#imaginative workspace

[epicstoriestime]

Appreciating Life’s Simple Pleasures

If you didn’t need sleep, what would you do with all the extra time? Serene Night Scene Imagine if sleep were no longer a requirement. No more waking up groggy or watching the hours slip away as you wait for morning. Just an endless stretch of time, ready to be filled with whatever your heart desires. If I didn’t need to sleep, I know exactly how I’d spend those extra hours. First, I’d lean…

[jadafitch]

Sketch for a drawing that's been on hold for awhile, while I've been finishing up a couple book projects. Can't wait to get back to it with some color.

[jacklesluvr]

(this link isn’t currently working cause the account was suspended but if anyone sees it up again pls lmk x)

first post and first p link but uhhh is this not LITERALLY rafe cameron like the hands, rings- the dude sounds like him too but hey workspace au/ boss au rafe teaching you a lesson <333 (idk how to make links looks cute)

https://x.com/analrush1/status/1803452489355633110?s=46

[gingermintpepper]

Actually, since it's not going to come up anytime soon and I ended up finalising all of the kids' 'childhood' work-spaces before I finished Apollo's, allow me a moment to talk briefly about what a few of these workrooms look like.

Ares: Snakes, snakes, snakes! One expects his room to be filled with weapons and battle dummies - and those things are certainly in there! - but most of his workroom is essentially a glorified terrarium where he's able to keep track of his little snake friends like the Ismenian and Colchian Dragons. Humid, slightly misty and filled with leafy foliage, still waters and twisting branches, there's shed skin decorating his walls, fangs and skulls mounted like prized weapons, and he even had drawings of his most beloved serpent-children done on the jars and cups he keeps in his room. Hephaestus gives all his dud-weapons and over-wrought metal to Ares for him to practice as roughly as he wants with so Ares also has a lot of unorthodox looking, completely impractical weapons laying around or mounted on his walls. Jars of dragons' teeth and eagle/vulture feathers are on his shelves and he keeps some on hand in his sparring area so he can train against Sown Men when he's testing new weapons or just trying to keep sharp. He also uses the Sown Men to puzzle out formations and battle maneuvers. He has a small rest area in the warmest part of his workroom where he keeps writings about tactics and politics that both Athena and Zeus have compiled along with a few of the scarce preserved texts from Iapetus. He has a dream-charm given to him by his father that's made from Aquila's shed feathers and is meant to keep the phantoms of his battles from haunting him when he rests. Though Ares is supposed to keep it on him at all times, he treasures it too much to risk it becoming undone, so he keeps it safe here.

Hephaestus: Hot and dry one moment and then ice-cold the next, Hephaestus has one of the bigger workspaces. Not to be confused with his forges (which are massive, and at this point are only twofold - his first, more private forge on the banks of Oceanus and the second 'work' forge deep in the belly of Mount Vulcanus where he collaborates with the Cyclops) Hephaestus' workspace is half a storage spot for rare and otherwise unattainable ores, materials and stone and half a place for him to clear his head and recenter himself. It's naturally very cold in Hephaestus' workspace and the layout is labyrinthine with long sprawling hallways that are very dark and lead to wide open rooms that are borderline cavernous in their depth. Fennel torches are on every wall in even intervals and it's very easy to tell what parts of the space are and are not occupied based on which torches are lit. Just as Ares has his Sown Men, Hephaestus has his Golden Handmaidens who assist him in a lot of the busywork of getting around, especially when it comes to lighting the hallway torches or getting materials out from hard to reach areas. His favourite room is the hearth-room which is where he's stored all of Prometheus' old research and work. Considering Prometheus was his teacher, his works are all Hephaestus has left of him and there is still much Prometheus never got the chance to teach him written down in the books. There are also tons of half completed crafts and blueprints scattered about the hearth-room along with some of the assorted jewellry Hephaestus is eternally repairing on the center table for the myriad gods. There's a loom in his hearth-room since he's interested in weaving but he's terrible at it. He can straight stitch just fine though.

Athena: Definitely has the most seemingly chaotic/disorganised workspace on first glance; Athena's space is not so much big as it is tall. The walls are ever-shifting tapestries that Athena weaves from her loom and the rack of her strings travels all across the length of her workspace. She keeps track of all kinds of events this way - meetings, histories, to-do-lists - she weaves all of it and add it to her big tapestry. Along with these, her space is stacked with books, scrolls and tablets with no particular focus. She's a collector of information and she's a voracious reader, intent on learning as much as she can from the mistakes of her predecessors as possible. Just as Ares has Iapetus' old writings and Apollo has Coeus', Athena has Crius' old writings and studies. She inherited some of it naturally but most of it, especially with respect to Crius' constellation mapping and the orientation of the stars are things she requisitioned from Pallas after she conquered him. If one can make sense of all the threads and the thousand-stories sewn into the walls and the stacks and stacks of books and navigate deeper into her workspace, they'll find carefully hung and displayed fabrics and garments and a lot of stone and wood carvings. Mostly likenesses of some of the animals around Olympus like Ares' snakes or Aphrodite's doves, but there are also in-progress models of temples and buildings that she tinkers away at when she's not otherwise occupied. Even deeper into her woven walls is a little klin area where she produces custom pottery when she wants to create in secret, usually for gifts to others.

[istjury]

my csp just killed itself and now i dont have any of the downloaded stuff there and cant open any of my files thus i can't finish any of my works

im goig. isnane i dort even care if anyone can comprehend what im saying i just need to put it annywhere cause im a crybaby ew /lh

[stevens-pastrami-sandwich]

GUYS HEAR ME OUT: amazo guy in mariachi clothes SHOULD I SHOULD I DO IT IM GONNA DO IT IM GONNA GUYS IM DOING IT YELL AT ME TO DO IT SCREAM AT ME BEFORE I FORGET 💥

[presswoodterryryan]

Turning Stories into Art: Exploring Illustration and Creativity

By Ariel Hi friends! Ariel here, and today we’re diving into a magical world where words and pictures work together to tell unforgettable stories. Have you ever opened a book and felt like the characters, scenes, and emotions just jumped right off the page? That’s the incredible power of art! Illustrations bring stories to life, sparking our imaginations and making reading even more…

[pcharming7]

There’s a certain character archetype that I feel doesn’t get discussed enough, and that’s “likable and fun to watch, but also would be deeply insufferable if you had to deal with them personally.” You know, your Jim Halperts, your Ted Lassos, etc.

It can’t be easy to write a character that’s so charismatic or fun that you forget that you’d probably want to strangle them if you met them in real life.

[garciapimienta]

Trying to switch back to Firefox from Opera but they don’t have Workspaces or WhatsApp on the sidebar

[wallpapersmonster]

🌟 Dive into the fascinating world of steampunk with our latest wallpaper creation, Steampunk Inventor! This stunning piece captures the essence of creativity and innovation, featuring a brilliant inventor surrounded by an array of intricate gears and gadgets. 🛠️✨

Set against a vibrant city backdrop, this wallpaper perfectly embodies the adventurous spirit of the steampunk genre. Whether you're a fan of anime or simply love the retro-futuristic aesthetic, this artwork is sure to inspire your imagination!

Imagine yourself in this cluttered yet charming workspace, where every tool has a story and every invention is a step towards a new adventure. Perfect for your desktop or mobile, our Steampunk Inventor wallpaper brings a touch of whimsy and wonder to your screen.

Ready to bring this world of invention into your life? Click here to explore the Steampunk Inventor wallpaper and let your creativity soar! 🚀

Enjoy the journey through the gears and gadgets, and let this wallpaper remind you that every great invention starts with a spark of imagination!

Happy decorating! 💖

[tathrin]

@the-smartass-under-the-mountain oh that is fantastic yes. It sounds to me like you have a story to write! (please?)

#either version would be amazing! #and theres always that one elf/dwarf whose brain work opposite #like an elf that does need everything in An Assigned Place bc memory is for Songs ans Genealogy not Hammer Location #and they end up getting along with the dwarf smiths better bc FINALLY someone understands that the tongs live on the 2nd shelf #or the dwarf that works seamlessly with elves bc they can hand off tools to each other without even glancing up from their work

A thought on Elves and Dwarves (as inspired by my roommate and I and the one place where our brains really don't line up):

Elves with perfect memories, who know exactly where they put that thingamajig even when they last set it down twenty years ago, and thus can always find whatever it is they're looking for amidst what looks like total disarray to everybody else.

Dwarves with perfectly ordered spatial awareness, who are so accustomed to the layout of their workshop or forge that they can lay their hands on any tool in there without even looking, and always set everything back where it belongs out of ingrained habit.

Elves who never ever put things back where they belong, because "put that away neatly so you can find it again" is simply not a concept that exists in elvish minds, because it doesn't need to.

Dwarves who will look right past the thing they're looking for if it's not where it belongs, because it's not where it belongs, why isn't it where it belongs, where did you put it you daft elf...?

Elves and Dwarves in the smithies of Ost-in-Edhil, ready to go to war over the arrangement of their tools, and Celebrimbor on the brink of tears desperately trying to keep the peace here that he never managed to in Nargothrond.

(alt: could easily be done the other way around too, with elves always putting things away because then the thing is always where it's supposed to be, even twenty years later, so you can find it again, because they have so many more important things to hold in their memories than where they last put down their favorite hammer, and after a few hundred years you fall into the habit of expecting things to be where they belong so you don't even look to find them somewhere else; and dwarves who have such an innate sense of their tools and their workspace that they don't need to have "proper places" to put things away, because of course they remember where they put their hammer, what kind of a question is that, can't you just feel where your hammer is wtf???)

[purplereina11]

You spent your childhood drifting through foster homes, with nothing but a worn photo of two little girls and a note on the back: Your sisters, Alexia and Alba. You never imagined that at 25, after starting a new job, you'd meet them, through your boss who was your sister's girlfriend.

Wordcount: 15.8k

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You’re two months in, and you’re still not sure how Olga Rios manages to be everywhere at once.

She’s answering emails while editing a reel. She’s sketching out a content calendar with one hand and handing you a matcha latte with the other because she remembers that you don’t do coffee, and that still surprises you a little.

Her loft-office smells like lavender and old books, even though the work is anything but quiet. There’s a gentle hum of creativity in the air half Spotify playlists, half the occasional bark from her dog, Nala, who has her own Instagram account with better engagement than most influencers you know.

You sit across from her at a wide wooden table covered in sticky notes, open laptops, two ring lights, and exactly one succulent that’s definitely fake but somehow not thriving. She’s got that kind of energy, Olga. She makes things grow, unless you're fake.

“You’re getting faster,” she says without looking up from her screen. Her voice is warm, honeyed, soft in the way that makes you want to lean closer, like she’s letting you in on something. “The captions today? I liked them. You’re starting to sound less like a brand, and more like a human. That’s good.”

You try not to grin too much, but it’s hard not to. Praise from Olga is never handed out like candy it’s measured, genuine, and usually comes with a Post-it note suggestion five minutes later, but when she says something’s good, she means it.

You glance at your own screen three drafts open, analytics humming in a separate tab. You're starting to notice patterns, pick up her shorthand, even anticipate when she’s about to say, “We can do better.” You’re getting the rhythm now. It feels like learning a dance. Awkward at first, but now... now you’re finding your footing.

“Do you ever sleep?” you ask, half-joking, because she’s been up since six and somehow still looks like she floated here on a sunbeam.

She laughs, a soft, melodic thing that fills the loft. “Only when a campaign’s not launching. So… not often. But I love this. I love seeing things come to life.” She sips her tea, eyes crinkling at the corners. “And I think you’re going to be really good at this.” Something about the way she says it makes your heart lift. A couple of month in, and you’re already certain, this isn’t just an internship. This is the beginning of something.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

It’s a quiet afternoon, the kind that settles like soft dust. The usual buzz of Olga’s workspace is muted no clients calling, no urgent edits, just the rhythmic clack of keys and the occasional sigh from Nala, curled up under the table like she owns the place.

You’re working side by side on a campaign for a small bookstore that’s trying to grow its online presence. Olga is fine-tuning the carousel post for tomorrow, and you’re adjusting the tone of the captions trying to thread that fine line between charming and trying-too-hard. It’s nice. Peaceful, even.

Olga breaks the silence without looking away from her screen. “Do you have anyone in your family who loves books like this?”

You pause. The cursor blinks in front of you. The question is soft, casual, not meant to dig but it hits something that feels like hollow wood. “I…” You swallow. “I don’t know.”

Olga looks up immediately.

You don’t say anything else at first. The words stall. It’s not that you haven’t talked about it before it’s just that people usually don’t ask, not really.

She tilts her head slightly, brows gently furrowed. Her voice lowers. “Hey. You okay?”

You nod automatically, out of habit. But then, without quite meaning to, you add, “I didn’t grow up with a family. I was left at a children’s home when I was a baby.”

The air in the room shifts not heavier, exactly, just… slower. Softer.

Olga doesn’t gasp, or overreact, or flood you with sympathy that feels too bright and uncomfortable. She just sets her phone down and gives you her full attention.

“I’m sorry,” she says. Quiet. Real.

You shrug, though it feels awkward. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s just… how it was. I don't really think about it much now. I just… didn’t have anyone to ask questions like that about.”

Olga nods slowly, like she’s letting your words settle inside her before responding. Then, gently “Well, just so you know any time you want to say, ‘My 'mentor' once told me this,’ you can go ahead and start with me.”

You let out a soft laugh, surprised.

She smiles, warm and a little wistful. “I know it’s not the same. But you’re not on your own here, okay? Not while you’re working with me.”

For a moment, you’re not thinking about metrics or content calendars or trending audios. You’re just sitting across from someone who sees you not just as an assistant or intern, but as a person.

The knock on the door is light but confident. You barely register it at first lost in the middle of scheduling posts for a new client who sells handmade ceramic earrings until Olga perks up with that unmistakable sparkle in her eyes.

She glances at the clock, then at you. “That’ll be Alexia.”

You blink. “Alexia…?”

Before she can answer, the door swings open and there she is.

Alexia Putellas. That Alexia Putellas.

Even if you don’t follow football religiously, her face is familiar. The captain, the icon, the Ballon d'Or winner. The kind of person whose highlight reels show up on your feed whether you asked for them or not. And now she’s in Olga’s office, wearing a simple hoodie, black joggers, and the kind of calm confidence that doesn't need to shout to be heard.

She smiles when she sees Olga, and everything about Olga posture, eyes, even the way she exhales shifts in the softest way. Like a house when someone finally comes home.

Olga stands, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Ale, this is the one I’ve been telling you about.”

You freeze. Alexia’s gaze lands on you, kind and curious. “So you’re the apprentice,” she says, her accent smooth but clear, the kind that could make any sentence feel like a secret. “Olga’s been bragging.”

You blink again. “She—she has?”

Olga shrugs like it’s nothing. “Only a little. Maybe a lot.”

Alexia steps forward and offers her hand. “It’s really nice to meet you. I’ve heard you’re doing great work.”

You shake her hand her grip is strong, grounded and try not to look like you’re meeting a living legend, because you are. But she’s also incredibly down-to-earth, her presence somehow both intimidating and totally easy to be around.

Olga comes around the desk and gently bumps Alexia’s shoulder with hers. “She only comes here to raid my snack drawer and steal my playlists,” she says, teasing.

Alexia grins. “Also because I love you.”

There’s a beat of warmth between them that you feel rather than see, like watching sunlight fall through a window. “Do you want me to go?” you ask, half-joking.

Olga laughs. “No way. Ale's just here to say hi before training. You’re family now. Might as well meet the boss.”

Alexia raises an eyebrow. “I’m the boss?”

Olga winks. “In football, yes. In here, you just eat all my almonds.”

You watch them and feel something shift inside you again like the quiet redefinition of what ‘family’ might look like. Not always blood. Sometimes it's someone who believes in you. Someone who shares their space with you. Someone who brings light with them, just by walking through the door.

You glance at your screen, then back at the two of them.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You invite Olga over to work because it feels normal now. Familiar. Safe, even.

It’s late almost midnight. You’ve both been bouncing between drafts for a new campaign and clips from a client shoot. Nala is curled up on your bed, half-snoring, and there’s the comfort of shared silence between you, broken only by the occasional sound of keys or a soft “Wait, this transition’s better” from Olga.

She gets up to stretch, as she often does when she’s been sitting too long. Paces a little. You barely notice her eyes scanning your bookshelf until you hear her voice. Low. Surprised. “…Wait. What?”

You glance over. She’s holding the small, slightly curled photo that’s been with you for as long as you can remember. You’ve had it since before you could read. Two little girls. One smiling, the other not so much.

You never knew their names. Never knew why the photo was with your things. It was just… always there. Something old, something yours, but now Olga is frozen, staring at it. “Why do you have this?” she asks, but the softness in her voice is already cracking.

You sit up straighter. “What do you mean?”

She turns the frame toward you, her eyes sharp now. “This is Alexia. And her sister Alba. This photo’s from when they were kids. I’ve never seen this before, how do you have this?.”

Your mouth opens slowly. “What?”

She steps closer. “Don’t play dumb.”

You shake your head, heart beginning to pound. “I’m not. I didn’t know who they were. I’ve had that photo since I was dropped off at the home. It was in a box with my baby things, I never even knew there names.”

Olga stares at you like she doesn’t believe you.

“I swear,” you say, voice trembling now. “I never knew. I didn’t know.”

But she isn’t hearing you. Not fully. Her jaw clenches. “So you mean to tell me this is just some random coincidence? You had a photo of my girlfriend and her sister, and you never knew?”

“I didn’t know!” you say louder now, trying to push through the panic rising in your chest. “Olga, I didn’t. They were just two girls in a picture I’ve had it since I was a baby! One of my foster parents told me they were my sisters once but I could never see the resemblance but I, I don't know I just could never throw it away, it was left with me for a reason, I couldn't-”

“You expect me to believe that?” she snaps interrupting, eyes suddenly fierce. “You knew who Alexia was. Everyone does. You had the photo, you applied for this job, and you never once thought to say a word.”

Your breath catches. “I didn’t even connect them to say something. Please why would I lie to you?”

But she’s shaking her head, stepping back, betrayal flashing in her eyes. “I trusted you. I let you into my space. My life. And now I find this?”

She turns, grabs the frame, and holds it tightly like she’s afraid it might disappear. You stand, reaching toward her helplessly. “Please, Olga. I’m not using you. I didn’t know. I swear to you.”

But her voice cuts through the air like glass. “Don’t say another word.”

She storms toward the door. “Olga—please!”

Her hand is on the knob already. “Do not tell anyone about this. Not Alexia. Not anyone. I mean it.” And just like that, she’s gone door slamming behind her, the photo still clutched in her hand.

You stand frozen in your tiny apartment, the silence left in her wake louder than anything you've ever heard.

You don’t remember sitting down. Just that suddenly you’re on the floor, legs folded awkwardly beneath you, and the room feels too still.

The candle you lit earlier is still flickering on the desk, scenting the air with warm vanilla, like any normal night, but everything has changed.

The photo’s gone. She took it.

You wrap your arms around yourself, unsure if you’re cold or just empty. Your hands are shaking. Your chest feels tight, like someone filled it with wet sand. You can’t stop replaying the last ten minutes Olga’s face, the anger, the betrayal in her voice. The way she looked at you like you were a stranger. Worse—like a lie.

“I didn��t know,” you whisper, to no one. Your own voice sounds small, cracked open. “I didn’t know.” But the silence doesn’t answer. It just presses in around you.

You don’t know how that photo ended up with your baby things. You never questioned it. It was just… part of the mystery of you. You’d imagined a hundred stories for it as a kid. A fantasy life you were left out of. Two unknown little girls you'd prop up when you had tea parties alone, two faces you talked to when no one else would listen but it never felt real. Not like this.

You wipe at your face and realise you’ve been crying without noticing, not loudly, just slow, quiet tears that slip out like steam from a cracked mug.

You try to work. To check a calendar, finish a caption, edit a reel, but everything blurs. Your fingers hover over the keys, useless. More tears come. Not steady, but suddenly rising without warning like waves. You press your hand to your mouth, like that might stop the sob that’s already too far out to swallow back.

You don’t know what hurts more: the fear that she won’t believe you or the feeling that she already doesn’t, and underneath that, a newer, stranger thought creeps in:

What if the photo really does mean something? What if you're connected to them in some way you never imagined?

You don’t know how to hold that. You don’t even know if you want to.

The night stretches long and quiet. You cry again, not always with sound. Sometimes just with breath that shakes too hard, or thoughts that spiral too fast. You think about messaging Olga. You almost do, but what would you say that you haven’t already begged her to believe?

Eventually, curled in bed, your chest aching and eyes sore, the exhaustion takes over.

You fall asleep and as your breathing evens out in the dark, the photo lives somewhere else now, in her hands.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You shouldn’t go in to work, you know that.

You didn’t sleep more than a couple of hours, and when you looked in the mirror this morning, your reflection startled you, pale, red-eyed, shadows under your eyes like bruises that haven’t fully bloomed. You look like someone who’s been crying on and off for eight hours, because you have, but not going in make it look like you had something to hide, and you loved your job.

So you pull yourself together barely. Tie your hair back. Splash water on your face. Avoid your own eyes as you grab your bag and head out the door.

The walk to Olga’s office feels longer than usual. Everything’s sharp, the sound of your own footsteps, the brightness of the morning, the hum of people who don’t know your world just came apart. You keep your head down.

When you get there, the door is already unlocked, she was here already, you step inside slowly. Olga’s at her desk. Laptop open, headphones around her neck, Nala curled up on the rug at her feet. She looks up instinctively when you enter.

For a moment, nothing moves, then her eyes scan your face and she sees it. The red around your eyes. The way your shoulders hang. The hollow tiredness you didn’t have to fake.

Her mouth parts slightly, like she might say something, but she doesn’t. Instead, she looks back down at her screen.

You nod stiffly, not that she’s looking, and cross the room to your usual seat. Every movement feels brittle. Too careful. You place your laptop on the table as quietly as you can, like noise might crack what’s left between you.

You don’t speak. Neither does she.

The silence is different today. Not the peaceful kind. It’s tight. Pressurised. You can feel her not looking at you, can feel her tension radiating from behind her screen like heat.

Your stomach twists. You open your laptop. Try to focus on the client folder. Everything blurs.

You can’t stop thinking about the way she stormed out. The photo in her hand. The fear in her eyes. The disbelief in her voice.

And now, she’s right there but she may as well be a hundred miles away. You steal a glance at her. She’s typing something. Her jaw is tight. Her ponytail is a little messy, like she didn’t sleep well either.

You want to say something. Apologise again. Explain again. Beg if you have to, but the air around her says not to.

So you sit in the quiet. Trying to work. Trying not to cry. Trying not to lose the one place that ever felt like it might become home.

You’re halfway through pretending to work when the door clicks open behind you. Your heart stops, you know that sound now. You know who it is before she says a word.

“Hola,” Alexia calls out gently, cheerful but quiet, as if she’s stepping into a place where someone might be asleep or upset.

You stay frozen for a half second too long, then shift your body slightly in your chair. Not enough to seem rude, but just enough to make your back the most visible part of you.

Don’t make eye contact. Don’t breathe too loudly. Don’t be more than necessary.

Olga looks up, and the change in her voice is immediate.

“Ale…”

Alexia steps in fully now, holding a brown paper bag and a takeaway cup tray. “You were tossing all night,” she says softly, “so I figured you could use some sugar and espresso.” She walks over, places the treats beside Olga with care. “I got that oat milk one you like. And a croissant, because I know you never remember to eat when you’re stressed.”

Her voice is so easy. So full of quiet affection. It makes your throat tighten. Olga stares at the bag for a moment before letting out a breath you didn’t know she was holding. She smiles, faint but real, and says, “Thanks.”

Alexia leans down and kisses her cheek. It’s a small, domestic gesture. One that would’ve felt sweet yesterday.

Now it’s a stone in your stomach.

They talk for a minute, low and warm too low for you to hear clearly. It sounds like a small exchange about sleep, and schedules, and if Olga’s eaten yet. You keep your eyes fixed on your screen, even though the words are swimming and nothing’s going in.

Then Alexia shifts, you feel her glance in your direction. “Hey,” she says kindly, and you can hear the smile in her voice. “Nice to see you again.”

You muster every scrap of civility you can find and turn your head slightly, just enough to meet her eyes for a breath of a second.

You smile a tiny, exhausted curve of your mouth and lift your hand in a half-wave.

She nods back, just as polite. Just as unaware. “Bueno,” she says, brushing her hand against Olga’s arm. “I’ll leave you both to it.”

Olga doesn’t look at you as Alexia turns to go. She just murmurs a soft, “Thank you,”

"How do you take your coffee?" Alexia stops at your desk, she swallow as you look up at her, Olga watching intently.

"I um. I don't drink coffee"

"How come? Don't like it?"

"No.. I um, I can't have caffeine at all.. I um, its complicated but I have a heart condition so I-"

"My papa was the same," she nodded and your heart pulled, Olga must of sensed it and she spoke

"Amor, Y/N and I are very busy"

Alexia held her hands up, bid you both a goodbye, Olga eyed you before she watches her leave.

The door clicks shut. You exhale through your nose, slow and quiet.

Olga says nothing. She unwraps the croissant with deliberate care, and takes a small bite, her eyes still on the table, on her work, on anywhere but you and the silence that follows is full of everything neither of you are ready to say.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Olga doesn’t go straight home after work, she drives in silence. No music. No podcast. Just the low hum of the road beneath her tires and the sound of her own pulse in her ears.

She should’ve gone home, she doesn’t go to the flat she shares with Alexia, or to a café to decompress, or even to the beach where she sometimes walks when her mind needs quiet.

She drives, to a quiet cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Mollet, where the streetlights buzz low and orange, and the houses are tucked behind tired gardens and climbing vines. She parks without turning off the engine at first. Just sits there, heart tapping a steady, uneven rhythm behind her ribs.

Eli’s car is in the driveway. She’s home. Alone. Just like Olga knew she would be. Olga takes the photo from the glove compartment. It’s still in its cracked, worn frame. She hasn’t looked at it since that night in the apartment. She doesn’t need to. She remembers it perfectly.

She breathes in. Breathes out. Kills the engine.

Then knocks on the door, it opens almost immediately, Eli answers the door in slippers and a cardigan.

“Olga?” Eli’s face brightens with warm surprise. “Qué haces aquí, cariño? Alexia isn’t with you?”

“No,” Olga says quietly. “She’s at home.”

Eli frowns a little. “Is everything alright?”

“I just…” Olga hesitates, standing just beyond the threshold. Then says, “Can I come in?”

Eli steps aside, instantly serious. “Of course, hija. You’re always welcome.”

The house smells the same as always lavender, old wood, something faintly sweet in the kitchen. A candle flickers on the sideboard. Family photos line the shelves,  birthdays, holidays, the girls growing older in frames that haven’t moved in years.

They sit in the living room. Olga perches on the edge of the couch, she doesn’t take off her coat, her fingers are tight around something in her bag. Eli watches her closely now, concern pinching the corners of her mouth.

“I have to ask you something,” Olga says, voice steady but low. “And if it’s nothing then we never have to talk about it again. I’ll forget it. We’ll both forget it.”

Eli nods, cautious. “Okay…” Eli’s brow furrows. “What is it?”

Olga doesn’t speak. She just reaches into her bag and pulls out the frame. Holds it gently in both hands and turns it around. Eli’s breath stops halfway through her chest. The change in her is instant so small and devastating you’d miss it if you weren’t looking for it. Her hands freeze on her knees. Her face goes white, then pale-blue cold, like all the warmth was drained out in an instant.

Her lips part, but no sound comes. The silence says everything. Olga watches her. Doesn’t blink. Eli’s hand, which had been loosely curled around her teacup, goes limp. Her entire face drains of colour not just pale, but hollow, like a piece of her just dropped through the floor.

Olga doesn’t move. She watches the shift. The silence that thickens around it.

“Where.. Where did you get this?”

Olga doesn’t answer, she just says, “You know who this has come from don’t you”

“I’ve not seen that in twenty five years,” Her voice catches, “After.. After” Olga nods once, jaw tight. Her throat burns with questions, but she asks none of them and still, Eli presses gently, almost begging, “Olga. Please. Where did this come from?”

“It’s true isn’t it,” Olga whispers. “You have another daughter”

Eli closes her eyes. A beat. A breath and then, very softly, very brokenly, “Yes” Olga’s throat tightens. Eli’s voice is barely there. “We left that with her”

“I don’t understand how you could do it!” Eli sits frozen on the couch, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She looks older than she did twenty minutes ago. Like every word being spoken is peeling something back she’s kept buried too long. “You gave up your own daughter,” Olga spits, gesturing wildly to the photo still lying on the coffee table like it’s cursed. “And just carried on like she didn’t exist? How?”

“I didn’t carry on,” Eli says, voice low and shaking. “Don’t you dare think it didn’t break me.”

“Then why?” Olga demands. “Why didn’t you fight for her? Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Olga’s voice cracks, sharp with disbelief, her hands clenched at her sides. She’s standing now, breath short, pacing Eli’s living room like she’s trying to outrun what she just heard. She hadn’t planned to stay only to ask one question, but the answer shattered everything.

Eli is curled forward on the couch, her hands white-knuckled in her lap, her eyes wide and shining. “You don’t understand what it was like,” she says quietly, pleading. “She was born with a heart condition. We didn’t know what it was at first, she was so small always struggling to breathe. She couldn’t even cry properly with out her lips turning blue.”

Olga stares at her, hollowed out. “So you gave her away.”

“I thought she’d get help,” Eli whispers. “We couldn’t afford the surgeries. We didn’t have insurance or savings, I wasn’t working at the time. My parents wouldn’t help. We thought… we thought someone else could save her. I loved her enough to let her go.”

Olga’s breath catches, just for a second, because she knows Eli means that. And still, it’s not enough. “She grew up in multiple children’s home,” she says bitterly. “With no one.” Eli flinches like she’s been slapped. “You’re the one who taught Alexia how to be gentle,” Olga says, voice shaking. “You tell everyone family is everything. You cry at Christmas commercials, for God’s sake. And now I find out that there was another child and you just… gave her up?”

Eli’s eyes are glassy. Her face is pale. “You think that was easy for me?” she says, hoarse. “You think I didn’t wake up every night for years hearing her cry even though I hadn’t seen her since she was—”

“Don’t,” Olga snaps, tears brimming. “Don’t make yourself the victim in this. I think about her alone every night now,” Olga goes on, tears clinging to her lashes. “I see her sitting in that place, wondering why no one ever came back for her. Why her parents the people who are meant to love her unconditionally let her go.”

“Stop,” Eli whispers. “Please, stop.”

Olga stares at her, breathing hard, voice strangled. “And you never told Alexia. Or Alba.”

Eli looks down at the floor like it might save her. “They were so young they didn’t need to know, have that burden.”

“You gave up your baby,” Olga says, gesturing to the photo on the table between them. “You let her disappear into the system, and you never looked for her. Never even told your daughters they had a sister.”

“I didn’t let her disappear,” Eli says, voice shaking. “She was born sick. Her heart Olga, she needed something me and her father couldn’t give her! We did what we thought was best for her!”

Olga stops in her tracks, eyes wide with pain. “So you just gave her away and pretended she never existed?”

“She would’ve died if I’d kept her!” Eli cries. “We couldn’t afford treatment we thought a hospital might place her with someone who could help. It wasn’t abandonment, it was the only mercy I had left to give her.”

Olga’s voice rises. “And you’ve told no one. For twenty-five years. No one.”

Eli’s hands shake now. “Because I didn’t want this. This moment. This shame. This wreckage.”

“Well, it’s here now,” Olga whispers. “She grew up in a children’s home, Eli. Alone. She had no one, she doesn’t understand the meaning of family, I don’t even think she’s ever felt what it’s like to be loved. Do you understand that?”

Eli explodes raw, desperate. “Leave it alone!” The words come like a slap, louder than anything yet. “Just—shut up!” she screams. “You don’t understand what it cost me! You don’t get to stand there judging when you weren’t there!”

The front door slams open. “What the hell is going on?” Alba’s voice slices through the room like lightning. She’s standing in the doorway, flushed from running, alarmed and out of breath. “I could hear you both shouting from the street.” She looks from Eli, who is crumbling in her chair, to Olga, who’s barely holding herself upright. “What the hell is going on?”

Olga turns away, shoulders hunched, face blotched with tears. She’s trying to breathe, but she can’t steady herself. She just shakes her head, mutely.

Eli goes silent, too. Like she forgot anyone else existed. Her face folds in on itself caught red-handed by her own daughter. “Why were you yelling at her?” Alba asks, stepping in, confused and suddenly afraid. “What did she do?”

“She didn’t do anything,” Eli croaks out, broken.

“Then what—?” Alba’s voice wavers. “Why is everyone crying?” No one answers.

Olga breathes in sharply through her nose, sinks onto the armrest of the sofa, her shoulders shaking, barely holding in the sobs now.

Alba doesn’t understand what this is, what it means but something in her bones tells her exactly what to do. She pulls her phone from her pocket, thumb trembling as she finds her sister’s name. She steps back into the hallway and presses the call.

Alexia answers almost instantly. “Albs?”

Her voice is warm, calm, but Alba’s isn’t.

“Ale,” she says quickly, “you need to come to mamá’s. Now.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I—I don’t know, but Olga’s here, and she’s crying, and mamá’s… something’s wrong. I think it’s big mamá was screaming at her I heard her from the street”

There’s a pause. Then, “I’m on my way,” Alexia says, sharp and sure. Alba hangs up, heart pounding, and returns to the living room where the air feels too heavy to breathe. Olga is quiet now, face buried in her hands. Eli sits motionless and Alba stands between them, caught in the middle of a secret she doesn’t yet understand only knowing that whatever it is, her sister will make sense of it.

The knock is soft, but the tension in the room makes it sound like thunder. Alba leaps to open the door, her heart in her throat. Alexia steps inside, face creased with concern, eyes sharp, already scanning the room like something in her gut told her this wasn’t just a misunderstanding.

She’s still in joggers and a hoodie, her hair tied back loosely, eyes sharp and searching. She takes one look at her sister and then scans the room freezes when she sees her mother, crumpled on the sofa. Her gaze lands first on her mother, who’s slumped on the sofa, visibly shaken, hands clasped tightly in her lap like she’s bracing for something else to hit. Then her eyes flick to Olga standing stiff and silent by the window, her back half-turned, her coat still on.

“Olga?” Alexia says gently, walking toward her. Olga doesn't turn. Her arms are crossed tight, like she's holding herself together by sheer will.

“What happened?” Alexia asks again, slower now, as her eyes dart back to her mother. “Is someone hurt? What—?”

She steps closer, reaches out, instinctively placing her hand on Olga’s arm but Olga flinches. Not dramatically. Just enough and then she pulls away. Alexia’s breath catches. She stares at her, confused hurt.

“Olga…” No response.

Alexia’s eyes flick between them again her partner and her mother, both visibly wrecked.

“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” she says, louder now, tension rising in her voice. “Mamá? Olga? Talk to me.” Still, no one speaks.

Olga finally moves. Slowly, she reaches for the door, her hand trembling just slightly. “I need some air,” she mutters, almost to herself.

Eli rises instinctively. “Olga please, wait—”

Olga stops, her hand still on the doorknob. She turns slowly and what’s on her face is something Alexia’s never seen before. Grief. Betrayal. Disgust. “I can’t even look at you right now,” Olga says, her voice hollow, strained. Her eyes fixed on Eli, who seems to shrink under the weight of it. “You are not the person I thought you were.”

Alexia’s breath hitches, heart pounding. She looks at her mother, sees the quiet devastation spreading across her face, and she’s suddenly terrified. “Wait—Olga, please—just… what happened?” Alexia pleads, reaching after her again, but the door opens and Olga is gone.

Silence crashes back in. Alexia stands frozen, her hand still in the air, her heart breaking without knowing why. She turns to her mother. “Mamá,” she says, voice trembling. “What did you do?”

Eli doesn’t answer, she sinks down slowly, like the weight of those words took her legs out from under her. She covers her mouth with her hands, eyes spilling over with silent tears.

And Alexia stuck between the two most important women in her life—feels the walls close in, a thousand questions pressing against her chest. Alba looks at her sister, whose hands are balled into fists at her sides. Alexia is staring at the door, stunned, shaken, she’s never seen Olga like that. Never seen her walk away and whatever happened here, whatever broke her, Alexia knows it isn’t just something they can fix. It’s something that changed everything.

The cool night air hits Olga’s face like a slap sharp and biting. She walks until the porch ends, then stops, clutching the railing with both hands, trying to breathe past the chaos inside her.

She hears the door creak open behind her, soft footsteps following.

“Olga,” Eli calls gently. “Please. Just come inside. Let’s talk, mi amor.” Olga doesn’t turn. Her knuckles are white on the railing. A long silence stretches between them.

Then quietly, without venom, only pain Olga speaks. “Please tell me… their father at least knew.”

Eli stands still behind her, silence falling heavy again. Then a nod.

“Yes,” Eli whispers. “He knew.”

Olga finally turns, slow and rigid, her eyes burning. “And he still let her go?”

Eli’s voice cracks. “He didn’t want to. God, Olga, he held her all night the day she was born. He cried like I’d never seen before, he just he knew we couldn’t give to her what she needed. We didn’t have the money, or the support. We thought it was the only way she had a chance. Giving her up broke him Olga, he was never the same after that day, his spirit, his health, everything”

Olga presses her lips together, shaking her head, tears gathering again. “They lost him when they were barely out of childhood, god Alba was a child” she says hoarsely. Eli nods, tears now running freely. Olga blinks through the tears. “So you gave away your baby and because of that, you think it eventually killed your husband.”

Eli swallows a sob, covering her mouth, Olga turns away again, shoulders rising and falling, behind her, Eli stands on the threshold exposed, crumbling and inside the house, through the windows, Alexia is still watching, not understanding everything, but beginning to feel how deep this fracture runs.

The living room is too quiet when they step back inside. Eli gently closes the door behind Olga, whose eyes are red and raw. She doesn’t move far from the entryway. Her arms are crossed tightly again, a self-made cage.

Alexia is still standing, tense, waiting. Alba sits curled up in the corner of the sofa, chewing the inside of her cheek, a nervous habit from childhood.

Eli breathes in deep like the confession she’s about to make might crush her lungs if she doesn’t hold herself steady. “Sit down,” she says softly, looking to both daughters.

Alexia hesitates. “Mamá, what is this?”

“Please,” Eli says. “Just… sit.” Reluctantly, Alexia lowers herself onto the arm of the sofa, her eyes locked on Olga on the way she trembles. She’s crying again, and that frightens her more than anything. Eli moves to stand in front of them, hands clasped like she’s in church, waiting to confess. “I never thought I’d have to say this out loud,” she begins, voice shaking. “I thought I had buried it deep enough that none of you would ever know.”

Alba shifts uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

Eli’s lips tremble, but she goes on. “You had a sister. A younger one, she was born 3 years after you Alba”

The silence detonates. Alba blinks. “What? You… you’re joking, right?” she asks, glancing at Alexia and then back to Eli. “Is this some weird joke or—?”

“No,” Eli says. “It’s not a joke.”

Alba’s face falls. “No. No, that can’t be true. I don’t remember—”

“You wouldn’t,” Eli cuts in gently. “You were just a toddler, Alba. We, your father and I, gave her up. She was born with a heart condition. We couldn’t afford the care she needed. We thought it was the only way she’d survive.”

Alba stares at her, blinking hard like the words won’t compute. “No,” she whispers again. “No. That’s not—you wouldn’t do that. You’re not like that.”

“I did,” Eli says, her voice cracking. “We made the only choice we thought we had.”

Alba suddenly covers her mouth, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. She makes a small, broken sound as if something inside her just split clean down the middle.

Alexia, meanwhile, is still too still, she stares at her mother, jaw tight, eyes sharp with disbelief. “You lied to us,” she says, flat and cold. “Our whole lives.”

Eli looks up, stricken. “Alexia—”

“You let us grow up thinking we were the only ones. Thinking that Dad died with no secrets. That we came from love. From honesty.”

“You did,” Eli pleads. “I loved you every day of your lives.”

Alexia stands suddenly, shaking her head. “But not her.”

“No,” Eli whispers, ashamed. “Not like I should have.”

Alba sobs now, curling into herself on the sofa, shaking. Olga breaks down again. She tries to wipe her face but can’t stop the tears. “I didn’t want this,” she says hoarsely. “I didn’t want to be the one who broke you. I’m so sorry.”

Alexia looks at her, confused, wounded. “You knew?”

Olga opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. “I found out by accident,” she finally manages. “I-I—God, Alexia, I didn’t want to know.”

Alexia’s eyes narrow slightly, not in cruelty but in disbelief. She looks like someone just pulled the rug from beneath her entire identity.

And still, Alba cries softly in the corner, whispering, “A little sister... we had a little sister…” And across from her, Olga thinks of you. Alone in your apartment. Crying into the quiet, not knowing that the truth is finally breaking wide open—and that it’s going to change everything.

The room feels heavy, thick with silence and unsaid things. Alba sits on the sofa, knees pulled close to her chest, eyes fixed on the floor. She doesn’t cry anymore just quiet. Unreachable, curled inward, eyes fixed on the floor, refusing comfort when Olga cautiously reaches out.

“No,” Alba murmurs, voice barely audible. “Not now.” Olga pulls back, defeated, sitting down quietly a few feet away.

Alexia, however, is a storm, pacing, fists clenched, voice rising, “How could you know and say nothing?” she snaps at Olga, eyes burning. “You found out and just kept it to yourself? Do you have any idea how long we lived in the dark? How much this changes everything?”

Olga meets her gaze, her own eyes shining with tears. “I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure. Until I spoke to Eli and confirmed it. Like you, I had a hard time believing it myself.”

Eli steps forward, voice pleading. “Alexia, please. Olga didn’t keep this from you to hurt you—”

Alexia was now directing her frustration at her mother, firing questions at Eli with a mix of desperation and anger.

“Why didn’t you tell us? How could you keep this from us for so long? Why didn’t you try harder? What about Dad, did he know everything? Did you ever try to find her again? What—what was her name?”

Eli swallows, unable to meet any of Alexia’s eyes. “I—I don’t know,” she admits finally. “We… we thought it was better to keep it quiet. We gave her a name but the home just called her ‘Baby Girl.’ It’s probably been changed”

Alexia stops pacing, stunned by the silence, the gaps in answers.

Eli has tears pooling again. Alexia looks at Olga, whose face is streaked with fresh tears. Then Alba remains silent, distant, lost somewhere inside herself. The room is fractured everyone aching, separated by secrets and grief, caught in a web of loss no one can untangle yet, and Alexia can’t see her family healing from this.

The room is heavy with silence. Alba hasn’t moved from her place on the sofa, arms wrapped tightly around herself. She’s staring into some unseen distance, tears dried on her cheeks, her expression blank.

Alexia still stands, breath shallow, torn between betrayal and sorrow.

Then, quietly, she moves.

She walks over and sits down beside Olga, not saying a word. The weight of her presence is everything and nothing at all. Her shoulder barely brushes Olga’s. The contact is light, but to Olga, it’s enough to keep her breathing.

“I need to see her,” Alexia says suddenly, softly. “I need to know she was real.”

Her voice cracks on the last word. Eli blinks, startled. “What?”

“A photo,” Alexia says, turning slowly to her mother. “Do you have one? Anything?”

Eli stares at her daughters one silent and broken, the other just barely holding herself together then nods. She disappears into the hallway. For a long while, the only sounds are Alba’s sniffles and the soft creak of the floorboards as Eli moves in the other room. Then she returns. In her arms is an old, battered shoebox edges torn, the lid soft with age.

She kneels in front of the girls and opens it slowly, like unsealing a grave.

Inside theres a small bundle of ultrasound scans, worn at the corners, black-and-white ghosts of a baby not yet born. A tiny, creased hospital card with faded blue ink: "Baby Girl Putellas Segura." Her weight. Her length. The time she arrived. A white card stamped with one perfect footprint and one tiny handprint, pink and curled like a blossom. And then the photos.

There aren’t many. The first few show Eli and her husband in the hospital room, holding a swaddled newborn between them. They're smiling, tentatively, cautiously, but with something fragile and full in their eyes.

In the next few, the smiles are gone. Eli looks down at the baby with red-rimmed eyes. Her husband kisses the baby’s forehead, his face twisted into something halfway between a smile and a sob.

In the last photo, Eli is no longer holding the baby. She is standing by the hospital bed, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her husband has one hand on her back, but his other is empty. They both look like people trying to memorise the little girl on the bed before it’s taken away.

No one speaks. Olga covers her mouth with her hand, tears falling silently, the pain was radiating from the photos.

Alexia reaches forward, touching the photo gently with her fingertips, like she’s afraid it might disappear. “She looks like, us,” she whispers. “Her nose. The shape of her eyes.”

Eli nods, wiping her face. “I only looked at these once,” she says. “Then I put them in a box. I never looked at them again. I couldn’t.”

Alexia glances at her mother eyes still confused, still hurt but quieter now. “She was real,” she says, mostly to herself. “She was ours.” next to her, Olga presses her hand against her chest, trying to breathe through the ache.

Alexia holds the photo delicately, as though it might crumble if she breathes too hard. Her thumb hovers over the image her parents, younger and terrified, their arms newly empty.

She glances sideways. Alba hasn’t moved. She’s still curled in on herself, her chin on her knees, her arms wrapped tight like a shield. Her eyes are open but empty, staring into the middle of the floor, if she’s heard anything, it’s impossible to tell.

“Alba…” Alexia says softly. No response, she turns more fully, holding the photo just a little closer in Alba’s direction. “Do you want to see her?” Her voice is quiet, careful. Not pushing. Just offering.

Alba doesn’t answer. For a long moment, she doesn’t even blink, but then her eyes flicker, just barely, toward the photo in Alexia’s hand. She doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t move, but that one glance is enough to crack something.

Alexia sees it. She leans a little closer. “She looks like you,” she whispers. “When you were little.”

Alba’s lower lip trembles. Her breath shudders out of her like it physically hurts to take in air. “Why didn’t she get to stay?” she says finally, voice fragile and small.

Eli’s breath catches in her throat. She opens her mouth to answer but no words come. Olga whispers for her, “She was sick, your parents did what they thought was best for her”

Alba turns slowly toward the photo, then reaches out, her hand trembling as she takes it. She looks at it for a long time and then, in a barely-there voice that cracks in the middle, she whispers, “She had Papa's chin.”

It breaks Eli. She covers her mouth, sobbing quietly, and Olga gently moves to wrap her arm around her. Alba doesn’t cry. She just keeps looking, at the baby, at the past, at the sister she never got to love. 🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You sit on the floor of your apartment, your laptop closed on the coffee table, long forgotten. The untouched sandwich from earlier is still in its wrapper, resting near your elbow. You haven’t moved much since you got home. Haven’t wanted to.

The apartment feels emptier than usual. Not just quiet but hollow. Like something inside you cracked open when Olga left, and now the silence has a place to live.

You’ve replayed that moment over and over. The look in her eyes when she saw the photo. The way she snapped. The disbelief. The accusation.

You’d tried to speak, to explain, but she wouldn’t let you. Wouldn’t hear you. She thought you’d used her. That you’d known. That the photo meant something you’d kept hidden, but you hadn’t known. You still don’t know.

That picture had always been a strange little mystery to you. Left in the file the home had when you were a baby. Just two smiling girls, a sense of something warm and long-lost. You’d stared at it often growing up. Not because you knew who they were but because they felt like a possibility. Like maybe, once, someone had loved you and now that photo’s gone. Torn out of your hands and taken into someone else’s truth.

You wipe at your eyes again, but they won’t stop watering. Your throat aches from holding back sobs that keep forcing their way through.

You don’t know what’s happening.

You don’t know what to do.

You just keep sitting there, waiting for a knock that might never come. A message. A clue. Something, but there’s nothing. Just the faint hum of your fridge and the quiet ache in your chest.

It’s almost midnight by the time you stop pacing your apartment. Your hands shake as you hold the phone. You scroll past a few names none feel right. Not now. Not after everything.

Then your thumb hovers over hers. Patri 💕

You haven’t told anyone about her. Not even Olga. It was easier that way kept things uncomplicated. Casual. Hidden, but now… nothing feels simple or safe.

You press call.

She picks up quickly. “Hey,” she says, voice warm and soft.“Everything okay, you never call this late?”

You don’t answer right away. Your throat’s too tight. “Can you come over?” you manage. “Please?”

She hears it. Whatever's in your voice. “I’m on my way.”

You don’t move from your spot near the window until you hear her knock. When you open the door, she doesn’t ask questions. She just sees your face red-eyed, exhausted, cracked wide open and steps in with arms that don’t hesitate.

You fall into her without a word. Her hand runs gently down your back, grounding you.

Minutes pass before you pull away, wiping your face with your sleeve. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I just… I didn’t know who else to call.”

Patri nods, patient. “You can always call me. You know that.”

You sit on the couch. She sits beside you, close but not crowding you. Waiting. You breathe in deep. Out. And then, “I think…” You pause, heart hammering. “I think Alexia Putellas is my sister.”

Silence. Patri doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t flinch. Her brow furrows, but her eyes stay soft.

You look down at your hands. “There was this photo. Two girls. I had it my whole life it was left with me when I was dropped off at the children's home. I never knew who they were” You shake your head, tears rising again. “Olga saw it and lost it. Thought I’d known all along it was Alexia and her sister. Took the photo. Stormed out. She hasn’t answered my messages. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t even know if I’m going crazy.”

Patri takes your hand in both of hers. “You’re not crazy,” she says softly. “And even if it sounds impossible… it might not be.”

“I don’t want anything from them,” you say quickly. “I didn’t even know. I just… I want to understand. Why I was left. Who I was before I was just… no one.”

You’re crying again, but you don’t try to stop it now, Patri squeezes your hand, steady and sure, you don’t say anything, but when you lean your head on her shoulder, it’s the first moment you’ve felt even a little less alone.

Patri’s fingers thread gently through yours, her thumb brushing your knuckles. Your eyes are swollen, throat raw, barely holding it together. Then, in the quiet, she leans a little closer. Her voice barely above a whisper, warm and solid against the chaos inside you. “You’re not no one to me.”

It stops your breath, you lift your head just slightly, eyes meeting hers. There’s no pity in her face. No fear. Just quiet certainty.

“You hear me?” she says again, firmer now. “You’re not nothing. I don’t care if you don’t know who you were before. I care who you are now and I see you.”

Your eyes fill again, but this time, the tears feel different. Not jagged or spiralling just full.

You nod. A small one. But it’s real. “Thank you,” you manage, your voice breaking.

Patri leans in, gently presses her lips to your forehead. “We’ll figure this out,” she says. “Together. Okay?” And in that moment, just for a heartbeat, you believe her. 🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The sun creeps in slowly through your curtains, tracing thin golden lines across the floor. You barely slept, but with Patri beside you, the night didn’t feel quite as endless. She stirs first, brushing a strand of hair from your face. You open your eyes to find her watching you, soft and steady.

“Come on,” she says gently. “I’m taking you to breakfast before we face the world.”

You want to protest, you don’t look like yourself, your stomach is a knot, and the idea of being in public right now feels impossible but she’s already pulling the covers back and reaching for your pre hung up work clothes like it’s not up for debate.

So you let her.

The café is small, tucked on a quiet corner near the training grounds and your office with Olga. No jerseys, no fans. Just warmth, fresh bread, and the clink of mugs being set on tables.

You sit across from her, both of you nursing hot drinks. Patri tears a croissant in half and sets one piece on your plate without asking after you said you didn't want anything.

“You don’t have to talk,” she says, watching you. “Just eat something. One small normal thing before everything gets… complicated again.”

You nod, barely able to hold her gaze, but grateful, after a few bites that were dry, tasteless in your mouth, you whisper, “What if she never forgives me?”

Patri doesn’t hesitate. “Then she doesn’t deserve to be in your life." You blink at her. “She’s hurt,” Patri adds, softening. “I get that, but if she can’t believe you, if she won’t even try to, then that’s on her. Not you.”

You glance down at your coffee. “It just… it meant something working with her, i thought I finally had… something that made sense.”

Patri reaches across the table, hooks her pinky around yours. “You do,” she says. “You have me and I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod, holding onto that, even if everything else is spinning, this feels real. When you check the time, you realise it's almost time to head in. Patri downs the rest of her coffee and stands.

She pulls you up with her, smooths your jacket at the shoulders, and presses a quick kiss to your temple. “You’ve got this,” she whispers. “Text me when you’re done. No matter how it goes.”

You nod. She squeezes your hand once before heading toward the training facility down the block. You turn toward the office. Stomach heavy. Heart heavier but not quite as alone.

You step away from the café, the last of Patri’s warmth still clinging to your jacket like a hug that hasn't fully let go. The morning air is cool, quiet. You take a breath, try to let the calm hold for just a second longer. Then you see her, Olga, she’s over the road, leaning against the side of a closed bookstore, arms crossed tight, shoulders hunched like she hasn’t slept either. You freeze mid-step, her eyes are on you, it hits you like a punch. She saw. She was watching, maybe the whole time.

You don’t know what she saw exactly, but in your gut it doesn’t matter whatever flicker of healing you’d just started to believe in crumbles under your feet.

She looks up, your eyes meet, her expression doesn’t shift. No relief. No kindness. No fury either just something unreadable, and somehow that’s worse.

You almost step toward her, almost say her name, but the shame wraps around your ribs like wire. The same helpless, spiralling thought churns, I’ve made it worse.

You lower your eyes, quicken your pace, and cross the street without another glance back, by the time you reach the office door, your hands are shaking again.

The walls have started to ease back up, the ache in your chest back in full force and the photo, the truth, all of it… still just out of reach.

The office is cold when you step in, or maybe it’s just you. Either way, you don’t take off your coat.

You slide into your desk, boot up your laptop, and stare at the screen without seeing a word. You hear her before you see her, the soft click of the door, the measured steps. She moves past without a glance. You hold your breath.

She settles into her chair, the rustle of fabric as she crosses one leg over the other, her keys clinking gently on her desk. Then after what feels like an entire hour folded into thirty seconds "How did you meet Patri?"

Her voice is calm, almost too calm, you glance over. She’s not looking at you, her fingers are gently tapping her mug, as though it’s just any other morning.

You swallow. “I, um…” Your throat is dry. “I met her in a bar. A few weeks ago. After work.”

You watch her profile, trying to read her, but she gives you nothing.

“She didn’t know who I was,” you add. “To you. I didn’t tell her. At first”

Silence, you brace for something accusation, coldness, anything, but all she says is, “Do you love her?”

The question stuns you, not because you hadn’t thought about it, but because you never expected her to ask. “I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Maybe. It’s a bit early for that yet. We've not even had sex”

Another beat of silence. Then Olga nods, just once, like she’s filing it away somewhere.

You sit there, confused, the tension still knotted in your chest, but she doesn’t push. Doesn’t snap, just sips from her mug and opens her inbox like this conversation never happened and somehow… that quiet is the most painful sound of all.

The silence between you stretches thin but neither of you moves.

You pretend to work, Olga pretends not to notice your shaking hands. Then she speaks, her voice soft. Measured. “I spoke to Alexia’s mami.”

You freeze, your cursor blinks on the screen, forgotten.

You turn slowly, but she’s not looking at you. Her eyes are locked on the mug in her hands, fingers curling tight around the ceramic like she needs to anchor herself to something.

Your voice barely makes it out. “You did?”

She nods once. “Yeah.”

You wait. The silence stretches again, heavy with everything she hasn’t said yet. “I showed her the photo,” Olga continues, still soft. “The one you had. She went pale. I didn’t even have to ask anything. I knew just by her reaction to the photo.”

A breath shudders out of you. “I didn’t know,” you whisper. “Olga, I swear to you—”

“I know,” she cuts in.

Your eyes snap to hers, she's finally looking at you and in that look is a whole storm grief, disbelief, pain, exhaustion.

“You were just a baby,” she says quietly. “Left with a photo and nothing else.”

You blink back fresh tears. “Then it’s true.”

Olga nods, slowly. “They gave you up, because of your heart, because they couldn’t afford the care you needed. Your—” She pauses, breath catching. “—your father… he knew. He died when Alexia and Alba were teenagers.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, the ache in your chest pulsing to life again.

“They loved you,” Olga says. “You were their baby. I saw the pictures. The scans. A card with your footprints. They held you. Smiled with you.” She swallows hard, and now it’s her turn to look away. “But they left the hospital without you because they thought that would give you the best chance in life.”

The room is still. The weight of twenty-five years settling over your shoulders like fog.

You whisper, “What was my name?”

Olga’s voice trembles. “They didn't get to name you.”

You close your eyes, it doesn’t feel real and yet it explains everything.

Olga stands. You watch her cross the room slowly, quietly, something reverent in the way she moves as if she’s carrying something sacred and she is.

She reaches into her bag, then gently places the photo frame down on your desk in front of you. The same one that had once been your only clue to anything real. It feels heavier now.

“They know,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Alexia. Alba.”

You stare at the photo. Two little girls. You touch the glass. Your fingers don’t shake this time, but your breath catches.

“I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure,” Olga continues. “Until I had the truth.”

“And now they know.” You say it aloud. Like you’re testing it. Like it might disappear.

Olga nods.

“They didn’t before?” you ask.

She shakes her head slowly. “They had no idea. Eli kept it from them all this time.”

You stare at her. “What did they say?”

Her lips press together for a moment. “Alba was… broken. She didn’t believe it at first, then she just went quiet, typically her.”

Your chest tightens.

“And Alexia…” Olga’s voice trails off, her gaze dropping. “She was angry. Confused. At Eli. At me.”

You wince. “At you?”

Olga meets your eyes. “She didn’t understand why I didn’t tell her soon as I found the picture. Why I didn’t come to her the second I suspected.”

You nod slowly, taking that in.

“I told her I needed to be sure,” Olga says softly. “I owed that to everyone.”

Something cracks in your chest at that. You look down at the photo again, then whisper, “Do they… want to see me?”

There’s a pause and then “Yes,” Olga says. “They do.”

You look up at her. You nod, blinking fast. You stare down at the photo. Your throat tightens as you try to find the words that don’t sound like a betrayal of how much this means, how much it changes. You swallow hard, your voice barely there. “I need time.”

Olga doesn’t speak, so you glance up half-expecting disappointment, or worse, pity, but there’s none, she just nods. “Of course,” she says gently.

“I just…” you start, then stop. Try again. “It’s a lot. I’m still trying to believe it’s real.”

Her eyes soften, her shoulders releasing tension you didn’t realise she’d been holding. “You don’t owe anyone speed,” she says, and again, that name hits different. Warmer now. Anchoring.

You nod slowly.

Olga walks back to her desk, sits quietly, like she’s giving you both physical and emotional space. No pushing. No pressure.

Just… waiting.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Patri’s apartment smells faintly of rosemary and whatever candle she always has burning. It’s quiet except for the soft sound of her socks on the wood floors and the occasional clink of mugs as she makes tea without asking like she already knows you won’t have the appetite for anything more.

You’re curled on her couch, legs pulled to your chest, the familiar soft throw blanket wrapped tight around you. The photo’s not in your bag anymore, but it may as well be it’s burned into your thoughts.

Patri walks over, hands you a mug you barely manage to hold, then settles beside you without touching close enough to feel, but not crowding.

You stare down at the tea. “I have family.”

The words barely leave your mouth. They feel surreal still, like you’re saying them for someone else. Patri doesn’t speak. She waits.

You exhale shakily. “People I’m related to. By blood. I’ve never had that before, never even let myself imagine what it could be like.”

She glances at you, softly, kindly.

You keep going, voice fragile. “They want to meet me. Alexia. Alba. My sisters.” You taste the word, and it stings and warms at the same time. “But I don’t know if I can do it.”

Patri tilts her head. “Why?”

You blink hard. “Because I’m not who they think they lost. I grew up different to them. I have… pieces, but they don’t fit right. What if I’m a disappointment? What if they only want who I could’ve been, not who I actually am?”

The tears come quick this time. Quiet and raw.

“I don’t know how to be someone’s sister. I don’t even know how to be someone’s daughter.”

Patri shifts closer, gently, until your knee brushes hers. She doesn't reach for your hand just gives you space to fall apart without pressure.

When you finally look up at her, eyes glassy, voice cracking, you whisper, “What if I ruin it just by showing up?”

She leans forward then, soft but certain. “Baby,” she says slow, “You ruin nothing by existing. If anything, you’re the one thing that might put something broken back together.”

You don’t reply, but you lean against her, and when she wraps her arms around you, you let yourself fall into the quiet. Not healed. Not ready, but no longer alone.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the city outside filtering through sheer curtains. Alexia is already in bed, lying on her side, scrolling idly through her phone. Her hair’s a little damp from the shower, and the covers are pulled up around her shoulders like she’s cocooning herself from the day.

Olga steps in quietly, brushing her teeth finished, sleep tugging at her limbs but her thoughts too loud for rest.

She climbs into bed slowly, careful not to disturb the peace too much.

Alexia hums, sensing something. “Everything okay?”

Olga hesitates, settles on her side to face her, elbow bent, cheek resting against her hand. “I need to tell you something,” she says softly. "It's been eating me all day and I just need to off load it to someone"

Alexia’s eyes flick up from her phone. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Olga assures quickly. “Just… weird and you have to promise not to freak out.”

Alexia raises a brow. “That’s never a comforting preface.”

Olga gives her a tired, warning look. “I’m serious. No confronting anyone. No speeches. Just… listen.”

Alexia sets her phone down. She shifts onto her back, sighs dramatically. “Fine. I solemnly swear. Go.”

Olga stares at the ceiling for a second. Then “My assistant, the one you met at the office… she’s the girl Patri’s been seeing.”

Alexia blinks. “Wait. What?”

“Shh,” Olga hushes quickly, placing a hand gently on Alexia’s arm. “You promised. No freaking out.”

Alexia sits up a little against the headboard, clearly working through it. “Wait. Your assistant is Patri’s girl? She's the one who everyone’s been speculating about in the locker room for weeks?”

Olga nods slowly. “Yeah. I saw them this morning. Having breakfast together. Just… looked like a date.”

Alexia stares at her, mouth open slightly. “And you’re just telling me this now?”

Olga shrugs. “I didn’t know until today. I wasn’t spying. I was just... walking. Processing.”

Alexia laughs once, disbelieving. “Dios. Patri and your assistant. That’s… wow.” She pauses. Then narrows her eyes. “Is she even Patri’s type?”

Olga gives her a flat look. “You’ve met her once, and all you said was she seemed ‘too polite.’”

Alexia shrugs, but she’s smiling now. “Polite and dating Patri? That girl must have hidden layers.”

Olga hums. She rests her head on Alexia’s shoulder, a little quieter again.

After a beat, Alexia asks, “Is that all? Or is there a reason you brought it up now?”

Olga closes her eyes. “There’s more to it… just not for tonight.”

Alexia tilts her head, trying to read her. “Okay…”

Olga squeezes her hand gently. “Just don’t mention anything at training. Let Patri have her privacy.”

Alexia rolls her eyes. “You act like I’m the drama.”

Olga just smiles, eyes still closed. “You’re the captain and the drama.”

Alexia laughs softly and presses a kiss to Olga’s forehead. “Fine. I’ll behave.”

But even as they settle into silence, you linger in Alexia’s thoughts just a little longer than before.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You’re mid-call, headset on, trying to sound confident while walking a particularly demanding client through a social rollout calendar. Your laptop is open, filled with colour-coded chaos, and you’re scribbling notes on a pad beside you.

Patri is lounging, because that’s the only word for it, in the visitor’s chair next to your desk. She’s got one ankle lazily hooked over her knee, phone in hand, sunglasses perched on her nose even though you’re indoors. She hasn’t said a word in ten minutes, just keeping you company like some smirking silent bodyguard.

You flick your eyes toward her for a second and she just wiggles her eyebrows. You try not to laugh but the door clicks open.

Olga strides in, crisp and purposeful, folders tucked under her arm and a cappuccino in hand. She looks up, clearly expecting her usual quiet workspace and then spots Patri.

She stops Patri glances up from her phone, sees her, and grins “Hola, jefa.”

Olga narrows her eyes. “Patri.”

You freeze mid-sentence on your call. “—Yes, we’ll have the draft by Friday, absolutely. Thank you, I’ll follow up with the design team. Okay. Bye now.”

You click off and rip off the headset, slowly swivelling toward Olga

“Hey,” you say, cautiously.

Olga looks between the two of you, arms crossed, brow lifted in that unimpressed way that’s both maternal and mildly terrifying. “You know this isn’t a café, right?” she says to Patri, deadpan.

Patri shrugs, completely unbothered. ���Had the morning off. Thought I’d escort your best employee through their incredibly stressful workday.”

Olga glances at you, unamused. “Is that true?”

You give her a tight, sheepish smile. “I didn’t know she was coming.”

Patri snorts, Olga sets her folders down on her desk, sipping her coffee. “Well, now that you’re here, maybe you’d like to help sort through thirty Instagram DMs from a dog food sponsor who doesn’t understand what a brand kit is.”

Patri puts a hand to her heart, mock-wounded. “That sounds horrifying.”

Olga deadpans, “Welcome to my life.”

You try not to smile but fail miserably, and Olga catches it her expression softening just for a second.

“Fifteen more minutes,” she says to Patri. “Then she’s mine again.”

Patri gives you a wink. “I’ll take what I can get.”

Olga rolls her eyes and turns back to her desk, but not before you catch the tiniest smirk twitch at the corner of her mouth.

The office quiets again after Patri leaves she kisses your temple before she goes, murmuring something only for you, and you hold onto the warmth of it like a tether. But it fades fast once the door closes behind her.

Olga doesn’t look at you right away. She’s working or pretending to. You sit for a while. Typing. Staring. Breathing. Trying to decide if the knot in your chest will ever untangle itself.

You think about the photo. About the scans in the box. About Eli’s face when she realised who you were. About Olga saying your sisters know now. That they want to meet you.

You think about what you said to Patri and then, softly, “Olga?”

She looks up immediately, her eyes are calm, steady gentle in the way only someone who’s known heartbreak can manage.

You clear your throat. Your hands tremble a little in your lap. “I think…” You hesitate, then push through. “I want to meet them.”

Olga doesn't move for a second. Then she slowly exhales, and something loosens in her shoulders. Not relief something quieter. Respect, maybe. Care. “Okay,” she says, her voice low, warm. “I’ll let them know.”

You nod, once. It still scares you. You’re still not sure who you’ll be to them or who they’ll be to you. Sisters. Strangers. Something in between, but you’re ready to try and maybe, for now, that’s enough.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The home Olga and Alexia share is quiet and vast, tucked away, the kind of place with balconies full of trailing plants and old tiled floors. Olga brings you up the driveway, but she doesn’t say much. Just walks beside you, shoulder brushing yours once or twice, letting the silence be whatever you need it to be.

You stop in front of the door, your hands are cold, you didn’t realise you were shaking until you saw the key tremble in Olga’s hand. She glances at you. “They’re all here.”

You nod once. Like if you say anything, you’ll turn around and run Olga squeezes your shoulder gently. Then opens the door.

The flat smells like coffee and lavender. Eli’s sitting at the dining table. She rises when she sees you, hands twitching like she wants to reach for you but she doesn’t. Not yet. Behind her, Alba leans in a doorway, arms folded tight, guarded and uncertain. Her expression is blank but her eyes are anything but, and then there’s Alexia.

She’s sitting on the sofa. Casual, almost too casual hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair tied back, one leg bouncing anxiously. She stands up when you come in, and for a second, nobody breathes.

This is it. You’ve imagined this moment so many times and never, not once, like this.

Alexia speaks first. “Hi.” Just that. One syllable, but her voice is soft.

You nod. “Hi.”

Olga touches your back gently, guiding you toward the sofa. You perch on the edge, knees close together, hands tight in your lap.

Alba stays back.

Alesia sits back down and studies you like she’s trying to make sense of what’s right in front of her and still can’t believe it. “I didn’t know,” she says. “Until last week, I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t either,” you whisper.

You look at her really look at her. She’s familiar in ways that don’t make sense. The shape of her nose. The arch of her brow. The curve of her mouth when she frowns like yours in the mirror.

Eli clears her throat. “This is yours,” she says quietly, and sets the shoebox down on the table in front of you.

You don’t open it yet. You’re too afraid of what it is will make real, and you really didn't want to cry in front of these people.

Instead, you look at Alexia again and then to Alba, whose jaw is clenched, whose arms are still crossed like armour.

“I’m not here to take anything,” you say, your voice shaking. “I’m not trying to force myself into your lives. I don’t even know how to do this. I just… I wanted to meet you.”

Alba looks away, Alexia doesn’t, she leans forward and when she speaks again, it’s quieter. “I don’t know how to do this either,” she says. “But I want to try.”

Your breath hitches. You nod. Once and when she reaches out, you let her take your hand and time passes in silence, Olga offers you a drink, and the only noise is clanking of glasses in the kitchen,

Alexia hasn’t let go of your hand even when Olga puts your drink on the coffee table in front of you.

It rests between hers, light but sure, a quiet anchor as you sit across from her on the low coffee table. She doesn’t look like a football legend right now. She looks like someone trying not to break apart a thousand different ways.

Olga sits beside you right beside you. So close her thigh presses against yours, one of her hands resting on your back as if she’s afraid you might suddenly vanish.

You feel both of them, like weights you can lean on. Eli sits a few feet away, silent, hands clasped in her lap. Her eyes are rimmed with red, lips pressed in a line. Alba leans against the far wall, arms still crossed, distant but listening.

The shoebox sits unopened on the table. Alexia breaks the silence first.

“So…” she starts, glancing between you and Olga, “You work for my girlfriend. That’s wild.”

You blink, a little startled by the shift but you’re grateful for comfortable small talk. It’s a rope thrown into the storm. You nod. “Yeah. Almost three months now.”

Olga leans in just enough for her temple to graze your shoulder. “She’s brilliant,” she murmurs. “Takes her job too seriously, though.”

You roll your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips despite everything. “Says the woman who once scheduled tweets from the bathtub.”

Alexia barks a laugh genuine, caught off guard. “She would.”

“She did,” "I did" you and Olga say in unison, and for a beat, it feels like a normal moment between friends.

Then silence creeps in again, you fiddle with the hem of your sleeve.

“You guys are close,” Alexia says softly, looking between you and Olga.

You nod. “She’s been… I don’t even know what I’d call it. Kind. Patient. The first person who made me feel like I wasn’t just… passing through.”

You feel Olga’s fingers tighten briefly at your back. A silent I’m still here. Alexia’s expression softens. “I get that,” she murmurs.

You look at her carefully. “Is that why you’re… so good to Alba?”

She looks over at her little sister still silent, still watching and her whole face changes. It’s not obvious, not loud, but it’s there the sharp tenderness, the unspoken devotion.

“She’s mine,” Alexia says simply. “Always has been.”

You nod slowly, your throat tightens, and suddenly you can’t speak Olga shifts beside you, gently leaning into your side, just enough to steady you.

You don’t say anything more, neither does Alexia, not right away, but something’s changing in the room. Not resolved not fixed but thawing.

Across the space, Alba watches it all with unreadable eyes and Eli quiet and still presses a hand to her mouth, as if afraid her emotions might spill out and ruin this fragile moment.

You look at your sister, she smiles at you. Small. Real and you smile back.

It’s quiet again now, not the awkward kind it’s something else. Something rawer.

You feel Olga still beside you, warm and steady. Alexia hasn’t moved far either, perched on the sofa her fingers tap silently against her knee, like she wants to speak but knows this moment isn’t hers.

You’re looking at Eli. She hasn’t looked at you once. Not really. Not since you walked through the door. She sits rigid in her chair, her body folded in on itself like she’s trying to be smaller, her hands twist in her lap, restless and unanchored. Her lips are pressed together like she’s keeping a dam sealed with sheer will.

You watch the way her thumbs rub over one another.

You do that.

You watch the way her brow creases when she’s thinking too loud to speak.

You do that too.

It strikes you all at once not in your chest but in your gut, like something old and invisible pulling taut.

You’re hers you always have been, your voice, when it breaks the silence, surprises even you. Soft. Uncertain. “You look like you need a hug.”

Her head lifts, slowly, slowly, she meets your eyes.

Everything in her face is shaking. Guilt. Hope. Fear. Regret. Love, too but buried beneath years of silence and sorrow.

Her mouth parts, but no words come out, the others don’t move. Not Alba. Not Alexia. Not even Olga.

You don’t push her, you just let the words sit in the space between you Eli swallows. Her eyes fill before a single tear escapes. Her hands go still and then quietly, brokenly “I do”

You stand placing your bag down, she seems surprised by your action but she stands and when you take steps forward she meets you halfway.

She hugs you like she’s terrified you’ll disappear again, her arms wrap around you, trembling, and your face presses into her shoulder. You breathe her in lavender and something warm beneath it. Something familiar you didn’t even know you missed.

Her whole body shudders as she quietly cries, you don’t say anything, you just hold her back, you don’t know what you’re forgiving. There was nothing to forgive for you, you don’t know what still needs to be mended, but in this moment, you’re not lost. You’re held.

The security buzzer goes, you swallow as you and Eli pull away at the same time, "I'll get it that, that'll be" Olga stops herself she knew Patri was coming for you, but she didn't know whether you wanted everyone knowing.

You nod with a little smile, you look to Alexia, "I take it you know"

She nods, "She talks about you a lot, I just didn't know, you were, you, until yesterday"

Patri’s car pulls up as the door is opened just as the sky softens into twilight you stand near the door, jacket pulled around your shoulders, feeling the air shift as the visit comes to a close.

Olga helps you gather your things gentle, wordless, still keeping close like she’s afraid too much space might crack something in you. Alexia lingers near Patri's car they have a quiet conversation you don't catch, her arms folded but her expression soft, uncertain when it turns back to you. Alba follows behind at a distance, watching still wary, still processing, but here that was something.

Eli hasn’t said much since the hug. She’s been quieter than ever, her movements slowed like the emotion has worn her thin, but she’s remained close, watching you with eyes too full for casual conversation.

You hold the letter in your hand for a long time before you finally turn to her.

It’s folded neatly. Ink smudged in one corner from where your hand trembled. You hadn’t planned to give it to her but there were too many things you couldn’t get out in front of everyone. Things too complicated. Too raw. And you wrote it for that circumstance.

You step closer. Offer it with both hands. She looks down at the paper like it might burn her fingers.

You speak quietly, for her only. “I didn’t know how to say it all. So I wrote it instead.”

Eli’s hand reaches out slowly, like she’s afraid if she moves too fast you’ll vanish again. She takes the letter her fingers press around it like it’s fragile like you are.

She nods, eyes shining, lips parting but she doesn’t speak. Just holds it close to her chest.

"Ready to go babe?" Patri smiles, "Pina and her sister are already there"

You nod and turn, your eyes meet Alexia’s, she gives you the faintest smile, then steps aside to let you go. Olga brushes her hand over your back as you move past her, a silent I’m proud of yo and as you walk around Patri's car to get in, Alba finally looks up.

She doesn’t say anything but for the first time, she doesn’t look away.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The front door clicked shut behind you, and with it goes the last of the tension you carried into this house hours ago. The echo of your presence lingers in the room, the kind that doesn’t fade easily. The kind that changes things.

Eli stands where you left her, still holding the letter like it’s made of glass.

Her eyes don’t lift from it Alexia gently steps toward her. “Mami?" but Eli barely hears. Her lips move, soundless.

“I can’t,” she whispers finally. “I can’t read it. I don’t know if I can take what it says.”

Olga watches her closely, her fingers curled around the hem of her jumper, but she doesn’t interrupt. She’s already said what she needed to say today.

Alba, who hasn’t said a word in what feels like forever, finally pushes off the arm of the couch. Her voice is soft, a little raspy.

“Do you want me to read it to you?”

Eli looks up, startled, Alba doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. She just holds out her hand. Eli hesitates for a moment, eyes searching her daughter’s face. And then, wordlessly, she presses the letter into her youngest’s palm.

Alba walks to the center of the room and sits down on the couch, tucking one leg beneath her. She opens the paper carefully, smoothing the creases with tender fingers.

She clears her throat as everyone takes a seat and begins.

I don't even know where to start with this I feel for years of my life I always wanted this moment, the opportunity to have my say, so this probably won't flow or make much sense but I'm going to vulnerably honest and true to myself.

I never blamed you, growing up I never resented you, disliked you, or hated you for the decision you made. I would always wonder what I did wrong. Why I wasn't good enough. The reason you couldn't keep me and love me like parents should, I was always focused on me and my short comings, I never spoke or thought negatively for the decision you made.

I saw everyday the pain giving a child up caused, I heard my carers talk of the despair and sheer pain they would witness when children were removed from the care of their parents. I would hope you didn't ever have to feel that because it wasn't a choice you had made but I understand the gravity of the decision that was made to leave me at the hospital for you and your husband.

I obviously now know the reason for your decision, and I think it's important for you to know, I did get that help I needed and that you may be interested in the journey that took. I had five surgeries before my second birthday, to try and mend the heart I have, I spent the first three years of my life living in the hospital you left me at, before I was discharged to my first foster family but I had very complex medical needs and they couldn't deal with that so I was moved on. I moved I think 5 times before I was 10 and deemed fit enough to live in a communal home where I stayed until I was 12 but then I needed to move again due to my age to what they call a half way house until I was 18.

Tangent lol, back to the heart, its never going to be a fully working healthy heart, I can't eat certain foods I can't have certain drinks and I work everyday to just be the healthiest I can be to give my heart the best chance of being able to sustain me and make the need for a transplant stayed off for as long as possible. That's a case of when and not if.

Olga explained to me of the passing of your husband, I am truly sorry for you Alexia and Alba's loss, I couldn't begin to imagine the pain it caused to loose such a big part of your lives.

I'm not here to ask anything from any of you, I don't know what any of us want from what we've learned, or what any of us expect to happen.

I just hope that this doesn't affect the relationship you have with your daughters because even before I learned what I know now, from the stories I heard from Olga you sounded like such a warm loving tight nit family. It may not be my place to say but I hope it doesn't change what they think and see of you, you are still the mother they know and love that hasn't changed because they learned of me. You are still that same person, and if anything it just shows what strength you have to make the hardest decision a parent can make along with your husband and carry on and raise two amazing people.

I hope you can begin to heal and most of all forgive yourself for the decision you made all those years ago.

You made the right decision, for me and for your family.

I wouldn't be here today without the decision and sacrifice you made so,

Thank You

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You’re not expecting her.

The quiet of the office is a comfort today, Olga’s out in meetings, the afternoon sun is casting soft shadows across your desk, and the rhythm of your tasks is keeping your mind anchored. Or at leas distracted.

Then the bell above the door chimes, you glance up.

Alba lingers awkwardly by the entrance, her eyes scanning the space like she might still change her mind. She’s dressed simply jeans, oversized tee, hair up in a messy knot and something about her posture makes her look younger than she is. Vulnerable.

You stand slowly, heart thudding. “Hey…”

Alba walks in a few paces, stopping near the front counter. Her hands are shoved deep in her pockets. “I know Olga’s not here,” she says quickly, like a disclaimer. “I waited. I didn’t want to… ambush or anything.”

You nod, unsure what to say yet. She’s clearly nervous, more than you thought she would be from the stories you'd heard of her from Olga.

“I just…” She exhales through her nose, avoiding your eyes. “I wanted to talk. To you. If that’s okay.”

You gesture gently toward the small seating area. “Of course.”

You both sit, but she perches on the edge of the chair, like she’s ready to bolt. She doesn’t look at you, not directly, but her voice is soft and unfiltered. “I don’t know how to do this,” she admits. “I’ve been all messed up since we found out. It’s like everything I ever knew just cracked and now I keep wondering what it means. For me. For us.”

You nod, letting her speak without interruption.

“I guess I just…” She finally glances at you. Her eyes are rimmed red. “I want to get to know you, because out of anyone it's really not your fault, but I don’t know where to start.”

Your voice is quiet but steady. “Maybe we don’t have to know. Maybe we just try.” Alba blinks. You smile, just a little. “We could… start with dinner? No pressure. No heavy talks unless you want to. Just two people who might be something to each other, seeing what that feels like.”

Alba gives the tiniest laugh, almost a scoff at herself. “I haven’t felt this nervous about dinner since my first crush in high school.”

You grin. “Should I be flattered or terrified?”

She laughs again, fuller this time. “Maybe both.”

You reach for your notebook, tearing off a corner and scribbling. You hand it to her a small list of places you can eat in the city and your phone number"

“Pick one. You text me when you're ready. No pressure. Just… dinner.”

Alba looks at the paper in her hands like it’s more than just ink and names. She nods slowly. “Okay,” she says, quieter now. “Okay.” She stands after a moment, lingers at the door again like she’s debating something. Then she turns back. “Thank you. For not making it harder.”

You offer her a warm, careful smile. “We’ve both had hard. I’d rather try something else.”

She nods and then she’s gone.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The restaurant is quiet and tucked away one of those cozy little places with exposed brick, warm lighting, and waitstaff that treat you like family. You’re early. You’d rather wait than arrive to faces you’re not quite sure how to greet yet, but you don’t wait long.

Alba arrives first.

She spots you at the table and offers a small, shy smile as she slides into the seat across from you. She’s dressed casually, but there's something softer in her eyes than the last time less guarded.

You’re about to say something when you hear a familiar voice at the hostess stand. “Alba!”

Alexia. Your heart stutters. You weren’t expecting her. Alba glances at you, a half-smile creeping in. “I may have… invited someone.”

Alexia arrives at the table with a warm grin and no hesitation at all as she kisses both your cheeks like she’s always done it. “Hi,” she says, taking the seat beside you. “I figured, three sisters is better than two, no?”

It’s strange how easy the word sisters rolls out of her mouth. You blink at her, then at Alba, then you smile. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

The conversation starts simple, menus, drinks, Alexia teasing Alba about how she always orders the same pasta everywhere she goes. You laugh when Alexia makes a terrible pun in Spanish that Alba groans at. You’re hesitant at first, still watching the way they interact like a spectator, until Alba nudges your arm and mimics your confused face when you try to translate the joke. You burst out laughing.

It surprises even you.

A bottle of wine appears. Glasses are poured. Somewhere between the bread basket and the main course, something shifts. It’s light, natural, unforced.

You find yourself talking, not deeply, not yet, but honestly. Sharing silly work stories, how you met Patri—

“Okay, wait,” Alba cuts in, grinning now, fork paused mid-air. “You’re the secret girl Patri’s been sneaking around with all this time?”

Your face heats instantly. “It wasn’t sneaking,” you say through a laugh. “She just wasn't exactly wanting it announcing it to the locker room.”

Alexia shakes her head, amused. “Patri is awful at subtle. She was glowing at training after she met you. G-L-O-W-I-N-G.”

You laugh, covering your face for a second. “Oh god.”

Alba leans in slightly, her tone playful but with an edge of sincerity. “Just so you know… if she hurts you, I’ll kick her ass.”

You snort into your wine.

Alexia raises a brow. “Alba, Patri is my teammate.”

Alba shrugs, utterly unbothered. “Don’t care. I like her, but blood is blood.”

You’re laughing now, genuinely, shaking your head. “I’ll be sure to tell her she’s been warned.”

Alba points at you with her fork. “Do that. I want her scared.”

Alexia mutters something about drama queen, and Alba throws a breadstick at her. It misses, barely.

You’re still smiling, Alba leans back in her seat, glass in hand, her grin a little wicked.

“So…” she begins slowly, eyeing you over the rim of her glass, “how’s the sex with Patri?”

Alexia nearly chokes on her wine.

You blink, stunned, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Alba!”

“What?” she laughs. “I’m curious!”

Alexia looks horrified. “You can’t ask her that!”

“I just did,” Alba smirks.

You’re giggling now, one hand covering your face as you try to recover. “God, okay, um… we haven’t… actually done that yet.”

Alba’s face flickers with surprise. “Really?”

You nod, a little shy but honest. “Yeah. She’s been… really respectful. Which is kind of adorable.”

Alexia leans back, visibly relaxing. “That’s sweet. Patri’s always been a softie underneath the sarcasm.”

You bite your lip, then laugh quietly. “It is sweet. But sometimes I just… want to be disrespected, you know?”

There’s a moment of silence, Alexia’s eyes go wide, Alba hollers with laughter and you shrink back slightly, eyes darting between them realising who they are to you as your face burns. “Oh my God wait. I can’t talk like that in front of you, can I?”

Alexia makes a strangled noise, waving her hand like she needs to shut her ears. “No. You absolutely cannot. Your my baby sister”

Alba wipes a tear from her eye. “Too late.”

You all dissolve into laughter, the kind that makes your ribs hurt. The kind that breaks through walls you didn’t even realise were still up. You glance at them Alexia still slightly horrified, Alba grinning like she won the lottery.

Alexia rests her chin in her hand, watching the two of you with a soft, content look on her face. “You know,” she says, her voice quieter now, “I really didn’t know what to expect when I found out. I was angry. Hurt. But right now?” She looks between you both. “This feels right.”

You meet her gaze. “It does.”

Alba’s smile isn’t wide, but it’s real. There’s still so much to say, still so much to feel, still so much to learn, but for now, there’s wine, warmth, and the first real night where you don’t feel like a stranger.

Just a sister.

[romandabirsayfa]

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[woncheolisms]

fantasies. (lee jihoon x fem!reader)

summary: jihoon’s studio has been a strictly professional workspace for him. until today.

word count: 2867

warnings: smut, nsfw, 18+, unprotected sex, porn with minimal plot, rough sex, overstimulation, dacryphilia if you squint, choking, hair pulling

a/n: this is my first svt fic, and i wrote it as a gift for a friend. be kind pls :’)

Lee Jihoon was not an easy person to decipher.

It was difficult to get into his head. He operated on a plane separate from everyone around him. It was hard to gauge his reactions or predict how he would respond to something you do. Early into your relationship, you used to fret and overthink about this constantly, wondering what to do to show affection to him (physical touch wasn’t exactly his first choice). You would very easily cave and just call Soonyoung for advice, which would always be some form of reassurance and telling you not to worry.

If it’s you, he’ll love anything. He would say, sounding so confident that it boosted your convictions as well. After all, if anyone knew Jihoon, it was Soonyoung. But after nearly a year of dating, you grew fairly confident in your relationship. Jihoon was quiet, but he felt everything intensely, often much more than anyone else. He needed love just as much as the next person, and you were there to give it to him in spades.

Now though, you could feel that same worry creep up on you again, from the time when everything was new and you were still figuring Jihoon out. Nowadays, you were more confident in your gestures, but this…. you had no clue what to expect. You half imagined him to be disgusted, half annoyed at the suggestion, but dear god, you had to try. You had been mulling over this fantasy for so long. The worst that could happen was you apologizing profusely, him breaking up with you, you changing your identity and moving to another country.

Okay so maybe you were being a bit dramatic.

You watched the back muscles shift under your boyfriend’s shirt as he tinkered with the complex board of controls in front of him. His headphones were soundproof, you knew this, and his body formed a broad silhouette under the harsh glare of the three huge screens in front of him. You were lazing on the couch behind him, fiddling with your phone, scrolling a bit and then getting lost in thought again while staring at him work. You knew being in the studio with him was dangerous, considering how attractive you found him like this. Relaxed but laser focused, that brilliant mind of his moving a thousand miles a minute to come up with whatever new masterpiece he was constructing. Occasionally, he would hum under his breath, smooth and clear, and your attention would land on the back of his head again, long black tresses pushed away from his face by the headphones, just brushing his shoulders.

Something in your core throbbed. You contemplated - again - bringing up your little fantasy in front of him. Again, you felt apprehension zip through you.

Jihoon was passionate. He was an attentive and giving lover. So far, there was nothing he wasn’t open to trying. But this was different. This was his space, an almost sacred one at that. How would he react when you told him you wanted him to bend you over his setup and rearrange your insides while the keys dug into your skin?

You shook your head and sighed, almost involuntarily clenching your thighs. You had chickened out on telling him about this for months. Months. It was almost eating at you, and with how consumed he was in his work as of late, you barely had any alone time with him at home. Showing up to the studio was the next best option. Jihoon had warned you that he would be busy and couldn’t exactly talk, but you had been more than happy to just lounge around, occasionally be his soundboard and just exist in the same space as him. You were mildly regretting the decision now though. With how starved you’ve been for him lately, your mind was running wild, and the thought of desecrating this place with him, of tainting it with your presence forever so he would think only of you as he worked, the image of the two of you moving, writhing, moaning….

“Jihoon?” He couldn’t hear you, obviously, and you stood up to move closer to him, legs almost shaky, eyelids blinking a little too fast. You gently lay a hand on his shoulder so as to not startle him, but he still stiffened, pulling the headphones off quickly to turn and look up at you. You could hear faint music bleeding through the earpieces, watching him squeeze his eyes shut once and open them again, trying to adjust to the lack of light as he turned away from the screens. He gave you a small smile, reaching for your hand and running a thumb over the back of your hand. Even that subtle touch seemed to set your skin on fire. You fought to focus.

“Everything okay?”

You hummed noncommittally, leaning against the desk. Jihoon pressed a few buttons and the music stopped, swiveling in his chair to give you his full attention. One look at your freaked out expression and his eyebrows were furrowing, lips forming a thin line.

“What is it?” His voice was lower.

You let out a breath, almost a mirthless laugh. “It’s- sorry, it’s not a bad thing, so don’t worry. But there’s this thing I’ve been wondering about a lot….”

Ah, fuck. You shouldn’t have brought this up. Immediate regret. But you couldn’t chicken out now. He wouldn’t let it go until you told him. And there’s no way you could lie. He was too perceptive for that. And he hated being lied to.

“Have you ever thought of…. having sex here?”

Jihoon blinked, expression blank. “Here?”

You nodded shakily. It seemed all other words just chose to die in your mouth then, because you didn’t say anything more, even when Jihoon kept looking at you expectantly. He then looked around the room, contemplating, and you felt his eyes linger on the couch.

“Uh, n-no.” You knew where this was heading. Your face felt hot. You really would have to spell it out. “I meant here.”

You gestured lamely at the desk, letting your hand fall back to your side as you begged the ground to swallow you whole. You watched as it dawned on him, realization flooding his face.

“Oh. Here.”

Had you not been freaking out, you would have noticed the way his voice had dropped a few octaves, gotten just a bit breathier, or how his left hand gripped the arm of his chair just a bit harder.

“It’s- we don’t have to!” You looked everywhere but him. “I know this is a bit out of the blue and we don’t really do it anywhere except home so this is unexpected. Bonkers, really-” Your voice died when Jihoon slowly started standing up. His chest rose as he breathed deep, running one hand through his hair. He hummed a bit, and you couldn’t, for the life of you, figure out what was going on in his head. Same old Jihoon. Expressionless, quiet. So fucking hot.

He placed his hands on the edge of the desk, on either side of your hips, leaning close to you. You froze, stiff as a board as his lips met the shell of your ear.

“Right now?”

The feeling of his breath on your skin sent a shudder down your spine, and you clenched desperately, failing to alleviate the pressure between your thighs. A mild form of relief flooded through you as well. And as his hand brushed over your side, crowding your space even more, lips still brushing over your neck, you felt how hard he was against your leg, and you had to bite your lip to stop from moaning out loud. He wanted this. Just as much as you. Something in your chest swelled, wondering how bad he wanted this, but it was dismissed quickly as you felt your confidence grow a bit.

“Yes. Right now. Been so long, Jihoonie. I miss you.” You cooed in his ear, pushing our leg a bit to dig into his crotch, making him hiss and sigh.

“Dirty girl.” His voice was so low, and your eyes nearly rolled up in your head at the sound. At his words. “How long have you been thinking about this?”

This was rare. Jihoon being playful, Jihoon engaging so early on in dirty talk. He usually built up to moments like this, and only verbalized at the very height of passion. You caught a glimpse of his ears, so flushed they were nearly maroon, and his hairline, slightly shiny with a very thin layer of sweat already building up, and you felt almost giddy. He was unraveling already. This was driving him crazy. You brushed your cheek against his.

“How long have you?” You shot back, validation making you bolder than you usually were.

You felt his chest shudder where it was pressed to yours, and not even a moment later, his lips were meeting yours in a bruising kiss, nearly knocking the air out of you, keeling back at the force of it but returning it not even a second later with equal fervor. Your hands flew up into his hair, obsessed with how soft it was between your fingers, and you rounded them into fists, tugging slightly. His groan was deep and reverberating, large hand gripping hard at your thigh and pulling it up to wrap around his waist. It gave him perfect leverage to grind smoothly against you, and you realize with glee that there would be nothing soft or slow about this. This was fueled by fire, you had goaded him, and he would make sure you knew what that would land you into.

As quickly as the kiss had started, it was ending already, before Jihoon pulled back enough to spin you around, your hips digging into the edge of the table. You blinked a few times, disoriented, before a pressure between your shoulder blades was pushing you forward, bending you over, and you felt the dig of the cold surface over your clothed torso. Weight on your back pressed you down even more, Jihoon’s erection digging insistently into your ass, his lips at your ear once more.

“Like this?” It was a rhetorical question, obviously. But it proved more how badly this was affecting him. He was not one to babble unnecessarily. But here he was, indulging you, indulging himself. A hand snaked between your thighs, pressing harshly into your clothed cunt, and your gasp was immediate.

“Yes.” You replied anyway, feeling mouthier than usual as well. “Please, don’t tease. I can’t-”

Coherent thought flew out the window when you felt him tug your pants and panties off in one go, realizing he was just as impatient right now. There was a rustling of clothes and then something hard was pressing at your entrance, Jihoon’s weight settling on you again, hands gripping at your ass tightly. Your eyes nearly rolled up as he pushed inside, the stretch of it slightly stinging. No prep, which was also not like Jihoon at all. He always loved taking his time with you.

How long had he been wound up like this? Obviously his schedule was taking a toll on him too, and maybe you were the one who broke the dam. Maybe this fantasy, taboo, thrilling, hot as all hell, was going to be his undoing as well as yours.

His groan was breathy and shaky, and you heard him swear quietly, but you were more focused on how your legs were already giving out, grateful for the desk, for his grip on your hips holding you in place. You clenched desperately around him and he gave you a warning squeeze.

“You wanted this, baby. Don’t make me bust too quickly.”

God, that was so hot. The thought that he was fraying around the edges already. You hadn’t even started. Jihoon chose that moment to rectify that last bit, pulling out just enough to leave the tip inside before he was thrusting back in, hard, hard enough to jolt you up on the desk, to make the edge dig into your hips and thighs, to make your hands scramble to find purchase before he set a rough pace.

Your mouth dropped open and you finally moaned freely, unable to hold back at the delicious feeling of his cock hammering inside you, angled just perfectly against the one spot you needed him the most. He didn’t beat around the bush, choosing to stimulate you hard and fast, sending stars shooting into your eyes as you felt your breath struggle to leave your lungs. Your hands couldn’t find a good grip, slipping over the keys and buttons, trying to settle anywhere, to keep up with Jihoon’s brutal ministrations. You could already feel the tightening at the base of your stomach, and you almost couldn’t believe how quickly you were coming towards the end.

“Jihoonie, I’m- I can’t-”

“Do it.” His voice was strangled, his weight draped on you, making it difficult to breathe as his muscles shifted and moved against your back, holding you in place to do with your body as he pleased. You felt like you were on fire, enveloped in his touch and his scent, his hair brushing over your cheek where your head was turned to the side, and you didn’t waste a moment more in letting the feeling take over, washing you like a tidal wave, twitching and gasping as you rode out the orgasm. He didn’t stop for one second, prolonging your high with the constant stimulation, and when you finally went limp, he snaked a hand round your waist, pulling you up until you were nearly standing.

Your legs had given out on you, but you didn’t need them. Strong arms held you up with almost no effort, and the shift in angle pressed Jihoon’s cock harshly into you, making you cry out. His hand reached up until it was gripping your jaw, tilting your head back until your vision was filled with the image of the dark ceiling. Teeth nipped at your earlobe, before his hand was tilting your head to the side and his lips were meeting your cheek. It was tender almost, a respite in between your harsh fucking, a peek at the usual Jihoon, before he was grinding hard and slow into you. You felt your toes curl.

He started moving again, shallow but fast, and his grip tightened just slightly around your throat, you felt a tear slide down your cheek, and you felt his tongue lap it up from behind you. When his other hand slid between your legs, pressing into your clit, you nearly sobbed. Instinctively, you gripped the wrist of the hand playing with your clit, overstimulation making you clench harder around him until he groaned deeply again.

“One more. Give me one more, baby.”

And you couldn’t say no. Not when he sounded like that, like he needed this more than anything else in the world, not when his cock was still plowing into you, now rushed and frantic, chasing his own release, and not when his skilled fingers coaxed you closer and closer to the edge. You came again with a broken sob, vision nearly going white as your body seized, one hand reaching back to grip harshly on Jihoon’s hair while the other dug into his wrist in a desperate attempt to ground yourself. Jihoon stilled inside you with a final shaky moan, breathing hard against your shoulder and body stiffening completely. Your head was filled with cotton, and you were almost sure your ears were ringing.

The silence following afterward was quaint, the charge in the air now broken, replaced with a blanket of satisfaction. Heat filled your cheeks as you eyed the desk, the screens, the discarded headphones, and the feeling of Jihoon pressed into your back, his hands now gently running over your stomach and waist. You felt him shiver just a bit as he pulled out, drawing a soft sigh out of you as you turned around to face him. His hair was a mess, his neck and ears flushed, his forehead shiny with sweat.

He looked beautiful.

You couldn’t hold back the urge to kiss him, feeling him melt into it, lips nipping slightly at yours. A thought formed in your head, and you knew you had to float the idea now. He was most agreeable right after having sex.

“Next time, we do it in your chair.”

[ducktoo]

How to take care of Jiwon

IVE's Liz x Reader

Note: Anon, hope this was something you were asking for (I think). Twas' a fun prompt and I enjoyed it frfr. Feel free to DM me ur thoughts!

(This German girl do be looking cute-)

“Again?”

You don’t even look up from your computer screen. You already know who it is.

There’s a quiet giggle, followed by the sound of someone shuffling through your things. You sigh, rubbing your temple before shooting a glare at the intruder currently invading your workspace—none other than Kim Jiwon(or Liz), your childhood friend turned global idol, standing beside your desk like she owns the place.

“Can you not touch my stuff?” you grumble, snatching a framed photo from her hands before she can get any ideas.

She blinks at you innocently. “You keep this here?”

You glance down at the picture, already knowing which one she’s referring to. It’s an old, slightly faded photo from elementary school—Liz, missing her two front teeth, flashing a peace sign, while you stand beside her with the grumpiest expression imaginable. You had never liked taking pictures, but Liz had insisted back then. Looking at it now, you don’t even remember why you agreed to keep it on your desk.

“It’s just decoration,” you mutter, setting it back down.

Liz hums, but there’s a knowing glint in her eyes. “Sure, sure.”

She doesn’t leave. Of course, she doesn’t. You’re already used to this little routine.

Despite her packed schedule, Liz always finds time to drop by your office whenever she’s at the company. She claims it’s because she’s curious about what you do, but you know better. The real reason? She just enjoys annoying you.

She picks up your stationery, taps at your keyboard, sometimes even steals your coffee—because “staff coffee tastes different.” You tolerate it because, well… it’s Liz. You’ve known her since you were kids.

It’s still crazy how you both ended up here…especially after how you reunited.

-

To this day, you still don’t know how the hell that situation happened.

You had only been working at Starship Entertainment for about a month at that point. Just a regular staff member, trying not to get scolded, running around delivering paperwork, managing schedules—nothing out of the ordinary.

Then came that time.

One of your first bigger assignments had been to handle some logistics for IVE’s new comeback. Simple enough. Make sure the equipment was working, ensure the space was ready, help with any requests—it was routine.

What wasn’t routine was somehow ending up in a storage closet with a girl in a hoodie, a bucket of spilled cleaning supplies, and the worst case of déjà vu you’ve ever experienced.

…Let’s back up.

That day, you had been in a rush, carrying a stack of documents for the management team when you took a wrong turn down a hallway you didn’t usually use. It led to one of the storage rooms, where cleaning supplies and extra equipment were kept.

The door was slightly open.

Then, without warning—

CRASH.

Something—or someone—barreled right into you, sending both of you stumbling backwards into the closet.

The door slammed shut behind you.

Silence.

For a moment, you just laid there on the floor, trying to process the fact that you had just been body-slammed into a janitor’s closet. Your head throbbed. You could hear the faint creak of a mop falling somewhere nearby.

And then—

“…Wait. Grumpy?”

You froze.

That voice. That stupidly familiar voice.

Slowly, you looked up.

And there, crouched in the dim light, staring at you like she had just seen a ghost—was the one and only. Your childhood friend. The same girl you hadn’t seen in years.

In a janitor’s closet. With you.

What. The. Hell.

“…What are you doing here?” she asked, blinking rapidly.

You stared at her. “What are you doing around here in the management area?”

“I asked first!”

“I work here!”

That seemed to short-circuit her brain for a second. Her eyes widened, then darted to the staff ID clipped to your shirt. Slowly, realization dawned on her face.

“…You work at Starship?”

“Yes?!”

"Since when?!"

"Since I got hired, duh!"

Liz opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. She blinked.

Then—

She burst out laughing.

“You—You actually work here?” she wheezed, clutching her stomach. “Oh my God, this is unreal. This is so unreal.”

"Tsk." You scowled. “Glad to see my suffering is entertaining you.”

“I can’t believe this! We literally grew up together, lost contact, and now you’re working for my company? This is insane.” She wiped at her eyes, still laughing. “And—wait, you of all people? You always hated dealing with people!”

“Yeah, well, life’s funny like that,” you muttered. You rubbed your temples, exhaling through your nose. “Okay, but why were you sneaking around?”

Liz suddenly looked away, suspiciously avoiding eye contact. “No reason.”

“…You were stealing snacks from the staff area again, weren’t you?”

Silence.

“…Maybe.”

Unbelievable. Some things really never changed.

-

And that was how you reunited.

You had spent a solid fifteen minutes stuck in that closet with Liz before someone finally found you two. The rest of the staff had been utterly confused, and you had to endure Liz wheezing with laughter for the rest of the day.

Ever since then, she had made it her personal mission to annoy you at work.

Which brings you to now.

“Alright, stay put. Don’t touch anything,” you warn as you stand from your desk, stretching your arms before grabbing your phone. “I need to get some files from the storage room.”

Liz, perched on the edge of your desk like she owns the place, swings her legs lazily. “No promises.”

You narrow your eyes. “I mean it. Hands off.”

She hums innocently, lips curling into a playful smile. “Of course, of course.”

You don’t trust her one bit.

Still, you leave, because you have to, but you throw one last suspicious glance over your shoulder before stepping out.

The door clicks shut…and Liz immediately disregards your warning.

“Don’t touch anything,” she mocks under her breath, rolling her eyes. As if she could ever listen to that. "Bleh. What are you, my mom?"

She stretches her arms with a yawn, then lazily lets her fingers drift across your desk, poking at whatever looks mildly interesting. The keyboard? Tap. A stack of documents? Poke. Your half-empty coffee cup? Swirl.

And then she sees it.

A small, slightly worn notebook tucked beside your monitor, the corner peeking out as if daring her to take a look.

Curious, she pulls it free and flips it over in her hands. The second she reads the cover, her breath catches in her throat.

"How to Take Care of Jiwon the Annoying Child"

She blinks. Once. Twice.

Then, a slow, delighted smile spreads across her face.

“Oh?”

Her heart beats a little faster as she carefully flips the first page. The handwriting is neat—your handwriting. She skims over the lines, amusement bubbling in her chest.

Jiwon gets grumpy when she hasn’t eaten. Always have snacks on hand.

She giggles. “So that’s why you always have extra snacks.”

She flips to the next one.

She gets sleepy after eating too much. Don’t let her nap on the practice room floor. Would be annoying to tend to the sick Jiwon.

A small gasp escapes her lips. “Wait, is that why you always wake me up first?”

Another page.

If she’s sad, buy her ice cream. Preferably chocolate.

Her heart flutters. You really do notice everything, huh?

She keeps reading, her amusement growing. But then—

The notes start getting weirder.

If she starts humming randomly, she’s in a good mood. If she’s humming AND staring at me, she’s plotting something. Probably my usual dose of suffering.

Liz snorts. “What do you mean?”

DO NOT let her near a stray cat. She will try to take it home.

She gasps, clutching her chest. “That happened one time, trust me–”

If she says ‘Trust me,’ DO NOT TRUST HER.

Liz bursts into laughter. “Damn it! Okay, fair.”

The notes only get more ridiculous.

She once ate an entire cake by herself just to prove she could. Do NOT challenge her to food-related dares.

If she looks too smug, she probably stole my drink.

If she looks too cute and uses her dumb aegyo, she’s about to ask for a favour.

Her giggles come uncontrollably now. She flips through the pages quickly, eager to see what else you’ve written. But then—

The shift happens. The notes stop being ridiculous. They start being… something else.

When she’s nervous, she fidgets with her necklace. Let her hold onto my sleeve instead.

Her fingers touch her necklace instinctively. "Huh…you do wear long sleeves every time we meet…"

Liz acts tough, but she cries at sad movies. Keep tissues ready.

Her laughter softens. "No I don't…mostly…"

She overworks herself even when she’s exhausted. Sometimes she just needs someone to tell her to rest.

Her heart clenches.

And then, the last note. It might have been scribbled out but…She stares at it. She couldn't unsee it after once.

If she ever gets too tired, remind her she doesn’t have to do everything alone. Remind her that I’m here….

Her grip tightens on the notebook.

She rereads the words, once, twice—three times.

She always knew you cared. In your own way—grumbling, teasing, acting like she was the most annoying person in the world. But this? You had written this down. As if it was important. As if you wanted to remember, just in case.

As if she mattered.

Her chest feels warm.

The door creaks open.

“Alright, I got the—”

Your words cut off when you see her holding the notebook.

You freeze mid-step.

Liz is holding the notebook. Jiwon is reading the notebook.

Your stomach drops.

She looks up at you, notebook still clutched in her hands, her expression unreadable.

You stand there, the file folder limp in your grip.

Then, slowly, a mischievous glint appears in her eyes.

“You mother f—”

Before you can even lunge for it, Liz hugs the notebook to her chest, scrambling to her feet. Her breath comes out in an excited rush.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, eyes sparkling. “You do care about me!”

You feel actual panic set in. “PUT THAT DOWN. KIM JIWON.”

She takes a step back, holding it tighter. “No way! This is adorable! You—You actually wrote down how to take care of me?!”

You can feel your dignity slipping away.

“I— It’s not what it looks like—”

“Ohhh, let’s see what else—” She flips back to the earlier pages, reading aloud dramatically. “‘If she’s nervous, let her hold onto my sleeve instead.’”

Your ears burn as your hand subconsciously rolled up your sleeves in embarrassment.

"Oooohh, you're wearing long sleeve today as well, huh?!" Liz gasps, looking up at you with exaggerated shock. “You let me do that? Willingly?!”

You grit your teeth. “GIVE. IT. BACK.”

She twirls away, flipping through more pages. “Wait, wait—‘If she looks too smug, she probably stole my drink.’” She gasps in fake offense. “So that’s why you glare at me whenever I take a sip.”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Jiwon—”

She keeps going, eyes darting across the pages. But then—

She reaches the last note again.

Her laughter fades.

Silence stretches between you.

She rereads the words, her fingers brushing lightly over the ink. Then, slowly, she lifts her head.

The teasing glint in her eyes is gone. Instead, there’s something softer. Something more sincere.

“…You really meant this?” she asks, voice quieter.

You shift uncomfortably. “U-um…I—”

Her gaze lingers on you for a moment. Then, before you can react, she lunges at you again, but this time, she hugs you.

You stiffen immediately.

“…Ya.”

She squeezes you tighter.

“Shhh,” she mumbles into your shoulder. “Just let me hug you, you tsundere.”

You stand there, unmoving, ears burning. Your hands hover awkwardly before—finally—you sigh and pat her back.

“…You’re so annoying.”

She giggles against your shoulder. “I know.”

After a moment, she pulls back, grinning. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

You roll your eyes, snatching the notebook from her hands before she can react. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t expect me to serialise this and give it to your members.”

She beams. “That sounds fun actually.”

[bytemee]

EVERYTHING I WANT — yu jimin.

"i had finally figured out, you were just around the corner."

synopsis. you’re just the wedding planner for your brother’s wedding, trying to keep it all together. but karina, his fiancée, keeps slipping under your skin. she’s perfect—everything you’ve ever wanted—but she’s marrying your brother.

pairing. brothers!fiance!karina x wedding!planner!fem!reader

warning(s). angst w a mixture of fluff, love triangle, cheating (im sorry), angst with a happy ending.

words. 5.7k

authors note. i remember watching a gay movie like this.

navigation. main masterlist.

karina has a way of capturing the attention of everyone in a room, and her presence alone is enough to make the world pause. she walks in, all bright eyes and effortless grace, and somehow the entire room shifts to accommodate her. it’s almost like she belongs in a space much grander than this, but then, that’s karina—always radiant, always a little untouchable.

you’ve noticed it countless times before—it's part of the reason why your parents are so calm with the idea of your brother marrying her only months after they've met. karina—your brother’s fiancée, the one they think is perfect in every way. karina—the one who is everything they always hoped for in a partner for him. karina—the one who practically begged you to plan her wedding.

you have to admit, they make a beautiful couple. the way karina and your brother stand in the kitchen, laughing over something she said while she chops vegetables, her hands moving easily, like she’s done this a hundred times. your brother’s smiling at her like she’s the only person in the world. it’s all so natural, so effortless. you can’t deny that they love each other—it’s one of those things you just know. like the feeling of the ground beneath your feet or the wind against your skin. it’s just a fact.

it was the first time in a while you've been to their house, but your brother practically forced you into staying at his while you planned the wedding. they don't seem to mind, which is probably good considering you've taken over the living room as a workspace, with papers and decorations and fabric samples spread out across the coffee table and the couch.

but regardless, the two haven't decided on a venue yet, so the planning process is still in full swing. you had a list of about five venues you thought were promising, and you were hoping they'd settle on one soon so you could stop having to lug around your binder everywhere.

karina finishes up her task and sets the knife down, washing her hands off before she turns to you.

she walks over with that signature smile of hers, the one that makes everything seem like it’s shining just a little brighter. “hey, can we talk about the venue options for a sec?” she asks, her voice smooth like velvet, like it always is.

you glance up from the pile of papers in front of you, your gaze meeting hers for a second too long. the way she’s standing there, close enough to reach out and touch, makes it hard to focus. you blink, trying to get your head back in the game. “uh, yeah, sure. what’s on your mind?”

she leans against the back of the couch, her arms crossing lightly over her chest. “i know we’ve got some good options, but…” she hesitates for a moment, as if carefully considering her next words. “i’ve always wanted a wedding on the beach. you know, like those dreamy ones you see in magazines?”

you freeze for a moment, your fingers lingering over the corner of your binder. the beach. you can’t help the pang that hits you when she says it, because it's something you've always imagined for your own wedding one day, not anyone else’s. it’s silly, of course—you shouldn't have gotten so attached to a fantasy. but you can't help it. you'd always imagined a wedding on the beach, with the sun setting over the waves and sand beneath your feet.

she tilts her head a little, as if trying to figure out what's wrong. when you don't say anything, she speaks again, her tone more gentle. "are you okay?"

you try to shake it off, but karina always seems to notice everything. it's a little bit impressive, really. "oh, i'm fine. just a little tired." you quickly speak again before she can question you further. “you know, your fiancé’s pretty set on that greenhouse. it’s a pretty big deal for him.”

she nods, a small frown tugging at her lips. “i know,” she says softly. “i just can’t help but dream of the beach.” she pauses, then her eyes soften, and she adds with a little more playfulness, "i’ll let you handle the tough decisions. you’re the expert here, after all.”

you hate to let her down, but the odds of convincing your brother to change his mind are low. the greenhouse was his idea, and it means a lot to him, since your father married your mom there years ago. he had talked about wanting to recreate that day, the way the light filtered in through the glass, the flowers all around. his eyes had sparkled as he spoke, like he could imagine the entire scene unfolding before him. you couldn’t bring yourself to say no, not when he had been so excited.

you give a small laugh. “i’m just the wedding planner. you’re the one who has to live with the choice.”

she grins at you before walking away.

but even though you tell yourself it won't be your fault if she doesn't get her dream wedding, the guilt doesn't go away. you just hope she won't hate you for not being able to deliver the perfect day she's been waiting for.

you watch as she heads back over to the kitchen, your gaze lingering on her a little longer than it should. her smile is bright as ever, the one you're not sure you've ever seen her without, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

you swallow, then return to your work.

the venue. you can't get distracted. you're good at your job. you can do this.

the next few days pass in a flurry of phone calls and emails, and you're barely keeping track of which venue you're supposed to be going to see next. you've visited a handful, but it seems like they've all had the same issue—they don't have the space for the kind of wedding karina's dreaming of.

the pressure is starting to wear on you. you’ve been juggling so many details, from flowers to photographers to caterers, but every venue just feels off in one way or another. some are too big, some too small. others don’t have the kind of beachy vibe karina’s been dreaming of, and you can tell she’s starting to get a little discouraged.

you can see the way her shoulders slump when another place doesn’t meet her expectations, the way she tries to mask her disappointment with that perfect smile of hers. it’s hard to watch. but you also know this is her dream, her wedding. she deserves to have everything she’s envisioned for years.

“i swear, if i see one more ballroom…” you mutter under your breath, flipping through another round of emails, trying to see if any of the new suggestions could work.

karina, seated across from you in the café, lets out a small laugh. “you’re telling me. but we’ve got to keep looking, right?”

you look up, meeting her gaze for the first time in a while. she looks exhausted, her makeup a little faded from a long day of venue tours, but her smile is as warm as ever. it makes your heart ache.

you swallow, then turn back to your phone. "yeah. yeah, we do." you take a sip of your drink, not even removing your eyes from the screen. "i've been hearing a lot of good things about this one place, though."

karina leans forward, her elbows resting on the table. "which one?"

but before you can reply, a giggle leaves her lips, and she points to the side of your nose. "oh my god, you've got whipped cream on your nose. let me…"

her hand reaches out, and then she's touching you, her thumb brushing over the tip of your nose, sending shivers down your spine. she pulls her hand back, a little whipped cream on her thumb.

she smiles. "got it."

you blink, and your brain short-circuits for a second. her touch was so fleeting, but the warmth lingers.

she doesn't notice, already turned back to your phone ready to see the venue you were muttering about.

you exhale. the venue. right. focus.

and then, it happens.

when you get back home, an hour later you hear it from the other room—a loud argument, your brother's voice booming, and karina's pleading for him to just listen. your eyes widen. you'd never heard her raise her voice like that before.

they’ve always been so perfect together, but now, the disagreement over the wedding venue seems to be pushing things too far. you can’t make out the exact words, but you catch a few—the beach, the greenhouse, and your name a couple of times. the door slams shortly after, and everything falls silent.

you glance at the door leading to the hallway, torn between going to see what’s going on and staying out of it. the last thing you want is to get caught in the middle of their argument, but part of you can't help but feel concerned. this isn’t like them—karina, always the picture of composure, and your brother, usually so patient. it doesn’t add up.

you hear footsteps and then a quiet knock at the door. "are you awake?"

you take a deep breath. "yeah, come in."

the door opens, and karina walks in, looking as stunning as ever. her face is still flushed from the argument, but her hair is swept to the side, the light catching on her earrings. even in a moment like this, she's effortlessly beautiful.

"hey," you say softly, motioning toward the couch. "are you okay?"

she sits down beside you, her body relaxing a little, like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. she nods, taking a deep breath before speaking. "i'm fine. we're fine."

you tilt your head, not fully believing her. you've been friends for years, after all. you can tell when she's holding something back. "are you sure? because i heard—"

"we're fine," she repeats, a little more firmly.

you nod, but you still feel unsure. it's clear they need some time to themselves, and you can't force her to tell you what's going on. “you know,” you say, shifting beside her, “if you need a break, we could do something completely different. a distraction. a moment just for you.”

she looks at you, eyes wide, clearly intrigued by the offer. “like what?”

a slow grin spreads across your face. “let’s get food for starters. and then…"

she cuts you off before you can finish. "as long as it involves wine, i'm in."

the smile is back, and your heart aches with it. you've missed seeing her smile, the way her eyes crinkle at the edges, her whole body seeming lighter. it's a feeling you never want to let go of.

without missing a beat, you get up and grab your keys. “perfect. let's go!"

you hold your hand out, and her fingers are warm in yours as you lead her out the door.

the two of you end up parked in front of a small, neon-lit burger joint tucked away on a quiet street. it’s one of those old-school places with a bright red roof and a hand-painted menu board by the drive-thru. it looks like it hasn't changed much since it was built decades ago, but that's exactly why you love it.

karina’s sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat, the bottle of wine you impulsively grabbed resting between you. you’d managed to snag a couple of burgers and fries to go, and now the two of you are tucked away in the car, sharing fries like you’re the only people in the world.

“this is so random,” she says, laughing softly. she’s still got a bit of a flush from earlier—whether from the wine or the argument, you’re not sure. but for now, you try not to think about it. you don't want to ruin the moment.

“that’s what makes it perfect,” you reply, passing her a fry. she takes it with a smile, your fingers brushing briefly. your heart trips over itself at the contact, and you reach for the bottle of wine to take another sip. it’s not the fanciest vintage, but it’s doing the job.

karina takes the bottle next, swiping at the neck before drinking straight from it. when she lowers it, her eyes are sparkling with something mischievous. “i always liked the idea of writing my vows on something unconventional,” she says suddenly, resting her head against the seat. “like in the movies. you know, scribbled on the back of a napkin or a burger wrapper. something spontaneous and real.”

you can’t help but laugh. “we’ve got burger wrappers right here.”

her eyes light up. “you’re kidding.”

“i’m not.”

she sets down the bottle and grabs the crumpled wrappers from the bag. “alright. let’s do it. right here, right now. our mock wedding.”

you raise an eyebrow. this was not how you thought the night was going to go, but then again, karina has always been full of surprises. she looks so excited at the idea; you can't bring yourself to say no. you're already in this deep, after all.

you grab a pen from the glove compartment, the tipsy energy between you growing contagious. you hand it over, and karina carefully smooths out one of the wrappers on her lap.

“alright,” she declares, biting back a grin. “i vow to always share my fries with you. even the crispy ones.”

you snort. “that’s a big promise.”

“and i vow to never judge you for eating burgers at midnight,” she adds, her grin widening.

“okay, my turn,” you say, leaning in. “i vow to always keep you stocked up on wine and burgers. and fries. all the good stuff. just in case of an emergency, of course. or for a spontaneous road trip. whichever comes first, i guess."

you're both giggling, and then her smile softens. she looks at you with those eyes, and for a moment, the rest of the world falls away. then her expression shifts. she takes a deep breath, fingers toying with the pen. “one more,” she says, her voice quieter now. “i vow to always be someone you can turn to, no matter what. even when things get messy or complicated.”

her eyes are still on yours, and you can't bring yourself to break the contact. you feel like the air has been knocked out of your lungs, and it's almost too much, too fast.

you finally manage to get the words out, your voice coming out a little strained. "i promise too."

karina smiles softly, reaching over to brush a strand of hair from your face. “let’s go somewhere,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

“where?” you ask, still breathless.

she glances at the horizon, where the stars are just beginning to scatter across the night sky. “the beach.”

without another word, you put the car in drive and head toward the coast. the streets are quiet, the hum of the tires against the road the only sound as the town fades behind you. it feels like the rest of the world doesn’t exist—just you, karina, and the open road.

when you arrive, the beach is deserted, bathed in moonlight and the soft crashing of waves. you both kick off your shoes and walk toward the shoreline, the sand cool beneath your feet. karina stops just shy of the water, turning to face you.

“alright,” she says, holding out her hand. “let’s make this official.”

you laugh, taking her hand. “this is the most spontaneous fake wedding i’ve ever been a part of.”

her grin is wide, a little wild, like she’s already planning something outrageous. “just wait until our real wedding. then it’ll really be a show.”

the words hit you harder than expected—our real wedding. your mind flashes with an image: karina walking down the aisle, her dress swishing with every elegant step, her smile lighting up the whole room.

karina squeezes your hand gently, bringing you back to reality. "are you ready?"

you give her a tiny nod. “i’m ready.”

she turns to face you, her smile dimming just enough to make the moment feel serious. she takes a steadying breath before starting. “i vow to always share my fries with you—even the crispy ones.”

you grin. "i vow to not get jealous when you share your fries with someone else."

"that's a fair point." she pauses for a moment, glancing at the moon overhead. when she speaks again, her voice is softer. "i vow to not forget about all the nights we've stayed up talking, the sun just starting to rise, and how i could listen to your voice forever. and i vow to always be someone you can count on, no matter what."

her words make your heart ache. you swallow, trying to push down the feeling. "i vow to never give up, even when things get tough. even when everything's changing around us. and i vow to always be a place you can run to."

the words hang between you for a moment, and you feel like the whole world has stopped. everything feels surreal, like a dream, the kind you're afraid of waking up from. then she steps closer, so close you can feel the warmth radiating off her. her next words are softer, more serious, the playfulness stripped away. “do you vow to take me to the best burger joints at midnight?”

your voice is quieter now too. “i do.”

“do you vow to share your fries with me, even the crispy ones?”

“i do.”

she takes a small, shaky breath, her gaze locked on yours. “and do you vow to always be my friend? to stand by me, even when things get hard or messy?”

your throat tightens, but somehow you manage to speak. “i do.”

karina’s lips twitch, but she doesn’t smile fully. there's something vulnerable in her expression, like she's revealing a piece of herself she's never shown before. "do you promise to always remember tonight? how special this moment is?"

"i do."

she nods, her eyes shining. "good. because i do, too."

her gaze drops to your lips, and you realize what she's doing a second too late. before you can even process what's happening, her mouth is on yours, warm and soft and sweet. it's the kind of kiss you feel all the way down to your toes, the kind that makes the rest of the world disappear.

it's everything and nothing all at once.

then the moment passes, and she's pulling away, a little breathless. "i'm sorry. i just…"

you blink, trying to find the right words, but nothing comes out.

she swallows, then steps back, her cheeks flushed. "i'm sorry, i don't know what came over me. that was stupid. we should go."

she turns and walks off, her footsteps echoing through the darkness. you watch her leave, not daring to say anything, because if you speak, you'll break the spell. you'll wake up from this dream, and it'll all be gone, and this moment will be lost forever.

karina speedwalks to your car, her ears hot and her head spinning. what the hell did i just do? she opens the car door and climbs in, her body feeling weightless. the kiss was an impulse, a split-second decision, and now she's left wondering why the hell she thought it was a good idea.

you get in the car a moment later, your expression unreadable. you're silent for a few beats, then you clear your throat. "here take my jacket," you say, reaching over to drape it around her shoulders. "you look cold."

her chest tightens. of course, you're being kind and sweet. god, why did she have to ruin the moment?

she takes the jacket, but it does nothing to warm the chill that's seeped into her bones. she's so confused. one minute, she's getting engaged, and the next, she's kissing you, the one person who's never given her a reason to doubt. she feels like she's falling apart, piece by piece.

"let's get you home," you say quietly, starting the car.

karina nods, her eyes focused on the window. the rest of the ride is silent, neither of you daring to say a word.

a month passed since that night—the kiss that left you spinning and karina’s unexpected confession. you’d both fallen into a strange rhythm after that. conversations were shorter, more careful, as if the words had to be handled with gloves. and though things seemed okay on the surface, there was a distance that neither of you knew how to bridge.

she was still okay with the greenhouse. you’d finalized every last detail together, but it felt like neither of you were talking about what really mattered. instead, you both threw yourselves into the wedding planning like it was the only way to keep moving forward.

it was just after midnight when you found yourself back in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water. it had been a long day, and your mind was still racing. you stood there for a while, sipping slowly, mind wandering.

the front door creaked open. your brother stumbled in, his suit rumpled, tie hanging loosely around his neck. his eyes were bloodshot, and he reeked of whiskey and something faintly floral—perfume. you could guess what had happened.

“company celebration,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes. “big news… big, big news.”

you wrapped an arm around him and helped him upstairs. he leaned on you heavily, his usually confident demeanor dulled by the alcohol. when you sat him down on the edge of your bed, you noticed it—lipstick stains on the collar of his shirt, faint but undeniable.

your stomach twisted. you swallowed hard, forcing the lump in your throat down. it was none of your business. after all, she cheated as well...with you.

after he passed out, you quietly shut the door and went back downstairs. there was no sleep to be found, not when your thoughts were tangled in the events of what's happened over the past three months—the kiss, karina’s sudden agreement to the greenhouse wedding, the lipstick stains. it was too much.

you sat at the dining room table and pulled out your laptop. the wedding planning documents filled the screen, emails flooding in with suggestions and changes. you worked mindlessly, letting the repetition of it all keep your thoughts at bay.

the hours bled into one another, and before you knew it, pale sunlight was breaking through the windows. your eyes burned, your muscles ached, but you couldn’t stop.

footsteps behind you made you freeze.

karina.

her hair was a mess of loose waves, and she wore one of those oversized pajama shirts she loved. she had two mugs of coffee in hand, the familiar scent of hazelnut filling the room. without a word, she placed one in front of you.

“you’ve been up all night,” she said quietly.

“i had things to do,” you answered, not meeting her eyes.

karina sighed, taking in the dark circles under your eyes and the tension in your shoulders. “you’re burning yourself out.”

when you didn’t say anything, she walked around the table and stood behind you. her hands found your shoulders, fingers pressing gently into the knots there. she massaged in slow circles, her thumbs working out the tightness you hadn’t even noticed.

her voice was soft as she spoke, barely more than a whisper. "you should get some sleep. you can't keep doing this."

but you were too tired, too worn down, to respond. you couldn’t focus on anything other than the feeling of her hands on your shoulders, the warmth of her touch sinking into your skin.

she leaned down, her breath tickling your ear. "can we talk?"

"yeah," you managed.

karina let go and moved to the seat across from you. she looked like she was struggling with something, the same look from the night at the beach, when she had asked you to promise her to remember. her fingers tapped on the mug. you could tell she was stalling, trying to decide what to say, but eventually, the words came.

"i'm sorry."

you were sorry too. for so many things, but you didn't say them out loud. instead, you just nodded.

"i never meant for this to happen," she said. "but it's all getting a little too much."

you were exhausted. tired of everything—the wedding, the kiss, the feelings. tired of being the planner. tired of pretending everything was fine when it wasn't.

karina's gaze dropped to her hands, her voice small. "i didn't mean to make things weird between us. i just didn't know what to do."

"it's okay," you replied, because it was all you could say.

"it's not," she insisted. "you're my best friend. i don't want to lose that."

she was right. you were her best friend. she was supposed to be marrying your brother, not making out with you at midnight. the thought sent a shiver down your spine.

"we'll get through this. together." you tried to sound convincing, but it fell flat.

"will we?" her voice was barely audible. "you've been pushing me away for weeks. i can tell."

you shook your head, but it was pointless. the truth was staring you in the face, and it wasn't pretty.

karina sighed, her gaze lifting from the table to meet yours. "i'm sorry. i don't want things to be awkward between us. i don't want this to change things."

her eyes were filled with such honesty and vulnerability, it made your chest ache. you wanted to reach out, hold her, and reassure her that everything was going to be okay, but you couldn't. you couldn't bring yourself to lie.

you rubbed your hands over your face, trying to ease the tension building behind your eyes. the words were stuck, clawing at your throat, desperate to escape. but what could you say?everything was so tangled.

“i’m not pushing you away,” you finally managed, though it felt hollow. “i just… don’t know how to handle all this.”

she gave you a weak smile, but her eyes were still sad.

the silence stretched between you, growing heavier with each passing moment. neither of you knew what to say.

“i don’t want to hurt you,” she said suddenly, her voice trembling.

your stomach twisted, and you had to look away. “you’re not hurting me.”

it was a lie, and you both knew it. but what good would the truth do?

karina sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. she looked exhausted, like she hadn’t slept in days. maybe she hadn’t. “i just want us to be okay. like before.”

“before,” you repeated, the word tasting bitter on your tongue. before everything. before the kiss. before you saw your brother stumble in last night, lipstick stains betrayed his lies.

she nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. "yeah, before. like we promised in our vows."

you let out a breath. was she really bringing this up now? "our fake vows."

karina flinched, as if your words had physically struck her. she looked at you, her eyes pleading. "you promised to always remember that night. that's not nothing."

you closed your eyes, trying to block out the memory. it was a mistake. a stupid, impulsive decision. one you shouldn't have made. one you shouldn't be thinking about.

"look, it's fine. we'll just forget it ever happened. like we're supposed to."

"are we?"

you stared at her, your throat tightening. "yes. because that's what's best. for everyone."

she swallowed, her eyes glossy with unshed tears. "okay. if that's what you want."

"it is." the words were heavy, weighing on your chest, crushing the air from your lungs.

"alright. then i guess we should go back to planning."

she forced a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. the conversation was over.

and that was it. you tried not to think about the kiss or the way her hand had felt in yours. but the memories lingered, refusing to let go.

the day of the wedding arrived. you stood at the back of the greenhouse, feeling out of place as the carefully chosen flowers, delicate white drapes, and twinkling fairy lights filled the space with a sense of serenity that felt foreign to you. everything about this moment was supposed to be beautiful, perfect, just as your brother had imagined. but you couldn’t shake the unease that knotted in your stomach.

the ceremony was supposed to feel like a celebration, a milestone in their lives. but it wasn’t. the sight of your brother, standing at the altar with the priest, waiting for karina, made something inside you tighten. he was smiling, his hands clasped together in anticipation. but the thought of him with her—knowing everything that had happened between the two of you—suddenly felt wrong. not to mention what he did himself.

and then, she appeared.

karina entered, her arm linked with your father’s, walking down the aisle with the grace of someone who belonged in a dream. the flowing ivory gown clung to her figure in a way that made your breath catch. the soft music playing in the background seemed to fade as you watched her approach, unable to tear your eyes away.

her gaze flickered to you for the briefest of moments. it was only a glance, but it held so much. the quiet acknowledgment that things weren’t the way they were supposed to be. that this wasn’t how it was supposed to feel.

you could barely breathe. you had promised to be strong, to be there for her. but seeing her like this, walking down the aisle toward your brother, was impossible. all the promises you had made, all the words you had told her in the days leading up to this, suddenly felt so hollow. she wasn’t yours. she never had been, and yet, everything inside you screamed that she should be.

you couldn’t stay.

without thinking, you turned and quietly slipped out of the greenhouse, avoiding the curious glances of your family. the sounds of the ceremony, the murmurs of the guests, faded as you walked, faster and faster, until you were outside, out of the view of the guests, heading straight for the beach.

the water was cool, the sand soft beneath your feet, the gentle breeze soothing. but it wasn't enough. you could still feel the ache in your chest, the heaviness that had settled there the moment you saw karina walking down the aisle.

you had been so certain that you could do this, that you could keep your promise and be there for her, no matter what. but now, standing on the beach, the waves washing over your feet, you realize how foolish it had been to think that.

you sank to the sand, burying your face in your hands. how had things gotten this far? how had everything become so tangled, so complicated, so fast? and why did it feel like your heart was being torn in two?

you were torn in so many directions, your mind spinning with thoughts of karina, of the kiss, of your brother, and of everything that had led to this moment. you wanted to scream, to let the confusion and frustration pour out of you, but you couldn’t. you couldn’t make sense of it all.

everything felt like it was unraveling, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. the hurt, the guilt, the love that you couldn’t seem to let go of—it all washed over you, suffocating you. you loved her. you had always loved her, but it was wrong. she was marrying your brother. it wasn’t supposed to be like this. you weren’t supposed to be the one to feel this way.

but the feeling was there, as real as the sand beneath your feet and the wind against your skin. you couldn't deny it, no matter how hard you tried.

"y/n."

your heart skipped a beat. you looked up, and there she was, standing at the edge of the sand. karina, still in her wedding dress, the fabric flowing around her as she stepped toward you, barefoot.

"y/n," she repeated, her voice soft, almost pleading.

you were frozen, unable to move, unable to speak. your throat tightened; the words stuck.

“what are you doing here?” you managed to ask, your voice wavering.

“i couldn’t let you go,” she said, her voice breathless. “i can’t let you walk away from me. not like this.”

you stood up, unsure of what to say, but before you could form any words, karina was running toward you, her wedding dress trailing behind her. she didn’t stop until she was right in front of you, her hands trembling as she reached for yours.

"i can’t marry him," she whispered, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "not when i feel like this. not when it’s you i want."

the words hit you like a punch to the gut. your mind raced. "karina, this isn’t—"

"i don’t care," she interrupted. "i can’t pretend anymore. i’m sorry. i should’ve told you sooner. i should’ve never let you go, even when i knew how wrong it was. but i can’t marry him when i’m in love with you."

you blinked, staring at her. in love with you. she was in love with you. the words echoed in your head, and you couldn't find the strength to speak.

"y/n, please. say something."

karina’s face crumpled, and she stepped closer, her hands trembling as she cupped your face. “please,” she whispered, “don’t let me lose you. you're everything i want."

her touch was warm, and you couldn't help but lean into it. she was so close, and you could feel her heartbeat, her breathing, her warmth. it was intoxicating, and before you knew what you were doing, your lips met hers, gentle and tender, as if she was afraid of breaking you.

but you couldn't break. not when she was kissing you like this. not when her lips were so soft, and her arms were around your waist, pulling you closer. it felt like the world was shifting, the ground giving way beneath your feet. but she was there, holding onto you, her grip tight and desperate, like she was afraid of losing you.

the kiss deepened, and everything else fell away. all you could feel was her. all you could think about was how right it felt, how perfect it was, and how this was the moment you had been waiting for. you were home, in her arms, and nothing else mattered.

the kiss broke, and karina pulled back, her breathing ragged. her eyes were bright, full of emotion, and you knew yours were the same.

"i love you," she whispered, her voice cracking. "i love you, and i'm sorry i didn't realize it sooner."

the words washed over you, and for the first time, everything felt right.

"i love you too," you breathed, not caring that it was wrong or that you shouldn't be saying it. you couldn't stop yourself, and the feeling of finally letting the words out was overwhelming. "you're everything i want…and more."

her eyes widened, and then a smile tugged at her lips, wide and bright, as if the weight of the world had been lifted off her shoulders. she kissed you again, fierce and passionate, and you could feel her joy, her relief, her love. it was the kind of kiss that made your heart swell, that made you feel like you were floating, and nothing could ever come between you.

"i'm yours," she whispered against your lips, her voice breaking. "i'll always be yours."