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sunsburns · 4 months ago

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forget it — joaquín torres (marvel) !

⟢ synopsis. request: reuniting with ex!joaquín after his near death experience, but you’re the nurse assigned to his care after he gets out of surgery. you broke up a couple years ago because of your very demanding careers, and you don’t see him until you realize they put YOU on babysitting duty to nurse him back to health, yikes!

⟢ contains. spoilers for brave new world! joaquín torres x nurse!reader, so much angst you’re gonna want to block me!! mentions of death, blood, gore, possible inaccurate medical procedures (i am not a nurse idk how that works), open ending but it's honestly realistic and cute.

⟢ word count. 13.7k+

⟢ author’s note. i learned medical terms for this

You like to think that every decision you’ve made has shaped you into the best version of yourself.

A better student, a better nurse, a better person. You’ve spent years honing your skills, pushing yourself past limits, ensuring that when it matters most, you’ll be capable—prepared. You might not have superpowers, enhanced genes, or combat training, but you have your mind, your steady hands, your patience. That’s what makes a difference in the field you’ve chosen. That’s what saves lives.

And it’s paid off. You don’t work at just any hospital—you work at this one. A private facility that caters to soldiers, government agents, and the kind of people who make headlines when things go wrong. The kind of people who disappear into classified reports. The kind of people you don’t expect to see lying unconscious under your care.

But you love your job. You love the structure of it, the control. You love the fact that, in a world constantly spinning off its axis, you can still do something that makes sense. You have your patients, your colleagues, your friends, your family. You still go out when you can, still make time to shop, and still remember to water your plants. Life is steady. Good.

And yet—

There’s something missing.

It creeps in during the quiet moments, when the hospital halls are still, and the steady beep of a heart monitor is the only thing filling the silence. It lingers in the space between breaths, in the pause before you check a chart, in the phantom weight of something you can’t quite name. A presence that once was, or maybe never was, but should have been.

You have everything you’ve ever worked for. So why does it still feel like something’s missing?

You don’t let yourself dwell on it. It’s ridiculous. You have your health. You have your life.

And you know better than anyone how fragile both of those things can be.

You remind yourself of how lucky you are because you’ve seen the alternative too many times. Lives wrecked and ruined by things far beyond anyone’s control. You’ve watched the light fade from seven pairs of eyes. Seven people who didn’t make it. Seven moments that carved themselves into your memory, no matter how hard you try to forget.

You haven’t even been working for three years.

And yet—

You’d hate to see the day when someone you love is one of them.

The thought grips you too tightly, too suddenly, and you only realize you’ve been staring at your hands under the running faucet when the sound of your name cuts through the fog.

“Look what I made!”

You blink, water still rushing over your fingertips, skin already pruning. A slow exhale leaves you as you reach for the faucet, shutting off the tap. The chill lingers on your skin even as you tear a paper towel from the dispenser, crumpling in your damp grip as you turn.

Maria is sitting up in bed, dark eyes bright with excitement as she holds out a carefully folded piece of olive-green paper.

She beams at you, her small fingers cradling the delicate shape with a reverence that makes your heartache. It takes a second for recognition to click. An origami bird.

“What’s this?” you coo, stepping closer.

Maria is a few weeks shy of nine. She should be at home planning her birthday party, picking out a cake, laughing with friends. Instead, she’s here. Confined to this sterile room, surrounded by too-white walls and the soft beeping of machines monitoring the inexplicable changes in her body. She isn’t dying. But she isn’t getting better, either.

Exposure to some strange quantum disturbance in San Francisco had led to her transfer here, to Washington, under your care. Away from reporters, away from speculation, away from anyone who might pry too closely while the government tries to figure out what happened to her.

“It’s a bird. Like the one on TV.” She explains, her tiny fingers carefully adjusting the wings.

You glance at the television, expecting to see another nature documentary—the kind she’s grown fond of in the past few weeks. But when your eyes land on the screen, you freeze.

A news channel. A live interview. Captain America and the Falcon, still in their gear, standing at an Air Force base. The headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen is a blur. Something about a mission. About another near disaster averted.

Falcon stands just behind Captain America, posture sharp, hands clasped loosely in front of him, expression serious but composed. His suit still bears the scuffs of combat, a faint tear along the armoured plating at his ribs. You wonder if it hurts. If he’s bleeding. If he even let anyone check.

A small huff leaves your lips before you can stop it.

You can’t remember the last time you saw him. Now, here he is again, on a screen in a hospital room, larger than life.

“You like superheroes, Maria?” You force a lighter tone, turning back to her, moving to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.

“You like superheroes, Maria?” you ask, forcing a lighter tone as you move to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.

“I love superheroes,” she exclaims, voice full of unshakable certainty.

“Yeah?”

“Yes!”

She watches you closely, studying your face with a look that’s far too perceptive for someone her age. Then, after a beat—

“Who’s your favourite Avenger?”

You pretend to think about it. “Hmmm... I don’t know. Maybe... Hawkeye?”

Maria immediately groans, rolling her eyes so hard it nearly makes you laugh. “That’s so boring!” She throws her arms up in exasperation, nearly tugging her IV loose in the process.

“Hey, hey—“ you reach out, gently taking her hands, steadying her before she can do any real damage. “You’re really gonna judge me for that?”

“So boring,” she insists, her signature sass making an appearance. “My mom likes Thor because he has big muscles.”

You snort. “Wow. Okay. And what about you?”

Maria’s expression turns mischievous, blushing slightly as she glances back at the screen.

“The Falcon.”

The words land like a punch to the ribs.

You swallow hard, but the lump in your throat stays put. You should have seen it coming, the way she lit up at the sight of him on TV, but it still catches you off guard.

Because for Maria, it’s admiration.

For you, it’s something else entirely.

“He’s so cool,” you manage, your voice lighter than you feel. “I don’t think he’s an Avenger, though.”

Unless he is and you have missed that entire chapter of his life. A lot had happened in the last few years—you wouldn’t put it past him to just forget to mention something like that. Not that either of you were on speaking terms anyway.

Maria grins, a small, mischievous thing, and before you can move, she takes your hand in hers and presses something into your palm.

“Here.”

You glance down.

The bird.

You blink at the delicate folds of olive-green paper, the slight tilt of its wings. It’s small, fits perfectly in your hand, but somehow, it feels heavier than it should.

“You have it.”

You open your mouth—to tell her she should keep it, that it’s hers—but the words never leave your throat. The sincerity in her gaze keeps you quiet, so instead, you close your fingers carefully around the paper bird, holding it like something fragile.

“Thank you, Maria,” you say softly.

You still have the bird.

It sits on your nightstand even now, weeks later, its delicate folds untouched, a reminder of that small moment. Of Maria.

You hadn’t thought much about that conversation at the time. Maria’s gift had been sweet, and you had found it endearing—the kind of innocent kindness that children offered so easily.

It wasn’t every day you cared for someone so young in this hospital, and while that was a blessing, it didn’t make it any easier when that child was rolled in on a stretcher.

And it wasn’t until a week later that you remembered Maria’s words.

Not until you watched a familiar face get wheeled into the hospital.

You had heard about it first—on the news, in passing conversations between coworkers. Another mission. Another near-tragedy. Another casualty.

And then you saw it.

The frantic rush of bodies in the emergency bay. The whine of a helicopter’s rotor blades still echoing through the halls, rattling against the glass doors. The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic burning your nose, mixing with the metallic tang of blood—so much blood, too much of it pooling beneath the stretcher, staining the floor, the sheets, the hands of every ER staff trying to keep him together.

Your coworkers moved fast, their voices sharp and urgent as they swarmed the broken, battered body like bees to a collapsing hive. You barely recognized him at first. His suit—scorched in places, torn in others—hung off him in tatters, the once-pristine armour dented and smeared with something dark.

His skin was pale—too pale.

His lips were slightly parted, chest rising and falling in short, uneven gasps like every breath cost him something.

The blur of medical jargon barely registered in your mind, words overlapping, breaking, reforming into pieces that didn’t quite fit together. But certain ones still made it through the haze, lodging themselves somewhere deep inside you, where they twisted like a knife.

“Heart palpitations—“

“Severe burns—“

“Broken arm—“

“Breath is weak—“

“We’re gonna need a defibrillator—“

“Won’t make it to the OR—“

Your heart stuttered.

You would’ve rather never seen Joaquín Torres again for the rest of your life than see him like this. Like that.

And after that, you were moving on autopilot.

The rest of the day blurred together, slipping through your fingers like sand. You went through the motions, nodding when spoken to, keeping your hands busy, but nothing really stuck. The only thing that did was time—how it crawled, stretched, and bled into itself.

One hour turned to two.

Two turned to four.

Four turned into a sharp, sickening pause.

You were just about to punch out for the night, car keys hanging loosely from your fingers when you heard it.

“His heart gave out. Medically dead for T-minus 30 seconds. Extra hands needed.”

You froze.

The words echoed, hollow and distant like they were being spoken underwater. A strange ringing had started in your ears. You weren’t sure if it was real or just something inside your own head—maybe both.

You had already been hesitant about leaving without checking in on him. You could’ve gone in. You had clearance. But you didn’t.

And now?

Now, you were hearing his heart gave out?

Your mind ran ahead of you, filling in the gaps before you could stop it—could almost hear the faint, dull whine of the machines, the inevitable, lifeless flatline.

The surgeon calling out the time of death.

Your own heart lurched violently in your chest.

Your feet were moving before you even made the decision, carrying you faster than you thought possible. You nearly crashed into the doors of the emergency wing, swiping your card into the OR viewing room, stumbling into the dimly lit space. Your breath came short, choppy, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Your eyes locked onto the glass.

And then—

“Clear!”

Joaquín’s body jerked violently, his back arching off the table before collapsing again.

From where you stood, you couldn’t see or hear the monitor. Couldn’t tell if there was a beat or if it was still that awful, empty silence.

“Clear!”

His body seized again, limbs convulsing before falling limp.

You flinched, a breath hitching painfully somewhere inside you.

The panic clawing up your ribs only loosened when you saw the doctors start to relax, their frantic movements easing back into precision. You watched, rooted to the spot, as they worked—saw the ventilator strapped tightly around Joaquín’s face, the way they were cutting into him, the deep burns covering his side.

But it didn’t feel like him.

He looked dead.

He looked so, so dead.

Your fingers dug into the ledge of the viewing window, knuckles white.

And suddenly you can remember the last time you saw him. A memory that grabs you like a vice.

He was so alive, and he was crying.

His eyes were red and bloodshot, but he wasn’t making a sound. Just staring at you, jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grind. His hands—warm, steady even in their trembling—gripped yours, his touch so familiar, so safe. His fingers curled around your palms like he could keep you here just by holding on tight enough. Like if he let go, he knew he would never get to touch you again.

His skin burned beneath your fingertips.

Like home.

But the warmth of him, the heat of his touch, it didn’t reach his eyes. And you knew—God, you knew—this was the last time.

The ring that sat on your finger was like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

You hadn’t even noticed the way your breath had started to shake, the way your shoulders had drawn in like you could shield yourself from what was coming. The weight of his forehead pressing against yours was the only thing keeping you grounded, the rise and fall of his chest meeting yours in a rhythm that was almost enough to trick you into believing, for just a second, that nothing had to change.

And then he pulled away.

It was slow like he was giving you time to stop him. Like he wanted you to stop him.

But neither of you moved.

His fingers ghosted over your left hand, tracing over the ring like he was committing the shape of it to memory. You swore his breath hitched when he touched it, but he didn’t hesitate. Not when he curled his fingers around the band. Not when he gave the gentlest, barely-there tug.

The metal slipped from your skin.

The absence was instant. A phantom weight. A missing limb.

Your breath stilled.

He turned it over in his palm once, twice, before slipping it into his pocket, the movement almost absentminded. Like he wasn’t crumbling apart inside. Like he wasn’t shattering this thing between you both with his own two hands.

And then you kissed him. And he kissed you back.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was desperate. A broken thing—raw, aching, more plea than passion. His lips pressed to yours with the kind of hunger that tasted like regret, like grief, like goodbye. There was no hesitation when his fingers slid up to cradle your jaw, no distance between your bodies when he pulled you in, chests flush, like he was trying to fuse himself to you, trying to rewrite the ending of this moment with the press of his lips alone.

You tasted the salt of tears.

Yours or his, you couldn’t tell.

You felt his hands tremble when they skimmed over your skin. It hurt—fuck, it hurt—the way you knew neither of you wanted to pull away, but you would. You had to.

But you stayed. For a minute. For a breath. Lips lingering, foreheads pressed together, hands gripping tighter even as the seconds slipped away from you both.

He was the first to move.

The absence of his lips was instant—a cold, hollow thing. But he didn’t pull away entirely, not yet. His nose brushed against yours, his fingers curled at the back of your neck, like if he could just stay here for another second, one more second, maybe none of this had to be real.

Then, finally, painfully, he let go.

That kiss was one that lingered, burned, long after he was gone.

He was alive then. And so were you.

But when the door shut, a part of you had died.

And watching his body, motionless on that operating table, you thought maybe a part of him had, too.

It was hard to grieve someone who had never died.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been standing there, staring through the glass, until someone says your name.

Your body jolts, and when you spin around, you're surprised to find Sam Wilson standing a few feet away. His voice had been steady, but his eyes—God, his eyes—heavy with something unspoken, something worn. You wonder how long he’s been there. You think it must’ve been a while, judging by the exhaustion shadowing his face. The bags under his eyes aren’t just from one night of lost sleep.

You’ve met him plenty of times before—hell, you’ve had dinner with the guy on multiple occasions—but something about seeing him now, here, leaves you speechless. Maybe it’s because he’s not just Sam. He’s Captain America, the man Joaquín idolized. And he looks... helpless.

You feel your entire body tense. “Sir—“ Your voice cracks at the word, and you hate it.

Sam exhales, long and slow. “I was gonna call. I mean, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re still the kid’s emergency contact.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I just... I didn’t know what terms you guys were on. I know the breakup was pretty bad and...” He trails off, looking at you like he’s bracing for impact. “I didn’t know if you’d show up.”

“I…” You swallow thickly. You should say something. Anything. But you don’t know how to find the words.

“Were you working?”

You glance down at your scrubs as if you need to confirm it. “Yeah... I just... I heard about his heart, um... how long was he...?”

Sam hesitates. He doesn’t want to say it. But he does. “Two minutes.”

You suck in a breath, sharp and cold, and instinctively look back through the glass. Joaquín is still now, the chaos momentarily subdued. He’s always been restless, always in motion, a man who never seemed to sit still to save his life. And now he’s just... lying there. You feel nauseous.

You don’t know what to say. You think Sam doesn’t either.

“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is hoarse. “I’m sorry. For Joaquín. I never meant for this to happen. I’m always telling him to be more careful, but you know how he is—”

Do you?

You don’t know how much someone can change in the time you and Joaquín have been apart. You think you still know him. You remember how he used to be—stubborn, hard-headed. Kind, too. Always quick with a response, always teasing. Always warm.

You don’t think you’re remembering him the way Sam asks you to.

“Um... sorry.” You blink, realizing how long you’ve been zoning out. You should say something more. Something meaningful. But your throat is tight, and your hands shake at your sides. Sam looks just as lost as you feel.

“Fuck, sorry,” you mutter, rubbing at your face. “Are you okay?”

Sam blinks. He looks genuinely surprised by the question. “Am I—? Are you okay?”

You nod too fast, stuffing your hands into your back pockets. The heart monitor beeps steadily in the background, grounding you in the moment. “Yeah, I just… You were out there too. Did you get hit? I can check for a concussion.”

Sam says your name, and the way he says it—soft, sad—makes your lip quiver. When he steps forward, you don’t resist. You meet him in the middle, letting him wrap his arms around you, his warmth solid and steady. You tuck your face into his chest, only realizing you’ve been crying when you see the darkened patches on his shirt. He smells like coffee, and—funnily enough—a little bit like Joaquín.

“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is tight, thick. Like he’s been holding back his own grief for too long.

You hum under his hold. “It’s not your fault,” you say because you think it’s what he needs to hear. You don’t know what happened out there, don’t know who made what call, but Sam relaxes just a fraction at your words. You hug him back.

The hours bleed together after that. You sit with Sam in the waiting area, watching the surgery unfold from a distance. Neither of you leave for long—only to grab coffee, maybe splash cold water on your face—but you don’t sleep. Sam doesn’t either, even when you suggest it. He stays rooted to his chair, jaw clenched, watching the clock.

He doesn’t move until the surgery is almost finished, until the surgeon is finally stitching up Joaquín.

And even then, he stays put.

So do you.

It’s nice, in a way, sitting in this heavy, aching silence. You don’t know what you would’ve done if Sam wasn’t here. You don’t know what he would’ve done if you weren’t.

Sam seems to relax even more when a friend of his shows up—Bucky. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him in person before, but you recognize the way Sam’s shoulders loosen just slightly like something fragile inside him can take a break. Bucky nods at you, then at Sam, and without a word, he takes a seat next to him.

You don’t say anything either.

Because you don’t need to.

For the first time in hours, Sam exhales like he’s not carrying the world on his shoulders.

You leave only when he urges you to, though it takes less than a minute after Joaquín is sent out for recovery.

You barely remember the drive home. The world outside the hospital blurs past in streaks of streetlights and empty roads, your hands gripping the wheel just a little too tightly. Every red light feels longer than it should, every breath harder to take. By the time you step inside your apartment, exhaustion settles in your bones, but sleep never truly comes. You close your eyes and see glimpses of him—Joaquín on the operating table, still and silent in a way he never should be.

You wake up before the sun rises, restless, your body aching with the kind of fatigue that sleep can’t fix.

By the time you return to the hospital, it’s at a strange hour—too early for the day shift, too late for the night crew. The hospital is caught in that eerie in-between where the halls are too quiet, where the few people still moving about do so in hushed voices. The fluorescent lights overhead hum, stark and artificial against the pale blue of the walls.

You’re running on espresso shots and the growing pit in your stomach, a weight that presses heavier with every step.

Joaquín is here. You know that. You have known that for almost twenty-four hours now.

But the thought still makes your hands cold. It was easier when you didn’t know what State he was in, or what he was doing—if he was even in the country.

You don’t let yourself think too much about it. You go through the motions, moving from patient to patient, checking vitals, signing off charts, trying to push through the fog in your mind. It almost works—almost—until you step out of Maria’s room and spot Amanda, the Chief Nursing Officer, walking toward you.

She smiles, clipboard tucked under her arm, but there’s something in the way she looks at you. Something unreadable.

You can already feel the dread start to wrap itself around your ribs.

“Hey, how’s it going?” she asks, falling into step beside you.

“Good,” you reply automatically. “What’s up?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes your tablet, her fingers brushing against yours for just a second too long. You furrow your brows, taking it from her, but your stomach twists at the hesitance in her gaze.

“There’s been a bit of a change,” she finally says. “Kit’s taking over Nicholas now.”

That makes you pause.

You've been taking care of Nicholas for a little over a month, an older man who came back from the blip different, well… different was a nice way to put it.

“Oh?”

Amanda nods, opening a new file on your screen before watching you closely. “Here,” she says, passing you the updated patient file. “Your new assignment.”

You take the tablet, adjusting your grip as you glance down at the screen—only to feel the air sucked from your lungs.

Captain Joaquín Torres.

The name alone makes your heart lurch, when did he become a captain? But then your eyes drop to the image beneath it.

You freeze.

Joaquín, unconscious. His skin is bruised, his face pale under the harsh lighting of the hospital room. The ventilator is taped to his mouth, bandages covering his side where the burns must be. He looks… wrong.

Your stomach turns.

“Um.” You barely recognize your own voice. “I don’t think I can take this one.”

Amanda’s brows knit together. “Why not?”

“It’s…” You swallow, suddenly hyperaware of how dry your throat feels. “It’s a personal case.”

“I know.”

That makes you look up, and when you do, Amanda is already watching you with that same careful expression—understanding, but unwavering. “That’s why I’m assigning it to you,” she says, soft but firm.

You stare at her, trying to process the words.

“Familiar faces help in recovery,” Amanda says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Waking up to someone he knows might do him some good.”

Your grip tightens around the tablet, fingers pressing into the smooth surface as your pulse pounds in your ears.

“Not everyone gets shot out of the sky by the military and lives to tell the tale.”

She’s right. You know she’s right.

But Joaquín isn’t just anyone.

And it’s been a long time since you’ve been a familiar face.

Would he even want to wake up to you?

You don’t ask that. You don’t let yourself. Instead, you swallow around the knot in your throat and force a nod. “Okay.”

Amanda watches you for a moment, searching your face like she can see everything you’re trying to hide. Then, she squeezes your shoulder, her touch warm and grounding. “You got this.”

You wish you believed her.

You suck in your pride as Amanda walks away and your fingers tighten around the tablet as you glance down at Joaquín’s medical file, his name printed in bold letters at the top. You already know his blood type, his medical history, his baseline vitals—things you shouldn’t still remember but do anyway. It feels strange seeing them laid out so clinically like he’s just another patient.

Your thumb swipes down the screen, scanning through his injuries. Severe burns on the left side of his torso. A broken radius and a fractured humerus on his right arm. The notes estimate he’ll be unconscious for a few more days, maybe a week at most. The doctors don’t think it’ll be a long coma.

He might wake up anytime.

Your stomach twists.

The live security feed on the tablet shows a grainy, black-and-white image of him, still and silent in the hospital bed, wrapped in layers of bandages and hooked up to machines that beep in steady intervals. The sight of him like this, unmoving, is almost more unsettling than the injuries themselves.

The elevator ride to his floor feels endless, but when the doors finally slide open, the hallway ahead stretches on like something out of a dream—too long, too empty, too quiet. The soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead fills the silence, and your shoes barely make a sound against the polished tile.

You’ve never hesitated like this before. No patient has ever made your heart pound this hard before you’ve even stepped into their room.

You stop in front of the door, your ID card clutched tight between your fingers.

He is hurt, you remind yourself. A wounded soldier. He needs care. That’s all this is. Just do your job.

Your hand trembles slightly as you swipe your card for clearance, and for a second, your eyes flicker down—out of habit, maybe—toward your left hand. The ring is gone. Has been for a long time.

You press your lips together and push the door open.

The room smells like antiseptic and fresh flowers.

Your eyes find him instantly.

He’s barely recognizable beneath the layers of medical care—IV lines, gauze, the rigid brace securing his arm. But it’s still him. His curls have grown out, the longer strands curling over his forehead, though the sides are still neatly trimmed. His face is slack with unconsciousness, lips parted slightly as he breathes in slow, measured rhythms.

There’s already a small collection of bouquets on the bedside table, a mix of bright yellows and deep reds—he always liked bold colours. You know more will come, especially once his mother finds out what happened. You pity whoever has to make that phone call.

Your pulse is loud in your ears as you move toward the sink, washing your hands on autopilot before slipping on a pair of gloves. The scent of hospital soap clings to your skin even beneath the latex.

You set the tablet down and step to his bedside, the weight in your chest settling heavier now that you’re standing this close. You can see the damage now. The discoloration where the burns peak through the bandages, the bruises blooming beneath his skin. His arm rests stiffly in its brace, fingers curled loosely at his side.

You hesitate before touching him.

Then, with careful hands, you reach for the hem of his hospital gown, lifting it just enough to expose the bandages on his torso. The dressings are damp, already beginning to seep through.

Too gentle.

You’re taking too long, moving too carefully. This should be routine—cleaning, reapplying, monitoring for infection. But your hands linger a second too long over his skin, your fingers ghosting over the edge of a bandage before you force yourself to focus.

You work in silence, methodical but deliberate, peeling away the old dressings and replacing them with fresh ones. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath your hands, the only sign of life in his otherwise motionless body.

When you finish, you pull the blanket up to his chest, tucking it carefully around him.

You don’t leave right away.

You should. You have other patients to see, and other rounds to make. But you linger for a moment longer, just watching him.

Being here—being this close—feels like stepping into something half-forgotten. Something you’re not sure you’re ready to remember.

With a quiet exhale, you turn away, stripping off your gloves and tossing them in the bin before grabbing the tablet again.

This is just a job.

And you have work to do.

The next few days slip into a pattern—one you follow carefully, almost methodically, because routine is easier than thinking too much.

Joaquín remains unconscious, but his condition improves. You can see it in the subtle things: the way his breathing becomes steadier, how his colour starts to return beneath the bruising, how the tension in his features eases little by little. His body is still healing, but it’s doing what it’s supposed to—recovering, piece by piece.

Somewhere along the way, his mother and grandmother are flown in.

You make sure you’re nowhere near the hospital that day. You tell yourself it’s because you need the rest, that you’ve been pulling extra shifts, that you could use the break. But you know the truth.

You aren’t ready to face them.

You can barely bring yourself to stand in the same room as Joaquín, let alone look his mother in the eye. She always had a way of seeing right through you, of reading between the lines of what you said and what you didn’t. You don’t want to know what she’d find if she looked too closely now.

So you take a sick day. You ignore the tight feeling in your chest when you imagine them sitting at his bedside, his mother smoothing down his curls, his grandmother murmuring quiet prayers over him. You wonder if she blames you. If she thinks you should’ve been there when it happened. If she wonders why you’re here now, after all this time.

But you don’t ask. You don’t want the answer.

The next morning, when you step back into Joaquín’s room, there are more flowers.

The table beside his bed is overflowing now—bouquets of sunflowers, carnations, lilies, roses in every colour. Some are from coworkers, others from people you don’t recognize. A small card tucked between them catches your eye. You don’t pick it up, but you already know who it’s from.

His mother’s handwriting is easy to recognize.

A fresh wave of guilt washes over you, but you push it aside. You busy yourself with checking his IV, adjusting his blankets, making sure everything is in order. The steady beep of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room, save for the occasional rustling of flower petals when a breeze drifts through the open window.

Sam visits often.

He comes at random hours, able to bypass the strict visiting times the hospital has set up, sometimes lingering for only twenty minutes, sometimes staying for hours at a time. You catch glimpses of him in the security feed before you even enter the room—his tall frame slouched in the chair beside Joaquín’s bed, one ankle resting on his knee as he flips through a book.

He plays music sometimes, a quiet hum of familiar songs drifting through the room. You recognize the playlist—the same one Joaquín used to blast while working late, the one he’d force you to listen to whenever he got too excited about a new artist. It’s a mix of genres, the kind that shouldn’t work together but somehow do.

You pretend you don’t notice the way Sam watches you when you walk in, his eyes lingering like he’s waiting for you to say something. But he never pushes. He just nods, sometimes offering a small update about Joaquín’s family or a passing comment about work before settling back into his chair.

Neither of you talk about the fact that Joaquín still hasn’t woken up.

Instead, you go through the motions.

His burns are healing faster than you expected. The bandages come off, revealing raw, pink skin that will take time to fade. His arm is no longer suspended from the ceiling, the rigid brace replaced with a looser sling. His body is catching up with itself, putting itself back together the way it always does.

You try to keep the windows open as the sun sets later and the spring weather gets warmer, letting the sun come into the room. You hope it might bring back that golden tan to his skin.

The air in his room changes as the days go by. The tension shifts—subtle, but there.

The sun sets later now, casting golden light through the blinds in the evenings. You start leaving the windows cracked open, letting the spring breeze filter in, replacing the sterile scent of antiseptic with something softer.

It makes the room feel less like a hospital and more like something else. Something warmer.

But warmth can be deceptive.

Because the closer he gets to waking up, the more real this all becomes.

And you still don’t know what’s going to happen when he finally opens his eyes.

One day, while cleaning his burns, you notice something—something small, but enough to make your breath hitch.

The heart monitor.

The steady rhythm you’ve grown so used to suddenly shifts—just a faint change, barely noticeable, but it’s there. You freeze, your gloved hands hovering over his burned skin, waiting to see if it happens again. The beeping stabilizes after a moment, falling back into its familiar, constant pattern.

You swallow hard, exhaling slowly through your nose.

Maybe it was nothing. A fluke. You’ve seen it happen before—small involuntary fluctuations that don’t mean anything. You force yourself to shake it off, to keep going.

But the moment your hands brush against his skin again, the heart monitor spikes.

This time, you see it. The sudden jump, the erratic beep, the undeniable reaction.

You pull back immediately, like you’ve been singed. Your heart lurches, panic flashing through you because—did you hurt him?

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you scan his face, searching for any sign of pain. His expression doesn’t change. His eyes remain closed, his body still. But the numbers on the monitor flicker with every beat of his heart, betraying what his body won’t show.

And then it hits you.

He feels it.

He’s not just lying there, unaware of the world around him. His body is reacting. It means he’s drifting, slipping from unconsciousness, slowly clawing his way back to waking.

Your chest tightens.

This is what you’ve been waiting for. What you should want.

You should be relieved.

But you’re not.

Because for all the times you’ve wished he’d open his eyes, you never stopped to think about what it would mean when he finally did.

What if the first thing he sees is you?

What if he looks at you and all you find in his face is resentment?

What if he asks why you’re here? Why you even bothered?

Your breath catches in your throat, torn between anticipation and fear. Your fingers curl into your palms, gloves crinkling under the pressure. You wait, holding yourself still, eyes locked on his face, waiting for the inevitable flutter of his eyelids, the slow, unfocused squint as he adjusts to the light.

But it never comes.

His breathing stays even, his lashes unmoving, his expression unchanging. His body is stirring, but his mind isn’t ready yet.

Your hands feel cold.

You force yourself to take a step back, creating distance—just in case. You reach for the tablet to record the change in his vitals, trying to make sense of what just happened, of what almost happened.

You practically jump out of your skin when a voice cuts through the hallway, sharp and frantic.

“¡Mija!”

Before you even see her, you feel her—Esperanza’s presence sweeping toward you like a storm, her heels clicking against the tile. The next thing you know, you’re wrapped in her arms, your face pressed against the soft fabric of her floral blouse, caught in a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of you.

“Mi amor, ¿cómo andas?” she asks, her voice thick with worry and affection.

You barely have a chance to respond, still stunned by the unexpected embrace. She smells the same—warm vanilla and roses, a scent so deeply tied to holiday dinners that it nearly knocks you off balance.

When she finally pulls back, she doesn’t let you go completely. Her hands clasp yours, fingers curling over your knuckles like she’s afraid to let you slip away again.

“Esperanza,” you manage, breathless.

Her eyes shine with unshed tears, her lips pulling into a grin so familiar it makes your chest ache.

“What are you doing here? Visitors can’t be here for another hour,” you point out, grasping for something—anything—to ground yourself.

She waves a dismissive hand, scoffing like the very idea is ridiculous. “Ay, enough with that,” she chides. “When has that ever stopped me?”

And then she stops. Really looks at you.

Her expression softens, and suddenly, you're under a gaze so warm it makes your throat tighten.

“Wow, look at you, my dear. Hermosa,” she murmurs, shaking her head like she can’t believe it’s really you standing in front of her.

You let out a small, breathy laugh, flustered. “I look like a mess,” you correct, glancing down at yourself. You’re in scrubs, nearing the end of a long shift, and you know you must look exhausted. Especially after dealing with Maria throwing up glowing vomit all over you earlier today. There’s no way you look anything close to hermosa.

But Esperanza just smiles knowingly, squeezing your hands once before tugging you toward the chairs lining the hallway. She sits down, keeping her grip on you like she’s afraid you might disappear through her fingers if she lets go.

You follow, hesitating only slightly before settling into the seat beside her.

"It’s been so long," she says, her brows furrowing with something between disappointment and relief. "You haven’t called in months. I thought you were sick! Do you hate me?"

"I could never hate you," you say quickly, shaking your head, a little horrified she would ever think that.

And then she smacks your arm.

"Then why haven’t you answered my calls?" she scolds, her voice laced with exasperation. "Your mother tells me you moved away and what? I don’t hear a word from you?"

You blink. Your mind stutters at the revelation.

"Wait—" you pause, trying to piece it together. "My mom… and you? You’ve been talking?"

Esperanza gives you a look, like it should be obvious. "Of course," she huffs. "What, you thought just because you and Quino broke up, I was going to stop talking to my comadre?" She rolls her eyes like the very idea is ridiculous. "Por favor."

Your mouth goes dry.

Your mother and Joaquin’s mother—keeping in touch this entire time. Behind your back. Talking about you, probably about him, too.

Your stomach churns, and suddenly, there’s something heavy pressing against your ribs.

You open your mouth, but she’s already shaking her head.

"Oh, lo sé," she sighs, exasperated. "The dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. If it were up to me, you two would’ve been married by now. Given me a grandchild, too."

Your laugh comes out a little too flustered, a little too forced. You glance around the hallway, avoiding her gaze, trying to ignore the way your heart wrings at the thought.

"Yeah," you mutter because you don’t know what else to say.

Esperanza exhales, her posture softening. She lets go of one of your hands just to reach up and brush your hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with the same gentle touch Joaquín used to.

The same way he always did when you were talking too much, or overthinking, or when he just wanted an excuse to touch you.

You let out a long, quiet sigh, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes.

It’s too much.

Too much familiarity, too much of your old life creeping back in all at once. You don’t think you’ve gotten enough sleep to process any of it properly.

"Mija," she murmurs, her voice softer now, more careful. "I don’t care whether you and Quino are together or not. I loved having you around. I still want to have our little chats. You are like one of my own. And when he told me you broke up, I just…" she shakes her head, pressing her lips together like she doesn’t want to say it. "I hate that it took him getting hurt for us to talk again."

"Esperanza…" you start, but she just shakes her head again.

"I know, I know. Perdóname," she says, waving it off as she stands up. She smooths down the front of her dress and sighs. "It’s so good to see you again, mi amor. You keep taking good care of my son. I’ll be in the city for another week, so please—call me. Maybe we can get coffee."

Before you can respond, she scans her visitor’s pass on the key panel and walks into Joaquín’s room, disappearing behind the door without another word.

But she leaves the question hanging in the air, thick with nostalgia and something painfully close to longing.

And she leaves the scent of rosy perfume lingering in her wake.

You stare at the closed door, your heart thudding unevenly in your chest.

You should go. You need to go—your tablet is already beeping, pulling you back to reality, reminding you that there are other patients who need you, that there’s a crisis waiting for you three flights down.

Still, you hesitate for just a second longer, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat before finally turning away.

There’s no time to process this right now.

But you have a feeling that, no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to shake this conversation anytime soon.

Maria’s hand grips the IV pole tightly, her small fingers curling around the metal as she rolls it beside her, careful not to let the wheels catch on the tile. The fluorescent hospital lights cast a soft glow over her—too pale against her skin, too sterile—but despite it all, she beams.

You’ve never seen someone so excited just to walk.

But today is special. It’s her birthday.

She didn’t ask for much—just this. A chance to stretch her legs, to be somewhere other than her hospital room. Her parents had begged you to keep her busy while they decorated, slipping streamers and balloons inside the room like they could somehow make up for lost time.

Maria hadn’t argued. She had just grinned up at you when you asked if she wanted to go outside.

Now, she’s practically glowing, her feet sinking into the grass as you lead her through the small hospital garden.

She tips her head back, eyes fluttering closed as the breeze ruffles her hospital gown, lifting strands of hair from her shoulders. Pink cherry blossoms sway on the branches above, petals drifting onto the ground like delicate confetti.

"Did you know cherry blossoms only bloom for a few weeks?" you tell her.

Maria gasps. "Really?"

"Yep. It’s called hanami in Japan. People go outside just to watch them bloom."

Her eyes widen in pure delight. "That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. They should be watched. They’re so pretty."

You smile. "Yeah, they are."

For a moment, she just stands there, soaking it in. And you let her.

It’s one of those rare times when she doesn’t look like a patient. No tubes, no machines, no sterile smell of antiseptic—just a kid. A kid enjoying the sun, the air, the simple beauty of something fleeting.

She sighs, finally pulling herself away. "Okay. I’m ready to go back in."

"Are you sure?"

She nods. "Yeah. I don’t wanna get in trouble for being outside too long. It’s my birthday, but I think Nurse Kate would still yell at me."

"Yeah, probably," you say with a chuckle.

The hospital halls are quieter than usual, the usual hum of voices and distant beeping fading into soft background noise. Maria walks beside you, still clinging to her IV pole but with a bit more confidence in her steps.

She doesn’t drag her feet anymore. That’s new.

Her body is stronger than it was weeks ago—no more trembling hands, no more laboured breathing after short walks. It’s a victory, even if it’s small.

Maria suddenly gasps, gripping your arm and her feet skid against the floor. You barely have time to react before she jerks to a halt, her entire body going rigid, eyes locked on something ahead.

Her mouth falls open.

"The Falcon?!"

Your stomach drops.

"Maria—"

"The Falcon is here?!"

Before you can stop her, she takes off, darting toward the digital display outside one of the hospital rooms. The screen flickers with patient information, vitals, and medication logs—

Torres, Joaquín

Maria’s hands slap over her mouth. "Oh my God."

"Maria," you warn, but she’s already clambering onto one of the chairs lined against the wall, pressing her face to the glass window beside the door.

"Oh my God! It's him! It's really him!" She whirls around, panic-stricken. "Is he dead?"

You lurch forward. "What? No." Your hands instinctively find her waist, steadying her before she tips over. "He’s just sleeping."

"Can I go say hi?"

"No."

"It’s my birthday."

"Maria—"

"Please!"

You close your eyes, inhaling slowly.

This was not in your job description.

You glance at the window, frowning. You weren't supposed to let anyone into a patient’s room unless they were authorized. Especially not another patient. There were rules. Strict ones. The last thing you needed was for someone to get sick, for someone to get hurt, for someone to wake Joaquín up before he was ready—

But then you look at Maria.

She’s practically vibrating with excitement, hands clasped tightly like she’s holding back from bouncing on her toes—the youngest patient in the entire building. Wide-eyed and full of wonder, she’s looking at Joaquín because he’s a real-life superhero, someone she’s only ever seen in headlines and shaky phone recordings.

And Joaquín… Joaquín loves kids.

He always has.

You’ve seen it firsthand—the way he kneels when he talks to them, the way his face lights up whenever he makes one laugh, the way he always offers high-fives like it’s second nature. Even now, even unconscious, the thought of him being the reason behind Maria’s uncontainable joy tugs at something deep in your chest.

It feels like something he would want.

And maybe… maybe this is okay. Maybe this is good—a reminder that people out there care about him, even the ones who have never met him.

Still, you hesitate.

You’re comfortable taking care of him now.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

No more denial. No more excuses. No more pretending that seeing him like this—unmoving, caught somewhere between here and wherever his mind has drifted—doesn’t scare the hell out of you. You’ve accepted that you miss him, that you still... care for him, even after everything. But stepping into that room again—with Maria, of all people—feels like a step toward something you’re not sure you’re ready to face.

Because Joaquín is here. So close. Close enough to reach out and touch, to whisper his name and wait for that slow, teasing smile to appear—the one he always gave you when you were being too serious. Close enough that you should feel relieved.

But he’s also impossibly far.

No teasing smiles. No dumb jokes. No knowing looks from across the room. Not even anger of having you near. Just silence. Just the faint rise and fall of his chest, the machines working to keep him stable.

For days, you’ve watched him. Sat beside him. Checked his vitals. Changed his bandages. Waited.

But then Maria looks up at you, eyes round and pleading.

"Okay," you exhale, already regretting it. "But you have to be really quiet so he doesn’t wake up, okay?"

She nods, lowering her voice, "Okay."

Maria is practically bouncing with excitement as you swipe your keycard and push open the door. Sunlight spills in through the half-drawn blinds, cutting warm streaks across the floor, across Joaquín’s blankets, across his still form. The midday hum of the hospital filters in from the hallway, muffled but present. The steady beeping of the monitors tracks his heart rate, a slow, even rhythm, while the IV beside him feeds a clear solution into his veins.

Maria tiptoes inside like she’s afraid of disturbing something sacred.

You don’t blame her.

Because up close, he looks even more unreachable. The bruises along his temple have faded from deep purple to a softer yellow-red, but the cuts on his face are healing. His lips are chapped. His hair is messy against the pillow, a sharp contrast to how put-together you remember him.

You move—more out of instinct than anything—because lingering in the doorway makes it worse. The small cart beside his bed is stocked with fresh bandages, antiseptic, gauze—everything you’ve used to help keep his wounds clean these past few weeks. Without thinking, you pick up his chart because you've forgotten your tablet, scanning the latest notes, his most recent vitals. Stable. No new concerns. No change.

Maria whispers something, but you don’t catch it.

You blink, glancing at her. "What?"

She’s staring at Joaquín, her small hands gripping the edge of his blanket like she’s afraid to touch him, but wants to.

“He’s even prettier up close,” she breathes.

Despite yourself, you smile. "Yeah? You think so?"

She nods seriously.

There’s something achingly familiar about the way she looks at him—like she’s trying to memorize him, like she’s afraid he might disappear if she blinks.

You know that feeling.

Because you’ve caught yourself staring at him the exact same way.

Like if you look long enough, you might commit him to memory all over again. Like you can make up for the lost time, for the time that has slipped through your fingers. You study him—not just the broad strokes of him, not just the familiarity of his face, but every little thing you’d forgotten during your time apart, the things that had slipped from your mind.

There is a faint stubble that’s started to grow along his jaw. And now you notice little moles dotting his skin, scattered in ways you don’t recognize from your memories or dreams of him—they were always focused on the bigger picture, the way he smiled, the way he laughed, the way he loved you.

Now, it’s the details that root you to the present.

The soft rise and fall of his chest beneath the hospital blanket. The steady hum of the monitors. The warmth of his skin when you reach out, pressing two fingers to his wrist, feeling the familiar, comforting rhythm of his pulse beneath your touch.

You check his vitals—his heart rate is stable, his oxygen levels are good, and his IV fluids are running properly.

Maria exhales softly, still watching him, her voice quiet as a breath.

"I think he’s gonna be okay."

You let out a slow, measured breath, your thumb grazing over the back of Joaquín’s hand—just for a second, just enough to feel the warmth of him.

"Yeah," you whisper. "Me too."

It’s enough. For now.

Your fingers slip away from his, the warmth vanishing almost instantly, and you start to usher Maria back toward the door. But as you move, something shifts—so small, so quick, you almost think you imagined it.

Joaquín’s fingers twitch at his side, just as yours leave his.

Your heart stutters.

A rush of warmth blooms in your chest, something fragile and desperate, something that wants to hope, to believe that it means something. That he felt it.

Swallowing, you make a quick note on his chart, recording the small movement even though it could be nothing.

Even though it could be everything.

You exhale, trying to ground yourself, trying to shake off the way your heart is pounding now, loud and heavy in your ears. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until Maria tugs at your sleeve, glancing up at you, her own expression somewhere between curiosity and uncertainty.

You force yourself to move. To turn away. To guide her toward the door, because whatever flicker of hope just sparked inside you is too fragile to hold.

But then—

A sound.

Low. Faint. Hoarse from weeks of silence.

Your name.

Spoken.

Maria gasps softly.

And you—you freeze.

The breath leaves your lungs in a sharp, startled exhale, and your fingers go rigid against the door handle. A slow, involuntary shiver runs down your spine, your pulse hammering against your ribs.

Did you imagine it?

You must have.

But then you feel it—Maria’s small fingers wrapping tightly around your hand, clutching at you with quiet urgency.

Because she heard it too.

Your name. A whisper, raw and barely there, but there.

And it came from him.

Joaquín.

The hospital room feels smaller now, charged with something delicate and terrifying all at once. The air thickens, pressing against your chest as you slowly—slowly—turn around, terrified that if you look, it’ll be gone.

That it was just a trick of your desperate mind.

But it’s not.

Because Joaquín’s fingers twitch again.

His brow furrows, lips parting slightly, throat working as he struggles to form a sound, his voice raw and unfamiliar after so many days of silence.

Maria gasps, gripping your sleeve, her excitement barely contained, but you don’t register it.

Because Joaquín’s eyes are fluttering open.

For a moment, he stares blankly at the ceiling, his chest rising in a shallow, uneven breath. His body remains rigid, like his muscles haven’t caught up with the fact that he’s conscious. There’s no immediate recognition in his gaze—just a hazy sort of confusion, as if he’s somewhere else entirely.

Then, he moves.

His fingers twitch against the sheets, then curl. His breath hitches. The faint beeping of the heart monitor quickens. His body tenses, his shoulders pulling in as if bracing for impact.

His gaze shifts—and lands on you.

The second your face comes into focus, his entire body jerks.

A sharp, ragged inhale drags through his chest. His pupils constrict. His hand flinches at his side, like he wants to reach for something—like he’s searching for something solid.

His breathing changes. It’s not just uneven anymore—it’s too fast, too shallow. The rise and fall of his chest is quick, erratic, his ribs barely expanding with each breath.

Then, a whisper, barely a breath—words spilling from his lips before he even realizes he’s speaking.

"Me morí."

The words repeat, over and over, almost like a prayer.

"Me morí. Me morí. Me morí."

His voice trembles. His fingers fist the blanket. Tears well in his eyes and slip down his temples, silent, unchecked.

Your heart lurches.

You move instinctively, stepping closer, hands steady even as your pulse pounds in your ears.

"Hey, hey," you soothe, voice low and careful, placing a gentle hand on his good shoulder. "It’s okay. You’re safe."

Joaquín flinches at the touch, his muscles twitching beneath your fingers. His head turns slightly, his gaze darting, frantic, searching—taking in the room, the medical equipment, the IV in his arm. You can tell his body wants to move, to fight, to run, military instincts kicking in. But he’s still weak, his limbs heavy, uncooperative.

His pulse pounds beneath your fingertips. Too fast. His whole body is reacting before his mind can catch up.

"Joaquín." You keep your voice steady, careful, like speaking too loudly might shatter him completely. "Can you hear me?"

His gaze snaps back to you.

Something flickers in his expression. Recognition.

His chest is still rising and falling too quickly, his hands still tremble against the sheets, but his shoulders drop just barely. Some of the tension bleeds away.

His lips part, but no sound comes out at first. His throat works through the effort.

Then, at last, a hoarse, broken whisper.

"Hi."

Your breath catches.

Your fingers twitch against his shoulder, the warmth of his skin grounding you as much as you hope you’re grounding him. You press your palm there just a little longer, just to reassure yourself he’s real, that he’s awake.

"Hi," you whisper back.

His lashes flutter as he blinks at you, slow and deliberate, his eyes still wet with tears. Still searching. His gaze drifts over your face like he’s trying to map every detail back into his memory.

Like he’s afraid you might disappear.

"Hi," he says again, quieter this time.

Your chest tightens, a lump forming in your throat.

"Hi, Joaquín."

A slow, trembling exhale leaves his lips. His body sags into the pillow, exhaustion catching up to him all at once. His fingers unclench from the blanket, the tension in his muscles fading—but not entirely.

Because when you start to let go, when your fingers begin to lift from his shoulder, he twitches beneath your touch.

The hesitation is so subtle that you almost miss it—almost.

A flicker of something crosses his face, something unspoken, something aching. You worry he's hurting.

It reminds you of another time, a different moment in a different place. Years ago, Joaquín slouched in the passenger seat of your car, showing you his newly earned stitches after getting beat up by a Flag-Smasher, laughing through the pain while you frowned.

"You gotta stop scaring me like this."

"I’m trying, I swear."

You remember the way his eyes had softened in the dim streetlight, the way he had looked at you then. The way he kissed you to take your mind off of his pain—how neither of you had wanted to let go.

And now—now, as your fingers hover over his shoulder, as he doesn’t look away—it feels exactly the same.

Only this time he can't kiss you.

Only this time you can't wipe his tears away.

You force yourself to pull back, to let your fingers drift away, even as your hand aches to stay.

Joaquín swallows hard, blinking sluggishly as his gaze flickers to the IV in his arm, the monitors beside him, then back to you. His lips press together briefly as if he’s gathering himself before a rough, scratchy mutter escapes him.

"Ah, shit. I screwed up so bad."

The sound of his voice—dry, raspy, but carrying the faintest hint of that familiar humour—makes something in your chest crack wide open.

A breathy, wet laugh slips from your lips before you can stop it, and you quickly swipe at your eyes, shaking your head.

"I'm... I'm gonna go call a doctor, alright?"

Joaquín doesn’t say anything. He just watches you.

There’s something in his gaze—something unreadable, something too much. It makes your pulse stutter, makes your breath feel too shallow in your lungs.

You don’t give yourself time to process it.

Instead, you turn, pressing the call button for the doctor. "Come, Maria," you say, voice quieter than before.

Maria, who's gone strangely silent since Joaquín woke up, rushes to your side without hesitation. But she does nearly break her neck to keep looking back at him until you pull the door shut, sealing that moment away.

You exhale, resting your back against the wall for half a second longer than necessary before forcing yourself to move.

The doctor arrives quickly. You straighten up, rattling off Joaquín’s vitals, every detail you can remember—his initial reaction, his moment of panic, his response to stimuli, everything. The words come automatically, like muscle memory, like routine. You focus on that, on the familiar rhythm of procedure, handing off the responsibility to the doctor so she can begin running tests, checking his neurological responses, assessing how much damage—if any—his body has endured after so many days in forced stillness.

The weight of your exhaustion presses heavier against your shoulders as you upload his files to the system, sending them over before turning your attention back to Maria.

"You did good, Maria," you tell her softly as you lead her back to her room.

She just nods, but there’s something distant in her expression now.

You get it.

She’s just witnessed the moment. The one where everything changes.

It’s the moment where the panic stops being panic and turns into something else—something messier, something heavier.

It’s the moment where the question “what if he never wakes up?” turns into something just as terrifying:

“He’s awake. Now what?”

Her parents are waiting when you bring her back, and you don’t stay. You let them have that moment for her birthday, closing the door gently behind you before turning back into the hallway.

And then you’re alone.

For the first time in hours, in days, you’re alone with nothing to distract you.

Your hands are shaking. You hadn’t even noticed at first, but now you can’t not notice—the tremor in your fingers, the way your pulse hammers too fast against your ribs, the way your body suddenly doesn’t know what to do with itself now that you’re not running on pure adrenaline.

You sink into one of the chairs outside Joaquín’s room, bracing your elbows on your knees. The motion feels stiff, foreign—like your body isn’t quite yours anymore.

Your eyes sting.

Joaquín is awake. He’s awake.

He spoke. He looked at you. He recognized you. He remembered you.

You should feel relief. You should feel something good.

And yet.

It’s like coming up for air after being stuck underwater too long—except just as you’re about to take a full breath, it’s ripped away again.

Because now that he’s awake… he can speak to you.

He can react to what you say, to what you do.

Maybe he’ll ask for a different nurse. Maybe he’ll ask to be transferred to another hospital back in Miami or something. Maybe, when his voice isn’t so raw and broken, he’ll tell you exactly what he thinks about the fact that you were the one sitting by his bedside all this time.

And God, you don’t know if you can handle that.

You drag your hands down your face, pushing out a breath. You don’t have time for this.

The sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway reminds you that Sam—or Joaquín’s mother—is bound to show up any minute now. The news will spread fast, and soon, his room will be filled with people who have been waiting for this moment, praying for this moment.

Shit.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a second before forcing yourself up. You should be in the room right now with the doctor, checking over Joaquín’s vitals, taking actual notes instead of spiraling in the hallway. Get your shit together and do your job.

Your movements feel sluggish as you reach for your tablet, swiping your ID card at the door. The scanner beeps, and for a split second, you hesitate—your fingers still lingering on the door handle, your chest tight.

Then you force yourself to step inside.

The room is brighter now, bathed in soft afternoon light filtering through the window. Dust motes drift lazily in the warm glow, a stark contrast to the sterile white walls and the quiet hum of machines. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor is too steady, too real.

The doctor is already mid-assessment, having raised Joaquín’s bed into a slightly upright position as she runs through a neurological check-up.

Joaquín is watching you.

His dark eyes flicker to you the second you enter, and you feel it in your chest, hot and unrelenting.

You swallow hard, gripping your tablet like it’s a lifeline, and take your place near the doctor, prepared to focus on numbers and stats and anything else except the weight of that stare.

You wonder if you’ll get kicked out for distracting him.

"Oh, great, you’re back," the doctor says, breaking through the static in your brain. "Do you mind grabbing some water for Captain Torres? I’m just about done here. Everything looks good and healthy. He’s recovering well."

You nod, already moving before your thoughts can catch up. Autopilot. It’s the only thing keeping you grounded at this point.

Still, you feel it.

The way Joaquín’s gaze follows every single one of your movements, tracking you like you might disappear if he looks away.

You crouch, retrieving a bottle from the mini fridge, fingers twisting at the cap before stepping back toward the bed. That’s when it hits you—he can’t take it. His muscles are still sluggish, his coordination not quite there yet.

You pour some into a paper cup instead, stepping closer when the doctor gives a nod of approval. Joaquín doesn’t say anything.

The tremor in your hands is almost imperceptible, but you feel it when you lift the cup to his lips. The moment your fingers brush his skin, a muscle in his jaw tenses.

His heart monitor beside the bed jumps.

Your eyes snap to the screen, but the doctor catches it first.

"Interesting," she hums, her tone just teasing enough to send heat creeping up your neck. But she lets it go.

"So, Joaquín," she continues, "We’re gonna have to do some blood work tomorrow, just to make sure everything is alright internally. We’ll up your dose of painkillers now that you’re awake."

"Awesome," he mutters, voice scratchy but laced with dry sarcasm.

She smiles. "They’ll make you a little drowsy, which is normal, but we’ll need you to try and stay awake until sunset. Just to make sure you’re not slipping in and out of consciousness. But I doubt it."

Then she turns to you.

"I’ll let Amanda know he’s awake. But you did a good job—woke up sooner than we expected."

You blink, caught off guard by the compliment.

"Thanks."

"I’ll come back later for a check-up."

And then she leaves.

The door clicks shut, and there is a silence that follows.

You stand there, hands gripping the tablet against your chest, unsure of what to do. Well, you know what to do—your duty is clear. You should be checking his vitals, updating his chart, making sure he’s comfortable.

But that’s not what’s stopping you.

It’s him.

Awake. Looking at you.

Joaquín Torres, alive and conscious and blinking at you like he’s still trying to convince himself this isn’t just another fever dream.

His voice comes quiet, hoarse, a low grumble you barely hear over the rhythmic beeping of his heart monitor.

"You took care of me?"

Your breath catches.

It’s a simple question, but it knocks something loose in your chest. Because it’s him asking. Because he’s here to ask it.

You swallow, shifting on your feet. Your gaze flickers over him—not just the wounds, but all of him. The way the sunlight filters in through the window, warming the stark white of the sheets, reflecting in the deep brown of his eyes. He looks more alive now, and maybe it’s the light or the steady rise and fall of his chest, but for the first time in weeks, you allow yourself to believe it.

He’s here.

Breathing. Talking. Alive.

And yet—his dead face still haunts you.

The memory lingers in the corners of your mind, just out of reach but never truly gone. His stillness, the unnatural slack of his features, the too-loud silence of a body that had once been so full of energy, of life. The image is burned into your brain, playing over and over again like a cruel loop. The moment you thought you lost him.

The tears in his mother’s face.

The look of dread on Sam.

The guilt.

"Uh, yeah. I did."

Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Joaquín exhales, long and slow, as if processing your words. Then, he tries to smile.

It’s small, faint and unsteady like he isn’t quite sure how to do it yet. The corners of his lips curve, but there’s a hesitation in the movement, like his face isn’t used to the motion after so long.

Still, he tries.

And when his eyes meet yours again, your stomach twists, sinking deep like an anchor dropping into dark water.

"I… I know it’s just your job, but—" His voice falters, but his gaze doesn’t. "Thank you."

Right. Your job.

The words settle into your chest like a weight—familiar, suffocating.

Because you remember the last time he said that to you.

Your last fight.

Well—it wasn’t really a fight, was it?

Not the kind with screaming and shattered glass, not the kind where anger built up and spilled over, reckless and sharp. It was quieter than that. Heavier. Because in the end, it wasn’t about anger.

It was about exhaustion. About wanting so badly to hold on to each other but realizing, little by little, that neither of you had hands free to do it.

You had barely been sleeping.

Between overnight shifts at the hospital, classes, training, and trying to be the best nurse you could be, your time wasn’t your own. It belonged to the people who needed you—the patients, the emergencies, the long nights where your body ached and your mind ran on fumes.

And Joaquín?

He had thrown himself into working with Sam, into proving himself, into becoming something bigger. His missions got longer. The risks got greater. He was gone more often than he was home, and when he was home, he was bruised, exhausted, a shadow of himself trying to piece together the scraps of a normal life between deployments.

You tried to make it work. God, you tried.

You spent so much time missing each other—passing like ships in the night, phone calls that never lasted long enough, conversations cut short by a code blue or a mission call.

At first, you thought it was temporary. That one day, things would slow down. That eventually, you’d find a rhythm that let you breathe with each other again.

But that day never came.

Instead, the gaps between you grew wider.

The distance stretched, and stretched, and stretched—until one night, you were sitting across from each other, and you both knew.

"I can't do this anymore, Joaquín."

You had whispered it.

Not because you didn’t mean it, but because saying it any louder might have broken you.

He had looked at you, like he was waiting for you to take it back.

Like if he just held on long enough, you’d change your mind.

"I know... You know, I love you," he had said, low, firm, desperate.

And that had been the worst part.

Because love wasn’t the problem.

It had never been the problem.

It was everything else.

Your job. His job.

The nights spent apart, the exhaustion, the never-ending fear of opening your front door to a folded American Flag. You couldn’t stand watching him bleed.

And he couldn’t stand knowing that one day, you might not be there to stitch him back up. That was the last time he said it. "But it’s my job."

Like that was supposed to make it better.

But now, you’re standing in his hospital room, staring at proof that it never got better. Because you had left to protect yourself from seeing him hurt. And now you had seen him dead.

"Of course," you manage to say, wincing when you hear your voice break.

Joaquín hums softly, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s looking for something in your face—like he’s searching through memories neither of you have spoken aloud in years.

But then, his gaze flickers away. Over to the table. To the mess of flowers stacked in unsteady vases, their petals bright in the afternoon sunlight. The kind of display that only happens when someone is lucky enough to wake up.

His brow creases. "How bad was it?"

You swallow, feeling something sharp lodge itself in your throat. "You were shot out of the sky by a missile."

His lips part. "Right."

"It was pretty fucking bad."

A beat.

"Right."

You don’t know what you were expecting. Some kind of reaction, some flicker of acknowledgment for the hell he’s put you through. But instead, he just takes it—like it’s another report, another piece of intel.

You hesitate, something bubbling up inside you. You can’t tell if it’s anger or sorrow. "You died."

The words hit the air, heavier than you expected.

Joaquín blinks, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. His fingers twitch against the blanket.

"I died?"

You nod, biting your cheek so hard you taste iron.

"Yeah," you force out. Your throat tightens. Don’t cry. Not in front of him. Not again. "Two minutes."

He’s staring at you now. Eyes wide. Disbelief creeps into the edges of his expression, but not enough—not enough for someone who actually understands what that means.

What it means to you.

"Oh."

You scoff. "Yeah. Oh."

Your laugh is brittle. Sharp around the edges. Because what else is there to say? Joaquín dies for two minutes, and you’ve spent days living inside them.

He exhales, dragging a hand down his face.

"God," he mutters. "Sam’s gonna be so mad at me."

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Because this wasn’t how you imagined seeing him again.

In your head, there were a million other ways this could have gone—maybe you’d run into each other in the future when you were older. When things had settled. When you’d moved on.

Maybe you’d both be married to other people.

The thought makes you sick. But this? This is so much worse.

"Do you, um, do you need anything else? Are you hungry?"

"No."

You nod, but you don’t believe him. Patients are usually peckish when they wake up—a sign of life returning to their bodies, a reassurance that things are moving forward. And while he’s not allowed solid foods for another twenty-four hours, you could bring him a smoothie, something light.

But if he really wants something, he can call you.

You tell yourself that as you turn toward the door.

"Can you stay?"

You linger because you didn’t expect it.

Because you kind of hoped he would ask.

Because he didn’t ask you to stay last time.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, gripping your tablet a little tighter, as if the tension in your body could be contained in that single movement.

"Yeah," you say softly. "I can stay."

You turn back to him, and Joaquín is already looking at you.

His eyes are pleading.

It takes everything in you not to break right there. To not spill over.

You force yourself to move, careful, measured steps toward the chair beside his bed. It feels like you’re wading through something thick, something unseen, like grief or memory or all the what-ifs you’ve tried to bury.

You sink into the chair slowly.

A strand of hair falls into Joaquín’s face as he leans back against the pillows, the bruising on his cheekbone catching the light just enough for you to hate it.

Your fingers twitch again. The urge to brush it back is unbearable. But you don't.

He exhales.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asks suddenly.

You blink, caught off guard.

"Last night." you answer, almost automatically.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Not really."

A beat.

"Nightmares?"

"Something like that."

"Something on your mind?"

"Lots on my mind."

The words slip out easily, like an old habit. No walls. No defences. It’s like no time has passed at all, like the space between you hasn’t been filled with anger, regret, and time apart. Just raw, open honesty in the quiet of the room.

The weight that’s been crushing you for days feels a little lighter in the space between his questions and your answers. You exhale, and only then do you realize you’re holding back tears.

You wipe at your face absently, surprised to find wetness there. You hadn’t even known you were crying.

Joaquín shifts in the bed, his gaze sharpening. There’s concern in his eyes, guilt, and maybe something else—something deeper. He looks away, clearing his throat, as if trying to fight it.

"I hope it's not me you're worried about,"

"I'm always worried about you."

You glance away from him, pretending it’s nothing, but the words hang between you both, too heavy to ignore.

His breath catches, something in him faltering, and then you catch the slight, almost imperceptible way his fingers curl into the sheets. His ears are pink, the flush spreading down his neck. He’s always been terrible at hiding how he feels, and you’re helpless against it. You always have been.

You can’t look at him. You don’t want to admit how much you’ve missed him. How much you’ve been carrying around since the breakup. How much he’s haunted every quiet moment since you walked away.

"Joaquín," you start, tugging at the ring finger on your left hand, the absence of his name there like a wound you forgot was still open. "When they brought you in here—"

"I miss you."

Your chest tightens. "Joaquín—"

"It's true, I do." His voice is quiet, almost vulnerable. "I’ve been looking for an excuse to talk to you again, and I just…" His gaze drifts from yours, like he’s struggling to put it all together. "I couldn't get it out."

You swallow hard, feeling that familiar ache well up in you. “I miss you too. It’s been... it’s been really hard.”

"Yeah." He nods slowly, his voice softer now. "It has. But, you know, I’m the Falcon now. Can you believe that?" He chuckles, but it’s almost nervous, as if he’s trying to lighten the mood, trying to make you smile. "I work with Captain America. I’ve got big shoes to fill. I’ve got to show up, but this... this is all I’ve ever wanted, since I was a kid. I’ve got it now. But... there’s something missing."

You look at him, really look at him, seeing the difference in his eyes now—less brash, more tired but still so much the same. "Yeah. Yeah, I feel it too. It’s like a nagging feeling, right? No matter what we do, it’s there."

"Make me feel guilty." His lips curve into a faint smile, but it’s tired.

"Like I wanna vomit," you reply dryly, the familiar banter slipping back into place before you can stop it.

Joaquín’s eyes soften as he lets out a breath, and there’s an edge of regret in the way he says, “I’m sorry I left.”

Your heart aches at the words, and you feel the old wounds crack open. "I’m sorry I made you leave." You’re not sure whether you’re trying to make him feel better or punish him with your own guilt. Either way, it burns.

“No,” he says quickly, “It doesn’t work that way.”

"But it does," you insist, your voice soft but firm.

He presses his lips together, brow furrowed, as if trying to work through what you’ve just said. "I should’ve fought harder," he murmurs, voice cracking just slightly.

"Joaquín... c’mon. Let’s talk about this later, okay? You just woke up from a coma. I can’t be putting this much stress on your mind."

"But I wanna talk about it," he presses, desperate.

“I know, I do too,” you admit,

“Then let’s talk about it,” he says, leaning forward just a little.

"Rest first." You place a hand on his shoulder gently, urging him to lay back. “You’ve been through a lot. I can’t let you burn yourself out again.”

“I’ve been resting. Had the best nurse in the world take care of me,” he teases, trying to distract you with a smile.

You feel the tug in your chest at his words. "And I will still take care of you. But you need rest. We can talk about it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow," you confirm, trying to smile, to soothe the tension you’ve both built up.

"Will you still be here?"

You glance down at him, a familiar warmth flooding your chest at the sight of him so vulnerable, so human. "I’m not going anywhere. Will you still be here?"

His smile softens, a quiet promise in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

#listen to blood orange while reading 🫶🏽#they make out and fuck after this i promise #faye’s writing ⭑.ᐟ #joaquín torres #joaquín torres x reader #joaquin torres #joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres x you #joaquin torres imagine #joaquin torres fluff #joaquin torres fic #joaquin torres fanfiction #the falcon #the falcon x reader #joaquín torres smut #joaquin torres smut #joaquín’s wings

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shishiga · 3 months ago

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In the original he's got some clumsy feet, so yeah. I've redone his body composition in general, both here and on the first art. I made him thinner (because that's what he's all about, speed and lightness), but I tried to make the fucking robot have a lean physique. So that despite being light, it felt like a lump of ‘muscle’. So I gave him a voluminous chest but a skinny waist. At the same time, I emphasised his legs in general, just because of his jumping ability. I enlarged his thighs on one axis, increased the length of his legs. I put pistons in his calves and made them more ‘animal-like’ (?). So he can push himself forward. The legs fold in half, you can see that too (all for aerodynamics). The feet have been completely modified. They're longer too, just like an extension of the toe spring. Made two toes instead of ponte slippers, because it's trivially more comfortable that way. He can separate these toes at any time for more grip or combine them together (it's a mountain goat thing, which also fits V1). If you ask why he doesn't have an aerodynamic bib but has a flat nose like a creeper in minecraft, it's already for combat and convenience. A flat surface will withstand more impact or damage from a fall than a pointy nosed bow. I'd also wonder if it needs a bird keel if it flies rather than having wings for ponts :D Just about those things. Basically I turned the keel back on its back and made it a dorsal fin that the blades are just attached to. Done this on the basis that I like to think he's clinging to his arms extra, rather than changing the soo…. yeah. To have a place to cling to, I moved the wings closer to the spine. Generally it's a separate removable part, life doesn't depend on it like a cool jetpack 😎🤙. Bleed more tubes of blood to the outside, oh well. So formed weak spots in his armour to keep V1 from sticking. The strongest are the blue plates, obviously. Then come the black ones, that's the joints, abs, back and legs. There aren't many tubes on the legs. I figured with such a bouncy enemy, they'd be the ones to aim for, so I removed important components from there other than mechanics (Also the reason why the legs are the way they are, especially the thin calves). But the barrels are just softer, that's where the tubes are. According to my idea that's where it absorbs blood.

I'm using a translator, so I hope it came out okay. I can't keep quiet

#digital art #art #fanart #artists on tumblr #full art #headcanon #ultrakill v1 #ultrakill #v1 fanart #close up

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pancakeke · 3 months ago

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hey why make it fold in half on that axis❓

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diejager · 2 years ago

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hear me out tho. PervKönig with with thick thigh female reader who applies lotion on her thick thick thighs after a shower??

Lotion Cw: Pervy!König, lotion on thighs?, erotic fantasy, tell me if I missed any.

Fortunately - or unfortunately in some situation - he has self-control, able to hold himself back from re-enacting his fantasies or to push his needs onto you. The hunger that festered in the pit of his stomach, an unbearring heat at the apex of his thighs, beating with an erratic pulse and growing in restlessness. König has to push back the hanging reminder that he was hard, pressed against his sweatpants with a leaky tip.

He can only hope that you won’t catch the slight tent in his pants while his hands were busy, working the soft smelling lotion of your supple thighs. The pudgy fat of your thighs so tender under his callouses fingers, skin rolling if he pressed on it, lathering the white cream over your skin. You were so soft, so pliant and so loving, letting him inch his fingers closer to the edge of your shorts, tights and squeezing your upper thigh and your crotch.

He had to bite his cheek when you let out soft moans when he reached your inner thigh, folding your round skin and bending your knee to reach under your leg before he reached down. From the apex of your leg down to your ankle, his fingers twisting and curling around your toes, between and under. You curled your toes, giggling at the ticklish sensation of his fingers, it made him smile softly, scarred lips stretching thinly.

His eyes roamed over your glistening legs, the lotion making it gleam under the bathroom light, where he had his hands on. He bowed down, lips kissing your foot, tender and loving. He heard your surprised hum, but didn’t react to your sweet sound, his mouth trailing kisses up to your knee, eyes gazing into you own, cool eyes swirling with heat.

He loved how supple your thighs were, how soft and pliant it was, it drove him wild with need. He wanted to push you down on the couch right down the hallway, and fuck them, to rut his leaky cock between them. He wondered if you’d be disgusted if you knew your roommate wanted to paint your thighs white with cum, to massage your skin with his load rather than lotion, smelling salty and tasting tangy - smelling and tasting of him - after a shower.

König might have to add this fantasy to his bucket list, to act out when you fell asleep. He only hoped you wouldn’t mind.

Tag list: @hiraya1802 @tess0288 @elichisstuff @emodanoriddler @kenz-ee @bunnyclaire @akenosimp167 @death8match @yourliebling @allicsirp00 @cross-axis @hereforhotbitches @delulu4ghost @monster-in-paradise @nordicvsp @madi0987 @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @223princess

#tw: dubcon #Pervy!konig #Pervy!könig #Pervy!roommate!konig #konig x reader smut #konig x reader #konig mw2 #cod konig #cod könig #könig #könig x reader #könig mw2 #könig smut #cod mw2 smut #mw2 smut #x reader #cod mw2 x reader #yandere x reader #yandere

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verstappenverse · 2 days ago

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hi! can i request that the reader and max anticipate their first child? he was so worried when the reader had a morning sickness and when the reader was about to deliver the baby? he worried whether he could be a good father or not to their firstborn baby. and how he was so protective, care, and just soft with the reader? thank you! i love your fics anyway, you're doing great! i hope you have a very good day ahead!! xoxo.

What If I Get It Wrong?

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max was never afraid of anything, but fatherhood? That’s a different kind of terrifying. As the two of you prepare for your first child, Max is protective, terrified, and completely in awe, and you watch the man you love fall headfirst into fatherhood. (Requested)

4.1k words / Masterlist

You weren’t expecting it to feel like this, equal parts overwhelming and breathtaking. A surreal mix of the mundane and the extraordinary.

Two faint pink lines on a stick, the distant hum of the bathroom fan. The sound of your shaky breathing as you sit on the edge of the tub, blinking down at something that just shifted the axis of your entire world.

Your hands tremble when you press your palm to your stomach. It’s still flat. Still unchanged. And yet… you already feel different. Maybe not physically, but something inside you is new. Expanding. Blooming.

You had a plan.

Of course you did. You’d always imagined telling Max with a smile too wide to hide, maybe over a fancy private dinner at home with the test tucked inside a gift box or a Red Bull baby onesie folded on his plate. Maybe filming his reaction when he opened it. Something worthy of the moment. Something permanent.

You even started writing a card, got as far as, "You changed my life once. Now—."

But when the door opens that night and Max comes in, home late from some media obligations, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, and grumbling about TikTok's and something you can’t quite hear. You don’t even get a word in before he presses a kiss to your cheek. “Sorry I’m late. What’re we having for—”

“I’m pregnant.”

The words leap out of you before you even mean to say them. It’s not soft. It’s not poetic. It’s raw and breathless and a little panicked.

The silence is immediate. Thick. His mouth stays open mid-word. His eyes flick to your stomach, then back to your face.

“I—” you start, already flustered, “I was gonna tell you in some big, sweet way, I swear. With a whole surprise and maybe a stupid cake or balloons, I even wrote like half a card and now I’ve just blurted it out like a maniac and—”

“Pregnant,” he interrupts.

You nod. Your voice is a whisper. “Yeah.”

It takes another two seconds before a breathless laugh escapes him. He crosses the room in one long stride, pulling you into his arms. His hands cradle your face like you’re something breakable. “You’re serious?”

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “I took the test three times.”

He looks down at your stomach again. Then back at you. Then exhales a shaky breath that sounds like something breaking open in his chest.

“I’m going to be a dad?”

You bite your lip, eyes filling. “Yeah. You are.”

You nod again, and before you can say another word, he’s kissing you. Slow. Deep. His hand presses instinctively to your belly, protective already, and you feel his body tremble as his forehead rests against yours.

The nerves come quickly.

You’re crouched over the toilet, forehead pressed to the cool porcelain, on what feels like your fifth straight day of relentless nausea. Your stomach rolls again, and you groan, dry heaving into nothing.

Max hovers like a man teetering on the edge of a panic attack. He’s pacing the bathroom floor in bare feet, one hand gripping the back of his neck, the other holding your water bottle like it might fix something if he just offers it enough times.

“Should I call someone?” he says for the third time in five minutes. “A hospital? Maybe your mum, I think, maybe Dr. Hendriks? I’ll fly him in. We have the jet, it’s—”

“Max,” you croak, cutting him off mid-spiral. “I’m fine. Just... a bit gross.”

He drops to a crouch beside you so fast you almost flinch. His hand is instantly at your back, warm and steady, rubbing slow circles over your spine like he’s trying to manually ease the nausea out of you.

“You threw up twice, you’ve barley eaten anything since yesterday, and you can’t even stand up straight. This isn’t fine,” he mutters, eyes scanning your face like he’s looking for signs of something worse.

You want to reassure him, but all you can manage is another gag and a feeble wave of your hand.

He makes a frustrated sound under his breath, somewhere between a growl and a groan and presses a kiss to your temple. You feel him shift beside you, still kneeling, still rubbing your back.

You’re pretty sure he was supposed to be on a flight to the Red Bull factory two hours ago. His suitcase is still zipped up in the hallway. His laptop sits forgotten on the kitchen counter next to the tea he brewed for you earlier, the tea you couldn’t even look at, let alone sip.

He didn’t even finish drying his hair. It’s still damp, curling at the edges. There’s a red line pressed into his cheek from where he must’ve fallen asleep beside you on the bathroom floor the night before.

“Max,” you mumble, finally able to lift your head. You rest your cheek against his shoulder, exhausted, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack before the baby’s even here.”

He tries to laugh but it comes out hoarse and half-broken. “I just hate this. Watching you like this. I keep thinking, what if I’m missing something? What if I’m not doing enough?”

You tilt your head up slightly, catching the crease between his brows, the lines of guilt that don’t belong there.

“You made me three kinds of toast this morning,” you murmur. “And cut the crusts off, and you held my hair and Googled ginger remedies until your phone died.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but you press a hand to his chest right over the spot where his heart’s racing, fast and wild.

“You’re here,” you whisper. “That’s not useless. That’s everything.”

He exhales shakily, eyes locked on yours and for a second you swear they shine.

“I’m just so scared of getting it wrong,” he admits, barely audible. “This whole dad thing. Taking care of you. It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done, and I keep feeling like I’m already screwing it up.”

“You’re not,” you promise, curling your fingers into the fabric of his t-shirt. “You’re already the best dad, because you care so much, because you show up.”

The weeks pass in waves. Ultrasounds. Appointments. Cravings that come out of nowhere at 2 a.m. and leave you both laughing in the kitchen in your pajamas, sharing a jar of pickles and toast with peanut butter. There are stretches of calm, slow, quiet mornings when the Monaco sunlight creeps across the bedsheets and Max wraps an arm around your waist, murmuring something sleepy against your neck. And then there are flashes of chaos, bags packed, schedules rearranged, Max on a video call with his race engineers while still rubbing your swollen feet with one hand.

Somehow, amidst it all, you find a rhythm.

You learn to time what you can around Max’s races, his travel, his returns. You count the days until he’s back, until he’s lying beside you again, one hand stretched protectively over your belly like it’s instinct now.

The first time you hear the heartbeat Max looks like someone knocked the air out of him. His mouth parts. His eyes fill.

“She’s real,” he whispers, the words barely making it past his lips. “Our baby is real.”

You haven’t even found out the gender yet, but he says she instinctively, without hesitation, like his heart already knows something the rest of you don’t.

You tease him about it once, smiling as he folds baby clothes that aren’t even needed yet.

“It might be a boy you know?” you say, watching him hold up a tiny lemon-patterned onesie like it’s the crown jewels.

He looks up from the clothes, something quiet and unshakable in his gaze. “Maybe, but I don’t know, I just feel it, every time I picture the future, it’s you... and her.”

You stare at him, your breath catching somewhere in your throat.

“She’s loud,” he continues, grinning now, his accent curling around the softness of his voice. “Talks too much. Bosses me around. Already a little menace. Definitely your child.”

“Excuse me?”

He laughs, quick and boyish, and leans over to press a kiss to your cheek. “You’ll see. She’s gonna have your fire.”

You don’t say it, but the truth sinks deep into your chest, he already loves this baby with his whole being.

He talks to your belly when he thinks you’re asleep. You catch him doing it all the time, quiet, unguarded moments where his world has narrowed down to two things, you and the life you’re creating together.

When you both lie awake at night, hands intertwined under the duvet, whispering about baby names and nursery colors and what kind of parents you want to be, Max is always a little breathless. Like he still can’t believe it’s real. Like he’s terrified and amazed in equal measure.

“She’s going to change everything,” he murmurs once, voice low in the dark.

“She already has,” you whisper back.

He nods slowly, curling into you like he always does, like you’re the only home he’s ever needed.

Max becomes… soft.

In every possible way.

It’s not just the way he handles you now, like you’re something precious and breakable. It’s not just the way he walks slower beside you or watches your face when you stand up too quickly or how he quietly puts your sneakers on for you when your feet start to swell.

It’s in the little things.

He buys three different pregnancy pillows, a full-body one, a C-shaped one, and some strange ergonomic wedge because he isn’t sure which one will help you sleep better. One night you catch him actually reading a parenting blog in bed next to you, blue light from his phone casting shadows across the duvet. He scrolls silently, occasionally muttering things like:

“Did you know babies can hear our voices by week twenty?”

Or,

“Apparently we’re supposed to play music for her.”

Then there’s the night you find him in the nursery.

It’s late. You’d gotten up to grab water and noticed the light was on down the hall. You pad softly to the doorway, heart already warm with affection and there he is.

Max. Standing perfectly still. The crib is built, assembled a few days ago it sits against the far wall now, freshly made up with soft cream sheets and a stuffed lion tucked in the corner.

He’s just staring at it.

Half terror. Half wonder.

“Max?” you say gently, stepping into the room.

He startles a little but doesn’t turn around.

“Do you think I’ll be good at this?” he murmurs.

You cross the room without answering and slide your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek against the cotton of his t-shirt. He reaches for your hands, holds them tightly over his chest.

“You’re already good,” you whisper.

He lets out a long, shaky breath. The kind that sounds like it’s been sitting in his chest for months.

“It’s just…” he starts, and then pauses, struggling to find the words. “I didn’t exactly have the perfect example.”

You nod, letting the silence stretch. You don’t talk about his childhood much but he’s never needed to say much for you to understand. Jos was many things, passionate, driven, ambitious. But he was also sharp around the edges. Affection was earned, not given freely. Max learned young what it meant to perform under pressure. To please. To succeed, or suffer.

“I’m scared I’ll mess her up,” he says, voice quieter now. “That I’ll push too hard. Or expect too much. Or say something I can’t take back. What if she cries and I don’t know how to make it better? What if she needs something I don’t know how to give?”

You pull back just enough to tilt your head and meet his gaze.

“Max, you’re the most patient person I know.”

He snorts, but there’s not much humor in it. “That’s a word I don’t think has ever been used to describe me.”

“You’re patient with people you love,” you correct gently. “With me. You’ve been soft and kind and so careful this whole time, even when I’ve been sick or moody or irrational. You listen. That’s what she’ll see. That’s what she’ll learn.”

You hesitate, then add softly, “I’m scared too, you know.”

His brows draw together, surprised. Maybe he hadn’t realised, maybe you’ve hidden it well. “You are?”

You nod. “Every single day. I lie in bed and think about how much we don’t know yet. About how overwhelming it all feels sometimes. What if I’m not enough? What if she needs more than I can give?”

His arms tighten around you instinctively, like he’s trying to hold the fear out of your body.

“But then I see you,” you whisper. “And I remember… we don’t have to do any of it alone, and that makes all the difference.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

He just turns in your arms, eyes a little wet, and rests his forehead against yours.

“I don’t want to get it wrong,” he breathes. “Not with her. Not with you.”

“You won’t,” you whisper. “But if you ever feel like you are, we’ll figure it out. Together.”

He nods slowly. Swallows. “Promise me you’ll tell me if I ever forget, if I ever slip. If I start to become…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

“I promise, but I already know I won’t need to.” you say, holding his face in your hands.

You kiss him then, soft and sure, and he kisses you back like your faith in him is something he never wants to let go of. And in the stillness of that nursery, with your belly pressed to his and the crib waiting quietly behind you, Max lets the fear settle… just a little.

Maybe it’s okay to be scared, as long as neither of you is scared alone.

The last month is the hardest.

Your back feels like it’s been replaced by concrete. Your feet have swollen so much you’ve officially retired every pair of shoes you own except one pair of very ugly slides. You cry at everything, a dog food commercial, a voicemail from your mum, Max just looking at you across the kitchen.

You’re tired in ways you didn’t know were possible. Your body feels like it’s working overtime to grow a person and also remind you of gravity’s cruelest tricks.

Max, meanwhile, has entered full protective mode. As if the impending arrival of your daughter has turned every single instinct inside him up to eleven.

He won’t let you lift anything.

Not a grocery bag. Not a chair. Not even your own overnight hospital bag.

You once reached for a water bottle and he appeared out of thin air swiping it out of your reach with a sharp, scandalized look.

“Max,” you deadpanned, “I’m pregnant, not paralyzed.”

“I’m aware,” he muttered, already unscrewing the cap and handing it to you like a peace offering.

“You think the baby’s going to fall out if I hold a Fiji bottle?”

“No,” he said seriously, “but why take the risk.”

You rolled your eyes then. You do it often now. But secretly?

You love it.

You love how protective he is. How he walks slightly behind you in crowds, like a buffer. How he started driving ten kilometers under the limit the second you entered your third trimester, even though he used to complain that Monaco traffic was basically just expensive cars parked in motion.

You love how he fusses, quietly but constantly. How he now triple-checks that your favorite snack is stocked before leaving the apartment, how he installed a nightlight in the hallway so you wouldn't trip during your nightly bathroom trips. How he downloaded six different white noise apps on his phone so you could try them out in bed. "For practice," he said, “in case she’s fussy.”

But what really gets you, what makes your chest ache with something warm and vast and impossible to describe is the way his face changes every time you talk about the baby.

A softening around his eyes. A slight tilt of his head. The more you speak about her name, about what she might look like, about whether she’ll like racing or painting or maybe dinosaurs, the more he leans in.

He’s never looked at you like this before. Not when he’s on the podium. Not even after winning his first championship. This? This is different.

This is awe. This is devotion. This is Max Verstappen world-class driver, famously unshakeable completely and utterly undone by the thought of his daughter.

He leans down and kisses your skin. “She’s going to wreck me isn’t she?”

“She already has.”

He looks up at you, eyes shining under the soft lamp light, and for once he doesn’t have a smart reply.

Then the day finally comes.

You wake at 3:13 a.m. with a pressure in your abdomen that steals your breath. It isn’t sharp, not at first. Just a heavy, aching pull deep in your core, like gravity has shifted suddenly inside you.

For a moment you think it’s another false alarm.

You shift under the covers, already rehearsing the mental checklist your doctor gave you: hydration, time the contractions, don’t panic. You ease out of bed, try walking to the bathroom, just like they said to do when you’re not sure it’s real yet, but then the pain tightens, sharp and low and unmistakable. It doesn’t come and go. It grips.

Just like that you know.

You shuffle back to the bed and place a trembling hand on Max’s chest.

“Max.”

He jolts upright as if someone’s fired a starter pistol. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it time?”

His voice is gravelly with sleep, but his body is already moving.

You nod, barely able to get the words out through the rising wave of pain.

“Okay. Okay. Alright, okay,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, as he flings the covers off and springs into motion.

What follows is like watching a pit stop in human form.

Max moves with sharp, terrifying focus. He’s already helped you into the comfiest clothes he can find, sweatpants and one of his old t-shirts, before you even finish brushing your teeth. He pulls the hospital bag from the front closet, double-checks its contents, grabs your water bottle, chargers, snacks, the car keys.

But the entire time, his hands are shaking.

You notice it in the way he fumbles with the seatbelt when helping you into the car. In the way he presses the elevator button three times like it’ll come faster.

By the time he’s in the driver’s seat, knuckles white on the steering wheel, you’re gripping the side of the door, breathing through another contraction.

“Max,” you whisper, chest rising and falling in short bursts. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing, you need to breath.” he says quickly, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror even though the road is deserted.

“No, you’re hyperventilating.”

“I’m not, maybe a little,” he admits, cheeks flushed. He loosens his grip on the wheel, forces one deep inhale through his nose.

You reach across the console and take his hand, squeezing through the contraction.

“You’re going to be amazing,” you say through gritted teeth.

He glances at you, eyes shining under the dashboard light. “You’re the one doing the hard part.”

You laugh sort of. It’s half a wheeze, half a whimper. “Hard doesn’t even cover it.”

He presses a kiss to your knuckles at the next red light. “Just keep holding on. I’m right here.”

The labour is long.

Twenty hours of chaos and calm. Of excruciating pain and quiet moments in between, your hand curled tight in Max’s.

He never leaves your side.

“I love you,” he says every few minutes, even when you’re too far gone to reply. “You’re doing so good. You’re so strong.”

He hovers beside you, whispering soft encouragements, brushing sweat from your forehead with shaking fingers.

And then, after everything, comes silence.

The kind that feels holy.

The room stills. You collapse against the pillows, exhausted and trembling. And then it happens.

A sound. Fragile. Piercing.

A cry.

Your baby’s first breath shatters the stillness, high-pitched and perfect and real.

Max sags beside you like his legs can’t hold him anymore. He buries his face in your shoulder, and for the first time since you’ve known him, since the earliest days of cautious flirtation and long-distance calls, since the podiums and the plane rides and the quiet "I love you"s you feel him cry.

“She’s here,” he chokes out. His whole body shakes. “She’s really here.”

When the nurse places your daughter on your chest, something in you clicks into place. She’s tiny. Wrinkled. Red-faced and slippery and making the most outraged little sounds, but she’s perfect. She’s yours.

And Max… Max looks like he’s been struck by lightning. He can’t move at first. Just stands there, one hand braced on the edge of the bed, the other hovering like he’s afraid to touch her. His face is wet with tears. He looks shell-shocked.

“She’s…” he starts, but he can’t finish. His voice breaks again.

You reach for his hand and guide it gently to her. His fingertips brush her hand and her tiny fingers curl around his pinky, as if she already knows him.

“Hi, kleine meid,” he whispers. “I’m your dada.”

Just like that he’s gone.

Hopelessly, entirely, irreversibly in love.

Later, after the visitors come and go after your families cry over tiny fingers and kiss your cheeks with soft, trembling mouths, after nurses shuffle in and out with gentle voices and kind hands the hospital room falls quiet again.

Just the three of you now. The soft hum of machines. The muffled hallway beyond the door. The gentle rustle of a newborn’s breath in the bassinet beside the bed.

Max lies beside you on the narrow hospital bed, somehow fitting his long frame against yours like puzzle pieces. One arm is curled protectively around your back, anchoring you to his chest. The other hand rests on the side of the bassinet, fingers still.

You watch him as he stares at her. He hasn’t looked away in over twenty minutes.

Not since the nurse gently wheeled her over and whispered, “She’s all yours now.”

“She’s got your nose,” you murmur sleepily, the exhaustion pulling at you like a tide, but the kind you’d wade into again without question.

Max smiles, slow and full and a little dazed. His eyes are glassy, bloodshot from lack of sleep and tears he no longer bothers hiding.

“Poor thing,” he says softly.

You chuckle, too tired for more than a breathy laugh. “She’s lucky.”

He looks over to you, his gaze heavy with affection. He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there like he’s silently thanking the universe for bringing you through it.

“No,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’m the lucky one.”

You curl into his chest a little deeper, feeling the solid beat of his heart beneath your cheek. His hoodie smells like hospital linen and baby powder and Max, warm, worn-in, familiar.

“You were worried,” you say quietly, almost to yourself.

He nods without hesitation. “Terrified.”

There’s no bravado in his voice now. No need to pretend.

He exhales, glancing back at your daughter. “I’ve been trying to imagine this moment for months. Her face. The sound she’d make. Whether I’d be good enough for her.” His fingers flex slightly against the edge of the bassinet, just brushing the corner. “And now she’s here. And I just keep thinking… how do I live up to her?”

“Still scared?” you whisper.

He hesitates. “Yeah.”

He glances down at the baby again. She’s sleeping now, her tiny fist curled near her cheek, lips parted in a soft, steady rhythm.

“But it’s different now,” he adds. “I think… how is she real? How did we make her? How is she breathing and blinking and making those tiny sounds like it’s the most normal thing in the world?” His voice catches. “How do I ever make sure she knows how much I love her?”

You reach for his hand and lace your fingers through his. He grips yours back immediately, tight, like he needs to feel your pulse to believe any of this is real.

“She already knows,” you whisper. “She’s felt it. She’s felt it every time you talked to her. Every time you rubbed my back or held my hair or teared up during an ultrasound.”

Max looks at you then, and you see it all, the vulnerability, the devotion, the pure, unfiltered wonder that hasn’t left him since the moment she arrived.

You smile through the tears clouding your lashes.

“We’re in this together,” you say.

He nods. “Always.”

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devdozes · 3 months ago

Text

Love me like a sailor

im sorry it was a long time anwyyas hope u like the fic ! horror, dark romance ig?, lowkey YANDERE some spoilers on 3.2 quest, and just silliness

The scent of laurel smoke curled through the air, laced with something older, bitter—like burnt parchment and hubris. You stood beneath the Sacred Tree, where philosophers carved truth into bark and left their minds to rot with honor. They called this place holy.

You called it absurd.

“Found something funny?”

His voice was a low purr, golden in timbre, venomous in rhythm. Anaxagoras��Anaxa, as he insisted you call him when no one else could hear—emerged from the columns like a specter from forgotten scripture. His robes shimmered like oil on water, reflecting knowledge too painful to bear. Eye the color of the sweet magenta-cyan ombre.

You didn’t look away.

“Only the idea that anyone here thinks they know anything at all.”

That smile. That cursed smile. He hated it. He loved it.

“Blasphemy,” he whispered, delighted. “You’ll fit right in.”

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The Nousporists had no scriptures, no prayers, only questions so sharp they left the mind bleeding. Anaxa led them like a messiah of madness, burning every ideal of truth to rebuild his own version—twisted and elegant, cruel and beautiful.

You should have left the Grove.

Instead, you debated him.

And that’s when the trouble began.

Because when you said, “You’re wrong,” with a laugh in your voice and not a shred of fear in your eyes, he felt something break. And Anaxa did not break.

So he followed you. He read your discarded notes. Memorized your arguments. Stole the scent of your skin from the folds of your coat when you left it unattended. Rewrote his entire doctrine to include you as a conceptual axis without you noticing.

He never touched you.

He never dared.

But every night, in the sanctum where thoughts became flame and philosophies were branded into flesh, he dreamed of flaying the world open and handing you its still-beating heart.

“You don’t get tired of chasing your own logic circles?” you asked once, after a particularly vicious debate.

Anaxa looked you dead in the eye slowly, as though the sight of your breath misting in the cold air was sacred.

“I only walk in circles because you are the center.”

You laughed.

He didn’t.

The Nousporists were not a school. They were a fever. An idea that spread like mold under gilded thought. Founded by Anaxa, born from his desire to prove that even divinity could fracture under scrutiny. To challenge the Coreflame of Reason was to challenge god itself—and so he did.

But what the others never understood was this:

The Nousporists were built for you.

His "heresies"? All mimics of your questions.

Does truth decay the longer we observe it? Is prophecy a mirror, or a command? Can love exist without misinterpretation?

You were not a lover. Not yet.

You were a problem.

Anaxa studied you like a puzzle made of void and starlight. Every time you opened your mouth, it wasn’t words—it was scripture only he could hear.

Subject Log, Entry 12 I accused her of solipsism. She laughed. She asked if I dream in color. I lied and said yes. (Note: I need to know what she dreams. Perhaps she dreams me.)

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The deeper your research delved into the Chrysos Lineage, the less you slept. The more Anaxa watched you not as a peer, but as a phenomenon.

Your desk was a chaos of forbidden manuscripts, old glyphs glowing faintly, and diagrams of neural decay. At the center was your theory: The chrysosis was not divine punishment, but cognitive overload—a truth so absolute the brain set itself aflame to escape it.

Anaxa began sleeping in your study. He said it was to "supervise your deductions."

He never slept.

One night, while researching on Tribios as per Anaxa's request, you fell asleep with your cheek pressed to your notes. When you stirred, hours later, Anaxa was still at your side, chin resting on his folded arms beside you. His eyes were closed. Not asleep. Just...waiting.

He whispered, "I tried to dream about you. But I couldn’t replicate you. Not even in sleep."

Your breath caught. You wanted to mock him, to defuse it—but the way he looked at you made your heart crack sideways. Like you were his last theorem. Like he would kill every scholar in the Grove if it meant you’d say his name just once with awe.

And perhaps you did. Quietly.

"Anaxa." Holy fucking shit, he felt his undead heart burst up with blood

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The Chrysos Heirs—beings of legend, said to carry the golden blood of the gods—were central figures in Amphorean history. Aglaea, the Goldweaver, stood as the acting leader of the Heirs, her divine authority inherited from the Titan Mnestia. Phainon, the Nameless King was undergoing the trial of the Coreflame. Hyacine, the enigmatic priest, was whispered to possess the ability to mend the celestial realm and to bear the fate of Aquila. Mydei, the Undying, bore a curse that rendered him immortal, a testament to his harrowing past. Cipher, the Fleet-footed, was a shadow that danced on the fringes of time, her allegiance and motives obscured, She was the demi-god of Zagreus.

Together, you and Anaxa embarked on a clandestine journey to dissect the essence of these figures. Nights were spent poring over ancient manuscripts, deciphering prophecies, and constructing theories that bordered on heresy.

The question that haunted your research was profound: What was the true nature of the Coreflames, and why were these individuals deemed worthy of their inheritance?

"The Titans,"

Anaxa mused one evening, fingers tracing the faded ink of a forbidden text, "were said to have crafted the very fabric of our existence. Their Coreflames are not mere symbols of power; they are fragments of creation itself."

You nodded, the gravity of his words sinking in. "And the Chrysos Heirs are the vessels chosen to wield these fragments. But by whom? And to what end?"

Anaxa's eyes gleamed with a mixture of excitement and something deeper, more insidious.

"That, my dear, is the crux of our inquiry."

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Your research led you to the origins of the Titans themselves—beings born from the Coreflames, each embodying fundamental aspects of existence. Kephale, the Worldbearing Titan, had sacrificed their Coreflame to ignite the Dawn Device, creating a sanctuary amidst the chaos wrought by the Black Tide. This act of selflessness set the stage for the rise of the Chrysos Heirs.

"The Black Tide," Anaxa pondered aloud, "was the catalyst that plunged the Titans into madness. But what if it was more than a mere calamity? What if it was a deliberate act to dismantle the old order?

The notion was radical, yet it aligned with the patterns you had begun to discern. "And the Chrysos Heirs are the instruments to establish a new order—a cycle perpetuated by the acquisition of Coreflames." Anaxa's expression darkened, a shadow crossing his features.

"A cycle that demands scrutiny. For if we are to break free from the chains of predestination, we must first understand the forge in which they were crafted."

"So, in simple words, The current chrysos heirs who bear the coreflame of the deceased titans, will bear the misfortune of becoming the titan in the next cycle..?" You questioned as your eyes widened to meet his magenta-cyan eyes this time driven with something which not even you knew.

"Correct." He said as his grin widened.

You glanced up to find him sitting unnervingly still, the ink quill idle in his hand. His eyes were on you—but not in the way a scholar looked at a peer.

His gaze had slipped. Dropped. Traced the curve of your jaw, the line of your lips. He wasn’t hearing your words anymore. His lips parted as if something sat behind them—some urge, some truth trying to claw its way out.

Your throat felt dry.

“...Anaxa?”

He didn’t look away. His stare stayed heavy. Dark. Hungry in a way he’d never let surface before.You shifted in your seat, your heart thudding once in your chest, louder than it should’ve.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

He blinked once. Slowly. And smiled with an unsettling softness, like he was indulging in something he wasn’t supposed to. “Forgive me. You said something… that caught my attention.”

“Something about the Heirs?”His eyes flicked back up to yours. “Something far more dangerous. Your breath hitched. The tension in the room was suffocating now—thick, aching.

You couldn’t explain why your pulse was racing, or why you suddenly felt like you were being studied not as a colleague, but as a mystery he was desperate to unravel.

You looked back down at your scroll, trying to focus.

“W-We should finish transcribing this section before—”

His voice was lower now. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You froze. Slowly looked back up.

Anaxa’s smile had vanished. His fingers were curled around the edge of the table, knuckles white. His pupils dilated. The madness in his gaze shimmered like oil beneath a calm sea.

“Every night I leave this chamber and I think I’ve regained my composure. And then I see you again and I—” He stopped himself, biting down on the inside of his cheek. “...This is not what I intended. I wanted truth. I wanted the the true reason of all of us, the Titans’ legacy. But now I find myself… wanting something I was not supposed to want.”

You stared. Unable to speak.

“And it infuriates me,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. “Because it makes me weak. You make me weak.” The words hit you harder than they should’ve.

You felt hot. Flushed. You didn’t know what you were supposed to say. Was he confessing? Was he unraveling?

“Anaxa…” you started, voice shaky, unsure if it was warning or invitation. He leaned forward, slow, calculated—like a predator who didn’t want to scare its prey, but couldn’t help indulging in the thrill of it. His hand stopped just beside yours, close enough to feel the heat of his skin.

But he didn’t touch you.

He wouldn’t. Not yet.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want,” he whispered, voice dangerously soft. “But you should know this: the more we uncover, the more I realize the truth of this world is nothing compared to the truth I’ve found in you.” He said as he forcefully moves back away from you, in fear and something else

You held his gaze. Breath shallow.

The silence between you and Anaxa stretched taut—thick like honey, cloying like fate. He hadn’t moved since the moment he confessed those words.

The fire in his voice still clung to the air like smoke, and yet something in his expression had begun to flicker—falter.

His lashes lowered, eyes narrowing not with menace now, but something disturbingly fragile. Doubt. As if he expected your silence to become a knife. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered suddenly, voice cracking at the edges.

“You’ll leave. You’ll run. Like all the others who called me cursed. Mad. A blasphemer…” You stood. Slowly. He didn’t flinch, but his jaw locked tight. He expected distance. Recoil. Rejection. A scholar might call it logical consequence—he called it inevitability. But you didn’t move away.

You stepped closer. He blinked, confusion warping into something far more desperate as he rose slightly tumbling backwards. “What are you—?”

You were close enough now to see the cracks in him. Not physical—no. His composure. That perfectly constructed mask he wore around the others, around even you, was splintering right at the edges.

You could see it in the twitch of his mouth. The unsteady breath.

The trembling in his fingers as he kept them clenched at his sides, refusing to reach for you. Because he didn’t dare. Because he feared touching you would shatter the only sacred thing left in his world.

You leaned forward. Brief. Barely a heartbeat’s worth of contact. Your lips brushed his. A breath. A flicker of softness. A question without words.Then you pulled back, just as fast.

Your heart thundered, panic laced in your movements as you turned to go, your voice stumbling out—“Forget that happened, we have research to—”

But you didn’t get far.

His hand was on your waist.

Gripping.

Firm.

Not rough.

Not yet. But trembling with restraint.Then he pulled you back, and suddenly he was burying his face into the crook of your neck like a man starved.

Like something had finally broken loose in him—unleashed, unstopped, unholy. You gasped softly as you felt his breath ghost across your skin.His voice was low, unsteady, wrecked.

“Why… would you do that to me?” His other hand found your back, clutching it like he was trying to make sure you were real.

Like you’d slip through his fingers otherwise.His grip tightened. And behind his calm whispering, behind the warm pressure of his body pressed into yours, his thoughts spiraled like wildfire—

She’s mine. She’s real. She kissed me. Me. Not them. Not the sages, not the heirs. Me. She chose me. She cannot leave. She cannot see the others. She cannot be claimed by anyone else. I will burn the world if it touches her. I will gut the sky itself if it looks at her wrong.

His eyes—glowing now, iridescent with the light of something not entirely sane—flickered open against your skin. He pressed his lips to your throat. Not a kiss. A mark. A claim without blood.

“You don’t know,” he whispered, trembling. “You don’t know what you’ve done to me.”

You didn’t know. But maybe… maybe you wanted to. Because you didn’t push him away .And that was enough to damn him.

Woah sorry if it's ooc and bad, I've lost my writing skills 😞

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em1i2a3 · 1 month ago

Note

hear me out- void x reader- reader is depresso, and finds comfort in being held by void, bc maybe void’s darkness feels like home

If I Believe You

Pairing: The Void/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: The Void gets called by you, and he gets caught up in an odd situation.

Warnings: Mentioning of Depression/Loneliness, I think this would be considered Hurt/Comfort

Author’s Note: I enjoy writing a soft version of The Void lol, or a Void that’s like shocked that someone actually wants him to be present 🤣. Thank you for the request anon! Very fun to write this one between the larger write up I’m working on :) Hopefully it meets what you’re lookin for

Word Count: 3,228

The Void came that night because you called him.

Not with words, not with spells, not with summoning circles etched in blood and candles, but with grief.

With silence so loud it cracked against the walls of your mind and your body. With the kind of stillness that spoke not of peace–but of surrender.

He didn’t mean to stay, nor did he even mean to appear. But your loneliness and sadness reached farther than any scream ever could, so he showed up–against his own will in a way–to feed off of it.

The shadows arrived first. Not crawling or creeping. Just appearing–thicker than absence, and heavier than night. They swallowed the corners of your bedroom, devoured the edges of the moonlight bleeding through your sheer curtains. The walls didn’t move, but the room felt like it was tilting on its axis. It was subtle, like the center of gravity had shifted to something ancient and watching. Then suddenly, he was there.

A god-shaped wound in the fabric of reality. Vast, silent, and unknowable.

He was a figure made of vantablack shadow and negative space–so dark the eye refused to process him fully. His limbs were like smoke, and his body was without boundary. The only visible markers were his eyes–white, glowing, and unblinking–and the smile. Thin, and fixed, with a discomforting calmness.

He waited for you to scream, or for your breath to catch. For your legs to scramble beneath the sheets so you could cower away from him against your headboard, for your voice to break on his name–because like everyone in the tower…You knew it already.

You didn’t do any of that though. You didn’t even look at him right away. You just laid in your bed, on your side, curled in the same position you’d been in for hours–knees drawn up, one arm draped limply over your stomach, fingers slack. The blankets were tangled and halfway off the bed, bunched at your ankles like you had tried to kick them off earlier and didn’t attempt to fix them. One sock was missing. Your shirt was wrinkled and clinging in places, damp with sweat. Your hair was a mess–not the kind that came from sleep, but the kind that came from not caring to fix it.

Then there was your room. It wasn’t trashed or anything, but it looked quietly undone.

There were clothes half-folded on a chair in the corner, that had gone untouched for days. A glass of water on the nightstand beside your bed, that had a fine shimmer of dust that caught in the ambient light from the hallway beneath the door, and there were books that had fallen over, that hadn’t been picked up.

The air smelled faintly of mint and tangerines–coming from your air freshener wall plug of course, or an open candle.

The worst part of all though was that you knew he was there, and you didn’t react at all. You didn’t stiffen from the cold that he brought into the room, your breath didn’t catch or quicken from shock, there was just nothingness. Like you had no energy left to give, or like you had been waiting for him to come.

His white eyes narrowed slightly at you.

The Void had arrived expecting some sort of resistance. The subtle thrill of being feared at the very least. The delicious tension that came when a human stood on the edge of panic, unsure if the shadow at the foot of their bed was real or imagined.

But this wasn’t fear that you were showing, this was familiarity.

You didn’t look at him until he moved–just a fraction, a shift of mass, a slight tilt of the head, like a question unspoken. Your eyes lifted slowly, no shock, no wide-eyed terror. Just two dull orbs in the hollow of your face, rimmed red and dry. Not from crying, but from not crying, from wanting to and finding nothing left in the wells of your eyes.

Your lips parted.

”I was wondering if you’d come.” The Void stilled. His smile didn’t change–how could it? It was carved into the shape of him like the slash of a crescent moon in a sky without stars. But something beneath that eternal grin shifted, it was a twitch behind the silence, a hitch in the interaction. He had not come to be seen. But now your gaze was on him, steady and tired and so impossibly calm. Like you weren’t registering the terror you were supposed to be feeling in those moments. Like you had already made peace with the idea of him before he even appeared in your room.

“…You wanted me to?” His voice was low–lower than sound itself. It vibrated through the floorboards, through the air in your lungs…Like something was whispering from under the bed of the world. The corners of your lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“I didn’t know what I wanted…” You murmured, voice thin, “I just didn’t want to be alone anymore.” The Void was quiet, which was not like him. He was a presence, a force. Even in stillness he was usually oppressive, thick like smoke you couldn’t cough out. But now, the air around him had a strange pause to it. Like the very space around him didn’t know what to do with this moment.

“You didn’t call for help,” He said finally, “You haven’t asked to be saved.” Your eyes stayed on his, as if you were hypnotized.

”Even if I did…Nobody would come.” A silence bloomed between you, but it wasn’t awkward, nor expectant. It was just truthful. The Void hovered forward slowly.

His movement was so fluid it didn’t register as motion at first–he didn’t walk. He simply was closer now. At the edge of your bed, looking down at you with those white, glowing eyes that saw everything. That usually made people realize the horrors that were to come, but once again you only looked back at him, unblinking, frozen in your spot. No cowering, no screaming, no pleading.

”You don’t fear me,” He stated, more to himself than to you. You huffed softly–just a breath of air, but in the quiet of the room, it was a song.

”I think I’m past the point of being afraid,” You replied, “If anything…You’re kind of a relief.”

The Void knew what to do with fear, even with violence. He had tasted it in many forms: the fears that plagued children when they went to sleep, the whispered horror of the people who he had sent off to shame rooms, the cold-blooded terror in gods who realized he could unmake them with just a mere thought.

But to hear you say that he brought relief to you–comfort even–wasn’t right.

“I don’t think you understand,” He said, and his voice wasn’t sharp–but it was colder. Firmer. Like he was reminding you, and reminding himself of what he was, “I am not peace, and I am not hope.” You could feel a small chill curl up your spine, as your teeth chattered at the temperature dropping inside the room.

“May I remind you I turned New York into a mirror. Made every last person vanish into the hollows of their own shame. Remember? I swallowed them whole in rooms made of their failures?” You nodded slowly.

”I know.”

”I drove madness into the minds of people who begged for the images to stop.” He added.

”I know.” You whispered. That halted him again. His head tilted, ever so slightly. Not confused, not angry–just…Studying you. The way someone might tilt their head at an eclipse, unsure if they should be staring directly into it.

He expected fear to bloom now, at least. Maybe awe. Maybe a long-overdue tremble in your voice.

Instead, you gave him something worse.

Something heavier.

You shook your head slowly and said:

“Evidently, you don’t realize what I’ve been going through…If I’m taking comfort in you being around.” The shadows ceased their lazy, swaying bleed across the floorboards, and the hum of the world itself seemed to pause and take one breathless step back. His eyes narrowed–not to threaten, and not in malice, but in genuine concern. And you somehow saw it. For the first time in the conversation, you watched him hesitate.

”You shouldn’t say that,” He spoke quietly, not because he was offended, but because he was unsure what the words meant coming out of your mouth.

“Why not?”

”Because that means something is wrong…Deeply wrong.” He replied, moving even closer, hyper aware that he needed to be careful with you. Like the proximity itself might crack you if he approached wrong, and then he crouched right at the side of your bed, so he was eye to eye with you.

For the first time tonight, you could really see him. Not just as a shape in the dark, or the looming silhouette at the end of your bed–but up close, just a foot away from you. From here the edges of his body weren’t just smoke. They weren’t shapeless. They were alive with something.

The closer he came, the more the blackness rippling over him seemed to hum with a strange, shifting texture–like a starless night sky pulled into motion. Not glossy. Not shiny. But deep. Endless. And there, just behind the absolute black of his form, you saw the faint specks. Pinpricks of light, shifting as if in slow orbit. Galaxies. Entire worlds, whole star systems dying and rebirthing in the folds of his form, hidden in the ripples of shadow.

He was the universe, inverted.

And somehow, even like this, even faced with that terrifying, holy unknowability–you didn’t pull back. You didn’t flinch from the abyss swirling in front of you, from the quiet roar behind his form, from the weightless pressure that made your ears pop and your eyes blur the longer you stared into him.

Then you reached out, with slow purposeful intensity.

Your fingers trembled, but not from fear. Just from the fatigue that wrapped around your limbs like lead wire. The cold around him thickened as your hand breached the last inches between you, but you didn’t stop. Not even when frost bloomed faintly against your wrist like a warning.

His eyes followed your movement–those perfect, glowing voids of white that should have been watching prey.

But instead, they watched you gently.

And when your hand met his cheek–if it could be called that–it was like touching gravity itself.

The surface of him wasn’t skin. It wasn’t smoke. It was something else. Silken, but heavy. Cold, but not lifeless. And beneath your touch, it rippled–like black water beneath a still surface, moving with things too vast and old to name. A soft pulse, like solar winds shifting under your palm.

He didn’t move, he didn’t even breathe.

Because something in him broke open the moment you touched him like you knew him. Your thumb drifted across what might've been the edge of his jaw, letting out a shakily breath.

“You feel like the quiet between stars.” He stared at you, not because he was stunned by the poetic nature of your words–but because you meant it. Because you touched him not with worship, not with fear, but with a familiarity that said ‘I want you here, stay here with me.’ And then it happened.

The moment he saw you back.

Really saw.

Because your touch wasn’t just physical. It reached into him–through that strange tether that had pulled him to you in the first place, that awful ache in the cosmos that rang louder than a scream–and he followed it backward.

And what he found–

What he found made the galaxies in his form slow their drift.

He saw the inside of your silence.

He felt the rooms inside your mind–long, echoing hallways of disappointment, of guilt layered so deep it had calcified over your ribs. He felt the frayed cords of old friendships, stretched to the point of snapping and left to rot, still clutched in your hands like you were waiting for someone to notice. He saw the way you stood behind your teammates, always behind, always out of frame–because you didn’t think you deserved to be seen.

He saw the hunger in you.

Not for food. Not for power.

For stillness. For someone to simply be with you, without asking you to fix yourself first.

And he realized–

You had been holding yourself together with nothing but quiet for so long, you mistook his silence for kindness.

The Void felt something twist in his chest. Not pain. Not exactly.

But something like mourning.

For you. For how much of you had been slowly disappearing without anyone noticing.

Your palm was still pressed to his cheek, eyes soft, half-lidded with exhaustion. You were so close now, your breath fogged faintly in the cold between you, and yet you didn’t stop. You didn’t look away. You didn’t demand anything of him. You just let him be there.

“I’m tired,” You whispered. “And I don’t want to keep pretending that I’m not.”

He lowered his head. Not out of shame.

But something worse.

A slow acknowledgment of your truth. He could feel the fractures in you. The fractures that mirrored his own. And for the first time in his existence, the great devourer of worlds, The Void, realized something terrifying:

He didn’t want to take anything from you. Not your thoughts, not your fear, not your final breath.

Not this time.

Because for the first time in the eternity that was his existence, he understood. Not through logic, or through curiosity, but through the cold and shivering truth of what your touch had laid bare:

You were not calling him to end your world.

You had called him because no one else would come.

And now he was here.

The silence between you deepened, but it wasn’t suffocating. It wasn’t dangerous. It was heavy—like blankets in winter, like the weight of someone finally sitting beside you after a long day of holding it all together. The air didn’t bite the same way it had before. It was still cold—he was still cold—but his presence no longer felt like an invading force.

It felt like a cloak.

A shield.

And then his voice–so impossibly low it didn’t vibrate in your ears, but in your chest–broke through the space between you.

“What do you want me to do?” Your eyes widened a bit, not because the question surprised you, but because of the way he asked it. Not like a being of power. Not like a god offering a favor. He asked it gently, with quiet uncertainty.

Like he didn’t know what you needed.

Your hand was still on his cheek. Your thumb had stopped moving. But neither of you broke the contact. You didn’t need to.

You looked at him–into those impossible white eyes ringed in nothing–and answered, barely above a breath:

“Can you just hold me?” He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t nod, or disappear. He simply looked at you for a long moment.

And then, softly–like dusk agreeing to fall–

“…Okay.” He whispered, slowly shifting in his spot. It wasn’t abrupt, but it also didn’t have the same uncanny fluidity that usually accompanied his movements. This time, there was hesitation. Like he was unsure of how to do this. Like he was afraid he might hurt you by accident–not with his strength, but with the sheer weight of what he was.

He rose to his full height beside your bed, unfolding upward like a stormcloud stretching into shape. Shadows curled off of him and slithered across the mattress, but they weren’t malicious. They moved like fabric. Like velvet.

You stayed still, keeping your eyes glued to him, watching as he–the unfathomable, starless wound in reality–climbed into your bed. He didn’t sink into it, because he didn’t truly have the weight for that, but the space beside you changed the moment he laid down. The air felt thinner, heavier. Like the pressure of the cosmos had narrowed its gaze to your bedroom walls and was watching itself breathe.

He faced you, his body still wrapped in that impossibly dark shimmer. And for a moment… he didn’t touch you.

He stayed just inches away. Close enough to feel the breath fog between you. Close enough to see the fatigue swimming in your eyes. But he didn’t reach–not until you curled slightly into yourself, just a little tighter, as if the night was too wide around your skin.

Then he moved his arm. The shape of it blurred at the edges, trailing starlight and hush, letting it hover over your hip for a moment. It lingered there before slowly lowering it onto you.

His arm wrapped around your body, bracketing you, shielding you. His cool presence seeped in where warmth would normally exist, but you didn’t pull away. If anything, you exhaled, soft and shaky, as if your lungs had been waiting for this. For the permission to let go. His fingers curled gently along your side, and your body followed, shifting into him, until your cheek rested against his chest, where no heartbeat lived, and until your knees brushed against his thigh. He slipped his other arm beneath your neck, and curled it around you, making sure you were surrounded by him.

The shadows rose with him–pulling the twisted blankets up, and tucking them gently around your bodies with inhuman grace. It didn’t warm you, but it made you feel enmeshed with his body and the darkness.

It was awkward at first. Not because he was unfamiliar with contact. But because he’d never given it without intention to devour. To unravel.

But this was different, because it was you.

A small thing. A hurting thing. A precious thing. And suddenly, without warning, he found himself afraid–not of what you were. But of what he might become, if he stayed like this too long.

You murmured something then.

So quiet, it might’ve been a thought.

“…Thank you.”

And he–The Void–felt something like starlight fracture inside his ribless chest.

He didn’t answer.

But the hand at your back began to move. Slowly. Up and down. A soft, gliding motion, like waves lapping against the shore. Like gravity pulling at your spine, reminding you that you could let go now.

Your body went limp.

Not from defeat.

From safety.

Your breathing slowed. Deepening with every inhale and exhale.

Your hands clutched faintly at his chest–at the only thing in the world that wasn’t asking you to be strong.

He listened to the sound of you falling asleep in his arms.

And for the first time in the long history of his existence, he didn’t want morning to come.

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dina-winchester · 23 days ago

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Like Hell You Are

Pairing: Dean x you // Established relationship

Summary: Anger talks loud; regret whispers after. Some words land harder than fists—and you wish you could take them back the second they hit.

Warnings: Angst, emotional conflict, raised voices, hurtful language, mention of John Winchester (negative), temporary relationship tension, guilt, apology/make-up, soft intimacy

The motel room door slammed behind you, your boots hitting the cheap carpet in quick strides as you dropped your duffel with a thud.

Dean was already standing there, arms crossed, jaw tight. “You’re not coming on the next hunt.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Oh, great. Here we go. Should I sit down for this speech or is it gonna be the same greatest hits? Too dangerous, you’re too close to it, let big bad Dean take care of everything—”

“Damn right it’s too dangerous!” he snapped, stepping closer. “You were almost torn apart last time, and you think I’m just gonna sit back and let you go charging in again?”

You scoffed, brushing past him. “Thanks for the lecture, Dad.”

“Don’t—” His voice dropped into that low, warning register. “Don’t pull that crap with me. I’m serious. You’re staying out of this one.”

“Oh, I’m staying out of it? Wow. That’s cute. Let me guess, you gonna chain me to the bed next? Or just drag me back here by my hair when I disobey your oh-so-important orders?”

He stared at you, nostrils flaring. “This isn’t a joke.”

You met his gaze, your voice laced in venom and hurt. “No, it’s not. But you don’t get to decide what I do. You don’t own me.”

“You think this is about owning you?” he barked, pacing now, hands clenching at his sides. “You think I wanna control you? I’m trying to keep you alive, for god’s sake!”

“And what, you’re the only one allowed to put your life on the line?” You folded your arms, chin up. “Sorry if I don’t wanna sit on the sidelines while you get torn up again. Sorry if I actually give a damn.”

He stalked toward you then, furious. “You’re not going.”

You didn’t back down. “Like hell I’m not.”

“Like hell you are!”

The words echoed between the two of you, the tension so thick it nearly buzzed in the air.

You looked at him, breathing hard.

He took a step forward, voice dropping an octave. “You’re not going. That’s an order.”

Your jaw clenched. You stared at him like he’d just slapped you.

“Oh,” you said with a humorless laugh. “An order? Really? Wow. You even hear yourself right now?”

“I’m serious,” he said again, quieter but firmer. “I can’t—I won’t let you walk into something like that. End of story.”

Something in you snapped.

“Right. Of course not. God forbid I make a decision without your stamp of approval,” you said, voice sharp. “Sound familiar?”

Dean’s brow furrowed, confused for half a second before you dropped the line.

“Well, congratulations. You’re just like your father.”

The silence that followed was like the world tipping off its axis.

Dean’s expression didn’t shift right away, but you saw it. That flicker. That punch to the gut you’d just delivered.

And your heart dropped into your stomach.

“Dean…” you said softly, the sarcasm stripped clean from your voice.

He blinked, jaw ticking, eyes suddenly not quite meeting yours.

“No,” you breathed, stepping closer. “No, baby, I didn’t mean that.”

He swallowed hard, and the way he looked at you then—like he’d been blindsided—cut deeper than any scream could’ve.

“I’m sorry.” You reached for him, hands cupping his face. “Dean. I didn’t mean it. That was low. That was—God, I’m so sorry.”

His eyes closed as your thumbs brushed over the stubble on his cheeks. “I just… I was scared,” you whispered. “You say I almost got torn apart? I watched it happen to you. I felt it. And I hate being left behind just as much as you hate the idea of me getting hurt.”

His hands slowly came to rest over yours, cradling your wrists. “I didn’t mean to come down on you like that,” he rasped. “It’s not an order. I just… when it comes to you, I lose my grip. You get hurt and I—I can’t breathe.”

You stepped even closer, foreheads brushing, your voice cracking. “I’m not trying to be reckless. But I’m not a liability either. I’m with you, not beneath you.”

“I know,” he murmured. “I know, sweetheart.”

You kissed him then—soft, aching, like it was the only way to say everything neither of you had words for. His hands settled around your waist, and you let your fingers thread into his hair, holding his face as if anchoring both of you.

When the kiss broke, you stayed close, his breath mingling with yours.

“You’re not him,” you whispered. “Not even close.”

He nodded, just once, before pressing another kiss to your lips.

“I don’t care what happens out there,” you whispered against his mouth. “We don’t go in divided.”

He pressed his lips to yours again. “Together,” he murmured. “Always.”

#dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x you #dean x reader #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x female!reader #dean x you #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester one shot #dean winchester angst #supernatural #dina writes

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historyofguns · 10 months ago

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The article "Understanding Folding Knife Lock Types" by Clayton Walker on The Armory Life explores various types of locking mechanisms used in folding knives, emphasizing their importance for safety and functionality in everyday carry (EDC). It details the slipjoint, liner lock, frame lock, back lock, crossbar lock, and button lock, each accompanied by examples like the Real Steel Solis, Kershaw Dividend, and Cold Steel Code 4. Walker explains how each mechanism operates, their benefits, and potential drawbacks, aiming to educate readers on selecting the right knife for their needs. The article underscores the significance of understanding knife laws and encourages readers to familiarize themselves with applicable regulations.

#Folding knife #knife lock types #blade lock mechanisms #liner lock #frame lock #lockback #back lock #slip joint #compression lock #axis lock #button lock #detent lock #folding blade safety #knife enthusiasts #knife safety #Ed Calderon #EDC knives #everyday carry #knife maintenance.

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justsomerandomfanfic · 1 month ago

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Anything For You - Anakin Skywalker X Female Reader

Title: Anything For You

Anakin Skywalker X Female Reader

Additional Characters: The Council (Mentioned), other Jedi/people (Mentioned)

WC: 2,682

Warnings: During when Anakin's a Knight, italics, obsession, Anakin's smitten, The Order/Code, nicknames, banter, teasing, flirting, forbidden love, crying, Anakin's a bit desperate, angst, and fluff

Anakin would do anything for you.

From the moment he first met you at the Jedi Temple, shortly after he’d earned the rank of Jedi Knight, he was hooked, smitten. You weren’t like anyone else he’d ever known. Calm and brilliant in a way that made him forget about war and titles and duty. You challenged him, teased him, smiled at him like he wasn’t a Jedi Knight, but just Anakin.

And that was dangerous. Because once he realized he wanted more than just mere friendship, there was no turning back.

He memorized your laugh like it was a meditation mantra. Adjusted his schedule to pass you in the Temple halls. He offered to spar with you, train with you, fly with you - anything that gave him more time with you. He found excuses to see you, excuses to linger. He would have moved planets for you if you so asked. He still would.

Anakin knew it was against the Code. But, Maker help him, he didn’t care. He’d lie, fight, fall, if it meant keeping you close. Because loving you felt more natural than breathing. And he didn’t know how to stop.

He didn’t want to.

You had become the axis to which his world spun around. The gravity to his every thought. It wasn’t just desire. It was deeper than that. It was a quiet ache in his chest when you weren’t near. Even the stars reminded him of you.

He loved you in the way galaxies collided. Inevitable and eternal. If you had asked him to leave everything behind, he wouldn’t have hesitated, not because he wanted to abandon the Order, but because he couldn’t imagine a future that didn’t have you in it.

You were the only thing in the galaxy that ever made him feel whole. But you never let him get too close. Every time his fingers brushed yours, you pulled away with a small, regretful smile. Every lingering glance was met with a soft warning in your eyes. You reminded him of the Code, of duty, of how dangerous it would be for the both of you if you gave in. And Anakin tried to respect that. He really did. But the ache of wanting you didn’t go away. If anything, it only grew.

You were the one thing he could never have… And the only thing he ever truly wanted.

~~~

The chamber was quiet, bathed in warm afternoon light that filtered through the high windows of the Jedi Temple. You sat cross-legged on the smooth floor, your hands resting gently in your lap, fingers lightly touching. The air was still, carrying the faint scent of temple incense, and for a moment, it almost felt like peace.

Almost.

You inhaled deeply through your nose, holding the breath in your chest as long as you could. Then you exhaled slowly, trying to get your mind to settle. But it didn’t. No matter how many breaths you took, no mantra could ease the ache lodged deep within your chest. Your thoughts kept circling back to him.

You sighed softly, the sound barely more than a whisper in the room. "Anakin," You murmured, eyes still closed, your voice calm but tinged with exasperation. "I thought you wanted to meditate."

There was a beat of silence before you opened your eyes. Across from you, Anakin sat in a perfect mirror of your position, legs folded, hands in his lap, but his eyes weren’t closed. They were fixated on you. He didn’t even try to hide the softness in his gaze.

“I am meditating,” He said, voice low and warm. “Just… On something else.”

On someone.

You.

The golden afternoon light spilled in through the window, haloing you in its glow. It kissed your skin, danced across the curve of your cheek, and shimmered through your lashes like stardust. To Anakin, you didn’t look like a Jedi at all in that moment. You looked like a vision. Like something the Force had sculpted from light and serenity and placed in front of him just to torment him. Or bless him. He hadn’t decided which.

His gaze softened further, reverence blooming in his expression. You didn’t even have to try - you were effortless. And he couldn’t look away. “It’s hard to focus,” He admitted quietly, his voice a little hoarse now, almost reverent. “When the light decides to wrap itself around you like that.”

Your breath caught slightly at the way he looked at you. Like you were more than real. Like you were sacred. Like he was devoted.

You had been meditating. But he had been worshipping.

A soft sigh escaped you, unbidden. Your shoulders sank just slightly, and your gaze dropped to your lap. Fingers began to move, fidgeting gently, tracing invisible shapes against your skin. A small frown tugged at the corners of your mouth, subtle but unmistakable. You weren’t upset. Just… Overwhelmed. Because of his stare. That look he gave you. It wasn't ever something you could simply ignore. It made your skin prickle, not in discomfort, but in awareness. Like the heat of a fire that never touched you, yet licked at the edges of your being. Like he wasn’t just looking at you, but through you, past all the layers you tried to keep intact. His gaze didn’t just see - it felt… And it lingered.

You swallowed, casting your gaze to the side; anywhere but at him. Because if you looked at him right now, truly looked… You might forget what the Jedi Code demanded of you. You might not care. And that scared you more than anything. Because deep down, buried beneath layers of duty, silence, and fear, was the truth. You would love nothing more than to be his and him to be yours. To fall into the warmth of his hands without hesitation. To let him look at you like you were his whole galaxy, and finally, finally allow yourself to believe it.

But there were too many dangers. Breaking the Code. That alone could unravel everything. The Order would not forgive it. The Council would not understand. And, yet, those weren’t the fears that clung to your chest like thorny, pinching vines.

It was him. Anakin.

If word ever reached the wrong ears. If whispers became consequences, you knew the blame would fall hardest on his shoulders. The Council questioned him enough already; his passions, his defiance, his heart.

You couldn’t be the reason they clipped his wings before he ever had the chance to fly. This life; it chose him. The Force had woven its will into the very fabric of his soul. And who were you to stand in the way of that? So you said nothing. You kept your eyes averted. You let your fingers tremble in your lap instead of reaching for his hand. Loving him out loud meant risking the only future he’d ever known, and you weren’t sure your heart could survive breaking his.

Anakin’s smile faltered and he scooted closer, but you didn’t look up at him. The warmth of his presence pressed gently into yours. Close enough that his scent curled around you, something like sandalwood and smoke, but something else that was so perfectly him that it made your chest ache.

Your breath caught as his hand rose slowly, his fingers brushing your cheek. His palm, calloused yet careful, cradling your face. His thumb lingered at your jaw, urging you to look at him. His touch lifted your chin, and your eyes met his. The way he looked at you could undo the galaxy.

Your fingers trembled as you reached up. Gently, carefully, you pulled his hand away from your face, even though your skin already missed the warmth. “Anakin,” You whispered, voice breaking around the edges. “Please.” Almost begging. Not for him to stop, but for him to understand.

His hand remained suspended for a moment after you let it go, fingers still curved in the shape of your cheek. And though you’d pulled away, he swore he could still feel you. The warmth of your skin lingered against his palm like sunlight. Soft, but gone too soon. And the look he gave you, you couldn’t bear it. You shook your head quickly, almost desperately, eyes shimmering. Your lips parted, like you wanted to speak, but no sound came. There was too much. Too much feeling, too much risk, and not enough air in the room. You couldn’t do this. Not when he looked at you like that.

The air shifted with you, robes rustling as you stood and turned, your steps quick and uncertain. You rushed off, your silhouette flickering like a ghost beneath the temple light.

~~~

It had been multiple rotations since you last saw Anakin. Not because you wanted it that way. But because you didn’t trust yourself not to stay if you saw him again. You stopped going to the meditation chambers. You stopped visiting the library. You even avoided the gardens. You had carved him out of your waking hours with careful precision. And yet, you hadn’t escaped him completely. He still found you in your dreams. He appeared soft and golden, eyes warm, voice gentle; loving. You’d wake with the ghost of his touch on your cheek, the echo of his name on your lips, and a longing that curled in your chest like smoke. You told yourself that this was mercy. Mercy hurt.

You sat in your chambers, legs folded atop your bed, the blanket pulled loosely over your lap, a datapad balanced carefully in your hands though your eyes had long since stopped absorbing the words. The day had passed, soft and uneventful. You had no plans to leave your room, no desire to rejoin the others outside. The light from your window had begun to dim, casting your chamber in the amber glow of early evening, shadows stretching longer across the floor.

Then came a knock. Your head snapped up, startled by the sudden intrusion, your hands lowering the datapad to your lap as your heart caught mid-beat. Another knock. You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. The datapad now forgotten, your fingers curled against its edges, knuckles white with hesitation. Because some part of you already knew who it was. Slowly, you pushed the blanket away from your legs and swung them over the side of the bed. Your feet touched the cool floor, reaching for your robe and slipping it over your shoulders with a quiet sigh as you walked to the door. With a careful hand, you slid it open.

There he stood. Anakin.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. His eyes searched yours quietly, and then, without a word, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

He then turned to face you, “You’ve been avoiding me,” He said, voice low but edged with something softer - concern, perhaps, or hurt.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry, “Anakin,” You began, voice trembling but steady, “You shouldn’t be here. You know the risks.” Anakin reached out slowly, his gloved hand hovered just inches from yours, trembling with something unspoken. “Anakin, we can’t-” Your voice broke as you took a step back. “The Council, the Code… If anyone found out-”

“I don’t care,” His voice was low, trembling with restrained urgency; reckless and dramatic as always. “I don’t care what they say. I would give all of it up if it meant I could be with you.” Your eyes snapped to his, wide and unsure. He only stepped closer, “I dream about you. I wake up reaching for you. I go on missions thinking of how your laugh sounds, wondering if I’ll see you again. Doesn’t that mean something?”

“Of course it does,” You whispered. “But it’s not fair to you. You’ve worked so hard to become a Jedi-”

“From the moment I first saw you, I haven’t known a moment’s peace.” His voice was low, ragged, “You’ve been with me in every breath, every dream, every battle. You are a part of me I can’t quiet, can’t bury beneath duty or silence.” He took another step closer, so close now you could see the faintest tremble in his hands before he clenched them and the way his jaw clenched. “Being near you is… Torment. And yet the thought of being apart - it steals the air from my lungs. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't think without you taking up every corner of my mind.” Your lip trembled, but you couldn’t look away. He continued, voice softer now, aching. “You’re in my soul, woven into me so tightly I don't know where I end and you begin. And if you feel even a fraction of this ache, this desperate, consuming need to be near, tell me. Please.”

The words lingered in the silence, and then you felt it. The heat behind your eyes finally breaking, a single tear spilling free, carving its way down your cheek. Anakin moved without hesitation, his gloved hand already lifting, already there, cupping your cheek. He wiped it away gently, thumb brushing the trail like he could undo the sorrow that caused it. Your breath hitched, lashes fluttering as your eyes fell shut. When he expected you to pull back again, you instead pressed his hand more firmly into your cheek, nuzzling against the leather with a sigh that trembled.

“I was doing this for you,” You whispered, “If I let this happen… If someone found out…” You trailed off, swallowing hard, eyes still closed, still unable to look at him. “Anakin, I was trying to protect you. From the Council. From the Code. From everything that would tear this all apart and blame you for it.” Your grip on his hand tightened slightly.

“It doesn’t matter,” He murmured, “None of that matters.” His thumb brushed over the soft skin beneath your eye, catching the remnants of your tears. He leaned closer, “I’d break a thousand oaths if it meant you’d be mine.” His hand moved, tilting your chin up with exquisite care. Your eyes opened slowly, meeting his gaze at last, “Just say the word, my love,” He breathed, “I’ll walk away from all of it.”

You stared up at him, eyes wide, heart about ready to burst out of your chest at his words. All the fears, all the doubts, faded away in the warmth of his gaze. "Anakin..." You breathed out, your free hand reaching out blindly to grasp at his robes, clutching desperately at whatever shreds of fabric you could get your fingers on. Without hesitation, you pulled him down, pressing your lips against his.

For Anakin, this kiss was a revelation. An all-consuming surrender to the Goddess before him. Every touch of his lips was a prayer, every breath shared a quiet worship. He melted into you, caught in your presence, the world narrowing down to nothing but the heat of your mouth and the softness of your skin.

He deepened the kiss immediately, eagerly. His hand leaving your cheek before slipping to the nape of your neck, the other on your waist; tugging you close. Your own hands found their way into his hair, slipping through soft, dark strands. When the kiss finally broke, it didn’t end so much as dissolve - lips parting slowly, reluctantly, like a tide retreating from the shore. His forehead against yours, your noses brushing, lips still grazing one another in ghost-like touches, the breath between you shared, shallow and trembling.

To Anakin, you were all starlight and softness. Something too ethereal for this world, too delicate to belong to the war-torn reality he knew. In your touch, there was sanctuary; in your eyes, the promise of something gentler. He couldn’t recall a time before you, and only dared to dream of a future if it meant you were in it. He was lost in you - hopelessly, willingly, beautifully. Anakin would do anything for you; every breath, every heartbeat, every whispered vow was proof of that unwavering truth. In you, he had found his reason, his refuge, and his forever.

~~~

Main Masterlist | Star Wars Masterlist

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shaiyasstuff · 2 months ago

Text

in between | sylus

synopsis : You were kids once—mud-streaked promises, pinky swears, laughter echoing through summer nights. He said he’d never change. He lied. content : angst, highschool!au, emotionally constipated sylus

part one

He hadn’t meant to walk through the door.

He told himself he wouldn’t. Told his mom he had things to do—anything to get out of sitting at that table again. In that house. With you.

But somehow, his feet still led him there. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was cowardice. Maybe it was something he didn’t have the language for.

And when you opened the door—

He forgot how to breathe.

You looked different. Not in the way people mean when they say that.

You looked distant.

Like the girl who used to knock on his window was a lifetime behind you.

Like he was just someone you had to be polite to.

And he supposed he was.

He slipped inside quietly. Sat at the table like he still belonged there.

But he didn’t.

Everything looked the same—your mom’s dishes, the chipped ceramic bowl in the center, the floral napkins folded at every plate—but it all felt off. Tilted. Like stepping into a memory that no longer fit right.

When your mom brought him a plate and smiled like nothing had changed, he nodded.

“I couldn’t miss out on the fun. Sorry,”the words felt foreign in his mouth.

“You’re always welcome here,” she said. “You practically grew up with Y/N.”

And that’s when it started.

The tightening in his chest.

He glanced at you. Just for a moment.

You flinched.

It was subtle—barely noticeable to anyone else—but he saw it. The small twitch in your fingers, the way your eyes dropped to your soup like it suddenly demanded your full attention.

It was like watching a bridge collapse that he had spent years pretending was still standing.

He said nothing.

What could he say?

That he missed you? That he was sorry? That every time he saw your name on his phone, he wanted to respond, but the guilt sat so heavy in his stomach that he couldn’t even move?

He didn’t know how to explain the fear. The way he’d watched himself become the person he swore he’d never be—and then chose to stay silent because it was easier than admitting he’d already lost you.

The table erupted into laughter. Stories from childhood. The time he’d fallen from the treehouse. The brownies you once insisted had magical powers. The mud monster incident in the front yard.

You didn’t laugh.

You smiled, a tight little thing that didn’t quite reach your eyes. And then you went quiet again.

He stared at his plate.

He wanted to leave.

But he couldn’t.

Not when you were sitting across from him.

Not when every second was another echo of the past he didn’t know how to let go of.

Then your father said it.

We’re moving.

And the world tipped on its axis.

Your mother’s hand smoothed over your hair, pride in her voice as she said you’d gotten a full scholarship.

That you were leaving.

That this place—this table, this town—would soon be behind you.

His mother turned to him, smiling. “Boy, won’t you congratulate her?”

His head lifted.

And your eyes met his.

He saw it all in a heartbeat.

The hurt. The history. The question.

Do you still care?

He wanted to tell you that he never stopped caring.

That he didn’t know how to say it anymore without sounding like a lie.

That everything he’d pushed down, buried under pride and fear and time, was clawing its way to the surface now that you were slipping through his fingers.

Instead, he swallowed it down.

“‘Grats,” he said.

Barely above a whisper. As if the word itself tasted like ash.

He didn’t dare look at you again.

Because he knew—deep in the pit of his chest—that if he did, he might fall apart.

—•

“Welcome to your first class of Art History…”

Your new lecturer’s voice droned somewhere in the background, muffled and distant, like it was coming from underwater.

You barely registered the words as you sat in your seat near the window, head tilted slightly, gaze fixed on the unfamiliar skyline outside.

New city.

New campus.

New beginning.

And yet, you felt hollow.

The kind of hollow that textbooks couldn’t fill. The kind that sat quietly in your chest, not loud enough to break you—but present enough to remind you of what once was.

Class ended in a blur—names you wouldn’t remember, voices that didn’t belong to anyone yet.

You gathered your books and slung your bag over your shoulder, slipping through the crowded hallway without a word.

Your new home wasn’t far. Your parents had moved again—closer this time, just ten minutes from the college. They said it would make the transition easier.

You weren’t sure if anything could make it easier.

The sun was beginning to set as you stepped outside, casting the sky in shades of orange and soft gold.

You walked slowly, letting the light press against your skin, letting it warm the spaces inside you that still ached when they remembered.

It had been a year.

A year since you stood on that sidewalk. Since Sylus looked at you like he might say something—but didn’t.

Since you told him you were moving on.

You tilted your face toward the sky, breathing in the evening air.

The light touched the rooftops like it was trying to hold onto something.

It was a day like this when you last saw him.

You wondered, fleetingly, where he was. What he looked like now. If he still wore that stupid smirk when he didn’t know what to say.

If he still wasted his time chasing things that didn’t matter.

If he remembered you.

If you were still just someone.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the vibration in your pocket. You reached for your phone, swiping right without glancing at the screen.

“Hello?”

“Y/N!”

You flinched slightly, pulling the phone a few inches from your ear at the sudden volume. You smiled despite yourself.

“Jeez. Watch it, my ears,” you murmured, soft amusement lacing your tone.

“Sorry!” your old friend laughed on the other end, her voice familiar, grounding.

Then another voice came through, gentler.

“Hey. How’s your first day?”

Zayne.

You felt your expression soften, your gaze dropping to the pavement as a shy smile pulled at your lips.

“Yeah, it was great,” you said dryly. “New faces and strangers. Always fun.”

They both chuckled, and you could almost see them, hear them as if they were beside you again—back in that hallway, leaning against lockers, teasing each other before the world changed.

And just like that, the ache in your chest didn’t feel quite as heavy.

Not gone.

But not unbearable, either.

You kicked at the pebbles scattered beneath your shoes, the crunch of gravel beneath your steps grounding you as your thoughts drifted—uninvited—back to that night.

The night where the ache finally spilled over.

The night where your heart stopped pretending it was fine.

You hadn’t meant to cry. Not in front of him. Not like that.

But Zayne had caught you anyway, steady and quiet as your knees buckled beneath the weight you’d carried alone for too long.

You remembered the way he didn’t flinch when your tears soaked into his shirt.

The way he said nothing as you gripped the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

The movie you were supposed to see faded into irrelevance. You never even made it to the ticket booth.

Instead, he led you to a nearby park, settled you gently onto a weathered bench under a flickering streetlamp, and disappeared for a moment—only to return with a popsicle.

Your favorite flavor.

You didn’t even know he remembered.

He didn’t ask.

Didn’t push.

He just sat there, beside you, his presence soft and unwavering. The kind of comfort that didn’t need words to mean everything.

Your fingers curled around the cold plastic wrapper, eyes still stinging as you looked up at him through the blur.

“I’m sorry, Zayne,” you whispered, voice thin and barely there.

You didn’t elaborate.

You didn’t have to.

He understood.

I can’t love you. Not when a part of me is still grieving someone who let me go too late.

He looked at you for a moment, quiet.

And then he smiled. Gentle. Knowing.

“I know,” he said softly.

And that was it.

No bitterness. No disappointment.

Just a boy sitting beside a girl whose heart was still in pieces—offering her something sweet to hold onto, even if it would melt between her fingers.

“Zayne and I are moving some stuff into our new apartment,” she said over the phone, her voice bright with barely-contained excitement.

You smiled to yourself, already picturing her bouncing around the living room with energy she couldn’t contain, while Zayne—patient and unbothered—quietly did all the heavy lifting.

“I’m happy for you guys,” you said, and you meant it.

Not long after that night at the park—the night you fell apart in Zayne’s arms without needing to explain—something between them had shifted.

It was sudden.

So sudden, in fact, that when they told you they were officially dating, you’d nearly dropped your cup. Your jaw had hit the metaphorical floor and stayed there for a solid minute.

But you weren’t bitter.

Not even a little.

You were surprised, sure. But not hurt. Not jealous. Just… oddly relieved.

You were happy for them.

Truly.

They deserved something soft. Something steady.

And as for you—

You were still learning how to carry the ache without letting it define you.

You were still learning how to grieve Sylus in the quiet moments—without clinging to what never had the chance to become anything more.

Now, there was no pressure. No guilt curled beneath your ribs whenever Zayne looked at you a little too long.

No unspoken tension waiting for answers you didn’t have.

Just space.

To breathe.

To feel.

To heal.

And maybe that, in its own quiet way, was progress.

“I can’t believe you’re not going to college,” you sighed teasingly into the phone, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as your steps echoed down the quiet street.

On the other end, she scoffed without missing a beat.

“I’m going to be an influencer. Don’t need a degree to go viral, babe.”

You laughed, the sound soft, fond. “Sure. Just don’t forget me when you’re famous.”

You could practically hear her salute through the phone, the way she probably struck a dramatic pose in the mirror while doing it.

You smiled.

These were the moments that felt easy—untouched by everything you’d left behind.

“Okay, I’m almost home,” you murmured as the familiar building came into view, its windows catching the last blush of evening light. “Miss you guys. Talk soon.”

Their voices overlapped in a mix of muffled Okays and Good lucks, and then—

Silence.

The call ended.

And you were alone again.

But for once, the quiet didn’t feel heavy.

Just… different.

A stillness that came after the storm.

“Honey, how was your first day?” your mom asked as you set your bag down on the kitchen counter with a quiet sigh.

She placed her cup of tea aside and moved toward you, arms already wrapping around your shoulders before you could answer.

Her embrace was warm and familiar—steady in the way only a mother’s could be. She pulled back just enough to ruffle your hair.

You groaned. “I spent two hours on that.”

“Oh, look at you,” she teased, smiling. “Already talking back to your mother.”

You watched as she moved around the counter, opening the fridge with that habitual grace as if this home wasn’t new and she knows exactly where everything was.

She pulled out a small plate and set it in front of you.

Cheesecake.

The good kind.

She leaned on her elbows across the counter, her expression playful as she wiggled her brows.

“So,” she said, voice laced with mischief, “any cute college boys I’ll be meeting soon?”

You scowled, grabbing your fork and taking a bite without answering.

“Mom. Don’t be gross.”

She laughed—soft and easy, like it was her favorite thing in the world to tease you.

And maybe it was.

A small part of you was grateful for it.

Because after everything, this—your parents, home, cheesecake—felt safe.

And you were learning to find comfort in the small things again.

“Class was ‘aight,” you said with a shrug, leaning your elbows on the kitchen counter. “Though… I do miss our old place.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

You missed more than the house.

You missed the memories carved into its walls.

The boy with silver-white hair who used to chase dandelions with you, laughing breathlessly as they floated just out of reach.

The front porch swing at his house, where you’d both sit cross-legged and argue over who cheated at checkers.

The warmth of late afternoons and the way time used to feel like it belonged to you.

But you didn’t say any of that.

You didn’t say his name.

Didn’t admit that sometimes, when the wind caught the edge of your sleeve just right, it felt like you were still back there—still ten years old and unaware that people grow apart even when they promise not to.

You weren’t going to admit you missed him.

Not out loud.

Some feelings were quieter than words.

And some losses hurt more when spoken.

—•

He didn’t plan to pull you away.

He didn’t even know what he’d say.

He just saw you—standing there, laughing beside someone else—and everything inside him twisted. Like something old and raw had been torn open again.

So he did what he always does.

He acted without thinking.

He dragged you behind the school like a coward looking for somewhere to hide his guilt.

You yanked your hand away the moment you stopped. Your voice cracked through the silence like a whip.

“What the hell?”

He didn’t flinch. Just stared. Trying to memorize the shape of your anger.

You looked…

God, you looked like everything he used to know.

“You can’t just—”

“Can’t just what?” he cut you off. Not because he didn’t want to hear it.

But because he already knew.

He knew what he’d done.

He just wasn’t ready to hear it from your lips.

Then your finger jabbed into his chest.

“Don’t act like you don’t know why.”

Your voice was shaking.

So was he.

“You don’t get to stand here and play victim. You don’t get to act like you weren’t the one who walked away.”

And you were right. Every word.

Still, he stood there. Still, he said nothing.

For a second, just a second, the air shifted.

You looked at him like you used to. But not with love. Not anymore.

With grief. With betrayal. With the kind of pain that comes from being forgotten.

“How long has it been?” you demanded. “How many years? How many nights have I spent alone just because you couldn’t bother to reply?”

He wanted to say something. Anything.

But his throat closed around the truth.

He saw every message.

He wanted to reply.

But the longer he stayed silent, the harder it became to come back.

And he hated himself for it.

You turned away. He thought you were done.

But you weren’t.

“Not cool enough? Not interesting enough? Was I just some boring neighborhood girl you outgrew once the real world started paying attention to you?”

He snapped out of it then, stepped closer before the shame could pin him in place.

“You’re not them,” he growled, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

You couldn’t have been further from the truth.

You scoffed. “Then what am I, Sylus?”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Because what were you, really?

The girl he thought about every time his phone lit up with a message he didn’t answer.

The one he still checked the window for at night out of a habit he never broke.

The only person who ever made him feel like more than just a name passed around by people who liked him for what he wasn’t.

He wanted to say everything.

That’s what you were.

You were everything.

But the words lodged themselves in his throat, too sharp to speak.

And then—

A laugh, loud and careless, broke through the clearing.

A group of guys rounded the corner, the familiar cadence of their voices cutting into the quiet like a blade.

One of them spotted Sylus, grinned.

“Yo, Sylus,” he called, his eyes flicking to you. “Who’s that? Your new girlfriend?”

You turned to Sylus, and in that instant, he felt your stare land like a weight on his chest.

Waiting. Again.

You were always waiting for him to say the right thing.

And he?

He was always too scared to give it.

So the smirk slid onto his face—automatic, defensive, false.

He heard himself say, “No she’s… just someone.”

The moment it left his mouth, he knew.

He knew he’d just ripped something fragile to shreds.

He knew your silence would come next—not because you had nothing to say, but because you had finally given up.

Your laugh was quiet. Not amused. Not bitter. Just… tired.

“Just someone, huh?” you said, voice light but hollow. “I hope you enjoy your life, Sylus.”

Then you stepped around him.

And he didn’t stop you.

Not because he didn’t want to—

But because his friends were still there. Because his mouth was still twisted into that damn smile.

Because he didn’t know how to reach for you without unmaking himself in front of everyone.

So he stood there.

Frozen.

They kept talking, teasing him, nudging his shoulder like none of it mattered.

But he didn’t hear them.

Didn’t move.

Because his eyes were still fixed on your retreating figure.

And for the first time in a long time, Sylus felt something shatter—quietly, irreversibly—inside him.

You weren’t his anymore.

He wasn’t sure you ever were.

But more than that now, he wasn’t even sure he had the right to miss you.

His friends clapped him on the back, loud and oblivious. “Come on, man—coach wants us there for the farewell speech.”

He opened his mouth to protest, to stall, to say not now—but they were already dragging him forward, laughter echoing in his ears like static.

The clearing faded behind him.

You were gone.

He turned once, just over his shoulder, hoping for a glimpse—one last look—but all that met him was the emptiness where you used to stand.

Still, he felt the eyes on him. Expectation. Performance.

So he straightened up. Let the smirk slide back into place like armor.

“Alright,” he said, voice light.

And just like that, he followed them inside.

Leaving the truth—and you—behind.

That night, he lay in bed, phone in hand, the glow of the screen painting his face in cold light.

Your contact was still there.

Still saved under the name Kitten.

Still untouched.

Still yours.

His brow furrowed, thumb hovering just above the call button—so close. Too close.

He stared at the name like it might say something first, like it might make the decision for him.

But he didn’t know what he would say if you answered.

Didn’t know if he even had the right.

I’m sorry felt too small.

I miss you felt too late.

So he didn’t call.

His hand fell away, fingers curling into a fist before he shut the screen off and tossed the phone across the room, where it landed with a dull thud.

The silence that followed was louder than anything.

His hands clutched the hoodie you had returned, the fabric wrinkled from how tightly he held it.

It still smelled faintly like your room—like something warm, like something that used to feel like home.

He exhaled sharply, the breath catching in his throat as he stared down at the worn cotton, the one thing you’d kept—until now.

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath, cursing himself.

Cursing the silence.

Cursing how easy it had been to become everything he once swore he wouldn’t.

Because somewhere along the way, he had stopped being your friend.

And started being a stranger who hurt you.

“I don’t need it anymore.”

You had said it so clearly, so firmly—like a full stop at the end of a sentence he’d refused to read for years.

But he heard it.

Not just the words, but everything underneath.

The years of silence. The weight of being forgotten. The way your voice trembled just enough to betray what you still hadn’t said.

And he saw it too.

The way the light in your eyes dimmed—not from anger, but from exhaustion. From the kind of pain that doesn’t scream, only lingers.

His chest ached.

His hands flew to his face, fingers tangling in his hair as he let out a shaky breath.

“Fuck,” he whispered into the silence, voice cracking.

He should’ve stopped you.

Should’ve said something—anything.

But he hadn’t.

And now the only thing he could do was sit with the echo of your goodbye.

“You think we’d still be friends when we go to high school?”

Your voice echoed in his mind, soft, hopeful, laced with the kind of innocence that didn’t know what distance felt like yet.

The streets were empty now, save for the dull pound of his footsteps hitting the pavement. He ran—not toward anything, but away. From the weight. From himself.

Back then, he’d linked his pinkie with yours without hesitation.

“I promise,” he’d said. “We’ll still be friends.”

A car honked somewhere in the distance, jarring him back for a breath.

“I won’t turn into a jock,” his memory added, almost bitterly now.

A door creaked open across the street. A light switched on in someone’s hallway.

And then it hit him. The one memory louder than all the others.

“Don’t worry. I’m used to it.”

His pace slowed.

His breath caught.

He hadn’t realized what you meant in the moment. Hadn’t heard the quiet fracture in your voice, the way your eyes didn’t meet his when you said it.

But now?

Now he knew.

You weren’t used to being ignored.

You weren’t born expecting to be left behind.

He made you that way.

With every unanswered message.

Every silence.

Every time he turned away when he should’ve held on.

He made you used to him being gone.

And now that you were leaving—

He had no one to blame but himself.

And now, he was left with nothing but regret.

Heavy. Constant.

The kind that clings to your ribs, that colors every corner of memory in a dull, aching gray.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t see you again.

That maybe it was better that way.

He didn’t deserve another chance—not after the silences, the shoulder shrugs, not after he said you were ‘just someone.’

But then—

He turned the corner.

And there you were.

Just standing there.

Dressed in jeans and that lazy, thrown-on t-shirt—like you always wore on weekends when he used to show up at your door with a half-burnt DVD and snacks neither of you ended up eating.

His breath caught.

Everything else stilled.

You hadn’t seen him yet.

And he let himself look. Just for a moment.

God, you were still you.

But different now. Lighter, somehow. Not because you weren’t hurting—he knew you were—but because you had made peace with the hurt.

Moved through it.

Past him.

Then your eyes met his.

It was like being cracked open in silence.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough, uncertain—like it didn’t belong to him anymore.

“H–Hey.”

You blinked, glanced away, and suddenly the sidewalk was the most fascinating thing in the world.

“How long?” he asked. It came out too fast.

You rubbed your neck, the way you always did when you were nervous.

“A week.”

A week.

Seven days before he would never see you again, never hear your voice or even get the chance to make things right.

Seven days where you would finally be rid of him.

And he hated that he couldn’t stop it.

But he nodded. Looked down.

“I—” you started, and he straightened.

You paused, choosing your words with care.

“I don’t care about all that anymore.”

His heart stuttered.

You looked at him when you said it—really looked. And he knew.

You meant it.

And that hurt in a way he didn’t know how to name.

“I’m going to move on now,” you added, voice quieter. “A new life and all that.”

He wanted to say don’t.

He wanted to reach for you.

To take it all back. To beg.

But the words never made it past his throat.

“I hope you get all the things you want in life, Sylus.”

And you smiled. Soft. Final.

Then you lifted your hand, gave him a small wave, and stepped aside.

Let him pass.

Let him go.

He turned to watch you—hoping, foolishly, that you’d glance back.

But you didn’t.

Because you were no longer waiting.

You were no longer his.

And he…

He stood there long after you disappeared from view, aching in the quiet, wondering if he’d ever be able to forgive himself for the way he lost you—

Not in one moment,

But in all the ones where he stayed silent.

“Sylus, I’m open!”

The sharp squeak of sneakers echoed through the gym, followed by the rhythmic thud of a basketball against polished wood.

“Thanks,” Sylus muttered, tossing a quick pass before jogging toward the bench.

He collapsed onto it, chest rising and falling with every breath, sweat clinging to his skin like second skin. A bottle of water was thrust into his hand. He took it without a word, downing half of it in seconds.

It had been a year.

A year since you left—without goodbyes, without a backward glance. A year since you walked out of his life and took the sun with you.

His teammate plopped down on the floor in front of him, breath ragged, staring up at the ceiling.

“You’re killing it today,” he said between pants. “I can barely guard you. You’re a machine.”

Sylus let out a low chuckle, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re just small.”

“Fuck off,” his friend laughed, tossing a towel at him.

Basketball had become his refuge. Since the day you left, Sylus threw himself into the game like it was the only thing holding him together.

Hours bled into days in the gym. He skipped college applications, skipped birthdays, skipped chances at moving on.

This was simpler.

This was better.

At least on the court, he didn’t have to think about you.

His friend peeked at him from the corner of his eye, the laughter fading as something more serious took its place.

“You still haven’t contacted her, huh.”

It wasn’t a jab. Just an observation. But it hit harder than any shove on the court.

Sylus stilled.

The bottle in his hands crinkled slightly under his grip. Sweat dripped down his temple, trailing along his jaw as he stared at the floor.

“No.”

Quiet. Like a confession. Like he was finally admitting to something he couldn’t undo.

His friend let out a breath, not surprised. “You should’ve just told her from the start, man.”

There was no malice in his voice. Just the kind of tired honesty that came from watching someone spiral.

He looked at Sylus then, more gently this time. “Hate to say it, but… I told you so.”

Any other day, Sylus would’ve rolled his eyes, thrown a towel at his face, maybe cracked a joke about height.

But not this time.

This time, he didn’t say anything.

Because this time, he knew.

He knew his friend was right.

He glanced at his friend—same look on his face as that day on the bleachers. The day he saw you across the court, laughing with Zayne like you didn’t used to be his.

Sylus let out a breath, low and quiet. “I know,” he murmured.

His friend huffed a short laugh, standing as he offered a hand. “Come on. Break time’s over.”

Sylus finished the last of his water, the plastic crumpling in his grip. Then he took the hand, let himself be pulled back into the court.

Where it was easier to run than to feel.

—•

Sylus dropped his bag by the door with a heavy thud before sinking into the couch.

The sun had already slipped past the rooftops, leaving the living room in a soft, fading gold.

He leaned his head back against the cushions, muscles aching, the weight of the day settling into his bones.

“Sylus has been doing great! He’s actually trying out for a local team soon—”

His mother’s voice echoed down the stairs, light and proud.

He cracked one eye open to watch her descend, phone pressed to her ear, smile tugging at her lips as she caught sight of him.

She always spoke like that. Like he was doing just fine.

Like he hadn’t spent a year trying to outrun everything he never said to you.

Sylus sat up slightly when his mother gave his leg a light tap, where it lay stretched across the coffee table.

“What about Y/N? How’s she doing over there?” she asked casually, her voice bright.

But the moment your name passed her lips, something in him stilled.

His ears perked up, almost involuntarily, and he found himself leaning in just a little—just enough to catch the faint sound of your mother’s voice through the speaker.

“She’s doing well. First day went great, she’s upstairs studying now—”

That was all he caught. But it was enough.

Enough to stir something sharp in his chest.

He didn’t know if he should be relieved, knowing you were okay. Or heartbroken, knowing you were okay without him.

You’d moved on. Quietly, gracefully. Just like you always did.

And yet his heart twisted all the same.

Soon, he was lost in thoughts of you.

Did you still look the same?

He pictured you—brows furrowed, hunched over your desk with a pen in hand, sketching or scribbling notes the way you used to.

The soft light of your room casting shadows on your cheek, hair tied up in that lazy knot you always wore when you were focused.

Were you smiling now?

Were you lighter—freer—now that he wasn’t in the picture?

He swallowed hard, the thought settling like lead in his chest.

Maybe you were happy.

Maybe you were better off, now that you no longer had to carry the weight of loving someone who didn’t know how to hold you right.

“I’m just saying, man—if you hadn’t let Colin’s bullshit get to you, you wouldn’t even be in this mess.”

His friend’s voice crackled over the speakerphone, cutting through the silence of Sylus’ room.

Sylus didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the mirror across from him, at the fading polaroid tucked into the frame—

You, smiling. Him, slightly out of focus beside you, hand on your shoulder.

He exhaled, voice low. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

There was a pause on the other end, then a sigh. “Yeah, well… there’s no point sulking over it now. It’s been a year.”

Sylus flopped onto his bed, the mattress creaking beneath him as he pressed the phone to his ear. His friend’s voice carried on, unfazed.

“I mean, weren’t you the one who said you promised her? That you’d never be like the others? Then you got into high school and suddenly, being one of the cool kids mattered more.”

Sylus’s jaw tensed. “Hey, cut me some slack, will you?”

A scoff crackled through the speaker. “Dude, I’ve been cutting you slack. Any less and I would’ve dragged your sorry ass to Y/N’s front door years ago.”

Sylus grunted, thumb hovering before he ended the call. The phone fell beside him on the bed with a soft thud as he dragged both hands down his face.

His friend was right. He didn’t need to hear it again to know.

Somewhere along the way, his pride had started speaking louder than you ever did. His image, his place, his need to belong—it all started to matter more than how you felt.

And the worst part?

He knew.

He’d known for a long time now.

But knowing didn’t change anything.

Not when you were already gone.

His eyes drifted to the hoodie draped over the bedrest—the one he had once given you, the one you threw back at him that day without a word.

It still sat there, untouched.

The scent of your home had long faded, replaced by the sterile quiet of his room. Only a faint trace of something remained—something like old warmth, something like grief.

Just memories now.

Faded fabric, frayed edges, and the weight of promises he never kept.

And in that stillness, with nothing but the echo of your absence clinging to the walls, Sylus finally whispered the words he should’ve said years ago.

“I’m sorry.”

Soft. Barely audible.

Meant only for the ghost of you that still lingered in the room.

But it’s too late for apologies now, isn’t it?

Too late for words to fix what silence already broke.

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