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missmaymay13 · 3 months ago

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the night we met - q.hughes

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q.hughes x fem! oc | 25k

warnings : talks of su!cide, depression, anxiety, abu$e

summary: In a city of noise and pressure, two quiet souls—Quinn Hughes, the Canucks captain burdened by expectation, and Ava Monroe, the lonely daughter of a billionaire—find each other at their lowest. What begins as a silent connection in the dark becomes a lifeline, as they quietly piece each other back together. Through whispered confessions, found family, and healing love, they learn that sometimes, the gentlest stories are the most powerful—and that the right person can bring you home without ever saying a word.

a/n: I’ve working on this for a little bit now and I wanted to make sure I was happy with how it came out. I say it every time but I think this is my favourite thing I’ve written so far. I really hope you guys enjoy this.

masterlist

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From the outside, Ava Monroe had everything. The kind of everything that was splashed across glossy magazine covers and whispered about at exclusive dinner parties hosted in candlelit dining rooms with ten-thousand-dollar floral centerpieces. She lived in a sprawling mansion perched high in West Vancouver, with sweeping, cinematic views of the Pacific that made the sunsets look like they were painted just for her. The marble-floored foyer echoed with each step beneath her designer heels, and there was always someone paid to anticipate her needs—a private chef who prepared meals she rarely had an appetite for, stylists who dressed her like a mannequin, tutors who guided her through a curriculum designed to craft the perfect future. Her world was curated like an art gallery: everything polished, everything perfect.

But no one ever asked her if she felt at home in it. In truth, Ava had felt like a guest in her own life for as long as she could remember—present but not wanted, displayed but not held. A beautiful ghost wandering through a museum of someone else's making. Her every breath felt choreographed, like she was part of a play she never auditioned for.

Her name carried weight. Ava Monroe. Daughter of David Monroe, real estate tycoon turned international mogul, whose face was on the cover of Forbes more than it was in her life. And her mother, Sally—a socialite whose reputation for elegance was only matched by her absence. Together, they were Vancouver's power couple, untouchable in their glass tower of privilege. But Ava? She was the glass. Transparent. Fragile. On display, but invisible. A footnote in their empire.

From the outside, it looked like the dream. But inside, it was a mausoleum of unspoken words and unmet needs. A house that echoed with the absence of love. A girl who grew up surrounded by beauty and yet felt none of it belonged to her. Money was the answer to every problem, but it never asked her how she felt. It bought silence instead of comfort. And Ava—young, soft, desperate Ava—learned how to exist quietly within it. Learned how to smile for the cameras while dying in the dark. Learned how to shrink her soul until it could fit into the cracks of other people's expectations.

Money masked the emptiness. But it never filled it. It never could. It could buy her everything—except the feeling of being wanted.

She remembered the gold trim of her bedroom walls better than her father's laugh—if he even had one. The sound of his voice was a memory blurred by distance and business calls, always clipped and impatient, never warm. She couldn't recall a single bedtime story or a moment where he looked at her like she was something more than a fleeting responsibility. And her mother—God, her mother's perfume—that suffocating cloud of white jasmine and vodka, always seemed to arrive before she did. It clung to the drapes, to Ava's pillows, to her hair, long after her mother was gone. Longer than her embrace. Longer than her love, if it had ever existed at all. Her mother's touch was cold, her gaze colder. Ava used to press her small hands to the windows and watch her leave, praying she'd come back softer. She never did.

Ava's childhood was a mosaic of jet lag and hotel suites. She'd stood at the base of the Eiffel Tower, floated in gondolas down Venetian canals, and tasted sushi in Tokyo that melted on her tongue like snow. Her passport was thick with stamps by the age of ten. But none of those places felt like home. Home was a concept Ava didn't understand. Not really. Her childhood home in Vancouver was more like a museum—perfectly curated, but hollow. A stage built to impress, but never to comfort.

Her father was always gone. He existed in phone calls, scheduled meetings, and brief appearances in tuxedos at charity galas. When he was home, he was on his phone, always pacing, always tense, and Ava quickly learned that the way to his attention was through perfect grades or crisis-level tantrums. He preferred the grades. It cost less to reward her than to soothe her. When she got her first A+ in primary school, he handed her a bracelet worth more than some people made in a year, kissed her on the forehead, and left the room. She kept the bracelet in its box. She wanted his words, not his money. But words were too expensive for him.

Sally Monroe, meanwhile, was more ghost than mother—a haunting, a flicker in the corner of the room, a presence that came and went like perfume dissipating into stale air. She floated in and out of the house, high on champagne and attention, always late, always dismissive, like motherhood was a performance she never auditioned for. Her stilettos clicked across marble floors like a metronome of neglect, and her laughter echoed through hallways Ava was never invited into. Ava can still hear her words like a wound that never scabbed over, each syllable slicing deeper than the last.

"You ruined my body, Ava," she once spat, wine glass in hand, eyes glassy and unfocused.

"If I didn't have you, I could've been someone," she slurred another time, brushing past her daughter like she was a smudge on her perfect reflection.

"Why can't you just be normal for once?"

Ava would replay those moments in her head, over and over, like a broken record. The cruelness wasn't random—it was ritual. Her mother's disdain was the wallpaper of her childhood, unavoidable and slowly peeling away at her self-worth. Every glance in the mirror became a question: What was so wrong with her that even her mother couldn't love her? And still, some pathetic part of her held onto hope—that one day Sally would walk through the door, take Ava's face in her hands, and say she was sorry. That she was proud. That she wanted her.

But apologies were for people who felt remorse. And Sally Monroe never looked back.

Words sharpened like razors over time, and Ava bled internally for years. She bled in silence. She bled with a smile. Every glance in the mirror felt like she was trying to live up to a version of herself that never existed. She would stare at her reflection and wonder what exactly about her had made her mother unravel.

The only solace she ever knew was Brenda.

Brenda was the nanny who stayed far past her job description. She was the one who tucked Ava in, made her soup when she was sick, brushed the knots out of her hair while humming lullabies. Brenda was the one who held her after nightmares, whispered that she was special, that she was loved—words no one else ever said and meant. Brenda was home. When the world felt too loud, Ava would crawl into Brenda's arms and let herself feel small, feel held. Brenda was the only person who ever looked at Ava like she mattered. Not as a responsibility. Not as a paycheck. But as a person.

And then one day, Brenda left too.

Ava was fifteen. Her parents claimed she had to go—"boundaries," her mother had said with a smug twist of her lips. Ava didn't eat for three days. Her silence screamed at them, but no one listened. Brenda cried when she packed her last bag. Ava sat on the stairs, arms wrapped around her knees, watching her only source of love walk out the door. It was the first time she thought about disappearing. The first time she wondered what death felt like.

That's when the darkness started to curl around her, quiet and relentless. It wasn't a sudden collapse. It was a slow, steady erosion. Each day chipped away at her until there was nothing left but skin stretched over silence.

By sixteen, the depression was a thick fog that clung to her skin, seeped into her lungs, made every breath feel like drowning. The anxiety followed like a shadow. Panic attacks in the middle of the night, the overwhelming sense that she was suffocating inside her own skin. Her heart would race for no reason, hands trembling, chest tightening until she gasped for air like she was underwater. She wore silk and diamonds, but her ribs felt like they were collapsing.

She sat in therapy offices decorated in muted pastels, nodding while older women scribbled notes and offered her lavender tea and affirmations. Ava learned how to lie in those offices. Learned the right things to say so they'd stop probing, stop calling her parents, stop suggesting medication that her mother would scoff at anyway. The therapists saw her as a sad rich girl. Nothing more.

No one noticed she was slipping. Maybe they did, but they didn't care. Or they thought she'd be fine. She was Ava Monroe, after all.

At school, she was the quiet girl with perfect hair and vacant eyes. People wanted to sit next to her, invited her to parties she never showed up to, tagged her in photos she wasn't in. No one really saw her. The friends she made wanted status, not connection. They clung to her for the proximity to power, the name, the lifestyle they thought they could sip like champagne through her. They smiled in selfies and whispered about her when she turned her back. Her name got her into rooms, but her presence was irrelevant.

She deleted her social media when she turned seventeen. The silence was better than the noise. She didn't want to see the curated versions of people pretending to live happy lives, or the forced smiles of people who didn't know what it meant to ache.

Most nights, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the paint until her vision blurred. The silence was oppressive, curling around her like a second skin, smothering her slowly. She would lie motionless, the hum of the city outside her window reminding her that the world was still spinning, even if she wasn't. Each night bled into the next like watercolors running down the page, indistinguishable in their loneliness.

She often imagined what it would be like to simply vanish. To evaporate into the night air like breath on cold glass. Would anyone notice the absence of her quiet footsteps? The unoccupied chair in the lecture hall? The unread text messages on her phone? She doubted it. The idea that she could disappear without disrupting anything was both terrifying and oddly comforting. Some nights, the thoughts spiraled into places too dark to speak of—into fantasies of escape that stretched into eternity. A long, uninterrupted silence.

But something always tethered her to the edge. Sometimes it was the faint sound of Brenda's lullabies echoing in her head, like the memory of warmth. Sometimes it was a stranger's smile on the street or the way a poem broke open her chest just wide enough to let a sliver of hope in. A foolish, desperate hope that someone—anyone—might look at her one day and actually see her. Not the name. Not the money. Just her.

She never told anyone about those thoughts. Who would she tell? Her mother would laugh. Her father wouldn't even pause his call. And everyone else? They only knew how to love her shadow, never her soul.

There was no one to tell. So she carried it all alone, night after night, in a bed that felt too big, in a world that felt too empty.

Not Ava Monroe, the heiress. Not Ava Monroe, the girl with a platinum card and a perfect smile. Just Ava.

She turned eighteen and moved into her own condo in downtown Vancouver, a sleek place her father paid for and never visited. It was cold. Quiet. She painted one of the walls just to feel like she owned something in her life. She chose a soft green. Brenda would've liked it. The color softened the sterile white that made everything feel like a hospital.

University came next, more out of obligation than ambition. She studied literature because it felt like an escape, a place where pain was beautiful and loneliness had purpose. Her classmates admired her writing, but they never knew the stories came from somewhere real. She wrote about girls drowning in oceans of expectation, about mothers who forgot how to love, about the sound of being forgotten.

On weekends, she wandered the streets of Vancouver, alone with her earbuds and playlists of sad songs. Sometimes she sat at cafes and watched people laughing over lattes, wondering what it would feel like to belong to someone's world like that. Other times, she would walk along the seawall in Stanley Park, letting the crashing of waves drown out the noise in her head. She liked rainy days best—something about the grey skies made her feel less alone, like even the weather understood her.

She was twenty-one now. Twenty-one and still haunted by a childhood that looked perfect in pictures. Twenty-one and still trying to figure out who she was beneath the layers of privilege and pain. Twenty-one and still waiting for someone to stay.

The thing about being hollow is that it echoes. It makes everything louder. Loneliness. Grief. Desperation. The ache of never being chosen.

And Ava Monroe's whole life had been one long, aching echo.

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The city of Vancouver glittered under grey skies, caught in that strange, beautiful limbo between rain and light. The kind of grey that wrapped itself around buildings like a heavy blanket, soft and suffocating all at once. For Quinn Hughes, the skyline had become a blur—glass towers that reflected versions of himself he no longer recognized. Faces he used to know stared back from the mirrored windows: the hopeful rookie, the quiet brother, the boy with wide eyes and big dreams. But now, the reflections were hollowed out, distorted. He no longer knew which one was real.

He sat in his high-rise apartment overlooking the city, the window cool against his shoulder as he leaned into the silence. His breath left faint fog on the glass, fading faster than the thoughts in his head. The world outside moved with its usual rhythm—cars zipping through puddles, cyclists hunched against the drizzle, pedestrians rushing somewhere with purpose, umbrellas bobbing like tiny shields against the storm. But inside, Quinn felt still. Stuck. Forgotten.

The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound. The kind of silence that pressed against your chest and made you question if the world would even notice if you were gone. He hadn’t spoken to anyone all day. Not because no one called—he just didn’t answer. Some part of him hoped someone might show up anyway. But no one did.

The loneliness wasn’t loud. It was quiet and creeping, like fog under a doorframe. It seeped into his bones and made everything feel a few shades colder. He had the view, the prestige, the life people envied. But none of it meant anything when the only voice he heard was his own, echoing through empty rooms.

He blinked slowly, letting the rain blur his vision, and for a moment, he imagined the skyline disappearing. The city swallowed by mist. And him, sitting there, unnoticed. A ghost in a glass tower.

They called it an honor. They said it was a privilege. They said he earned it.

But when Quinn was named captain of the Vancouver Canucks, it didn’t feel like a crown. It felt like a shackle.

He remembered the headlines. The social media storm. The debates.

He’s too quiet. He’s not vocal enough. He’s not a leader. He hasn’t won anything.

People questioned his worth like it was a commodity they could bid on. They dissected his posture, his words, his facial expressions like analysts on a mission. Every move he made was magnified, every mistake weaponized. He was under a microscope, and the scrutiny burned.

He tried to drown it out. He told himself it didn’t matter, that he didn’t owe the world anything more than his effort. But it mattered. It mattered more than he wanted to admit.

Because all Quinn Hughes ever wanted was to be good enough.

Not just for the team. Not just for the fans. For his brothers. For his parents. For himself.

He grew up with a stick in his hands and the weight of expectation already on his shoulders. Being the oldest meant being the example. The one who knew the right answer. The one who paved the path not just for himself, but for everyone who came after. Every step he took was supposed to be a guide for his brothers, a light to follow. But what people didn’t understand was that he had paved that path with pieces of himself—with sleep he never got, with tears no one saw, with bruises he never let anyone treat.

Every time someone praised his poise, they didn’t see the nights he stayed up wondering if he was enough. Every time someone called him steady, they didn’t see how hard he worked to hold the cracks together. Each season, each game, each injury chipped away at him like erosion on a cliffside—slow, relentless. There were days when his body moved on autopilot, when he looked in the mirror and felt like a stranger was staring back. The boy who once dreamed with fire in his chest now looked at his reflection with tired eyes, wondering when the light inside him dimmed.

He wore his role like armor, but underneath it, he was breaking.

There were mornings he couldn’t get out of bed without pain shooting down his spine. Nights he iced his knees in silence while his teammates laughed across hotel hallways. Games where he played through injuries he should’ve rested. And still, when the final buzzer blew and the Canucks fell short yet again, he took the blame.

Always, it was Quinn.

He bore it in his posture, in the way his shoulders slumped when no one was watching. In the way he lingered on the ice after practice, skating until the rink emptied and all that was left was his shadow. He bore it in the bags under his eyes, the ache in his muscles, the distant look that had settled into his face.

And yet, no matter how hard he pushed, how much he gave, it never felt like enough.

His life looked like a dream from the outside. The penthouse apartment. The cars. The designer suits. The headlines. The cheers. But inside, it all felt empty. Like he was moving through a world made of glass, afraid to breathe too hard in case it shattered.

He tried to fill the void. With late nights and loud music. With drinks and shallow company. With bodies that meant nothing, tangled in his sheets, saying all the right things in the moment and disappearing before morning. But when the sun rose, so did the silence. And the ache.

It was always there.

The ache of being needed, but not known. The ache of being seen, but not understood.

Quinn carried the team like a secret. He never wanted the credit. Just the weight. He thought maybe if he carried enough of it, he could finally prove something—to himself, to the critics, to the kid he used to be who dreamt of the NHL and didn’t know how lonely dreams could become.

He watched the city pass him by from his window. Rain streaked the glass. The clouds hung low. Everything was tinted in shades of grey. His phone buzzed from the counter. Another text. Another obligation. He ignored it.

Sometimes, he wished he could disappear for a while. Not forever. Just long enough to remember who he was beneath the layers. Beneath the jersey, the title, the expectations. He didn’t even know what he liked outside of hockey anymore. Who was he when he wasn’t on the ice?

He closed his eyes and tried to remember the last time he laughed—really laughed. The kind that made your chest ache and your eyes water. The kind that felt free. Unfiltered. Nothing came.

He hadn’t laughed in a long time.

He had teammates. He had family. He had people. But the truth was, Quinn Hughes felt more alone now than he ever had in his life. And he didn’t know how to ask for help.

He didn’t know how to say that the pressure was crushing him. That every game felt like walking a tightrope with no net. That every loss carved something deeper into his chest. That sometimes he stood under the shower for an hour just to feel something real.

There was no off switch. No escape. He was Captain Hughes now. He had to be calm. Composed. Controlled.

But inside, he was drowning.

There were moments, late at night, when he’d walk the seawall alone with a hoodie pulled over his head and his breath fogging in front of him. Moments when he’d sit by the water and wonder what life would be like if he weren’t Quinn Hughes. If he were just... someone. Anyone. Free to feel without the fear of letting someone down.

Because that’s what it always came back to: letting people down.

He thought of his brothers. Jack with his bright smile and boundless energy. Luke with his quiet brilliance. They looked up to him. They always had. And that scared him more than anything. Because what if they saw the cracks? What if they saw how tired he was? What if they saw that some days, he didn’t want to lace up his skates? That some days, he resented the game that had given him everything and taken just as much in return?

He hated that part of himself. The part that felt bitter. Burnt out. Hollow.

He turned from the window, the sky outside darkening with the promise of another cold Vancouver night. The apartment felt too quiet. Too sterile. He poured a drink, not because he wanted one, but because it gave his hands something to do. The whiskey burned down his throat. It didn’t help. It never did.

Quinn sat on the edge of his couch, elbows on his knees, the glass dangling loosely from his fingers. He stared at the floor and wondered how much longer he could keep doing this. Keep pretending. Keep performing. Keep carrying.

He wanted something different. Something real.

He didn’t know what that looked like. Not yet. But he knew what it wasn’t. It wasn’t the headlines. It wasn’t the jersey. It wasn’t the cheers that faded as quickly as they came. It wasn’t the way people only saw him when he was winning.

He wanted someone to see him when he was losing.

Really see him.

Not Captain Hughes. Not the defenseman. Not the franchise savior.

Just Quinn.

And maybe, one day, someone would.

But tonight, the only sound was the rain.

And the hollow echo of a man trying to hold himself together.

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The air inside Rogers Arena was thick with loss. It clung to the walls, to the empty seats, to the damp gear hanging in open lockers. The kind of silence that followed a season-ending defeat was unlike any other. It wasn’t loud. It was heavier than that. A kind of grief that pressed itself into the bones of the room, into the stitching of the jerseys, into the very air itself. And in the middle of it all, alone under the dim fluorescent lights of the locker room, Quinn Hughes sat perfectly still, still in full gear.

His skates were unlaced but still on. His gloves, damp with sweat and frustration, sat clenched between his knees. The rest of the team had long cleared out—some silent, others trying to shake it off with forced laughter and hollow reassurances. Quinn hadn’t moved. His eyes were locked on the floor, seeing everything and nothing all at once. The same square of tile beneath his skates stared back at him like it had answers he’d never find.

The Canucks had missed the playoffs.

Again.

He ran through every moment of the game like a looped reel in his head. The fumbled breakout. The missed stick lift. The turnover in the second period that shifted the momentum. The bad line change. The penalty that cost them the equalizer. What if he had blocked that shot? What if he had skated faster? Thought quicker? Passed sharper?

What if he was just better?

It was always him. He could’ve done more. He should’ve.

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, his head cradled in his hands like it was the only thing keeping it from splitting apart. The weight of his helmet pressed into his forehead, the hard shell biting into his skin, but he didn’t take it off. It felt safer somehow, like a shield between him and the failure echoing in his bones. His fingers gripped at his hair through the fabric of his gloves before letting go, too tired to even hold himself together. His breathing was shallow, each inhale an effort, like even his lungs didn’t want to take up space. The room felt massive and shrinking all at once, like the walls were closing in on him while stretching into an infinite, hollow void. His pulse thundered in his ears, louder than the silence, louder than the thoughts shouting in his head. And still, he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because moving meant facing it. And right now, he wasn’t sure he could survive that.

They made a mistake.

Not just naming him captain.

Drafting him.

Quinn didn’t know when those thoughts started to grow roots in his chest, but they were in full bloom now. What if he was a bust? A wasted draft pick? All this time, everyone talked about his skating, his vision, his composure—but what did any of that matter if he couldn’t get his team there? If he couldn’t lead them?

What if he was never meant to be enough?

What if he peaked too early?

He slowly peeled off his gloves and dropped them to the floor with a soft thud that echoed louder than it should have in the empty locker room. His fingers trembled, tingling from the cold sweat that had long dried against his palms. The ache in his knuckles pulsed like a second heartbeat. He flexed them slowly, like the pain might root him back into his body.

He stared at the gloves for a moment, his chest tightening. They looked so small on the floor. So defeated. Just like him.

He exhaled shakily, the sound catching in his throat. Then he braced himself against the bench and pushed himself up. His legs screamed in protest, muscles stiff and bruised from the game, from the season, from everything. The weight of his gear felt unbearable now. The jersey that once filled him with pride now felt suffocating, like it was pressing down on every bone.

His shoulder pads creaked as he moved, the Velcro at his sides sticking stubbornly as if even his equipment didn’t want to let go. The familiar routine of undressing after a game felt foreign. Wrong. His body went through the motions, but everything inside him was numb. Disconnected.

He didn’t bother taking off the rest. Just the gloves. Just enough to stand. Enough to move.

And so, step by step, like a sleepwalker, he drifted toward the showers. Not with purpose. Not even with intent. Just the instinct to hide somewhere the world couldn’t see him fall apart.

The water hit his skin, hot at first, then numb. Steam rose around him, curling into the air, catching the yellow of the overhead lights. He leaned his forearm against the tile and rested his head against it, eyes shut tight. His breath stuttered.

And then the tears came.

They ran down his cheeks, hot and quiet, blending seamlessly with the water cascading from the showerhead. He didn’t sob. He didn’t make a sound. He just cried. The kind of crying you didn’t even know you were doing until it had already broken through. His shoulders trembled under the pressure of all he carried, all he never said aloud.

He didn’t know how to do this anymore.

He didn’t know how to keep pretending.

How to wear the 'C' like it didn’t burn his chest.

How to keep skating when he was skating on empty.

He stayed under the water until it ran cold, until his skin was numb and his chest felt hollow, the ache in his sternum blooming deeper with each passing second. The icy spray carved through the steam and sliced against his shoulders, but still, he stood there. Rigid. Breathless. Hoping that if he just stayed a little longer, it would rinse away the guilt, the weight, the disappointment he carried like a second skin.

He tilted his face toward the stream, letting it pour down over him, blinding his eyes and filling his ears until the world outside was muffled into nothing. He wished it could drown everything out. The voices. The headlines. The pressure. The relentless whisper in his own head telling him he was a failure. That he’d let everyone down. That he was just pretending.

When he finally moved, it was mechanical. He reached for a towel without looking, barely registering the shivers that had taken over his body. Each motion was slow, deliberate, like his limbs were moving through molasses. He got dressed without looking in the mirror—he couldn't bear to. Not tonight. Not when all he would see was hollow eyes and the wreckage of who he used to be.

The locker room was even quieter now, echoing with emptiness. He grabbed his keys from his cubby and made his way down the hall, his footsteps the only sound bouncing off the concrete walls. The back exit opened with a metallic click, and he stepped out into the cold embrace of the night, where even the air seemed to exhale with grief.

He drove through downtown Vancouver like a ghost. The city glowed with artificial life—streetlights, neon signs, headlights weaving through traffic. His hands gripped the steering wheel tight, knuckles pale. He turned off the music. He couldn’t stand the sound. Not tonight.

When he pulled into the underground parking lot beneath his building, he didn’t move right away. He stared at the elevator doors, engine ticking as it cooled. His eyes burned.

Then, slowly, he shifted the gear into park, turned off the ignition, and stepped out.

But he didn’t go to the elevator.

He walked. Back up the ramp, through the quiet lobby. Past the sleeping doorman and out the revolving door. Into the cool night, where the mist clung to his hair and the scent of the sea drifted in from the harbor.

His feet took him to the waterfront without thinking.

He sat down on a bench facing the water, a familiar spot tucked just far enough from the streetlights to feel hidden—like the world had deliberately carved out a pocket for solitude. He didn't need light. Not tonight. He needed the shadows, the quiet, the place where he could unravel without the risk of being seen. The night stretched out before him like a great velvet curtain, draped in shades of sorrow.

The moon hung low and full, its glow casting a pale sheen across the surface of the harbor, soft and eerie like a whisper. The light shimmered on the dark water like spilled silver, rippling with every subtle breath of the breeze. It felt like something ancient was watching—not judging, just witnessing. Bearing quiet testimony to the ache in his chest.

Waves lapped quietly against the edge, a rhythm too soft to offer comfort, but enough to remind him that time was still moving even when he wasn't. Even when it felt like everything inside him had come to a halt. His breath came slow and fogged in the cold air, a small trace of life in a body that felt otherwise hollow.

Across the harbor, the city looked like it was sleeping. The lights in the high-rises twinkled like constellations behind glass, but there was no warmth in them. They were cold and distant, a mockery of connection. From here, the skyline looked soft, like someone had taken an eraser to its sharp edges—like the whole world had blurred, and he was the only thing left in focus.

There was no one else around. No footsteps. No voices. Just Quinn and the darkness and the distant, indifferent city. No hum of conversation. No rattle of a bike chain. No hint of movement on the quiet street behind him. Just the low thrum of the city breathing somewhere far away, out of reach.

The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was vast. Cold. Like standing in the middle of a frozen lake with nothing but the creaking ice beneath your feet. The kind of silence that made every heartbeat echo too loud, every breath feel like a scream in a cathedral.

And in that space between heartbeats, he let himself sink into the stillness. It wasn’t comfort he found there, but a numbness that offered a temporary shield from the thoughts clawing at the edges of his mind. He didn’t cry. Didn’t breathe deeply. He didn’t feel worthy of either.

He just existed. Quiet and alone. A silhouette on a bench, washed in moonlight and regret. A man with the weight of a city on his shoulders, with no one to help him carry it.

And somehow, that felt like both a punishment and a mercy. Because in that solitude, at least he didn’t have to pretend. At least out here, in the dark, he could stop performing for a world that only loved him when he was winning.

Quinn slouched forward, hands clasped together, his breath visible in the air. He stared at the reflection, wishing he could fall into it. Dissolve into the dark and start over. Be someone else.

The thoughts returned.

What if he never lived up to who he was supposed to be? What if he let everyone down? His team. His family. Himself.

He pressed his fists to his eyes.

He wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t even sure he ever had been.

He didn’t see her at first. His eyes were still on the water, lost in thought, in shame, in questions that never seemed to end. The world around him had blurred, dulled to nothing but the rhythmic lapping of the tide and the slow rise and fall of his breath. The bench, the ground, the sky—it all felt far away. He was so deep inside himself that the rest of the world ceased to exist. So when the wooden slats shifted just slightly beneath him, when the gentle weight of another person settled quietly on the far side of the bench, it felt more like a ripple than a presence. A shift in the atmosphere. A soft reminder that he wasn’t, in fact, entirely alone in the dark.

A girl had sat down beside him.

She wore a grey sweater, hood pulled up over short brown hair. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, her shoulders drawn in like she was trying to take up less space. She didn’t look at him. Her gaze was fixed straight ahead, on the water, on the moonlight that shimmered across it.

Her eyes were glassy. She’d been crying.

Despite choosing to sit on the only occupied bench in a stretch of empty ones, she didn’t acknowledge him. It was almost like she didn’t even register that he was there. Or maybe she had—and chose not to care. She made no shift to the side, no polite nod, no glance of curiosity or apology. She just sat, arms crossed tightly around herself, a human question mark curled inward.

Her shoulders were hunched so tightly it looked like she was folding into herself, like she wanted to disappear. The kind of posture that said: don’t look at me, don’t ask, don’t speak. Her body language broadcasted it louder than words ever could. She didn’t seem to want to be seen, and yet she had come to this exact bench, as if drawn by some unspoken gravity.

She just sat there, staring at the water like it held answers. Like if she stared hard enough, long enough, the waves might part and whisper something she needed to hear. Something to make staying feel like less of a mistake.

And Quinn didn’t say anything either.

For a long time, they sat in silence.

The kind of silence that wasn’t awkward. Just heavy. Weighted with things neither of them could say. The occasional car drove by behind them, its tires hissing on the wet road. Somewhere nearby, a gull cried out and the water lapped softly against the shore. It was the only sound that felt honest.

He didn’t know who she was.

But she looked like she was drowning too.

Ava Monroe had never meant to sit on that bench.

She had never meant to be anywhere at all, not tonight.

The fight with her mom had been brutal. Ugly. The kind of words that didn’t just hurt—they hollowed her out. Scarred deeper than fists ever could. Ava had gone to her mother out of desperation, aching for some kind of connection, some shred of maternal warmth, a single thread to hold onto. But all she got was venom, sharp and cold and unforgiving.

The words weren't just cruel—they were confirmation. Confirmation that every terrible thing she had ever believed about herself was true. That she was a burden. That she wasn’t wanted. That she wasn’t enough. Her mother’s voice didn’t just echo in the room—it rooted itself in her chest, in the hollow spaces already carved out by years of neglect and silence. It made her feel microscopic. Like her existence had always been some colossal inconvenience.

Ava left that house feeling like a ghost. Like a girl made of glass. Each step home felt heavier, more meaningless. There was nothing left in her—no fire, no fight, not even the quiet defiance she used to carry just to get through the day. She felt like she didn’t belong anywhere, not even in her own skin. Like the world had gone on without her a long time ago, and she’d only just realized it.

"You’ll never be enough."

"You ruined everything."

"You were a mistake."

The words sliced her open, deep and surgical, with a precision only a mother could wield. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Didn’t cry. She just stood there, frozen in place, absorbing every blow like a sponge, letting it soak through her until she was heavy with shame. It was like watching her own soul disintegrate in real-time. Her hands hung limp at her sides. Her heart didn’t even race—it just slowed, like it had given up trying.

She moved on instinct, her body carrying her out the door and down the street like she was sleepwalking, like something detached had taken over and was pulling the strings for her. The city was buzzing around her, but she didn’t hear it. Didn’t see it. She was a shell.

When she got back to her apartment, the lights were too bright. Too artificial. They revealed too much, illuminated all the places inside her that were cracked and bleeding. She walked past the mirror without looking. She knew what she'd see: nothing. Just hollow eyes. A stranger.

And then she saw the bottle. It was just sitting there. Quiet. Waiting.

She picked it up.

Stared at it.

Her hand shook as she unscrewed the cap. She poured them out into her palm, white tablets spilling like tiny bones into the center of her hand. The weight of them felt enormous. Final.

She sat on the floor, cold and silent, and stared at her shaking hands. Her breathing came shallow, like the room had been drained of oxygen. Her thoughts were louder than ever, a storm behind her eyes: You’re a failure. A disappointment. A mistake. Unlovable.

The silence was so total, it felt like the world had already moved on without her.

And for one long, harrowing moment, she almost let go.

She shook them gently, the pills rattling like distant thunder in the quiet room—a sound so small, yet impossibly loud in the silence.

Her fingers shook.

Her breathing was shallow, barely there, each inhale catching like her lungs had to think twice before choosing to keep going. The silence in the apartment pressed against her ears, not soft or gentle, but brutal—the kind of silence that made your skin crawl, like the walls were whispering all the things you were too afraid to say out loud.

It was too quiet. Too still. Like the world had stopped moving just to watch her unravel. The ticking of the clock felt like a taunt, counting down a life she didn’t want to keep living. Her heart didn’t feel like it beat anymore—it thudded, dull and mechanical, like a broken metronome.

Everything inside her felt empty and echoing, like she had become a hollow thing, carved out piece by piece by the people who were supposed to love her. She didn’t even cry. There weren’t tears left. Just a vast, suffocating stillness, as if even grief had abandoned her now.

But something stopped her.

A voice she couldn’t name. A feeling in her chest. Like someone was holding her wrist. Telling her to wait. To breathe.

She put the pills back in the bottle.

Put on her sweater.

Walked.

And now she was here.

Sitting beside a stranger.

Alive, but unsure why.

She didn’t know who he was. Didn’t care. All she knew was that he was as still as she was. As broken. That something about the way he stared at the water made her feel less alone.

They didn’t speak.

But their silence was the loudest thing either of them had heard all night.

Minutes passed. Maybe an hour. Neither of them moved.

Quinn glanced at her. Just once.

And for a second, she met his eyes.

Just a second.

But in that second, he saw her pain. She saw his.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, they both breathed a little deeper.

Together.

The night didn’t fix anything. It didn’t heal them. But it didn’t break them further, either.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

That night, they didn’t fall apart.

They just... sat. And survived.

Side by side.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Quinn looked across to her one more time.

Really looked.

It wasn’t just the way the moonlight framed her face or the way her sweater hung like armor against the night. It was the stillness in her body, the haunting in her eyes. There was something about her—something not loud, not obvious—but deeply known. A ghost of a memory wrapped in velvet pain. A shape he hadn’t seen in years but still knew by name, as if she'd been waiting on the periphery of his life all along.

His eyes traced the soft outline of her jaw, delicate and trembling like it held back a thousand words. The faint sheen of dried tears clung stubbornly to her cheeks, catching the moonlight like salt-crusted silver. But it was her expression that stunned him. That deep, quiet devastation. The kind of brokenness people learn to wear like perfume—undetectable unless you’ve worn it too. She didn’t just look sad. She looked emptied. As if she’d bled out every last feeling and was only now discovering what it meant to be a shell.

And the way she held herself, shoulders slumped like her bones could no longer carry the weight of being alive—it almost looked rehearsed. Like she'd practiced disappearing. Like she’d spent years perfecting the art of looking okay while silently screaming.

And then it clicked.

Of course he knew who she was.

Her last name was practically stamped into every corner of the city.

Monroe.

David Monroe. Real estate titan. Investor. Philanthropist. A name stitched into the very fabric of the city. His empire touched everything—commercial towers, luxury condos, high-profile foundations. And the Canucks? They were just another line on his ledger. A silent but steady benefactor of the organization, his influence loomed like the skyline his company had helped build. Every player knew that name. You couldn’t be part of the team without brushing shoulders with the Monroes.

Every year, they hosted a lavish charity gala—an affair of such extravagance that even seasoned veterans couldn’t hide their discomfort. Held in a grand ballroom glittering with crystal chandeliers and lined with tables draped in silk, the event was a performance of wealth and image. Silver champagne trays floated between guests, the air filled with the soft clinking of crystal flutes and rehearsed laughter. The players would show up in tuxedos, practice their media smiles in the car, and take photos for the press like it all meant something. They thanked the Monroes with polite handshakes and obligatory small talk, careful not to overstep, careful to appear grateful.

It was the kind of night where everything sparkled, except the people who had to pretend to belong there.

Quinn remembered her father clearly.

David Monroe was the one standing on stage, smiling beside ownership and management, when Quinn first pulled on the Canucks jersey on draft night. A handshake, a picture. Flashbulbs. Cheers. Everything about that moment had felt like a coronation. Quinn Hughes, savior of the franchise. Golden boy.

But he didn’t remember seeing her.

Not until now.

And now that he had—he couldn’t unsee her. Ava Monroe, the invisible girl behind the empire. The one who should've glowed under the same lights, been photographed on red carpets, toasted by men in suits, wrapped in everything that came with a name like hers. But she hadn’t. Somehow, she had slipped through the cracks of her own legacy, choosing shadows over chandeliers. Sitting beside him now, she looked like a ghost aching to be felt, not seen—like someone who had spent her whole life being too visible in the wrong ways and invisible in all the ways that mattered.

There was a haunting in her presence, the kind that made you want to apologize without knowing what for. And Quinn did. He wanted to say sorry for a world that forgot her. For a father who used her last name like currency while letting his daughter starve for affection. For the cameras that had never panned her way. For the years she must've spent wondering if her life was even her own.

And then, just as the recognition settled into his bones, she looked up.

Tear-stained eyes. Silent. Red-rimmed.

And she knew.

Of course she did.

Quinn Hughes. The prodigy. The captain. The promise.

The man who was meant to lift the city. To carry its hopes like a crown and wear its failures like chains. To lead the team through the fire and still emerge smiling. To be the one who fixed everything, even when he was the one silently falling apart. He was the face on the banners, the name in the headlines, the reason kids wore number 43 jerseys. And no one ever stopped to ask what that weight might be doing to the boy underneath it all.

She blinked at him, slowly, and something passed between them—something unspoken and deeply human, like the kind of look you give someone when you both know what it means to want to disappear. A silent understanding that didn’t need translation. A breath of shared grief, heavy and unrelenting, that wrapped around them like a fog neither of them could escape. In that fragile second, it was like they were looking into a mirror made of pain—different stories, different scars, but the same hollow ache behind their eyes. The world didn’t shift around them, but something inside did. Something wordless and aching that whispered, I see you. I feel it too.

Both of them had grown up being told they were meant for greatness.

Both of them knew what it felt like to suffocate under that weight.

Both of them were breaking.

The emptiness echoed between them like a heartbeat. A soundless ache that needed no explanation.

And then, after a pause that felt like it stretched out forever, Quinn swallowed hard, the tension in his jaw finally giving way. He turned his body slightly toward her, hesitant, uncertain, but needing to say something before the silence drowned them both.

"I—"

His voice cracked, and he had to start again.

"I don’t know if I’m good enough for this," he said quietly, almost like he was confessing it to the ocean. "I don’t know if I’m good enough for anything. At all. And I feel like I’m slowly falling apart and breaking."

The words sat in the air, raw and trembling.

She didn’t respond. Not with words.

A tear slipped down her cheek. Another.

"My, uh... my thought was that this would be my last night," She said, her voice barely a whisper. Her voice was thin. A ghost of itself. "It almost was."

Quinn’s breath hitched, but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t.

She looked down at her hands, still clenched tightly in her lap, knuckles white. The air around them suddenly felt sharper, like the world had stilled to listen.

Quinn turned his head just slightly, not wanting to push, but needing to hear her.

Ava swallowed hard, her throat raw. "I had them all in my hand. The pills. I sat on the floor of my bedroom, staring at them. And for a second, it was the only thing that made sense. Like I could finally stop the screaming inside my head. Like I could finally rest."

She took a shaky breath, then another, like her lungs were relearning how to function. Her voice was a flicker, something barely lit. "But I didn’t. I don’t know why. Something in me—some tiny, quiet part that still believed in something—just... wouldn’t let me. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was nothing more than habit. But I couldn’t do it. My hand was trembling so hard I thought I was going to drop everything."

Her stare fell distant, glassed over again. "I was sitting there, on the floor, holding my life in one hand and everything I hated about myself in the other. And all I could think was... no one would notice. Not really. My phone wouldn’t ring. No one would come looking. The world would keep spinning and I’d just be another girl who didn’t make it. And for a moment, that felt like peace."

She paused, her voice breaking on the next exhale. "But then something happened. Something I can’t explain. Like the tiniest part of me screamed. Like my own soul refused to be snuffed out without one final fight. I put the pills back. I stood up. I walked out the door. I didn’t even grab a coat. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew if I stayed one second longer, I wasn’t going to make it."

Her eyes finally flicked up, not to look at him, but past him, to the water. "So I ended up here. Still breathing. But not really living. Just... floating. Empty. I didn’t want to be found. I just didn’t want to disappear without someone knowing I was ever here in the first place."

The words hung between them, bare and bleeding. A confession not meant to earn comfort, just to be heard.

She didn’t cry when she said it. She sounded hollow. Like she’d already cried all the tears there were to cry.

And Quinn didn’t speak.

He just listened.

Because he knew what it felt like to be so tired of being alive that even breathing felt like a burden.

The honesty clung to the air like smoke. Fragile. Heavy.

Another tear traced the curve of Ava's face. But she still didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Her silence said enough. It said: Me too.

And maybe that was the first moment they truly understood each other. Not because of their names. Not because of who they were supposed to be. But because beneath all of that—the legacies, the expectations, the titles—they were just two broken people whose pain happened to echo at the same frequency. Two souls who had come to the water's edge not to find answers, but to surrender. And yet, somehow, they'd collided. Quietly. Gently. Without ceremony. Just a breath between strangers who were anything but.

Their silence wasn’t passive—it was deliberate. Thick with everything they couldn’t say. A communion of ghosts sitting side by side. Each aching, each unraveling, each choosing not to fall apart simply because the other was still sitting there. Still breathing.

And in that aching silence, something passed between them—not a promise, not a rescue, but a thread. Fragile. Unspoken. I see you. I feel it too.

As if pulled by gravity, they shifted.

Slowly. Quietly. As if afraid to shatter whatever had taken root between them.

They moved closer.

Ava’s shoulder brushed Quinn’s.

The contact was barely there, but it was enough. Enough to ground them both.

Quinn didn’t flinch.

Neither did Ava.

That small touch, that simple warmth, threaded something through them—a fragile thread of safety in a world that had offered them nothing but cold.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t dramatic. It was real.

Their bodies didn’t shift again. They didn’t hug. They didn’t hold hands. They just sat, shoulder to shoulder, their pain seeping into one another, until it didn’t feel so sharp. So singular.

They were two souls trapped under the same foot of pressure.

Two hearts with too many cracks.

Two people who had spent years suffocating in silence, and somehow found breath in each other.

Ava closed her eyes and leaned just slightly into his side. Not enough to be a plea. Just enough to say, I’m still here.

Quinn stayed still. But his head dipped ever so slightly in her direction. His shoulder curved toward hers. His eyes remained on the water, but his thoughts were finally somewhere else.

And in that moment, they both felt it.

A shift.

The beginning of something neither of them had words for.

A presence. A tether. A reason.

They sat like that for a long time. The world moved on without them—cars passed, waves rose and fell, the city lights blinked in patterns too fast to follow. But they didn’t move.

Minutes turned into hours.

The pain didn’t disappear. But it dulled. Muted.

Like someone had finally lit a candle in the dark.

And though they didn’t say another word, they didn’t need to.

The silence had changed.

It was no longer a void.

It was a shelter.

And sometimes, that was enough to begin again.

Just as the wind picked up, brushing past them like the breath of something ancient, Quinn turned his head slightly toward her. His voice was soft, barely there. "I see you," he said. Three words, but they felt like a lighthouse cutting through fog.

Ava didn’t answer right away. But her breath hitched, and then steadied. She turned her gaze to him slowly, her eyes tired, but no longer empty. "I see you too," she whispered.

They didn’t say anything else. There was nothing left to say. So they leaned gently into each other, the contact quiet but constant, and let the silence settle around them like a blanket.

The night stretched long, and the darkness never lifted, but they stayed. Two shadows on a bench, side by side.

And somehow, that night—that fragile, fleeting night—was enough for them to choose to stay a little longer in the world.

Enough to make it through one more sunrise.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The first light of dawn broke slowly, as if unsure whether it was welcome. It crept over the horizon in soft hues—faded gold, gentle blush, the faintest whisper of blue. The waves caught it first, the gentle lapping of water at the harbor edge shimmering like liquid gold. Then the sky followed, spreading it across the city like the slow reveal of a secret.

Neither of them had moved.

Quinn and Ava sat shoulder to shoulder on that old wooden bench, the air around them still heavy with the weight of everything that had passed between them. It wasn’t the kind of silence that screamed. It was the kind that exhaled—soft, worn, exhausted. The kind that said, you’re still here, and so am I.

The cold had settled into their bones, deep and aching, but they hadn’t noticed. Not really. Because something warmer had wrapped itself around them, invisible but steady. A shared understanding, a tether. The gravity of the night had forged something fragile and indelible between them—something they didn’t understand yet but felt all the same.

The silence between them had shifted from one of pain to one of comfort. From a quiet cry for help to a quiet offering of presence. No more apologies. No need for explanation. Just breath in the cold. The subtle rhythm of two people choosing, again and again, not to leave. Shared breath. Shared survival. And in that stillness, the beginning of something neither of them could name, but both of them needed.

The sunrise wasn’t beautiful. It was quiet. Muted. The kind of sunrise that didn’t demand attention, just offered presence. There were no vivid streaks of fire across the sky, no brilliant crescendo of colors. Just a slow, tender brightening. The world easing itself into wakefulness. It rose like a sigh—tired, cautious, and real.

And that, somehow, felt perfect.

Because that morning wasn’t about beauty. It wasn’t about spectacle. It was about surviving the night. About making it through the hardest hours and finding, somehow, that the sky still turned. That the sun still rose. That breath still came.

The light didn’t feel triumphant. It felt earned. Like something cracked open quietly and let the day slip in.

Quinn shifted slightly, straightening his back with a quiet exhale. He rubbed at his face, the exhaustion of the night finally catching up to him. Ava followed, stretching out her legs, feeling the pins and needles in her feet as blood returned to limbs left too still for too long. Her fingers flexed slowly, grounding herself back into her body.

They didn’t speak.

There was no need.

What could they say that hadn’t already been said in silence?

Instead, they exchanged a glance. A quiet, reverent thing. A moment of mutual understanding that needed no words. It lingered, not rushed or fleeting, but long enough to say everything that mattered. There was something sacred in it—a silent bow of gratitude, a recognition of shared survival. They didn’t smile. Didn’t cry. They just looked at each other with the kind of raw honesty that only exists after darkness has been witnessed together. It was their way of saying, I see you. Thank you for staying.

And softly, Quinn spoke again. His voice was hoarse. "I see you."

Ava met his eyes, her own rimmed with a different kind of tear this time—not despair, but something gentler. "I see you too."

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t cinematic. But it was enough.

Ava stood first. Her body protested, stiff and cold, but she didn’t mind. She tucked her hands into the sleeves of her hoodie, glanced down at Quinn, and gave the smallest of nods. He rose with her, slower, heavier, but he stood.

They didn’t hug.

They didn’t exchange numbers.

They didn’t make promises.

They just parted ways.

She walked one way, toward the edge of downtown, her steps slow, as if her body was still catching up to the weight of what had just happened. The hoodie swallowed her small frame, the sleeves too long, her hands still hidden inside them. With every step, she felt the echo of their silence, the comfort of it, trailing behind her like a ghost she wasn’t quite ready to let go of.

He walked the other, toward the towers he called home, his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, not from the cold but from something deeper—an ache, a lingering presence pressed into the slope of his spine. The bench faded behind them, but the feeling of it stayed—like warmth that lingered long after the fire had gone out.

The city slowly came alive around them—joggers blinking against the light, dog walkers tugging sleepy pups along wet sidewalks, the hum of traffic stirring awake. The world resumed its rhythm as if nothing had happened, as if two broken souls hadn’t just sat in the quiet and saved each other without saying so.

And neither of them looked back.

But both of them carried it. That night. That moment. That bench. A memory soft and sacred, stitched into the fabric of their morning.

They didn’t need to say it aloud. There was an unspoken agreement between them now. A silent pact forged in the dark: this night belonged to no one else. It was not for telling. Not for sharing. It was theirs. Only theirs.

And somehow, that knowledge was enough to steady their steps.

That should’ve been the end.

But it wasn’t.

Because somehow, a week later, they both ended up back at that same bench.

It wasn’t planned. Neither of them expected it. Quinn had taken the long way home after a game, a loss that twisted in his chest like a knife and refused to loosen its grip. His body ached, but not from the ice—from the weight of the night, the disappointment of another failed attempt at being enough. He didn’t want to go back to his apartment. The silence there wasn’t just silence; it was sharp, punishing, an echo chamber of regret. The lights were always too bright when he walked in. The air always too still. The emptiness too honest.

So he drove with no destination, his hands on the wheel but his thoughts miles away. His chest heavy. His eyes burning. He didn’t know where he was going until he got there.

That bench.

The one that had held him when he couldn’t hold himself.

The one where someone had seen him and stayed.

And Ava—she hadn’t planned it either. But she couldn’t stay in that house. Not after the latest fight. Not after hearing the same accusations echo off the walls. Not after being told she was ungrateful. Spoiled. A waste.

She had walked out into the night without a destination. Without a plan. Just a desperate need to breathe. To exist somewhere her pain wasn’t questioned or ignored. She didn’t know where her feet were taking her. Only that she needed to follow them.

And like something pulled from a quiet promise, from the magnetic pull of shared grief, they ended up there. As if the bench itself remembered them—held their pain from nights before, waited patiently beneath the city’s noise for their return. It wasn’t just a coincidence. It felt fated, like a hidden current in the universe had gently ushered them back to each other, back to that sliver of peace they had carved together in the dark. A place that didn’t demand anything but presence. A place that somehow knew what they needed before they did. They arrived without purpose, without preparation, but their steps mirrored the same ache, the same longing—to not be alone with the weight they carried. To be met in the middle of their ache without question. And again, the bench made room. Again, they sat. Together.

At the bench.

At the edge of the world.

Within minutes of each other.

Their eyes met.

Quinn’s breath caught.

Ava’s shoulders, tight with tension, eased.

She sat first.

He followed.

And that night, they stayed until the stars faded.

It became a rhythm. An unspoken routine.

They never texted. Never called. Never asked, will you be there?

But somehow, they always were.

Maybe not every night. But often enough that the bench no longer felt like just a bench. It became something sacred. A place of reckoning. Of retreat. Of quiet rebuilding.

They brought coffee sometimes. Wore warmer clothes. Sometimes one would arrive to find the other already waiting, and nothing needed to be said. The presence alone was enough. Familiar. Reassuring.

And each night, they shared a little more.

Quinn spoke about the pressure of being captain. Not in the way reporters asked about it, but in the way it sat on his chest at 2 a.m., making it hard to breathe. He talked about the fear of failure. The guilt of losing. The exhaustion of being everything to everyone and still feeling like nothing to himself.

Ava listened. Not as a fan. Not as a girl dazzled by his fame. But as someone who knew what it meant to crumble. To carry weight you never asked for.

And Ava, in turn, spoke of her loneliness. Of growing up in a house full of noise but no warmth. Of disappearing behind her father’s money, behind her mother’s scorn. Of wanting, so desperately, to be loved without condition.

Quinn didn’t offer advice. He didn’t tell her to be strong. He just listened. Sat with her in the stillness. Let her be.

And so it went.

Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t. Some nights were filled with stories, confessions, tiny truths whispered into the dark. Other nights, they just sat side by side in silence, their presence saying everything their mouths couldn’t.

They didn’t touch. Not beyond the occasional brush of shoulders. Not beyond the quiet comfort of nearness. It wasn’t about that.

It was about knowing.

About being seen.

About sharing pain without having to relive it.

They came as Quinn and Ava. Not the captain burdened by expectations and headlines. Not the heiress veiled in privilege and shadowed by neglect. Just two souls stripped of their titles, peeled back to their most human selves. Two people with fractures in their bones and too much weight in their hearts—weight that made it hard to breathe some days, impossible to stand on others. And yet, they stood. Or sat. Or simply were. They didn’t need to perform. They didn’t need to impress. They didn’t need to be anything more than exactly what they were in those moments: quiet, unraveling, healing. The bench didn’t care about what jerseys they wore or whose name came on checks. It welcomed them as they were. And together, they began to stitch the pieces of themselves into something new—not flawless, but whole in a different kind of way.

And little by little, something began to shift.

The bench became a bridge.

They laughed sometimes. Quiet, soft laughter. The kind that didn’t echo, just lingered in the air like a promise. It wasn’t loud or forced—it was shy at first, like they were rediscovering what it meant to feel light for even a second. Ava would tell him about old books she loved, the ones with pages yellowed from being read too many times, stories that had been her escape when the world felt too cruel. She’d describe the characters like friends, like pieces of herself she never knew how to share until now.

Quinn would talk about skating. Not just the game, but the movement. The way it felt to glide when the world grew too heavy, how the ice made sense when nothing else did. He spoke about the quiet before a puck dropped, the clarity in motion, how for just a few seconds, everything else fell away and he could breathe. Sometimes he brought her old playlists from the locker room, laughing about the bad ones, smiling over the ones that stuck. Ava once brought him a thermos of chamomile tea because she said it smelled like peace. They didn’t make it a big deal. But he drank every drop.

Some nights she’d bring a book and read aloud, her voice soft and even, Quinn listening with his eyes closed, as if the sound alone was enough to stitch something inside him back together. Some nights he’d point out constellations, giving them wrong names on purpose just to make her roll her eyes and laugh, really laugh—head tipped back, teeth showing, that rare kind of laugh that healed something hidden.

They didn’t need plans. Just the bench. Just each other. And the quiet joys they built, one breath at a time.

And the pain didn’t vanish.

But it changed.

Because now, they weren’t carrying it alone.

They were still broken.

But broken didn’t mean empty.

And in each other, they found space to heal.

Quietly.

Softly.

Without rush.

Without expectation.

Without fear.

The world still didn’t know about those nights. No one ever would. And that was the point.

It was theirs.

Just Quinn.

Just Ava.

Two shadows who collided at the edge of their breaking point, and stayed long enough to remember what it meant to begin again.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Eventually, they moved on from the bench.

It wasn’t sudden. It was a slow drift, like everything else between them. A natural, quiet shift from one space to another. The bench had become their place, their anchor—but like all things born from pain, it wasn’t meant to hold them forever. Healing required movement, and without realizing it, they’d begun to crave something more than the comfort of shared silence. They wanted light. Warmth. A kind of closeness that didn’t depend on the shadows.

Quinn had been pestering her for weeks.

"You haven’t seen it? Seriously? Ava, it’s the movie," he’d say with mock indignation, hand over his heart as if she’d personally offended his taste in cinema.

"I don’t know," she’d reply with a small shrug, teasing but cautious. "I’m not in the mood for something sad."

"It’s not sad. Okay, well, it kind of is. But in a good way. In a ‘you’ll cry but also feel seen’ kind of way."

He’d keep bringing it up at the end of their nights at the bench, each mention softer, more coaxing. Until one night, she sighed, smiled faintly, and said, "Fine. Let’s watch your movie."

That night, they didn’t go to the bench.

Instead, they found themselves in his apartment. It was the first time she’d been there. He had tried to tidy up beforehand, but it still looked lived in—soft piles of laundry, a few mugs on the counter, books stacked haphazardly beside the TV. It smelled like pine soap and popcorn, and it felt safe. Not perfect. Not curated. Just like him.

They sat next to each other on the couch, sharing a worn fleece blanket Quinn had pulled from the back of the couch, its corners frayed, edges soft from years of use. He’d made popcorn, which she’d half-spilled trying to get comfortable. They laughed about it, brushing kernels off the floor, her giggling melting into his quiet chuckle. The room buzzed with the easy kind of energy they didn’t get to feel often—light, open, effortless.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower.

They watched in silence, the kind that meant they didn’t need to fill the space between them. It was the kind of quiet that felt sacred, a quiet formed not from awkwardness but from complete ease. The room seemed to hold its breath with them, lit only by the flickering of the screen and the faint rustle of popcorn shifting in the bowl on Ava’s lap.

Occasionally, Ava would glance sideways at him, not just watching him, but seeing him. The way he leaned forward during the emotional scenes, how his hands twitched slightly during moments of tension, the way he mouthed his favorite lines as if they were prayers. He didn’t just watch the movie—he felt it, deeply, letting it thread through him like a song he knew by heart. His eyes were wide, glassy even, but soft. Focused.

He didn’t talk during it. Not once. Just sat there, wide-eyed and still, like he was living it again, like he was seeing parts of himself on the screen he didn’t often show. Every so often, his chest would rise with a slightly deeper breath, and Ava would mirror it without thinking. They were in their own quiet rhythm, bound by a story that wasn’t theirs but somehow spoke to both of them anyway. The silence between them said more than any words could have—it said, I’m here. I understand. And that was enough.

When the final scene faded and the music swelled, neither of them reached for the remote. The room sat in silence for a while, except for the soft hum of the credits and the world outside.

"You were right," Ava whispered.

Quinn didn’t look away from the screen. "Told you."

She nudged his shoulder with hers beneath the blanket, a small gesture of warmth. He glanced at her, and for a second, the smile on his face wasn’t weighed down by anything at all.

The hockey season was long over.

For a few months, the noise quieted. The headlines stilled. The fans moved on to other sports, other distractions. And Quinn—he had become visibly lighter. The stress lines in his forehead softened. The haunted look in his eyes began to fade. His days were slow. His nights were gentler. He took walks. He cooked. He laughed more.

It was like the pressure had been peeled off, even if only temporarily. He could breathe again. He could be Quinn, not Captain Hughes.

But with the end of the season came the inevitable.

Summer. And Michigan.

He hadn’t talked about it yet, not out loud. But it had been lingering. A quiet shadow at the edge of every day. A low hum behind every laugh. A weight pressing down on his chest when the nights got too still. It was the kind of thought that crept in during the softest moments—when her head was tilted back in laughter, or when she was watching the world pass outside his window with that faraway look in her eyes. The thought that he was leaving. That time was slipping through his fingers like sand, grain by grain, and soon this fragile pocket of peace they’d built would dissolve. He felt it in the silence between them. In the long pauses that stretched a little longer each day. It was a countdown, not just to his departure, but to a shift he didn’t know how to navigate. And the worst part was—he didn’t know how to tell her. How to put into words the ache of loving something so gentle and knowing it couldn’t last in this exact way forever. So he kept it tucked away, a secret pulsing in his chest, waiting for the courage to speak it out loud.

He was going home. To his family. To the lake. To the place where he could hide from the world for a while.

But not from her.

He didn’t want to leave her.

Ava had been his quiet salvation. His rock. The person who never expected him to be anything other than human. When the weight of the captaincy crushed his chest, she never once told him to be strong. She just sat with him in the dark and let him breathe. When the headlines screamed his name or fans threw blame like darts, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t care about stats, didn’t ask about press conferences, didn’t bring up hockey unless he did.

With her, he wasn’t a franchise player or a golden boy. He wasn’t a fixer of broken teams or the hope of a city. He was just Quinn—the boy who liked quiet nights, who sometimes needed to be held without asking, who laughed softly when she rolled her eyes, who listened to the same song on repeat because it made him feel less alone.

She gave him space to fall apart. To speak without being judged. To not speak at all and still be heard. She made silence feel like safety. And he needed her—more than he ever realized—because for the first time in years, he didn’t feel like he was holding the world alone. He didn’t feel like he had to.

And he knew, in that complicated, painful way, that she needed him too.

So the night after the movie, when they were sitting in the kitchen sharing a bowl of cereal at 1 a.m.—because Quinn claimed cereal always tasted better after midnight—he finally said it.

"I have to go home next week."

Ava looked up slowly, spoon halfway to her mouth.

He saw it instantly—the flicker in her eyes, the stiffening of her shoulders. She tried to smile. She tried to play it cool. But she wasn’t very good at hiding how she felt.

She dropped her head, focusing on her bowl. "Oh. Yeah. That makes sense."

Quinn hated how her voice changed when she tried to be brave.

Without thinking, he reached across the counter and touched her hand. She froze.

Then he stood and walked around to her side of the table, crouching down in front of her like he couldn’t stand the space between them any longer. And then—he hugged her.

Their first hug.

He wrapped his arms around her tightly, and she buried her face in his shoulder, arms hesitating before folding around him like she was afraid he might vanish. When she finally did hold him back, it was with a grip that trembled, like she was holding onto something fragile but vital. Her hands curled into the back of his sweatshirt, and he felt her breathing grow uneven against his chest.

His fingers pressed gently into her back like he was trying to memorize the shape of her, not just physically, but emotionally—every piece of her he’d come to know and need. He didn’t want to let go. Neither did she. It was one of those moments that stretched beyond time, where the ache of goodbye wrapped itself around the warmth of presence.

They weren’t just hugging—they were trying to stay whole, just a little longer. Trying to carry the memory of this moment into the spaces where their hands wouldn’t be able to reach. And in that grip, in the silence, in the tremble of their bodies against one another, they both knew: letting go was going to feel like breaking.

He held her there for a while.

"I’ll call you every night," he murmured. "Okay? Every night. I promise."

She didn’t respond. Just nodded against his chest, but her arms tightened around him, just slightly. Like she was trying to memorize the shape of this moment, hold it in her body so she wouldn’t forget what it felt like to be needed like this. Her breath hitched once, and then again, and he could feel the way she was trying not to fall apart entirely. But she was trembling, and so was he.

And for the first time in a long time, Quinn cried. Quiet tears. The kind that slipped out without warning, catching on his lashes before falling onto the top of her head. His chest ached with the kind of sadness that didn’t shout—it simply settled, low and slow, into every part of him. He didn’t sob. He just let the tears fall, like something inside him had finally run out of ways to hold it all in.

He didn’t know how he’d be okay without her. How to wake up without her quiet texts. How to fall asleep without her voice lacing through the dark. He didn’t know how to let go of someone who had found all his broken pieces and made him feel like they weren’t something to be ashamed of. He didn’t know how to leave when every instinct in his body was screaming to stay.

So he held her tighter. As if that could freeze the clock. As if maybe, just maybe, if he held her long enough, time would pause, and they wouldn't have to say goodbye—not yet. Maybe not ever.

He kissed the top of her head. She didn’t pull away.

Michigan was quiet.

It was green and warm, the trees stretching overhead like old friends. The lake glistened with sunlight that bounced in a thousand directions, and his childhood home looked the same, down to the worn wooden steps and the wind chime that clinked softly when the breeze passed through. He fell back into the rhythm of home, but it didn’t feel quite the same.

His mom met him at the door with a long, wordless hug. She didn’t ask anything. Not yet.

But she saw it.

She always saw everything.

She watched him during those first few days. Not closely, not with suspicion. But with the gentle curiosity of a mother who knew her son had been hurting. She noticed the way he checked his phone constantly. The way he lingered near the window after dinner. The way his moods shifted in the evenings, how his restlessness would suddenly vanish around midnight.

She noticed the smile, too.

The one he wore when he slipped out to the dock. The one he didn’t even realize had crept onto his face.

And so, she didn’t ask.

She let him have that secret.

Each night, like clockwork, Quinn would sit on the dock with his phone pressed to his ear, feet hanging over the edge, toes brushing the cool wood worn smooth by years of childhood summers. The water below reflected moonlight like shattered glass, shifting gently with the breeze, a quiet mirror to the thoughts swirling in his head.

He would talk quietly, his voice softer than it ever was in the city. Some nights, he laughed—those rare, low laughs that came from somewhere deep, bubbling up like relief. Other nights, he spoke in hushed fragments, sometimes pausing between words just to listen to the sound of her breathing on the other end. And on some nights, they said almost nothing at all. Just stayed connected. Just were. The silence never felt empty with her. It felt held.

He would eventually lie on his back, letting the wood press into his shoulders, the lake air cool on his face. The stars above him stretched endless and quiet, like someone had thrown glitter across black velvet. His phone rested on his chest, warm against his heart, Ava's voice still ringing in his ears like a lullaby. Some nights she read to him. Some nights they made up constellations and gave them stupid names. Some nights they listened to the same song over and over again, letting the lyrics fill the spaces where words couldn’t reach.

And always, always, he stayed until the last word, the last laugh, the last breath of her presence faded into sleep. Because even from hundreds of miles away, she was the only thing that made him feel close to whole.

They talked about everything and nothing.

About books. The ones they’d read as kids, and the ones they never finished because life got in the way. About the sky—how it looked different in Michigan than it did in Vancouver, how sometimes clouds held stories and the stars made promises. About what they ate that day, even when it wasn’t exciting, even when it was just cereal or cold leftovers, because the mundane started to feel sacred when it was shared.

They talked about the ache in their chests that showed up when the world grew too quiet. About what it meant to long for someone you hadn’t known forever but who felt like home anyway. About the strange beauty of missing someone who wasn’t family, who wasn’t a lover, but who had become something more essential—like a lighthouse, like gravity, like air.

Sometimes they didn’t need words. Sometimes it was just the soft rustle of wind through his phone speaker, the distant sound of a car in the background of her call. They filled the spaces not with stories, but with the simple assurance: I’m here. I haven’t gone anywhere. And that, more than anything, kept them both afloat.

One night, he asked her to describe the bench to him.

"It’s lonely without you," she said.

He closed his eyes. "You’re not alone. I’m there. Just on the other end of the line."

And she believed him.

Other nights, he read to her. Passages from his favorite book. Descriptions of the lake. The way the water caught fire at sunset. They’d fall asleep on the phone more than once, whispering until their words faded into breath. There were no rules. Just the comfort of knowing the other was there.

His mom never interrupted. But sometimes, she’d step out onto the porch and see him there, lying on the dock, eyes full of stars. His silhouette, outlined by the faint silver of moonlight, looked younger somehow, like the boy he used to be before the world placed so much weight on his shoulders. The phone was always pressed gently to his ear, and she could see the subtle curve of a smile tugging at his lips—soft, unguarded, the kind of smile she hadn’t seen in years.

And her heart would ache in the best way. Ache because she recognized that someone, somewhere, was reaching into her son’s darkness and lighting a candle. Someone was listening to him, truly listening, in the way only people who have learned to sit with pain know how. She didn’t know what they talked about. She didn’t need to. The way his shoulders relaxed, the way his breathing slowed, the way he lingered in that same spot long after the conversations ended—all of it told her what she needed to know.

She’d watch for a moment longer, letting the quiet scene imprint itself in her memory, before stepping back inside. Because what he had out there on that dock wasn’t hers to claim or question. It was sacred, healing, his. A piece of peace she’d prayed he would find, even if it didn’t come from her.

Someone was healing her son.

Not fixing him. Not changing him.

Just holding the broken parts gently enough that they stopped hurting so much.

She didn’t need to know who it was.

But she hoped they knew what they meant to him.

And maybe, just maybe, what he meant to them.

Because when Quinn finally came back inside each night, his shoulders were lighter. His smile was softer. His eyes were clearer.

And for the first time in years, he looked like someone who believed he could be okay again.

And all because somewhere out there, someone was assembling him again.

Piece by piece.

With love that didn’t need a name yet.

With care that didn’t ask for anything in return.

And with the quiet, powerful promise of a connection strong enough to survive even the distance between them.

Quinn and Ava. Still broken, but still healing. Holding onto a thread of connection that reached across state lines and time zones, woven through whispered phone calls, unspoken understanding, and the memory of arms that didn't want to let go. They weren’t whole yet, but they didn’t need to be. Not when they had each other—soft, steady, and there. Even miles apart, they found their way back to one another, night after night, word by word, breath by breath. And that was enough. For now, that was enough.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Ava’s summer had gone differently than she’d imagined.

She had pictured long walks along the waterfront, more quiet calls with Quinn, late nights under moonlight where healing happened slowly and gently. She imagined space to breathe, mornings without pain, silence that wasn’t sharp. She had imagined peace—not total, not perfect, but something close enough to quiet the ache inside her.

But life had other plans. And it started, as it always seemed to, with her mother.

It was a Thursday night. The air outside was humid, heavy with the weight of July. The kind of heat that clung to skin and made the air taste like metal. Inside the Monroe house, the air felt even thicker. The windows were closed, the blinds drawn, and the silence had a pulse of its own—waiting, watching. Ava was curled up by her window, her favorite spot when she needed to forget where she was. She had headphones in, a playlist Quinn had made her playing softly, anchoring her to something safer, something real. The soft hum of the music, his careful curation of lyrics that understood her better than most people did, made the world feel just a little less cruel.

Until her name rang out through the house.

"Ava!"

Her mother's voice, sharp and slurred, cut through the melody like glass against skin.

The spell was broken. She sighed, carefully removing her headphones and sliding off the windowsill. She padded down the stairs on bare feet, moving like a ghost through her own home. Every movement was familiar. Predictable. This wasn’t new.

In the kitchen, her mother stood swaying, wine glass in hand, her eyes glazed with the kind of fury that had nowhere else to go. Her lipstick was smudged, her hair wild, her expression twisted with something bitter and ugly.

"What?" Ava asked, her voice neutral, steady—a mask she had learned to wear early.

"What the hell is this attitude? Don’t talk to me like that," her mother snapped, slamming the glass down on the granite counter with a sharp crack that made Ava flinch.

"I wasn’t," she replied calmly, standing her ground. "You called me. I just came down."

"God, you think you’re better than me now, huh?" her mother snarled, eyes narrowing. "Since when did you get so full of yourself? So fucking self-righteous."

Ava stood still. She could feel her heart racing, but she wouldn’t show it. Not this time.

"I don’t think I’m better than you. But I’m not going to let you keep doing this to me."

Her mother tilted her head, mock confusion bleeding into rage.

"Doing what, exactly? Raising you? Giving you a roof over your head? Feeding you?"

"No. Tearing me down. Making me feel like I was a mistake. Like I’ll never be enough. I’m not your punching bag. Not anymore."

And in that moment, the air in the room shifted—no longer merely still, but suffocating. It pressed against Ava’s chest, a living thing, thick and trembling with unspoken violence. The flicker of rage in her mother’s eyes wasn’t new; Ava had seen it before in a hundred quiet slights and shouted insults. But tonight, it looked different. Not just angry—unhinged. It crackled like static in the air, raw and unchecked, simmering beneath the surface with a force that threatened to spill over. Her mother's pupils were blown wide, her jaw clenched tight, lips curling with disgust. Something inside her had snapped, and it wasn’t going to be restrained. Ava felt it—like standing on the edge of a storm, knowing the lightning was already too close.

She moved quickly, her fingers wrapping around Ava’s wrist with a grip so tight it made her wince. Her mother’s nails dug into her skin, leaving crescents that would still ache days later. And then, before Ava could speak again—

Smack.

A hand across her face. The sound cracked through the room like a whip, sharp and unnatural, echoing off the cold tile like the slap of thunder before a storm breaks. Time slowed for a moment as the pain registered—an immediate, searing bloom that spread across her cheek like wildfire. The heat radiated outward, red and raw, and her skin stung like it had been scalded. Her eye watered involuntarily, the shock stealing her breath before the ache could even fully set in. Her body rocked with the force of it, a sway that felt more like being untethered than being struck. But she didn’t fall. She didn’t scream. She just stood there, heart pounding in her ears, a storm behind her ribs, staring into the space between pain and defiance where her voice had finally risen—and her mother had tried to silence it.

She looked up.

Straight into her mother’s face.

"You are embarrassing," she said, her voice low and controlled. "And I’m done letting you walk all over me. Maybe your life turned out shitty, but that’s not my fault. That’s yours."

Another hit. This one harder. Her head snapped sideways, pain blooming just beneath her eye. She didn’t cry. She only straightened again, breathing shallow but steady.

And then, the front door opened.

The heavy click of the latch was jarring in the silence.

"What the hell is going on?"

Her father’s voice rang out, low and commanding, but beneath it was something heavier—a tremor of disbelief, of dawning horror. David Monroe stood in the entryway, framed by the glow of the hallway light, his presence suddenly too large for the space. His suit was slightly wrinkled, the tie loosened like he’d just barely made it home, briefcase hanging forgotten in his hand. But it wasn’t the tiredness of his long day that defined him in that moment—it was the way he stood utterly still, like his world had just been cracked open. His gaze swept the room and landed on his daughter—on the redness blooming across her cheek, the bruise beneath her eye, the fear she wore like a second skin. And just like that, the tension rolled off him in waves, not from stress, but from rage—cold, deliberate, and deeply paternal. The kind of rage that only exists when you realize you’ve failed to protect what matters most.

Sally spun to face him, her expression crumbling into something falsely fragile.

"David, it’s not what it looks like, I swear! She was yelling at me—completely out of control. You know how she gets when she thinks she’s right about something. She wouldn’t stop. She kept pushing and shouting and—I didn’t know what to do! I felt threatened, David. I really did. She was coming at me, and I just—I panicked, okay? She was acting like a completely different person. I’m the one who felt unsafe in my own home. She made me feel like the villain, and all I’ve done is try to be her mother. She’s been impossible lately, and I—David, you have to believe me!"

But he wasn’t looking at her. He looked at Ava.

And he saw everything.

The flushed cheek. The swelling bruise already forming. The tear that had slipped down without her noticing. The way her wrist was still red and marked. And more than that—he saw the resignation in her eyes. The fatigue. The pain she no longer even tried to hide.

He dropped the briefcase.

"Get out."

"What? David, she—"

"I said get out."

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It cut through the room like a blade—cold, controlled, and laced with a fury so precise it chilled the air. The stillness in it was more terrifying than any yell could ever be, because it held finality. A reckoning. It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise. A boundary drawn not in anger, but in protection. And in that silence, in that unwavering tone, the whole house seemed to hold its breath, because everyone knew: there was no coming back from this moment.

"Go pack a bag. Go to your sister’s. You are not staying here. Not after this."

Sally sputtered, tried again to protest, but it was useless. Ava didn’t even look at her.

David moved to his daughter as if on instinct, something primal and protective rising from within him that left no room for hesitation. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, and for a heartbeat she remained stiff—rigid with shock, with pain, with disbelief that this moment was even happening. But then something in her broke open, not from weakness, but from the exhaustion of holding everything in for so long. She gave in, crumpling into him like a wave folding into the shore, her hands gripping fistfuls of his shirt like a child who had waited too many years to be caught.

Her body trembled against his, and David felt it all—every sob she wouldn't let out, every bruise he hadn’t stopped, every silence he hadn’t noticed. Guilt rushed through him like ice, swift and sharp. He had failed her. Not just tonight, but for years. He’d left her in a house where her pain went unseen, unheard, unanswered. And now she was breaking in his arms and all he could do was hold her, whispering apologies he knew weren’t enough.

"I’m so sorry," he breathed, his voice thick, cracking at the edges. "God, Ava, I’m so sorry. I should have seen it. I should have known."

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Her weight against him said everything. The way her fingers curled into his chest, desperate to hold on, desperate not to be let down again.

He tightened his grip and lowered his head, pressing it to hers as though he could somehow shield her from every blow she’d already taken. And in that moment, all he wanted was to go back—to every missed sign, every late night, every moment he hadn’t been there. But he couldn’t. So he stood there instead, rooted, holding his daughter like a lifeline, like a man trying to say with his arms what his words never could.

"I’m sorry," he whispered.

She didn’t speak. But she didn’t pull away either.

He held her tighter.

"This is over. She will never lay a hand on you again. I swear to you."

She closed her eyes. Let herself believe it. Just for a moment.

"I should have protected you," he said again. His voice cracked. "I should have been here."

And she finally spoke. Quiet. Steady.

"Then be here now."

That night, everything changed.

Sally left in a storm of haphazard packing and venomous muttering, her suitcase dragging behind her like a carcass of bitterness and regret. The sound of the wheels scraping across the tile echoed through the hall like an exorcism. When the door finally slammed shut behind her, it was as if something rancid had been purged from the walls of the house. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was reverent. It was peace reclaiming its place after years of torment. It was the first exhale after holding your breath for too long.

David stayed by Ava’s side, almost afraid to leave the room, afraid she might disappear or that the strength she showed might crumble if she were left alone. He hovered at first, unsure, guilt still clawing at his chest. But Ava didn’t push him away. She didn’t say much. She didn’t have to. Her presence allowed his, and that was enough. He made her tea with trembling hands, fingers fumbling with the kettle like he hadn’t done something so ordinary in years. He found the first aid kit in the hallway cabinet and pressed a cold compress gently to her cheek, his touch reverent, like he was tending to something sacred. And when he apologized, again and again, Ava finally reached up and placed her hand over his.

"Stop," she whispered. "I heard you. I need you to be here. Not to say it. To show me."

And he nodded, eyes glassy, heart breaking open in his chest for the girl he hadn’t known how to save. That night, they sat in the quiet for a long time. No TV. No distractions. Just two people slowly stitching together the space between them.

Ava went to bed in a room that finally felt like hers. Not a prison. Not a trap. But a place where her voice had been heard. A room where the shadows no longer whispered her worthlessness back to her. A place where, for the first time in years, she didn’t have to brace for a door slamming or a voice rising.

The bruise on her face took a week to fade. But the thing that bloomed inside her that night—the fury, the clarity, the self she thought had been buried for good—that stayed. It grew roots. And with every passing day, she stood a little taller, spoke a little louder, breathed a little deeper.

Because for the first time in her life, Ava wasn’t afraid of taking up space.

And for the first time in a long time, she believed she might actually deserve it.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

From that day on, David Monroe became a different kind of father.

He didn’t announce it. There were no grand speeches, no dramatic gestures to mark the shift. It was quieter than that. More intentional. He started coming home early. Left his phone face-down during dinner. Took a step back from the relentless machinery of the company and let his second-in-command carry the weight he’d once insisted on shouldering alone. Where there used to be boardrooms and flights and conferences, there were now shared breakfasts with Ava, long walks through Stanley Park, and slow mornings that allowed space for conversation. He asked questions. He listened. Really listened. And most importantly, he looked at her like he was seeing her—not the heiress, not the troubled teen, not the reflection of his failings—but his daughter. His child.

And in the small moments, Ava started to feel it too.

Not everything was fixed. But the tension that once lived in the walls began to soften. Her room didn’t feel like a cage anymore. The echo of slamming doors had disappeared. Her face healed, but more than that, something inside her had started to mend. It wasn’t linear. Some days were harder than others. But for the first time in her life, she believed that healing was possible. That she was allowed to take up space without apologizing for it. She smiled more. Laughed, even. The guilt that used to settle on her shoulders like wet sand began to lift.

And when Quinn returned from Michigan, as if drawn by some invisible pull, they found each other again.

No texts were exchanged. No call to meet. There didn’t have to be. The connection between them was something unspoken, something carved into the marrow of their bones. It moved in whispers, in intuition, in that aching familiarity that exists between people who have seen each other at their absolute lowest. Their bond defied explanation—it had always existed beneath the surface, simmering gently, waiting for the moment they would need it again.

So when the air in Vancouver turned warm and humid, and the sky burned soft at the edges with the promise of summer's return, they simply showed up. At the bench. The one by the water where everything began. The same wooden slats worn down from years of weather, still creaking under weight, still welcoming. As though the universe had gently reached out with an invisible hand, nudging them back toward the only place that ever felt like sanctuary. It didn’t need to shout or point—just whispered softly: go now. They're waiting.

There he was, sitting with his elbows on his knees, looking out at the water like it held the answers to questions he hadn't yet asked. Ava didn’t make a sound as she approached, but he turned anyway—as if he felt her there before he saw her. Their eyes met, and something settled in both of them. Relief. Recognition. That aching kind of warmth that only comes from being missed.

They said nothing. Just moved toward each other like gravity had decided for them. He opened the blanket he had brought, and she stepped into it, sinking into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arm draped over her shoulders, her head rested gently against his chest. They laid there in silence, the water stretching out before them, the stars quietly blinking in the sky above. The city buzzed behind them, distant and irrelevant. In that moment, it was just them.

Two quiet souls with too much history and not enough words.

They didn’t need to speak. They never had.

Their breathing synced, rising and falling in a rhythm so effortless it felt orchestrated by something bigger than them. His fingers moved gently against her arm, drawing absentminded circles that whispered reassurance against her skin. Each pass of his fingertips was a soft reminder that she wasn’t alone, that he was there, and that the silence between them was anything but empty. Her hand, slow and deliberate, found the hem of his sweater—that familiar place where fabric met warmth—and curled there, anchoring herself in the presence of someone who had seen her unravel and hadn’t flinched.

They had been apart for months, but this—this space, this contact, this hush that wrapped around them like a cocoon—made time feel irrelevant. It wasn’t just comfort. It was communion. Like their hearts had never stopped whispering across the distance, tracing constellations in one another’s absence. And now, reunited, they could finally hear what had always been there. That steady hum of knowing, of safety, of belonging. A closeness that asked nothing, proved nothing, but simply was.

It was the kind of reunion that didn’t require explanation. Just presence. Just breath.

And then came the night of the Monroe Gala.

It was an annual tradition, always hosted in the grand ballroom of one of Vancouver’s finest hotels—chandeliers dripping with light, golden accents reflecting off the champagne flutes, soft classical music humming beneath the din of polite conversation. The Monroe name was printed on every wall, gilded on every place card. Cameras flashed as donors and dignitaries arrived, each trying to catch the attention of the city's elite.

But this year, something was different. Ava stood next to her father the entire night.

David hadn’t asked—he insisted. And for once, she didn’t mind.

She wore a simple black satin gown, elegant and understated, the fabric catching the light with every graceful movement she made. It flowed around her like a whisper, the kind of dress that didn’t need embellishment to draw attention. Her hair was swept into a soft bun, a few delicate strands framing her face, and her makeup was minimal—just enough to highlight the natural beauty she was finally learning to own. But it wasn’t her dress or her makeup that turned heads. It was her presence. The way she carried herself with a quiet, unshakable strength that hadn’t been there before. A stillness that commanded respect without demanding it. She wasn’t just attending the gala; she was reclaiming the space she had once shrunk inside of. Every step she took was a silent declaration.

David kept a proud hand on her back, steady and constant, as he introduced her to guests. It was protective but not possessive, proud but not overbearing—a father who had come to understand his daughter’s worth in the way he should have all along. For once, his presence beside her didn’t feel like a spotlight; it felt like support. And Ava, radiant beneath the golden chandeliers, met each handshake and greeting with grace and a poised confidence that made people pause, look again, and wonder who she truly was beneath the satin and silk.

"This is my daughter, Ava," he’d say with a smile that reached his eyes. "She’s doing incredibly well in school. Top of her class. Strong as ever."

No one brought up Sally. Not once. Not in passing, not in whispers behind champagne glasses, not in speculative glances. It was as if the woman had been erased from memory, a name swallowed by the elegance of the room and the power of Ava’s presence. And David, for all his pride and poise, didn’t let her shadow stretch across this night. He didn’t allow it. This was Ava’s moment. Hers alone.

She smiled, nodded, shook hands, posed for the occasional photo, but her mind wandered.

Because across the room, Quinn was there.

Tall, composed, dressed in a sharp navy suit. His hair was slightly tousled in that effortless way only he could pull off. He looked different here—not out of place, but dressed in armor. His hands tucked into his pockets, his expression polite but reserved. He mingled with his teammates, with the Canucks GM, with sponsors and fans. But his eyes were scanning the room.

For her.

Their eyes met across the ballroom, and it was like the world stilled, folded inward, until the only thing that existed was the space between them. They didn’t smile. They didn’t wave. They just watched each other, a kind of watching that felt like remembering and longing all at once. Ava’s breath caught in her throat, her heart aching with the pressure of everything she couldn’t say. And Quinn—his posture steady, his eyes unreadable but soft—looked at her like she was the first quiet breath after drowning. It was a silent conversation layered with everything they had endured in the months apart. A quiet, aching kind of yearning that throbbed in the stillness.

I missed you.

I know.

I’m here.

So am I.

As the night wore on, they moved through the space like magnets drawn by a thread. David introduced Ava to a dozen important faces, but each time she turned, she could feel Quinn’s gaze finding hers. When he laughed at something Brock Boeser said, she caught the moment his smile faltered just slightly—because she wasn’t beside him. And when she shook hands with Tyler Myers, she felt Quinn watching, his gaze unreadable.

Eventually, the inevitable happened.

David and Ava approached a small cluster of men—Quinn, the GM, Brock, and Elias. Golf was the topic of choice, spoken with that kind of lighthearted competitiveness that only athletes could pull off. The laughter was easy, the posture relaxed. Ava stood a step behind her father, her eyes immediately finding Quinn’s.

He didn’t speak. Neither did she.

They just gravitated toward one another until, somehow, they were side by side. The space between them dissolved with a familiarity so profound, it felt rehearsed by the universe itself. Their arms brushed once—a fleeting stroke of fabric against skin that made Ava's breath hitch. Then again, slower this time, as if the universe was drawing their lines closer. And on the third, they didn’t pull away. They stayed.

Shoulder to shoulder, standing like twin sentinels in a crowd of strangers, the contact was quiet but absolute. A low pulse of warmth spread from where they touched, down their spines, into their lungs. Ava felt her anxiety melt just slightly, the noise of the room dimming, her thoughts softening. Quinn tilted slightly closer, the smallest gesture, like a lean into gravity. And together they stood—not speaking, not shifting, simply existing in the kind of silence that nourished.

For a moment, neither of them listened to the conversation. They didn’t hear the jokes about sand traps or the groans about bad swings. They were simply there. Together. Anchored.

David turned and, with the proudest smile, said, "Gentlemen, this is my daughter, Ava."

She extended her hand politely, introducing herself with a poise that made her look older than she felt. Quinn gave the smallest nod, his lips twitching, like he was trying not to smirk.

"Nice to meet you," he said softly, eyes never leaving hers.

They had to pretend.

Pretend like they didn’t know every jagged edge of each other’s trauma—each wound, each scar, each moment that nearly broke them. Like they hadn’t fallen asleep on the phone night after night, their voices the last thread tethering each other to sleep, murmured goodnights passed like fragile lifelines. Like she hadn’t once read him poetry in the early hours of the morning, her voice trembling over words not her own, until they cracked open something inside him that he hadn’t dared to touch in years, and he cried—not just from the words, but from the way she saw him, really saw him. Like he hadn’t once driven across the city at midnight, headlights cutting through fog, just to be near her, just to sit on the floor of her room and say nothing while she stared blankly at the wall, her silence heavier than any words. Like they weren’t each other's refuge in a world that had offered them far too many reasons to stop trying. Like they weren’t still carrying pieces of each other in places no one else could reach.

They had to pretend like they weren’t tethered by something deeper than most people in that room would ever understand.

Like if it weren’t for Quinn, Ava wouldn’t be here.

And if it weren’t for Ava, Quinn would have walked away from the game he loved.

They stood quietly, shoulder to shoulder, both masters of silence, both carrying more than anyone knew. And while the rest of the room buzzed with noise and expectation, they existed in their own bubble. One glance. One breath. One heartbeat.

That was enough.

For now.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Somehow, later that night, Quinn and Ava found themselves away from all the eyes, tucked behind velvet curtains and down a quiet hallway, onto a narrow balcony that overlooked the city. It felt like they had stumbled upon it by accident, but both of them knew better. The pull between them had always been magnetic, quiet and deliberate, and it had led them here—out of the spotlight, away from the polished smiles and the swirling conversations. Just the two of them. Just how they liked it.

The air was crisp and cool, the summer breeze biting at her bare shoulders, and without a word, Quinn slipped his suit jacket from his shoulders and draped it gently over her. Then, like gravity had always meant him to, he stayed close. His arm wrapped around her back, resting just above her waist, drawing her into his warmth. She leaned into it with a sigh, one that felt like it had been trapped inside her all evening.

The city lights glittered below them, casting soft gold and silver glows onto their faces. Neither of them spoke at first. There was no need to fill the silence. The world outside buzzed with energy and expectation, but here—on this hidden balcony—time felt suspended. They turned toward each other slowly, their gazes meeting in a softness reserved only for the quietest of truths.

Their voices, when they came, were hushed. Gentle. Full of intimacy. It wasn’t what they said—it was how they said it. Like they were catching up on lifetimes rather than hours. As if the conversation from the night before, curled up on Quinn’s couch in hoodies and tangled legs, hadn’t happened just twenty-four hours earlier. As if time with each other never felt like enough.

He told her about his mom asking questions. About Luke and Jack teasing him, but softer than usual. She told him about her father pausing in the middle of breakfast to ask her how she really was. How she answered him honestly.

They laughed quietly, shared fragments of their lives, their voices slipping between them like the breeze winding around their bodies. Ava’s hand found his. Their fingers interlaced without fanfare, like they were meant to. Like they always had.

They craved each other’s presence in a way that neither of them could quite articulate. It was an ache in the bones, a whisper that lingered in the quiet moments when the world slowed down. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t desperate. It was patient and persistent, like the tide returning to shore. Every brush of their hands, every shared look, every heartbeat that seemed to echo in tandem reminded them that the world felt more bearable with the other nearby.

It wasn’t overwhelming, but it was all-consuming in the gentlest way—like warm water rising slowly around them until they were submerged in comfort. Being together didn’t feel like fireworks or explosions. It felt like exhaling. Like the pause between waves. Like breathing after forgetting how to. It was the soft kind of safety that asked nothing, yet offered everything. It was steady. It was healing. It was home.

Eventually, they knew they had to go back. The world would start to wonder. So they disentangled slowly, reluctantly, the weight of the party pressing back against their little sanctuary. They stepped inside, the heavy doors closing behind them like a secret, and returned to the crowd, slipping seamlessly back into their silent game of eye tag.

Longing looks drifted like invisible threads across the room—delicate, deliberate, and too soft for anyone else to notice. They passed between them in glances that carried weight, in stares that lingered just a second too long. Ava could feel him in the room like a current beneath the surface of calm water. Even when her back was turned, she knew exactly where he was. It was instinctual now, the way she tracked him without searching, the way her body seemed to orient itself around his presence.

Quinn was woven into the night, stitched into the seams of her awareness. Like his gaze had painted itself onto the architecture of the ballroom—carved into the corners of mirrors, hidden in the shadows between chandeliers, echoing in the hush between conversations. He was there in the stillness. In the pause before the music swelled again.

Every time their eyes met, it felt like the rest of the world blurred, like the space between them collapsed into memory and possibility. It was quiet, desperate longing. Not just for touch, but for the kind of closeness they weren’t allowed to show here. The kind they could only hint at through parted lips that said nothing, and eyes that said everything.

When the night came to a close, and the last of the toasts had been made, David began his rounds. He shook hands with the team, warm and gracious, all the pride of a father written into his smile.

And Ava stood there, just a few feet away from Quinn.

So close. Yet still oceans apart.

She stared at him, and he stared back. Neither moving. Neither speaking. Just holding on through the space between them. And in that glance, they said everything they couldn’t say out loud.

Stay.

I will.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Fundraiser after fundraiser. Event after event. Gala after gala. It was always the same.

There was a rhythm to it now—the way Ava and Quinn would find themselves orbiting the same glittering rooms, under the same glowing chandeliers, surrounded by clinking glasses, velvet gowns, and the quiet murmur of old money. These were nights meant for appearances, for networking and public smiles. And yet, for them, they had taken on a different meaning. They became a ritual of sorts. A dance.

They never arrived together. They never left together. But they were always there. Always watching.

She stood by her father's side, poised and elegant, every inch of her radiating a quiet, cultivated grace. The dress she wore shimmered beneath the golden chandeliers, catching the light each time she moved, but it wasn’t the fabric that made people pause when they looked at her—it was the composure, the soft confidence in the way she held herself. The kind of strength not learned overnight but forged through fire and healing. There was something magnetic about her silence, a steadiness in her stillness, like she didn’t need to speak to be understood. David often rested a hand gently on her back, not to guide her, but to show the world he was proud.

Across the room, Quinn lingered with his teammates, half-listening to stories about summer golf trips and rookie antics, his drink untouched, the condensation leaving faint circles on the bar. His posture was casual, familiar to those around him, but his eyes—they betrayed him. They moved past people, past clinking glasses and shallow chatter, to find her. Always her. No matter where she was in the room, he found her. Even if she was half-turned, speaking to someone else, he knew. Like her presence lived in his peripheral vision. Like a magnetic pull beneath his skin.

And when their eyes met—briefly, quietly—everything else fell away. The world dimmed. The noise dulled. It was just them, across the distance, tethered by something invisible and unshakable. The kind of connection that didn’t require words or permission. Even in a crowded ballroom. Even in a sea of faces. The invisible string between them never faltered. It only grew stronger, more certain, more sacred.

They had mastered the art of silent presence. Of being near, but not too near. Their glances were small offerings. Wordless affirmations. I'm here.

Sometimes, Quinn would catch her in mid-laugh, head tilted back slightly, eyes crinkled at the corners, and his chest would tighten. Sometimes Ava would look up to see him politely declining a drink, his fingers tracing the edge of the glass, and she'd know he was counting down the minutes until they could be alone.

Every so often, someone would notice. One of Quinn's teammates. An old family friend of Ava's. Someone would glance between them and furrow their brow.

Eventually, Brock and Petey began to catch on. It wasn't just in the obvious ways—not just the glances or the quiet way Quinn seemed to tune out everything but a single presence across the room. It was deeper than that. It was in the ease of his movements during practice, in the softness of his voice when he spoke to the trainers, in the subtle calm that had settled into his shoulders like a long-held burden had finally been set down.

They saw the change in him before they saw her. The lightness in him. The subtle peace. The way his temper didn’t flare as easily. The way he lingered longer in the locker room, not because he was avoiding something, but because he had somewhere he wanted to be afterward. The way his phone would buzz mid-conversation, and he’d glance at it, eyes lighting up in a way neither of them had seen in a long time.

Petey noticed it first after a morning skate. Quinn had sat on the bench longer than usual, sipping his water, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth for no apparent reason. Brock picked up on it later, when Quinn turned down a night out in favor of heading home early—again.

There was something different about him. Something quieter. Something warmer. Something that felt like the first breath after breaking the surface of a deep dive. They didn’t know who she was yet. But they knew what she was doing to him.

And they were grateful for it.

“You’re different lately,” Brock had teased once, nudging him with his elbow after a press conference.

Quinn shrugged. “Just focused.”

Petey raised an eyebrow. “Focused, huh?”

He said nothing more, just offered a faint smirk and pulled his cap low. But they knew. Of course they did.

They didn’t push. They didn’t need to. Because they remembered the nights Quinn went silent in the locker room, the way he would sit with his head in his hands, shoulders hunched and trembling slightly, eyes distant as though he was somewhere far away. They remembered the nights he left the arena without a word, ghosting through the exit like he wanted to disappear into the dark, burdened by invisible weights that the rest of the world never saw. They remembered the sting of watching him crumble under the pressure, carrying the weight of a franchise, a name, and expectations so heavy no one his age should have had to bear them.

And now, he was present. He was grounded. He stayed after practices, laughed more freely, smiled without flinching, and leaned in during conversations instead of drifting out. He moved through the world with a kind of steadiness that was new, earned, and deeply felt. There was a fullness to him, a quiet confidence that hadn’t been there before, like he had finally allowed himself to be held by something—or someone—other than the game. And whatever or whoever had given him that, they weren’t going to interfere. Because Quinn wasn’t just surviving anymore. He was healing. And they weren’t about to question the one bright thread that had started to stitch him back together.

And David Monroe—the man who spent a lifetime reading contracts, reading negotiations, reading people—read his daughter the same way.

He noticed the subtle tilt of her head when Quinn entered the room—that barely perceptible shift in her body that spoke volumes. He noticed how her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, how her stance softened in the way that people do when they feel safe. The shift in her voice when she greeted him was unmistakable, too—a quiet warmth that hadn't been there before, a kind of familiarity laced with unspoken joy. There was a glint of something softer in her eyes, something David hadn’t seen in a long time: hope. It shimmered beneath her lashes when she looked at Quinn, not flashy or bold, but real.

And maybe it was in the way she leaned in slightly, even when they weren’t talking. Maybe it was in the way her laughter carried just a little further when Quinn was near, fuller, less guarded. Maybe it was in the way she always seemed to know where he was, even if her back was turned. Whatever it was, she didn’t have to say a word. David knew. He knew in the same way a father knows when something inside his daughter has changed—not in fear, not in pain, but in healing. In comfort. In love.

But he never asked.

Never pushed. Never demanded to know.

Instead, he offered something rarer: trust.

He’d excuse himself from conversations at just the right moment. He’d conveniently get caught up with a donor when Ava and Quinn found themselves standing nearby. And most notably, he’d offer, again and again, with quiet confidence:

“Quinn, would you mind driving Ava back tonight? Her driver’s been rerouted.”

Even when they both knew that wasn’t true. Even when her driver was parked right outside. It was never about logistics. It was about space.

David offered it to them the way a father offers love when he doesn’t quite know how to say the words. With open doors. With quiet knowing. With the kind of steady, behind-the-scenes support that didn't demand acknowledgment or praise. He made space for them gently, without ever announcing it, always a few steps behind, always watching without hovering. He knew enough not to interrupt something still delicate and forming, something unspoken and sacred. But he could feel it—the gravity between them—and rather than stand in the way of it, he simply stepped aside.

In the way he lingered in conversations a little longer when he saw them drawn together. In the way he made himself scarce just as Ava started looking around for an escape from small talk. In the way he mentioned Quinn’s name with familiarity, like someone already considered family. He didn’t overstep. He didn’t press. He just made sure they knew he saw them. That he trusted them. That they were safe, and they were seen.

On the nights Ava stayed at the Monroe home, David would pass by her room, the soft spill of her laughter filtering through the crack in the door. Her voice, light and unguarded, speaking into the phone like it was the most natural thing in the world. It didn’t take much for him to recognize the voice on the other end. He’d seen Quinn smile that same way, phone in hand, thumb brushing the screen, eyes warm with something he rarely let the world see.

And then there were the late nights.

The soft creak of the front door. The shuffle of feet on the tile. Her silhouette slipping out into the quiet dark, only to return hours later with the faintest curve of peace around her mouth. She never said where she went. He never asked. But he could see it in her eyes. The steadiness. The gratitude.

Her chauffeur confirmed it once, in the casual way longtime employees do.

"Nice kid comes around a lot," he’d said, leaning against the car as David stepped out one morning, his tone casual but warm with unspoken approval. "Shows up like clockwork. Never loud, never late. Always polite—calls me sir, if you can believe it. Keeps to himself mostly, but he's careful with her. Stays in the car sometimes, waits until the lights are on before driving off. And when he does walk her in, he never lingers longer than she wants him to. Just makes sure she’s safe. You can tell he cares, even if he doesn’t say much. Been doing it for months now. Since before the summer started, even when school was still in session. Honestly? Feels like he's been here longer than that. Like he's part of the rhythm of the place now."

David had only nodded.

He didn’t need confirmation. He just needed to know she was okay.

And when it came to Quinn Hughes, he knew she was.

He’d always admired the young defenseman. Not for his stats, not for his name. But for the way he carried himself. Humble. Quiet. Steady. The kind of man who didn’t demand the spotlight, but still lit the way for others. The kind of man David hoped his daughter would meet one day, when she was ready.

And now, it seemed, she had.

David never said anything. Not directly.

But one evening, Ava walked into her apartment, tired from class, her shoulders heavy with the day. And there, on her kitchen counter, was an envelope. Small. Unassuming. Her name printed on the front in familiar, slanted script.

Inside, a single ticket.

Canucks Family Suite.

Next to it, a bouquet of lilies. Fresh, fragrant, wrapped in soft tissue and tied with a satin ribbon.

And tucked inside the bouquet was a note, folded neatly. In her father’s handwriting, blocky and precise:

I’m glad you’re happy. Enjoy the game, sweetheart. Tell Q I say hi.

Ava stood in the center of her kitchen for a long time, the note pressed to her chest, her fingertips brushing over the familiar scrawl of her father’s handwriting as if it were something fragile and precious. The air around her felt still, suspended, as if the world had paused to give her this moment—this moment where the past and present met in a quiet, breathtaking kind of peace. Her eyes stung with something tender, something deep and sacred, a soft ache blooming in her chest that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with being seen. Truly seen.

It wasn’t permission. It wasn’t approval. It was deeper than that. It was trust. It was understanding. It was a father’s love given not with conditions or expectations, but with a steady hand and a hopeful heart. It was a message: * I trust you. I love you.*

And in that stillness, Ava felt something inside her settle. A lifelong ache she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying softened, just a little. It was love, quiet and sure. The kind that didn’t ask questions. The kind that didn’t need to be proven. The kind that just... was.

She didn’t text him to say thank you. She didn’t need to. He already knew.

That night, she wore the jersey Quinn had left for her. The one that still smelled faintly of his cologne. The one that had become a second skin on nights when the world felt too sharp. She tucked the ticket into her bag and made her way to the arena.

The family suite buzzed with polite chatter, children balancing popcorn tubs on their laps, partners snapping photos through the glass. Ava sat alone, her hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes trained on the ice.

And then he skated out.

Helmet tucked under one arm, his stick resting against his shoulder, his eyes flicked upward—toward her.

Just once.

But it was enough.

He smiled. Slow. Soft. The kind of smile that reached the corners of his eyes.

And this time, she smiled back.

Wide. Unafraid. Home.

A few rows down, David watched the exchange, his heart quietly swelling with a kind of warmth he hadn't felt in years. His hands were folded in his lap, but his grip softened as he took them in—his daughter and the boy she hadn’t quite named yet. His chin tilted upward slightly, like he was catching sunlight, though it was only the gentle glow of the rink lights reflecting in his eyes. And what he saw wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t grand. But it was everything.

There was something so gentle in their exchange, so sweet and unguarded, that it rooted itself deep in his chest. The way Quinn looked up like the world paused when he saw her. The way Ava smiled back without a hint of hesitation. That silent thread between them—invisible to others but so very visible to a father who had learned to look—wasn't just connection. It was care. It was safety. It was the soft, tender shape of something real beginning to bloom.

And David—a man who once wondered if he’d ever get to see this kind of light in his daughter again—felt nothing but gratitude. For the quiet between them. For the steady presence Quinn had become. For the fact that in a world that demanded so much of both of them, they had found each other.

He smiled too.

Because this—this was all he had ever wanted for her.

Not perfection. Not prestige.

Just peace.

And someone to hold her steady when the world tried to pull her apart.

And he smiled too.

Because this—this was all he had ever wanted for her.

Not perfection. Not prestige.

Just peace.

And someone to hold her steady when the world tried to pull her apart.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Eventually, it happened.

After a week of distance, of nothing but texted good mornings and tired, late-night voice notes, Quinn returned from a stretch of away games in the States. A week apart wasn’t long in the grand scheme of things, but it felt like an eternity to both of them. After so many nights spent orbiting each other’s presence, to suddenly have nothing but a phone screen was a sharp absence.

So when he finally got back to Vancouver, there was no hesitation. No ceremony. Just the quiet thud of the door closing behind him and the soft, wordless pull of Ava’s arms as they collapsed into each other in the dim comfort of her apartment.

They ended up in her bed, legs tangled beneath the covers, the low hum of a television show playing in the background. Neither of them paid attention to the dialogue. The screen flickered, casting soft colors across the room, but their world had narrowed to each other—to the warmth of bodies reunited, to the gentle exchange of breath in a space that finally felt whole again.

Quinn laid on his side, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other curled gently around Ava’s waist. She faced him, her fingers resting lightly against his chest, eyes tracing the sharp curve of his jaw, the dimple in his chin, the soft slope of his nose. It was quiet, reverent almost, the kind of silence that said everything.

Their foreheads pressed together.

Like an anchor. Like a prayer.

As if the touch could absorb all the ache, all the exhaustion, all the pieces of the past still lodged deep inside.

Quinn's fingers gently brushed a piece of hair from her face, tucking it slowly behind her ear with the kind of tenderness that made her stomach flutter. His hand lingered there, the pad of his thumb grazing the curve of her cheek like it was something sacred. It was such a small gesture, but it was full of reverence—as though he were memorizing her, as though her softness was something he needed to commit to memory in case the world ever tried to make him forget. His eyes searched hers, not in question but in quiet certainty, and when he finally took a breath, it trembled slightly, his voice low and raw and steady. The words that followed were barely above a whisper, but they rang through her like a cathedral bell, reverberating in her chest, anchoring something deep and aching inside of her with the weight of truth.

"I love you so much, Ava."

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t dramatic. But it held weight. A gravity that made her heart still for a moment.

Her eyes met his, glassy with something close to awe, and she reached up, cupping his face in her hands with a gentleness that nearly broke him.

"I love you so much, Quinn."

And then their lips met.

Soft. Slow. Healing.

Like the breath after a storm. Like the beginning of something safe and endless.

In that kiss, it was as if they were transported—to a different place, a different version of the world where nothing had ever hurt them, where every crack had been mended, every bruise gently kissed away. It wasn’t just a kiss, it was a release. A surrender. A soft unraveling of everything they had held in for too long. It was warm and still and whole, the kind of kiss that stitched them back together from the inside out. In that moment, their bodies remembered safety, their hearts remembered peace. Every aching memory, every lonely night, every self-doubt and lingering wound faded into the background.

For a few heartbeats, they forgot what it meant to carry pain. Forgot what it was to be broken. There was only the hush between them, the taste of belonging, the way their souls seemed to fit together like pieces that had always known where they belonged.

They were just two people who loved each other.

And for the first time, that was more than enough.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Ava attended every game she could. If she could make it, she was there. She sat quietly in the family suite, tucked between executives and loved ones, her eyes always scanning the ice for #43.

And it was inevitable, really, that eventually she would run into Ellen Hughes.

It was during a highly anticipated game—the Canucks versus the Devils. A Hughes family reunion of sorts, with Jack and Luke skating for New Jersey while Quinn stood on the opposing blue line. The suite was buzzing with excitement, filled with friends, distant relatives, and family friends.

Ellen had made her rounds with practiced warmth. She greeted the WAGs, the team staff, the donors and their spouses. And eventually, her eyes fell on a girl she didn’t recognize.

She was sitting at the far end of the suite, small and tucked into her seat, her body angled slightly away from the crowd as though trying not to draw attention. But there was something about her posture—something familiar. She wasn’t avoiding people. She was just comfortable in her own space.

Curious, Ellen approached.

"Hi there," she said with a soft smile. "I don't think we've met. I'm Ellen. Quinn's mom."

Ava's head snapped up, and her heart immediately jumped to her throat, thudding so hard she swore Ellen could hear it. Her breath caught, and for a split second she forgot how to speak, how to move, how to be. She hadn’t expected this moment—not so soon, not like this. Her eyes widened slightly, and a nervous flush crept up her neck, blooming across her cheeks as recognition dawned. Of course she knew who Ellen Hughes was. Quinn had spoken of her with reverence and warmth, had mentioned her kindness and strength. And now here she was, standing just feet away, reaching out not with suspicion, but with genuine interest. Ava forced a smile, her palms suddenly clammy, and willed her voice to be steady, to not betray the storm of nerves unraveling inside her.

"Oh," she said, standing quickly and smoothing her sweater. "Hi. I’m Ava. Ava Monroe. My dad’s David Monroe—he's one of the team's silent donors. I… I sometimes come to games with him."

Ellen nodded thoughtfully, but her eyes didn’t move. They stayed on Ava.

There was something about her. Something that tugged at Ellen's chest in a way she couldn't quite explain. A familiarity, a presence. A quiet gentleness that felt known, though she was sure they had never met. The girl’s posture, the way she sat with graceful reserve, like she was holding something close and sacred—Ellen couldn’t look away.

And then the players took the ice. The lights brightened, the music swelled, and her son stepped onto the rink. The roar of the crowd rose up like a wave, but Ellen barely heard it. Her eyes were on Quinn. And his eyes? His eyes were searching.

Not for his father. Not for her. Not for the fans.

They locked onto the far edge of the suite.

To her.

And in that one look, everything else fell away.

Ellen watched as his face softened, his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, and the tension that had built during warmups dissolved like ice under the sun. His expression wasn’t just love. It was longing. A yearning so deep, it was visible even from all the way up here. A look that said, There you are. I can breathe again.

It hit Ellen like a memory—a summer evening by the lake, Quinn laid out on the dock, his eyes turned toward the stars with that same quiet peace. That same softness.

And now she saw it again.

Not because of the game.

Because of the girl.

And Ellen saw it.

The look.

The look that lit his entire face.

She followed his gaze and then looked back to Ava. And suddenly, it all clicked. The jersey wasn’t just a Hughes one. It was a game-worn #43. His first one. And Ava wasn’t just some donor’s daughter.

She was the girl.

The one who had existed only in quiet murmurs for months. The one whose name hadn’t been spoken, but whose presence had echoed in every shift of Quinn's energy. The one Ellen had wondered about late at night, when she noticed her son checking his phone more often, when she heard the smile in his voice during calls, when he talked about "someone" who made things feel easier.

She was the one who had pulled her son back from the edge. Who had reminded him, not with grand declarations but with steady hands and soft silence, that he didn’t have to carry the weight of the world alone. The girl who had entered his life like a whisper, and yet managed to soften every sharp edge he carried. The girl who brought stillness to the storm.

And now, seeing her here, Ellen understood everything.

Every look. Every shift. Every softened breath her son had taken over the past several months.

This was her.

The one who had become his home.

After the game, as players filtered off the ice and families began gathering their things, Ellen watched as Ava lingered. She didn’t move to leave like the others. She stayed in the back, her coat draped over her arm, her gaze fixed on the hallway leading to the locker rooms.

And when the crowds began to thin, Quinn reappeared.

He wasn’t obvious. He never was. But he moved with intention. He walked right past the others. Right to her.

And the way he looked at her—that same quiet, awe-filled expression he wore that summer on the dock, when the world was still and the stars were just beginning to shine, like he was seeing the whole universe unfold before him. But this time, he wasn't looking at the sky—he was looking at her. With a reverence that made it seem as if she held constellations in her eyes, like every part of him had been waiting for this one second of clarity. There was no mistaking it, no downplaying the depth of it. That look held stories, memories, hopes he hadn’t dared to name. It was a gaze filled with yearning, with a kind of stillness that only comes when you find the thing you didn’t even know you were missing. It was the look of a man who had come home—and found that home in her.

That’s when Ellen knew.

This girl. This quiet, kind-eyed girl.

She was the one who had been stitching her son back together.

And when Ava began to make her way out, ready to quietly leave before anyone could say anything, Ellen stepped in gently.

"Why don’t you come with us?" she asked, her voice warm, inviting. "We’re going out for dinner. Nothing fancy. Just family."

Ava blinked. "I… I wouldn’t want to intrude."

Ellen smiled. "You wouldn’t be. Please."

There was a look in Ellen’s eyes—soft, knowing, and impossibly kind. A look filled with gentle recognition and something deeper than just polite interest. The same look David Monroe had when he realized the truth, when he saw the way his daughter smiled with her whole heart for the first time in years. It was the look of someone who understood exactly what was unfolding, even if it hadn’t been said aloud. A mother’s intuition, quietly affirming what she had already pieced together long before introductions had been made.

Ava felt the weight of it settle over her chest—not heavy, but grounding. She felt seen, not just as Quinn's quiet constant, but as someone who mattered on her own. And in that moment, she felt the doors to something bigger opening, something she had always tiptoed around. A family, a place, a seat at the table. She felt welcome.

So when Ellen extended the invitation, Ava couldn’t say no. Not because she felt obligated. But because she wanted to. Because this, whatever this was, felt like the beginning of something sacred.

They went to a quiet restaurant downtown. One the Hughes family knew well. A booth in the back was waiting, and Quinn reached for her hand beneath the table as they sat. She gave it a gentle squeeze.

Dinner was easy.

Ava was quiet, like Quinn, but she listened well. Asked thoughtful questions. Laughed at the right moments. And slowly, the Hughes brothers started to lean in a little more. Ellen and Jim exchanged a glance across the table.

They watched the way Quinn passed Ava the pickles from his plate without asking, and how she did the same with her tomatoes. How they shared a single glass of water, how Ava refilled it halfway through without a word. How they leaned into each other during the lull in conversation, foreheads brushing like they couldn’t quite believe they were still allowed to be near.

It was like watching a dance.

Soft. Natural. Magnetic.

And when dinner ended, and they all stood to leave, one by one the Hughes family pulled Ava into tight hugs.

From Jim’s strong embrace to Luke’s teasing grin, to Jack’s quiet "Glad you're here. Really."

And then Ellen. Who held her for a little longer.

As if saying, Thank you.

For bringing their Quinn back.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

After dinner, they parted ways outside the restaurant. The night had cooled, the sidewalks quieter now, as families dispersed and city lights blinked sleepily overhead. Quinn and Ava didn’t speak much as they walked. They didn’t need to. Their hands were still intertwined, fingers laced with the kind of familiarity that spoke louder than any words.

Somehow, without planning, they ended up at the bench.

Their bench.

The same one by the water. The one where it all began.

The moon hung low and bright above them, casting silver reflections across the calm harbor. The city buzzed behind them, but here, it was quiet. Safe. Like always.

They sat side by side, shoulders brushing, the hush of waves lapping gently below. Quinn leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, while Ava curled slightly into his side. Her head found his shoulder, and his cheek rested against the top of her head.

For a while, they didn’t say anything. They just listened—to the water, to the cars in the distance, to their own hearts beating in rhythm again.

"You know," Ava murmured after a while, "I didn’t think I’d ever feel this again. Safe. Loved. Not just by you… but by the world. By your family."

Quinn turned his head, brushing a kiss to her temple.

"You were always worthy of it. You just needed someone to remind you."

A small smile tugged at her lips, and she leaned further into him.

"You did more than remind me. You showed me."

He looked out at the water, his voice a whisper.

"You saved me too. I was drowning and didn’t even realize it. And then there you were. Just... quiet and strong and exactly what I didn’t know I needed."

She tilted her head to look up at him. "Do you think we would have found each other if everything in our lives had gone differently?"

He considered that, then shook his head gently.

"No. But I think we found each other exactly when we needed to. Broken, but still whole enough to see the light in the other."

She reached up and touched his cheek. "You were always the light, Quinn."

He closed his eyes for a moment, holding her hand against his face.

They stayed there until the sky began to shift—the deep navy of night giving way to pale hints of morning. The first signs of a new day stretching out before them.

And as the sun began to rise, spilling warmth across the horizon, they knew.

They had survived the darkness.

Together.

And now, they had a future.

Hand in hand, they sat on that bench. Their bench. Not as two people weighed down by the past, but as two hearts who had found their way back to themselves—through love, through healing, and through each other.

This was their beginning.

And it was everything.

428 notes · View notes

nickynclark · 7 months ago

Text

The Psychology of Love and Loathing

Spencer Reid x F!Reader

Enemies to lovers!

Word count: 7,584

Warnings: SMUT (18+) no use of y/n, reader goes by 'bunny', discussion of a case (nothing too far from usual Criminal Minds gore), reader has three PhD's (bet you didn't know that), briefly mentions readers mother committing su!cide, mentions of toxic parents, alcohol consumption, jealous! Reader, jealous! Reid, pet names (good girl, silly girl, baby, sweetheart, sweet thing), degradation, oral f! Receiving, like one line of oral m!receiving, unprotected p in v (pls wrap it before you tap it), no mention of reader being on birth control, anal play, overstimulation, after care. If i missed anything let me know!

Author’s note: i’m so sorry im ovulating. This is porn w a shit ton of plot. We’re talkin WORLD BUILDING

MDNI BELOW THE CUT

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

You blink at the papers in front of you, checking once, twice, double checking three times to make sure what you're seeing is correct.

You were on a case in Texas, called in by local police after four bodies, two wealthy couples, were found shot execution-style and posed on different park benches throughout Amarillo. While at first, it seemed as though it was your average serial killer, the autopsy report showed that the gunshot wound was done post-mortem- all four victims were murdered by being forced to drink household bleach.

You looked down at the papers one more time, noticing that one man, Adam Gilman, cleaned houses of the wealthy, and he purchased a lot of bleach. Way more than needed to clean a few bathrooms.

You quickly dial Garcia, and she answers within the first ring.

"Ask and you shall receive."

"Garcia, what can you find out about Adam Gilman?"

You hear typing from the other end of the line before spewing information, "35-year-old white male, he grew up super rich until his dad pulled his college funding his senior year when his sister went to school to be a doctor. He started paying for her," She suddenly sucked in a breath, "It looks like he had to drop out. He was at Harvard Law. Spiraled downhill from there, sending you the files and address now."

"Thanks, Garcia!"

You rush into the room where the rest of the team is and run up to Hotch.

"Look at this! He fits the profile to a t!"

Hotch looks down at his tablet, and you feel eyes glance over to you, about to speak, but Spencer Reid bursts through the doors.

"Guys our unsub is Adam Gilman! He lives five minutes from here, and his job is on the way."

Hotch nods at you, acknowledging that you have the same information but Reid said it louder, "Let's go."

Since you joined the Bureau last year, Spencer Reid has been competing with you. Whereas he was thirty-three with three PhDs, you were twenty-five with the same amount. Of course, he got his when he was much younger, but he still seemed to overcompensate.

He was intimidated by you.

This wasn't the first time a situation like this had happened. It's almost like he had a radar for when you made a big break, and he wanted to steal the spotlight.

And not to mention he hates you for some reason.

Ever since your first week in the BAU, Dr. Reid has acted indifferent to you. You understand that change can be uncomfortable, but you have done nothing to deserve this cold shoulder.

On your first day, you strutted into the office dressed in a pair of black slacks, a black, v-neck blouse, and some hot pink pumps; being honest, you looked like you owned the place.

When Aaron introduced you to the team, you shook everyone's hand except Reid's.

"The number of pathogens passed through a handshake is staggering," he stated mater-of-factly while staring at your hand, "it's actually safer to kiss."

You laugh and tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, "Although I appreciate the concern, a handshake is actually a sign of peaceful intentions. Soldiers would cover their swords on their left side and shake their right hand to show they mean no harm," you shrug, "but I understand the mysophobia."

He nodded at you, a glare suddenly hardening his features, "interesting."

He has refused to hold conversation with you, maintain eye contact with you, or be in the same room with you for an extended amount of time ever since.

He hates it the most when you're right.

After arresting Adam, the team desperately needed to interrogate him. He was denying all claims despite all the evidence against him. In fact, all he has said has been denials. Besides that, he didn't speak. He hadn't asked for a lawyer, hadn't shown any recognition to the couples, and hadn't said anything besides I've never seen those people before.

"We need to make him uncomfortable," Morgan says, "he's running this whole show. We gotta flip the tide."

Emily looks up from her Chinese takeout, laughing, "Let's throw Bun and Reid in there."

Your eyes widen, and you are suddenly incredibly red. Your face is on fire, and you start looking around panicked.

The team started referring to you as 'Bun' over the summer when you all went to a bar together. You accidentally had one too many drinks, and Derek said you were bouncing up and down the whole time.

"She's like a Bunny."

"Don't call me a Bunny!" You slur, "I'm mean. And vicious."

Penelope laughs at you, throwing an arm around your shoulder, "Alright, Bun. Let's go dance!"

Ever since that night, the nickname 'bun' stuck.

Although Emily suggested you and Reid distracting Adam as a joke, Rossi's lips pull into a smile, "That just might work."

Emily sets her food down, suddenly aware that she presented the first good idea so far, "we could dress them up some, make them look like a wealthy couple, and have them ask Adam some questions. It might make him mad enough to break."

Aaron looks at you and you gulp subtly, then he looks to Reid, "It's up to you."

You look at your feet, frowning, "I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get this guy in jail."

Reid simply nods.

"Okay," Aaron says, "we'll go get the stuff."

You and Spencer remain in the small room while the others rush out to get the things you require for your transformation.

"Hi." Your voice comes out quiet.

"Hello." He responds blandly.

You suddenly realize this is the first time you and Reid have been in a room alone together, so you take the opportunity.

"What have I done to you?"

Reid's eyebrows shoot up at the confrontation "Huh?"

You roll your eyes, "ever since my first day you've avoided me. What did I do?"

He scoffs, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't." You sigh and run a hand through your hair, "I'm the only person on the team you practically refuse to talk to."

"I'm talking to you right now," he says as if that's a counterargument, "I talk to you all the time."

"Yeah, when you're forced to!" You say exasperatedly, "You know everyone on the team's birthdays, all except mine. You know their family situation because you've asked."

He shrugs, "I know plenty about you."

"How old am I?"

He looks into your eyes calmly, "You're twenty-eight."

"I'm twenty-five."

Emily suddenly bursts into the room, "There isn't anything for you guys in lost and found. You have to go on a shopping trip. Strauss said a 300 dollar limit."

You nod, "I assume that's just for clothes?"

"Yes," She answers, "Reid is going to wear Rossi's watch and a wedding band JJ's going to pick up. Both of you will wear a ring." She then looks to you, "We have a lot of jewelry for you to pick through."

You nod, standing and Reid rises next to you.

Emily tosses you some keys, "be back in an hour."

***

The ride to the mall was quiet. You didn't bother talking to Spencer as you drove, and he didn't bother speaking to you.

He also kept turning down the radio when you tried to turn it up. It was painfully awkward.

Once at the mall, you and Reid split up incredibly fast.

He ran to some men's warehouse, and you rushed to the women's section of a department store.

You quickly pick up a pair of black pinstriped slacks that hug your curves and a tight, white blouse. You finally grab a black, pinstriped blazer, and you head to check out.

On your way, though, a pair of stunning, emerald heels grabs your attention.

You walk closer to study them, and god do they look lavish.

If you weren't here for work, you would grab them in a heartbeat, but you were, and you had already met your price cap.

"Buy them."

You hear Spencer's voice from behind you, and you jump, grabbing your chest in fright.

"What?"

"Get them," he shrugs, "it's obvious you want to."

You laugh shyly, and he stuffs his hands into his jean pockets, his bag of clothes hanging around his wrist.

"I've already met my limit."

"Okay?"

You frown, studying him. He looks calm and relaxed. You tilt your head slightly, and he matches your movement.

No, that can't be right.

You cross your arms in a silent stare down, and he does, too.

"You're mimicking me."

He scoffs, "God, Bun, not everything I do is to spite you!"

Your eyes widen and you suddenly point at him, "You!"

"What?"

"You just called me Bun!"

His eyes barely widen, but he catches himself, staring straight ahead.

His foot stops tapping, "you're hearing things."

"And that's your tell!" You point at his foot, "You just mimicked me, called me 'Bun', and then lied about it!"

He rolls his eyes, "what size are you?"

"You're avoiding the question!"

"You didn't ask a question." He gestures to the heels, "What size?"

"Why?"

"Answer the question, Bunny."

His tone is stern, and you freeze under his stare.

"Nine."

He nods and grabs a box in that size.

"No!" You protest, "Don't!"

"I still had a hundred bucks left over, it's on the company's card."

You blink twice, confused as to why he's being so nice to you.

"Okay. I need to pay and I'm done."

He nods to you, and you both check out. He hands you the heels and you let out a quiet thanks while headed to the car.

***

When you got back to the station, the turnaround was dizzying.

You were shoved into a room to change, as was Reid.

After you changed, JJ came in and whistled.

"Sheesh, Bun, you look good!"

You laugh and straighten out your jacket, slipping on the heels Spencer bought you today.

"Are those new?"

You nod, "yeah, Spencer said he had some left in his budget."

She shook her head, "Reid must've bought those with his own money."

Your eyes widen, and she laughs, "C'mon, Bun. You need to look at jewelry."

You picked out a pair of dainty, diamond earrings, a matching necklace, and several expensive bracelets that had to be physically screwed onto your wrists.

Once standing in front of Hotch, Emily gave you the wedding bands JJ had picked up.

Yours was a gorgeous gold band with an emerald-cut diamond on top. It was simple, but, God, was it stunning.

You slipped it onto your finger and Reid slipped the simple golden band over his, his hands looking all that much better with the ring on it. It makes your mouth water just thinking about his fingers.

You quickly shake your head. No. You hate Spencer Reid. Nothing will change that.

Hotch gives you and Reid strict instructions on how to talk to Adam, and then he's sending you in.

"Sell it," Aaron says, "this might be our only shot."

You give him a curt nod, linking your arm with Reid and smiling as you walk into the interrogation room.

Spencer looks down at you with a look of passion you've never seen before. One that you aren't convinced could be fake.

As soon as you looked at Adam, you could tell there was something off. He was picking at the skin around his nails and chewing on the skin of his lips where they looked raw and painful.

As you sat down in front of him, Spencer was the first to speak.

"Who is this guy again, babe?"

You held back the shock in your face at the pet name as he put a hand on your thigh. You made a point to twist the wedding ring on your finger before opening the files in front of you.

"Adam?" You look up at the man in front of you, "are you Adam?" He nods, and you hum, "Who are you, exactly?"

Reid smiles and looks to you, "Play nice." He slides the files over to him, "Harvard law, that's impressive. Did you apply or did your father buy your way in?"

Adam's eyes narrowed, "I applied and got accepted. I was a prodigy."

You smile subtly, knowing you and Reid have already gotten him to show more of himself than he had to anyone else.

You look at your fake husband and laugh, "I don't think you can decide that you're a prodigy." You look Adam up and down, "my husband, here," you place your hand on Spencer's shoulder, looking at him as if he hung the moon and stars, "he is a prodigy. How old were you when you got your first PhD?"

"Seventeen," he laughed humbly, looking at you, "you flatter me."

You smile softly as Reid squeezes your thigh, something Adam could not see and, therefore, was unnecessary. You look at Spencer, but he refuses to meet your eyes.

You turn back to Adam, pulling out the photos of the four bodies and showing them to him, "have you met these people before?"

He shakes his head, "I've never seen those people before."

"Really?" You ask calmly, "You've never, ever, seen Andrea Haskins?"

Adam shakes his head.

"Never, not once, seen her husband, Kent Haskins, either?"

He shakes his head again.

Reid sits up straighter, linking his hands together on the table in front of him, "you received a pretty generous amount of money from him every month since... August?"

You mentally thank Garcia for that information, and mentally thank Reid for remembering it.

Adam sits up straight, too, but falling shorter than Reid, "I clean their house for them, don't mean I've ever met 'em."

You hum, "I wouldn't let a stranger into our home, would you?"

Reid shakes his head, and Adam gets visibly upset at your interactions. His hands clench to the table ledge, knees bouncing, eyes narrowed.

"Say, Adam," you perk up, "how much bleach do you use per house you clean, about?"

Adam's eyes trained on me, "you're a smart girl," he then looked to Reid, "with an even smarter husband." He spits the words as if they are poison on his tongue, "You do the math."

You stand, smiling softly, "So, not 10 gallons per week?"

Adam shrugs, "If that's your calculation."

You walk closer to the man, sitting on the table next to him and leaning down to him, "And I assume you also have never met the Coleman's?"

He shakes his head.

"Never met anyone in the Coleman family?"

"No. God, you people suck at your job."

"That's actually interesting considering we have video footage of your picking up Lacey Coleman from school last Monday. A family doesn't let a stranger house cleaner pick up their child from school."

Adam's eyes widen, and you know you have him cornered.

"How long had your sister been friends with the Colemans?" Reid interjects.

"Don't you dare talk about her."

"Why not?" Reid asks simply, "Does she bother you?"

"I was going to be a Lawyer, I was going to be successful and make my dad proud of me. Until she ruined it all with her perfect schooling and perfect husband," Adam spits.

"Halley is a pretty successful neurosurgeon, huh? She gets all of daddy's special attention, doesn't she?" You say.

"Get your wife on a leash," Adam says to Reid.

"All you wanted was to feel loved, to hear your dad say he's proud of you," you keep talking, "and you were going to kill him because he wouldn't say it."

"Shut the hell up, bitch!"

"You were getting ready to kill your mom and dad because, hey, why not go straight to the source? Why not kill who made you like this?"

"What if your family pulled your funds for a sibling, huh?" He yells to you and Reid, "How would you feel?"

The room goes silent and Reid allows you to keep talking, keep getting on his nerves.

"His daddy left him when his mom got sick, and my mommy killed herself when I was seven. We worked for our degrees, and we worked even harder for the scholarships that paid for our three PhDs." You hiss, "I would've worked harder to get what I want instead of just expecting it."

"You're a bitch," Adam spit in my face.

"I could be worse. I could take away a little girl's family. I could kill four innocent people out of my frustration and failure."

Reid finally stepped in, grabbing your hand softly and pulling you back to your side of the table.

"I didn't kill those people."

"That's not what your body is telling us, Adam." Reid states simply, "You are hurt and still are hurting, I understand that. But now so is Lacey. That's on you."

Adam's lip quivers, "I didn't hurt Lacey! Lacey was at her friend's house!"

Reid rises, grabs your hand gently, and walks to the door, and you follow.

"Hey!" Adam screams, "where are you going? Get back here!"

As soon as the door shuts behind you, you let go of Reid's hand. He turns to you and watches your expression shift.

"Good work, Bun."

You nod, and he looks like he's about to say something else, mouth opening, but then Hotchner walks in.

"Great work.”

You smile at Aaron, and Reid stares at you with something dark behind his eyes. He looks nervous, and hungry, and concerned, and certain.

"We'll be heading back in 30. Wrap up. Great job, Doctors."

***

On the plane, you and Reid are still in your "Rich Couple" personas, not having enough time to change out.

You sit near the back of the plane, headphones in, and reading Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience by William Blake.

"Little Lamb who made thee, Dost though know who made thee?"

You hear the words of "The Lamb" spoken, causing you to take out your headphones and look to the source: Spencer Reid.

He sits across from you as you ask, "You read Blake?"

"Blake to Poe to Plath, I don't mind."

You narrow your eyes at him, "what do you want?"

"Really?" He asks, "We can't just have a nice moment?"

You raise your eyebrows at him, "Not you and me. We don't have nice moments."

His facial features soften, and he sighs, "I'm sorry for acting so harsh toward you. You didn't deserve that."

You're shocked by his statement, "Pardon me?"

He runs a hand through his hair, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, "I was scared, Bun. I was the smart one. I convinced myself that was all I could be," his breath hitches and his eyes connect with mine, "I thought if there was someone smarter, more sociable, and nicer than me, they wouldn't need me anymore."

"Spence..." you start, and you realize it's the first time you've called him his nickname.

He notices it, too, eyes shifting from one of concern to one of understanding, "You're incredibly smart. You're kind, and you're fun to be around. I'm sorry it took me so long to notice that."

You nodded, "thank you."

He nods and goes to stand.

"Wait." You quickly speak up and he freezes, "What's... um..." you stutter, "what's your favorite Poe?"

Reid smiles, sitting back down, "Annabel Lee."

You smile, "Gold-Bug."

He laughs, "Really?"

And you nod.

****

"Let's go get drinks!" Garcia announces as you and the team wrap up your paperwork, and you laugh.

"I don't think so," you smile, "not tonight."

"C'mon, Bun," Garcia whines "It'll be fun!"

Reid suddenly looked at you, eyes darker, eyes that held you tight in a grip, "Yeah, c'mon, Bun." He says the name with a sensuality you had never heard before. It sent a shiver down your spine, "it'll be fun."

You look at him, taking in a shaky breath, "I.. uh, don't have a ride."

"I'll drive you," Reid says simply, and the rest of the team just stares at the interaction.

Things have changed since the interrogation room, you know that, but did you want to be alone with him already?

You look at him, his messy hair, his stubble, and chocolate brown eyes, and your pussy clenches around nothing.

You find yourself nodding, mouth too dry to speak.

"Good," he smiles, "follow me."

Your team watches with uncertainty as you walk off with Spencer, and it's almost like they've seen the change, too.

No, they're profilers. They know Reid had you wrapped around his finger while reciting Blake.

They also knew Spencer had been pining after you since you wore those hot pink heels on the first day of work. But they didn't need to tell you that.

Reid guides you to the elevator, and you comply silently. Once the door closes and it's just you two, you turn to Spencer.

"What are you doing?"

"What do you mean?" He responds simply.

You turn to face him, "why are you being so nice to me?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Bun."

You roll your eyes, "yeah right."

The elevator doors open, and he walks you to his car, opening the door for you.

"Thank you," you smile cautiously, and he nods.

He sits down in the driver's seat and pulls out of his parking spot. One of his hands rests on the wheel, the other placed on the gearshift. His eyes focus on the road, but they occasionally slide over to you. The silence- although comfortable- practically kills you.

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

He glances over at you, and he smirks, "I want to."

You look at him, "why?"

He shrugs, "spent too long not doing it."

You nod and glance out the window, just as Spencer puts the car in park.

As you step out of the car, you hear Derek and Emily from behind you, making a show of letting you know they are also here.

You walked over to Morgan and hugged him.

"Hey, Bunny," he smiles and kisses your forehead, "first rounds on me tonight, sweetheart."

You laugh, "thank god! Need a handsome man to buy me some drinks!"

Reid scoffs from behind you, but you shrug it off, assuming it was about something Emily had said.

It wasn't.

As you walk into the bar with Derek's arm around your shoulder, you quickly make your way to the table with Garcia and Rossi.

"What are you drinking?" You ask Garcia, gesturing to her hot pink drink in front of her, garnished with cotton candy, strawberries on sticks, and a big, twisty straw.

Gracia's eyes widen, "oh my gosh! You've never been here before??" You shake your head, and she squeals with excitement, "Okay, so, it's called the Cotton Candy Chameleon. It's basically strawberry vodka and coconut rum with strawberry soda! Look!" She picks up the cotton candy and places it into the liquid, watching as it rapidly dissolves, "did you see that?!"

"That's why it's called a Chameleon," Derek laughs, arm still around you, "want me to get you one?"

You nod happily, "and a shot of Titos? I'll pay you back!"

Morgan winks at you, "It's on me, Bun."

As he walks toward the bar, you and Garcia continue to chat about anything and everything, her childhood cat, where you grew up, and how Garcia got put on the team.

"You were so good at being bad," you laugh, swirling your third Cotton Candy Chameleon that Morgan brought over to you, "that the FBI gave you a job instead of jail time?"

She nodded, giggling, "Pretty much. Are you going to take that shot?" She points to the round Rossi had bought for the table.

You laugh, quickly picking it up and downing it, "god!"

"Woah!" Morgan laughs, hands catching your hips to keep you steady, "careful, Bunny."

You feel eyes glaring into you, and you trace them to Reid sitting at the bar. He has his elbow on the bar, leaning into his hand as he watches you with a look of unhappiness.

You roll your eyes, finishing the final chug of your drink, and placing a hand on Morgan's chest.

"You're warm," you say with a goofy smile, and Derek laughs.

"Oh, really, sweetheart?"

You nod, leaning further into him as his hands rest on your hips.

You make eye contact with him before you smirk and push away, "I'm going to get another drink."

"Hey, Bun!" You turn around to Rossi, his empty glass raised to you, "Get me another old fashioned."

You nod, smiling at the older man, and waltzing to the bar, right next to Reid.

"You having fun, Bunny?" He asks, voice low.

"Yes, sir." You smile, waiting for the bartender to walk over.

He sucks in a breath at the title, "You sure are touchy with Morgan," he grits out, staring at you, not quite your eyes, but something a little bit lower.

You scoff, "What's it to you?"

"Nothing." He spits, eyes connecting with yours, pupils taking over the brown of his eyes.

The bartender finally comes up to you, a cute girl in a black, low-cut tank top and some black, short shorts. She has short blonde hair, barely reaching her shoulders and it's curled up and pinned back so her hair is framing her face.

She was gorgeous, actually.

"What can I do for ya?" She asks, shaking a drink before breaking the seal and pouring it into a glass.

You tell her your order, and that it's on David Rossi's tab, and she nods.

Then she turns to Spencer, "What about you handsome?" She says it sultry like she's trying to seduce him, "Need another? I'd be happy to get you somethin' else."

Your eyes narrow on her, a deep, red-hot feeling forming in your gut. She doesn't see your stare though, completely focused on Spencer, leaning over the counter so her cleavage is on full display, biting her lip and twirling her hair.

You decided then and there that you hated her.

Reid tells her that he's okay, water if she insists, and when she comes back with his water, she hands him a napkin with ink scribbled on it, "I get off in 45 if you're interested."

"He's not."

The words come out of your lips faster than you could think, your brain taking longer to catch up with your mouth.

"Pardon?" She asks you, calm and calculating, "Didn't know you could decide that for him."

You laugh cockily, "Oh?" You act fast pulling yourself into Reid's lap before he can protest, but his hands wrap around you, trapping you where you sat, "I think I can."

Reid looked at the bartender, then his eyes trailed back to you, "Sorry, Brooklyn, I'm spoken for," his eyes darkened, a sly smile rising on his lips.

The bartender walks away to work on your drinks, and you turn all the way to face Reid.

"What are you doing, Bun?" He asks, voice low. You shift your hips and he hums, grabbing your waist to stop the movement, "Stop that. Talk to me."

You whimper, leaning into his chest, "You were really going to choose some bottle blonde over me?" Your words come out harsh, but it's also the first time you've said what's truly on your mind in front of Reid.

His eyes land back on Brooklyn, and he smirks, "She's pretty, I'll give her that," he looks down at you, right as the bartender places the drinks in front of you, "But you? You're on a whole different level, Bun."

You blush and shake your head, just as Brooklyn walks back over to hand you your drinks.

As she sets them down she says, "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you two were a thing."

You quickly shake your head, "Don't worry about it," you smile, "neither did he."

"In my defense," Spencer laughs, his lips close to your ear, "I didn't know you were an option. If I had, there wouldn't have been a competition."

You shiver when you feel his breath on your neck, "yeah, right. You've hated me since I joined the BAU."

His eyes widened, "Hated you?"

You nod softly, a little confused by the question.

"Hated isn't the word I would use," He laughed.

"What is?" You ask quietly.

He leans his head side to side, as if pondering the best way to answer, "obsessed? Intimidated?" He looked at you, a small smirk playing on his lips, "Lusted?"

Your eyes widened, "what?"

He shrugs, a hand falling to your thigh, thumb drawing circles, "The way you are entrances me. The way you walk, the way you talk, the way you exist." He leans his head down so his eyes meet yours, "I knew I couldn't do anything about that, so I stayed away. I guess it came off as hatred."

The hand that wasn't on your leg reached up to pluck the cotton candy off of your drink, opening his mouth and letting the sugar melt on his tongue.

"Mmm," he hummed, eyes still locked with yours, "so sweet, Bun."

Your jaw dropped slightly, thighs clenching, and he grips your flesh, "Nuh, uh. What's wrong?" He chuckles as you whine against him, "Use your words."

You sit up, straightening and sliding off of his lap, "You're a sick freak, Spencer Reid."

He licked his lips, eyes trailing down your body, "I'll bring Rossi his drink, wait by the door."

You cross your arms over your chest, but your heart is pounding so loudly you can hear it in your ears, "what makes you think I listen to you?"

"Oh, Bunny," his finger lifts your chin, "I'm a profiler. Absolutely everything tells me that you'll listen to me."

You roll your eyes and scoff, "And if they ask where we're going?"

A devilish smirk flashes across his lips, and he leans toward your ear, and you can feel his breath on your skin, "you already told them you're tired," he pauses, "I'm going to fuck you to sleep, Doctor."

You suck in a shuddering breath, eyes glazing over as he chuckles, pulling away from you.

You take a step back, mumbling, "Hurry back."

He smiles widely, pupils practically taking over his chocolate eyes, "good girl."

You suck in a breath as he turns on his heel, walking over to the team as you wait by the door. Penelope frowns at you, waving, and Emily blows you a kiss.

Rossi looks at you calmly, and Derek raises a smooth eyebrow with a smirk.

Spencer walks back to you, grabbing your arm as you walk to the car.

Once you get back to his black Dodge Challenger, he presses you against the door, “How drunk are you right now?”

“From one to ten?” You ask, voice quiet, Reid looking at you like you’re a meal.

He nods, hands gripping your hips, “Goddamn it, Bun,” he hisses, “Yes, one to ten.”

“Four,” you answer, and his lips slam into yours in a frenzy.

It’s all tongue and teeth like he couldn’t wait a single second longer to taste you. Like it would kill him.

Your chest arches into his, hands going to his shoulders, holding on for life in the bruising kiss.

He pulls away, his eyes nearly black, eyes filled with an undeniable hunger, and it makes you shiver.

A smirk comes over his face as he steps away from you, opening your door, “get in.”

You don’t have to be told twice, stepping into the car, carefully so you don’t fall in the emerald heels he bought you.

With his own money.

“Spencer?”

He turns on the car and pulls out of the parking spot, “Yeah?”

You look at him, studying how you are both still dressed like a posh-rich couple, “You bought me these heels.”

He nods, chuckling and placing his hand on your thigh, “Excellent observation.”

You shudder at the contact, “with your own money.”

He smirks, “Who told you that?”

“JJ?”

“Ah,” he laughs, “Yeah, green’s your color.”

You raise an eyebrow, “How did you decide that?”

“A few weeks ago you wore this emerald green sweater,” he says, “It looked so goddamn good on you.”

You recall the memory, smiling softly, “Is that why you were avoiding me? You thought I looked pretty?”

His voice gets stern, face serious when he looks over at you, “Stop talking, Bun.”

A belly laugh escapes your mouth, head thrown back as you cackle, “I thought I pissed you off somehow!”

He gives your thigh a sharp squeeze, “I don’t think I’ve ever been genuinely angry with you.”

You sit dumbfounded, a quiet oh slipping past your closed lips.

He looks at you and parks the car, “I’ve been upset, frustrated, and God have I been irritated with you,” he turns to look at you, pulling his hand away from your leg, “But I have never been angry with you.”

He unbuckles quickly as you stare at him in surprise, and he gets out of the car, rushing around to open your door, “hurry up.”

You stumble out of the car, and he puts a hand on the small of your back, ushering you into his apartment.

You don’t get a chance to fully appreciate the chaotic charm of Spencer Reid’s place. As soon as you notice the books piled up everywhere, he spins you around, pressing your back against the door and capturing your lips in another kiss. This kiss is slower and more controlled, with his hands sliding up your sides to your back, one hand tangling in the hair at the base of your neck. You ball his shirt into your hands, pulling him impossibly closer.

“God, Bun, your fucking intoxicating,” he sighs against your lips, hands slipping under your shirt to rest on your bare hips, and you sigh at the contact.

He smirks, trailing wet kisses down your neck, gently grazing his teeth over your pulse point, and you moan, “there she is,” he mumbles, “been wanting to hear you make those pretty little sounds for a while.”

You whimper, “Shut up.”

He laughs, tugging you away from the door, and guiding you into his bedroom.

You shed off your suit jacket, and he rips your shirt over your head before pushing you down on his mattress. You gasp as you fall, Spencer's hands quickly move to your slacks, unbuttoning them and looking up at you with eyes so fiery you feel your whole body set aflame.

“Yes,” you say, noticing the silent question Spencer is asking you, “please, yes.”

He smirks, kissing the skin just above the waistline of your pants before tugging them down, and you lift your hips to help him slide them off.

He throws the items into the corner of his room, sitting up and looking at you: dressed in nothing but a black bra and matching panties, his eyes darken. He slides his hands down your body, and he practically growls when he feels your sopping wet cunt.

“God dammit, you’re so wet Bunny,” he says, his finger sliding over the soaked fabric of your panties, “such a silly girl, thinking I could want anyone but you.”

You whimper at the comment, and he leans down to kiss your upper thigh, slowly spreading your legs apart with the palms of his hands. Your legs widen as he settles in, kissing slowly up and around them, licking, sucking, and biting until you’re littered with heart-shaped marks.

“Gonna show you how much I wanted you,” he hisses, his hot breath fanning over your covered pussy, “gotta let you know how dumb you are for thinking I was anyone’s but yours.”

You whimper shamelessly at the comment, your legs trying to close, desperate for any kind of friction.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you, Bunny?” he laughs, looking up at you from between your thighs, “You like it when I tell you just how stupid you are? How fuckin’ useless that little brain of yours is?”

You nod rapidly, and Spencer licks a thick stripe over your clothed core. You let out a loud gasp, your head lolling to the side at the much-appreciated attention. He pushes your underwear to the side, diving into your pussy like a man starved. Spencer kitten licks your clit before pulling it into his mouth and sucking harshly, and your back arches from the bed.

“Fuck, Spence,” you moan, hands shooting into his hair, “so fuckin good, feels so good.”

“Mmm, there you go, baby,” he says, his index finger circling your entrance, “let me know how good I’m doing,” and his finger slowly pushes into you as his mouth reconnects to your hot skin.

Spencer Reid was talented with his tongue, but, god, his fingers were a whole other story.

He curled his finger toward him, finding that sweet, gummy spot inside you almost immediately, abusing it before inserting another and scissoring his fingers.

“You’re so tight,” he mumbles against your cunt, and a loud moan slips from your lips, your hands tangling into his hair as you desperately try to grind against his tongue, but he puts a hand over your stomach, holding you down.

He continues his torment, fingers working you open and his tongue moving rapidly through your folds. His fingers drag down your front wall slowly, and you can’t help his name slipping off of your tongue.

He smirks, looking up at you, “Atta girl, Bunny. Let everyone know who’s making you feel this good.”

You moan loudly as he continues his torment. Your legs start to shake, his tongue swirling circles around your clit, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, and one of your hands grabs your breast to ground you. Your breathing gets ragged, and it’s all you can do to stop yourself from screaming.

“You gonna cum for me, Bunny?” He asks, voice low, “Gonna cum all over my fingers?”

You nod, and he tsk’s.

“Without asking?” He says, a smirk on his perfect lips, slowing his fingers down and moving to kiss the insides of your thighs, “Not even going to ask after I’ve worked so hard for you?”

You throw your head back with a groan, “Please, Spencer!”

“Please what?”

You consider slapping him, telling him to stop treating you like some desperate slut, but in your current state? You might as well be.

“Please let me cum! I’ve been so good for you, Spence, I’ll be so good!”

“Yeah? You going to be my good girl?” he asks, eyes locking with yours, eyebrows raised, as he speeds up his fingers inside of your spasming pussy, “You promise?”

“Promise! Please, Spence, let me cum for you!”

He pauses for a second like he’s thinking, the smirk on his face growing, “cum for me, Bunny,” and he watches your face, jaw dropped as you orgasm around his fingers, your slick coating his palm and dripping onto the sheets below you as he works you through your bliss.

Once you come down, though, his fingers don't stop moving, his thumb moving to rub tight circles on your pulsing clit, “You’ve got another one in you,” he says as you bite your lip and your eyes water slightly, “C’mon, baby, you can give me another, right?”

You nod your head, your lip tugged between your teeth, your legs still shaking. He doesn’t give you time to breathe, just continues to suck and lick on your clit like it’s what he was made for, and, before you know it, your eyes clench shut as you rapidly approach another orgasm.

Little whimpers leave your lips, and Spencer chuckles slightly, “My poor girl, so desperate for me. I can tell you’re getting close again, huh?”

“Yes, sir,” you whisper, and he speeds up his pace, your jaw dropping into a silent ‘o’.

He kisses your stomach, holding your shaking legs with his free hand, “Give it to me, Bun.”

And you release with reckless ambition, thighs flung open and a hand gripping the sheets for your life as a string of moans leaves your lips. Spencer removes his fingers and moves down to lick up your come, and you have no choice but to whimper. He smirks and pulls away from your cunt, placing his lips hot on your own, and you taste yourself.

“You’re so sweet, Bunny. Sweeter than candy,” he sighs, hands sliding down your chest.

You whimper, forcing your hands into his hair in another soul-crushing kiss, and he chuckles into it.

“Desperate for something?”

And you nod, one hand trailing down the front of his body, grabbing his dick covered by his pants and he groans.

“You want this cock, Baby?” He lifts off of you, sitting with his knees on either side of your body while he quickly undoes the top two buttons of his shirt before deeming it useless and pulling it over his head while your hands make quick work of his pants, pulling off his belt and tugging his pants and boxers down enough to free his aching cock.

You moan at the sight, immediately leaning forward to kiss his tip, before he pushes you back onto the bed.

“Another time, Bun,” he grumbles, “need to feel you around me.”

You moan, nodding and lining him up with your quivering pussy, and he pushes forward just slightly, enough for his tip to pop inside of you, and the groan that leaves his lips is pornographic.

“She’s so fuckin’ tight, baby, can feel her squeezing me.”

You whimper, “please! More!”

He chuckles darkly at your request, “yeah? You need something?”

You roll your hips forward, pushing him in a little further before he slaps the outside of your thigh harshly.

“Nuh uh, sweetheart. I’m gonna take my time with you.”

He emphasizes his words by pulling out slightly, and pushing back in, fucking you with just his tip, and a desperate gasp leaves your lips.

“Look at you,” he groans, continuing his torturous motions, “so desperate for my cock. Such a nasty little thing.”

And the thrusts harshly, abruptly sheathing his whole cock inside of you, and your head throws back.

He has the audacity to laugh at you, quickening his pace, each thrust hitting causing him to hit your cervix in a blissfully painful way, your eyes rolling back, begging for something. You're not quite sure what, though.

“So fucked out you can't think straight?” He coos, his pace never slowing, “if I knew this was all it took to shut you up I’d have done it a long time ago.”

And you whine at the thought.

He raises an eyebrow, “You like that idea, don't you, Bunny?” And you nod.

Suddenly, he pulls out completely, slapping your thigh again, “Roll over. Hands and knees.”

You quickly comply, supporting yourself on shaky arms and legs, and he trails a hand up your spine before pushing down, forcing your chest to the bed below you.

He groans as you arch your back, quickly pushing himself back inside your sopping cunt.,

“Such pretty holes you got here, baby,” he whispers, spitting onto your asshole as one of his thumbs spreads out the lubricant, causing your breath to hitch.

“Wanna fill both of them for you, can I do that?”

And you nod recklessly, your head bouncing against the pillows at the speed and power of his thrusts, and he takes your permission to push his thumb into your virgin ass, and the moan that rips through your throat is almost humiliating.

“You like being so full of me, don't you, Bunny?”

And you groan out, “yes! Fuck, I’m so close, Spencer!”

He laughs as your cunt starts quivering around his cock, his tip bullying that sweet spot inside of you.

“I know sweet thing, give it to me. Cum around my cock.”

With permission, you release around him, your pussy clenched around his dick and your ass squeezing his thumb, but he keeps fucking you through it.

His free hand laces through your hair, pulling your head back as you whimper in overstimulation.

“Take it,” he groans, mumbling more to himself as his cock twitches inside of you, “come on, take it like the dirty whore you are. Love having me fill both your nasty holes, fuck.”

His rhythm falters, and he thrusts one or two more times before spilling inside of you, fucking his seed deeper inside of you.

Once he calms down, he slowly removes his thumb before carefully pulling out of your pussy, and you whimper at the empty feeling.

“Stay here,” he whispers, kissing your hip before scrambling to the bathroom for a warm, damp washcloth.

He gently wipes you off, murmuring about how good you did for him, saying he’s proud of you before he helps you roll over onto your back.

He chuckles at the goofy smile on your lips, eyes tired and droopy, and he pushes the hair that had matted to your skin with sweat out of your face.

“You okay?” He asks, voice low, and you nod happily.

“‘M perfect.”

“Good,” he smiles, pulling the comforter over you and cuddling up to your spent body.

You lay in silence for a moment, happy and relaxed in his arms, before you speak up.

“So, you never hated me?”

“Jesus Christ, Bun,” he sighs exasperatedly, “go to sleep.”

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut

949 notes · View notes

littlebluebird2000 · 13 days ago

Text

Where the Lotus Grows

PART 6 : The Calm Before the Reckoning

pairing: yeon si-eun x reader (female reader)

rating: 18+

genre: romance, historical setting, slow burn, smut

warnings: smut, family conflict, power imbalance, death, su*cide, bullying, social pressure, trauma, violence

summary: within the walls of the royal palace, nothing is ever as it seems. as subtle glances turn into quiet conversations, and duty begins to blur with longing, you must learn to survive the delicate game of court life without losing yourself.

author's note: hello everyone. sorry for the wait! i just got back from my trip wednesday and went straight to writing after. it was my birthday get away last week, so excuse me for my absence. here is the chapter. i hope you guys love it and that it was worth the wait. please share, comment and like to encourage me. i love this fanfic like my baby. i hope it can reach as many historical kdrama’s lover as possible. don’t forget to comment you ideas about the plot and where the story is going. i’m always super excited to speak with you guys. with love <3

word count: 7k

part 1. part 2. part 3. part 4. part 5. part 6.

part 7.

follow #bluebirdyeonsieun for updates on my stories or comment to be added to the tagglist

Somewhere outside, birds were stirring in the garden, their calls soft and irregular. The estate was quiet and the air smelled of pine and dew. The world beyond the windows had begun to wake, but inside the room, time moved slowly.

You woke to warmth pressed against your back. A steady, familiar warmth. Sieun’s arm was draped over your waist, his fingers resting just beneath the curve of your ribs. His breath moved against the back of your neck, slow and even.

You stayed still for a long moment, taking it in. The softness of the blanket. The faint ache in your limbs. The scent of him on your skin. The reality of the night before was not a dream. It lived in every detail.

Then his hand shifted slightly. His fingers flexed against your side. You turned your head just enough to see him.

His eyes were already open.

“Good morning.” He said, voice husky from sleep.

You smiled, your voice no more than a whisper. “Morning.”

His face was soft in the light. His dark hair, usually neat, had fallen out of place. He looked younger like this. Less guarded. Lighter somehow. His thumb brushed across your skin in a quiet, absent motion.

You smiled again and turned to face him fully. He shifted to make room for you in his arm. Your hand reached up to smooth the hair from his brow. He let you.

“Did I hurt you?” He asked. His voice was soft, but the question sat heavily in the air.

You paused. Not because you were unsure of your answer, but because of the way he looked at you. Like your answer truly mattered to him.

There had been a moment at the start, a brief pinch that passed almost as soon as it came. Now, only a quiet satisfaction rested in your body. No pain. Just a sense of closeness that left you warm and still.

“I’m a little sore.” You said honestly. “But it’s not painful. I’m alright.”

He didn’t move right away. His gaze stayed fixed on yours, searching, as if trying to read between the words. His thumb brushed over the inside of your wrist, slow and thoughtful.

“I’m sorry.” He murmured, his voice barely louder than the quiet around you.

“You don’t need to be.” You held his gaze. “You were gentle. And patient. You didn’t hurt me.”

His brows remained drawn, eyes still studying you as if he hadn’t quite forgiven himself. You lifted a hand and touched his cheek, your fingers warm against his skin.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Sieun.” You added. “I enjoyed it. Truly.”

His eyes flickered, and something unspoken passed between you, a hush that felt intimate. You let your thumb trace just under his eye.

“I felt safe.” You whispered. “I still do.”

That seemed to reach him. His shoulders loosened, the tension melting just enough to show. He turned his face slightly into your palm and closed his eyes for a brief moment, like he was finally letting himself believe it.

A gentle knock on the outer door.

You both stilled, and a familiar voice called, muffled through the panels.

“My Lady— Your Highness…” It was Seorin, hesitant but dutiful. “Forgive the intrusion, but I must come in soon to gather… the linens.” A pause. “Before the others arrive.”

You flushed, the full meaning of her words dawning with quiet horror.

Seorin cleared her throat outside. “And I must help you dress, Your Highness. The household is preparing for the parade.”

Time seemed to still for a moment. Your mind blanked, the reminder hitting you like a sudden jolt.

The parade. How could you have almost forgotten?

Today the palace gates would open. You and Sieun would be shown to the citizens of the capital in an open palanquin. The streets would be lined with banners and curious eyes, families gathered with children perched on shoulders, the sound of drums echoing between rooftops. The people would come to see the new royal couple, not as symbols on scrolls or whispered names, but as real figures. A gesture of goodwill. A show of unity.

Sieun exhaled through his nose, clearly not ready to surrender the morning just yet. He pressed a final kiss to your temple and whispered. “Wait here.”

He slipped from the bed with quiet ease, reaching for the robe he’d left draped over a nearby chair. The dark fabric settled over his shoulders, and he tied it loosely at his waist as he crossed the room to a tall cedar cabinet.

You gathered the blanket more tightly around yourself, sitting up slowly. The soreness in your body was still there, a quiet ache that only reminded you of how real it all was.

Sieun returned a moment later with a soft robe with delicate silver embroidery at the cuffs and collar.

You reached for the robe, your fingers brushing his. “Thank you.”

He gave a soft nod but didn’t move away right away. His eyes lingered on your face, then drifted down, catching the faint color still warming your cheeks. “I will go see if everything is ready.”

He turned toward the door, adjusting the sash around his own robe. But before his hand reached the latch, he paused. Then, slowly, he turned back to you.

A moment passed, and then he stepped forward again. His hand came to rest gently along your jaw, and he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours.

Slowly.

It was not hurried or light. His mouth moved with purpose, sensual and warm, coaxing rather than demanding. The kind of kiss that stole the breath from your lungs without you even realizing it. You leaned into him instinctively, one hand catching the fabric at his waist.

When he finally pulled back, you were still chasing the kiss without meaning to. Your lips parted, your pulse fluttering in your throat. His eyes held yours for a moment longer.

“I’ll see you soon.” He said, his voice low, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

And then he turned, leaving the room in quiet steps, while you sat still, heart pounding, unable to do anything but press your fingers to your lips. You stood slowly, drawing the robe closer around yourself.

A knock came again, soft and familiar. “Your Highness? Y/N?” Seorin’s voice was gentle, almost cautious. “May I come in?”

You took a breath. “Yes. You may.”

Seorin stepped inside, carrying a folded cloth in her hands. She paused only briefly when her eyes met yours, taking in your flushed cheeks and the robe loosely tied around you. Her expression relaxed and she didn’t even try to hide the smile tugging at her lips.

She let out a quiet breath as she crossed the room. “You look different.” She said, grinning now. “In a good way.”

You tried to glare at her, but it was too half-hearted to matter. “Seorin—”

“I’m just happy.” She said, cutting you off with a gentle laugh. “You’re with him. Officially. Finally.” She glanced at the bed. “Oh—I’ll be quick! The attendants will be expecting the sheets. I’ll return for you in a moment and bring you to your quarters.”

You nodded, stepping aside to give her space. She moved with quiet care, gathering the sheets and folding them carefully. When she finished, she turned back to you, holding the bundle gently in her arms. “Later, you have to tell me everything.”

You blinked. “Everything?”

She giggled. “Everything.” Her eyes dropped playfully to the sheets in her arms. “I have questions.”

Your face flushed hot, and she let out another soft laugh. “I’ll be back soon!”

The door shut behind her with a soft click, but you could still hear her giggling down the hall.

You sighed, smiling to yourself despite the heat in your cheeks.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The weight of the robes sank heavier on your shoulders as you stepped toward the courtyard. Silk layered over silk, every fold pressed and pinned with precision. The sash at your waist tugged with every breath, and the hair ornaments shifted with the slightest movement, delicate but unyielding.

In the courtyard, Sieun stood near the open palanquin, already prepared. He looked composed in deep royal blue, the subtle gleam of silver thread catching the sun. When his eyes found yours, his expression didn’t shift, but something in his gaze settled you.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. He simply held out his hand.

You took it.

With his help, you stepped into the palanquin. The silk cushion beneath you gave slightly, grounding you in something soft, something still. Sieun joined you, seated at your side with a calm that seemed carved from stone.

The city roared to life outside the palace gates. Crimson banners lined the streets, waving between wooden beams and stone walls. Petals drifted through the air like snow. Vendors paused in their stalls. Children waved from their fathers’ shoulders. Women leaned forward, shading their eyes.

And every pair of eyes seemed fixed on you.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of your sleeve. You tried to hold your posture. You tried to remember the Madame’s instructions. Chin high. Eyes soft. Smile gently, as if you are already beloved.

But the murmurs rose.

“She’s the one they say he fought the Crown Prince for?”

“I heard she seduced them both.”

“She’s beautiful, but does she even know how to rule a household?”

“Strange match, isn’t it? The general’s youngest daughter with the Prince.”

Each word hit harder than the last. You kept your back straight. You folded your hands the way you’d been taught. You tried to hold your face in a pleasant, neutral calm.

But the sound of doubt pressed in from every side.

Your throat tightened. You wanted to disappear behind the silks.

Then you felt it.

Sieun’s hand found yours.

He reached across the small space between you and gently wrapped his fingers around yours, anchoring you. His thumb brushed gently over the back of your hand. You turned to look at him fully.

His face hadn’t changed. Calm as ever. But his eyes had softened. He gave your hand a quiet squeeze.

“They don’t see clearly yet.” He said, his voice low and certain. “But I do.”

Your breath caught.

He shifted slightly toward you. “Let them see the same thing I see. You don’t have to perform, Y/N. Just be yourself.”

For a moment, the noise faded. The city, the drums, the gossip…It all fell away.

All you could see was him.

Your lips curved before you realized it, and he smiled in return, open and unguarded.

The ache in your chest softened.

You gave his hand a small squeeze. Then, after a steadying breath, you turned back to the crowd.

This time, when you smiled, it wasn’t to meet expectations.

It was yours.

You made eye contact with a child who clutched a faded fabric doll, and gave her a small wave. Her eyes lit up, her grin impossibly wide.

A merchant near the front offered a polite bow. You met his eyes and inclined your head back.

The murmurs changed.

“They look… close.”

“Did you see how he looked at her?”

“Maybe the rumors weren’t true after all.”

“Look how kind she seems. Not the cold princess we feared.”

“Perhaps this is the change we’ve been waiting for.”

As the palanquin continued its path through the heart of the capital, the cheers grew louder. People began throwing handfuls of petals in your path, and children called your name. Some reached out their hands to wave. And this time, it didn’t feel like a performance. It felt like a meeting.

Not royalty and subjects.

Just people.

And for once, you were not afraid to be seen.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The quiet footsteps echoed softly along the polished stone corridor. A figure stood alone by the window, eyes fixed on the distant parade winding through the city below.

Suddenly, hurried steps approached, breaking the stillness.

A servant appeared, bowing low, breath uneven.

“Is everything proceeding according to plan?” The figure asked without turning.

The servant hesitated, then glanced up nervously. “At first…The rumors we spread among the people took hold. Their whispers cast doubt and suspicion as we intended.”

The figure’s jaw tightened.

“But now.” The servant continued, voice lowering. “The crowd’s mood has shifted. They watch the union with growing warmth. Especially towards the woman. The people seem to like her… more than we expected.”

A sharp exhale escaped the figure’s lips, barely contained anger flickering in their gaze.

“How?” The word landed sharp and precise.

The servant swallowed. “They saw her smile. And him—Prince Sieun—holding her hand. The people were charmed. They began to say she looked kind. That the match seemed real. Some called her a blessing.”

The silence that followed was colder than before.

“They’re saying it suits him. That she brings softness to him. They like her. And they like them together.”

The figure turned slowly, the movement quiet but deliberate.

“All it took was a smile?” The voice asked, low and bitter. “One smile to undo all the work we’ve done?”

The servant didn’t dare answer.

“Fine. Let them cheer. They won’t be cheering for long.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The sun had begun to sink lower in the sky, casting a golden hush over the garden. The sounds of the city and celebration had faded behind them. Here, at the edge of Sieun’s estate, everything was still.

You stepped through the arched gate that led to the inner courtyard. The air was cooler now, touched by evening. Crickets had begun their soft hum somewhere in the distance.

You slowed your steps, your gaze drifting toward the pond.

“Just a moment.” You said.

Sieun looked at you, but didn’t question it. He followed as you veered from the path.

The garden was quiet. The pond shimmered faintly in the low light, its surface dotted with blooming lotus. A swing hung beside it beneath a willow tree, its seat gently swaying from the breeze. You walked to it and sat, careful not to wrinkle the last of your ceremony robes. The wood creaked faintly beneath you.

You exhaled. “I didn’t think they would accept me.”

Sieun stood beside you, his gaze steady. “But they did.”

“Not at first.” You continued. “They believed the rumors. That I had played you both. That I was chasing status. That I fooled the entire court…That I seduced you.”

You felt his gaze on you, even before he spoke. “Well.” He said mildly. “You certainly did.”

You blinked and turned to him. “What?”

His mouth curved, almost like he was trying not to smile. “Seduce me. Bewitch me. Ruin me, possibly.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

“Sieun.” You said, flustered. “That’s not what I meant.”

He gave a quiet laugh, the sound low and warm in his throat. “The moment you walked into court, I couldn’t stop looking at you. You didn’t move like the others. You looked out of place, a little lost… but you held your head high anyway. And I hated how much that got to me.”

Your cheeks warmed instantly. You looked away, flustered. “Stop.”

He didn’t. “Even the way you argue is charming.”

“Stop.” You repeated, but your voice caught on a laugh.

He only smiled and leaned back, bracing himself on the edge of the swing frame beside you.

His voice lowered, gentle and reflective. “It was strange for me. I was never interested in anything but my studies. Sometimes archery. My father used to throw endless gatherings, with music and dancers, women chosen to charm and impress. I never cared for any of it.”

You said nothing, but your silence invited him to go on.

“And then you came along.” He continued. “Hair always a little untamed. Your bows never quite neat. You did not pretend to be someone you were not. Maybe that was what did it. Or maybe it was your kindness, the way you saw people without needing to impress them. You felt real in a place where everyone was performing, trying so hard to please the right eyes.”

You glanced back at him, but his gaze wasn’t teasing now. It was steady and sincere, settled entirely on you.

“I don’t know when it happened exactly.” He said quietly. “But I’m glad it was you. I’m glad you’re the one I can call my wife.”

Your breath caught. For a moment, you forgot the world outside that quiet space between you.

“I’m grateful they accept me now.” You said softly. “Your people.”

He glanced at you, then reached for the rope of the swing, idly twisting it between his fingers.

“Our people.” He corrected softly.

The warmth in your chest spread slowly, quiet and full.

You didn’t say anything, only nodded, the smallest smile finding its way back to your lips.

He leaned in before you could think twice, and his hand cupped the side of your face with aching gentleness. His forehead brushed against yours, his breath warm between you.

“I’ve wanted to do this all day.” He murmured.

Then his lips found yours.

It was deep and full of everything that had been left unsaid. Your hands slid up into his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as if to anchor yourself to the moment. His breath caught slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Your lips moved together in quiet desperation.

The swing rocked slightly beneath you, the pond forgotten, the night forgotten.

There was only this.

Only him.

Only you.

And when you finally broke apart, breathless, your eyes met his again.

No words. None were needed.

You were his.

And he was already yours.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The garden was quiet, save for the faint rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze. The air was cool but carried the faint warmth of early day, with dew still clinging to petals and grass beneath your feet. You and Sieun walked slowly along the winding stone path, your steps unhurried, savoring the rare calm that settled between you.

Your fingers brushed against his, a small but deliberate connection that eased the lingering tiredness in your muscles. Your mind drifted back to the night before and how it had felt. It was different from the wedding night… There was no hesitation or carefulness, only a fierce, quiet passion. Every touch had been sure, every movement charged with urgency that left you breathless and wanting more. The memory made your lips curve in a soft smile.

You glanced up to meet his steady gaze. There was warmth there, steady and sure, and it gave you strength.

“You look different today.” Sieun said softly.

You nodded, your smile growing. “I’m happy. Truly happy.”

His hand gave yours a gentle squeeze. “That is all I ever wanted for you.”

The air shifted, carrying the fragrance of blooming flowers. You breathed it in deeply, savoring the moment of peace.

Footsteps approached at a calm pace. Suho appeared around the bend, his expression composed as he bowed respectfully.

“The King wishes to see you both.” Suho said kindly. “I will prepare the carriage.”

Sieun looked down at your hand and bent to press a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “Let’s freshen up quickly.” He murmured. “Then we will go.”

You smiled, heart fluttering as he stood beside you. The path ahead felt a little brighter, the day full of promise.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The carriage ride to the palace was smooth and quiet. Through the windows, you saw the city’s familiar streets, alive with activity yet somehow distant from your own growing anticipation. Sieun sat beside you, his gaze thoughtful as the landscape passed by.

At the palace, the gates opened wide to welcome you back. Suho led you through familiar corridors until you reached the King’s chambers. It was a spacious room filled with dark polished wood, heavy tapestries, and soft light filtering through latticed windows.

The King sat behind an ornate desk, regal and imposing, yet his eyes softened when they rested on you and Sieun. A warm smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Welcome back.” The King said, voice calm but sincere. “I have heard much of the parade. It seems the people received you well.”

Sieun bowed deeply. “Yes, Your Majesty. They were kinder than we expected.”

The King’s gaze flicked to you. “I trust you are both well?”

You bowed in return, “Thank you, Your Majesty. We are.”

A moment passed.

“I have heard you fulfilled your duties on your wedding night.”

Your cheeks flushed deeply, and you quickly glanced at Sieun, who shifted awkwardly in his seat, his jaw tightening slightly.

The King chuckled heartily. “Some whispered you might not have needed the soiled sheets to confirm the union. Word was that the noise alone would have been proof enough. One of the guards said he nearly turned around in the hallway from embarrassment.“ His laughter filled the room, warm and joyous. “Clearly, the blood runs true. A son of mine indeed.”

Your lips parted, shocked, and Sieun looked down, ears turning red. He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the subject.

“Was it as passionate as the stories say?” The King continued, a teasing grin playing on his lips. “Did you require frequent breaks, or were you relentless, like the warrior I know you to be?”

Sieun’s jaw clenched. “Father.” He began, voice low, “I think this line of questioning is unnecessary.”

The King waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. When two young people share their first night, the kingdom wonders. And now, so do I.”

Sieun gave a short, awkward bow. “We are grateful for your blessings, Father.”

“Grateful?” The King chuckled. “I asked if you were satisfied, not if you were grateful. Did she not steal your breath and leave you trembling, boy?”

Your face flamed hotter, and you made the mistake of glancing at Sieun again. His eyes flicked away quickly, as if he couldn’t quite meet your gaze. One hand rubbed the back of his neck, the tips of his ears turning red. But there was no escape. The King was enjoying himself far too much.

“You are too quiet, Princess Y/N.” The King said, turning his gaze to you. “Surely you have something to say. Did my son treat you gently, or did he forget all his manners in his eagerness?”

You lowered your head, flustered. “He was… everything I needed him to be, Your Majesty.”

“And were you satisfied?“ He asked, grinning.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” You answered softly, trying to keep your composure.

The King clapped his hands, roaring with laughter. “Good. Very good. If he had not pleased you, I would have had to knock some sense into him myself. But no, clearly he did well. And look at you now... Glowing. If I had doubted you were a good match before, I would not now.”

You bowed your head politely, and offered a smile that wobbled at the edges.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

It came out a little too formal, a little too stiff. The King’s grin only widened at your discomfort.

“Now.” He added, raising his brows. “How long before you give me an heir? Or two. Perhaps three? A boy to carry on the name and a girl with your smile, Princess Y/N. You would make a beautiful mother.”

Sieun let out a quiet sigh, one that you felt more than heard.

“We’ve only just married.” He said, voice stiff but respectful.

“All the more reason to get started.” The King said with a laugh. “Do not delay. You’ve both clearly taken to each other. What more do you need?”

You met Sieun’s eyes for a moment, and something in his gaze softened, though his expression remained tight. His hand brushed against yours behind the folds of your sleeves. Quiet reassurance. Silent apology for the King’s antics.

Before the King could press further, a knock came at the door.

“Enter.” He called.

A palace messenger stepped in and bowed low. “Your Majesty. Forgive the intrusion.”

The King’s tone turned crisp. “What is it?”

The messenger’s voice was careful. “It is about the Crown Prince, sire. He returned to his quarters only moments ago. He was gone the entire day.”

The King sat up slightly. “Gone where?”

“We do not know, Your Majesty. He left without attendants and used the back gate to return. He was moving quickly and looked… agitated.”

Sieun’s brows drew together. “Father…”

The King raised a hand. “That will be all.”

The messenger bowed again and departed swiftly.

Sieun turned to his father. “You’ve been watching him since the hunt…”

“And I was right to do so.” The King said. His voice had grown cooler, the laughter now gone. “But this is not the moment to act.”

“What does it mean?”

The King looked between you both, and something unreadable passed through his eyes. “It means nothing yet. But it will.”

He let the words settle, then added, “Stay alert. Be prepared. The court shifts like sand beneath a tide. You’d be wise to keep your footing.”

Sieun said nothing more. You felt the weight of his silence as he guided you out of the chamber, his hand resting lightly at your back.

As the door closed behind you, you turned to Sieun. “Your father is suspicious of him, isn’t he? Of the Crown Prince.”

Sieun’s expression was unreadable, his voice calm. “Too many accidents have happened around him. My father sees patterns where others claim coincidence.”

You hesitated. “Then why not tell us more? Why keep it to himself?”

He looked at you then, steady and certain. “Because we have to trust his judgment. I believe he means to handle it alone. For now.”

“And us?”

His fingers laced through yours. “We stay close. And we don’t get caught off guard.”

You nodded, your steps slow but steady beside him. Peace still clung to the air, but you could feel the undercurrent beginning to stir.

And for the first time, you wondered how long it would last.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

It surprised you, how quickly the days began to blur.

At first, you counted them. One week since the wedding. Two weeks since the parade. A month. Two. But at some point, you stopped. Not because you forgot, but because life with Sieun had begun to feel natural. Unforced. Familiar.

The estate no longer held two sides. His and yours had become one. The doors between them were no longer barriers but quiet thresholds, passed through without thought. He didn’t knock anymore. Neither did you. Sometimes you would find him already in your room, reading a scroll at the low table, waiting with tea. Other times you slipped into his chambers and found him asleep with papers still in his hands. You would ease them away and curl beside him, and he would shift in his sleep as if he had been expecting you.

He was opening up more. Slowly, but genuinely. Not in sweeping declarations, but in passing words. He would speak about his childhood without being asked. About Lady Yeon and the scent of her hair oil. About the ache behind his father’s praise. About the nights he used to sneak out to the archery grounds just to feel like himself. You listened to it all, never interrupting.

And then there were the nights.

You had thought the hunger might fade, that the fire between you would burn softer with time. But it had not. If anything, it deepened. Changed shape.

Some nights were slow and unhurried, filled with teasing glances and lingering hands. He would take his time with you, and you with him. You would lie tangled in sheets long after the candle had gone out, murmuring soft things into the dark.

Other nights, it was different. Urgent. Breathless. Neither of you made it past the door. Clothing half-undone, lips frantic, the need to be close outweighing everything else. Sometimes it happened more than once. Sometimes you did not even leave the bed the next morning.

You were still learning each other. And you loved it. The quiet discoveries. The laughter between kisses. The whispered promises you never dared say aloud before.

You had expected your joy to dull with time, to settle into something smaller. But it hadn’t. If anything, it grew. You found yourself watching him when he was not looking, when he was focused on a report or tying his sash. You would feel it then. That steady ache in your chest.

You were falling for him.

More and more, with every passing day.

So this morning, without him, everything felt slightly off.

He had left earlier to meet an official, promising to return before dinner. You had been invited to join the other court ladies. Today, you were practicing embroidery. Soft chatter floated among the ladies gathered around the low tables scattered with silk, thread, and delicate needles. You sat quietly, your fingers moving deftly through the fabric, stitching a pattern of tiny lotus blossoms.

“So.” Lady Min leaned in slightly, her eyes bright with curiosity, “How have you found married life, You’re Highness ? Surely the palace suits you well now.”

You smiled gently but kept stitching. “It has been an adjustment, but I am grateful for the kindness I have found.”

“Is Prince Sieun… demanding?” Another lady asked.

Your cheeks warmed slightly. “He is… patient and terribly kind. It’s more than I expected.”

From across the room, you caught Sooyeon’s eyes on you. Her smile was small, almost shy, but there was warmth there that eased your nerves. She was happy for you, you could tell.

Lady Kim, sitting closest, tapped her needle against her wrist. “Does Prince Sieun spend much time with you, Your Highness?“

“He does.” You replied, a quiet smile forming. “In the evenings, he reads to me from his favorite books. Sometimes we walk in the gardens together, or I sit while he practices archery.”

Another lady leaned in slightly, surprised. “The Prince lets you watch him shoot?”

“He doesn’t mind.” You said, threading another line of color through the cloth. “Sometimes he asks what I think of his aim.”

Laughter rippled gently through the group.

“How romantic.” Someone whispered, half teasing, half serious.

“So rare.” Lady Min sighed. “A union made of quiet understanding rather than politics.”

You glanced at Sooyeon again. She caught your look and gave you a small, encouraging smile.

Two ladies exchanged glances. “ So… The Prince never rushes to leave? To be alone?” One finally asked, her voice full of curiosity. A quiet murmur followed.

You kept your eyes on the silk thread in your hand. “No.” You said gently. “He never seems to be in a hurry to go.”

“So he stays and talks?” One asked, clearly intrigued. “Even after?”

Your cheeks grew warm, but you nodded. “We talk about everything. Some nights we don’t say much at all. He just… stays.”

“It sounds peaceful,” Lady Kim murmured, a little envious. “Comfortable.”

“It is.” You said, your voice steady. “He makes time. Not just in presence, but in attention.”

A quiet murmur followed. A lady let out a wistful sigh. A moment passed before someone cleared their throat.

“Your Highness.” Lady Min began with a sly smile, “We must ask—are the stories true?

You looked up, caught off guard by the direct question. “What stories do you mean?”

“We have heard quite a few rumours about your wedding night, months ago. Since Prince Sieun is known to be so quiet and reserved, many found it hard to believe. But… well, a great many at court insist the stories are true. We wondered if Your Highness might be willing to confirm them for us?”

A few of the women giggled behind their sleeves. One of them added softly, “We just wanted to know if it’s true. Not all of it, of course. But… some say The Prince barely let you rest that night.”

You fought a smile as the ladies teasing eyes settled on you. You met their playful gazes with composed grace. “Prince Sieun is reserved in many ways, yes. But there is much more to him than meets the eye.” You bit your lip to keep from smiling too much. “He’s attentive.” You said, carefully. “And… thorough.”

The ladies giggled softly, clearly pleased with your answer, eager for more.

Lady Hyejin leaned forward slightly, her eyes twinkling. “If it is true, Your Highness, then pray tell… How does the prince behave when no one is watching? Is he still as composed, or is there a different side to him?”

“So quiet and serious.” Another lady chimed in. “It’s hard to picture him anything but that. Does he… take the lead, or is he more gentle?”

You smiled softly, feeling the warmth of their interest but also the subtle challenge in their questions. “Prince Sieun is many things. Sometimes patient, sometimes bold. He knows how to listen and when to act. I find that balance quite… compelling.”

Lady Hyejin fanned herself dramatically. “Truly, Your Highness, it sounds like a dream. A prince who treats you like that, and in private too…” She sighed, grinning. “Some of us can only imagine.”

Lady Sunyoung let out a small laugh. “Imagine? I’d settle for five minutes of attention.” She leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “My husband barely remembers I’m in the room most days. And when he does… well, it’s over before I can even think about enjoying it.”

A round of laughter burst from the circle.

“Oh, Lady Sunyoung.” Someone said, half-laughing, half-pitying. “You poor thing.”

“At least he’s quick.” Another added with a teasing grin.

Lady Sunyoung lifted her chin and gave a playful shrug. “I get more satisfaction from embroidery these days.”

More laughter followed, easy and bubbling.

Suddenly, Lady Park, who had been mostly silent, spoke up. “And what of your own thoughts, Your Highness. Do you find joy in this new life?”

You lifted your eyes and met the curious gazes of the ladies. “I do. More than I thought possible. Each day brings something new. Moments of peace, of laughter. And moments of affection that surprise me.”

Lady Hyejin shook her head. “To be respected, cherished, and satisfied. The gods really did favor you, Your Highness.”

You tilted your head slightly. “I don’t take it for granted.” You replied. “I’m lucky.”

There was a soft pause after that, a kind of warmth settling over the room. Then Lady Min pointed toward your lap.

“What are you working on?” She asked.

You hesitated for a moment, then held up the fabric. It was nearly finished now. It was a square of silk embroidered with lotus petals and a hawk in flight. His crest.

“A gift.” You said. “Something small. For him.”

Sooyeon leaned closer, her eyes on the piece. Her expression was unreadable at first, then she gave a soft smile. “He’ll love it.” She said gently.

The other ladies nodded, some leaning in for a better look. The mood had shifted, no longer just teasing and playful. There was something quieter now. Something close to fondness.

And in that moment, you realized they were no longer seeing you as a girl from the outer court or the daughter of a general. You were their princess. And they were glad for it.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The laughter still lingered faintly in the air when the door opened.

A servant in white and blue robes stepped just inside the doorway, bowing with precision. “Your Highness. The Queen requests your presence.”

The room fell quiet. A few ladies exchanged glances, though no one dared speak.

You rose with a nod, smoothing your skirts. “Of course.”

Seorin, who had been stationed by the doors, was already at your side by the time you stepped forward. Her brows were knit with subtle concern, her gaze flicking briefly toward the servant and then back to you. You met her look with quiet reassurance.

Suho had remained with Sieun today. There had been no need to bring him along to a gathering of court women. You had not expected the Queen to summon you.

Still, you were not afraid. There were too many eyes. Too many women knew where you were going. If anything were to happen to you now, if you disappeared or fell ill again, people would talk. They would remember. And the Queen knew that.

Still, Seorin’s hand brushed lightly against your sleeve as you passed through the corridor. A silent gesture. I’m here.

You nodded once.

The Queen was waiting in her personal audience chamber, one of the more private rooms reserved for informal gatherings. The light filtered in through papered windows, casting the space in muted gold and shadows. A lacquered table had already been set with delicate porcelain cups and a steaming teapot.

“Your Majesty.” You greeted, lowering into a bow before settling across from her.

The Queen wore dark violet silk, nearly black in the dim light. Her hair was drawn high and bound with gold. She did not rise. She only gestured for you to sit.

“I appreciate you coming.” She said calmly. “It has been far too long since we shared time together. I would like for that to change.”

You offered a small smile. “I would be honored.”

She poured the tea herself, the liquid pale and fragrant as it filled your cup.

You glanced up at her.

Just for a breath, barely more than a blink. But the Queen noticed.

Her lips curved, not quite a smile. “You’re hesitant.”

You folded your hands neatly. “I was only admiring the aroma, Your Majesty.”

Her eyes lingered on your face. “It’s natural, I suppose. After what happened, one might flinch before every cup. But I’ve always found poisoning to be a distasteful way to kill. So impersonal and vulgar. Messy. Not my style.”

You met her gaze and held it. “I see.”

“I prefer other methods.” She said with quiet amusement. “Should the need arise.”

You fought a shiver before reaching for the tea. Your fingers were steady, even if your chest was not.

The Queen sipped first. Only after did you bring the cup to your lips.

It was warm. Floral. Not unpleasant.

You drank.

The silence stretched for a moment too long before she finally spoke again.

“I hear you are still taking court etiquette lessons.” She said.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Good. You are still lacking.”

Your spine straightened, but you said nothing.

“You are a princess now. Your posture must reflect that. And your diction. It’s still a bit rustic.” She gave a small wave of her fingers. “You carry yourself with emotion. That must be corrected.”

“I will try harder.”

“I’m sure you will.” She took another sip of her tea. “There is room for improvement. But you are not without merit. You have charm. People like charm, even when it covers ignorance.”

You kept your tone even. “I’m grateful for your guidance.”

She tilted her head. “Tell me. How is Prince Sieun these days?”

You paused.

Why did she want to know about Sieun?

“Busy. Focused on his duties.” You said, simply.

“Of course.” She said. “He must be. With everything that has happened.”

You didn’t answer right away.

“I ask only because it is nearly the anniversary of his mother’s death.” She continued. “That time of year can make some men… unstable.”

There it was.

You kept your expression still. “He’s been as usual.”

“I’m glad. It wouldn’t do for him to lose himself in grief. It’s a dangerous thing when men forget who they are.”

You met her eyes again. A spark of challenge flickered in your eyes. “Has the Crown Prince been well? I haven’t seen him at court in some time.”

There was a slight pause.

“He is attending to certain affairs.” She said, her tone slower now. “But he is in good health. Thank you for your concern.”

“I wish him well.”

The Queen nodded once, folding her hands over her lap. “Perhaps he and your husband will work together more closely. It would be good to show unity. The people respond to appearances.”

“Perhaps.”

Another pause settled between you. She studied your face the way one might study a mirror for cracks.

Then, she smiled again.

“I must leave soon.” She said. “An evening engagement. But I do hope we’ll continue these conversations. There is potential in you, and potential, when shaped correctly, can be powerful. We might even become friends.”

That unsettled you more than anything else she had said.

“Of course. I would like that.” You said, though your voice was quieter.

You began to rise.

“Oh,” She said lightly. “One last thing.”

You paused.

“If you’d like, I can have the recipe for the tea sent to your estate.”

You blinked. “The tea?”

“Yes. The one I served you. It’s a particular blend. Very gentle. Very effective.” She smiled. “It’s especially effective for avoiding unwanted… complications.“

You felt the words hit you like ice. Your stomach turned.

What?

“A princess should be free to plan her life.”She continued. “And contraceptive teas are a luxury many women cannot afford. But here, you can. Consider it a gift.” Her expression did not change. “You’re welcome.”

“I—” You began, but she was already waving you off.

“Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Princess. And send my greetings to your husband.”

You bowed, silent, and walked from the room as steadily as your legs allowed.

Only when you and Seorin turned the corner, out of view, did your composure falter. Seorin’s hand caught your elbow, steadying you.

“Are you alright, my lady?”

You nodded, but it wasn’t true.

You had faced many dangers since entering the palace, but none quite like the Queen’s smile.

You had let your guard down.

For weeks now, you had smiled more easily, spoken more freely, learned to walk the palace grounds as if they belonged to you.

But the Queen had reminded you, gently, ruthlessly.

You were still a guest in someone else’s game.

And you had forgotten what a mistake it was to grow too comfortable here.

tagg list: @niyzu @hemmosfear @stxr-lilac @sieunah @miraluvsyou @tokkitel @kaykay0315 @emswirls @kamiliora @poeticias @lili-of-the-dream @moodyhuesworld

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linoxpudding · 26 days ago

Text

No Escape (Pt 2) - Kim Seungmin

summary: trying to adjust to a new "normal," you cling to a brief moment of hope —only to have it slip away which drives you to make a final decision to escape the reality

pairing: mafia!seungmin x fem!reader

genre: angst, dark romance, yandere, mafia au

word count: 10,710 words

warnings: kidnapping, guns, obsession, assault, su*cide attempt, mentions of violence

a/n: thank you all so much for the love and support on pt 1! I originally planned for it to be a one-shot, but after all your amazing feedback and requests, I decided to give it a proper final part, hope you enjoy it x

PART ONE

~°~

The days bled together.

Seungmin visited the room every day— once before going to work and once at night —at the same hour, he opened the door and stepped inside quietly. He’d sit in the same chair by the bed. Say nothing. Do nothing. Just… watch.

You never screamed anymore. Silence had taken over you. You wouldn’t look at him. Wouldn’t acknowledge his presence. Wouldn’t give him the scraps of attention he clearly craved. Yet he kept coming back.

At first, you hated it. Hated the sound of his breathing, the intensity of his gaze, the way he always seemed so composed. You knew beneath that face was something unhinged, something capable of stealing your life and calling it love.

But now… now you didn’t have the energy to feel anything. Not rage. Not fear. Not even hate, really.

You just stared at the wall. Your eyes traced the same crack in the plaster for hours, just to keep your mind from spiraling into the void. You ate the food he brought—not because you were hungry, but because starving yourself didn’t matter anymore. There was no escape. This was your life now. This house. This room. This man.

Seungmin never spoke during these visits. Not a single word. He didn’t ask you questions or try to coax conversation. He seemed content with your silence, or perhaps too afraid to break it. But you felt his eyes on you. Always.

There was a weight in them—something desperate, almost reverent. He watched you like you were a painting he didn’t understand. A sacred thing behind glass, forever out of reach. Sometimes you’d catch the slight movement of his fingers, like he wanted to reach out, to touch you, but was restraining himself. And the worst part? That restraint wasn’t comforting—it was terrifying. Because if he was holding back now, it meant something dangerous was lurking underneath. Something simmering. Boiling.

One day, you looked up just once. Just for a second. You didn’t even mean to. But your gaze flicked to him before you could stop it.

He blinked like you'd just touched him.

His lips parted, breath caught in his throat, and you could see his entire soul unraveling from just that one flicker of attention. It should’ve given you power. But all you felt was dread.

What kind of man breaks from a glance?

That night, as you lay in bed, you heard the door open again. It was past his usual time. You didn’t move. You waited for the chair to creak. It didn’t.

Instead, the bed dipped slightly—just an inch—as if someone leaned close. You smelled him before you felt him. That subtle cologne, woodsy and expensive, mixed now with a sharp edge of something you couldn't name. Obsession, maybe.

“You looked at me,” Seungmin whispered, so low you wondered if he was speaking to himself.

You didn’t answer.

“I won’t touch you,” he added, barely breathing. “I just wanted to be close to you. For a second.”

You clenched your fists under the blanket. Still, you said nothing.

He left a minute later. The door closed with the softest click.

The next morning, a small envelope sat beside your breakfast tray. Not forced into your hands. Not pushed in your face. Just… left there. An offering.

You opened it.

Inside was a note in neat, careful handwriting: “I miss your voice.”

You crumpled it without reading it twice. Threw it to the corner. But you didn’t ignore the food that day. You ate all of it.

Another note came two days later: “Tell me what you need. I’ll give you anything.”

You scoffed and shoved the tray off the table. The dishes shattered. For the first time in weeks, your voice broke through the silence.

“I want to leave,” you whispered.

He wasn’t even there to hear it. But the words bled out anyway.

That night, you dreamt of being free. Of open skies. Of your old bed. Of friends whose names you could no longer remember clearly. You wondered how your parents were, if they realised you’ve been missing. But when you woke up, the silence wrapped around your throat like a noose.

Seungmin came in a few hours later, as always. Sat in the same chair. You didn’t look at him. But you could feel the tension in the air. Like something inside him was fraying.

You didn’t understand why he kept doing this. Why he endured your hate, your silence, your complete indifference. It would’ve been easier for him to punish you. Hurt you. Take what he wanted and force you to comply.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he sat there every day like a penitent ghost, waiting for you to come alive again. You wanted to scream at him. Shake him. Ask what the hell he wanted from you.

But you didn’t.

Because a darker truth lived somewhere inside you now. Somewhere beneath the numbness, the silence, the unending grief—there was something else. Something twisted. Something terrifying.

Some nights, when you cried yourself to sleep, you almost wished he would come back and hold you.

And that was the most horrifying thought of all.

*********************

Tonight when Seungmin entered your room, something felt different.

The air carried a charge. You felt it the moment the door opened.

He stepped in slowly, his hands shoved in the pockets of a tailored black coat, his shoulders tenser than usual. His movements weren’t as smooth, as calculated. He wasn’t performing control tonight. He was unraveling quietly at the seams.

You sat on the edge of your bed, knees pulled up, a blanket wrapped around your body. You stared ahead, at nothing, your expression empty.

Seungmin stood a few steps from you, his eyes tracing your form like he was memorizing you again—like he did every day. But this time, he didn’t sit. He cleared his throat.

“I… have to go away for a while. Tokyo first. Then New York,” he said softly. “Business.”

You didn’t respond. Not even a twitch.

“Just a few weeks. two, maybe less,” he continued, voice careful. “I didn’t want to go, but I can’t avoid it.”

He took one hesitant step forward. Then another. You didn’t stop him.

“I didn’t want to leave without seeing you. Without…” he faltered, his voice catching on something raw. “Without hearing you. Or… even just seeing you look at me.”

He paused a foot away from you now. His breathing was uneven.

“Can you look at me?” he asked, a note of something desperate bleeding into his voice.

You didn’t. And yet, you could feel it—his disappointment. His helplessness.

That impenetrable armor he wore so well, the cold composure, the frightening stillness—it was cracking. Slowly. Quietly. And what was underneath… wasn’t rage.

It was grief.

“I know you hate me,” he whispered. “I know I don’t deserve it. But… I’m leaving. And I—”

He swallowed hard.

“Can I hold you?” he asked, his voice trembling now. “Please?”

The silence stretched between you like a live wire. You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t say no either. And when he reached out, gently, carefully, like touching something that might disappear… you didn’t flinch.

His hand came up and cupped your cheek, thumb barely brushing your skin, and you still didn’t move. His touch was feather-light, reverent—like he was afraid you'd vanish into smoke. Or maybe afraid you'd break.

“I miss you,” he whispered, eyes locked to yours, even though you still wouldn’t meet them. “And I don’t even have you. How does that make sense?”

You stayed frozen. Stiff. Distant. But something inside you thudded. A strange, slow ache in your chest. He leaned forward. Not with urgency. Not to kiss. Just to rest his forehead against yours. His breath was warm and shaking. His whole body trembled like he was trying not to fall apart.

And you let him.

You didn’t pull away when his arms slipped around you. He didn’t squeeze. He didn’t force. He just held you. As if the act of being near you was enough to anchor him.

And somewhere deep inside, beneath your layers of grief and resistance, you felt something flicker. A small warmth. A memory of what comfort used to feel like before your world was turned inside out.

You hated it.

You hated that you felt safer in his arms than you had in the dark, endless nights alone. You hated the way his heartbeat felt steady against your ribs. Hated how you exhaled the first full breath you’d taken in days while being held by the man who stole everything from you.

But you didn’t move.

Because for a moment, you didn’t want to. He pulled back after what felt like forever, his eyes glossy. Not crying—he never cried—but close. Close enough.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, voice soft. “I’ll come straight to you when I return.”

He kissed your forehead. It was fleeting. A whisper of affection. Then he left.

And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t fall asleep with tears in your eyes. But that didn’t mean you weren’t breaking. Because cracks in the ice spread quietly, until one day they shatter everything.

*********************

The next morning you woke up to silence.

Not the usual kind

This silence was different.

It was empty.

And for a moment, your body stilled, brain still fogged with sleep, waiting for the familiar ritual to begin — the way it had for so many days, like clockwork. You’d hear the soft shuffling of footsteps outside your door. The quiet click of the doorknob turning. Scent of his cologne lingering in the air like a shadow. You'd pretend to stay asleep, ignore his presence, and pretend that the man who kept you here didn’t haunt your every breath.

But he never came. And your chest… ached.

You blinked slowly, lifting your head from the pillow, your muscles sluggish and sore from another restless night. The room felt too large today. Too still. The sunlight streamed in, slicing across the floor like blades of glass, illuminating the thick dust floating through the air. A beam fell over the chair where he usually sat.

For some reason, that chair made your stomach twist.

He said he was leaving last night. You remembered the way his voice dropped as he spoke — almost as if asking for permission, not just telling you.

You stared at the closed door for a long time, your fingers curled around the edge of your blanket, knuckles white. Your stomach twisted—not from hunger, but something worse.

Longing.

You missed him.

You missed Kim Seungmin.

You clenched your jaw, furious at yourself. No. No, what the hell is wrong with me?

This was the man who tore your life apart. This was the man who stole you. This was the man who broke you, piece by piece, with obsession dressed as love and control painted as care.

And yet—his absence clung to you like a second skin.

Maybe it was the way he’d held you the night before. How gently he had touched you. How his voice had cracked when he asked, “Can I hold you?” How you hadn’t moved away.

You buried your face in your hands. This wasn’t comfort. It was conditioning. It had to be. Stockholm syndrome, they called it—when the cage becomes the only warmth you know. When you mistake the kindness of your captor for affection because you’re starved for any scrap of softness.

You dragged yourself from bed, movements slow and reluctant, as if your body couldn’t quite function without the weight of his eyes on you. As much as you resented his presence, there was something unnerving about the vacuum he left behind. Like silence had become too loud.

You crossed the room and stood in front of the chair.

That goddamn chair.

For days, weeks most probably — you’d stopped keeping count — he sat there every night, watching you like a man studying the edge of a cliff. He never spoke first. Never touched you without your permission. He just… sat. And somehow, his silence had become louder than his violence ever was.

You reached out and touched the top of the chair, your fingers brushing the cool wood. The scent of him still lingered. It should have made you sick. Instead, your throat closed.

No. You couldn’t miss him. You weren’t that far gone.

You turned abruptly, brushing the thoughts away like cobwebs, and walked to the window. The grounds stretched out in disciplined symmetry — trimmed hedges, marble fountains, and wide stone paths crawling with guards.

There was no escaping here. You’d accepted that. The doors were locked, the windows wired, and Seungmin had eyes in every shadow. Every time you thought you’d spotted a weak link, it disappeared, like the version of yourself that existed before he took you.

But now, without him, you felt something foreign. Not hope. Never that.

Just… restlessness.

Suddenly, you couldn’t stand being here anymore. You needed to move. Breathe. Feel something.

You strode to the door, yanked it open and froze.

A stern voice came instantly from across the hall.

“You can’t leave.”

The words struck like thunder. It was sharp, authoritative and familiar.

Your eyes snapped toward the source. Lee Minho stepped into the light. He has sharp jawline and intense eyes. Dressed in black, his presence as commanding as it was cold.

You remembered him—one of Seungmin’s closest men. Loyal. Quiet. But lethal. There was a stillness about him that unnerved you more than chaos ever could.

You swallowed. “I know. I’m not trying to escape,” you said quietly, your voice rough from disuse. “I just… I want to walk. Around the mansion.”

Minho didn’t reply at first. He stared at you for a long beat, before sternly saying, “That’s not allowed.”

“I’m not asking to leave the estate,” you pressed, your voice low but firm. “Just… the halls. A few rooms. I’ve been locked in here for weeks. I’m going insane.”

His jaw twitched. There was hesitation behind those eyes, something you didn’t expect.

“If boss finds out—”

“He’s not here.”

The words came out sharper than you intended. But you were tired of being voiceless.

Minho narrowed his eyes. There was no affection in his gaze—but there was calculation.

He folded his arms. “You’re not trying to run?”

“I know there’s no point. You all made that perfectly clear,” you said more quietly, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “I just want to walk. That’s not a crime, is it?”

Still, he said nothing.

“I’m tired of this room,” you continued, a small tremor entering your voice. “I need to feel like a human again. Just for a little while.”

Minho looked at you. Not with sympathy, but something close to curiosity — as if wondering how someone so broken could still have anything left to ask for.

Finally, he stepped aside.

“Ten minutes. You try anything, and you’ll regret it.”

You didn’t reply. You didn’t thank him.

You just stepped out of the room for the first time since you’d arrived and walked past him.

The hallway was quiet, eerily so. The chandeliers above cast long shadows on the marble floor. You walked slowly, each step strange and weightless, like walking in a dream.

The mansion was beautiful—cold, clinical, extravagant. Every corner whispered of wealth and secrecy. But beneath the grandeur was a sharpness, like the entire house was holding its breath.

As you wandered past empty rooms and silent staircases, your thoughts circled back again to Seungmin.

You hated that you noticed his absence like this. That his presence, suffocating as it was, had become a part of your rhythm. And now you were out of step.

It wasn’t love. You reminded yourself over and over.

It was isolation. Trauma. Psychological damage.

But that didn’t change the fact that when he held you last night, you felt warm for the first time in weeks.

You stopped in front of a window and pressed your palm against the cold glass.

Somewhere in Tokyo, Seungmin was thinking about you. You were sure of it. The man who had taken everything from you. And yet, here you were.

Longing for him to come back.

*********************

The night had settled heavily over the mansion, cloaking its endless hallways in silence. You lay in bed, staring at the dark ceiling, counting seconds like heartbeats. You couldn’t sleep. Not with that strange hollowness inside you—the kind that had grown sharper in Seungmin’s absence.

And just like that it’s been four days since he left for work. It disgusted you, how often your thoughts strayed to him. To the way his arms had felt around you the night before he left. You hadn’t wanted it. You told yourself you didn’t want it. But still… it had felt warm. Human. And now that warmth was gone.

You pushed the covers off and sat up. Your stomach growled softly, another reminder that time was still moving, that your body was still alive—even if your spirit was still trapped.

You padded toward the door and gently turned the knob. Unlocked.

But before you could step out, a body blocked your path. Broad shoulders, black shirt, arms crossed. Lee Minho was there again.

“Where do you think you're going?” Minho’s voice, quiet and firm, cut through the stillness. His arms were crossed, the dim wall sconce casting sharp shadows across his face. His tone was rough, flat, the way it always was with you.

You exhaled through your nose. “To the kitchen. I’m hungry.”

“No.” The answer was instant.

You glared at him. “Why not?”

“Because I said no.”

The air between you tightened. You hated the way he stood there, like a wall as if you’re some criminal asking for parole.

“I’m not trying to run,” you said, swallowing the irritation in your throat. “I just want food. That’s allowed, isn’t it?”

“I’ll make you something. Just tell me what you want.”

You frowned. “I can go myself.”

“There’s no need.”

“I want to go.”

“No,” he said, sharper this time. “Go back inside.”

You held his stare. “I’m not asking.”

Minho’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not allowed.”

You stepped forward until you were close enough to see the tension in his shoulders. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

His expression flickered — just a flicker, but it was enough.

“Do you want me to starve myself again?” you said lowly, a bitter edge to your voice. “Will that finally get me what I want? A locked casket instead of a locked room?”

His jaw flexed. A long pause passed before he exhaled heavily through his nose. “Five minutes,” he muttered. “I’ll follow behind. And if anything seems off, you come back immediately.”

You nodded. “Deal.”

You padded down the carpeted stairs barefoot, feeling the weight of his glare on your back. He followed, not too close, but always present. Like a tether. The guards nodded at Minho as you passed. Still watching. Still alert.

You sighed.

This was your new normal.

The kitchen was enormous, almost sterile in its perfection. The kitchen lights were dimmed to a soft golden glow. You headed straight for the fridge.

Minho leaned against the counter with a sigh. “You could’ve just asked earlier.”

“I don’t like asking,” you replied, rummaging for leftovers.

Suddenly, a voice from behind startled you both.

“Well, well. Looks like I came back just in time for family drama.”

You froze.

Minho turned, eyes narrowing. “Hyunjin?”

Hyunjin stood in the doorway, short dark hair, a long coat hanging off his shoulders, a lopsided grin on his lips. “Hey, Min. Still bossy, I see.”

Minho straightened. “When did you get back?”

“About ten minutes ago. Jisung said you were on night duty. Figured I’d say hi.” His eyes flicked to you, and the smile faltered slightly. “And… who’s this?”

You stood still, unsure what to say.

Before Minho could respond, Hyunjin took a slow step forward, brows furrowed. “Wait. Wait, hold on.” His tone changed, confused. “Why is there a girl here? Since when does Seungmin—?”

Minho stepped in front of you instinctively. “Drop it.”

“No,” Hyunjin said, voice sharp now. “Why is she here?”

You opened your mouth, but Minho’s grip closed around your wrist—not cruel, just firm.

“She’s leaving,” Minho said.

“No, she’s not,” Hyunjin snapped. “Let her go.”

They locked eyes like wolves. The tension was thick, electrified.

After a long beat, Minho let go.

You stumbled back slightly, heart thudding.

Hyunjin looked at you again, slower this time. His voice was gentler, but it cut through you. “He brought you here against your will, didn’t he?”

You didn’t answer.

But your silence said enough.

Minho muttered something under his breath, stepping away, angry and tense. He opened the fridge instead and slammed it shut a moment later.

Hyunjin’s gaze never left you. “You hungry?”

You nodded faintly.

“Alright,” he said, walking over. “Let’s find something. You and I can talk.”

Minho was still in the room, simmering, but he didn’t stop him this time.

You didn’t know why, but for the first time in weeks… someone looked at you like a person again.

“I’m Hyunjin,” he said, stepping away from the counter slowly. “His stepbrother. I just flew in from Marseille this morning. Haven’t been back here in almost a year.”

Your stomach twisted. Stepbrother.

You suddenly realized why he looked so familiar. The sharpness in the jaw. The precision in the eyes—but where Seungmin was ice, Hyunjin was flame.

“I didn’t think Seungmin had family,” you said slowly.

“He likes people to think that,” Hyunjin replied with a crooked smile. “I’m the stain on his suit. So… he keeps me out of sight.”

You nodded grimly. “We have something in common, then.”

He looked at you with a deep, quiet kind of concerned gaze.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

“I guess that’s fair,” he said. “Not sure I’d trust anyone here either.”

For a moment, silence fell again. The kind that doesn’t feel threatening—but tender. Heavy with all the things that couldn’t be said in one night.

You walked past him to grab a glass and poured your water.

He didn’t move. Just watched. Gently. Like he was trying to figure out what the hell his brother had brought into this house.

The fluorescent lights of the kitchen flickered faintly overhead, buzzing in the silence that followed. Minho stood rigid by the sink, arms crossed, eyes flicking between you and Hyunjin like he was weighing every possible consequence.

“I’ll handle this. Can you give us a moment, Min?” Hyunjin’s voice was calm, measured — but beneath it was steel. He stepped forward, walking toward the door, clearly expecting Minho to move.

Minho didn’t.

He stepped directly in Hyunjin’s path, jaw set, posture tense. “No.”

Hyunjin exhaled sharply through his nose, not in frustration, but disappointment. His dark eyes narrowed, the easygoing edge in his tone beginning to fray. “She’s not a prisoner to me,” he said softly, “I’m not going to hurt her. You know that.”

“She’s not yours to protect either,” Minho shot back, barely above a growl.

Hyunjin tilted his head slightly, as if studying Minho. Then he took another step forward, their chests almost touching now. The air between them was thick with unspoken history and clashing loyalties.

“You gonna make this ugly, Minho?” Hyunjin asked, no longer soft-spoken. There was a challenge in his voice now. “Because if I wanted to go against Seungmin, I’d have done it already. I’m asking you, not as his step-brother, but as your friend…let me talk to her. Alone.”

Minho stared him down, unmoving. A long, taut silence passed.

Finally, Minho sighed, muttering under his breath, “Why is everyone so damn stubborn in this house…”

Without another word, he pushed past Hyunjin and stalked out of the kitchen. The door swung half-shut in his wake.

Hyunjin reached back and gently closed it, the latch clicking softly into place. Then he turned toward you, his features softening with concern.

“You okay to sit?” he asked softly, gesturing to the table.

You nodded and slid onto one of the stools. Your legs still trembled slightly.

“I know this place is weird,” he said, moving with ease across the kitchen and grabbing a pot. “And I know that you must be scared as hell. So… let’s start easy. You like ramen?”

You gave a faint nod.

“Good,” he said. “Because it’s the only thing I can make without setting this place on fire.”

You almost smiled. Almost.

He worked quietly, heating the water, moving with that casual grace of someone not used to chaos — someone who didn’t quite belong in this mansion laced with shadows and control.

And then, when the noodles were boiling and the only sounds were the soft simmer and the tick of the stove timer, he spoke again.

“Tell me,” he said. “What… what is this? Why are you here?”

You looked up, your fingers clenched tight around the edge of the counter.

He wasn’t looking at you like you were crazy. Or dramatic. Or like a possession.

He was just looking. Listening.

So, in the hush of the late-night kitchen, with the scent of boiling noodles in the air and your voice cracking from disuse, you told him.

You told him everything.

How you were taken. How Seungmin watched you, talked to you, tried to be gentle after the rage passed. How you were never physically hurt, but mentally—emotionally—you were being broken down day by day. How the isolation ate at you. How you hated him and feared him.

You stopped, breath ragged, ramen untouched in front of you. You hadn’t realized you were crying until a tear slid off your chin and landed in the bowl.

“I’m not crazy,” you whispered. “But I think I’m becoming something close.”

Hyunjin was silent for a long moment.

Then he pushed his bowl aside, leaned forward on his elbows, and looked you dead in the eye.

“You’re not crazy. He is.”

His voice was cold. Different now. His eyes had darkened, fury simmering beneath his calm exterior.

“Seungmin,” he spat, like the name tasted rotten. “I can’t believe him. I can’t fucking believe he—”

He stopped himself, standing abruptly and running a hand through his hair, pacing once like a tiger in a cage.

“I should talk to him. But he won’t listen. You’re right. He’s too far gone.”

You said nothing. Just sat there, watching this stranger who felt more human in five minutes than the rest of this house did in weeks.

Hyunjin turned to you again.

“Do you have any escape plan?”

You looked at him, startled.

“Because if you do… I’ll help you.”

Your lips parted, your breath caught. The words were too big. Too impossible.

“I—I don’t know if it’s even possible,” you whispered.

His gaze didn’t waver. “Then we’ll make it possible.”

A beat.

Then he said quietly, “You shouldn’t stay here. I don’t care if Seungmin thinks he loves you. This isn’t love. This is obsession.”

Another pause. “And you can’t give up, you deserve freedom.”

You looked at him and for the first time in what felt like forever, something warm flickered in your chest. Hope. Fragile and dangerous. You were alone all this time, now you have someone who will help you.

*********************

Morning arrived with silver light bleeding through the curtains.

You didn’t open your eyes at first. You lay still, curled up, letting the warmth of the blanket hold you a little longer. The room was quiet again—eerily so. You could still feel the faintest residue of Seungmin’s presence lingering in the walls. The ghost of last night clung to you like fog.

But then you heard a knock in the door. You tensed as you heard muffled voices.

“Hyunjin,” Minho’s sharp whisper hissed through the door. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Inviting her to breakfast. Calm down.”

“She’s not—she’s not some guest you can just waltz in and charm.”

“I’m not charming anyone, Minho. I’m trying to treat her like a human being. Something this house seems to have forgotten how to do.”

You sat up slowly, heart thudding against your ribs. You didn’t expect him to come back. Not so soon. Not like this.

Another knock. This time softer.

“Can I come in?”

You hesitated. Swallowed the lump in your throat.

“…Yeah.”

The door creaked open and Hyunjin stepped inside, framed by golden morning light. His hair was still damp from a shower, sleeves rolled up, looking far too casual for the tension that radiated behind him.

Minho hovered in the hallway, glaring past Hyunjin’s shoulder like a watchdog barely kept at bay.

“Hey,” Hyunjin said with a tentative smile. “I was hoping you’d be awake.”

You just stared.

He glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to you. “I made breakfast. Well—Minho cooked. I supervised. Thought maybe you’d want to… eat at the dining table, for once. With us.”

You blinked. “With… us?”

He nodded, and the smile softened. “It’s quiet down there. Thought it might feel normal. Just for a little while.”

A strange flutter stirred in your chest. The idea of sitting anywhere outside this room felt almost surreal. But his voice was gentle—never demanding, never pressing. Just… offering.

Minho’s voice cut in from the hallway, colder than ice.

“She’s not going anywhere without permission.”

Hyunjin turned slightly. “Seungmin’s not here. And she’s not going outside. She's just having breakfast. In her own damn house.”

Minho’s glare deepened, but he didn’t move.

You looked at them both. Two men. So different. One trying to maintain the prison. One trying to sneak in a taste of freedom.

And for some reason… you stood.

Hyunjin didn’t cheer or smile like he’d won something. He just nodded once and stepped aside, letting you lead.

Minho stepped back reluctantly, watching your every move like he expected you to vanish.

But you didn’t.

You stepped into the hallway for the first time in what felt like forever. The air was cooler out here. The walls seemed taller, grander, but emptier too — like they echoed with all the things left unsaid.

Hyunjin walked a little ahead, slow enough that you could keep up, hands in his pockets like this was nothing out of the ordinary.

You weren’t ready to admit it… but the simple act of walking beside someone again — of choosing to move, even within invisible boundaries — made you feel human for the first time in days.

For the next three days, he stayed close. Found excuses to “run into you.” He brought you snacks you hadn’t tasted in months, books from the shelves you’d only stared at, music he swore you needed to hear.

He made you laugh.

It was terrifying—how easy it was to forget where you were when he was around. In the corner of the world Seungmin controlled, Hyunjin was a flicker of warmth. Unsteady. Uncertain. But real.

You began to let your guard down.

One night, you ended up in the greenhouse, sitting side by side on a stone bench beneath the shadow of the hanging orchids. He had a flashlight tucked in his hoodie pocket, lighting the space between you.

“I used to come here when I was a kid,” he said softly. “Hide in here when Seungmin’s father used to yell. He’d find me eventually and drag me out. Said it made me soft.”

You looked at him. “You’re not soft.”

He met your gaze. “You don’t know that yet.”

Silence.

Then, without thinking, you said, “Why did you come back here?”

He smiled, just a little. “Honestly? I was running from something. Didn't know I'd be running into you.”

Despite everything, your days began to change — not in sweeping colors, but in faint, hesitant strokes.

You and Hyunjin tried. You really did. You scouted the mansion's layout, watched the guards from the windows, kept track of security shifts like whispered secrets between breaths.

There was a moment, about a week in, when Hyunjin — bold as ever — approached Minho in the corridor, arm thrown casually over your shoulder.

“We’re heading out. She wants to buy some art supplies. I’m taking her into town,” he said with a lopsided grin.

Minho didn’t even blink. His hand went to the gun on his hip before either of you could exhale.

“What?” Hyunjin scoffed, lifting his hands. “It’s just a little fresh air, Minho. Don’t go full attack dog.”

Minho’s jaw ticked. “She doesn’t leave this house. You want to go shopping, order online.”

Hyunjin’s smile faded. There was something sharp in his gaze. “This isn’t living.”

“Wasn’t meant to be,” Minho replied coldly, stepping between the two of you, nudging Hyunjin back with a firm shoulder.

That night, you sat beside Hyunjin on the floor of the guest room, both of you quiet, hands wrapped around mugs of cooling tea.

“I’ll drop it for now,” he said, voice hoarse. “I didn’t know it was this bad.”

You only nodded. “He’s watching everything.”

“I’ll still find a way,” he added softly. “You deserve to breathe without asking permission.”

A small silence passed. Then you whispered, “Can’t we just call the police?”

Hyunjin looked at you, really looked at you and the sadness in his eyes made your stomach sink.

“I thought about it too,” he admitted. “But no one touches Seungmin. Not the police. Not anyone. He’s got them wrapped tight. Paid off, threatened, scared — doesn’t matter. They won’t come.”

You stared ahead, numbness curling around your heart like frost. Of course. Of course he had even that sewn up.

“And if they did,” Hyunjin added quietly, “you and I both know it’d just make him worse.”

You didn’t reply.

But something in you deflated. The hope that had been flickering — dim but real — was snuffed out, just like that.

Still, over time, something warm and light grew between you. Not romance. Not rebellion. Just genuine friendship.

You painted together on the terrace one afternoon. It was late — golden hour spilling thickly over the marble floors, turning dust into glitter and shadows into dreams. You both sat cross-legged with canvases in front of you, a splatter of color on your cheeks and sleeves. Laughter echoed between you both.

Hyunjin wiped green paint from his knuckles and sighed, leaning back. “You’re getting good.”

You smiled faintly, dabbing a smear of blue across the corner of your canvas. “I haven’t laughed in so long… it’s weird.”

He didn’t say anything. Just leaned over, resting his head gently against your shoulder. A platonic gesture. It was familiar and steady. It felt nice.

But the moment shattered like glass under a boot. A door slammed open somewhere in the hallway. Then came the sound of footsteps. Cold. Measured.

You broke apart instantly, heart crashing against your ribs like thunder.

Hyunjin stood quickly, eyes wide, already reaching for your hand—but it was too late.

Seungmin stood in the doorway of the terrace, dressed in black, coat still clinging to his shoulders like wings of a vulture. His expression was unreadable.

But his eyes were fire and frost all at once.

“What’s going on?” he said quietly.

The silence that followed was louder than any scream.

Your throat went dry.

Hyunjin straightened slowly, sensing the shift before the words landed. He turned his head — casual, like he wasn’t suddenly staring death in the face.

“Seungmin,” he said, standing with a small, easy smile. “You’re back. You didn’t tell anyone you’d be home early.”

He was back after twelve days.

He’d said two weeks. You’d counted each one like a borrowed breath — which meant, in your mind, you still had two more days. Two more days of fragile peace, of stolen moments and sunlit laughter. Two more days of pretending you could still feel human.

And now, it was over.

Seungmin didn’t answer.

His eyes locked on you.

And in his hand you saw a gun.

Your heart plummeted.

“Step away from her.”

His voice wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be.

Hyunjin froze. “We’re just painting, man. She’s not a prisoner—”

“She’s mine.”

The words sliced through the air like bullets themselves.

Your breath hitched.

“She’s not a thing, Seungmin,” Hyunjin said, tone clipped now.

But Seungmin’s eyes never left you. The gun didn’t waver.

You stood slowly, the weight of the moment suffocating.

“Stop it,” you whispered. “Put it down.”

He looked at you then — and for a second, there was something deeper there. Not rage. Not jealousy. Just heartbreak. Raw and ugly and silent.

Still, his voice was lethal.

“Go to your room.”

You didn’t move.

Hyunjin stepped forward once, hands up, “Let’s talk.”

Seungmin cocked the gun.

“Step. Back.” His voice was a warning bell in a cathedral. Cold. Deep. Echoing.

Hyunjin didn’t move. His hands slowly rose in a gesture of peace. “Let’s talk.”

“I don’t talk to traitors.”

“You’re pointing a gun at your brother.” You gasped.

“I’m pointing it at the man who had his hands on what’s mine.”

Your stomach dropped.

He wasn’t looking at you. His entire focus was on Hyunjin. Like he was staring down the scope of every betrayal that ever existed.

You moved forward, grabbing Seungmin’s arm. “Stop! You’re out of your mind!”

He jerked his arm back so violently you stumbled back. He still didn’t look at you.

His voice dropped a note lower, venom curling behind his teeth. “Did he hug you first or did you beg for it?”

“Don’t do this,” Hyunjin said quietly.

“Oh, I’m doing this.”

Seungmin’s hand was steady. Not a tremor. You’d seen him kill before—heard the stories whispered, read in newspapers. But this? This was personal.

His finger slid toward the trigger.

You ran between them.

Hyunjin shouted your name at the same time Seungmin’s hand froze.

You stood inches away from the barrel. Your chest rising and falling so hard it hurt. “Shoot him and you’ll lose the only person who still gives a damn about you.”

His jaw clenched.

Finally, he looked at you.

When his eyes met yours, something cracked. Not softened—cracked. A dam built from months of delusion, obsession, and lies finally splitting down the center.

“You hate me,” he said, almost to himself. “You actually hate me.”

You didn’t answer.

“I gave you everything,” he whispered. “I locked the world out to keep you safe. I thought you’d come around. Thought you’d understand.”

“You locked me in a cage and called it love.”

That landed.

His hand lowered slightly. Not enough.

You could see the tremble now—the beginning of a storm.

Hyunjin’s voice cut in, low but firm. “Put the gun down, Seungmin.”

For a moment, Seungmin didn’t move.

Then slowly—painfully—he lowered the weapon. Not in surrender. Not in forgiveness. But in a delay. A promise that this wasn’t over.

His gaze burned through you one last time before he turned away, steps echoing down the glass corridor like the footsteps of war.

You stood there frozen. The gun hadn’t gone off.

But it felt like a bullet had been fired through all three of your hearts.

Minho suddenly appeared in the doorway, eyes darting to the weapon, then to you. “What the hell?”

Everything hung in that moment — like the mansion itself held its breath.

“Go. To. Your. Room.” Seungmin said again, quieter this time, but no less deadly.

You glanced at Hyunjin, who clenched his jaw and gave a small nod.

You obeyed. Not because you were afraid of him. But because suddenly, you were afraid for him.

For what that look in his eyes meant — the cracking of whatever soul he had left, the unraveling of a man who had once controlled every room he entered, now reduced to violence and desperation.

You turned without another word, the silence behind you louder than footsteps.

The hallway was dim, shadows bleeding from every corner. The guards flanked you on either side, stiff, quiet, refusing to meet your gaze.

Your footsteps echoed down the corridor, too fast. You weren’t walking — you were storming. Your hands shook with rage, with fear, with helplessness.

At the end of the hall, your door came into view.

You stopped. What if he actually kills Hyunjin? You were terrified. You turned to the guards and yanked your arms from their hold.

“I need to see him,” you said firmly.

Neither guard answered.

“I need to speak to Seungmin, right now.”

Still nothing.

You turned toward the one on your left, eyes burning. “Did you hear me?! Take me to him. Now.”

That’s when it hit — the press of fabric against your mouth and nose, sudden and sharp.

You thrashed. But the scent was already overwhelming — chemical, sweet, wet. Chloroform.

Panic flared as your knees buckled, the corridor spinning wildly. You tried to scream but your voice never made it out. Only gasps. Only terror. And then darkness overcame you as you lost consciousness.

*********************

When you woke up, it was morning.

Soft light filtered through the curtains, the world outside muffled and distant. Your body ached, your head heavy and clouded. The air in your room was still, too still — like even time was holding its breath.

You sat up slowly, the memory of last night flooding back like cold water over your skin.

The gun. Hyunjin. The chloroform.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You threw off the blanket, stumbling to the door, banging your fists against the wood.

“Let me out! I want to see Seungmin! Now!”

No answer. You screamed louder. After what felt like forever you heard footsteps. The door opened but it wasn’t him.

It was Minho.

Expression unreadable. Voice flat.

“You wanted to see him?” he said, barely looking at you. “He said to take you to his office.”

You didn’t speak. You just followed him. Panic clawed at your throat. You stormed down the marble halls behind Minho until you reached what looked like his home office.

You shoved past Minho and burst in. “Where is he?”

Seungmin sat behind his desk, calmly flipping through a file, the same detachment in his posture as if you’d asked him what the weather was.

“I’m talking to you!” You slammed your hand on the desk. “Where the hell is Hyunjin?”

He didn’t even flinch.

You paced, anger and fear choking your lungs. “What did you do to him? You pointed a gun at him last night. Are you hiding his body? Did you—God—did you kill him?”

Still, no answer. Just silence. That unbearable, cold, Seungmin kind of silence.

You wanted to scream. Shake him. Tear the calm off his face and demand the truth until it bled.

But instead, you whispered, voice splintered, “Tell me he’s alive.”

At that, Seungmin finally looked up.

His eyes met yours; it was hollow, exhausted. Something lived in that stare you couldn’t name. Not guilt nor anger, it was more of jealousy and resentment.

“He’s alive,” he said simply.

Your knees nearly gave out. You gripped the edge of the desk to steady yourself, your breath escaping in one stuttered exhale.

But that brief relief was drowned instantly by what came next.

“I sent him away.”

Your head snapped up. “What?”

“Hyunjin. He’s gone.”

“No.” You shook your head. “No, he wouldn’t just leave. Not without saying anything—”

“He didn’t get the choice,” Seungmin said. His voice was flat, but his jaw was clenched tight.

You blinked rapidly. “What do you mean he didn’t get the choice?”

“I made him leave the country,” he said without blinking. “Told him if I ever saw his face again, I wouldn’t miss next time.”

You staggered back a step, eyes wide. “You—”

“He’s not dead.” Seungmin’s tone turned almost bored. “He’s safe. I let him live. That was my gift to you.”

“A gift?” Your voice cracked with disbelief. “You banished him!”

“I spared him.”

“You took away the only person who cared about me!”

Seungmin’s gaze didn’t shift. He just watched you — stoic, unmoved, a man who had already convinced himself that this was the only path left.

Your lip trembled, fury and heartbreak battling in your chest. “You think that makes it better? You think I should thank you?”

He didn’t answer. Because deep down, maybe he did think that. Maybe in his twisted world, exile was mercy. You turned away, pacing the room like a caged animal. The walls were closing in. The air felt thinner.

“I hate you,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

Seungmin closed the file in front of him, fingers interlocking on top of it.

“I know.”

You froze.

That wasn’t defiance in his tone. It was resignation and it scared you more than the gun ever had.

“I could’ve killed him,” Seungmin said softly. “You know that.”

You nodded slowly, realization sinking in like poison.

“You want me to be grateful for letting the only person who made me feel human escape with his life?”

His jaw clenched. “I want you to understand that everything I do—every cruel, ugly thing—is for you.”

Tears welled in your eyes.

“Then let me go,” you whispered.

A beat of silence but he didn’t answer. Just turned and left you standing in his office.

That night, for the first time since he’d returned from his business trip Seungmin came to your room. No knocking. No warning. The door opened, and there he stood, backlit by the dim hallway light, casting long shadows across the floor.

You didn’t bother turning away. You didn’t flinch. You just sat curled on the bed, knees drawn to your chest, tears drying on your cheeks. He lingered in the doorway for a long moment, silent and watching as always.

You hated that you could still feel it. The weight of his gaze. The gravity of his presence. How the air always seemed to change when he stepped into a room, colder and heavier, like the house itself braced for impact.

But you didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Just stared past him, at nothing, until your voice cracked the silence like a fracture in glass.

“Why are you doing this to me?” a whisper bled out of you — raw, exhausted, worn thin from holding yourself together with trembling hands.

Seungmin didn’t speak.

You turned your head then, meeting his eyes with a kind of sadness that made his breath catch — like you weren’t even trying to hurt him, but somehow you still did.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you whispered. “I didn’t ask for you to take me. To keep me. To hurt the only person who ever treated me like I mattered.”

The silence between you thickened, unbearable.

You waited for him to say something. Anything. To justify it. To deny it. To snap and yell and be the monster he always tried to hide behind cold indifference.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, staring at you like he didn’t recognize you anymore — like the version of you he wanted so badly was slipping further away with every tear you shed.

And maybe, just maybe, he was starting to realize:

You weren’t his. You never were. You never would be.

*********************

The next few days passed in a haze — a colorless, soundless void that blurred time until you couldn’t tell what was morning and what was night.

You stopped speaking. Stopped reacting. Stopped pretending to care about the food they placed in front of you three times a day.

Seungmin didn’t come again. Not since that conversation.

And the emptiness clawed deeper into your chest like rot. There was no Hyunjin. No painting. No terrace light or hope in stolen laughter. And as much as you hated to admit it, there was no Seungmin. Just the white walls and the suffocating stillness, and the ache that never let go.

Sometimes, you wondered if Seungmin was done with you. If maybe that terrifying love of his had finally burned out. The thought should’ve brought relief. But it didn’t, instead it hurt.

Because the truth you never said out loud — not even to yourself — was this: no one had ever wanted you like he did. You had always been the invisible one. The girl forgotten in group chats. The friend that wasn’t invited. The child who couldn’t ever get it quite right.

So how could someone like Seungmin — dangerous, powerful, mafia boss — see something in you?

What did he see that even you couldn’t find?

And why did his absence feel like proof that maybe… there was never anything special in you to begin with?

Just silence again. Just you, and you felt invisible yet again.

So one evening just after your dinner was brought in — something shifted and you made a decision.

You stared down at the porcelain plate, untouched food going cold.

The housekeeper — the same one who always avoided your eyes — gave you the usual warning glance before stepping out.

You waited just long enough for her footsteps to disappear down the hall. And then, without hesitating, you reached for the plate and slammed it down against the edge of the table. Shards scattered everywhere. You’d broken plates before. So many. In protest. In defiance. They always cleaned them up. Always replaced them.

But this time wasn’t about noise.

This time wasn’t for them.

You reached for the sharpest edge — small, jagged, and clean. You palmed it quickly, breathing through the sting as it pricked your skin.

And when the guards arrived moments later and saw the mess, you did what they always expected.

You sat on the bed still with a blank face and you were silent. You let them think it was another tantrum. Another breakdown.

They cleaned it. Muttered things. Left again.

But they didn’t check under the pillow.

That night, as the house went still and dark, you slid the shard from its hiding place with trembling fingers and slipped into the bathroom. You didn’t cry. Didn’t second guess. You just sank to the cold marble floor, stared at the moonlight casting shadows through the frosted glass, and pressed the shard to your skin. Not fast. Not frantic. Just enough pressure for the blood to well — slow and deep.

Enough to stop everything.

He wasn’t supposed to check on you that night. He’d been avoiding it.

Since the night he came back — since he banished Hyunjin and you looked at him like he was a stranger you hated with every fiber of your being— he hadn’t returned to your room.

He told himself you needed space. That silence would hurt less than the way you looked at him now. But something was wrong tonight.

He couldn’t explain it. The air felt colder than usual. The hallway is quieter. A pressure settled in his chest like a storm cloud refusing to break.

He told himself it was paranoia.

But his steps quickened. By the time he reached your door, his fingers were already curled into fists. He pushed it open without knocking. The room was dark and you weren’t in bed.

His heart stuttered. He scanned the space — window, corners, closet.

Then he noticed the faintest glow seeping out from beneath the bathroom door.

“Y/N?” His voice cracked. No answer.

He pushed the door open and the sight made his world collapse.

You were on the floor. Crimson smeared across your wrist, soaking into your shirt, pooling beneath you in a way that made his knees buckle.

For one frozen second, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

Then his body launched forward.

“No…no, no, no—” he choked, dropping to the marble tiles, gathering your limp form into his arms. “Y/N, wake up. Baby, wake up. What did you do—? What did you do?!”

Your head lolled against his shoulder, eyes shut, skin frighteningly pale.

“Don’t do this to me,” he whispered, voice trembling as he pressed both hands to your wrist, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to hold your soul in your body by sheer force. “No, no, you can’t die—you can’t—”

“GUARDS!” he bellowed, voice raw and feral. “GET CHAN—GET HIM NOW!”

Footsteps thundered down the hallway.

But Seungmin didn’t let go.

He cradled you to his chest, rocking slightly, blood soaking through his shirt, mixing with the warmth of his tears as they hit your cheek.

“I didn’t mean to—I never wanted this,” he whispered, over and over. “Please stay. Please stay with me. I’ll fix it—I’ll fix everything.”

When Dr. Bang Chan burst through the door minutes later with his medical kit and knelt beside him, Seungmin didn’t move.

“I’ve got her—let go—”

“I can’t!” Seungmin snapped, clutching you tighter. “She’s cold—she’s not breathing right—do something!”

“Seungmin. Let me help her.”

Only then did he finally release you, hands trembling, watching helplessly as Chan worked quickly to check your pulse, stitch the wound, stabilize your vitals.

Minho hovered in the doorway, pale and silent.

Seungmin backed into the wall and slid down, staring at his hands.

They were stained red with your blood. With the weight of everything he did. Everything he didn’t stop. And in that moment — surrounded by fear, chaos, and the distant beep of Chan’s equipment — Seungmin realized he had been so obsessed with keeping you close that he never saw he was pushing you to leave in the worst way imaginable.

Not by running but by dying.

And it terrified him more than anything ever could.

*********************

You were still unconscious. A ghost of yourself under dim lights, your skin pale against the white sheets, lips barely parted, chest rising and falling in slow, fragile rhythm.

Seungmin sat beside your bed — unmoving, barely breathing — like if he blinked, you might slip away again.

Chan worked in silence, his hands steady, the IV drip now secured, a monitor beeping softly beside you. That sound — your heartbeat — was the only thing keeping Seungmin grounded. Every gentle blip was proof that you were still here.

Minho leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight, as if holding himself together. Jisung stood by the doorway, eyes flicking between Seungmin and your sleeping form, a deep worry carved into his face.

“Boss…” Jisung’s voice was hesitant, low. “You haven’t eaten since yesterday. Please, just… eat something.”

Seungmin didn’t move. His eyes never left you.

“I said I’d protect her,” he murmured not to anyone, just into the air. “And I became the thing she needed protection from.”

Chan’s voice was gentle. “She’s out of danger, Kim. Her vitals are stable. She’s strong.”

That should have comforted him. It didn’t.

He glanced up at Minho then. His expression was blank but there was something raw in his eyes. Something none of them had seen before.

“I’m letting her go.”

The words landed like thunder. All three men froze.

Minho took a step forward. “What?”

“I said I’m letting her go,” Seungmin repeated, quieter this time. “She deserves to breathe without fear. She deserves mornings that don’t begin with locked doors and guards.”

Jisung blinked hard. “Boss… you’re serious?”

Seungmin’s gaze dropped back to you. His hand hovered above yours but didn’t touch — as if even that would be too much now.

“It’s better she’s left alone,” he said, voice thick but steady. “I’ll take it. I’ll watch from afar. I’ll love her from a distance if that’s what it takes. But I can’t live in a world where she doesn’t exist.”

Minho looked away, jaw clenched.

“I pushed her this far…” Seungmin’s voice cracked, barely audible. “I almost lost her.”

Chan exhaled softly. “Then let’s make sure you never do.”

When you woke up, it was quiet.

Not the cold, sterile silence of that mansion — this was different. Softer. There was warmth in the filtered sunlight slipping through cheap curtains. The distant hum of city life outside your window. The faint scent of clean sheets and something familiar.

You blinked, groggy, slow — and then sat up in alarm.

This was your apartment. Your real apartment. Not the mansion. Not Seungmin’s ghost-kingdom of glass and steel. Your hands flew to your chest — the bandage was still there, snug and clean. Your breath hitched.

On the bedside table you spotted an envelope.

Your name in his handwriting. You opened it and it simply said: I am sorry. I won’t bother you anymore.

You should feel happy with the freedom but something felt empty.

You called your family, hoping maybe someone had noticed your absence. Maybe they were worried. But they didn’t even notice. Your mother thought you’d just gone quiet again. Your father barely asked anything at all so when you hung up, your throat was tight with the weight of their indifference.

No one at your university had checked in either. Your professors had marked you as withdrawn. Your classmates hadn’t sent a single message.

You were back in the world, but it was like the world didn’t even realize you’d gone.

So, you kept moving forward.

You got a small part-time job at a quiet café a few blocks away. The manager was kind. The customers polite. You poured coffee, wiped down counters, smiled when expected. Days blurred into one another — simple, quiet, uneventful.

And he kept his word. You didn’t see Seungmin. But what you didn’t know was this — he saw you. All the time.

Every corner you turned, he was there in the distance. Watching from behind the tinted glass of his car. Forgetting deals, ignoring meetings. Just to catch a glimpse of you.

He never approached. Never let himself be seen.

But one look — just one glimpse of your silhouette in the evening sun — was enough to keep him breathing.

You missed him. Every time the bell above the door chimed, your head turned a little too fast — hoping he would enter. Every time a customer wore cologne that reminded you of him, something in your chest ached. You’d wipe the same spot on the counter for minutes, lost in thought, remembering how he used to sit on the edge of your bed, brushing your hair back like you were something breakable.

God, you missed him.

You missed the way he said your name with so much longing. The way his voice dropped when he was trying not to sound hurt. The way he looked at you — like you were the only thing in the world he had left to hold onto.

And maybe it was sick. Maybe it was wrong. But you couldn’t stop wondering if he was okay.

If he was eating, sleeping. You wondered if he still loved you, or he moved on. If he still thought of you like you thought of him — constantly, quietly, painfully.

You were supposed to be free. But somehow, your heart had never felt heavier.

*********************

Today had worn you thin. The weight of lectures, endless assignments, and a dragging shift at the café left your body aching and your mind foggy. By the time you stepped out, the sky had already deepened into navy, the streets cloaked in the kind of darkness that felt heavier than usual. You turned to walk toward the alley — a narrow shortcut you’d taken dozens of times without thought. But tonight, it felt colder, like the night itself was holding its breath.

Three figures emerged from the shadows — their shapes blurred by the dim light, but their intentions unmistakably clear. Rough voices barked out slurred demands. Cruel laughter echoed off the walls. Hands reached for your bag, your arm, anything they could grab.

Your heart thundered in your chest. One of them shoved you hard. You stumbled back, hitting the cold brick wall with a gasp. Another raised his foot, ready to kick you but a voice stunned them.

"How dare you?" The voice was low. Icy. Familiar.

The kind of voice that silenced rooms. You turned, breath caught in your throat. Seungmin stood at the edge of the alley. Dark coat. Eyes sharp as broken glass. Rage simmering beneath stillness.

The robbers froze. They recognized him and ran away.

No words. No fight. Just the cold truth of who he was — and the danger that followed him like a shadow.

You stood frozen. Shaking. Heart clawing at your ribs.

He turned to leave, jaw clenched, as if rescuing you was nothing — as if seeing you again didn’t split him open.

But you couldn’t let him go. Not this time.

Your feet moved before your mind could stop them. You ran to him. Gripped his coat. Wrapped your arms around him and held on like the ground itself was crumbling.

“Don’t go,” you whispered, brokenly. “I missed you… so much.”

His body tensed. You felt it.

Then slowly, his arms came around you. He held you tight and he was trembling.

“I’m here, baby,” he murmured against your hair, voice thick, shaking. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him — tears on both your faces now.

“I want to come back,” you said. “I don’t want to be without you.”

Shock flickered in his eyes. Then something deeper — disbelief, sorrow, love.

“Really?” he whispered, voice fragile like he couldn’t bear to believe it unless he heard it again.

You nodded, eyes shining.

He held your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks like you were something sacred.

Then slowly, as if afraid you’d vanish, he leaned in.

His lips touched yours — hesitant at first, trembling. But the moment you kissed him back, it deepened. The kiss was desperate yet tender. Full of everything left unsaid.

As the kiss broke, your foreheads stayed pressed together, breaths mingling in the cold night air. Neither of you said anything — the silence was thick with emotion, heavier than words could carry. He opened the car door for you like you were something fragile, irreplaceable.

The drive back was quiet but charged, your hand resting in his, his other on the wheel — but you noticed how his thumb never stopped tracing circles into your skin. At one red light, his hand slid from yours and settled gently on your thigh. It was warm and reassuring. Like he was reminding himself you were real, that this wasn’t a dream.

When the mansion finally came into view, your breath hitched — but this time, not from fear. It felt different now. Like you were returning, not being dragged back.

Seungmin parked in front of the grand doors, headlights casting long shadows across the gravel. Jisung and Minho were standing at the entrance, mid-conversation, but froze when they saw you step out.

Jisung blinked. “What the…?”

Minho tilted his head. “She’s—wait, are you—?”

You offered a small smile. “Missed me?”

They stared, jaws slack, clearly too stunned to reply. You walked past them with a shrug and a glance at Seungmin. “Coming?”

Inside, everything smelled the same — that faint scent of clean wood, cologne, and something only this place had. You paused at the foot of the stairs, but before you could say anything, Seungmin touched your arm gently.

“Come to my room?” he asked, voice low, hopeful.

You met his eyes and nodded.

His room was bigger than you remembered. Or maybe it just felt bigger because it wasn’t forbidden anymore. You walked in without hesitation, taking in the shadows, the warmth, the subtle signs that he had been living in silence, just like you.

You lay on the bed together — no rush, no pressure. Just stillness. His arm around you. Your head on his chest. His heartbeat steady beneath your cheek.

Then softly, barely audible, you whispered,“I love you.”

He froze and his breath caught like it hurt.

He looked down at you, eyes glassy. “Say it again.”

So you did. “I love you, Seungmin.”

He shut his eyes, a tear slipping down. And for the first time since everything began, the monster they called him… simply broke. Not in violence. But in quiet, soul-deep relief.

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No Escape (Part 2)- Taglist:

@thecutiepieme @peskybirdysya @linospetsitter

#kim seungmin x reader #kim seungmim #kim seungmin imagines #seungmin x reader #kim seungmin angst #mafia au #mafia!seungmin #kim seungmin scenarios #kim seungmin au #skz x reader

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alltimecharlo · 2 months ago

Note

may i selfishly request jealous will?

like maybe one of will's bros is hitting on mack (bcs mack's pretty lbr) and will is so close to homie-cide lenogabe are actually worried

yessss of course! fic under the cut :)

Mack doesn’t even realize it’s happening at first.

He’s leaning back against the sticky kitchen counter of Will’s frat house — which smells like beer and Axe body spray and something faintly burnt — sipping on a plastic cup of whatever godawful concoction someone poured for him. He’s mostly trying to survive the party while Will finishes up a game of beer pong out in the backyard, but he doesn’t mind watching the chaos. He’s always found something weirdly charming about these messy frat events: people doing keg stands, loud pop music, someone yelling about shotgunning a seltzer like it's a medal-worthy event.

Then someone slides into his space a little too close.

Mack shifts slightly, just a step. But the guy — tall, built, blonde in a surfer-douche sort of way — doesn’t get the hint. He grins, a little too confident, a little too familiar.

"You Will’s friend?" the guy asks, tipping his chin like he already knows the answer.

Mack raises an eyebrow. "I’m Mack."

"Right, right — hockey guy, yeah? Will’s mentioned you. Didn’t say you were this hot, though."

Mack blinks. "Uh."

The guy smiles, all teeth. "What, can’t handle compliments? Don’t worry, I’m not exactly subtle. I like what I see."

Somewhere across the house, a glass breaks. Mack barely hears it over the sudden ringing in his ears.

“Cool,” he says, stiffly. Then tries to sidestep.

The guy steps with him. "We’ve got this afterparty thing, upstairs, quieter. You should come."

Mack opens his mouth to say something — anything — when there’s suddenly a presence at his side, warm and crackling with energy.

Will.

Who looks like he’s about two seconds from murder.

“What’s going on?” Will says, tight and smiling the way a wolf does before it rips out a throat.

The frat guy, completely oblivious or maybe just stupid, grins wider. "Just inviting your friend here to hang out later."

Will slides in front of Mack fully, not pushing but definitely blocking.

"Yeah, see, that’s not going to work for me."

The guy laughs like it’s a joke. "C’mon, man. You don’t own him."

Mack, who has one hand now lightly on Will’s back, leans in. "I’m his boyfriend."

That finally wipes the smug off frat guy’s face.

Will steps forward, just a hair. "Yeah, and I don’t take kindly to people trying to sleaze on what's mine."

"Dude, chill," the guy mutters. "Didn’t know."

"Now you do."

The guy slinks off, muttering something about crazy hockey players.

Will doesn’t move until he’s disappeared into the crowd.

"You okay?" Mack asks, a little amused now, a little turned on, too, if he’s honest.

Will huffs. "I was this close," he holds up two fingers, "to homie-cide."

From behind them, Gabe says, "We were placing bets on it."

Leno nods solemnly. "I had five bucks on Will decking him by the bathroom."

Will turns to glare. "Why didn’t either of you stop him from hitting on Mack?"

Gabe shrugs. "We wanted to see what would happen. Also, you looked hot when you got all territorial."

"You’re the worst friends," Will mutters.

Mack loops an arm around Will’s waist, tugging him in. "You are kinda hot when you’re jealous."

Will glares up at him. "Shut up."

Mack grins. "Make me."

Will kisses him. Right there in the middle of the grimy kitchen, plastic cups and loud music and all.

Gabe groans. "Gross. I’m going upstairs."

Leno follows. "Let us know when you’re done being disgusting."

Will flips them off behind Mack’s back, then leans into him with a sigh. "Next time I’m keeping you on a leash."

Mack just smirks. "Kinky."

Will groans again. "You’re the worst."

Mack nuzzles against his cheek. "Still yours."

And that, Will can’t argue with.

♡

#thank u for the prompt!!!#i have a soft spot for fratboy willmack fics so this kind of turned into that lol #willmack #willmack prompts #will smith hockey #macklin celebrini #mackwill #wacklin #hrpf fic #hrpf #hockry rpf #hockey fic #san jose sharks

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thoughtdaughterdisease · 3 months ago

Text

tw: su!cide, death of a loved one, general pain and I apologize because this made me cry and I'm low-key the one who wrote it

NO BETA WE DIE LIKE MEN

wc: 1.2k

widow!Simon that mourns you every day. His wife, his heart, his everything. He barely pulls himself out of his cot every morning to go to drills or on a mission.

widow!Simon who used to be happy. Or, as close as he could've ever been to getting everything he wanted. now, he's just... dark. It's as if the entire world has turned gray. Like you were the color in the world, and now that you're gone, he's colorblind. His color, his world, his heart.

widow!Simon that doesn't eat, barely sleeps. The only time he really gets any rest is when he gets hurt, or when he's blackout drunk; which he is most of the time since you died.

widow!Simon who's only memorabilia left of you is a stupid polaroid photo and the chain he keeps around his neck with your engagement and wedding rings. Some days, the chain occupancies his too, when the sight of it on his finger gets too much to bare, knowing that you don't have your matching one. That you will never have it again.

When they asked him if you wanted to be buried with your rings on, he went to say yes. To have you bare his wedding band for eternity. But, he knew, he knew, that you would want him to keep them, to keep you. Right on his heart, forever.

If the chain ever broke, he wouldn't stop until he found where the rings went, and when he got them back, he'd buy a new chain. And without having it on, he feels as though he's betray you, your memory.

After spending the night in a 4x8 tent in the middle of the desert, Soap notices the chain. Soap asks about it, why he never takes it off, why he never shows what on the end of it. Simon just looks Soap in the eyes, an indecipherable emotion on his face, and he just blinks, before turning back to the rifle he's cleaning.

Soap never mentions it again.

Simon doesn't stop thinking about it all night as Soap snores next to him and hogs the fucking blankets.

The next day, he's running on autopilot, he's talking and fighting. He's giving Soap directions over comms but none of it really means anything to him.

"Man after my own heart." Simon comments over the coms to Soap. This is the closest he will ever get to joking these days. He doesn't even mean any of it. He just needs to seem... okay.

"You have a heart?" Soap fires back.

SImon pauses, no, not anymore.

"A cold one." like her now, I guess.

widow!Simon that goes back to his barracks after that mission and just, loses it. He's screaming, crying. He's pretty sure he threw up at one point. Right before he blacks out in the corner of his barren room.

Soap finds him later. Knocks on his door, no answer. Knocks again, no answer. This isn't normal at all. He has never ever waited this long for LT to answer the door. Simon was predictable that way.

Soap goes to check if the doors locked and, it's just, not?

Okay, so something is really wrong. Please don't be dead, please don't be dead.

Soap slowly swings the door open. At first he doesn't see anything. His hand smacks into the wall, trying to find the light switch. Once he finally finds it, his heart drops at the sight in front of him.

widow!Simon who Soap finds curled up in the corner, his knees hugged to his chest. Soap has never seen him look so... weak. Soap always thought that Simon was higher than life.

But, on closer inspection, the Irish man sees what looks like a Polaroid photo, with a necklace laying on top of it: the necklace. He finally realizes that it's not just a chain, not even one with a generic pendant of some kind. He always thought that maybe it was a cross on the end, even though he knows that Simon has never claimed to be religious. That was his father's thing, not his.

In the middle of the chain, sits a thin metal ring and a matching engagement ring. The diamond on it isn't a traditional one, but a sapphire, not giant, but modest. Soap doesn't know why but it seems like it matches Simon as a person.

Soap quietly stalks over to Simon, unmoving and unresponsive, and bends down at his side. He fingers the rings before gently grabbing one of Simon's hands and feeding the chain between his fingers so he wouldn't lose it.

Then he moves on to the flipped over polaroid, and picks it up off the ground, turning it over in his hands to inspect it.

The photo is of a beautiful woman, silky hair falling over her face. A light blush dusting her cheeks, freckles scattered over the bridge of her nose. She's wearing a necklace, with a small heart pendant next to a skull. One arm is wrapped the neck of a youthful looking Simon. Your faces pressed together, your looking at the camera, eyes half lidded. But, Simon. Simon is looking at you, like you're the only thing he's ever seen.

He was looking at you in a way Soap would imagine someone with a vitamin D deficiency would look at the sun. With need. Like you're the key to his survival.

Soap sighs, he knew Simon was hiding something. He knew he has something else in his past besides the horrors that his father committed. He just didn't think it was... this. Soap gently puts the Polaroid down on Simon's pitiful cot, takes one last glance at sleeping Simon on the floor and leaves the room and Simon's demon alone to simmer.

And eventually, Simon will get tired of the constant battle for his sanity. And just as he really starts to give up, Soap will die. And Simon will decide he should follow his heart, his love, his wife, and his best friend.

John Price will find him, at 7 in the morning. Golden rays streaming in through the windows of the master bedroom that you and Simon shared. IN the house he's being paying someone to take care of. He looked so... peaceful, for once. Laying there, surrounded by memories of you. Photographs, cassette tapes, the Polaroid, both of your rings connected by a chain, a teddy bear, a necklace with a heart and skull pendant.

John couldn't be upset. To see Simon, laying in your bed, surrounded by you. With a gun in the hand of the arm hanging off the side of the bed. A dark red stain creates a halo around Simon's head. Of course, it would be just like Simon to go out with a Bang.

He was like an angel at the dawning of the world.

Flowers will grow from my rotting body and I am in them. This is eternity.

#widow!Simon riley #Simon riley #Simon riley x reader #soap mactavish #soap #Simon riley fanfic

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the-winter-spider · 3 months ago

Text

Yours, Always | Part Nineteen

Steve x reader, Bucky x reader AU

Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings: angst, violence, mentions of su!cide

A/N: OOOOOOOOOOOOO

Masterpost

---

The city buzzed around them, a steady hum of car horns and distant chatter, but inside the little café on the corner, it was quiet enough for a decent conversation. Sam took a slow sip of his iced tea, watching as Steve stirred his coffee absentmindedly, barely taking a sip.

“You good, man?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow.

Steve blinked, like he was shaking himself out of a daze, and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, just, long day.”

Sam smirked. “Tell me about it. My morning was filled with paperwork and a dude who thinks ‘emotional support alligator’ is a legitimate request for housing accommodations.”

Steve huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Bet that one was fun.”

“Oh, the best,” Sam said, grinning before grabbing a fry off his plate. “Anyway, my sister’s been on my ass about coming down to Louisiana soon. Says I don’t visit enough.” He gestured with the fry. “You should bring Lily and Y/N down sometime take her out on the boat. I’ll even let Lily think she might see a mermaid.”

Steve smiled at that, a real, genuine smile. “Oh, she’d love that.” He shook his head slightly, amused. “But only if she actually sees one. Kid’s getting too smart for the whole imagination thing.”

Sam set his drink down and leaned back slightly. “What about Y/N? She wouldn’t be into it?”

Steve’s fingers tightened slightly around his coffee cup. He hesitated, then exhaled, shaking his head. “I don’t know, man.”

Sam frowned. “What do you mean?”

Another pause. A longer one.

Steve sighed, rubbing the back of his neck before finally admitting, “Things have been tense.”

Sam didn’t say anything. He just let him talk.

Steve hesitated, then leaned forward slightly, voice quieter. “Back home, before I left, we had a fight. A big one.” He swallowed, rolling his shoulders, like the weight of it was still there. “I told her I wouldn’t move back there, their hometown. She told me she wanted to. It just… spiraled from there.”

Sam nodded slowly. “And Bucky?”

Steve huffed out a breath. “You already know.”

Sam just watched him for a moment. “So what now?”

Steve hesitated. His jaw clenched. His gaze flickered down to his coffee, to his hands wrapped around it, to anything but Sam’s knowing stare.

“I think I’m losing her, man,” Steve admitted, his voice quieter now, rawer. “And… I think I’m ready to let her go.”

The words hung between them, heavy, undeniable.

Sam leaned forward, his voice softer now. “Are you sure?”

Steve let out a slow breath, his fingers drumming against the table. “I love her. I do. But I think I’ve been holding onto something that was never really mine to begin with.”

Sam studied him for a long moment before nodding. “That’s a hard thing to admit, man.”

Steve sighed. “Yeah.”

For a while, they just sat there, the weight of the confession settling in.

And then Sam picked up another fry, pointed it at Steve, and said, “So when I take Lily on that boat, you're telling me I gotta convince a whole mermaid to show up, or what?”

Steve let out a breath of laughter, shaking his head. “At least a tail. You got your work cut out for you, Sam.”

---

Wanda watched as you walked back toward Steve, your posture tense, your expression carefully neutral. She knew that look. The one you wore when you were trying to swallow something down, bury it deep enough that no one could see the way it cut you.

She turned sharply, glaring at Clint. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Clint shrugged, arms crossed over his chest. “What?”

“You know what,” she shot back. “Why are you such an asshole to her? Every time you see her, you—” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “I just don’t get it. What did she ever do to you?”

Clint scoffed, looking away. “I just don’t like her.”

Wanda narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

Clint’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t answering her.

Wanda stepped closer, her voice dropping to something softer, but firm. “Because she makes Steve happy? Because she’s wonderful with Lily? Because she’s kind, and patient, and doesn’t deserve the way you treat her?”

Clint exhaled through his nose, his fingers tapping against his bicep impatiently. He wasn’t looking at her.

“Y’know,” he said finally, his voice tight, “Steve wants to propose to her.”

Wanda stilled.

Her breath caught in her throat, her heart skipping a beat. “What?”

Clint nodded, his lips pressing together. “Yeah. He’s been sitting on the damn ring for months. Waiting for the right time.” His voice turned sharp, bitter. “So there you go. You’ll never get your chance. First, you let Nat take it, and now her.”

Silence.

Wanda inhaled deeply, willing her pulse to slow, to steady.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet but sure. “You’re an asshole.”

Clint didn’t react.

“No one took anything from me,” she continued. “It wasn’t mine to have. If it was meant to be, it would be.”

Clint scoffed, rolling his eyes. “There you go again with that fate shit.”

Wanda shook her head. “No, Clint. That’s just reality.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other.

Then Wanda sighed, her expression softening just slightly but only slightly. “You know Natasha would’ve been so disappointed in how you’re acting.”

That one hit its mark.

Clint’s jaw tightened. His gaze flickered, something guarded flashing in his eyes.

But he didn’t say a word.

He just turned and walked away.

---

Like clockwork, Bucky calls every night.

Sometimes, you call him first, but most nights, it’s the other way around. His name flashes across your screen just as you’re settling into bed, the apartment quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside. You answer every time. You don’t even hesitate.

It feels effortless, the way you fall into conversation, like all those years apart never happened. Like there isn’t an ocean of unspoken things between you.

Some nights, you talk for hours.

Bucky tells you about the land, the house, the way Sam has been giving him endless shit about his lack of interior design skills. “He says I have the aesthetic of a gas station parking lot,” Bucky grumbles one night, and you laugh so hard you nearly drop your phone.

“I mean,” you tease, biting your lip. “He’s not entirely wrong, Buck.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groans, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

You tell him about the city, about Lily, about the new book you picked up, the latest movie you watched. Everything except Steve. Everything except what actually matters.

Neither of you bring it up.

The truck. The love confession. The way he looked at you that night, like you hung the damn stars.

Maybe it’s because you’re both too afraid. Maybe it’s because if you say it out loud, it’ll make things too real.

So, instead, you let it hang there, an unspoken thing between you, simmering beneath the surface.

Some nights, there are silences that stretch too long, where the weight of what you’re not saying fills the space between words.

You wonder if Bucky hears your heart pounding through the phone.

You wonder if he lies awake after you hang up, staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell you got here.

One night, as you’re lying on your side, the glow of the bedside lamp casting soft shadows across the room, Bucky exhales through the phone.

“I’ll be in the city soon.”

Your stomach flips. Your fingers tighten around the blanket. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says. His voice is quieter now, softer, like he’s feeling something he’s not ready to name. “I’ll let you know when I figure out the exact date.”

You swallow, your throat tight. “Please do.”

For a moment, neither of you say anything.

You think about the last time you saw him, the way his hands felt on you, the way he whispered your name like it meant something.

You think about Steve, the way his voice wavered when he told you he loved you, the hesitation before you didn’t say it back.

You think about everything and nothing, and it all feels too heavy.

So, you clear your throat, forcing yourself to keep it light. “You, uh…you gonna let me help decorate this place, or are you actually going with the gas station parking lot vibe?”

Bucky snorts. “You can help. As long as you don’t pick any weird stuff.”

You gasp dramatically. “Weird stuff? I have impeccable taste, Buck.”

“Yeah I know.” He hums. “You still into those pink doors?”

Your chest tightens. You close your eyes. “Always.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Softly, Bucky says, “Yeah. Thought so.”

And just like that, the conversation shifts again.

You talk about something else, anything else, and eventually, the call ends, leaving you staring at the ceiling, phone pressed against your chest, wondering what the hell you’re supposed to do with all of this.

The morning is quiet. The kind of soft, hazy quiet that lingers in the air before the city fully wakes up.

You’re in the kitchen, pouring yourself a cup of coffee, still shaking off the last remnants of sleep. The apartment is cool, the faint scent of rain drifting in through the open window. It’s peaceful. Almost normal. Almost.

Steve clears his throat. “Oh, by the way, I invited Sam and Bucky to the party.”

Your hand falters, the coffee pot hovering just above your mug. For a second, you think you misheard him.

“Sam?” you echo, your voice carefully even, measured.

“Yeah.” Steve shrugs, stirring a packet of sugar into his own cup. “We’ve run into each other a couple of times. Figured I’d invite them both.”

You stare at him, your fingers tightening around the handle of your mug. He says it so casually, like it’s nothing, like it’s just another thing to add to the list of party details, balloons, beer, food, oh, and Bucky.

You don’t know what to say.

You don’t know how to say anything.

The weight of what happened in that truck, of the words Bucky spilled into the night air, of the way he looked at you presses against your ribs.

Steve invited him.

Steve, who had spent the last few days holding you at arm’s length, careful, careful, like he knew something was slipping through his fingers but was too afraid to grasp it too hard.

Steve, who hasn’t brought up the fight. Hasn’t brought up Bucky. Hasn’t asked you where your heart has been these last few weeks, maybe these last few years, maybe your whole god damn life.

Steve, who has always known you better than you know yourself.

You swallow. Force a small nod. “I’m glad you have another friend.”

It’s a deflection. A quiet, meaningless response. But it’s all you can manage.

Steve looks up at you then, his blue eyes unreadable, a small, almost knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Me too.”

The moment passes. You sip your coffee. He finishes his. The city hums outside, alive and oblivious to the storm brewing beneath your skin.

The countdown to the party begins.

---

Bucky had been here for two years.

Two years of filth and damp walls and the stench of unwashed bodies. Two years of bruises that never fully healed before new ones bloomed over them. Two years of endless questions, fists against flesh, the sharp bite of metal against skin.

Two years of nothing.

No light. No seasons. No way to mark time except by the way his body wasted away, by the way his mind started to slip, pieces of himself breaking off and drifting somewhere beyond his reach.

They had forgotten him. He’d known it for a while now. There was no rescue coming. No cavalry.

And it wasn’t like they were wrong to forget him. He was dead to them. The military had to have already folded his file away, marked his unit as MIA presumed KIA.

His mother had grieved him. You had grieved him.

His stomach twisted.

You.

You had probably moved on.

He hoped you had moved on.

He hoped you’d found someone who made you laugh, someone who held your hand when you walked down the street. Someone who touched you gently, reverently, like you deserved.

And if you had?

Then there was nothing left for him here.

Nothing left at all. He never got the chance he wanted with you and he knew it was his own damn fault and he hated himself for it.

Bucky lay on the cold, hard ground of his cell, staring up at the cracked ceiling. His fingers curled around the blade he’d found. Just a jagged piece of metal, rusted at the edges, but it would do the job.

It wouldn’t be hard.

One sharp swipe, one deep cut…It would be over.

His breathing was slow, measured, controlled and then he turned his head slightly, pressing his temple against the stone wall separating his cell from Sam’s.

“Wilson,” he rasped. His voice was barely more than a whisper, but Sam stirred anyway.

“Buck?”

Bucky swallowed.

He let himself say something that wasn’t just about survival. “You’re a good friend.”

Silence.

Carefully Sam spoke, “Alright, what the fuck was that?”

Bucky let out a soft, humorless laugh. He closed his eyes. “I just… I’m glad I met you.”

Sam was fully awake now, shifting against the wall. Bucky could hear him, could picture him pressing closer to the stone like he could reach him.

“Barnes,” Sam’s voice was sharper now, urgent. “No. You don’t get to do this, man.”

Bucky’s grip tightened on the blade. His other hand lifted, fingers pressing against the inside of his wrist, mapping out the vein beneath his skin.

One cut.

That’s all it would take.

“Bucky, stop,” Sam pleaded. “You hear me? Stop.”

Bucky exhaled, slow and steady, blade biting into his skin

“Y/N.”

The blade slipped.

Bucky’s body froze.

Sam’s voice came through the wall, softer now, insistent. “She’s waiting for you.”

A sharp, broken breath tore from Bucky’s throat. His chest ached.

“She’s not,” Bucky choked out. “She’s gone, Sam. She moved on.”

“You don’t know that,” Sam shot back. “You think that, but you don’t know that.”

Bucky’s breath was uneven now, shallow and ragged.

Sam pressed his palm flat against the stone wall. “Listen to me, man. If I know anything from all the shit you’ve told me about her, she loves you, Buck. She’s missing her best friend so fucking much. She’s hurting without you.”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, fingers trembling where they still gripped the blade.

“She needs you to make it home,” Sam whispered. “So make it home.”

Bucky sobbed.

He dropped the blade. It clattered against the stone floor and Sam just stayed with him, his voice steady, grounding him. “We’re coming home, man,” he promised. “We’re going home.”

Bucky curled into himself, his chest heaving, his body shaking so hard he thought he might break apart completely. “Were going home.”

---

The summer heat was relentless, clinging to Bucky’s skin as he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. The sound of the nail gun echoed across the open land, sharp bursts of air punctuating the steady rhythm of construction.

The house was finally starting to take shape. The walls were up, the bones of the place standing strong, and if he squinted, he could almost see it, your dream home. The one he’d build with his own two hands. The one you dreamt about for years.

Sam leaned against one of the wooden beams, surveying the progress with a nod of approval. “Man, I gotta say, I didn’t think you’d get this much done so fast.”

Bucky smirked, setting the nail gun down for a second. “What, think I lost my touch?”

“Nah,” Sam chuckled, grabbing his water bottle. “Just figured you’d be dragging ass by now, but you’ve been on this house like it’s a goddamn mission.”

Bucky didn’t respond, just exhaled, stretching his shoulder. He had been working non-stop, sunrise to sunset, barely stopping to eat, throwing himself into every nail, every board, every fucking detail. Building kept him moving. Kept him from thinking too much.

Soon, the electrician would come in, then the plumber, then the flooring guys. One step closer.

Sam took a sip of his water, shifting on his feet. “Ran into Steve the other day.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed slightly, but he kept his focus on securing another panel. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Sam scratched at his jaw. “He does some damn good work with veterans, you know. Runs programs, gets people the help they need.”

Bucky grunted, kept doing what he was doing.

“His dad and grandpa were both military I guess.” Sam continued.

“He didn’t want to follow in their footsteps?”

“Steve wanted to enlist too, but…” Sam trailed off, watching as Bucky carefully aligned a beam. “Didn’t pass the tests.”

That made Bucky pause. He glanced at Sam. “Health issues?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Asthma, some other stuff. Didn’t make the cut. Got healthy later, met the girl of his dreams, had a kid… well, you know the rest.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, setting another nail in place. He knew. He knew it all too well.

A silence stretched between them, the only sound the rustling of the trees and the distant hum of cicadas. Then Sam shifted again, something hesitant in his voice.

“Steve invited us to his party in a few days.”

Bucky’s hands paused, then he scoffed. “You mean you.”

“No, I mean both of us.”

Bucky turned his head slightly, raising a skeptical brow. “His birthday party?”

“Yeah. It’s on the fourth, so he celebrate’s both,” Sam said, watching Bucky carefully.

Bucky gruffed, turning back to his work. “That’s real nice for him.”

Sam sighed. “Look, man. I know what you’re thinking, and I get it. But listen, Steve’s struggling. She’s pulling away, and he’s trying to navigate all of it without losing his mind, he’s a good man Buck.” He hesitated. “You gotta come for her.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“I know you miss her,” Sam continued. “And she misses you. So just… show up. You don’t gotta stay long. Just be there.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the nail gun.

“Of couse, I’ll be there.” he whispered. “Y’know I’d go anywhere for her.”

Sam nodded, grabbing another plank of wood. “Good.”

---

Bucky didn’t want to go.

He really didn’t want to go.

But you had asked, and Bucky would follow you anywhere.

Which is how he ended up here, chasing after you as you dragged him toward whatever harebrained adventure you had set your sights on this time.

“I hate this idea,” Bucky muttered, his sneakers crunching against gravel. “I hate this plan. I hate—”

“Oh, stop being dramatic.” You rolled your eyes, grinning as you pulled him along.

Bucky huffed. “Dramatic is you thinking this is gonna go well.”

You smirked over your shoulder. “Where’s your sense of adventure, Barnes?”

“Dead and buried.”

But still, he went.

Because it was you and he'd follow you anywhere.

He really wished he hadn’t.

One second, everything was fine. The next, Bucky was airborne.

CRACK.

Pain exploded up his arm, a sharp, searing agony that made his vision go white for a second. He hit the ground hard, groaning as he rolled onto his back, the sky spinning above him.

“Bucky!” Your voice was frantic, your hands grabbing at him, touching his face, his shoulders. “Oh my god, are you okay?”

“Never better,” he gritted out, cradling his arm against his chest.

Your eyes flickered down, widening in horror. “Oh my god, oh my god, Buck, your arm—”

Yeah. It was not supposed to look like that.

Tears welled in your eyes, and Bucky swore the pain in his chest from seeing you cry was worse than the pain in his arm. “I—I knew this was a stupid idea. I should’ve—you shouldn’t have—this is my fault, Buck. This is all my fault.”

He groaned, shifting slightly, trying to sit up. “Nah, I’d say gravity’s at fault here.”

You let out a choked laugh that turned into a sob, burying your face in your hands.

Bucky sighed, resting his head back against the ground. “C’mon, don’t cry. You did me a favor.”

Your head snapped up, eyes red-rimmed. “Bucky, you broke your arm.”

He grinned, even though his whole body hurt. “Yeah, and now I don’t have to play football this season.”

Your face crumpled again. “Stop trying to make me feel better. You got hurt because of me, my stupidity. This is my fault.”

Bucky shook his head, voice softer now. “No, beautiful. It’s my fault.”

Your brows furrowed. “What? How?”

His throat bobbed. “Because I’d follow you anywhere.” His eyes locked onto yours, something deeper in them, something you weren’t ready to name. “I’d follow you into the burning gates of hell. I’d follow you if you were to jump off a moving train in Austria.”

Your breath hitched.

Bucky exhaled slowly, blinking up at the sky. “I’m gonna be okay. It’s just a broken arm.”

That only made you cry harder.

His lips twitched, and he nudged you lightly with his good hand. “You wanna make it up to me?”

You sniffled. “Anything, Buck.”

He smirked. “You gotta be the first to sign my cast.”

You blinked at him. “That’s it?”

“And no drawing penises.”

That startled a laugh out of you, watery and shaky but real, and it sent warmth flooding through Bucky’s chest, easing the pain just a little.

“There’s my girl,” he murmured.

You wiped at your cheeks, rolling your eyes. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

Bucky grinned, wincing as he adjusted his arm. “Yeah. But I’m your idiot. Now help me up, we gotta brainstorm what color I should get while we walk back.”

You carefully slipped an arm around his waist, helping him to his feet. He cradled his broken arm against his chest, hissing through his teeth as the movement sent a sharp pang through his bones.

“Blue,” you said, steadying him.

“Mmm?” Bucky hummed, squinting at you through the pain.

“For your cast. Your eyes.” You glanced up at him, voice quieter now. “Blue.”

Something flickered in his expression, something warm and unreadable.

He smiled. “Okay. Blue.”

It was quiet for a moment, just the sound of your sneakers crunching against the gravel as you walked, his weight pressed slightly against your side.

You groaned. “Winnie’s gonna kill me.”

Bucky snorted, his laughter short but genuine. “Probably.”

You sighed dramatically, already dreading the conversation that awaited you back home. “What do I even say? ‘Hey, sorry I broke your kid, my bad?’”

Bucky chuckled. “Nah, just tell her I finally got my battle scars. Chicks dig scars.”

You rolled your eyes, tightening your grip around his waist. “You are the chick in this scenario, Buck.”

“Damn right I am,” he teased, nudging you lightly with his good shoulder.

Despite the pain, despite the impending wrath of his mother, despite everything he’d still follow you anywhere. .

---

The apartment is buzzing with movement. The scent of fresh flowers and warm vanilla candles fills the air, mingling with the faintest traces of the city outside. You move through the space with careful precision, making sure everything is perfect setting out drinks, fluffing pillows, triple-checking that Steve’s birthday present is wrapped just right.

The dining table was covered in ribbons, wrapping paper, and a mess of tape dispensers, an absolute disaster zone. But in the center of it all, cradled carefully in a velvet-lined box, was Steve’s gift.

His father’s watch. Restored.

You ran your fingers over the polished metal, tracing the familiar curve of the casing. It had taken months to find the right parts, to track down a seller on eBay who had a near-identical mechanism from the same decade. You had nearly lost the final bid, heart pounding as you refreshed the page over and over until the last second. But you won.

And now, after so many years of sitting broken and forgotten in a drawer, it ticked again.

Steve never talked much about his dad, but you knew. You had caught the way his fingers would brush over the old watch whenever he stumbled upon it. The way he’d turn it over in his palm, lost in thought, before tucking it away again, like the weight of it was too much to carry.

But now, he wouldn’t have to tuck it away. Now, it worked.

You gently closed the box and reached for the wrapping paper. Dark blue, with tiny silver stars.

From Lily, the gift is even more personal something you knew would mean the world to him. A portrait, hand-painted, of Natasha and Lily together, side by side, like Natasha had been here all along. You had worked with the artist for weeks, going over every tiny detail, making sure it was perfect. The curls in Lily’s hair, the softness in Natasha’s eyes. When it had finally arrived, you had cried.

You run a gentle hand over the ribbon on the box, exhaling slowly. He’s going to love this.

Just as you’re about to step back and take in everything one last time, your phone rings.

Bucky.

Your stomach flips.

You swipe to answer. “Hey.”

“Hey.” His voice is warm, familiar. The kind of sound that makes your heart ache in a way you don’t want to examine too closely. “I’m in the city.”

You pause, your fingers tightening around the phone. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, and there’s something different in his voice, something tentative. “Gonna join the support group today.”

Your breath catches. Your ears perk up because he's doing it, he’s actually going.

“Bucky,” you whisper, “that’s… that’s amazing.”

“Don’t make a big deal out of it.” His voice is gruff, but you can hear the tiniest trace of something softer beneath it. “Just… trying, I guess.”

You press your lips together, trying to keep your emotions in check. “I’m proud of you.”

“I know.”

You blink, swallowing past the sudden lump in your throat.

“I was thinking,” he says, clearing his throat. “You wanna meet me here? We can grab a coffee after or something. Show me that café you always talk about before the party tonight? It’ll uh give me some time to wind down.”

A slow smile tugs at your lips. “I’ll be there in thirty.”

“I’ll be done in forty-five.”

“Then I’ll just have to wait.”

He huffs out a small laugh, and you can hear the smile in it.

“See you soon.”

The call ends, and you stand there for a moment, phone pressed to your chest, heart hammering against your ribs.

---

The night was loud, alive with the crackling energy of fireworks and laughter. The air smelled like cheap beer, barbecue, and summer heat. Someone had rigged up shitty string lights around the backyard, the bulbs flickering unevenly, but it didn’t matter. The entire graduating class was packed into some guy’s house, one of Bucky’s football buddies with music shaking the walls and people spilling onto the lawn.

You were tipsy. Not drunk, but tipsy enough that everything was just a little funnier, a little warmer. Your cheeks ached from smiling, your skin buzzing from the remnants of your last drink.

Bucky was beside you, his hand wrapped loosely around a bottle of beer he’d barely touched, his other hand stuffed into his pocket. You could feel him more than see him, the way he always took up space in a way that never felt overwhelming, just… there.

Some girl from your grade, Heather? Hannah? sidled up to him, laughing a little too loudly at something he hadn’t even said.

“I don’t think we’ve seen you all night, Bucky,” she drawled, twirling a piece of hair around her finger. “Thought maybe you forgot how to have fun.”

Bucky huffed a short laugh, barely sparing her a glance. “Nah, just been busy.”

Her gaze flickered toward you, her lips curling slightly. “Busy, huh?”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes, taking a sip of your drink instead. You were used to this. Girls had been throwing themselves at Bucky for years, but he never really gave them the time of day and yet, they never seemed to get it.

Bucky didn’t respond, just nudged your elbow, like the two of you shared some secret joke. He leaned in, his breath warm against your temple. “You wanna get outta here for a bit?”

You nodded, already slipping your fingers around his wrist, pulling him toward the backyard. You swore you heard Hannah-Heather scoff behind you.

Outside, the sky was a swirl of deep purples and indigos, the air thick with summer humidity. People were scattered across the lawn, sitting on blankets, perched on porch railings, waiting for the fireworks.

You and Bucky found a spot a little farther from the crowd, away from the noise. The grass was cool beneath you as you flopped down, lying flat on your back. Bucky sat beside you, one knee bent, his arm slung lazily over it.

The first firework exploded overhead, brilliant and loud, the colors streaking across the sky in sharp, fleeting bursts.

You sighed, stretching your arms above your head. “God, I love this.”

Bucky hummed. “Yeah?”

You turned to him, grinning. “Yeah.”

But he wasn’t looking at the sky. “Me too.”

He was looking at you.

His expression was unreadable, something soft and achingly familiar flickering behind his eyes.

“You’re missing the show, Buck.”

He smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nah,” he murmured. “Not missing a thing.”

You swallowed. Your heart stuttered against your ribs.

The fireworks kept exploding, painting the night in reds, blues, golds. But Bucky never looked away.

---

You don’t mean to overhear.

But when you arrive at the building, an unassuming community center tucked between a laundromat and a bakery you hesitate. Through the open door of the meeting room, you hear his voice and the way he says your name stops you cold.

So you stay. You stand just out of sight, heart hammering in your chest, and you listen.

Bucky shifts in his chair, hands clasped together so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He’s barely spoken all session, just sat there while the others talked, his knee bouncing, his jaw clenched. But now, he exhales shakily and lifts his head.

“There’s this girl,” he says, his voice low, hoarse, like it physically pains him to say it out loud. “She wants me to get help.”

A couple of the other vets nod, encouraging, but they don’t interrupt.

“And I want to get better for her, for me” he admits, running a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “But in order to do that, I’m supposed to talk about it.”

He lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “So, yeah. Here I am. Talking about it.”

Silence.

“I remember the night I almost did it.”

A shift in the room. Everyone knows what it means.

“I’d been in that fucking hole for years. No light, no sound except for the guards when they came in, except for the screams from the others.” He swallows hard, rubs at his chest like it aches. “I don’t even know how long we’d been there. Time didn’t exist in that place. All I know is that one night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I thought, if I just do it, it’ll finally be over.”

His voice cracks.

He clears his throat, fists clenching against his jeans. “I was ready. I had it planned. I was going to—” He stops himself, exhales hard through his nose. “But then Sam—”

His lips press together. His throat bobs.

“All Sam had to do was say her name.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

“He said her name,” Bucky continues, his voice barely above a whisper now. “That was all it took. Just… her name.” He lets out a shaky breath. “And suddenly, I couldn’t do it.”

The room is silent. No one breathes.

“I’d spent so long convincing myself I was already dead, but then he said her name, and I realized, I wasn’t dead. Not yet.”

He drags a hand down his face, letting out a shuddering breath.

“I told myself if I made it out, I’d tell her.” He shakes his head, lets out a quiet laugh. “I’d tell her that she was the reason I was still breathing.”

A long pause.

“I never told her.”

A voice from across the room, careful, hesitant. “Do you still talk to her?”

Bucky swallows. “Yeah.”

Another pause.

“Does she know?”

Bucky stares at his hands, the tendons taut, the veins beneath his skin stark against his knuckles.

“No,” he whispers. And then, quieter, so quiet you barely hear it, a confession meant for no one. “And I don’t even have her.”

A hollow laugh, sharp and self-deprecating. “I made it out and I still don’t have her.”

Your chest tightens, breath catching in your throat. You turn away, walking fast away from the door back towards where you entered.

You’re still standing in the hallway when the meeting ends.

Your stomach is in knots, your hands trembling at your sides. You don’t even know what you’d say if you walked in there right now, if you had to look at him.

---

The distant sound of fireworks crackled somewhere beyond your dorm room window, muffled by the thick summer air. You didn’t turn to look. Didn’t care to watch the way the sky lit up in bursts of color, didn’t care to hear the excited shouts of people celebrating in the streets below.

Instead, you sat cross-legged on your bed, the dim glow of your bedside lamp casting soft, golden light across the room.

In your hands, a letter.

The envelope was slightly crumpled at the edges, the ink of your name smudged just a little. You had run your fingers over it too many times, tracing the loops and curves of his handwriting.

You swallowed, exhaling sharply through your nose. Then, with slightly trembling fingers, you tore the top of the envelope, carefully pulling out the folded pages inside.

His handwriting was the same as always, quick, slightly messy, but undeniably him.

You took a deep breath and began to read.

Y/N,

Happy Fourth of July.

I don’t even know what day it is where I am, but I know it’s today for you. I hope it is, I used my barely there math skills to try and time this letter for you. I know if I was home, we’d be doing something stupid right now. Probably sneaking beers from the fridge, watching the fireworks from the field, you rambling about how pretty they are while I pretend to care but really just care about you.

Instead, I’m here.

We didn’t do much today, just some downtime with the unit. Sam swears up and down he can grill, but I wouldn’t let him near the food. We all sat around, ate, laughed, just tried to feel normal for a little while. It was nice. I needed it.

I needed tonight.

I needed something that felt even a little like home.

I miss it. I miss you. I miss your voice. I miss the way you say my name. I miss the way you call me an idiot when I do something stupid and the way you hug me even when I don’t deserve it.

I miss everything.

I don’t know when this will get to you, but I hope you’re celebrating. Hope you’re watching the fireworks. Hope you’re happy. I wish I could see you. I wish I could talk to you. Just for a second. Just long enough to hear you say my name.

You always told me that watching the fireworks made you feel small in the best way, like we were all just tiny pieces of something bigger. I don’t know if I ever told you, but that’s how I feel about you. Like I’m just a tiny piece of something bigger, something better, because I have you.

Yours Always,

Bucky

Your breath hitched.

You sat there, fingers clutching the letter so tightly the paper nearly crinkled.

For a long time, you didn’t move. Your mind at war, it had been almost a year since he left, you knew you should finally write back so before you had a second thought you reached for your notebook.

You clicked your pen, the tip hovering over the blank page. You started to write.

Then stopped.

Started again.

Stopped again.

The words wouldn’t come.

Not because you didn’t have them. You had too many. Too many things to say, too many things you couldn’t explain.

So, after several long minutes, you let out a slow, shaky breath and then you closed the notebook.

You folded the letter carefully, tucking it back into the envelope.

You decided, you weren’t going to write back, again.

---

The house was alive. The air thick with laughter, music weaving between conversations, the city skyline glowing through the windows. It was the same as it always was, the annual Fourth of July party, Steve’s birthday celebration. A tradition.

Steve was in his element, a drink in hand, effortlessly moving through the crowd, smiling, laughing. Like everything was fine. Like nothing had cracked, like nothing was unraveling right beneath the surface.

Bucky stood near the entryway, a beer dangling from his fingers, his sharp blue eyes scanning the crowd. He was different in this setting, out of place amongst the pressed shirts and city-polished smiles. But then his gaze found yours, and the noise of the party dulled for a moment.

You didn’t have time to cross the room, didn’t have time to get to him before something else cut through the atmosphere like a blade.

“Man, I just don’t get it.”

You turned at the voice.

Clint.

He was nursing a drink, his stance looser than usual, the tension he always carried around you now sharpened into something hateful.

Your brows furrowed. “Clint—”

“No, seriously.” He scoffed, shaking his head, his voice thick with resentment. “You just get everything, don’t you?”

A few heads turned. The air in the room shifted, attention sliding toward the unfolding scene.

Your stomach twisted. “That’s not—”

Clint let out a bitter laugh, his jaw clenching. “You get everything. You get your friend back. You get him.” He gestured vaguely toward Steve, swaying he was far gone. “You get it all.”

Your pulse thrummed in your ears. The weight of eyes on you, the heat of Bucky’s stare burning into the side of your face.

Clint took a step closer, his voice dropping into something quieter, crueler. “Meanwhile, Natasha is gone. I lost my best friend. And you? You just keep winning.”

The words slammed into you. It hurt more than it should have.

Your throat went dry. “That’s not fair.”

Clint laughed again, but this time, it was hollow, empty. “Fair?” His hands tightened around his glass. “Life isn’t fair, hunny. If it was, she’d still be here. But instead—” he gestured around the room, his voice dipping into something venomous. “Instead, you get everything, and she gets nothing.”

The silence in the room was suffocating. Your chest tightened, words caught somewhere between your ribs, stuck.

“That’s enough.”

Bucky’s voice cut through the air like steel.

Clint snorted, shaking his head. “Of course. Here comes the knight in shining armor.”

Bucky clenched his jaw. “I mean it.”

Clint took a step closer. “Or what?”

Bucky’s shoulders squared. “Or you’re gonna want to shut the fuck up before I make you.”

It happened fast. Clint’s fist swung.

Before you even thought about it, before your body even registered the movement, you stepped forward.

Clint’s fist connected with you.

A sharp crack of knuckles against skin.

Everything stopped.

The music, the voices, the movement of the party.

Silence.

The sting spread across your cheek, your head jerking slightly from the impact, the room swaying in a way that made your stomach lurch as the cool liquid ran down from your nose.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #sebastian stan x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes angst #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes au #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes ff #fluffy bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x reader angst #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader

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deathandnonexistentialdread · 3 days ago

Note

did dsod make ryou's eyes red? i could've sworn they were brown in the DM anime and i want to say blue in the manga. cool and good for him ig, become maximum white haired anime boy.

Yes they did!

here is Ryou's eyes in dsod:

and here is Ryou's eyes in the dm anime:

I wonder why they gave him so many different eye colours but they all look great on him. And you're right anon, with the gorgeous eye colours and the trauma Ryou has acquired, he has become maximum white haired anime boy.

#ryou is the white haired anime boy of all time noone is doing it like him #step aside gojo satoru ryou was here first #now that anon points it out ryou's pale features and red eyes in dsod reminds me of oculocutaneous albinism.#its genetic and those that born with it have little to no melanin so they have pale eyes hair and skin.#And they eyes often seem red when light sines on them due to the light colour of the iris #it is interesting that there is a medical condition that can explain ryou's appearance #the implications of it are very interesting #thank you for the ask anon! (^^)#cide watches yugioh #yugioh #cide watches yugioh dsod #yugioh dsod #dark side of dimensions #ryo bakura #bakura ryou #ryoko #ryou bakura #cide answers asks #anon

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billiesbossanovas · 6 months ago

Text

Letters

High school au

Warnings: angst angst angst, death, su!cide mentions, self harm mentions, relapse mentions. Please read at your discretion.

If anyone reading this, or reading any of my work, or just so happens to even read just the warnings, know that I’m always open for you to talk to me if needed, please take care of yourself and know that you are loved and cared for. <3

This fic is kinda me projecting 🙂‍↕️ (extreme exaggeration for some parts)

Natasha Romanoff x gn!reader

Not proof read

—

You, y/n l/n, are part of the popular group in school, just from being long time friends with Tony stark, he was in the football team, mvp every game, best player in the whole school, you grew up with him, went through all levels or school with him, though you are the very contrast of him, nerdy, you would rather be reading than running around getting all sweaty and dirty.

One of his friends had caught your eye almost immediately, Natasha romanoff, a charming, tall redhead, at first she had struck you as kind, she smiled at you in the halls, even stood and had a conversation with you one time, that soon fizzled out, you had no idea why, she just started getting rude, giving you off handed comments or just flat out ignoring you. But you shrugged it off, it wasn’t anything major, just enough to make you slightly uncomfortable around her.

You sat on the bleachers watching as Tony was practicing with his team, him being your ride home meant waiting.. and waiting.. and waiting. It was annoying but also got you out of the house for longer. It was hard at home, your dad being ill and your mom being.. well your mom, so being out of the house was the best thing for your mental state, Tony knew that, he was the only person who knew how much you’d been struggling, how much you hated being at home. Hated being anywhere. So he offered to take you to school and drop you back at home after practices. He didn’t know everything, not about your plans or how you’d relapsed a week ago and feel back into your self harm as a coping mechanism, but some things are best kept secret, even from your best friend, especially from your best friend.

Natasha came and sat next to you, knocking you back into reality and huffed, she rested her chin in her hands and looked over at you. “What are you writing?” She snorts and laughs as you scramble to close your journal. “You’re such a dork” she grumbles before leaning back and watching as the team practices. You shove your journal into your bag and move it onto your other side, Natasha watches it and scoffs “I’m not gunna look in your precious journal” it’s said in a mocking way, but you know she means it, she’s not invasive, never has been.

Tony runs over to the two of you and gives a confused look before tapping you in the leg with his foot. “Ready to go?” He’s out of breathe and extremely sweaty to the point his hair was sticking to his forehead.

“Yeah- yeah let’s go. See you later Natasha” you stand up and put your bag on your back, she gives you half a wave and waits for Clint, he runs over and sits next to her as you and Tony walk away.

“So.. you doing okay?” He asks as the two of you get to the parking lot, you hum in response as he slings his football boots and jersey into the back seat of his car. “I’m here for you, you know that right?” He looks at you over the car, you give him a tight smile and sigh.

“I know.” Is all you give him, he stares at you, its intimidating like he’s trying to get information out of you with a stare, he lets it go after a second and climbs into the drivers seat. “Hey do you know my Natasha suddenly hates me?” You get into the car and out your seatbelt on, Tony takes a second to answer and looks over at you.

He opens his mouth and goes to speak a few times before smirking. “Tasha probably just likes you” he starts driving, he’s going the long way home, he always does. You just nod and think about it, if she liked you why would she be mean, acting as if it was a chore to speak to you without insulting you.

“Nah. I don’t think so.” You respond, the rest of the ride is quiet, the only sound being the hum of the radio, Tony focused on the road and you just watching as the houses and trees blur into one big mess, your demeanour shifts as soon as the corner turns onto your street.

Tony notices the shift in your energy, and the miserable look on your face. “You could sleep over at my house, my dad wouldn’t care.” He offers, trying to ease you a little, the offers nice, it would be great to even have a single night away from home, but you couldn’t, it wouldn’t be fair. You need to do chores, make sure everything is okay in the house.

“I-I’m okay, I’ll be fine.” He pats you on the shoulder, and watches as you drag yourself into the house. The moment you step in, you hear your parents arguing, you don’t what it’s over, but they’re loud and now only really shouting insults at each other, it had been going for a while now by the sounds of it, all you can do is sigh before walking up to your bedroom.

Dinner is silent, your dad eating what he can manage from his plate and your mom glaring at you while you eat. You look up at her, she scoffs and takes her plate to the kitchen sink. “You know you could help out once in a while.” She starts, aiming the statement at you. “I’m sick of doing everything around here. You could at least wash the dishes- or do the laundry.” You Finnish your food and take the plate over to where she is. “But even then you’d probably fuck it up- why don’t you just go study- or talk about me to your friends. Seeing as that’s all you do.” She takes your plate from you and starts washing it, you turn around to walk away from her. “I never get any help in this house.” She gritts out through her teeth, making a pang of guilt filter through your body as you make your way upstairs to your bedroom.

A sigh of relief leaves your mouth as you close your bedroom door, you pick up your bag and take out your journal, sitting at your desk to finish writing your letters, the one addressed to you parents being the first one you finished, you had one for everyone you were close with, just for if anything where to happen to you, the one you struggled with the most was Tony’s. What would you even write to him, all you could write was ‘I’m sorry’ you’d work on it more later. Flicking forward a few pages you write a name down to start a new letter.

Natasha, you also didn’t know what to say to her, how would you write a letter for someone to read after your death, when they don’t like you, and you’re basically in love with them? You sighed and layed your head in your desk onto of your journal trying to think, you closed your eyes, maybe it would help. In the end you fell asleep ontop of your notebook, being woke up to your mother pounding on your bedroom door announcing Tony was here, and you needed to get of your ass and go to school.

Over the course of the next week, everything had gotten worse, Natasha constantly ribbing on you for writing all the time, To y started slowly pulling away as things with pepper started to get more serious, you were left to deal with your thoughts, and your parents on your own. Your dad had gotten worse, he’d been admitted into hospital which made home life basically hell as your mother raved and screamed about how useless you were, how you could do so much more with your life’s yet you spent it locked away in your room. While you agreed on the latter, you could be doing normal teenage things, going to parties, getting into a relationship. But you spent your time locking yourself in your bedroom, crying yourself to sleep after making yourself bleed, because that’s what you deserved, to feel pain. You were a shitty friend and child, so why not make yourself suffer even more.

The day your mother burst into your room and shouted “you’re so fucking useless, you can’t even wash the dishes correctly. If you’re weren’t here my life would be so much easier.” There was more to the rant, but that’s the part that stuck to you, that was your breaking point. When night time rolled around you finished the letters off, and packed them insulate into envelopes with people’s names on them. They’re out into your bag, and you leave the house at four in the morning, leaving the letter for your parents on your desk ready for whenever they decide they want to speak to you.

It’s cold out, the only thing keeping you even remotely warm being a thin zip up jacket, the walk to Tony’s house is weirdly relaxing, crickets chirping, wind rustling through the leaves, making you wonder if you actually wanted to leave this all behind, before you knew it you were at Tony’s door posting the letter. ‘This is the right decision’ was all you could tell yourself, justifying your plan.

Now it was Natasha’s place, you walk up to her house, to your suprise she’s sat on the door step with a cigarette in her hand as she takes a drag. “Oh I didn’t know you smoked.” You mutter out as you stand at the edge of her porch.

Natasha laughed and blew out smoke, she looked at you confused then patted the spot next to her, you gladly took it and sat down. “I didn’t know dorks snuck out at night” she smirks at you and flicks her cigarette out onto the grass. “What are you doing here anyway?” She asks with a sigh leaning back and looking off at the still dark, early morning sky, it’s clear, the stars are out it’s beautiful.

“The night is so calm..” you mumble softly as you look at her, “beautiful..” you don’t know if it’s about Natasha or the stars, she looks over at you. “Right.. here” you hand the letter over to her. “Just don’t open it until I’m gone.”

Natasha watches as you walk away from her, she looks at the letter, her name written in your unkempt hand writing. She opened the envelope with care and unfolds the lined paper.

‘Natasha,

Where do I start? Well for one I’m sorry if I’ve done something wrong to make making you pissed off at me. Quite honestly I took a liking to you i really like you, a lot. And maybe in another universe we could have happened, I would’ve been easier for you to love, for anyone to love for that matter.

I love you, I’m sorry. ‘

As she read the letter, you were already climbing over the edge of a bridge, your shoes off sitting next to your bag. You stood there for a while, watching the water, maybe someone would see you and pull you down. Maybe deep down you didn’t actually want this. No, you knew this is what had to happen, what would make everything right, make everything okay.

Your jacket blows in the wind, the sun just rising over the water, giving you a sense of peace, clarity even, the wind blows in your hair, a rush coldness shivers its way down your body, for a moment you stop and think, are you just being dramatic? What if this makes everything worse?

There’s running the distance, Natasha comes sprinting towards you. “What are you doing!?” She shouts as she gets closer, she stops behind you, you don’t turn around, but you don’t step off the ledge either. “Come back on this side- you don’t have to do this” she whispers watching incase you make a move.

“I don’t have to do anything.” You mutter in response. “I don’t have to stay or go. But this is my choice to make, and I’ve already made it..” you look back for a second, Natasha looks frantic, her eyes wide, her breathing heavy and fast paced, she takes a step forward.

Natasha spends thirty minutes trying to get you to come down, talk you out of it, anything. You always thought it would Tony in this situation, maybe in the back of your head, you decide this time because you knew he’d be asleep, wouldn’t get a chance to read your letter before you’d get to the bridge, you listen quietly as she pleads for you to come down.

You take your jacket off and hand it to her, she looks at you confused. “A-are you coming down?” She asks softly, she takes your jacket and holds onto it.

“Put it on” you mumble, now looking at the risen sun, the way the it’s making the sky purple and pink, it’s gorgeous, reminding of Natasha. She doesn’t bother pulling the zipper down. “I love you” you sigh out as you hear her fumble with the jacket, when it’s over her face, that’s when you take the step, Natasha’s scream is over run by the rush of the wind in your ears, your arms extend, for a second, it feels like your flying, like your dad is holding you up in the air when you were two, a smile makes its way across your face, it’s only lasts a second, nothing more or less.

Then you hit the water, you close your eyes, there’s no pain, no cold washing over you, no warmth, no tears, and for a moment, you’re happy, really happy, truly at peace.

And there was nobody to take it away.

#billiesbossanovas #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #natasha x reader #natasha x you #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x gender neutral reader #Natasha romanoff x y/n #writing #au

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jirai-enanan-cheesecakes · 3 months ago

Text

intro !!!

tw for triggering vents !! please block me respectfully if you arent comfortable with those posts

༝names you can call me: haru , sua , ame , ena ( i prefer being called ena / enanan though )

༝ age: minor , not listing specifics

༝ prns: she/they/he

༝birthday: 11/2

༝sexuality: demigirl + lesbian !

༝im latin american + chilean, so I might have incorrect grammar sometimes ehe. . .(╥﹏╥)

ena shinonome fictionkin + mizuki akiyama oshi

looking for mutuals in general whether your a normie or not , i love making friends (online) !!

if you are a jirai in recovery, i definitely don't recommend you viewing this blog since I talk about sensitive topics here ( and please tell me if you are a recovering jirai if I start following you please !!! )

fandoms ! (my main ones)

prsk

alnst

ENA

nso

crk

listing more in my carrd I'm working on

kins !!

sua , yuuna , ena shinonome , kanade yoisaki , nene kusanagi , an shirashi , mene tame , ame-chan , ivan , etc

dni !!

p3d0s

rude people

tr*mp supporters

male mizuki believers

proshippers

isr*el supporters

nazis n sexists

l0licons and sh0tacons

adult men

homophobes and transphobes

antiyumes

melanie martinez supporters

people 18 and up (unless I interact first) , and you can follow me but please don't dm me or interact with me too much

i block freely !

trigger warnings for some of my posts:

$u!cide jokes (some are not haha. .)

self harm (no pictures but I post about it a lottt)

vents

traumas

violence

i complain a lot but you can ignore those posts

and uh yeah but for the majority I just post random things !!

music I like !!

vocaloid

j pop and k pop

nu metal

indie video game music

j rock

theres more but yeah

extra !!

my reblogging account: @enanans-reblogs !!

sharing mami tomoe yume ^_^

feel free to dm me, i don't bite ehe ~ ( i can be awkward though and I don't text first , so please be patient with me. . . plus it takes me awhile to actually respond to dms sorry)

i love my mutuals !!!!!!!!!

I absolutely LOVE asks !! never feel shy sending them, I love answering them hehe !! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

im also now going to separate my vents from my silly posts with these tags :

#an angels sorrow. . . #angels silly posts

okay bye

#intro post #introduction #an angels sorrow. . .#angels silly posts #updated on 5/1/25 at 3:10 #updated at 5/2/25 at 12:09 #updated at 5/4/25 at 10:58 pm #updated at 5/5/25 at 4:05 pm #updated at 5/6/25 at 12:13 pm

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miwiheroes · 8 months ago

Note

Do u think Mike or Will r gonna b vecna-d, who and y ? (Or if you think zome1 elze iz gonna b vecna-d)

Honestly i think the pure definition of being ‘vecnaed’ will be different in season 5, because as we know, the writers of the show rarely want to repeat the same concepts and stakes throughout seasons. also vecna no longer needs to curse anyone because he already cursed enough people for his plan.

however, i obviously think that vecna will still be used as a metaphor for su*cide and trauma, and will still have a role to play in taunting will or mike.

i also think that music will no longer be able to get through to our characters anymore. that’s an old concept that was cool in season 4 but just carrying on the same thing in the next season would just be recycling things, so i think that will is probably going to be ‘vecnaed’ in some way, probably get taunted by him many times. he’s not going to be taunted in order to be killed however, he’s going to be taunted because vecna is trying to convince him that he should ‘defect’ or go against the people who have treated him poorly etc.

music no longer gets through to him, but it would be cool if he manages to escape through good memories I.E. THE MIWI FLASHBACK…..

this could also work if mike gets vecnaed, and if he does, it will likely be in the sense that vecna taunts him about not being needed by anyone, not being able to grow up, (maybe some gay stuff idk)

from the vr game, i reckon that vecna will have a hard time trying to reach mike because he is so closed off, and maybe even taunt will with the idea of killing mike, or asking will what mike fears the most (will would probably answer with ‘losing el’ but he will end up being wrong like in the game).

TLDR: new definition of being ‘vecnaed’, will is going to be goaded into joining vecna (ultimately he won’t), vecna finds it hard to taunt mike, likely will ask Will what he fears the most. they will probably use memories to escape (miwi flashback)

PLS SEND ME MORE ASKS !!

#byler #byler endgame #mike wheeler #will byers #byler nation #stranger things #stranger things 5

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zoeysdamn · 1 year ago

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I had no choice - Knight!Nikolaï x reader

A/N: More angst for @corpsebasil AU? heck yes. Also I'm sorry in advance this was better in my head fjnkjrbg

Part 2 of this one-shot (tho you can also read it as a stand-alone)

Summary: You and your secret lover Sir Nikolaï got married in secret a few months ago. As the princess of Ravka, you can’t let this information become public right now. But what might happen if your hand is forced to reveal it? Are your royal duties more important than your union to your beloved knight? TW: angst, child neglect, slight violence, mention of blood and death in childbirth, angst, slut-shaming, dubious morals, mention of su!cide

It was easy, at first. The first months of your married life, albeit a secret one, had been blissful and lovely, and easy. There was the thrill of secrecy, the shared glances that now carried the bubbling emotions of newlyweds, the stolen kisses behind curtains, and the knowledge of returning to each other’s arms when the night would come. But after several months of this untainted happiness, reality slowly came back. It wasn’t a crashing realization, more like a creeping around your mind just like the insidious whispers in the corridors reaching your ears from time to time. Then came the crippling doubt. Nothing loud or really consistent, but quiet and haunting at every small moment of silence within your mind. What if someone knows? What if we weren’t that discreet? What of it then? You knew the answer to that last one, of course ; treason, trial, exile, maybe even execution for Nikolaï – perhaps even yourself. Ironically, the love Nikolaï showered you with was precisely what made you neglect those thoughts. It might have been a deliberate subconscious move too, to bury your own head in the sand instead of being practical. And that despite all of the warnings around you, that led you to the exact situation you currently were in.

The day had started as usual though. You woke up in the arms of your lover – your husband – like any other day. It was always a bliss to look at the peaceful asleep face of Nikolaï, getting kissed by the first rays of sun like a delicate brush on a painting. You consider yourself lucky to be able to catch a glimpse of the handsome relaxed face of the knight every morning. Though it was always a matter of getting up before the maids came to your own adjacent chamber, Nikolaï always took the time to shower you with kisses to start his day ; you gladly returned the favor, by the way. Then the dreadful slipping away from his chamber, just to put back on the princess role once again. Getting dressed, getting breakfast, where you see Nikolaï again, dressed in his knight outfit this time. The day has gone by as usual, meeting with your ladies in waiting or dignitaries, walking around the palace gardens, Sir Nikolaï always close by as the dutiful bodyguard – and devoted husband he was. Then during the afternoon tea, a guard showed up to whisper something to your beloved knight’s ears, to which he answered with a sharp nod. Polite as ever, he had excused himself to attend this military matter that requested his attention ; nothing out of the ordinary really, for the captain of the knights.

The prospect of him leaving your side for a few hours had you pout a little, but the deception had been quickly washed away by the knowledge and secret promise of a later reunion in the wink Nikolaï secretly sent you before exiting the room.

Really, everything had started as it always was.

Then, out of the blue, two guards arrived in the tea room and asked to follow them, per your father’s request. It wasn’t something terribly surprising either, as the princess of Ravka the king could sometimes summon you ; so although it wasn’t planned, you weren’t surprised and you followed your father’s guards. Most of the palace guards were known by you, at least by face if not by name and Nikolaï’s words, but the king’s guards were a special case. Unlike the rest of the military, they didn’t serve Ravka, but the King only. And you were about to remember that very soon.

“Father,” you greeted with a small courtesy as you entered the gilded room, “you had requested my presence?”

The king lifted his nose from the paper he was reading. Despite all the etiquette lessons you had been through growing up, the first thought that came to your mind was that he was looking old. Decades of ruling a country and being an absent father does that to you, you supposed. All while you thought about it, you missed the somber look the monarch was giving.

“Leave us,” he said sharply to the guards. Ever obedient, the two soldiers who escorted you swiftly left the room without a word.

This made you frown slightly in confusion. “Is something wrong, father?”

“What do you think?” he said sharply. “Why would I have summoned my useless child if everything was fine?”

The sting of his words took you by surprise for a moment. Growing up, you knew the king didn’t like you – your mother was supposed to give birth to a boy after all. With no male heir and a wife who died shortly after giving birth, the King never bothered to hide his disdain for you, at least in private. You had learned to not be upset by it with the years, and by the time you were an adult you both ignored each other the most you could. The sudden verbal attack for years wasn’t expected.

Squaring your shoulders for the incoming scolding, you tried to keep your voice as steady as you could. “What do you mean, sir?”

The king slammed his hand on the table out of anger, startling you. When he looked you dead in the eye with a look full of hate, you knew it was useless to try to resolve this issue with diplomacy.

“Do you think of me deaf and blind, child?” he spat angrily. “Do you think of me stupid enough to not know everything that goes around in my own house?”

Gulping slowly, you tried to appease the situation. “Sir I–”

“Do not talk back,” the king hissed as he sprung up from his chair. His face had turned redder in anger as yours paled. “Did you think you could go around my back like that?”

“Sir,” you said shakily, even though your voice tried to be steady, with all due respect, I really don’t know what you’re talking ab–”

The slap that echoed in the room cut the words out of your mouth before you could even blink. Add to that the surprise of the physical attack, and the force your father used on it, you lost balance and crashed on the floor. Your ears were ringing, head spinning as a hot, searing pain bloomed on your cheek. Trying to steady yourself on the hardwood floor, you barely even noticed the tears welling in your eyes at the shock. With a trembling hand, you reached for your bruised cheek ; a string of blood coated your fingers, fresh from the cut the sharp edge of the king’s rings had made when he slapped you. You felt your heart sink into your stomach at the sight: there was no coming back from this situation.

“Don’t make yourself a liar atop of a whore, child”, the king seethed, glaring coldly at you.

The words felt like a second punch, you almost snapped your neck looking up to him with wide eyes. The pathetic sight of the princess of Ravka on her knees with tears-filled eyes and bruised cheek made the monarch snicker in disgust.

“Did you think I’d never found out about your ridiculous affair with that bastard? That saints-forsaken son of a bitch of a knight–”

“Leave him out of this,” you pleaded with a raspy voice. The tears were heavy in your eyes and voice, but you’ll be damned if you didn’t fight for Nikolaï’s honor just like he did for you.

“I’ll have that filthy bastard’s head no matter how much you’ll beg,” sneered the king in disdain. “This is what you get when you spread your legs for the first knight in sight, you whore.”

The accusation hurt even more at the implication that you could have bedded any knight that had come across you ; Nikolaï was anything but a random knight. But your father hadn’t finished with you yet.

“And it wasn’t enough for you to fuck him, you had to marry him,” he spat with a disgusted snarl. “Just how dumb are you? You had one role in this life, to marry according to my choice and nothing else! Who would ever marry a useless slut like you now, hmm?”

Despite your firm intent to stand up for your love and union, you couldn’t help but feel a heavy lump of shame forming in your throat. Years of conditioning to your role as the princess of Ravka came to shame you: of course as a female heir, the only use you were supposed to have to the kingdom was to marry the most interesting party your father and his council would have chosen. But alas, you had failed this mission in favor of your heart’s choice.

“You’re a disgrace to this kingdom and your family,” the king spat once again. “But as much ashamed as I am with you, I fortunately have a solution to make something acceptable for us.”

Snapping your head up from the floor, you stared at him with wide eyes, fearing what he would say. “What are you going to do?” you asked with a trembling voice.

He tsked in annoyance. “Your little…fling is fortunately not known by anyone but me. I made sure of that after my spies reported your filthy sins to me.”

His words echoed in your mind once, twice, before a gasp escaped you when you realized his implications. “D-do you mean that…you had them killed?” you hiccuped.

Once again your reaction seemed to only bring more irritation to the king, who only rolled his eyes. “Did you think I’d let anyone live with that knowledge? You have dragged our family’s honor through the dirt enough, I couldn’t let anyone spread a word about this.” He glanced at you to see tears roaming on your cheeks and let out a bitter huf. “This better be a lesson for you, you ungrateful child. Their deaths are because of you, and no one else.”

“No,” you whimpered, “this isn’t true, I never wished for their deaths–”

“Enough!” the king barked, running short on his patience. “I will not hear one more word from your treacherous mouth! You will be confined in your room until I deemed so, and I can promise you that the only way for you to get out will be to be married to someone I chose to fix your mistakes!”

Your eyes widened, causing more tears to roll on your cheeks. “You can’t do that!” you cried pathetically. “You can’t unmake vows made before the Saints–”

Another rough slap cut you once again, and you gasped at the new attack. “Quiet! I don’t want to hear anything from you, whore!”. Just as you tried to ease the ringing of your head after the slap, your father forcefully grabbed your face to make you look up to his hateful eyes. “I may be unable to untie that heathen marriage of yours, but death most certainly can.”

His words tore an horrified gasp from your throat, but he carried on venomously.

“I’ll have the head of Sir Nikolaï delivered to you on a silver platter as a wedding gift, as soon as that son of a bitch returns to the palace, do you understand me?”

Against all of your might, you nodded your head weakly, tears roaming on your face. As soon as he got your understanding, the king yanked his hand off your face in disgust. As to prove a point, he immediately grabbed a handkerchief and wiped his hand clean; that’s the moment when you realized that something other than tears was dripping on your lips. When your trembling fingers brushed against your abused lip, you realized that was blood which dripped from your nose.

The king shot you another disgusted glare.

“Put yourself together, child.”

Like an automat, you clumsily managed to get up on wobbly legs, eyes lost into nothingness. You felt dizzy, numb, unable to think properly at the tragic turn of events in such a short amount of time. It was like your body acted on its own, whipping away the blood that had tickled down your face with the back of your hand in a very unlady-like manner. It didn’t matter though, considering your father had already turned his back to you to look at the window, signaling this was the end of this dreadly entrevue.

“This conversation never happened to anyone but us,” he stated coldly. “Am I being clear?”

Somehow your body responded on its own – even more surprisingly, your father seemed to have seen you nod ; or perhaps he had expected you to react like the obedient puppet you had been trained to be. You barely even noticed him calling for one of his guards and the said guard entering the room.

“Take the princess back to her rooms,” he ordered coldly. “She is to be kept there under some of my personnel guard’s surveillance at all times until I say otherwise. No one but a few personal maids is to enter, am I understood?”

Whether the guard had answered or not didn’t matter, you wouldn’t have heard them anyway. Too lost in your own foggy, broken mind, you barely even be conscious of your own moving through the halls of the palace to your room, nor the looming presence of the watching guard. It was only when they let you inside of your room, and you heard the lock of the door, that the full realization of the situation sank in with a crash.

Tears that had previously dried up came back flooding on your cheeks and you felt like you were suffocating. Trembling and dizzy, you had to lean on the wall for support as you cried. How did all of this happen?

Nikolaï and you had always shown the utmost discretion, of course ; you knew the risks. No one had witnessed your wedding but the priest who had officiated it. As a man of the church, he was sworn to secrecy, you had an absolute trust in him. Embraces, kisses and passion had always been confined to the privacy of your chambers – much to both your disappointment and safety. Outside and for everyone’s eyes, you became the princess and Sir Nikolaï once again and nothing more. So how did everything go so wrong, so fast?

Shaky fingers went to clutch the ring looped on the thin chain around your neck. Oh, how you wished Nikolaï was here with you at the moment. You craved his presence, his comfort and his love. He would have known how to comfort you, how to find a solution. But he wasn’t by your side, and the moment he’d come back would be his ultimate demise. A sob wrecked your body ; you probably wouldn’t even be able to see your love, your husband one last time.

You spent the next half hour crying, whimpering, curled on the ground against the wall. The gash in your heart couldn’t stop bleeding, forbidden to heal due to the absence of Nikolaï and the tragic upcoming of his inevitable death. Despair clung onto your soul, embedding itself to the deepest parts of yourself. Never in your life, especially after your wedding, you would have thought you’d feel like that again.

Being the princess of Ravka never prevented to have an abusive parent, you knew that better than anyone. Insults and slaps had been frequent when you were a child, whether it was for a silly mistake on your part or simply your father having a bad day. The king never forgave you for your mother’s death and you being a girl ; his parental affection had been buried deep down in the ground at the same time as your mother, it had seemed. But the years had passed, and you had learned to know better than to expect any love from the king, and to avoid his rageful fits by making yourself useful. Being a political asset by mastering the art of negotiation and diplomacy had smoothed your relationship with the king ; until today, it had been years since he last raised his hand on you.

“Your majesty?”

You jumped in surprise, startled by the sudden voice in your room. Snapping your head up, your tear-filled eyes met your maid’s worried ones.

“Are you alright, your majesty?”

The lump in your throat only felt heavier. That girl was blessedly unaware of the torment you had been thrown into. A wobbly lip and tear-stained cheeks wouldn’t fool anyone, yet you nodded weakly.

“Not really,” you rasped.

The frown of concern on the maid’s face only worsened, just to be cut by a gasp at the inspection of your own face. “You’re bleeding! Have you been hurt?”

Brushing your fingers against your nose once again you gulped at the sight of blood once again. Your father definitely didn’t go easy on you this time.

“Help me up,” you mumbled weakly, to which the maid obeyed promptly.

As a contrast to your tired numbness, the poor servant fussed in anxiety, helpless and worried about her mistress’ state. She led you to sit on a vanity, you could hear her from a distance talking about soothing tea or something. As she busied herself your eyes wandered to the reflecting surface in front of you. A wave of nausea and tears rises when you lock eyes with your reflection: half-disheveled hair and red eyes, cheeks red from both the slaps and the tears, a bloody nose and dread sinking into your bones. The woman in the mirror is someone you never thought you’d see one day – or again.

Suddenly, all the sadness and sorrow morphed into something else. Disgust. Fear. Anger. Rage. Everything bubbled inside of your chest, craving a way to get out. As your eyes wandered, trying to get a hold of something real to ground you, they landed on a little box covered in dust. Hidden behind bottles and jewel boxes, you hadn’t touched it for years.

The sight was like an electroshock; all of the sudden, you remembered what was inside of that box. And then all of those emotions raging inside you turned into even more: resignation.

“Alyosha?”

The maid immediately rushed to your side in worry. “Yes my lady?”

“I need you to deliver a message for me.”

The sun was starting to set when a knock echoed on your door. Given the context, the faintest sound should be startling you with the fear of dreadful news. But you knew exactly who it was, so you invited them to enter.

The sound of armored steps on the wooden floor and the locking of the door hang heavy in the air.

“You requested my presence, your majesty?”

You turned around to face the knight who had entered your room. Where you usually expected blonde curls and a loving smile, you met the dark hair and stern face of Sir Dominik Vertov.

“Indeed,” you said quietly – and way more calmly than you had thought barely a few hours before. “I thank you for coming, Sir Dominik.”

Polite and composed as ever, he only squared his shoulders. “It’s my watch, princess.”

Unlike his childhood friend Nikolaï, Dominik had been promoted to the King’s guard after his duties during the war. Nikolaï had been offered that place too ; he refused.

Your lover had admitted several times that he missed his best friend. Even if they both had their duties in the palace, they didn’t meet quite as often as they used to. But today, you were relieved that he and dominik had partied ways, for it may be your only chance now.

“I’m still thankful for your presence,” you said carefully. When you asked your maid to deliver a message to Sir Dominik, asking him to meet with you as quickly as possible and in the utmost discretion, you weren’t so sure he’d agree to it. After all, you were only the princess ; his allegiance laid with the king, not you.

Like reading your thoughts, the knight gave you a pointed look. This made your throat tighten; there was no need beating around the bush any further.

Taking a deep exhale, you unfold the words you had thought on for hours earlier.

“I have something to ask of you,” you started, careful to keep your voice as steady as you could. “This isn’t something easy, and I know there is no way for me to repay you for that, or even ask your forgiveness for.”

The knight frowned slightly at your words, both curious and perplexed. What was so terrible you could ask of him? Several answers came to his mind, some terrible, some absurds, but you soon cut off his train as thoughts as you declared:

“I need you to help me to take someone’s life.”

That definitely wasn’t something he expected. Dominik raised an intrigued eyebrow. “With all due respect princess, I’m not sure killing someone can solve any problem you might have.”

“Believe me, it is,” you insisted gravely.

“I’m not a thug for hire –”

“It’s a matter of saving Nikolaï’s life,” you cut him, a little louder. At your words, Dominik stopped his rambling and looked at you with wide eyes.

After a few seconds of the initial shock – both of the prospect of his friend being in danger and the princess calling him by his first name, he recomposed himself. “What do you mean?”

You gulped, feeling more nervous and your will faltering at every passing second. But you had to be strong, for Nikolaï.

“What I’m going to tell you can’t be known by anyone,” you said quietly. “Should you turn down your help on me, you have to at least swear to not tell a soul.”

The knight looked more and more confused, but strangely agreed to this. So with a deep inhale and a turn to the window, you dropped the bomb.

“A few months ago, Nikolaï and I got married in secret,” you confessed quietly, wrenching your hand together nervously. A soft gasp was heard from Dominik, but you still couldn’t bring yourself to face him. “We started a romantic relationship around a year ago, which no one knew about. Or so I thought until today.”

You could practically hear the churns turning in Sir Dominik’s head. He would be fast to understand the situation, surely.

“Someone found out,” he deduced out loud, and you nodded. “And you don’t want to be exposed.”

You whipped around at his underlying accusation. “This isn’t about my pride or reputation! If I had to throw everything away, my name, my titles and prices to be able to be with Nikolaï freely, I’d do it in a blink of an eye!”

This took him aback slightly. Even if he was a royal guard, Dominik never thought nicely of high-born morals. Even less to someone like Nikolaï and him. And that’s why he was now more concerned than ever.

“...who knows?” he asked after a few moments of silence. This time you faced him, and you could read the real question: who has to die?

The weight in your stomach got heavier, even if you had made your peace with this inevitability. “Someone who has the power to order his death,” you muttered.

You couldn’t say out loud that the king was the target ; who knows who could be listening?

As soon as it clicked in his head, Dominik’s previously composed face turned into a mix of horror and disgust.

“This can’t– you don’t mean – “

“It’s a heavy task I’m asking, I know,” you muttered.

“It’s not that!” the knight snapped. “You’re asking me to be accomplice of regicide, princess,” he whispered through gritted teeth, careful not to be heard.”

“I know,” you repeated in a quiet, yet steady voice. “But I also know that the king doesn’t make threats lightly.”

Dominik looked down; he was aware of that.

You turned to your vanity to retrieve the dusty little box. Once full of colors, it was now a faded crackled porcelain. But it was also what may be your salvation. Opening it, you carefully took a small velvet pouch, barely bigger than a thumb and returned to where the knight was standing. Dominik raised an eyebrow at you when you handed the pouch to him.

“What is it?”

“What might earn Nikolaï the right to live,” you answered cryptically. At the frown of incomprehension from the man, you could only offer him a sorry smile. “Pour it in my father’s wine, it’ll be a quick death. It’s the safest way of ending this.”

“For who, for you?” he snorted, throwing a disgusted look at the pouch of poison. “Having someone else killing your father because he had been mean to you and is forcing you to a divorce?”

His words felt like a slap once again, and your face darkened. “Divorce isn’t an option for the king,” you hissed, “It’s Nikolaï’s head he wants.”

Saying it out loud made you choke on your own words. Hearing the threat clearly from your father was one thing; realizing the actual danger by saying it yourself was something else. Dominik too, had his eyes widened at the statement. He thought that Nikolaï would have been imprisoned for his crimes, maybe whipped. But death? The king was cruel but he never thought he’d go to such lengths on one of the most faithful knights in the kingdom.

“Please,” you begged, your voice wavering as tears threatened to spill, “I can’t live without him. If anyone happened to Nikolaï I would never forgive myself.”

Sir Dominik didn’t respond. Stepping closer, you handed him the pouch once again, with trembling hands.

“If not for me, do it for him,” you whispered weakly. “I’m begging you to help me to save the man we both love.”

A beat passed. Then, the knight slowly reached for the pouch. As you felt it leaving your hand, it was like a weight in your heart was lifted at the same time. Sir Dominik stared at the small pouch for long seconds.

“How will this work?” he asked quietly.

You tried your best to not let out a relieved sigh. “Pour it into any liquid. It’ll be over after an hour or so.”

The knight nodded. “Any signs that might alert doctors before he…passes?”

You shook your head. “It’s supposed to be painless. Not easily noticeable either after the death, for what I’ve been told.”

Looking up at you, Dominik frowned slightly. “You were awfully well prepared for this situation, it seems.”

The new underlying accusation didn’t upset you like before. Instead, you just smiled sadly.

“It was never supposed to be for the king,” you said with a tint of sadness, to which he frowned even more. “Poison is said to be a women’s weapon but people often forget it might also be a painless way out for some of us.”

Dominik’s eyes widened at your words. Sensing his confusion, you darted your eyes away, the sting of long-gone memories coming back.

“Noble titles and gold never stopped anyone abusing their child,” you muttered bitterly. “No matter how fine your clothes and manners are, being called and treated like the utmost failure half of your life can make the strongest minds sink.”

You let out a shaky breath, trying to get a grip on your trembling hands. No matter how many years had passed, you still remembered every single slap and punch your father had thrown at you behind closed doors.

Raising your head a little higher to gather courage, you turned back to face the flabbergasted knight. “Thankfully I had a wet-nurse who saw through it. After patching another wound, she blessed me with this.”

“Blessed you?” he frowned.

“What other choice did I have as a woman?” you ask sadly, and you knew by the way he looked away that he understood. “It’s only a fair thing to finally use it to end this cycle of violence.”

“At what cost?”

“Thankfully not Nikolaï’s life,” you countered quietly. “But…I’m sincerely sorry it’ll cost yours.”

Dominik nodded solemnly. He knew this; as one of the king’s guards, he was among the very few people who could approach him. Maybe this poison won’t alert anyone at first, but the suspicion of assassination would soon rise. The list of suspects would be very small, and it would be only a matter of time before Dominik would be arrested for treason if someone figured things out.

So he’ll have to flee. Abandon his rank as a king’s knight, his reputation, his life. All of this to be replaced by the brand of traitor and murderer. He was willing to do it. Of course he was. Nikolaï had saved his life during the war countless times, and above that he was his best friend, his brother. If he had to run away and live a life of fugitive for the rest of his days in order to save Nikolaï, he’d do it in a heartbeat. No matter how serious the crime could be.

“I’ll be on the road as soon as it’s done,” he muttered, more to himself than anything.

You nodded slowly. The guilt that was sinking in your stomach made bile rise in your throat. “Do you…have someone who would come with you?” you asked quietly. If the man who helped you had to run, you sure would do anything to help him. But Dominik shook his head.

“We don’t have much time,” he simply said. “Nikolaï and his men are said to be back tomorrow. It’ll be done tonight.”

Again, you nodded, afraid that tears could fall if you spoke. Dominik straightened his back, and bowed.

“It’s been an honor to serve this family, princess. I shall bring with me the comfort of knowing my best friend has a woman like you by his side.”

The small smile stretching your lips at his words was a sad one. “I’ll be forever in your debt, Sir Dominik. You’re a good man.”

He offered you a sorry smile as he lifted himself up again. Both of you knew nothing would ever be the same after this night. Now bound by the terrible secret of what will come, in order to save Nikolaï.

So without a word, he made his way to the door. Just when he was about to open it, the knight stopped himself and looked back at you.

“Are you really willing to kill a king for a mere knight?”

The answer, although heavy with consequence, was immediate.

“I deeply believe that every life is equal beyond our birth and titles, Sir Dominik.”

That made him smile. “You’ll make a fine ruler one day, princess.”

You thanked him with a bow of your head. He returned it and then, quietly, slipped away from your chamber. No one heard the door click, nor did they notice a missing horse from the stables a few hours later in the dark of the night.

That night, laying in your bed, you kept your eyes open until daylight to let the last few tears of guilt run down your cheeks, thinking about the lives you has sacrificed for you love.

The crashing news of the king’s death came before Nikolaï returned to the palace.

It was a valet who discovered him, laying in his chair with eyes half closed and skin cold. Words spread fast as a doctor was hurried to the king’s side, and by the time the rumor had reached the kitchen, the monarch was confirmed dead.

A heart seizure, the royal doctor told you after he was brought to your chambers with a somber look to deliver the news. The tears and cries that escaped you hearing your father’s death were genuine, and everyone saw how deep their princess was affected. Truth was, those tears weren’t for the king; they were for Sir Dominik, the knight who had now abandoned everything to save your husband. Now the poor man was doomed to a fugitive existence, and you weren’t sure if somehow you could forgive yourself that.

The mournful look and tears did the trick anyway. Everyone was looking at you with sorry eyes for the past days, and cladded in your black clothes you played the role of the mourning princess to perfection. Two days after your father died, Nikolaï came back to the palace.

As soon as he stepped down his horse, a servant hurried to deliver him the news. It was all it took him to rush through the palace’s corridors and to your room. He bursted into your chambers unannounced, panting and face painted with worry, but it vanished as soon as he landed his eyes on you. Before you could rise up from the chair you had been reading on, your husband engulfed you in a bone-crushing hug.

Both of you clung on each other like your lives depended on it – and somehow, they were. You could even feel Nikolaï’s hand shaking in emotion. After a long, much-needed minute of embrace, he lifted his head from your neck to have a look at you.

“Are you alright?” he asked in worry, searching on your face for any sign of discomfort – apart from grief.

Instead of answering, you were staring at him, beaming. Every single detail of his handsome face, even painted with worry, sent a flood of relief through your body. He was back, he was here, he was alive. Your husband had come back to you alive and well, while you had feared the opposite for the past days. What was grief and guilt until then turned into joy and warm relief.

“I am now,” you finally whispered, still not quite believing Nikolaï was here at last.

The knight let out a shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding. Taking your hands with his, he held you close to him. “I’m sorry about your father’s passing, my love,” he said sincerely.

You could only offer him a tight smile. Nikolaï didn’t know what your father had done during your childhood. As he never lifted his hand on you for years, Sir Nikolaï had never been around to witness such tragedy. And you never wanted to share this with him; you and him deserved better than those plaguing memories.

Right now all you needed was the comfort of your husband’s arms, just to prove to yourself that everything had not been in vain.

Soon, when the time of mourning would be done, you’d publicly announce your engagement to Sir Nikolaï. Being a well-renowned and popular knight would play in your favor, the council would be glad to have him as the prince consort next to Ravka’s new queen. Soon, you both would be free to be married once again and be never afraid of loving each other again.

Soon, everytime you’d see Nikolaï’s face and smile, you’d convince yourself that it had been worth every sacrifice and lie. When the guilt would creep up on your mind during sleepless nights, you’d face them with the knowledge and conviction that you had no choice. Even if that meant losing good men or forcing fate.

Nikolaï might have been your bodyguard before becoming your husband, but as his wife you’d burn down entire cities and behead dozens of kings to keep him safe. That was a promise and a choice you’d intend to keep at any cost.

sorry it sounded better in my head *sob*

#shadow and bone #shadow and bone imagine #nikolai lantsov #nikolai lantsov x reader #nikolai lantsov x you #nikolai x reader #sir nikolaï #knight!nikolai #knight nikolai lantsov #angst #nikolai lantsov angst

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lovegalor333 · 8 months ago

Text

fresh start

part eight (chapter 22-24) previous part • next part

word count: 6.8k

content warnings: mentions of su*cide homophobia self-h*rm

Lily

Kelsey, Kayla and I had met for lunch and were sat together in the cafeteria waiting for Paige and the girls to finish their workout.

"How many follow requests do you have now?" Kelsey asks peering over my shoulder as I scroll on my phone.

"I think it's at like twelve thousand." I say as I navigate to Instagram to check, "Twelve thousand, one hundred and sixty three." I confirm.

Paige tagged me in a story for the first time this morning and after the pictures and videos of us after the game came out, of course people have been curious as to who I am. I have a private page so all people can see is my profile picture and that induces enough anxiety I know I'm not ready for them to see my whole feed just yet.

"You're going to be famous! Have you seen the TikTok edits?" My roommate asks, practically bouncing in her seat.

"Yes, but have you seen the comments?" My stomach flips at the memory of last night.

I stayed off of social media for as long as possible after the game just to avoid the initial reaction to Paige and me but as soon as I went on TikTok, I was inundated. Despite everyone telling me to not open the comments, I did and I couldn't stop scrolling once I started.

Of course there were nice comments too but the ones that stood out, the ones that have stayed in my head have been the nasty ones. A lot of people have enjoyed telling me how ugly and disgusting I am, how I don't deserve Paige and how she could do so much better.

"Girl, you have to ignore those. They're coming from literal children that are jealous. Do you know how much hate I got when I first started hanging out with the team?" Kayla chimes in.

"Does it get any better?" I half laugh, half huff hoping her answer is yes.

"Once they realise you're not going anywhere, it'll ease up. It's part and parcel of WAG life unfortunately, someones always going to want to be you." Kayla says and I'd be lying if I said the haters weren't planting seeds of doubt in my mind about whether I'm strong enough for this.

"I couldn't workout multiple times a day! I don't know how they do it." Kelsey lightens the mood as she nibbles on her cookie.

"Me either." I agree and gulped down the remainder of my water hoping it would ease the sudden headache that I had.

I got up to refill my bottle and was hit with a random wave of intense dizziness. If it wasn't 1PM on a Tuesday you'd think I was drunk.

"Your neck is kinda red Lils." Kayla says pointing towards my neck as I joined her and Kelsey again.

My hand instinctively goes to my neck and its warm to the touch and slightly itchy and that's when I realise what's happening.

"Shit!" I exclaim grabbing the empty salad box from the table in front of me and I scan the ingredients list frantically.

"What's happening?" Kayla asks leaning towards me.

"I think I'm having an allergic reaction. Actually...I know I'm having an allergic reaction." I breath out in jagged breaths as I start to panic but also because I was most likely going into anaphylaxis.

"Holy fuck!" Kelsey exclaims, standing up, "Where's your EpiPen?"

"In my bag." I tell her and I suddenly feel extremely sick and as if I'm about to faint.

My body temperature is rising and I feel disoriented and confused.

Kelsey hands me my EpiPen and I administer it they way I was taught. Removing the blue safety cap and quickly jabbing it into to my thigh, but my lightheadedness only increases and I know for sure I'm about to faint.

Paige

The doors to the gym swing open and smack into the wall causing us to all turn and see who had made such a loud entrance.

"Kelsey?" I say confused as Lilys best friend hurries in the gym, "I know I said I'd meet y'all and one o'clock but I'm not that late." I laugh glancing at the time and seeing it's only ten past the hour.

Kelsey shakes her head as she reaches me breathless, "It's not that. It's Lily, we had to call 911."

It feels as though I've been hit by a truck, my knees go weak and almost buckle beneath me and I felt vomit rise in my throat.

"What?!" I exclaim, scrambling to grab my phone from the floor to check if I'd missed anything, "What happened?"

"She had a reaction. We think she ate something containing nuts, the ambulance is on the way." Kelsey explains and I look towards my teammates almost as though I was stuck in place, unable to move.

"Go!" Nika urges throwing me the t-shirt she had over her shoulder because I was dressed in just a sports bra and shorts after our workout.

I catch the shirt and hurry after Kelsey out of the gym.

"Text me!" Azzi calls after me and I don't have time to reply, I'm just focused on getting to Lily as quickly as possible.

The usual quick walk from the gym to the cafeteria felt like it took hours even when I was running. I finally see the ambulance as Kelsey and I rounded the corner and the sight of the vehicle calmed me slightly knowing Lily was in safe hands.

"Lily?" I called out as we jogged into the cafeteria, although I don't know why, I didn't expect her to respond. From what Kelsey had said, she was in a bad way.

"Oh my god, Lily." When I see her, she's already laid on a stretcher, an oxygen mask secured over her mouth and nose, her is sleeve rolled up and there's an IV connected to her arm.

Her eyes are in an inbetween state of half opened and half closed, she looks as though she's just falling asleep or waking up.

"Is someone coming in the ambulance?" The paramedic asks looking at all of us around Lily.

"Me." I say on impulse.

"I'll follow in my car." Kayla says gathering her belongings.

I follow behind the paramedics wheeling Lily to the ambulance and pull the shirt Nika gave me over my head.

"Is she going to be OK?" I timidly ask the paramedics as they load Lily into the ambulance.

"She administered the adrenaline quickly so she'll be fine. With anaphylaxis, there can be a biphasic response, a secondary reaction, so it's best to be at the hospital in case that happens."

"Paige..." I hear Lilys low, muffled voice call out my name.

"Hey, I'm here." I say tenderly reaching for her hand as the ambulance begins to drive.

Her eyes are still heavy and hooded and if I didn't know better, I'd think she was drunk or high. She tries to pull down her oxygen mask, "Keep that on pretty girl, it's helping you." I say moving her hand away.

The journey to the hospital was quick and mostly silent apart from my words of encouragement to my girlfriend. Her eyes would flicker open every now and then and she'd squeeze my hand, communicating without words.

We were put in a room as soon as we arrived and multiple doctors and nurses bustled in and out tending to Lily.

I listen intently to each thing they said. Lily was being treated with more adrenaline, oxygen and fluids intravenously. She would make a full recovery.

"We'd like to keep you here for a few hours, Miss Kent. Just to monitor your condition and ensure there isn't a secondary reaction. Your blood pressure is increasing so you should start to feel normal again soon." The nurse says to Lily before excusing herself, leaving us alone.

"How are you feeling?" I ask walking over to Lilys bedside.

She pulls down the oxygen mask and I let her this time, "Better." She says, her voice weak and childlike.

"Good because you had me scared me for a second." I say smoothing down her hair.

"I was scared too." She tells me and she begins to silently cry, tears running down her face. "I've always had a pretty good handle on my allergy, this made me feel so...out of control."

"Oh Lily," I say wiping her tears as they fall, "accidents happen baby. You handled it exactly the way you should have. I'm proud of you." I tell her wrapping her in a hug as best I could while she was laid down and I was stood over her.

"I'm usually so careful with checking ingredients but I must have missed something." She continues and pushes herself up slightly so she's sitting.

"I know, but you're OK Lily," I reassure her, my hand cupping her cheek, "you can't blame yourself, things get missed sometimes and we can't help that, we just have to deal with it and you did."

"I don't even remember what happened clearly. I just remember my head hurting so bad and then all of a sudden I was on a stretcher with this mask on and you were there, with no shirt on." She weakly jokes raising her brows cheekily, "I think that's what brought me back to life."

I laugh, "Still got a sense of humour, I see. I worked hard on these abs, glad to know they're saving lives."

"Maybe if you flash them again, we'll get out of here quicker."

"Or maybe you're blood pressure will raise too much and we'll be here all night, so relax please."

Lily was discharged from hospital four hours later, with two new EpiPens and antihistamines that she needed to take for the next few days.

Kayla drove us all back to campus and dropped me off with Lily and Kelsey at their apartment.

"Thank you, K." Lily says as we climb out of the car.

"No worries, Lil. Get some rest." Kayla replies and waves us goodbye.

"I don't think I can even make it to the apartment, my legs feel like jello." Lily says holding onto my arm in support.

"I don't don't spend hours in the gym for nothing." I say crouching down in front of her so I could give her a piggyback ride, "Hop on."

Lily climbs on my back and I carry her into the apartment block and into the elevator. We follow Kelsey through the front door and I lower Lily onto her bed.

"What would I do without you?" She says reaching out for me.

"Don't even think about that, you've got me." I say and we lay side by side on her bed in comfortable silence.

"So how about seeing those abs." Lily says after a while, her hand trailing up under my shirt and I laugh.

"Anything for you."

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊✧˚ · .

Lily

I was finally starting to feel better after my allergic reaction a few days ago and just starting to get back to normal again after taking time off work and away from classes to recover.

I've always been extremely careful with my allergy, taking extra care when I eat out to make sure everything is safe and up until now I've managed to never have such a severe reaction so in a way I felt like I have failed. I couldn't keep myself safe. I couldn't do the one thing that really matters and it scared me. What if it happens again? And even worse, what if I'm alone when it happens? I was lucky to have my friends by my side this time. I was used to being in control and being so out of control wasn't something I wanted to experience again.

I force myself to stop thinking so negatively because that never ends well and I walk out of my bedroom and into our living room. All my roommates were out so I was home alone, not that I minded much.

Every surface was home to a beautiful bunch of flowers, gifted to me by my friends, people I worked with and of course Paige. Paiges bouquet was the most extravagant and took pride of place in the centre of our dining table. I smiled as I passed the full vases feeling very thankful for my friends and girlfriend.

I had held off calling home and telling my parents about my hospital visit because I knew it would turn into a lecture of some kind but Thanksgiving was coming up and I needed to know our plans because I'd be going back to Boston for a few days.

I settled myself into the couch, pulling a fluffy blanket over the bottom half of my body and pressed call on my moms contact. The dialling tone rang and rang and rang until I was eventually met with her answering machine. I decided to try my dad and I just as I thought he wasn't going to pick up either, at the last second he did.

"Hello, Lily." My dads voice spoke stern and serious as always through my phone.

"Hi, Dad. I tried to call Mom but I got her voicemail. Is everything OK? I wanted to talk to you both." I say.

"Your mother is here with me now."

Weird.

"Oh, why didn't she pick up?" I ask confused. If my mom wasn't busy then why had she avoided my call?

I hear my moms muffled voice through the phone but I can't quite make out what she is saying but her tone didn't sound happy.

"Dad?"

"Lily, listen. You're mother has been seeing stuff online. About you. You...and a girl. Another girl."

My entire body freezes as my dad speaks and I feel my heart rate spike.

Why did this sound like a problem?

"Right..." I say wanting my dad to continue with whatever point he was trying to make.

"You said you wanted to leave Boston for a fresh start and it seems nothing has changed." My dads words hit like knives.

"I-I left for a fresh start because I tried to kill myself. I didn't come to Connecticut for conversion therapy. I came to move on from everything that happened." I croak out as my mouth has completely dried up and it feels as though my throat is closing.

My mom continues to speak but I still can't make out her words, "You speak to her then, Jackie." My dad says as I hear my mom huff and the phone being passed over.

"If you left to move on then why are you still living the same way? With this- this Paige girl! And so publicly! It's like you want the entire world to know. The entire world does know! It's all anyone asks me about. It makes me sick." My mom shouted at me to the point of breathlessness.

I felt blindsided. I was so confused. My parents had been fine with me and my ex, they were happy for me to come to Connecticut.

"I don't understand where this has come from. You had no problem with me and Mia-"

"We didn't know about you and Mia until it was over and Mia...she's turned her life around. We thought you would have too." My mom continues her rant and all my emotions begin to blend into one, there are tears streaming down my face but I've never been angrier.

"What do you mean 'turned her life around'?" I ask although I know exactly what she meant.

"She's fixed. Whatever you had with her was just a phase and rightly so! She has a handsome boyfriend now and is very happy." My mom solidifies my assumptions and I feel sick to my stomach.

"And I'm very happy with my beautiful girlfriend." I say trying to steady my voice to not make it obvious that I was crying.

My mom lets out a ridiculous child-like cry as if I'd just died.

"Lily that's enough. You're making your mom upset." My dads voice comes through the phone again and I laugh in irony.

"I was calling about Thanksgiving plans and to tell you guys I had a bad reaction and was in the hospital." I spit, anger laced in my words.

"She's not coming back here for Thanksgiving. Everyone knows!" My moms voice rings out clear and unforgiving.

"Jackie-" My dad begins to reason but I end the call before I hear anything more.

I didn't need to hear anything more.

I sit lifeless on the couch just staring ahead so many thoughts and feelings swirling around inside of me but simultaneously feeling completely numb and void of emotion.

What had just happened?

I moved robotically back to my room, my phone still clutched in my hands as if I was waiting for my dad to call me back and apologise for what had been said but I knew all too well that that wouldn't happen. I knew my parents too well. I was stupid to believe they were OK with who I was in the first place but did they really think that coming to Connecticut would somehow change who I loved?

I stood in my bedroom contemplating what to do. That phone call had changed everything. My mom had made it clear that I wasn't welcome at home. Home. Could I even call it that anymore? Just as things were beginning to plateau, just as I was starting to genuinely feel happy again, it felt like someone was playing a sick joke on me.

I felt the overwhelming urge to cope with this in the only way I knew how to cope with anything that hurt me mentally and that was to feel it physically.

Paiges words from weeks ago played on repeat in my head as I searched my room for something to hurt myself with.