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elikajinnie · 3 days ago

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P: Baseball Player!Ni-ki X Fem!Reader (SEQUEL)

Warnings: Toxic Relationship Dynamics, Emotional Manipulation, Controlling Behavior, Obsession, Mental Health Struggles, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Angst, Ex-Lovers, Jealousy, Begging, Suggestive Content, Violence, Use Of Drugs, Power Imbalance, Infidelity, Pregnancy Manipulation, Mentions Of Past Trauma, Codependency, Media Harassment, Alcohol Use, Emotional Breakdowns, Spiraling Behavior, Manipulative Reconciliation, Guilt-Tripping, Unstable Relationship Dynamics, Toxic Nostalgia Romanticized, Unresolved Trauma.

Synopsis: Ni-ki swore he was different now, no more games, no more damage, just a boy trying to earn a second chance. You almost believed him. Almost. But then she shows up. A girl from the time he was trying to forget you — pregnant, unhinged, and claiming the baby is his. Now Ni-ki’s unraveling all over again, desperate to prove you're the only one who matters. But the thing about love like his? It always comes with teeth.

Wordcount: 16,3k

a/n: so many people wanted a part 2 from the original fic, so i decided to kindly give the people a small sequel based on a request. So i recommend reading the first part for this to make sense :) Reblogs and commentary are appreciated!

now playing reflections by the neighbourhood | revenge by xxxtentacion | void by the neighbourhood | doubt by twenty one pilots | borderline by nico collins

Morning had blurred into days.

Two days since he’d walked off that field, two days since the world decided to paint him as the villain of his own success. The headlines wouldn’t let up — clips of his last pitch, the slow-motion shot of him tossing his glove aside, leaving his team stranded mid-game. Sports analysts dissected his every move, his every mistake, like they knew him.

By day three, the press had found your apartment. Flashbulbs burst outside your building every time the door opened. They wanted a statement. They wanted dirt. They wanted you.

Ni-ki had stayed, of course. He’d barricaded himself inside your place, pacing and muttering under his breath between stretches of silence so heavy it pressed against your chest. Sometimes he’d grab your hand out of nowhere, holding it like proof you were still there. Other times, he’d go hours without speaking, his gaze far away, like he was still standing on that mound, still deciding whether to throw or to walk.

You hadn’t spoken much. Not because you didn’t want to — but because everyone else wanted a piece of him. The team. His manager. Reporters camped on your street. There was even a statement from the league demanding he "address the situation publicly."

He didn’t care. Not like he should.

That afternoon, you found him on your couch, hair damp from a shower he must’ve taken while you were at work. His phone buzzed nonstop on the table, but he didn’t even glance at it. “Ni-ki,” you said, softly.

He didn’t move.

“Your manager’s been calling. There are people outside. What are you even planning to do?”

Finally, he looked up. Eyes tired, but sharp. “Does it matter? None of that matters if I don’t have you.”

Your stomach twisted. This again.

“It’s your career,” you whispered. “You walked off the field mid-game, Ni-ki. People are—”

“People can talk.” His jaw tightened, voice rough. “Let them. I don’t care if I lose everything. I can build it back. But if I lose you again—” He broke off, leaning forward like the thought itself was unbearable. His hands dragged over his face, down his neck, gripping the back of it like he was trying to hold himself together.Then, softer, like a plea. “I left because I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t come find you. Baseball doesn’t mean anything without you in the stands. Without you to come home to.”

You hated the way your heart jumped, hated that you still felt that pull — the same one that had always made it impossible to stay away. “We shouldn’t be talking about us right now,” you said quietly.

Ni-ki didn’t move.

“I’m serious,” you continued, voice steadier this time. “You walked out in the middle of a nationally televised game. Your name is everywhere. Your team’s in chaos. And you’re—” your voice cracked with disbelief, “—you’re sitting here like none of that matters.”

“It doesn’t,” he said again, too fast, too sure.

“It should.” You let the silence hit hard. “It really, really should.”

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing now, restless. Like if he stopped moving, he'd feel everything all at once. “You think I care what people say? What they expect from me? They don’t know what it felt like, walking into that stadium with your ghost still in my chest. Every pitch, every cheer—empty.”

You stared at him. “So what, you blow it all up?”

His eyes snapped to yours. “I’d blow up the whole goddamn world if it meant I’d get one more chance with you.”

You flinched, not from the words, but from how much they still meant. How much he knew they would.

“No,” you whispered. “You don’t get to say that and pretend we’re not standing in a fire you started.”

“I didn’t come here to pretend.” His voice dropped again, rougher now. “I came here because I couldn’t breathe without you. And I’m not gonna stand here and talk about them when I finally have you in front of me.”

You felt the heat rise behind your eyes — frustration, exhaustion, and something far more dangerous: the longing you buried. “I can’t do this with you right now,” you muttered. “Not like this.” You turned away before he could answer, before his voice could twist into something that might pull you back in. The room felt like it was shrinking — not from the silence, but from everything pressing in beyond it.

You crossed to the window and pulled back the curtain just an inch, your stomach sinking at the sight below. Twelve, maybe thirteen reporters. Cameras slung around their necks. Phones held up. They weren’t even trying to hide anymore, standing just off the porch like they belonged there.

Your pulse skipped. You let the curtain fall back into place. “They’re outside.”

No response.

You turned around slowly. Ni-ki was standing exactly where you left him, hoodie half-slipped from one shoulder, staring down at his phone like it had personally betrayed him. The screen lit up again and again — unknown numbers, familiar names. You caught a glimpse of one: Coach Park. The next: JUN SEO | PRESS. Then: Taehyun (Pitching).

You didn't realize he was gripping the phone so tight until his knuckles went pale.

He wasn’t breathing steadily anymore.

“Ni-ki…”

Still no response.

He just stood there, jaw clenched, muscles drawn tight like a rubber band ready to snap. When the phone buzzed again — this time a FaceTime call from someone marked MGMT — he slammed it down on the table. Not enough to break it. Just enough to echo. “Let them call,” he muttered under his breath, voice dark. “Let them scream. Let them guess.”

“You think this goes away if you ignore it?”

His eyes finally lifted to meet yours. Not wild. Not desperate. Focused.

“I think none of it means anything if I lose you again.”

There it was. Again.

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat. “Ni-ki, I’m not going to magically fix everything. I’m not your safehouse. There are consequences, and they’re not just going to disappear because you’re hiding in my living room.”

“I’m not hiding,” he snapped. “I’m choosing.”

The room stilled.

He stepped toward you slowly, voice low. “They want me to be something I’m not. Perfect. Controlled. Easy to market. But I was never any of that. I was just—” he paused, frustrated. “I was angry. And scared. And sick of pretending. And the only time I ever felt real was with you.”

You shook your head. “You can’t run from your life and expect me to carry it for you.”

“I’m not asking you to carry it,” he said quietly. “I’m asking you to stay in it.”

You stared at him, searching for something solid beneath the mess of his words. A promise. A plan. Anything that didn’t sound like blind emotion disguised as devotion. But instead, he just kept looking at you like you were the only real thing in the room. Like if you stepped back even an inch, he’d fall through the floor.

“I know I messed everything up,” he said, voice lower now, trembling at the edges. “But you’re the only part of my life that ever made sense.”

You exhaled shakily. “Ni-ki—”

“I’m not saying it’s fair. I’m not saying I deserve you. I just…” He took a small step closer, careful, like he knew you were already halfway out the door. “I don’t sleep when you’re not around. I don’t eat. I pitch worse. I go out less. It’s like every time I try to move on, I still end up coming back to the same damn place — to you.”

Your arms crossed before you could stop them, a weak barrier between you and everything he was spilling into the space. “You think that’s love?” you said quietly. “That sounds more like obsession.”

He flinched and for a second, you saw something break in him. Or maybe it cracked just enough for you to think it had. “I don’t know what love’s supposed to be,” he whispered. “I just know I’d rather ruin myself than live in a world where you hate me.”

You blinked. That wasn't fair. He knew that wasn't fair.

“Ni-ki—”

“No, listen to me.” His voice rose — not angry, but desperate. “I’ve done everything wrong. I know that. But don’t act like you don’t still feel it too. You let me in. You didn’t have to. You could’ve slammed the door in my face that night, and you didn’t. You wanted me here.”

Your jaw clenched. Because he was right. You hadn’t shut the door. And now he was using that choice like proof.

“I came here because I couldn’t breathe without you,” he said again, quieter this time, words like chains dressed in velvet. “I left the field, the cameras, the people who thought they owned me — all of it. For you.” He looked at you like he was waiting for you to break. And God, you almost did.

“I know I don’t deserve forgiveness yet,” he added, stepping forward again. “But if you leave me now—if you give up—then what the hell was I fighting for?”

Your throat tightened.

“That’s not fair,” you whispered.

He nodded. “I know.”

And still — he didn’t stop.

He brushed a hand against your arm, featherlight, just enough to remind you what it felt like when he used to hold you like the only thing that could anchor him to earth. “Just… don’t make me pay for every version of me you never got to fix,” he said softly. “I’m still trying. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s too late.”

You weren’t sure which part hit harder — the guilt he slipped into your ribcage, or the way he looked at you like your forgiveness was the final prize in a game he refused to lose.

Your mouth opened, then closed. He stepped closer.

“You were always the one who believed in me,” Ni-ki continued, voice lower now, like a secret meant just for you. “Even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when everyone else saw the mess, you looked past it.”

You shook your head, but his hand caught yours before you could pull away.

“And now you want to act like we’re strangers?” he said, a bitter laugh slipping out. “Like all of that meant nothing?”

“That’s not what I’m doing—”

“Then what are you doing?” His grip tightened slightly. “Because it feels like you’re just trying to push me away so you don’t have to admit you still want this. Still want me.”

You yanked your hand free. “This isn’t about what I want, Ni-ki.”

“Of course it is,” he snapped, voice sharp before softening again — like he was catching himself in real-time. “This has always been about us. You think I left everything behind just for fun? You think I gave up everything just to watch you walk away again?” He ran a hand through his hair, pacing now, that unraveling edge showing again. “I was drowning. In all of it. And the second I knew where you were, I finally breathed. You don’t get to take that from me now.”

You were spiraling — logic screaming in one ear, memory whispering in the other.

He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t cruel. That’s what made it worse. He was sweet. Familiar. Just enough of the boy you used to love to blur the lines between then and now. The way he tilted his head when he looked at you, the way his voice dipped into that low, aching register — it wrapped around you like muscle memory, like the past hadn’t taught you how dangerous it was to let him in. And he knew it. You could see it in his eyes. He knew exactly what strings to pull.

Ni-ki stepped forward again, so slowly, like he was afraid you’d bolt. His voice softened, calculated tenderness dripping from every word. “I know you’re scared. I get it. But we don’t have to start over. We just have to keep going. You and me — we already know how this works.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Because that’s what terrified you most: You did know how it worked. You knew how easily he could tangle himself into your life, how quickly love with him stopped feeling like a choice and started feeling like gravity.

“I left everything behind,” he said, motioning vaguely toward the window — toward the chaos outside, the calls still lighting up his phone. “You think I would’ve done that if you weren’t worth everything?”

You hated how that made your chest ache. Hated how part of you wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe that maybe this time he meant it. But this wasn’t a love letter. This was a contract he was trying to sign with your silence. “You’re not giving me a choice.”

“I’m giving you us,” he said quickly, stepping closer again. “I’m giving you the one thing we always said we wanted. No cameras. No teammates. No bullshit. Just you and me.”

You stared at him — stunned, confused, heartsick. “Ni-ki, you didn’t give me anything. You showed up, uninvited, in the middle of a crisis you created. That’s invasion.”

He flinched. But only for a second. “Then why haven't you chased me out yet if you didn’t still love me?”

You didn’t answer.Because the truth was curling in your throat, thick and dangerous.

You did still love him. That was the worst part. But it didn’t mean he deserved you. Not like this. Not when he only wanted you when the world turned against him.

And yet— his eyes were pleading now, like the damage in him was begging for something to hold. “I know I’m hard to love,” he whispered. “But I swear I’ll make it easier, if you just stay.”

You looked at him, blinking away the sting behind your eyes.

That wasn’t a promise. It was a bargain.

Three days later, the knock at the door wasn’t hesitant. It was sharp. Demanding. Like whoever stood on the other side didn’t care if they were interrupting something personal.

You knew who it was before you even opened it.

Mr. Kwon — Ni-ki’s longtime manager — stood on your porch, dressed in black, jaw tight, eyes already scanning the hallway over your shoulder.

You hesitated.

“Is he here?” he asked bluntly, no greeting.

You nodded once, then stepped aside.

Ni-ki was lounging on the couch, barefoot, hoodie wrinkled, head tilted back like he hadn’t just detonated his career and gone into hiding in someone else’s home. He looked up lazily when Mr. Kwon walked in, like this was a casual drop-in and not a long-overdue reckoning.

“You have some nerve,” the manager said before the door even closed behind him. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Ni-ki blinked. “Hi.”

“I’ve been calling you for days,” Mr. Kwon snapped, pacing across the living room with barely contained fury. “You left mid-game. You humiliated the team. You’ve been ignoring everyone while the media builds their own version of you — unstable, impulsive, self-destructive. You think this is a joke?”

Ni-ki shrugged. “They’ve called me worse.”

“This isn’t a tabloid headline you can brush off, Riki. You’re on the edge of suspension. The league is demanding answers. Sponsors are threatening to drop. Do you understand what’s at stake?”

Ni-ki stayed where he was, jaw propped in his hand, eyes glazed like he was bored of the conversation before it even started. “I’ll talk when I’m ready.”

“Oh trust me! You’re ready.” Mr. Kwon’s voice rose. “This isn’t just your problem anymore — it’s the team’s, the brand’s, my problem. And you’re acting like you’ve got all the time in the world to sulk in someone else’s living room while everything you’ve built goes up in smoke.”

At that, Ni-ki finally sat up. “I’m not sulking,” he said, voice low. “I’m thinking. Something I should’ve done a long time ago.”

Mr. Kwon’s nostrils flared. “Thinking doesn’t get you out of a contract violation. Thinking doesn’t fix your image. What the hell have you even done this whole time?”

Ni-ki looked over at you, and there it was again — that soft, maddening smile. The one he always gave when the world was on fire but he’d already chosen what was worth saving from the flames. “I’ve been staying with the only person who never asked me to be anything I’m not.”

Mr. Kwon scoffed. “You think that’s noble? You think throwing everything away for some—” he stopped, catching himself, glancing at you. “For this is going to save you?”

Ni-ki stepped closer, the lazy edge sharpening. “I didn’t throw it away,” he said. “I just decided it wasn’t worth it without her.”

Your breath caught.

Mr. Kwon’s eyes narrowed. “You want to ruin yourself? Fine,” he said tightly. “But don’t drag her down with you.”

Ni-ki’s jaw ticked — subtle, but dangerous. “She’s not the one dragging me,” he said. “She’s the one keeping me together.”

But that wasn’t true, not really. You weren’t holding him together. You were barely holding yourself together. And he was letting the wreckage pile at your feet like you were supposed to clean it up for him.

You looked away before either of them could read it on your face.

Mr. Kwon turned back to you, voice more composed now. “You need to understand something,” he said carefully. “This version of him? It doesn’t last. It never lasts. And when he falls again, you’ll be the one under him.”

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t believe it — but because you did.

And still, Ni-ki stood behind you like he couldn’t even hear it, like nothing could shake him as long as you were still in the room.

Mr. Kwon's phone suddenly buzzed sharply in his coat pocket, the sound slicing through the silence like a blade. He pulled it out without breaking stride in his rant, eyes flicking down to the screen — then narrowing. He scrolled once. Then again. And suddenly, everything about him changed. “Son of a bitch,” he spat, spinning on his heel. “You absolute fucking idiot—”

Before anyone could ask what happened, he smacked Ni-ki across the chest with his cap, hard, like a parent trying to knock sense back into a kid long past saving.

“What the—?!” Ni-ki jumped back, dodging the next swing. “What the fuck is your problem?!”

Mr. Kwon didn’t respond right away — just shoved the phone into Ni-ki’s face, voice shaking with fury. “That’s my problem.”

Ni-ki took the phone, still half-annoyed, half-confused. But the second his eyes scanned the screen, everything in his posture changed.

It was like watching him short-circuit in real time.

“No,” he breathed. He scrolled. Then again. And again. “No. No. No, no, no—fuck—no.”

You watched as he zipped up from the couch so fast the cushions shifted behind him. His hand went straight to his hair, fingers threading through like he was trying to physically hold his skull together. Panic spread across his face, raw and undiluted — not the usual smirk, not the calculated deflection. This was real.

“Tell me this is fake,” he muttered, turning to Mr. Kwon. “Please tell me this is fake—”

Mr. Kwon didn’t blink.

You stood frozen as Ni-ki’s breath quickened, his body practically vibrating with shock. He turned to you for a second — not to explain, not to defend — just to look. Like seeing you might somehow reverse what he’d just read.

“What is it?” you asked, voice low.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes like the news would disappear if he just stopped looking long enough. But it didn’t. And whatever it was, it had shattered the illusion he’d been so carefully living in.

Mr. Kwon exhaled harshly, then handed you the phone — the headline still up, the comments already flooding in.

And there it was:

EXCLUSIVE: Riki Nishimura’s Alleged Ex-Girlfriend Posts Positive Paternity Test, Accuses Star Pitcher of Ghosting Her and “Running Back to His First Choice”

You stared at the screen, the words burning themselves into your brain like they had teeth.

"Running back to his first choice."

Your throat dried instantly.

The girl’s post was everywhere — screenshots, blurred sonograms, dated messages, all conveniently timestamped around the time you and Ni-ki weren’t speaking. The time you’d left. The time you finally thought you’d saved yourself from him.

You remembered that version of him too well — reckless, unhinged, unraveling without apology. Back when his Instagram stories were blurry party clips and his name was in every gossip thread. Back when everyone said he was spiraling, but no one could name the reason. You hadn’t needed to. You were the reason.

That was when you noticed something. You didn’t even want to say it out loud, but the resemblance was there — just enough. Enough to make your stomach turn. To make you wonder if Ni-ki had been trying to replace you in the worst way possible.

She looked like you. Not exactly. But close. Close enough.

Your eyes drifted from the screen to him.

Ni-ki still hadn’t moved.He stood there like the headline had punched the air out of his lungs, like the panic in his chest hadn’t even figured out how to surface properly. His hand was still tangled in his hair, his mouth parted, his eyes locked on nothing.

Mr. Kwon paced behind him, muttering curses under his breath like a man doing inventory on a crumbling investment. “You were one of the worst kids I ever had to clean up after,” he muttered, voice half-wrecked, half-resigned. “And still… one of the best. God help me.”

But you barely heard him. All you could look at was Ni-ki — this boy who once swore he’d never want anyone but you, now crashing under the weight of a truth that might tie him to someone else forever.

And in that strange, suspended silence… You heard yourself speak before you even realized you had. Calm. Flat. Almost numb.

“Are you really the father?”

His head whipped toward you, expression shattered, like glass mid-fall. “No,” he said instantly — too fast. “No, I swear to God, I’m not. I’m not, I—I can’t be.” His voice cracked, catching in his throat like it hurt to say. Like the words themselves were slipping through fingers that didn’t know how to hold the truth. “You have to believe me,” he rushed out, stepping forward. “Please—please, don’t look at me like that. Don’t shut down, I can feel you doing it. I see it—”

You didn’t say anything.

He flinched at your silence. Like it burned.

“Fuck, no—please.” His voice rose, desperate now. “I wasn’t with her like that. It was one time. One fucking time and I didn’t even mean to. I was—I was wrecked. I wasn’t sleeping, I was drinking too much, I—” He choked on his words, stumbling closer. And then—

He dropped to his knees.

It was sudden, like gravity had finally yanked him down, like the weight of it all snapped the last string holding him upright.

You stared, frozen.

Ni-ki looked up at you from the floor, hands clutched together like a prayer or a confession, and he kept going — voice trembling, low and broken. “You have to understand,” he whispered. “I didn’t even want anyone else. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t fucking breathe. I was off my face—high, drunk, stupid—in some hotel room after that game in Daegu when I got hit on the mound.”

You remembered that match. He took a line drive straight to the ribs. Everyone thought he was done for the season.

“I don’t even remember her name,” he whispered. “I swear to you. I couldn’t pick her out of a room if you paid me.” He rubbed at his face harshly, shaking now. “It was you. Even then, it was you. All I saw was you. I thought—I thought if I blurred it enough, it would hurt less.”

You blinked slowly. Your arms were folded across your chest, but it didn’t feel like protection. Not against this. “You think that makes it better?” you asked softly.

“No,” he rasped. “No, I just—I need you to know I didn’t choose her. I never chose anyone but you.”

“And yet you’re here,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him, “on your knees, begging me to stay while someone else might be carrying your child.”

He broke at that.

His forehead dropped to the floor for a second, like he was trying to disappear into it. His hands pulled at his hair, fists clenched. His entire body shook. “I’ll fix it,” he whispered. “Please, let me fix it.”

For a moment, it was all heavy breathing and silence.

Then, from across the room, Mr. Kwon finally exhaled — loud, annoyed, and tired of watching the emotional bloodbath unfold on your living room floor. “Alright, alright, let’s not spiral yet,” he muttered, arms crossed. “First thing’s first—did you use protection?”

Ni-ki didn’t move at first. But slowly, he lifted his head. His face was wrecked — red and puffy, wet trails of tears streaking down his cheeks, lips trembling as he tried to swallow air. He blinked up at his manager, then sniffled, voice small and miserable.

“…I don’t remember.”

The silence cracked like ice under pressure.

Mr. Kwon’s face darkened. “You don’t remember,” he repeated, flat.

Ni-ki shook his head, wiping at his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie. “I was shitfaced, okay? I blacked out. I didn’t even know I’d slept with her until someone told me the next day—how the fuck would I remember if I used protection?”

Mr. Kwon turned around and dragged a hand down his face, muttering a string of curses in frustration. “Unbelievable,” he said. “You don’t remember. Jesus Christ.”

Ni-ki dropped his head again, rubbing his eyes raw like he could claw the night out of his memory if he just pressed hard enough.

“We’ll deal with it,” Mr. Kwon said finally, more to himself than to anyone else. “We’ll contact the girl. Set up a meeting. See if she’s willing to do an early test to confirm paternity. It might not even be yours.”

You swallowed the lump rising in your throat. And then, you asked the question no one else was saying aloud.

“What happens if it is?”

Ni-ki’s head snapped toward you like you’d thrown something at him. His eyes were wide, swollen, wet, and panicked. “What?” he said, voice cracking. “Don’t—don’t say that.”

Mr. Kwon didn’t even flinch. He just looked between the two of you, expression unreadable. “We’ll see.”

That was it. No reassurance. No denial. Just a quiet acceptance that the future might be uglier than any of you were ready to face.

Ni-ki stared at you like the ground beneath his knees had just crumbled.

And maybe it had.

The meeting wasn’t as explosive as you’d expected. But it wasn’t calm, either.

She was defensive from the second she stepped into the room — eyes sharp, tone clipped, every word soaked in the kind of bitterness that made it clear she hadn’t just come for clarity.

She came for war.

But Mr. Kwon kept things civil. Professional. He offered terms, an early paternity test once the window opened in a few weeks, and a clear promise that the press wouldn’t get a single word until facts were on the table.

At first, she resisted. Called Ni-ki a coward. Called you a name you didn’t flinch at, just watched her with that same, detached calm that had kept you alive this long.

But eventually, she agreed.

She wanted proof too, apparently. Wanted the same truth you were quietly dreading.

It was nearly midnight when you and Ni-ki finally sat on your bed.

He hadn’t spoken much since the meeting. Hadn’t cried again. Just followed you through the house like a ghost that had nothing left to haunt.

He was sitting on the edge of the mattress, hunched forward, hoodie sleeves pulled over his fists like a child waiting to be scolded.

And you — you were tired of silence being the only answer you got.

So you asked it, straight. “Are there other girls?”

His head lifted slowly, his brows furrowed. “What?”

You leaned back against the headboard, watching him. Not accusatory, just… hollow. “I mean it. Don’t lie to me. Are there more I don’t know about? Anyone else who could show up next?”

He stared at you like you’d slapped him. Then, his throat bobbed with the effort of swallowing something that didn’t want to go down.

There was a long pause. The kind that didn’t feel like hesitation — more like dread. “…There were a few,” he said quietly.

Your chest tightened, but your expression didn’t shift. You stayed still. Waiting.

“It wasn’t like that,” he added quickly, eyes flicking up to meet yours, searching for something—mercy, maybe. “I didn’t—I never went the whole way. Not with any of them.”

Your jaw clenched, just slightly.

He sat forward, elbows on his knees, hands threading into his hair like he wanted to hide. “I kissed some of them. Hooked up, yeah. But I couldn’t—I didn’t… I always stopped.”

You didn’t move. You just watched him.

Ni-ki shifted, visibly uncomfortable, like the silence was pressing down on him harder than any accusation could. “I didn’t want to lie to you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I could’ve left it out. You’d never know. But I didn’t want to do that. Not this time.”

Still, you said nothing. And that silence, that stillness, made him panic.

“Say something,” he pleaded. “Please.”

You looked down at your hands, fingers curling slightly. “It’s not about what you did,” you said finally, voice even. “It’s about the fact that I had to ask. That I couldn’t even trust you to be honest with me until I dragged it out of you.”

He blinked. Hard.

“I was scared,” he said quickly. “I thought if I told you everything—if I gave you the ugliest parts—you’d walk.”

You met his eyes. “So you wanted to make the decision for me.”

That shut him up.

You inhaled slowly, the kind of breath that tried to fill all the space he left hollow. “Let me guess. You told yourself it didn’t count, right? Because it wasn’t all the way. Because you stopped just short of completely ruining it.”

He looked like he wanted to deny it. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Instead, he just whispered, “I didn’t know how to be without you.”

“You learned,” you said coldly. “You found ways. None of them were honest, but they worked for you.”

Ni-ki’s eyes were glassy now, his jaw tight like he was holding something in — regret, maybe. Or just the fear of losing the last thing he thought he still had a grip on. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I’m so fucking sorry.” The words barely left his mouth before he moved — sudden, unsteady, and trembling. His hands found your waist, pulling you into his lap like he needed your closeness to breathe. His arms wrapped around you tightly, anchoring himself in your body like if he held you hard enough, everything else might disappear.

You flinched, your hands bracing against his chest. “Ni-ki—no, don’t.”

But he didn’t let go.

He buried his face against your neck, breath hitching, voice breaking apart in sobs. “I can’t lose you. Please—please don’t make me watch you leave again. I’ll do anything, I’ll be anything—just don’t go, don’t go, don’t—”

You tried to push him off, palms flat against his hoodie, but it was like trying to move a wave crashing into shore. He clung to you like you were all he had left, like letting go would shatter something in him that couldn’t be put back together. “Ni-ki—stop, you’re—”

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed again, his voice wrecked. “I was stupid, I was selfish, I was empty without you and I didn’t know how to fix it. You’re the only thing that ever made me want to be better. The only one.” His grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened — his body shaking, face wet against your skin, the sound of him breaking open sinking into your bones.

You kept your hands on his chest, but your fight was draining fast.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t cruel. He was just devastated. And for all the things he had done, for every lie, every wrong choice, every excuse—

Right now, he was just a boy in love with something he didn’t know how to hold without breaking.

Your hands slid slowly from his chest to his back. You didn’t hug him. Not fully. But you didn’t push him away either, just let him fall apart around you, your cheek resting lightly against his head as his sobs echoed through the quiet room.

After that night, things didn’t magically fix themselves.

There was no grand reset. No ribbon-tied redemption. Just the sound of two people who had torn each other apart trying to exist in the same silence without bleeding all over the floor.

You let him stay.

And Ni-ki — for all his flaws, all his wreckage — tried.

You saw it in the little things. How he woke before you most mornings and made your coffee exactly how you liked it. How he answered his phone now when Mr. Kwon called, even if it meant pacing outside with his jaw tight and frustration simmering beneath the surface. How he flinched every time he caught himself speaking too sharply, or standing too close, or reaching for you when your body tensed ever so slightly.

He tried to bury the version of himself that had scared you away once.

But some days, the grave wasn’t deep enough.

There were moments — quick, sharp flashes — where the old Ni-ki bled through. The possessiveness in his voice when someone texted you too late. The anger in his eyes when you said something he didn’t want to hear. The subtle ways he worded things to pull your guilt tighter around your neck like a leash.

But then… he’d stop.

Catch himself mid-sentence. Mid-spite. Mid-lie.

And then he’d break. Quietly, bitterly.

You once found him in the bathroom after a petty argument — door half open, sitting on the edge of the tub with his head in his hands, whispering “What the fuck is wrong with me?” over and over under his breath like a curse he couldn’t shake.

He never begged again, not the way he had before. But the fear never fully left his eyes.

He was terrified you’d stop forgiving him. Terrified he’d become too much. Again.

And the strangest part was… you didn’t throw him out.

You could have.

Maybe you should have.

But you didn’t.

Because there were nights he held you like he was scared to sleep. Mornings where he kissed your shoulder with a kind of gentleness that felt foreign even to him. Times when he looked at you like he was still surprised you let him stay.

And maybe it wasn’t healthy. Maybe it wasn’t forever. But it was something.

Two people trying to live in unison. Not whole. Not healed. But aware.

You kept your eyes open this time. And he tried — really tried — not to become the reason you’d need to close them again.

But that was wrecked during one quiet afternoon.

You had laundry half-folded on the couch, a mug cooling on the table, and Ni-ki was in the kitchen — sleeves pushed up, scrubbing a pan like the act of cleaning might somehow help him feel more in control.

Things had been… steady. Not perfect, but livable. The kind of fragile peace that made you hold your breath just in case the floor creaked the wrong way.

So when the knock came, you didn’t think twice.

You opened the door to find Jinwoo, your old friend — all easy smiles and warm energy. He held up a hand sheepishly, gesturing toward the doorway.

“Hey—sorry, I know it’s random. I think I left my copy of Tomb Raider here after that study night? Just realized it.”

“Oh—yeah,” you said, stepping aside. “It should be on the shelf. Come in.”

He walked in casually, scanning the game stack in the corner, already chatting. “Didn’t mean to bother you. I can just grab it and go.”

But you didn’t respond. Because behind him, in the doorway of the kitchen, Ni-ki had stopped moving. His hands were still dripping soap, dish rag hanging limply from one of them. His eyes were locked on Jinwoo like he was a threat, not a guest.

You felt your stomach drop.“Ni-ki,” you said gently, trying to shift the tension. “This is Jinwoo. He’s just here for—”

“Yeah, I heard,” Ni-ki said. Flat. Cold.

Jinwoo turned and offered a friendly nod. “Hey, man. Sorry for barging in. I won’t stay long.”

Ni-ki didn’t answer. Just dried his hands slowly and walked into the room.

You saw it in his eyes — that look. The one that made your chest tighten before a single word left his mouth.

Jinwoo bent down to grab the game case, still oblivious.

But then Ni-ki spoke.

“Didn’t know we had people coming over unannounced now.”

You blinked. “It’s not a big deal. He just left something—”

“Funny,” Ni-ki said, louder now. “Because you never mentioned anyone else being here. Especially not him.”

Jinwoo stood up, awkwardness creeping in. “I’ll head out—”

“You don’t have to be rude,” you snapped, stepping between them. “He was only here for five minutes, Ni-ki. Stop.”

Ni-ki’s jaw clenched. “I’m not being rude,” he muttered. “I’m just wondering why some random guy’s comfortable enough to show up at our place like this is his second home.”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not standing right here,” Jinwoo said, trying to keep it light. “I’m literally just grabbing a game.”

“Ni-ki,” you warned.

But he wasn’t hearing it anymore. His eyes were locked on Jinwoo like every buried insecurity had just clawed its way back to the surface. “Did you bring him here when I wasn’t around?” he asked suddenly, voice lower now. Darker. “Is that what this is?”

Your heart dropped. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

He took a step toward you — not threatening, but close enough to box you in. “I’m not stupid,” he said, voice shaking. “You don’t even let people borrow your things. But he gets to come in here, hang around, touch your stuff—?”

“Ni-ki!”

Jinwoo held up the game in both hands like a white flag. “I think I’ve got what I came for.” He started backing toward the door, but Ni-ki wasn’t watching him anymore.

He was watching you. Your silence. Your expression. And whatever he saw there — fear, disappointment, recognition — it hit him harder than any shove could have. His breathing was ragged. Regret creeping up behind the rage like a delayed shadow. “Wait,” he said quietly, eyes darting. “Wait, I didn’t mean—fuck, I didn’t mean it like that—”

You stepped back.“You did,” you said.

And that was worse than yelling.

Jinwoo let himself out, quietly. And the door clicked shut behind him like the final note in a song you never wanted to hear again.

Ni-ki was frozen. Hands trembling. Face pale. Like the realization had hit too late. Like the worst part wasn’t what he’d said — but the fact that he couldn’t take it back.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just stood there, staring at him, watching the panic rise behind his eyes as the silence dragged on.

He stepped toward you once, hesitantly, like a wounded animal unsure whether to run or beg.

You crossed your arms over your chest, not to protect yourself — just to keep from shaking. “You meant every word,” you said, “and the only reason you’re sorry is because I didn’t let it slide this time.”

“No,” he said quickly, desperate. “That’s not—it wasn’t about him. It was me, it’s always me. I get in my head, and I just—fuck, I ruin everything. I get scared, and I don’t know how to—please.” His voice cracked on the last word. He reached out. Just barely.

You didn’t move.

“I saw someone in our space,” he said, like he was still trying to make you understand. “I didn’t think. It was instinct. I just—I panicked. I thought you were slipping away.”

“You thought I was slipping away because a friend picked up a game?”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

“I’m not your hostage, Ni-ki.”

The words landed hard. You could tell by the way his knees almost buckled, how he stepped back, like the truth physically hurt to hear.

“I know,” he whispered. “I know. I just—fuck—why do I always do this?”

You watched him fold in on himself, like the self-hatred was a familiar shape. Like he'd already rehearsed this scene in his head, countless times — you confronting him, him unraveling. He turned his back for a second, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes like he could hold the shame in that way. “I don't want to be this,” he whispered. “I swear I'm trying.”

And maybe he was. But trying didn’t mean healing. Trying didn’t mean he wasn’t still hurting you, even if he hated himself for it.

You stood still, heart in your throat, hands clenched, wondering how long love could survive a pattern this sharp. And more importantly… If you were willing to keep stitching yourself back together every time he broke.

You stared at his back for a long time.

The way his shoulders slumped, hands still pressed to his face like he couldn’t stand being seen. Like the weight of who he was, of who he kept becoming, was finally too much to hold up.

But you didn’t move. Didn’t comfort him. Didn’t say another word. Instead, you turned and walked away — quiet, steady — each step up the stairs feeling heavier than the last. By the time you reached your room, the silence was suffocating. You sat on the bed like your body didn’t know what to do with itself.

For a while, you just stared at the floor.

Then you reached for your phone — maybe out of habit, maybe out of the stupid hope that there would be something else, anything else to focus on.

But there wasn’t.

It was all Ni-ki. You and him. Her. Speculation. Fan edits. Headlines. Fake tweets. Blurred photos. “Anonymous sources.” Comments that dug under your skin like splinters.

“Knew she was just a rebound.”

“She looks like the girl he got pregnant.”

“He’ll move on next week.”

“She’s gonna leave him.”

You locked the screen. Unlocked it. Locked it again.

And then, without thinking, you threw it across the room, hard. It hit the carpet with a soft thud. You wished it had cracked.

The room was quiet again.

Until you heard it — The sound of the front door closing.

You paused and stood, walked to your window, pulled the curtain just slightly aside—

And there was Ni-ki. Walking to his car.

His head was down, hoodie pulled up, steps quick and uneven like he didn’t want to give himself time to change his mind. He slid into the driver’s seat of his sleek, black sports car — the same one that had sat parked and untouched in front of your house for a week now.

The engine growled to life. And then, he drove off. No hesitation. No glance back.

You stood there, blinking at the space he left behind.

It surprised you, more than you wanted to admit. He hadn’t left in days. Had barely gone past the porch. And yet… he was gone now.

Your chest tightened, but you pushed it down. You walked away from the window like it hadn’t happened at all.

If he left, good. You didn’t care.

That’s what you told yourself. Over and over as you pulled your covers up and lay in the dark.

Good. Let him go.You didn’t care.

You repeated it like a prayer. Like if you said it enough, it would rewrite the truth inside your chest. But as the silence settled again you realized you could still smell him on your pillow.

And sleep didn’t come easily after that.

You woke to the sharp crack of something breaking downstairs. For a second, you thought it was in your dream — until you heard it again. Glass. Or ceramic. Something falling hard.

You groaned, heart already starting to race, and slid out of bed. The house was dark. Quiet in a way that didn’t feel safe. You grabbed your phone from the nightstand — dead. Of course.

Still half-asleep and now fully on edge, you made your way downstairs, feet barely making a sound against the steps. The living room was empty. Everything looked untouched. But then—

The back door. It was cracked open. Just slightly.

You froze.

That door had been locked. You were sure it had.

A sick feeling bloomed in your stomach. You scanned the area quickly, fingers curling around the closest thing you could find — a small table lamp. It wasn’t a weapon, but it was heavy. It’d have to do.

You crept toward the back door, lamp raised, breaths shallow. Your hand pushed the door further open, just enough to peek into the night.

Then — a flicker of movement.

A shadow to your left.

You spun, heart in your throat, arm lifting to swing, but the shadow turned and it was Ni-ki.

He flinched when he saw you, stumbling a step back like you were the threat.

“Shit!” he barked, eyes wide. “Are you trying to kill me?!”

You dropped the lamp to your side, groaning, heart pounding. “You scared the hell out of me!” you shouted. “I thought you were a burglar, Ni-ki! What the fuck was I supposed to think?!”

“I—” He blinked rapidly, taking a breath. “Fuck. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to wake you.”

You shook your head, lowering the lamp and setting it back on the table with shaking hands.

It wasn’t until the adrenaline started to fade that you noticed the rest of him.

One: he was holding a cigarette between two fingers. Two: in his other hand was a bottle of liquor — half gone — which he took a slow, numb sip from even as you stared. Three: he looked like hell.

His hoodie was inside out. His hair was a tangled mess. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red, like he hadn’t slept — or had been crying long before he came back. His lips were chapped. His hands were shaking.

He looked like someone you didn’t recognize. Like a version of himself he thought you’d never see again.

“Ni-ki,” you said, breathing softer now. “What the hell are you doing?”

He didn’t answer, just leaned back against the frame of the house, exhaling smoke toward the sky like it held answers.

The soft cherry glow of the cigarette lit up the curve of his jaw, flickering as he breathed. The bottle in his hand swayed slightly as he gripped it tighter, the glass catching what little moonlight broke through the clouds.

You stayed in the doorway, watching him. You didn't know whether to scream or sit down beside him.

“Where were you?” you asked finally.

He let the smoke trail out of his nose before answering. “Nowhere important.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He glanced at you, then looked away. “Doesn’t matter.”

You crossed your arms, the chill of the night settling into your skin, the ache of worry flaring into frustration. “It does matter,” you snapped. “You disappeared and now you’re here in the middle of the night smelling like liquor and cigarettes, breaking shit, crawling in through the back like a thief.”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he muttered, like that was still the biggest crime in the room.

“You didn’t want to face me.”

He said nothing.

The silence stretched until it was unbearable. You stepped out onto the porch, your bare feet against the cold wood, eyes locked on him.

He didn’t meet your gaze. Instead, he took another sip — slow, deliberate — and then, finally. “I drove around until I ran out of gas.”

You blinked.

He let out a hollow laugh. “Pathetic, right? Just me and the radio and a bottle I shouldn’t’ve bought. Kept thinking if I just kept going, maybe the thoughts would stop. But they didn’t. Just got louder.” He turned his head slightly, eyes on the horizon, voice barely audible. “I thought maybe if I sat still long enough, the world would forget me.”

Your chest tightened.

There it was again — that terrifying softness beneath all his mess. The boy who didn’t know how to be okay without someone dragging him back from the edge.

You looked down at his hands — the bottle, the cigarette — and the bruises blooming beneath his eyes, more from exhaustion than anything else.

He wasn’t okay. Not even close.

And part of you wanted to drag him inside. Wrap a blanket around him. Make him tea and wash the night off his skin.But the other part — the part still bruised from every lie, every fight, every version of him that left you bleeding — stayed perfectly still.

You swallowed.

“Do you want to come inside?”

He looked up slowly. His eyes were glassy, bloodshot, desperate. “Only if I still can.”

You hesitated, then turned and left the door open behind you as you stepped back inside.

A minute later, you heard the cigarette hiss out against the stone porch. And then, the soft sound of his footsteps following you in.

The door clicked softly behind him.

You didn’t turn around right away. Just walked into the kitchen, flicked on the small overhead light. The warmth it cast was dim, but enough. Enough to see the damage on his face. Enough to see what he’d become in your absence, even when you were just upstairs.

You filled a glass with water, silent except for the hum of the faucet. When you turned and held it out to him, Ni-ki didn’t reach for it right away. He just looked at you — like you were something holy, and he’d shown up too dirty to touch you.

Finally, he took it.

“Thanks,” he rasped, voice hoarse. He took a sip. Then another.

You leaned against the counter across from him, arms folded, your body language distant but your eyes too present. Watching. Absorbing. “Why’d you really come back?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away.

Then: “Because I didn’t want to wake up alone.”

“That’s not the same as wanting to wake up with me, Ni-ki.”

He closed his eyes, jaw tightening.

You stared at him, not with anger but with something worse. Disappointment. Sadness.

“You say you’re trying,” you said. “You say you want to be better. But every time something doesn’t go your way, you fall apart. And it’s like I’m supposed to just… be here. Waiting. Ready to catch you.”

He set the glass down on the counter with a shaky breath. “I didn’t know where else to go,” he said again, quieter. “I drove around thinking about calling people. Kwon. My brother. Hell, even my agent. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t talk to anyone but you.”

Your eyes flicked to him. “That’s not love, Riki. That’s codependency.”

He winced. At the name. At the truth.

You stepped forward, slowly.

“I’m tired,” you whispered. “Not just physically. I’m tired of being your lifeline every time you self-destruct. I’m tired of being the one thing you cling to while dragging all your damage behind you.”

He looked like you’d just ripped something out of him.

“I know,” he whispered. “And I hate that. I hate that I can’t seem to show up for you without making a mess first.”

You swallowed the tightness in your throat, staring at the boy you love like he was something you didn’t know how to hold anymore. “Then stop making messes,” you said simply. “Start cleaning up the ones you’ve already made.”

He stepped closer. “I want to. I’m trying. I swear to God, I am. But it’s like—every time I think I’ve got a grip on it, it slips. And then I think if I could just hold you, I’ll feel steady again.”

You looked up at him. “You’re not supposed to build your balance on me.”

“I know.” His voice cracked on the words, just barely. Then he reached for you — slow, unsure, trembling like he wasn’t sure you’d let him. Like he’d already resigned himself to rejection.

But you didn’t move away.

You let him wrap his arms around you.

And the second he did, he broke.

His chin dropped onto the top of your head, and his grip tightened like he was holding together all the jagged parts of himself with your body alone. Like if he let go, they’d scatter across your kitchen floor.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t try to explain anymore. He just cried. Not loud or messy — not like the night he fell to his knees — but the kind of crying that comes from deep in the chest. Silent. Sharp. Shaking. Like his ribs couldn’t take it anymore.

You slid your arms around his waist, pressed your cheek against his shoulder, and rubbed slow, steady circles into his back. You didn’t tell him to stop. You didn’t shush him. You just held him. Because sometimes that was all there was left to do.

He pulled you tighter, hands bunching in the fabric of your shirt as he leaned all of his weight into you. His jaw trembled where it rested against your head. His breathing hitched, broken and uneven. “I don’t want to be like this anymore,” he whispered hoarsely.

You closed your eyes, heart aching. For him. For you. For the version of this love that wasn’t so heavy. “I know,” you said softly. “I know.”

He didn’t say anything in response. Just held you tighter, as if he couldn’t believe you were still letting him.

And then — slowly — you felt him shift.

Ni-ki’s jaw slid from the top of your head to your temple, then to your cheek, and then, almost without thinking, he dipped lower, until his face was buried in the crook of your neck. His breath hit warm against your skin. Shaky. Unsteady. He inhaled deeply — like he needed the scent of you to remind himself he was still here, still with you, even if only barely.

Then he groaned. Soft. Ragged. Quietly broken.

Not in a way that asked for anything. Just in a way that said this is the only place I know how to fall apart.

Your fingers slowed against his back, caught between pulling him closer and stepping away before the moment turned into something it shouldn’t.

You tilted your head slightly to look at him.

And he was already watching you.

His eyes were glassy and red, but his gaze was locked on yours like there was nothing else in the world worth seeing. Not the broken night. Not the mistakes. Just you.

His forehead brushed lightly against yours. His voice was barely a whisper. “You make everything hurt less.” It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t an apology. It was a truth he didn’t know how to live without.

You didn’t speak. Because what could you say? That it was unfair? That love wasn’t supposed to be this heavy? That you still ached for him even when you didn’t trust him all the way?

You didn’t say any of it. Because suddenly, there wasn’t space for words.

You weren’t sure who leaned in first. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was both of you, pulled into each other like magnets too tired to keep resisting.

Your noses brushed. Breath hitched.

And then your lips touched — barely. Soft. A question more than a promise. The kind of kiss that didn’t demand anything… just confirmed what was already there.

You both pulled back slightly. Just a breath’s worth of distance.

Your eyes met.

And something in them — the grief, the longing, the ache — cracked.

Then you kissed again.

Harder.

Desperate.

His hands found your face first, fingers trembling but sure, like he needed to hold you in place, to make sure you were real. Yours gripped his hoodie, yanking him closer as your mouths moved in sync, all restraint gone, all caution drowned.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t clean. It was everything you’d both been swallowing down since the beginning — spilled out, messy and human.

His hands moved — your jaw, your neck, your back — not frantic, but greedy. Memorizing. Yours were just as needy, curling into his hair, dragging down his spine, grounding him.

And for a moment… A full, perfect moment… Your minds went quiet.

No more questions. No more spiraling. No more wondering how long this could last. Just you, and him, and the soft gasp that left his mouth when your hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt. Just him, groaning into your lips as if the taste of you was the only thing he hadn’t ruined.

His forehead pressed to yours again, breathless.

You could feel the shake in his hands where they held your waist, the way his chest rose and fell like he was trying to catch something slipping through his ribs.

His eyes searched yours like he didn’t know if he was allowed to want you like this. Not after everything.

But you didn’t pull away.

And that was all the permission he needed.

He kissed you again — deeper this time, slower, but just as desperate. The kind of kiss that says don’t go, not yet. Stay. Just for now.

Your hands moved, fingertips grazing warm skin, feeling him tense, then melt. He breathed your name into your mouth like a confession, like he didn’t know whether it was holy or a curse.

You shifted, guiding him backward until his hips bumped the edge of the counter. His hands gripped tighter, fingers splayed across your lower back as if trying to memorize every curve, every inch he’d missed. “You still feel like home,” he whispered, almost dizzy.

You swallowed hard. Because he did too. And you hated that. And you needed it.

The kiss turned messier. Teeth. Tongue. That ache in your chest twisting into something you could feel in your spine. His hand fumbled up your side, dragging your shirt with it. Yours tugged at the waistband of his sweats like you wanted to erase every layer that separated you.

He broke the kiss for half a second, breath ragged against your lips and then suddenly, his hands were on your hips, turning you with a quick, firm grip and lifting you up onto the counter in one smooth motion.

A surprised gasp escaped your throat as the cold of the counter met the back of your thighs, but it was gone just as quickly, drowned out by the way he stepped between your legs, hands gripping your thighs like he needed to feel your pulse beneath his fingertips.

And then he kissed you again — slower, deeper. More sure.

You weren’t sure if it was him that made you feel drunk, or if it was the sharp tang of alcohol still clinging to his tongue. Either way, it didn’t matter. You tilted your head to let him kiss you harder, to let him take whatever he needed — because you needed it too. Needed the noise in your head to shut up. Needed something to remind you that you were still here, still wanted, still his, even if only in this moment.

His hand came up, cupping the back of your neck, thumb stroking behind your ear as his mouth moved against yours with more hunger than grace. You parted your lips for him like instinct — like he’d never really forgotten the way you moved beneath his touch. “Fuck,” he breathed against your lips, voice low and wrecked. “You feel the same. You still feel like mine.”

You didn’t answer.

You just kissed him again — hard, messy, desperate — as your legs locked around his waist, dragging him closer, anchoring him to the place he always ran to when everything else collapsed.

His hands were on your waist again, thumbs pressing into your skin beneath your shirt, like he didn’t want space between you anymore. He kissed you like a man unlearning how to be gentle. Like someone who’d dreamed of this a thousand times and never once believed he’d feel it again.

And maybe that was why you didn’t stop him.

Because in this kiss — this ache — this terrible, beautiful moment — there were no lies. No paternity tests. No headlines. No threats.

Just him. And you. And the burning need to forget everything but each other.

His hands slid under your shirt, palms warm against your bare skin as they mapped the curve of your back, your sides, like he was memorizing all the parts of you he thought he’d lost. His mouth never left yours for long, barely a breath between kisses, like stopping would mean facing everything you both weren’t ready to say.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging slightly, pulling him closer, and he groaned into your mouth — low and broken, the sound vibrating between your ribs.

“You don’t know what it did to me,” he whispered against your lips, eyes half-lidded, voice trembling. “Not touching you. Not kissing you. Not having you.”

You didn’t reply. Your hands were already feeling the tension in his shoulders, the heat of his skin, the quiet tremble in his muscles as he pressed himself against you.

He leaned in, forehead against yours, his breath coming fast. “I thought about this every fucking night.”

And the worst part was… so had you.

He kissed you again as his hands gripped your thighs where they wrapped around him, thumbs moving in soft, grounding circles. Your chest pressed against his as you arched into him, the counter cold beneath you, but his body burning against yours like it was the only thing keeping you warm. His mouth trailed down — the corner of your lips, your jaw, the side of your neck — and when he breathed you in again, his entire body shuddered.

You cupped his face, forcing him to look up at you.

His eyes were glassy, his lips red and kiss-bruised, but his gaze… his gaze was clear. No walls. No performative softness. Just him — stripped down to every raw, vulnerable piece.

You leaned in again, kissing him slower, softer. Not because the desperation was gone, but because now it was being replaced by something heavier. Something more honest.

It wasn’t about forgetting anymore.

It was about remembering everything.

Eventually, the urgency faded. The desperation softened into something slower. Something quieter.

Your bodies stayed close — tangled and warm in the dim light of the kitchen, the cool air brushing against sweat-damp skin. His head rested against your shoulder now, his arms still loosely wrapped around your waist, like he didn’t trust himself to let go just yet.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

You just sat there — you on the counter, him standing between your legs, your fingers lazily combing through his messy hair, his thumbs still brushing the sides of your thighs in soft, distracted motions.

His breathing was calmer now. But his hold on you hadn’t loosened.

You stared past him for a while, eyes fixed on the dark window. The silence wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t peaceful either. It was… suspended. Like the moment hadn’t ended, just paused. Because now that the rush was over, the noise started creeping back in.

The girl. The test. The lies. The fear. The fact that this was still a house filled with tension, not trust.

You felt him shift slightly. He exhaled slowly, and when he finally spoke, it was hoarse, almost shy.

“Did you regret that?”

You looked down at him — his eyes barely meeting yours, heavy with something between shame and hope. Like he already knew what he feared you’d say, but needed to hear it anyway. You slid your hands down to his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek. You held him there, gently, grounding him. “No,” you whispered. “But I don’t know what it means yet.”

He nodded, like that hurt and helped all at once. “I’ll wait,” he said quietly. “Even if I don’t deserve to.”

You didn’t answer. You just leaned forward and pressed your lips to his forehead.

Eventually, the kitchen grew too cold, too quiet. The emotional weight in the room hung heavy on your limbs, and you both knew — without saying anything — it was time to move.

You slid off the counter slowly, fixing your shirt as you moved past him. He didn’t let go right away, his fingers grazing your wrist as you stepped away. But he didn’t say anything either.

You paused at the stairs, glancing back at him — his hoodie was bunched, lips still pink and bruised, hair a mess of curls from your hands. His eyes met yours, unsure, waiting.

“Go shower,” you said quietly, firm but gentle. “You smell like smoke and whiskey.”

For a second, he blinked like you’d spoken another language. Then he nodded, wordless, and obeyed.

You disappeared into your room while he headed to the bathroom down the hall. The sound of the water running filled the silence, the distant thud of his clothes hitting the tile floor the only proof he was still here. You crawled under the covers and lay back, eyes on the ceiling, the weight of what happened pressing into your chest. It wasn’t regret. It wasn’t relief either. Just… real. Tangible. Something you could no longer ignore.

The bathroom door creaked open some time later. Soft footsteps padded across the floor. Then the light flicked off.

You turned your head to look at him as he approached. Freshly showered, damp hair curling a little at the ends, face clean, hoodie gone, now just in a t-shirt and boxers.

He looked… young. Like the boy you remembered loving before all the mess, before the manipulation and pain and chaos.

He crawled into bed beside you slowly, like he wasn’t sure he had the right. The mattress dipped under his weight, and for a moment he lay on his side, quiet, facing you. Not touching. Just breathing the same space.

Then—cautiously—he reached out. Fingers brushing yours under the blanket. Just seeking. Just asking.

You let him.

His hand found yours fully, lacing your fingers together like it was the only thing anchoring him to the present. “Thank you,” he whispered. Not for the bed. Not the shower. Not the silence. For staying.

You didn’t reply. But you didn’t let go.

And a minute later, he inched closer, curling into your side, tucking his head gently beneath your chin like muscle memory. One hand resting on your stomach, his breath warming the fabric of your shirt.

You closed your eyes.

It wasn’t healing. It wasn’t fixing anything.

But for tonight, it was enough. Enough to sleep, enough to forget, enough to stay.

Morning came soft and gold, leaking through the curtains in long, lazy rays.

You stirred slowly, blinking the sleep from your eyes as you shifted beneath the sheets. The weight of an arm was slung around your waist, warm and heavy, and when you tried to move—tried to slip away gently—it tightened.

“Mm-mm,” Ni-ki mumbled, voice still thick with sleep. “Don’t go.”

You sighed softly, not annoyed—just tired. Emotionally worn. Your body ached in the way that only came after long nights filled with too much feeling and not enough rest. “I need to get up,” you whispered.

His response was a low groan as he curled into you, burying his face in your shoulder. His hand flattened on your stomach, holding you there. Possessive. Familiar.

Too familiar.

“Stay a little longer,” he mumbled. “Just like this.”

And just like that, you were back there.

Back in another morning, years ago. In another apartment. Another version of him. Back when things were soft and warm more often than they were sharp and cold. He used to be like this all the time. Clingy. Gentle. Wrapping himself around you like he was afraid you’d vanish while he slept. Pressing sleepy kisses to your neck. Mumbling half-dreamed things into your skin.

You used to laugh, teasing him about being a human furnace. Used to let yourself believe this was what love was supposed to feel like.

And now here it was again. The same body. The same voice. The same comfort. But it wasn’t the same. Because this time, you knew what came after.

This time, it didn’t feel like home. It felt like a memory dressed up in softness.

You stared at the ceiling, his breath warm against your neck.

His grip on you didn’t loosen.

“You never used to let me leave the bed,” you whispered without meaning to.

He hummed sleepily, lips brushing your skin. “Still don’t want to.”

You swallowed. Your throat was tight. Your hands stayed at your sides. You didn’t return the touch. Not yet. Because even as your body remembered how to melt into him… Your mind remembered how hard it was to pull yourself back out.

His hand traced lazy patterns over your side. The kind he used to do when you were his—when the world was quieter, or maybe just when you didn’t know better.

You didn’t respond to it now. Didn’t lean in. Didn’t sigh or smile the way you once did.

Because you weren’t the same.

And neither was he.

“Ni-ki,” you said quietly.

He stilled, fingers pausing. “…Yeah?”

“I need to get up.”

He groaned, this time more awake, and pressed his face further into your neck like a child refusing to get out of bed for school. “Just ten more minutes.”

You closed your eyes.

It’s not just about the bed.

It was about him pretending like nothing was broken. Like you hadn’t been torn apart and stitched back together with trembling hands and too many unanswered questions. Like last night’s desperation had solved everything when in truth, it had only pressed pause on a storm.

“Ni-ki.” Firmer now.

He finally pulled back enough to look at you, still half-asleep, eyes puffy, but a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You didn’t smile back.

His expression faltered, just barely. “What’s wrong?”

You sat up slowly, brushing your hair from your face.

He stayed laid out, hand falling flat on the sheet where your body had been. The air between you cooled.

“I’m not… this isn’t a reset,” you said, not looking at him yet. “Last night happened. But it doesn’t erase what came before it.”

“I know that.” His voice was quiet now. Careful.

You turned to look at him. His hair was still damp near the roots. The side of his face red from being pressed against your skin all night. “You’re acting like everything’s normal.”

“I’m not,” he said quickly. “I just—” He sat up too now, rubbing a hand over his face. “I wanted to pretend. Just for a few more minutes. Is that so bad?”

You didn’t answer. Because yes, it was. It was dangerous, and familiar, and so easy to fall back into. That’s what made it worse.

He leaned forward a little, hand brushing your back lightly. “Last night meant something to me.”

You nodded. “It did to me too.”

He swallowed. “So… what now?”

You hesitated. Because the truth was, you didn’t know. You were still sitting in the middle of wreckage, and maybe there was still warmth between you, but it wasn’t clean. It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t fixed. “Now,” you said softly, “we get up.”

And he nodded — reluctantly.

Later that day you were tucked away in the small office upstairs, headphones on, eyes on your laptop, trying to ignore the heaviness in your chest that still lingered from the morning. Work helped. Keeping your hands busy helped. For a little while, it was quiet. Just the muted sound of Ni-ki’s game downstairs, the occasional sound of digital crack of a bat, crowd noise, his muffled curses when something didn’t go his way.

Then the doorbell rang.

You paused, waiting. Didn’t think much of it.

He’ll get it.

You returned to your screen, fingers hovering above the keyboard.

And then— screaming.

Your whole body jolted.

Not TV. Not in-game audio. Real. Sharp. High-pitched.

A crash followed. Something glass, maybe. Something loud enough to rattle the floor beneath your feet.

You were out of your chair before you knew it, bare legs flying down the stairs, your heart beating so fast it made your head buzz. And when you hit the last step, you saw her.

The one from the post. From Ni-ki’s past—the piece of it he swore he’d left behind.

She was in the middle of your living room, her face twisted in fury, tears streaking her makeup, her arm mid-throw as a candle from the end table sailed past Ni-ki’s head and shattered against the wall. “You think you can hide from me?!” she screamed, voice cracked with emotion, unhinged. “You think you can just disappear and pretend I don’t exist?!”

Ni-ki was shouting back, jaw clenched, body tense like he was seconds away from losing control. “You don’t get to just show up here! You don’t just—fuck, are you crazy?! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“What’s wrong with me?!” she shrieked, stepping closer, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You used me. You threw me away like garbage. You’re the one who left!”

You stood frozen at the base of the stairs — barefoot, wearing nothing but one of Ni-ki’s oversized hoodies and shorts, your damp laundry still in the washer, forgotten. You hadn’t meant to come down like this. You hadn’t expected a warzone.

But then she saw you.

Her eyes snapped to yours. Wild. Bloodshot. Full of venom.

And you knew. Everything just got worse.

“Oh,” she spat, laughter bubbling up cruel and sharp. “Oh. So this is why you’ve been playing house, huh?”

You opened your mouth to say something — anything — but she cut you off, voice rising to a screech.

“Did you fuck him back into being a good person? Is that how this works?!”

Ni-ki moved instantly, stepping between you both, arm out as if shielding you from her.

“Don’t.” His voice was low now. Dark. “Don’t fucking talk to her.”

She shoved his chest. “You’re disgusting! You left me and our baby for this?”

“You don’t even know if it’s mine!” he snapped back. “You came here to what — scare her? Humiliate her? That’s not gonna work.”

But you weren’t listening to their voices anymore. Your head was buzzing. Your heart was pounding so loud you couldn’t hear past it. The way she looked at you… like you were the villain. Like you had taken something from her. Like you were just a trophy he had come running back to — all over again.

Wait….

In the midst of all the shouting, all the noise, all the chaos — you’d frozen. You’d stood there like a spectator in your own life. Let her scream. Let him defend. Let the weight of the world crush you beneath a hoodie that suddenly felt too heavy on your skin.

But now… You were hearing it. Really hearing it.

The accusation. The venom. The way she looked at you like you were some homewrecker. Like you had taken what wasn’t yours. Like you were second.

And just like that — it clicked.

No.

No, you weren’t.

You were the original. You were the one he fell for when he didn’t even know how to handle love. You were the one who stood by him while he spiraled. You were the one he ran back to. Every. Single. Time.

She was a detour. A rebound. A desperate attempt to scrub you out of his bloodstream when he couldn’t face what losing you really meant.And now she was in your living room, throwing shit, screaming in your face — like she had the right?

Hell. No.

You stepped forward, brushing past Ni-ki’s arm before he could stop you.

He flinched. “Wait—”

But you weren’t listening. You walked straight up to her, bare feet silent against the hardwood, head held high despite the fact you were in nothing but his hoodie and laundry-day shorts.She narrowed her eyes, lips curled, like she expected you to cry. To break. But you didn’t. You stopped just close enough for her to feel the heat off your skin — and you smiled. Not kindly.

“You’re in my house.”

She blinked. Thrown off. “Excuse me?”

“Let me make one thing very clear honey — whatever happened between you and him? That was never more than a consequence of me walking away,” you clarified coldly, voice low, steady.

Her nostrils flared.

But you weren’t done.

“You weren’t chosen. You were convenient. A body to crawl into when he couldn’t feel me anymore. You weren’t the prize. You were the punishment.”

Her hand twitched like she wanted to slap you. But she didn’t.

Because you didn’t flinch. You didn’t move. And Ni-ki—Ni-ki just stood behind you, wide-eyed, stunned silent, like he was watching you become something he couldn’t believe he’d ever forgotten.

You took a breath. Calm. Measured. “So if you’ve got a test result to hand over, hand it over. If not? Get out. You don’t get to scream your way into a place you were never meant to be in.”

She looked at Ni-ki, maybe for backup. He said nothing.

And that silence? That crushed her.

But more than that.. It enraged her.

You saw it in her eyes before she even moved. That flicker of humiliation, that flash of hatred — the way her pride curled in on itself and came out gnashing.

She wasn't going to walk away. Not quietly.

You didn’t even have time to react properly, because the next thing you knew, she lunged at you — fingers clawed, wild scream tearing out of her throat as she threw herself across the space between you.

But you weren’t backing down.

You lunged back.

The crash was messy. Bodies colliding. Your shoulder slammed into hers with force, sending both of you stumbling back into the couch. She grabbed at your hoodie — your hair — something — and you shoved her hard in the chest, teeth clenched, jaw locked.

“You’re fucking crazy,” you hissed. “Showing up here like some feral bitch. What — you didn’t get enough attention on Instagram?”

Her face twisted, and she lunged again. “Don’t act high and mighty, you little hoodie-wearing whore! You’re just the girl he runs to when he’s lonely!”

“Funny,” you spat, “coming from the spare he used when he couldn’t see straight.”

She gasped, furious. “You think he loves you? He fucked me while crying over you!”

Your hands balled into fists. “Good. That’s all you were — a convenient regret.”

“You manipulative bitch!”

“Jealous fucking groupie!”

It escalated fast — too fast — hands flying again, a tangle of snarled words and wild desperation as Ni-ki grabbed at your waist from behind, trying to pull you off her, his voice panicked now. “Stop—baby, please, stop!” He didn’t dare touch her. He didn’t even try. His entire body was angled toward you, voice cracking with frustration as he yanked you back hard enough that your legs slipped out from under you, stumbling halfway into him as she clawed at the air, still shouting.

“Let me go!” you snapped at him, trying to push past.

“No!” His grip tightened, desperate. “Stop—please. Just stop—”

Your chest heaved.

The other girl was red-faced, hair wild, chest heaving too.“I’ll press charges!” she screamed. “I’ll have you both buried in court—him for ignoring me, you for assault—”

“Try it,” you barked. “You broke into my house, remember?”

“You won’t win!”

“Neither will you.”

Ni-ki shoved the front door open with his foot, voice almost breaking. “Get the fuck out of this house before I call police.”

She paused. Watched him. And then—without another word—she spat on the floor, turned, and walked out, slamming the door so hard the floorboards trembled.

You were still breathing heavily.

Ni-ki hadn’t let go of you yet, still behind you, arms wrapped around your waist like a human restraint, holding on like you were the one who might fall apart next. “Are you okay?” he whispered, breath warm at the back of your neck.

You didn’t respond. You were still staring at the broken stuff on the floor. Still shaking. Not from fear. But from the way rage made your blood feel electric.

You finally spoke, voice like ice.“She thinks she can touch me in my own house and walk out like that?” All you could feel was heat, rage, and the way his hands still held you like you belonged to him — even after she tried to rip that from you.

The taste of anger lingered in your mouth, bitter and metallic. The adrenaline was still pulsing, but it was starting to drain — leaving behind a hollow ache.

And Ni-ki hadn’t let go of you once.

He held you from behind, his arms tight around your waist, body pressed flush against yours like he thought if he loosened his grip even a little, you’d vanish. “Hey,” he whispered softly. “You’re okay.”

You didn’t answer. Not yet.

He dipped his head closer, breath brushing against your ear. His voice dropped, barely audible. “I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

You closed your eyes. Let yourself lean back just a little — enough to feel the steady thump of his heart. His hand moved up, slow and deliberate, palm flat against your stomach as he rubbed small, grounding circles into the fabric of his hoodie — the one you were still wearing. “You scared the shit out of me,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen you like that.”

You let out a breath. A shaky one. “She came at me first.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You defended yourself. And you defended us.”

That word — us — felt strange right now. Unstable. Fragile. But you didn’t push it away.

He pressed a kiss to the side of your head, lingering there. “You were… terrifying,” he added with a tiny, exhausted laugh. “Hot, but terrifying.”

That pulled something out of you — not quite a smile, but the ghost of one. Your jaw unclenched a little. “I didn’t know I could do that,” you whispered, finally letting your hands relax over his.

“You can do anything,” he said. “Especially when it’s about protecting yourself.”

You leaned back into him fully now, your head resting against his shoulder. The warmth of him. The steadiness of his breath. The way his arms never loosened, not even once.

Your heartbeat started to slow. Your breathing steadied.

And in that silence, in the aftermath of chaos, he just held you. Like he didn’t care if the world outside this house burned — as long as you stayed right here, in his arms.“You’re safe,” he whispered again, more to himself than to you. “I’ve got you.”

You stayed like that for a long time.

Held. Anchored. Silent, but no longer cold.

Eventually, Ni-ki guided you to the couch without a word. His hands didn’t leave yours as you sat. He pulled you into his side and tucked you beneath his arm, your legs folded over his lap. One of his hands cradled your thigh, the other gently brushing through your hair.

You rested your head against his chest. His heart was still beating a little fast — but it was steady. “I should’ve never let it get this far,” he said quietly, voice raw, almost ashamed. “I should’ve handled it before she even got near you.”

You didn’t answer. You were still too tired for blame.

“She’s not the victim,” he continued. “And I’m not defending her. But I should’ve been… better. Stronger. For you.”

You looked up at him, his eyes already waiting for yours — dark and glassy, full of guilt that ran too deep for words.

“She’s angry because she knows I’d never look at her the way I look at you,” he said, thumb stroking small, nervous circles against your skin. “Not even close.”

You let your head fall back against his shoulder. “I know,” you whispered. “But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt.”

He nodded slowly, lips brushing your temple. “I’ll make it right. Somehow.”

You didn’t ask how. You didn’t believe in promises anymore, not when they were so easily broken. But you believed in the way he held you like he couldn’t afford to lose you again.

“I don’t want her in your head,” he murmured. “Not tonight. Not ever. She’s not part of us.”

You nodded, slow. “But what if… the baby is?”

He tensed — just slightly — but didn’t flinch. “We’ll deal with it,” he said. “Together, if you’ll let me.”

You looked up at him again. His face was soft, honest. Just him. Tired and bruised, but trying.

The days leading up to the test blurred together. Some were easy. Almost sweet.

You’d find him sitting on the porch in the morning sun, hoodie pulled over his head, watching birds like he’d never destroyed anything. He’d make you coffee, pull you back into bed after breakfast, wrap his arms around your waist like he didn’t know how to exist without the weight of you against him.

He’d press kisses to your shoulder in the middle of the night. Tell you he loved you while half-asleep. Text you stupid memes from across the couch just to make you smile. For a moment, it was enough to trick you into thinking maybe you could survive this.

But then it would shift. Like it always did.

It started small.

A tone. A question that was really an accusation.

“Who were you texting?”

You’d glance up from your phone, confused. “Just Rei.”

He’d nod, but too slow. Too quiet. Eyes sharp. “You smile like that when I text you?”

You’d sigh.

But he’d already gone cold. Already pulling away. Already building the wall back up just to make you climb over it.

Other times it would be a name — someone you’d work with, someone you’d known for years — that made him spiral.

“So he just came over to help with work?”

“You didn’t tell me you were meeting up with her.”

“You always look so happy when you’re not with me.”

And when you pushed back—when you refused to apologize for having a life—he’d twist it. Guilt-trip you with tears in his eyes and a voice that shook just enough to make you doubt yourself.

“You want me to get better, right?”

Yes.

“Then why does it feel like you’re punishing me every time I fuck up?”

What?

“I’m trying. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Yeah.. But not like this…

But it wasn’t always anger. Sometimes it was silence.

When he knew he’d pushed too far, he’d vanish. Gone for hours. Sometimes the whole night.

And when he came back, it was worse.

Eyes glassy. Movements sluggish. The faint scent of weed or vodka clinging to his hoodie. A bottle half-hidden in his coat. Pills tucked in the inner pocket of his bag.

The first time you found them, you flushed them without saying a word.

The second time, you yelled.

The third time, he collapsed onto the floor, sobbing into your legs, clutching your hands like they were a lifeline.

“Please—please don’t throw me out—”

“It just makes the voices quiet. It helps.”

“I swear I’m not trying to disappear, I just—can’t breathe sometimes without you.”

And you didn’t throw him out. But you started to pull away. In the quiet ways.

You stopped holding his hand when you didn’t have to. Stopped responding right away to the check-in texts. Stopped kissing him goodnight unless he asked for it. Because you didn’t know how to stay close without being consumed. Didn’t know how to keep saving someone who was already drowning himself.

Still—when he was curled over the toilet, shaking and pale, dry-heaving into nothing—you were there. Holding his hair. Wiping his face. Whispering that it would pass, even when you didn’t believe it.

“This isn’t helping you,” you’d tell him.

“It makes me feel better,” he’d mumble, eyes dull.

But better wasn’t the same as okay.

You found him on the floor again. Corner of the hallway this time. Collapsed like his bones had given out somewhere between rage and regret.

He was shaking — not from cold, but from something deeper. Something gutted.

His hoodie sleeves were soaked at the cuffs from tears, and his hands fumbled uselessly with something in his pocket.

Your heart sank the moment you saw the tiny glass bottle between his fingers. A miniature shot — cheap, half-warm, trembling in his grip. “No,” you said quietly, stepping forward.

He flinched. Looked up at you, eyes wide, red-rimmed, face splotchy and wet. Broken. Gone.

“Don’t—” he choked, voice wrecked. “Just let me—just give me—”

“Riki.”

You knelt, firm and steady, and pried the bottle gently from his hands. He didn’t fight you. His fingers released it slowly, helplessly.

And then he collapsed forward — right into you. His arms wrapped around your legs like a lifeline and he sobbed.Not quiet. Not delicate. Ugly, shaking sobs that wracked his whole body and pulled sounds from his throat you’d never heard before. Like something was breaking that wouldn’t ever quite grow back right. “I’m so fucking tired,” he whispered between gasps. “I didn’t even do anything today and I’m still so tired—”

You sank to your knees in front of him, cradling his head against your stomach, threading your fingers through his hair, stroking gently as he shook in your lap. “What happened?” you asked softly. “What started this now?”

He sniffled. Coughed. Fumbled for his phone with one trembling hand and held it out to you.

You took it gently. Unlocked.

The screen lit up.

Headlines. Dozens of them.

Photos from his games. Studio shots from old endorsements. Then… the texts.

“Rising Baseball Star Or PR Nightmare?”

“Nishimura Riki’s Talent Can’t Excuse His Track Record With Women.”

“Poster Boy With Pretty Eyes, But Zero Accountability.”

“He Can Pitch, But He Can’t Apologize.”

Comments. So many. Piled beneath each one.

“Bro thinks good cheekbones cover for treating girls like shit.”

“Another overhyped pretty boy with mommy issues.”

“Must be nice to be hot and still be a mess.”

He curled tighter against your legs, burying his face again. “They’re right,” he croaked. “I am a coward. I hide. I—hurt people. You. Her. Everyone. I don’t even know who the fuck I’m supposed to be anymore.”

You didn’t speak. You just kept rubbing his back. Slow, gentle strokes. Up, then down. Over and over again. Like maybe if you were steady enough, he wouldn’t fall further.

“I read them all,” he whispered. “Every single one. I just kept scrolling and scrolling and… it’s like I could feel them crawling inside me. Like they weren’t wrong. Like they were just saying what I try not to.”

You pressed your forehead to the top of his head, eyes closing. “They don’t know you,” you murmured.

“But what if I don’t either?” he breathed. “What if this is just… me?”

You didn’t answer because you didn’t know, because maybe some of it was him. The worst parts. The parts he refused to fix for so long.

The courtroom was suffocatingly quiet despite the chaos that had led up to it.

From the moment the car had stopped in front of the courthouse, it had been a storm. Paparazzi yelling Ni-ki’s name, flashes popping like fireworks, fans screaming from the barricades, security barking orders.

Ni-ki hadn’t let go of you once. His hand had clamped over yours the second you stepped out of the car, then shifted to your waist, your back, your wrist — anywhere he could hold you, steer you through the noise, keep you tethered to him like he was afraid the chaos might rip you away.

You hadn’t said much. Neither had he.

Now, seated in the courtroom, the storm still echoed in your head, dulled only by the stillness of the polished wood, the shuffle of papers, the solemn buzz of something irreversible about to be said.

You sat directly behind Ni-ki. Mr. Kwon beside you, tense and whispering updates under his breath. Ni-ki’s teammates lined the benches further back, silent support in pressed suits and furrowed brows.

Across the aisle, she sat. The woman. The one who’d stormed into your life with fire and venom, now noticeably further along, her bump visible beneath a tight black dress that felt more like armor than maternity wear. Her lips were painted, her hair curled perfectly, but her eyes were daggers, aimed straight ahead, never once shifting your way.

She wasn’t allowed to. Not since the court had approved your restraining order.

You looked up again as the judge finally entered the room.

Everyone stood.

You felt Ni-ki stiffen just slightly in front of you, his shoulders squared, like he was trying to look taller than the weight pressing down on him.

You stood. You watched. And when the judge sat, so did everyone else.

Then… the folder.

The judge picked up the file from the bench.

The paternity test.

No preamble. No drawn-out dramatics. Just the slow, deliberate opening of a manila folder that could gut someone alive with one sentence.

Ni-ki turned in his seat, just enough to look at you.

You gave him a small smile.

He looked like hell, even in that perfectly tailored suit. Dark circles. Jaw locked. Hair slicked back with effort, not vanity. A boy who had clawed his way back from rock bottom, and still wasn’t sure if he deserved to be standing.

But God, he was still beautiful.

And for once, you didn’t smile for him because you had to. You smiled because he’d tried. You saw that now, clear as day.

Then—

“The results have returned,” the judge began, scanning the paper. “In the matter of paternity regarding Miss Cho and Mr. Nishimura...”

The room stilled. The air turned to glass. Every breath stopped.

“Riki Nishimura is not the biological father.”

Silence.

Total, suffocating silence.

You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until Ni-ki exhaled in front of you, a sound between a gasp and a sob. His shoulders dropped. His head fell forward.

Across the room, the woman stood up violently.

“What?!” she screamed. “No—no, that’s not—that’s wrong!! That’s wrong!” Her lawyer grabbed her arm, already muttering about additional testing and legal protocol. “This is rigged—you paid them off, didn’t you?! You sick, rich bastard—!”

Ni-ki hadn’t even turned to look at her. He just sat there. Still. Hands trembling on his knees.Then slowly, he turned around to look at you.Eyes wet. Lower lip trembling just slightly. Like a boy who just realized he hadn’t ruined everything.

He looked at you like maybe he could finally start breathing again.

And then, before you could even react—

He moved.

In a flash, Ni-ki leapt over the courtroom bench, not caring for formality, not caring for protocol or order or the stares. His suit jacket caught on the back of the bench as he stumbled forward, but he didn’t stop. He dove straight into you, arms wrapping around your waist so tight you nearly lost your balance as you caught him, his face burying into your shoulder.

He cried.

Like he hadn’t believed it until he was in your arms again. Big, gasping, ugly sobs that shook his whole frame. And behind you—around you—the entire room erupted.

Applause. Scattered at first, then full, thunderous clapping from his team, from his manager, even from court staff who had been following the headlines like the rest of the world. A moment of pure, guttural relief. The kind of applause that didn’t just celebrate a win—but a release.

From across the room, she was still screaming. “This isn’t over!” she shrieked. “He paid them—he’s rich—he’s famous—he lied! That test was fake! That was rigged! You’re protecting him because he’s a star!” Her lawyer tugged her arm, trying to calm her down, but she twisted out of his grip.

But the judge had already leaned forward, voice raised over the noise. “Enough,” he snapped. “Miss Cho, you’ve had your say. The test results are conclusive. The court has confirmed that Mr. Nishimura is not the biological father of your child. The evidence is factual. This case is closed.”

She screamed again. Wordless now. Like something in her broke loud enough for everyone to hear.

You didn’t look at her, not when Ni-ki was clinging to you like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to. His hands dug into the back of your dress. His body trembled so hard you had to hold him tighter just to keep him grounded. “It’s over,” you whispered to him, stroking the back of his head. “Ni-ki… it’s over.”

“I thought I ruined it,” he sobbed. “I thought she—God, I thought I’d lose you. I didn’t care about the team, the press—I just—you. I thought I lost you again.”

You pulled him in tighter. Right there in the courtroom, as cameras flashed behind the glass doors and people whispered and clapped and shook hands and watched the drama unfold like a movie.

But this moment wasn’t theirs.

It was yours.

Just you and him. A collapsed boy in a suit. Crying into the arms of the one person he still called home. And this time, he wasn’t running away.

He was finally safe.

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v6quewrlds · 2 months ago

Note

What was the moment that Joe’s parents looked at him and Wifey and realized… “Oh he’s in love.”?

author's note⠀⁎⠀yo this is such a cute concept. used you/your because my head hurt trying to make 'she/her' make sense between both robin and reader.

read more⠀⁎⠀joe burrow masterlist / series masterlist.

Robin Burrow took no issue in taking care of her son—her only child—after a rough game. She knew Joe's moods like the back of her hand, knew the typical routine that followed a loss. It was in his nature to retreat into himself, shutting everyone out. His shoulders would slump downward, heavy with should've, could've, would've. He would bite off his words, each syllable harsh as if forced up from his larynx against his will. It never lasted longer than the night of the loss, but it was always a tough night to get through, nonetheless.

When they spilled into the foyer of Joe's home, Robin had spent the thirty minute drive from Paycor mentally preparing herself to coax words from Joe's clenched jaw. But she was met with something she hadn't expected—those blue eyes, perfectly identical to hers, held a clarity she hadn't seen in them after a loss in a long, long time.

"Do you have much of an appetite?" you questioned softly, your hand curling around Joe's bicep as he leaned over the back of the couch. He had been nodding along to the breakdown of Jimmy's view of a particularly disastrous play, contemplative ease settling over his features.

"I could eat," Joe responded, shrugging slightly as he turned to follow you into the kitchen, his steps lazy but sure. He watched you with a soft gaze that didn't quite match the ache in his bones. You pulled out a Tupperware container filled with his meal prepped dinner from earlier in the week—grilled chicken with a side of roasted vegetables and a quinoa-rice mix.

His parents watched from their spot several feet away. Jimmy gave Robin a look, one she returned with wide eyes and a confused tilt of her head. They had seen Joe like this before—once, when he had scored a game-winning touchdown back in the playoffs during high school, and a few times when he'd had a particularly good game in college. But never, not once, had they seen this side of him after a loss.

They watched his hand reach for you, his eyes track your movements, his feet carry him closer to you when you were just outside of his grasp. They watched his lips press to your temple, his nose nuzzle into your hair. They saw the way you responded to him, the way you turned toward him, allowing him to pull you into him, your arms wrapping around his waist. He melted into you, your breaths syncing up like the two of you had done this a million times before. It was so familiar, so intimate, so loving.

"Look at that," Jimmy hummed fondly. His lips tugged with a smile as he nudged his wife whose eyes hadn’t strayed from their son and his girlfriend. "She's got his head screwed on right."

"I know," Robin said, her voice holding a hint of wonder. "They're good together," she murmured, more to herself than to Jimmy. "She's good for him."

The microwave beeped, jolting Joe back to reality. You pulled out the steaming plate of food and placed it in front of him. "Sit," you insisted, patting the second chair from the left at the island. "I'll get you some water." You turned your head to find Robin and Jimmy hovering nearby, still in a bubble of wonder. "Can I get you guys anything? A drink? Something to eat?"

"Just some water, honey," Robin managed to say, her eyes still glued to her son. The endearment slipped from her mouth without a second thought. Jimmy requested the same, and they both took a seat to Joe's right, leaving one empty on his left.

Joe took his first bite of food, his cheeks rounding slightly as he chewed. He swallowed and spoke just as she set his water down, his voice low, "Thank you, baby."

"It's not too hot?" you questioned, moving to claim the open seat beside him. You didn't quite get there, your trajectory interrupted by Joe's hand snaking around your waist and tugging you onto his lap instead. You rolled your eyes, a small snort escaping your nose, but made no move to resist, allowing him the satisfaction of cuddling into you. Your left arm fell over his shoulders as you leaned into him, his right hand resting warm and firm on your thigh.

"It's perfect," Joe said, his mouth full.

"Chew," you scolded firmly though your tone lacked any bite to it. You couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips as you watched Joe obey, swallowing the mouthful with an exaggerated motion. You leaned further into him, dropping a fleeting peck to his cheek. "Better."

It was Robin's turn to look at Jimmy with a knowing smile. "It's about time," she whispered, and he nodded in quiet agreement.

"You're on your way to being replaced," he joked with a whisper, his voice too quiet for his words to be heard by anyone but Robin.

"You know what," Robin began, finding her husband's hand with a gentle squeeze. "If being replaced looks like this, I'm all for it."

#&. joe x doctor!reader: blurbs.#&. joey b.#joe burrow #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fluff #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow x black reader #joe burrow x black!reader

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stylesispunk · 7 months ago

Text

The soldier in the armour | part ii

marcus acacius x f!reader

masterlist | previous part | next part

summary: Acacius left for battle while emperor Geta makes his way back to you in a sinister way. After returning, Acacius realizes he is not enough to protect you and you reunite with someone from your past.

wc: 14k???

warning: angst, fluff, age gap, power imbalance, harassment, anxiety, someone bites another person on here, allusions to smut, mentions of poisoning, mentions of blood, reader has a mental breakdown on this one.

a/n: hello! First of all I want to thank everyone for the amount of love you gave to the first part of this fic that was a request and it was going to be a one piece only. But now it has become a series. This chapter is full of a lot of things so i hope you like it and share your thoughts with me. I spent the whole afternoon finishing this and the weather is almost killing me. 💌

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

You could feel the change of beating in your heart when marcus acacius looked at you now. The years of yearning and longing for freedom felt like they had met a fate the moment he said three words to you.

The golden cage you had been part of, the years of being of prisoner faded to nothing after he poured all his love for you in that kiss, in the way he touched every single inch of your skin when he made love to you.

You felt the freedom kissing your skin because you had him. You felt a string connecting both hearts beating and that was the way you coped with everything that was taken away from you.

acacius saved you, he completed you and made this world feel less lonely for you.

He felt the same, since how his hand burn over your skin or your heart beated like a beast under his palm.

He had come to learn how to love you, beyond the duty and protection he has swore to work for.

Now you were his heart and your life his purpose.

The hours before he had to leave for battle, the air around the Villa felt heavier. Charged with and unspoken tension of an impeding separation just when he had become addicted to your presence next to him.

Acacius busied himself with preparations, knowing he would give up everything in order to stay back with you. But he knew better. He was aware of how the glories he brought back from battles became the privileges that would keep your life safe.

After Lucilla sent Lucius away, you and her stayed in Rome, becoming prisoners under the ruling madness of Emperor Geta and Caracalla.

Always at bay, always with your life depending of the outcomes of Acacius battles.

And you, bound by blood and beauty, remained, a pawn in a dangerous game where your survival now depended not only on Acacius’ victories but also on Geta's unpredictable affection.

Geta’s obsession with you had become a double-edged sword. His love, if it could be called that, offered a semblance of protection, a shield against Caracalla’s wrath. Yet it was a prison of its own, trapping you within the steel of a cage, where every glance, every word, was laden with passive threats. You lived in constant vigilance, knowing that Geta's favor could turn to fury in an instant, and that fury could mean your end.

Now, Acacius battles weighed heavier over his shoulder. From this moment, with every campaign, he would risk his life, leaving you to endure the suffocating air of the emperor’s court, where you were little more than a gilded possession. He hated it, the helplessness, the waiting, the gnawing fear that one day he might not return, and you would be left to fend off Geta's advances alone.

You watched him from a distance, your fingers gripping the edge of the balcony railing. His broad shoulders bore the weight of his duty, but the occasional glance he cast your way betrayed the turmoil beneath his composed exterior. He was a man bound by honor, but also by a love that had grown more profound with each stolen moment between you.

"Will you look at me?" you whispered, your voice breaking the silence that had grown unbearable for him.

Acacius paused, his hands stilling on the edge of the balcony. Slowly, he turned to face you, and the weight of his gaze, filled with longing, regret, and the love he could never fully express in words, made your breath hitch.

"I fear," he began, his voice rough with emotion, "that if I do, I may never be able to leave."

You stepped closer, slowly, as though you could hold back time itself. "Then don't," you said, your hands reaching for him, your touch soft yet insistent as you placed your palms over his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath his clothes.

He let out a shaky breath, his forehead falling to rest against yours. "You deserve more than this life of waiting, of uncertainty. I cannot give you freedom, not truly. All I can give is my promise that I will return."

"Acacius, that’s all I need from you." you said, your voice firm, closing your eyes as you felt his warm enveloping you. “I have a surprise for you”

Acacius raised his head slightly, his brows knitting together in curiosity. “A surprise?” he asked, his voice soft but tinged with intrigue.

You nodded, a small smile breaking in this moment of madness. “Come with me,” you said, taking his hand in yours. He hesitated for a moment, his sense of duty tugging at him, but the warmth of your touch and the glimmer in your eyes proved irresistible.

You led him through the villa, weaving through the familiar halls now draped in the golden hues of early evening. The air grew warmer as you approached the chamber where the servants had worked quietly under your instruction. Pushing the doors open, you revealed the scene you had prepared.

The bath was set within a sunken marble basin, steaming water rippling gently beneath a scattering of rose petals. The room was lit by the soft glow of dozens of candles, their flickering flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. The scent of lavender and sandalwood lingered in the air, soothing and rich.

Acacius stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening as he took in the sight. “You did this… for me?”

You turned to face him, your smile soft and filled with affection. “You’re always giving so much of yourself to Rome, to the battles, and now to protect me. Tonight, I want you to let me take care of you.”

His eyes softened as they landed on you. "You’ve thought of everything," he murmured, his voice laced with gratitude.

You graced a small smile. "You deserve at least this much."

Acacius began to remove the layers he had worn all day, setting them aside piece by piece until he stood before you in nothing but the bare vulnerability you had come to know by yourself. He stepped into the bath, sighing as the warm water enveloped him, washing away the weight of the day.

You moved to leave, thinking he might prefer solitude, but his voice stopped you.

"Stay," he said softly, his eyes locking onto yours. "I want you close tonight."

Your heart skipped a beat at the quiet plea in his tone. You hesitated only briefly before nodding. Removing your dress, you stepped into the bath, the warmth of the water immediately soothing your tense muscles.

Acacius reached for you, pulling you gently toward him until you were nestled against his chest. His strong arms encircled you, his hand brushing lightly against your damp hair.

"For all the battles I’ve fought," he murmured, his lips brushing your temple, "this one feels different. I can’t bear to leave you behind."

"You’ll come back," you whispered, your voice firm despite the lump in your throat.

He tilted your chin up, his gaze piercing and filled with emotion. "I will move heaven and earth to return to you, my lady." he promised.

You sat in the water together, the silence filled with the unspoken fear and hope that swirled between you. For that moment, there was no war, no emperors, no uncertain future, just the two of you, bound together by a love that defied everything else.

But still, you shifted slightly, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The warmth of his body and the soothing water wrapped around you, but the weight of reality pressed against your mind. After a moment, you spoke, your voice soft but filled with worry.

"I don’t like you fighting Geta and Caracalla’s battles," you admitted, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. “They have done nothing to deserve the place they are at. All his glory comes from blood and murder. They don’t deserve loyalty.”

He sighed deeply, his hand stroking your back in slow, comforting motions. "I know," he said, his voice heavy with the same frustration. "I’ve questioned my place in their service more times than I can count. But my duty... it’s the only thing that keeps you safe. As long as I fight their battles, they have no reason to turn their cruelty toward you or Lucilla."

You lifted your head, meeting his gaze. The name of your mother troubled you. You couldn’t even name the feeling, perhaps jealousy. After all, the years Acacius had spent his life on battle were to protect her before you.

"My happiness," he whispered, “It’s you.” He said as he could read your thoughts

"How was it like?" you asked softly, your voice barely audible above the gentle ripples of the water. "When you served in Maximus's army?"

Acacius shifted slightly, the tension in his body growing palpable. His eyes flickered with something unreadable, and he took a moment before responding. "It was... different," he began cautiously, his hand never ceasing its soothing caress along your back. "Maximus was a man of honor. He fought for the empire, yes, but also for something greater. For justice, for the people."

You noticed the change in his demeanor, the way his jaw tightened and his gaze drifted, as though he were remembering something painful. You knew there was more he wasn’t telling you, a truth hidden beneath his words. "You respected him," you said, more a statement than a question.

"Yes," Acacius admitted, his voice low. "He was a leader unlike any other.”

You studied his face, searching for more, for the deeper truth that lay behind his guarded expression. "Did you know him well?" you asked, your heart pounding in anticipation.

Acacius hesitated, his eyes meeting yours with a flicker of hesitation. "I knew him," he said carefully. "He was a great man, but like all great men, he carried his burdens."

There was something in the way he spoke, a weight that suggested he knew more than he was letting on. Your curiosity piqued, but you decided to tread carefully. "My mother never spoke much about him," you said quietly. "Only that he was a noble warrior."

Acacius's hand stilled on your back, and he took a deep breath. "He was loved by people." he said gently.

You nodded, understanding the unspoken words. "I remember him more than I remember my own father," you murmured, your mind drifting to the stories you had heard of Maximus’s valor and strength. “I remember seeing him fighting at the colosseum and I remember how Lucius got obsessed with becoming a gladiator…”

Your eyes drifted somewhere else as if you were trying to find an exact extract of a moment where you would find your brother inside your memories. Acacius’s expression softened, but there was a shadow in his eyes. He knew a truth beyond, something Lucilla had confessed to him only and he had sworn never tell.

"He defeated your uncle," he reminded you, his voice barely above a whisper trying to bring you back from your thoughts.

“I know. I can recall that day.” You said, and after a pause you spoke again. “He wasn’t different from Geta or Caracalla, but I remember how much he loved Lucius. More than me even.” You looked up at him for a moment, “I’ve never feel truly seen, truly loved…”

Acacius kissed your head, his lips lingering against your damp hair as though trying to imprint the moment into his memory. His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer until there was no space between your bodies.

“You will always be loved by me” he whispered as you closed your eyes at the sensation of his lips on your head. “Until my last breath.”

You tilted your head back slightly to look up at him again, your eyes searching his face. The flickering light of the lamps cast soft shadows across his strong features, but it couldn’t mask the vulnerability in his expression.

"You remind me of Maximus” you said, tracing his jawline “You’re the strongest man I know," you whispered, placing your hand gently on his cheek. "You’ll come back to me, General Acacius. I believe in you."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though his eyes remained solemn. "You make me want to survive every impossible fight, just to see your face again."

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own. The bathwater lapped softly around you, the warmth a stark contrast to the cold reality of the coming day.

"Promise me something," he said after a long silence.

"Anything," you replied without hesitation.

"If I fall—"

"No," you interrupted, your voice sharp.

"Listen," he urged, his thumb tracing soothing circles on your arm. "If I fall, I need to know you’ll keep going. You’ll live, for yourself.”

He cupped your face in his hands, his touch impossibly gentle. "You’ve always been the braver of us," he said, his voice heavy with emotion. "But I need to know you’ll fight for your happiness, even if I’m not there."

You swallowed hard, nodding despite the ache in your chest. "I’ll try," you promised, though the words felt hollow. You didn’t want to confess he had made your life easier to bare.

He kissed you then, not with urgency or desperation, but with a deep, abiding love that seemed to say everything words could not express. It was devotion in a silent vow; he would return to you.

And as the water cooled and the night deepened, you stayed in his arms, unwilling to let go, even as the weight of tomorrow loomed over you both.

When the early morning light peeked through the curtains, casting a soft glow on the bed where you still slept. Acacius lay awake, his arms wrapped around you, his chest pressed to your bare back, feeling your skin against his own. He observed the gentle rise and fall of your breathing, committing the peaceful moment to memory. Every fiber of his being ached at the thought of leaving you behind haunted by the demons that threatened to take you away.

Quietly, he shifted, slipping his arm from under you and placing a kiss on your shoulder. You stirred slightly but didn’t wake. With a heavy heart, he got out of bed, moving through the bedroom as he dressed in his armor, getting ready for another senseless battle. The sound of leather straps and the faint clink of metal echoed softly in the room.

Acacius paused at the edge of the bed, glancing back at you one last time. Your face, serene and unguarded in sleep, was a sight he wanted to carry with him into battle. He closed his eyes briefly, murmuring a silent prayer for strength before placing a longing kiss on your temple and stepping out into the hall.

Outside, a handful of guards waited, their expressions tense but respectful. They fell into step behind him as he strode toward the courtyard, the weight of his duty heavy on his shoulders. The morning air was crisp, a sharp contrast to the warmth he had just left behind.

“General!” a guard called suddenly pointing at behind him, stopping him in his tracks.

He turned, his heart clenching at the sight of you running toward him, barefoot, wearing your nightgown you must had put on in hurry. Your hair was loose, tumbling in waves around your face, and your eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“Acacius!” you called out, your voice trembling with urgency.

He met you halfway, his hands reaching out to steady you as you nearly collided with him. “What are you doing out here?” he asked, his tone both tender and concerned.

“I couldn’t let you leave without saying goodbye,” you said, your breaths coming in quick gasps from running. “Not like that.”

His expression softened, and he pulled you into his arms, ignoring the curious gazes of the guards. You clung to him, your fingers digging into his armor as though you could anchor him to you.

“It’s too early for you to be outside. You’re freezing,” he murmured, rubbing his hands over your arms to warm you.

“I don’t care,” you replied fiercely, looking up at him. “I couldn’t let you go without telling you that I love you, Acacius. And I’ll be waiting for you to come back to me.”

His breath hitched at your words, and for a moment, the stoic general was nowhere to be seen. In his place was a man who adored you with every fiber of his being.

“I love you, too,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “More than you’ll ever know.”

“You have made my life worth living again,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but the weight of your words hung heavy between you.

His breath caught as he stared into your eyes, the raw vulnerability there piercing through every defense he had ever built. The battlefield, the war, the chaos Rome had become, all of it disappeared in that moment. There was only you, grounding him, giving him a purpose beyond the duty that had defined his life.

Acacius covered your hands with his own, the calloused warmth of his touch steadying your shaking fingers. “You’ve done the same for me,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion. “I was lost until you brought me back to life.”

You smiled faintly, though tears streamed down your face. “Promise me you’ll come back. Promise me this won’t be the last time I see you like this.”

“I swear it,” he said firmly, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. “By the gods, I’ll return to you. Nothing will keep me away.”

Your lips brushed his in a fleeting kiss, filled with all the love and hope you couldn’t put into more words. When he pulled away, he gently placed your hands back at your sides, as though committing every detail of you to memory.

“I’ll see you soon, my lady.” he said softly, before mounting his horse.

As he rode away, you stood there, the wind tugging at your gown, your heart heavy with emptiness. Watching him disappear into the horizon, you clung to his promise and touch, letting it light a spark of hope in the uncertain of what was coming without him anchor.

A gentle hand touched your shoulder, pulling you from your thoughts. You turned to see one of your loyal servants, her eyes filled with concern as she took in the sight of your tear-streaked face.

"Come with me, my lady," she urged softly, her voice full of care. "You’ll catch a cold out here."

You nodded silently, allowing her to guide you back toward the warmth of the villa. The wind whipped around you, carrying the scent of the olives and the distant sound of Acacius’s departing horse still in your mind. Each step felt heavier than the last, your heart aching with the weight of a farewell.

Once inside, the servant led you to your chambers, where a fire crackled warmly in the hearth. She helped you out of your damp gown, wrapping a thick shawl around your shoulders. "You need to rest, my lady," she said kindly, her hands lingering on yours in a gesture of comfort. "General Acacius will return sooner than you expect.”

You offered her a faint smile, though the ache in your chest was still fresh. "Thank you," you whispered, sinking into the plush cushions of the chair by the fire.

The servant bowed her head slightly before retreating, leaving you alone with your thoughts. The flickering flames cast dancing shadows on the walls, their warmth doing little to ease the chill in your heart. You stared into the fire, replaying Acacius’s words in your mind, clinging to his promise as though it were a lifeline.

A few weeks had passed since Acacius left for battle, the days had stretched into endless hours that seem not to meet the dawn, time felt longer, the nights colder without Acacius filling the space. You found yourself feeling more tired lately, there were new changes happening to you body, some pain, uncomfortable sensation that you blamed on the deep emptiness settling in your heart that nothing seemed to fill.

So, as you sat at the table for breakfast, the familiar clink of silverware was the only sound in the room. Lucilla sat across from you, her regal presence unshaken, but there was a softness in her eyes as she regarded you. The way he looked at you, as a mother who was supposed to love her daughter.

"Acacius will return soon, my child," she said gently, her voice calm and reassuring. "He never—"

Before she could finish, you interrupted, a sharp edge to your tone. "You must know a lot about it," you said, your gaze fixed on your plate. The bitterness in your voice was unmistakable.

Lucilla’s expression shifted, a flicker of pain crossing her face. She set down her cup, her hands folding neatly in her lap. "What do you mean?" she asked softly, her voice tinged with a sorrow that mirrored your own.

You looked up, the walls you had built around your heart beginning to crack. The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken words and shared pain. “You were the one he returned to before.” you said, bitterness inking your tongue.

Lucilla's face softened, her eyes reflecting the guilt he carried, the story between her and Marcus that seemed unfinished. She took a deep breath, her hands trembling slightly as they rested on the table.

“Yes,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “He was bound to me once, by duty and by the burdens we shared. But that was a different time, a different life.”

You felt the sting of her words, the truth you had known but never fully confronted. “Different time?” you asked, your voice trembling.

Your question hung in the air, thick with the weight of your emotions. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest as you looked at your mother, waiting for an answer. The air between you was charged with uncertainty, like the quiet before a storm.

Lucilla shook her head, her gaze steady and filled with an intensity that made your heart ache. “Yes” she said firmly. “You are his heart now. I see the way he looks at you as if the world begins and ends with you.” She paused for a bit "I never wanted you to be caught in the politics of this empire, my dear," she said, her voice soft but laden with guilt. "I never wanted you to be a pawn in a game of power between two men. But I feared what would happen if I didn't do something."

You looked at your mother, the weight of your question pressing on you. The air between you was thick with the tension of everything unspoken, of truths that had been hidden for so long. Your voice trembled slightly as you asked, "Would you have married Acacius if the emperor hadn’t courted me first? Would you have still arranged for him to marry me, or would you have chosen a different path for us?"

Her gaze fell for a brief moment before she raised it to meet yours again. "Had it not been for Emperor Geta, I would have never allowed Acacius to marry you.”

A bitter smile tugged at your lips as you absorbed her words. "But you didn't expect he would end up loving me instead of you," you said, your voice laced with a mix of hurt and defiance.

Lucilla’s eyes flickered with a flash of emotion-wether it was regret or something deeper, you couldn’t quite tell. She hesitated for a moment before speaking, her tone measured but filled with a quiet resignation. "No, I didn’t expect that. I thought his loyalty would always lie with me. I never imagined he would find in you what he once saw in me."

You swallowed hard, the weight of her confession settling heavily in your chest. "And yet, you still pushed us together, knowing it would tether me to a life I never wanted."

"I believed I was protecting you," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "From the dangers of court, from the whims of powerful men. I thought if you were with someone like Acacius, someone strong and honorable, you would be safe."

"Safe?" you echoed, incredulity seeping into your tone. "You call this safety? Acacius leaving to fight battles to kept your place in this empire and protect me?” You took a deep breath, anger raising within you. "And what about Acacius? Did you ever consider how he felt in all of this?”

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she met your gaze once more. "I didn’t think he could love anyone else," she said, her voice breaking. "I thought his heart was mine alone, even if our paths diverged. I never anticipated that he would find solace, comfort, love... in you."

The room seemed to close in around you, the weight of her words pressing down. "Well, he did," you said, your voice steady but filled with a quiet strength. "And now we’re both paying the price for your miscalculations."

Lucilla reached out, her hand hovering in the air between you. "I never wanted to hurt you," she whispered. "I only wanted what was best for you."

The silence stretched once more, but this time, it was not filled with bitterness. It was laden with understanding, a shared pain that neither of you could escape.

“I only want him to come back,” you whispered, finally allowing the tears to fall. “I want him to be safe.”

Lucilla reached out, her hand covering yours in a gesture of comfort. “He will,” she promised, her voice soft but resolute. “Acacius will return, because his heart belongs to you now, and nothing will keep him away.”

You couldn’t bear the thought of a life without him. Ever since Acacius had shown you kindness, the warmth his love could offer, he had filled the hollow spaces in your heart. You had become addicted to him, to the gentle way he would brush a stray hair from your face, to the force of his arms around your waist when the weight of the world threatened to crush you.

Before Acacius, your life had been a series of obligations and sacrifices, each day blending into the next in a monotonous cycle of duty you didn’t choose. But then he appeared, his unwavering loyalty and quiet strength breaking through the walls you had built around yourself. He had finally seen you as a woman with dreams, fears, and a desperate need for freedom.

You and Lucilla remained in a heavy silence, the weight of your shared worries filling the space of the room. The warmth of her hand on yours felt protective as never before.

A servant entered the room, bowing respectfully before addressing Lucilla. "My lady, Emperor Geta has requested your presence."

Lucilla shook her head, her voice firm yet calm. "Later," she said, unwilling to let the fragile moment between you both be shattered.

The servant hesitated, shifting uncomfortably before speaking again. "No, not you, my lady. Her." His gaze flicked toward you, and the room seemed to grow colder.

Lucilla’s hand tightened on yours, her expression hardening as she closed her eyes briefly, understanding the implications of Geta’s request. She knew this moment would come, had dreaded it ever since Acacius left for battle. Geta’s twisted fascination with you was no secret to her to you, neither to Acacius. That was the reason of your marriage after all, him providing protection from him. She feared what it meant now that Acacius was no longer there to shield you.

"Stay calm," she whispered, her eyes opening to meet yours with a shining light. "I will do everything in my power to protect you. Remember, you are stronger than you think."

Her words were meant to reassure, but the unease in her voice betrayed her true fear. You swallowed hard, trying to gather your courage as you stood. The servant’s eyes avoided yours, his discomfort evident as he waited to escort you.

With one last squeeze of your mother’s hand, you followed the servant, each step feeling heavier than the last. The shadow of Geta loomed over you, his intentions clear and menacing. But even as dread settled in your chest, you clung to Lucilla’s words and the hope that Acacius would return, his promise lighting a fragile spark in the darkness.

The quiet of the palace gardens was only broken by the soft rustling of leaves and the distant murmurs of servants. Emperor Geta was sitting on the stone bench, perhaps trying to gather his thoughts, when he noticed your presence. He turned around to face you, his golden robe gleamed faintly under the pale light of the sun, and there was an intensity in his eyes that unsettled you.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he accused you, his voice carried yearning and longing. “I understand why, but I needed to see you. To speak to you.”

You stayed silent, your gaze fixed on the ground. His presence was overwhelming, and the weight of everything he had done, and might still do, pressed heavily on you. Yet you knew there was no escaping this conversation.

Geta crouched before you, his piercing gaze softening as he studied your face. “You’ve always been kind, even when you had no reason to be. Even when I didn’t deserve it. That’s why I love you,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Not because you are the princess of Rome, not because of your beauty or grace, but because you have a heart unlike anyone I’ve ever known.”

You flinched slightly at his words, unsure how to respond. “Emperor Geta,” you began hesitantly, “I’m your prisoner and my heart belongs-“

“To General Acacius,” he interrupted, bitterness creeping into his tone. “Yes, I know. But does he truly deserve it? Does he love you as I do? Does he see you for who you are?” He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and cupped your face. His touch was surprisingly gentle, but it sent a shiver down your spine.

“I would give you everything,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “The empire, my loyalty, my life… I would burn the empire for you.”

You felt a lump in your throat as his words echoed in the morning. His words were both a confession and a threat, a reminder of the power he wielded and the danger that came with it. Before you could move away, he leaned closer, his forehead briefly resting against yours as if seeking solace.

Then, without warning, his arms wrapped around you in an embrace. It wasn’t harsh or demanding, it was almost tender coming from him. But the closeness made your heart race with fear. His lips hovered near your ear as he spoke again, his voice low and possessive. “You were made for me. There is not marriage, no power that can change that.”

Before you could respond, you felt the sharp sting of his teeth against your shoulder. It was a claim. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and wild, and you could see the faint trace of blood on his lips.

“That mark,” he said, his voice steadier now, “will remind you that you are mine, no matter what. Even if you deny it, even if you run to Acacius, you will carry me with you.”

You stared at him, horrified and furious, your hand instinctively going to your shoulder. The pain was sharp, and you knew the wound would scar, a permanent reminder of his obsession.

“You’re mad,” you whispered, your voice trembling with fear “This isn’t love, Geta. This is control. And I will never belong to you.”

His expression flickered, as though your words had struck a nerve. But the defiance in your voice didn’t deter him. Instead, he straightened, his composure returning. “You may hate me now, but time will change that. You’ll see,” he said softly, almost as if convincing himself. “One day, you’ll understand.”

Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving you alone under the light of the sun, that now seemed to disappear. Your hand remained pressed against your shoulder, the wound throbbing painfully against your fingertips.

Your gown clung to your shoulder, damp with the blood running from the bite Geta had inflicted. The metallic smell lingered in the air, and the dull throb of the wound made your steps falter as you returned to the villa. You wrapped a shawl tightly around yourself, hoping to conceal the evidence of what had transpired.

The flickering lamplight in the villa's corridors cast long shadows as you entered quietly, your heart pounding in your chest. You prayed no one would notice your state. But as you made your way toward your chambers, a familiar voice stopped you in your tracks.

“Daughter?” Lucilla’s voice was soft but carried a tone of concern. She had emerged from her own chambers, her sharp eyes immediately taking in your pale face, the stiffness of your movements, and the crimson stain slowly seeping through your shawl.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, stepping closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re distressed. What happened?”

You shook your head, attempting to brush past her. “It’s nothing. I’m tired. I need to rest.”

But Lucilla was relentless. She reached out and gently pulled at the shawl covering your shoulder. “Let me see,” she insisted, her voice tinged with a maternal sternness that left no room for argument.

You hesitated, swallowing hard, but the look in her eyes left you no choice. Slowly, you loosened the shawl, revealing the blood-soaked fabric of your gown and the angry bite mark on your shoulder.

Lucilla gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “What in the gods’ name happened to you?”

Tears welled in your eyes as you struggled to find the words. “It was Geta,” you whispered hoarsely. Regretting the words you had throwing at her earlier, “He... he bit me. He said I was his. That I would never truly belong to anyone else.”

Lucilla’s face hardened, horror contorting her features. “That monster,” she hissed, her voice trembling with anger. “He’s lost his mind. He has no right to lay a hand on you- no right at all!”

She took your hand, guiding you firmly toward your chambers. “We need to clean this wound before it festers,” she said, her voice now brisk and focused.

You followed her silently, the weight of the revelation pressing heavily on your shoulders. The pain from the bite throbbed with each step, but it was nothing compared to the turmoil swirling inside you. Lucilla’s grip on your hand was firm, a silent promise of protection despite everything that had transpired between you.

Once inside your chambers, she set about gathering water and cloths, her movements efficient and practiced. She didn’t speak, but the tension in the air was palpable, her anger simmering just beneath the surface. You sat down, your hands trembling as you tried to steady yourself.

Lucilla knelt beside you, gently peeling back the fabric of your gown to get a better look at the wound. Her expression darkened at the sight of the raw, inflamed skin. "This will sting," she murmured, dipping a cloth into the water and pressing it against the bite.

You winced, biting back a cry as the cool water met the tender flesh. "He said I could never escape him," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of the water. "That no matter what, I would always be his."

Lucilla’s hand paused for a moment before resuming her careful cleaning. "You are not his," she said firmly, her voice leaving no room for doubt. "You are your own person. No one has the right to claim you, especially not in such a barbaric way."

You observed her, focused on mending your wound with such caring.

“Was it worth it?” you asked.

Lucilla’s hands stilled, her eyes momentarily closing as if the weight of your question struck her deeply. When she opened them again, her gaze was heavy with emotion.

She set the cloth aside and sat back on her heels, her hands resting in her lap. "I don’t know," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I thought I was doing what was best, what would keep you safe. I believed that Acacius could protect you in ways I could not. He brings the glory they lack of and-"

Her eyes met yours, the pain in them reflecting your own. "But I never anticipated this. I never thought Geta would..." She trailed off, her voice faltering as she fought to find the words. "I wanted to shield you from the dangers of this world, from the cruel games of men like him. I thought I was giving you a chance at something better, even if it meant sacrificing my own happiness."

You swallowed hard, the weight of her words pressing heavily on your heart. "But it didn’t stop him," you whispered, the bitterness and sorrow mixing in your voice. "Even with Acacius by my side, he still came after me."

Lucilla’s expression crumpled, her composure breaking as tears filled her eyes. "I failed you," she admitted, her voice cracking with the weight of her guilt. “I should have sent you and Lucius away.”

Her words hung in the air, a heavy confession that seemed to echo through the silence of the room. You felt a pang of sadness at the mention of your brother, the thought of him bringing back memories of simpler, happier times.

"You wanted to protect us," you said softly, your voice trembling as you tried to console her. "You did what you thought was best."

Lucilla shook her head, her tears falling freely now. "I thought keeping you close would be safer, that I could shield you from the worst of it. But I underestimated him, underestimated the depths of his cruelty." She paused, taking a shaky breath. "Sending you away might have spared you from this... this nightmare."

You reached out, placing a hand over hers. "We can’t change the past," you said, your voice steadier now.

As you held her hand, a sudden wave of dizziness washed over you, making the room spin. You blinked, trying to steady yourself, but the sensation only intensified. Your grip on Lucilla’s hand tightened involuntarily.

Lucilla’s eyes widened in concern as she noticed your pallor. "Are you alright?" she asked, her voice laced with worry. "You’re pale."

You nodded weakly, though the dizziness persisted. "It’s nothing," you murmured, attempting to downplay it. "It’s been happening lately... just moments of dizziness. They pass."

Her brows furrowed with worry, and she guided you to sit down, her hands firm on your shoulders. "You’ve been pushing yourself too hard," she said, her tone gentle but insistent. "Rest now. I’ll send for the healer."

You wanted to protest, to assure her that you were fine, but the fatigue and the weight of everything that had happened made it hard to argue. With a reluctant nod, you allowed her to help you lie down, her concern evident in every movement.

"Promise me you’ll tell me if it gets worse," she said softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "We can’t afford to ignore this."

"I will," you whispered, the heaviness of your eyelids pulling you into a restless sleep, Lucilla’s soothing presence the last thing you felt as you drifted off.

The moon casted a pale glow across the courtyard as Acacius rode back into the Villa. His horse’s hooves echoed softly against the stone pathway, a familiar sound that had once brought comfort. Now, with the weight of the world pressing down on him, it only seemed to remind him of the uncertainty and chaos that had taken hold of everyone he cared about.

As he dismounted, he glanced toward the fountain where Lucilla was tending to the delicate flowers growing around its edge. The peacefulness of the moment, in stark contrast to the storm brewing inside him, caught him off guard. His breath caught in his throat when Lucilla looked up, a soft smile appearing on her lips despite the weariness in her eyes.

"Acacius," she said warmly, her voice filled with relief as she walked toward him. Before he could say anything, she closed the distance between them and enveloped him in a tight hug. His arms instinctively wrapped around her, the familiar embrace both comforting and bittersweet.

"I’ve missed you," Lucilla murmured against his chest. "We’ve all been worried."

Acacius hesitated for a moment, then slowly returned the hug, the feeling of her presence grounding him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed. The tension in his shoulders seemed to lessen, but only slightly. He pulled back, searching her face for answers, as if he could find some peace in her expression.

"Where is she?" he asked, his voice low and urgent. His eyes flicked to the passages of the place, his heart racing at the thought of seeing you again.

Lucilla sighed softly, her expression softening with concern. "She’s asleep," she said gently. "She’s been resting a lot today."

“I need to see her.” Acacius said.

Lucilla placed a hand on his arm, stopping him from moving toward the door. "She’s asleep, Acacius. She needs rest more than anything right now," she said, her tone firm but caring. "Let her sleep, please. You’ve been gone too long. You need to eat something first. You’re no good to her if you’re running on empty."

Acacius clenched his jaw, his gaze flickering toward your chambers once again. "It doesn’t matter," he said, determination in his voice. "I’ll see her now."

Lucilla’s hand tightened on his arm; her voice soft but insistent. "Please, Acacius. For her sake, you need to rest too. She’ll be fine. I’ll wake her once she’s had some rest."

He looked at her, torn between the urge to be with you and the concern for your well-being that Lucilla had so clearly expressed. The room was heavy with unspoken words, the tension between what he wanted and what was best for you both almost too much to bear.

“No. I have to see her first.” He said, walking towards where you were.

The door creaked softly as Acacius entered your chamber, his heart pounding in his chest as the longing and concern filled his. The room was dimly lit by the fading light of the moon, casting soft shadows across the bed where you lay, still deep in sleep.

He moved quietly toward you, his steps light, careful not to wake you. His gaze softened as he looked at you, taking in the way your body relaxed under the weight of exhaustion, your face serene in a peaceful slumber. The sight of you brought a bittersweet smile to his lips, and without thinking, he sat down beside you on the bed.

His hand hovered for a moment before gently caressing your face, the touch tender and filled with affection. His fingers traced the delicate curve of your cheek, as if he could somehow erase the pain and hardship, you’d endured His thumb brushed over your skin, a silent apology for everything that had happened, for everything he hadn't been able to prevent.

He observed you. He watched over you memorizing every inch of a face he had missed you for weeks.

He lived for you, breathe for you.

At the touch, you stirred, your eyelids fluttering open slowly, the fog of sleep still clouding your mind. For a moment, your gaze was unfocused, as though you weren’t fully aware of where you were or who was beside you. Your eyes met his, but there was a distant look in them, as if your mind was still caught somewhere between the dream world and reality.

Acacius held his breath, his heart aching as he watched you struggle to fully wake. "It’s me," he whispered softly, his voice barely above a breath. "I’m here."

But before he could say more, your eyes fluttered closed again, and you drifted back into a deeper sleep, your breathing slow and steady.

A soft chuckle escaped him. He leaned closer, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face as he whispered to you, his words meant only for your ears.

"Rest, my love," he murmured, his voice full of emotion. "I’m back.”

+++++++++++++++++++

The soft light of morning filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. The air felt fresh, the quiet stillness of dawn wrapping itself around you like a gentle embrace. You slowly stirred, the remnants of a dream still lingering at the edges of your mind. For a moment, everything felt hazy, like the lines between the real and the imagined were blurred.

As your eyes fluttered open, you felt the comforting weight of warmth beside you, and a soft breath against your skin. For a heartbeat, you thought it was just another dream. Your mind was still foggy, the night’s turmoil and the strange sense of peace from the past few hours making it difficult to separate reality from the dreamworld.

But then, as your gaze shifted, you saw him.

Acacius was there, lying beside you, his presence so real, so tangible that it almost hurt. His features were softer in the morning light, his expression calm and peaceful as he slept. His hair fell in gentle waves around his face, and the steady rise and fall of his chest was a reminder that he was truly here.

You blinked, unsure whether this moment was part of your dream or if you had truly woken up to find him next to you. The feeling in your chest, the warmth, the weight of his presence, it was so vivid that it seemed too perfect to be real.

You slowly shifted, sitting up slightly, careful not to disturb him. Your hand reached out tentatively, brushing a strand of hair from his face. The touch was soft, hesitant, as if you were afraid, he might vanish like a dream upon waking.

But he didn’t. His warmth was solid, his breath steady, and as your fingers lingered near his skin, you realized with a rush of relief that he was truly there. You felt the tightness in your chest ease, the anxiety that had plagued you for so long slowly dissipating in the comfort of his presence.

Acacius shifted slightly, his eyes opening slowly, and when they met yours, they were filled with warmth, tenderness, and something more, something deeper.

"You’re awake," he whispered, his voice still thick with sleep but filled with a soft affection that made your heart flutter.

You nodded, still taking in the reality of the moment, still unsure whether you were dreaming or not. "I... I thought you were just part of a dream," you admitted, your voice barely more than a breath.

“I came to see you last night, but you didn’t truly see me” he smiled softly at you.

Your smile widened; he mirrored your smile. It made your heart swell. You were overwhelmed by the certainty that he was real, that he was here, and that this was not just another fleeting dream.

Without thinking, you leaned closer, your hands trembling slightly as you cupped his face, pulling him toward you. The space between you shrank with every heartbeat, and before either of you could say another word, your lips met his.

The kiss was soft at first, a gentle testing of the waters, but the emotions swirling inside you, the love, the longing, the relief, soon poured into it. It deepened, quickening, both of you unable to hold back the fervor that had been building for so long. Your hands slid into his hair, tugging him closer as if you couldn’t bear the distance between you.

Acacius responded immediately, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you to him with the same urgency. His kiss was filled with the same passion, his hands tracing the lines of your back, pulling you into the warmth of his embrace as if you were the one thing that anchored him in this world.

You broke the kiss slowly, your forehead resting against his neck as you both breathed heavily, your heart racing. You lifted your head, looking at him into his eyes, searching for the same love dancing on them.

"I’ve missed you," you whispered, your voice shaky with the intensity of your feeling. “I’m glad you are back.”

Acacius's eyes softened as he gazed at you, the smile still lingering on his lips, but there was a quiet intensity now as he studied you more closely. "Last night, you didn't even see me," he chuckled, his voice low and full of affection. "Why are you so tired?" His gaze lingered on your face, searching for an explanation, a hint of concern creeping into his words.

But before you could answer, his eyes drifted to your shoulder, and the lighthearted smile faded instantly. His hand reached out gently, brushing aside the fabric of your gown to reveal the angry bite mark on your skin. His breath caught, his face contorting with anger as he traced the wound with his fingertips, his touch almost sacred.

"What... what is this?" His voice was a whisper, edged with disbelief and a growing fury. "Who did this to you?"

You winced slightly at the touch, but it wasn’t from pain, but from the overwhelming flood of emotions that rushed through you at his reaction. You were ashamed.

"It’s... from Geta," you said softly, your voice trembling as the memory of that night flooded back. "He... he bit me.”

Acacius’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as he clenched his fists. He pulled his hand away from your shoulder, his gaze never leaving the wound as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. "Geta..." he growled, his voice low and filled with contempt. "That animal."

You swallowed, feeling a lump form in your throat as the weight of the situation settled on you. "It’s nothing," you tried to reassure him, but the words felt hollow. "It’s just a bite. I’ll be fine."

But Acacius wouldn’t be soothed so easily. He leaned closer, his hands gently cupping your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. "It’s not just a bite," he said firmly, his voice steady but full of determination. "You’re not just a victim of his games, and I won’t let you be."

His thumb traced the line of your cheek, his expression softening with an intensity that took your breath away. "I will make sure this never happens again," he promised, his voice low and filled with an unspoken vow.

Acacius's words hung in the air, carrying a promise as his hands gently cupped your face, his thumbs brushing softly over your skin. Without a word, he leaned in, pressing his lips to your forehead, a tender kiss that seemed to erase some of the heaviness in your heart. His lips lingered there for a moment, as if grounding you in the warmth of his protection, before he moved to kiss your temple, his touch both gentle and filled with an overwhelming tenderness.

Each kiss was a quiet declaration of his love, his need to soothe the pain and the fear that had taken root in your heart. His lips trailed down your cheek, the soft pressure of each kiss igniting a calmness in you, a sense of safety that had been lacking during his absence. As he kissed your nose, your eyelids, your cheeks, his touch was soft and reverent, like he was willing to erase every trace of hurt you had face.

"You don’t have to carry this alone," he whispered against your skin, his breath warm as it fanned across your face. "I’ll be here. Always."

Your heart beat wildly in your chest, the overwhelming emotions of relief and love flooding through you as you closed your eyes, letting him soothe your pain. You weren’t his to fix but you were his to love.

The way he kissed you with such care, it was as if he was healing not just the physical wound, but the deeper, hidden scars.

As he kissed your lips, a soft, lingering touch, you finally opened your eyes to meet his once more. His gaze was full of such raw emotion, as though he, too, was feeling the depth of the moment.

"I love you," he whispered softly, his voice thick with emotion. "I’ll do anything to keep you safe, to keep you whole."

He knew the plan he had under his hands. He would free Rome from the tyranny and free you from the fear.

The roar of the crowd was deafening as the announcer introduced the key figures present at the Colosseum. The names of the emperors, Geta and Caracalla, echoed through the massive arena, met with cheers and restrained applause. Then came Lucilla's name, and the reaction was thunderous.

"Lucilla, the beloved daughter of Rome!"

The cheers were wild, a wave of adoration sweeping through the crowd. People stood, clapping and calling her name, their admiration evident in every gesture. You watched as Lucilla stood gracefully, acknowledging the crowd with a serene smile, her presence commanding the space in a way that only she could.

Your eyes flicked to Acacius, who was seated beside you. His gaze lingered on Lucilla, a soft, unreadable expression on his face. Admiration, respect... perhaps something more?

Your thoughts were threatening to betray you again, after the accident with emperor geta not even Acacius’ reassurance could take you away from that dark place of your mind.

The thought clawed at you, your chest tightening painfully. You tried to look away, but the image was seared into your mind: the way his lips curved into the faintest of smiles, the way his eyes seemed to curse you.

Acacius was holding your hand, tightly but your skin felt empty. A cold wave of detachment washed over you. The cheers around you became distant, muffled, as though you were underwater. Your heart felt heavy, your thoughts spiraling into the possibility that you had been wrong all along.

Had he chosen you, or had he simply settled for you?

You were lost in the haze, barely registering the sound of the announcer continuing the introductions. It wasn't until you heard your name being called that the fog lifted.

"And now, the princess of Rome, our General Acacius' beloved wife!"

The crowd clapped politely, but it was nothing compared to the ovation Lucilla had received. You blinked rapidly, startled back into the present. Acacius had turned to you, his hand still touching yours.

"Are you all, right?" he asked, his voice low enough that only you could hear. His brows knitted with concern as he studied your face.

You forced a smile, though it felt brittle. "I'm fine," you replied, the lie slipping easily from your lips.

Acacius' gaze lingered, his frown deepening slightly, but he said nothing more. He turned his attention back to the arena, his grip on your hand tightening slightly as though to reassure you.

But the seed of doubt had been planted, and no matter how tightly he held onto you, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he might not truly be yours.

You weren’t naive, nor blind to the reality of the world you had grown up in. The web of alliances and betrayals, the quiet manipulations cloaked in love and duty, those were woven into the very fabric of your existence.

And now, here you were, seated beside Acacius in the Colosseum, as the echoes of Lucilla's name still hung in the air. You couldn’t stop the twisting knot in your stomach. The way Acacius had looked at her earlier, the subtle warmth in his eyes, wasn’t something you could ignore.

You weren’t stupid. You had always known there was a past between your mother and Acacius, a bond that ran deeper than either of them cared to admit aloud. They might have buried it under the guise of duty, but you saw the shadows of it, lingering in their words, in their looks.

This wasn’t just about the admiration Acacius showed Lucilla in the public eye or the respect the people of Rome gave her. It was about how every move seemed calculated, as though Lucilla had once again positioned herself as the center of the narrative. And you? You were a mere piece on the board, trapped by the choices made to “protect” you, thrown into a marriage that sometimes felt like a gilded cage.

Your mind raced. Were you just another pawn in a game of power, destined to be discarded when your use was up? A part of you feared that Lucilla had orchestrated this entire situation, not to protect you, but to ensure Acacius stayed close, tethered to her orbit under the guise of protecting her daughter.

How Geta looked at you as if he owned you.

The thought sent a shiver down your spine.

"You’re unusually quiet today," Acacius said beside you, his voice calm but tinged with curiosity.

“I’m just… thinking,” you murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, avoiding his intense gaze for a moment.

Acacius shifted closer, his presence radiating the strength you so desperately needed right now. “Thinking about what?” His tone was soft, but there was a sharpness in it, the concern for you evident beneath the calm surface.

You hesitated, biting your lip as the image of Geta’s cold eyes lingered in your mind and sitting just centimeters from you. "How he looks at me," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "Like he owns me. Like I’m a possession."

Acacius’s expression darkened instantly, his jaw tightening as if he were struggling to keep his emotions in check. "He will never own you," he whispered for yourself to hear, his hand gently grasping yours. “You belong to no one but yourself.”

Before you could respond, the distant sounds of the gladiators preparing for the fight reached your ears, shouting commands. The world outside seemed to snap back into focus, the heavy air now filled with tension as Acacius’s duty called to him.

His hand lingered on yours, but there was a palpable shift in the air between you. The intensity of the moment, the weight of his words, and the fear of what might come next made everything feel suddenly fragile. For a heartbeat, you wished you could stay suspended in this moment, untouched by the chaos that was about to unfold.

Your attention also shifted to the arena, where the clash of steel and the roar of the crowd filled the air. A single gladiator stood out among the combatants, his movements precise, calculated, almost effortless. Something about him felt oddly familiar, tugging at the edges of your memory.

He moved with a grace you’d only seen in a few, his strikes landing with deadly accuracy, his stance reminiscent of a soldier rather than a slave. The sun caught the sharp lines of his face for a moment, and for a moment, your breath hitched.

It couldn’t be.

The gladiator turned slightly, and you swore you could see the faint scar across his cheek, the same scar you remembered tracing with your finger once, years ago. Just as he used to do it with yours, the one you had just above your eyebrow.

It can’t be Lucius.

Your heart raced as you sat frozen, unable to look away. What was he doing here? Why was he in the arena, fighting for his life as if he were no more than a pawn for entertainment?

"Are you all, right?" Acacius asked, leaning closer to you, his tone concerned.

You barely heard him, your focus entirely on the gladiator. The crowd erupted in cheers as he disarmed his opponent, standing victorious in the center of the arena. His chest rose and fell heavily, but his gaze lifted, scanning the crowd as if searching for someone.

When his eyes met yours, the recognition wasn’t there, but you feel in your heart.

He didn’t smile, didn’t falter, but you could see the fire in his eyes, the defiance, the unspoken words that passed between you in that fleeting moment. He was here for a reason and it wasn’t just surviving.

The ride back to the villa was suffocating. The echoes of the crowd’s cheers and the clash of steel still lingered in your ears, but your thoughts were consumed by Lucius. You had barely spoken a word since leaving the Colosseum, and Acacius, sensing your unease, remained silent beside you.

Your mother, seated across from you, attempted to meet your gaze, but you kept your eyes focused on the window. The weight of the day pressed down on you, and exhaustion threatened to pull you under.

When you finally arrived at the villa, you stepped out of the carriage without a word. The evening air was cool, but it did little to soothe the fire burning in your chest. You didn’t wait for anyone, heading straight to your chambers, your footsteps echoing through the empty halls.

Acacius called your name softly as you walked away, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t face him. Not now.

Once inside your room, you shut the door and leaned against it, the tension in your body finally breaking as you slid to the floor. You felt tears prick your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Not yet.

Instead, you crawled to the bed, too drained to even remove your sandals. You climbed under the covers, pulling them tightly around you as if they could shield you from the storm inside your head.

Your eyelids grew heavy, and though the weight of the day lingered in your chest, sleep began to claim you. The last thing you heard was the faint creak of the door opening and quiet footsteps entering the room.

Acacius.

He didn’t say anything, and you didn’t have the strength to look at him. You felt the bed dip slightly as he sat beside you. A warm hand rested lightly on your shoulder, and his thumb brushed against the fabric of your sleeve.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice low, filled with a quiet worry.

+++++++++

The night was quiet as you walked through the villa, your footsteps muffled on the stone floors. The house felt empty despite the people inside, the silence pressing in on you. When you stepped into the garden, the cool breeze brushed against your skin, but it did little to calm the restless thoughts swirling in your mind.

It was there, among the shadows of the tall, ancient trees, that you saw them. Acacius and your mother, Lucilla, standing close together, speaking in hushed tones. Their words were soft, but you could feel the weight of the conversation, the tension between them thick enough to be felt even from where you stood. Acacius’s hand hovered just above Lucilla’s arm, his posture protective, and though their expressions were unreadable, there was something in the way they stood together that felt... familiar. Too familiar.

A sharp pang of jealousy gnawed at your chest, but you didn’t dare move closer. Instead, you turned silently on your heel and walked back to your chambers.

You couldn’t bear to stay in that room any longer, not with the questions swirling in your mind, not when you felt so abandoned in the very space that should’ve been your refuge. Without a second thought, you grabbed a cloak and threw it over your shoulders, the fabric billowing softly as you exited the villa once more.

The air outside the villa was cool and quiet as you slipped through the shadows, your heart pounding with each step. The guards were focused elsewhere, their attention scattered by the faint buzz of the city. The path to the gladiator quarters was one you had never taken before, but your determination pushed you forward.

When you reached the holding area, the scent of sweat and iron filled the air. Lanterns flickered dimly, casting long shadows on the walls. The clinking of chains and low murmurs from the gladiators made your stomach churn, but you pressed on.

Hanno, you were told his name was.

But in your heart, he was Lucius.

You spotted him immediately. His broad back was turned to you, his head bowed as he held something in his hands. The sight of him like this inside this cell, broke your heart.

Taking all your courage, you stepped forward. “Hanno.”

He didn’t look up. “What now? You people love seeing prisoners like this, don’t you?” His voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

You flinched but held your ground. “I’m not here to gawk. I’m here to talk.”

He finally turned; his sharp features illuminated by the lantern’s glow. His eyes locked onto yours, cold and untrusting at first.

He stood in front of a prisoner dressed in gold, not knowing the story interlocked between you both.

You said nothing, frozen under his piercing stare.

Hanno stood slowly, his presence sent shivers down your spine, you didn’t fear him but the possibility of him being your beloved brother.

Hanno’s eyes narrowed as he looked you up and down, his stance growing more rigid. The silence between you felt thick, charged with an intensity that made your chest tighten.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was low and clipped, filled with suspicion. “Are you the general’s wife?” His words were sharper than the chill in the night air, and they stung like a slap.

You held your ground, refusing to be intimidated, though your pulse quickened at the mention of Acacius. The tension between you and Hanno was palpable, and yet you could sense something else, something more.

“I’m not here for him” you said, your voice steady but quieter than you intended. “I’m here to see the gladiators. To make sure they’re well.”

Hanno scoffed, his lips curling into a bitter smile. “You think they deserve your pity? These men? You’re nothing more than a part of this twisted game, just like the rest of them.” His words hit like a blow, but you didn’t flinch, though they stung nonetheless.

He stepped closer, his eyes flicking to the guards who watched from the shadows, before turning back to you with disdain.

“You wear their pain like a cloak, but you’re not one of them,” he spat. “You’re just another piece of property, owned by the man you married. Don’t pretend you’re anything else. You can’t fool me. You-”

He stopped abruptly, his eyes catching on something above your eyebrow. His gaze sharpened, his face shifting from scorn to recognition. His expression faltered slightly, and he took a step closer, his attention now focused entirely on the scar.

“That scar…” he whispered, his voice faltering. “No. It can’t be...”

You said nothing, frozen under his voice.

The world seemed to slow as your heart raced. You had never told anyone about it, not in years. It was a relic of another time, another life before this one, before the crown, before Acacius.

Hanno’s eyes widened, his hand rising instinctively toward your face, as if drawn by some invisible thread.

“Your name is Lucius Velarius,” Tears welled in your eyes as you spoke “You’re the brother to a siste who is stand in front of you right now, hoping that’s is you.”

For a moment, he simply stared at you, as if trying to convince himself you were real. Then, without warning, he pulled you into a tight embrace, his rough hands trembling as they held you., You could hardly breathe, the weight of the revelation pressing down on you. The realization came slowly, but it hit you hard, like a hammer to the chest.

Your brother.

His eyes softened as the truth sank in, and for the first time in years, you saw the hint of a smile tug at his lips, though it was tinged with sadness. “I thought I’d never see you again,” he murmured, his voice breaking.

He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing the scar on your face, as if confirming you were truly there, truly the same person he had once known. “I thought you were dead,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly.

“I thought you were dead” you replied, your throat tight with emotion.

You clung to him, your tears soaking into his tunic. “I thought I would never see you again.”

He pulled back slightly, his hands gripping your shoulders as he studied your face. “Why are you here? This is no place for someone like you.”

“I had to see you,” you replied, your voice trembling. “I couldn’t stand not knowing if it was really you.”

Lucius’s jaw tightened, his expression hardening. “You shouldn’t have come. If they find you here-”

“I don’t care,” you interrupted, your voice firm. “You’re my brother, and I won’t abandon you.”

His eyes softened again, and for a brief moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift from his shoulders. “Then we have much to talk about, sister.”

+++++++++++++

Lucius sat down heavily on a wooden bench, wincing as he shifted his weight. The dim light of the small cell barely illuminated the fresh gashes and bruises marring his skin. Your hands trembled as you dipped a cloth into a bowl of water, wringing it out before gently pressing it against a cut on his shoulder.

He hissed in pain, but you didn’t stop. “Hold still,” you murmured, your voice soft but firm. “These need to be cleaned, or they’ll get infected.”

Lucius watched you closely, his gaze flickering between your face and the careful movements of your hands. “You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, though his tone lacked conviction.

“And you shouldn’t be fighting for their entertainment,” you shot back, your eyes narrowing. “But here we are.”

He let out a dry chuckle, though it quickly turned into a wince. “You’ve grown sharper since we last saw each other.”

“You left me no choice,” you replied, dabbing at a particularly deep cut. “I had to learn how to survive without you.”

The room fell silent for a moment, save for the sound of water dripping back into the bowl. Lucius finally spoke, his voice quieter this time. “You know it wasn’t my choice.”

You paused, your hands stilling as his words sank in. “You never tried to come back.”

“I would be dead.” he admitted, his jaw tightening.

You shook your head, resuming your work. “But you are not.”

His hand reached up, catching yours and stilling your movements. “But what about you?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion. “What have they done to you?”

You hesitated, the question cutting deeper than any blade. “It doesn’t matter,” you said finally, avoiding his gaze. “What matters is getting you out of here.”

Lucius’s grip on your hand tightened. “And how do you plan to do that? These people… they don’t let anyone go, not without a price.”

“Then I’ll pay it,” you said, meeting his eyes with determination. “Whatever it takes, I’ll free you, Lucius.”

He stared at you for a long moment, “You’ve always been stubborn,” he said with a small, bittersweet smile.

“And you’ve always underestimated me,” you replied, dabbing at his wounds one last time.

Lucius's gaze softened as he watched you work, the rough edges of his hardened exterior beginning to crack just slightly. There was something in the way you spoke, the quiet determination in your voice that made him believe, if only for a fleeting moment, that maybe, just maybe, you could change the outcome of his life.

+++++++++

The trip back to the villa was a blur, your mind heavy with the thoughts of Lucius, and the promise you had made to him. As you arrived at the villa, the sight of the grand stone walls did little to ease the tension in your chest. You couldn’t stay in that cell forever, and you knew there would be consequences for what you’d just done.

Inside, the quiet stillness of the villa seemed to press in on you. You didn’t want to face Acacius, not after everything. Not after what had just happened with Lucius, with the way he had looked at you and spoken to you, reminding you of the bond you shared, the family that had once been torn apart.

But you didn’t have a choice.

Acacius was waiting for you in the courtyard, his broad figure standing against the fading light of day, the tension in his posture unmistakable. His eyes, dark and intense, followed you as you walked toward him. You could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical presence.

“You’re late,” he said, his voice edged with something sharp, something that wasn’t just concern. It was frustration. Maybe anger. You didn’t know anymore.

“I’m not here to discuss time, Acacius,” you replied, your voice cooler than you intended, but the fight in your chest was growing.

He stepped forward, his expression tightening. “Where were you?”

“Out, taking a walk,” you said bluntly, not willing to sugarcoat it.

Acacius’s eyes flashed with anger, and before you could even process it, his hand shot out, grabbing your arm with an intensity that caught you off guard. “Where?” he asked, his voice low but simmering with rage. “What were you thinking?”

You yanked your arm back, glaring at him. “What does it matter to you?” The words escaped before you could stop them, frustration bubbling over. “You were busy with my mother, right?”

Acacius’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening at your words. His hand dropped from your arm, but the tension between you both was thick. "That's not the point," he said, his voice colder now. "The point is, you didn't come to me. You didn't think to tell me where you were going, what you were doing. Do you have any idea how dangerous it is for you to go off on your own, especially with everything going on? After what Geta did to you?"

His anger was palpable, but so was the hurt. You could see it in the way his fists clenched at his sides, the way he stared at you as if you were slipping away from him, slipping away from the bond you shared. It was clear to him that there was something more, something deeper happening, and he didn’t know how to reach you in this moment.

He stepped closer, his breath coming quicker now, trying to seem calm, maybe even desperate, hidden behind the harshness of his words. "I care because I love you," he said, his voice low, almost broken. "Even when I’m angry.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, the raw honesty of his words piercing through the fog of anger that had clouded your mind. You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come.

"I don't need your love, Acacius," you said finally, the words slipping out more bitter than you intended, making up a lie you didn’t believe “Your love made me weak, Acacius.”

Acacius froze, his face going pale as your words cut through him like a dagger. The air between you both seemed to freeze, his body stiffening as if the words had physically wounded him. For a long moment, neither of your spoke, the only sound in the room was the heavy, labored breathing from both of you.

His voice trembled when he spoke again. "You think I made you weak?" He took a slow step toward you, his eyes searching yours with disbelief and pain. "You think my love for you made you weak?"

You tried to steady your breath, but it caught in your throat. Your heart twisted painfully as you met his gaze, seeing the hurt in his eyes, the raw emotion that mirrored your own. But you held firm, even as your chest tightened with regret.

"Yes," you said, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to remain cold. "I had to rely on it. On you. And now..." You couldn’t finish your sentence, the words getting stuck. The truth you refused to admit was suffocating you.

Acacius didn’t move. His face was unreadable, but his eyes, those soft brown eyes that had once looked at you with so much tenderness were broken.

The moment you saw the tears fall from his eyes, something inside you shattered. The wall you had so carefully built around your heart crumbled, and you felt the weight of everything you’d been holding in, your fears, your anger, your pain, all come rushing to the surface. You had hurt him, and the sight of his vulnerability, of the pain in his eyes, made you feel like you were drowning.

"I didn’t mean it," you whispered, your voice breaking as the truth tumbled out of you. "It’s a lie... I’m sorry, Acacius. I didn’t mean it."

Before you even realized what you were doing, you stepped toward him, closing the distance between you, and kissed him. Your lips crashed against his with an urgency you couldn’t contain, as if trying to take back all the hurt, all the mistakes, in one breath. The kiss was desperate, frantic, and full of apologies you didn’t know how to say.

He couldn’t hold back, he kissed you back, his arms pulling you closer, his hands sliding into your hair. His kiss was full of relief, as if he had been waiting for this moment for far too long.

You broke the kiss reluctantly, your forehead resting against his as you tried to catch your breath. "I’m sorry," you repeated, your voice barely a whisper. "I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t know how to... how to deal with my jealousy.”

Acacius cupped your face, his eyes searching yours as if looking for the truth in them. "I love you. Only you." he said softly. "

“Show me.” You pleaded, “Show me how much you love me, Acacius.”

His hands were gentle, but there was an urgency in his touch that matched the racing of your heart. Acacius pulled you closer, his lips finding yours again, this time with a fiercer intensity, as if he couldn't get enough of you. The way he held you made everything else in the world fade away.

You circled your legs around his waist instinctively, feeling the warmth of his body press against yours. His arms were around you, steady and strong, and for a moment, it felt as though the weight of the world had lifted. There was no war, no political schemes, no uncertainty, only the two of you, caught in a moment of raw, vulnerable truth.

Acacius broke the kiss just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours. "You have me," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "In every way. I always have."

You could feel his heart pounding, matching the beat of your own. He held you tighter, his lips trailing down your neck, his hands roaming to places that made your breath hitch in your chest. "Show me," you whispered again, more desperately now, wanting to feel every piece of him, to bridge the gap between the broken parts of you both.

++++++++++++

The next morning, a summons arrived from Emperor Geta, delivered by one of his trusted attendants. You knew you couldn’t avoid him forever, though a sense of foreboding settled deep in your chest. As you entered the emperor’s hall, you were greeted with the sight of an opulent feast laid out on a long table, the scents of roasted meats and sweetened wine filling the air.

Geta stood at the head of the table, his expression warm but calculating. “Ah, the princess of Rome,” he said with a smile, gesturing for you to join him. “Come, sit. Let us enjoy the morning together.”

You hesitated before stepping forward, your gaze flicking to the feast. “Do you do this for all your prisoners?” you asked, your tone laced with sarcasm.

Geta laughed, a rich sound that echoed through the hall. “For you? Always.”

You took your seat cautiously, your back straight and your hands folded in your lap. Despite the lavish setting, there was no mistaking the undercurrent of tension in the room.

“I’ve heard some interesting tales,” Geta began, leaning back in his chair and studying you. “Stories about my dear princess sneaking into the gladiators’ quarters. Healing slaves, no less.” His eyes glittered with amusement and something darker.

Your stomach tightened, but you met his gaze steadily. “I didn’t realize compassion was a crime,” you said evenly.

Geta chuckled, pouring himself a goblet of wine. “Compassion? Is that what you call it?” He leaned forward, his voice dropping. “Tell me, what’s going on? Why risk yourself for men who are nothing more than property? What would General Acacius say if he knew his wife was spending her nights in such unsavory company?”

Your heart raced, but you kept your expression calm. “Acacius has no reason to doubt me,” you said carefully.

Geta swirled the wine in his goblet. “How noble. But I wonder... is there more to this than you’re letting on?”

You forced a small smile, even as your hands tightened in your lap. “What could there possibly be, Emperor? I am simply doing what I can to ease the suffering of others.”

He watched you closely, as though searching for a crack in your armor. Finally, he leaned back with a sigh, his playful demeanor returning. “You are fascinating,” he said. “A woman of such fire and mystery. It is no wonder I love you.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, but you maintained your composure. “I am married to General Acacius,” you reminded him firmly.

“And yet here you are, sitting with me,” he said with a smirk.

You said nothing, unwilling to give him more power over you.

The feast continued in strained silence, and though Geta’s attention remained fixed on you, you managed to deflect his probing questions. By the time the meal ended, you felt as though you had just survived a battle of your own.

As you left the hall, your mind raced with thoughts of Lucius. You couldn’t let Geta or anyone else discover the truth about his identity.

As the feast continued, Emperor Geta leaned forward, his piercing gaze fixed on you as you took a sip of the wine he had poured. The drink was sweeter than you expected, with an almost metallic tang that lingered on your tongue.

You set the goblet down, a faint unease creeping over you. Your head felt oddly heavy, as though the air around you had thickened. Still, you forced yourself to maintain your composure, unwilling to show any weakness in front of him.

“You seem quiet,” Geta remarked, his voice smooth and casual, but his eyes glimmered with something far more dangerous. “Is the wine not to your liking?”

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. “It’s... fine,” you managed, though your voice sounded distant, even to yourself.

He smiled, leaning back in his chair as though satisfied. “Good. It’s a rare ancient. Fit for a princess such as yourself.”

A strange warmth spread through your limbs, dulling your senses. Your vision blurred slightly, the edges of the room softening. Alarm bells rang in your mind, but you pushed them aside, trying to focus on Geta’s voice as he continued to speak.

“I can see why Acacius is so fond of you,” he said, his tone almost mocking. “You have a way of captivating men, don’t you? Even ones who should know better.”

You clenched your hands beneath the table, willing yourself to stay upright. “If you have something to say, Emperor, say it,” you replied, though your voice wavered.

Geta’s smile widened, but there was no humor in it. “Oh, I’ve said enough. The rest... well, time will tell.”

A wave of nausea hit you suddenly, and you reached for the table to steady yourself. Geta’s expression didn’t change, but you caught the faintest flicker of satisfaction in his eyes.

“Perhaps the wine was too strong for you,” he said, feigning concern. “You should rest. Shall I have someone escort you back to the villa?”

You shook your head, forcing yourself to stand despite the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm you. “No... I can manage.”

He rose as well, stepping closer to you. His hand brushed your arm, the touch cold despite the heat radiating from your skin. “Take care, my dear,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous.

You pulled away, your heart pounding as you stumbled toward the door. The room spun around you, and each step felt like a battle. By the time you reached the villa, your body was trembling, and your breath came in shallow gasps.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,”

Acacius whispered, his arms pulling you closer, cradling you against him.

“I’ve got you.”

+++++++++++

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writesvani · 4 months ago

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dear me | 07

lawyer! jeonjungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TRIGGER WARNINGS: passive aggression, sibling conflict, jealousy, unresolved romantic tension, emotional cheating implications, verbal conflict, guilt, crying, emotional vulnerability, judgmental behavior, family tension, awkward confrontations, protective sibling behavior, uncomfortable family dynamics, past relationship trauma

comment here for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter

wc: 6,5k // date: 18th of April

CHAPTER SEVEN — The Family Games: May the Pettiest Win; happy reading my gummies...

AN: hi there babies! so here she is, my baby. my fav dear me chapter so far. i reread it like 10 times because it was genuinely so funny to me. this had me giggling, kicking my feet, and also slightly fearing for everyone’s safety. anyways, the note goal for this one is 400 notes, because y'all reached 350 too soon and i cannot upload every 4 days i swear. i'm one mental breakdown and three espressos away from vanishing into thin air.

so yeah. reblog, like, comment and i'm dropping chap 8. pressure me. threaten me nicely. send digital hugs and chaotic energy.

also, we're meeting y/n's family! what do you think about them? who would you let adopt you and who would you block IRL? who’s your favorite dear me character so far? please do say, i'm nosy and need validation like a cat needs to knock things off a table.

“You told Y/n about us moving back?”

Jungkook’s voice cuts through the quiet hum of the TV. He takes a slow sip of his coffee, eyes trained on Nina. His tone is calm—too calm. The kind of calm that isn’t real. The kind that stretches thin and tightens just before it snaps.

He leans back, resting his elbows on the table, cocking his head slightly, like he's studying her.

Nina doesn’t flinch. She matches his energy with practiced ease, raising her green smoothie to her lips.

“Yeah,” she replies simply, “like days ago.”

She doesn’t look at him when she says it. Her gaze stays locked on the TV screen where a dramatic monologue from Grey’s Anatomy echoes faintly through the room. But she isn’t really watching. Just pretending.

Jungkook blinks once. Twice. “Why, though? I told you I didn’t tell her yet.”

“It must’ve slipped out, Kook,” Nina says with a small shrug, brushing imaginary lint off her pajama pants. “Don’t overthink everything.”

But her fingers grip the glass a little tighter. And he notices.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs, stepping closer to her with a softness that feels practiced—familiar.

His hand finds her shoulder, thumb brushing over the cotton of her shirt, before he dips down and presses a kiss to the side of her forehead.

“I just wanted to be the one to break the news,” he groans, dragging the words out like a kid sulking over spilled cereal.

Nina snorts, giving him a playful side-eye. “Don’t be a lil whiny baby.”

Still, her lips twitch into a smile. She doesn’t fight it. Can’t.

Jungkook grins at her reaction, pleased, and nuzzles into her neck. His warmth folds over her like a heavy blanket, grounding her in the comfort of routine.

Meredith Grey’s voice fills the room, talking about life and death and love and choices, and it blends into the background of the morning like white noise.

They don’t talk about you again.

They just sit. Side by side. Pretending it’s all simple. Pretending the little cracks in the routine don’t matter.

And after that—coffee drained, smoothies gone, hearts still humming—they leave for work. Like always.

As soon as Jungkook steps out of the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him, the breath he’d been holding finally escapes his lungs in one long, drawn-out sigh. It’s almost embarrassing how heavy it feels. Like it’s been sitting in his chest for days instead of minutes. He doesn’t even really know why he was holding it in. Maybe because he didn’t want to start a fight. Maybe because he didn’t want Nina to feel bad, or maybe—just maybe—because he’s tired of pretending things don’t sting when they do.

Because the truth is, he’s pissed. No use sugarcoating it. Nina shouldn’t have told you. It wasn’t hers to say. Not like that. Not through a random DM while he was asleep and she was wide awake, scrolling Instagram and replying to selfies. The conversation wasn’t supposed to happen that way. Not with emojis and half-truths and polite replies. It was supposed to come from him. A real talk. The kind you deserved. The kind he’d been avoiding.

But despite all that, he can’t bring himself to be truly mad at Nina. Not fully. Not when she didn’t mean any harm by it. Not when, in her own way, she was just trying to share something important with someone who used to matter to her, too. Because you did. You still do. To both of them. That’s the part that messes with him the most. She had every right to say something… and he had every chance to do it before her. But he didn’t. And now he’s left cleaning up a mess he made for himself.

By the time he slides into the driver’s seat, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel, his thoughts are a tangled mess. The sun is too bright, his head is too loud, and everything feels just slightly off. His phone connects to the Bluetooth system automatically, the screen flickering to life. Your name is right there. Sitting in his favorites. Familiar. Comforting. Complicated.

Without giving himself a second to hesitate, to back out, to make another excuse—he taps your name. He calls you.

“Heyyy,” you drawl out, voice muffled slightly like the phone’s wedged between your ear and shoulder. In the background, something clatters—probably a pan, possibly your soul. “What’s up?”

“Hey,” Jungkook says, a little smile tugging at his lips even though he’s stuck in traffic and deeply aware he hasn’t had enough coffee yet. “You at work?”

“No, I’m cooking a five-star meal for Gordon Ramsay in the middle of a battlefield. Yes, I’m at work. What about you?”

“Driving. Headed in now.”

“Dang, don’t die before that hearing you’ve got today,” you say, tone deadpan. “It’d be real awkward if my criminal defense attorney suddenly got yeeted off the highway and left me to rot in jail. Like, how selfish. I’d literally kill you myself again if you were my lawyer.”

He snorts. “Wow. I die and your first concern is you?”

“My concern is your client. Or possibly me if I ever need your services. You’re not special. It’s called survival of the fittest. I’m not made for prison, Jungkook. Do I look like I can win a fight over toilet paper?”

“That’s a horrifying image.”

“Exactly. Stay alive. For both our sakes.”

“You’re terrifying,” he mutters, grinning.

“And yet, you called me.”

“Well, I’m starting to regret that right now,” he smirks into the phone, shifting gears with a lazy hand.

“Oh no. No no no,” you gasp dramatically, like a soap opera star. “You just broke my heart.”

“Did I?” he teases, clearly enjoying himself.

“Yeah,” you say, voice tight with fake emotion. “Like—I’m literally seasoning the duck I’m making with tears. This is heartbreak cuisine. Ms. Kim’s about to eat sorrow on a plate.”

Jungkook laughs. “Tell her it’s my fault. Maybe she’ll take pity on you and finally give you Fridays off.”

“Unlikely. She feeds off human misery. Yours especially.”

“Good. I’m glad someone appreciates me.”

“Oh, I’m sure she’d love to appreciate you if she got to meet you,” you sing-song into the phone, already picturing the way Ms. Kim would size Jungkook up like a five-star meal.

Jungkook makes a noise of confusion. “Isn’t she like... fifty years old? If I remember correctly.”

“Yeah, so?” you laugh, setting down a pan. “The woman likes chicken. Likes ‘em a little younger. Possibly taken. She says she’s kinky like that.”

He groans, dramatic as ever. “How do you know all of this?”

“She’s fifty, lonely, and loves to overshare while I’m chopping carrots. I’m basically her therapist.”

“Damn. Does she have a husband? Or kids?”

“She’s divorced,” you sigh, opening the fridge with your elbow. “But I think she really loved her husband.”

“What happened?”

“He cheated. With a 25-year-old model.”

Jungkook goes silent for a beat. “What the fuck?”

“I know, right? Rich people are weirdos. They collect luxury pens and ruin marriages for fun,” you say, voice light. “She has two kids though. A son and a daughter. But they live in different states.”

“Bet they don’t even call.”

“They do call,” you say, “they visit too. It’s just that she needs someone to share her sex fantasies with 24/7, and unfortunately, that someone is me.”

“You don’t sound like you’re complaining too much.”

“Let’s not mention this ever again,” you mumble, your voice softening, “but I do kinda… have a soft spot for her. She practically raised me since I was nineteen. I’ve been working for her for years already.”

Jungkook swallows hard, one hand tightening around the wheel. He’s quiet for a second.

Because yeah—he might have watched you grow from a little kid into a teenager, seen your life unfold in chapters. But Ms. Kim? She watched you step into your adulthood. Into yourself. She saw the version of you he never fully got to meet.

And it stings, just a little.

He’s kind of jealous of her—for being there, for seeing it. For getting that privilege. But it’s the good kind of jealousy, the kind that makes his chest warm and heavy all at once.

“You really love that woman, huh?” Jungkook teases, his voice all light and teasing.

“Ugh, don’t put it like that,” you groan, even as a laugh slips out of you. But Jungkook is already full-on cackling on the other end.

Yeah, okay—you do kinda love her. Scratch that, you absolutely love her. Almost like a second mom. But that doesn’t mean he needs to say it out loud like that. Makes your cheeks burn. You’re not the kind of person to throw the L word around so easily. At least not about your boss.

“So,” you say, shifting the conversation before your heart has the chance to betray you, “When are you guys coming back exactly?”

“We’re packing right now,” he says, a bit of excitement in his voice. “We’ll officially be back in three weeks.”

“Dang, can’t believe you didn’t tell me earlier,” you say, lighthearted. You're joking—he knows that. But there’s a thread woven into your tone, something quiet and just a little heavy. And Jungkook feels it. Hears it. But he doesn’t dare tug on it.

“Yeah, well, like I said last time, I was just waiting for everything to settle. For plans to work out just like I wanted. Sorry you had to hear it from Nina,” he mumbles, a bit sheepish now.

“Don’t apologize, Kook,” you rush to say, too quickly. “I’m glad I know about it. Doesn’t matter who told me.”

But it does. And you both know it.

“I feel so bad now,” Jungkook groans, dragging the words out like he wants you to pity him.

You snort. “Well, as you should, bestie. Clearly Nina loves me more than you do. She tells me everything.”

“Oh, we’re keeping score now?” he asks, dramatic disbelief in his voice. “Didn’t know I was in a polyamorous triangle where I’m losing to my own girlfriend for the affection of my best friend.”

“Fiancée,” you correct, too quickly.

“Huh?”

“You said girlfriend,” you hum, a little too amused. “She’s your fiancée, remember? Ring on the finger, lifetime commitment, all that jazz.”

“Right, right—fuck,” he mutters, and there’s a pause. “Still new to this engaged life.”

You don’t say anything, but the silence is heavy. Almost mocking. Like you’re both pretending that stumble didn’t feel like more than a slip. Like it didn’t hit some nerve you’ve been keeping buried since the day Nina showed you that engagement video.

“Damn dude, don’t sound that excited,” you tease, mocking his tone, “you’re gonna make me wish I could find a guy and get married just to outdo your enthusiasm.”

“Ugh, I am excited,” he groans, but it’s more of a sigh than anything else. “It’s just… different. One moment you’re dating someone and the next, you’re planning a whole future life together. Like—boom. Mortgages. Guest lists. Forever.”

There’s a beat before your voice comes in, softer now, cautious. “Kook…” You say his name like it’s sacred. “Are you second-guessing your decision?”

“No! No, I’m not,” he rushes to say, a little too quickly. “It’s not that. It’s just… I feel like we all grew up too fast. Like one day we were joking about skipping class and now we’re—” he pauses, like the words are caught in his throat, “—we’re here. All serious and shit.”

You take a deep breath. “Yeah, well… we couldn’t stay kids forever.”

“I know.” His voice is quiet now, almost a whisper. “I wish we could, though.”

“Don’t dwell on it too much,” you say in your best therapist voice. “Everyone’s bound to grow up. Look at all of us.”

“What do you mean?” Jungkook asks, suspicious.

“I mean… we’re, like, accidentally functioning adults with actual jobs. You’re a big-shot lawyer who probably says ‘objection’ in your sleep, Nina is out there cutting people open for a living like it’s casual, Yoongi publishes books and complains like it’s a full-time personality trait, and I—” you dramatically pause, “make meals for a rich lady in a midlife crisis who pays me like I’m coding the fucking Matrix.”

“Mhm. We’re definitely thriving,” Jungkook says, deadpan.

“And you and Nina? You’ve basically unlocked the ‘I have my life together’ achievement. Career, love, future wedding registry at IKEA or whatever. Meanwhile, I have a graveyard of failed situationships and dudes who think foreplay is vaguely tapping my knee.”

Jungkook wheezes. “Not the ghost of horny idiots past.”

“Oh yeah. I’ve become a certified sex coach by force. Call me Sensei of the G-spot. Or even a teacher of love."

“Jesus—why does that sound like the title of a cursed, low-budget porn?”

“Because it is, and I starred in it emotionally. And let me tell you—this one guy, Taehyung? If bad decisions were Olympic sports, I’d be bringing home the gold. But he could’ve made solid amateur content. 4K, no cap.”

“I’m actually begging you to stop,” Jungkook laughs. “My brain is trying to leave my body.”

“Too late. The images are already in there. Let them haunt you.”

“So that guy,” Jungkook adds, voice laced with something just slightly too casual, “Taehyung… Were you serious with him or what? Is he the one Nina mentioned?”

“God, no,” you snort. “Taehyung and I were strictly ‘I’m bored, let’s ruin our lives a little’ energy. We still hook up occasionally,” you add with a giggle, the clinking of dishes behind you making it sound even more nonchalant. “The guy Nina meant was Chris. I mean is Chris—man’s still breathing, unfortunately.”

Jungkook hums, trying not to sound too intrigued. “What happened with you and, uh, Chris?”

“Our relationship turned into an instruction manual—confusing, repetitive, and missing emotional screws,” you deadpan. “I mean, I love routines. I love brushing my teeth at the same time every day, watching trash TV on Tuesdays, organizing my spice rack alphabetically. But a routine in a romantic relationship? Bleh.”

He chuckles. “So, what, you just mutually… dipped?”

“We fell out of love. I’ve said it before, but yeah. It was like watching a candle slowly die but you’re too lazy to blow it out. But we’re mature adults now,” you add mockingly, “We wave when we see each other. Very civilized. Very grown-up. Sometimes I even pretend I don’t want to shove him into traffic.”

“Ah, true love’s final form.”

“And Taehyung?” Jungkook asks, trying not to sound too curious.

“UGH,” you groan dramatically, “it feels so weird talking to you about my sex life.”

And yeah, Jungkook feels it too. It is kind of weird. You guys only recently started talking again—like really talking—and now you’re casually breaking into the “so here’s who’s making me see stars” category of conversation. It’s awkward. But like… the good kind. The kind that cracks the ice instead of making you want to drown under it.

“But anyway,” you go on with a sigh, “he’s the only guy I can safely say knows how to do me good. Like, freak level: matched. Energy: dangerous. Results: mind-blowing.”

Jungkook coughs, nearly choking on air.

“Relax,” you laugh, clearly enjoying his discomfort. “I see him sometimes. Mostly during the weekends. Like, Friday nights are for insane sex, Saturday mornings are for pancakes. We keep it simple.”

“Wow,” Jungkook mutters, eyebrows raised as he stares at the road. “I didn’t know you scheduled your hookups like dentist appointments.”

“Kook, I’m organized,” you shoot back. “Just because I’m getting railed doesn’t mean I don’t believe in time management.”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “I forgot how unfiltered you are.”

“Oh please,” you snort. “I was always like this. You just forgot because you became all lawyery and respectable or whatever. Mr. Courtroom with a fiancée and matching mugs.”

“Excuse you,” he gasps. “Those mugs were a gift. And I am still plenty fun. I’m fun as hell.”

“You’re fun like… brunch with your mom fun.”

“Wow,” he says, mock-offended. “That’s low. Take it back.”

“Okay, okay,” you laugh, “you’re more like tequila number three and bad decisions’ kind of fun. Happy?”

“Much better,” he says. “Though, I’m still stuck on the fact that you’ve got a certified weekend dick schedule. Like—is there a Google Calendar involved?”

You hum thoughtfully. “No, but there is a color-coded notes app. Taehyung’s under red. Red means danger.”

“Red means dick apparently.”

You snort, almost dropping the phone. “Do you want me to start naming the colors or should I save you from a stroke?”

“Oh my god, please don’t. I already know too much. Red is Taehyung, green is probably some yoga instructor who reads your aura while hitting it from the back—”

“Just because I’m getting railed by Taehyung doesn’t mean I can’t have some visual stimulation somewhere else,” you say casually, and Jungkook nearly chokes on his own breath.

“I—wait, what?”

You laugh, the sound way too smug. “Lucas, the guy from yoga? I’m not hooking up with him. I just like to watch. Like, respectfully. From downward dog.”

Jungkook groans. “Oh my god, you’re that person.”

“What person?”

“The ‘I go to yoga to spiritually connect with my body but also stare at the hot guy doing warrior pose’ person.”

You hum, unapologetic. “Exactly. He plays the flute after class. Sometimes shirtless. Who am I to disrespect the art?”

“I hate that I can literally see this man in my head. Like, did he step out of a fantasy novel? Does he braid herbs into his man bun?”

“He does, actually. Lavender. Once jasmine.”

Jungkook wheezes. “I swear to god, you’re collecting red flags like it’s a Pokémon game.”

“Oh, Lucas isn’t a red flag. He’s like… a green flag dipped in glitter. He doesn’t talk much. Probably doesn’t even know I exist.”

“Right, so you go to yoga, spiritually align your chakras, and ogle a flute-playing fairy man while pretending you’re invisible?”

You grin. “In short: yes.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

There’s a soft lull after that. Not awkward, just full of something unsaid. Something sitting between the jokes and the teasing.

So you change the subject before it gets too real.

“Anyway. Back to your love life, fiancé man. Tell me, do you and Nina also bond over herbal teas and chakra alignment?”

“Only if tequila counts as herbal tea.”

“Oh, you’re still fun. I take it back.”

“Sooo, is it spicy?” you ask, far too invested for your own good. You should be subtle. Keep it cool. Mysterious. Before you accidentally make it weird. But hey—he started it.

“We make love,” Jungkook says, all serious.

“Okay… and?” you press, already raising an eyebrow.

“What do you mean, and?”

“You make love—and what else? C’mon, give me something. A little spice. A sprinkle of freak.”

“Not all sex needs dirty details,” he says, half-defensive. “Sometimes it’s just… needing each other. Worshiping each other.”

You pause, blink. “Okay, cool cool. So you choke her and spank her at the same time.”

Jungkook chokes on air. “You said that, not me.”

“Damn,” you grin. “Didn’t know Mr. Worship-The-Queen had it in him.”

“Stop.”

“You stop. You’re the one who brought up the emotional part, I’m just trying to balance the chakras.”

He groans. “I should’ve just said missionary and moved on.”

“Missionary with eye contact?”

“Goodbye.”

“You didn’t deny it though!” you shout through laughter. “Jungkook, do you whisper poetry during sex? Tell me you at least moan her name like a dramatic movie scene.”

“Literally why are you like this?” he laughs, and yet… he doesn’t hang up.

“Sooo, missionary with eye contact, huh?” you tease, words laced with just the right amount of smug. You can’t help it. You do tease. And thank god this is a phone call, because if Jungkook could see your face right now? Disaster. You’re not cool. Your cheeks are heating up, your mind just shoved a not-so-holy image of him doing… that—and yeah, you’re definitely spiraling.

Your brain: please do not go there.

Your hormones: too late.

“Ugh, you’re at it again…” he groans, but there’s no heat behind it. “But yeah, I like eye contact. I like the intimacy during sex. Is it so bad a man prefers sex with feelings instead of cold, empty thrusting?” You can practically hear the eye roll.

“Hey, no shame in that,” you say, clearing your throat way too loudly. “Who doesn’t like a little romance with their raunch?”

“Do you?” he asks suddenly.

Weird question. Like… really weird. Why are you even having this conversation? He’s in traffic, you’re at work. And yet… here you are. Having this talk, of all things.

“I mean, yeah,” you reply, trying to sound casual, as if your entire nervous system isn’t short-circuiting. “If I have feelings for the person, absolutely. If I don’t… I enjoy a little emotionless, hardcore chaos on the side.”

“As you already mentioned,” he says, dry as hell.

You snort. “Listen, I’m just being honest. Emotional sex is great. But sometimes you just want to get absolutely wrecked by someone you’ll never text again.”

“…Are you okay?”

“Emotionally? No. Physically? Always.”

“I hate how much that makes sense.”

“You love it. Admit it.”

He sighs. “You’re lucky I’m not swerving into traffic right now.”

“Kook?” you say, your voice a little softer now.

“Yeah?” he replies, equally soft.

“I think Ms. Kim’s back. I hear her keys jingling like she’s trying to unlock a safe full of state secrets.”

He chuckles. “You gotta go play personal chef slash therapist slash accidental sex confidante?”

You groan. “Unfortunately, yes. The woman probably has a fresh batch of trauma and a craving for duck.”

“Well, bon appétit to both of you.”

You snort. “You’re insane.”

“Okay teacher of love, we’ll talk later?”

“Of course. Try not to crash the car thinking about missionary with eye contact.”

“Please—my therapist says I need fewer intrusive thoughts, not more.”

“Then stop calling me while you drive, dumbass.”

“Touché.”

You hang up smiling like an idiot.

The next three weeks pass in the blink of an eye.

Jungkook and Nina are officially back in Cape May, and to celebrate both love and their return to the city, the Jeons decide to host a get-together dinner. A cozy, intimate thing. Just the people who matter.

They’ve both transferred their jobs too—same careers, different zip codes. It’s a homecoming in more ways than one.

The guest list is lined up with the closest circle: the Jeons, naturally (minus Mr. Jeon, who was thankfully disowned when Jungkook’s parents divorced—no one’s mad about that), Yoongi and Nina’s parents, and your family. That includes your mom, dad, two sisters, and your brother—yes, the whole crew.

When you step through the doors of the Jeon residence, you’re instantly hit with warmth—figuratively and literally. The first people you see are Jungkook’s mom and his brother.

Jungkook’s mom wastes no time. She engulfs you in a hug that could probably fix global warming, ruffles your hair like you’re still ten, and says, “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, I swear to God.” You laugh, cheeks burning, and mutter something that sounds like a thank you but could also be interpreted as a dying bird sound.

Off to the side, you spot your younger brother dapping up Jungkook’s brother like they haven’t missed a beat. It makes you smile—generational friendships like that don’t come easy.

Then comes Yoongi and Nina’s mom, and she practically bolts toward you like you’re a soldier coming home from war. She’s all over you—kisses, pinches, emotional declarations.

You side-eye the rest of the room for help, but everyone’s too busy exchanging hellos and catching up. The whole vibe is wholesome. Loud. Slightly crazy. The good kind.

“Mom, don’t strangle her,” Yoongi mutters, visibly embarrassed.

“I love her too much to kill her,” she replies dramatically, clutching her chest like a telenovela star.

“Let her say hello to the rest of us!” Yoongi calls out from behind his mom, looking mildly horrified as she squeezes you like a favorite plushie. You’re halfway convinced you heard your spine pop.

“Fine,” she huffs, releasing you with the flair of a comedy character. “But only because I need a drink. Loving people is exhausting.”

You stumble your way into Yoongi’s arms, and he kisses your cheek with a long-suffering sigh. “Thank God you’re here,” he murmurs, eyes darting around like he’s being hunted. “The moms already asked me when I’m getting married. Twice.”

“Great,” you deadpan. “So I’m next in line for interrogation.”

“Yup. You’re my human shield now. I owe you big time.”

Then Nina swoops in with her usual sunshine energy. “Oh my god, look at you matching with your siblings. Did you plan that? That’s so aesthetic of you!”

“No, no—it was totally an accident—”

“Mm, sure,” she sings, clearly enjoying this. “It’s giving family portrait realness. I approve.”

And then he’s there.

Jungkook.

Jeon Freaking Jungkook in a crisp button-down and that soft smirk that’s always two seconds away from a joke or a disaster.

He leans in and kisses your cheek. No hug. No extra second. Just a quick “hello” kiss, like you didn’t once teach him how to do laundry without shrinking his sweaters.

“Wow,” you say, smiling. “So formal.”

“I’m a changed man,” he replies smoothly. “One kiss per childhood friend. No refunds.”

You raise a brow. “Guess I’ll bill you for emotional damage later.”

“Add it to my tab.”

It’s funny. It's casual. It's the kind of greeting that says we've known each other forever—but also maybe we don’t know each other like we used to.

And all around you, chaos reigns—Nina’s dad is already halfway into a wine rant about sulfites, your little brother is plotting world domination with Jungkook’s brother over the grill, and Yoongi’s mom is trying to sneak you another hug like a ninja in heels.

It’s loud. It’s family.

And it feels like home.

You’re deep in conversation with Yoongi and your little sisters, Vicky and Leah, when Nina and Jungkook approach. Nina’s sipping something fizzy, her smile looking real enough—until you notice how tightly she’s gripping the glass. Jungkook looks like he’s walking into a landmine.

“Look at the happy couple,” Vicky chirps, her voice sugary sweet and fake as hell. Her smile could kill a man.

“Hey, little ones,” Jungkook greets, aiming a warm smile at both your sisters.

Leah beams. “Hi, Jungkook!”

Vicky just raises a brow and crosses her arms. “So,” she starts, eyes never leaving his, “you and my sister are suddenly friends again, huh?”

Jungkook stiffens. “Yeah. We’re… reconnecting.”

“Girl, why?” Vicky asks, snapping her gaze to you. “Did we forget how fast he dropped you like a bad habit when he got boo’d up?”

“Vicky,” Leah whispers, panicked.

“What? I’m being real. That’s more than most people here can say.” Vicky waves her hand vaguely in Nina’s direction. “Yoongi agrees with me.”

Yoongi backs away like she just lit a match. “I’m Switzerland.”

Nina finally chimes in, trying for calm. “With all due respect, I wasn’t the reason they stopped talking—”

“With all due respect,” Vicky cuts her off, mimicking her voice in an exaggerated, high-pitched tone, “I don’t remember asking for a single syllable of your input.”

You close your eyes. Jungkook coughs awkwardly.

“Look,” Nina says, surprisingly still composed, “I get that you’re protective. I really do. But you weren’t there. You don’t know what happened.”

Vicky scoffs. “You’re right—I wasn’t there. But you know what I was? A witness to my sister crying over a dude who forgot how phones work. And then you, magically glued to his side the whole time, never once told her anything.”

“It wasn’t my place—”

“Oh please,” Vicky rolls her eyes. “You think being someone’s girlfriend, soon to be wife—whatever gives you immunity? News flash, Nina: girlfriends don’t erase friendships. People do that themselves.”

Now Nina’s smile is gone.

“You don’t know everything, Vicky.”

“And yet I know enough to know that the math ain’t mathing. If it smells like betrayal and walks like betrayal—guess what?”

“Vicky,” you mutter.

“What? I’m the drama? At least I’m honest drama.”

Yoongi claps slowly. “God, I missed this.”

“Shut up, Yoongi,” you and Vicky say in unison.

“Wow,” Jungkook mumbles under his breath, “this reunion is going great.”

“This reunion was going great until you and Miss Perfect decided to crash the vibe,” Vicky hisses, eyes locked on Jungkook.

“Why do you hate me so fucking much?” Jungkook shoots back. “Y/n and I already talked. We’re good.”

“I don’t care about your little heart-to-heart,” Vicky snaps. “You know what? Let’s ask Yoongi. Because despite what he says, he is not Switzerland.”

All eyes turn to Yoongi.

He exhales like someone just asked him to defuse a bomb. “Look… I honestly think both of you were at fault for the fallout. And maybe… maybe it should’ve stayed like that.”

Nina blinks. “Wait, are you not going to defend me?”

“I’m not picking sides,” Yoongi says, calm but blunt. “And, yeah, Jungkook and Y/n did drift when you two got together.”

“Exactly!” Vicky nearly cheers, but Yoongi holds up a hand.

“But,” he adds firmly, “that happens. People naturally spend more time with their partners when they’re in a relationship. That doesn’t make anyone evil.”

“Yeah, but it’s still partly Nina’s fault,” Vicky presses.

“No, it isn’t,” Yoongi’s jaw tenses as he steps forward slightly, eyes sharp now. “You don’t get to throw blame at my sister and expect me to nod along. She didn’t pull some villain move. The distance? It was on both of them.” He points, first at Jungkook, then at you.

There’s silence.

Thick, awkward silence.

And right then, your parents approach the group, laughing about something they heard in the kitchen, oblivious to the nuclear vibes in the room.

Everyone quickly plasters on fake smiles.

But the tension hangs heavy, clinging to the air like smoke.

And the way Vicky glares at Jungkook and Nina as they walk off doesn’t go unnoticed. Not by you. Not by Yoongi.

And definitely not by Jungkook.

Leah tries not to meddle in drama. She really does.

She’s always the one who sees the best in people—stays quiet during arguments, lets the storm pass while she remains the calm in the center of it all.

But when she walks into Jungkook’s brother’s room, just looking for her jacket, and finds Nina hunched over on the edge of the bed, silent tears streaking her face—something in Leah cracks.

“Hey,” she says softly, freezes mid-step.

Nina straightens, quickly wiping her face with the sleeve of her sweater. “Hey,” she lets out with a shaky laugh. “Caught me in my Oscars audition.”

Leah walks closer, slow and deliberate, as if afraid to startle her. She sits down beside Nina gently, their knees barely touching.

“Are you okay?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Nina shrugs. “Do you hate me?” Her voice is small. Fragile. Almost childlike.

“What? No,” Leah says quickly, hand already rubbing soothing circles across Nina’s back. “Of course not.”

Nina gives a bitter smile, still looking at the floor. “Vicky thinks I’m some kind of devil sent to destroy lifelong friendships… and I just—I don’t get it. You girls used to like me. When you were kids, I was like the cool older friend. What changed?”

Leah doesn’t answer right away. She threads their fingers together and gives Nina’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“Vicky is just… Vicky,” she finally says. “She’s always been too protective. She doesn’t know how to admit when we mess up. It’s easier for her to blame someone else, especially someone outside the family.”

Nina stays quiet.

Leah exhales, continuing softly, “But trust me—none of us actually blame you. Not really. Not even Vicky. She acts like it, yeah, but deep down? She knows the truth. She knows what happened between you and Jungkook and Y/n… it’s just life. Sometimes things fall apart. No villains. Just… timing and feelings and miscommunication.”

Nina nods, her eyes brimming again.

“You inspired me, you know?” Leah says. “I chose medicine because of you. You made me want to be smart like you.”

Nina lets out a wet chuckle, blinking fast. “I’m sorry I made things weird,” she murmurs.

“You didn’t,” Leah says simply. “You just fell in love with him.”

Meanwhile, in the living room, Vicky is livid.

You're sitting between your mom and Jungkook, laughing at something he just said—some stupid inside joke from middle school, probably—and she’s watching the scene like it’s a horror movie she can’t look away from.

She swears your eyes are sparkling.

She’s had enough.

With the speed and precision of someone on a mission, Vicky swoops in, plopping down on the couch beside you like a warning shot.

“Stop laughing at his jokes,” she hisses into your ear, her tone low but sharp. “You look like you’re giving him heart eyes.”

You blink, caught completely off guard. “What the hell is wrong with you?” you hiss back, cheeks flushing.

“Me? Nothing. You? You damn well know.” Her voice is still a whisper, but the intensity behind it is blaring.

You gulp.

She’s talking about that night. Years ago.

The one where you were a little too drunk and a little too sad, and in a moment of weakness, you let it slip—how in love you used to be with Jungkook. How part of you never really got over it.

And now Vicky, with her elephant memory and protective little sister instincts, is here to make sure history doesn’t repeat itself—or worse, that you don’t humiliate yourself again.

You open your mouth, ready to retort, to tell her to back off, that you’re fine, that it’s been years—but your mom’s voice shakes the room.

“Vicky! Let’s go and help Mrs. Jeon in the kitchen!”

Vicky rises like a soldier summoned by duty, but not before turning back to you and sending a look—a very loud don’t-do-anything-stupid look.

Then both of them are gone, and you’re left sitting there with Jungkook again.

Alone.

And unfortunately for your sanity, he’s still grinning at you like he never broke your heart.

“I never really got the chance to apologize for Vicky’s little… performance earlier,” you say, scratching the back of your head, eyes flickering anywhere but him. “I’m really sorry, Kook. I’ll talk to Nina too. She didn’t deserve that.”

Jungkook shakes his head, a small, tired smile on his lips. “There’s no need to apologize. I get it—Vicky’s got her version of the story. And I know how she is.” He lets out a breath through his nose. “I just wish she didn’t hate me so much. She used to really look up to me.”

You nod slowly, the corner of your mouth pulling into a bittersweet smile. “Yeah… she really did. You were her role model back then. You were everyone’s favorite.”

He chuckles softly at that, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I think,” you continue gently, “when we stopped being close, it wasn’t just me who lost you. She lost you too. And for her, that felt like betrayal—like abandonment.” You glance up at him. “She doesn’t know how to grieve things quietly. So she gets loud instead.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I never thought about it like that.”

“Well… you were her hero,” you say with a small laugh. “Still might be. Deep, deep down under the layers of rage and sarcasm.”

That earns you a real smile from him—soft, sad, but real.

“You really think so?”

“I know so,” you say, meeting his gaze. “She doesn’t waste that much energy hating someone unless she loved them first.”

“Hmmm, I’ll keep that in mind,” he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Who knows, maybe she’ll stop hating me one day.”

“Whew, hold up, soldier,” you smirk, elbow nudging his arm gently. “Let’s not get too ambitious. Baby steps.”

He lets out a real laugh, low and familiar. It rolls out of him so easily, it makes something settle in your chest. The tension thins. The air between you shifts back into something softer. Normal. Familiar.

“So…” he leans into the couch cushions a bit more, his arm brushing yours for a second too long. “Are you excited I’m back?”

You glance at him, a smile playing on your lips. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “I am.”

He smiles at that. Like he was hoping you’d say it. He’s thinking about something—hesitating—his eyes flickering to your face and then away like he’s trying to piece something together in his head.

“Do you wanna, I don’t know… do something tomorrow? Just the two of us. Like before?”

You raise a brow. “What, like sneak into The House and get drunk listening to The Smiths in your mom’s basement again?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no. But I was thinking more Smiths and The House—less drinking. I start work the day after tomorrow, and I really don’t want to show up hungover.”

You bite back a smile, pretending to mull it over. “Okay, sure. Fine. Whatever you want, Mr. Responsible Adult.”

“Awesome.” His grin is soft. A little crooked.

Your eyes meet. And for a second, it’s calm. Not uncomfortable, not awkward. Just calm.

And in that quiet, something passes between you. Unspoken. Personal. A flicker of an old bond that never really went away.

The moment is soft, humming with something you can’t quite name. Like standing at the edge of a sentence that hasn't been spoken yet. Jungkook looks at you like he wants to say something—like he’s about to reach across the space between you, bridge the gap, touch you, hug you.

And then—

Plop.

Mrs. Min drops herself between the two of you on the couch like it’s musical chairs and she won. She lets out a delighted little laugh, already turning to you with a conspiratorial glint in her eye.

“So, sweetheart, when are you going to give my son a real chance?”

You blink. “What?”

She winks. “C’mon, you know what I’m saying.”

Your brows knit, confusion crawling all over your face as she leans in closer.

“You knowww,” she whispers, dramatically, as if you're filming a soap opera together, “Yoongi. You two would make the most adorable couple. Honestly? Way better than Jungkook and Nina—don’t tell Nina I said that.”

You burst into awkward laughter, trying to mask the what is even happening expression you’re wearing. “We’re just friends, Mrs. Min.”

She waves a hand like she’s brushing away nonsense. “Friends get married aaaaaall the time. It’s your time now. I'm telling you, the wedding would be so stylish.”

You scramble to change the subject—anything to steer away from the you + Yoongi fantasy Mrs. Min is clearly crafting like a Pinterest board in her head.

But as you turn slightly, eyes catching on Jungkook, something shifts.

His smile is gone.

Jaw set.

Fingers curled tightly around the glass in his hand, knuckles almost white. He’s looking at you, but the expression on his face—it’s not the same as before. It's guarded. Searching. Like there’s something behind his eyes that he doesn’t want you to see.

Like he knows something you don’t.

A truth he’s holding onto, too tightly.

And the look he gives you—it swallows you whole.

taglist: @lovingkoalaface @santiiagopopegarcia @jadaocon1 @asyr97 @gukieater @themwordsblog @whatevevrerr @amarawayne @tititania @guwol @reallygenerouskoala @bgfdcvbnjk @kyljjk @whoa-jo @taekritimin123 @minimoninini @upo1313 @polnaraffsrack @tatzzz-25 @orphicepiphany @coletaehyung @bjoriis @epiphany-n @kimyishin @eegyo @dearmyfavoritepeople-bts @parkinglot-nights @mar-lo-pap @evrsncenewyork @jjeonjjk7 @minghaosimp @cerulean1riz @anumita-2007 @vantelover1306 @vynmin @nadzzzblog @jnghs @lachimolalajeon @joonwater @choijay-07 @notsevenwithyou @mononoaware16 @sky-23s-world @auroresce @sadgirlroo @arcadiaem

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twohearts-hs · 3 months ago

Text

Dove & Captain: 3 - Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader Series

Words in Total: 9.2k

Pairings: Dr. Jack Abbot x fem!reader

Synopsis: She's his Dove. The ER nurse who is the definition of chaos, trauma and humour in scrubs. He's her Captain, gruff, emotionally guarded war veteran with a prosthetic leg and completely in love with her. Six years together, a mortgage, four dogs and the ability to conquer anything. This is a story of their life in one day. He is 49, she's 30. This is one day of their life based on the 15 episodes of 'The Pitt'. There will be little imagines of their relationship over the years.

Warnings: Swearing, Age Gap, Trauma, Medical Language/Procedure, Pregnancy, etc.

A/N: This is a complete series of ~60k. I will post a few snapshots of their relationship over the six+ years they've been together.

Hope you enjoy :)

Series Masterlist

1000

Y/N was standing at the board reading it when she sensed someone next to her. There was a deep glare, but she knew it was out of love.

“You love to stare at me, Dr. Robinavitch,” Y/N said casually. “Are you secretly in love with me or something?” she hummed with a smile as she glanced over.

Robby let out a light chuckle. “You know where I stand on my feelings,” he replied with a smirk.

She nodded slowly. “What did I do now that is making you glare at me like I spiked your coffee…which I didn’t, by the way.”

He chuckled. “You gave our rookie a TED Talk on emotional resilience,” Robby said, straight-faced. “And convinced him that writing letters to corpses is normal coping.”

Y/N raised a brow, staring at him. “It is very normal to use writing as a therapeutic tool to express, work through and understand your feelings, emotions and trauma,” she replied. “I can quote research.”

Robby shook his head. “You want to quote psychological research to me before 10 a.m. You’re dangerous. Is this foreplay?” he hummed.

Y/N chuckled. “Oh, Cowboy, if you want foreplay, I can whip in some astrophysics information in there too.”

He shook his head. “Sometimes your brain scares, and then I question why you’re a nurse and not some world leader,” he replied. “Why is Jack with you again?”

Y/N went back to look at the board. “Because I’m great at head,” she replied coldly.

Robby choked on his sip of coffee, spluttering. “Jesus Christ, Y/N.”

She didn’t even flinch, still studying the patient board as if she’d just commented on the weather. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, laughing under his breath. “You cannot say that in here.”

She turned to him with a perfectly straight face. “Why not? We’re health professionals. It’s all anatomy. If you can deal with rats in the ER, I bet you can deal with my sexual comments.”

Robby stared at her. “You are unhinged.”

“Possibly,” she said sweetly. “But you do absolutely love me. I ran your trauma code flawlessly this morning, stabilised several patients before I had my second cup of coffee and gave your rookie a breakdown and a life lesson in under fifteen minutes. It’s a great day and I’m on fire.”

He nodded. “You got to him, though. I was worried the kid had no game. Dana and I were making bets.”

“Making bets on the poor children? That’s traumatic for them. Unstable childhood can lead to a lot of mental disorders in the long term,” Y/N replied. “Don’t destroy the future of medicine.”

He chuckled. “He wants to write a letter to the patient’s family. Said you taught him that.”

Y/N raised her brow. “Jack taught me that. So, I relayed the information. He wants to give it to the family?” she asked, chuckling while shaking her head.

“Yup.”

“I said write it. Not send it. Jesus,” she muttered. “I need to be more specific to the kids.”

Robby chuckled. “This is what happens when you monologue at them.”

Y/N shrugged. “Wasn’t monologuing, rather using my psych degree I spent sixty thousand dollars on,” she replied. “Might as well use it for practical use.”

“This isn’t a first-year psych elective,” Robby replied.

“May not be a lecture hall, but psych is very relevant in medical practice. In fact, I have taught several psych classes while an undergrad,” Y/N said with a smile.

Robby chuckled. “Why aren’t you a psych nurse then? Could use both your degrees for practical use.”

Y/N looked over to him. “I prefer the company of gunshots, motor vehicle accidents and stabbings to stabilising someone who is hallucinating,” she replied coldly. “Wait, we do that too,” she whispered the last part. “I use my psych degree here all the time.” Then she smiled at him, wickedly and smugly.

“Well, Dr. Freud–“

“Boy, do not call me that,” Y/N replied. “Do you know a single Freud theory? Because yeah, the main ones are rational, but they get more and more fucked. I would say I am rational and not fucked,” Y/N said. “Now, stop flirting with me and let’s get back to work.” She turned to him and crossed her arms. “You’re very welcome for using therapeutic rapport with your rookie. He will always remember me as the one who listened and responded perfectly.”

He looked at her, leaning in. “Rumour has it we are sleeping together,” Robby whispered as she stared at him. “Kids are talking. They are putting two and two together after you dropped the whole ‘I’m with an attending’ fact.”

“Oh, I bet you love it. Always wanted me to see me naked. Let me tell you, it’s great. Never had complaints,” Y/N hummed, winking as she walked away.

“Jesus, Y/N,” Robby mumbled, shaking his head.

Y/N was in the hallway. She leaned against it as she took a breath. She had too many deaths already this morning. The kid with the OD, the older man with his kids who was on his last legs, Mr. Milton, and she had heard of so many more. Normally, she was not affected by this. Normally, she would shrug it off. Normally, she would just deal with it and lets it be another day.

But right now, her head hit the wall as she stood in the stairway, letting the tears come to her eyes. Pulling her phone out of her pocket for the first time this morning, she turned it on and saw some messages.

One, Jack. There were a few.

First one, “Home now. Granny got meds. Let all the dogs out again. Going to bed. Will text when up.”

Second, an image of the dogs on the bed before he crashed. All four of them on the King size bed. Granny taking most of the bed as she laid on Y/N’s side of the bed. Her snowy face that had seen so much fast asleep. She was deaf in one ear, stubborn, hates fireworks, rides shotgun like she won the car and her bond with Jack…well, that was sacred.

Next to her was Ranger at the end of the bed. A mutt who they believe was a lab, shepherd or even a cattle dog. He was six. They adopted him, a foster fail. He was from the streets locally. Loyal, obedient, always on patrol. But a sweetheart.

Delta was on top of Jack, teeth on display, but in a way of happiness. Just over one, but a little shit yet loved. Found starving near a trailhead on her own. Y/N’s college friend, who was in vet med, told her about her, and Jack came home after a shift to see the German Shepherd, husky mix in their house. Always in trouble, but the baby, they call her Hellspawn constantly.

Then there was Winston, a gift to herself when she graduated. She always imagined owning a dog, and she used the last of her student loans to buy him off a breeder up North. A long-wire-haired dachshund who just hit eight was sleeping against Granny. Best buds. A diva doesn’t like mud, would not walk in anything but shine. Wears bowties on holidays and is the only one that slept in the bed. Sometimes Alaska (Granny) would sneak in if her joints were aching but Jack had a serious “no dogs in bed” policy until they moved in. Therefore, seeing all the dogs in the bed brought a smile to her face.

Then he followed with another text, “I know you, Dove. Something is up. I know you will tell me soon, but please don’t dwell on this alone. I’m always here. When I wake, thinking of getting those steaks you like. Will grill them tonight, and we can pop a bottle of that fancy wine you bought a while ago. I’m in your corner. Also, I will buy more coffee. The good type and not that shit you like. Saw there was a new documentary released on Netflix. However, I’ll budge and rewatch Bridget Jones’ Diary for like the hundredth time. Or throw on Sex and the City, and I’ll listen to you bitch about how Big isn’t right for Carrie because then you’ll go on about how much he needs to be more like me. I think we are on season three…but you might’ve been watching it without me. Not mad, just disappointed due to your betrayal.”

Y/N stared at the screen, thumbs hovering over the keys. A smile graced her features, biting down on her bottom lip as she stared at the phone. He sent these messages around eight-fifteen. He wouldn’t be up around eleven-ish…max twelve-thirty. He’s a man who could run off of three hours of sleep, max five. Rarely sleeps ever, truly.

God, she loved him.

She wanted to grab him by the cheeks and kiss his lips and scream, “I’m pregnant!” but she had her whole day ahead. Her eyes welled up again, but this time it wasn’t because of the death, the codes, or the overwhelming morning. It was him. That voice in her life – calm, constant, hers. Somehow, even his texts felt like they had arms, wrapping around her, telling her to just breathe.

Six years of them together. Basically, nine years of knowing him because she spent her last practicum at the ER. Though no one counts that. However, she officially had been working there for eight years as a nurse. One year of being professional and one year dodging feelings until Robby and Dana locked them in a room and said, “Talk it out”. Y/N stole his heart through therapeutic rapport and active listening. Also, he couldn’t get over her knowledge, critical thinking and quick moves.

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her under armour for her scrub top. A cheetah print that blended well with the grey the nurses wore. She looked at the photo again, and tears came to her eyes. Their life was so perfect. So fucking perfect.

Granny with her snowy muzzle and claim over the entire bed, Delta looking like a rabid gremlin despite the grin. Ranger on perimeter duty, even in his sleep and Winston in his curled-up dignity like he’d found the house himself.

He’s the only one who isn’t fully potty trained…normal Dachshund behaviour. Drives Jack fucking insane.

Jack always expressed that their dogs were like a personality test. Between the four of them, they’d collected every part of the spectrum. Though Y/N would shut the conversation down by bringing him psychological facts and research would Jack would joke by saying, “Talk dirty to me.” Which would always bring a smile to Y/N’s lips, and she would relate research to him, which he would actively listen to and ask questions.

Soulmates. Truly were.

He’d be asleep still. He was a light sleeper, and anything would wake him up. Ex-military, indeed, but also a man of the house. He wanted to be on guard constantly…like Ranger.

“Captain,” she began to type out. “You’ve made my morning. You don’t know how much I needed this. It’s been a day already. Steak sounds amazing. Please, could you make that mushroom sauce? I’m craving like potatoes as well, you choose. But I need to get some form of vegetables in me…kale? I can send you my warm kale salad with a vinaigrette recipe. Of course, parm and bacon! Ugh, your cooking gives me mind orgasms just thinking about it. Looking forward to it, Captain. Give several kisses to the babies. But…can we talk about another? Serena sent me a link to a Pitbull named Dolly who needs a home. Rescued from a fighting ring, used for breeding. Lovely, friendly and great with kids. She needs a home. Also, kinda down for something new. Can we watch something serious? Kind of feel like either finally watching the new season of Peaky Blinders or finally starting that crime show we keep talking about – can’t remember the name. However, with the way this shift is going, I might have to throw on something funny. Always with love<3. PS. Robby is on my ass. Send help. But he does it with love. He’s annoying.”

Y/N went back to her phone. Opening another message.

“Ugh, why do you have to be so smart? Mom did pills when pregnant with both of us, but you turned out to be a genius and I’m the fool? Fucking tests made me an idiot,” she read from her brother, Beckett.

Y/N was thirty. Beckett was about to turn twenty. He was in university. He was her half-brother, and Jack, who makes way too much money was paying for his tuition and dorm.

Jack and Y/N never talked about salary. Though, they both kind of know through their bank statements. Jack makes way over 400k – closer to 500k, while Y/N makes just over 100k. According to research, the average salary for a couple in America was 146k. The two of them combined just make around 600k. They bought their house a year ago. Though they could’ve done it with cash, they didn’t. Just a small mortgage. It was due to the two of them being smart, responsible and very them. Some renovations, but not many. Four bedrooms, one made an office for Y/N’s art.

It was good. Comfortable. Enough.

Though Y/N stared at the message from her brother, sighing. “You’re not an idiot. You’re just tired and stressed. Uni is hard. SO hard. Don’t overthink, bet you did fabulous. Take a moment to breathe, drink some water, and eat some food. You’ve got this, Beck. Always here, and if you need somewhere to crash, let me know. Jack is making steak tonight. Love you to Mars. Just Mars. Because I do hate how much you don’t clean up after yourself and date terrible woman. Also, I saw a physics equation that hasn’t been calculated on the university forum yesterday, but I doubt you can solve it as you don’t remember my birthday.”

Beckett’s reply came almost instantly, probably because he was already doom-scrolling after the test on the bus. His quantum physics test was behind him. A man of intelligence like her – physics with a speciality in quantum, while doing a minor in math but debating psychology like his sister.

“OMFG, you’re rude. I always remember your birthday. Maybe not Jack’s but he’s old as fuck. Send me the equation, you bitch. Down for steak. I’ll bus to you unless you want to help the poor, broke college kid ;). Still to Mars, I know all the planets now. Love u to the next universe, whatever it’s called. HAHA didn’t do na astrology major so off the case. Can I crash? Maybe Jack will let me shoot cans in the yard tomorrow. Tell the dogs I say hi, especially Ranger. Kidnap him. I will.”

She smirked. “Fine to everything. Text Jack about can shooting. Ranger can’t go home with you. He needs his raw mix, his stimulation ball, his best friends and the acre to run on. Your dorm room won’t suffice. Have you talked to Mom this week?”

She smiled, then sent another text. “Beck, you and I are intelligent. But don’t compare us. You’re brilliant, so incredibly brilliant in your own messy way. I will let Jack know you’re cashing and eating.” She then screenshotted and sent the equation. Ranger would love to sleep with you tonight. He is mainly a floor boy, sometimes a bed boy, but if Beck is in town, he’s a hot water bottle double. Then she sent the photo that Jack sent of the dogs.

Closing her phone, she placed it back in her back pocket. She needed a moment to think once again. Therefore, closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. Her feet were heavy, her heart full but sore, and something about those dogs in bed with Jack just grounded her. Moments like this, she needed to hold onto with the world of chaos outside the stairwell.

Finally, she pushed off the wall and pulled her badge out, scanning back into the ER. Back to the trenches. Patients needed her. But her mind flickered back to what held her, the backyard at home, the garden, the little ceramic garden statues she bought from a thrift store that Jack despised, but refused to move and the patio light he swore he’d fix three weeks ago.

And dinner. She was excited for dinner.

However, she had to survive the shift. This whole twelve-hour shift, which she was a few hours in. For Jack. For herself. For Beckett and for that baby inside her.

Once back at her station, she checked her patients and was back administering reports. Her fingers were typing furiously on the keyboard, reading glasses on as always. Her notes were detailed, sharp, but a little chaotic because that was beautiful Y/N her special ways – packed with medical precision and a tiny bit of ranting.

She was writing when someone leaned on the counter in front of her. Nursing a coffee, a female cleared her throat, and Y/N instantly knew who it was. Y/N glanced up to see the woman staring at her.

“That’s the look of someone who wants something,” Y/N muttered.

“No, just curious,” she casually said.

Y/N’s typing paused.

“Curious about?”

Robby arrived next, sliding behind Dana with a knowing smile. “Curious about what, Dana?” he hummed, looking over to the older woman.

“I want to hear what she bet for the ambulance chase. I’m not betting, but I want to hear her logic, calculations and ideas,” Dana told Robby.

Robby hummed, nodding. “I would love to know,” he agreed, smirking and looking over to the younger nurse.

Y/N looked up, raising a brow. “Why?’

The two of them looked at each other before looking at Y/N. “Christ, Ace, I know you, you’ve calculated this. Bet you can count cards,” Robby replied, shrugging.

Y/N looked at him blankly. “How’d you know?”

Robby smirked. “Just a vibe,” he hummed.

Y/N stared at the two of them, raising a brow. “So that’s the rumour,” she muttered before going back to work.

Robby stared at her. “I heard about Atlantic City.”

Y/N’s face fell.

“Subtle remark about Vegas from our favourite ex-military man,” Robby added.

Y/N stared at him but decided to ignore his comment. “Have you bet?” she asked, sending him a small smile.

“I have, but I want hear yours,” he replied.

“Good, don’t want to change your idea,” she muttered, looking back at her computer.

“So can you?” he asked.

“Can I what?” she asked, still focused.

“Count cards?”

“I think you know,” she whispered.

“Would rather hear it from you, Ace.”

Y/N looked up, crossing her arms and raising a brow. “When I was twenty-two, I went to Vegas after my degree before I started here. I spent the three days strategically playing poker and let’s just say, my student loans were paid for afterwards,” she muttered, looking back at her computer.

Robby stared at her. “What about Atlantic City?” he asked.

“What about it?”

“You and Jack went to Atlantic City?” he replied.

“Um, he tagged along. I was there for a concert with some college friends. Loud noises for him are a big no, so it was me and some friends. This was a few years ago,” she replied, focused.

“And gambling?”

She looked up now. “Oh,” she replied, staring for a second before chuckling awkwardly. “We were new in a relationship. Wanted to impress him. So I gambled. Won.”

They both stared at each other. “Won what?” Dana asked.

“Enough,” she replied. “I’m charming,” Y/N added, clicking a few buttons for work. “I wear a sexy outfit, flirt with old, rich men and play the fool. No one suspects the pretty, young, sexy girl at the blackjack table to be counting cards.”

“So, you can count cards?” Robby remarked.

“Did I deny?” she hummed, staring at him and raising a brow.

Dana choked on her coffee. “Jesus.”

“You won?” Robby replied. “Like a lot?”

She shrugged. “I only bet enough to pay what I need to pay, then get out. No greed. No heat. They watch you like a hawk there, so you need to be smart. Me, well, there’s a key to counting cards. Know when to walk, when to halt, when to fold, let go, fool, you know…” she muttered, going back to her screen. “Leave a little dumbfounded, a little disappointed, a little fooled, but overall, chuffed with what you got.”

They just stared at her. “Remind me to go gambling wit her,” Dana replied. “I have to pay for my daughter’s trip to Europe for school.

Y/N looked up. “What are you doing next Friday? We can skip town? Head to our favourite town of gambling and beaches?” Y/n hummed.

Dana stared at her. “I genuinely don’t know if she’s joking or not,” she mumbled.

Robby shook his head. “I don’t know either,” he replied as he stared at her. “So, about this ambulance bet…”

Y/N leaned back in the chair, stretching her arms overhead before she gave them that signature smirk. The one which she outsmarted them.

“Simple,” she shrugged which they rose their brows. “It’s September. This means it initiation month for every frat in North America. This includes our city’s main university. According to my research, this year the invitation isn’t something subtle or simple, rather they want something more daring, idiotic, and more visible…” She looked at them. “Ambulance. Simple. Plus, free drugs, bonus points.”

Dana blinked and Robby just stared at her.

“How do you know this?” Robby asked.

Y/N shrugged. “I dated a frat guy in undergrad. Didn’t last long but had a thing about chaos and beer pong. I learned how the initiation season works. The whole goal is shock value, and for our local university, an ambulance is definitely shock value. So, I bet frat guys and in our zone. Because I secretly want the trauma to come in so I can shame them for ebing an imbecile.”

The two of them stared at her. Shocked. Face wide with curiosity.

“Vegas,” Dana whispered.

“I was twenty-two, broke, pissed off, and fucking brilliant. I had just finished my undergrad in nursing and psych. I needed to pay off it off…Let’s just my mother isn’t one with a healthy 529 Plan.”

“She taught you how to count cards?” Robby asked, intrigued.

Y/N chuckled. “That’s the only thing she taught me. That and how to be a shitty mom. However, it’s just math. It’s called finite mathematics. It’s a bunch of equations about the probability an card can be shown and all,” she hummed, winking. “Thanks, mother for the skill that got me through life.”

Robby just shook his head. “I have so many questions about that trip.”

She shrugged. “Not much to tell. I was alone. I went there to see my mom’s sister to help with something. I was bored, ended up at the casino and played my cards right. All classified. Need-to-know basis”

“Does our military boy know?” Dana asked.

Y/N chuckled. “Yeah. He learnt when we were at Atlantic City for a concert. He watched me. Then he just leaned over and was like, ‘You better split that pot with me, Dove. You’re buying dinner’ and I knew I would be with him forever.”

Robby chuckled, shaking his head. “You two are a goddamn Bonnie and Clyde.”

She rolled her eyes. “Hope not. Rather not be on the run and rather not die. Plus, we didn’t do anything illegal. If a casino finds out you are, you can’t be arrested; rather they ban you from that casino or ask you to leave. So,” she smirked, “I’m not a criminal.” They just stared at her. “We’re soulmates. Jack and I. War wounds, war hero, super hero, etc. And me, just someone with a brain too big to be true.”

They stared at her.

“If I win, let’s make this bet into a triple,” she smirked, winking. Then she got up and went to check on her patients.

1100

Y/N was back to sitting at the nurses’ station after checking in with her patients, administering meds, taking orders and being her normal nurse self. Dana was talking to her about her daughters. Princess asked to put the hijack of the ambulance on TV, which Dana allowed, earning a light chuckle from Y/N.

“Have you thought of names?” Dana asked as she checked her tablet.

Y/N glanced up. “Names?” she repeated.

“For fetus,” Dana nudged, looking over to the younger nurse. Y/N stared at her for a moment trying to register if she heard Dana correctly.

“Dana, I just found out yesterday,” Y/N replied. “I was told I could never get pregnant. No, I don’t have names.” She didn’t mean to be rude, but it seemed like Dana and Robby were more excited about this than Y/N. However, Y/N knew her body and knew not to have her hopes up. However, the way Dana looked over to her, she caved. “I’ve always loved Arlo for a boy or Otis. Charlotte for a girl. I’ve always loved the name Charlotte. So many nicknames like Lottie, Charlie, Harley,” Y/N mumbled.

Dana nodded. “Charlotte is pretty. Royalty name,” she replied. “Why are your names so British-based?” she chuckled, smirking.

Y/N shrugged. “I don’t know. I like regal names, but not something basic. Fuck, my boyfriend’s name is Jack…so unoriginal…so American. I need to be creative. I want something different, something new, but not wild or strange.”

Dana nodded. “Fair.” However, their conversation was soon ended when Santos came up.

“Got a second?” she asked, glancing between the two of them. She was jittery.

Y/N raised a brow. “Sure.”

“It’s never a second, but shoot,” Dana replied, looking at the intern. “Did you two hash it out?” she asked, looking over at Y/N.

Y/N smiled at the intern. “We’re right. All good. Just miscommunication,” she said, looking at Santos, who glanced at her before going back to Dana.

“Uh, yeah,” she muttered. “Anyway, I think there was an issue with a vial of lorazepam used on our last patient, and it should be reported to the drug manufacturer.”

Y/N raised her brow, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned back in the chair. “What kind of issue?” she asked, curious.

Santos glanced to Y/N before going back to Dana. “The cap was really hard to take off, almost like it was super-sealed shut. I’m worried it could be a bigger issue.” The way she glanced at Y/N answered her question but refused to make eye contact, rather looking at the charge nurse instead.

“Like?” Dana asked, raising a brow.

“Like maybe the temperature wasn’t properly controlled during transportation and the seal on the vial melted shut, which could mean the medication is compromised.”

Y/N slowly nodded. “I doubt that. When transporting medications there is a lot of regulations…rules to follow to ensure that the medication stays at the proper temperature. Additionally, it’s not summer, so the outside heat won’t affect it,” she said with a shrug and her brows furrowed.

Dana glanced at her partner in crime, nodding in agreement with her. “True,” she said. “Are there any other vials affected?”

“Uh, just this one,” Santos replied, holding up the vial of benzodiazepine.

The way Dana stared at the intern, unimpressed mostly but bothered that she would bring something up like this when the chance of it happening was slim. “Ok,” she replied, tone short. “Check the manufacturer’s website, see if there’s been a recall of the lot number.” Then she glanced back down to her work.

“Um, what if this is the first irregular vial?” Santos added.

“Then hold on to the vial in case there are any other issues,” Dana said, hands on her hips.

Just then, a loud voice was heard. Langdon, who spotted Jake, Robby’s basically step-son walked into the ER. Y/N turned the chair to see the young boy, swaggering in like he owned the place. A smile came to her face.

“Jake the Snake! It’s 11 A.M. aren’t you supposed to be in school?” Dana asked, jumping into parent mode as Jake hugged Langdon before walking to Dana.

“Mom let me ditch for Pittfest,” Jake replied, hugging Dana.

Y/N got up, walking over to the boy.

“How’s your mama?” Dana asked, engulfing him.

“Oh, she’s restoring some house in Squirrel Hill, so you know, she’s pretty busy.”

Just then, Jake’s eyes landed on Y/N. “Hey, resident genius,” he grinned as she hugged him.

“Hey, troublemaker,” she hummed back, giving him a short but loving hug. “How’s school? Math fucking you still?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Always, but Beck has been great with the tutoring,” Jake replied. “Thanks again.”

“Anytime. I would do it, but you know me, stuck here day and night,” she hummed back, winking.

“Are you looking for Robby?” Langdon asked, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, he’s got our festival passes,” Jake replied.

“Oh, you going together?” Langdon asked.

“We were supposed to, but, you know, I decided to go with a friend,” Jake replied, trying to be casual, but Dana and Y/N noticed the blush on his cheeks and the light smirk.

“Who’s the girl? What’s her name?” Y/N asked, nudging him. “Tell me about her…” she edged on, winking.

Jake, who became flustered, looked between Dana and Y/N. Not embarrassed, but face written with smitten love.

“Leah,” he muttered, voice low, shy but smirking at the same time.

“Ok, ok, ok, ok…don’t hold out on us,” Dana hummed as Langdon started to bug him.

“We need details. Where’d you meet? How long have you been together?” Dana asked, trying to get information.

“We met at junior lifeguards this summer. And we’ve been dating for two months. Yeah, she’s pretty great,” Jake said, smiling like a fool. The three of them stared at the teenager, smirking.

Young love.

“That’s sweet. I’m gonna go find Robby, let him know you’re here,” Dana replied.

“Young love. Remember young love, Dana?” Y/N hummed looking over to the blonde.

“Boy, do I ever,” Dana hummed, chuckling as she walked away to go find Robby.

Y/N smirked, patting Jake on the back before walking off as well.

Y/N heard her name called and she glanced up from charting to see Robby staring at her. He beckoned her over with his hands.

“Got a post-tonsillectomy haemorrhage,” Robby replied as she grabbed gloves.

“Ooo, messy…bloody, my favourite,” she hummed as she came over.

Robby shook his head, and a chuckle came from him. “Nebulised TXA, quick as you can.”

Y/N nodded as Whitaker came over, wearing morgue-coloured scrubs. She glanced over and rose a brow. “Downgraded?” she joked, smirking.

“This was all that was left,” he replied and Y/N chuckled, shaking her head as she grabbed onto the gurney and wheeled into trauma room two. Robby was speaking behind her to Whitaker, asking if he was up to it.

Once in the room, they got to work, transferring the patient from the gurney to a medical bed in the room. Y/N instantly grabbed the device that administers TXA and told the patient to breathe through it.

“Take long, slow, deep breaths on that,” Robby said. “The TXA is gonna help your blood clot.”

“Any medical problems?” Whitaker asked, writing down notes.

“No, just a ton of strep. That’s why I had the surgery,” the patient said.

“You take aspirin? Any other medications?” Whitaker continued to ask.

Y/N was working on getting basic labs and an IV in.

“Lungs are clear bilaterally, no stridor,” Robby said, stethoscope in hand as he pressed it to the patient’s chest.

“Ok, sure. Do you feel like throwing up? Any pain your belly?” Whitaker continued to ask as they all worked.

“No.”

“Labs?” Robby asked, adjusting a light.

“Uh, CBC, BMP, maybe coags?” Whitaker muttered.

“I would add a type and screen, just in case,” Y/N replied, working on the patient.

“Agreed,” Robby said.

“Good stats at 98%. BP is 115 over 80,” Y/N announced, glancing over to the monitor.

“Ok, good,” Robby said. “Four by four on ring forceps. Let’s take a look.” He handed over a pair of forceps to Whitaker.

“Ok,” Whitaker mumbled. “Head back, open wide for me.”

They inserted a device, checking for active bleeding, which was negative, however, there was some white and dark brown residue in his mouth where the tonsils used to be.

“That’s good. That’s a fibrinous clot. That means the TXA is working,” Y/N replied, faster than Robby could respond.

Robby looked over at Y/N, chuckling and shaking his head. They all knew she was a nurse, but had the knowledge like a doctor.

“Parents on their way?” Robby asked.

Y/N handed the patient the device that was administering TXA again. “Keep breathing this in,” she said.

“They’re in Baltimore for a wedding,” the patient said. “I didn’t want to bother them.”

“Trust me, they’re your parents, and you’re in the emergency room. It is never a bother. Write their numbers down, and I will call them.” Robby then looked over to Whitaker. “Call Head and Neck. Stay with him until they get here, ok?

Then he was gone.

Y/N continued working on the patient with Whitaker.

However, once the patient was stabilised, Y/N left. Minutes later, Whitaker was screaming, coming out of the trauma room, asking for help. Instantly, she was on her feet, grabbing gloves again and running over.

“It’s a post-tonsillectomy haemorrhage,” Whitaker said as a team came in. Langdon, the senior resident, jumped in as Y/N went to grab the suction device.

“Uh, Yankauer and sponge stick,” Langdon called out.

“He was stable. Then it just opened,” Whitaker stated, panic in his tone.

“Call the blood bank,” Langdon called out. “Two units, whole blood. Get a second line.”

Instantly, they all got to work. Quick moves, haste motives, they needed to stabilise this patient. Already, too many people have died today.

“Head and neck wouldn’t come down to see him,” Whitaker explained.

“Assholes,” Langdon muttered.

“Tachy to 120. His sats are down to 90%,” Y/N called out.

“Ok, get a high-flow nasal cannula, 100 of ketamine. Set up the GlideScope,” Langdon demanded. “Y/N, hold suction!”

Y/N halted.

“I’m going try for direct pressure,” Langdon explained, holding forceps and gauze, placing them in the patient’s throat. “If Head and Neck still won’t come down, call Garcia.”

“You’re good. You’re good,” Whitaker repeated, looking at the patient in the eyes and muttering the silent reassurance.

Robby came in as they worked. “What happened?”

Langdon looked up to see his attending. “Bleeder opened up. Ketamine on board to intubate.”

Robby rushed to the side.

“Sats holding 97,” Y/N said, looking over to Robby and Langdon.

“Can you get an airway?” Robby asked, leaning into Langdon.

“Come on,” Langdon muttered. “Keep pressure on the scab.”

Y/N continued to work around them, adrenaline kicking in and nothing else mattered that moment. However, the monitor continued to beep rapidly.

“Nothing but blood,” Langdon muttered, looking over to the screen where the camera was set up for intubation. “Can’t see the cords.”

“Sats 94,” Y/N called out.

Just then, Garcia walked in, coming over to the side.

“Not sure we have room for the tub with the sponge stick,” Langdon explained.

“If I pull out, there’s going to be even more blood,” Whitaker explained.

“Doesn’t look like you secured that airway,” Garcia jested.

“He’s working on it,” Robby fired back.

“Open a crike tray and prep the neck,” Garcia said.

Y/N instantly began to gather supplies for a crike.

“Y/N, hold on, I’m going in blind with a bougie,” Langdon called out. “I might be able to feel the tracheal rings.”

Y/N halted, holding the supplies in her hand, looking at the scene.

“And I might have a three-way with Madonna,” Garcia quipped. “Move.”

“Not happening,” Langdon fired back.

“Pressure.”

“Make room for the grown-ups,” Garcia stated, pushing her way in.

They continued to work, and Robby looked up to Y/N, seeing if she had any ideas. He shook his head, and instantly she froze for a moment, thinking hard. Closing her eyes, her brain fired, trying to retrieve information. Things she read, learnt, etc. Usually, she could recite knowledge in seconds, but something hit her now.

“Retrograde intubation,” she whispered, and Robby heard her clear.

Robby nodded. “Yeah, let’s try it.”

“A what?” Garcia asked, confused.

“There’s no obstruction. We just can’t see what we’re doing. So, we take a needle, and we cut it in the cricothyroid. We run a guide wire up and out of the mouth, and we slide the ET tube over the wire,” Robby said, grabbing supplies with Y/N. Both are working like a well-oiled machine.

“Never seen one before.”

“Sats 90,” Y/N called out. “It’s an alternative and considered rare when it comes to modern medicine,” she explained. “But we need to do it.”

“No time to play MacGyver with this kid,” Garcia added. “Time to crike.”

Robby looked over to Garcia. “It’ll be quick,” he hummed with a smile.

“You got one shot, and then I cut,” Garcia replied, serious.

Robby looked to Y/N. “Know what to do?” he asked, smirking.

“Always,” she hummed.

They got to work. Robby accessing the next with the syringe before looking over to Y/N. “Guide wire.”

She nodded, handing it to him. She watched him insert it, carefully, but like a professional, as if this was just habit.

“Let me know if you start to feel it up top,” Robby said, watching carefully his movements.

Y/N nodded. “Nothing,” she whispered. “More suction,” she said, looking over to Whitaker.

“I’m trying,” Whitaker muttered.

“Still can’t find it,” Y/N replied.

“Why are you letting a nurse help perform such a complicated procedure?” Garcia asked, raising a brow.

“Because she is the best of the best and knows a lot more than most people,” Robby replied. “If you worked in the ER, you’d know.” He then chuckled. “She has an IQ of 170–“

“178,” Y/N replied.

“Indeed and a eidetic memory,” he said.

“Doesn’t mean she can preform such a complicated procedure,” Garcia fired back.

Y/N glanced over to the surgical resident. “An MD doesn’t always mean you’re the best at performing medicine,” she snapped. “Sometimes us average folk can preform medicine too.”

“Average folk? You call yourself an average folk?” Langdon quipped, shaking his head with a smirk. “Now you’re making me feel like shit.”

“Enough,” Robby barked quickly.

“Keep going, Robby,” Y/N whispered.

“Sats down to 89,” Langdon said now, taking Y/N’s spot.

“This is not working,” Garcia stated.

“Give us a second,” Y/N replied a little too harshly.

“Until he arrests?” Garcia continued to bug.

“Oh my God, I’m gonna lose another patient,” Whitaker mumbled.

“Shut up, Whitaker. Let’s get on this,” Robby snapped at him lowly.

“Sats down to 87,” Langdon said now.

“Redirect the wire, Robby,” Y/N suggested. “Go at a different angle.”

“Sats still dropping, 86,” Langdon said, voice a little bit more rushed.

“Robby, I believe in you,” Y/N whispered. “You’re the cowboy, and it isn’t your first rodeo,” she whispered.

A few more seconds went by as they tried their best to guide the wire.

“Sats at 84,” Langdon said now. “We need to bag him.”

“Christ,” Y/N muttered. “Fucking Christ. Come on.”

“I’m sanctioning like crazy,” Whitaker said.

“Good job, Whitaker. What a good boy,” she replied, as she focused what’s on hand. “Sorry, that was a little rude. Treating you like one of my dogs,” she muttered. “Excuse my behaviour.”

Whitaker looked at her, but she was focused on the task at hand. “Um, it’s fine.”

Garcia was having enough. “Ok, we’re done playing doctor,” she bit. “Lose the wire. I’m criking this kid,” she barked the orders.

“Y/N, we tried, I’m sorry, but–“

“Shut the fuck up everyone,” Y/N bellowed. “Just shut the fuck up.”

Robby looked at her. “Y/N,” he tried. “We got–“

“Got it!” she hollered. “I got it!” Pulling the wire out through the mouth, smiling.

“You still don’t have an airway,” Garcia explained, brows furrowing.

“Y/N, keep the laryngoscope in place so the tube passes easily,” Robby whispered to her. Then looked up to grab more supplies. “Pass the T, the T tube over the wire.”

“Yup,” she whispered.

“Hand on to that wire,” Robby stated as he worked alongside her. “Do not let go of that wire.”

“Affirmative,” she whispered.

Robby nodded. “I’m going to give you a little slack so you can get past the cords,” Robby said as she continued to work. “Yeah, yeah, feel you at the trachea.”

Y/N nodded, looking at her work for a second, though her hands were in this kid’s mouth. “25 centimetres at the lips,” she said.

“That ought to do it. Pull the wire, bag him,” Robby commanded.

Y/N nodded, following suit, pulling the wire out.

“Balloons up,” Langdon muttered.

Y/N grabbed the bag, bagging the patient.

“Yellow on CO2. That’s good,” Whitaker muttered, smiling.

“That is very good,” Robby replied. He grabbed his stethoscope and checked the breathing pattern of the patient. “Good breath sounds bilaterally.”

“Sats coming up,” Y/N said, looking at the monitor as Langdon took over. “90…92…”

“Guess you’re gonna have to save that scalpel for another day,” Langdon replied, smirking.

“You guys got lucky,” Garcia replied before looking over to Robby. “Though letting a nurse preform a doctor’s duty–“

Y/N looked at her. “I know how to intubate. I was trained in nursing school on how to intubate,” she barked back.

“Not in a complex case like this,” Garcia argued back.

Y/N snickered and shook her head. “What’s the difference between being taught it in nursing school the normal way, compared to an attending doctor teaching you the complex way. Last time I checked, medical students, interns and residents learn from attendings as well. It’s all education. Patient isn’t dead and I saved a slash to his throat,” Y/N replied. “Skills, doll face. Skills,” Y/N smirked as she looked over to the surgeon. “Don’t underestimate nurses.”

It was amazing. She watched as Langdon and Whitaker took over with Jesse the other nurse. She stepped away. Holy shit, she preformed something, and it wasn’t a nurse’s duty. The adrenaline was serious, the flutter in her stomach was there, and a smile so grand, nothing could ruin her mood.

Y/N stepped out of the trauma room, heart still pounding in her chest, gloves and gown stained, hair falling out of the messy bun she had at the base of her neck. She pulled over the gown and gloves, throwing them in a biohazard bin and leaned on the wall next to the doors. She closed her eyes and exhaled like she was trying to release everything she was feeling.

This is why she did what she did. To help. To heal. To save lives. However, she was a doctor at that moment, not a nurse.

Robby followed her out a few seconds later. She didn’t have to look at him, knowing he was standing beside her, hands on his hips, that quiet little grin playing on his lips.

“Not bad,” he muttered.

Y/N smirked, opening her eyes. “Not bad?” she echoed, chuckling. “Yeah, it was grand. Thanks for trusting me.”

He turned slightly, facing her. “Jack taught you that?” he asked.

She looked at him before nodding. “Yeah. One night… a long time ago before we began being us. I think it was within my first or second year being a nurse. We’d had a really complex case, and he performed this. I was curious, questioned him about it and then he sat me down afterwards. Opened a textbook, pulled up videos and then set up a training dummy in an empty room. It’s just Jack being Jack, he taught me,” she replied. Then she shrugged. “Plus, I read about it when I was in nursing school. Well,” she chuckled, “we weren’t taught it. I was just bored one night in the summer before my practicum and decided to do a deep dive into complex medical care for the ER.”

Robby tilted his head as he listened, the corner of his mouth twitching into something half fond, half impressed. “You did a deep dive into emergency airway procedures for fun?”

Y/N smirked. “Hey, I was single, never went out, couldn’t afford a Netflix subscription, so I had to entertain myself somehow. Medical journals are free because I was in university, and YouTube exists for the general public. I always wanted to be in the ER. Needed to rock the boots off you ER cowboys when I eventually came,” she hummed, smirking.

He chuckled, eyes crinkling. “You shock me constantly.”

Y/N shrugged. “I’m just abnormal. Quirky. Autistic. Fun.”

Robby’s brows furrowed. “You have ASD?” he asked.

Y/N nodded. “Yeah, I actually just got diagnosed like a year or two ago. Level one, but yeah, autistic. Got my brother to get tested as well, and he has it too.” He nodded. Though he wasn’t shocked. “It’s not a secret, Robby,” she added. “I’m not purposely hiding it, if you think…”

Robby just shook his head, more in understanding than anything. “It doesn’t’ surprise me,” he replied eventually. “Just never thought about it,” he mumbled.

Y/N shrugged. “Well, like you say a lot, I keep you on your toes and constantly surprise you.” Then smiled. “Helps my reputation as the terrifying, cut throat, blunt, knowledge nurse who’s incredibly sexy,” she hummed, winking.

“And the one who suggests the med students to write death letters–“

“Hey! I can quote research on that!” she hollered, holding her hands up. “Plus, Jack taught me that. So, it’s not the sparkle that adds to my sparkly personality.”

Robby chuckled. They stood in silence for a beat, both caught in the residue of adrenaline and awe. Robby glanced at her again, that softness back in his gaze – the kind that only ever appeared when he was genuinely proud.

“You know, you were a doctor in there,” he said eventually. She looked up from looking down to her blood-stained sneakers. “Straight up. That wasn’t nursing. That was next-level clinical judgment and technical skill.”

She just nodded before shrugging, trying to play it cool. “I’m just good at learning and doing what I do.”

“No,” he replied. “You were good. Excellent. Terrific.”

She smirked. “Going soft on me, Cowboy? Or just flirting with me?”

He chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. He placed his hands in his pockets and began to rock back and forth on his feet. “I’m going to ignore that,” he hummed, though they all knew he enjoyed her comments. “I am going to suggest something which I know you will swat away, but–“

She knew what he was going to say and instantly, she groaned, throwing her head back. “Don’t.”

“I think you should consider going to med school and becoming a doctor,” he finished his idea, looking at her. Y/N just scoffed. “Why didn’t you?”

Y/N looked back at her feet. “Because I couldn’t,” she said honestly.

He rose a brow. “Because?” “I needed a good paying job, a quick education and something I loved,” she replied. “Nursing made sense.”

“What do you mean?” he continued to ask.

She met his eyes. “You know me–“

“I don’t know you as much as you think,” he interrupted. “I know what you let me know. I know you have a younger brother, and you’re distant with your mom. I know you love Jack with everything in you, but,” he paused, letting out a breath.

“But?” she asked, confused.

“He wants to marry you, you know?” he said. She raised a brow, confused. “But he’s scared to because he knows that you’re scared of things being too much.”

Y/N let out a loud sigh. “He can marry me. I just don’t want it to be a big deal,” she eventually said. “I also don’t want to,” she sighed, licking her bottom lip. “He lost his last wife. I just don’t want to–“

“I know. But back to what I was saying, why didn’t you go to medical school?”

She stared at him for a beat. She trusted him. Everything about him. She loved him like a brother. “What has Jack told you?” she asked, raising a brow.

“Nothing. Says its not his story,” he replied.

She nodded, smiling. What a good man. “Right,” she muttered, looking back down. “Like said, I need a quick degree so that I could get a job quickly, stable, excellent pay. Then there’s my personal needs that I needed something different everyday and I needed something that challenged me.”

“So, nursing?”

She nodded. “I had a brother to raise,” she said. “I became his legal guardian at nineteen. I took care of him. I’m not from money. My childhood was a mess. Mom’s an addict. My dad…I didn’t know him till I was seventeen. Beck’s dad is gone. We believe he’s in prison. I couldn’t let my brother live that life. Then when I graduated at twenty-two, I worked my ass off to give him the life he deserved. Fuck, I worked my ass off in nursing school to provide for him. I worked at the hospital as a mental health worker. My life hasn’t been easy. Fuck, it’s finally easy now and I deserve that,” she whispered.

Robby stood there, quiet for a long moment, the hallway still around them except for the distant hum of machines and the low murmur of voices. For once, no screams. He stared at her. Then nodded slowly. He knew her. He knew her a lot more than she thought, maybe not fact-wise, but behaviour-wise.

“You do deserve it,” he said. “Every inch of what you’ve created for yourself, you’ve deserved. But I think you do deserve more.”

Y/N pressed her tongue to the inside of her cheek and nodded, exhaling. “I know,” she whispered, looking up to the Gods above as tears came to her eyes. “I’m praying to the science Gods for this baby, Robby,” she whispered. “But I’m letting life take its course,” she looked back at him, smiling. “Don’t push me to go to med school. For one, it doesn’t make sense if this baby does happen,” she whispered. “Two, I would scare Jack away with school me. Assignments, quizzes, labs, exams, etc. I’d be a stressed out like a motherfucker.” Robby chuckled. “Three, I’m thirty. I’m too old for that shit anyway. I’ll be forty when I’m done with school and residency.”

Robby stared at her. “I would hug you, but there are rumours about us,” he whispered. She rolled her eyes. “Come here,” he muttered, grabbing onto her arm and pulling her into a hug. His arms wrapped around her, comforting, warm and strong, holding her close. “You deserve this baby. No matter what,” he whispered into her ear. “But I’m offended if you think thirty is old, let alone forty. Do you know how old I am?”

She smiled, chuckling. “I’m fucking a forty-nine-year-old and I call him my old man,” she whispered, looking up to his eyes. “But you were my old man first before that one came and stole my heart,” Y/N whispered, smiling. “Now you’re just my cowboy.”

Robby exhaled through a smile, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes – an ache he masked too quickly. Robby loved her. He loved her within weeks of knowing her, but he never pushed himself to pursue that love. Jack stole her in two years, and both would never know the truth.

He pulled back enough to look at her, one hand still resting at her shoulder. Epitome of beauty, but the definition of genius. He stared at her. The way her cheeks had a light blush to them, bright eyes filled with life and hair long but cared for. She was everything he needed, but she was happy with another man. His brother from another mother. His best mate. Old rival. And he was happy that she was happy with him.

“Well,” he said softly, “I was a goner the way you rolled in the ER wearing what was it, turquoise and pink under shirt for your scrubs and told me off on how I was charting.” He chuckled. “What was the word you used?”

“Methodical,” she whispered. “I said you weren’t methodical with your charting.”

“Right,” he nodded. “You didn’t even work here yet. A practicum student. Cocky as hell–”

“Intelligent. Confident. There’s a difference.”

“Say all you want, woman,” he hummed, smirking as she gave him a mock glare. “Jack got to you first, but me, well, I’ll always be proud of you, Ace.”

She smiled, warm and full of depth. “I know,” she whispered. “You’ve always been in my corner and one of my greatest mates.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I’ll always be here,” he replied, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Whether you’re a nurse, a doctor, or the woman who made me cry with a speech about grief in the supply closet once.’

Y/N looked at him, trying to remember before laughing. “Oh my God, I forgot about that. A long time ago. You were such a wreck.”

“I was going through a breakup!”

She nodded. “I’m good, though. Great therapist, but I prefer blood over tears,” she replied, winking. “Nurse over psychologist.”

“Cheers to that,” he hummed,

Then they stared at one another. “I’m not going to med school,” she whispered, glancing down. “Don’t try to get Jack to convince me…”

He chuckled. “No promises. But if you ever change your mind, I will write you a letter of recommendation so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “I’ll hold you to that if I do indeed get a midlife crisis,” she teased.

“Already got the dogs and the man. All you need is the convertible and the medical degree.”

She smirked. “I love my Bronco. But degree…mhmm we shall see. But I’m happy with just my vegetable garden and the ability to raise a baby.”

Robby’s face softened again. He wanted to reach out, cup her cheek and rub the tears that were welling under her eyes. She wasn’t a crier, but the hormones… He thought better than to do it. “You’ll be a great mom, Ace.”

“Thank you,” she muttered. “I hope so. Didn’t have the greatest person to look up to, but Jack’s mom…she’s amazing.”

He nodded. “You raised Beckett.”

She scoffed. “Barely. Well, tried my best. I think he turned out ok.”

“Kid’s doing quantum physics,” Robby said with a raised brow. “He’s basically building the future–“

There conversation got short because Robby got called somewhere. He nodded, hummed his response before looking at her again. “I’m always in your corner,” he whispered.

“Likewise, Old Man,” she replied smirking.

He shook his head in disbelief. “Don’t make me move you to triage,” he replied, smirking.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she barked back as he walked away.

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