#easily bruno major

[ohnomalora]

Earth Pirapat 8.3.25

[prettyboykatsuki-moved]

call it quits or call it destiny | h. umemiya.

✮ tags ; afab + fem!reader(she/her pronouns, referred to as a girl, gets dressed up by tsubaki and kotoha), reader gets their hair braided (no desc of texture) and puts on makeup, lore heavy reader backstory + personality, deliquent!reader, gap moe, best friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, themes of insecurity, mutual pining,the use of she/her for tsubaki, jealousy, confessions, loss of virginity, creampies / unprotected sex, oral (f!recieving), fingering, 18+

✮ wc ; 13.9k (dont. don't say anything)

✮ a/n ; me when i completely lose my mind because i have a weekend off. whats wrong with me.

anyways. there's no major triggers for this but be forewarned reader is meant to be very rag-tag deliquent type. she has a strong personality and generally is not feminine. she is like a mangy street cat a bit. also if u want u should listen to easily by bruno major while reading.

✮ synopsis ; you've been quietly pining for umemiya for a little over ten years with no plans of confessing.

you did not have a plan for what you would do if umemiya confessed to you first.

Once a day, everyday - Umemiya will come into your store, pause, smile, and confess his love to you before going off on his own.  

And once a day, everyday, you reject this confession with a soft huff  telling him to quit being stupid before shooing him away.  

It's become a ritual. A fixture in your daily routine that you're not allowed to ignore despite how hard you're trying.  

He's been doing it for three months, more or less. 

His reason for confessing everyday? Because he’s waiting on the day you confess back, of course. Which you've refused to do for the last few months and will continue to refuse for as long as you’ve got.  

It's not because you don't like him, alright? 

You've known Umemiya since middle school and you've liked him for about the same time. One of the core memories of your childhood is the day you met him, crying while sitting on a  swing-set, after what felt like the worst day of your life. 

( On the day you run away from home, you seriously consider not going back.  

You don’t really know how long you sit there. People walk by but most of them move on quickly. It’s mid-day before anyone bothers to stop and ask you something.  

 "I've never seen you around  before.” A strange looking boy approaches, friendly and unassuming but not entirely cheerful “Did you just move here?"  

You keep quiet, closing your eyes and hoping your lack of response is enough to push him away. Your hope fizzles out when you hear the swing creak as he sits besides you. 

"I'm Umemiya Hajime. I live close by." His voice is airy and causal. "I'm sorry you're having a bad day.”  

"Fuck off," You reply bluntly, frowning. “I don’t need sympathy. Leave me the hell alone.”  

He pauses before pushing himself slightly forward to barely swing.  

“I couldn’t leave you alone while you’re sad,” He voices willfully. "It might make you feel better to talk about it." 

In disbelief at his response, you finally look up and asses him properly. It doesn’t do much to change your initial unfavorable impression. White hair, blue eyes and a little taller than you. You’re definitely about the same age. All of that to say, there’s something weird about him that you can’t quite place.  

Despite his manner and way of speaking though, you don’t actually think he’s that weak which makes his whole aura even more unnerving to you. His attempt at being non-threatening doesn’t work for him. He’s being a real try-hard about trying to make you comfortable… 

Either way, he’s got an air about him that puts you on the defensive.  

 Talking to someone about it had never been much of any option, and somehow it pisses you off that he’s being so brazen about it.  

Maybe if you tell him about, he’ll stop prying into your business. Or maybe you’re just looking for excuses to let off steam. 

You don't care anymore. You wipe your nose with the back of your sleeve.  

"I don't live here and I didn’t move. I ran away." You reply.  

He keeps looking at you, curious, inquisitive and sympathetic.  

"Why?"   

"I broke a girls nose." You scowl. The words rise up in your throat like bile. Make you feel cornered. The wounds too fresh. "It—she bullied me for years for one. And I never fought back, it was all petty bullshit anyway and I didn't like getting calls home. I didn't care about that but she—it wasn't for nothing. She was causing trouble for Sensei."  

Umemiya keeps to himself, humming in response to your troubles. Your voice breaks on your next sentence, chest tightening.  

"It doesn't matter what she does to me but—" Your hands ball up at your first. Your throat feels thick, eyes suddenly watering as your chest throbs . "Anyway, I couldn’t let it go like normal."  

He hums. "So you hit her?" 

You shake your head, sniffling. "Not at first. Just told her to shut up. Said that she didn't know what she was talking about. She hit me first..." You screw your eyes shut, sighing. "...said she was gonna spread rumors about him just trying to get under my skin and be malicious,” You lean back slightly and look up towards the gray sky. “I punched her after that."  

You realize he's looking at your bloodied knuckles, but he isn't making an expression that you can read easily. You don’t remember the last time you spoke to someone like this who wasn’t Tsukimori-sensei.  

"Are you crying because you got in trouble?"  

“Who cares about that?” You sigh “Sensei had to put his job on the line and take responsibility for me,” Your brow furrows in frustration. “He’s the one person I don’t want to cause trouble for,” You grip the iron chains of the swing set with a closed fist and finally admit what you’ve been avoiding to say out loud. “I don’t want him to hate me…”  

The kid besides you smiles  absently at your words. Half-way between listening and recalling something else, it seems like. You can’t help but wonder what the hell his deal is. You barely know him but you’re spilling your guts. 

He speaks after a long while. "I don't think he sees it that way. I think you should try to talk to him about it."  

You make a face, rejecting the idea. "What? No way." 

Umemiya shrugs, smiling - though it doesn't quite meet his eyes.  

"He sounds like he cares about you. If he knew your reasons, there's no way he would hold it against you. And it’s important to share your burdens with people who care for you." You look over and see him smiling somberly at the mulch beneath his shoes before returning back to what you’ve grown to know as his usual self. "Anyways, I think we should be friends. Tell me your name."  

You sniffle again. What a weird guy. Well you say that but 

You still give him your name. 

"What a pretty name," 

When you tell him to shut up again, your new friend Umemiya just laughs.  

And you find you feel just a little bit lighter.)  

That night, Umemiya walked with you to take the last train and told you to come see him again  with good news. 

You aren't sure what compelled you to follow his advice. Maybe because he was the first person who sat down and listened to you about it other than Sensei himself. 

Tsukimori-sensei was your school counselor and the only adult in your entire life that seemed to worry about. You didn't have any friends in middle school and you were a scary looking delinquent girl without a mother and a mostly absent father.  

But Sensei was always incredible gentle to you and incredibly kind. And despite what rumors that girl tried to spread  - he was never anything more than an important mentor.  

It was fucking embarrassing crying in front of him but because you were honest - you got to keep in touch with him. He attended your middle school and high school graduation - supporting you as you started to sort your life out. Became the closest thing you ever really got to a parental figure.  

Over time, you got close with Umemiya and developed strong loyalty to him. You attended an all-girls middle and high school the next town over - totaling one other friend in all six years of your remaining education. Lack of socialization meant that Umemiya somewhat became the very center of your existence. 

It was easy to visit him thanks to parental neglect. You sort of melted into his life. Tsubaki once called you his guard dog as a half-joke, but there's some truth to the sentiment. Quick to defend, quick to heel, and always happy to see him.  

You, like many people, owe Umemiya a lot. His meddling over the course of ten years gave you reason to push forward. He even encouraged you to try and attend school and not give up on living a half-decent life. 

You've got a never-ending list of short-comings but being with him didn't make you hate yourself. It made you want to be better because you knew Umemiya would accept you for whoever you decided to be.  

So despite your delinquency, you managed to graduate high school. Post-graduation, you attended a vocational culinary school and became a patisserie before moving to Furin for permanent residency. You opened a bakery and supply bread to Kotoha-chans diner.  

You made something of your life mostly 'cause of Umemiya. He's not your only friend anymore but he's still your best. Even though you never really pictured things like dating or romance - in some way it only makes sense that it'd be that meddling, kind-hearted idiot that you end up falling for it.  

Lovesickness aside, you respect Umemiya more than anyone in your personal life.  

He’s stuck around with someone like you this long after all. That means a lot to you.  

Somehow the two of you mesh well despite being totally opposite.  

You decided as soon as you realized it sometime in high school that you'd keep your feelings a secret for the rest of your life. You had a strong resolve in your beliefs about the whole thing which made it easy. You hid 'em so well even Sakura's stupid accurate romance detector didn't uncover them.  

When you picture Umemiya's future - it was easy to picture the kind of woman he would end up with. Another kind-hearted idiot like him, a social butterfly. Someone a little softer.  

In any case it definitely was not you. You didn't need it to be. You've received so much from him already, you never entertained the idea. Plus, Umemiya has dated other people over the years, so in your head there was never any hope to cling onto.  

For all reasons listed above, a requited romance is at the very bottom of your expectations.  

That's why you've been in this fucking conundrum.  

To say it was a complete shock to you when Umemiya openly confessed to you many months ago would be understatement of the goddamn century.  

He confessed right on the last day of Spring, totally out of the blue. 

(It’s a little unusual for Umemiya to call you at this hour. If it were anyone else, you’d be a little upset since you’ve gotta be up around four-am to get prepared for the day.  

It’s him though so you’re particularly tolerant, yawning as you find Umemiya on a familiar swing-set, still wearing your PJ’s.  

"Why am I out here in the middle of the night with you?"  

Your words lack any real malice as you sit down. Umemiya remains totally quiet. It's unusual for him to not immediately go on a tangent upon seeing you.  

"Oi. Earth to Hajime." You frown at him. "Did ya get beat up before coming here and scramble your brain? Give me the popsicle before it melts."  

He looks over at you and chuckles as he hands you the bag from the convenience store. You ignore his odd behavior and open up said popsicle before it melts  - carefully splitting it down the middle and giving him the bigger side before going to town on your own. He takes it from you but doesn't even bring it up to his mouth.  

Weird.  

"Did something... happen? Like seriously happen?" You take a long lick of your iced treat. It's melon flavored, your favorite. "Seeing you frown doesn't feel right. Gives me the heebie-jeebies."  

He cracks a little smile at that. It makes you feel better. He shakes his head.  

"Mm, nothing happened. I just have something I want to tell you."  

You nod in understanding. "'kay. Take your time."  

He blinks, surprised.  

"Hm? Aren't you gonna scold me for wasting your time?"  

"Nah. Whatever it is must be serious if it's making you all introspective or whatever. 's fine. Bring me coffee tomorrow and I'll forgive ya."  

His lip twitches up. "I l really like that about you."  

You feel yourself flush and wave a hand at him. "Ahh, shut up."  

He pauses for a second then shakes his head. "Mm. It's more like I like everything about you, actually."  

You twist your face in confusion. "What are you on about now?"  

"That's what I came here to tell you." Umemiya says after a deep breath. He says it so casually you wonder if you're mishearing him - leaning back to look up at the stars. "I really, really like you. I just felt like I had to tell you that"  

You stare at him in disbelief.  

"Wha—huh?"  

He doesn't even flinch as he repeats it.  

"I like you."  

"No the hell you don't."  

He furrows his brow with a light laugh. "I just told you that I do, silly."  

"But that's—" You don't say the word impossible. You really want too, but you know exactly how he would react if you did. You simply shake your head. "No, you don't." 

"I thought you might respond like this so don't worry but how about you?" He shrugs then looks at you intently. "I thought you might like me too."  

Your eyes go wide. Oh fuck.  

You feel like a deer caught in headlights. You know you should be happy about this, deep down. That'd be the normal response.  

But you just feel complicated as shit instead. Fuck does he mean? Umemiya.... likes you? There's just no way that's true. Not after all of this time. And how the fuck does he know you like him back when you've been keeping it in? 

You can't bring yourself to look him in the face and lie. Your heart rises to your throat as you shakily stand to your feet.  

"Stop...thinking whatever you've been thinking. I'm going home." You reply in complete panic. 

 The minute you say it, you turn on your heel so you don't have to look at his face. You don’t even want to know.  

And before Umemiya can catch you and try to talk it out, you bolt. 

What the fuck was that?)  

For the last few months, you've been avoiding the topic of conversation as much as you humanly can.  

The possibility of Umemiya even just accepting your feelings was already far beyond your imagination, but him returning them? Confessing first? That wasn't even in your realm of possibility.  

Ever since then, you've been losing your mind trying to force your life and train of thought to go back to normal. You’ve done all of the math on it.  

Realistically, you can't ignore him. Your lives are so mixed together it'd be impossible unless you went under protection and changed your name which you briefly considered. You thought of turning him down but you’re pretty sure you wouldn’t be able to actually do it despite how good you are at keeping it in. Either way, your best option logistically is feigning ignorance and trying to keep the whole thing out of your mind entirely which should've been easy.  

Tricking yourself into believing the whole thing was a dream? Lightwork.  

Except. Except.  

Umemiya just won't give up.  

He confesses to you again every single day. Worse, he doesn't care whose around to hear him. No one in your friend group seems even the tiniest bit shocked by it which doesn't help the situation. You can't get used to it, can't get used to him being so fucking cheeky as he stops you midway through normal conversation to tell you he loves you.  

He's persistent to a fault and while you've done well feigning immunity - you can't survive like this.  

You've graduated to tell him to go away and treating the whole thing like some big joke.  

But honestly? 

You're avoiding having a proper conversation about it. Umemiya is especially keen in not letting you forget that. And determined to make you confess.  

But you're not going to to let him sway you.  

You've got principles, after all.  

__  

After you close up shop on Friday, you get dressed to attend a kickback with all of your friends.  

It's a barbecue technically - commemorating the end of summer. Togame is really into grilling and in their weird domestic partnership, Chouji really enjoys hosting. They've done this once or twice a year ever since they started living together.  

Once you've finished cleaning up the store, you take the train to Kotoha's place - mistakenly assuming you'd leave as soon as you got there. However you failed to realize that Tsubaki and Kotoha would be getting ready together.  

You got jumped as soon as you walked through the door - so now you're wearing a different pair of clothes that Tsuabki got for you and waiting for them to finish getting you dressed up so you can leave.  

Tsuabkino is inches from your face while Kotoha braids your hair. You feel itchy and exposed but with both of them here there's no way you're going to get out of wearing it. 

"Can we just go?" You grumble, not enjoying the feeling of being poked and prodded.  

"No," Tsubaki insists, frown making her expression pinch. "You have half an eyelash on. Sit still." 

"He'll be happy to see you dressed up," Kotoha adds, trying to encourage you. You frown and look down.  

"Whatever. I don't care about makin' him happy."  

The both of them pause and stare at you until you fold under the pressure - screwing your eyes shut and making you flush.  

“Such a blatant lie.”  

Tsubaki giggles. “Right?”  

Your face feels hot. "Ahhh, alright already. Shut up."  

"Honest girls are much cuter," Tsubaki coos. You give her a half-assed glare.  

"Don't you like Hajime? Why're you trying to set me up with him still?" You mumble. You always think they’d make a perfect pair.  

"Of course I like him. He's my prince." She smiles at you. “But it’s a little different to how a certain someone loves him. And well, if you knew the way he looked at you…"  

You frown, feeling hot all the way up to your ears as you ball your fists up and look down at your lap. "Whatever." 

"You should stop trying to worm your way out of it," Kotoha adds, much less sweetly. "You know how he is. He couldn't give up on you for ten years like some idiot."  

You blink. "Huh? But ten years would mean -"  

Kotoha braids your hair even tighter making you wince. "I know. You're both stupid like that."  

"Don't be mean, Kotoha-chan. And you, be a little more honest, okay?"  

You sigh deeply. 

"Ain't like anything is gonna happen either way. I already told you both I'm not accepting his confession," 

"Cause you're a huge wuss, yeah we know."  

You elbow Kotoha lightly.  

"Maybe nothing will," Tsubaki hums mischievously.  "But it feels nice to dress up for him, right?"  

You pretend the thought doesn't make your hear flutter.  

Tsubaki does you the kindness of laughing lightly before moving on. 

__  

You arrive to the function an hour later than planned and stick mostly with Kotoha and Tsubaki until half way through the evening.  

Loosening up with a few drinks, the three of you part ways to catch-up with different people. It's not rare you see them, but it's not often everyones schedules allow them to be in the same place.  

Lucky for you, Umemiya does you the courtesy of not confessing during the first half of the night before food comes out.  

(Though you do spit beer in his face after he calls you pretty, which he takes on the chin after cleaning up.)  

After dinner, the function simmers down significantly. People quietly break off into groups and chat to each other into the late night. About that time people split whatever desserts they brought among guests.  

You brought cookies and something specifically for Chouji and Togame as thanks for hosting.  

Towards the end of the night, you find yourself sticking sort of close to Umemiya. Though he's having his own one-on-one conversation with Hiragi while sitting next to you , turned the other way.  

You busy yourself catching up to Suo, Sakura and Nirei - all of whom you consider yourself close to.  

Of them, you're the closest to Nirei which always surprises people. 

The kids a total wimp but he helped you years ago study to graduate so you're a little closer to him than everyone else. He's a great guy though and you hang out alone sometimes too.  

The conversations gone far left at this point in the evening.  

Suo leans back against his chair and looks toward Sakura besides him with a lazy smile.  

"Sakura-chan would make a great wife." 

You snort listening to them bicker. Sakura grows beet red, throwing an empty beer can at Suo's head that he catches gracefully.  

"Go die."  

"What? You're good at domestic work and you have a cute side, Isn't that all you need?"  

"Shut up. I'll kill you."  

As Suo breaks out into laughs, Sugishita comes down from the kitchen just in time to catch the argument. He crinkles his nose up.  

"Oh, Sugishita-kun. 'Sup."  

He nods to your greeting as he leans against the wood railing of the outdoor deck.  

"What the hell are you two talking about?" 

'What? You mean about Sakura being a good wife?" Suo asks. Sugishita crinkles his nose. 

"Don't phrase it so repugnantly but yeah I guess." 

"We were talking about marriage 'cause I was complaining at work."  

"What's happening at work?" 

Nirei sighs as he lays it out again to Sugishita after having given the spiel to the three of you once.  

"One of my superiors at work is a lot older than me and keeps bringing up marriage," Nirei explains woefully. "It's all he talks about. He thinks I'm seeing someone."  

Sugishita frowns. "Eh? What gave him that impression?"  

A good question you hadn't considered asking.  

You raise your brow at Nirei who laughs awkwardly while he holds your gaze.  

"You know that picture of us from highschool? When he came to the cafe at your school festival?"  

You smile spitefully, crinkling your nose in faux distaste. "The one wear we wearing those stupid maid costumes?"  

"Yup. That's the one. It's a good picture of us so I keep it on my desk and he saw it so..."  

"You keep a picture of just the two of you on your desk? No wonder he got that impression.” Suo adds.  

You sense Umemiya suddenly tense which you find weird. He's still talking to Hiragi though when you glance from the corner of your eye. You brush it off.  

Nirei blushes, elbowing him.  

"Shut up. I've got group pictures and stuff too. But he just singled out that one cause you know,"  

You nod in understanding before it dawns on you. Your eyes widen. "Oh, shit? Does that old man think you're dating me?"  

Nirei closes his eyes and sighs. "He won't even let me correct him." 

You pause before breaking out into genuine laughter.  

"Pfft, that's terrible." You reply sympathetically, taking a sip of your beer before giving a mischievous grin. "Maybe you can make it work for you though, eh? Tell 'em we got hitched forreal and then I'll call you on the phone and nag you to get home for dinner so you can leave earlier."  

Nirei acts like he's touched making you laugh even harder. "You'd do that for me?"  

You give him another toothy grin. "I'll even help you fake some wedding photos. We'll be accomplices." You lean back with a shrug. "You gotta wear the dress though." 

Sugishita laughs at that. "You being a blushing bride is a little..."  

You snort, shooting him a dirty look "Shut up."  

"Deal. Not a bad plan honestly." Nirei says with a sigh. "Whatever gets me out of the office early."  

"Even if that means being married to me?" You joke.  

He smiles at you. "Aw, what do you mean? That's the best part."  

You chuckle at him good-natuedly and the conversation quickly moves on.  

The alcohol is starting to make you dizzy so you eventually tune out as the four of them talk, glancing at Umemiya from the corner of your eye.  

You swear you catch a glimpse of his jaw ticking.  

__  

For the rest of the night, Umemiya is off.  

No one else can tell. You know that because the atmosphere remains light until everyone leaves around two-am. There's no blips or tension, no awkward pauses. 

But you know Umemiya. He's been real weird all night and it's bugging the shit out of you.  

It's a well past two now, and you've just left the late night cab you took with him. Umemiya lives close so he's walking you home.  

He's usually energetic after a get-together like that so his dead silence is weirding you out. You're pretty good at figuring his feelings out but for once you feel totally clueless.  

It feels as if even the cicadas and crickets have gone to sleep. There's nothing bu the streetlights overhead and soft glow of the moon, coupled with the soft click of your shoes on the pavement. Occasionally, a car will pass by.  

At one point, it becomes too much. There's still a few minutes until you're home.  

You stop in the middle of the sidewalk and turn around to look at him. Umemiya pauses, startled as he stops with you, and doesn't smile which only makes your concern worsen.  

"Oi. What's up with you?"  

"Hm?"  

You cross your arms over your chest.  

"Don't 'hm' me. You've been in a bad mood few for the last few hours. It's gonna bug me all night if I don't ask, so what's up?"  

He stares at you.  

"You noticed?"  

"How could I not notice?"  

"I was hiding it pretty well, I thought." He states more than asks, half-smile on his face.  

"Yeah. But well," You shrug. "I'm always looking at you for better or for worse. So. What's wrong?"  

He stares at you a long time before sighing, running his fingers through his hair. You've never seen him like this. You've seen him pissed off before, seen him mildly irritated - but never this... pouty? It's not like he's pissed.  

He's quiet, taking a deep breath of cool night air before sliding his hands into his pockets and taking a good look at your face. 

"Do you know that I like you?"  

Your eyes widen as you blink wildly.  

This is what he wants to talk about? 

He pins you down with his stare, hands in his pockets and intense as ever.  

"Don't even think about bolting this time, okay? I'm asking you seriously. Do you?" 

Your eyes flicker down the concrete - feeling extremely uncomfortable and suddenly sweaty. You shrug, unsure of what else you could say or do.  

"Hard not to know." You mumble. "You tell me everyday." 

"But do you get it?"  

Your frown deepens.  

"Of course not. How could I possibly get something like that, stupid?"  

He takes a deep breath. "But you like me, don't you?"  

Panic sets in. If you could sink straight into the Earth you would.  

"...Never said that." 

He calls your name quietly. "Look at me, at least. Stop running away from me and just look." 

You know you're being stubborn but you can't help it. You've kept it a secret for ten years and all of a sudden he wants you to tell him you like him? You've held it in for so long already and he's telling you not to run away.What other choice is there?  

One wrong move move and everything will come crashing down inside of you. You can't even lie about it either.  

Damn it.  

"I won't look." Your voice is warbly and it makes you feel so pathetic you could die, tucking your chin petulantly "Don't wanna,"  

Umemiya frowns at you.  

"If you say you don't like me I'll let it go."  

You remain very quiet and close your eyes tighter. He sighs softly, making your chest hurt.  

After a minute, you muster up the courage to be dishonest - determined to drop it at all costs. You're slow as you pick your head up.  

"I don't like you," You repeat slowly, carefully - trying not to stumble the words. "So quit it, alright?"  

He laughs humorlessly and holds your gaze.  

"That's the first time you've ever actually lied to me. You're terrible at it," 

"I'm not lying." You snap. Umemiya smiles somberly when he sees tears on the corners of your eyes. He steps closer to you. You freeze. When his hand reaches cups your cheek, you feel your legs lose all their strength and close your eyes. You're terrified to even look at him, not wanting him to see what you know is obvious on your face.  

He wipes them as he tilts your face towards him slowly. 

"Tell me, at least. If you're going to refuse me, don't I deserve to know why? Do you hate the idea of dating me that much?"  

You shake your head. "Stupid. How would anyone hate that?"  

"So I deserve to know why you're turning me down."  

A long moment of silence draws you out of your feelings. You guess that's fair enough. Maybe this way he'll leave you alone  - as long you're clear about your reasons. He’s the earnest type after all.  

You manage to suck up all your tears and clear your throat enough to give him an explanation. 

You step back a little from him, putting some distance between you as you stare down at the sidewalk. 

"You know... I respect ya more than anyone else. You've always been someone I admire. And I uh, owe you a lot. So I only want the very best for you and all." You scratch your neck, taking a deep sigh. "For me... regardless of my feelings, I want you to be with someone who really fits, you know? Well put-together and everything. Someone that suits you better"  

He pauses before frowning.   

"Regardless of your feelings? Does that mean you were willingly pushing them aside?" He says distraught. "For how long?"  

You shrug, trying to lighten the conversation. It’s too devastating otherwise. "About ten years, give or take." 

The sheer distress in his face makes you want to keep talking, just he doesn’t look so disheartened. Like some explanation will clear things up.  

"It ain't a bad thing, Hajime. You've given me a lot and I'm serious when I say I want the best for you. I love you, if that's what you wanna hear. I'm content just being besides you as your friend." You say with a shrug. "I can be kinda selfish but there's a limit to my greed,yknow."  

He looks like he's in shock. 

"Wanting someone to love you back isn't greedy or selfish."  

You find you don't have anything to say with that, but hope he drops it for the time being. 

Umemiya stares at you seriously. It makes your breath hitch meeting his eyes, blue with all the depth in the world. You feel like you can't pull yourself from his gaze.  

"And there was never a possibility? Not once that I could've liked you? That I wanted to be with you?"  

"It doesn't matter." You say. "And no, it never crossed my mind.."  

"Stop saying it doesn't matter. Of course it matters. Your feelings matter the most so don't toss them aside so easily. Do you really believe that you're not right for me?"  

You aren’t sure how to answer him.  

"You think you're not good enough for me." He says with some realization more than asks.  

It's the first time you see his face change. When you look up, he looks well and truly angry. The whole thing is confusing.  

"I'm sorry," You say. It’s such a timid thing to say but you don’t know how else to fix.  

"It's not—I just don't like hearing you talk about yourself like that. I don't like hearing someone I love get spoken about like that.” 

You ignore the sentiment again and wait in the quiet. You always thought this would be an easier conversation to have but it hurts.  

He sighs a bit, getting closer to you again. He’s less upset than before but there’s something else in his expression.  

"You wanted to know why I was upset earlier right? It's because of you and Nirei-kun." He admits.  

"What about him?"  

"You talked about marrying him so casually. I overheard and it bothered me all night."  

Your eyes go wide.  

"I—it wasn't serious."  

"I know that. I never thought I was that childish either but you being married to someone else as a joke." He laughs humorlessly. "I really hated it. That’s why I asked if you know how much I like you."  

You feel frozen in place by his admission. 

Umemiya steps towards you faster than you can muster up a counter for why he shouldn’t bother.  

His arms around you feel sudden. His grip on you is so tight, like you could slip through his arms all at once if he loosens it. He smells like cologne and beer and summer but it's not unpleasant. He rests his chin on your head and lets out a deep breath.  

Your chest is throbbing for different reasons now. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.  

"If you won't be greedy, then you should at least let me be." He lets out a long, tense breath "At least let me have what I want." 

You're stuck. Your mouth moves faster than your brain.  

"Why me? And why now?"  

Umemiya pulls away to stare down at you. You can't bring yourself to turn away from him. 

"It was always you. I felt guilty... for wanting to you that way when you were a precious friend. Wanting to treat you delicately when you were strong and proud." He admits. Hearing him say that out loud embarrasses you to no end, “But it was those things that made me love you. Strong yet clumsy. Prideful yet honest. Awkward yet trying to be gentle. Loyal. And always considerate of everyone. Of me, when I was taking care of everyone else."  

Your stomach feels like it's going to erupt. You're losing your resolve faster than you know how to mend it.  

"Stop saying stuff like that."  

Umemiya holds you tighter and shakes his head. "No. How else will I get you to change your mind?"  

"I won't change my mind." You say stubbornly.  

"I love you." He repeats.  

You squirm.  

"Stop it,"  

"I want to be with you. I want to kiss you. I want to hold you. I want to stay by your side forever. I want to do things with you and make you feel good. I want to make you smile. I want to grow old with you." 

Your hearts fluttering. Fuck.  

"Idiot. What are you saying? Let me go."  

"It has to be you for me. I won't have anyone else no matter what you think. The person I love is you. I love you."  

"Hajime." Your voice is shaking. 

His drops down to a whisper.  

“I can’t change how you think of yourself overnight but I can tell you that there’s no point in trying to push me away. Whether or not you accept  me, we’ll never stop being side by side - so please stop fighting it.”  

You put your hands on his chest, trying to push him away. “Stop it,” 

"Please tell me it's okay to love you how I want too," He says, soft and doting while he crushes you in his arms. "And please love me in return."  

You put your hands up to your misty eyes wanting to wipe them away as he melts through the rest of your resolve like it's nothing. It's hard not to be moved. You've been pretending for ten long years that you don't love him at all and he's declaring his love for you like it's the easiest, most sensible and sane thing in the world.  

A kind-hearted, willful, meddling idiot. How you are you supposed to push him away when he's holding you this tight?  

"Shit," You voice, huffing as your voice shakes. "Don’t be stupid, alright? If you’re so insistent, I wont let you back out if you meet someone else."  

He laughs wetly.  

"I already tried meeting other people, but it's still you. Always was."  

He smiles above you. 6'2 with watery eyes with the look of pure relief like it's the best news he's ever heard in his life. It's too much for you. Your heart is racing so fast you wonder if you're gonna die.  

"Can I kiss you?" He asks.  

Your eyes go wide as you look away, not wanting to look too eager. "That's..."  

He makes another puppy-dog kinda face. "Please?"  

You're embarrassed by how easy it makes you give in. "...Do whatever you want."  

He laughs bright and warm as his hands slide up to cup your cheeks and kiss you with all the passion he can muster. It's intense, almost suffocating the way he slots his lips against yours and breathes you in. He doesn't let you up from it, doesn't part from you for a second even when he pulls away - noses brushing and stealing the air from your lungs.  

It's your stupid first kiss and it's perfect - so perfect you wonder if you're going to wake up in a dream. He kisses you hard and makes you stand on your toes to chase his lips when he pulls back. Elated. Ecstatic when you grasp the front of his shirt and keep kissing him when he stops. 

He pauses before littering your whole face with pecks even as you weakly protest, unable to stop frowning but feeling the happiest you've ever been.  

There's so much longing in between you, you feel like you could die. You feel helpless.   

"Can I come home with you?" He asks, once he stops - only holding your hand a short distance away. "I want more time together." 

You feel your skin burn hot as you nod, all while trying not to read too much into it. 

"Yeah."  

__ 

You barely get to lock your door behind you before Umemiya crowds you in the door way.  

His arms circle around your waist, chin resting against your shoulder.. Broad chest against your back, you try not to flounder as his warm voice caresses your ear.  

You're going to die young if he keeps this up.   

"I love you,"  

You flush. "Enough already. And let me go so I can wash up."  

"Do you need to sleep early? Thought you were closed tomorrow. Wanted to talk a little longer."  

You pause.  

"...Sleep?" 

"Hm?"  

You both freeze as the miscommunication dawns at the same time. You try to pull away from him as soon as you realize, skin burning hot. You're quick but Umemiya is quicker.  

"Hajime." You say gravely. "If you don't let me go, I'm gonna kill you."  

"No way," He laughs  as you attempt to wriggle out of his grasp. "Is that why you let me in? Were you expecting something?"  

"Shut up! Don't say anything, I swear I'll —"  

"Don't be like that, baby. I'm not making fun of you. Hey, turn around. Look at me."  

You're upset but you think the reason is more embarrassing then the feeling.  

"Don't wanna,"  

Umemiya laughs as he gently turns you around to face him. In your utter mortification, you can barely bring yourself to meet his gaze.  

"Stop staring."  

He doesn't.  

"Do you normally invite guys in just 'cause they ask?"  

"Wha—no! It's because it's you, stupid!"  

He smiles in satisfaction.  

"You shouldn't say yes so easily even if it is me. What if I took advantage of you?"  

You think he's just being smug for the sake of it, which is pissing you off. You grab him by the front of his shirt.  

"Fuck off. Maybe there's a reason I said yes."  

He pauses before his eyes widen. You push your hand against his mouth before he blurt anything else out but he's quick to pry your hand away.  

"Don't say it." You hiss.  

"I was planning on taking my time. I cherish you and I want to make sure you know that. I'm just a little surprised you’re moving so quick when you were telling me not too long ago."  

You can feel the tips of your ears growing hot, feeling even more self-conscious. "Whatever. If we're just going to sleep I still need to wash up."  

He keeps his arms behind your back so you can’t move.  

"Hey. Didn't say that. It's not like I don't want to do it with you. Just don't want you to regret anything."  

You give him an flat look. "I was prepared to give you my virginity and you're worrying about that. Unless you're planning on backing out, there's no way I would."  

"Your—" His jaw drops a little.  

You drop your voice down just a little close as you grab his collar.  

"If you get it, then hurry up and fuck me. Stupid Hajime."  

He gives you the dopiest smile you've ever seen while your face grows increasingly hot, leaning to in to press a kiss to your lips. He brushes his nose with yours. Laughter from deep in his chest.  

"Yes, ma'am."  

__ 

Once you give Umemiya permission to have you, you get the feeling that there really is no going back from here.  

You both know it. The tension in your bedroom is so thick you can barely breathe around it.  

Umemiya lands gently onto your bed - sitting up as he holds you by your waist and pulls you over to him. You're so aware of his touch it makes your nerves feel they're on fire. You're not a total virgin - at least not enough to be feeling this worked up over someones hands lingering on your waist.  

But they're Umemiya's hands—Hajime's hands, so you can't rationalize your thoughts of out it. His hands are strong and big, a little calloused and rough from the gardening and fighting. You can feel how much he adores you in a gesture so small it makes you concerned for your own heart thinking about how the rest of the night will go.  

He invites you into his lap gently, so pleased by the way you go to him so willingly. You spread yourself over him with your knees on either side of his thighs. He's big - wide and broad.  

Your barely hovering over his bulge as you lean your weight onto him. His hand barely brushes underneath your top, just barely touching the skin.  

You shiver.  

"Are you really sure this is what you want?" He asks. "I don't mind waiting as long as you need,"  

You give him an bored look. "Not very convincing when you're makin' a face like that,"  

He chuckles nervously. "That bad?"  

You nod before adding a little bashfully. "Dunno if I mind, though."  

He buries his fact against your chest all of a sudden making you jump.  

"The hell?"  

"You're so cute when you're honest like that," He mumbles into your chest, cheek pressed against your tits.  

"Jeez, shut up. What're you talking about?"  

Umemiya pulls back and leans forward - enough to breach the inches of space between you. Nose to nose, your eyes meet. A bated breath, you put your hand on his shoulders and work up the nerve to kiss him.  

It's chaste. Mostly for you to break the ice otherwise you're sure you're gonna pussy out.  

He smiles at you when you pull away.  

"See what I mean? So cute," He hums, and leans in again. "Come on. Kiss me again."  

Something about him is different when he tells you to kiss him. It's not smug or cheeky. But it's not casual either. Softness tinges his words, his touch - his whole demeanor screams like he loves you absolutely. It makes your heart rate pick up again, hands shaky as you try not to lose your nerve.  

He's restraining himself though. How he intense he could be vs how soft and calm he is being. You know Umemiya like the back of your hand so you want him to do what he wants. It's hard to find your voice.  

"You don't have to.." You cast your eyes down in embarrassment. "…hold back with me, either. I'm not some maiden."  

He smiles at you a little. "You really do know me better than anyone, huh? I was keeping it together pretty well."  

"Look I know I’m kinda difficult…I'm not real good with stuff like this either," You fidget with the collar of his shirt with your free hand. "But once I say yes I don’t back out. So don't worry about scaring me off or putting too much pressure on me or whatever. ...'s fine to just do what you feel like. I’m scared out of my mind but I wouldn’t do that to you,"  

“Don’t know how long it’ll take but I’ll do my best to make you feel secure. Might take some time but we’ve got our whole lives.” You flush at the implication. He smiles a little. "Whatever I want seems like a lot to give, though."  

"Well...depending on what, I'm might not be good at it,"   

He shakes his head. "I don't want anything like that."  

"What do you want then?"  

"You." He says easily. Your stomach flips. "All of you. I just want to make you feel so good you can't stand it. Want to worship you top to bottom. There's not a single part of you I don't want."  

You flush. "The hell... I meant like a blowjob or some shit."  

He laughs. "I know. And I want that too, another time." He hums, taking a deep breath. "Right now I just want you to feel so good for me. Is that okay?"  

You can't look at him. You can barely stand how bashful you're being, but you can't even play coy. Something in you is bursting at the seams.  

You love him so much you don't recognize yourself, or your voice, or how you're acting. It makes you sick but you can’t do anything but go with it. "Yeah. 's okay, if it's what you want."  

"It is," He says, leaning in. "All I've ever wanted."  

You ignore the latter half of his comment as he finally goes to kiss you again.  

He pulls your body close to him as you do. Until your chest to chest, arms wrapped around the span of his shoulders as you press your lips together soft and slow.  

He slides a hand underneath your top, undoing the clasp of your bra. He lets his palm stay on the center of your back while you keep kissing - straps of your bra falling down your shoulder as he splays his fingers to feel more of your skin and hold you. Hugging you close to him, his other arm wraps around your torso. His forearms feels especially strong they way they hold you by the waist.  

You're so close to him. Kissing him so deep, his tongue sliding against your lips. Something about the kiss is languid but the touch is so hot it makes your skin burn. You feel wrapped up in him, can't even tell whose heartbeat you're hearing. 

More of your weight ends up in his lap as you feel your knees go weak. Something hard presses against your clothed cunt and you gasp a little into his mouth.  

"Oh, shit." You mumble in surprise. Umemiya laughs.  

"You're making me feel good." He hums.  

Your face heats up. "I barely did anything." 

"You just being on my lap is more than enough."  

You make a face at him before rubbing yourself over the zipper of his jeans, slow and deliberate trying to get a feel for it. You hear him moan, nearly jumping out of your skin in surprise.  

The way Umemiya moans is a lot for you to process. Breathy and a little low. It resonates through your whole body like a caress.  

You make a few more tentative passes over his bulge, just to hear him do it again. Driven by your instinct more than anything, you lean into kiss at his jaw - making use of the limited experience you do have to try and draw more sounds from him.  

"What're you thinking about?" He asks, still breathless. Maybe amused.  

"Like the way you sound." You mumble in reply.  

"I thought I told you I wanted to take care of you, hm?"  

You frown. "So what? I can't touch you at all?"  

He thinks on it. "You can touch me everywhere else and you can have your way with me later, if you want it. I don't wanna cum too fast."  

"I'm just..."  

He shakes his head. "You're underestimating me. I'm still a guy, you know? With a woman I love at that. There's no way I would make it through our first time if I didn't focus on you. Don't pout,"  

Hearing him describe you in such an embarrassing way makes you flush. You roll your eyes half-heartedly. "Fine, whatever."  

He smiles.  

"Good girl. C'mere. Lay down."  

You decide not to think about how effected the praise makes you as you comply.  

Umemiya lays you down carefully, making sure you're comfortable before hovering over you. He looks a lot more imposing from this view - the dim lights of your room making his face seem more well-defined. Your nipples harden in arousal, peeking from underneath your shirt as he stares long and hard.  

"You're so beautiful to me."  

He leans down and presses a hot kiss to your jaw, just underneath your ear before slowly kissing down your neck. Open-mouthed kisses along delicate skin, tongue sliding over every patch he scrapes lightly with his teeth. You fidget underneath him, a dull throbbing between your legs. You try to figure out what to do with your hands but you’re too nervous.  

He kisses your throat where it's extra sensitive and you bite back and involuntary noise. 

"Don't hold your voice, please?"  

"It's embarrassing,"  

"It's not," He assures, bumping his forehead to your shoulder lightly. "I want to know what makes you feel good. Let me pay attention to you."  

You frown but nod ultimately.  

Umemiya isn't the first sexual encounter you've had in your life. You've done other things, but you've never really gone all the way with anyone. All of your other partners were mostly strangers - people mutually interested in using someone else to try and get off.  

This is the first time anyone has taken this much time with you. A little kissing and groping, sometimes touching your chest.  

No one's ever touched you like this, though.  

His hands feel like they're all over your body no matter where they actually end up being. Makes your heartbeat rain drumming on a tin roof. Makes your stomach tingle, a heat in your calves and a prickly feeling on your back. Your whole being drowning with pure anticipation.  

"Take this off for me." Umemiya mumbles. You nod, feeling absent as you wiggle yourself out of your tight little tee and toss it somewhere.  

The air shifts again when you're naked. His eyes drink you in, tracing the soft lines and edges of your body. Looking over scars and stretchmarks with pure, blown out wanting that shoots lust straight into your veins.  

You want him to fuck you so bad it's killing you but the very thought makes you feel so shy you could die.  

"You're beautiful," Sounds dirty the way he says, makes it spill from his lips like wine tipping over a glasses edge. "Perfect. Every inch of you is so perfect."  

He proves this to you by kissing you again. Running his hands over your skin. Up against curved sides and down against your arms, brushing the back of your biceps and forearms.  

Infatuation in his touch ruins you. Makes your voice let out. You can't think of anyone whose treated you so preciously in your entire life and you find you don't resent it as much as you should.  

(You find it feels so good to let someone touch you so kindly. A touch like you're being loved.)  

Nonetheless it's embarrassing. Of course it is.  

But it's so hard not to feel pulled in when you feel the way he kisses you. Draws a trail with his lips and tongue from jaw to shoulder blade - kissing down your biceps with his hands on your body, taking  gentle inhales of your scent.  

Anticipation makes your stomach tie in knots but finally he relents. Both hands squeeze the soft weight of your chest, palms brushing your hardened nipples.  

"Fuck."  

He laughs a little, heavy with want. "Yeah? Do you like being touched here?"  

"Mm." Is the best reply you can get out.  

He brushes against the tips with his fingers in a feather-light gesture, testing the waters before rubbing with a little more pressure. Your body jolts from the stimulation, wetness pooling and dampening your underwear. He leans in and takes one of your nipples into his mouth making another dull wave of lust wash through you.  

And he makes sure to pay attention to both. It's just like him to be so attentive to some shit like that. Your spine arches as he sucks on your sensitive nipples, letting his tongue flick across them and giving into a sweet friction. You buck your hips up against instinctively, gripping onto the sheets as your sense of restlessness grows.  

Your voice is whiny to your own ears but you can't calm down to save your life.  

"You're taking too long," You huff. He laughs lightly, looking up at you from underneath his lashes.  

"Don't be impatient." He tsks.  

"It's enough already," 

He shakes his head. "Nope. Still got a long ways to go. Promise you'll have me when you're ready for it, so just try and focus on feeling good."  

You make a frustrated sound. "It's embarrassing being the only one feeling good,"  

He pauses before standing up on his knees. He takes his black t-shirt off in one swift go until his torso is bare, and undoes the top button of his pants. He gives you a little glance. "Better?"  

There are too many layers of that to process in the moment it happens. You mumble. "A little,"  

He beams. "Good. Now let me take good care of you,"  

Sliding down lower, he kisses you from sternum to navel. Hands gripping at the softness of your sides, smoothing over the bare skin as he his thumb finds the waistband of your skirt. He glances up at you, silently seeking your permission. You nod back at him, watching him slide the short skirt away from your waist.  

The sudden air feels cool against your skin. He presses his cheek against your belly, both hands on your hips..  

"You're gorgeous. Even more gorgeous than I thought. I feel so lucky being able to touch you when you're this perfect.” He praises endlessly.  

You cover your face with your arm.  

"Ugh. Quit it. You're sayin' too much."  

"Seeing you get so shy when I praise you a little is so cute." He trails his lips down further and further - just above your sex before stopping. "You're so cute."  

He sits back, standing up and bending your legs slightly at the knee. You hold the position as you feel him massage your calve. Thumb drawing hard circles in the muscle, slowly working his way up to your knee. He kisses you afterwards trailing the same spot his hands were touching seconds ago before moving onto the other side.  

There's nothing you can call it short of worship. The nagging feeling that it's undeserved is washed away each time Umemiya holds your gaze.  

Devotion colors every touch no matter how small. And it’s so obvious, so prominent - it feels outright wrong to deny the fact it’s there.   

You think the closest thing you can compare it too is the way Umemiya gardens. A patience as his fingers root through earth and soil, a kindness towards delicate things that makes even hours of work under the sun look beautiful and easy. His expression is what's most uncanny - what makes you you feel so hot. 

An expression that says he loves doing it from the very bottom of his heart - not even a hint of apathy or complaint.  

A face that says he loves every long, drawn out motion and actions of repetition all fro the very core of him.  

Having it directed at making love to you so blatantly makes you more aroused than you know what to do with. You don't know how to let yourself be treated like the most cherished flower in Umemiya's garden - and you aren't so sure how you're meant to get used to it no matter how much it makes you feel...nice. You don’t have any other experience.  

Which is why you're trying to be patient. Trying to be at least temporarily secure in whatever he sees in you that makes him worship every inch of you, memorizing all your ins and outs.  

Umemiya places hot, wet kisses on your inner thigh before laying himself between your spread legs - breath barely hovering over your sex.  

By the time he gets there, you feel utterly melted into your sheets. Your mind is hazy, impatient and wanting as strong hands secure your thighs. He's so close.  

"I wanna eat you out. Is that okay?"  

"If you don't do something soon I'm gonna kill you."  

He laughs warmly. "I'll take that as a yes."  

You pause. Umemiya waits.  

"I didn't uh," You clear your throat. "Wasn't planning on getting laid so y'know. Haven't shaved in a while."  

"Were you worried that I'd change my mind? I like it for the record. Feels natural." Umemiya says. "It's your body so there's nothing I would dislike about it."  

"You're too much." You reply back in earnest. You cover your face with your arms. "So cheesy."  

"I'm being serious." He says suddenly solemn with how sincere he is. 

The sudden change is amusing. You pause before breaking into genuine giggles, unable to help yourself.  

"You're really somethin', yknow that?"  

He's quiet for a long time. Long enough for it to catch your attention, turning your gaze more clearly towards his face. Swiftly, he pushes himself up to catch your mouth in another kiss. It stuns you a bit, very different to all the rest. More teeth and tongue than lip.  

"I like you," He murmurs, forehead to yours. "How can someone be so cute?"  

"Would you quit embarrassing me and get on with it?" 

He smiles. "As you wish,"  

Umemiya settles back down between your legs after easing your panties off and putting your feet flat on the bed to give himself more access. You can barely look down at him doing it. His fingers brush the slick hairs back gentle as he uses his thumbs to spread your pussy apart and look at you more intimately.  

You can feel him. Feel his every breath and movement. He stares at you awestruck. "How is all of you so pretty? Even here it's such a beautiful color."  

"Stop looking so much,"  

He takes a breath, taking in your scent one more time before pressing a kiss to your clit. You make an attempt to squirm away from his grip as his finger dig into your thighs and hold you down. The strength of it knocks the wind out of you, forcing you into place. Umemiya pushes his tongue and gives you a long, tentative lick through the seam of your cunt.  

Your whole body breaks out into shivers at the sensation. The warm weight of his tongue on your sex makes feels like an electric current through water - your toes curling as he makes the same few passes over and over. He collects your pooling arousal on the tip as he drags upwards and flicks your clit tentatively. You grind against his face instinctually, hips chasing the pleasure. Amused laughter vibrates against your core as you do, mumbling at you to be patient while he's still face deep in it.  

You let out another pitchy whine before he finally stops teasing. He lays his tongue flat against your clit, cupping it lightly before drawing it around experimentally. He watches carefully as he plays around with pressure and angles - trying to see what makes you react the most. You can feel how closely he's watching you. 

You cover your mouth with your hand when he does find it, your voice breaking off as he licks carefully right where you need. He smiles into your cunt as he toys with your with the sensitive bundle of nerves, pleased by the change in your reactions. The obvious pleasure he's making you feel.  

Something blooms into your chest. You've never— 

"You're—" You close your eyes, hands tangling in the sheets as you break out into a fever. "Ngh, never had someone l-lick me,"  

He must've heard you because he seems to laser in his focus the minute you say it. He's lapping at your clit so deep, licking precisely and holding you with nose against your bush.  

You reach down tentatively, pushing back the hair falling in his face and he gives you a look so lovesick you want to run away. The pressure changes gradually, more intensely.  

It feels better somehow. Makes you feel restless. Your whole body curls in tight with want at the sensation of it, the lower expanse of your belly tensed. You're shaking as you drift closer to the edge, arousal upped by the wet sound of him sucking your clit.  

"Hajime," You warn, spine starting to arch as you helplessly try to pull away from the intense sensation. It's not familiar to your body, so much so your mind can barely make sense of what's happening to it, "Cumming—c-cumming!"  

Something in you goes undone as Umemiya keeps pace during your orgasm. All the tension inside of you suddenly comes loose - specks of white matter behind closed lids as you screw your eyes shut. Your back curves up into arch, your hips trembling, your insides pulsing. It comes running into you, crashing into your body as waves of pleasure drown out the noise in your head. He eats you out until you feel borderline hysterical.  

You feel melted and reshaped by him - yanking him off when he continues to be insistent after you're too oversensitive. He laughs when you pull him away, resting against your thigh as you take worn out heaving breaths.  

He kisses the inside of your knee as you calm down, bright smile on his features - painted pink with a slight flush. "You came. I'm so happy."  

You look at him in shock. "You're a scary guy."  

He pushes up to kiss your temple, voice soft. "Did I scare you?"  

Your stomach flutters, tucking your chin. "You were intense, but I didn't... hate it or anything."  

"Yeah?" He grins, pressing a few kisses to your cheek and face before whispering against your ear. "Then, is it okay to go farther?"  

You nod silently. Umemiya smiles.  

He stands up on his knees, pushing his hair back as your eyes are drawn to his pants. You reach out for the waistband of his pants unthinkingly, hooking your finger into it. "Isn't it stuffy?"  

He blinks, frozen before rubbing a hand across his face. "Ah a bit, but it's fine."  

"Take 'em off. Please?"  

Umemiya looks unusually distressed by the request, but follows through without another word. You watch him undress - revealing the tight black fabric of his boxer briefs snug against his waist. Your eyes go wide as you see the outline of his cock - head still half hazy. You voice your unfiltered reaction.  

"Your dick is so big,"  

He laughs breathlessly. "Are you trying to stir me up? What's with you?" He pauses to lay down besides you. You turn to lay on your side and face him a little better. "You're being cute. I'm not used to seeing you so docile."  

"Shaddup," You reply half-heartedly. Your body is still on fire but it knocked the wind of you to cum once already. "Your fault."  

He grins, a hint of smugness as he laughs. "That's true."  

"You gonna fuck me?"  

"Mm, yeah. Gotta open you up first or it'll hurt."  

"I've put stuff in before. Toys. Should be fine."   

"Still wanna play it safe. It's your precious first time after all."  

You make a face before pulling him into you, hugging him tight as your whole body breaks out in a shameful flush. "Then hurry up and do it already."  

His arms slide underneath where your laying, holding you to him as he hikes one of your legs up. He slides his free hand in over your leg - his forearm holding your thigh. You press your face to his neck and shoulder - hiding your expression. "Guess I should huh? You were always impatient,"  

You can barely tell him to shut up, the way your body waits for it. A warbled little noise leaves your mouth as he slides his middle finger through the sticky folds of your cunt - careful as it catches on your hole. Wet and so aroused, the first finger he puts in goes in completely smoothly with no real effort 

Umemiya speaks low and soft as he holds you. "I don't know if I can get used to seeing you like this. I'm glad no one else but me ever wil You’re really all I think about lately," He catches the lobe of your ear between his teeth gently. Your head spins. "People misunderstand you because you're prickly, you know? For a long time, only I knew what it felt like to be liked by you. I liked that,"  

"Why are you—mmgh," 

He slides another finger in carefully after the first one slides inside of you with no resistance. His voice is so hot against your skin, the low bass of it in your skull as he speaks so close to your ear.  

"Don't get me wrong I'm happy seeing you with so many people surrounding you. But I was a little sad too. And it kept getting worse over the years until I couldn’t ignore it. I couldn’t figure out why for a long time and then it clicked,” Umemiya explains. You realize half way delirious this is his real confession. God, you’re gonna kill him. “Suddenly it was all I thought about. I wanted to be special to you. I wanted to monopolize you. It was my first time having thoughts like that,”  

Another finger slides into you easily. Umemiyas fingers are so much bigger than yours. Thicker than they are long. The stretch is enough to make you gasp.  

“Hajime—“ 

He curls them up, careful until he finds the spot he’s looking for. Your body reacts, another sensation of pressure as his middle finger rubs tenderly against your gspot. You weakly try to wiggle away as he holds you firm.  

“I felt a little guilty, too. You’re my very best friend. You’re independent and diligent. Tough. But you know, when I saw you for those few months - all I could think about was how much I wanted to spoil you,” He whispers. Something in your body shifts the way touches you. Pushes in further and further - stretching until it’s easy for him to be inside. “Somehow everything I liked about you became so cute I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t help but want to dote on you over every little thing even though I knew better than anyone you didn’t need something like that.”  

Your eyes well up but not necessarily from emotion. Totally overwhelmed. You don’t feel like you’re gonna cum but there’s something else that’s waiting and each time he thrusts his fingers into you it comes a little closer. Your voice is shaking.  

“It—fuck, quit talking. Somethings gonna—“  

His smile grows a little. It’s the first time it looks so hungry.  

“I was happy in general when I realized you liked me too. Even when you were being stubborn, I liked the way you couldn’t turn me away. I liked how happy you looked talking to me as usual as if that alone was something so precious,” He hums, so focused and precise as he stretches you open on a third finger but never once losing his train of thought. Like saying all of these comes to him so easily it doesn’t matter. “I didn’t want to corner you. But it felt like I couldn’t rest until you were mine completely. Which is why I’m being so unfair to you. Why I’m so persistent. ” 

Your voice breaks on a whine. “It’s gonna come out—“  

“You make a pretty face when your heads filled with nothing but me. I don’t think it’s bad to wanna stay that way,” He hums, almost conversational as he presses a kiss to your skin. “Go on. Let go,”  

Something hot sprays between your legs as Umemiya fucks you open on all three of his fingers.  

A rush of warm liquid squirts onto your sheets as your legs shake wearily. Umemiya marvels at the mess. Your hands curl into fists, nails digging in your palms as he finally pulls them out - leaving you stretched, almost gaping.  

You lay limp in soaked sheets as you pull away from Umemiya with a very weak glare.  

He’s smiling at you, dopey and lovesick.  

“Too much?”  

Angrily, you smack at his bare chest over and over, trying to recover your pride.  

“You’re insane. What’s,” You swallow thickly. “What’s with you.”  

He shrugs. Wordless, he flips you onto your back again before hovering over top of you. Pressing his forehead to yours, he brushes your noses together and plants a tentative peck on your lips as if trying to gauge whether or not you’re upset. He melts when you kiss him back, smiling happily.  

“Were you like this with your other girlfriends? No wonder they broke up with you,”  

He laughs. “Mm, no? I was more of a gentleman.”  

You break out into another exhausted fit of laughter.  

“Pfft, yeah? Guess I’m pretty special,” 

“Yeah. You are.” He kisses you again. “Wanna keep going or are you too tired? I don’t mind if we sleep.”  

“Stupid. I said it already didn’t I? Hurry up and fuck me.”  

“Okay, okay. Let me go get the condom from my wallet,”  

You wrap your legs around his waist and stare up at him plainly as he tries to move, keeping him pinned in place. You’re frowning, brows furrowed with a hard glare. He stares at you.  

“Did you want something else? Water?”  

“Want you to fuck me,” You restate, arms reaching up to circle around his neck. “Just do it already.” 

He pulls back to look at you seriously.  

“Do you know what you’re asking?”  

You flush. “Of course I do. Stupid. Are you trying to get me to say it out loud?”  

“I might think I’m deluding myself otherwise.”  

You sigh, looking at him flatly as you try to tamp down the part of you that’s screaming to be more tactful.  

“Don’t bother with the condom, a-alright? Or pulling out,”  

He looks like he’s experiencing the shock of his life. “But…” 

“Stop being dumb or I’m never gonna have sex with you again.”  

He nods suddenly solemn. “Fine. But,”  

You give him another look that silences him. He sighs again, getting the message before kissing your cheek and pull back to sit up on his knees between your legs. Pulling his briefs down, his cock springs free. It looks a lot bigger than you saw underneath the fabric, weighed down from it’s own weight even though it stands up stiff. He opened you up with three but you wonder if it’ll be enough not to stretch you open.  

You reach your hand out to touch it tentatively, feeling it’s weight and heft. He clears his throat but seems content to let you. The palms of your hands cup the shaft, feeling all the veins pulse. The tip is sticky with precum. You pull your hand away, another sudden wave of self consciousness overwhelming you.  

Umemiya hovers over you again, placing he length of his cock against your pussy. You shift a little feeling it slide against you, hard and hot.  

“Gonna put it in now, okay?”  

Nodding, you put your legs up. You take a deep breath when the head pushes in, letting out an involuntary noise. You feel well-stretched but the thickness of his cock is still enough to make you feel it in your legs. Umemiya is focused above you, barely sliding the tip through your folds as you open up around him. The air feels punched out of your lungs on just the first inch.  

His face is strained is he holds his hips steady, leaning down to tap your foreheads together. “Feeling okay?”  

“Mm,” You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Fine. Feels different.”  

“Different?”  

“Yours is bigger than all the stuff I own,” You explain. “Feels hotter. Harder, too.”  

You feel his cock twitch inside of you suddenly, shocking you. He smiles sheepishly.  

“Gonna push in a little more, okay?”  

You nod, watching as Umemiya so slowly presses his cock into you further. Enough that it doesn’t hurt when you take him, as much as it just feels like something is inside of you. You feel a warm sense of satisfaction at how full you feel. You feel like him like he’s in your stomach, taking up so much space. After a while of pushing, stopping, and going again  - he finally bottoms out.  

“You feel incredible,” He murmurs, half-smile on his face. Your stomach flutters. “It’s hard not to cum right away. Feels so good inside of you. I love you.”  

You feel yourself twitch, frowning at the expression of delight Umemiya has. You put your hand against his fact to keep him away but he kisses your palm and moves it. Bottomed out, he grasps both hands and holds them  - pinning them to the bed as you watch him wide-eyed.  

“Think you’re used to it?” He hums, clasping your fingers together. “Is it okay if I move?”  

You feel so damn bashful. “It’s okay.” 

He kisses your forehead. “I’ll go slow.” 

As promised, Umemiya pulls out carefully before pushing back into you. You’re so wet that it slides in without any real friction. It takes a few thrusts of him going slowly for your body to get adjusted to the sensation. After a few motions, though - it starts to feel different.  

Starts to feel good. Really, really good.  

“Oh,” Your eyes flutter open. “Shit. You c-can go faster.”   

“Yeah?”  

You nod, trying not to seem too eager. 

When Umemiya picks up pace, you feel your  the whole lower half of your body weaken all over again. Something in your legs, your spine go soft against the bed underneath, a sudden unusual arousal swelling. Somewhere in deeper as he cocks thrusts against your gspot, knocking against it with more force than before. The change in pace coupled with the visual of Umemiya over you, face drawn together in focus as he fucks you is too much. Split open on his cock, you can hear how wet you are each time he moves.  

“Feels…” Your words come up empty. “’s so much.” 

“Yeah? Is it too much for you, baby?”  

You shake your head as your thoughts get increasingly cloudy. It’s like there’s nothing else your body can focus on. The way his cock drags against your sensitive, silken walls. The feeling of being full to empty and then full all over again. The way your pussy gets so much wetter each time he moves, sloppy and sucking him in so tight. You can feel your body want for him.  

Umemiya lets go of your hands, sliding one between your bodies. Palm resting on your sex, he lets his brush against your clit. The difference it makes is significant, makes your eyes go wide. He smiles a little, hair falling in his face as he pushes it up with his free hand.  

“That’s it,” He hums, contented to keep at it like this. “Feels good, right? Your holding onto me so tightly it’s hard for me to pull out even though you’re so wet.”  

You make a whiny noise and wonder if other peoples first times feel this good or if you’re just outrageously lucky. You decide on the latter he fucks you faster and matches his thrusts with the movement of his fingers. You’re warm all over - skin scorching as your hands find his biceps and shoulders to cling onto.  

Your voice is so whiny when you call out for him “You’re so deep, ngh.”  

He laughs, deep and raspy. “Yeah? Tell me what you’re feeling,”  

“It feels good when you’re in me.” You reply drunkenly. “Want it faster. Please,”  

He complies with your request almost immediately. You cry out loud, physically incapable of holding the sound in as he gets to fucking you faster and harder. Your pussy is throbbing. Senselessly horny, you pull Umemiya closer to you as he fucks you and smash your lips together. You feel so good, so thoroughly fucked and completely out of it. He’s in you but you want him even closer, want the scent of his skin to mark you.  

A second time your body builds up to that familiar feeling but it’s so much farther inside. An orgasm pulled right from your core. Stomach tied in knots as Umemiya fucks you hard, you wrap your legs around his waist and take him. 

“That’s it. You’re so good. Cum on my cock, sweet girl. Let me feel it” He murmurs against your skin, holding you close. “You’re making me feel so good. So cute. Go ahead, it’s okay. Let me see how good I’m making you feel.”  

Pliant to his request, you hold onto Umemiya for dear life as your body gives into second orgasm. Your nails dig into his biceps as the built up arousal gives way pleasure - and you cum hard with his cock sheathed all the way inside of you. All the wind gets stolen from your lungs as you press forward with another kiss, your whole body trembling violently as you let go.  

Umemiya sweet talks you through without letting go once, only stopping to take a pause when you’ve fully ridden out your high.  

You stare up at him in a daze as he takes a breather to kiss you, still hard as he’s bottomed out inside of you.  

“You gonna cum soon?”  

“Mm,” He nods. “Yeah I’m close. If I move, I will.”  

“’s okay to cum in me,”  

Umemiya laughs warmly. “I’m already about too. You’re not helping,”  

You smile a bit as you hug him close to you and tell him again that it’s fine. Before long, he holds you too, whispering the same three words into your neck as he finally lets it out. It’s a weird feeling, thick white ropes of seed spilling into the deepest parts of you.  

You don’t really hate it, though.  

“I love you,” Umemiya repeats. Tired you don’t try to fight yourself.  

“Love you too,”  

__ 

The next morning, you’re stirred away by the sound of your front door unlocking and the sound of Kotoha’s voice echoing through your apartment.  

You’re still half-way asleep, so it barely dawns on you that anything is off. Not cognizant enough to think twice, your body tries to go back to sleep.  

Or it does until you hear a very loud shout coming from your kitchen that wakes you up with a start.  

“No fucking way,”  

You sit up suddenly, hearing faint conversation before the sound of steps barreling towards your door. You just barely manage to pull the sheets up over your chest before she comes storming through the door of your bedroom.  

You watch her eyes scan your entire room, mentally collecting data before she finally lands on you. As your brain starts to load back in, your eyes go wide with horror at the look of pure scandal on her face.  

Fuck. You were supposed to be having dinner with her and Tsubaki tonight. Usually you confirm with them in the mornings since your up. It’s not uncommon for her to drop in when you don’t reply to check in since you live close by. 

Fuck.  

“You—Oh, I have to text Tsubaki-chan, I can’t believe—“  

Before she gets to finish her sentence, Umemiya appears behind her in your door way. The sight of him only adds fuel to the flame of your embarrassment. You went another round or two before bed last night and it looks like it too. Shirtless in sweats he left over a while ago, his biceps are covered in scratch and with a few hickies, he’s wearing his hair down with a cup of tea and a very apologetic smile.  

You cover your face with your hands unsure of how to deal with the feeling of pure mortification.  

Kotoha snaps a picture of your room that causes even more distress.  

“If you don’t delete that right now, I’m gonna kill us both.”  

“In your dreams.”  

Umemiya laughs warmly. “Please don’t kill each other.”  

He slides past Kotoha coming over to you. Bending down to kiss your forehead, he pulls the blanket up over you so you’re more well-covered. You give him an incredulous but Umemiya is unfazed - smiling as bright as ever. 

“Good morning,”  

“I can’t believe my eyes,” Kotoha says. She points at Umemiya. “You, go put on a shirt.”  

“Fine, fine. Stay for breakfast,” Umemiya says with a smile. “It’ll be nice having it with my two favorite people.”  

You make another face as Umemiya gives you a long, affectionate look before disappearing. She sighs as she looks at you, pinching the bridge of her nose.  

“I would ask if you’re gonna meet us for dinner but you don’t have a choice anymore so show up at seven. I’m gonna leave before that tactless idiot comes back. We’ll talk later.”  

You nod in understanding. She turns to leave but then turns back with a genuine smile.  

“And, well - congrats. He’s a tactless idiot but he does love you or whatever. Cherish each other,”  

You flush, nodding your head. “Yeah…thanks.”  

With that Kotoha leaves quickly. Umemiya returns still shirtless, pouting a little when he notices she’s gone.  

“She left already?”  

“Of course she did. I can’t believe you would invite her for breakfast.”   

Umemiya shrugs. “No point being coy about it. I thought it’d be nice. I was looking for a shirt but I guess I don’t need one now,” He sits besides you on the bed, turning to face with a goofy smile. “Anyways, good morning.”  

“You already said that.”  

“You didn’t say it back,”  

You frown. “G’morning,”  

He smiles suddenly  before grabbing you from underneath the blankets and sheets - pulling your naked body ontop of him as he grins. Sunlight pours through the window as he holds you to his chest, kissing the crown of your head before pressing his cheek into your hair.  

“Mm, yeah. It’s a really good morning after all.”  

“You’re stupid.”  

“And you love me,”  

You fail trying not to smile.  Damn him. You're so happy it hurts. You roll your eyes.

“I guess so.”  

[thecchiiiiiiii]

Chapter One: Easily by Bruno Major — “Don’t you tell me that it wasn’t meant to be, call it quits, call it destiny. Just because it won’t come easily, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try." (Sophia Laforteza x reader)

Synopsis: The island takes what it could never give, Sophia wants to believe she can break this.

—☆

Life on the island never asks if you’d like to stay. It just assumes you will.

It simply opened its hand and kept her pressed inside its palm— a stubborn grain of salt that never washed away no matter how many times the tide rose.

Sophia Laforteza knows this. 

Sophia Laforteza has known that since before she knew what a map was, since the first time she pressed her ear to her mother’s chest and heard the sighs Carla tried to bury beneath soap bubbles and floor polish. 

She knew it when her mother handed her a broom twice her height, the straw bristles frayed from salt air, sweeping sand off tile floors that would always fill again by nightfall. She knew it the first time she helped gut a fish her father brought home, her small fingers raw, scales glittering on her palms like flakes of fallen stars.

Carla scrubs the big houses at the hilltop, the ones with walls so white they look like teeth when the sun hits them. Sophia knows every tile by name, every squeaky hinge on every garden gate. She’s trailed behind her mother since she was five, watching how Carla’s knees creak when she stands, how her hands are raw around the knuckles.

Her father, Godfrey, always smells of salt and fish bones. He’s gone before dawn, back only when the sky is too dark to hold. He leaves kisses on Sophia’s forehead that taste of sea spray. He says the salt crusted under his nails is just the ocean’s way of loving him back.

By the time Sophia turned seven, she knew three things for certain: the island would never grow larger than the tide let it; her mother, Carla, would die scrubbing someone else’s floors before she ever scrubbed her own clean; and she herself would never leave, not if it meant leaving you.

Godfrey liked to say the sea owned him long before Carla did. At dawn he’d wade barefoot into the surf, bamboo traps balanced on his shoulders like a cross, salt drying in the creases of his sunburnt neck.

Sophia’s earliest memory of him is the smell— brine, sweat, the faint sweetness of cheap tobacco that clung to his shirts. When he came home with nets heavy and his eyes bright, he’d scoop her up with one arm, Basil perched proud beside him, helping carry the day’s catch.

Sophia has brothers to mind.

Basil was four years older and already halfway to being a man. Broad shoulders. Quiet voice. The steady clink of coins in his pocket from lifting crates down at the pier. He was learning to patch boats and mend torn nets while other boys his age still played sipa in the street. People said Basil would grow up just like Godfrey. Quiet. Broad-shouldered. Always looking out to sea like it might answer him back someday.

Oreo, the youngest, came when Sophia was six. A late surprise, Carla whispered, rolling her eyes at Godfrey’s grin when they brought the baby home wrapped in an old rice sack. Oreo had cheeks round as pomelos and a laugh so loud the neighbors said he must be blessed.

He was everybody’s darling, fussed over by old women with hibiscus tucked behind their ears, passed around during fiestas like an extra dessert. He clings to Sophia’s skirt hem like a barnacle no matter how many times she shoos him off with a sharp, “Oreo, you’re too old for this.”

Most days Sophia thinks she’s too old for this too, felt older than her own mother. Too old for cracked floors that swallow footsteps. Too old for the grit in the kitchen floor, too old for the tin roof that drummed like a restless heart during typhoons, too old for gossip that trails her name behind the sari-sari store, slipping like grease between the old women’s teeth.

They say she’s too pretty to waste herself here. They say she’ll marry well— maybe one of the mainland boys who come back twice a year to visit their grandmothers. Someone who’ll keep her skin soft, her hands unscarred.

But she never cared much for the ones who bragged about motorbikes or slick shoes from the mainland. 

Only you.

The island has only one school. A dusty path winds there from the clustered houses to the squat concrete building painted too many times to hide the cracks. That’s where you saw her first. Sophia, hair pulled into a tight braid, sitting in the front row where the breeze from the broken window caught her collar. You sat in the back, worker’s hands callused from chores before sunrise. You knew hard work by the splinters buried in your palms, salt ground into your knuckles. 

You looked half asleep most days, but your hands never were. She watched how you turned a broken pencil into something whole again with tape and a steady thumb. How you carried spare nails in your pockets for when the classroom window fell off its rusted hinge— which it did, every other month.

In the mornings, the children spill out from every corner of the village, feet bare or in mismatched slippers. Sophia walks with her brothers: Basil ahead, shoulders square, pulling Oreo along by the wrist when he tries to stray.

You fall in step behind them, a quiet shadow, your satchel slung across your back, your lunch of dried fish and rice wrapped in banana leaf, still warm from your mother’s hands.

By then, your hands are more scar than skin — split from the salt, rough with old rope burns you never complain about. Sophia notices.

Sometimes she glances down at your fingers curled around the strap of your bag, like she wants to ask if they hurt. She never does.

But once, when you stumbled on a rock and bit back a hiss, she reached out quick and caught your wrist before you could hide it.

"Be careful," she whispered. Then she let go, her eyes darting to Basil who watched you both too closely.

Your house stands three shacks away from theirs, though calling it a house is generous. You grew up hammering its walls back in place after every monsoon. By ten your palms were calloused, knuckles raw from hauling buckets and helping your father patch outriggers at dawn.

While other kids scraped through school just enough to pass, you learned how to fix what broke: a split paddle, a leaking roof, a tangled net. Your hands were always busy, rough with salt and resin.

Your mother used to joke they’d be ruined before you ever learned how to hold a girl’s hand gently. You never minded.

Not then.

Sophia used to watch you from the side of her yard, chin on her knees while Basil taught her how to shine shoes or chase Oreo away from the mud.

She liked the way your arms moved when you lifted planks, the hush of your breath when you wiped sweat from your eyes. Sometimes she wondered what your hands would feel like if they weren’t always carrying something heavy.

Sophia’s world was small but busy. The house. The pump out back. The chapel at the hilltop where she liked to slip behind the stone wall and pretend she couldn’t hear her name when Carla called. And school, of course. The cracked path leading there dusty half the year and swallowed by rain the rest.

You were there too. Always there.

Not older by years, just by months, but sometimes Sophia felt like you’d been older forever. Maybe it was your hands, already tough from helping your father haul ropes and bait lines at dawn. Maybe it was the way you stood still when everyone else fidgeted, the way your eyes found hers when she tried to disappear behind a joke or a half-sung tune.

Your sister, Luz, trailed you like a loose thread. She was ten that year, loud enough for both of you. When Sophia came down the road carrying her tin lunchbox, Luz would grin big and conspiratorial, shout Sophia’s name just to watch her jump, then stick out her tongue when you told her to hush. Luz knew things. She always did. She noticed too much for someone so small.

Most days the three of you walked home together. Luz skipped ahead, collecting shiny stones and lost bottle caps. You and Sophia dragged your feet, talking about nothing and everything. The rain that wouldn’t come.

The holes in your shoes. The taste of rice stretched too thin after a bad fishing week. Sometimes she’d glance at your palms, the rope burns, the tiny cuts that never seemed to close— and feel something warm settle under her ribs.

Sometimes she’d flick her eyes up and catch you staring too. Once, when Luz skipped too far ahead, Sophia brushed her fingers over your knuckles, just a ghost of a touch. You didn’t say anything, but you didn’t pull away.

Sophia didn’t know when she started singing for real. Maybe she always had. Humming behind her mother’s back while Carla scrubbed floors. Crooning to Oreo when he wouldn’t sleep. Whispering snatches of songs she half-remembered from the old radio her father kept by his cot.

But singing behind the chapel was different. That place felt safe. Stone walls leaning just enough to block the wind. Weeds soft enough to sit on. The old cross half-swallowed by moss. She liked to stand there with her eyes closed, the smell of sun-warmed rock around her, the sea far enough to feel like another life altogether.

That day, the one that stuck when she thought she was alone. She was twelve, same as you, or near enough. She’d run errands for Carla all morning, then slipped away when Basil wasn’t looking.

She stood barefoot in the shade, skirt brushing her knees, and let her voice out. Careful at first. Then braver. A line, then another, until the air felt different, alive.

A twig snapped. A quick hush of breath.

She opened her eyes. You were there by the corner of the wall, hands stuffed in your pockets, hair messy from the sea breeze, Luz nowhere for once. For a heartbeat Sophia wanted to run. Bolt down the hill. Deny it was her voice you’d heard lifting like a secret.

But she didn’t move. Neither did you.

“Sing it again,” you said.

Not a dare.

Not a tease.

Soft.

Like you were asking for a promise you’d keep safe.

Sophia felt heat creep up her neck. Her feet wanted to flee, but her throat refused to close. So she sang. The same line, then another, until the air around you both felt heavier, brighter, like the island itself was listening.

When she finished, you only nodded. Like you’d known all along. Like you’d carry it the way you carried salt on your skin, without complaint, without question.

After that day, her voice wasn’t a secret anymore. Not to you, not to Luz, not to the wind that carried her notes down the cracked streets of your small town.

You started walking her home after school. The only school the island had, one room, chalkboard cracked at the corners. Sometimes your arm brushed hers when you both squeezed under the same umbrella during sudden rain.

Sometimes you’d hand her half your bread if Carla’s wages fell short that week. Luz trailed behind, humming Sophia’s songs under her breath, her small hand hooked in yours or Sophia’s, as if you three were stitched together by some promise none of you dared to say aloud.

The older folk noticed. Whispered. "That one— always at Sophia’s back. Mark my words, they’ll tangle their fates too soon."

Sophia pretended not to hear. You pretended not to care.

Luz just giggled when you three walked home, her secrets safe in your pockets and Sophia’s hair brushing your shoulder when she leaned in to tease you about your sunburn or your clumsy handwriting.

“If you sing at the chapel again tomorrow,” you said once, your voice low so Luz couldn’t catch it, “I’ll sit with my back turned so you’ll think you’re alone.”

Sophia laughed so softly you almost didn’t hear it. “You’d fall asleep.”

“Probably,” you said, grinning at her. “Your voice sounds like dreaming.”

If anyone asked, which they never did, Carla would have said she was raising Sophia for one thing only: to be a good wife. Better than her, maybe, but not so much better she’d forget where she came from.

Sophia did her chores without complaint.

She swept their stilt house floor three times a day— sand found its way in no matter how tightly Carla tucked rags against the door. She washed clothes until her wrists ached, starching Godfrey’s shirts for Sunday mass. At twelve she started tagging along when Carla cleaned for the mayor’s family in town, learning which stains came out with vinegar and which ones needed prayer.

But there was school too. And Sophia was good at it. Good in a way that made Carla purse her lips when the teacher sent home notes with gold stars.

"So what if you can read fast," Carla would mutter, wringing her rag dry.

"No one pays you to read here."

Sophia never argued. Not aloud.

But when she walked home past the cracked schoolhouse stage, she’d imagine standing there under a single bulb, mouth open wide, her voice bigger than the sea that swallowed her father every morning.

Sophia knows it now, kneeling by the window of the tiny stilt house her father built with his brothers before she was born. She watches you out there on the rickety dock, shirt drenched, hauling in nets you promised you’d mend tomorrow.

The ocean’s dawn light makes your shoulders silver. A pair of seabirds hover and dive for scraps. You whistle at them and toss a fin.

Sophia wraps her arms around her knees and wonders if you can feel it too— that thing the island does, wrapping around your ankles like seaweed, pulling you back when you dream too far.

You’ve said before that you don’t mind.

That there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

She’s always wanted to believe you.

She never knew you’d follow. Never planned for you to stand there, hands in your pockets, hair pushed back by salt wind, watching her like she’d pulled the sun down from the hill and tucked it in her throat.

“Sing it again.” You said it like a secret. Not teasing— you never teased her when she was soft like this.

Sophia wanted to run then.

Every part of her itched to bolt down the path and pretend it hadn’t been her voice climbing the stones, brushing the old cross tangled in weeds. But she didn’t. Something in your eyes told her you’d stand there until the tide turned, waiting.

So, she did it again. She closed her eyes, felt the scrape of stone under her heels, tasted salt on her tongue, and sang like the chapel was a stage.

Your shadow drifted closer. She felt it, even with her eyes shut. When she opened them, you were nodding, like you’d decided something only you would carry for both of you.

You waited for her by the path after the final bell. Luz skipped ahead, humming the song Sophia had sung to you in the chapel, careless with secrets that should’ve stayed tucked under her tongue. Sometimes, when it rained, you’d tug her under your jacket, shoulders bumping, your rough knuckles brushing her wrist when you handed her half your stale bread.

“You should keep it,” she’d mumble. “You need it more.”

You’d just shrug. “I’ll catch more fish tomorrow.”

Sometimes, late at night, Sophia would lie on the mat beside Oreo and wonder if you meant you’d catch them, or you’d grow them yourself, like you could make the ocean give her whatever she needed.

When the old women talked about you, she heard every word. How you weren’t enough. How you’d never be enough if she ever really wanted to get out. A good girl wouldn’t waste her best years waiting for a kid with splinters under their nails. She’d smile at them, teeth sharp behind her lips, and keep walking.

They didn’t know how you looked at her when you thought no one saw. They didn’t know you’d stand behind her, silent and patient, while she wiped her palms on her skirt and told you her dreams in pieces, like shells she wasn’t sure were worth keeping.

Sometimes, she’d test you.

Whisper a new melody while you both sat by the pump behind her house, Oreo chasing fireflies in the dusk. She’d watch you from the corner of her eye, see the way your head tilted, the way your thumb tapped the old wood like you were memorizing the beat for later.

“You ever get tired of it?” she asked once.

“Of what?”

“Me. This. Singing when no one pays me for it. Dreaming when I’m supposed to be sweeping floors.”

You leaned your elbow on your knee and looked at her like she was asking if the sea would ever get tired of the moon.

“Sing,” you said, and that was that.

“If you ever get your chance, I’ll work twice as hard. I’ll send you every peso I can. I’ll brag to the old gossips when your face is on a billboard. I’ll hang a banner on the church gate.”

Sophia tried to laugh, but the ache cracked her voice in half.

“It’s not enough,” she whispered. 

“Here, your hardest is never enough."

"I need someone from there to see me. Someone who wants me.” And you squeezed her hand like maybe you could hold the island still long enough to keep her from slipping away.

That night, she lay awake with her face pressed into the mat beside Oreo’s tiny back. The rain pattered against the roof you’d patched for them last monsoon. 

She wondered if you were listening to the same rain, wondering how many fish you’d have to catch to buy her a stage big enough to fit the voice she’d let you hear behind the chapel.

At twelve, there was no need to name what sat between you.

It was enough that she sang.

It was enough that you stayed.

—☆

You and Sophia grew older, but the island stayed the same— rough nets, brackish wind, roofs patched with whatever the last storm hadn’t stolen. 

Her voice stayed soft at first, school recitals, town fiestas, small blessings from the chapel’s cracked pulpit. But she wanted more, and everyone knew it.

Sophia studied late, candle flickering as she wrote out lyrics in the margins of her homework. You sat nearby, mending fishing lines, your shoulders stooped from hauling crates at dawn. 

Sometimes Luz pretended to sleep, but her eyes cracked open just enough to catch Sophia watching you, the way you pressed your palm over your sister’s forehead to check for fever before you went back to your work.

In the daylight, the older folk whispered louder: "That one, the quiet one, always following Sophia around. That voice is too big for here. You’ll see. One will break the other, you watch."

But there was nothing to break yet. Just days spent elbow to elbow, knees brushing under the school table, her head tipping onto your shoulder when she drifted off waiting for Basil to fetch her.

She dreamed of the mainland. She told you so. Late nights under the chapel wall, stars so close you could taste salt and sky on your tongue.

You listened.

Always.

You told her if she ever wanted to go, you’d help. You’d save. You’d brag. You’d be the fool shouting her name from the pier.

"Don’t forget us," you said once, and Sophia laughed like you’d told her a joke, not the truth.

Sophia woke before the rooster crowed. She always did now, half from habit, half from the heavy weight under her ribs that no longer let her sleep straight through the night.

She lay there on her thin mat, the woven one Carla rolled out beside the small bamboo bed Basil claimed when he was home. Oreo’s feet were pressed to her hip, warm and twitching in his dreams.

Through the gaps in the nipa walls, Sophia could hear the ocean hushing against the rocks— that constant voice that had sung her to sleep since before she knew what a map was.

Carla’s voice rose in the next room, not words, not yet, just that soft scrape of slippers on the wooden floor, the hush of the kettle rattling on the charcoal stove. The smell of cheap coffee drifted in, sharp enough to tug her fully awake.

Sophia pushed Oreo’s foot aside gently and sat up. She rolled her shoulders, pressed her palm flat to her chest. The weight was there, the feeling of running away for her dream.

She felt it. The weight heavy as a stone against her breastbone.

She slipped outside before Carla could call for her. The air was still purple, that soft hush of a moment before the sun cracked the horizon and painted everything too bright to hide in. She stepped off the bamboo landing onto the packed dirt, cold under her soles. The pump creaked as she leaned on it, chin resting on her knees.

She almost didn’t hear you. Your steps were always quiet. 

A learned thing from years of slipping out before dawn to pull nets while your father still snored in the corner of your shack. Maybe because you never needed to announce yourself to her. You just appeared. Like salt in the air. Like the tide, always there whether she saw you or not.

You stopped a few feet away, half-hidden by the spindly papaya tree Basil planted when Sophia was ten. Its broad leaves threw your face into shadow. You didn’t speak. Neither did she.

Instead, Sophia watched you roll your shoulders back, easing a basket off your back. The smell of the ocean clung to you— fish scales, wet rope, that faint tang of sweat that always made her throat tighten before she could stop herself.

You lifted the basket just enough for her to see the glint of silver inside, a half-dozen bangus, eyes still clear. A good haul. A blessing, some old women would say.

Sophia didn’t say it aloud, but she felt the small knot in her chest loosen when you caught her eye and tipped your chin at the fish.

“For your ma,” you said, voice quiet as always. Rough edges smoothed by sleep, by salt, by that unspoken thing that always lived between you.

Sophia pressed her lips together. She stood, brushed the dust off her knees, and stepped forward until she could smell the brine rising from the basket. She didn’t take it. She just looked at your hands— rough, knuckles scraped raw where the rope had bitten deep. She wanted to take your wrist, turn it over, press her thumb into each callus like a prayer.

Instead, she said, “Stay for coffee?”

You shook your head. That small smile — the one that said I wish I could. The one that made her want to grab your face and press her forehead to yours until every unspoken word bled out into the dawn.

“Next time,” you said.

Sophia nodded. She didn’t watch you leave. She knew the way you moved by heart — the quiet stoop of your shoulders, the way your steps went soft when you passed the sleeping houses, careful not to wake babies or barking dogs.

Later, Carla took the bangus without comment. She’d clean them at the cement slab behind the pump, scales flying like silver confetti when the knife hit bone. 

Basil would scowl when he found out, "You shouldn’t take charity from them," he’d mutter, but he’d eat the fish anyway, rice packed tight to make it last.

Basil does not trust you. Not really. 

Not because you’ve done anything wrong— you haven’t, but because he knows how small islands are: everyone knows everyone else’s secrets long before they become confessions.

He sees how your eyes drift toward Sophia when she hums under her breath, a tune she says she doesn’t remember the words to. He sees the way you walk her home when the sun dips, letting Oreo run ahead to chase dragonflies so you can buy a few extra minutes beside her.

To Basil, you are another net cast too wide. Another thing that could tangle his sister’s feet when she tries to run.

Once, in late August, when typhoon season made the nights restless and the days heavy with thunder waiting to break, you found her sitting on the chapel steps after school. Her skirt was muddy at the hem. Her braid was undone.

You sat beside her without asking. Waited.

“I got in trouble,” she said finally. She didn’t look at you, only at the horizon, where the sea met the bruised sky.

“For what?” you asked. You nudged her knee with yours.

She shrugged, small and stubborn. “Talking back. Teacher said singing’s not a lesson. Said I should learn to sew instead.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Instead, you pulled your bag around and dug out a piece of paper.

It was nothing fancy— a torn corner from your father’s old logbook. On it, you’d scribbled words. A song you’d heard her hum, half-remembered lines you’d tried to catch.

Sophia turned, brow furrowed as you pressed the paper into her palm. “What’s this?”

“It’s yours,” you said.

“If you forget it, I’ll remember. I’ll keep it for you.”

She stared at your handwriting. It was clumsy, letters crooked and fat. But she smiled. Folded the paper so carefully it made your chest ache.

“You’re stupid,” she whispered, but her voice trembled like a prayer.

“Yeah,” you whispered back, smiling through the ache.

“For you.”

The night before her birthday, she sat by the bamboo steps again, knees hugged tight to her chest, salt wind tugging loose strands from her braid. 

The sea was restless tonight, waves lapping at the stilts, whispering secrets to the mangroves. Inside, Carla’s voice rose and fell with the rhythm of water sloshing in a plastic basin, the same old lullaby she hummed every night, half prayer, half wish. Soap bubbled and hissed on cracked tiles. 

The glow from the kerosene lamp inside spilled through the gaps in the woven walls, soft and flickering, turning the shadows of her mother’s bent shoulders into shapes that danced across the dirt yard.

You were there, crouched low by the old hand pump behind her house. The iron handle squeaked when you pushed it down, water dripping onto your bare feet, but you didn’t mind.

Between your knees rested your father’s battered fishing net — rough twine knotted and re-knotted so many times it was more patch than original now. You pushed the tiny mending needle through another tear, the twine biting your thick fingertips, your big hands awkward around something so small.

Between you, that tiny flame burned in its glass bottle, chasing back just enough dark for you to see each other but not enough to scare away the hush you both needed.

“You should sleep,” you murmured, eyes on the torn mesh, voice low so it wouldn’t carry past the bamboo wall.

Sophia didn’t look at you. She pressed her chin tighter to her knees, eyelids fluttering shut like she could fold herself into something smaller, slip between the floorboards, drift out to sea. 

“What if I do and wake up the same?”

Your hand paused, needle halfway through the twine. “Same what?”

She lifted her eyes, dark as tide pools, and flicked them toward the window where her mother’s shape hunched over the basin. Carla’s shoulders rose and fell, that song slipping between her teeth like breath she couldn’t hold in.

“Sweeping floors that don’t stay clean,” Sophia said, voice muffled against her skin. “Singing songs no one pays to hear.”

The air between you filled with things you didn’t know how to say— the truths too big for your tongue, the promises you couldn’t make. 

You didn’t say Of course you won’t. 

You didn’t say Stay. 

Instead, you tugged the needle through with a careful pull, like if you stitched that net tight enough, no holes left for the fish to slip through, then maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t slip through yours either.

You worked in silence until the salt wind turned your knuckles stiff. Then, with your free hand, you reached into the pocket of your threadbare shorts— your fingers fumbling past bits of twine, a rusty fishhook, a chipped marble Luz had given you. You pulled out your secret: a mango, small, soft on one side where it had bruised from pressing against your hip all evening.

You held it out to her, the lamp’s glow catching the gold of its skin, the bruise dark as spilled ink. She stared at it, then at you, eyes wide like you’d handed her something rare and glittering. Maybe you had.

“For your birthday,” you said, and your voice cracked just enough that you ducked your head, pretending the net demanded your full attention.

Sophia let out a laugh— not the bright kind she shared with Luz when they raced down the pier, not the polite kind she gave the old men when they pinched her cheek and told her she’d grow up pretty like her mother.

This one was quieter, softer, like she was afraid the night would swallow it whole. She cupped the mango in both hands like it might break open if she held it wrong.

“You’re supposed to save that for Luz,” she teased, but her thumbs kept circling the bruise.

You shrugged, tugging another knot tight. “She’s asleep. She’d give it to you anyway.”

The wind gusted, carrying the faint brine of the sea. The lamp flame guttered but held. Inside, Carla’s song ended. The hush that came after pressed close around you both.

“Thank you,” Sophia whispered.

Her eyes flicked up to yours, and for a moment you saw it, the part of her she kept hidden under jokes and bright laughter: the part that was so scared of staying, so scared of leaving, so hungry to be seen. 

She wanted to say for this— but also for all of it: for standing in front of her when the pier boys whistled too loud, for waiting by the gate when the rain turned the path to sludge, for fixing nets that wouldn’t hold fish but might hold her, for never asking her for anything she couldn’t give.

She dug her teeth into the mango’s skin, peeling it back with short, fierce tugs. Juice dribbled down her chin, sweet and sticky, catching the lamplight.

You didn’t look, you never stared when she was soft like this, open and unguarded, mouth pressed to sweetness like it was the first thing she’d ever tasted that was just hers.

When she was done, she licked the juice from her wrist and you wordlessly handed her the rag tucked into your waistband. She wiped her mouth, her hands, her knees where the mango dripped.

Inside, Carla called her name “Sophia! Tulog na!” (Sophia! Its time to sleep!) voice rough from too many nights bent over cold water.

Sophia stood, feet bare, soles crusted with dirt and dust and mango pulp. She looked at you, eyes bright in the flicker of the lamp.

“Sing tomorrow,” you said. It wasn’t a question.

It wasn’t even really a request. It was a promise you’d already carved into the night, a truth you’d built plank by plank behind your father’s shed.

When the sun rose, hot and golden and heavy with her name— you led her there. Not a real stage, not the kind she dreamed of when she traced posters of Manila singers with her fingertip, mouthing the words in secret. 

But a stage enough: three old pallets stacked behind your father’s boat shed where the grown-ups wouldn’t see. Luz had helped, barefoot in the mud, stringing capiz shells you’d scavenged from broken lanterns. They swayed and clinked above the planks, tiny bells ringing each time the breeze stirred.

Sophia stepped up barefoot, arms spread wide for balance when the wood creaked under her weight. She looked down at you where you stood in the grass, hands shoved in your pockets so she wouldn’t see how they trembled.

“You gonna watch?” she joked, one eyebrow arched, half daring you to look away.

“Always,” you said, and you meant it so hard it made your chest hurt.

Sophia didn’t know what to say anymore, so she sang. For you. 

When she sang— god, when she sang, her voice was bigger than the sea, bigger than the salt wind, bigger than the roofs patched with tarp and the nets with too many holes. You just sat there, cross-legged in the dirt, eyes locked on her the whole time.

She kept looking back at you, like every note she let fly into the capiz-bell air was for you to catch. Like if you caught enough of them, maybe she’d stay just a little longer.

Maybe she’d believe you when you said Sing. Maybe she’d believe in herself the way you did, in secret, behind stitched nets and bruised mangoes and a voice that deserved a bigger stage than this.

She sang until her throat went raw, until the shells stopped clinking, until the dusk pressed close again— but the hush after wasn’t empty this time.

It was full of her voice, your hands, your promise: Always.

“You were good,” you told her, same quiet voice as always.

She wanted more— wanted you to say You're mine. 

Wanted you to pull her close the way boys from the city did in the movies that flickered once a year on the barangay projector. But you only stood there, hands stuffed deep in your pockets, the chapel’s broken cross leaning over you like it might listen too.

“Better than here,” you added, softer. Like it cost you something to say it true.

Sophia laughed— small, sharp, half-hopeful. “You think so?”

You nodded, shoulders brushing hers when she stepped closer. “They’ll come for you one day.”

She thought you might kiss her then. Maybe she’d have let you. Maybe she’d have kissed you first. But Luz’s voice cut through the dark, “Tama na yan! Ma says come home!” (That's enough! Ma says come home!) and the moment slipped again, just like always.

“Sing” You said. You gave her a smile, that stupid grin that somehow always find its way in her mind.

That’s when she wished you kissed her instead of the taste of the mango that stayed on her lips. 

Sophia pressed her palms together as you left, the warmth of your nearness fading into the soft hiss of the ocean. She whispered the same thing she always did, to herself, to the wind, to whatever dream still listened:

“Someday I’ll go. Someday I’ll take this voice where it belongs.”

She didn’t know yet that you were already planning to help her do it— even if it meant you’d stay behind.

By fifteen, Sophia’s voice could no longer stay small.

Sophia was growing. Taller, surer.

The other girls in the village traded gossip about boys with bicycles and cousins from the city. Sophia only listened, smiling politely, never saying much. When they asked if she liked anyone, she’d shrug and twist her braid around her fingers.

They never asked you. They didn’t need to.

She still sang behind the chapel when she could, but the notes didn’t fit in its cracked stone walls the way they used to. Sometimes, on windless evenings, Carla would hush her from the kitchen doorway— “Sophia, the neighbors will hear.” As if they hadn’t already. As if the island didn’t carry whispers farther than the tide ever reached.

You were there for all of it, the way a rock is there, same place, same shape, weathered but unbroken. Just months older, still. Just enough to call yourself older, sometimes, when you’d stand in front of her if the boys at the pier called out her name too rough, their laughter oil-slick and mean. She’d roll her eyes, tell you she could handle herself, and she could.

But she liked that you tried.

She liked that your hands, rougher now, still held her books when hers were too full. That Luz would nudge her ribs when she caught her watching you across the schoolyard, a grin pulling at her face like she knew every secret Sophia hadn’t said yet.

Still, she sang.

Still, you waited.

Sometimes she forgot you in the dream, the stages, the lights, the sharp smell of Manila smog she’d never even tasted yet but already craved. 

She’d catch herself humming a tune too new for the island’s old ears. Then she’d look up and there you were. Always there. Salt on your clothes, rope burns on your fingers, steady as the tide.

She wondered if you ever hated her for it.

If you ever wanted to say Pick me instead.

But you never did. 

You stood beside the gossip. You stood against the ones who muttered "She’s too proud for us now." 

You stood at her shoulder when Señora Reyes’s niece hissed that Sophia thought herself better than the rest. You never needed to fight. Your silence was enough.

Sometimes, at night, she’d see Luz perched on the step outside your house— hair loose, eyes bright. Sophia would sit beside her, shoulder to shoulder. Luz never asked if she’d go. 

She didn’t have to. She just squeezed Sophia’s hand and whispered: "Don’t forget what you’re leaving. And who you’re leaving it for."

Sophia dreams of the mainland, so bad. So hopeful. And she does not keep this secret well.

At night, when the kerosene lamp flickers low, she lies belly-down on the bamboo floor, elbows propped on an old magazine someone left behind at the mayor’s house.

The pages are wrinkled with salt air but the pictures still hold: tall buildings, girls in skirts and ribbons, people sitting in red velvet seats while a woman on stage lifts her arms and sings to a room gone silent.

Carla sees the magazine once, snatches it from under Sophia’s elbow. "What will you do there?" she scoffs. 

"Sing for who? They don’t care about island girls." She tosses it aside but Sophia retrieves it after, smoothing the torn corners like a prayer.

Sophia hated the island for how small it made everything.

Her voice, her dream— even the way she felt about you. It was too big to fit here, too big to say out loud, so she tucked it under her tongue and let it hum inside her chest when she lay awake at night.

By seventeen, Sophia’s name had slipped past the island’s cracked roads and found its way to other shores. Just a whisper, just enough. The Laforteza girl, they said. The one who can sing like that.

It started with the town fiestas, the borrowed stage near the basketball court, the fairy lights strung too low, so her hair brushed them when she bowed. The men who ran the mic through an old speaker said she didn’t even need it because her voice carried without it.

Then it was the weddings— the fishermen’s daughters who begged her to sing as they walked up the aisle, the uncles who slipped her folded pesos after, hush money so she wouldn’t tell anyone they cried when she hit the high notes.

Sometimes she’d catch herself watching the horizon when she sang. The sea turning gold at dusk. The far-off smudge of the mainland. There, she’d think, as the claps faded. That’s where this voice really belongs.

She felt it even more when she looked at you.

Still there, always — half-smile, arms crossed when you leaned on the fence by the makeshift stage. She could pick your face out of any crowd. Could hear your voice when everyone else’s drowned in praise.

“You were good, Piya.”

Like it was simple.

Like it was truth.

Sometimes she wanted you to say more. You’re mine. Stay here. Choose me.

But you never did. You clapped when you were meant to clap. Waited by the chapel if she finished late. Walked her home when Basil couldn’t come get her. Held her elbow when the path was too dark.

But never once asked her to stop dreaming.

The island kept its eyes on her. The old ladies by the store changed their tone, half praise, half poison.

“She thinks she’s better than us.”

“Just wait, she’ll come back crying.”

“Pretty voice can’t buy you a ticket off a boat, you know.”

Sophia pretended not to hear.

But the gossip clung to her hair like smoke. Sometimes she’d sit on the steps at home, listening to Basil argue with Godfrey "She should go, help Ma, help us. She deserves it, you know that." while Carla sat by the stove, silent, eyes on the flame, mouth a line she didn’t open unless she had to.

Oreo, bigger now but still baby-faced, would curl up beside her knees. “Sing, Ate.”

She would, soft enough not to wake the rest. Her voice like a lullaby for all the things she didn’t have the courage to say out loud.

Luz saw it all. She’d stand behind you sometimes, arms crossed like yours, a crooked grin under her nose. “When are you two gonna stop pretending?” she’d whisper if Sophia ever glanced too long your way. Sophia would hush her, toss her a scrap of dried mango just to make her laugh.

One night, after another fiesta where her voice rang so clear they said the crickets stopped to listen, she found you waiting on the pier. The sky was black silk, the waves gnawing at the boats tied to the posts.

“You’ll leave soon,” you said. Not a question. Not even sad. Just true, the way you said everything.

Sophia hugged her arms to her chest. The salt wind tangled her hair.

“Not yet,” she said, even though part of her wanted to say yes. Tonight. Take me tonight.

"I know it. I'm sure."

You looked at her then, that look that hadn’t changed since the day behind the chapel— the look that said you’d carry any secret she asked you to, even this wanting that didn’t have a name yet.

“And when you do,” you said, voice steady,

“I’ll tell everyone I knew it first. That I heard you sing before they did.”

Sophia’s throat ached. She wanted to tell you that you were enough. That the island wasn’t. That both things could be true. But all she did was nod.

You walked her home in silence. Luz peeked through the half-closed window when you reached the steps, big grin, quick wave, like she could tie you both together with just that.

You didn’t touch Sophia’s hand.

You didn’t need to.

Inside, Carla stirred in her sleep. Basil muttered her name once from his mat. Oreo, tiny fist curled under his chin, breathed soft beside the door.

Sophia lay awake until the roosters cried. Listening to the wind, the hush of waves, and somewhere beneath all that, the steady, impossible promise of your voice: "I knew it first. I’ll be proud of you, Piya. I’ll stay."

The island felt too tight around her ribs— like a blouse she’d outgrown but still had to wear every day because there was nothing else in the chest. 

Her name floated on salt wind, stitched between rumors and praise. The Laforteza girl who can sing. The one you call Piya when you’re close enough to know her mother’s voice or her father’s salt-rough hands.

She sang. At cousin’s weddings where the cake melted faster than the candles burned. At funerals too when the old ladies insisted her hymns could soften the ache in a widow’s bones. Sometimes she’d catch her own echo bouncing off the chapel’s tin roof and think: Is this really it?

She didn’t say that to anyone. Not even to you.

You, who brought leftover pandesal from the bakery your uncle owned, always warm, always wrapped in the paper the school used for quizzes. She’d laugh when she saw the scribbles— Luz’s handwriting practicing spelling words while your mother rolled dough in the dark.

It was Luz who said it first, like she always did. “One day you’ll eat fancy bread in the city, Ate Piya. You’ll forget our dusty pandesal.”

Luz’s eyes glittered when she teased, but something quiet flickered underneath, an understanding, maybe, that Sophia would leave them all one day.

Sophia hushed her with a pat on the head. Luz swatted her hand away; she hated being treated like a baby now that she was twelve, but she didn’t deny it. Neither did Sophia.

When the scout came, Sophia didn’t see him at first. He wasn’t the sort you’d notice if you weren’t looking: lean and sharp-eyed, hair slicked back like the men on the radio news. He stood at the back near the food stalls, shoes too clean for the muddy basketball court.

She was singing something she’d stolen from the radio, a slow ballad, words half-English, half-Tagalog, the kind that made the old folks nod and the young girls hush each other so they could hear. She felt the song roll out of her like smoke— heavier, sweeter than it had ever sounded in her head behind the chapel wall.

When she opened her eyes at the last note, she saw him; arms crossed, chin lifted, nodding like he was already somewhere else. When she stepped down, the sari-sari ladies whispered behind their hands: “He’s from Manila. He knows people.”

Sophia’s palms felt sticky when he stopped her by the church gate. He smelled like cheap cologne and city sweat. His smile was practiced but his eyes weren’t cruel.

He asked her name as if he didn’t already know. Told her what he did as if he wasn’t already doing it, measuring her, weighing her voice against some invisible scale she’d dreamed of all her life.

“You have potential, iha,” he said, voice slick as a new road.

“But here? You’ll drown.”

Sophia’s stomach twisted at that— not at the truth of it but at how simple he made it sound.

Like leaving would be as easy as changing her shoes. Like she didn’t have Basil’s scowl or Carla’s sighs or Oreo’s tiny hand curled around hers at night.

Like she didn’t have you.

She nodded anyway. “What happens next?”

He slipped her a scrap of paper with a city number on it. Folded small enough to lose, heavy enough to keep her awake. “We’ll talk. I’ll send someone.”

Someone. The word flared like a match in her chest. She tucked it deep in her pocket.

She didn’t tell you right away. She told Luz instead. Late one night when the rain drummed so loud on the tin roof it drowned out Basil’s snoring. Luz curled on her mat, half-asleep, hair sticking to her forehead.

“Don’t tell them yet,” Sophia whispered, voice raw as the wind. “Promise me.”

Luz squinted at her, one eye open, always sharper than she let on. “They already know.”

Sophia blinked. “No they don’t. How could Y/n—”

Luz turned away, burrowing deeper into her blanket. Her voice came soft but certain: “They always know.”

The next few days felt longer. The island seemed to lean in when she passed— heads turning, whispers skittering across doorways. Carla asked her to help with the laundry more, maybe to ground her to the concrete steps and rusted basins.

Basil stayed close when the men at the pier tried to joke about the singer girl leaving them behind. Oreo, too young to understand, only asked if she’d buy him a robot from the city when she came back.

And you.

You said nothing.

You were there, of course you were.

You brought fish when Godfrey’s nets were light. You helped Basil patch the holes in the roof when the rain threatened to spill inside. You stood behind her after Sunday mass when the old men teased her about singing in Manila someday. You never laughed at their jokes.

One night, she found you behind the chapel again.

Same crooked wall, same damp stone where she’d hidden her voice all those years ago. You were sitting there, knees up, arms resting on them. You didn’t startle when she came around the corner. You just patted the spot beside you like you’d been waiting for her.

Sophia sat. The cold stone seeped through her skirt. For a moment neither of you said anything.

The wind carried the smell of seaweed and old incense. A dog barked somewhere near the plaza. Luz’s laugh floated faint and distant, probably trailing the alleyways with the other kids.

Sophia tilted her head back, stared at the stars. So many, and none of them big enough to hold what she wanted to say.

“What if I go?” she asked.

Her voice came out softer than she meant— afraid, maybe, that if she said it too loud the dream would fly out and never come back.

You didn’t look at her. Just picked at a splinter in the wall. “Then you go.”

She felt her chest twist, a bright, sour ache. “Just like that?”

You shrugged. Your shoulder brushed hers. Warmth in the cold. “It’s what you want, right?”

Sophia’s mouth went dry. She wanted to say I want you too. 

Wanted to ask What if you asked me to stay? 

But your silence wrapped around her like the sea, familiar, patient, impossible to push against.

She pressed her forehead to her knees. The scout’s paper felt like it was burning a hole through her skirt pocket. When you stood to leave, she stayed there— small on the stone, the old chapel cross casting its crooked shadow across her back.

“I wish you’d tell me not to go.”

The words slipped out before she could catch them. They hung there— soft, bruised, impossible to swallow down. A tear escaped from her eyes.

You didn’t move. You didn’t flinch. After a heartbeat, she felt your palm on the back of her braid. Just resting there, warm. The smallest weight. The biggest promise.

“You’d hate me if I did,” you said, wiping her tears away.

And that was that.

When she finally went home, Luz was waiting on the step, feet bare, arms looped around her knees. “You told them?” she asked.

Sophia didn’t answer. Luz didn’t push. She never did.

Inside, Carla’s soft voice drifted through the crack under the door. Basil’s low snore. Oreo’s gentle breathing. Sophia pressed her palm to the wood, then to her chest. There’s not enough room for everything, she thought.

Something’s going to break.

Sophia’s world shrank and widened at once.

The scout’s promise tucked sharp in her pocket while the island pressed closer— eyes on her back, tongues wagging behind store counters and laundry lines. Her name tangled in whispers: "She’s leaving, she’s leaving, she thinks she’s better than us."

Sometimes, when she stepped out of the chapel after choir practice, she’d catch old Manang Sita peering over her glasses, lips pursed tight. If she lingered too long at the plaza after a wedding gig, she’d hear the fishermen mutter “Manila girl, too good for our fish now.”

But the same people who gossiped brought her mangoes from their trees, fish wrapped in old newspapers, rice in reused cans. They wanted to claim her before they lost her. Our girl.

Their ticket to brag about to the mainland. They didn’t say good luck.

They said don’t forget. Like a threat, soft at the edges.

—☆

It starts the same: the leak above Carla’s stove, your promise to fix it. The smell of rain clinging to the bamboo walls like a warning.

You’re up on the rickety stool, one foot braced against the post. The old hammer slips in your palm. Every time you hit the nail, the whole wall shivers. Basil’s at the table behind you, rolling a cigarette he won’t light — just turning it between his fingers, slow and mean.

You hear him exhale through his nose. The scrape of the matchbox against the wood, the soft click when he tosses it aside unused.

“You done yet?” he says, voice flat but sharp enough to draw a line through your spine.

“Almost.” You don’t look at him. You want this nail in straight. You want this leak gone. You want something, anything— to stay fixed when so much else is splitting at the seams.

When you finally step down, you wipe the sweat from your neck with the hem of your shirt. Basil’s watching you. Not moving. The unlit cigarette sits in the crack between his fingers like an accusation.

“You don’t have to pay me back,” you say before he can start. You mean it like a peace offering, but you know better than to think it’ll land that way tonight.

Basil laughs. A short, sharp bark. He flicks the cigarette at the table and it rolls off, hits the dirt floor. “I know I don’t. That’s the whole problem, isn’t it?”

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He leans back in the chair, arms crossed, chin lifted like he’s weighing whether to bother. But he can’t stop himself. He never could when it came to her.

“It means you think you’re doing us favors,” he says, low but bitter. “But you’re not. You’re just building debts she’s gonna break herself paying off.”

You bristle. “I never asked her—”

“Oh don’t,” Basil snaps, voice rising. He jabs a finger toward the back wall, toward the dark behind it, the yard, the shed, the ghost of that day neither of you talks about.

“Don’t stand there like your innocent. You think I didn't see? Huh? Her fifteenth birthday? That stupid stage behind your father’s boat? Those broken pallets you dragged there so she could stand on them like she was bigger than this island?”

Your mouth goes dry. Of course he saw that. The three creaking planks. The capiz shells Luz strung up. The hush in the grass when Sophia stepped up barefoot, arms spread like she could balance the whole sea in her chest.

“She wanted it,” you say, because it’s the only truth you have that doesn’t taste like guilt.

“She deserved it.”

Basil’s laugh is meaner this time, too loud for the hour, for the thin walls that keep Carla half-asleep behind the curtain. “She deserved it? Or you did? You wanted to be the one who gave it to her. The first stage. The first taste. So she’d remember you when she leaves us here rotting in salt and fish guts—”

Your hands ball up. You step closer. “That’s not fair.”

“No?” Basil rises so fast his chair tips, hits the wall with a dull thud.

Oreo stirs in his sleep, mumbles something, but doesn’t wake. Basil’s nose is inches from yours now, you smell the salt on him, the stale pier mud, the rage that’s been fermenting in his belly for years.

“You think I didn’t see you that night?” he hisses.

“When she came home with her feet black from the mud behind that shed? When Ma asked where she’d been, she lied. Said she was studying with Luz. Said she was helping Carla fold the laundry. She lied for you. You think she ever lied for me? For any of us?”

Your throat burns. You want to shove him back— or yourself. Anything to make the truth stop digging into your ribs. But you stand there. You always stand there.

“I just wanted her to sing,” you say. Small, soft, pathetic.

Basil sneers. “Yeah? Well, now she will. She’ll sing on stages you’ll never touch. You’ll still be here, patching my roof when it leaks, dragging half your heart behind you like an anchor. And she’ll thank you for it— from the city, from a stage with lights so bright she won’t even see your face at the back.”

You suck in a breath. You want to spit something back— Better that than her stuck here washing your plates forever. But it curdles on your tongue. You both know you’d never say it that cruel, not even if you should.

He presses in, voice dropping low, meaner for how soft it comes. “I saw you the other night. By the chapel. You think you’re secret? You think she doesn’t come home with your salt on her hair? With your name stuck in her teeth like a splinter?”

He leans back just enough to look you in the eyes, and there’s something in him that cracks a little, like maybe he hates that he’s saying it, hates that it’s true.

“Don’t stand there acting holy. You want her chained here same as me. Only difference is you’re too much of a coward to say it out loud.”

That lands. It cuts so clean you almost thank him for it. Almost.

When you don’t answer, Basil shakes his head— bitter smile slicing sideways across his tired face. He snorts, gestures at the door.

“You want to help? Then let her go. Really let her. No more nets behind the boat shed. No more fish at the door at dawn. No more ‘Piya, sing it again.’ Because she will sing it. And she’ll stay. And we’ll bury her right here under a roof you keep patching for the rest of her life.”

Outside, the rain starts in earnest, hissing down on the tin like applause. Inside, the roof you just fixed drips anyway, a slow pat-pat-pat that mocks you both.

You stare at Basil’s chest, the rising, falling. You wonder how he holds all that fear and rage in ribs that look too thin for it. You wonder what it feels like to love her with your whole throat bared instead of buried in your teeth.

You open your mouth. No words come. Just her name, stuck under your tongue where it’s always been.

Basil sees it— sees you.

He steps back, turns away. The fight’s gone out of him, but the wound stays open.

“You don’t get to act like you’re her hero,” he mutters, picking up the fallen cigarette, flicking it away into the corner where it rolls under the stove. 

And when the curtain rustles, Carla’s soft voice half-asleep behind it. Neither of you moves to explain why the hammer’s still in your hand or why the leak keeps dripping anyway.

You do not tell Sophia how you feel. There is no room for it.

The island is small, but its silences are huge, echoing from one nipa roof to another. To want her out loud would be to dare the sea to laugh at you. To say stay when her heart whispers go would be selfish in a way you were never raised to be.

So you wait.

You carry her books. You walk her home. You let Basil glare holes into your back and pretend you don’t see. You help Oreo chase the goats out of the garden. You sit on the steps of her house when Carla comes home late from scrubbing someone else’s floors and offer to help fix the loose hinge on their door.

Sophia watches you sometimes, chin in her palm, hair falling into her eyes. She never says don’t.

She never says do.

She just smiles, and you take it. You take what is given, piece by piece.

The scout came back twice that month, the second time with a pamphlet creased and soft from his coat pocket. The picture on it made Sophia’s throat go tight— a stage big enough to swallow her voice whole and send it flying back tenfold. Lights brighter than any fiesta lantern.

A crowd faceless but hungry. "This," he told her, pointing, "could be you. But only if you come soon. Before they find another girl who wants it more."

Sophia held the paper so tight she left fingerprints in the gloss.

Her mother never saw it, or maybe she did, but Carla only looked through Sophia those days, eyes sunk deep with prayers she never voiced. Basil did see it. He snatched it from her once, late one night when she thought everyone was asleep.

He was taller now, broad-shouldered, sunburnt. His hands shook when he held the pamphlet up between them under the glow of a single bulb.

“Go.” he said. One word.

Sophia’s eyes widened, “Go? What do you mean—”

“I saved up some money and you’ll go. When the scout comes back, he’ll probably be here, and I’ll fight Ma, and Pa, for you to go” he said sternly. He put his calloused hands on Sophia’s shoulder, he felt it shake, tears were brimming in her eyes.

He squeezed her shoulder once, not gentle, not rough either, just enough that she’d feel the weight of it for years after. His thumb dug into her collarbone, like he could press the truth into her bones so deep it wouldn’t wash out with the tide.

“You think this place will keep you?” Basil said. His voice broke in the middle, a crack that made Sophia flinch.

He hated that— hated that she heard it. So he cleared his throat, looked past her, at the door she’d have to walk through if she listened. “You think Y/n will keep you?”

Sophia shook her head, slow, deliberate. “I never said—”

“You don’t have to,” Basil cut in. He let the pamphlet flutter to the floor between them — the stage, the lights, her name not yet printed but already promised. He cupped the back of her neck, rough palm on soft skin.

“I see it. I see you. I see Y/n. I see what you’re both too scared to say.”

She bit her lip. Her hands came up like she might hold his wrists, push him away, pull him closer, she didn’t know which. She didn’t touch him at all in the end. Just looked at him, wide-eyed and stinging. “Basil—”

“Promise me,” he said. His voice was so low it barely scraped the walls.

“Promise me when you go, you don’t come back just ‘cause they ask you to.”

Sophia’s throat bobbed. She tried to speak— a yes, a no, anything, but the word stuck to her tongue the same way yours did when she brushed past you on the steps, when she smiled like maybe she knew, maybe she didn’t.

He let her go. Stepped back.

His eyes went somewhere far, out past the walls, past the banana trees swaying under the moon. Out where the water lapped at the same shore he’d fish tomorrow, the same shore he’d curse when it stole his nets again.

“Basil—” she tried again.

He turned before she could finish, already halfway to the door, his back a warning and a blessing all at once. “Get some sleep. The scout comes at dawn.”

When he was gone, Sophia bent down to pick up the pamphlet. It was crumpled now, salt smudging the corner where Basil’s thumb had pressed too hard. She traced the edge of the stage pictured there; all lights and shadows she’d never touched but always dreamed about.

Outside, she heard the wind shift, rain threatening again, the island sighing under its weight.

She didn’t move. The island didn’t move. The rain came anyway.

In the dark, Sophia folded the paper once, twice, until it fit in the pocket of her old school skirt. She pressed it flat over her thigh, wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand.

The scout would come. Basil would fight. Carla would pray. 

And Sophia— she would stand on that stage, barefoot if she had to, salt on her skin, your name buried somewhere deep in the hollow of her throat.

She would sing like she owed the island nothing but a song, and maybe, just maybe, she’d believe it.

The scout came at dawn, just like Basil said.

The tide barely high enough to nudge his boat up the sand. He smelled of cheap cologne and stale coffee, but he carried himself like the whole mainland waited in his back pocket. His shoes sank in the wet earth as he crossed the yard, stepping over the chicken that skittered out of his way.

Carla saw him first through the half-open door, broom stilled mid-sweep, sweat already darkening her collar. Basil stood behind her, arms folded tight, shoulders squared against the doorframe like he could block the scout with his shadow alone.

Godfrey was at the table. He rose slow, heavy, like something carved out of the same wood the scout’s folder was pressed against.

Beside him, Oreo sat swinging his feet under the bench, eyes darting from his father to the stranger, a crust of rice still stuck to his lip.

Sophia lingered at the far corner of the room. Her hair was half-tied, uneven, her skirt ironed flat under her palm. She gripped that same pamphlet Basil had shoved back at her the night before, now creased soft at the edges, like it had slept under her pillow.

“Good morning,” the scout said, teeth bright as fish bones.

He tipped his chin at Carla first— an empty politeness, then at Godfrey, who hadn’t moved but whose jaw worked once, twice, like he was chewing the taste of the man before him.

“You’re early,” Carla said, voice low, broom braced against her hip like a spear.

The scout smiled through it. “Boat was on time. Better to get business done before the sun bites, ma’am.”

He flicked his eyes to Sophia, softer now, oily-sweet. “Miss Laforteza. You got my message, I hope?”

Sophia’s throat bobbed. She didn’t answer. Her hand crumpled the pamphlet tighter.

Godfrey shifted. He stepped forward, a slow drag of heel on floor. His shirt was half-buttoned, hair still wet from the pump outside. His eyes pinned the scout the way he’d pin a fish before gutting it.

“You have something to say to my daughter,” he said. Not a question.

The scout cleared his throat, the folder squeaked when he flipped it open.

A paper slid out— the photo of the city stage, the bright lights that made Sophia’s chest ache even now. Oreo leaned sideways, trying to peek. Basil shoved him back without looking.

“It’s all here, sir,” the scout said, smoothing the sheet with a palm.

“Auditions in two weeks. The studio’s ready to sponsor her transport — housing, too, if she signs. She’ll train, record, maybe even tour if she does well.”

“She’s seventeen,” Godfrey said, voice flat as tidewater.

The scout’s smile twitched. “Perfect age, sir. She’s got the voice, the face— she could be a name. You’ve heard her. Whole island heard her. Why keep it trapped here?”

He swept a hand at the thin walls, the leaking roof. “No offense.”

Basil barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “No offense,” he echoed, rolling the word on his tongue like fish bones he might spit at the scout’s shoes.

Carla’s broom tapped the floor once, twice. “How much?”

The scout turned, surprised. “Ma’am?”

“The money,” Carla said. Her eyes didn’t blink. “You promise so much. What’s the price?”

“No fee,” the scout said quickly, palms up. “No upfront. The studio covers it all. We invest in talent. She earns, we earn. She doesn’t— well, no loss to you.”

Godfrey’s nostrils flared. “Except my daughter.”

The scout shifted his weight. The folder, damp now at the edges from the wet air, slipped a little under his elbow. He tried to recover the sales pitch, but the house pressed in, too close for his city grin to hold its shape.

“You understand,” the scout said, voice smooth but the edge showing now, “this isn’t forever. She can come back. Holidays. If she makes enough, maybe bring you all—”

Carla barked a laugh so sudden Oreo flinched. She straightened up, broom bristles scraping the doorframe.

“Bring us all? To what? You think there’s room for us in your city? Who’ll gut the fish here? Who’ll watch the boats?”

The scout’s smile faltered, flicked from Carla’s lined face to Basil’s broad shoulders blocking the door, back to Sophia, whose eyes were down, lashes wet. He tried again anyway. “Ma’am, with respect—”

“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me,” Carla snapped. Her voice cracked like old bamboo in the sun.

“You come here when the cock’s not even crowed. You tell my girl you’ll give her the world— like it’s not her own voice that’ll pay for it all.”

Sophia shifted, the paper squeaking in her grip. Oreo whispered, too loud in the hush, “Ate, you're going to be on TV?”

Sophia didn’t answer. Basil reached over, thumbed Oreo’s ear rough enough to make him yelp. “Quiet.”

The scout pressed on. “Sir, ma’am— she’s special. You know it. The city’s hungry for voices like hers. She won’t get this chance again next year. There’ll be others, there always are— but there’s only one Sophia.”

The name sat in the air like wet ash.

Godfrey looked at Sophia then, really looked.

His eyes, the same deep-set brown as hers, flicked to her bare feet, her raw knuckles where she’d scrubbed fish guts off the basin last night.

He looked at Carla, who didn’t look back— her eyes pinned on the broom bristles like they might tell her if this was worth it.

Godfrey clears his throat. A sound like gravel caught behind his teeth. “She’s young,” he says, voice breaking on the last word.

“Too young for that city. Too many wolves.”

Basil’s chair scrapes as he turns on his father, not gentle, but not cruel either. “She’s young here too. Still sings for old drunks who toss coins in a tin can like that’s going to feed Ma’s rice pot.”

He gestures at Sophia, fierce now, fierce for her. “She’s got lungs bigger than this whole island. Let her go test them.”

The scout tries to cut in, all smooth again, all agreements and signatures, but Basil talks over him. “But don’t think you’ll come here again waving scraps like she’s some fish to gut. You want her voice, you give her more than a bus ticket and a pat on the back.”

Finally, Godfrey looked at Basil. His son, bigger now than he’d ever been, chest heaving like a tethered dog’s. The silence between them was thicker than the walls.

Godfrey spoke low. For Sophia, but for the scout too. “You want this?”

Sophia’s breath shivered. She nodded once— so slight it might’ve been the wind.

“Say it,” Basil growled. He stepped forward, past Carla’s broom, past Oreo’s wide stare.

“Say you want it. Out loud.”

Sophia’s mouth opened. Closed. The pamphlet crackled in her fist.

“I want it,” she whispered.

Oreo’s feet stilled. Carla’s shoulders sagged like she’d been struck. Basil’s eyes shone, something fierce, cracked, but he didn’t argue.

Not this time.

Godfrey nodded, a gesture carved out of stone. He turned to the scout.

“You take care of her.” His voice was ice, not a plea. A warning.

The scout dipped his chin, all glossy assurance. “Of course, sir. She’ll be a star.”

Outside, the first drops of rain pattered the roof, soft at first, then harder, until the whole house hummed with it.

Inside, nobody moved.

Basil’s fist tightened at his side. Carla’s broom slipped, thudded against the wall. Oreo tugged Sophia’s skirt, all wide-eyed, hopeful, but Sophia only stared at the scout’s folder like if she blinked, it’d vanish, and she’d be left here, barefoot in the mud, singing to a house that never stopped leaking.

Godfrey lifted his hand, calloused, cracked, still smelling of brine, and set it on Sophia’s shoulder. Not to stop her. Not to hold her back.

Just to feel her there, this once, before she went where his reach couldn’t follow.

The scout smiled, all teeth and promise. “Pack light, Miss Laforteza. The boat leaves in one week.”

The scout’s promise sits under Sophia’s tongue like a stone she can’t spit out.

He leaves and she hears the sound of her mother boiling rice, the smell of rain already leaking through the gaps in the bamboo walls.

She wants to sing. She doesn’t. She doesn’t know where to put her voice when it’s too big for these walls but still too small to say I’m leaving out loud.

Outside, the island hums like nothing’s changed. The rain drizzles lazy across the tin roof, dripping where the nail didn’t hold— the same leak you tried to fix just days ago.

Sophia hears you outside now, your footsteps scraping on the plank path behind her window, the familiar cough when you shift the hammer from one hand to the other.

She wonders if you know she’s awake. Wonders if you want her to come out, or if you’re just waiting for her to catch you waiting.

She doesn’t go out. Not yet.

She rolls onto her side and lets the rain spit its small applause into the bucket by her bed, one drop, two, three, like a clock counting down to when you’ll knock, or when she’ll have to say yes.

That first day, nobody talks about the city.

Carla stirs the rice, sets the table, braids Sophia’s hair so tight her eyes sting. Basil stands at the door like a guard dog who’s not sure which wolf to bite first.

Godfrey doesn’t look at her, not directly. Just once, when she hums under her breath without meaning to, he grunts, the sound carrying more weight than any prayer her mother might whisper later when she thinks the house is asleep.

When you come by that night, hammer hooked through your belt, offering to fix the hinge on the door again, Sophia stands in the kitchen doorway, bare toes pressed to the cool wood, and watches you watch her mother say no need.

She sees the way your shoulders curl inward, the small nod, the way your eyes skip past her like you don’t dare hold them too long.

You leave with the rain stuck to your back. Sophia wants to call you back, to say stay the way she never says go. But she doesn’t.

She watches the drip at the corner of the ceiling and listens for your footsteps to fade down the mud path, past the fence, into the hush.

It rains harder.

The island’s smell thickens— wet earth, old salt, fish skin clinging to the underside of the porch. Sophia pulls water up from the pump with Basil beside her.

His hands smell like rust and brine when he passes the bucket. He doesn’t look at her, just mutters, "Don’t slip," when she braces the heavy pail against her hip.

When she goes inside, she finds Oreo cross-legged on the floor, counting the coins in his tin can.

"Ate, can I come with you?" he asks, voice too bright, eyes too wide.

She freezes, the bucket handle digging into her wrist. "Where?" she says, as if she doesn’t know.

Oreo taps the pamphlet where it peeks from her skirt pocket. "The stage. Like the man said. I’ll clap for you, promise."

Sophia kneels, sets the bucket down hard enough the water sloshes onto her knee. She cups Oreo’s chin— thumb brushing the soft, sticky spot where he missed a crumb of breakfast.

"You have to stay here," she says. "Keep Kuya Basil company. Watch Ma. Help Papa fix the net."

Oreo pouts and pushes his nose into her palm like a kitten. "But who’ll clap if you get scared?"

Sophia laughs, too sharp at the edges. She pulls him close, his small ribs knocking hers, his hair damp from the rain she carried in. "I won’t be scared," she lies.

"Promise."

Outside the door, she hears your footsteps again.

She knows the shape of them— the way you drag your heel when you’re nervous, the little pause when you see the curtain move. She wants to stand, to run out, to show you Oreo’s soft head tucked under her chin like proof she belongs here.

She stays kneeling. Lets you pass. The sound of your hammer tapping something, anything— keeps her chest tight until it stops.

They don’t say it but they treat her softer.

Even Basil who used to bark at her for leaving the basin half-rinsed just picks up the soap when she forgets it, slaps it into her hand with no bite in his eyes.

Carla hums while she sweeps. A hymn, maybe— a prayer that tastes of salt and rust. Godfrey lingers longer at the table after dinner, palm flat on the wood where she sits, close, but not touching.

Sophia feels it all like new bruises. Kindness hurts more than fists sometimes. It says go when nobody’s mouth will.

It says take the boat.

It says don’t come back.

It says come back if you must, but don’t expect us to ask you to stay.

When you come again after dusk, when the crickets drown out the argument Basil pretends not to have with Godfrey under his breath, you knock once on the post beside the porch. Sophia sees you from the kitchen, your silhouette blurred by the soft lantern glow.

You don’t ask to come in. You just say her name, once. "Piya."

She hates how it tastes when you say it— soft, like you’re asking for something you don’t believe you deserve.

She stands behind the half-open door, fingers wrapped tight around the frame. She waits for you to say more. You don’t. You just stand there, hammer dangling useless in your hand.

When the rain starts again, you back away. You leave the nail you were going to drive into the door frame untouched. You leave her untouched, too.

Sophia dreams of the stage. Not the bright, clean one in the pamphlet, but the crooked one behind your father’s old boat shed. The one you built for her with three broken pallets nailed together. Capiz shells swinging from a line Luz strung up one summer before she left for good.

In the dream, she’s barefoot, feet black with mud, her skirt stuck to her knees from the salt air. She sings, but the words don’t come out.

Just sea wind and the soft hiss of rain on tin. When she looks down, she sees you in the grass, hammer in hand, mouth open like you’re trying to catch the notes she can’t give.

She wakes to Basil shaking her shoulder. "You were humming again," he mutters.

He doesn’t meet her eyes when he says it. Just walks back to the door, his shadow cutting the moonlight in half.

Sophia rolls onto her back and stares at the roof beam where you drove a nail two years ago, the one that never rusted because you wrapped it in plastic so the leak would slide around it instead of through it.

"A useless fix," Basil had called it. "A promise that drips anyway."

She thinks of your hands— rough, careful. She thinks of the way your eyes cut sideways when she catches you staring at her mouth.

She thinks of saying don’t fix it.

She thinks of saying fix me instead.

She doesn’t. She pulls the blanket over her head and hums into the dark where you can’t hear.

It’s late, the night drips slow through the nipa walls, the cicadas already asleep but the ocean never is.

You find her by the hand pump again, same as when you were fifteen, only this time she’s barefoot in her old school skirt, hem wet from the grass. She’s washing her slippers under the weak trickle of water, like it matters now, like the city will care if her toes are clean.

You stand a little behind her, hands stuffed in your pockets. You clear your throat once, twice— she doesn’t turn. She knows it’s you by the way the air shifts.

“You could let me,” you mumble, like an idiot.

Sophia keeps scrubbing the heel of her slipper with her thumb, eyes on the water pooling between her toes. “Let you what?”

You swallow. “Wash that. Do that. Anything.”

She laughs, it comes out tired, a small sound that gets lost under the pump’s rusted groan. She doesn’t stop scrubbing. “What’ll you do when I’m gone, huh? Wash your own slippers?”

You grin, but it doesn’t reach all the way. You kick the pump handle with the side of your foot.

Water splashes her ankle and she squeaks, smacks your shoulder with the wet slipper. You let her, you stand there dripping, eyes soft, letting the hush swallow what you don’t say.

Stay.

The last night tastes like salt. The wind pulls at Sophia’s braid the same way it did that birthday night years ago, stray hairs whip against her cheek, sticking to her lip. She doesn’t wipe them away. She lets the wind keep what it wants.

You’re here again at the edge of the clearing behind the old boat shed. Same hammer hooked through your belt, same slouch in your shoulders like the weight of the world is tucked somewhere under your ribs.

Your shirt clings damp to your spine where the sea spray has kissed it over and over. The capiz shells still hang above the three broken pallets you once nailed together for her fifteenth. They rattle like old bones every time the breeze sighs through.

Sophia stands a step behind you. She watches the way your hand grips the lantern’s thin handle, knuckles white, thumb tapping out a rhythm that matches the thrum in her chest. You don’t look at her yet.

You just stand there, half-turned toward the stage, eyes fixed on the broken planks like you might find the right words nailed there if you stare long enough.

The same hush as that night.

Except this time, she thinks, maybe you’ll say the thing you swallowed down back then. The thing that sat in the pit of your stomach every time you patched a net too torn to hold anything but hope.

She steps closer, soft crunch of wet grass, the hush of her bare soles brushing mud. She stops so close the lantern’s glow paints your profile in soft gold.

She sees the salt crusted in the corners of your eyes, the tiny cut on your thumb from where the hammer slipped two days ago.

Small things.

Real things.

She wants to kiss that salt, taste that iron, keep them tucked in her mouth when she goes.

You tilt your head, just enough that your eyes find hers. God. That look.

The same one you wore when you handed her that bruised mango— like you wanted to say mine but your mouth could only shape yours.

“Piya,” you say. You never call her that when you’re scared. It lands soft between her ribs, wedges itself under the skin.

Sophia folds her arms over her chest like she’s trying to hold in all the wanting that wants to spill out and drown you both.

“You gonna say it?” she asks, half teasing, half begging. Her voice cracks on the edge, the same way as yours did that night when you mumbled for your birthday and looked at your hands instead of her eyes.

You swallow. She watches your throat bob.

The hammer knocks against your hip when you shift your weight. You set the lantern on the damp grass, flex your fingers, curl them back into fists.

Then you say it— not like a shout, not like a whisper. Like a prayer you’ve had to practice a thousand times in your head just to make sure you wouldn’t forget the shape of it:

“I love you.”

The shells clink above her head— small applause. Sophia feels her knees want to fold. She presses her toes deeper into the wet dirt, tries to anchor herself to this patch of grass, this island that’s about to spit her out into the world she asked for.

You don’t stop there. Not this time. Not like back then when you held that mango out like an apology for all the ways you couldn’t keep her.

You step up onto the first plank of the stage, it creaks under your weight, same old song, and you reach for her hand.

Your palm is rough, warm, smells faintly of rust and salt. You don’t lace your fingers through hers, you just hold her wrist like you’re checking for a pulse, like you’re making sure she’s still here, still real.

“I’ve loved you since you stood right here,” you say, voice cracking on here like the wood might split with it.

“Since you looked at me and asked "You gonna watch?" and I didn’t know how to tell you I’d never stop watching, not even if the sea swallowed me whole.”

Sophia’s mouth parts, air sticks to the back of her tongue, thick with salt and something that tastes like grief but isn’t. Not really. She thinks: This is what a promise tastes like when it’s finally too big to stay secret.

You keep going— thumb brushing the inside of her wrist, back and forth, back and forth. A useless comfort for a goodbye that’s already cracking open your chest.

“I love you more than this island,” you say.

“More than the roof I keep fixing so it won’t drown you at night. More than the nails I keep driving into rotten wood just so you’d have somewhere to stand and sing.”

She wants to say Don’t stop.

Wants to say Tell me every part.

But her voice is stuck, caught in her teeth like the sea foam that gathers at the edge of the mangroves. So she just stands there, breathing your confession in like salt wind.

Your forehead bumps hers, soft, clumsy, your breath ghosting over her lips. You don’t kiss her, not yet, maybe never— because if you kiss her now she might stay, and you want her to go.

“Piya,” you whisper again, softer now, a hush tucked under her name.

“You have to go. You have to. If you stay— if you stay because I said this— I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

She pulls her hand free just enough to press her palm flat against your chest. Your heart knocks so loud she swears it echoes up her arm, makes her ribs buzz like she’s holding a bird that wants out.

“Say it again,” she breathes. It’s half a demand, half a plea. Like that mango, a bruise she wants to press until the sweetness leaks out.

You smile— crooked, wet-eyed, that stupid grin that’s always looked like a promise. “I love you,” you say again, a nail driven in deeper than any you’ve ever hammered into these planks.

“I love you enough to want you gone from here. I love you enough to stand here and watch you leave me behind.”

The shells clatters, the wind picks up, slaps at the loose ends of her braid. The sea roars somewhere behind the mangroves like it’s listening, like it wants to swallow your voice and carry it with her when she goes.

Sophia tips her chin up, nose brushing yours. Her other hand comes up and cups your jaw, thumb grazing the stubble you always forget to shave when you’re too busy fixing other people’s broken things.

She wants to say to you I love you back.

Wants you to say Take me with you.

Wants you to say Stay.

But you’d hate her for it, or maybe she'd hate you for it. And she loves you too much to let you hate her for anything.

So instead, she leans in— presses her mouth to your cheek, right where the salt has crusted under your eye. She kisses it away. Lets it sting her lips. Lets it taste like every promise you never spoke until now.

“Always?” she whispers, pulling back just enough that you have to look at her. Have to see the way she’s shaking but standing anyway.

You nod, a single jerk of your chin, like you’re hammering the word into the space between you. “Always.”

And then because you’re you— you ruin it in the gentlest way: you tuck a stray strand of her hair behind her ear.

Same way you used to do when you found her half-asleep on the bamboo steps, dreaming songs too big for this island.

“I’ll fix the roof tomorrow,” you murmur.

A lie.

A wish.

A promise you won’t get to keep.

Sophia laughs, the sound cracks on her teeth. She kisses your jaw, your neck, the corner of your mouth.

Not a real kiss— just enough to taste you, enough to carve you into the soft of her tongue where no stage lights will ever find you.

Then she pulls back. She steps off the planks, bare feet sinking into the grass. The lantern flickers at your feet. The capiz shells swing wild overhead, a final applause, a last hush.

You watch her go, mouth open like you’re about to call her name again, beg her to turn around. But you don’t.

Because you love her.

And this is how you prove it.

The path back to the house feels longer than the whole sea that waits for her tomorrow. The air tastes like salt and old mango pulp and the hush of a promise too heavy for the wind to carry away.

Behind her, the shells keep singing— the same broken clatter that once held her voice safe. The same stage that held your love like a secret.

Someday, she thinks, I’ll come back.

But tonight — tonight she leaves you standing there, lantern burning, hammer hanging useless at your side. And the last thing she lets herself hear before the hush swallows her whole is your voice:

“I love you. Always.”

And it’s enough.

It has to be.

The morning splits itself open with rooster cries and the low hum of the old boat’s engine waiting by the pier. Dawn hasn’t even warmed the horizon yet, just that bruised-blue stretch between last night’s salt wind and this morning’s sweat.

It starts with her mother’s hands in her hair.

Before the sun is fully up, Carla sits her down on the bamboo stool near the door, the same stool Sophia sat on when she was eight, legs swinging, listening to the chickens scuffle outside while Carla tugged a comb through her tangles.

Now, at seventeen, her knees brush the doorframe and her mother’s fingers tremble more than they used to.

Carla doesn’t say Don’t go. She doesn’t say Stay.

She just hums under her breath; the same lullaby she once rocked Sophia to sleep with when the rain hissed on the roof like it does now.

Sophia watches the rain drip from the edge of the nipa eaves, silver and soft. Her throat feels too tight to swallow.

Inside, Basil paces. He’s got one foot up on the bench, tying and retying the same frayed lace on his only good shoe.

Godfrey sits silent in the far corner, one hand cupped over his knee where it aches when the weather shifts, thumb tapping an old beat on the bone.

Oreo sniffles beside him, trying to look big and brave but failing every time he hiccups and wipes his nose on his sleeve.

It’s Luz who breaks it open. She comes skidding through the door just as Carla finishes twisting Sophia’s braid tight and tying it with the green ribbon that used to be Carla’s when she was the age Sophia is now.

Luz flings her arms around Sophia’s shoulders, the two of them knocking heads in the doorway.

“Buy me things!” Luz squeals, too bright, too sharp, trying to cover the quake in her voice.

“Bring me city shoes. Pretty ones. And hair clips. And soap that smells like flowers, not fish.”

Sophia laughs— too high, too watery. “I will,” she says, her breath catching in her chest when Luz squeezes her tighter.

“Anything you want.”

“And Kuya/Ate Y/n,” Luz whispers, soft now, right into Sophia’s ear so no one else can hear. “Bring them something too. You know they won’t ask. They just wait. Like always.”

Sophia stiffens, just a breath, just a heartbeat, then nods so quick Luz’s forehead bumps her cheek.

They walk her down together— all of them.

Basil carrying her bag over one shoulder, scowling at anyone who gets too close. Oreo trailing behind with his fists full of wildflowers he grabbed from the roadside, petals already crushed in his hot hands.

Carla’s palm pressed flat to Sophia’s back like she’s trying to memorize the shape of her spine. Godfrey bringing up the rear, silent, shoulders squared like he’s carrying all the things he didn’t say last night.

The pier is slick with rain and sea scum. The old fishing boats creak at their moorings. Someone’s playing a radio from a shack half-collapsed by last week’s wind, the song fuzzes in and out, a love ballad turned to static every time the breeze shifts.

Sophia stands in the hush of it all, the salt in her nose, the bruise of her heartbeat under her ribs. The scout waits at the end of the pier, folder tucked under his arm, city grin fighting to stay bright when Basil shoots him a look that could gut a bigger man.

Locals gather in clumps, neighbors who watched her grow up barefoot and snot-nosed and singing at fiestas for five-peso coins.

They murmur ‘Aalis na siya…’ (she's leaving, already) like her leaving is a rumor they can’t quite believe.

Carla fusses with Sophia’s braid again. Basil adjusts the strap on her bag for the third time. Oreo keeps shoving the flowers at her knees until she crouches to take them, half petals, half stems now, the leaves crushed to green pulp on his palms.

When Godfrey finally steps up, Sophia swears she hears the crack inside him— the rough scrape of a man trying to swallow a goodbye that’s too big for his chest. He cups her jaw with his calloused hand, thumb brushing her cheekbone where the tears haven’t fallen yet.

“You sing proud,” he rasps, like the sea’s got him by the throat.

“Sing good enough they pay you more than they promise.”

Sophia nods. She can’t say I will. Her tongue won’t work.

She wants to ask Where are they? — you— but she doesn’t dare. Not yet.

The scout clears his throat. The boat’s motor sputters, belches a dark cough of smoke. People shift closer, pressing in, wanting to see her feet touch the deck.

Sophia’s hand tightens on Oreo’s shoulder. Basil squeezes her elbow once, rough, warm, a promise that he’ll hold the house up when she’s gone. Carla wipes at her eyes with the heel of her palm like she’s smearing salt across her skin.

Sophia breathes in the salt air, thick and sour on the back of her tongue. She lifts one foot. Puts it down on the plank. It creaks under her weight, the whole boat swaying like it doesn’t want her yet.

And she turns.

Looks back.

Her eyes skim the pier, her mother’s bowed head, Basil’s broad back, Luz with her chin lifted, Oreo’s small fists wiping snot on his sleeve.

She searches for you.

She knows where you’d stand— near the end, one foot propped on the old mooring post, hands shoved deep in your pockets like maybe if they’re buried far enough you won’t reach for her. That grin, stupid and shy, the one that makes her knees buckle even when she wants to run.

But you’re not there.

A beat.

A heartbeat.

Her chest hollows out, cold water where her ribs used to be. The scout’s hand finds her shoulder, his voice a drone: ‘There’s work to do, Miss Laforteza. A place to be. A stage that’s waiting—’

She doesn’t hear him. She tries to.

But the hush in her head is louder. It’s your hush. The hush of all the things you never said, never asked for. Your blessing.

She keeps her eyes at the corner of the yard, past the bamboo, down the path that snakes behind the shed. Looking for you. Always looking for you.

But you’re still not there.

She carries that emptiness down the pier— one foot in front of the other, sandals slapping wet wood. The boat rocks gentle in the tide, rope creaking against barnacle-battered poles. The scout checks his clipboard again, mumbles to her in Tagalog that feels too big for her chest right now.

She steps up, one foot on the deck. The world sways. Her mother’s voice, “Piya! Anak!” — cracks behind her. Basil shouts something she can’t catch. Luz’s laugh cuts through, “Send me letters, ah! Don’t forget to brush your teeth in Manila!”

Sophia looks back, past her mother’s tears, her father’s rough hands, Basil’s tight fists, Luz’s grin that’s half-brave, half-broken. She looks for you.

Only you.

You’re not there.

The scout pats her back. Says something about papers, about promise, about voice lessons she’ll never remember later. Her eyes blur. The bamboo roofs of her barangay fold into one another like a painting left out in the rain.

Was this your blessing? Not seeing you so she’d go? So she’d chase that voice all the way to the city while you stayed here patching nets that would never hold her again?

The boat lurches. The engine coughs awake.

She waves small, shaky. She tries to smile because Luz is still waving like it’s a joke, like she’ll see her next week at the palengke. She tries to stand tall so Carla doesn’t break, so Basil doesn’t run after her and drag her home.

The pier shrinks. The water widens.

And then— there

Your father’s boat, the ragged little hull patched with so many colors of paint it looks like a reef drifting home.

And there you are perched on the bow, barefoot, grinning like you always do when you’ve made peace with your own heartbreak. Your hair plastered to your forehead from the drizzle. Your father squinting at the horizon, pretending not to see the way you’re shouting her name.

“INGAT, PIYA! I’LL HEAR YOU ON THE RADIO! I’LL PUT UP BANNERS! I’LL WRITE EVERY DAY!”

You’re waving so hard your wrist cracks. 

You’re grinning. Wide and stupid and bright, like her leaving isn’t breaking you in half, like this was always the plan. Like her dream is your dream, too.

You’re laughing and your voice carries across the choppy water like a dare — Look how easy I let you go.

And that’s what does it.

Sophia folds in on herself. The scout’s voice drones at her ear, some sweet nonsense about the mainland and contracts, but she can’t breathe past the salt lodged in her throat.

She looks at you and your stupid grin like a wound you wear proud.

Your hands, raw from nets, waving like you’re blessing her to fly. And she wants to, God, she wants to— but the hush inside her chest breaks open and there’s only your name in it.

She turns.

Clutches the scout’s arm so hard he startles, tries to shake her off. She begs.

“Please— please— I can’t— I can’t do it— not without—”

The scout sputters, half annoyed, half terrified by the sight of her knees hitting the deck, her palms flat on the wet wood as if she’d dig her way back to shore if she had to.

“I WANT Y/N!” she gasps, loud enough the wind carries it to the pier, to the old women, to her father’s ears, to yours. “I WANT TO DREAM BUT I WANT THEM, TOO — I WANT Y/N WITH ME!”

The boat rocks. The scout tries to hush her— but the hush inside Sophia is gone now. It’s your voice instead, filling the space where her fear used to live.

Sophia’s breath catches, slams up against her ribs like a wave hitting a seawall. The scout puts a hand on her shoulder to steady her but it makes her stomach twist.

She looks at you, again, the sun bouncing off the salt crusting your hair. She looks at the scout, the boat, the city on the horizon that doesn’t know her name yet.

“No— no— please—” Her voice claws up her throat raw.

“Kuya, please—” She grabs the scout’s wrist, fingers digging deep.

“Please, take me back— I can’t— I can’t—”

He stares at her, startled, then annoyed, then trying to soothe. He tells her "anak, anak, relax — you’ll be fine," the city is waiting, the people are waiting.

But she shakes. She cries so hard the deck rattles under her knees when they hit the wood. Salt on salt on salt. Her palms burn where they scrape the railing.

“I want Y/n— I want them—” She begs. She doesn’t care how the fishermen stare.

Doesn’t care about Luz’s wide eyes on the pier, Basil’s hand on Carla’s back to keep her from running into the tide. “Please, kuya— please— I can’t do it alone—”

The scout tries to laugh. Tries to calm her. Says "it’s normal, anak, first day jitters, you’ll call Y/n when you’re there—"

But she’s done. 

They pull her back to shore.

The villagers scatter in stunned ripples. The scout stares at her like she’s salt-eaten driftwood, useless now. Basil laughs, loud, a bark that cracks his chest wide open. Luz claps like she’s seen the best twist in her favorite teleserye. Carla cries into her apron, but her shoulders shake like maybe it’s relief.

Sophia doesn’t care. She doesn’t see any of them.

She runs.

Faster than when she has to arrive on time for her gigs that don't pay money.

Faster than when someone called her in to sing.

Running faster to you. 

She leaps for the pier when the boat’s still close enough. Her knees slam wood. She runs barefoot— wet, scraped, raw— doesn’t stop when Luz yelps her name, doesn’t stop when Carla cries "Piya! Anak!" again, like she’s cursing the sea for giving her such a stubborn daughter.

She runs. Past the mangroves. Past the plank path slick with algae. Past the shed where the capiz shells still swing.

You’re there. Standing on shore, arms dropped now, grin gone soft. Your father’s already shaking his head, muttering about kids these days, pulling the bangka in.

When Sophia crashes into you at the waterline, it’s not soft like the movies she used to watch on borrowed CD players with half the dialogue missing.

It’s messy, all knees and elbows and the brine of her sweat where it slicks the side of your neck. She hits your chest so hard your breath leaves you in one startled laugh that dies halfway out your throat.

Her fists bunch the thin cotton of your shirt like she’s terrified you’ll slip away if she doesn’t hold you tight enough, like you’re another torn net she’ll patch with her bare hands if she has to.

She doesn’t say your name yet, she’s too busy trying to drag enough air back into her lungs to speak.

Behind her, the boat bobs farther out, motor growling at the surf. The scout’s voice breaks on the wind— distant curses, exasperated “Anak!” that don’t stick to her anymore.

Luz’s shout cuts across it — “She came back! She came back!” — and there’s Basil’s low bark of laughter, half disbelief, half relief, and Carla’s voice cracking like a wave pulling pebbles from the shore.

But none of it is louder than the thud of Sophia’s heartbeat, pressed full against you. Or yours, hammering right back like you’ve both got something left to break.

You open your mouth to say something— anything, but she gets there first.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, her nose brushing yours, eyes raw and rimmed with salt. Her breath hitches like she might hiccup, like the truth tastes sour and sweet on her tongue at the same time.

“I can’t,” she gasps.

“I can’t— not without you.”

You try to speak, to hush her, to tell her she’s being foolish, that this was always for her, not you.

But the way she looks at you— eyes glassy, lower lip trembling like a split shell, it kills whatever scolding you think you’re owed.

“You don’t get it,” Sophia spits out, her voice low, almost mean in how desperate it sounds.

“I want to sing— I do. I want that stage. But not if I can’t look down and see you in the dirt, smiling that stupid smile like I’m the only thing worth clapping for.”

The words slap you harder than the wind ever could.

You shake your head not to disagree, just to hold back the rush of it all. Your hands come up like they’re half afraid to touch her, rough palms hovering at her elbows before they land warm and steady on her shoulders.

“Piya…” you whisper. The nickname’s a prayer this time, soft like the hush that comes after the storm.

“You’re supposed to go.”

“I did,” she says— a laugh cracking out of her throat, so wet with tears it doesn’t sound like hers at all.

“I did. I stepped up. I turned around. You weren’t there— you weren’t there! — and it felt so wrong. Like my throat closed up. Like the words stuck in my teeth.”

She presses her forehead to yours. Your noses bump. You taste the salt of her breath.

“I don’t want to sing if you’re not there to hear it,” she murmurs. Her hands slide up, palms bracing your jaw, thumbs dragging your skin raw.

“Don’t you see? It’s always been you. Always you, stitching nets and bruised mangoes. Always you building that stage from rotting planks and lies about where you’d been all day. You made me believe I could be bigger than this island— but I don’t want to be bigger if it means leaving you small.”

You bark out a laugh— helpless, shaky. You can’t help it. It bursts through your ribs and spills into her hair. One hand lifts, brushing her temple where her braid’s half-unraveled from her sprint down the pier.

“You’re an idiot,” you say, but your smile is bigger than your voice knows how to hold.

“God, Piya. You’re the biggest fool I know.”

She flinches at that, her nose scrunching, eyes squeezing shut like you’d struck her instead of praised her.

“Then keep me foolish,” she whispers.

“Keep me here. Keep me yours.”

You taste the sour on her tongue when you kiss her— not a clean movie kiss, not even close. Her mouth’s sticky with dried salt tears, her breath tastes faintly of old rice and the sweet-sour twist of mango pulp that still ghosts your memories from that night behind her house.

Your teeth knock. She gasps. The wind gusts around you both, trying to tear her braid loose, trying to press your soaked shirts flat against each other’s ribs so there’s nothing between you but the truth.

She pulls back first, panting, forehead to your chin now, mouth still open like she’s not done yet. And she isn’t. She shoves you once in the chest not to push you away, but to knock the air back into herself.

“I should’ve said it sooner,” she says, voice cracked to pieces.

“I should’ve said — I love you — that night — with the mango — when you told me to sing. I should’ve said I’d only sing for you.”

You drag your thumb over the corner of her mouth, wiping spit and tears all the same. Your heart rattles so loud she can feel it in your ribs.

“I knew,” you say, soft enough the sea almost swallows it.

“I knew. But I needed you to know it, too.”

She laughs, a sharp, hiccuping thing that shudders through her shoulders and leaks back into tears.

Behind you, the village tries to pretend it isn’t listening— Luz’s squeal muffled behind Basil’s palm, Carla’s sob half-hidden in Godfrey’s broad chest. The scout’s still at the edge of the pier, looking at his clipboard like it betrayed him.

Sophia doesn’t care. Her hands slip under your arms, circle your back, pull you so tight her knuckles go white.

“You’re still gonna build me a stage, right?” she mumbles into your neck.

“You better. Even if it’s just behind the shed. Even if you're the only one who watches. You better— or I’m taking that boat and dragging you with me next time.”

You laugh, that real laugh this time, the kind that unknots the net of fear in your chest.

“Always,” you promise, your lips in her hair, your voice a secret just for her again.

“Always.”

She breathes you in like an answer. The sour in her mouth softens. The brine on her cheeks dries in the sun that finally, finally rises behind you both.

The hush in her chest goes quiet — replaced by something bigger, something stronger, something that tastes like tomorrow.

This dream is yours, too.

Behind you both, the island watches. The scout curses, throws his clipboard. Carla weeps with relief as she tries to hide in Basil’s shoulder. Luz whoops so loud the capiz shells clatter like bells at a festival.

Sophia breathes you in. You breathe her out. The sea hushes around your ankles like it’s saying fine, fine, you win.

And this time— god, this time when you lean in, you don’t stop at her cheek. You press your mouth to hers. salt and mango pulp and the promise that here might just be enough.

—☆ 

Years pass the way waves do, slow at first, then all at once, until you wake up one morning and the roof you patched last monsoon needs patching again, the nets you mended last summer are torn in the same places, and Sophia’s voice— god, Sophia’s voice has grown bigger than the island but never once left it behind.

You build her stages.

Not real ones, not the kind with velvet curtains and lights warm enough to melt the sweat off her brow.

No, your stages are the bones of old boats you drag up the shore when the tides abandon them. They’re the battered pallets you nail together behind the chapel, hidden from the church ladies who’d rather she sing Ave Maria than her own songs at dusk.

They’re scraps of plywood tied between coconut trunks, capiz shells clinking overhead where Luz’s kids sneak to peek at their Tita Piya with her bare feet on sun-warmed planks.

Sometimes, she sings for the barangay, for the old men dozing on woven mats, for the young girls braiding each other’s hair, for the mothers who stand in the back, half-listening while they peel vegetables for supper.

But mostly— mostly, she sings for you.

In the hush between your hammering and your laughter.

In the hush you make when you sit on the edge of the makeshift stage, elbows on your knees, head tilted back to catch her voice in your mouth like rain.

Sometimes she tells you to sing too, you laugh, pretend you don’t know the words, but she knows you do. She’s heard you humming under your breath when you think she’s sleeping, a lullaby tangled with the sea wind.

When the blessing comes—it’s nothing grand.

No fireworks. No big announcements. Just Sophia, standing barefoot in the doorway one dawn, braid loose over her shoulder, your old shirt tugged over her knees because she’s grown into the habit of wearing whatever you leave draped by the bamboo steps.

She says your name first, soft, so soft you almost miss it over the hiss of the kettle.

You turn, hammer still tucked behind your ear— and see it: the way her hands curl around her belly, fingers splayed like she’s already cradling the whole world.

“It’s yours,” she says like there was ever any question.

Like the hush between you ever let anyone else in.

You don’t know what to do. You drop the hammer. It hits your foot.

She laughs so hard she startles a pair of stray chickens pecking under the mango tree. You stand there, big hands useless at your sides, mouth moving like you might cry or pray or promise the moon if she asked.

She just pulls your hands to her belly— presses your palms flat. Her heartbeat. Another heartbeat. Small, sure, tucked under skin that once held all the songs she never thought the world would hear.

“Another stage,” she jokes, voice thick, eyes wet. “You’ll build this one too, won’t you?”

You nod. You nod so hard she laughs again, folds into you, hushes your half-sobs against her shoulder.

The child comes in the heart of the rainy season, thunder rattling the roof you patched so many times it’s more rust than tin.

Basil paces the yard like a dog, Luz shoves him away when he tries to hover too close to the door. Carla kneels at Sophia’s feet, whispering old prayers she once swore she’d forgotten when the sea took too much from her.

When the baby comes, it’s quiet at first— so quiet you think your own ribs will crack from holding in your breath. And then—

Then it’s not.

A wail splits the hush. Tiny, furious, greedy for air.

Sophia sags back against the worn pillows, hair plastered to her temples, eyes blown wide as she lifts the small, squirming thing onto her chest.

You’re frozen at her side, one knee in the dirt, one palm pressed to her calf because you don’t know where else to put your trembling.

She looks at you all salt and sweat and the sun just breaking over the roof beams.

She says your name again, soft, hoarse. “Here.”

You hold your child for the first time like you hold your breath before a storm. Small. Warm. Real.

Yours.

[ppyopulii]

📸 i’m just saying… | ft. lee jihoon

PREVIEW. You give him so much he does not know what to do with it all.

FEATURING. lee jihoon x gn-producer!reader GENRE(S). open-ended, fluff, pining LENGTH | WC. 1.08k | <10min TAGS | EXPLICITS. unbeta’d! we die like gyucheolseokshua stans after maldive, ljh is so poetically down bad, allusions to destiny (woozi solo) & ljh’s 10th year anniv speech & ljh’s e-word speeches

JAY’S MUSINGS. usually, i write a love letter for each fic in this series. i fear i am just like lee jihoon, however, and so i will let the following literature do all the talking for me instead. savor the next 68 days, my jihoon, and then may good music find you. always.

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“What’s the key change again for the bridge, Jihoon?”

SEVENTEEN’s producer already knows what’s coming to greet him before you even finish your question, but he welcomes those familiar tingles down his spine nonetheless.

Your head tilts back, neck meeting the plush leather of the chair as you frown up at the ceiling. He examines the curvature of your nose bridge with careful consideration, deciding he’d much rather talk about your aforementioned beauty than debate music theory.

You huff and his lips part in time with your own.

“Jihoon. Are you even listening to me?”

Ah. There it is again. Electric zaps, little prickles of pleasure, descending down each one of his vertebrae at lightning speed.

He clears his throat and looks away before you can look at him. “G major to E minor. Why?”

Gaze now on the mixing board, the vocalist watches your fingers slide along one of the knobs, your other hand finding home in carding your hair away from your face. You let out a satisfying hum—one that makes him wish he had an internalized recording mic, if only to just play back the echo of your laughter.

“Wondering if some strings accompanying this part alongside the piano would help ease the choppiness. What do you think?”

He leans into your suggestion, nodding with quiet approval. The two of you work in tandem with one another, building upon the foundation laid by your bare hands and raw souls, and the hours tick by faster than the producer would like.

“Aren’t you tired?” He gathers the courage to ask, now at the keyboard trying out a new chord progression for the second verse. “It’s late. You should get some rest.”

It’s late. Please take care of yourself.

His own vision is a little blurry, lashes fluttering close for a sluggish moment before snapping back open. But that doesn’t matter—he’s been witness to the slowing of your movements and the softening of your words for the past half hour. Perhaps it’s time to stop for tonight.

You rest your chin on the palm of your hand and leave his chest heaving for air with a mere curl of your lips. “I could say the same for you. You look so tense.”

It’s gut-wrenching, how easily you move to stand behind him and work your hands into the knots along his shoulders. The singer murmurs a, you don’t need to do this, but as a reply you simply give him a squeeze.

“Let me take care of you, Jihoon,” you mumble, breath warm against the nape of his neck. “I want to.”

Want. He knows this word, inside and out, from both his lyrics and personal experiences. Courtesy of you, of course.

You give him so much he does not know what to do with it all. He is not used to this; to taking. All he knows how to do is giving, to the point where there is a world full of his love and he is left with nothing but a shell of himself.

But you, you—you come and stitch him back together, stuffing him full of emotions he’s only ever written about.

And now, love gnaws at his insides while want bites at the tips of his fingers. His love—he is used to it being fast paced and to the beat of a catchy tune, but for you it comes unhurriedly, savoring in the moments where you two are the only ones who exist. His want—he is used to it being shrunken and crammed into the pit of his stomach, but for you it surges to the surface of his skin, greedily devouring the attention you provide him.

He does not know which emotion will consume him first. He does not know which one would be worse.

“After this, take the couch,” SEVENTEEN’s producer begs in a low tone. “We’ll continue in the morning.”

Your fingers slow to rest atop his collarbones as you sigh in resignation. A distant, far away part of him alarms at the thin line you two walk, precariously toeing what could be and what has been. The want in him, however, burns closer to his soul, setting it alight with a warmth he isn’t ready to let go of just yet.

So the singer lets his cheek fall against your arm, deciding he likes your instinctive reaction of lightly cupping his face.

“Thank you.” The words are barely a breath, but he knows you catch them all the same, resting your chin on his hair. It must tickle, because you shift so the chub of your cheek meets the crown of his head.

When you giggle, he feels the vibrations flicker through his bones. “For what? I haven’t done anything.”

Love takes another agonizing bite of him, grinding its molars and threatening to swallow him whole next time. Want stings at the corners of his eyes and makes his vision swim.

It’s so uncharacteristic of him; of SEVENTEEN’s stoic, workaholic backbone; of what the world deems as their untouchable WOOZI.

“Jihoon?”

You, though, have never seen him as more than Lee Jihoon, the music lover.

“For the obvious,” he manages to croak out at last, the shockwaves ebbing into something more soft, more tangible. “For being you.”

And then you laugh—and it is sweeter than any music he has ever composed, or any lyrics he has ever written.

“Come on, let’s go get some rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.” You’re tugging him towards the couch, knuckles knocking against the lightswitches on the walls. He stumbles over his feet, the love and want roaring at him from inside.

Perhaps it is indeed one’s destiny to be consumed by what they hold dear, no matter how painful it is to endure. He makes up his mind that he is ready for whatever is to come after this, as WOOZI or Jihoon—as long as it means he can wake up to you the next morning.

Get some rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.

Jihoon tucks what you’ve said away for tomorrow’s lyric writing session. You always seem to have the best ideas, after all.

back to your library.

[kitten4sannie]

pairing: ex! san x fem! reader feat. wingman seonghwa and instigator mingi

genres: omg actual plot ??, exes to lovers, romance, angst with a happy ending, fluff, an attempt at humor, smut finale

summary: during a winter getaway with your friends, you end up having to come face to face with choi san, the man who broke your heart in two just last christmas.

w.c: 8.2k

tags: features the unholy trinity: misunderstandings/miscommunication/messiness, drama (i bring drama-ma-ma-ma~), alcohol use, mutual jealousy, mutual pining, lots of banter, third parties, poor sannie and reader are just two big dummies with even bigger hearts </3,, like 20 flashbacks (okay it’s like 2 but i like being dramatic sue me), too many winter analogies, insecurities, confessions, l bombs, tears, all that jazz

warnings: soft dom! san (literally the softest dom to ever exist IM SICK), subby! reader, pussydrunk san and cockdrunk reader (like these mfs are so desperate for each other it’s actually disgusting), dirty talk, pet names, praise, possessiveness, kissing, a lot of spit (leave me alone!!!), tit play, grinding, body worship, oral (receiving), passionate condomless lovemaking by the fire baybeeeee, breeding kink, bulge kink, creampies

a/n: so i listen to last christmas religiously every year and while i was jamming my hamster brain was like “WRITE WRITE WRITE” so i diddd and yeahh this happened??? lmao but fr this was the most fun i’ve ever had writing since feb filth fest…. like wtf. i gotta write plot forward fics more often this shit’s like a drug man. anyways i hope you enjoy my dear lovelies <33

*shoutout to my sweetheart bunbun @cottoncandy-girl for beta reading and hyping this fic up during the writing process. i would’ve second guessed myself twice as much if not for you. you’re a lifesaver!! mwah mwah ~~

song rec for the general vibe: last christmas by wham obv <3, fool by frankie cosmos, snowfall (slowed and reverb) by oneheart, know me by gemini, easily by bruno major, flowers and chocolate by eyedress

angst: pleaser by the wallows, do me right by gemini, homesick by wave to earth, cherie by hojean

smut: mice city by hotel ugly, between your thighs by jimmy brown, lock me in by hojean, touch by keshi, your love by brb

Masterlist

“Hey, Y/N,” your best friend began, walking around the side of your beat-up car to the trunk where you were busy shoving various suitcases and bags into the small space and trying to make them fit. “So, don’t get mad, but–”

With a case of wine bottles in hand, you slowly set it down on the lip of the trunk, side-eyeing your friend with the intensity of a thousand suns. It was so powerful, it’d probably melt the snow that had been falling around your feet for the past thirty minutes. “Why would I be mad? What’s going on?”

“Just breathe for me, okay?” she sighed, bringing a hand up to play with a few strands of her hair. “So, you know how Seonghwa’s coming up to the cabin with us?”

“Um, yeah…? I don’t care about you bringing your boyfriend with us, you know. Just let me know if you’re gonna fuck so I can put my headphones on,” you replied, lifting the case up and pushing it inside the empty space of the trunk, satisfied that your long game of tetris was finally complete.

She quickly waved her hands, shaking her head. “No, that’s not…” she started, taking in a deep inhale, before letting it out, a wave of condensation hitting the cold air between the two of you. “He invited…someone. Someone you know.”

You bent down into the trunk to move a few items around, making sure they wouldn’t collapse on each other. “Okay? I only know you and a few other people, bestie. Who could it possibly be–”

“It’s San,” she finally blurted out, her face scrunching up in anticipation of your reaction.

Once your ex was spoken into existence again, a flood of memories from the previous year bombarded your defenseless brain and heart, causing you to stand up so quickly, you hit your head on the edge of the trunk lid.

“Oh my god, Y/N, are you okay?” your friend gasped, already at your side, helping you stand up straight and placing her hand on the one you had held against the back of your head.

“Oh, yeah, I’m good. I think that fixed me actually. Ready to head out?” you chimed, giving her a thumbs up with your keys in hand, stumbling a bit in place, your vision fading out slightly.

Sighing, your friend reached for the keys. “Yeah, I’m driving.”

❆ ❆ ❆

Your friend pulled her keys out of the ignition once she parked in a free space near the cabin you’d both be staying at, turning her head to observe the way you were playing with the drawstrings of your joggers, your lower lip jutted out in a pout. “Y/N, are you sure you’re okay? You know, we’re visiting everyone else later, so you can always stay at their cabin, if you’d like. It’s much bigger and has wifi, and definitely won’t have S–”

“I’m not a little bitch,” you suddenly whined, your eyebrows furrowed, your pout growing. “I can handle being in the same cabin with my dumbass ex, okay? I don’t even care that he’s here, actually.”

She nodded her head knowingly, giving you a gentle smile. “Just let me know if you’re uncomfortable, please. And if he starts up with one of his…unique personalities, tell me or Seonghwa, alright? He knows how to handle him.”

“I can handle him myself. There’s plenty of snow for me to toss him into, or some flames if our cabin has a fireplace,” you muttered, too stubborn to admit that your heart would most likely explode as soon as you had the displeasure of witnessing his disgustingly handsome face and charming dimpled smile.

Your friend shook her head slightly, unable to keep from smiling in your direction. “There is a fireplace, yeah.”

You sighed contentedly, admiring the expanse of dense snow, the sundry of oversized pine trees, the far away mountains covered in white, and the cluster of cozy-looking cabins beyond the frosted windshield. “Finally, some good news.”

Once you both got to the front steps of the cabin you’d be staying at, your arms full of the items that you could bring from the car, the front door swung open, almost giving you a heart attack on the spot.

“Baby, you’re here!” Seonghwa gasped, pulling your friend into his arms when she set her stuff down on the porch and spinning her around in a small circle, his eyes twinkling with pure adoration.

Once Seonghwa acknowledged your presence with a warm greeting, you stood off to the side while your friend and Seonghwa kissed and giggled with each other, your arms beginning to feel like jelly, wishing someone would just stamp the words “third wheel” on your forehead already.

“That looks heavy,” you heard someone say in a deeply familiar baritone voice, causing you to whip your head towards the origin, your wide eyes meeting San’s concerned coffee brown ones. “Do you want me to carry it in for you?”

“San,” you automatically blurted out, alarm bells going off, the mini versions of you running around in panic inside your head, your fingers clasping tighter around your things.

“Y/N,” he parroted back in the same cadence, already moving closer to you, his arms sliding underneath your belongings and holding them up with ease, his navy sweater doing nothing to conceal the solid mass of his arm muscles. “Is it like, misogynistic for me to carry your things?”

You opened and closed your hands, trying your get rid of the pins and needles. “No, I’d say it’s progressive since it’s a big dumb caveman carrying my things, so women: 1, patriarchy: 0.”

San offered you a dimpled smile, his wide shoulders scrunching up slightly, as a hearty laugh emanated from his throat. “Caveman, I like that. Should I go find a cave to explore?” He tilted his head, his eyes flitting between yours and your pleasing body line. “Maybe try to start a fire?”

Your heart leapt into your throat, forcing you to gulp it down. You sneered, already beginning to push past him to enter the cabin, only turning your head back to tell him, “Start a fire and jump inside, caveman.”

San smiled at you, seeing right past your act, watching you walk away, before turning his head to look at the two lovebirds still hugging on each other. “See that? She already gave me a pet name.”

❆ ❆ ❆

“Fuck,” you groaned, dropping yourself down onto the surprisingly comfy mattress in the cozy guest room you were occupying, finally done with putting your clothes and toiletries away in their respective places, for the most part, also noticing that the violent hammering inside your chest had subsided.

And then your door opened.

“Yo, this cabin is pretty sick, right? It’s got a nice, cabin-ey feeling to it,” San announced, walking into your room and looking around like he owned the place. Typical San behavior. Whistling casually, he eventually headed over to your side of the bed, picking up a few skincare products that were sitting on your bedside table to study them. “Does this retinol shit really work?”

“Excuse me, but are you lost? This is my room,” you combated, not bothering to get up from the bed you were currently sinking into, simply turning on your back and lifting your head up slightly to glare at him.

“Bro.” San clutched his chest like you had just stabbed him directly in the heart, his eyebrows turning upwards, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout. “Why do you act like we haven’t been inside each other?” He climbed onto the bed, looking down at you past his black bangs. “Matter of fact, I know you better than your little friend downstairs.”

You stared up at him, cursing yourself for wanting nothing more than to grab him by his stupid face and kiss him — but you wouldn’t, not after what he did. “You’re so gross.”

“Like in a sexy way, right?” he quipped, chuckling when you just shook your head. San slowly laid himself down beside you, looking up at the ceiling, reaching up behind his head and cupping the back of it to get more comfortable. “You didn’t argue against the fact that I know you better than your own self proclaimed ‘bestie’, you know.”

You let out a small sigh, resting your hands down at your sides, gripping the quilted blanket underneath you, your heart pounding inside your chest just like it did last Christmas. Did you ever fall out of love with him? Was that why your heart felt so stuck? Frozen in place? Like you had been waiting all this time for San to make it beat again? “Well, for once, you’re not wrong. I…let you in back then, obviously, so yeah, you know me better than she does. You know me better than anyone.”

San began to reach for your hand, hesitating for a second, not even realizing his walls were just as high. If only he could gather the courage to bring them down. “Y/N…”

You turned to look at San just as he turned his whole body towards yours, giving you one of his infamous gazes, his eyes closed ever so slightly, his lips parted, drawing in a breath. He lowered his hand, touching the top of yours, rubbing it with his thumb. “You know what else I know?”

Why did he have to do this to you? Just what the fuck was his problem?

“What, San?” you questioned underneath your breath, seconds away from losing it completely.

His eyes lost their playful twinkle, instead displaying sorrow. “Y/N, I–”

Seonghwa popped his head into the room. “Y/N, have you seen– Oh,” he deadpanned, displaying an oddly delighted smile for a split second, before his lips evened out. “We’re heading to the hang out now. It’s gonna snow pretty hard in a bit so it’s now or never.”

You both sat up from the bed, your cheeks burning like you had just been caught, well, inside of each other.

Seonghwa was about to say something when your friend walked up behind him and pulled him into whisper something, causing him to whisper back, the both of them nodding at each other.

You and San exchanged glances, before all four of you looked at one another. “Are you hiding things from me, pookie?” you gasped dramatically, grasping at your chest.

“No, I’d never hide anything from you, pookie wookie baby bear!” she cried back, running into the room and tackling you back down onto the bed.

San looked to Seonghwa, making grabby hands at him. “Where’s my hug?”

Seonghwa clicked his tongue, pointing at San’s thin sweater as it rose past his hips. “You better put on some more layers before we go, pookie bear. It’s cold as balls outside.”

❆ ❆ ❆

Instead of hanging out inside your friend’s friends’ cabin where the party was at, you loitered outside in the snow, building yourself a snowman. Maybe he’d stay by your side longer than the last one.

“Hey, what are you doing out here by yourself, ba–” San started, standing with his arm just barely pressing into yours, immediately clearing his throat, sticking his hands into his coat pockets. “Y/N, I mean, heh, sorry I’ve had a few drinks.”

You almost broke the empty beer bottle you were using as the snowman’s nose inside your hands from hearing San almost address you as baby, turning your head to look at the adorably goofy smile he had on his stupidly cute face. You bit your lip, wishing he would just say it, the layers of ice around your heart starting to crack. “I figured. Well, how come you’re out here with me, instead of shotgunning a beer or something with your caveman friends?”

Amused, San nodded his head, impressed by your ability to keep up with your shtick. “They’re too busy hanging around the fireplace, you know. The fire’s so pretty, they got distracted.” He grinned at you, grinning harder when you began to smile back at him, his heart skipping a beat at the sound of the giggle that escaped your lips. “I missed your giggle…missed you…” he murmured absentmindedly, pretending to stay busy by helping you round out the head of the snowman, while you stuck a rock into it where one of the eyes would be.

You dropped the other rock, standing still, feeling your mouth go dry. You racked your brain over his words, wanting to ask him why he didn’t stay with you in the first place if he was just going to miss you so much. You missed him too. You wanted him to know.

By the time you had made up your mind, San had picked up the rock and stuck it into the snow, completing the snowman’s face. “There we go. Mr. Snowman’s looking real nice.” He waited for a second, before turning to look at you with a concerned pout. “He’s not cuter than me, right?” When you didn’t respond, he blinked, leaning in. “Y/N?”

Instead of responding, you found yourself wrapping your arms around San’s neck, pulling him into a hug. You didn’t even say anything — you just focused on feeling his warm body against yours, recalling what it felt like to be his. His baby. If only he would just say it.

“Baby…” he whispered just under his breath, so carefully, like he risked the chance of causing an avalanche if he spoke any louder, gently rubbing your back in circles, automatically resting his head on the top of yours like he did last year. “What’s this about?”

“I don’t know, I just–” you murmured into his chest, your own about to collapse in on itself from hearing what he said, hugging onto him a little tighter than before, wishing things were different. “I…I think I’m drunk…”

“Oh…” San replied, swallowing harshly, only pulling away once you started to. He tucked a bit of hair behind your ear, giving you a concerned look. “You should come back inside and drink some water, then. Seonghwa was right to tell me to check up on you.”

Your face fell slightly, the bottle that was stuck inside the snowman drooping inside the melting snow as if it was mirroring your disappointment. “You…only came out here because Seonghwa told you to?”

“Well, I mean, he was the one that noticed you were gone, so he just thought I should make sure you were okay, yeah…” San explained, rubbing his arm.

You nodded your head, a soft smile returning to your face, not wanting San to see the hurt you felt, not yet, anyway. You were still able to hide it as of late. “That’s nice of him.”

“Yeah, Hwa’s a sweetie,” San mused, noticing the sad snowman, reaching out to fix the position of the beer bottle. “Too bad he’s taken, otherwise I’d be wifing him up and giving him the exclusive Choi San Caveman Experience. There’s a trademark on that, by the way.”He gave you another goofy smile, his smile growing when you offered him a few small giggles.

“I think you need water more than I do,” you mentioned, gently punching his arm.

San chuckled, his smile softening, wanting to say so much more than just, “You might be right.”

After a few seconds of too much silence, and too much yearning for an important conversation to take place, you instead pointed to the lively cabin behind you. “You should go get some. I’ll be back inside soon.”

“Okay, sounds good.” He put his hands back into his pockets, lingering there for a moment, before heading back inside.

You stood there for a while, watching the makeshift nose of the snowman begin to droop again, before you reeled your foot back and kicked into the base of the snowman, watching it topple over and fall apart.

❆ ❆ ❆

You lingered near the spiked punch bowl that sat inside the corner of the cabin’s empty kitchen, drinking down a solo cup’s worth of the fruity beverage and tossing the cup into the sink, not noticing another person’s presence until you turned to the side and bumped your nose into their broad chest. “Oh, shit– I’m sorry,” you apologized, backing up a bit to see that you had ran into no one other than Song Mingi, the man you had trauma dumped and cried to for an hour before having mindless rebound sex with after San dumped you. “Min, hey. Long time, no see.”

“Y/N. It’s nice to see you again. Very nice,” Mingi mused, taking a long sip of his drink, just studying you with his amused, half-closed eyes, pointing upwards with his finger. “What are the odds of this?”

“Hm?” Your eyes followed where he was pointing until your gaze settled on the mistletoe that hung from the doorway above the two of you, a memory of the past immediately lighting up the insides of your brain like the flash of a camera, the snapshot still fresh in your subconscious as though it had never faded in the first place, much like your feelings for San — but who were you to admit that to yourself?

“Jesus, what is with people and mistletoe?” you grumbled, crossing your arms over your itchy christmas sweater, ready to shield your eyes so you didn’t have to look at the two people vigorously making out underneath the red berries that were hung from the ceiling of the crowded cabin.

San hovered near you, running a hand through his hair, his eyes studying your scrunched up, flushed face, wondering how you could be so cute. “The origin of mistletoe is actually really romantic, y’know.” Once you met his gaze, his lips curled into a smile, his dimples making an appearance.

You gripped onto your sweater sleeve, smiling softly back at him, your annoyance fading. “Tell me about it then, Mr. Historian.”

San’s eyes sparkled at your reaction, his shoulder gently pressing into yours as he brought his drink up to his mouth. “Mistletoe has always been able to survive in the harshest of winters. Even when everything’s frozen…” When he lowered his hand, the side of his pinky touched yours, sending warmth into the both of your bodies. “….it still finds a way to bloom.”

You took in a quick breath, having to look down at your feet before your heart burst out of your chest as an unintentional ode to Alien and ruined the annual Christmas party. “I didn’t peg you as a hopeless romantic, San.”

“I’m full of surprises, baby.” San hummed, gently taking your chin in his grasp and pressing a kiss to your lips, giggling delightedly as you buried your scorching face into his chest, his heart pounding, wanting nothing more than to show you just how hopelessly in love he was with you, but too afraid to grant you access to the very intense, very full extent of it, let alone himself.

He was full of surprises, so full of them that he was able to show such a meaningful display of love to you and still break up with you on the very same night, with little to no explanation, just a simple ‘I’m sorry.’ Choi San was truly an enigma — one you cursed yourself for still wanting to grasp, to hold, to forgive.

You looked down at Mingi’s drink only for him to motion for you to take it, immediately downing the punch until you were sucking on an ice cube and crunching it between your teeth, satisfied with the buzz coursing through your body, bitterness still seeping its way in your veins. You knew that what you were about to do wouldn’t make you feel any better, but you did it anyway, grabbing Mingi by the collar of his ugly Christmas sweater and smashing your lips against his. What you didn’t know, however, was that San was standing at the end of the hallway, with his hand in his coat pocket, there to witness how Mingi pressed you into the wall.

❆ ❆ ❆

Your friend slowly inched her way towards you from across the brightly lit, festively decorated living room full of your boisterous acquaintances having a battle with each other to determine who could be the loudest, drunkest individual in the room. Currently, it was San, unsurprisingly, who had a beer in one hand while hugging onto the obscenely large Christmas tree in the middle of the room. You couldn’t tell exactly what song he was singing, but you were pretty sure it was a romantic, mostly cheesy pop ballad from the 80s.

“Having fun?” your friend gauged softly, sitting down on the sofa in the corner beside you, clinking her glass beer bottle against yours.

You shrugged, taking a few sips of the chilled beer, crossing one leg over the other. “I made out with Mingi earlier, so that was cool, I guess.”

“You what?” she gasped, pressing closer to you, grabbing your arm and shaking you. “Y/N, oh my god, that’s so —” Her gossipy tone turned into one of concern. “But what about San?”

“What about San?” you grumbled, internally annoyed that all you could think about was San when Mingi’s tongue was down your throat. “He probably already did the same thing, considering how torched he is.”

She sighed, sinking into the couch, very well aware of how San truly felt about you, last Christmas, and how much he wanted to turn things around. Of course she would know. She had to hear it from Seonghwa, who in turn heard it from San off and on for the entire year, but she wasn’t about to speak for him. He would have to do that himself.

“Are you going to play truth, dare, or drink with us?” Mingi suddenly asked you, leaning his hip against the side of the couch, causing you and your friend to look up at him.

“Ehh.” You shrugged your shoulders at him.

He put a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it, feeling someone’s eyes burning holes into the back of his head, figuring San was watching the both of you from the tree, who indeed was, his hands tightening around his beer and the scratchy pine needles he was holding onto. “It’ll be more fun if you join in, Y/N. How bout it?”

You sucked on your teeth for a second, your eyes moving past Mingi to gaze at San across the room, who was now talking to a girl who had came up to him, your stomach sinking at the clear appearance of his dimples. Stupid caveman.

You stood up, fingers squeezing around your poor beer bottle. “Fuck it, I’m in.”

“Good, good,” Mingi replied, smiling absentmindedly, bringing his own drink up to his lips, as if he wasn’t aware of the disaster he was about to bring into fruition — and all for the chance that he could recreate the events of last year’s Christmas party. It led to him having a pretty, teary-eyed girl in his bed to take care of, after all.

❆ ❆ ❆

“Yo, I can’t believe — he actually — I can’t breathe,” someone gasped out in between soundless laughs, falling back into their chair along with their other friends, pointing at San as he trudged back into the cabin past the sliding door, clad in only a form-fitting pair of Christmas themed boxers, wiping some snow off of his shoulders, before immediately going for his mixed drink and tossing it back victoriously, one hand on his hip.

“You bitches really thought I wouldn’t do it,” San chuckled self-righteously, taking another sip, before letting out a low ‘aaah’. “Someone owes me 20 bucks. Which one of you was it?” He held up an accusative finger to one of the girls nearby, who giggled and held her hands up defensively. “It was you, wasn’t it? Give it up!”

The rest of the group laughed in response, drunkenly leaning into each other, gleeful smiles plastered on their flushed faces.

“San’s pretty lively tonight,” Seonghwa said near you, nudging you gently with his elbow. “It’s almost kind of cute, huh?” Poor man was out of the loop, but he was trying, bless his heart.

“Cute?” you muttered, raising an eyebrow at him. “He’s butt-ass naked at a Christmas party. He’s a grown man wearing boxers with candy canes on it. What on earth is cute about that?”

Seonghwa pursed his lips, side-eyeing you. “I don’t know, I just thought you’d agree with the way you’ve been staring at him all night.“

You almost choked on your spit, bringing a hand up to your hair to smooth it out. “Well, it’s hard to keep my eyes off of him when he’s being an annoying ass pick-me like that.”

“But you picked…him.”

“I did. Ages ago, Seonghwa,” you corrected him, watching San out of the corner of your eye, unable to believe that he was letting the girl slip a twenty directly into the waistline of his boxers. As soon as you looked down, San’s eyes were on you, his lips turning into a frown, immediately pushing the girl’s hand away when it lingered a bit too long, his eyes filled with bitter determination. “You know what he did to me. He spent all that time getting my hopes up all year long, only to hit me with the ‘i’m bad with commitment’ card before he left the party last year. That’s bullshit and we both know it.”

Seonghwa sighed in defeat, sinking back into his seat, biting at his lip. “I get what you’re saying, Y/N, I really do. It was unbelievably shitty for him to do that to you, but San…I think he really regrets it. All he talks about is you, Y/N.” Seonghwa turned to face you, gently touching your wrist. “He’s always loved you. He just doesn’t know how to verbalize it.”

You started biting at your lip too, simply listening to your friend’s words, wondering if there was any truth to them. It’s not like you were hearing them from San himself. That would be a different story — though you didn’t know if he was even capable of that kind of vulnerability. “I’d like to believe that, Hwa. I just…”

“Oh my god! With tongue? My virgin eyes!” someone gasped loudly at something, covering their eyes, their friends laughing at his dramatic performance.

“At least someone’s getting some,” Mingi chuckled, while eyeing you, currently holding up the same piece of mistletoe you had encountered together earlier, only this time someone else was under it. Someone that made you wish you had never even came up to the cabin in the first place.

“There’s no way…” you whispered to yourself, unable to take your eyes off of San, who was holding that same girl against him, his hands clutching her hips, his tongue halfway into her mouth by the time you got up from the couch and grabbed a water cup from the coffee table, determined to keep your tears inside your body before you stormed out, but you had to answer to your demons first.

“Y/N, he’s just drunk! He’s trying to make you jealous, okay? He’s being an idiot! Y/N, listen–” Seonghwa tried fruitlessly to reason with you, reaching for your wrist, only for it to slip out of his grasp as you made your way up to San and the unsuspecting woman.

Your bitter, frozen heart quelled you to toss the water at San, watching it splash onto the side of his reddened face, the shock of it sobering him up almost instantaneously, causing him to pull away from the woman and look at you, the weight of his faulty decisions hitting him square into the chest when he saw the tears in your eyes. “Y/N…I…I didn’t mean….I just…” Tears began to form inside his own eyes. “I just wanted you to see me.”

“I see you, San,” you whispered, your voice cracking underneath the weight of your emotional turmoil. “I’ve seen enough, actually.”

San froze in place, while what felt like cement sink to the bottom of his stomach, unable to get himself to stop you from grabbing a freshly opened bottle of booze from someone’s hands and walking away from him.

Your friend tried in vain to reason with you, getting hit with a death glare, before you stormed out. She turned to Seonghwa, whispering “Do something,” encouraging him to run over to San, grabbing him by the shoulders and temporarily keeping him upright.

“San, listen to me.”

San sniffled, his nose sporting a pink hue, as hot tears began to drip down his clammy face, sinking down to his knees, watching as Seonghwa sank down with him. “Seonghwa, I fucked up. I just wanted her to want me. I wanted her to get jealous and take what’s hers. I didn’t know how– a-and her, and Mingi– I just thought maybe if I–”

Seonghwa shook San a bit, his nostrils flaring, his fingers squeezing into his friend’s trembling shoulders. “Get a grip and listen to me!” As soon as San took in a shaky breath and let it out, Seonghwa cleared his throat. “You’re going to put some fucking clothes on, nut up, and go after her. It’s now or never.”

San wiped his eyes, trying to control his breathing. “B-but what do I say, Seonghwa? How can I possibly–”

Seonghwa suddenly pulled him into a hug, clutching the back of his head, feeling San slowly begin to relax against him. “You’re going be honest with her, San. Tell her what you’ve always wanted her to know. The world isn’t going to end after you do. She’ll still be there, and you’ll be safe.”

San clutched Seonghwa’s back, blinking away a few remaining tears. “You promise?”

Seonghwa pulled away, curling his pinky finger around his best friend’s, giving him a firm nod. “Promise.” Seeing the trust inside San’s sparkling eyes, Seonghwa reached up to ruffle his hair, smiling softly. “Oh, and give her that Christmas present you’ve been waiting for her to open.”

A small smile slowly apread across his splotchy face, before he gave Seonghwa a stern nod back, reaching his hand inside the pocket of his coat to feel what had been sitting inside and collecting dust for the entire year. It was time. Things weren’t going to end up like last Christmas. It would be different this time. He would make sure of it.

❆ ❆ ❆

With each passing minute, you sank a little further into the abyss of your memories, as well as the freshly fallen layers of snow that surrounded you, splashes of alcohol melting into it whenever you took a lazy swig and dropped the bottle back down at your side. “You dummy…” you mumbled to yourself, sniffling, your warm tears and body doing its best to combat the chilly environment around you.

Once you reached a street lamp, the warm light glowing onto your damp clothes, the memories of last year, that had once been frozen over suddenly flooded into your mind so quickly, you had to lower yourself onto the gravel beneath you, resting your back against the metal of the large buzzing lamp. “Shit…” You brought your wrist to your eyes, smearing a fresh wave of tears into your slightly damp hair, realizing you had been there before, the deja vu hitting you harder than the icy night wind hit your flushed face.

“San, what’s wrong?” You stood next to your boyfriend, watching him simply stare at the Christmas tree in front of him, his hands in his coat pockets.

San clutched onto the present he had spent weeks waiting to be custom-made and even longer just staring at it inside his apartment, wondering if it was enough, if he was enough, for someone like you.

San slowly shook his head, taking his hand out of his pocket to gently grab your wrist, leaning in to ask, “Can we talk?”

“No, we’re not doing this right now,” you told yourself out loud, smacking the side of your head and shaking it back and forth to hopefully send the memory packing, but it persisted, much like the snowfall around you.

“I don’t understand, San, we were fine! We’re okay. Why are you doing this?” you cried, trying and failing to keep San from leaving the cabin, unable to catch the corner of his coat sleeve until you were both under a street lamp, the light blinking occasionally.

San slowly turned around to face you for a moment, shaking his head, keeping his tears at bay. He didn’t know what he was thinking. How would he be enough for someone like you? Poor San simply couldn’t see the beauty he saw in you in his own self. “I just can’t, Y/N. I’m so sorry. I really am.”

“Can’t what? Can you just talk to me, San? I want to understand, San, please, talk to me,” you begged him, your heart sinking further with each step you took towards him as he continued to walk away. You stopped eventually, in the front of his car, your breath caught in your throat. “So, that’s it? You’re just going to leave? Just like that?”

San stroked his hair with a shaky hand in an unconscious act of self-soathing, tears pricking the corners of his eyes, looking off to the side, before gripping the door handle of his car, as well as the felt box inside his pocket with his other hand, only seeing a blurry version of you by the time he looked back up. How could he explain how afraid he was of you and the love you offered him? How his many walls, like ice, were impenetrable, until you melted them away? It frightened him, so much so that all he could say was, “I’m so sorry, Y/N,” before he got into the car and shut the door.

“You…dummy…” you repeated, this time in a whisper, taking another swig from the bottle and choking down the strong liquor, about to force yourself to down it when you heard what sounded like a set of boots quickly shuffling through the snow.

“Y/N,” San gasped, almost completely out of breath from running through the rough winter terrain, bending forward slightly with his hands on his knees to catch his breath, sending puffs of condensation into the air around you. “I have to – tell you something–”

“Oh, now you have something to say? After all this time? That’s rich,” you scoffed, wobbling a bit as you stood up, trying to put up a front like you had done earlier, though your facade had since melted away, your quivering lips and red, teary eyes on full display. “…Go on, San…”

San finally caught his breath, his heart still hammering away inside his chest, reaching up to his head to stroke his somewhat damp raven hair, trying to swallow the growing lump inside his throat. “Y/N, I…I should’ve said this a long time ago, instead of just leaving you the way I did…”

The longer you stared at him, the longer he felt his walls crumbling around him, figuring that he had no choice but to tell you what had always been lingering on his tongue, buzzing in his heart and mind, and swimming inside his thoughts each night when he was alone. He realized it was worth the risk of having to return to a cold, silent heart, a bitter soul, and even higher walls that he could box himself inside of. To him, you were worth anything.

Your anger slowly subsided at the sight of his serious gaze, his warm coffee-brown eyes studying you like nothing else existed besides you. In fact, nothing did, inside his world, except for you. “San…” you murmured, reaching out to touch his hand, but he already beat you to it, interlacing your cold fingers together.

“I love you, Y/N,” he admitted in the softest, most convicting voice you’ve ever heard from him, slowly pulling out the box he kept inside his coat, opening it to reveal a small gold ring with a jewel shaped like mistletoe, gently sliding it onto your finger when you held your hand out. “I love you so much, baby. So much it terrifies me.”

“Oh, San…” you sighed, breathless, bringing your hand to your chest from being so overwhelmed with emotion. After a moment, you reached for his hand, squeezing it, moving closer to him, his confession and gift warming you up more than a raging, crackling fire ever could. “San–”

“If I had just told you how I felt back then, I wouldn’t have hurt you the way I did.” He squeezed your hand back, his chapped, lower lip quivering. “I wish I could take it all back. It’s all I’ve been able to think about– How I wish I could just turn back time and–”

You silenced San’s words with a gentle kiss, letting go of his hand to wrap your arms around his neck, his arms following suit, closing around your waist. You broke the kiss after a moment to whisper, “I love you too, San. Always have.” You caressed his face, making sure he felt the love pouring out of your words when you promised, “Always will.”

San let out a trapped breath of air, hugging you against him, protectively clutching the back of your head, unable to stop everything he had held inside from spilling out of him all at once.

You simply held him in your arms and stroked the back of his head, not noticing when the light above you had flickered once and went out for a split second, only to shine brighter than it did before, the light warming the exposed skin of your flushed cheeks.

❆ ❆ ❆

San sat on his knees beside the crackling fire, adjusting a piece of firewood, watching the flame catch onto it and travel along the cedar, enjoying the warmth on his skin, eventually turning his head back to admire the sight of you bundled up on the couch with a plush blanket on your lap, your hands clasped around a cup of tea, your eyes admiring your twinkling ring, before you noticed his loving gaze.

“Sannie, come here, love,” you spoke softly, taking one finger off of the cup to beckon him to you, sliding the blanket off and putting the cup down after one more sip.

“Coming, baby.” Eyes sparkling, San inched his way over to you, still on his knees, fitting himself in between yours so that he could wrap his arms around your middle, resting his head against your chest. “Mm, you’re so warm.”

You ran your fingers through his soft, still slightly damp hair, waiting till he looked up at you to caress his cheek, a small sigh leaving your lips. “I’m sorry for what I did to you earlier. I really shouldn’t have reacted like that. It was hypocritical of me.” You ran your fingers gently along his jaw, noticing the way he leaned into your touch.

“No, baby, I’m sorry,” he replied, rubbing his hands up and down your sides, pouting. “I did…that to you in front of everyone…It was really shitty…I just couldn’t think straight after I saw you with Mingi.”

Your face fell, your fingers sliding back into San’s hair to play with it. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t…I want you to know that there was no meaning behind it, love. I was just bitter. And drunk.”

“I know, Y/N. It’s all forgiven, I promise you.” San reassured softly, responding well to your light touches, nuzzling your hand when it came back to his cheek, his fingers sliding underneath your sweater to squeeze into your sides, sending a light shiver up your spine. “But, you know what, baby?”

“What, Sannie?” Your body temperature started to increase as San brought himself up higher so that you were face to face, body to body, his palms settling onto your bare back.

“There’s meaning behind this,” he whispered, bringing his hands up to cup your face, before gently pressing his lips onto yours. You shared a few firm, passionate kisses, your lips moving against one another’s, hearing San whisper something else that sent a wave straight into your core. “Can you feel it, baby? My love?”

“Yeah, show me more, Sannie,” you murmured against his lips, his mouth slotting back onto yours, almost making you forget to breathe when his tongue began to explore the inside of your mouth.

San sucked lightly on your tongue, before moving down to kiss on your neck, his hands moving further up to unclasp your bra from underneath your sweater. “Can I please touch you, baby?” he asked with a desperation that made his deep voice go up an octave higher.

“Yes, please, touch me,” you responded with just as much desperation, arching your back into his touch when he slipped his hands up the front of your sweater, moving your tits in slow, gentle circles, his lips and teeth attacking your neck and collarbone.

“You feel so good in my hands, baby, fuck, I missed you so much,” San exhaled into your neck, squeezing the roundness of your tits in between his fingers, squishing them together, and lifting them up, only to drop them back down into his palms, groaning all the while. He pulled back slightly, rolling the hem of your sweater up a bit, his hooded, dilated eyes focused solely on yours. “Can I take this off?”

A quick nod was all it took for him to lift your sweater up over your head, your bra falling to the floor. Not wanting you to be alone, he reached behind his head and pulled his own sweater off, his sculpted, muscular upper body bathed in glowing, orange light from the fire blazing away behind him. “You’re so beautiful, Y/N…” he sighed, admiring your body like he did the very first time he saw you bare in front of him.

“So are you,” you replied, slowly running your hands up along his abdomen and back down, his muscles flexing slightly underneath your touch, his eyes following your fingers as they unbuckled his belt, pulling his pants down to reveal his cute custom briefs. “My Sannie, so precious.”

San blushed, his goofy smile slowly disappearing as he unbuttoned your pants, biting hard into his bottom lip once he got them off of you. “Baby…” Unable to just sit there and admire you, he reached forward to cup your tits, running his thumbs back and forth over your stiff nipples, lust clearly running rampant in his head and body by the way he was looking at you with such clear hunger in his eyes, his cock hard and stiff against your core. “Can I taste you?”

“Baby, you don’t have to ask, okay? You can have me, in any way–” you started breathily, feeling San’s cock beginning to pulse against you. “–Every way, Sannie. Please, take care of me.”

San suddenly clutched your hips, slowly grinding his clothed cock into your heat, while his mouth closed around one of your nipples to suck on it, his hooded eyes looking up into yours, his tongue darting out to lap at your tit.

“Feels so good, your mouth on me,” you breathed out, running your fingers through his hair, clutching it tight when he swapped your tit for the other, his jaw lowering so that he could fit more of your squishy globe into his mouth, sucking on it desperately. “Sannie…please…”

Knowing what you wanted, San pulled back to spit onto your tits, watching it drip down, before leaning back in to lick it up, his tongue cascading up and down your now slick skin, still guiding your hips against him, your legs already hooked around his slim waist. Your whiny moans were like music to his ears, taking a break from sucking and licking you to say, “You like it messy, don’t you, baby girl? Makes you so wet for me, doesn’t it?”

“Uh-huh, now come here,” you could barely get out, before you grabbed his face and slammed your lips against his, your mouths and tongues working in tandem, strands of spit dripping down your chins, San’s hands squeezing tightly into your hips, grinding against you so quick, so desperately, you were both about to reach your highs just from that.

“Sannie,” you sighed against his lips, caressing his jaw, his cock rubbing against your cunt in just the right way, your body pulsing with the need to be filled.

“Y/N,” he sighed back, pressing his forehead onto yours, the both of you breathing in the same air, the thick, throbbing length of his cock rubbing deliciously along your clothed slit until your lower halves began to jolt, your moans and gasps crescendoing in unison. “Cumming? Are you cumming for me, baby?”

“Y–esss, Sannie, m’ cumming for you,” you cried out, holding onto him as tightly as you could, your nails digging lightly into his back, feeling his muscles contracting. “Cum for me too, please, baby, let me see you.”

San let out a choked, whiny moan, panting heavily, losing his quick, focused thrusts, opting for sloppy, abrupt movements, barely about to get out the word, “B–abyyy…”

You both fell apart in each other’s arms, your eyes never breaking contact, your combined arousal soaking through your respective undergarments.

Once you both caught your breath, San reached down to rub your pussy with two thick fingers, able to see your slit through your shiny, see-through panties, his cum-covered cock already twitching back to life. “Fuck, baby, look at that…you’re completely soaked.”

“Just for you,” you nodded, spreading your thighs open further, pulling the hem of your panties up a bit to emphasize your puffy cunt, your clit pressing into the soft cloth material.

“Oh my god, baby, I need to taste you,” San suddenly whined, squeezing his fingers into the softness of your thighs, lowering himself down to take a deep inhale of your arousal, his head going completely fuzzy, unable to keep himself from drooling onto your cunt.

You slipped your fingers into his soft hair, bringing his face against your heat, sighing at the feeling of his nose bumping against your clit as he took another deep breath, shuddering when he began to tongue your cunt through your panties. “That’s it, Sannie, feels so good,” you moaned, your praise going straight to San’s cock, causing it to strain against his stained briefs.

“Mmmn,” San moaned against your pussy, licking one slow, long strip up your slit to your clit, filled with so much need for you that he couldn’t keep himself from tearing your panties off of you with one quick tug, making you gasp and release more slick, his mouth already on you to lap it right up, his other hand shoving his briefs down so that his cock could spring out against his abdomen, pre-cum smearing across his tan skin. “This pussy is all mine, baby…mine to eat, mine to fuck….mine to fill, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sannie, all yours, it’s all yours,” you answered, clutching his hair, desperately grinding your cunt against his tongue when he held it out, looking deep into his eyes that never left yours for a second, suddenly gasping out when San spread your hole open, sending a wad of spit inside before his agile tongue slipped inside of you.

San grabbed the undersides of your thighs and lifted your lower half up so that he could tongue fuck you as deep as humanly possible, letting out a pleased moan each time his tongue entered your soaked, pulsing hole. He kept going until you saw stars, going ‘uh-huhhh, uh-huhhh’ as soon as you began to shudder, your arousal squirting out and soaking his flushed face.

“My pretty baby came so hard for me,” San sighed, licking your wetness up from your sensitive cunt and his lips, before he brought you in for another sloppy kiss, letting you taste yourself.

The longer you kissed, the more you wanted him inside you, needed him to fuck his love into you until you couldn’t remember your own name. You needed him so badly, you didnt even realize what you were doing until you had found yourself pushing San down onto the fur carpet below and straddling him, sitting on his lap in a way that showed the both of you exactly where his long, veiny cock would reach inside of you once he filled you up. “Need you, Sannie. Need you now.”

“You can have me, baby.” San’s cock twitched against your abdomen, his hands rubbing your thighs, eventually lifting you up and down onto his cock, groaning at the feeling of your pussy swallowing his length inch by inch. “Fuck, princess, have all of me.”

Instinctively, San began to buck his hips up into you, filling you up so well, you felt a bit dizzy, encouraging you to hold onto his chest, still taking his cock deep inside your cunt like you were made for him.

San must’ve agreed too because he couldn’t keep from groaning out, “Look at you, babygirl, look at the way you’re taking me, taking my cock so deep–” He pressed one hand to your abdomen, feeling the bulge his cock made each time he fucked into you, driving the both of you crazy. “Your pretty pussy was made for me, baby. Made just for me. You’re mine, babygirl.”

“Yours.” You quickly lowered yourself down to kiss him, his hands sliding up and down along your body to feel your warm skin underneath his touch, eventually settling his hands on your cheeks, wiping a few of your tears away when you began to cry from the overwhelming pleasure.

“Cum for me, Y/N…You can do it…Fall apart for me, baby, ” San encouraged in between heavy breaths, slowing the movements of his hips down, instead filling you up in a slow and meticulous manner, drawing your intense orgasm out of you. “Yes, baby, that’s it, that’s it…”

“Sannnn, oh my god, San.” The longer you fell apart, the tighter your pussy constricted around San’s cock, causing him to throw his head back, sweat dripping down along his straining neck, his veins growing more visible when he gripped your thighs tightly. “Fill me up, Sannie. Need your cum inside.”

“Cumminggg, princess, oh my god, baby girl,” San groaned heavily, lifting you up and down on his throbbing length, before fully sheathing himself inside you, coating your walls with white.

Panting, you both gazed at each other’s sweat-covered faces and bodies, knowing internally that it wasn’t enough. Not nearly.

“Again?”

“Again.”

San didn’t waste any time gently pulling you off of him and climbing on top of you instead, spreading you open and filling you back up, sighing at the sight of your mixed arousal forming a ring around the base of his cock each time he pounded himself into you. “You’re so full of my cum, baby…so full of my cock, aren’t you, pretty girl?”

“So full for you, Sannie, don’t stop,” you gasped, hardly able to breathe with the way he had you folded up, your legs over his shoulders, his cock slamming so deep inside you that you swore he was hitting your womb.

“Wasn’t gonna,” San exhaled, chuckling softly, his lips curling up to give you a smile, his eyes creasing with amusement. “Need to show you my love.”

“Show me, baby,” you sighed affectionately, smiling back at him, giggling at the sight of his eyes lighting up, before you pressed a kiss to his lips.

The wet, sloppy sound of your bodies joining together over and over filled up the otherwise quiet cabin, along with your harmonious moans, the remaining pieces of firewood still crackling away beside you. Time seemed to stop completely. It was just you and him, coming undone together for what seemed like a lifetime.

You both ended up back on the couch, your limbs and bodies entangled, snuggling together underneath the cozy blanket, talking with each other about anything and everything until your eyelids grew heavy, leading you to drift off, your fingers clasped together.

Before you could fully fall asleep, you nuzzled your cheek against San’s chest, gently inhaling his comforting scent. He smelled like aftershave, warm cedar wood, and spiced cinnamon. It reminded you of your time there at the cabin, the memories you spent together, both good and bad, swirling together to form a comfortingly bittersweet concoction, one that you would consume in every lifetime.

“San,” you whispered softly into the darkness, the fire beside the both of you now ashes and smoke.

“Yes, Y/N?” he whispered back, his arms closing around you protectively.

You sighed against his skin, your body and heart melting like the snow would begin to do as well, once the sun came up. “I love you so much, San…” You lifted your head up, hovering above him so that you could look down at him, your fingers clutching his jaw, your expression so soft San thought you might cry. “I want to show you how to share some of that love with yourself one day.”

San smiled up at you, his eyes full of so much adoration for you, it threatened to spill out of him, his fingers running through your hair. “You showed me, Y/N. Through it all, behind every word, every action, I still saw it there. That’s why I put myself first and confessed to you.” He smiled softly, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. “I’m…not nearly as put together as I seem. I just love you so much, it makes me want to be strong. For you. And…for me.”

You didn’t realize you were crying too until you saw your teardrops land on his face and slide down his cheek, wondering if your icy heart had finally melted, and that was why there were so many tears escaping from your blurry eyes. “Oh, San, my sweet San, I’ll be here to watch you grow, I promise,” you murmured, hugging onto him and laying back down to rest your head on his chest, gently rolling the ring around your finger.

San’s hand came up from underneath the blanket to rest on top of yours. He squeezed your hand and you squeezed right back. “Promise?”

“Promise,” you repeated softly, closing your eyes, your heart at peace. “As long as you promise to watch me too.”

San closed his eyes too, a few more happy tears dripping past his cheeks, squeezing you just a little tighter than before. San felt safe. Whole. “I’d love nothing more, Y/N.”

Apply for the taglist here ⇢ ♡

© kitten4sannie, 2023.

[lovelycandie]

Nothing Like Doing Nothing

Doing nothing with Leona Kingscholar is much more eventful than it may seem. Leona Kingscholar x gn!reader. Established relationship. Leona is completely smitten, but only subtle gestures give him away.

Inspired by the song “Nothing” by Bruno Major. (I really recommend taking a listen, it’s such a sweet song! ᵕ̈ )

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . ✦

Leona Kingscholar could’ve never imagined himself sharing his space with anyone. He liked being left alone and wasn’t the type to enjoy close proximity. Keeping others at a distance came easily, thanks to his intimidating nature, and he found it simpler to deal with people that way.

But despite all that, the aloof lion prince was now curled up by your side on the couch, his head resting on your chest and his tail loosely wrapped around your ankle. It had been a long day for both of you, so some much-needed rest in each other’s company was exactly what Leona needed—not that he’d explicitly tell you that though.

Still, you know your lion well enough by now. So there you lay running your hand gently through his wavy locks, being careful around his fluffy ears. To anyone who knew Leona’s usual gruffness, this would have been a completely foreign sight. Heck, even Leona himself was amazed (and a bit unsettled) by how vulnerable he became around you. You just had to weasel your way into his heavily guarded heart huh?

This wasn’t an easy feat however. You’d put in tireless effort to get to this point in your relationship with Leona. He commended you for it and was quietly grateful that you never gave up on him. How could he not fall for the herbivore who was determined to bring a little light into his life?

There were several things Leona began to enjoy doing since entering a relationship with you. But his absolute favorite thing? Doing nothing. Yes, nothing. Your mere presence was enough to make him feel content. You brought a sense of peace to his usually racing mind; there wasn’t anything you needed to do—just being with him was fulfilling. But, of course, he’d always go along with your whims.

So when you suggested playing video games on that new console you’d received as a gift from Ignihyde’s dorm leader, he couldn’t refuse. In your matching loungewear, the two of you played several rounds together—with you winning almost every time.

It was an odd outcome, really. Leona wasn’t particularly fond of video games, but he is competitive to his core. The same Leona Kingscholar who wouldn’t go easy on anyone—whether in a game of chess or pool—was now sitting here, doing just that with you.

There aren’t many people Leona doesn’t mind losing to (or anyone, for that matter). So how were you winning? Simple, really.

As you focused intently on the TV, completely immersed in the game, he watched you with the same intensity—though you remained blissfully unaware. How oblivious you were to how your eyes sparkled with joy after winning yet another round, or how the grin on your face had Leona wanting more.

“Ha! That’s game 7/10 for me!” you declared, winning yet again.

“You’re real happy, aren’t ya?” Leona remarked, scrutinizing you with a slight tug at the corner of his lips.

“Of course!” you replied gleefully.

Eventually, you grew tired of video games and opted to watch a cheesy romance series you and Leona had seen multiple times. You loved it; it always pulled at your heartstrings. Leona, on the other hand, acted indifferent—but you could catch the way his eyes glazed over every time you watched it.

“Ah, that stupid show again? Fine, if you like it. No, I’m not tearing up. The TV light is just hurting my eyes…” he grumbled, earning a smirk from you.

After a couple of episodes, you and Leona fell into various nonsensical conversations. Your mindless chatter kept him amused, and despite himself, he found it endearing.

“So… do you think fish ever get thirsty?” you ask, dead serious.

“Wha—what the hell are you on about now?” Leona asks, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s a serious question, Leona! Do you think they drink the water around them?” you press.

“You—haa, you know what? Sure, yup, that’s exactly what they do. But if you’re genuinely curious, you could always ask those guys from Octavinelle. Actually, scratch that—don’t go near that shady cephalo-punk…” He replies, indulging your nonsense while throwing a jab at the Octavinelle dorm leader.

Your dumb conversations continue late into the night, with you both eventually clutching onto each other, laughing uncontrollably.

That laugh of yours had him melting. The way your eyes crinkled when you grinned—Leona was charmed. He couldn’t help but notice how your eyes seemed to glisten, and in a rare moment of poetic thought, he mused that if the sky were ever deprived of its stars, it would surely be because they existed in your eyes. It was a cringy thought, sure, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized he had these disgustingly cheesy thoughts about you frequently.

So it shouldn’t be a surprise that when the laughter subsided, Leona simply stared at you, his gaze soft and fond as he took in every detail of your features, committing them to memory. His deep green eyes glinted, giving away his emotions and just how completely enamored he truly was.

Unable to resist any longer, he reached out, his fingers brushing gently across your cheek before cupping your face with his warm hand. His thumb softly caressed under your eye, searching your features for the green light, he leaned in closer once your eyes fluttered shut. Finally, his lips met yours in a chaste kiss, his adoration fully conveyed by the simple, tender gesture.

When he pulled away, there was a playful glint in your eyes, and Leona looked at you, utterly love-struck. You pulled him back into a gentle kiss of your own, then upped the intensity by playfully biting his lower lip. He stared at the cheeky look on your face when he pulled away—slightly caught off guard, yet amused by your antics.

You had him wanting you even more. Eventually, Leona pulled you closer, capturing you in a deeper kiss. Between the kisses, you fought for dominance, occasional burst of laughter slipping from your lips. This little game of yours ended with the two of you in a tangled heap on the floor.

The thud from hitting the ground made you both pause, taking in each other’s mildly disheveled appearance—still wrapped in the blanket that had draped over you both earlier. You couldn’t help but burst into laughter, and soon enough, Leona joined in.

If Leona had the choice to be anywhere else, doing anything else in that moment, he would’ve refused without hesitation. Because, to Leona, there was nothing like doing nothing with you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . ✦

✨Author’s Note: Hello! I hope you enjoyed reading my first ever attempt at writing fan fiction 😅 I was encouraged to post by a friend of mine, so I decided to give it a try. Leona is my #1 favorite character for a factor of reasons, his complexity being the most compelling one. I’ve noticed that this complexity of his often leads to mischaracterization which is a bit disheartening.🥲 So, I hope I did him a bit of justice by attempting to bring out the hidden warmness behind his guarded personality. I honesty don’t think I’ll post often (or again lol I’m a busy student T T) but who knows :) - 🍬

[mountaesan]

in the silence ; l. riwoo

pairing. non-idol!riwoo x reader genre. childhood best friends to lovers , angst , mutual pining , fluff ? synopsis. silence was always the third party in you and riwoo’s friendship , but somewhere , at some point , the silence began to shift to something you couldn’t name word count. 4.8k  warnings. riwoo’s clothes are described to be ‘oversized’ for reader , mild cussing , riwoo breaks into reader’s place ( FOR GOOD ) , reader kinda isolates themself for a couple days , mentions of not eating  playlist. you’re in love by taylor swift , 너라는 별 by 고추잠자리 , she chose me by bruno major , everything by the black skirts notes. the day that i no longer become inspired by songs is the day i quit as a writer

Riwoo guided you into his apartment, his arm steady around your waist as you stumbled against him, your laughter soft and slurred from the countless drinks you’ve had. The door clicked shut behind you, and the world outside melted into the stillness of his home. It was quiet, save for the muffled hum of the traffic outside, below his apartment—a stark contrast to the pounding bass of the club you’d left behind.

The bedroom was cloaked in darkness, the faint glow of the city spilling in through the blinds and painting faint patterns along the walls. You let yourself collapse onto Riwoo’s bed, your limbs splayed carelessly across the covers, your head sinking into the pillow with a loud sigh.

He stood by the edge of the bed, watching as your breathing slowed, your drunken giggles fading into sleepy murmurs. For a moment, he hesitated, unsure if he should disturb you, but then he noticed the state of your coat. It was bunched uncomfortable around your frame, the fabric tugging awkwardly at your shoulder.

He crouched down beside you, fingers brushing the edge of your coat. “Let’s get you outta this,” he murmured, his voice quiet, almost as if he was talking to himself.

Your half-lidded eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused, as his fingers moved to the buttons of your coat. The first one came undone easily, but as he reached for the second, your hand rose, clumsily grabbing hold of his wrist. The room seemed to shrink in that moment, unlike his heart, the faint sound of your breathing the only thing tethering him to the present.

Riwoo froze, his pulse stuttering in his chest. You were looking at him now, truly looking, your gaze heavy despite the haze of alcohol. Your lips parted as if to speak, but no words came out.

The silence that followed was thick and unyielding, filling the room like a tide rising too fast to escape. Riwoo’s heart was pounding so loudly he swore he could hear it echo and fill every quiet corner of the apartment, each beat a confession he hadn’t dared to voice.

His throat went dry, a lump forming that he couldn’t swallow down. The silence pressed in around him, thick and heavy, and yet within it, he was able to hear what he desperately tried to ignore—a secret he had buried so deeply within, woven into the fabric of his being.

He could feel it in the weight of his gaze, in the stillness of the moment that wrapped around them like a fragile cocoon. It was in the way his hands trembled, hovering over the buttons of your coat, and in the ache blooming in his chest. The unspoken truth hung between you, so loud in its silence that it felt like the air particles themselves were trembling with it.

He loved you.

Riwoo finally opened his mouth to speak, but found that the words were lodged somewhere deep inside him.

“I love you,” he whispered, though it only came out as, “Let me take care of you.”

You blinked slowly. “Me too,” you said in response, though it only came out as the faintest hint of a nod dipping your head forward. Your eyes slipped shut once more and the tension in his chest unraveled as your breathing deepened, the moment slipping away as quickly as it had arrived.

Riwoo worked carefully, his hands gentle as he unfastened the rest of your coat and slipped it from your shoulders. He tugged the covers over you, tucking you in like he’d done once when you were children, when scraped knees and bad dreams were the only things that needed mending.

He lingered for a moment, kneeling by your side of the bed. Your face was soft in sleep, your features bathed in the faint glow of the street lights outside. A strand of hair fell against your cheek, and without thinking, he reached out to brush it away. His fingers lingered, tracing a featherlight path along your temple before retreating.

“Good night,” he murmured, the words almost lost in the loud silence. He didn’t know if he was saying it to you or the ache in his chest that still hadn’t faded.

With a final glance, Riwoo stood and made his way to the living room. He collapsed onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling as the stillness pressed against his chest once more. The sound of your soft, even breaths reached him faintly through the walls, serving as a lullaby and a reminder of everything he couldn’t say.

With a heavy sigh, he made himself comfortable on the couch, pulling a blanket over his body before tucking an arm under his head. He closed his eyes and willed himself to fall asleep before he could wonder if he’d ever find the courage to tell you what was revealed at his bedside, after the silence and your heavy gaze had stripped away everything he had ever held close to his heart, leaving him bare and vulnerable.

The first thing you noticed was the smell. The acrid smell of something burning pulled you from the haze of sleep, and along with it, came the dull throb of a pounding headache. You groaned, clutching your temple as you sat up. The bed beneath you felt foreign. The sheets were too crisp, and the room was too tidy. It took you a moment to piece it together—Riwoo’s apartment.

And that smell.

The smell persisted, stubborn and unmistakable, and despite the nausea curling in your stomach, you forced yourself to stand and you shuffled out of the bedroom. You stumbled out into the hallway, your socked feet padding softly against the floor, towards the source of the chaos. The closer you got to the kitchen, the clearer the scene became. 

The kitchen was bathed in morning light, streaming in through the window over the sink, and there stood Riwoo. His hair was mussed, sticking up in uneven tufts like he’d just rolled out of bed, and he was entirely focused on the task at hand. You thought the sight of him wrestling with a frying pan and muttering under his breath was both endearing and absurd. 

Your gaze flickered to the counter, where a single, very burnt piece of toast sat on a plate. The edges were charred black, curling slightly, and the image brought an involuntary smile to your lips, despite the way your head currently felt like it was splitting in two.

As if reminded of your headache, you clutched your temple and groaned audibly. Riwoo turned around at the sound, a spatula in hand and a warm, boyish smile already spreading across his face. 

“Good morning,” he said. His voice was softer than usual, tinged with a hint of sheepishness. “You feeling okay?”

You didn’t trust your voice yet, so you shook your head. Riwoo set the pan down and reached for a mug, pouring coffee before handing it to you.

“Coffee,” he said simply, his fingers brushing yours as you gratefully accepted the gift of all miracles in the form of piping hot coffee in a ceramic cup.

The warmth of the mug seeped into your hands, and you exhaled, grateful. You brought it to your lips, savoring the bitter warmth that chased away the fog in your mind. “You’re a lifesaver,” you muttered.

He chuckled, the sound low and comforting. “Go wash up. Breakfast isn’t done yet anyway.”

You blinked at him, your brain still sluggish.

As if he knew what you were thinking, Riwoo pointed over his shoulder as he spoke. “Top drawer of the dresser in my room. I have a bunch of old dance shirts that should work. Towels are in the bathroom cabinet. Holler if you need anything else.”

You nodded and shuffled off to the bathroom, grateful for the excuse to rinse away the remnants of last night. The hot water was a small mercy, clearing your head just enough to leave you feeling human again. You pulled on Riwoo’s shirt after your shower. It was one of his worn, oversized ones that were strictly reserved for his dance practices and lounging around in his bed until the sky was high in the sky. The scent of detergent and something indefinably him wrapped around you like a second skin. With your hair still damp, you returned to the kitchen, the coffee in your system doing little to take the edge off your headache.

When you returned to the kitchen, the sight before you made you pause. Riwoo was setting the table, moving around the small space as he focused on the task at hand. On the plate on his side was the burnt toast from earlier, and in its place at your seat was a perfectly golden, buttered slice. 

“You’re seriously eating that?” you asked, nodding toward his plate as you slid into your chair. 

He glanced down, a lopsided grin spreading across his face. “It’s fine. I like the crispy parts,” he lied.

You felt your chest ache with something you couldn’t quite name.

The two of you ate in relative silence, the clink of forks and the occasional sip of coffee filling the space between you. You caught yourself stealing glances at Riwoo, at the way the morning light kissed his features, softening the angles of his jaw and painting his profile in a golden glow.

The quiet felt too good, too easy. And you couldn’t help but wonder—would this be what mornings looked like if you were together?

Would Riwoo always hand you a mug of steaming coffee with that gentle smile of his? Would you be able to shuffle up to him, wrapping your arms around his waist as he cooked breakfast? Would he laugh when you tried to sway with him in the cramped kitchen, your feet stepping on his as he tries to teach you to dance?

The thought sent a pang through your chest, bittersweet and oddly enough—familiar, and you nearly jumped when Riwoo nudged your foot under the table. Startled, you looked up to meet his gaze.

His eyes were warm, crinkling slightly at the corners as his lips curved into an easy smile. There was nothing extraordinary about it, and yet, the weight of the moment settled deep into your chest, grounding you in a way that simultaneously felt comforting and terrifying. 

Your stomach lurched, and for a fleeting second, you thought it was the remnants of your hangover. But no, it wasn’t that.

What was it?

You swallowed hard, dropping your gaze back to your plate as warmth crept up your neck. Riwoo didn’t seem to notice the sudden shift in your behavior, or if he did, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he finished the last bite of his toast and leaned back in his chair, that stupid, damning smile still lingering on his lips as he asked, “More coffee?”

You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat.

It was love. 

Riwoo had known you for more than half of his life. If he counted the years the two of you spent apart while you were off at college, it would be closer to two-thirds. You were constants in each other’s lives, intertwined through every milestone, big and small.

He was there when you lost your first tooth—blood, tears, and drama included. You were there for his first performance in front of an audience—fourteen and brilliant and shining. He was there when you received your first college acceptance letter, and you were there when he got the call from his dream dance company.

Even after spending years apart, your connection didn’t waver. You understood each other in ways words could never articulate. A glance was more than enough for Riwoo to understand your mood, and a brush of his shoulders could communicate everything he wanted to say.

Well, almost everything.

So for you to go completely radio silence within a matter of days after that morning at his apartment, it raised a million red flags all at once. Something was wrong.

woo: are you dead woo: you’re not gonna sue me right woo: if you are i have a friend in pre-law woo: but actually, i’ll be suing YOU for causing me extensive emotional distress woo: for making me WORRY MY FUCKING ASS OFF

You stared at his messages, the knot in your chest tightening. Just as you set your phone down with a sigh, a loud thud from the living room made you jump. Then came the unmistakable sound of glass shattering.

Your phone vibrated in your hand again.

woo: dw i’ll pay for all damages 😁

“What the hell?” you muttered, clutching the device tightly as you debated whether to call the authorities. Before you could decide, your bedroom door flew open, flooding your pitch-black sanctuary with harsh light. 

Riwoo stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the glow of the living room light. You couldn’t see his face clearly, but the set of his shoulders and the way his hand gripped the door frame made it clear he was furious.

You hissed, burrowing under your blanket like a vampire caught in sunlight.

“Go away,” you groaned, turning toward the wall. “I’m alive, you can leave now.”

Heavy footsteps approached your bed, followed by the sharp tug of your blanket being yanked off. You whined, curling further into yourself and throwing an arm over your face. Riwoo’s sigh filled the room—heavy, frustrated, but still him. He crouched beside you, his hand finding your arm in a gentle, grounding touch.

“Let’s go outside,” he said quietly, his voice softer than you expected.

You peeked at him through the crook of your arm, your voice hoarse. “You’re… not mad at me?”

He rolled his eyes, sighing again, but this time, with less heat and more exhaustion. “Of course I’m mad. But yelling at you when you’re like this isn’t going to fix anything. You need fresh air. When’s the last time you ate?”

You opened your mouth to speak but he cut you off with a raised hand. “Actually, don’t answer that. It’s only going to piss me off more. Let’s go.”

“I’m a mess,” you muttered, your voice slightly cracking. “I haven’t showered in days, and I look like—”

Riwoo tugged off his hoodie and tossed it onto the bed beside you. “Put that on. No more excuses.”

You stared at the hoodie in your lap, the familiar scent of him clinging to the fabric. It was warm, comforting, and overwhelmingly him. You hesitated, your throat tight with the weight of everything you’d been avoiding, but his eyes softened as he stood, holding out a hand to you.

“C’mon,” he urged, his voice quieter now, more steady. “Let me take care of you.”

And for the first time in days, you found yourself reaching back. 

You weren’t sure how Riwoo always managed to get you to comply with his whims. Maybe it was the quiet resolve in his voice or the way his presence felt like the warm glow of a streetlamp in the dead of night—steady and unyielding. Whatever it was, it worked. Without protest, you found yourself sitting in the passenger seat of his car, the faint scent of pine air freshener and him filling the air.

Riwoo drove in silence. His hands were steady on the wheel, his profile lit faintly by the muted glow of the dashboard. It wasn’t until you glanced out the window that you realized it was already well past 11 p.m. The world outside was cloaked in darkness, save for the soft hum of streetlights and the quiet stillness of the neighborhood you passed through. 

The car rolled to a stop at a small diner, one of those places that never seemed to close. Riwoo didn’t say a word as he led you inside and handed you a menu, his gaze flickering to you now and then as you scanned the options. When the food arrived, you barely took a breath between bites, practically inhaling the food as hunger overwhelmed you. He sat across from you, his chin resting on his hand, watching in that quiet, steady way of his.

Back in the car, he didn’t immediately head home. Instead, he drove to the small general store the two of you used to frequent as kids. Nostalgia hit you like a freight train as the car pulled into the gravel parking lot, the old flickering sign casting soft light over the cracked pavement.

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly as you stepped inside, your footsteps echoing against the tiles. He bought you an ice cream cone—just like he used to back then—and the two of you walked outside to the weathered bench out front.

The bench creaked beneath your weight, but it held, just like it always had. You swung your feet idly, almost out of habit, the heels of your sneakers scraping the dirt floor with each swing. It felt silly and a little awkward—your legs now too long now for the childish habit—but you did it anyway.

The hum of cicadas filled the silence, accompanied by the soft whistle of a cool night breeze. You felt lighter than you had in days. 

Riwoo broke the silence first, his voice low and careful, as if he didn’t want to disturb the fragile peace. “How are you feeling now?”

You hummed thoughtfully, licking the edges of your ice cream cone. “Better. A little, at least.” 

He sighed, a sound heavy with relief, and leaned back against the bench, his head tilting toward the starless sky. “Good. I was really scared, you know.”

You glanced at him, his profile softened by the faint glow of the store’s lights. “Scared?”

He nodded, not meeting your gaze. “It reminded me of college… when you disappeared. Five years, just like that. You didn’t call. You didn’t text. I thought—” He paused, his voice faltering. “This might sound childish or whatever but… I thought maybe you found better people. More interesting people. And you just decided to leave me behind.”

His words stunned you. You’d never realized how deeply it had affected him.

“No.” The word came out sharper than you intended. You shifted, tucking your legs up onto the bench, your chin resting on your knees as you faced him fully. “No, Riwoo. Of course not.”

He finally looked at you, his brows furrowed slightly, as if he didn’t quite believe you. 

“There is no one more interesting in the world than you,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “You’ve always been the most interesting person to me, Riwoo. I wouldn’t trade you for anything. You’re my best friend.” Your voice softened, though the unspoken truth behind your words ached to spill out.

And the person I’ve loved for as long as I can remember.

Riwoo blinked before his lips curved into a faint smile as he finished the last bit of his ice cream. “Thanks,” he murmured, his tone light, though his eyes glimmered with something you couldn’t quite place.

The silence returned, but it felt different now—lighter, almost tender. You worked your way through your cone, slurping softly as you tried to keep the melting ice cream from dripping onto your hands. Riwoo leaned back, watching you with quiet amusement, his head tilted slightly.

“You’ve got a little…” he murmured, trailing off as he leaned closer, his hand reaching out.

Before you could react, his thumb brushed against the corner of your lips, wiping away a small smudge of ice cream. The sudden closeness, the way his touch lingered for just a moment too long—it sent your heart into overdrive.

“Saving this for later?” he teased, his tone casual, but his actions anything but.

Your heart stuttered as he brought his thumb to his mouth, licking the ice cream off without hesitation.

Your brain short-circuited. 

Heat bloomed across your face, and you froze, staring at him wide-eyed. Riwoo caught your expression and laughed softly, the sound low and warm and you felt the faint nudge of his shoulder against yours. “Still the same messy eater.”

When you returned home, the air between you and Riwoo felt lighter, as if the weight of your earlier silence had been lifted and replaced with something softer. You lingered at the door, shifting from foot to foot as you tried to find the words. 

“Hey,” you started, hesitating for a moment. “Do you… want to sleep over? It’s late, and I don’t want you driving back.”

Riwoo looked at you, his brow quirking slightly before he nodded. “Sure. But only if you promise not to snore like last time at my place. They were penetrating my walls.”

You rolled your eyes, leading him inside. “You can sleep in my bed,” you offered as you walked to your room.

“Nope,” he replied, his voice light but firm. “Floor’s fine. I’m not taking your bed from you. You know how much of a bed hog I am.”

You didn’t argue, knowing it would be pointless. Instead, you handed him a spare pillow and an extra blanket. He knelt by the side of the bed, arranging the pillow and blanket into something resembling a nest.

While he worked, you disappeared into the bathroom to shower. The warm water washed away the days’ worth of grime, leaving you feeling lighter. When you emerged, fresh-faced and toothbrush in hand, you were wearing the same shirt you’d borrowed from him last time at his place.

Riwoo froze mid-reach for his phone charger when he saw you. His gaze lingered for a second too long on the oversized shirt that draped over you.

“Wait,” he said, his voice slightly uneven. “Is that… my shirt?”

You blinked at him, toothbrush still in your mouth. “Yeah?”

“You… kept it?” he asked, standing up slowly. 

You shrugged, continuing to brush your teeth. “Did you want me to throw it away?”

He opened his mouth to reply but faltered, his face flushing in the moonlight filtering through your window. “I didn’t expect you to keep wearing it, that’s all.”

“I mean,” you leaned against your bedframe, gathering all the courage you could muster before speaking again. “I like it. It’s comfortable. And… it smells like you.”

Riwoo coughed, turning abruptly to fiddle with his makeshift bed. “Right. Well. Uh… glad you like it, then. I guess.”

You felt relieved when you saw the slightest twinge of red dusting his cheeks out of embarrassment. Guess that made two of you, then.

You turned back to the bathroom, spitting out the toothpaste and rinsing your mouth. When you returned, Riwoo was already lying down on the floor, one arm behind his head and his phone in the other hand. 

You climbed into your bed, but instead sprawling across the middle like you normally would, you curled up on the edge closest to where he lay. Your arm dangled off the side, fingers brushing against the floor.

The room was quiet except for the faint rustle of blankets and the soft hum of cicadas outside. Moonlight spilled through the window, illuminating Riwoo’s face. You couldn’t help but stare, your gaze tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the faint curve of his lips. 

He was scrolling on his phone, utterly unaware of your scrutiny, but when his eyes flicked up and met yours, your heart stuttered. Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you quickly looked away.

But Riwoo just smiled faintly and reached up, his hand brushing against yours in a playful nudge.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked softly.

“Not yet,” you murmured, your voice barely audible in the stillness.

“Me neither.”

The two of you stayed like that for a while, your hand dangling off the edge of the bed and his brushing against yours every so often. Eventually, the drowsiness won, pulling you under like a tide.

The rustling soon woke you like a whisper. You stirred, disoriented with the heaviness of sleep still clinging to your eyelids. The world beyond your bed felt hazy and dim, bathed in muted silver moonlight that spilled across the room in broken fragments. You blinked once, twice, before the sound pulled you fully awake.

Rolling the edge of the bed, you peered down. Riwoo was there, his form restless beneath the blanket, the shadows playing tricks on the expression etched across his face. His hair, messy and mussed, caught in the light as he tossed and turned, fighting some unseen struggle.

“Woo?” you called out softly, your voice rough with sleep. You rubbed your eyes. “Is everything okay?”

He froze at the sound of your voice, his movements stilled like a wave caught mid-crash. Slowly, he turned onto his side to face you for a moment before he sat up, his blanket pooling at his waist. The faint rise and fall of his chest seemed exaggerated in the quiet, his breaths uneven.

When his eyes met yours, something inside you twisted. He looked at you—truly, deeply, as if he were trying to memorize every detail, every speck of light and shadow cast across your face. There was a gravity in his gaze, pulling you in, leaving you breathless and raw.

Concern prickled at the back of your mind as you pushed yourself upright, mirroring his movement. The blanket slid off your shoulders as you sat, the cool night air brushing against you, but all you could focus on was him.

“Riwoo,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly. “What’s wrong?”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy, loaded with unspoken words and hidden truths. It filled the space between you, thick and suffocating, wrapping around your lungs until you could hardly breathe.

And then, barely above a whisper, he broke it. “You’re my best friend.”

Four words. Four simple, ordinary words, yet they shattered something within you. They didn’t feel ordinary at all. Not in the way he said them, with his voice so quiet it nearly cracked. Not in the way his eyes softened, the dark depths of them full of vulnerability you’d never seen before.

Your heart stilled and then stuttered, the pieces slowly fitting together until the truth clicked into place with a force that had you reeling.

He loved you. Utterly, wholly, in the kind of way that rewrote entire existences and universes. You could see it now, as if every moment the two of you had shared was suddenly cast in a new light—his lingering glances, the way he always seemed to know when you needed him, the quiet silences that never felt empty but instead brimmed with something unnamed.

Your chest ached with the weight of it all, but it also burned with something brighter. A spark, a warmth, a realization that had always been there but was now ignited into a flame. 

You swallowed, your throat tight, and nodded slowly. Your voice was small but steady when you whispered back, “Me too. You’re my best friend too.”

The words felt like a promise, a confession, a thousand emotions folded into one simple phrase. Because that was the truth, wasn’t it? He was your best friend—the person who knew you better than anyone, who saw the parts of you you kept hidden but stayed anyway. The person you loved with a depth that frightened you and filled you all at once.

Riwoo exhaled, a shaky, uneven sound that you felt more than hear. His gaze softened, his shoulders sagging as if some great weight had been lifted. The tension in the air didn’t vanish—it shifted, transforming into something quieter, gentler, yet no less profound. 

You stayed like that, two souls caught in the gravity of each other, the silence between you now warm and buzzing. And as you lay back down, pulling your blanket over you, your hand drifted over the edge of the bed again.

This time, Riwoo didn’t hesitate. His fingers brushed against yours, his touch tentative but steady, grounding you in the moment. He brought your hand to his face, his lips brushing against the back of your hand and in that moment, you thought your heart would implode.

As the quiet settled around you once more, you closed your eyes, listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing beneath you. The room was still, save for the faint rustle of the blanket as he shifted, his fingers brushing against yours again—a tether, an anchor.

In the silence, you heard it. His love for you, steady and unwavering, like a melody played in the softest key. It filled the space between heartbeats, whispered through the shadows and moonlight. And there, beneath it all, you heard your own love echo back—gentle, unspoken, but just as sure.

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[jburrgf]

Easily.

“Don’t you tell me it wasn’t mean to be, call it quits, call it destiny. Just because it won’t come easily, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”

pairing: joe burrow x reader

summary: friends to lovers, childhood friendship, reunion, patient x nurse, first love, a lot of fluff

description: after playing with his nephews, joe strained his ankle and ran to the ER. but he didn’t though he was going to meet his childhood best friend there.

—————————————

It was past midnight, the time when the world outside the hospital walls seemed to stand still. Inside, though, it was a different story. The fluorescent lights buzzed quietly above me as I made my way down the hallway of the ER. My feet ached, the usual dull throb that comes after ten hours on your feet, but it was nothing I wasn’t used to. Nights like this were routine, predictable even, and I had learned to find comfort in the chaos.

I adjusted my stethoscope and glanced at the clock above the nurse’s station—1:37 AM. Still hours to go. The hum of monitors and the occasional beeping of machines filled the space, blending into the background noise I’d grown accustomed to over the years. My shift had been steady, a couple of minor accidents, a handful of routine check-ups, nothing too serious. Until the doors of the ER flew open, and everything changed.

I didn’t look up right away, too focused on updating a patient’s chart, but the sudden rush of voices—urgent, yet not panicked—caught my attention. I turned to see two nurse helping a patient to get on a stretcher, their faces set in calm determination. One of them was giving a brief rundown to the admitting nurse.

“Thirty minutes ago, pickup football game. Possible sprained ankle, maybe a mild concussion, conscious the whole time, though.”

I barely glanced at the patient on the stretcher at first, but then something made me pause. The man lying there was in a football jersey, but it wasn’t the jersey that gave me pause—it was his face. He had one hand pressed against his head, his eyes half-closed in obvious discomfort. But it wasn’t the injury that had my heart skipping a beat. It was him.

Joe Burrow.

The name echoed in my mind before I could stop it. Joe Burrow, Joey, my childhood friend, the boy who lived down the street, the one I used to spend all my summer afternoons with before life drifted us apart. The boy who had grown into one of the NFL’s brightest stars.

And now, apparently, my patient.

I blinked, trying to process the scene in front of me. Joe Burrow, here, in my ER, in the middle of the night, looking very different from the kid I used to race bikes with down the block.

"Y/N, can you take this one?" The nurse's voice broke through my daze, and I nodded, my training kicking in despite the sudden rush of memories swirling in my mind.

I approached the stretcher, my steps slower than usual, my mind still catching up with the present. Joe hadn’t noticed me yet. He was too busy wincing as one of the paramedics adjusted the ice pack on his ankle. My hands trembled slightly as I picked up his chart, scanning it quickly.

“Joe Burrow,” I said softly, almost testing the name out loud to see if it would break the spell of disbelief hanging over me.

At the sound of my voice, his head turned, and for a brief moment, his eyes were unfocused, likely from the mild concussion they suspected. But then his gaze sharpened, recognition flickering in his eyes. He blinked, then squinted, as if trying to place me, and I saw the exact moment it clicked.

“Y/N?” His voice was rough, slightly hoarse from exertion, but there was a hint of surprise there, maybe even something softer—something familiar.

“Yeah, it’s me,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, professional, even though my heart was doing somersaults in my chest. “Looks like you’ve had quite the night.”

He let out a short, breathy laugh, the corners of his mouth tugging up into a small smile despite the pain etched across his face. “You could say that.”

For a moment, we just stared at each other, the years between us hanging in the air like something tangible. It felt like an eternity since we’d last seen each other, though in reality, it had only been... What, ten years? Maybe more? The boy I remembered was long gone, replaced by the man lying in front of me — taller, broader, more grown-up in every way. But the spark in his eyes was the same, that playful glint that always used to get us into trouble.

I cleared my throat, trying to shake off the lingering sense of nostalgia. “Let’s get you checked out. You said you were playing football?”

“Yeah, with my nephews,” Joe replied, wincing again as he shifted on the stretcher. “Thought I’d show them a few moves, but I guess I got a little too into it.”

“Sounds like you haven’t changed much,” I teased, grabbing the clipboard to make notes. “Still trying to prove you’re the toughest one out there?”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “Some things don’t change.”

As I moved to assess his injury, my hands were steady, but my mind raced with questions. How had he ended up here, in this hospital, on this night? And how had we managed to go so long without crossing paths again? Life had taken us in such different directions, but in this moment, it felt like the universe had pushed us back together.

“Alright,” I said, snapping back to the present. “Let’s take a look at that ankle.”

I knelt down beside the stretcher to examine his ankle. The swelling was already visible, and the skin around it was starting to turn a soft shade of purple. It didn’t seem like anything too serious, but given the hit to his head, he’d probably need to stay overnight for observation. My fingers brushed against his skin as I checked for tenderness, and I couldn’t help but notice how much he’d changed. Stronger, tougher than the lanky boy I remembered, but still the same person, somewhere underneath all that.

“This looks like a sprain,” I said, grabbing an Ace bandage from the tray beside me. “We’ll get you some crutches and probably keep you here for a bit to monitor your head injury. How does your head feel? Any dizziness or nausea?”

He grimaced slightly. “Just a headache. Nothing too bad, though. I’ve had worse hits.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like I should be more worried about your career than this injury.”

His laugh was soft, but it was there. “Maybe, but I think I can survive a game with some six-year-olds.”

I wrapped the bandage around his ankle carefully, trying not to let my hands shake. It was bizarre how easily we fell into conversation, even after all these years. We’d lost so much time, and yet it felt oddly natural to be here with him, even if it was under the fluorescent lights of an emergency room.

Once I finished wrapping his ankle, I stood up and met his eyes again. There was a question in them, unspoken but heavy in the silence that followed.

“So…” Joe began slowly, his voice quieter now, as if we were stepping into more uncertain territory. “How long has it been?”

“Since we last saw each other?” I asked, tilting my head as I thought back. “I don’t know… over ten years, I think.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” He shifted his weight slightly, sitting up more on the stretcher. “I meant to stay in touch, you know. Things just got… crazy.”

I could see the apology in his eyes, though he didn’t say the words outright. And I understood. Life had a way of sweeping you up, pulling you in directions you never saw coming. He had his NFL career, the spotlight, the pressure. I had my nursing career, the long hours, the exhaustion that came with it. Still, there was a small part of me that wondered how different things might have been if we’d made more of an effort. If I had.

“Yeah,” I said, offering him a small smile. “Life does that.”

There was a beat of silence, not uncomfortable but reflective. We were both thinking about the past, the what-ifs and the roads we didn’t take. But before I could dwell on it too long, Joe spoke up again, breaking the tension.

“You look good,” he said, his tone genuine but light. “Not much has changed. Except the scrubs, maybe.”

I laughed softly, grateful for the shift in conversation. “I could say the same about you. Except maybe… all of this,” I gestured vaguely to him—the athletic build, the worn jersey, the presence that came with someone used to being in the spotlight.

“Yeah, I guess I’ve changed a little,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “But you know, underneath all of this, I’m still the same guy who used to lose every bike race to you.”

I smirked. “Oh, I remember. You hated losing.”

“I still do.” His eyes sparkled with that playful glint I recognized so well.

We fell into a comfortable rhythm after that, talking about everything and nothing as I finished up his assessment. It was strange how easy it was, how natural it felt to slip back into the banter we used to share. I’d always liked that about Joe—he made you feel at ease, like no matter how much time passed, nothing between us had really changed.

As I finished updating his chart, the doctor on call came over to check him out, confirming what I’d suspected: Joe would need to stay overnight for observation, just to be safe. I told him I’d come back once I was done with my rounds, but I could still feel his eyes on me as I walked away.

[…]

Couple hours passed, the usual rhythm of the ER taking over once again. But every now and then, I found my thoughts drifting back to Joe. He was resting in one of the private rooms now, probably bored out of his mind. And for some reason, I felt compelled to check on him, even though I knew he didn’t really need me. It was something about seeing him again—after all this time, after all we’d been through separately—that made me want to stay close, to not let this second chance slip away.

By the time I finally had a break, it was close to 4 AM. The hospital had quieted down, the late-night lull settling in. I made my way back to Joe’s room, my heart beating a little faster than I’d like to admit. I told myself it was just a routine check-up, nothing more. But deep down, I knew it was more than that.

When I pushed open the door, Joe was awake, staring at the ceiling, his expression lost in thought. His head turned at the sound of my entrance, and a small smile crossed his lips when he saw me.

“Hey,” he said, sitting up slightly. “Back to check on me again?”

I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Can’t leave you alone for too long. Who knows what kind of trouble you’ll get into.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks for taking care of me, Y/N. I mean it.”

I shrugged, trying to keep things light, but there was something about the way he said it that made my chest tighten just a little. “Just doing my job.”

He studied me for a moment, his eyes searching mine like he was trying to figure something out. “It’s been good seeing you again. I didn’t think I’d run into you like this, but… I’m glad I did.”

“Me too,” I admitted, my voice quieter now. The air between us felt heavier, like there was more to be said, but neither of us knew exactly how to say it.

For a while, we just talked—about life, work, the things that had happened since we last saw each other. Joe opened up about the pressures of being in the NFL, how sometimes it felt like everything was spinning too fast and he couldn’t slow it down. I shared a little about my life too, about how nursing had become my world and how hard it was to balance that with anything else. We were both a little vulnerable, a little raw in the way you could only be when the rest of the world was asleep and you were left with nothing but your thoughts and the quiet of the night.

The conversation between us flowed easily, like slipping back into a comfortable rhythm. There was something about talking to Joe in the middle of the night, the world outside the hospital walls so still, that made the years between us seem to melt away. It was like we were kids again, sitting on the porch steps after a long day of playing outside, just talking about anything and everything.

“So, you stayed in Cincinnati?” Joe asked, shifting on the hospital bed to sit up more comfortably.

I nodded. “Yeah, never really left. Got into nursing school here and stuck around. I like the pace of it. My family’s here, too.”

He smiled softly. “It’s good that you stayed close to them. I’ve missed a lot of that, being away.”

I could hear the hint of longing in his voice, the weight of the sacrifices he’d made for his career. Joe had always been focused, even when we were kids. When he said he was going to be a football player, I believed him because he believed it with his whole heart. But I could see now, in his eyes, that the road had taken a toll.

“You’re always traveling, huh?” I asked, curious.

“Yeah, pretty much,” he replied. “It’s part of the job, but it gets lonely sometimes. The only time I get back home is for the off-season, and even then, it’s not much.

I bit my lip, unsure of what to say. He was living the dream, the one we’d all seen coming, but it was clear there was a price. I hadn’t thought much about that before, what his life must be like now. To everyone else, he was Joe Burrow, NFL star, the guy who won championships. But sitting here, under the soft glow of the hospital room lights, he just seemed like the same boy I used to know—the one who liked backyard football and riding bikes through the neighborhood.

“It’s not easy, is it?” I asked softly, sensing the exhaustion behind his smile. “Being Joe Burrow.”

He looked at me, his eyes locking on mine, and for a moment, I saw something vulnerable there—something real. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, wincing slightly as he touched the sore spot on his head.

“It’s not always what people think,” he admitted quietly. “Don’t get me wrong, I love it. Football’s everything to me. But there’s so much more that comes with it—the pressure, the expectations. Sometimes it feels like I’m always on. Like I can’t just...be.”

His words hung in the air between us, raw and unguarded. I hadn’t expected him to open up like this, but maybe that’s what the night did to people. Maybe it made us feel safe enough to say the things we wouldn’t admit in the daylight.

“I get that,” I said after a beat. “In a different way, I mean. Being a nurse… it’s all-consuming sometimes. I see my family when I can, but I’m always here, always on call. You start to lose parts of yourself, you know?”

Joe nodded, his eyes softening as he listened. “Yeah. It’s like you give so much of yourself to what you do that there’s not much left for anything else.”

I swallowed, realizing how true that was for both of us. We’d grown up chasing different dreams, but somehow, we’d both ended up feeling the same way—exhausted, a little lost, trying to figure out how to balance it all.

Silence fell between us for a moment, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that comes when two people are just...understanding each other. No need for words, just a shared recognition of something deeper.

I laughed softly, and the tension between us seemed to ease a little. It was strange how easy it was to be around him again, like no time had passed at all. But there was also something new between us now—something unspoken but very real.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” he said again, his voice quieter this time, more serious. “I don’t know if I said that already, but... I mean it.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, meeting his gaze. “It’s my job, after all.”

Joe shook his head, a slight smile playing on his lips. “No, I mean... thanks for being here. I needed this. More than I realized.”

The quiet of the night wrapped around us, like the world outside had fallen away and left just the two of us in this small, dimly lit room. I sat down on the edge of the chair beside Joe’s bed, my mind still buzzing with everything we’d talked about—the years that had passed, the memories we shared, and the things we’d never said.

I watched him for a moment, noting the way his face softened when he wasn’t wearing that confident, composed mask that the public always saw. He looked more like the boy I used to know, the one who’d always been up for an adventure, always quick with a joke or a grin. But now, there was a weight behind his eyes that hadn’t been there before, a heaviness that came from carrying the expectations of an entire city on his shoulders.

“How do you do it?” I asked quietly, my voice almost a whisper in the stillness of the room.

Joe’s brow furrowed, and he turned his head to look at me. “Do what?”

“Handle the pressure,” I said, gesturing vaguely to him, to the life he lived now. “Everyone watching you, expecting so much from you all the time. Doesn’t it get overwhelming?”

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. It does.” His voice was low, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t used to admitting that to anyone. “I mean, I love the game. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. But sometimes, it feels like it’s all moving so fast, and I’m just trying to keep up.”

I nodded, understanding more than I thought I would. It wasn’t the same as the pressures he faced, but I knew what it felt like to be stretched thin, to feel like there was never enough time or energy to meet everyone’s expectations.

“There are moments,” he continued, “when I think back to when we were kids, and everything was just… easier, you know? No pressure, no cameras, no one expecting anything from me except to show up and play. It felt simple back then.”

I smiled at the memory, my mind drifting back to those endless summer days when we’d race our bikes down the street or spend hours at the park, just the two of us against the world. “Yeah, it was simpler. We didn’t have a care in the world.”

Joe looked at me, something softer in his gaze now. “You know, I’ve thought about you a lot over the years.”

That caught me off guard. I blinked, my heart skipping a beat at the unexpected confession. “You have?”

He nodded, his eyes searching mine. “Yeah. I mean, I’ve kept up with you a little, here and there, through social media and stuff. But it wasn’t the same. I always wondered what happened—why we lost touch.”

I shifted in my seat, feeling a small pang of guilt. “I wondered the same thing sometimes. Life just got in the way, I guess.”

Joe smiled, but there was a sadness to it. “Yeah. But it’s good to see you now. Even if I had to get knocked out by a bunch of kids to do it.” He was quiet for a moment, like he was working up the courage to say something. Then, his voice dropped even lower, almost like he was afraid to let the words out. “You were… my first love, you know. Back when we were fourteen.”

The room seemed to still completely, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. My breath caught in my throat, and my heart thudded in my chest. “What?”

Joe met my gaze, his expression open, vulnerable in a way I hadn’t seen before. “I never told you back then, but you were. I had the biggest crush on you. I was too scared to say anything, though, so I just... never did.”

My mind was reeling, flashes of our time together when we were kids playing in my head—the way he’d always try to impress me, the way he’d get competitive when we played games, the times we’d sit in the park talking about anything and everything. And now, it all made sense.

“Joe…” I started, my voice soft, unsure of what to say. “I had no idea.”

He laughed a little, though there was a hint of nervousness in it. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t exactly smooth back then. I thought maybe you figured it out when I kept challenging you to races just to spend more time with you.”

I laughed softly, the sound easing some of the tension between us. “I just thought you really hated losing.”

“I did,” he admitted, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But I hated the idea of not being around you even more.”

There was something so honest about the way he said it, and it hit me in a way I hadn’t expected. All this time, I’d thought we were just two kids having fun, never realizing that there was more beneath the surface. And now, sitting here with him all these years later, it felt like a door had opened, revealing all the things we hadn’t said back then.

“I used to think about you a lot too,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “After you moved away for college, I wondered what would’ve happened if we’d stayed in touch.”

His eyes softened, and he reached out, his hand brushing against mine where it rested on the edge of the bed. His touch was warm, grounding, and my breath hitched at the contact.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing over the back of my hand. “But maybe we can find out now.”

For a moment, I couldn’t speak. The air between us felt charged, like the years we’d spent apart had collapsed into this one moment, and everything was suddenly within reach—everything we hadn’t said, everything we hadn’t done.

I looked into his eyes, searching for something—an answer, maybe, or just the courage to let myself feel what I was feeling. And what I felt was undeniable. All those years ago, when we were kids, I hadn’t realized what was growing between us. But now… now I could feel it, and it was as real as the heartbeat thrumming in my chest.

“You really had a crush on me, huh?” I asked, trying to lighten the moment, though my voice wavered slightly.

Joe laughed softly, but there was nothing teasing in his gaze. “Yeah. And maybe I still do. And I know it can sound weird, but I know you don’t have anyone now. So I think it’s ok if I hit on you… I guess.”

The room seemed to shrink around us, the world outside fading away until it was just the two of us. I felt the warmth of his hand against mine, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself wonder what could happen—what this could mean.

The moment hung between us, heavy with everything unsaid. Joe’s hand lingered on mine, his thumb tracing slow circles that sent a warmth through me I hadn’t felt in years. It was surreal, sitting here in the quiet of the hospital room, realizing how much had passed between us, and how much still remained.

“So,” Joe said after a beat, his voice softer now, almost tentative. “Maybe it’s time we don’t lose touch again.”

I looked up at him, my heart still racing, a small smile playing on my lips. “What are you saying, Joe?”

He held my gaze, his expression serious but hopeful. “I’m saying… I want to see you again. Outside of this hospital.” His smile grew slightly, a little more of that old playfulness creeping back into his voice. “Maybe when I’m not half-concussed and in a hospital gown.”

I laughed at that, though my stomach fluttered at the idea of it. “You’re asking me out?”

“Yeah,” he said, more confidently this time, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m asking you out, Y/N. I don’t want to miss out on this again. I don’t want to wonder what would’ve happened if we’d given this—us—a real shot.”

His words hit me harder than I expected. There was something so earnest in the way he said it, like he’d been carrying this feeling for a long time. And maybe I had been too. All these years, I’d tucked away those memories, convinced that whatever we could have had was lost in the past. But now, sitting here with him, it felt like the door had opened again.

I hesitated, not because I didn’t want to say yes, but because this felt big. It wasn’t just a casual date—it was a reconnection with the person who had been a part of some of the best years of my life.

“Joe…” I started, unsure of how to put my feelings into words.

He squeezed my hand gently, his eyes soft and understanding. “I know. It’s a lot. But I don’t want to let you slip away again, Y/N. Not this time.”

I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment, and then nodded. “Okay. Let’s give it a shot.”

His smile lit up the room, and it sent a rush of warmth through me. “Really?”

“Yeah,” I said, my own smile widening. “I think we owe it to ourselves to see what happens.”

His words hung in the air, and I felt my heart skip a beat. There was something in the way he was looking at me—something different from how he used to look at me when we were kids. It was deeper now, more intense, like he was seeing me for the first time in a long time, really seeing me.

Before I could say anything, the doctor stepped in, clearing his throat as he entered the room. The moment broke, and I stepped back, letting the doctor check Joe’s vitals one last time. The distraction gave me a moment to breathe, to calm the fluttering in my chest that his words had caused.

“Alright, Joe,” the doctor said after a brief exam. “Everything looks good. You’re clear to go, but take it easy for a few days, alright? No more football with the nephews.”

Joe grinned. “No promises, doc.”

The doctor chuckled, handing me the discharge paperwork. “He’s in your hands now, Nurse Y/N. Make sure he behaves.”

“I’ll try,” I said with a smirk, shooting Joe a playful look.

As the doctor left, I turned back to Joe, holding the paperwork in my hands. “Looks like you’re free to go.”

Joe nodded, though there was a glimmer of something playful in his eyes. “I guess that means you get to help me to my car, too.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the grin that tugged at my lips. “Don’t push your luck, Burrow.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, his ankle wrapped and his movements slow as he tested his balance with the crutches the nurse had given him. I stood by the door, watching as he struggled for a second, clearly still groggy from his head injury.

“Need a hand?” I asked, crossing my arms and raising an eyebrow.

He glanced up at me, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I think I’m good, but if you want to help, I’m not going to say no.”

I laughed, stepping forward and looping my arm around his back, steadying him as he got to his feet. His arm draped over my shoulder, and I could feel the warmth of his body next to mine, a small reminder of how close we were.

We made our way down the hallway slowly, Joe leaning on me more than he probably needed to, though I didn’t mind. As we stepped outside, the cool morning air greeted us, fresh and quiet, the world still waking up. Joe’s black SUV was parked a few steps away, and I helped him hobble over to the passenger side.

“You really don’t have to help me into the car, you know,” he said, though there was no real protest in his voice.

“Just shut up and let me do my job,” I teased, opening the passenger door and carefully guiding him as he eased himself into the seat. His face tightened in discomfort for a moment as he shifted his injured ankle into the car, but I held onto him, making sure he was steady.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice softer now, his eyes meeting mine. And for a moment, we just stood there, his hand still on my arm, our faces inches apart. The morning light cast a soft glow over everything, making it feel like we were in our own little world again, like there was nothing between us but the weight of this moment.

Without thinking, I leaned down slightly to help him adjust his seatbelt, and that’s when it happened. His hand slipped from my arm to my waist, his grip firm but gentle, pulling me just a little closer. I froze, my breath catching in my throat, and when I looked up, his eyes were locked on mine, something intense and unspoken passing between us.

Before I could say anything, before I could even think, Joe leaned in, his lips brushing mine in the softest, most unexpected kiss. It wasn’t rushed or urgent, but it was full of everything we hadn’t said, everything we’d been holding onto for years. His hand tightened slightly on my waist, and I could feel the warmth of his body pulling me in.

I kissed him back, my heart pounding in my chest, my mind racing with all the memories of us, of the boy he used to be and the man he was now. And for that moment, nothing else mattered. Just him, just this.

When we finally pulled away, I could feel the flush on my cheeks, the air between us charged with the promise of something more. Joe smiled, that familiar, lopsided grin that made my heart skip a beat.

“Well,” he said, his voice soft but full of that teasing edge, “I guess that was a good start.”

I laughed, trying to steady my breath. “Yeah, I guess it was.”

“About that date…” Joe began, his eyes still locked on mine. “How about tomorrow night? Dinner? Maybe a chance to do this properly?”

I smiled, the excitement bubbling up inside me. “Tomorrow sounds perfect.”

He grinned, and for a moment, we were just two people who’d finally found their way back to each other, after all these years. As I stepped back, closing the passenger door, I felt lighter, like something had shifted between us—something good.

“Drive safe, Burrow,” I called out, stepping away as he started the engine.

Joe smirked, giving me a mock salute as he pulled out of the parking lot. “See you tomorrow, Y/N.”

And as I watched his SUV disappear down the quiet street, I couldn’t help but smile, feeling like this was only the beginning of something we’d both been waiting for.

——————————

we kinda lost today lol, but I wanted to give this one for you guys. love a fluffy joey in love with his best friend (wishing it was me).

[chariaki]

Haikyuu Headcanons because we all yearn for fictional love </3

1) Concerts in the shower 🩵

Suna Rintarou is definitely the type to stare at you in awe and hearts in his eyes while you (loudly) sing your favorite songs while both naked in the shower, and then laugh and mock you whenever your voice cracks or was unable to hit that note... But then eventually gives in and sings with you, because as always, he's easily enticed by your beautiful energy.

Hinata Shoyo is definitely the type to sing more loudly than you and even jump inside the shower, causing water the splash and splatter, then encourages you to jump as well, and when you do and he sees your breasts bounce, he suddenly freezes and goes all red, overwhelmed and all fidgety. You definitely laugh at that, and when you tell him to continue singing he's still standing there frozen, with his mouth agape and his dick hard.

Sugawara Koushi is definitely the type to be very supportive and into your acapella, thus he hands you his shampoo bottle to act as your mic, then grabs your shampoo bottle to act as his mic. He is also definitely beat boxing to your song, singing in turns with you with the lyrics and at the end, clapping for the two of you's performance and hugging you while laughing about the whole thing. Such a cutie.

Tsukishima Kei is definitely the type to judge you first before eventually singin along. And by eventually, it took hime about 1 week to give in to your silly acapella concerts, but you managed to get him to groove along, it for sure and certain took you a lot of energy, because the first time you did that, all he did was stare at you with that bitchy look in his eyes. But you didn't give up! You were determined to make your boyfriend more livelier, so every time he showers, you immediately invade his time alone and shower with him, because you know he loves it. You sing when you shampoo his hair, when you scrubs your back and you scrub his, and when you even just relax in the bathtub. And all the while you were doing that, he smiled. You didn't notice it though, because he only smiled ever so wodely when you had your back turned to him, or your eyes in a different direction, but you knew. You knew because just like your mutual love, you knew Tsukishima.

Wakatoshi Ushijima likes calming songs, and so do you. So whenever you're in the shower with him, instead of singing loud and mainstream pop songs, you sing songs from artists like wave to earth, bruno major, TV girl and many others that you both share interest in. It's adorable you think, because you've created your own little way of life with him. Simple things like relaxing baths and showers with your sweet voice and him humming along with you is enough to make your day wonderful. He also most definitely rests his body on you, with his back on your chest as the two of you sit on the bath tub, and your combing his hair while softly humming his favorite song. It is most definitely one of his favourite ways to relax after a tough match.

[igglemouse]

Week 3 ~ Reckless Devotion (5.1) ~ Tuesday

After Roman left I was hit with exhaustion and so poor Bruno was left a little dirty from yesterday's adventures. So morning comes and comes with hunger, as it usually does, and thankfully I had leftover pancakes so that I did not have to cook breakfast this morning.

Bruno did not complain, I suppose he was too tired himself, and instead just found a spot on the couch and took a little nap. It's adorable watching him curl up and catch a few Zs!

Then it was time to roll up my sleeves (that I am not currently wearing) and do a bit of cleaning. Nothing major, just my floors and finally giving Bruno his daily bath. He is my partner in grime after all. Always muddy and always happy, mappy? Hmm, not sure, but the moment he hears the bath water running he comes running to the restroom with a happy bark and some paw tapping confirming to me that he definitely gets dirty just so that he can get clean. .

I'm not really sure what to do with my day, usually after shooting for a commercial or show I take the next day off. My schedule is up to me after all and while I do understand that hard work is required to make it in this industry I also understand there is a such thing as working too hard.

So I do what most people do when they have too much time to spare these days. Get on the internet. While last time it was Marco who was the target of my curiosity, this time it is Aaron. Remember him? Cowboy hat and shades? We haven't exactly had much contact but he's a public figure so he must have some kind of foot print online but after ten or so minutes it looks like he'll be remaining a mystery. I suppose he's just unplugged and focused on his work? He did say he prefers to stay in the background.

I would have spiraled more into the temptation of the internet by a knock at my door snaps me out of it. A visitor, a little early to be sure...

It's Yesenia!

Honestly, I'm relieved she's here, because after last night, she has a few questions that she should answer. Like putting me on a list and trying to hook me up with a man...a handsome man to be sure who seems to be a good guy but still! But before I can ask she's already on the offensive as soon as I invite her inside. she's here because after last night I feel like she should probably answer for her actions but before I could bring it up she does so first. "So," she starts with a knowing look, "what did you think of Roman?"

"You are already matchmaking and I wonder if you've even unpacked!" I tease, although, as I've mentioned...I don't mind Roman at all. There is something certain about him. The other two men, Marco and Aaron, seem to me more risks. There is something safe about Roman although I've just met him.

Marco is like a wildfire, passionate and a little erratic, there is danger of being surrounded by it if you linger too long. Aaron? Well, he's a cowboy hat and shades at this point. Roman, from what I've seen, is stable.

She chuckles easily, brushing off my playful jab. "As you know, the Orchid Community Center, the people there, we are close-knit. Perhaps too much so! I just wanted Roman to branch out, see a few fresh faces...and I think he's made a very strong first impression?"

"Well, he is a really nice guy, from what I can tell at least."

Yessie lights up, her smile blooming as if waiting for those exact words, unable to hide the fact that maybe, just possibly, this match could work.

I could say more about Roman, a lot more, but I'll hold those feelings until I know a little more about him.

"I'm sorry, Lena, really! I didn't mean to be push or...just thought that he was your type? Thought you might be his type too sooooo...."

I sigh, kind of grudgingly amused. I wanted to scold her a bit, she did put me on some list and it was apparently to play matchmaker. "Yeah, yeah, I get it." And I do. There is something fun about trying to nudge two souls together. You meet a guy that seems perfect for a friend so why not see what happens if you get them together? I do get it. "Just, let it be. If it works out, it works out, if not?"

"Of course! It's not for me to decide but the Watcher, of course."

Riiiight, I'm not going to touch that one. I seriously doubt the Watcher is up there flipping through dating profiles and setting ships off to sea. Again, I do believe in the Watcher but I just don't think they are that interested in my love life, that's all.

Yessie catches the shift in tone, realizing that her enthusiasm for the Watcher isn't matched by mines. That should be clear. She's wearing that Watcher circle around her neck constantly after all, but instead of pushing and forcing a discussion about religion she instead pivots gracefully to more grounded subjects. The neighborhood she's moved in and her adventures around the new city.

Eventually the conversation falls to her husband, Martin. Her voice for him is full of admiration and its honestly wholesome. Perhaps some day I can find someone like that for me, but for now, my world revolves around scripts and sets and big screens and I'm okay with that.

The day ambles on lazily and without much else happening so of course that means I must get a call from my sister. Carina. The sister I love and who is also terrifying because I'm not sure I want much to do with the world she's diving into. Every discussion with her feels dangerous and even if she's talking about recipes or new packages I have no idea if she's giving me cryptic messages or what.

I do love her, truly, but sometimes I fear that one day I'll pick up a call from her only to have my phone explode in my hand, or worse, I'll see the flash of red and blue lights outside of my window as I get brought in as a witness or get completely caught up in the mess she is making.

The less I talk about her right now the better.

But the thing that makes me happiest today is that Bruno did not find any puddles to roll around in! Now that is a MAJOR success!

Also, I guess kind of random, or not random at all... Marco invites me over tomorrow! I don't have a shooting tomorrow so I suppose I'll have time for it so we will see what happens.

As for me and the rest of my day? I'm thinking soil and sunshine, it is summer after all, and Begonias are just right for this time of year. Luckily, I do have a seed packet from those mischievious little gnomes.

I'm no master, I have no green thumb, but there is something soothing about watching flowers grow and bloom. At least it pulls me outside on the slowest of days and also the best of days so I cannot think of a single downside to it.

Night settles in and the world quiets but my ambitions do not. Tomorrow gives me another opportunity, another audition placed before me and honestly at this point I just expect to pass them.

No more hoping, now just expecting. The spotlight will find me.

Tomorrow should be really exciting!

Index ~ Next

[iceclew]

I got up and got me some coffee and a slice of cheesecake. Take that depression, HAH!!

[ro-is-struggling]

Halo, I would like to request james potter × slytherin!reader with this lyrics “Just because it won't come easily // Doesn't mean we shouldn't try” (Easily by Bruno Major) when you're a pureblood prince/princess, and you and james are secretly in love. But of course, there have plenty of problems along this journey. But in the end, you guys end up together. Massive angst in the beginning and fluff in the end. Thanks!

Hi beautiful💜 Thank you so much for participating in the celebration!! I'm sorry it took me so long to get to your request, but better late than never, I guess. This one came to me so quick I'm kinda pissed it took me so long to sit down and write it. No kidding, I wrote it in like 2 days wich is really fast for my overthinker ass lol I hope that you like it 💕

Easily || James Potter x Slytherin!Reader

Summary: Your social status and the expectations of your parents don't allow you to date someone like James, so you keep your relationship a secret. However, when he decides he can't go through with the act anymore, you find the courage to stand up to your family.

Warnings: angst, secret relationship, fluff, fem!reader, slytherin!reader

English is not my first language

Word count: 4000

This fic is part of my 600 followers celeration

James watched you from his place at the Gryffindor table, sad eyes glued to your figure. You were with him again, chatting over breakfast as if you were best friends. James knew the boy's true intentions, the whole school did, but he could do nothing but stare with hatred at the way he 'accidentally' touched your arm.

There was nothing he wanted more than to run up to you, take you in his arms and kiss you in front of the whole Slytherin table so that everyone would know that you were his. But he knew he couldn't. The only thing that making your relationship public would do for you was bring you more pain and suffering. Your parents were very strict, pureblood wizard royalty who looked down on most of the wizarding community. They had a well-planned future for you, with everything and a partner included, and James was far from that ideal. He knew that you hated it, that you felt trapped in a life you didn't want and that you loved him above all else. That was the only thing that kept him sane when he had to see you sucking up to that slytherin boy your parents adored, knowing that you were only really you when you were with him. But lately it was getting hard for him.

It was hard for him to live on stolen moments, sneaking around the castle just so he could be with you for a little while. It was hard to pretend to be indifferent when he saw you walking through the corridors, holding hands with that guy like you really liked him. It was hard to love you in secret, knowing that your relationship was disapproved of by everyone you knew. James wanted to shout from the rooftops about how much he loved you and how happy he was with you, but he couldn't do more than whisper to his pillow every night about how much he wanted to be with you.

He had been wondering lately if all the pain was really worth it. He loved you, but that wasn't enough to help him bear the weight on his chest anymore. He wondered what was the point of holding on to something that hurt him so much for just a few minutes of happiness. You had no possible future, at least not a happy one. Maybe it was better to end things before it got any harder. Maybe the heartbreak of having to let you go now would save him a lot of pain in the future. Maybe it was time to face reality, put aside his desires and accept that his love was nothing more than a forbidden dream.

Doubts were going around in his mind at all times, not leaving him a second of peace for himself. At least that was until you appeared, your smile emerging in the darkness of the hallway as you ran into his arms. And as he held you close, all questions were silenced by the intense love he felt for you, heart beating hard against yours. All you had to do was kiss him and he fell, surrendered to the softness of your lips, loving the way you whispered his name and told him how much you missed him. 

For a moment, everything was right again. You were with him, where you belonged, and the world seemed to be a better place. It was a fantasy, a fictional world you created every time you snuck out at night to see each other, but it was your world at last. A bubble of happiness, away from the sad reality outside. There were no parents or social mandates, no expectations or hatreds to separate you, just you, James and the love you had for each other.

He allowed himself to indulge in the fantasy, losing himself in the softness of your lips and the warmth that your delicate touch awakened in his skin. But then he felt it. That guy’s perfume lingered on your skin, like a constant reminder that you weren't his —not really, not like James wanted you to be-and that you never would be.

"Wait, stop!" He murmured against your lips, lightly pushing your shoulders away from him. 

"What's wrong?" you frowned at him, confused by his sudden rejection. Did you do something wrong?

James looked at you for a moment, but remained silent, watching the concern in your eyes as he wondered if he really was about to voice his concerns. You tried to approach him again, stepping forward and placing a hand on his chest. But to your surprise he pulled back, giving your hand a light squeeze before removing it from his body. Then he let out a long sigh, closing his eyes for a moment as he prepared himself for what he was about to do.

"This... w-we... I can't do this anymore." James struggled to say, unsure of what were the right words to communicate what he was feeling.

"What do you mean?" You spoke cautiously, hoping he didn't mean what you thought he was getting at. 

"I can't keep hiding us, our love, what I feel for you... It's too hard, I can't do it anymore." Your eyes glistened with accumulated tears and James felt his heart break into a thousand pieces once again. He hated to be the cause of your pain, but he had to be honest with you. The situation surpassed you and the love you had for each other was no longer enough, not for him at least.

"I know it's hard, it always has been. But we can get through this, James. I know we can." You reached out once more and this time he didn't reject your touch. You cradled his cheek with your hand and he leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a moment. "I love you, Jamie."

"I love you too, but I'm afraid that's not enough. Not anymore." 

When James opened his eyes, you saw tears in them. He was hurting as much as you were, so why was he doing this? From the very beginning you two knew that your relationship would not be easy. You warned him countless times, rejecting his advances over and over again to protect him. He had assured you that he didn't care, that he would put up with anything to be with you. His insistence was the only thing that persuaded you to accept his advances, thinking that he would really support you and fight for your love. But now that seemed to be nothing more than empty promises.

"So you're just going to give up?" You asked, taking a few steps back as your sadness mixed with anger. James was supposed to be different, that's why you had opened your heart to him. "Just because it won't come easily doesn't mean we shouldn't try."

"But we did try and it's not working." James sighed, leaning against the wall with slumped shoulders. "I can't keep seeing you with him. I can't keep pretending that it doesn't kill me to see him being all over you, thinking that you're his. I can't stand to see the indifference in your eyes every time we're in public. It hurts too much."

“Do you think that it doesn’t hurt me?” 

Your voice broke. Tears rolled down your cheeks, unable to hold them back a second longer. James felt even worse. Every fiber in his body was screaming at him to run and hug you, to hold you close to him and never let you go. But he held back. This was a difficult but necessary conversation. He could no longer ignore his own pain —or yours.

"Do you think I like to be with him?" you continued, wiping your tears with the back of your hand. "Do you think I like ignoring you all day? You're the only good thing in my life, James."

"Then why do we keep hurting each other?" James said, almost whispering. There was a clear sadness in his voice that made the knot in your throat tighten. "Love is not supposed to hurt this much."

Your gaze softened as you noticed in his eyes just how deep James' pain was. A fresh wave of tears rolled down your eyes as you realized your mistake. All this time you had been asking so much of him, thinking he would be okay because you were. Your life was hell, but it all got better if you could just get five minutes alone with him. He was what made your days tolerable, he was the one who put a smile on your lips. James was the light at the end of the tunnel, a ray of hope for your future. But he didn't have your life, so your relationship probably didn't mean the same to you as it did to him.

James had wonderful parents who adored him and supported him in everything. He had friends who loved him and whom he could confide in. He wasn't lonely like you, he didn't need to cling to your love to feel a little happiness. He was happy with or without you because he had the freedom to make whatever he wanted with his life. Hiding and having to lie about his feelings probably hurt him more than it hurt you because James didn't have much to gain in your relationship. You were the one that would lose everything if he wasn't by your side. The suffering you were putting him through probably wasn't worth it to him, not in the same way it was to you.

You had been selfish. All this time you had thought only of yourself, how happy you were when James wrapped you in his arms, how easy it was to get out of bed in the morning knowing that at night you could be with him. James gave you a purpose, a glimmer of hope of escaping the perfectly planned future your parents had planned for you. But you offered him nothing but animosity and suffering that was only rewarded with a couple of hours of intimacy and happiness a day —if you were lucky. All this time you had been hurting him more than you knew, ignoring his pain for your happiness. And realizing that made you feel horribly bad about yourself.

"Maybe you're right." You spoke after a long silence. "Maybe it's better to stop this before it goes too far. We both knew it was just a dumb fantasy anyways." You let out a bitter chuckle, wiping away your tears as you took a step closer to James. "I'm sorry for dragging you into this. I never wanted to hurt you, James."

"I don't regret our relationship, we were just trying to make it work. And I don't regret my love for you, I... I just can't do this anymore."

"I love you," you murmured, reaching out to caress her cheek once more. You gave him a smile —trying to pretend you weren't falling apart on the inside—, but it quickly turned into a sad pout. "And that's why I have to let you go. I can't keep hurting you like this. I'm sorry, James. I truly am."

He rested his hand on yours, keeping you from removing it from his cheek. If this was your goodbye, James wanted to enjoy your touch at least for a little while longer, to remember the softness of your hands and the warmth of your skin against his body. He knew that what he would miss the most were your kisses and the sound of your laughter, but he had to get used to it. This was for the best.

"I love you too."

You shared a kiss, one last goodbye kiss. Your lips moved slowly over James', trying to drag out the moment as long as possible. You were going to miss his kisses, the taste of his mouth and the way his lips molded to yours, as if they had been specially created to fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. 

You didn't want the moment to end. You didn't want to face the cruel reality that would come as soon as he parted. You wanted to get lost in the sweet taste of his lips and make a refuge out of his warm embrace. But that was impossible. You had lost your chance with him and now you had nothing left to do but watch him go. It broke your heart, but it hurt more to know that it was your love that caused him pain. Hopefully James could heal now, forget about you, find someone who could make him happy. And you... that didn't matter. What mattered to you was that he was happy.

Two weeks.

Only two weeks had passed and you were totally miserable without James by your side.

You were used to the pain of seeing him walk through the halls without being able to even give him a smile, but it had never felt like this. This time it was much more intense, visceral. A tug at your heart that paralyzed you every time you saw him laughing with another girl. It was the pain of knowing that his heart no longer belonged to you. The pain of his absence, of the lack of his soft touches and gentle words of love whispered in furtive encounters. You missed him and, no matter how hard you tried, it was impossible to hide it.

All your 'friends' knew something was wrong with you, but they didn't care enough to do anything about it. They would make a few teasing comments when they noticed your absence in a group conversation or ask you curiously what it was that you were staring at with such intensity —unaware that your eyes were fixed on James—, but nothing more than that. You were essentially a ghost, a shell of your former self. You moved about the castle and went about your routine as usual, but there was no real emotion behind the fake smile you forced yourself to put on in front of the others. Nothing made sense after losing James. 

You had given up on life completely. You had no more energy or motivation to keep fighting anymore, it was too hard. Maybe it was time for you to accept your fate, just like all the women in your family had done. Maybe you had to give up and face the cruel reality: you were not meant to be happy. It made sense, the one time you had pursued your own happiness, away from your parents' wishes, you ended up hurting the only person who had ever truly loved you.

James deserved someone so much better than you. He deserved to be with someone without having to hide, someone who didn't have to think twice before holding his hand or kissing him in public. He deserved someone who wasn't afraid to say he loved him and show it in front of a room full of people. And as much as it hurt, that wasn't you, so you had to give up and let him go. You had to accept that maybe the fact that things didn't go so easily for you was a sign, a message from destiny telling you that you shouldn't be together. 

It was the best thing for both of you, you knew that, but that didn't make things any easier. It hurt you to see James talking to Lily, flirting with her in a not-so-subtle way when you were only a couple of feet away. You knew that the best thing for him was to find someone else who could make him happy, but seeing him do exactly that broke your heart.

Why couldn't you be the one for him? Why couldn't you enjoy your love in public like everyone else? Why couldn't you hold his hand as you walked down the halls or kiss him without fearing what others would say? Why couldn't you be happy with him?

You realized then what a big mistake you were making.

You could do all those things with James. The only thing that was really holding you back was your family and the opinions of a bunch of people you didn't care about in the slightest. You were letting them influence you, believing the story that you couldn't be happy unless you followed the path they wanted you to follow. You were giving up your power, your autonomy and your future as your parents expected. You were letting them break your spirit and get away with it by giving up so easily.

Maybe that negative voice in your mind was right and James deserved better, but so did you. You deserved to be happy and have the chance to explore and discover your own destiny. And right now that happiness, that path you wanted to follow, included having James by your side. So you got up from your seat at the Slytherin table —ignoring the looks of confusion from your study group— and ran in search of that destiny.

Finding James wasn't difficult, he was chatting with his friends in the courtyard under the shade of a tree. Lily was with them, but you tried not to let that affect you, taking a deep breath before approaching them. The closer you got, the more you felt the stares of everyone around you. You were the Slytherin princess and everyone was well aware of your parents' position on blood purity. They also knew the opposite position of James, Sirius and most of the Gryffindors. There was no reason for you to be approaching them, so people couldn't take their eyes off you, mumbling under their breath as they watched you walk by.

But you didn't let that get to you. You were determined not to let it bother you ever again. People could talk all they wanted, your parents could get angry and your Slytherin friends could isolate you, none of that mattered to you anymore. All you cared about was James.

"Can we talk?" You cleared your throat both as a way to get noticed as well as to make sure your voice sounded loud and clear. 

Everyone looked at you with wide eyes full of surprise, not understanding what it was that someone like you could want to discuss with one of them. Knowing that James hadn't even told Sirius, who was like his brother, about you gave you a bittersweet feeling. On the one hand, it was nice that he had been so willing to keep your secret that he hadn't even mentioned it to his best friend. On the other hand, it made you feel bad to know how alone he had been in all this, and made you wonder if maybe there weren't other reasons why he hadn't told his friends. Maybe he was also afraid of them finding out he was in love with you. Maybe his friends hated you and wouldn't accept James going out with you. Maybe...

"Here?" James spoke, interrupting your thoughts. He looked around, noticing the many eyes glued to your back. "Are you sure?" he insisted, and you nodded. There was not going to be any more sneaking around.

James walked a couple of steps beside you, seeking to get a distance from his friends so that you could have a private conversation. However, when he tried to take advantage of a tree to hide from the prying eyes of the other Hogwarts students, you stopped him, opting to remain in plain sight. 

"What are you doing?" He said and you didn't have to ask him what he meant to understand that he was confused by your attitude. The rules had always been clear, no one could see you together because it would raise suspicions and could reach your parents' ears. So he wondered why you were suddenly approaching him to talk to him in a public space.

"I don't care if they see us together!" You spat without hesitation, deciding it was best to get straight to the point. "Not anymore."

"What?" The surprise was clear in James's expression —eyes widening and lips trembling as he spoke. He definitely wasn't expecting you to say that.

"I've been thinking a lot these past few days and I realized how wrong I was. I put you through so much, made you sacrifice everything for me and the moment you told me you had enough I just gave up."

"Y/n, it's okay, I-" He tried to say, but you interrupted him, taking a step towards him and taking one of his hands. James' eyes rested on your intertwined fingers for a moment, before returning to your face.

"Let me finish, this is important." you told him and he simply nodded. "It wasn't fair, the way I treated you. I isolated you and hurted you just because I was scared of my family, of what they might do to me. I made you sacrifice everything for me and when it was my time to do the same I just let you go instead... and that was wrong of me, and I'm here to make it right."

"Y/n, what are you saying?" James asked cautiously, waiting to hear from your own lips what he believed was what you were referring to —that which he had been waiting to hear since the day your relationship had ended.

"I'm saying that I'm sorry. I'm saying that I love you and that I want to fight for us if that still is what you want."

"A-are y-you sure?" It wasn't that James wasn't happy to hear you say that. It was literally a dream come true for him. But he didn't want to force you to do something you would later regret. He hadn't broken up with you to manipulate you, he had done it because he really needed a break. He didn't expect his decision to change your mind, even though he really wanted to. There was nothing in the world James wanted more than to be able to make his love public, but at the same time he didn't want to hurt you. And he knew that your relationship would only bring you trouble.

"I've never been more sure of anything in my entire life." you told him with a smile that made all his doubts and built up sadness disappear. "I want to be with you, Jamie. You are my happiness, and if my parents can't see that...well, that's their problem, not mine."

James smiled, taking a step toward you to close the distance between you. He reached out his hand with the intention of caressing your cheek, but stopped halfway, his eyes looking over your shoulder at the people watching you curiously. At his hesitation, you took his hand in yours and brought it up to your cheek, closing your eyes for a moment as you enjoyed feeling the warmth of his skin against yours once again.

"Can... can I kiss you?" James muttered, his voice an almost inaudible whisper. His eyes were focused on your lips, admiring them with need. He knew it would be best for you to go slowly, but he missed your lips so much that he couldn't contain the need to kiss them again.

"Please."

James looked into your eyes one last time before closing the distance between you, bringing your lips together in a long awaited kiss. It was quick, his lips moving delicately over yours, but no less intense for that. It was just what you both needed at that moment, to feel each other's love, which remained as strong as the day you said goodbye. 

Neither of you cared about the looks of the others around you as you pulled away from the kiss. You were too happy for that. All you had to do was look into James' warm eyes and all your worries disappeared. You knew things wouldn't be easy and that you'd probably be hearing your parents' scolding in no time, but you were ready to face it. You could face anything if James promised to stay by your side.

[thecchiiiiiiii]

── .✦ Love is....: A series inspired by When Life Gives You Tangerines.

Overview: “Love is” is an interwoven series of gentle, yearning stories set between a quiet island and the ever-promising mainland, inspired by the Korean Drama series, When Life Gives You Tangerines. Each chapter follows someone who learns what it means to love— and to be loved, even when life feels impossibly small or overwhelmingly vast. It’s about the dreams we inherit and the ones we dare to claim for ourselves, about the soft weight of promises made on wind-swept docks and whispered through cracked phone lines. Here, love is not always enough to save you — but it’s enough to make staying, leaving, or coming back feel like hope. And in the spaces between salt air and city lights, each heart learns that sometimes, love is the only thing worth carrying home.

── .✦ Teaser: Love is by The Ridleys — “So if you ask me what love is, and what it’s about, to be honest I’m still figuring it out. I could be candid, and tell you the truth, I'd love to figure love out, with you"

On an island too small to hold every dream, someone stays because they can’t bear to leave someone behind. On the mainland, someone else is learning to carry a family’s hopes like heavy baskets of tangerines— bright, sweet, and bruising all at once. Love happens there too, in fluorescent-lit shops where tired students make each other laugh until the last bus home. It happens in old fishing towns where people learn to forgive what shouldn’t be forgiven, and in dance studios where someone learns to love again, even when they promised themselves they wouldn’t. And it happens when a traveler steps off a boat, feet sinking into sand that smells like salt and memory and finds something they never knew they were living for— love. Maybe love doesn’t wait its turn. Maybe it blooms all at once— under orange trees by the shore, in city apartments where the lights never go out, in the hands that peel fruit and pass it to someone who stays. And when life gives you tangerines, maybe it’s just reminding you: sweetness can live anywhere, and so can you.

ᯓ★ Chapter One: Easily by Bruno Major — “Don’t you tell me that it wasn’t meant to be, call it quits, call it destiny. Just because it won’t come easily, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try."

A quiet island, old boats rocking in the shallows, and two people bound by a life that’s small but full of unspoken dreams. It’s about choosing to stay when leaving seems easier— and about how a shoreline can feel like a whole world when it’s shared with the right person.

ᯓ★ Chapter Two: Perfect by One Direction — “And if you like midnight driving with the windows down. And if you like going places we can't even pronounce. If you like to do whatever you've been dreaming about, Then, baby, you're perfect. Baby, you're perfect"

A child grown into someone who carries family hopes like an heirloom— learning how heavy it is to want more than what was given. There’s late shifts, new laughter, unexpected warmth, and the quiet surprise of finding comfort in people who feel like sudden sunlight. —tba

ᯓ★ Chapter Three: Unconditionally by Katy Perry — “I'll take your bad days with your good. Walk through the storm, I would. I do it all because I love you. I love you"

One a steady presence, the other all sharp edges and hidden bruises. It’s a messy kind of closeness: good intentions, bad choices, and the stubborn belief that even broken things can be cared for. Some stories stay behind closed doors. —tba

ᯓ★ Chapter Four: Arbitrary by Over October — “Waiting on something we don't know what. But this something, this one thing's all we've got. Searching for answers we've searched too far, not knowing the answers are all you are"

A heart that thought it had given everything away once and vowed not to risk it again. But distance doesn’t protect as well as it should— and somewhere between stage lights and soft moments, something unexpected starts to grow. Maybe love really can happen twice. —tba

ᯓ★ Chapter Five: Fall by Ben & Ben — “Hearts are beating, the night is fleeting, there's no denying. So why don't we fall in love tonight, 'cause everything else just feels so right, and now I just want to hold you tight. So why don't we just fall in love, tonight?"

An island that feels unchanged, until a stranger with restless feet steps off a boat for just a little while. A local becomes a guide, the days unfold like postcards, and something new sparks in the hush between crashing waves and early morning sun. Maybe staying is worth it— just this once. —tba

[cafffeineconnoisseur]

intro post ~✧.☆｡⁠*⁠ ♡

This was honestly so long due, but here we go~

✧ I don't have a tumblr pseudonym as such, but most people here call me coffee, or you can come up with your own nickname!

✧ 18 | she/her | desi | Bisexual | INFJ

✧ 20 december 2006 (Sagittarius)

✧ productivity blog (on and off):- @procrastinationconnoisseur

✧ I can speak english, marathi, hindi and spanish

✧ I come here to rant, voice my thoughts and talk to my lovely moots!

Some of my interests include~

✧ Art ~ doodling | painting | sketching | writing | poetry | crocheting | cooking | baking

✧ Music (in no particular order) ~ Conan gray | Laufey | Lana Del Rey | Troye Sivan | The weekend | CAS | Chase Atlantic | BTS | Keshi | Lauv | Frank Ocean | Bruno Major | MAX | 1D | kali Uchis etc

✧ Shows/ movies ~ I don't usually like watching shows or movies, but when I do, they become my entire personality. I usually enjoy rom-coms or sci-fi kinda stuff.

✧ Stem ~ I am a bioengineering major so I love love biology esp genetics, human physio, cancer bio, neurosci etc. i enjoy tech too, that includes AI and coding. Not to flex or anything but I am kinda good with maths and physics too ( I just hate chemistry). Leisurely I love reading and knowing about space and the cosmos.

✧ Others ~ self care| dressing up | desi food, movies, clothes, songs what not | pasta AND pizza | travelling and exploring | nails | coffee (ofc) | cafe hopping | swimming and working out | feminism | Beaches | Babies | flowers | jewelry | sky | nights | stars | women | dogs AND cats | cute stationary | fruits | just romanticizing life ig

What my mutals can get from me~

✧ We can interact/ talk about our days or life in general

✧ You can vent to me in dms or asks and I can give you advice or comfort whatever you want

✧I am open to giving or receiving song recs and open to receiving movie recs (I just haven't watched enough to give out recs)

✧ I can happily make you a small doodle or write something for you if I am not too busy (don't be shy to ask this, I need to get out of the slump I am in)

Some things to note~

✧ I get overstimulated very easily, so I might forget to reply to tag games or other replies. In that case, don't hesitate to send me an ask or send a dm

✧ I in no way tolerate any kind of hate speech towards anyone or any community. You will be blocked.

✧ I only accept dms if we are mutuals or if your blog is not nsfw. I am tired of men sending me creepy dms. If you even interact with any of my posts, I will block you.

✧ I don't answer donation asks just cuz neither do I have the money nor do I have the time to verify if the ones I get are authentic or not (i support Palestine and I have made donations in the past i just don't have the time and money to help out every single of the hundreds of donation asks i get)

✧ (tw) I deal with and have dealt with several mental health issues. They include anxiety, ed, sh, and depression. I am open to talking about them and how I got better, but it would be better for you to talk to a professional about it. Also, please be careful when bringing up these topics.

✧ I don't use tags, so good luck finding a post on my blog.

✧ Although, if you are curious as to how I look, you can go on the sorta face reveal? tag to get a slight idea.

Thank you so much for making it this far. I hope you have an amazing day~

[kittyball23]

I haven't been able to get Spruce and his Muppet wife Brandi out of my head ever since that Vacay Island clip came out 💕

Per usual, I have headcanons:

Spruce's name change to "Bruce" was inspired by his wife's name

All 13 of their kids have names that start with "Br" (e.g. Bryce, Braxton, Brandon, Brianna, Brittney, Brady, Brody, Brooke, Bryan, Bruno, Brenda, Brill, Brucie Jr.)

A majority of the kids are boys, given that boys run in Spruce's side of the family (plus there is a sign in one of the concept arts for the cantina they run that was called "Bruce and Sons'")

The kiddos are convinced right away that Branch is related to them since his name starts with "Br"

At the start of their relationship, Brandi played hard-to-get at first, not so easily charmed by Spruce right away, which aided in Spruce falling in love with her for being different than the previous girls he's flirted with

Brandi is better at keeping the kids in line due to her being bigger than them, unlike Spruce

Spruce loves to spoil his kiddos with desserts from their cantina and with all sorts of fun activities on Vacay Island, like surfing💜

[heliphantie]

Lot to say about Encanto

If you’re not new to this blog, you may know I often accompany my artworks on Encanto by lengthy ramblings. Some of these are bits of my personal headcanon and context to my pictures and comics set in universe of movie, and some are either speculations or attempts in analyze of events depicted in movie, sometimes backed by info from production process and director Bush’s responses to fan questions (these latter I prefer to take with grain of salt and not as hard facts, in all fairness, though they occasionally give some food for thought). There is number of such attempts in analyzing and reading between the lines, that I didn’t have opportunity to discuss previously, so I decided to put them in one (or series of) post(s) on its own.

Long read below, approach at your own risk, and my apologies for grammatical mistakes:

The reason Bruno is feared by villagers:

Something I thought about because of annotation to upcoming official novel, which is claiming to give a reason for agreement to “not talk about Bruno”, and if there is a need for it outside of what is revealed. In the song, people have petty complains all coming down to Bruno having habit of rubbing mundane things perceived as negative in their faces, which made the “bad” future set in stone, in their opinion. Which, of course, creates unfair picture of Bruno’s abilities being unreasonably demonized, and because we are set to sympathize with his and Mirabel’s point of view, it’s too easy to see the villagers malicious at worst, ignorant at best. And for Bruno himself to genuinely believe his gift is truly harmful, it’s not enough a convincing reason? But in context of bigger picture, their fears seem, possibly, less childish if we remember most of villagers are of triplets’ age or slightly older, ones we have seen voicing their opinion on Bruno, at least. They are born and/or raised in hermetic paradise, knowing about the dangers of outside world at best from the seniors and having vague idea of it, in all fairness. They never have to fight for their lives, always supplied with food and good natural condition, all their illnesses are cured, and, given not so big timeframe since the village was set, it’s possible there weren’t a lot of cases of natural death in their wake. As a result, they’re living in unperturbed bliss and don’t need to even worry about future. Hence, once they are compelled to face it, they are getting scared of concept of changes itself, especially if it’s not ones that improve welfare, but ones that involve irreparable loss – of their youth, great shape, and simply death. But again, because natural death is not frequent case, and untimely death is prevented by elimination of illnesses, animal death is, probably, only evidence they encounter on regular basis. (I speculated, based on signs of Señora Pezmuerte’s age, she’s much younger than triplets and could have received “prophecy” in her childhood – asking a prophet about condition of one’s pet is something more suitable for a kid, after all, so it just could’ve been her first encounter with death, leaving life-long impression on her, as childhood traumas, small or not, tend to.) They are somehow like these people on AXIOM in “Wall-E”, except not so easily willful to engage in major life changes (hey, remember Bruno’s lair includes reference to Wall-E, a plant planted in a boot? Like Wall-E, Bruno is someone who pushes people toward their ultimate fate, but also, he’s one who lived before them and embodies connection to roots – ability to plant seeds for new life circle.). Notice how none of “bad” predictions are even objectively “bad” – they’re all just natural occurrences, including passing of living being, just reminders of course of time. Or they are setting the stage for events that stay untold, presumably because further events depend on decisions of recipient, like in Dolores’s case. Thus, Bruno’s predictions come in two variants: either natural conclusions having precisely nothing with anyone’s will, or set-up of event which is inevitable, but its conclusion is entirely in hands of person that receives prediction since the moment they get knowledge of it. (Is Mirabel the first one who figured it, just as of possibility of asking for hypothetical future based on certain decision, instead of one solid set in stone possibility?)

The problem is, people not even seeing difference between two kinds, for them it’s all the same destiny thrust upon them, which they simply gladly accept when it’s desirable, or bemoan when it’s not. What seemed to be an issue with Bruno’s gift (and canonically with a miracle itself), is everybody taking it for granted, instead of thinking about what are the reasons and consequences of prophecies. Even with seemingly positive ones, there’s Isabela who had “life of her dreams” inevitably coming true, but accepted it as the making of fate, barely knew what she could’ve dreaming about, just waiting for vague happiness coming her way as long as she follows her assigned role, and only feeling increasingly uneasy with it. She wasn’t really forced into her role, nor into marriage, she just never questioned if she’s cut for it, or voiced any objections. Too apparent, everybody has contributed to their collective misery by depending on the miracle as convenient force to solve everything in advance, without working for their destined goals, while it should be clear that events of future based on actions can only come to fruition if it’s set by decisions made in present. And also realize that “constellations shift” and one must deal with changes and losses in their life to move forward, because eternal satisfaction is unnatural even by means of magic, otherwise it’s either complete decay or renewal.

~~~

Twofold prophecy:

On the matter of Bruno’s unique prophecy about Mirabel with two alternate paths on display. General conclusion seems to be that there was never unresolved fate: it just shows two stages of the same event. Mirabel contributes in destruction of miracle, and then she repairs it. But it never confirmed directly, and it only stated by Bruno as a case of uncertain future (it doesn’t refer to any cases he could receive visions like that, and how it was resolved), so it’s safe to assume there really was two ways for events to go, and it settled on “bad” one, as Bruno feared. Why such an honor for Mirabel alone to get a “multiple choice” of prophecy? Closest to “canonical” explanation is, probably, because Mirabel is a “chosen one”, the game-changer, to whom providence is not a law, because she decided everybody’s and her own destiny, and because she’s initiative one, who doesn’t depend on miracle to guide her. Thus, she’s not “predictable” for Bruno’s powers, it makes them glitch, or working like it should’ve been for anyone, if they weren’t putting all their trust into prophecies. She just figured how to utilize Bruno’s gift right way, as it was designed. Seems accurate.

However, I, too, have alternate version of explanation. And it all comes down to Bruno himself. He, apparently, whole his life has been answering requests of others, using his gift solely to serve the community, by the teaching of Alma. And based on requests revealed in the movie, for the most part it was about personal cases of various people, including his relatives, none of which seemingly would be an interest of his, nor affecting him in any way (no matter ambiguous nature of some of it, as it’s not clear which of them are prophecies, observations, or wishing). We don’t know if he’s even been using his gift for personal gain in any point, and considering strict rules in regard of gifts, he probably didn’t. Until at one point, potential danger for entire family raised its head, and even then, he summoned vision by demand of Alma (if you take in account visual storytelling, in his memory he looks genuinely concerned along with Alma). We know he is indisputably willing to give everything away for sake of his family, so it’s no doubt he was deeply interested in answer this time, and was ready to take any action needed to protect the family. Thus, first time in his life, outcome of prophecy depended on his actions, too, and on the act of gaining knowledge of future that, by itself, sets events of said future (classic scenario, look no further than myth of Oedipus). The gist of prophecy is, fate of miracle in Mirabel’s hands somehow, but what that fate is, unclear, and uncertainty is alarming by itself. Which affects Bruno’s inherent propensity for taking desperate measures in case any of his kin is in apparent serious danger. Bruno immediately firmly decides to hide the prophecy lest it affects Mirabel’s life in the same way his gift affected his, and one of scenarios depicted in prophecy is a direct result of his actions without him realizing it. Including second prophecy, act of conjuring which is also a result of his decision, now when he’s resigned from professional duty of using his gift, he’s got the choice whether resort to it or refuse to. And he chose to act (with little pressure, but still, at least he’s got no excuse to not do it, and was interested in positive outcome). Ultimately, there would be no use for Bruno to using visions for any internal motives, as it will always “corrupted” by him unable to stay apathetic. He has no choice but being master of his own future and do everything in his power to help his loved ones, even in lieu of professional ethics of seer.

So, to summarize all of it, the prophecy about Mirabel wasn’t “set in stone” because its completion depended on Bruno’s own ultimate decision.

~~~

Dynamics of Bruno and his two sisters:

Among of many things left to speculation and imagination in the movie is exact dynamics of Madrigal family before the events of movie, going as far as back in times when there were only four of them. We see something as characters reminisce of past (mainly Pepa’s biased memory of her wedding day and Alma reexamining her past), but even these snippets are colored by feelings of characters. As sad as can look Bruno striving for recognition by his mother in “Dos Oruguitas” segment, it’s important to take in account it’s how she, ridden with guilt at the moment, sees the situation. Likewise, Bruno set to mischief is something conjured by Pepa’s disdain for him (and we, again, given no clue what informs such perception, so I let it aside), so she’s an unreliable narrator once again. All we got to work with is various interactions in present. One obvious thing is, no one holds any grudge for Bruno, either because they come to realization, he had best intentions all that time, or because no one really was mad at him and merely discouraged by his sudden withdrawal and struggled to wrap their heads around it.

There are some interesting clues in regard of Bruno’s personal relationships, as distant as he seems to act to relatives as whole. First, concept arts that display the cast more of less established (just with some traits not yet switched around, mainly the gifts, their connection to personalities, and color schemes) put each branch of family together, with Mirabel and Alma (current and future head) in center, and Bruno’s placement is always deliberately slightly apart yet by the side of Julieta’s branch. It just appears to me that his core personality renders him to feel more comfortable beside of, similarly sentimental and gentle, Julieta and her family, each member of which seems to possess somehow introverted personality (they all tend to can their feelings, act more collected than inner turmoil allows them), as opposite to Pepa’s family, who, save Antonio, are more exuberant and generally tend to wear their feelings on their sleeves.

Even then, if glimpse of Pepa-Bruno dynamics gives some food for speculating, Bruno’s exact disposition is to his other sister is kind of elusive. We see his notable fondness to Mira, can have assumptions it’s partially fueled by her bearing similarity to Julieta, and also see Julieta’s equal (and seemingly connected) affection to Bruno and Mira, but that’s where it ends with no further clues. One other moment of interaction signifying something is, during his attempt in grand apology, after acting all cheerful and brisk around Pepa, Bruno seems to become strained and frustrated around Julieta and even looks slightly uncomfortable in response to her giving him a hug. His distress over an embrace by sister is much more obvious compared to reaction to Alma’s embrace earlier, startled but otherwise pretty stoic. It’s somewhere stated, in director’s Q&A session I believe, that Julieta had to take motherly position toward her siblings early on, back in her childhood, in order to share the burden of her single mother. May it be, while Alma grew all more detached and started feel more like authority rather than loving mother to her children, in their minds Julieta become more feasible mother figure they directed their sentiments to. Thus, Bruno feeling particularly crushed by letting her down in particular back then when he decided to hide her daughter’s destiny from her, and possibly expecting her to chastise him for that.

What is more curious is, the difference between reaction of two sisters to Bruno finally revealing himself. Notice how Julieta displays deep shock for longer than Pepa, whose surprised expression is immediately replaced by loving and relieved smile, holding her hand over chest as if she just got huge weight taken off her, despite her previously fuming in anger over memories of him (verdict: Pepa the tsundere!). She doesn’t even seem surprised too much; her expression rather says “I always knew he never could leave us” as if she takes revelation as something long expected. (There is, of course, off-screen possibility that she received notice from Dolores at some point and took it planted some hope into her heart, but as far as official confirmation goes, she stayed silent on the subject all the time.)

One conclusion I can come to: reactions of the sisters seem to indicate how each of them is receptive to particular side of their brother. Julieta, called “the most empathetic member of family” by director Bush, responds to Bruno’s vulnerability, and probably is more open to realization he’s not infallible and would prioritize his own wellbeing, or, alternatively, that he would sacrifice his bond with family (after she  learned true meaning of his withdrawal) to not tarnish anyone else along with himself, but Pepa knows better that, along with sensitivity, he possesses persistence and resilience, and also can be quite scheming if he’s inclined, while with well-meaning intent (so, possibly, his disappearance is all part of some contrived plan to save the family after all). It’s also directly reflected in the ways Bruno approaches each woman, which could mean he’s feeling free to express opposite parts of himself with each of sisters. (And maybe, in his opinion, Pepa is unable to take apology or any serious talk unless it’s rendered in form of dance and song!)

I’ve started to sketch a mini-comic on the subject some time ago, which still may see light somewhere down the line…

~~~

Hidden depths of Julieta:

Last thing I want to discuss for now is, Julieta the dark horse of the cast. It’s known that some of characters had sufficient part of their role cut down for the purposes of more tight narrative, but Julieta appears to suffer the most from it (well, Alma to some degree seems to take damage too, as some unused material deals more with her situation and showcases her own admirable qualities to justify her role as charismatic leader). In the end, she’s just well-meaning ordinary mother who loves her children, but struggles to give them proper support. (Then again, who else struggles to properly express his care for the family?) It’s implied, I think, that triplets have certain shared qualities, so you can say by actions and expressions of one of them, other two are having similar mindset without pointing at their similarities, instead focusing on distinctive traits of them. But there is something interesting in storyline that was abandoned early in development, before the final version of story and characters was established, probably, yet one that fits surprisingly well into narrative of movie and enriches understanding of its characters and their bonds.

«…there was this idea that Julieta, Mirabel's mom, had purposefully made the choice to prevent Mirabel from getting a gift in order to shield her from all this family pressure, and it was a secret that came out at the end of the movie.»

I just assume the big secret of Julieta was replaced by Bruno’s big secret in final draft, probably along the same point when he became mysterious estranged uncle instead of Mirabel’s young cousin, so none of it can be applied to the story we got, except it could shed some additional light on the early dialog between mother and daughter, where Julieta openly tries to talk Mirabel off investigating strange occurrences lest she ends like her brother (interestingly, she cites Bruno not as Mira’s uncle, but as her brother, indicating she takes his fall deeply personally), losing her way with family. Makes it all the more poignant if she desperately tries to hide from Mirabel her own fault in both Mirabel’s condition and Bruno’s indefinite, but tragic fate. Seeing suffering of Bruno over the years, she made decision to prevent another person from the same treatment, but in the end, the sabotage backfired causing harm for both Mirabel and Bruno. And with Julieta’s effort going awry, Bruno getting vanished very next day and Mira’s fate unresolved, the silent guilt and grief she felt must’ve been tremendous all these years, rivaling that of Bruno’s own guilt. Isn’t that a bitter and poetic irony that both siblings, unknowingly for each other, went for desperate measures out of love to each other and that child (who probably reminded each of them of other sibling, as shared traits between the three are noted in the movie), and caused troubles out of good intentions and mutual protectiveness?

~~~

This is all for now. There are other subjects I’d like to discuss, but that demands separate long posts (like one entirely about Mirabel), and this one is long as it is.

For the previous long rambling on the characters and my perception/theories about them, see this post about parallels between Isabela and Bruno, or this one about Dolores. Or this one, where I touch upon another excluded storyline and character.