him, stunned.

"So we’ll do it," he says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

"We’ll do all of it."

"Zayne—"

"I mean it," he cuts in, voice fierce and steady. "Whatever time we have — we use it. Every second. No regrets."

You want to believe him.

God, you want it so badly your heart physically aches with it.

Still—still—

But you’ve been burned by hope before.

You know how cruel the world can be to people like you.

The way he looks at you now, fierce and soft all at once —the way he says we —you think maybe, just maybe, it’s worth believing again.

"Okay," you whisper, a little breathless, a little terrified.

He smiles then — not the small, careful smirks you’re used to, but a real, breathtaking smile that lights up his whole face.

"Good," he says, offering his hand to you like it’s a promise.

You slip your fingers into his, and the night folds around you, carrying your fragile hopes into the stars.

Later, back in your bed, curled up under warm blankets and still clutching the memory of his hand in yours, you allow yourself to dream.

Tiny dreams.

Stupid, beautiful dreams.

You fall asleep smiling.

You imagine catching snowflakes on your tongue with him.

You imagine dancing barefoot in a field, laughing until your lungs ache for the right reasons.

You imagine frosting on your nose, stolen kisses, clumsy hands trying to twirl you around.

You imagine living — even if it’s just for a little while — like you were never sick at all.

The night it happens, it’s unbearably hot — heavy, clinging summer air that sticks to your skin and makes the hospital walls feel even more suffocating.

You’re dozing restlessly in your bed when he appears at your door.

Zayne.

"Come with me," he says, without preamble.

His hair is a little messy, his white coat half-buttoned and wrinkled like he’s been moving fast — a little frantic, a little reckless.

He’s breathing hard, cheeks flushed from the sprint through the halls.

You blink blearily at him, confused.

Before you can protest, he’s wheeling you out of the room, fast and determined.

He doesn’t explain. He just strides forward, unhooks your IV pole from the wall, checks the portable monitor strapped to your wrist, and mutters,

"You’re stable. Good enough."

You always have.

Your heart kicks wildly in your chest — a mix of fear and excitement and confusion — but you don’t ask questions.

You trust him.

—

He leads you to the rooftop.

It’s empty, quiet — the city sprawled out below you like a glittering sea.

The sky overhead is a deep, endless blue-black, scattered with stars.

And then —

Zayne closes his eyes.

Takes a slow, steady breath.

And the world shifts.

It starts slowly — a faint chill curling into the warm summer air, the barest shimmer of cold gathering around him.

Then, with a soft, almost imperceptible hum, it begins to fall.

Snow.

Tiny crystalline flakes drift from the sky, swirling in delicate, shimmering patterns.

You gasp — a real, sharp, alive sound — and reach out instinctively.

A flake lands on your fingertip, melting instantly against your warm skin.

"You said you wanted to see snow," Zayne murmurs, voice low and a little shy. "Real snow’s impossible right now, but…"

He trails off, lifting a hand helplessly, as if embarrassed.

As if this miracle he’s created isn’t enough.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

You can't speak. You can't even think.

You just stand there, under the impossible snowfall, heart thundering in your chest like it might break free entirely.

He watches you — watches the wonder bloom across your face — and his own expression softens, the usual tension bleeding out of his shoulders.

And then—

As if the night wasn’t already enough—

He pulls something out from behind a nearby bench.

A small, messy cake.

"I made it," he says gruffly, ears turning pink. "Don’t laugh."

Lopsided.

Clearly homemade.

Icing smeared unevenly across the top.

You laugh anyway — a bright, broken sound — and it feels good, like sunlight bursting through storm clouds.

He steps closer, offering you a plastic fork.

You scoop a big, absurdly sugary bite and shove it into your mouth without hesitation, icing smearing at the corner of your lips.

Zayne chuckles under his breath — a rare, breathtaking sound — and reaches out with a thumb to wipe the frosting away.

The touch lingers longer than necessary.

The world slows down.

Your heart is pounding so hard now it’s probably setting off alarms somewhere inside the hospital.

And you realize — you don't want this moment to end.

You don’t want to forget any of it.

But you don't care.

Because then—he sets the cake aside.

Takes your hand in his.

The snow still falls around you, shimmering under the rooftop lights.

He doesn’t say a word.

He just pulls you into a slow, clumsy dance — his hand on your waist, your IV line dragging along but forgotten, your feet stumbling awkwardly in hospital socks — and you laugh again, breathless and giddy and so impossibly alive.

You sway together, turning in small circles, the city spinning lazily beyond the rooftop’s edge.

You think maybe your heart is breaking and mending all at once.

You think maybe you’re falling in love.

And when the song of the night winds down to a hush, when you’re standing chest-to-chest and he’s looking down at you with that unbearably soft expression —

You rise up on your toes.

Just a little.

Just enough.

And you kiss him.

Soft.

Gentle.

Trembling with all the things you’re too scared to say.

It isn’t perfect — your noses bump, you’re both a little off balance — but it doesn’t matter.

Because it’s real.

Because it’s yours.

Because it’s every wish you never dared to make coming true at once.

You pull back a fraction, resting your forehead against his, breathing in the cold he summoned just for you.

Neither of you speaks.

You don't have to.

Everything you feel is written in the way his thumb strokes over your wrist, in the way your fingers curl desperately into the fabric of his shirt.

You are here.

You are together.

For however long you have left.

And for now, for tonight, that's enough.

The plan takes a week to set in motion.

Doctor Li is cautious, of course — his worry etched in the lines around his tired eyes — but in the end, he agrees.

Maybe because he sees the way you light up now, the way your charts have stabilized just a little, like your heart has found something worth fighting for.

Or maybe because he remembers — painfully — what life is supposed to feel like outside sterile hospital walls.

Clearance is granted. Nurses fuss and fret, loading your bag with medications and emergency supplies, setting strict curfews and contingencies.

But you don’t care about any of that.

Because when Zayne wheels you out the front doors into the bright, wild world, it feels like stepping into another life entirely.

The city is buzzing, golden sunlight pouring like honey over everything.

And the park — oh god, the park! It's huge and sprawling and alive, filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the sound of children laughing.

Zayne’s hand never leaves yours as he leads you through winding paths, under archways draped in climbing roses, past glittering fountains that catch the light like tiny rainbows.

At one point he finds an empty patch of grass, drops a threadbare blanket he must have stolen from the hospital laundry, and you sit side by side under a tree, dappled sunlight dancing across your skin.

You’re breathless with wonder.

Breathless and alive.

For a long time, you just exist.

Breathing.

Laughing.

Watching the clouds drift by like lazy ships.

And then — quietly, almost shyly — Zayne starts talking about the future.

"Our own place," he says, tracing patterns in the air. "A tiny apartment, the kind where you can hear the neighbors arguing through the walls. We'd have to get a cat. Or a dog. Or both."

You laugh, heart aching sweetly.

He grins, warmed by your smile, and keeps going, voice steady and dreaming.

"I'd cook. You'd probably hate it. You’d tease me until I ordered takeout."

You close your eyes, letting his words wash over you like a blessing.

"And someday…" His voice falters, softens. "If you wanted — we could travel. Anywhere. Everywhere. Mountains, oceans. I’d show you real snow."

You open your eyes, finding him already watching you.

There’s a look in his gaze that’s almost unbearable in its tenderness.

"You’ll see everything," he murmurs, like a vow. "I’ll make sure of it."

You smile.

You don't say what you’re thinking — that you’d be happy seeing anything at all, so long as he’s standing beside you.

You just tuck the dream away, precious and impossible, into the quiet spaces of your heart.

You spend the afternoon like that.

Eating terrible ice cream from a street vendor.

Dancing barefoot in the grass even when your knees wobble and Zayne has to catch you, laughing into your hair.

Taking blurry, ridiculous photos with his phone — him pulling faces, you struggling to keep a straight one.

You are tired beyond words when you return to the hospital — every muscle aching, your chest tight with strain — but you are happy.

So unbearably, blissfully happy.

For the first time in your life, you feel like you belonged to the world.

Like maybe you could carve a little piece of it for yourself after all.

But happiness, you learn, is a fragile thing.

Easily shattered.

Easily lost.

It starts slowly.

Nothing you haven’t dealt with before.

A missed heartbeat here.

A dizzy spell there.

Nothing serious.

At least, that's what you tell yourself.

But soon it’s undeniable.

You don’t want to worry Zayne.

You don’t want to darken the light he’s given you.

You can’t catch your breath after simple movements.

Your fingers tremble when you try to hold a fork.

Your chest burns with a constant, gnawing ache that no amount of oxygen seems to soothe.

Zayne notices, of course.

He’s not stupid.

And he’s terrified.

The night you collapse in your room — monitors screaming, nurses rushing in a panic — Zayne shoves through the crowd like a force of nature, wild-eyed and desperate.

He’s the one who grabs your hand as they work frantically around you. He’s the one who keeps whispering your name, again and again, like he can anchor you here just by speaking it.

"Don’t," he chokes out, voice cracking for the first time since you’ve known him. "Don’t you dare give up. Not now."

You’re so tired.

God, you’re so tired.

Your vision flickers, the world tilting dangerously, but you find his face — blurry, beautiful — and focus on him with everything you have left.

"I’m so close," he says, begging now. "I’m almost there. Just a little longer — I swear — I’ll find a way —"

You smile.

Small. Broken.

You feel your heart weaken again — a tangible, physical slip inside your ribcage — but you hold his gaze.

You don’t have the strength for promises you can’t keep.

But you can give him this:

"I’ll try," you whisper.

It’s the truth.

It’s everything you can offer.

And it’s enough to make his fingers tighten around yours like he can hold you here by sheer force of will.

Like maybe love alone could be enough to save you.

It’s snowing again.

But not like before.

Not like rooftop snow under hospital lights, summoned from Evol and desperation.

This snow is real — thick, heavy flakes falling from a grey sky, the kind you can lose yourself in.

You’re standing in the middle of a wide, open field. Everything around you is blanketed in pure white.

And he’s there.

Zayne.

Not in a lab coat. Not with tired eyes and trembling hands. But whole.

Bright.

Smiling that rare, breathtaking smile he saves only for you.

"You made it," he says, voice warm as he reaches for you.

You laugh — really laugh — the sound echoing across the empty field like a song.

Your body moves easily, no wires tethering you, no weight dragging at your limbs.

You run to him.

You run.

He catches you effortlessly, arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you off your feet in a dizzying, laughing spin.

"You kept your promise," you murmur against his shoulder.

"I told you," he says simply, "I'd show you everything."

You don’t want to let go.

You don’t ever want to let go.

And so you don’t.

You stay like that — pressed against him, his heartbeat steady and sure under your palm — as the snow falls heavier, swirling around you like a blessing.

You close your eyes.

You dream bigger.

You see it all — the tiny apartment, the noisy neighbors, the stupid cat knocking over potted plants.

Burnt pancakes in the morning.

Train tickets to everywhere.

Laughing on crowded streets in cities you can't even pronounce.

Wedding rings slipped onto shaking fingers.

A life.

A real, messy, miraculous life.

With him.

Always, with him.

And for one shining, impossible moment—you believe.

You believe you’ll live long enough to see it.

You believe you already have.

The world is harsh when it drags you back.

Cold.

Bright.

Noisy.

You blink against the glare of fluorescent lights, the steady beeping of machines surrounding you.

The familiar, sterile scent of antiseptic stings your nose.

ICU.

Again.

You shift slightly — everything aches — and feel the tug of new wires and IVs threaded into your skin.

And then —

Warmth.

A hand.

Wrapped around yours.

You turn your head with effort.

And find him there.

Zayne.

Slumped in a chair too small for him, still in his hospital scrubs, dark circles bruising his eyes.

Sleeping.

But even in sleep, he doesn’t let go of you.

His hand is firm, steady, fingers laced with yours like a lifeline.

You watch him — your heart aching with something too big, too fierce to name.

You don’t move.

You don’t dare wake him.

And that’s enough.

Because for now — for this fragile, precious moment — you are still here.

He is still here.

—

You don’t know how long you just lie there, feeling his hand wrapped tightly around yours, listening to the steady blip of your own heartbeat on the monitors.

Eventually, he stirs.

You’re so tired.

But you're also… at peace.

A soft, broken noise leaves him — like even sleep can’t protect him from whatever war he’s fighting inside.

And when his eyes blink open, dazed and bloodshot, they land on you immediately.

As if he's terrified you'll vanish if he blinks again.

For a moment, he just stares.

As if he doesn't quite believe you’re real.

"Hey," you rasp, your voice barely more than a whisper.

His face crumples.

He surges forward, pressing his forehead against your joined hands, squeezing so hard it almost hurts.

You manage a smile — small, but real.

"You're awake," he breathes, voice wrecked with relief and exhaustion.

"God — you're awake."

"I wasn’t gonna miss your dramatic collapse," you joke, because you have to. Because the alternative — the raw fear in his eyes — is too much to bear.

It works, a little.

A huff of helpless laughter shudders out of him.

"You scared the hell out of me," he mutters against your knuckles, his breath shaking.

"You scare me all the time," you tease, lighter now, though your chest aches with every word. "But I’m still here."

He lifts his head, looking at you like you're something sacred.

"You have to stay," he says fiercely. "You have to — just a little longer —please —I'm so close —I swear—"

Your heart twists.

You wish you could bottle it up and drink it, let it heal you from the inside out.

He’s been saying that for so long.

So many promises.

So much hope.

You reach up, fingers brushing his jaw, feeling the stubble that wasn't there yesterday.

"I know," you whisper. "I know you're trying. I’m trying, too."

Your hand falls back to the bed, too heavy to hold up.

His hand follows immediately, cradling it again like he can shield you from the whole world.

"I can’t lose you," he says, so quietly you almost don’t hear it.

His thumb strokes over your knuckles, desperate and tender all at once.

"You won't," you whisper.

It’s a lie, and you both know it.

But it’s a kind lie.

The kind you tell someone when love outweighs truth.

His eyes glisten, wet and angry and afraid.

"You’re going to live," he says, like it’s a fact.

Like he can will it into existence.

You smile again — soft and sad and full of all the things you don't have the strength to say.

"I'll make sure of it," he vows, fierce and breaking.

"I’ll tear the world apart if I have to."

Even now, when your body feels like it’s slipping further away from you with every beat.

You believe him.

You always believe him.

Even now, when you know some promises are too big for this world.

You squeeze his hand weakly.

"I love you," you whisper before you can stop yourself.

It’s the first time you’ve said it out loud.

The first and — you know — maybe the last.

He lets out a broken, shuddering sound, and leans forward until his forehead rests against yours.

"I love you more," he whispers back, trembling.

"I love you enough to move heaven and earth if that's what it takes."

You close your eyes.

You let yourself believe it.

Just for a little while longer.

Just until the morning comes.

The days bleed together in a haze of too-bright mornings and too-quiet nights.

Sometimes you’re strong enough to sit up, to laugh a little when he brings you sweets hidden in his bag, the ones the nurses pretend not to see.

Sometimes you can’t even lift your head.

But he never leaves.

Zayne is there through all of it — a constant, stubborn presence.

He drags a battered medical textbook everywhere he goes, flipping through it with growing desperation between moments spent at your side.

You catch him muttering to himself sometimes — notes, formulas, theories — a language only he and the universe seem to understand.

His eyes never lose that fierce, determined light. Not even when the others — the nurses, the doctors, even his father — start looking at you with that pitying softness usually reserved for lost causes.

Zayne refuses.

Refuses to believe you are anything less than a miracle still waiting to happen.

And for a while, you let him.

You let yourself believe it too.

You dream together — quietly, in snatches of exhausted conversation.

Little things.

You fall asleep with his hand in yours, and for a moment, you almost think you’ll wake up to that future.

Trips you’ll take.

Places you’ll see.

A life waiting just beyond the next sunrise.

Almost.

It happens in the middle of the night.

At first, it's nothing.

A shiver.

A slight breathlessness.

You're used to it. You think you’ll ride it out like all the others.

But then the pain hits.

A blinding, seizing agony in your chest that knocks the air from your lungs.

You’re distantly aware of Zayne shouting — your name over and over—his voice cracking in a way you’ve never heard before.

Monitors shriek.

Nurses rush in.

The world explodes into chaos.

You try to find him — try to reach out — but your limbs are so heavy, your vision swimming.

You catch one glimpse — just one — of him being dragged back by hospital staff, his face twisted in a raw, desperate kind of terror that tears something deep inside you.

But you can’t speak.

You want to tell him it’s okay.

You want to tell him you’re not afraid.

You can’t even breathe.

And as the darkness rushes up to meet you —you think, faintly —

I’m sorry.

He’s still holding your hand.

Hours later, long after the machines have fallen silent.

Long after the nurses have cried quietly behind the curtains.

Long after his father stood at the door, silent and broken, and then walked away because he couldn't bear to watch his son shatter.

Zayne is still there.

Head bowed, shoulders shaking.

Your hand cradled in both of his like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

"Come on," he whispers, voice hoarse and raw. "Come on — you promised. You said you’d try —"

He presses your hand to his mouth, breathing you in like maybe he can still find some piece of you, some lingering spark that he can fan back to life.

"You can't leave yet," he says, broken. "I’m not ready — I’m not—"

The words dissolve into a rough, gasping sob.

It’s not fair.

You were supposed to have more time.

You were supposed to see the world, to laugh and dance and live.

You were supposed to have a lifetime — not just borrowed days.

Zayne buries his face against your cold fingers.

He doesn’t care who sees.

Doesn’t care if it’s undignified or messy or hopeless.

You loved him.

And he loved you.

Enough to move mountains.

Enough to break himself into pieces trying to save you.

Enough to hold onto you, even now — even when the world is cruel enough to have taken you away.

"I’m sorry," he chokes out against your skin. "I’m so sorry — I wasn’t enough —"

It isn't true. You would have told him that if you could. You would have told him he was always enough.

But all that's left is silence.

Zayne stays there, long after the world outside your hospital room forgets.

Long after the snow he once summoned for you has melted away.

Long after the rest of the universe moves on.

Just like you.

He stays.

Because love doesn’t vanish with the heart that carried it. It lingers—stubborn and beautiful and devastating —like the first snowfall on a summer night.

The rooftop hasn’t changed much.

Zayne stands there now, a tall figure in a dark coat, hands tucked into his pockets against the cold.

The same cracked tiles underfoot.

The same rusted railings.

The same battered bench, where once — a lifetime ago — two dreamers sat and imagined a future they could almost touch.

It’s snowing.

Soft, heavy flakes drifting down from a sky the color of mourning doves.

The night he watched you dance in the middle of summer, your laughter lighting up the world more than any stars ever could.

Exactly the way it did that night.

The night he made it snow for you.

His throat tightens.

He tilts his head back, lets the snow kiss his skin.

Lets the memories wash over him — sharp and tender all at once.

The wind whistles softly around him, as if in agreement.

"You'd hate this," he murmurs to the empty air, a wry smile ghosting across his face.

"You always said snow was pretty, but cold was overrated."

He closes his eyes.

He can almost see you — spinning in the falling snow, hands outstretched, that shy, luminous smile you only ever showed him.

Almost.

Zayne shifts, pulling something from his coat pocket — a small, delicate bouquet.

Not flowers.

Paper cranes.

Hand-folded, each one painstakingly creased.

A thousand wishes, a thousand promises.

He sets them carefully on the bench.

A silent offering to the girl who once taught him what it meant to dream — even if dreams don’t always come true.

"I did it," he says quietly, voice rough.

"I kept my promise."

He swallows hard, staring out into the snowy city lights.

"I couldn’t save you," he admits, the old grief still a raw, tender thing inside him. "But I saved others."

Hundreds of them.

Patients who would have died, now living because of the research, the surgeries, the relentless fire you lit inside him.

Because of you.

Always because of you.

Zayne breathes in deep, the cold burning his lungs, grounding him.

"I hope... wherever you are," he says, soft and sure, "you're proud."

The snow falls heavier now, blurring the edges of the world.

Zayne stands there a little longer, letting the silence wrap around him like a memory, like a prayer.

Finally, he turns to leave.

But before he goes, he glances back one last time —and for just a heartbeat —he thinks he sees you.

He doesn't blink.

Standing there in the snow, smiling.

Weightless. Free.

He just smiles back, tears blurring the world into stars.

"Happy anniversary, angel," he says.

And then he walks away, carrying you with him — in every beat of his heart.

Always.