#forgetting curve calculator

[microlearningplatform]

The Science of Forgetting: Why Trainers Must Rethink Learning Strategies

The Forgetting Curve and Its Relevance for Trainers: How to Ensure Long-Term Knowledge Retention

Introduction

Have you ever attended a training session, felt confident about what you learned, and then struggled to recall most of it just days later? This phenomenon is explained by the Forgetting Curve, a concept introduced by German psychologist Hermann Ebbinghaus in the late 19th century. His research showed that without reinforcement, people forget nearly 50% of newly learned information within an hour and up to 90% within a week.

For trainers, this presents a major challenge. No matter how well-designed a training program is, its effectiveness is limited if learners quickly forget the material. The good news? With the right strategies, trainers can combat the Forgetting Curve and ensure long-term knowledge retention.

This article explores the science behind the Forgetting Curve, its implications for trainers, and proven strategies to make learning stick.

Understanding the Forgetting Curve

What is the Forgetting Curve?

The Forgetting Curve describes how memory retention declines over time without reinforcement. Ebbinghaus conducted experiments where he memorized nonsense syllables and tested his recall over varying time intervals. His results formed a steep, downward-sloping curve, demonstrating rapid forgetting unless information is reviewed periodically.

Key Insights from the Forgetting Curve

Forgetting Happens Fast – Learners forget up to 70% of information within 24 hours of learning if there’s no reinforcement.

Repetition Strengthens Memory – Regular review interrupts forgetting and moves knowledge into long-term memory.

Meaningful Learning Improves Retention – Information that is relevant, contextual, and engaging is remembered better.

Active Recall is More Effective – Actively retrieving information (e.g., quizzes, teaching others) improves memory more than passive review.

These findings highlight the urgent need for trainers to implement strategies that reinforce learning over time.

Why the Forgetting Curve Matters for Trainers

For corporate trainers, L&D professionals, and educators, understanding the Forgetting Curve is critical. If trainees forget most of what they learn, then training programs are failing to create lasting impact.

Common Training Pitfalls That Lead to Forgetting

One-and-Done Training – Single-session workshops without follow-up lead to rapid information loss.

Overloading Learners – Dumping too much content at once overwhelms learners, making retention difficult.

Lack of Reinforcement – Without periodic reviews, knowledge fades quickly from memory.

Passive Learning Methods – Traditional lectures and static e-learning do not engage learners enough for deep retention.

The Cost of Forgetting in Organizations

Reduced Employee Performance – Employees forget essential skills, leading to mistakes and inefficiency.

Compliance Risks – Forgetting critical compliance regulations can result in legal consequences.

Wasted Training Investments – Organizations spend millions on training programs, but without reinforcement, much of that investment is lost to forgetting.

To overcome these challenges, trainers must design learning experiences that actively combat the Forgetting Curve.

How Trainers Can Overcome the Forgetting Curve

1. Use Spaced Repetition

Spaced repetition involves reviewing information at increasing intervals to strengthen memory. Instead of cramming, learners revisit key concepts multiple times over days, weeks, or months.

How to Implement Spaced Repetition

Microlearning Modules – Deliver bite-sized lessons with follow-up reinforcement.

Automated Learning Reminders – Use AI-powered learning platforms to schedule personalized review sessions.

Reinforcement Emails & Notifications – Send learners periodic reminders or quizzes.

Example: Instead of a one-time compliance training session, provide weekly microlearning refreshers on key policies.

2. Leverage Microlearning

Microlearning platform delivers small, focused lessons that are easier to digest and remember. Studies show that microlearning can increase retention by up to 50% compared to traditional training.

How Microlearning Helps Combat Forgetting

✅ Short & Focused – Learners absorb one concept at a time, improving retention. ✅ Flexible & On-Demand – Employees can access learning when they need it, reinforcing knowledge in real time. ✅ Engaging Formats – Videos, infographics, quizzes, and interactive lessons enhance engagement.

Example: Instead of a 3-hour training session, break it into 10-minute modules with real-world applications.

3. Implement Active Learning Techniques

Passive learning (reading, watching videos) leads to high forgetting rates. Active learning, which requires learners to engage, recall, and apply knowledge, significantly boosts retention.

Active Learning Strategies for Trainers

Quizzes & Retrieval Practice – Asking learners to recall information improves memory retention.

Scenario-Based Learning – Present real-world problems that require critical thinking and decision-making.

Peer Teaching – Encourage employees to teach concepts to others, reinforcing their understanding.

Gamification – Use leaderboards, challenges, and rewards to make learning engaging.

Example: After a training module on data security, give learners a real-world phishing attack scenario to solve.

4. Use AI-Powered Adaptive Learning

Artificial intelligence (AI) can personalize learning paths, ensuring that employees receive reinforcement exactly when they need it. AI analyzes learner performance and automatically adjusts training schedules to prevent forgetting.

How AI Helps Combat Forgetting

🚀 Personalized Reminders – AI identifies knowledge gaps and pushes targeted microlearning content. 🚀 Smart Adaptive Quizzes – AI-driven assessments help learners actively recall weak areas. 🚀 Just-in-Time Learning – Employees can access training at the moment of need for maximum retention.

Example: If an employee struggles with safety protocols, AI sends personalized refresher lessons.

5. Reinforce Learning with Real-World Application

Retention improves when learners apply knowledge in real-world scenarios. Trainers should create opportunities for hands-on practice and real-life implementation.

Ways to Reinforce Learning

On-the-Job Training Assignments – Give employees tasks that require applying new skills.

Role-Playing Exercises – Simulate real situations to deepen understanding.

Follow-Up Discussions & Coaching – Encourage knowledge sharing among peers.

Example: After a leadership training session, assign managers real coaching tasks to apply new skills.

Final Thoughts

The Forgetting Curve poses a significant challenge for trainers, but strategic learning reinforcement can dramatically improve retention. By incorporating spaced repetition, microlearning, active learning, AI-powered tools, and real-world application, trainers can ensure knowledge sticks—leading to more effective training programs and improved workforce performance.

🔹 Key Takeaways for Trainers: ✅ Combat forgetting with spaced learning & microlearning. ✅ Use active learning techniques like quizzes and real-world practice. ✅ Leverage AI-powered learning for personalized reinforcement. ✅ Reinforce learning with on-the-job application.

By shifting from one-time training events to continuous, reinforced learning, trainers can defeat the Forgetting Curve and maximize learning impact.

🚀 Want to improve your training programs? Explore how AI-powered microlearning solutions like MaxLearn can help!

[angelesca]

a soon-to-be-husband's plan for successful marriage! w.c. ~900

requested by: @kimura-uzuri lots of kisses as per the request, suggestive, all of them are idiots in love and mega pathetic (just how we like 'em amirite) added some extra characters & stretched the prompt, but the core remains the same - hopefully you don't mind :)) (!! written before playing 3.1! only seen some bits and pieces)

anaxagoras's "all according to calculation" love letter!

to my dearest, if you were to reject me, i think i'd cry with my one eye since our fateful encounter, i've found myself... happy agitated, with these bothersome feelings aglaea said it was "love". hah. what does she know?, aroused by, simply, your presence in my orbit. it nags endlessly, claws at my throat when i breathe, these insignicant matters should afford me no pleasure... yet, the heart is no longer a master of itself, desperately wrestling from your grip, but inevitably chained to your smile that is interwoven with my memories. i also cannot forget how you suplexed me after our first kiss my lips spring and curve at an accord of their own when you spare as little as a glance at me. to who else can be ascribed such a feat? congratulations i guess a scholar's instinct is to question in the face of adversity. and questions must be accompanied by answers. as i write this to you, i have finally sumrised the truth. why i feel what i do, i must acknowledge it now... i adore you. i am eternally yours-- i must spend my life with you. ... *unintelligible scribbling*

anaxagoras looks up from his page, staring at you. "did that work?"

work? it didn't even try. "what? what are you- why did you read me a whole love letter? i didn't even know you had it in your bones to write sappy romance."

anaxagoras's eye twitches. he took that to heart. his formula for the perfect proposal is breaking, time to move onto plan b.

you throw your hands on your hips. "what's with you?" kiss. "you just came home after-" kiss. "-being away for so long." kiss. "is something wrong with your head?" kiss. "stop that! it won't distract me from your failure of a proposal."

"tch." anaxa clicks his tongue, slumping defeatedly like a child who got caught red-handed. so much for his perfect plan. well, when all else fails, there's only one final strategy: "well? are we getting engaged?"

you sigh. "you could've said that in the first place..." kiss. "..."

little did you know, that was a display of anaxagoras's restraint. the power of a scholar comes from more than their words, you learned the hard way, sore in bed the next day.

phainon's "super special, totally epic °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°" checklist!

1. i miss my partner so much... (´-ω-`) must return to okhema 2. buy a ring (maybe ask aglaea?) (ugh, i can't let mydei know or he'll tease me) 3. ??? 4. become husband!!! (☆ω☆)

step 1. miss my partner... check. duh. ┐(‘～` )┌ return to okhema? check.

step 2. buy a ring. check. aglaea, with a stifled chuckle, gladly helped the clueless phainon pick out a ring perfect for you. after all, someone who pairs an orange shirt with purple pants could hardly be trusted with picking out an engagement ring. successfully avoided mydei's keen eyes.

step 3. ???

phainon stares at you. "???"

"???" you stare back.

"???????????" phainon took the third step too literally. what is this doofus doing?

realising that his plan is falling apart, phainon panics. "c-c-c-c-can i k-kiss you?" his lips unconsciously push together, pouting, as if practicing his kissing on your ghost.

you frown. "why are you asking like it's our first time doing it?"

"oh, right..."

you playfully roll your eyes. "come here, you."

phainon skips over, brightened, lowering his head for you. you press kisses on them. then, ten more for good measure, because, well, phainon and kisses just go well together, clicking like a puzzle.

"haha, that was nice." phainon's cheeks were red as tomatoes, pressing his hands on them like a youthful maiden in love. then, he latches onto your arm, intertwining. "let's settle down soon. i'm so tired of fighting bad guys all day," he mumbles.

"settle down? like family?" you ask.

"whatever you desire: children, dogs, cats, potted plants. i'm okay with anything you want, as long as you want it," phainon beams. "i just want to start a new life with you!"

beneath all the sweet words, phainon feels that he forgot something integral... something something... become husband... well, whatever. as long as you're happy, phainon can't think of much else when you're calling out his name at night. ( ‾́ ◡ ‾́ ) the neighbours are tired bro...

(days later, you found the engagement ring left in his pocket before taking his clothes for laundry)

mydei's "conquer and overcome all adversities" (is he still talking about proposing?) goal!

1. propose

mydei holds out his hand. "let us form a legal, committal union under a contract."

your jaw drops. mydei had just returned home and these were his first words after being apart for so long? "s-sorry?"

mydei huffs. "you know what i mean."

"you mean a marri-"

COUGH COUGH.

...?

you scrunch your eyebrows. "you want to marr-"

COUGH COUGH.

... mydei is blushing, eyes glossy. how could one word have such an effect? scratch that, how has he made it this far into the relationship? romance was certainly not in the kremnoan dictionary.

you take a deep breath. "mydei, you can just say the word."

"the word."

you sigh. this was too slow. "fine. i agree."

"agree?" mydei looks at you expectantly.

"to establish a legal contract that binds us together."

"oh," mydei smiles. "well, let us make haste." he swings you over his shoulder easily, as if carrying feathers. now, it's going too fast - he really can't set a pace.

"hey! what the-" by the time you realised, you were already at an altar, face-to-face with your husband-to-be. never in your life have you witnessed your body being covered in so many marks the night after the wedding, and your lips were definitely bruised.

you sternly warned mydei, and what is repressed comes back stronger, as he hugged you 24/7, stealing your waist instead of lips. a kremnoan warrior always stays conquering, even when proving his eternal love for you.

a/n: i just found out there are anaxa chibis but its too late im afraid. pea head anaxa for life who's with me also here's some behind the scenes! originally i wrote this for phainon's step 3:

phainon gets on his knees and- oh, oh my god- "PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE-"

"phainon???" his name barely leaves your mouth as a breath, for you can hardly construct words, let alone a sentence.

LMAOOO it was way too much. anw ty again! i had fun writing it! sorry this was kinda short, i wrote this up as quick as i could. but if you'd like me to re-make the request bc it was too silly, lemme know xx

[velvetsserenity]

tongue twister

caitlyn x reader x vi

✎ word count: 3.5k ꩜ content warnings: explicit sexual content, orgasm control, rough handling, light choking, public setting, humiliation, dominance dynamics, voyeurism, jealousy, threesome dynamics, oral (receiving)

You didn’t come to the Last Drop to cause trouble.

Well. Not exactly.

You came to dance. To drink. To press your body against strangers who don’t ask questions and know how to bite without drawing blood. You came to forget the week, the city, the bullshit.

You did not come to see them.

So when the bar door creaks open and the flickering neon catches pink hair and a high collar, you nearly choke on your drink.

You sit back on your stool, licking vodka from your bottom lip, and tilt your head slowly.

“...You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Vi walks in first, smug, relaxed, like the chaos of the Lanes lives in her blood. She’s in a loose tank, old gloves tucked into her belt, face lit by the dim blue wash of the bar lights.

And right beside her...

Caitlyn Kiramman. Hair pristine. Blouse starched. A few buttons undone to look casual, but still standing like she’s holding a badge under her skin.

They’re talking. Laughing.

Laughing.

Together.

You narrow your eyes.

They don’t see you.

Even when they cut through the crowd like they own the place, brushing shoulders with bodies that look at them and then away. Vi’s making a beeline for the bar. Caitlyn follows, hesitant but intrigued.

You swirl your drink and lean forward just a little, resting your chin on your palm.

This’ll be good.

You don’t approach.

Of course not.

You sit five seats down at the curve of the bar and watch. Sip. Wait.

Vi orders two drinks. You recognize her voice when she growls something flirty to the bartender. Caitlyn leans in closer than she needs to, smiling like she’s trying not to.

You hate that you know what both of them sound like in bed.

You hate that you remember Vi’s laugh when she came the first time, biting your shoulder, mumbling your name like a dare.

You hate that you remember Caitlyn’s breath catching when you forced her to beg. The way she kissed you like it was beneath her. Like she liked that.

They don’t know you’re here.

They don’t know they’ve both had you.

You shouldn’t do it.

But.

You’ve never been good at walking away from a fire.

You grab your drink, slide off your stool, and saunter up like you were invited.

Vi’s elbow is on the bar, back half-turned to you, boots crossed, mid-sentence about something stupid and flirty, probably trying to impress.

Caitlyn is pretending not to look impressed.

You stop just behind them.

Close enough to be felt.

Vi turns first.

She freezes.

Her mouth opens, closes. Then she leans back slowly, her eyes narrowing, recognition blooming like a bruise.

Caitlyn follows her gaze.

And stops breathing.

You take a sip and drag your eyes over both of them like they’re meat in a butcher’s window.

“Well,” you hum. “Didn’t expect to see this pairing.”

Caitlyn blinks. “You—”

Vi interrupts, stunned. “You know each other?”

You let the pause hang just long enough to hurt.

“Yeah,” you say casually. “You could say that.”

Caitlyn straightens, voice tight. “She and I... knew each other. Briefly.”

Vi scoffs. “No shit. When?”

“Before you,” Caitlyn mutters. Her voice is clipped. Controlled.

Vi turns to you. “Seriously?”

You tilt your head. “Don’t act surprised. We weren’t exclusive, Vi.”

“That’s not the point.”

You sip again. “Oh? What is the point?”

Vi just stares. Like she's running math she doesn’t want to solve.

Caitlyn watches you. Cold. Still. That elegant, calculating gaze you remember from the last time she had your wrist pinned to a wall.

You smile, just a little. “Relax. I’m not here to make a scene.”

Vi snorts. “You are the scene.”

Caitlyn’s voice is soft but sharp: “What are you doing here?”

“I’m a local,” you say. “You’re the tourists.”

Caitlyn’s mouth tightens. Vi looks away like she’s trying to hide the twitch in her jaw.

You step forward between them. They both shift just barely. A half-step back. You love that.

“You two look cozy,” you murmur. “Something going on?”

“No,” Caitlyn says quickly.

Vi shrugs. “Nothing serious.”

“Mm.” You drag your finger along the rim of your glass. “Neither was I. With either of you.”

That lands like a slap.

Good.

Vi breathes out hard through her nose. “So this is, what—some kind of fucking joke?”

“No,” you say, tilting your chin up. “But it’s getting funny.”

Caitlyn’s tone cuts in, cool as ice: “Are you jealous?”

You laugh. “Of what? Getting passed between Piltover’s problem children like a shared cigarette?”

Caitlyn’s face hardens.

Vi mutters, “Fuck’s sake...”

You finish your drink in one long swallow and slam the glass down.

“Anyway. I’ve got better things to do than stand between two half-fucks playing pretend.”

You pivot on your heel.

Vi’s jaw clenches the second your back turns.

You disappear into the crowd like you were never even there—just a flash of skin and shadow swallowed by flashing lights and smoke-thick air.

“Fucking hell,” she mutters, pushing off the bar.

“Vi—” Caitlyn’s voice calls behind her, cautious.

But Vi’s already moving.

The beat hits harder out here. The crowd is denser, stickier, full of the kind of people who never say sorry when they shoulder past. The kind of people you blend into.

She shoves through dancers, eyes scanning for a glimpse of your hair, the curve of your shoulder, the swing of your hips. But you’re gone.

Caitlyn follows, a step behind, trying not to touch anyone, trying to stay clean in a place that feeds on dirt.

“You don’t even know where she went,” Caitlyn says, clipped.

Vi glances back, eyes wild. “She’s not just gonna vanish.”

“She does that,” Caitlyn mutters. “Trust me.”

Vi grits her teeth and pushes deeper into the mess of bodies, the flashing lights slicing over her face in sharp colors—blue, red, green, then black again. She sees a girl dancing on a speaker who almost looks like you. She grabs her shoulder and yanks her around—

Not you.

Not even close.

The girl shoves Vi off and keeps dancing like nothing happened.

Caitlyn finally catches up beside her, breath shallow. “You’re wasting your time. She knows this place.”

Vi scans the perimeter, jaw tight. “She’s not from the Lanes. Not really.”

Caitlyn laughs, mean and bitter. “No. She’s under them. Slips through the cracks. That’s what she does.”

Vi doesn’t stop moving.

She checks the far corner, pushes through a knot of half-naked dancers, scans every booth, every back wall. The bathroom line. The Shimmer dealers. Even the goddamn DJ booth.

Nothing.

Caitlyn hangs back now, arms crossed, heels clicking sharply as she trails Vi with increasingly disgusted looks. Her hair’s slightly frizzed. Her blouse—too expensive for this hellhole—is sticking to her back. She’s done pretending.

Caitlyn follow her outside as she rummages trough the back alley of the club.

“This is pointless,” she says flatly. “You’ve checked every wall in that club twice.”

Vi doesn’t even look at her. “She’s fast, not invisible.”

“She wants you to chase her.”

Vi snaps, “And what? You’re just gonna roll over and let her win?”

“I’m going home.”

Vi turns now, jaw tight. “You’re seriously just walking away?”

“Yes. Because unlike you, I don’t have anything to prove.”

Vi scoffs, stepping in close. “Is that right?”

“I’m not wasting my night dragging through alleyways because some girl from your past decided to be cute.”

Vi bristles. “She’s not—”

“Not yours, Vi,” Caitlyn snaps, eyes flashing. “Not mine either. She made that perfectly clear.”

Vi glares. “This isn’t about ownership.”

“Oh, of course not,” Caitlyn says, voice icy. “You’re just out here playing detective in the dark because what tour ego couldn’t handle being walked away from?”

Vi’s teeth clench. “You don’t get it.”

“No. I don’t. Because I left it where it belonged—back inside.” Caitlyn breathes out, close now, close enough to smell the smoke still clinging to Vi’s collar, the sweat at her neck. “You’re beneath her. You’d crawl if she told you to.”

Vi moves fast.

She grabs Caitlyn’s collar, yanks her in, mouth hard on hers, teeth and lips and spit and fury. Caitlyn gasps, but she doesn’t push back. She pulls closer, fists curling in Vi’s tank top, dragging her backward into the alley wall with a thud.

The kiss is vicious. Angry. Hot with everything they never said and everything they swore they wouldn’t feel.

Vi bites her lip.

Caitlyn growls.

Hands fumble fast Vi pushing up the edge of Caitlyn’s blouse, fingers skating over her ribs like she’s searching for a place to ruin. Caitlyn shoves Vi’s jacket off her shoulders, fingers digging into her arms, dragging lines that’ll bruise tomorrow.

They break the kiss for one breath—both panting, flushed, glaring.

“This is a mistake,” Caitlyn pants.

Vi licks her bottom lip. “That your way of asking me to stop?”

Caitlyn doesn’t answer.

She just kisses her again, rougher.

Vi grabs her hips and flips them, slamming Caitlyn back into the wall this time. Her thigh wedges between Cait’s legs, grinding hard, unapologetic. Caitlyn moans before she can stop it.. and that sound? That sound goes straight to Vi’s head.

“You still think you’re above this?” Vi hisses against her throat.

“Shut up,” Caitlyn breathes.

Vi sinks her teeth into Caitlyn’s neck. Caitlyn arches.

They’re a tangle of limbs now, hands under clothes, against skin, fighting for control even while giving it up in pieces. No softness. No names. Just sweat, breath, the wet sound of kisses torn open too fast.

Vi’s hand slips lower, under Caitlyn’s waistband, fingers sliding dow. Then—

“Look at the lovebirds.”

The voice cuts through the dark like a blade.

Both women freeze.

Caitlyn jerks her head toward the sound, panting, eyes wide. Vi doesn’t move right away, fingers still resting just below Cait’s navel, breath hot against her neck.

You’re leaning against the alley wall five feet away, one leg crossed over the other, cigarette between your fingers, glowing tip a slow pulse in the dark. The smoke coils around you like it belongs there.

You smile lazy, cocky, dripping venom.

“Well, don’t stop on my account.”

Vi steps back instantly, eyes blazing, face flushed in a way that has nothing to do with arousal anymore.

Caitlyn scrambles to pull her shirt down, cheeks burning, hair mussed, mouth still parted like she hasn’t figured out what to say yet.

You tilt your head, take a long drag, and exhale slowly. “Didn’t think I had to leave you two alone for five minutes before the hate-fucking started.”

Vi glares. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I live here,” you answer, voice sweet and sarcastic. “Remember? Local, remember? You’re the ones in my alley.”

Caitlyn’s lip curls. “You followed us.”

You raise an eyebrow. “If I had, I’d have gotten here earlier.”

Vi steps forward, chest still heaving, jaw clenched. “You’ve been watching us?”

You smile wider. “Why? Feeling shy now?”

Caitlyn mutters, “You’re disgusting.”

You flick ash off your cigarette without flinching. “And you’re still half-undressed. So maybe don’t throw stones, Kiramman.”

Caitlyn opens her mouth—then shuts it, nostrils flaring.

Vi looks like she wants to hit something. Or fuck something. Or both.

You glance between them, pleased. Flushed, frustrated, furious,just the way you left them.

You push off the wall slowly, walking toward them, your boots echoing in the wet alley.

“Cute show, by the way,” you murmur. “All that pent-up tension. Should’ve let me join—might’ve lasted longer.”

Vi’s eyes narrow. “You think this is a game?”

You stop right in front of her, blow smoke past her cheek. “I know it is.”

Then you look at Caitlyn.

“Was she good?” you ask, soft, mocking. “Better than me?”

Caitlyn stiffens.

You grin.

“Didn’t think so.”

And with that, you toss the cigarette to the ground, crush it with your boot, and turn your back on both of them.

Two steps.

That’s all you get.

Then a rough hand grabs your arm and yanks.

Your spine hits the wall hard, concrete cold against your back, your breath knocked straight out of your chest. Vi’s there, right there pressed in close, thigh between yours, hand braced beside your head. The wall behind you groans like it’s not ready for this kind of violence.

She’s breathing like she ran a mile uphill.

Eyes wild.

Teeth clenched.

You blink once, slow. “Touched a nerve?”

Vi doesn’t answer.

Her other hand grabs your jaw, tight. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make a point.

“You like this, huh?” she growls. “Running that mouth. Getting in our heads. Making everything about you.”

“It is about me,” you murmur, lips curling.Challenging her with just some simple words and a glare.

Vi’s eyes flash. She leans in like she’s going to kiss you, but stops just short so close her breath hits your lips.

“You think I won’t fuck the smug off your face right here?”

You exhale, slow, deliberate. “No. I think you will.”

Silence.

Tension so thick it’s choking.

Vi shoves her thigh up between your legs harder, her fingers sliding around your throat not squeezing, just holding.

Just threatening.

You tilt your head back against the wall, smirking. “What’s the matter, Vi? Caitlyn not enough for you?”

She snaps.

Her mouth crashes against yours hot, hard, brutal. Not a kiss. A punishment. You open to it anyway, let her take what she wants, let her teeth catch your lip until it stings and tastes like blood and smoke.

You hear Caitlyn breathe soft and sharp and shaky.

Good.

Let her watch.

Let her see.

Vi presses harder, her thigh wedged between yours, rough denim dragging over the thinnest part of your resolve. Her hand curls in your hair, pulling your head back, mouth dragging down your jaw to your neck, biting hard enough to make you gasp.

You don’t stop her.

You bare your throat like you want her to ruin it.

“You should’ve kept your mouth shut,” she growls, voice raw.

“You’re welcome,” you rasp, “for giving you a reason to use it.”

She snarls and grinds her leg upward, watching your eyes flutter for just a second. Just enough to make her grin.

Then her gaze flicks over your shoulder, toward Caitlyn.

Still watching.

Vi pulls back just enough to speak, her voice meant for both of you. “You like watching?”

Caitlyn swallows, but doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t deny it. ou turn your head toward her, lips swollen, neck raw.

“I think she does,” you whisper, just loud enough.

Vi smirks. Her hand slips under your shirt, palm splayed across your stomach. Her other hand stays in your hair, keeping your head tilted so Caitlyn has the perfect view of every reaction. Every flinch. Every filthy sound.

You let your mouth fall open. A quiet whimper leaks out, and you don’t bother hiding it.

Caitlyn’s knuckles are white now, fists clenched by her sides, like she’s trying to keep herself from reaching for something she shouldn’t.

“You can touch,” you murmur, eyes locked on her. “Or you can just stand there and ache.” You murmur as you shake your head in the most sassiest way.

Vi bites your shoulder—hard, you jolt.

Caitlyn steps forward. Not reaching for you. Not grabbing Vi. Just closing the distance.

Her voice is cold. Too calm. “You’re pathetic.”

You smile through the sting. “And you’re still watching.”

Caitlyn steps in even closer, now barely an inch from your lips, your back still held against the wall.

“But if I touch her now,” Caitlyn murmurs, voice like silk dipped in venom, “she’ll think she won.”

“I already did,” you whisper.

Vi watches, breath uneven, body flush against your back.

Caitlyn leans in, but doesn’t kiss you. Her lips brush yours, faint enough to burn.

“You can talk later,” she says softly, pulling away. “When I let you.”

Caitlyn’s hand slides up, fingers threading into your hair as she finally presses her mouth to yours. You moan into it before you can stop yourself.

She tastes like anger and pride and something clean beneath it like control wearing perfume.

Her tongue pushes in, sharp and deliberate, and she swallows the sound you make like it’s a win.

Behind you, Vi shifts.

Drops lower.

You feel her hands at your thighs, parting them like she owns them, her breath ghosting under your clothes a split second before her mouth makes contact.

Your head slams softly back against the wall.

Caitlyn breaks the kiss only to move down, her lips trailing over your cheek, your jaw, then to your neck. She sinks her teeth in where Vi left the mark earlier, sucking over it like she’s trying to stamp her name on top of the bruise.

“You’re so fucking loud,” she mutters against your throat.

And it’s true.

Vi had pushed your little dress up, bunching it around your waist. Starring at your panties before moving it to the side, admiring. Then Vi’s mouth is hot between your legs, tongue dragging slow, wet, and cruel as she sinks in deeper.

Your hands grip the wall behind you, nails scraping brick, hips jerking once—twice, as Vi locks you in place.

Caitlyn’s hand closes around your throat, thumb resting lightly on your pulse.

“Keep your eyes open,” she says.

You try.

You really try.

But then Vi moans against you hungry and it sends a shock straight through your spine. Your knees buckle, and Caitlyn catches you by the throat and jaw, holding you upright while Vi keeps working, mouth dragging you under like quicksand.

Caitlyn kisses you again. This time slower. Drowningly slow. Her lips smeared with control.

Vi doesn’t stop.

Not even when your hips start to tremble.

Not even when Caitlyn murmurs, “Already? What a mess you are.”

You can’t answer.

Your mouth is busy trying not to scream.

Caitlyn pulls back just enough to whisper into your ear.

“Don’t come yet.”

Vi growls in protest from below, the vibration almost enough to undo you right there.

But you listen.

Barely.

Caitlyn’s hand is still at your throat, fingers soft but commanding, her thumb tapping lightly against your pulse like a countdown.

“Still holding on?” she whispers, biting the shell of your ear.

You nod. Barely. Wrong move.

Vi takes it as permission.

She groans into you, tongue pressing harder, wetter, meaner.

Your hips jerk. Caitlyn’s hand tightens just enough to remind you: no.

You whimper, and it’s pathetic, but it slips out too fast to swallow.

Caitlyn’s mouth curls against your skin. “She’s trying to break you.”

Another roll of Vi’s tongue. Another flash of heat that nearly buckles your legs.

“She won’t,” you choke out.

Caitlyn hums. “You sure?”

Vi drags her nails down the backs of your thighs.

You cry out.

Your eyes flutter closed, only for Caitlyn to slap your cheek. Light. Sharp. Measured.

“Keep them open.”

You do.

You fucking do.

Tears threaten at the corners from the intensity, the burn, the pressure but you hold. You stay on that knife’s edge, breath shaking, lips bitten raw from trying to hold back the sound clawing up your throat.

Vi groans again, and Caitlyn chuckles darkly, voice rich with satisfaction.

“She wants to hear you fall apart,” she says, lips brushing your jaw. “But you won’t give her that, will you?”

You shake your head, dizzy.

Vi’s hands spread wider, forcing your legs open more. Her mouth gets sloppy now, messier, as she grinds her face into you like she’s past patience.

You’re soaking. Shaking.

So close you could snap.

And Caitlyn leans in, one hand sliding up under your shirt, fingers cool against your ribs as she whispers—

“Now.”

Your body obeys before your mind can catch up.

You break.

Hard.

Loud.

Your hips jerk. Your voice finally tears loose, raw and ragged and fucking ruined.

Vi moans into you like she just won a prize, her mouth still working you through it.

Caitlyn holds your jaw the entire time, her eyes locked on yours, watching every twitch, every gasp, every tear slide down your cheek like she owns them.

When your knees finally buckle, Vi pulls back slowly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, smug and wrecked herself.

Caitlyn doesn’t let go.

Not yet.

She tilts your head up and says, soft and clean—

“Next time, you’ll ask.”

And you nod, breathless.

Because you will.

[meganegatari]

haiii pludawg… 😇

i’m thinking about sloppy and wet ab riding with sub!sevika, pinning her to the bed with your thighs and riding her into the mattress, she’d get so flustered as you overpower her and she’d just gawk at you like the cutie pie she is while you leave a sticky trail all over her abs… continue this however u want 🤎

thanks a million!!! 😋

☆: hey chat, have something new hehe. sev has been turning me into a MONSTER lately and i had to get this outta my system. ok enna this idea. i have no words. this is the most scrumdiddlyumptious thing ive literally ever heard im gonna start freaking the fart out are u fr...omg. wow...i love u sm for this💚AHHHH I NEED HER.

you gazed down at sevika from your spot, lovingly straddling her torso, intently watching every microscopic change in her features. she helplessly stared up at you, eyes as gray as the goddess athena's, round and teary, near overflowing with pure, unadulterated need.

you wanted her just as much, if not more, only you were better at acting, so you didn't let her sense it and take the chance to rip this moment away from you. you knew her, and she'd give her all to try.

your hot, naked bodies pressed together, it had been eons of simple messing around— neither had their sweet release just yet.

you were planning on making this exhilarating for you, while being torturous for the woman underneath you.

her eyes flickered up and down your bare form, eying every curve and valley hungrily, she took in every little detail before bringing her eyes back up to meet yours. “you plan on doing anything? sometime tonight, preferably.” she huffed in exasperation, her low voice gravelly, yet there's the unmistakable trembling only someone who'd give anything to cum possesses. “oh? i'm fine doing this all night, actually. don't rush me.” stern, but sweet, the sound of your voice makes her break eye contact bashfully. you aren't able to stop the smirk that stretches across your lips, and you tighten your grip on her arms—both flesh and mechanical—on either side of her head. sevika's dark hair is disheveled, sprawled across the pale pillow, her toffee skin gleaming with sweat, she looked ethereal. every move you make is slow, calculated, enticing. designed to drive her insane, make her whine and clench around nothing but air—and she does exactly that when she feels your dripping folds make contact with her quivering abs. she squirms below you, taking her bottom lip between her teeth, and closing her eyes as tight as she can, inhaling sharply.

you hadn't even started moving yet, but the wetness, the slick sound, the warmth of you on her skin was driving her over the edge. if so much as a gust of wind kissed her pussy, she'd be crying out and gushing all over the place. unfortunately you were indoors, so she'd have to suffer a little longer.

on your end, the contact is so good. you rock your hips back and forth on her just once, experimentally, but right away the pleasure pools in your abdomen, and you start rutting against her, chasing the mind-numbing feeling.

and sevika? she can't do anything but just gawk at you, observe how you throw your head back in ecstasy, your pretty moans filling the room, along with the obscene slapping sounds of skin against skin. you transition to a circular motion, gyrating your hips against her taut abdomen, soaking every square inch of her, including her happy trail. can't forget that, can we.

at this point, she can barely keep her eyes open, poor thing, so mesmerized by you in all your glory, grinding your hard clit selfishly against her like this, it was almost enough to make her finish just like that. within a fraction of a second.

“b-baby—ah”, words are failing her, her voice high pitched and shaky. her hands find their way to your hips, and she assists you in your mission, the sensation of the cold metal of her mechanical arm sending shocks up your spine.

words have failed you as well, nothing but grunts and whimpers resembling sevika's name falling from your lips. your ruts speed up, no longer following any rhyme or reason, all you can think about is getting to that peak. you're so absorbed in how her muscles feel against your pussy, you are almost brought to the point of forgetting where you were.

rhythmic “ah, hah, ah, ah—” following every thrust, the intensity of the impending orgasm swirling inside you, and she can't help but moan with you, the ache in her drooling core growing more uncomfortable by the moment.

with a cry you're hit with blinding pleasure, all your senses cutting out. you hump against her some more, riding out the high as much as you could before the throes of overstimulation took their hold, and your body was enveloped with waves of relaxation.

you come to, and look down, your eyes meeting those of sev’s, her mouth slightly open, arms limp by her sides, chest heaving up and down as she—and you—register what happened. you climb off of her and fall in an embrace, burying your face in the crook of her neck. the heat of embarrassment and realization spreads throughout the surface of the skin, only you're brought out of it by sevika's sugary voice. she sounds dazed, high as a kite, speaking slowly, “that…was so hot. you're so hot. my turn?”

because this is my first fic for sev, im not gonna tag people but i will add her as an option and put my taglist here anyway ♡

[dakusan]

S K Z   D I C K   A N A L Y S I S

stray kids ot8 x reader | field research, god-tier dick, you won’t walk tomorrow

🖤 synopsis: eight men. sixteen hands. one universal truth: they’re all built different. this isn’t a thirst post. it’s a forensic study. a field report. a soul-snatching gospel of hips, tongues, and the quiet cruelty of a man who knows how to fuck. some of them worship you. some of them destroy you. all of them leave you shaking. welcome to the skz dick analysis. we’re not just rating dick. we’re decoding it.

💌a/n: i don’t even know how we got here. one second i was sipping tea like a sane person, the next i was writing about han jisung crying in your arms post-nut while “That That” by PSY (feat. yoongi, because of course) blasted in the background. filth. absolute filth. but you know what? it’s what they deserve. it’s what we deserve. also if it wasn’t obvious by now — yeah. my favourite colour is red. has been for years. red + black is a whole era. i don’t just want to write skz dick analysis… i want to bleed it in velvet. p.s. reblog this post like it gave you a hickey p.p.s. tag your bias & cry about it in the notes p.p.p.s. give some love to Flavor click the link or don't

⚠️warnings: : 18+ ONLY (MDNI) — explicit sexual language and themes, kink-based character analysis, dom/sub dynamics, degradation, praise, overstimulation, body worship, size kink, oral fixation, possessive behavior, creampie mentions, implied breeding, power imbalance, aftercare, emotional collapse, use of pet names (e.g. "good girl"), choking, mirror play, neck biting, fear of God inserted through dick game, and aggressive levels of brainrot. all fictional, all consensual, and all unhinged.

🎶now playing: "Flavor" – VX

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

BANG CHAN // 방찬

Length: 6.5" – 7", but it’s not the size that breaks you — it’s the command. It’s the way he angles himself just right, drags it out slow at first, then gives you everything when you’re begging prettily.

Thickness: Thick and hefty, the kind that makes you gasp when he slides in. Veins you can trace with your fingers. Warm, weighty, always throbbing against your thigh when he gets needy.

Stroke Game: Rhythmic. Calculated. Insane. He doesn’t just fuck — he directs. One hand pinning your hips, the other on your throat, whispering “Take it like a good girl. You’re doing so well.” Alternates between deep, punishing thrusts and slow, ruinous rolls that leave your legs shaking. You’ll lose count of your orgasms — he won’t.

Cum: Heavy. Warm. Deep. He always finishes inside — slow thrusts, gritted teeth, holding your hips still as he fills you up. Groans in your ear, “Fuck, you take me so well.” The kind that drips out for hours and makes you blush when you shift in your seat the next day. Breeds you like he means it, like it’s a ritual, not a reflex.

Dick Game Verdict: He doesn’t just fuck you — he orchestrates your undoing. With precision. With obsession. With love so filthy it makes you sob. You’ll forget your name. You’ll remember his.

Lee Know // 리노

Length: 6.5" — sleek and sculpted like everything else he owns. Elegant curve, perfect for that spot. His hips do most of the talking. He knows what he’s working with.

Thickness: Just enough to make you stretch and shudder. Not monstrous — but deceptively perfect. Every thrust feels like a calculated violation of your sanity. Fit like a lockpick, not a sledgehammer.

Stroke Game: Deliberate. Cruel. Precise. The kind of man who watches your face while you fall apart and smiles. He’ll edge you with shallow strokes until you’re begging, then snap his hips once and have you seeing stars. Minimal movement, maximum destruction.

Cum: Warm. Coats your insides with slow thrusts and low moans. Doesn’t always finish inside — sometimes he likes to paint your stomach, your thighs, your tongue. But when he does finish in you, he makes you stay full. “Don’t let a drop go to waste.” Then fingers it back in while whispering, “Good girl.”

Dick Game Verdict: Not loud. Not messy. Just lethal. He’ll fuck you like a science. Break you in silence. Leave you so ruined, you’ll flinch when someone says his name. He never rushes. Because he knows — when he’s done? You’ll never look at anyone else the same again.

Changbin // 창빈

Length: 6" — don’t let the number fool you. It’s the girth that has you blacking out mid-thrust. Short king? Try wrecking ball. When he slides in, you feel every inch, every time. You’ll swear it grew mid-session. It didn’t. Your walls are just traumatized.

Thickness: Unholy. We’re talking stretch-your-soul level. You’ll see stars before he even bottoms out. Has that heavy, veiny, “you’re not ready for this” kind of presence. Leaves you breathless, wrecked, and praying for a second round you know you can’t survive.

Stroke Game: Rhythmic. Punishing. Zero brakes. Thrusts like a gym playlist — fast, powerful, relentless. No teasing, no build-up — just impact. You’re folded in half, being pounded like a drumline, choking on your own moans while he’s still breathing steady. “C’mon, baby. You can take it.”

Cum: Heavy. Sticky. Endless. Loves finishing inside — but also loves watching it drip out of you. Will thumb it back in just to see you flinch. Grabs your chin after and says, “What’s wrong, baby? Thought you wanted all of me.” Leaves bruises. Leaves marks. Leaves memory loss.

Dick Game Verdict: He’s not just built. He’s built for destruction. You’ll scream. You’ll tap out. You’ll beg — and he’ll just tilt his head and go, “Already?” Sex with him isn’t just a night. It’s a full-body event. And he’s the headline, main act, and afterparty.

Hyunjin // 현진

Length: 7 – 7.5" — long, elegant, dangerous. The type that makes you gasp when he pushes in slowly, watching your face with hooded eyes like he knew it would hit that deep. Fills you up like he’s been dreaming about it for days.

Thickness: Sleek but firm — a velvet blade. Enough to stretch you, but it’s the depth he reaches that changes you. The curve? Unfair. Like it was sculpted to kiss your g-spot just to hear what you sound like when you lose composure.

Stroke Game: Flowy. Deliberate. Unfathomably deep. He starts slow. One hand gripping your thigh, the other tilted under your chin, lips barely touching yours. Once you’re a whimpering mess? He speeds up just enough to overwhelm you. The hips don’t lie — and they destroy. “Take all of it, baby. I’m not stopping.”

Cum: Slow, hot, emotional. Finishes deep with long strokes, burying himself fully as he breathes your name like a prayer. Moans in your ear while holding your waist tight. Likes to cum inside — watches it drip out with dazed eyes and kisses you between the legs like an apology.

Dick Game Verdict: He doesn’t fuck. He haunts. Every moan is a poem. Every thrust is a love letter sealed with bruises. He’ll make you feel like a canvas and leave your body shaking like he wrote a sonnet with his hips. You’ll walk home sore and smiling. And you’ll want him again immediately.

Han // 한

6" — average but deceptively powerful. It’s not the size that ends you. It’s the way he uses it — every thrust hitting just right because he’s memorized every inch of your body like it’s his favorite song. You’ll forget air exists.

Thickness: Slightly girthy with just the right stretch. Has that perfect snug fit — enough to make you gasp, never too much to tap out early. Just the way he likes it: “I wanna feel all of you squeezing around me.”

Stroke Game: Fast. Desperate. Unhinged. He fucks like he’s trying to get you addicted. Starts off whimpering and soft, then kicks into overdrive when you praise him. Slams into you with frantic rhythm like his soul depends on it. You’re drooling, overstimulated, and he’s still muttering, “One more. Just one more, please.” (Lie. It’s never just one.)

Cum: Hot, fast, everywhere. Finishes with a long, desperate groan — body trembling, fingers digging into your hips. Might cum inside without realizing because he’s too far gone. Or on your chest while panting apologies like “I couldn’t hold it, you were too good.”

Dick Game Verdict: He’s your emotional support slut. Will rail you to pieces and then cry in your arms. Sex with him feels like a confession, a breakdown, and a fireworks show all in one. You don’t just cum — you ascend.

Felix // 필릭스

Length: 6.5" – 7" — smooth and beautiful. Not too much. Not too little. It’s the kind of dick you see once and think about forever. The first thrust always makes your breath hitch — not because of size, but because of how intentional it feels. Like he’s been waiting for this.

Thickness: Just right — sleek and filling. Perfect pressure, perfect stretch, perfect rhythm. You don’t get overwhelmed, you get hooked. Hits that spot and stays there, grinding slow, deep, and steady until you’re breathless.

Stroke Game: Deep. Rhythmic. Lethal. The slow strokes kill you. It’s the way he grinds, chest pressed to yours, whispering soft filth in that low voice — “You’re so pretty like this… all mine.” Will go harder if you ask, but he prefers to fuck you through eye contact and emotional damage. Makes you melt, then makes you moan.

Cum: Warm, slow, and intensely possessive. Finishes with a deep groan and wraps his arms around you instantly. Fills you up and doesn’t pull out — “I wanna stay like this a little longer.” Watches it leak out of you with a dazed look and kisses your trembling thighs.

Dick Game Verdict: He doesn’t just make love — he devours your soul. You’ll cry, you’ll shake, you’ll feel cherished and wrecked. Sex with Felix is like being adored into submission. You’ll never recover — and you’ll never want to.

Seungmin // 승민

Length: 6" — but don’t get comfortable. He doesn’t need to be huge — the control, the angles, the timing is what sends you to the ER. Slides in like he’s done it a thousand times in his head. Because he has. “Told you I’d fit perfectly.”

Thickness: Sleek and dangerous. Just enough to fill you right — just enough to make you squirm. He lives for the moment you exhale and say, “Oh my god…” because he already knew it would feel that good. He's been patient. Calculating. Now you're his problem.

Stroke Game: Controlled. Cruel. Clinical. Each thrust is calculated. Each change in rhythm is intentional. The kind of sex where he grabs your jaw mid-stroke, leans in with a smirk, and says: “You’re so loud. You trying to get caught?” You’ll cry. He’ll coo. And then he’ll go deeper.

Cum: Hot. Possessive. Intentional. Loves cumming inside — and watching it leak. Will plug you up with his fingers and say, “You’re not wasting a drop.” Doesn’t make a sound when he finishes — just a quiet gasp and clenched jaw like he’s in complete control even now.

Dick Game Verdict: He’s a fucking weapon. Not loud. Not flashy. Just precision-based annihilation. He’ll gaslight you into thinking it wasn’t even that intense — while you’re still shaking 30 minutes later. You’ll never win. But you’ll beg to lose again.

I.n // 아이엔

Length: 6.5" — a sleeper hit. You don’t expect it to hit like that… until it does. And then you’re arching, twitching, grabbing sheets with a voice you didn’t know you had. He gives you that deep, shaky breath before sliding in like, “Tell me if it’s too much.” (It is. But you won’t dare say no.)

Thickness: Slim but deadly. Slides in too easily. And that’s the trap. He gets deeper than he should, hits angles that make you shiver, and then stays there. Tilts his hips, watches your eyes roll back, and just smiles. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Stroke Game: Evolving. Dangerous. Addictive. At first, he watches you — every gasp, twitch, stutter. Then one day he finds a rhythm that makes you break and he never lets it go. From then on, it’s deep, slow, purposeful fucking. Holds your hands down. Bites your neck. Makes you beg with a soft whisper: “Louder, baby. Let them hear who owns you.”

Cum: Hot, messy, unexpectedly filthy. Finishes with a choked gasp and a twitchy thrust, still buried inside you, whispering your name. Then collapses on top of you, breathless and shaking. Sometimes asks if he can stay in a little longer. Sometimes goes again while you’re still twitching.

Dick Game Verdict: He is the sweetest weapon you’ll ever encounter. You think it’s cute until your legs are shaking, your brain’s gone, and he’s pulling you in for another round with a soft, dangerous smile. He didn’t ask to break you — but now that he has? He’ll never let anyone else put you back together.

[foxtrology]

calm before the storm (5)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 11.3k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, angst, fluff, smut.

The espresso arrived in delicate porcelain cups with gold rims, served on a tray so elegant it looked stolen from a palace. A curl of lemon peel floated in hers. Harry’s had no lemon, no sugar—just black, bitter, and scalding, like everything else about him.

She stirred slowly, eyes flicking across the candlelit table as the night wound down.

Marcella was reapplying her lipstick with a tiny compact mirror.

Lorenzo was swirling the last of his wine, looking far too smug for someone who hadn’t said more than five words during dessert.

Paolo… was watching her.

Still.

His gaze was lazy and smug, lingering on the exposed curve of her shoulder where her dress dipped low. His smile said too much. His espresso stayed untouched.

She felt Harry shift beside her.

The air around them had been tense ever since Lucy was mentioned—no, dropped like a live grenade mid-meal. And now, every breath was edged. Every movement calculated.

She took a sip of the espresso.

Warm.

Sharp.

Nothing like the chill that had settled between her and Harry since Lorenzo opened his mouth.

Marcella rose first. “A beautiful dinner, as always. I do hope we didn’t scare her away, Harry. We’re just curious by nature.”

Harry stood politely. “I’ve noticed.”

Marcella turned to her. Kissed both cheeks, leaving behind lipstick marks, the scent of expensive perfume clinging like static. “You’re lovely. Don’t let us corrupt you.”

She wanted to scoff. But didn't.

Livia followed, flicking her perfectly toned hair over one shoulder, clearly trying not to show how annoyed she was by the way Paolo had looked at her all night.

“It was… a pleasure,” She said with a tight smile.

“Likewise,” Livia replied, cool.

Then Paolo leaned in.

And it was way too close.

His arms wrapped around her like they’d known each other longer than ninety minutes, like he thought he was owed something soft and flirtatious just for finishing his pasta.

“Stunning,” he whispered, right by her ear. “Absolutely stunning.”

His hands hovered at her waist.

And lingered.

Until Harry’s voice cut in like a whip. “That’s enough.”

Paolo didn’t flinch.

Just smiled. Slow. Smug. Sleazy.

He released her, turning back to Harry with a shrug.

Livia’s jaw ticked. The muscle along her neck pulsed once.

Francesca playfully rolls her eyes when Livia's back is turned.

"Ignore her. Jealous." 

Luca nods at Harry, muttering out a goodbye. Francesca kisses her cheek, whispering ciao before disappearing with her husband.

“Let’s go,” Harry muttered, his hand finding her back—not gentle, not affectionate. Just there.

But before they could walk away, Lorenzo cleared his throat.

“Harry—don’t forget tomorrow. Nine sharp. Contract revisions with Giuliana. She’s flying in.”

Harry’s mouth was a flat line. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

She offered a tight smile to the rest of group she didn't bother to get the names of, stepping back from Harry slightly. Just enough to create distance, but not enough to make a scene.

Danny approached, arms crossed loosely, face unreadable. But as everyone else started peeling off toward their rooms or the private bar tucked into the side of the villa, he leaned in close to her.

Low enough that Harry wouldn’t hear.

“They’re assholes,” Danny whispered. “All of them. Don’t let them make you feel small.”

She blinked.

He glanced back toward the dinner table, then met her gaze again.

“You’re the only real person here.”

Then, louder, “Night, boss. Night, trouble.”

He smiled at her. And left.

The walk back to the room was silent.

Not companionable silence. Not comfortable silence.

Uncomfortable silence.

Her heels clicked sharply against the stone walkway. The air smelled like rosemary and wine, but it was ruined now. Everything felt sharp-edged and unfinished.

Harry’s hand wasn’t on her back anymore.

She hugged her arms around herself, silk dress clinging to her skin, still warm from the evening, now feeling like too much. Like a costume.

He didn’t speak until they were halfway up the stairs.

“You’re quiet.”

She didn’t look at him. “So are you.”

He scoffed. “You’re mad.”

“No,” she said, too quickly. “I’m—” she stopped. “I’m not mad. I’m… processing.”

They reached the room. He opened the door. Held it open for her.

She stepped in.

The villa room was still warm, glowing from the faint amber lights left on by the staff. It smelled like lemons and her perfume and something delicate hanging in the air, still waiting to break.

Harry shut the door behind them.

The tension was immediate.

A rope pulled taut.

She didn’t turn around. Just stared out the open balcony doors, arms crossed, back stiff.

Harry set his watch on the nightstand. “Say it.”

She blinked. “Say what?”

“Whatever it is you’ve been dying to say since dessert.”

She turned now. Slowly.

Her dress shifted with the motion, silk whispering against her thighs.

“You didn’t tell me,” she said quietly.

“Didn’t tell you what?”

She blinked. Really?

“That you were invited to Lucy’s wedding.”

He sighed. Rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

She let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “You didn’t think it mattered?”

“It was just a fucking card. An invite. I didn’t even RSVP.”

“You didn’t tell me,” she repeated, voice rising. “You brought me to Italy and introduced me as your girlfriend in front of those people—people who clearly still talk to your ex—and you didn’t think it would matter?”

“She’s irrelevant.”

“Is she?” Her voice cracked slightly. “Because it didn’t feel that way when everyone at that table kept bringing her up like I was some new accessory you brought to distract from the fact that you haven’t moved on.”

Harry stiffened.

Jaw tight.

“She’s not why you’re here.”

She folded her arms tighter across her chest. “Then why am I here, Harry?”

His eyes darkened.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You brought me to Italy. To this villa. To that dinner. And you made a scene every time someone looked at me too long—”

“I didn’t make a scene.”

“You glared at Paolo like you wanted to set him on fire.”

“The way he touched you.”

She laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “You’re unbelievable.”

He moved closer, slow and predatory. “You’re upset because I didn’t tell you about the invitation?”

“I’m upset because I don’t know what I am to you, and tonight it felt like you brought me here just to show me off.”

He flinched. It was subtle. But it was real.

“I didn’t bring you here for them.”

“No?” she whispered. “Then why now? Why Italy? Why introduce me like I’m your girlfriend and then not tell me the one thing that could change the entire context of this trip?”

Harry looked away.

And that was worse than yelling.

It was silence again.

Cold. Strategic. Familiar.

She hated it.

“I’m not her,” she said, quieter now. “I’m not Lucy.”

He didn’t respond.

She stepped back.

“I don’t want to be part of some rebound performance for your colleagues. I don’t want to be the girl you use to prove something.”

“You think that’s what this is?”

“I don’t know what this is,” she snapped. “Because you don’t talk about it. You just show up. You just do. You make tea and buy groceries and show up in the rain and give me keys and whisper things when we’re in bed and none of it makes sense.”

His voice dropped. “It makes sense to me.”

“Well, it doesn’t to me.”

She didn’t mean to cry.

But the tears came anyway—furious and humiliated and hot against her cheeks.

And Harry just stood there.

Not moving.

Not speaking.

Not reaching for her.

And that—

That broke something.

She turned toward the door.

He didn’t stop her. Didn’t say her name. Didn’t chase her.

So she walked out. Into the villa hallway. Barefoot.

Wearing that stupid silk dress that now felt like a costume for someone she didn’t recognize.

And Harry?

Harry stood in the quiet aftermath.

Watching the door. And saying nothing.

Just like always.

That’s what echoed in her head after the door clicked shut behind her—just like always.

It followed her down the hallway, a shadow of a thought that curled into the folds of her dress, into the crook of her neck, into the hollowness that lived behind her ribs.

Outside, the air smelled like something ancient.

Not perfume. Not wine.

Stone.

Wet stone, cracked and sun-warmed, steeped in centuries of candle smoke and blood and rain.

The kind of smell you didn’t get in America.

The kind of smell that told you, you were far from home.

She walked without a purpose.

The path outside the villa was dimly lit, bathed in the low flicker of lanterns strung between olive trees. The gravel hurt her feet—of course it did—but she didn’t turn back for shoes.

Didn’t care.

It was almost satisfying, the tiny stabs against her soles. Something real. Something sharp. Her dress clung to her thighs, catching on her knees with each step. It whispered as she moved. Almost pleading.

She passed the vineyard, now just a silhouette of stalks and wire. The grapes had been picked already, nothing but the memory of harvest clinging to the air.

The road bent to the left. She followed.

She walked until she didn’t know where she was.

Until the villa was gone behind her.

Until the only thing she could hear was the sound of her breath and the soft crunch of gravel.

She wished she had brought her coat.

She wished she’d screamed at Harry.

She wished she’d stayed quiet.

Most of all, she wished she was home.

Not New York. Home.

Her shitty little apartment. Her corner of chaos. Her socks with holes and half-made puzzles. Her books stacked like fire hazards. Her stupid crooked lamp and the incense she lit when she couldn’t sleep.

And Frances.

God, Frances.

She would’ve followed her into the bathroom. Sat on the sink while she washed her face. Meowed like a tiny judge if she cried.

Now there was nothing.

Just an old road in a country that didn’t belong to her.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. The screen lit up.

12%

A panic rose. Brief and strange.

It wasn’t just battery. It was proof of connection. A lifeline. A thread.

And when she saw Maya’s name in her favorites, she pressed it without thinking.

She didn’t even know what time it was back home.

Didn’t care.

The phone rang twice.

And then—

“Dude,” Maya said, voice groggy, “It’s like five a.m.—”

“I’m sorry,” she said, so quickly it came out cracked. “I just—I just needed to hear your voice.”

Maya paused.

Then sat up. She could hear the rustle of sheets.

“Oh no,” Maya murmured. “What happened.”

“I left.”

“What?”

“I left the room. I’m—I’m outside. I don’t even know where I am.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No.”

“Are you safe?”

“I think so.”

Another pause.

Then Maya exhaled slowly, her voice softer. “What happened.”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “It was supposed to be this beautiful, perfect thing. And it was. It was, for like, five minutes. And then it all cracked. It just—cracked. And now I’m here. Barefoot. And I just want to be in my bed. With my cat. I want Frances sitting on my stomach while I try to sleep.”

Maya let her talk.

Didn’t interrupt.

She sniffled. “I feel so fucking stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

“I thought he brought me here because he wanted me here. And now I feel like—I don’t know. Like I’m a prop. Like I’m some beautiful thing he found and polished and put on a plane to prove something.”

“Did he say that?”

“No.”

“Did he make you feel that?”

“Yes.”

A breath passed on the line.

“Then fuck him,” Maya said, calm and certain.

She laughed through her tears.

“He’s just a guy, babe,” Maya said, her voice warmer now. “A guy with a nice face and a big wallet and apparently zero communication skills. But you? You’re you. You were whole before him.”

“I don’t feel whole.”

“You’re just cracked at the edges right now. That’s temporary.”

She said nothing.

Maya added gently, “And also, Frances misses you. She sat on your hoodie and refused to move for three hours.”

That made her laugh again.

“God, I’m so tired,” she whispered.

“Then come home.”

She blinked into the night.

“I don’t think I can.”

“Then stay. But make it worth it. Don’t mope in a five-star villa.”

“I’m not in the villa.”

“Where the hell are you?”

She looked around.

Then up.

Stars. So many of them. Not like New York. They looked like spilled sugar.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, find someone who looks like they know where they are and ask them to take you to wine.”

“I’m not wearing shoes.”

“Classic.”

Another beat.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“I’ll keep my phone on.”

She nodded, though Maya couldn’t see her.

“Love you,” she added.

“Love you too. And hey—fuck him.”

The call ended.

6%

She slipped the phone back into her dress pocket and exhaled, long and shaky.

And then—

A voice behind her.

“Excuse me?”

She turned, startled.

A girl stood a few feet back. Early twenties, maybe. Italian. Short hair, dark curls clipped back loosely, face flushed with wine.

She was holding a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of something in the other.

“You okay?” the girl asked, English accented but clear.

She blinked.

Nodded too quickly.

The girl tilted her head. “You look sad. And barefoot.”

“I’m fine,” she said, but her voice cracked.

The girl didn’t move.

Didn’t leave.

Instead, she smiled softly. “We’re having drinks. Me and my friends. You should come.”

“I’m not wearing shoes.”

The girl looked down. Then smiled again—this time wider, open.

Without a word, she stepped out of her sandals and handed them over.

“They’re a little big,” she said. “But they’ll get you there.”

She stared at the sandals.

Then at the girl.

Then back at the sandals.

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Chiara,” the girl said. “Now come. Before the bottle runs out.”

And without thinking, without hesitating, without asking who the friends were or where the drinks were or what kind of night this would turn into—

She slid her feet into Chiara’s sandals. And followed her into the dark.

Into something that was not Harry.

Not heartbreak. Not home.

But something. And sometimes?

That was enough.

For now, at least.

Chiara led her through narrow, winding cobblestone alleys that opened like secrets into wider roads.

The buildings were the color of peaches and faded terracotta, windows shuttered, vines trailing down from balconies. The air was warm even at this hour, kissed by the day’s sun, soft with the hum of nightlife.

She could hear music before she saw it—something pulsing and golden in the distance. A rhythm built from laughter and basslines and clinking bottles. It wasn’t a club. Not here. It was something older.

Wilder.

More communal. Like the heartbeat of a town that refused to sleep.

The street opened onto a wide stone courtyard surrounded by low houses and lanterns strung in crooked lines between olive trees and window hooks. Someone had dragged out folding tables and plastic chairs. Children ran barefoot. Older women in cotton dresses danced slowly near the center. Men clinked glasses. Twentysomethings passed along cigarettes.

Everyone looked like they belonged.

And there, on a makeshift stage cobbled from old crates and a rug, a small local band played with chaotic joy. The guitarist was in his sixties, sunglasses on, nodding along as the singer belted out Heart of Glass in a thick accent, missing half the words but not a single beat.

Chiara turned to her with a grin. “See? Worth it.”

She smiled back, dizzy with the scent of grilled meat and overripe lemons. The sandals were too big, but they kept her grounded. The silk dress fluttered around her knees. Her hair was a mess. Her mascara probably gone. And she looked exactly like someone who had been crying.

And still—

For the first time all day, she didn’t care.

Chiara handed her a glass of something cold and pale.

“Try,” she said.

She did.

Wine. Sharp and dry, with a citrus aftertaste that bloomed on her tongue like summer. It made her eyes water in the best way.

They didn’t go to the center of the party at first. Chiara weaved through groups, greeting everyone like a favorite daughter. Everyone smiled when they saw her. Kissed her cheek. Clapped her shoulder. Called her name.

And then—Chiara turned, placed a hand on her arm, and said, “You should meet a few people.”

And she did.

She was led to a long table tucked beneath a tree strung with fairy lights. Four older locals sat there already—men and women with weathered hands and soft laughter. One wore a scarf around her hair and had a cigarette burning in an ashtray shaped like a tomato.

They didn’t ask questions. Didn’t try to fix her. They just pulled out a chair. Made room.

Set a plate in front of her with bread and soft cheese and figs.

The woman with the scarf poured her another glass of wine. “Bella. Mangia.”

She did. And for a while, she just watched.

She watched a teenage girl dance with her grandfather, both of them barefoot, both of them smiling like nothing had ever gone wrong in the world.

She watched Chiara spin with a boy in a leather jacket, laughing like a movie scene.

She watched people clink glasses and hold hands and sing even if they didn’t know the lyrics.

The way the light caught on olive oil skin, on soft teeth, on silver bangles.

The way everything moved in circles.

Like life was a loop of love and forgetting.

She didn’t look at her phone.

Didn’t think about Harry. Didn’t allow herself to.

Not yet.

Chiara returned with a new plate of something fried and a boy trailing behind her. Tall. Tanned. Tousled curls. A soft jaw and a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off.

“This is Nico,” Chiara said with a wink. “He is nice.”

Nico smiled at her shyly. “Ciao.”

“Hi,” she murmured.

He sat beside her.

Didn’t touch her. Didn’t push.

Just started talking.

His English was halting but eager. He was from the next town over. Studied architecture. Played piano. Wanted to move to Berlin one day but hated the cold. His favorite American movie was Kill Bill. His favorite band was The Strokes. His mother made the best limoncello in the province. He had a cat named Pesto which his little brother named.

She smiled. Asked questions. Laughed.

He made her forget, for a few minutes, that her chest was full of broken glass.

When the music slowed and a new song began by Fleetwood Mac, softer now, melodic—Nico offered his hand.

She hesitated.

Then stood. They walked to the edge of the courtyard.

He didn’t pull her in close. Just kept a polite distance, hands barely touching her waist, eyes downcast, respectful. He danced like someone who wasn’t trying to impress her. Just trying to make the moment stretch.

And she let herself sway.

For a while.

Until something shifted.

Until he looked at her and his fingers brushed the bare skin at her hip and her whole body stiffened—

Not because she was afraid.

But because she couldn’t.

Wouldn’t. Not to Harry.

Even after everything.

Even after the silence and the lies and the way he just let her walk out like she was nothing.

She couldn’t be the one to do something cruel.

She pulled back gently.

Nico stepped away immediately. “I’m sorry—did I—?”

She shook her head. “No. No, it’s not you.”

He nodded once. “Is it someone else?”

She nodded again. “Yes.”

His mouth curved in a sad smile.

“Then he is lucky,” he said softly.

She blinked. Swallowed.

“Thank you,” she said. “For dancing with me.”

“Of course,” he murmured. “Even girls like you deserve to dance.”

She smiled. A real one.

He kissed her hand. Briefly. 

Then he walked away. she didn’t follow. Didn’t sit down.

Just stood there as the song changed again—Call Me this time, the band getting rowdier, the tempo rising.

And she laughed. Out loud.

Because it was absurd. Because she was barefoot in borrowed sandals in a foreign town, dancing to Blondie with strangers under stars that didn’t belong to her.

Because the world hadn’t ended. Not yet.

Chiara reappeared, cheeks flushed, hair wild. “You okay?”

“I think I am.”

Chiara beamed. “Good. You stay until the last bottle. That’s the rule.”

She nodded.

And she did.

She stayed through four more songs, four more drinks, two more strangers who told her she had kind eyes.

She stayed until her dress clung to her knees and her feet were dirty and her phone was down to 3% and her laughter felt like it belonged to someone new.

Harry had stopped pacing only to check the time.

10:52 PM.

Then again.

11:14.

11:37.

11:58.

12:17.

And every time, the numbers made less and less sense, like they were mocking him. He’d checked his phone so many times he couldn’t remember if he’d texted her once or ten times. He hadn’t called, though—not yet.

The first hour, he was sure she’d be back.

She just needed air.

That’s what people say when they need to cool off, right?

Get space.

Take a breath. She was always walking off somewhere when she needed to process—he remembered her telling him that once, offhand, like it was no big deal.

"I just walk. It helps me think. Helps me not freak out."

So he waited.

Like an idiot.

Let her walk out in a silk dress with nothing on her feet and a thousand emotions clawing at her throat and said nothing.He hadn’t even moved.

He hated that version of himself. Hated the silence. Hated how familiar it had become, how easy it was to fall into that old defense mechanism of shutting down before things could get worse. That’s what he did with Lucy. That’s what he did with everyone.

But she wasn’t Lucy.

God, she wasn’t Lucy.

And he had wanted to tell her that tonight. Had planned to. Right after dessert. Right after Lorenzo made that comment about the invitation. Right after Paolo looked at her like she was something edible and Harry had nearly ripped his throat out with a butter knife.

Instead?

She asked why she was here.

And he didn’t have the courage to answer the way he wanted to.

"Because you’re the only person who makes the rest of it feel quiet."

But it was too late now. She hadn’t texted back.

His last message sat there like a ghost,

Old man Harry ❤️👴: Where are you? Please. Just tell me you’re okay.

He sat with that for five minutes. Then stood. Paced again. Kicked the edge of the nightstand by accident and cursed. Then noticed something on the floor near her suitcase.

Her sandals.

The flat ones she packed at the last second because she hated the way heels made her feet ache when they walked too long. She almost didn’t bring them. He remembered teasing her about overpacking. She’d rolled her eyes and stuffed them in anyway.

He picked them up.

Turned them over in his hands like they might tell him something. Then he grabbed his coat for her.

Left the room.

The hallway was too quiet. Like the villa itself had exhaled and gone still. He made it to the main staircase before spotting one of the employees—a young guy, maybe twenty, sweeping flower petals off the marble.

Harry didn’t even hesitate. “Did you see a woman leave earlier? Silk dress. Barefoot.”

The guy blinked. “Ah, yes. Yes. I think she went toward the town. A girl was with her. Dark hair. They were laughing.”

Harry’s stomach dropped.

The town.

Jesus Christ.

She was barefoot in a foreign town at midnight wearing something that belonged on a fucking Vogue cover and she didn’t have a goddamn jacket and—fuck.

He nodded tightly. “Thanks.”

And then he walked.

Not drove.

Walked.

He didn’t want the barrier of a car. Didn’t want anything between them when he found her—because he would find her. He had to.

And he’d do it holding her sandals like a goddamn fool, because if she needed them, he’d be ready.

The gravel gave way to the road. The olive trees faded behind him. The lanterns thinned. The cobblestones began. He followed the noise.

He knew this kind of sound. Not the sound of a bar or a club—but community.Music. Voices. Bottles clinking. Old songs sung out of tune. A courtyard party. Some kind of celebration.

And when he turned the corner, it was like walking into another century.

The stone square was alive with light and movement. Paper lanterns, wine bottles, music bleeding from a band tucked under string lights. Kids dancing. Grandmothers smoking. Tourists. Locals. Some combination of both.

And there—God.

There she was.

At a table tucked beneath a tree.

Laughing. Barefoot.

Wearing the silk dress he loved so much, with her legs tucked under her like she’d been there for hours, a half-eaten peach in her hand, juice dripping down her wrist. An older woman sat beside her, talking with big hand gestures, and she nodded along, eyes bright, like she understood every word.

Harry didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

She looked radiant.

She also looked...not sober.

And he should’ve been mad. He should’ve stormed across the courtyard and demanded to know what the hell she was thinking. But the moment he saw her—truly saw her—his anger dissolved.

Because she wasn’t being reckless.

She was surviving.

In the only way she knew how.

He approached slowly. Not wanting to scare her.

The older woman saw him first. Gave him a sharp look, one that said, don’t you ruin this for her. And then she leaned over and said something to her in Italian. She turned her head.

And saw him.

Her eyes went wide. But she didn’t smile.

Didn’t move.

Just looked at him like she wasn’t sure if he was real.

“Hey,” he said softly.

She blinked. “Harry.”

“You left your shoes.”

She looked down at his hands.

And then—God, then—she laughed. Just a little. Just enough to break something in him.

“You came all this way to bring me shoes?”

“I came to find you,” he said. “The shoes are just...part of the deal.”

She swallowed.

The older woman stood and patted her shoulder. Then her cheek. Then kissed her forehead like she was her own granddaughter and walked away into the party.

Harry sat down beside her.

Set the sandals on the ground.

She didn’t put them on.

Instead, she looked at the peach in her hand.

Then up at the sky.

“I met a girl named Chiara,” she said. “She gave me shoes. Then gave me wine. And then took me here.”

He nodded.

“I was worried.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

He nodded again.

Her voice was slower now. Tipsy. Not slurring, but looser than usual.

“I called Maya,” she added.

“I figured.”

“She told me to stay. Make it worth it. Not mope in a five-star villa.”

A beat.

“Were you moaning about me in Italian to strangers?”

“Only a little.”

He smiled, finally. “That’s fair.”

Another beat. She looked at him then.

And her expression cracked, just a little.

“I didn’t mean to leave like that.”

“I didn’t mean to let you.”

She closed her eyes.

Harry reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a napkin. Reached forward. Wiped the peach juice gently from her wrist. She didn’t pull away.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he said.

“I know.”

“I thought maybe you were coming back. The first hour. I thought you were just—walking it off.”

“I was.”

He exhaled.

“I didn’t know how to fight with you,” she said. “This was our first one.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t like it.”

“I hated it.”

She looked at him again. “I thought you were going to yell.”

“I don’t want to be that guy.”

“I didn’t want to be the girl who runs.”

“And yet.”

She smiled, tired. “And yet.”

A pause.

Harry leaned back in the chair, watching her like he didn’t know whether to kiss her or hold her or just sit there until the sun came up.

“I should’ve told you about the invitation,” he said finally. “I didn’t because I didn’t want it to take up space in this. In us. But I should’ve known it would.”

She said nothing.

He tried again.

“I didn’t come here with you to prove anything. I came here because I wanted to wake up next to you in this place. I wanted to see you eat peaches and drink wine and wear that fucking dress and let me love you.”

She flinched slightly.

“You could've told me that,” she said quietly.

“I know.”

He looked down at her bare feet.

“I brought your sandals and my coat in case you got cold,” he added. “I didn’t want you walking back on the road with nothing.”

“You remembered I packed them.”

“I remember everything.”

She pressed her hands to her face. “God, I’m a mess.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“I’m wine-stained and peach-dripping and probably sticky.”

“You’re beautiful.”

She dropped her hands.

Met his eyes.

And for the first time all night, he saw the pain underneath.

“You let me walk away.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

“I didn’t think I could.”

“Well,” she said, voice cracking, “you could’ve tried.”

That was what broke him.

He leaned forward.

And gently, slowly, reached for her.

One hand on her thigh, steady. One hand on her jaw.

“I’m trying now.”

She looked up.

And when he kissed her, it wasn’t desperate.

It wasn’t apologetic. It was real. Soft. Unshaken. Earnest.

When they finally pulled apart, she touched her forehead to his.

“Take me back,” she whispered.

He smiled. “Villa?”

She nodded her head. “Please.”

He nodded.

And helped her to her feet.

She didn’t put on the sandals right away. So he bent down. And slipped them on for her. One foot. Then the other.

She looked at him like she couldn’t believe he was real. And maybe, finally, he felt real too.

He wrapped his coat around her shoulders. Tucked her against his side.

She gave Chiara back the shoes just as they were reaching the edge of the courtyard.

"Thank you," she murmured, her voice thick with wine and gratitude.

Chiara waved her off like it was nothing, grinning. “Don’t thank me. You needed them more than I did.”

They stood there for a beat—Chiara’s cheeks flushed, her sandals dangling in one hand, the air around them scented with smoke and lemon zest and melted sugar.

Then, Chiara turned to Harry.

Her eyes flicked up and down, assessing him the way only someone deeply unfazed by power could. “You’re the boyfriend?”

Harry blinked. “I—”

“Yes,” she said quickly, cutting him off. Her voice was sleepy but certain. Like it wasn’t even a question. Like she already knew the answer.

Harry turned to look at her.

And then back at Chiara.

Chiara smirked, eyebrows lifting with mischief. “My family is having a dinner tomorrow. It’s for the town. You should come. Both of you.”

“Dinner?” she asked, dazed, adjusting the coat around her shoulders. “Like... family dinner?”

“Like long tables, cheap wine, too many cousins, lots of pasta. Real dinner,” Chiara said. “Everyone’s invited. But you’ll be my favorite guests.”

She hesitated.

Harry didn’t say anything.

And then Chiara added, almost in a sing-song whisper, “Boyfriends are allowed.”

That made her laugh.

A soft, surprised sound that bubbled out before she could stop it.

She looked up at Harry.

Hair messy. Eyes tired. Mouth pink and smudged. Wrapped in his coat like it had always belonged to her.

He looked at her like he was still catching his breath.

She turned back to Chiara. “We’ll come.”

Harry still didn’t speak.

He just nodded once.

And the way he looked at her—like her saying yes was the only thing that mattered—was its own kind of vow.

He’d do whatever she told him to.

The walk back to the villa was slower this time.

She was quiet now, the kind of quiet that only came when the world had finally stopped spinning. Her shoulder pressed into his side as they walked. Every few steps, she stumbled slightly—nothing dramatic, just enough for him to catch her waist and steady her.

“You alright?” he murmured once, voice low in the hush of the road.

She nodded into his shoulder. “Mhm. I’m just…falling in love with you.”

Harry swallowed.

He wrapped an arm around her tighter.

By the time they reached the villa gates, most of the staff had gone. The courtyard was quiet, the lanterns dimmed to a low, amber flicker.

But one worker—a young man in pressed linen, eyes wide the moment he spotted Harry—stood frozen near the entrance, stacking empty glassware into a crate.

Harry didn’t break stride.

He glanced once in the man’s direction. “Water and crackers to our room. Now.”

The man paled. “Yes, Mr. Castillo. Right away.”

She didn’t say anything.

But she looked up at him.

“You didn’t even ask,” she whispered, scoffing.

“You’ve been drinking. You’ll wake up with a headache.”

“Harry.”

He didn’t look at her. “Don’t argue. You’re not going to win.”

She smiled. Sleepy. Touched.

“I wasn’t going to argue,” she murmured. “It’s… nice.”

He said nothing.

But his fingers flexed at her waist.

As if holding her tighter was the only way to respond.

Back in the room, the air was warm again.

The balcony doors had been closed by the staff, but the faint smell of night drifted in anyway—lavender and stone.

He helped her out of the coat.

Set it carefully over the back of the velvet chair.

She didn’t say anything. Just stood there in the middle of the room, blinking at the floor like her body had finally remembered it was tired.

“You want to shower?” he asked, gently now.

She nodded. “I feel sticky.”

“Alright.”

He stepped into the bathroom. Turned the water on. The steam started to rise immediately. When he returned, she was standing exactly where he left her.

Still in the dress. Still barefoot. Her hands limp at her sides.

“C’mere,” he said softly.

She did.

He pulled her in slowly.

Guided the silk down with careful fingers. The fabric slid off her shoulders, pooled at her waist, then fell to the floor in one elegant sigh.

She stepped out of it.

Now just in her underwear. Still quiet. Still soft.

He kissed her shoulder. Just once.

Then reached for the towel.

She followed him into the bathroom like she was moving through water. The steam curled around her ankles.

She shivered once. He noticed.

The water was warm now.

Gentle.

He let it run first. Down her back. Her spine. The delicate curve of her hip.

She didn’t speak. She just stood there.

He reached for the soft cloth the villa had left.

Soaked it. Added soap—vanilla-scented, already faintly familiar. And then—he bathed her.

Not rushed. Not sexual. Just intimate.

His hands moved slow, reverent, washing her shoulders, her arms, her back. He knelt down to scrub her calves, careful not to press too hard. His palms circled over her skin like she was something ancient he didn’t want to break.

When he reached her forearm, he froze.

Barely noticeable.

A flicker of ink.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

There, just inside her left elbow—so faint he almost missed it—was a tiny tattoo.

A letter.

T.

Just a small, quiet T.

Harry’s throat tightened.

But he didn’t ask.

He just finished washing her arm with the same gentle touch, eyes moving on, heart slightly heavier than before.

She didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did.

But she didn’t say anything either.

Once she was clean, he wrapped her in a towel. Pressed a kiss to her temple.

Carried her out of the steam like she weighed nothing.

He dried her carefully, patting down her legs, her collarbone, her stomach. He found a fresh shirt in the drawer—his, oversized, white, worn soft at the edges. He slipped it over her head since it was already buttoned.

Her hair was still damp.

He knelt to towel it gently, fingers combing through the strands until they no longer dripped.

She watched him do it.

Eyes half-closed.

“You’re very good at this,” she murmured.

“Good at what?”

“Loving me.”

Harry didn’t speak.

Just brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

And kissed her—soft, long, like a whisper.

He helped her into bed. Propped the pillows. Tucked the blankets around her like she was something precious.

Then brought over the glass of water and plate of crackers the staff had delivered while they bathed.

She nibbled one. Took a sip.

Then collapsed back into the pillows.

He undressed quickly—just his shirt and slacks. Left on his briefs. Climbed in beside her.

She shifted automatically. Turned. Pressed her body into his side.

Her leg hooked over his. Her arm wrapped across his chest. Her breath slowed.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“For coming to find me.”

He kissed her forehead. “Always.”

He didn't bring up the tattoo. Not yet.

They didn’t talk about tomorrow or what's to come. Not yet. 

They didn’t talk about anything. They just breathed.

And slept.

And healed.

And in the morning—Italy would still be there.

So would peaches. And pasta. And a dinner table strung with lights.

But for now—

It was just them.

In a room that smelled like lemons and warm stone.

Wrapped in each other.

Wrapped in the kind of silence that finally felt safe.

Morning came like it was trying not to wake them.

The room was amber with early light, seeping through the curtains in soft, sleepy stripes. Somewhere outside, birds were chirping. A breeze moved through the barely cracked balcony door, brushing the linen curtains like a lullaby. The whole villa felt hushed, like it knew.

It was 8:02.

Harry was already awake.

He laid still beside her for a while, eyes open, body warm under the weight of her leg still tangled around his. Her breath hitched faintly as she dreamed. The collar of his shirt—still on her, buttons halfway undone—had slipped off one shoulder, revealing the smooth curve of skin he’d kissed hours earlier. One arm was splayed above her head on the pillow, the other tucked beneath his own.

She looked like a painting.

And for a moment, Harry just watched.

Tried to memorize her like this. Sleepy. Safe. Still here.

But work waited.

So he moved carefully, untangling his limbs from hers like she was glass. She stirred only once, face nuzzling deeper into the pillow, hand curling slightly into the sheets like she could sense his absence and wanted to hold on to something.

He kissed the top of her head.

Then slipped into the bathroom.

The water was cold at first. Harry didn’t mind.

He turned it hotter as he moved, running his hands over his face, under his jaw, through his hair. The steam clung to the mirror and his skin alike, fogging everything. He leaned both hands on the tile at one point and let the water pound against his neck.

It cleared his head, but not enough. He couldn’t stop thinking about the night before.

About her walking barefoot into a foreign town because he’d shut down when she needed him most.

About the way her voice cracked when she said you let me walk away.

About the tiny tattoo on her arm—T, barely there. So small you’d miss it unless you were right next to her. Unless you were bathing her.

And now?

Now she was asleep in his bed like none of that had happened.

Like she trusted him again.

Like he hadn’t ruined everything and somehow still got to keep her.

It was a kind of grace he didn’t think he’d earned.

He stepped out of the shower twenty minutes later, water dripping down his chest, towel slung low on his hips. His hair curled in wet waves. He padded barefoot into the bedroom and dressed quickly—black slacks, a crisp white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, two buttons undone. Watch on. Shoes polished. Silver chain on.

She still hadn’t moved.

He sat beside her on the bed. Bent low. Ran his finger gently up and down her cheek.

Her face twitched slightly. Eyelashes fluttered.

"Shh," he whispered, brushing her hair back from her temple. "Don’t wake up yet.”

She half-opened her eyes—barely.

He smiled, close to her ear now. “Sleep. I’ll be gone a few hours. Stay in bed. Don’t go anywhere.”

She made a sound in her throat—something like a hum of protest.

Harry chuckled under his breath, then pressed his lips to her temple.

“I’ll bring you something sweet,” he whispered.

She nodded without opening her eyes. He waited just a second longer—then left.

The door clicked shut. And the room was quiet again.

She woke twenty minutes later.

The sheets were tangled around her legs, the pillow smelled like him, and her entire body ached in that slow, heady way that meant she’d actually rested. She blinked against the sunlight and rolled onto her back, groaning faintly.

It was too quiet.

Harry was gone.

She reached for her phone. Then realized it was across the room—battery still dead. She decided to leave it there.

Instead, she pushed back the blankets and padded barefoot into the bathroom. The tile was warm from the sun. She found a silver bowl on the counter, filled it with cold water, and dipped her hands in. The chill snapped her out of the morning haze. She dabbed her face, then dragged wet fingers across the back of her neck.

Afterward, she dressed slowly.

A soft cotton tank top, half-tucked. Loose trousers that hit her ankle. A thin cardigan she’d almost left in New York. Her hair went up in a loose bun with a clip she’d stolen from Maya’s drawer months ago.

Still barefoot, she padded back into the room and scribbled a quick note on villa's stationery—

Back soon. Don’t panic.

Then she plugged her phone—leaving it charging on the nightstand.

The villa was already humming by the time she stepped into the hallway.

She passed a few staff members carrying trays and linens, all of whom startled slightly when they saw her. Gave tight nods. Quick, deferential greetings.

One man even bumped into a flower vase as he tried to walk and bow his head at the same time.

It was weird. And sort of funny.

Apparently, being Harry Castillo’s girlfriend meant even your morning stroll inspired a mild wave of panic.

She rounded a corner—and there she was.

Francesca. From dinner.

Slender, sharp-eyed, hair pulled behind her ears, long dress with thin straps and a vintage scarf tossed over her shoulders like armor. She held a book in one hand and an espresso in the other, leaning casually against a column in the sun.

“Francesca, hi” she says.

Francesca looked up. Grinned.

“Well, well. She rises.”

She laughed. “Didn’t expect to see you up.”

“I didn’t go to bed.”

“Oh?”

Francesca held up the book. The Secret History. Pages dog-eared, spine cracked, annotated within an inch of its life.

“Started rereading at midnight. Got to the murder again by sunrise. Can’t stop now.”

They fell into step together without speaking.

Walked through the garden, past the edge of the pool, toward the gravel path that led down into the town.

Francesca sipped her espresso.

“You hungry?” she asked.

“A little.”

“There’s a place.”

“A place?”

Francesca smiled. “Where they don’t care if you’re underdressed. They don’t care who your boyfriend is. They only care if you eat.”

That was enough.

She followed her down the winding path.

The town appeared slowly—first rooftops, then chimneys, then the low hum of traffic and laughter. Morning energy pulsed beneath it all. A few locals bustled through the square. Bread vendors called out from carts. Children ran with gelato already staining their fingers.

Francesca led her down a narrow side street.

Past closed shutters and old stone fountains.

They turned into a tiny café with vines crawling up the side of the building. There was no menu. No sign. Just four tables, all mismatched, and the smell of garlic already floating from the back.

An old woman came out with two mismatched mugs and a basket of bread.

Francesca handed her the book.

The woman took it without a word.

“They trade novels,” Francesca explained. “She hates Kindles.”

They sat.

No one stared at them. No one whispered. No one cared.

It was perfect.

They talked. Not about Harry. Not about the dinner.

They talked about books. About unreliable narrators. About Marguerite Duras and poetry that tasted like metal. About Sylvia Plath’s letters and whether or not Donna Tartt would ever write another book.

They lingered. Coffee turned to tomato toast. Toast turned to pastries. Pastries turned into wine even though it wasn’t even ten yet.

And at one point, Francesca reached into her bag and pulled out a little polaroid camera.

“Smile,” she said.

She blinked. “Why?”

“Because you are gorgeous. And that’s worth capturing.”

The camera clicked. She didn’t smile. But her eyes were soft. And that was enough. For now.

Meanwhile across town—

In the velvet backroom of one of the most exclusive restaurants in Florence, the air was thick with espresso, cigarette smoke, and the kind of tension that clung to cufflinks. The room was dim and windowless, paneled in dark wood, framed by heavy crimson curtains, and lit by a single crystal chandelier that hung too low and sparkled like a threat.

Harry sat at the head of the table.

He wasn’t speaking.

He didn’t need to. People rarely spoke first when he was in the room.

Lorenzo was swirling his double espresso like it was a Negroni. His Rolex caught the light every time he flicked his wrist.

Paolo was leaning far too close to the waitress, his fingers brushing her tray every time she approached, voice oily with charm as he mispronounced grazie on purpose to make her laugh.

She didn’t.

Luca looked like he wanted to disappear.

And Danny? Danny was sweating.

Not visibly—yet. But his collar was too stiff, his shoulders too rigid, his jaw too tight. He kept sipping water like it might help, but the glass never emptied, and he hadn’t made eye contact with Harry since they sat down.

Harry noticed. Of course he did.

He noticed everything.

He sat still in his chair, one ankle resting across his knee, a finger tapping once every few seconds on the armrest. His blazer hung off the back of his chair. His shirt was crisp, unbuttoned at the throat, and the light caught the sliver of silver chain just below his collarbone. His hair was damp from the morning shower. He looked composed.

But his jaw hadn’t unclenched since Giuliana walked in.

She was seated across from him, all sharp cheekbones and smooth efficiency, her tablet glowing on the linen tablecloth. Everything about her was glassy, manicured, calculated.

"These are the revisions," she said flatly, turning the tablet to Harry. “Standard margin adjustments. Expanded options for the additional properties. And a clause we’d like to include about exclusivity with vendors.”

Harry barely glanced at the screen.

“Exclusivity how?”

Giuliana smiled thinly. “You can read the fine print later.”

“I'll read it now.”

Across the table, Paolo stifled a laugh and took a drag from his cigarette.

Giuliana didn’t flinch. “Of course.”

Harry leaned forward, scanned the clause once, then again. His jaw moved slightly. “No.”

“No?” Giuliana echoed, arching a brow.

“You want control over my vendor list without adjusting the revenue share?”

“That’s the proposal.”

“Then it’s a dead one.”

Silence.

Even Paolo shut up.

Luca exhaled quietly, grateful for the pause in verbal combat. He’d taken to chewing the inside of his cheek and staring at the antique mirror behind Giuliana like it might teleport him home.

Giuliana didn’t argue. Not yet.

She just tapped a new page on her tablet. “Then we can revert. But don’t be surprised if the board follows up with a counter.”

“They can send what they like,” Harry said, voice even. “Doesn’t mean I’ll sign it.”

He sat back. Calm. Steady.

But his eyes flicked—just once—to Danny.

Still quiet. Still tense. Still refusing to look up from his notepad.

Harry’s gaze lingered a little too long.

Danny cleared his throat. “We can loop back on the exclusivity clause during the second round of review. After—uh—after the revisions from finance are incorporated.”

Giuliana gave a tight nod. “Fine.”

Paolo made a noise in his throat, leaned back in his chair, and said to the waitress as she returned, “Due moretti, bella, grazie. Unless you’d rather share one with me.”

The woman didn’t respond.

Harry’s head turned.

Slowly. One look. That was all it took.

Paolo shut up again.

The waitress placed the espresso in front of Harry. Her eyes darted between him and Danny, then back to the door, then away entirely.

Danny swallowed.

His phone buzzed on the table.

Once. Then again.

He flipped it over without checking it.

But Harry saw the name flash across the screen the first time.

Allegra / NYT.

He filed it away.

Another tap of his finger on the armrest.

The same rhythm. The same restraint.

Giuliana was talking again—something about property assessments, something about taxes and city permit negotiations—but Harry wasn’t listening.

Because Danny hadn’t stopped shaking his leg under the table for the past twenty minutes.

And that wasn’t just nerves about the deal.

That was something else.

Something worse. Something guilty.

And Harry could feel it—like a shift in temperature, like a drop of blood in a glass of water. Barely visible. But spreading.

Danny had barely slept.

He’d spent the entire night texting anyone he could think of, pulling strings, calling in favors that weren’t his to call. He’d offered to Venmo three separate interns eight hundred dollars each just to “accidentally” delete Carrie Roth’s file folder.

It hadn’t worked.

One of them—Allegra—called him at 6:23 in the morning, voice full of regret.

“She still has the photo. But she’s not allowed to publish it yet. The girl—Harry’s—there’s nothing on her. It’s weird. No last name. No socials. Nothing. She’s a fucking ghost.”

Danny had rubbed a hand down his face, staring at the window.

“And Lucy?” he asked, already bracing for it.

Allegra hesitated.

“…Yeah. She gave a quote.”

Danny closed his eyes.

Fucking Lucy.

Of course she had.

"How bad is it?"

“Not bad-bad. But not good. Vague. Something like, ‘I hope he’s happy. We all move on eventually.’ But it’s laced.”

“Laced?”

Allegra sighed. “She sounds like she’s holding a knife behind her back and smiling for the camera.”

Danny had spent the rest of the morning doing damage control.

He knew how Harry would react.

Or worse—how he wouldn’t.

The silence was always worse. The version of Harry that went still. That closed off. The version that pushed the good things away.

And Danny…Danny had never seen Harry like this with anyone. Not even Lucy. Not even close. There was something softer now. Something better. Harry laughed more. He joked. He sat closer. He smiled like someone who actually felt peace for once.

And if some fucking quote from his ice queen ex managed to ruin that?

Danny would never forgive himself.

So he sat. In the backroom. In the middle of a million-dollar meeting. And tried to pretend he wasn’t unraveling.

Harry knew.

He didn’t know what Danny was hiding yet, but he knew it wasn't good.

He watched his friend fidget with a sugar packet. Watched his gaze drift anywhere but Harry’s face. And he did what he always did when people lied to him.

He waited.

Let them hang themselves with silence.

Let the lie grow heavy.

Let the guilt set in.

Then he’d strike. Not yet. Not today. But soon.

He sipped his espresso.

Looked straight at Danny. And said nothing.

Danny didn’t meet his eyes. Which told Harry everything.

The meeting didn’t end so much as dissolve.

Giuliana closed her tablet with a firm snap, gave Harry a businesslike nod that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and rose from the table without another word. Her assistants followed in silence.

Lorenzo didn't bother saying goodbye.

He just huffed, muttering something to Paolo in rapid Italian, and disappeared behind a cloud of aftershave and espresso.

Paolo lingered, naturally.

He adjusted his collar like someone waiting for a round of applause, then turned to Harry as if they'd just finished a friendly brunch rather than a laced negotiation.

“Enjoy the rest of your little vacation,” he said with a crooked smile. “And tell your girlfriend to try the gelato place on the corner of Via Luce. It’s almost as sweet as she is.”

Harry didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Just said, “Walk away.”

Paolo did. Chuckling to himself, the kind of laugh people used to cover fear.

Then it was just the three of them—Harry, Luca, and Danny—in the quiet echo of the emptied room.

Luca stood awkwardly by the far wall, holding his phone in one hand, glancing towards the door. He looked like a schoolboy waiting to be dismissed, trying to figure out whether he’d be expected to walk home or if someone was going to make him stay behind for detention.

Harry noticed him hovering.

“You waiting on a ride?” he asked.

Luca looked up, startled. “Ah, yeah. I called for a car but it’s taking forever. No signal in here.”

“I’ll take you back,” Harry offered simply. “Come with us.”

Danny perked up immediately. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’ll just get dropped at the villa first. I’ve got—uh—work to do.”

Harry turned to him slowly. “Work.”

“Yeah,” Danny said quickly, already pulling out his phone. “Emails. Calls. Logistics. Just, you know, stuff. Need to get ahead of it.”

Harry arched a brow but didn’t press.

Not yet.

“Fine,” he said. “Let’s go.”

They stepped outside into the Florentine afternoon—the kind of golden, honey-warm light that made everything look like a painting. The car, black and sleek, was already waiting, engine humming low and loyal.

The driver opened the door.

Danny climbed in first, barely offering a word before burying himself in his phone. His thumbs moved at an unholy pace, scrolling, tapping, texting, double-checking some digital disaster Harry was clearly not yet privy to.

Luca slid in next, offering a polite grazie to the driver, and then Harry joined, stretching out as the car pulled away from the curb.

For a while, the only sound was tires against cobblestone and the soft clicks of Danny’s frantic typing.

Then Luca’s phone buzzed.

He looked down, smiled, and turned slightly toward Harry.

“Francesca says she’s with your girlfriend,” he said. “They found some little café. She said to tell you not to worry—they’re safe, they’re having croissants, and we are both invited if you’re done playing mafia.”

Harry’s mouth twitched.

“Tell her I’m on my way.”

Luca sent the message, then tucked his phone away. He seemed a little lighter now—shoulders relaxed, voice warmer. The post-meeting haze had faded from his features.

Harry glanced at him sideways. “Francesca yours?”

Luca blinked, then smiled, a little sheepish. “Yeah. My wife. We got married last year.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“You’re young.”

Really ironic of him to say when he's fucking involved with a girl who's 26. 

“I’m twenty-nine.”

“Still.”

“I know.” Luca chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair. “Everyone told us we were crazy. But she’s… Francesca. She could’ve ruined me if she wanted to, and I would’ve said thank you.”

Harry smirked faintly at that. “Sounds about right.”

“She’s opening a boutique,” Luca added. “In our town outside London. Small, but she’s excited. She’s good at what she does. Always has been. Fashion, interior work. Makes everything feel expensive even when it’s not. I think she wants to build something that’s hers.”

Harry nodded, thoughtful.

“Smart woman.”

“The smartest,” Luca agreed. “She helped me rebuild after the last deal I tanked. Stuck around when I had nothing. The ring I gave her was bought with borrowed money and blind faith.”

“She sounds like someone worth keeping.”

“She is.” Luca glanced out the window. “Not everyone’s that lucky, you know? Finding someone who lets you be soft without thinking less of you for it.”

Harry didn’t respond.

Just looked out the opposite window.

Thought of her curled in bed this morning, the soft sound she made when he ran a finger down her cheek. The way she whispered his name in her sleep. How her breath had hitched when he wrapped his coat around her shoulders last night like it was the only thing he could offer.

The car slowed.

They were near the villa now, winding through the familiar lined paths. The sun cut through the trees in slats of white gold, casting shadows like ribbons across the windshield.

Danny didn’t look up from his phone.

“Here’s good,” he muttered, already gathering his things.

The driver stopped.

Harry didn’t say a word.

Just watched as Danny climbed out like the car was on fire, muttering something about emails and pressing timelines, phone already back to his ear.

He walked toward the villa at a pace that could only be described as erratic.

Harry watched him go.

Luca then gives the driver the cafe's address. The driver nods, starting the car back up.

He looked sideways at Harry. “You think he’s okay?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Instead, he rolled down the window.

Let the wind rush in.

Let the city open around him, brick by golden brick.

And somewhere, in a quiet café across town, she was laughing over croissants and gesturing with her hands, probably making Francesca snort her coffee and wave for more napkins.

He could feel it.

Like gravity.

And for the first time in hours, the tightness in his chest began to loosen.

He was on his way back to her.

The car wound through the hills, the stone and roads softening into something warmer as they dipped toward town. Golden light pooled on terracotta roofs, and the scent of warm bread and basil drifted through the open windows.

Harry barely noticed. His fingers drummed silently on the armrest, but it wasn’t impatience. It was gravity. Like some part of him already knew where she was. Like some thread between them had pulled taut and was pulling him home.

Francesca spotted the car first. She waved lazily from the doorway of the cafe, espresso in one hand, sunglasses on, expression unreadable. Her other hand was tangled with his girl’s, who stood beside her in soft linen trousers and a tank top, cheeks flushed from wine or sunlight or maybe just relief.

Harry stepped out of the car without waiting for the driver to open the door.

She looked up.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

She crossed the stone patio in three quick steps and wrapped her arms around his waist. Not urgently. Just naturally. Like that was where they belonged.

Harry exhaled into her hair.

Francesca raised her brow. “We’re going to lunch.”

Luca stepped out behind Harry and nodded. “I told you they’d be ready.”

The restaurant wasn’t far—tucked into a shaded side street, the kind of place only locals knew about, with uneven cobblestones and no name on the door. The tables were mismatched wood, the plates chipped, the wine poured without asking.

They sat under vines.

Harry kept his arm draped along the back of her chair, his fingers occasionally brushing her shoulder. She leaned into it like instinct. Her hand drifted to his thigh more than once, casual, familiar. The air was warm but not hot. They ordered bread, fruit, and some pasta. 

They got wine drunk slowly.

Not the loud kind. The soft, sleepy kind.

The kind where she bit her lip to keep from smiling every time he looked at her. The kind where Harry started to say something about her hair, got halfway through, and just shook his head because the words wouldn’t do it justice.

Francesca snapped a photo of them with her old film camera.

They didn’t even notice at first.

She was resting her chin on Harry’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed. He was whispering something into her ear that made her laugh, soft and slow. The kind of laugh that lives in your chest. Francesca snapped again.

“You look like you’ve been in love for a hundred years,” Francesca said.

Harry blinked. “Haven’t I?”

She just swats him.

The wine kept coming. The food kept coming. She fed him a slice of peach soaked in something syrupy and giggled when the juice dripped onto his shirt. He didn’t care. He just licked it off her thumb like it was a reflex.

At one point, he said her name in that voice—the low, quiet one he used when the world fell away and there was only her.

She leaned in.

He kissed her under the vines. Soft. Long.

Not showy. Not loud. Just... there.

She pulled back when she realized she was still in public. 

Harry smirked. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

He stood. Took her hand.

“Just come.”

She didn’t ask again.

They slipped out the back of the restaurant, past the kitchen doors, into a narrow alley framed and hidden by stone walls and jasmine vines. The air was thick and cool, and the quiet wrapped around them like smoke—intimate and heavy with the weight of what was about to happen.

Harry backed her against the wall with a hand on her waist, his body pressing flush to hers.

His eyes were dark, hungry.

“You’re drunk,” she whispered, grinning.

“A little,” he murmured, dragging his mouth along her jaw. “But not on the wine.”

Her breath caught.

He kissed her again—slow, consuming. His hand slipped beneath her tank top, palm hot against her bare skin, gliding up to cup her breast. He loved when she didn't wear a fucking bra.

She gasped softly, arching into his touch.

“Here?” she breathed, half-laughing.

“No one’s coming,” he said. “But you are.”

Before she could respond, he dropped to his knees.

Right there, in the middle of that sun-drenched alley, Harry shoved her loose linen trousers down, dragging her panties with them. She stepped out, trembling slightly, and braced herself against the rough stone wall.

He looked up at her with a wicked glint, then leaned in.

He didn’t kiss her like she was fragile. He devoured her like a man starved—tongue hot and wet, lips greedy, fingers digging into her thighs to keep her still. The first stroke of his tongue made her moan, the second had her thighs clenching around his head.

“Fuck, Harry—”

He groaned in response, mouth never leaving her. He licked her like he meant it, filthy and relentless, nose buried in her pussy, tongue lapping every drop, every twitch, every whimper. He moaned into her like she was his favorite meal, like the taste of her was addictive.

He wrapped his arms around her thighs, locking her in place as he flicked his tongue over her clit again and again until she was gasping, squirming, one hand gripping his hair like she needed to anchor herself to the world.

He sucked her clit hard, then teased it with the tip of his tongue, slow and obscene.

When he slid two fingers inside her—deep, curling—she nearly collapsed.

“Fuck—fuck—” she choked out, her voice high, wrecked.

Her orgasm hit fast, sudden and overwhelming. Her knees buckled. She cried out, hand smacking the wall behind her as pleasure tore through her, her body shaking.

But Harry didn’t stop.

He kept licking, kept fucking her with his fingers, chasing every aftershock, every tremor, until she was sobbing his name and clawing at his shoulders, too sensitive, too overwhelmed, dripping onto his tongue.

He only pulled back when she pushed at his head, breathless and dazed.

His mouth was soaked. His lips swollen. His eyes wild.

He rested his forehead against her stomach, breathing hard, his hands still splayed on her thighs like he never wanted to let go.

She laughed breathlessly. “You’re fucking insane.”

He kissed the inside of her hip, slow and reverent. Then stood. His mustache was glistening with her, and he didn’t bother wiping it off.

“You taste like wine and fucking salvation,” he whispered, voice rough.

She buried her face in his shoulder, dizzy.

They fixed her clothes, hands brushing, bodies flushed with heat. Her thighs were still trembling.

He laced their fingers together as they walked back, like he hadn’t just ruined her in a sunlit alley with nothing but his mouth.

And she let him.

Like nothing happened.

And when Francesca saw them, she just raised a brow and handed her another glass of wine.

Meanwhile, back at the villa—

Danny had turned his suite into a digital warzone.

Two laptops. One iPad. Three chargers. Twelve tabs open. Phone on speaker.

“Allegra,” he said, pacing. “Tell me you have good news.”

The voice on the other end crackled slightly. “Define good.”

“She hasn’t sent it yet?”

“Not yet.”

“But she will.”

Allegra exhaled. “It’s Carrie Roth. Of course she will. She’s sitting on it like a fucking vulture. Waiting until it hurts the most.”

Danny scrubbed a hand over his face.

On his laptop, the image was still frozen. The photo Carrie took. From the lobby. The one Harry made her delete. So he thought.

Carrie hadn’t published it yet. But she would. She always did.

And when she did? It wouldn’t just go viral.

It would scare her off.

This girl Harry was in love with—really in love with—she wasn’t built for this.

Not yet. Not that kind of spotlight.

Not the New York fucking Times with a headline about her being a mystery. About who she was, what she wore, why she mattered.

It would ruin everything.

Danny knew it.

Harry wouldn’t survive it if she left. Not after Lucy.

Not after that silence, that grief, that hardening it took to survive someone walking away.

And this girl?

She was different. She made him soft. She made him happy.

Danny had never seen Harry like that. Not once.

So he’d do anything to protect it.

Even if it meant calling Carrie himself.

Even if it meant trying to spin it, bribe her, threaten her, beg.

“Allegra,” he said, heart pounding. “Text her. Now. Ask for a meeting. Say it’s urgent.”

“What do I tell her it’s about?”

Danny stared at the photo.

He swallowed.

“Tell her it’s about blood in the water.”

Back in town, Harry reached for her hand beneath the lunch table.

She let him.

And when he leaned in, lips grazing her ear, and whispered, "I’m never letting you walk away again," she believed him.

Because this time, he meant it.

[zaynesdesimc]

Don’t Leave-Sylus

I What grief, to mourn a past life, a life you never even remembered. I

Or my take on mc and the reincarnation trope, not proofread I wrote this after crying and it’s 3 am. I have a final tomorrow. I need to sleep. Tell me your thoughts and how you like it :33

Edit; made a major edit after I woke up :)

He’s always been a light sleeper. It’s an instinct that’s been instilled in him in all his rebirths over countless centuries and timelines.

So when he’s turned away from you after a fight, he finds it hard to sleep as well as he normally does when you’re beside him.

A situation that could have been so avoidable.

A slip of his tongue that brought up a memory of a life he’d lived eons ago, another him and another you.

A life you didn’t remember. And he’d done it before, he was no stranger to your wish to know more, to understand why he said what he said and what it meant.

But he’s a selfish dragon, and so he keeps the memory to himself, a memory of a different time, a different him.

Sometimes he forgets that too, that’s he’s been reborn. That he’s not the dragon who fought beside a sorceress and died by her claymore.

Maybe that’s why it makes it way so easily into the cusp of his speech, and calculative, thoughtful Sylus fails to see the drop in your expression when he says that you’re different then how he remembers you.

It’s a damning feeling, when he knows he’s upset you. When you refused to lean into the curve of his body and instead turned, but he’s nothing if not patient when it comes to you, he’s waited a long time for you after all.

So he closes his eyes and lets sleep take over, you’ll come to him when you want to.

But his eyes shoot open when he hears a sniffle.

“I know you’re asleep.” your trembling whisper fills the silence, “and I’m too much of a coward to say this to your face.”

He waits, hears you take a breath, hears the sniffle of your blocked nose. He fights every urge in him to turn around and pull you into his embrace. He waits to hear your next words, a confession? A curse? An angry rant?

“I’m sorry.”

An apology. A teary apology falls from your trembling lips.

“I’m sorry that you were cursed to be born in this lifetime with me. I’m sorry I don’t remember.” you’re quietly sobbing, each word whispered into the dark like you’re a sinner confessing your sins to a deity above.

And this is what makes Sylus Qin, leader of Onichynus, the feared legend and otherworldly conqueror, freeze like a deer caught in harsh headlights-

A resigned whisper, tentative-

“I’m trying, you know?” a sniffle, “I really am.”

He’s never felt a pain like this in his chest before. A burning itch that makes him feel like he’s being swallowed whole, akin to a familiar grief. He’s hurt you.

“I don’t want you to love me because of who I was. Because I know I am not the same.”

The mattress dips, you’ve shifted to face his back.

“Please don’t leave me if I can’t remember. I’m trying. I am, I am.”

He feels the mattress shift again as you start to cry violently and that’s when he turns. His own salty wretched tears streaming down his face.

He pulls your sobbing form to him, all but smothering you. Hoping that his hold will keep you from feeling like this and for all his childish hope, he knows that you feel like this because of him.

He’s never felt more guilty.

“Please don’t go.” You cry, face in the crook is his neck. His hand massaging your right shoulder, “Don’t you know how much it hurts? This pain lingers and festers and it feels like there’s this hole in me.”

He holds you close, hand moving to pat the back of your head, and Sylus apologises, like the true sinner he is, to the deity you are.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your ears and you shoulders shake more, not daring to look him the eyes, “I am so sorry,” and you cling to him.

“Don’t leave me.” Soft whimpers leave your throat, you’re baring your heart out to a wolf that feeds on souls, who revels in unravelling people.

“I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, kitten.” He whispers, kissing your temple, “I will never leave you.”

You look up, his eyes glinting in the darkness, his hands around you and his breath like fresh air, “I love you. You, the hunter, who assumed that I would love you for anything but the features that make you who you are, whom I love with every beat of my cursed heart.”

“I’m trying.” You state pathetically but he just shakes his head and pulls you close.

“You will never have to try with me. Never again. I will spend the rest of our lifetime proving this to you.”

“I am not who you loved millennia ago,” you reason, you’re scared, terrified, so much so that you want to push him away, so he can’t hurt you again.

“You’re the one I love now. In this lifetime. There is nothing that will change that.”

“What if I never remember?”

“Then we will make memories together, so we can both reminisce when we are old together. You’re with me now, I’m never letting you leave me.”

He rocks your trembling form, shushing your worries and kissing your head from time to time.

When your breath slows against him and he can hear your slight snores, Sylus looks at your tear stricken face.

Not the sorceress of his past, but his hunter of the present. The hunter who didn’t teach him about love but the one who nurtured it. Not the vengeful fiend, the brave lovely hunter who dared to rip his heart open and settle in like it was made for her, and it was.

The love of his life.

And though he has more apologising to do, he closes his eyes and breaths in your scent, revelling in the feeling of you as the hours pass, he pays no mind to the seconds ticking, he will hold you until the end of time if he has to, if it means you won’t leave.

[frmisnow]

ㅤ▌ ͟CHERRY LOLLIPOPS & CHEAP MOTELS! ‎⠀⠀⎯⎯⠀⠀ ♬᭢ 𝟐.𝟔𝐤 smut . nsfw

SUMMARY in which jungkook picks you up in his shitty car, takes you to an even shittier motel, and makes you forget why you ever said you wouldn’t do this again.

the parking lot outside your boyfriend's apartment, if you could even call it that, smelt like piss and burnt rubber. no, another correction ⎯⎯ the parking lot outside your exe's apartment complex smells like piss. you shake your head, one of your heels clicking against the hard ground in an effort to distract yourself; you keep on having to remind yourself that he cheated.

i mean how horny does one have to be, getting a blowjob at the exact time when you were supposed to have the date. 'the date' is an abomination and an overstatement. by that you mean overglorified sex meeting, or whatever, that you had planned.

you roll your eyes, one of your nails digging into the cigarette that you then put out, your heel digging into the little butt. your fingers work on unwrapping one of the cherry lollipops that he liked so much. now you had a whole pack somewhere in your basement, for no damn reason. you didn't even like cherries.

your brows furrow, as you taste the oversugared candy just as your ears pick up the low, rough engine approaching from your left side. you'd recognize that shitty sound from everywhere. if that ain't love.

jungkook pulls into the dirty street, like he owns the whole thing. one hand slung over the wheel, the other resting against the worn out gear shift, ink-dark tattoos flexing under cheap fluorescent light. while his confidence was certaintly cute, his car was everything but such. scratches and dirt adoring the most likely decade-old car.

the window’s already rolled down, but he doesn’t say anything at first. just lets his gaze drag slow over your frame — your bare legs, your mascara which was ruined well just a little, the slight pout of your lips around the lollipop. it's not even sexual, he's looking over you like he's observing a situation, figuring you out, where you stand, how you're feeling. calculated.

“don’t,” you say before he can open his mouth.

jungkook’s smile curves, the kind of expression that makes you want to throw your lollipop at his face. “don’t what?”

“don’t.” you punctuate it with a click of your tongue, the sharp crack of candy between your teeth. your mood is just a tad bit rotten, and jungkook is the very last person you need needling at your pride.

still, he gestures toward the passenger seat with a flick of his fingers. “get in.”

you hate how fast your body moves before your brain can catch up, your hand reaching out to open the car door, which opens with another sharp noise, barerly. and you hate how the seat smells like him, warm leather and cigarettes, that one perfume that he still wears, no.97 april cotton. it firmly recks, of it all. of familiarity and something you once considered mellow.

but most of all, you hate how he can tell. how he witnesses you lean back into the seat, were anyone else would see it as you getting more comfortable, he could tell it was you chasing the comfort that it itself provided.

his palm settles on your thigh, warm and familiar, like it belongs there. his thumb brushes absentmindedly over your bare skin, just once, just enough to make something tighten low in your stomach.

you should push him off. should cross your legs, turn toward the window, pretend you don’t care. but you don’t. you won’t. instead, you sink further into the seat, pressing into the scent of his cologne like it might drown out the bitterness sitting in your throat.

“so,” he muses, casual as anything, drawing out the vowel, like he wanted to see you squirm under the pressure of what his question awaits. his sadist ass would probably enjoy that. “are we gonna talk about it?”

you roll the lollipop between your teeth., before you let it go with a soft pop, anything to distract him from your heartrate. could he feel your heart through your thigh? god, you hope not. “nothing to talk about.”

he snickers, but it's dim, faint, gentle, there's no real malice. other then the fact that he expected just that answer, and those actions, in that exact order. why was he so smart? it seriously freaked you out, all you were left to resort on doing was continue on with the lollipop.

cherry all over your tongue. rotten.

“you want me to fuck him up?”

you sigh under your breath, lifting one of your legs to rest on your other one, his hand ultimately falling off as a result, "no- i," you pause, eyes out the window, focusing on the bright neon signs and eventual car that drives by, "he didn't promise me anything. i didn't promise him anything either, it's- really." you hate, absolutly despise, how your voice flatters, unsure and uneven, "nothing."

jungkook's fingers drum against the wheel in a steady rhythm, letting your words settle into the thin air. before he echoes your words, "nothing." and you see a muscle in his jaw twitching, before he smiles, though it's all half-lidded and lazy in execution, bit forced perhaps, "you're a shitty liar."

"you used to be better."

you do your best to ignore him, his words and presence all together. just twist the straw of the red candy which by now, has probably painted your tongue in a similair shade, starr out the window because that was all you could fathom doing. stupidly. naively.

being confronted by the past stung because you haven't changed, really. it's the similar sting of sugar against your tongue.

his hand moves again. not to your thigh this time, but to the lollipop stick, tugging it from your lips without asking. the candy snaps from your teeth, cold air replacing it before you can protest.

he licks what was left of the little red circle, as the car stopped at a red light, now his tongue was red as well. just one more thing on the long list, tying you both by fate. his brows furrow only slowly, before his eyes settle on you, thumb gently gracing your lips that carried the same taste which was now between his very own.

"i thought you didn't like cherries."

your tongue darts out instinctively, tasting the sugar still clinging to your lips, "no. no , i don't like cherries." the car behind you honks, sharp and impatient. the red light had long since turned green.

total silence fills the practically broken car as he continues driving, the lollipop lazily rolling on his tongue as you shift in your seat, one leg folding over the other, skin still buzzing from where he touched you. your heel dangles off your toes, threatening to fall, and you wonder if he’s watching, you could never quite tell with jungkook.

“you wanna tell me why I’m driving you to a motel?”

you blink. once, twice, thrice, before it was to unnatural as to not respond.

“you picked me up.”

“you told me to.”

“you didn’t have to listen.”

jungkook huffs, something close to a laugh but not quite. “that’s cute.” god, dimples. beautiful little dimples on both sides of his face.

the lollipop clicks against his teeth when he bites down, cracking the hardened sugar like it’s nothing, as if to break the tension, or worsen it.

you sit still, legs crossed for the rest of the two minutes. before you can clearly witness the motel sign in front of you, one of the lights clearly broken. MTEL, charming.

his voice cuts through the tense air while he's turning the car off, "do you want to be alone tonight? i'll let you."

you'd say you hate how you don't hear your own voice, your lips mouth or don't feel any physical reaction for that matter, but that'd be a lie. because you wanted it, wanted him, the real craving to repeat the past just once more.

the room he gets is upstairs. third door on the left. the hallway smells like cheap lemon cleaner, and there’s a buzzing light that flickers overhead, casting long shadows yet it highlights his tattoos as well, the pretty ink you used to lick and trace patterns off. you want to burry yourself into the grey carpet beneath you.

he steps inside, flicks on the lamp, and tosses the key onto the nightstand. the light casts his face in amber, warm and unreadable. he’s watching you again. that same slow, calculating gaze from the car as the door falls shut, with a tiny click.

“take your shoes off,” he mumbles, arms leaning back onto the dark brown desk, he just tossed the keys onto.

you don't move, a little pout adoring your face, the one you do whne you were unsure of.. well.. what to do.

his gaze flicks down to your heels, then back up, slow. “you wanna fuck on a motel bed in six-inch stilettos?”

you huff, a little defiant, but the heels come off. you bend, slip them off slow, and he watches. of course, he does. that same hooded gaze, tracking the movement like it’s something to be studied.

“pretty girl,” he murmurs, pushing off the desk, and you barely get the chance to straighten before his hands are on you. firm, sure. the rough pads of his fingers skim over the fragile skin of your face, thumbs tracing over your flush cheeks.

his mouth is hot against your throat, dragging slow kisses down the sensitive skin. he lingers just below your ear, exhales long, lets you feel it. then, his teeth — just a little.

“always got an attitude,” he mutters, hands smoothing down your back, “m' gonna fix that,” he rasps, pushing you toward the bed, turning you so you stumble back onto the mattress.

the mattress creaks under your weight. the air is thick, humming with the heat between you. his eyes are half-lidded, burning, dark.

he pulls his shirt over his head, lets it drop to the dirty motel floor, then his belt clinks, the soft shift of a zipper. his cock slaps against his stomach, flushed red, thick, leaking at the tip.

your mouth goes dry.

“spread your legs.”

you do. you don’t think. you just do, and he groans, a deep, pleased sound that makes you squirm.

he grabs your thighs, drags you closer to the edge, and just — sinks in.

you choke on a gasp.

no prep. nothing but how soaked you already are. it’s too much, just right, stretching you open in a way that makes your head spin.

his hands settle on your hips, grip unforgiving, and he doesn’t move. not yet. just sits there, thick inside you, like he’s letting you feel it, making sure you know, making sure you remember. how it was like, how it used to be.

“jesus,” he breathes, looking down at where you’re stuffed full of him. “tight fuckin’ cunt. always so good for me.”

then, he moves.

slow at first, measured, like he wants to see how you take it. then, rougher. faster.

the headboard knocks against the wall. the slap of skin fills the room, slick and obscene.

your nails bite into his forearms. your back arches.

“oh, fuck—”

he grips your jaw, forces you to look at him.

“you have the prettiest fuckin' eyes,” he rasps, thumb pressing into your cheek, "fuck— look at me." and it's practically a whine which you can't help but comply to.

his hips snap into you, deep, brutal. his hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing quick, teasing circles.

your legs shake. your thighs clench around his waist, body tensing.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, watching you unravel beneath him. “c’mon, baby — fuckin’ come for me.”

you do. hard.

“gonna fill you up,” he pants, grip tightening on your hips, pinning you in place, chasing his own high. “bet your fucking pussy remembers everything, remembers who i am.”

his hips stutter as you clench around him. a sharp inhale. then, warmth. deep.

he doesn’t pull out. doesn’t move, just breathes, dragging a hand up your stomach, up between your breasts, stopping at your throat.

your heart pounds against his palm.

his lips move barerly, a small smile while leans down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips, pulling out just enough to let his cum drip between your thighs.

he lets you breath for about a minute, before he flips you over like you weigh nothing. like he’s got all the time in the world to manhandle you, spread you out over the mattress just how he wants.

your cheek presses into the sheets, legs bent under you, ass up. you barely get a second to breathe before his palm cracks against the curve of your ass, sharp, hot.

“fuck,” you gasp, fingers digging into the sheets.

he just hums, rubbing over the sting, soothing before landing another — harder this time.

“too fuckin’ pretty like this,” he mutters, palming at your waist, dragging his cock through t he mess between your thighs, nudging against your clit. “can’t get enough of you.”

he grips your hips and pushes back in, one slow, aching stroke, stretching you open all over again.

“shit,” he rasps, watching himself disappear inside you, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. “always so fuckin’ tight.”

your fingers fist the sheets. your back arches. he’s deeper this way, heavier, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress as he starts to move.

slow at first. taunting.

then, he grips the back of your neck, pinning you down, and snaps his hips forward.

you moan, high pitched, wrecked, and he groans in response, fingers flexing over your skin.

“that’s it,” he breathes, pace quickening, slamming into you hard enough to shove you up the bed, the headboard banging against the wall. “take it, baby.”

his other hand sneaks under you, pressing against your stomach, feeling the way he’s deep inside you, grinding in hard, slow circles.

“can feel me, huh?” his voice is rough, almost teasing. “fuckin’ you so deep—”

you whimper, clenching around him, and he hisses, dragging you back onto his cock, fucking you harder. the room is filled with noise — the wet slap of skin, the creak of the mattress, groans of the both of you.

“gonna come,” you gasp, fingers slipping against the sheets, weak, small bits of sweat glistening on your skin. your vision whites out while he fucks you through it, his own release hitting only seconds later.

jungkook collapses beside you, pressing a gentle, open-mouthed kiss against your shoulder. you’re just a tad bit ruined, limbs useless, but you hum in contentment when he continues pressing lazy kisses up your spine.

you can firmly feel that signature smile of his against your skin, pressing another kiss to your shoulder before pulling back. the bed dips as he stands, leaving you feeling cold for all of two seconds before he’s back with a warm cloth.

the first press of it between your thighs makes you shiver. he’s careful, gentle, murmuring soft praises as he cleans you up.

“so good for me.”

“always take me so well.”

when he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside and climbs back into bed, dragging you against his chest. his fingers trace slow circles against your bare back, lulling and soothing.

“you want water?” he asks, lips brushing your temple.

you nod, still half-asleep. he reaches over to the nightstand, pressing the bottle to your lips, "c'mon drink." carefully watching as you take a few small gulps before pushing it away.

his fingers move through your hair, once again lulling you into soft sleep.

[microlearningplatform]

The Forgetting Curve in Action: Why Traditional Training Fails and How to Fix It

The Forgetting Curve and Its Relevance for Trainers: How to Maximize Knowledge Retention

Introduction

One of the biggest challenges trainers and learning professionals face is ensuring that employees retain and apply what they learn. The Forgetting Curve, a concept introduced by German psychologist Hermann Ebbinghaus, highlights a harsh reality: people forget nearly 50% of newly learned information within an hour and up to 90% within a week if the learning is not reinforced.

This article explores the impact of the Forgetting Curve on corporate training and presents science-backed strategies to help trainers design programs that enhance retention and performance.

Understanding the Forgetting Curve

The Forgetting Curve visually represents the decline of memory retention over time. The steep drop in recall occurs because the brain prioritizes information it deems useful and discards the rest.

Why Does the Forgetting Curve Happen?

🔹 Lack of reinforcement – Without reviewing or applying knowledge, learners forget it quickly. 🔹 Information overload – Employees often receive too much content in a short time, making it difficult to retain. 🔹 Passive learning methods – Traditional lecture-based training lacks engagement, leading to lower retention. 🔹 No real-world application – If employees don’t apply what they learn, the brain doesn’t encode it as important.

The Impact of the Forgetting Curve on Training Programs

For trainers and L&D teams, the Forgetting Curve has serious implications:

🚨 Wasted Training Investment – Organizations spend millions on training programs, but if learners forget most of the content, ROI plummets. 🚨 Decreased Employee Performance – When employees can’t retain critical information, errors increase, and productivity suffers. 🚨 Compliance & Safety Risks – Forgetting key policies and procedures can lead to regulatory violations and safety hazards.

So, How Can Trainers Combat the Forgetting Curve?

To ensure long-term knowledge retention, trainers need to rethink how they deliver learning. The key lies in reinforcement, engagement, and personalization.

5 Proven Strategies to Overcome the Forgetting Curve

1. Implement Microlearning for Continuous Reinforcement

Microlearning—delivering short, focused learning modules—perfectly aligns with how the brain retains information. Instead of overwhelming employees with long training sessions, microlearning delivers content in small, digestible chunks over time.

✅ Why it works: Spaced, bite-sized learning strengthens memory recall and helps employees retain knowledge better. ✅ How to implement:

Use AI-powered microlearning platforms like MaxLearn to break down training into 2-5 minute lessons.

Deliver content in multiple formats, such as short videos, interactive quizzes, and infographics.

Ensure learners revisit key concepts at spaced intervals to reinforce knowledge.

2. Use Spaced Repetition to Strengthen Retention

Spaced repetition is a scientifically proven technique that involves reviewing learning material at increasing intervals over time. This resets the Forgetting Curve, reinforcing memory before it declines.

✅ Why it works: Helps the brain move information from short-term to long-term memory. ✅ How to implement:

Schedule follow-up quizzes at 1 day, 7 days, and 30 days after the initial training.

Use AI-driven adaptive learning to personalize review schedules based on individual performance.

Send automated knowledge reinforcement nudges via mobile apps or email.

3. Make Learning Interactive & Engaging

Active learning significantly improves retention compared to passive learning. Gamification, interactive content, and real-world scenarios keep learners engaged and improve recall.

✅ Why it works: Active participation improves focus, motivation, and knowledge application. ✅ How to implement:

Use gamified learning platforms with quizzes, badges, and leaderboards.

Create scenario-based simulations where employees practice real-world situations.

Encourage peer learning and collaboration through discussion forums or group challenges.

4. Leverage AI-Powered Adaptive Learning

AI-driven learning platforms can analyze learner behavior and deliver personalized reinforcement based on knowledge gaps.

✅ Why it works: AI ensures learners receive targeted support exactly when they need it. ✅ How to implement:

Use an AI-powered LMS like MaxLearn to track learner progress and adjust content dynamically.

Deliver automated quizzes that adapt in difficulty based on the learner’s performance.

Provide AI-driven content recommendations to strengthen weak areas.

5. Integrate Learning into the Flow of Work

Employees learn best when training is embedded into their daily workflow rather than being a separate event.

✅ Why it works: Learning in context ensures immediate application, reinforcing memory. ✅ How to implement:

Provide on-demand microlearning resources accessible via mobile devices.

Integrate learning reminders into collaboration tools like Slack or Microsoft Teams.

Offer real-time performance support tools, such as chatbots and digital job aids.

Case Study: Beating the Forgetting Curve with MaxLearn

Companies using MaxLearn’s AI-powered microlearning platform have reported higher knowledge retention and training effectiveness. By leveraging spaced repetition, adaptive learning, and gamification, organizations have:

✔ Increased retention rates by up to 80% ✔ Reduced training time by 50% while improving results ✔ Boosted employee engagement and performance

Conclusion: Training That Sticks

The Forgetting Curve presents a significant challenge for trainers, but with the right strategies, it can be overcome. By implementing microlearning, spaced repetition, AI-driven personalization, and in-the-flow learning, trainers can ensure that knowledge sticks—leading to better performance, higher ROI, and long-term success.

Ready to Defeat the Forgetting Curve?

Explore MaxLearn’s AI-powered microlearning platform and transform your training today! 🚀

[deen-djarin]

Soft Reins — Day One

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

Pairing: Groundskeeper/Rancher! Joel Miller x City Girl! Reader

Summary: Her family made her want to leave, Joel made her want to stay.

Tags: Age Gap (50s/20s), No Outbreak, Familial Tension, Mentions of infidelity, Snobby and judgy family

Word count: 3.6k

a/n: HELLOOOO okay so this is my second fic heheh and i’m hoping i can stick with it and actually finish it because its definitely a huge learning curve for me lol. i’ve had this idea brewing in my head for months and i’ve gotten to the point where i just gotta write it. tysm for my beta readers ily all and also ty for reading this!

Summer 2025

You're behind the wheel, cruising down a winding road framed by towering pine trees—a striking contrast to the usual backdrop of glass and steel skyscrapers. Ahead of you, a line of sleek, high-end cars snakes along the road, unmistakably belonging to your wealthy, highbrow extended family.

Jackson Hole, Wyoming isn’t the kind of place you'd expect to find people like them—it’s a little too middle-of-nowhere America. And yet, that’s exactly what draws them in.

Nestled in the valley is a ranch—but not your typical one. This is a luxury dude ranch, “Silver Spur Ranch” where the wealthy come to sample the Western lifestyle. Well, sort of. The real West usually doesn’t come with spa treatments and gourmet meals. Still, there are horses, rustic cabins, and sweeping mountain views which are pretty close enough for them.

“Noah would love this,” your mother sighed, gazing out at the sweeping valley.

Your neck stiffened at the mention of his name.

“Can you not bring him up, please, Mom?” you murmured, eyes locked on the winding road ahead.

“I can’t help it, hun. He became the son I never had,” she replied, throwing up her hands in mock surrender.

“Well, he’s not. And we’re not together anymore,” you said, sharper now. “So I’d really appreciate it if you could just... let it go.”

She fell silent—not in compliance, but in calculation. You knew her too well to believe otherwise. She was building her next line, rehearsing it in her head like a lawyer preparing closing arguments.

“I just don’t get it,” she finally said, her voice soft but edged. “You were with him for what, five years?” A beat passed before she pushed forward again, “Have your father and I not set a good example for you? Even your grandparents—fifty years, happy as ever! And you gave that good man up just because—”

“Cheating is not a just because reason, Mom,” you snapped, gripping the steering wheel until your knuckles went white.

She waved her hand like she was swatting a fly. “Well, no, of course not. But Noah is a good man. He just made a... lapse in judgment.”

You laughed once, hollow and humorless. “A lapse in judgement? A lapse is forgetting an anniversary. Not sleeping with someone else. For months.”

Your mother looked away, lips pursed, like she couldn’t quite argue but still didn’t agree. The silence between you thickened, stretching across the cabin of the car and the valley beyond.

“I’m just saying, honey, a man like Noah—he’s hard to come by.”

You grimaced inwardly. Of course she’d say that. You still couldn’t quite wrap your head around your mother’s unwavering loyalty to him.

Sure, he was polished. He came from old money—more than your family ever had. He knew how to dress, how to charm your mother with just the right words at just the right moments. He wasn’t bad looking either. On paper, he was perfect.

But inside? He was hollow. And for the last stretch of your relationship, so were you.

The rot had been setting in for months, invisible at first, until it was all you could feel. Then came the final blow: you found out he had been cheating. Days before he proposed.

And still—he did it. With your entire family watching, he dropped to one knee, smiling like nothing was wrong. A last-ditch effort to lock you in before the truth could catch up to him.

But you said no.

And you walked away.

It hadn’t gone over well. There were whispers, long stares, your father refusing to speak to you for weeks. Your mother never stopped calling it a “mistake” you’d made in the heat of emotion.

But it wasn’t emotion. It was clarity. Maybe for the first time.

The trip was meant to celebrate your grandparents’ anniversary—fifty years together. A milestone that, given what you knew about how awful men could be, felt almost impossible to grasp.

The entire extended family would be there, and you could hardly wait to be cornered with questions about your recent breakup and failed engagement. For seven whole days. A real vacation.

To say the timing was less than ideal would be generous. You could’ve opted out—God knows you wanted to—but that would’ve only fueled the whispers. And despite everything, under different circumstances, you would have wanted to be there. You loved your grandparents. They were the rare ones in your family who didn’t judge, didn’t press. Maybe it was because, unlike their children and grandchildren, they hadn’t grown up with money. There was a softness to them that hadn’t been bred out by status or social games.

They were the reason you came. Not the charade. Just them.

The ranch finally came into view, peeking through the tall trees like something out of a movie. It had a rustic charm, but you could tell it had been carefully renovated—polished just enough to suit the tastes of its upscale clientele.

Your car slowed as you passed through the front gate and followed the long gravel driveway toward the main cabin. The second your tires came to a stop, you were already reaching for the door handle, eager to escape the tension that had been simmering in the car with your mother.

You stepped out and made a beeline for the trunk, popping it open and reaching for your suitcase. But just as your hand closed around the handle, another—larger—hand landed over it.

“I got this, sugar,” came a warm, slow drawl, thick with a Texas accent.

You froze.

He was close—close enough for you to catch the scent of sandalwood, sun, and flannel. You instinctively stepped back, your eyes scanning upward.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. The kind of man who looked like he actually belonged on a ranch. You caught a glimpse of his profile: strong nose, weathered skin, hair streaked with silver that matched the salt-and-pepper scruff along his jaw and mustache.

“Long drive?” his voice broke through your thoughts, low and easy.

“Huh? Oh—yeah. It’s, uh... pretty far from, well—everywhere,” you said with an awkward chuckle.

He didn’t laugh, but his eyes lingered on you for a beat—curious, unreadable. Then, without a word, he reached down and hoisted your bags, one in each hand like they weighed nothing.

“Welcome to Silver Spur,” he said with a small, polite smile.

And just like that, he turned and walked off, disappearing with your luggage before you could even think of a reply.

The main lounge buzzed with the energy of your entire family gathered together. The interior was stunning—tall ceilings draped in dark wood, a grand stone fireplace, and expansive floor-to-ceiling windows that framed a breathtaking view of the land. You stood by your cousin Amy, the one you were closest to growing up. You’d shared so many memories, but things had shifted a bit since she married and had a baby. You were still close, just not as much as before.

One of the staff passed around welcome drinks—icy cold lemonade. You accepted with a grateful smile.

“How are you holding up?” Amy asked, her voice full of concern. You sighed. “So far, so good. You?”

Amy leaned in closer, lowering her voice. “Lily wouldn’t stop fussing the entire way here, and Justin was no help,” she murmured, glancing over at her husband, who was bouncing their three-year-old daughter on his lap. “He somehow always appears to be there when she’s calm, though.” Amy chuckled softly, and you followed suit, shaking your head.

A sound of glass clinking drew everyone's attention to the man standing on the small stage by the piano. He looked strikingly similar to the guy who’d taken your luggage earlier—maybe a bit younger. Next to him stood a stunning woman with dark skin and a warm, radiant smile.

“Howdy, y’all! Welcome to Silver Spurs Ranch!” he called out, his voice smooth and welcoming. “I’m Tommy, and this is my wife, Maria,” he gestured to the woman beside him, who waved her hand in greeting. “We’ll be your ranch hosts during your stay.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed the man from earlier walking toward the stage and standing right next to it on the corner. You couldn’t tear your eyes away once you realized he was there.

“You like him too, huh?” Amy whispered, leaning closer.

“What are you talking about?” you whispered back, your voice a mix of surprise and mock offense.

Amy giggled, eyes twinkling. “What? You’re free now!” She gestured to her family with a smirk. “I, on the other hand…” She trailed off, pointing to her husband and daughter.

“You’re being ridiculous. We just got here,” you scolded playfully, rolling your eyes.

“Hey, he’s hot, so…” Amy teased.

You cut her off, whispering, “Amy, shut up.”

She laughed quietly. “Alright, alright!” she relented.

After a brief pause, as everyone focused on the ranch hosts listing activities for the stay, Amy leaned in again. “I didn’t know Silver Spurs Ranch came with a silver fox cowboy,” she whispered.

You bit back a laugh. “I hate you,” you muttered under your breath.

“That one over there is my brother, Joel,” Tommy said, pointing to the man standing a little off to the side. Joel. The name felt just right for him. He offered a small wave before slipping his hands back into his pockets, his gaze scanning the room.

“You’ll be seeing a lot of him,” Tommy continued, a proud smile on his face. “He takes care of the land and will be leading some of your excursion activities.”

You couldn’t help but watch Joel for a moment longer. There was something about him—steady, grounded.

Amy leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. “I gotta admit, he’s got that ‘I work with my hands’ kind of charm.”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at her. “You mean he’s got the ‘I wake up at 5 a.m. to ride horses and shovel dirt’ look?”

Amy grinned. “Exactly.” She looked back at Joel, her gaze lingering for a moment too long. “He’s definitely got that whole ‘silent, mysterious cowboy’ thing going on.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t deny that there was something magnetic about him. Not in a typical ‘movie star’ way, but in a way that made you want to know more. Maybe it was the confidence that seemed to radiate from him without ever needing to say much.

At that moment, Joel turned his head and caught your eye. His gaze flickered toward you briefly, almost like he was assessing you. It wasn’t a stare, just a quiet acknowledgment, but it still sent a little pulse of awareness through you.

Amy caught it too, her smirk widening. “Uh-huh. I see that look. He noticed you.”

“What look?” you asked, feigning innocence. You turned back toward the stage as Tommy and Maria continued talking, but your mind kept wandering back to Joel.

“Don’t act coy. He definitely noticed you,” Amy teased. “You’re going to have fun here, I can tell.”

You glared playfully at her. “Just because I glanced at him doesn’t mean I’m about to go on a horseback ride into the sunset with him.”

Amy let out a short laugh. “Not yet, anyway.”

Maria's voice cut through the conversation, bringing everyone's attention back to the front. "Alright, everyone, feel free to explore the ranch, or just take in the view. We know it's a long journey to get here so your rooms is ready, and dinner will be served in an hour."

As the crowd began to move in different directions, you felt a strange mix of anticipation and curiosity swirling inside you. You were supposed to be here to relax, but for some reason, everything—especially Joel—seemed to be pulling you in.

Amy nudged you with her elbow again. "So... what's the plan? You gonna go for it or just pretend you're not interested?"

You sighed, trying to hide your grin. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure, sure," Amy teased, "keep telling yourself that."

Dinner was set like something out of a magazine. A long, weathered farm table stretched down the center of the dining hall, dressed in ivory linens, wildflowers, and flickering candles that made the roasted dishes gleam like still life paintings. Your grandparents sat proudly at the head, fingers intertwined, laughing like they hadn’t seen fifty years go by. The rest of the family filled the table in loud, familiar clusters, the wine flowing too easily, the conversations layered over one another.

You were somewhere in the middle, boxed in by a distant cousin on one side and a sea of aunts and uncles on the other. You kept your head down, halfheartedly pushing food around your plate, bracing for the inevitable.

It didn’t take long.

“So… no Noah this year?” Aunt Debby asked, tilting her head with feigned casualness.

“Nope,” you replied, stabbing a perfectly innocent carrot.

“I figured we’d see him again. Didn’t you two usually take trips like this together?” someone else chimed in. A cousin’s wife, maybe—you didn’t bother to look.

“Not anymore,” you hummed, your hand curling into a fist beneath the table.

“That’s a shame. I really thought we’d be getting a wedding invite this year,” Aunt Debby said, swirling her wine with theatrical sadness.

“Well, there won’t be one anytime soon.”

Uncle Rick joined in without looking up. “Still can’t believe you let that one go. Good job, good family, good-looking.”

“Not good at staying faithful,” you muttered.

“What was that, sweetheart?” Aunt Debby asked, all syrup and fake concern.

You didn’t think before the following words that came from your mouth, you’re fed up by all the judgement coated with faux sugar coated concerns, You looked up. “I said, he cheated. For months. Before he proposed.”

The table fell quiet. Someone clinked their fork against a plate, a few chairs shifted.

Aunt Margaret recovered first. “Well... relationships are complicated. Everyone makes mistakes. Your mother and I both—”

“I know,” you cut in, turning your gaze to your mom. “You’ve made that very clear.”

The silence was heavier this time.

You folded your napkin, set it on your plate, and stood. The scrape of your chair on the wooden floor sounded louder than it should have.

“I’m gonna get some air,” you murmured.

“Oh honey, don’t be dramatic—” your mother sighed.

“I’m not. I just need air,” you said, sharper now, and without waiting for a response, walked out into the night.

The door swung shut behind you with a quiet thud.

You slipped off into the dark, wandering past the edge of the cabins until you found a quiet spot beside what looked like the horse stables. You needed to be somewhere out of sight—far from the dining hall, far from your family. Because after all that, you needed a smoke. And if anyone in your family ever found out, it’d be a full-blown intervention before sunrise.

From your pocket, you pulled out a small tin, flipping it open with muscle memory and placing a cigarette between your lips. You were just about to flick your lighter when—

“You know smokin’ ain’t allowed on this property.”

You jumped so hard the cigarette nearly fell from your mouth. “Jesus—fuck!”

You turned and saw him. Joel. Standing half in shadow, half lit by moonlight, looking more amused than stern.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, chuckling.

You let out a breath, your hand over your heart. “Yeah, well, you did.”

He nodded toward the cigarette. “You still gonna light that?”

You hesitated. “Can I?”

Without answering, Joel reached out and gently took hold of your arm, guiding you farther back into the shadows—near a thick row of bushes. Your heart stuttered a bit from the contact, the feel of his large calloused hand against your soft skin, and you were suddenly glad it was too dark for him to see the way your face flushed.

“Cameras,” he murmured. “You’re safe here. Go on.”

“Thanks,” you exhaled, grateful, and finally lit the cigarette. You took a long drag, the smoke easing something tight in your chest.

The night wrapped around you, quiet and still, save for the soft hum of cicadas and the slow rhythm of your breath. Joel didn’t move far—he stayed just a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching the horizon like he had nowhere else to be.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, gentle. “Saw you stompin’ out here like you were fixin’ to do some damage.”

You laughed under your breath. “Might’ve, if someone hadn’t stopped me.”

He didn’t say anything, just looked at you in that steady way that invited you to keep going.

You sighed, watching the smoke curl upward. “They think I ruined my perfect life. That I threw it all away because I said no to a proposal.”

Joel tilted his head slightly, listening.

“He cheated on me,” you murmured. “For months. And then had the nerve to propose like nothing happened.”

Joel let out a low whistle. “Sounds like a real catch.”

You barked a laugh. “Yeah. All sunshine and rainbows, that one.”

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. There was a steadiness to him—like he knew how to be still in a way most people didn’t.

After a moment, he shifted. “Listen, uh… it ain’t really my business, but—sounds to me like you dodged a bullet.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think so too.”

Joel looked at you, earnest beneath all the roughness. “You did the right thing.”

You glanced over at him. “Thanks… Joel, right?” you asked as if his name hasn’t been echoing in your head eversince Tommy said them.

He smiled, soft and crooked. “Yeah.”

“And I’m—” you said your name, almost shyly.

He repeated it back to you, the sound of it low and unhurried as it rolled off his tongue.

You gaze up at the sky, the stars shining much clearer here than in the city. It’s mesmerizing—you can’t remember the last time you saw more than two tiny dots scattered above.

Slowly, you sit down on the grass, and Joel lets out a soft chuckle. “You’re gonna ruin that pretty dress,” he teases.

You smile up at him. “I don’t really give a damn.”

He grins at that, then joins you, sitting down beside you.

“You don’t have to stay here, you know,” you murmur.

He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m actually obligated to keep an eye on troublesome guests.”

You turn to look at him. His serious face slowly breaks into a smirk, and you chuckle softly. “Asshole,” you murmur.

Taking another drag of your cigarette, you sigh. “Must be nice, living out here, huh?”

Joel nods, eyes still fixed on the stars. “Gets real quiet. Makes it easier to think.”

You glance down, voice soft. “I could use a little of that.”

He looks over at you, expression unreadable for a moment. Then, quietly: “Then stay a while.”

You smiled to yourself and kept your eyes on the stars. The silence between you and Joel was comfortable, but there was something simmering beneath it—something you weren’t sure you wanted to acknowledge just yet.

“The stars are beautiful out here,” you murmured.

Joel let out a quiet chuckle. “Bet you don’t see many of those back in the city, huh?”

You shook your head with a faint smile. “Kind of forgot how many there actually are.”

“They’ve always been there,” you said softly, more to yourself than him. “Just hard to see when the sky’s all polluted.”

Joel hummed low in his throat. “That sounds like a metaphor for a lotta things in life.”

You turned your head toward him, a light laugh escaping you. “You always been this wise?” He grinned, subtle and a little self-deprecating, eyes still on the sky. “Nah. Just old.”

That made you giggle, the sound easy and real, and something in Joel’s expression softened. Then, without a word, he pushes himself to his feet and holds out a hand.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s get you back before they send a search party.”

You hesitate, just for a second, then take his hand. His grip is solid and warm, and when he helps you up, he doesn’t let go right away.

You both stand there for a moment—closer than before, still caught in that soft, uncertain pull—before he clears his throat and lets his hand fall away.

“This way,” he murmurs, nodding toward the path.

You follow him into the quiet dark, heart beating a little louder than before.

Joel walked with you back toward the main cabin where the guest rooms were. You led him through the quiet hallways, the old wood creaking underfoot, until you stopped in front of your door.

“Well, uh… this is me,” you said, a little awkwardly, your hand hovering near the doorknob.

Joel nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Get some rest. Breakfast’s at seven,” he said, then added, almost hesitantly, “Me and Tommy are leading a horseback ride along the river tomorrow. If you feel like joining.” His eyes flicked from the floor up to yours, and for a moment, you swore he looked almost nervous.

You smiled. “I’d like that.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Alright then. See you tomorrow, city girl.” He started backing away, slow and casual, and you turned to open your door. “See you tomorrow,” you murmured.

Just as he turned the corner, you called out softly, “Joel?”

He stopped and looked back, quick like he’d been waiting for it.

“Thank you… for tonight,” you said, meaning it.

He nodded once, that same quiet smile still on his face. “Anytime, sugar.”

Then he disappeared down the hall, and you stood there for a moment longer, heart just a little too full.

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

a/n: thank you so much for reading guys <3 i know its a short one but i’m just laying out the vibes and tone of the series before we get to the good stuff on the upcoming chapters!! your feedback is greatly appreciated!! ily all

[tarotbyjam24]

Pick a card : Your wedding day with your future spouse

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Disclaimer: this is general reading . It may or may not resonate . If reading doesn't resonate let it fly and choose another pile or simply there were no messages for you through this reading 😊 Take the reading lightly as nothing's set in stone until you believe so 🕊️

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Pile एक :

Hello pile 1 , I feel this will be the dream marriage that everyone wants and you'll be experiencing it finally. You'll be thinking about it even in your sleeps too . You'll be exited for your marriage. Your prince charming will really be coming on horse to take you with them . This is literally the fairytale coming true for you all pile 3 . You're so lucky omg✨🎀. On your wedding you'll be dressed prettiest too and your hairs and accessories in it will only accentuate your beauty. There's this vision I'm getting you walking to them with a bouquet of colourful flowers and not looking at them because of shyness and keeping your eyes only on bouquet. They'll be actually melted by seeing you like this 🐾🩰. I feel your dress will be more curve hugging which will highlight your silhouette very well. Both you'll feel that wedding is happening divinely and God itself is watching it and blessing you . Even god may show some good omens at your wedding day .

Ahem ahemm. Your spouse's eyes will only be setting on you. They'll be enjoying their time with you and tmi but they won't be able to wait for the night to spend with you. I can feel their passion while doing your reading right now. I also feel you both may actually decide to keep the wedding theme like the one that happens in disney movies and dress accordingly to that like your spouse wearing tailsuit and a crown similarly you wearing a princese ball gown which is highlighting your neck, shoulders and chest and wearing a crown too you may even colour your hair temporary like pink , purple ,red or brown and for ambience you keeping a cloudy theme where everyone feels like this wedding is happening in clouds 😭 and have some plants in surroundings too probably light pink roses . I see your spouse will be very calculating with everything so that you won't have to worry about anything. If there's anything specific you'd like to do on your wedding day they'll beforehand calculate and plan everything and show it to you . This relationship will be very fulfilling to both of you. You'll feel like you won a trophy and same feelings will be happening inside them too. In the your ceremony is done you both will feel like you're on cloud nine and lemme tell you they'll be protective of you even when you're asleep because you're their gem . They'll like to take the lead . I feel they can be the oldest in their family too . I feel you both may like stargazing so you may do that together in night. Your wedding may happen somewhere around streams in mountains and greenery maybe in valley I feel . Thank you for reading 😊

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previous reading your wedding day moodboard

Pile दो:

Hello pile 2 , let's start with your reading . First and foremost I feel you're manifesting this wedding to happen and it's happening successfully. You maybe telepathically sending messages to your future spouse or even whispering to them in their dreams . This wedding can happen fast like both of just set one day and boom it's all done . You both may not be into planning things ahead although you may roughly have a vision on how you wanna organise your wedding ceremony but you both are more sort of going with flow person and enjoying what life has to offer you. When marrying to eachother you both will feel confident and feeling grateful that you both chose eachother but deep deep inside there can be bit doubt lingering if all of this is going to work out . They will be guarding your heart and make your that you won't feel unsafe and uncomfortable in any situations. You may feel their attention is divided by the people around them on wdding but they would really like to shift all of their attention to you and the feeling of finally getting married. Both of you will look pretty on your precious day and they may come from behind you in your dressing room and hug you from behind when you're lost in your thoughts looking at mirror and calm you down from running mind .

Also your future spouse may not show much love infront of everyone on wedding day as it was all hasty but they for sure gonna shower you with gifts privately and send them to your room when you're getting dressed highlight will be a bouquet of deep red roses which will make you feel the happiest that day . Your wedding may happen at ship . This may not be for all but your marriage could be a contract marriage due happening for your business Successes like in movies or dramas. Although it won't be like no feelings marriage but a arrange marriage where you both make moves slowly. On your marriage day your spouse will actually would like to be with you alone only so maybe only few people will be invited to the wedding and you both may want a grand honeymoon instead to connect and know eachother. On wedding day they'd be constantly thinking about you and wondering if you've eaten or not . Are they doing okay . Are they feeling bounded in this marriage? You may also think if this marriage will last or was it it a mistake to take a fast decision ? Are we both resilient enough to be with eachother. The answer is yes. You both will be in good harmony and making this marriage successful . Thank you for reading 😊

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previous reading your wedding day moodboard

I hope you liked the reading . Thank you so much for letting me read for you . Wishing you best ahead . 🎀Bless you and have a nice day🌸🐰 I'd love to hear which pile you chose

Loads of love , jam🩷

[10byten]

Old habits die hard

Jaehyun and you share a messy, complicated past — a whirlwind of rushed goodbyes and fiery reunions. By chance, you find yourselves face-to-face again, caught in a pull neither of you can escape. But is there still light in this story, or will it burn out under the weight of everything left unsaid? -

Words : 4k

WARNING : smoking cigarette, Smut.

You excuse yourself from your convo host for a sec, making a beeline for the drink table. Johnny’s apartment is packed—obviously, it’s his birthday, and no one’s missing that.

You’re about to hit up Jungwoo to suggest sneaking downstairs for a smoke—because, duh, Johnny’s place has been smoke-free ever since he got that “cool uncle” title. But as you’re weaving toward the door, it swings open.

And… he’s there. Jaehyun. It’s been months since you saw him—months of staying away like you both agreed. Everything—the noise, the people, the lights—fades when he walks in. You feel it all at once: the tightness in your throat, the knot in your stomach. It’s like the universe is laughing in your face, and tonight? Extra cruel.

You specifically checked before coming to this party—Jaehyun was supposed to be visiting his parents.

“What the hell is he doing here?” you hiss at Johnny, grabbing his arm.

“Ow—” Johnny follows your line of sight. “Oh, right. His parents canceled, so he skipped the trip. My bad, maybe I forgot to mention?”

“Forgot? Seriously, Johnny?” You pinch him hard.

“Anyway,” he says, brushing it off, “aren’t you seeing Lucas right now?”

You stammer. “Uh, yeah. I mean, no. He’s heading back to Hong Kong—long-distance? Not my thing.”

The last time you and Jaehyun broke it off, it felt… final. Like, no casual makeups this time, no easy resets. It was all or nothing—building a future together or walking away for good. And guess what? Option two won. But even though you knew you’d run into him again, some kind of heads-up would’ve been nice, y’know? A little mental prep.

You hug the wall, sliding toward the kitchen. Grabbing your glass, you spin around—and there he is, catching your eye from the hallway. How long has he been watching you? His gaze, those piercing eyes—it’s like they burn straight into your chest. You quickly look away, pretending you didn’t notice, but your heart’s racing. Seeing Jaehyun again stirs something deep, something warm, something dangerously familiar.

You spend the rest of the evening holed up in the kitchen, clinging to the safety of Ten, Yangyang, and Kun’s hilarious banter. For a while, it works—the knot in your stomach loosens, and you almost forget Jaehyun’s here.

But then you see him. Leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you. His lips curve into a knowing smile—because of course you’re making him laugh. You always do.

God, that smile. You missed it. For a second, you can’t help but mirror it, a tiny grin sneaking onto your face. You shrug like, What can I say? I’m naturally hilarious.

He hesitates, then starts toward you as the spot next to you opens up. Every step seems calculated, deliberate.

“You’re still the same clown, huh?”

“What can I say?” You flash a smirk. “Old habits die hard.”

You both start with small talk—classic avoidance of the giant emotional elephant in the room. You laugh at everything he says, a laugh that’s just a little too nervous. He doesn’t take his eyes off you, studying your face like it’s a map he’s trying to remember. Every curve, every line—he’s looking for signs of change since the last time he saw you.

You think to yourself: He hasn’t changed. Same calm, detached vibe, like he’s carrying the world on his shoulders but pretending it’s no big deal. But his eyes? Oh, they’re a whole other story. They give away what his words never will.

Meanwhile, he’s thinking about how different you seem. A little colder, maybe. But that spark in your eyes? It’s still there, and it could still destroy him if he’s not careful.

The silence that falls between you is loaded. Your eyes meet, and honestly? Words are unnecessary. Your history is in the room with you—your love, your heartbreak, all the messy, raw intensity of it. It floods the space, making it hard to breathe.

You remember the nights you spent talking until the sun came up, building this fragile, glowing little world for just the two of you. And the crushing disappointment when you hit that same wall over and over again—Jaehyun’s habit of running the second things got too real.

He remembers the fights where words were weapons, and the way he couldn’t stop himself from ruining everything good. He remembers you walking out for the last time, leaving him alone in an apartment that suddenly felt way too big.

He tilts his head, breaking the silence. “Wanna get out of here?”

You nod, and he leads the way, weaving through the crowded living room. He grabs your hand to guide you, and the feeling of his fingers laced with yours sends a shiver down your spine. Like your whole body remembers him in a way your mind’s trying to forget.

At the door, he picks up his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. His Ford Mustang II King Cobra is parked outside—brown, classic, and way too familiar.

Sliding into the passenger seat, you feel a wave of déjà vu so strong it nearly knocks the breath out of you. The music hums softly in the background as the car starts, and you stare out the window at the passing lights, wondering if following him was a mistake. You can’t bring yourself to look at him. A black lock falls over his eyes, his long lashes fluttering to shake it off. His face is flawless, he’s the kind of guy that’s hard to look at without wanting to taste him.

“So… you seeing anyone?” Jaehyun’s voice cuts through the silence.

You smirk, not buying his casual tone. “Is that a question, or are you fishing for confirmation?”

He clicks his tongue, letting out a low laugh. Leaning one arm against the open window, he runs his fingers through his hair in mock exasperation. The thought of you with someone else? It’s enough to make him sick. He can’t focus on the road; he’s too busy stealing glances at you. The wind gently ruffles his hair, a few more strands falling over his eyes, you can see the muscles in his neck tense up. Jeong, why the hell are you so hot? You dream of diving into the back of his neck and devouring him with kisses. But he's not yours anymore.

“Word on the street says you’re seeing other girls too,” you fire back, throwing in a little jab.

His laugh is sharp and sarcastic. “Oh, so you’re confirming then? - A couple of lame setups from Doyoung. Nothing worth mentioning.”

His hands tighten on the steering wheel. That godamn hands that have sent you to heaven so many times. “Can’t stop thinking ‘bout you and I.” His voice drops to a murmur, the words barely audible.

You pretend not to hear him, staring out the window, trying to avoid your desire. He knows the way to your place by heart.

When you arrive, he steps out of the car at the same time as you. You raise an eyebrow.

“Smoke?”

You nod. “Sure.”

Leaning against the hood of the car, Jaehyun lights your cigarette, his eyes never leaving yours. It’s like you can hear his thoughts, feel his emotions radiating off him. He looks away, gazing into the distance.

He’s tried to forget you, to fill the emptiness with other faces. But none of them shine like you. You’re etched into him, a scar that refuses to fade.

And you? You tried to move on, but the silence he left behind was louder than his presence ever was.

“I thought you quit,” you say, your tone teasing.

He chuckles, the cigarette dangling from his lips. “I did.”

You snort, gesturing to the smoke curling in the air. “Sure looks like it.” 

“Guess old habits die hard.”

You smirk. “Tragic loss for the Olympics. Michael Phelps can rest easy.”

“Hmm, truly devastating for the world of sports.”

He exhales, the smoke curling lazily in the air. “This was our thing, y’know? Sneaking off to smoke at every party, everytime we were together. It’s a bad habit, but it’s ours. Guess I’m scared to change that.”

You glance at him, your voice quieter. “Some things just stick with you, no matter how much you try to shake them.”

He leans in, his face close enough that you can feel his breath. “I like the things we share. Even the bad ones.”

Your heart skips a beat, and for a second, you forget. Forget that he’s not yours anymore. That you can’t just close the distance and kiss him like you used to.

You snap out of it, standing abruptly. “Thanks for the cigarette, Jeong. See you around.”

Shrugging off his jacket, you hold it out to him. He doesn’t take it right away, his gaze lingering on your hand before he finally brushes his fingers against yours, just enough to send sparks up your arm.

He smirks as he takes the jacket, and you return it with a soft smile before walking away.

Back in your apartment, your skin still tingles where he touched you. Jaehyun.

When you wake up the next morning, there’s a message waiting for you on your phone. Simple, almost cold: “Can we talk?”

You hesitate, your fingers trembling slightly over the screen. You know that replying means reopening a door you worked so hard to close. But you also know you can’t say no to him—you never could.

The two of you meet at your usual coffee shop. It’s been a while since you’ve been here. Everything looks the same, yet everything feels different.

Jaehyun is sitting there, dressed in a plain white t-shirt and blue Levi’s, paired with boots. The look is effortless, but on him, it’s like no one else could wear it better. The black of his hair contrasts so perfectly that he looks like he stepped out of an old James Dean movie. And all you can think about is how badly you want to slide your hands under that shirt.

He sees you and smiles, his eyes lighting up like he’s been waiting for this moment all night.

You know you look good—you’re wearing the black mini skirt you two bought together ages ago, and your signature crimson lipstick that drives him crazy. As you walk closer, his gaze rakes over you, devouring every detail. The flicker of excitement in your chest feels like a tiny victory.

You sit down, and the conversation starts politely, almost mechanically. Like you’re dancing an old, familiar routine. But the air between you is thick with everything unsaid—last night, the months before that—it’s too much. Too heavy for small talk.

Jaehyun finally breaks the silence, his voice quiet and unsteady, like it’s coming from somewhere deep and vulnerable.

“I always thought I’d eventually get over thinking about you. But here you are, and I’m still the same idiot who wants you more than anything. When you left, I really thought my world stopped turning. I built my life around you. It’s like you took a piece of me when you walked away, and I’ve been chasing it ever since, trying to find it in all the wrong places.”

You didn’t expect him to say this. To be this open about the pain he felt when you left—the pain he never knew how to put into words before.

You listen in silence, but the way your hands tighten around your coffee cup betrays your nerves.

Barely above a whisper, you respond, “And I thought you’d be the one I could remember without pain. But I can’t even breathe normally when you’re around. I can’t sit across from you for ten minutes without falling apart.”

The truth between you is undeniable now: you’ve always loved each other, but your love has always been poisoned by your fears and insecurities.

“I was scared,” Jaehyun admits. “Scared you’d leave for someone better. I’ve never felt like I was enough for you, like I could give you what you needed. You always seemed so sure of yourself, so put-together. And me? I was just… me. So I let you go. Cowardly, I know, but it felt easier than telling you how I felt. You told me that you love me but you never want to see me again..”

“I know,” you say softly. “And I know I’m not innocent in all this. I made you feel that way. I never trusted you, not fully. I was so sure you’d leave eventually, that you’d get scared of commitment. But in the end, I was the one who walked away. Because I felt so empty, Jae. Being with you, it started to hurt.”

Jaehyun’s voice drops lower, but there’s a determination in it now. “So what? We just let our insecurities keep running the show? Let them ruin us for good? Or do we forget all that and rebuild? I don’t want to pretend anyone else could ever be you. No one’s you.”

You look away, staring at the traffic outside the window.

It hits you—this is the exact spot where you broke up for the first time. Back in high school, when you were still kids fumbling through love and heartbreak. It feels like some kind of cruel deja vu, like the universe loves throwing you into the same cycle over and over.

And yet, a few months ago, you promised yourself something. That you’d protect yourself first, no matter what. Even if it meant walking away from love.

“Look, I know, trust me I understand, I deserve less, If I was you I wouldn't take me back. But Y/n…I don't wanna see you- I can’t see you with anyone but me. How am I supposed to accept it, I love me so much more when you’re around and I know that you do too. Us, together, is something else.”

“It just goes round and round every time. I’m done with this.” You stand to leave, the chair scraping against the floor with finality.

Before you can take another step, his hand catches your wrist.

“If you walk away again, I won’t stop you this time,” he murmurs, his voice low and trembling. “But if you stay... I promise, this time, I won’t let anything come between us. I’ll be the man you need. Someone you can trust, someone who’s by your side. Always.”

His words sound raw, almost desperate, and for a moment, you freeze.

You want to leave, but his eyes—those eyes—you’re powerless against them. The way he looks at you wraps you up, as if you’re already in his arms, as if he’s touching every part of you without even making contact.

And he’s different now. You can feel it in the way he speaks, in the way his vulnerability lays bare between you. Jaehyun looks like he’s finally grown, like he’s learned to open up in ways he couldn’t before. He’s not just asking for another chance—he’s begging to be the person you’ve always needed him to be.

So, just this once? Why not give him that chance? After everything you’ve shared, doesn’t he at least deserve that?

“Take me home,” you whisper.

His smile is immediate, radiant, and you can see the relief in his shining eyes. It feels so bittersweet—how deeply you love him, even after everything. Even after running, even after months apart, even after you tried to leave him behind. Your heart has never learned to be quiet about him, and it frustrates you to no end. He has this undeniable power over you, and you hate it almost as much as you love it.

As you step out of the coffee shop, Jaehyun pulls you to the wall outside, one arm wrapping tightly around your waist. He holds you there for a moment, looking into your eyes like he’s trying to say something his words can’t reach: This is it. This is the last time. This time, it’s forever.

And then he kisses you.

It’s deep, consuming, his velvet lips brushing against yours with an urgency that makes your knees weak. His mouth moves over yours like he’s trying to make up for all the lost time, for every second he’s gone without you. When his tongue meets yours, you let out a soft moan, your body melting into his as his hand presses against the small of your back.

No one else could ever be him. No one else could kiss you like this.

Because with Jaehyun, it’s not just a kiss—it’s everything. 

The air between you grows heavier, filled with passion and the raw intensity of everything you’ve been holding back.

“Let’s go home babe. Or I'll behave badly in public.” 

“You miss me this much ?”

“You really ask the question.” He narrows his eyes, studying you. Oh, he knows that look. You’re playing with him, and he’s more than ready to join the game.

“Why the mini skirt, then?” he asks, his voice low, teasing, as his lips curve into a smirk. “Just to torture me, huh?” He slides his hands down your hips and takes a firm grip on your butt. 

You let out a small gasp of surprise, your eyes widening for just a moment. Jaehyun’s smile grows—it’s that sound, the one he’s always loved. It tells him everything he needs to know. You haven’t gotten over him. He still has the same effect on you.

“Maybe..”

“Tell me, did you have sex with him?” You pretend not to know who he’s talking about, tilting your head slightly as you widen your eyes in mock innocence.

“Who, exactly?” you ask, your voice light and teasing, the perfect picture of feigned cluelessness.

“This Honk-Kong guy, don’t mess up with me right now.” he presses his hips against yours, you feel the bone in his jeans. 

“He never took what was yours, if that's what you're asking for”

He exhales in relief, his shoulders relaxing as his eyes light up with renewed energy. “And what’s mine?” he asks, his voice soft but laced with a quiet intensity. He needs to hear you say it, to let the words come from your lips.

You bite your lower lip, feeling your heart tighten. This guy loves you so much, you can feel it in every fiber of your being. It’s overwhelming, undeniable.

“Me.”

“So let's see, show me how much you belong to me.” He grabs your hand and pulls you along, urgency in his steps as he leads you to the car. Before you know it, you’re climbing into the backseat with him, your heart pounding in sync with his.

In one swift motion, he pulls you onto his lap, straddling him. His hands grip your waist as his lips crash against yours, this time with a wild, unrestrained intensity. The kiss is deeper, hungrier, as if he’s been holding back for far too long and can’t anymore.

“I can’t wait.” he undoes his belt and unzips his jeans.

“Someone could catch us.” You say this as you lift your skirt and take off your jacket. You burn too much for him, you can't reason with yourself.

He lifts you slightly to free his cock from his jeans. Moving your thong to the side, he aligns himself with your entrance and penetrates you in one smooth movement. You cry out as you feel the tip of it touch the bottom of your pussy. You grab his shoulders, Jaehyun is going to take the lead this time, that's for sure. His fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs. His movements are quick and dry at first, he moans at length, it's such a relief for him. “Finally home.”

Your fingers weave into his hair, wrapping a strand around them as you tighten your grip, pulling him even closer. In his arms, you feel weightless, like a doll being held with a mix of tenderness and raw intensity.

His warm breath brushes against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. And in that moment, as his touch grounds you and his presence surrounds you, it hits you—this is what home feels like. He’s your home.

You pull back slightly, just enough to look into his eyes. They’re dark, filled with lust and raw pleasure, a haze of emotion that makes your breath hitch. He looks almost dazed, like someone taking a long-awaited hit after years of restraint.

Unable to resist, you lean in and kiss him passionately, pouring everything into it. The intensity of your connection shifts something in him. His movements slow, becoming more deliberate, more intimate. It’s not just hunger anymore—it’s something deeper, something that lingers in the space between desire and devotion. You were fucking and suddenly you're making love. He intertwine his fingers with yours and caress your hips with his other hand. He can't take his eyes off you. 

“You have no idea how much I missed you,” he murmurs, his voice steady and deep, carrying the weight of all the time you’ve spent apart.

“I’m here now,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him close until your forehead rests against his.

“Don’t ever leave again,” he mumbles, his voice breaking slightly. “No matter what we go through. Never again.”

You cup his face gently, your voice soft but resolute. “I’m not going anywhere without you, Jaehyun.”

His movements are regular, and you feel his cock rubbing your walls in the same rhythm. He lightly pinches your ass and you moan. He knows you love it. He gently caress your other hole to stimulate you. You can feel your orgasm rising. He doesn't let go of your neck, which he's working hard on. You'll probably have a bruise by tonight, or several. 

You pull on his hair to signal that your climax is coming. He lifts his head to see you moaning.

“Say my name.” he murmurs.

“Jaehyun, Jaehyun, oh my god Jae yes, yes…” you shout his name until the end of your climax. He closes his eyes and enjoys the moment, his name sounding so good in your mouth.

“Yeah baby, ‘m right here.” He picks up the pace again, his movements becoming urgent and demanding, as if he’s making up for all the lost time.

“Tell me I’m the man of your life, say it,” he commands, his eyes dark and intense. He needs to know where he stands in your heart, in your life, what place he occupies in your eyes.

“You’re the man of my life, there’s only you,” you whisper, gently running your fingers through his hair, wanting him to feel every ounce of love you have for him. You know Jaehyun needs reassurance, to feel cherished and cared for. You’ll say everything he wants to hear.

“We’ll never be apart again,” he murmurs, his eyes now filled with sadness and a quiet desperation.

“No, never again—ah, Jae…” you moan softly, your breath hitching as his touch overwhelms you.

You feel his dick tense up inside you, you know he's close to orgasm. 

“I'm yours, I love you so much.” Jaehyun likes to feel loved and reassured it helps him reach his climax. “You're the man in my life Jae. No one can be you, no one can love me like you and no one can fuck me like you.”

He moans loudly, finally relaxing into you, he's always done it, so why change your habits. He remains in ecstasy for a moment. His forehead is moist. His breathing calms and so does yours, your head resting against his chest. 

"I meant it, you know," you murmur against him, your hand still intertwined with his.

"I know... and so do I. You're the woman of my life. I want everything with you. I want us to get married, I want kids, I want a dog, and the beautiful country house that comes with it."

You look at him, Jaehyun is so much more mature and confident now.

"Why don't we pick up where we left off a few months ago, let's move in together."

"Leave your place tonight, and come stay at mine."

"Are you serious?"

"Completely. I don’t want to wake up a single morning without you. Last night I was going crazy coming home without you. You can bring your stuff gradually, but I’m warning you, you’re not sleeping there unless I’m with you."

You smile and kiss him. "Okay, Mr. Possessive."

"You’re mine, remember? You’re the one who said it."

-

[koy6na]

just for a moment

tags: dub con, oral(m receiving), breeding, fingering, cheating(ily mel), face fucking

a/n-i’ve always been team jayce

you can’t help but feel a bit sorry for him. hexgates, councilors, enforcers, there’s far too much weighing on him. you tell yourself that his anger was misdirected at you.

his yellow eyes glint with ambiguity as he gazes at you. “i’m sorry.” his voice is gravelly with regret. “

his large hands reach for yours. how sweet. how evil. your eyes meticulously trace the curve of his cupid’s bow. you regrettably imagine her lips against his and the way her hands might entangle in his dark hair. “i really am sorry.” the low, saccharine tone in his voice almost makes you forget what he was even apologizing for. "you’re important to me.” you can’t help but believe him just a little. you can’t help but let your lips caress his. he tastes like earl gray and mint. such a familiar flavor and yet there’s something else you can't quite name. he deepens the kiss while his hands find solace wrapped around you.

kissing him is nostalgic. it comes natural to the both of you, like your lips had been molded to fit perfectly between each others. he was always a sloppy kisser but you liked the way his tongue recklessly thrashed against your teeth. it felt primal in the way that kissing was supposed to be. you never complained when your bottom lip got caught between his teeth. his fingers found their way to the hem of your dress, pulling up the fabric to reveal the prize of this endeavor. he’s touching you like he always did. calculated and yet unpredictable. you moan at the contact. the papers on the desk crumple under your destructive palms and he slides the parchment away from the chaotic mess that the two of you are. careful to not mar any equations or carefully documented runes.

his thumb strategically rubs your clit sending warm electricity throughout your body. you moan into the wet kiss eliciting a deep moan from him in return. you coax his thumb harder and more precise against you, guiding him through your pleasure. he slides your lace underwear aside as two fingers plunge into your slick cunt. he moans again at the feeling. you break the kiss harshly, throwing your head back. jayce's lips connect to your throat leaving hot, effervescent kisses. your hips rock sharply to the rhythm of his fingers. your moans become high pitched and staticky as a slight echo rebounds your bliss. there's an elated tension brewing where two sopping fingers piston into you. you stare into his amber eyes, noticing the scrunch of his eyebrows. your hands absent-mindedly reach for the large bulge constrained against his slacks. he inhales sharply as his hand grips your wrist. "wait-" his eyes ward caution into yours. "why? what's wrong?" you ask naively. he brings his hand away from the heat of your sopping hole, causing your hips to instinctively buck. your lower lip quivers as he steps away from the desk, sighing heavily and turning his wide back to you.

"i'm sorry. this is a mistake, you know we can't be doing this. we're in my lab-" he rigidly stops himself. you watch him observantly as he looks down at his hand, still sheen with your arousal. the skirt of your dress is still hiked up above your thighs. "why not?" you sound pitiable. he hesitates before he speaks. "we just can't." jayce runs his hands through his hair. "is it…because of her?" your voice is cold and stagnant. he sighs again, this time there's a hint of warmth behind it. "it's not that." he says softly. the fever in your womb turns frigid, spreading to the rest of your trembling body. you try to stop yourself. try to contain the bitterness, the contempt but you can't seem to put a stop to it. "i knew it." you spat, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. your feet touch the hard marble floor as you edge towards him. "congratulations. this is everything you've always wanted." the click of your heels causes his head to turn ever so slightly to meet your eyes. "you got your seat at the council, your perfect lab, and your perfect woman. i guess this means you're done with me." the poison in your speech seems only to affect you. hot tears blur your vision but you still catch a glimpse at a pair of sad yellow eyes. "stop," he turns to fully face you. "don't do that, please it's so childish. you know i'll always care about you." his hands reach up to cup your shoulders. his gaze is intense as ever. you can't help but melt under his touch. the tears that flow only prompt you to spill every drop of affection you harbored. you're drunk on yearning, like water to wine.

"please, jayce." your voice trembles pathetically, head tilting in defeat. your hands reach to hold his face, he responds, gently pushing them away. "i won't tell anyone. you can still have everything you worked for, i promise." you babble desperately. "c'mon don't be like this." he says still fighting off you hands. "i just want to be near you. i won't bother you, please." please please please please, you chant repeatedly in your head like some sort of spell to somehow telepathically change his mind. you start to kiss him sloppily as his hands softly press against your chest. you're kissing his neck, unbuttoning his shirt, ignoring his pleas to calm down as the heat in your core starts up again like a motor. your hands clumsily palm his crotch, he's still hard. etched in between his words of protest you hear a familiar moan. you're tugging at his belt and then at his zipper and then at the weeping head of his cock. "seriously, we can't do this. i'm with someone." he pleads. his wrists pry weakly at your pulling hands. you say nothing because there's nothing to say. you tell yourself that the only way to convince him is to show him how useful you can be. it's the only way to prove to a man of progress just how much he needs you.

you're rhythmically stroking his dick, listening to his ragged breathing. your hands are sticky with pre-cum. without thinking you feel the goosebumps prickle along your thighs as your knees hit the cool ground. you lick a stripe along his thick shaft. his hands entwine intrinsically through your hair. your head bobs frantically up and down, your eyes don't depart from his furrowed features. his eyes flutter closed as your focus settles onto his tip. "we can't be doing this." he repeats as he moans lightly. his hips start to buck faintly. your hands rest on his thighs, using only your mouth to coerce him. his firm hands pull your hair harder as he begins to fuck your mouth. it starts off slow and gentle but the more he gets, the more he needs. the strangled sound of your moans fill the room as he forcibly stuffs his cock into the back of your throat. you always favored this side of him. the aggressive, passionate, greedy side. you selfishly tell yourself you're the only one who can spring on this darker alter ego of his, that you're the only one who can show him his true nature. your mouth is filled with the taste of him. tears flow as you struggle to breath. you think you'll pass out from lack of oxygen before he even cums. his moans become harsh and loud, your pussy cries for attention at the sound of his pleasure. his eyes are tightly shut as his head falls back. "fuck. i'm gonna cum. i'm gonna cum." he exasperatedly declares. with a few brash groans he's spilling into your mouth, hips bucking sporadically.

his thrusts begin to slow until he finally pulls out with a soft moan. a string of fluid connects your lips to the swollen head of his cock. his breathing is broken and he finally looks down to meet your gaze. the look on your face breaks him just a little. your misty eyes and your pouty lips. he doesn't skip the heaving of your chest and your almost silent moans as you try to catch your breath. you haven't looked away from him yet. "get up." he says sternly. you don't disobey. when you meet his level you see the anger in his eyes. "why are you like this?" he huffs frustratedly. "why? why do you always do this to me?" the volume in his last question causes you to jump, startled. you're not sure how to respond. "i just-" before you can muster out an answer he crashes his lips onto yours. you taste his cum meshing with saliva. your body buzzes with excitement. you place your hands into his hair pulling him deeper into your kiss. you're both moaning pathetically into each other's mouths as your bodies collide with the floor.

his hands messily lift your dress above your head. the cold ground sends shivers down your back but you know the chill is all worth it. he doesn't bother sliding off your underwear but instead hurriedly rubs his dick against the sodden fabric. "is this what you wanted?" the ruggedness of his voice makes you grind your hips against his tip. "you want me to fuck you? you like that i'm cheating? you like that? huh?" intensity laces his interrogation. a million devious thoughts run through your head. you think of her face if she saw you two, and of what people would think of you if they found out. it only churns your desire even more. "yes. yes i want it. i want you, jayce. i only want you." your prattling get more desperate by the second, spurred on by each connection of his cock and your throbbing clit. "please put it in, please please." your chorus of please strikes a craving in him. he puts the tip in, sliding past your panties. his face contorts with gross satisfaction. you can tell it's killing him. you know he likes her. he wants to be a good man. a good and loyal man. it's who he is, but he just can't seem to ever deny you. especially when your legs are spread open for him and your aching pussy is waiting to engulf his entire being. you know he's thinking of her and you know he feels bad enough as it is but something inside you longs to remind him of exactly why it was never going to work out between the two of them.

your legs wrap around his torso, pulling him in, all the way in. his hips meet yours and the stretch of his girth is merciless. his mouth gapes open as he instinctively ruts his hips into you. "does it feel good?" you ask sweetly. he can only seem to muster out a miserable uh huh as your walls clench lovingly around him. he's looking at you now through lowered lids, drinking in your pillowy moans and your fluttering eyelashes. his hips snap back and forth at an unforgiving tempo, releasing a low, guttural moan with each thrust. you can hear how wet you are when he sinks back in. it's all too much. he feels so good. how are you supposed to let him go? he's yours. you're not one to share. every shy exchange of glances, every subtle touch, every genuine expression of fondness, all yours. your moans are unrelenting and rapid like the ocean. each wave gravitated by the movement of his hips. your fingers stupidly trace the lines of his face, the curve of his brows. "tell me you love me." the words slip out seemingly unbeknownst to you. you're surprised at your own request. jayce looks at you, a hint of shock appears in his face. he kisses you, slowly, gentler than before. he leans his forehead against yours and you can feel the thunder of his hot breath against your lips. "i love you." he gasps out softheartedly. you swear you feel your cunt flutter around him. "i love you." he says again, still a whisper. yet it's enough to satiate your need. "i love you." this time you utter the words, construed with a light moan. "want you to cum in me. please cum in me." jayce lets out a high pitched groan as he takes in your every word. "i want it inside, jayce. i want it all inside." the words tumble out of your mouth straight to his head. you're always getting in his head. he's always been a careful man. that's why he's so successful. he tells himself to use his head. don't do anything too irrational. don't be stupid, jayce. but he just can't seem to pull all the way out. he tries, unsheathing his dick to reveal the glistening shaft. but he keeps plunging back in, over and over and over. he revels in the way you embrace the fullness of his cock. "you really-you really want it?" he hesitates when he speaks, afraid of springing on a premature orgasm just by imagining the thought of what he's implying. you muster out a weak uh huh. all that tough talk you dished amounted to nothing but tenderness when he spoke to you like that.

you don't skip over how sloppy his thrusts are. the entirety of his weight rests over you, causing the rutting of his hips to fully pierce through you. words aren't needed. you feel the throbbing of his cock and the hopelessness in the cadence of his moans. he's projecting soft groans directly into your ear. you feel his body seize up and hear a lasting, raucous moan rattle your insides. hot cum rushes into your cunt. you hold his shoulders sensitively, comforting his orgasmic demeanor as you feel a gush of arousal of your own. you're cumming around his thick cock. the room starts to spin as you quiver underneath him against the cold floor. a warm spot starts to form on the marble from the heat of your bodies. you're both shaking as you recover from your conjoined pleasure. he's still inside you. you can't help but hold him just a little longer. you stroke his hair as his breath returns to normal. you focus on the beating of his heart against yours. it thumps against your sternum with fervor. you close your eyes and try to memorize the pumping of his blood. just for the memory, just for a little.

[orellazalonia]

Even If You Forget

Summary: After a mission gone wrong, Bucky loses all memory of his relationship with you. Though heartbroken, you patiently stay by his side, offering gentle support and quiet company. Despite the emotional distance, you hold onto the hope that someday he’ll find his way back. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.1k+

A/N: This has ANGST by the way. I absolutely adore anything to do with memories, so much potential. I might write another version of this where the reader loses her memories instead. You are responsible for the media you consume. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist | His Version

The mornings with Bucky were always slow, quiet, and warm.

His arm was usually draped over your waist by the time the sun started to creep through the blinds. He breathed a little heavier in the mornings, caught between dreams and the weight of his history. However, he never seemed to stir until you moved.

You liked it that way. It gave you time to look at him, at the faint worry lines that softened in sleep, at the longer strands of brown hair you liked to brush behind his ear, at the mouth that rarely smiled in public but had no trouble curving up for you when the world was far away.

You loved him deeply. In the way people loved after surviving something. There were scars on both of you and silences that stretched longer than they should’ve, but you understood him, and he had never once looked at you like he regretted being understood.

Your relationship had started quietly, like most things with Bucky did. It wasn’t love at first sight. It wasn’t loud declarations or stolen kisses in the rain. It was simpler. He’d sit near you during debriefings and glance over to make sure you understood the mission. He’d knock on your door late at night when he couldn’t sleep and leave a book outside if you didn’t answer. He remembered how you liked your coffee and never asked why you kept a light on when you slept.

Eventually, he started sitting a little closer. Touching your hand a little longer. Smiling a little easier. It wasn’t fast, but it was safe and real. You both needed that.

Sixteen months into the relationship, you'd moved in together into a tiny apartment, tucked above an old bookstore with creaky floors and a heater that only worked when Bucky kicked it. You painted the walls together. He helped pick out the furniture. You made him tea when his nightmares left him shaking, and he kissed your forehead when your hands trembled after bad missions.

He was never one to say I love you right away and especially not out loud. But he showed it, every single day.

And when he finally did say it, it was late at night, in the middle of an argument about laundry or groceries or something equally domestic and ridiculous when you both froze. He looked horrified that it slipped out. You looked stunned for barely a second before smiling and leaning closer to him, saying it back like it was the easiest thing in the world.

You thought nothing could take that from you.

But you were wrong.

You and Bucky had been paired up for another mission like normal to infiltrate an abandoned Hydra facility. Retrieve what remained of their stolen technology and data, destroy the rest. Bucky didn’t want you going in at first, but you reminded him that you were a trained operative, not a civilian. Besides, you worked better together anyways.

You were halfway through the facility when the alarms went off. Not an intruder alert but something else. Something that triggered deeper in the system. You split up briefly to cover more ground, and that was the last time Bucky looked at you like he knew who you were.

When you found him again twenty minutes later, he was hunched over and clutching his head near a strange, flickering device. When he raised his head, all you could see was cold, calculating eyes staring back.

Like a stranger.

And when you called his name, your voice shaking, and your hands reaching out to steady him; he backed away like you were poison.

“Who the hell are you?”

You froze in your spot. His voice wasn’t like Bucky’s. It was lower, flatter. Measured. It lacked the hesitant warmth that usually colored his words when he spoke to you. It was the voice of someone evaluating a threat.

Your hand, half-raised, trembled in the air between you.

“Bucky,” You whispered, like maybe the sound of it would crack something open. “It’s me.”

He stood slowly, the whir of his metal arm slicing through the silence. His eyes didn’t flicker with recognition. No softness. No guilt. Just analysis and caution.

You’d seen that expression before. Once. Years ago, when the Winter Soldier was still a ghost wandering about without a strip of autonomy. You definitely didn’t see this expression on the man who crawled into your bed at night and tucked a blanket around your shoulders.

But, here he was. You could feel how painfully your heart pounded in your chest.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” He said, almost to himself. He looked around, scanning the shadows like he expected enemies to crawl out of the dark. His hand hovered near the side holster at his thigh. “Who sent you?”

“No one sent me,” You said, stepping forward. “You’re-… Bucky, you’re not well. That machine, something happened. Let me help-“

“Stop,” He snapped. Your name was unfamiliar to him now. It didn’t make him pause. It didn’t register. “You’re not cleared to speak to me. I don’t know you.”

The words landed with brutal precision. You stepped back like you’d been struck. Because in a way, you had. He didn’t remember you.

The realization settled over you slowly, like frost creeping across glass. You felt your lungs tighten, your throat close. You could still see the outline of the relationship you'd built, months of laughter and late nights and slow healing, but he stood on the other side of it now, locked out.

You reached for your comm, fingers clumsy and stiff with dread as you called for backup and reported the situation.

When the team arrived, faster than you had expected, they didn’t ask many questions. You let them take over while you stood to the side, arms wrapped tightly around your chest, eyes fixed on the man who no longer knew your name.

Steve had been brought with the other agents. Miraculously, Bucky still remembered him and trusted his words to lead him to safety. He had followed Steve back to the Quinjet without hesitation. There was a time when he would have trusted you without a second thought too, but now you were just another stranger.

You sat in the back of the jet, silent and numb, your eyes never leaving his tense form. One hand was curled loosely near his chest. You remembered how he used to hold your hand that way when he slept. Like he needed to know you were real.

Now he didn’t know you at all.

Back at HQ, medical scans confirmed your worst fear. The machine had been some kind of neural disruptor, a crude prototype designed to extract and overwrite memory. Hydra tech, of course. The data was incomplete, scrambled, but the damage wasn’t.

He remembered Steve. Missions. Pieces of his past. It didn’t bring back the Winter Soldier thanks to his time in Wakanda. However, anything recent or anything soft, was gone.

You. Erased just like that.

You spent three days outside the glass of the room he stayed in, watching him rebuild his reality in pieces. He spoke little. Ate less. The team tried reintroducing him to other faces, but he flinched away from most of them. He was polite, distant, cautious. Like a soldier unsure of his orders.

Every time you entered the room, his eyes would land on you and linger. But they never softened. He never said your name, not even once.

And every night, you’d sit alone in your apartment above the bookstore, staring at the spot on the couch where he used to fall asleep during movie nights, wondering how you could miss someone who was technically still alive, just out of reach.

You never forced him to remember. You didn’t even try. Because you knew memory wasn’t something you could demand back. It wasn’t a switch you could flip or a locked door you could break down with frustration or anger. It was delicate. Fragile. Like glass edges that could cut him deeper if handled carelessly.

So instead, you became quiet. You became gentle even though visiting him wasn’t easy. Each time you entered the room, you reminded yourself to soften your eyes, to keep your voice low, calm. To be someone who he might feel safe with, even if he didn’t remember why.

“Hey,” You’d say, just like that. Simple. No pressure. No demands.

You’d bring small things like his favorite book, a picture from your last trip, or a worn jacket he’d left behind. You hoped these would speak to something buried inside him, a spark.

Some days, he’d look at you with confusion. Others, with suspicion. Sometimes, his eyes would flicker like he was searching for a ghost behind your face.

You hated that, but you never showed it. You never let him see it because you couldn’t. You remembered how lost he felt the first time you met him, before all the pieces of you and him fit together. And you knew patience was the only thread strong enough to hold you both together now.

Because you could tell he was afraid. Of you. Of himself. Of what he’d lost. And you were afraid, too. Afraid you’d never get him back. Afraid he’d forget the moments you shared, the trust you built. All the moments you shared together.

But you stayed. Every passing day, every painful visit, you stayed. Even when it hurt to see the distance in his eyes or the way his hand no longer found yours in the dark or the way his voice no longer softened when he spoke your name.

Because love wasn’t about forcing recognition or surfacing memories of what used to be. It was about waiting. Waiting until he could find you again, on his own terms.

-

In the halls of the Avengers compound, you often caught the looks of the team. Quiet glances that lingered too long before they quickly looked away. Soft expressions shadowed with pity. Sometimes, it was Tony shaking his head slightly when he thought you weren’t looking. Sometimes, Natasha’s eyes would meet yours briefly, sympathy buried beneath her usual stoic mask. Steve especially, steady as ever, gave you a small nod of understanding whenever your paths crossed.

They all knew. They knew what you were going through. They knew exactly what you had lost, but no one said it aloud. They didn’t need to after all.

You felt the weight of it, like invisible hands pressing down on your chest when you thought you were alone. The way they looked at you said, She’s holding onto someone who’s slipping away. She’s pretending to be okay, but she’s breaking.

You never asked for their pity. You never wanted it. It felt like another reminder that things were broken beyond repair. So you kept forcing yourself to keep your head high and to keep moving forward.

You showed up for briefings. You trained with the others. You made sure your smiles were steady, your voice calm. But deep within you, every step was heavy. Every breath felt borrowed. Because the truth everyone was coming to realize, no one could fix this but Bucky. And Bucky couldn’t remember you.

And as days bled into weeks, your visits with him continued. Still quiet, steady, and unyielding. But no breakthroughs. No magic moments where Bucky suddenly remembered your name or the warmth of your touch.

But slowly, you learned to be okay with that. Because sometimes, healing wasn’t about the big gestures. It was about the small ones.

A flicker of recognition in his eyes when you laughed at a joke you’d shared long ago. A twitch of hesitation before he pulled back when you offered your hand. A breath held a moment longer when you read aloud from his favorite book.

Those tiny cracks in the wall gave you hope.

One evening, as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the compound, you found yourself sitting beside him on the couch. No words were spoken, there was no need.

His hand, tentative and unsure, brushed against yours. You paused for a moment and didn’t dare pull away. Instead, you let your fingers intertwine slowly, grounding both of you in that fragile moment of connection.

It wasn’t the past rushing back. It wasn’t a promise of what would come. But it was something. A beginning. A chance. And sometimes, that was enough.

Because you knew this story wasn’t finished. Not yet.

And as long as you both were willing to try, maybe one day, he’d find his way back to you.

[eiralunaire]

Damian gently laid you down on the couch, his movements calculated but charged with a palpable intensity. He stared at you for a moment, as if he wanted to etch every detail of this moment into his memory. The fire in the fireplace cast dancing shadows across his features, accentuating the hardness of his jaw and the intensity of his gaze.

“Tell me you want this as much as I do,” he murmured, his voice a low whisper that reverberated in the space between you.

“I want it,” you replied, your voice barely audible but firm.

His lips met yours again, this time with a mix of tenderness and urgency that made the air around you feel thicker. His hands, warm and firm, moved slowly from your face to your sides, running over your body with an adoration that left you breathless.

Damian was meticulous, as if each caress was designed to draw sighs from you and make you forget the outside world. His body, trained and hardened by years of combat, moved with an unexpected delicacy, as if he were afraid of breaking something precious.

“I never thought I would need this, that I would need you like this,” he confessed as his lips moved to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses that ignited every fiber of your being.

“Damian,” you whispered his name, a mix of pleading and emotion that seemed to turn him on even more.

He paused for a moment, his green eyes searching yours, as if he wanted to make sure you were completely with him in this moment.

“This isn’t just one night for me,” he said in a grave tone, his sincerity piercing you like an arrow straight to the heart. “You’re all I want, all I ever wanted.”

The words left a lump in your throat, and all you could do was raise a hand to touch his face, gently tracing the line of his jaw.

“I’m not here for just one night, Damian,” you replied with the same intensity. “I’m here to stay, if you let me.”

The emotion on his face was indescribable. Without another word, he caught you again in a kiss that spoke of silent promises and deep feelings, letting the rest of the night become an exchange of emotions that had been contained for too long.

The fire crackled in the fireplace, the rain gently tapped the windows, and in that instant, the outside world ceased to exist. Only the two of you remained, giving yourselves over to the discovery of something you both knew you couldn’t, nor wanted to, stop.

His hands slid down your body, touching you as if he wanted to memorize every curve, every detail. His movements were precise, but there was also an air of desperation, as if he feared this moment might disappear.

The heat between you intensified, and the atmosphere grew heavier, more charged. Every caress, every kiss, ignited a spark that threatened to turn into an uncontrollable fire. His lips trailed down your neck, leaving a trail of kisses and small bites that sent shivers down your spine.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured against your skin, his voice husky and full of desire.

“Don’t,” you replied without hesitation, your hands clinging to him as if you wanted to make sure he didn’t pull away.

Damian responded with a low growl, a mix of satisfaction and need, as he lifted you into his arms, carrying you towards his room. His movements were fluid, as if each step was charged with clear intention.

The room was dark, but the soft light from the rain falling outside illuminated his features as he gently placed you on the bed. He stood for a moment, looking at you with an intensity that took your breath away.

“You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, even when I didn’t know I did,” he said as he leaned into you, his voice heavy with promise and emotion.

That night, Damian wasn’t the relentless warrior, nor the disciplined Robin. With you, he was just a man giving himself completely to the moment, letting emotions and desire consume him.

Part One, part Two

[woollypoison]

Take what you want and go: part 1

Itzy Ryujin x m reader This part is all fluff, no smut here yet. Later parts will have smut, so stick around for that? I'm starting projects and working on them piece by piece. If I don't post them, I end up revising them ad infinitum. Word count: 1,664 words.

This isn’t your usual Friday night. Music pumping loud, a relentless beat that fights against the one in your chest. The air in the club is thick with sweat, perfume, alcohol and disgusting desperation. Some of those stenches belonging to you. People grinding into each other like they’re trying to forget something. Or Everything. You’re not here to forget, though. Not tonight.

You’ve been working the same old fashioned for an hour now. You’re not here to get wasted. Your eyes are skimming the room, catching glimpses of silhouettes. Shadows dance, giving way to partially revealed faces, none of them familiar— Until they are.

Ryujin.

She’s standing on the edge of the dance floor, her light skin reflecting against her dark clothes. She’s dressed in a black waving top that drapes over her matching black shorts, clinging to her like they were made for her body, a faint sheen of sweat glinting on her exposed abdomen under the neon lights. Her hair falls in sharp, intentional waves, and her lips curl into a smirk as she tilts her head towards someone leaning too fucking close. 

It’s been weeks since you last saw her. Weeks since she walked out of your apartment and left you staring at a closed door. You tried getting over her. So far, no success. Seeing her now, with that same effortless confidence and thrilling presence… it was no wonder you kept failing.

She hasn’t noticed you yet, or maybe she has and just doesn’t care. Her attention is on the person next to her. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You’re not here to intervene. You’re just here to see her, to remind yourself you're better off without her.

At least, that’s the lie you keep repeating to yourself. If you repeat it enough, you might end up believing it.

When Ryujin finally does look your way, it feels like the music is going on mute. Her eyes lock on yours, and for a single moment, the chaos of the club seems to fade into nothingness. Her smile drops, just barely, before returning to its original state, this time sharper. Calculated.

You know what’s happening. You should look away. You should finish your drink, leave the club, and never come back. But you don’t. You can’t.

Her dancefloor parasite says something, and Ryujin laughs. But her gaze keeps flicking back to yours, a challenge in her expression. “You’re here, aren’t you? Are you going to come to me, or are you going to keep pretending you don’t care?”

You’re hesitant, but her eyes always spur you on toward things you can’t control. You’re pushing through the crowd, the music getting louder and more obnoxious with each step to the dancefloor. Lifting your feet gets harder and harder as you close the distance between you and her.

When you’re finally close enough to appreciate the way her clothes are hugging her curves, she turns to face you fully, dismissing her companion with a clear gesture. They linger for a moment before disappearing back into the crowd, leaving the two of you standing face to face.

“Well, well,” Ryujin says, her voice smooth and teasing, clearly lying. “I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

She’s already getting on your nerves. She left, why is she being so casual? You should be screaming at eachother. Somehow, you manage to keep your calm. “Didn’t think you’d be here either.”

She shrugs, leaning against a nearby pillar with the kind of casual grace that always made her feel untouchable. “Seems you don’t know me that well after all.”

There’s a challenge in her words now. You’ve fallen for it too many times before. She’s baiting you, testing your resolve, and you hate that it’s working.

“Looks like you’ve been keeping busy,” you say, glancing toward the dance floor where her companion disappeared. The words come out sharper than you intended, but you don’t take them back.

Ryujin arches an eyebrow, her lips transforming into an amused smile. “Jealous?”

“No,” you lie. A bit too quickly. You can’t even convince yourself.

She steps closer, the space in between you gradually disappearing. You can smell the faint trace of her perfume. It’s familiar. It’s the one she used to wear when she was desperate for a night of fucking you.

“You sure about that?” she asks, her voice dropping low, her mouth getting closer to your ear as the words exit her mouth and enter your brain.

You don’t answer. You can’t. For a moment, you let yourself take her in—the sharp line of her jaw, the glint of mischief in her eyes. She’s everything you’ve been trying to forget, and seeing her now, you can’t help but want her back.

Your next words lack conviction. As if not daring to say it to her, but talking to yourself about her. “You shouldn’t be here,” you say finally.

Her smile softens, just barely, and you see something vulnerable in her expression. But then it’s gone, as quickly as it appeared.

“Neither should you.”

“I missed you,” she says suddenly, the words low enough that you almost don’t catch them.

For a second, you wonder if she means it, or if it’s just another game. But the look in her eyes—the way they soften, just slightly—tells you it’s real. It feels mean, her admitting something like this. Spiteful.

You missed her too. You want to say it too. You want to reach out, pull her close, and forget about everything that’s been keeping you apart. It’s impossible.

Instead, you take a step back, the weight of her words settling heavy in your chest. “You don’t get to say that,” you struggle to accuse her.

Ryujin straightens facing you, vengeance painting her smirk. “Maybe not,” she says, her tone rich with defiance. “But I said it anyway.”

Does she want you to laugh? To cry? She’s always been like this… unapologetic, reckless, and impossible to pin down. It’s what drew you to her in the first place. That’s what makes her so damn hard to let go of. It’s… unhealthy.

“Enjoy your night, Ryujin,” you say, turning around and getting ready to move.

But before you can take even a single step, her hand catches your wrist, her grip firm like she can’t allow herself to let you leave. “Wait,” she says, her voice pleading. “Don’t go.”

You freeze. You want to run. You want to stay. You're torn between the two. You can’t help but turn back to her, against better judgement. There’s something in her eyes you can’t ignore. You could never ignore. It’s enough to make your resolve crumble.

“What is it?” you ask. There’s concern, but a hint of apprehension strains your voice.

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she comes closer. Her hand brushes against your wrist again, lingering as though she’s unsure whether to pull you back or let you go. Her eyes meet yours, and for a moment, she looks like she’s struggling to find the words.

“Why do you make this so hard?” she murmurs. You can barely hear the exact words, but you understand their meaning.

You blink, caught off guard. Was this a joke? “Me?”

Her lips pressed together, forming a tiny thin line, and she shakes her head, exhaling a sharp sigh. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

But her hand doesn’t pull away. Her hand grips your wrist harder, a speechless contradiction to what her words were saying.

“Say it,” you inquire, her hand convincing you that you simply must know. The frustration she’s causing you impossible to ignore. “Whatever it is you’re trying so hard not to say, just spit it out, Ryujin.”

“You think you’re the only one who’s tired of this?” she says, biting back at your demands. “Of this endless back and forth? Like you’re the only one who’s hurting?”

Before you can even respond, she lets go of your wrist and takes a step back, the distance between you growing for the first time.

“You could’ve walked away a long time ago if you wanted to,” she continues, her tone colder now, defensive. “But you didn’t. So don’t stand there acting like this is all on me.”

“Ryujin—”

“No.” She cuts you off, her gaze narrowing down on you. “You keep showing up. Every single time. And then you get angry at me when I don’t give you what you want.”

Your jaw clenches at her provocations, her words pushing the exact buttons you’d hoped to avoid. “That’s not fair, and you know it.”

“Isn’t it?” she counters back to you, crossing her arms. For a moment, she looks like she’s about to say more, but then she takes a deep breath and shakes her head. Her voice softens a little, like she’s tired. “You can’t have it both ways. You don’t get to act like you care and then walk away whenever I get messy.”

You feel like you’re about to boil over, but you subdue it. “And what about you? You keep pulling me back in just to push me away again. What do you even want from me, Ryujin?”

Her lips part, and she looks like she might answer. Her eyes soften, and her eyebrows turn upwards in the center. Her expression is almost vulnerable. But as soon as she catches herself, she reverts it all. Re-establishing her guard.

“Forget it,” she says abruptly, turning away. “It doesn’t matter.”

And just like that, she walks off, leaving you standing there.

You watch her disappear into the crowd, your fists clenching at your sides. She always does this—gets under your skin, says just enough to make you question everything, and then leaves before you can get any answers.

But this time feels different. You’re not the same you were weeks ago. You won’t turn away. Just storm out in the other direction like you always did. You are getting a resolution today. You are not walking away this time.